The title of this blog is a quote from an interview with Duke Ellington, who when asked "I thought you played piano?" said all he did was dream, all the time. These days jazz appeals to me because it sounds like dreams and dreaming, which feels safe and comforting and free.
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I grew up in South Sacramento, in what we later learned is called Glen Elder, but which we knew as The Creek. We spent most of our school days walking to school, be it elementary or middle school, and even high school (though usually on a bike and then driving). When I went away to college, the neighborhoods that Occidental College straddled in northeast Los Angeles (Eagle Rock, Highland Park) felt very familiar to me. Not in a "ice cream parlor on the corner who's owner knows your name" but in a keep your head on a swivel for threats. I walked around some of it but knew what lots of kids from similar neighborhoods also knew, that having a quick way to get out and away in case anything jumped off was always your best option. So even my little 5-speed stick shift pickup was a more reliable chariot to safety than my two feet could ever be.
But between my brothers and everyone we grew up with, and friends who became family who grew up in similar neighborhoods, we all developed what we sometimes call a "radar". A sense honed from years of living within and observing unsafe situations as children where we could feel in our very skin and nerves and bones that something was not right. This was at the playground, at the park, on any street and sidewalk, even at school. And it was always people who were threats, with a few pit bulls thrown into the mix. When we found ourselves on our bikes or in our cars in our own neighborhoods, we knew where to go and where not to go, and were on constant threat awareness even when we didn't really know it. And when we found ourselves traveling through or visiting neighborhoods that were not our own, we would get looks and pauses in activity that I am now sure we did the same for similar transgresors to our neighborhood. The assumption was "they are a threat until they are not".
Our neighborhoods were relatively normal, but the difference was that occasional, seemingly normal interactions could escalate quickly into violence. This wasn't just about gang violence; that was actually something not as dangerous to us on a daily basis. That kind of activity was patently obvious to even the most unseasoned of observers and came with cultural DO NOT ENGAGE signs that usual involved identifying groups of known folk. It was just common every day danger that came from random youth and random adults. Half were youth who in retrospect sought to exploit in others what had probably been exploited in them, and half were adults who were also in exploit and pain mode. Long story short, sitting at a bar after work one day my best and oldest friend and I said out loud: we spent most days of our childhood feeling very unsafe, and feeling normal about it.
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A few practices I have learned to embrace in adulthood in times of feeling negative or overwhelmed have been to write blogs, to write letters and cards to people, and to visit the Crocker Art Museum. The direction and choices and actions of the federal government have flooded my noodle and heart with too many negative emotions, so I needed a recharge and reset. I visited the Crocker yesterday and found myself drawn less to the grand vistas and skillful representations, and more to the personal and abstract that grabbed at my heart. I love going to art museums and experiencing something grabbing me, but I have to be vulnerable and open to giving myself over to what is on display.
Yesterday the paintings and works that worked on me, that focused me inward, were much needed. One thing I love about having a wonderful museum like the Crocker so close to me is the collection, though modest by some standards like the Met or the Getty, is rich and diverse, and there are not only paintings that feel like old friends who I get to visit with and feel the feelings with, but there are always 3-4 that really grab me for where I am that day. Three that did it for me recently were the following.
Untitled, Ernest Briggs, 1953
I will always be drawn to an abstract, especially one this so well done. The tension and bold messiness feels like my insides these days, but I'm in there and it's in me, and there is beauty and a fight and light within. It made me immediately think of my mom, if only because it is one year younger than she is, and also like her feels timeless.
Still Saying Her Name, June Edmonds, 2020
This abstract is probably what I wish my insides looked more like, ordered and reliable and portioned even when its still dark. But each of these squares and lines feel like all the little parts of me that are so important and valuable and in need of care and rest and love. I see them all trying, and working together, and I think I caught myself saying out loud to this painting "thank you so much".
My Father's White Shirts (Line Drying), Manuel Lopez, 2023
This painting makes me feel safe. An experience from growing up across family homes where the aesthetic was a mix of what we made and what we could, with the practical beauty of a pink skied evening and my own father's undershirt. With a cinder block of course.
It has been art and film and books and drawing and constructing plastic models and music that I realize I also retreated to when fatigued from being a child and an adolescent. Much of it was probably about my own depression as a child, but also from the weight of what I felt were expectations of me, and feeling unsafe. Kids need art, lots of it, all the time, so they become healthier adults who promote and fund art and go to museums to feel safe when the world feels worse.
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Two other quotes are on my mind today. From author Mike Davis, who said:
"At the end of the day, the best measure of the humanity of any society is the life and happiness of its children. We live in a rich society with poor children, and that should be intolerable."
"What keeps us going, ultimately, is our love for each other, and our refusal to bow our heads, to accept the verdict, however all-powerful it seems. It's what ordinary people have to do. You have to love each other. You have to defend each other. You have to fight."
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