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Visual Art: Performance: Books: National Novel Writing Month Begins Wine:
The
Portrait as a Mirror David McCosh (1903-1981), who taught at the UO for several decades, is best known for his Northwest landscapes. Now, the Karin Clarke Gallery (Oct. 4-Nov. 12) gives us the opportunity to view an engrossing sample of McCosh's earlier work.
These paintings, prints and drawings show the particular sensitivity of a very individual man. Also a painter of his time, McCosh's attitude toward the world and toward art is modernist in its formal quest, yet deeply committed to the real world, in this case the social world of the 1930s. These two directions inform to varying degrees the two broad, overlapping groups in this show: the social commentaries and the portraits. It is no accident that McCosh's social commentaries were produced while he lived in the gritty urban environment of Chicago, where he attended and subsequently taught at the Chicago Art Institute. These pieces come in all media: drawings and lithographs, watercolors and oils. With lithography, McCosh, then in his late 20s, had already achieved not only mastery of the medium but a fully mature style wholly his own. Gesture is quick and free, his sense of composition impeccable, and the works exhibit a rich range of values and textures. Most haunting is Parade, a lithograph representing the harsh reality of bread lines. Early Edition conveys a grim mood as a trio of men scans a newspaper in a diner — perhaps seeking employment. This is a kind of interior Edward Hopper, but where Hopper's characters appear hopelessly frozen and walled in, unable to communicate, in McCosh, we get a sense of shared experience among the protagonists. Silence is companionable. In a chalk drawing, three men sit with their backs to us, distinctive and separate, alone with their thoughts perhaps, but sharing a common humanity, deriving comfort from being together. Street Scene, with its line of people waiting to buy a newspaper, is exemplary of McCosh's lighter vein. McCosh individualizes his characters with revealing postures and a few telling sartorial details. The humor that ensues is very much in the vein of New Yorker cartoons. In Bargain Basement, expansive rumps in fur-lined coats suffice to indicate satire in those Depression years.
Most delightful is Bather Running: every element in the landscape — waves, sand and wind — seems to partake in the rush of the ample but shapely female figure. McCosh's watercolors share a similar range of subject-matter and mood. The painter is already a colorist, using color as a structuring element. The Doors is an extraordinary composition. Great complexity of tone is further enlivened by contrast between warm browns and cool blues and greens, and a splash of complementary red. Three slumped human figures are set against the vertical geometry of a series of doors. Although the scene is depicted realistically, the title and emphasis of the seemingly inconsequential doors conveys a poignant absurdity to the subjects' plight. This could be a stage sketch for a play by Beckett. In Chicago Rooming House, vivid colors are at odds with the solitary quiet of a boarder reading a newspaper on the edge of his bed. The room is bare except for the bed, with the man's jacket casually draped over the footboard. Color and light furnish the room. Restaurant, a watercolor and ink sketch, shows that McCosh is also a master of line, which he uses here with fluent elegance to emphasize the quiet verticality of a late evening interior. In this work we see the seeds of McCosh's crucial use of line in his later landscapes. Two oils, The Bachelor and Man with Trombone, function both as portraits and social commentaries. McCosh's Self-Portrait with Apple is connected to these works by its subdued color scheme in blues and browns, with McCosh still using black to mix dark tones, a practice he will soon abandon. Thematically, McCosh also appears to adopt the persona of a young working-class man, street-wise, tough and defiant. The other two self-portraits represent an altogether different man physically and psychologically. One, a watercolor, gives us quite a Joycean portrait of the artist as a young intellectual, gazing at the world analytically behind glasses that partially hide his sensitivity. The other, an oil, portrays the artist as a vulnerable, sensitive young man, lips full and tender in a face with a delicate bone structure. This a portrait of profound depth and complexity. A large part of the canvas is left bare, as if the artist is refusing the reification of full definition and completion. Of all four portraits of his wife, Anne, Yellow Sweater is the most personal and expressive, if a little rough. The other three inherit from Cézanne their color structure, brushwork, perspective and pose. In these, only Anne's face, with its luminous beauty, evolves beyond this influence. In the words of painter Margaret Coe: "It's as if it began as a painting about a formal painting, and then he got caught up by the beauty of her face." This is the second in a series of shows from the University of Oregon Foundation collection, and like the first was curated by art patron and scholar Roger Saydack with exquisite sensitivity not only to theme and medium but to the global aesthetics of each grouping.
Teaching
the Trade Have you been noticing those hugely popular shows the UO's been putting on lately? Well, you can thank the UO Cultural Forum for bringing acts like Dave Chapelle and Sting to town and for putting on the recent, sold-out Flogging Molly show.
It's no secret that since Darrel Kau came on board as director of the UO Cultural Forum, the organization has been doing some great stuff. Just over a year ago, Kau, a 38-year-old Eugene native, left his job as programming manager for the Hult Center and started working at the UO instead. "The opportunity to work with students in a creative environment where I could share my experience and expertise was the really exciting part about the job," he said. "Challenging myself and the students with new ideas and approaches is the fascinating thing about it." He said he sees himself as a facilitator, educator and a coach and that he's been able to bring the contacts and network he built while at the Hult Center to the UO. With that kind of a background, he doesn't let the little details fall through the cracks. Always open to new ideas, he also spends much of his time playing devil's advocate for the 12 or so students who volunteer with the Cultural Forum. "He's one to question every single angle, to make us really think through it," said Michael Zarkesh, a junior who's been with the Cultural Forum two years and who managed the Flogging Molly show. "I'm learning a lot about every single aspect, from concert promotion to event production to general schmoozing and how to negotiate contracts and keep multiple parties happy while watching out for your own interests." It pays off in the end. The Flogging Molly concert at the WOW Hall was sold out with 40-somethings dodging flailing elbows in the mosh pit next to teens. And it went off flawlessly. That's because if Kau does his job right, all he has to do is sit back and let the students run the show. "He [Michael] was totally on the pulse and did everything for that show, including negotiating the contract with the band," Kau said, grinning like a proud older brother. "That's when I'm like, 'Yes!'" This article is the first in a new series to introduce the faces behind Eugene's arts and entertainment scene. Know someone we should feature? Contact Melissa Bearns by email: melissa@eugeneweekly.com
Watermarked THE HIGHEST TIDE, fiction by Jim Lynch. Bloomsbury, 2005. Hardcover, $23.95.
Like many a teenage boy before him, Miles O'Malley is an unlikely hero. 13 years old but built like he's nine — his unhappy father measures him with alarming frequency, hoping the 4'8" boy will be no less than a foot taller — Miles is an awkward, bookish, quietly intelligent young man. He's the kind of kid who does his own thing, unencumbered (for the most part) by the usual teenage politics. On the beaches and in the tide pools of Skookumchuck Bay, at the south end of Puget Sound, Miles lives a vivid life, selling sea life to aquariums and clams to local restaurants. He crushes heavily on Angie Stegner, the messy, charismatic girl next door, and spends his time with his best friend Florence, a 70-something psychic, and Kenny Phelps, a mild troublemaker Miles' own age whose trademark "fuck you bangs" are deliciously true-to-life. But it's on the mudflats and the bay's surface that Miles is most at home, his wealth of marine knowledge a combination of first-hand experience and the speed-reading habit that fills his insomniac nights. On a late-night trip to the water, Miles discovers something utterly unexpected: a giant squid, washed up on the beach. The news stations jump on the story, and on the petite teen who says, without thinking, "Maybe the earth is trying to tell us something." As Miles' strange summer continues, he finds stranger things on the shore outside his front door: a ragfish, an invasive species of crab, even a Japanese street sign. The more he finds, the more the local reporters want to talk to him, shaping the boy's words and actions into things he didn't exactly say. (A former Oregonian reporter, Lynch takes a few gentle jabs at his previous profession.) A local "school" — more likely a cult, according to Miles' frustrated, on-edge mother — takes an interest in the young ecologist, who quotes Rachel Carson easily and cannot, like a true teen, resist the spotlight when it's offered gently. Writing in Miles' wise-for-his-years voice, first-time novelist Lynch is clearly at ease with his setting, describing Puget Sound with the earthy love of a local. When a reporter asks Miles why he keeps finding such amazing things, he tells her, "Because I'm always looking, and there are so many things to see." The Highest Tide is a testimony to the power of looking, and a memorial for the way we tend to forget to look as we grow older, or begin to look for and at different things. If Miles' narration is a bit too eloquent for such a young man, it's easy to forgive when the prose is this good: Thick with observation, dreamy and tingling, Lynch's writing is deeply evocative of those slow, stretched-out summers when everything and nothing seemed to happen every day. Jim Lynch reads at the UO's Knight Library at 7 pm Tuesday, Nov. 15.
National
Novel Writing Month Begins The streets are dark early on Oct. 30 as I rush toward Espresso Roma, construction paper and markers balanced in my arms. It's almost time for National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), and we're having a kick-off party. That's right, the nearly 20 of us who gather tonight will spend November in pursuit of a mad goal: Each of us will write a novel. The idea is for each participant to write 50,000 words between Nov. 1 and Nov. 30. NaNoWriMo began in 1999 with a couple of people, including the founder, Chris Baty. The internet has fueled growth. Last year more than 42,000 people across the world registered for the month, and well over 6,000 completed the task. The final number of registrants isn't in for this year. There's still time to register at www.nanowrimo.org. Baty doesn't turn off registration until Nov. 25. We still have 30 hours to go before NaNoWriMo begins in the Pacific Northwest, so we gather to plan — high school and college students, several writing teachers and assorted others, ranging in age from 15 to somewhere in the 50s. I know there are others, because 117 people (or more) have signed up in the Eugene area. One of the Eugene-area newbies asks, "So, say I write my 500 words or whatever …" An experienced WriMo interrupts, "No, no, you need to write 1,667 a day." An awed pause falls over those gathered at pushed-together tables. "Sixteen hundred and sixty-seven words a day?" someone asks. "Well, it's really 5,000 words every three days," I say. "However you do that, it's fine." With the ugly math behind us, we move on to something more visual. "OK. Take some markers, take some construction paper, and create the cover for your book," I suggest. Holding up the covers, we talk about our plans. I'm writing a realistic young adult novel (no cheering); a senior will create "something with zombies at South Eugene High School" (cheering). The other YA novel author elicits applause when he mentions, "There will be magic!" By our 4 pm meeting on Sunday at Triomphe, each of us should have written between 8,333 and 10,000 words. We end with what will be our chant for the month: "Quantity, not quality! Quantity, not quality!" Look for weekly updates on this project through November. BOOK NOTES: "Writing Life: Should it Be Memoir or Fiction?" lecture by Jennifer Lauck, 6:30 pm 11/3, Baker Downtown Center. $10 donation for non-Willamette Writers members … Annie Proulx, John Daniel, Clemens Starck and Elizabeth Woody read and sign, 7:30 pm 11/3, Tower Theatre, Bend … Margaret Cho reads, 7:30 pm 11/3, Powell's on Burnside, Portland … Cynthia Hewitt discusses "Turn Your Travels Into Cash," 10 am 11/5, Anna Maria Creekside Retirement Resort, Medford. $5 for non-Willamette Writers of Southern Oregon members … Kim Barnes, Phil Condon, Kent Nelson and Frank X. Walker read and sign, 7:30 pm 11/5, Tower Theatre, Bend … Judith K. Berg discusses "The Natural History of the River Otter" and signs her book The Otter Spirit, 5 pm 11/5, Tsunami Books … Elaine Finn discusses Deadly Collection, 2 pm 11/5, Barnes & Noble … Colleen Sell discusses Cup of Comfort for Mothers and Sons and Cup of Comfort for Women, 7 pm 11/6, Barnes & Noble … Daniel Quinn reads from Tales of Adam, 7 pm 11/7, Knight Library, UO … Peter Blecha reads from Rock and Roll Archaeologist, 7:30 pm 11/7, Powell's on Hawthorne, Portland … Seth Kantner reads from Ordinary Wolves, 7 pm 11/8, Knight Library, UO … Georgia Durante discusses The Company She Keeps, 7:30pm 11/8, 180 PLC, UO … Wilma Mankiller lectures and signs Every Day is a Good Day, 7 pm 11/9, EMU, UO … Garrett Epps reads, 8 pm 11/10, Knight Library, UO … Oregon Book Awards with Master of Ceremonies Pam Houston take place at 8 pm 11/11, Wonder Ballroom, Portland. $25 … Dan Austin reads from True Fans, 7:30 pm 11/11, Powell's on Burnside, Portland … Mark Crispin Miller reads from Fooled Again, 7:30 pm 11/14, Powell's on Hawthorne, Portland … Daniel Wilson reads from How to Survive a Robot Uprising, 7:30 pm 11/14, Powell's on Burnside, Portland … Jim Lynch reads from The Highest Tide, 7 pm 11/15, Knight Library, UO … Alexander McCall Smith speaks, 7:30 pm 11/15, Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall, Portland. $25, college/seniors $18, high school $5 … William L. Fox discusses Terra Antarctica, 7:30 pm 11/16, 175 Knight Law, UO … An Evening with Maya Lin, 7:30 pm 11/16, Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall, Portland. $30 … Kurt Cyrus reads, 4 pm 11/17, Springfield Public Library … Harmon Leon reads from Republican Like Me, 7:30 pm 11/17, Powell's on Hawthorne, Portland.
Respite
from Felonies I read too much history, too many newspapers and magazines. That torrent of information about human nastiness sometimes makes me morose, sometimes angry to the point of outrage. It's all too easy, under that barrage, to forget the sweet sides of humanity, the tenderness and creativity that also define us, at our best. Couple weeks ago, Kat and I dined at Koho Bistro, fab food, fine wines, great service. Little wonder the tiny joint is usually jammed, lines out the door. Chef Kevin Highland came out after supper, sat and sipped a little with us, big, affable guy with hands like Vise-Grips. We joked, laughed, slurped, and the venom in my heart just seemed to drain away. Now, autumn colors the air, and the season of feasts and festivities works its magic on many of us. Sure, some of this warm-and-fuzzy nostalgia is rooted in deep consumerist training, going back into childhood (thousands of repetitions between birth and adolescence), but a very good part goes even deeper, into the humane impulse to share in community. Maybe it's just a hiatus, a brief interruption before returning to our regularly scheduled programming of murder and mayhem, but I'll take it for now. And frankly, I'm tired of the daily felonies of Refumblicans and ditherings of Dumbocrats. We all need respite and recovery. Last night, Kat suggested cruising up the McKenzie in the warmth and waning light of late afternoon. She knows me well, knows that there is something in rivers that soothes my heart and smoothes my mind, and her own, too. We jumped into the Toycar and rolled through Springburg toward the mountains, and the low-slanting sunlight painted roadsides and hillsides in deeply saturated shades of yellow and gold on maples, alders and poplars, and set vine maples and red leafs afire, spot blazes of alizarin crimson. The river itself flowed deep emerald, still unmuddied by rains. Some Jack Johnson bluegrass riffs kept us grinning. We puttered along at snailpace until Kat cooed we oughta drop in on Mole and Molly. I wheeled the wheezer over the old covered bridge, wended around curves, over rises, under reaching arms of oak, maple and fir, then up the gravel driveway to the cozy riverstone cottage perched on the bank of the great river. The sunset had purpled the sky, and a warm pumpkin light glowed through curtained windows. An unusual number of cars huddled around the house. Kat smiled enigmatically as she swung those mile-long legs out the door. Her enigmatic smiles can melt steel. As always, Molly had mounted seasonal décor: sheaves of corn stalks, a wreath of dried herbs and leaves, a spooky skeleton dangling by the walkway. I gave the dark green door a light rap, and Molly's sweet, round face appeared. She wore a blue gingham bonnet with matching dress, and her bright pink cheeks glowed above her beaming smile. "Sleuth. Kat. Anthony will be so pleased." Anthony? Mole's real name. I forget. From behind her peeked the Round Mound of Merlot himself, grinning under his Pilgrim rig, brass-buckled black hat, the whole outfit. He wrapped smothering arms around both of us, spun us into the warm interior. And there they were, all our friends, glasses of bubbly raised: Mouse in tuxedo, Peter Poet, Soho Sandy, Big Mike, Merry Mary, Treetop, Doc and Kathy. Kat bussed my cheek. I understood. Real friends will rise to your rescue when you didn't ask. Mouse extended two gleaming flutes, poured pale straw drafts of Roederer Estate Brut ($20); we lifted our glasses, "Happy holidays!" then sipped the lovely citrus/tropical elixir, lively bubbles leaping in our mouths. The air was rich in aromas of roasting bird and baking squash, garlic, cinnamon, rosemary. Soon, a feast flowed from Molly's kitchen, and the whole world seemed to right itself. Hands and hugs all 'round, 'til Mole hooked me to the table: "See, Sleut', we been busy wit da wine detectin'. Ya gotta try dis little guy." Splashed a glass with light gold. Turns out Saint M 2004 Riesling ($10), another collaboration between Washington's St. Michelle and Germany's great Dr. Ernst Loosen, grapes this time from the Pfalz region, just pretty, slightly sweet, with notes of white flowers and lychee, easy-sippin' aperitif wine. "Dear fellow," said the elegant Mouse, "that's all very well, but you really must try …": Brampton 2004 Sauvignon Blanc ($9) from South Africa, rivaling (almost) New Zealanders for bright citrus/tropical fruit, good balance. Put next to Oregon mussels, this quaff shines. "Yeh, dat's real neat," chimed Mole, "but howzabout …": Rex Hill Vineyards 2004 Pinot Gris ($12), pale but packin' melons, peaches, banana, lime, all mouth-fillin' and round, but firm enough for grilled salmon with nasturtium-butter sauce. "Real wine, of course, is red." Treetop leaned down to pour a slurp of wild zinfandel from — Oregon? Yep. Eola Hills 2003 Lodi Zinfandel ($9) is value-packaged and as flavor-packed as Calzins at twice the price: blackberries, currants, pepper, sandalwood and these distinctive chocolate notes make you wanna chew it. Da-yum! The Doc rolled up with Ken Wright Cellars 2003 Guadalupe Vineyard Pinot Noir ($40), and the love just ran like the river; this is big-shouldered pinot, deep, rich in black cherry flavors but nuanced and layered in flavor suggestions. Roast bird for Thanksgiving? Really good friends. This wine will warm hearts. So a pox on all penny-ante pettifoggers. Celebrate, raise an ode to joy for friends and family, and may the river cleanse your hearts' sorrows.
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