Church of Beethoven

The Church of Beethoven is a weekly Sunday concert series founded by former New Mexico Symphony Orchestra cellist Felix Wurman. He was inspired to create a "church that has music as its principle element" after performing at a church service and being more moved by  the partitioners reaction to the music than the theology. What I remember most about Felix, and watching him play the cello, was the expressions on his face while he was performing; you could see the intense concentration put into playing such an instrument. Every part of his face would move, as if it was being sculpted in time with the piece of music as the bow slid back and forth across the strings; it was fascinating. Housed in the Kosmos at the Factory on 5th warehouse in downtown Albuquerque, the hour-long CoB concerts include two musical performances, a poetry reading, and a two-minute celebration of silence (the closest thing it comes to real church); there is complimentary coffee and espresso, you can get a massage, and I have seen dogs running through the rows of folding chairs. The first time I went was about a year ago, where I heard performances by an oboe player from the Symphony and a guitar professor from the UNM Department of Music. I attended the concert again two weeks ago; it was a morning filled with Native music and poetry with a performance by Joy Harjo, an accomplished Native American musician, accompanied by Larry Mitchell and Tony James. I've been waiting somewhat impatiently for two weeks now for the video to be uploaded to the CoB YouTube channel and haven't seen it, so the one above will have to do for now.  

The Mountains Are Calling...

with the first signs of snow. It is around this time of year that I get itchy for the soon to be (hopefully) snow covered peaks of Northern New Mexico and Colorado. I search the weather reports for winter storms headed toward the Southwest and get butterflies when I see any trace of activity. I've had an affinity for winter probably since I was born, given the fact that my birthday falls 11 days after the equinox; in 7th grade I was the "Snow Queen" for Halloween, and still lay claim to the title.  

It would be safe to say that I have been skiing since before I could walk, back in the day when it was still acceptable, and widely popular, to strap your kid to your back and go flying down the mountain at a commercial ski area. I tried snowboarding a few years ago, but quickly decided two boards were better than one and haven't looked back. For a long time I was a cautious skier, wary of making a left turn because it required me to put weight on my right leg which has always been weaker. I waited as long as I possibly could to make that turn, traversing to the edge of the trail, stopping, then proceeding nervously. In recent years however, I have continually gone for the more challenging terrain: the bump runs, trees (skiing in between them), and knee-deep powder; the groomers that used to be my haven don't quite satisfy me anymore, though I do love the occasional fast carving run. There is a certain satisfaction that comes with the familiar burning in the calves after the descent of a steep powder run.   

Every year around Christmastime my family plans a trip to Wolf Creek in southern Colorado. Advertised as receiving "the most snow in Colorado," they get an average of 465 natural inches (roughly 40 feet) in a single season. The best thing about Wolf Creek, aside from the snow and terrain, is they are still (for now) a small, family-run area. Wolf Creek has yet to be consumed by a big resort "village" at the base of the mountain, though there has been a continuous (rightfully rejected) proposal for years; last year we signed a petition to try once again to cease the possibility of development.

Closer to home we head for Pajarito Mountain, which is New Mexico's best kept secret with some of the most diverse terrain in the state next to Taos Ski Valley, and no lift lines. Pajarito is a special place for a number of reasons: my dad and his siblings grew up skiing there; my aunt and uncle met there on the chairlift; my grandfather was on the ski patrol until his late 70s; and it is where I am continually amazed to still be skiing alongside him, now at the age of 88. During the winter he spends as many days as he can on the mountain and has taken to counting the number runs he can do in a single day; he was exuberant when he reached a record of 13 last year. When he feels like it, he tags along with us to Wolf Creek. He goes a bit slower these days and sticks to the groomers, but I swear nothing is going to stop this man from skiing until the day he dies. 

So... it's off to Colorado this weekend, grandpa in tow, for a few days of pre-Christmas skiing. The weather here has been unseasonably warm and dry, but a big storm the end of this week will hopefully make for some great first tracks of the season. 

12 x 12 for $144

At the beginning of November I asked to be in an art show called the 12x12. The show is a fundraiser for the Harwood Art Center in Albuquerque. It is not your typical art fundraiser; the show is carefully curated, participants are limited, and people flock to the exhibition in a rush to guess who did what and get their hands on a prized piece of artwork. All purchases are made anonymously, so people buy from the heart; the artist's name is revealed only after a piece has sold, and only to the buyer (and those of you reading this.) Each piece is priced at $144, a dollar per square inch. After picking up the 12x12 piece of plywood artists are given complete creative freedom, the only restriction being the size. I completed my piece in about 2 days; it is an abstract representation of rock formations I had photographed earlier this summer. I plan to do a larger version of it in the near future. "Harwood has been creating the kind of event in which artists want to be asked to participate." The house band was Le Chat Lunatique, a local group who plays variations of gypsy jazz. The show opened December 3rd and runs through the 22nd.

Plywood at the Harwood

Extraordinary People

"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars..." ~Jack Kerouac

I have encountered a number of extraordinary people throughout my life; they include members of my family, extended family, a handful of close friends, and a few teachers. People who recognize the beauty, strength, confidence, and determination in my character. One of these people was my high school art teacher and college counselor Mary Anne Modzelewski. From the moment I walked into her Art I class in 9th grade she smothered me in her compassion, unconditional support, and love; just as she did with every one of her students. She cheered me on in my pursuit to attend the Kansas City Art Institute, her husband's alma mater, determined whole-heartedly that I was destined for greatness not only in the arts, but in life as well. 

Mary Anne's husband, Steve, was someone I only met once when I was in high school, and whose character I only got a glimpse of when it was too late: at the memorial service marking the tragic, unexpected end of his life. The service was not a eulogy of past successes and accomplishments, but rather a celebration of the great spirit rooted in every part of his being. I was able to determine that had I been given the opportunity to spend more time with him, he would have been another one of those unusual souls whose presence I would be blessed to be in. I learned that Mr. Modz was by nature introspective and somewhat shy (characteristics I also see in myself); he was constantly looking everything with a critical eye, burning with passion, inspiration, ideas, and humble enthusiasm. I have never grieved or felt so deeply for someone I barely knew. 

Last week I had a dream about Steve. What I remember most profoundly is Mr. Modz was doing what he loved--teaching; I was one of his students and he was unbelievably energetic about whatever it was he was demonstrating for the class. Coincidentally, a day or so later I received an email from Ms. Modz telling me she wanted to give me some of Steve's art supplies and books. I went to Ms. Modz's house today to retrieve the gifts she had chosen for me. I received a gorgeous wooden box filled with three layers of pastels--something she had picked out for me because she remembered the beautiful pastel works I had done in high school. She gave me a stack of various types of hand-made paper, a group of which she had bought for Steve on a trip to Paris. And on top of all that, a book titled Sketchbook for the Artist, essentially a guidebook for drawing the world around us--a practice Steve engaged in religiously and daily. I felt extremely honored that she had thought of me for all these things.

The timing of all of this has been interesting; having been in a "creative slump" for the past few months, I have not had the desire or motivation to make anything. When I tried to create projects it was forced, thus making it unfulfilling. Having made a choice to devote my life to being a creative person, this has been heart-wrenching. Receiving Steve's supplies, those that once belonged to such a passionate person, having been able to learn so much about and be able to identify so closely with someone I never knew, I believe is a sign that I should seek the inspiration to see, create, and do feverishly once again. It was a difficult and invigorating day; I cried almost the entire length of my hour-long drive home, filled with emotions of sadness, anger, the harsh reminder that life is short and the necessity to live passionately.  

"The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed." ~C. G. Jung

Living Like Weasels

An excerpt from one of Steve Modzelewski's favorite stories, housed in the collection Teaching A Stone to Talk, by Annie Dillard:

"A weasel is wild. Who knows what he thinks? He sleeps in his underground den, his tail draped over his nose. Sometimes he lives in his den for two days without leaving. Outside, he stalks rabbits, mice, muskrats, and birds, killing more bodies than he can eat warm, and often dragging the carcasses home. Obedient to instinct, he bites his prey at the neck, either splitting the jugular vein at the throat or crunching the brain at the base of the skull, and he does not let go.


...Time and events are merely poured, unremarked, and ingested directly, like blood pulsed into my gut through a jugular vein. Could two live that way? Could two live under the wild rose, and explore by the pond, so that the smooth mind of each is as everywhere present to the other, and as received, and as unchallenged, as falling snow?

"We could, you know. We can live any way we want. People take vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience--even of silence--by choice. The thing is to stalk your calling in a certain skilled and supple way, to locate the most tender and live spot and plug into that pulse. This is yielding, not fighting. A weasel doesn't "attack" anything; a weasel lives as he is meant to, yielding at every moment to the perfect freedom of singe necessity.

"I think it would be well, and proper, and obedient, and pure, to grasp your one necessity and not let it go, to dangle from it limp wherever it takes you. Then even death, where you're going no matter how you live, cannot you part. Seize it and let it seize you up aloft even, till your eyes burn out and drop; let your musky flesh fall off in shreds, and let your very bones unhinge and scatter, loosened over fields, over fields and woods, lightly, thoughtless, from any height at all, from as high as eagles."