A couple of field recordings of downtown San Antonio mixed in Ableton Live with some resonator filters to fill them out. A bit of Tension and Collision. Some distorted vocals. And a drum rack full of household items being struck, stroked, and otherwise misused.

I started out with a bike ride downtown. It was an overcast day, so I had no desire to shoot. And as I have this new front rack for my bike which holds all my equipment to do field recordings, I thought I’d check out a few sites with some interesting sound properties. The three areas I chose were the Arneson River Theatre (an outdoor performance area on the riverwalk), the bus stop at the downtown library across from the Southwest School of Art (it’s a portion of Navarro Street with a lot of echo and constant buses driving by, stopping, and idling), and a little fountain at a peaceful pocket park under the Augusta Street bridge. I ditched the Arneson recordings. There was some horrible compressor running in an adjacent construction site. But the other two seemed nice. What I’ve been doing lately with these ambient recordings of wild sound is to process portions through some of Ableton’s resonator filters, to fill in a sort of modulated orchestral sound. Than I built a drum rack with about ten sound clips I recorded of various items at hand (small wooden box, glass votive candles, an empty fish bowl, masking tape being peeled off the roll, etc.). I added all sorts of filters to give the sounds depth–corpus is a nice one for this sort of percussive work. Then a couple tracks of very spare melody, using two Ableton instruments, Tension and Collision. I finished it off with a few clips of me reading short passages from some of my short stories (the voice has been filtered through a Max for Live effect which emulates a voice over a telephone). I spread the tracks about by panning them across the stereo field. I also played some with automating elements within the various track envelopes. It’s probably the most tinkering I’ve done with a sound project. I like the feel of the piece. Also, I think there’s a nice balance of the intentional, and the accidental (though, I suspect, this is only something I would notice).

The W-I-P is a long-running joint program presented by the San Antonio Dance Umbrella and Jump-Start Performance Co. This monthly event allows local audiences to see preview performances of area dancers and performance artists. Following each of the curated performances, the audience is able to provide feedback which may well help the artists to further develop their work. I put this together to help the W-I-P in seeking funding to help continue this wonderful program.

These opportunities to work with Amber Ortega-Perez on her graduate school projects continue to be quite rewarding. It might have been back in January when she mentioned a performance she was expected to create with, I believe, at least two collaborators from other disciplines. (I should point out that this is a low-residency program out of state, and these dance projects are video-taped and the instructors review the documentations of the work.) She needed to have everything delivered by early April–a record of the collaboration as well as whatever contextual paper she would have to write. I suggested that we could stage the piece at Jump-Start, but we’d have to work around the set for my show which would be running. I thought that it might look intriguing. Also, a bonus, would be that as Amber wanted video projection, I knew that I’d have at least one projector installed in the space for the theater piece. She agreed. She invited Charles Perez to be part of the collaboration. And I suggested we also bring in Deborah Keller-Rihn and Laurie Dietrich. These are all people who I’ve worked with together on dozens of creative projects, but never all together. The team members were each creative, imaginary, and fearlessly innovative.  There was no baggage of ego or self-important inflexibility.

For a few weeks we mostly bounced ideas around via email. We had one discussion meeting. One working session with some props. One experimenting rehearsal. And the final staging. It was organic, simple, painless, and quite beautiful.

Amber shaped the movement and the basic theme. Laurie brought in the idea of water and the heightened ritual components. Deborah created a mandala on the ground with rice flour and powdered tempera paint. I hooked up two additional projectors (we used three in all), and I also placed a GoPro in the ceiling with a wireless feed into my computer. The live camera signal went to the two side panels, the images warped with a software effect. The rear wall displayed an image Deborah had created for me for my show (I turned it into an abstract rotating kaleidoscopic animation). I also mapped twelve slow-rotating pieces of art created by attendees of Deborah’s Mandala Healing Arts workshops–there was a cut Styrofoam grid on the back wall of the theater as a scene element (which was part of Karen Arredondo’s design for the show). I also provided some ambient music I had created for my show. And Charles–who is very attentive, sensitive, and observant–helped to fill in the spaces; and, by interacting with all the elements, he helped to bring everything together.

Here is a short clip of the first rehearsal.

Some of us had been taking pictures and sharing thoughts about the project on social media. And when a local reporter inquired if she could attend the final staging (which had originally been just an opportunity for documentation), Amber thought that was an excellent idea. So, Saturday morning, March 28, we set up everything again. The props, the projectors, the tarp to protect the stage floor, etc. There were some changes. Laurie and Deborah’s costumes were now white. The face paint was not used. And my GoPro died on me, so I had to hook up another camera, shooting from the side. We had maybe ten people show up for a free Saturday morning experimental dance performance. It was perfect. A slow and peaceful ritual of comforting ambiguity.

And then we had to clean it all up, because the penultimate performance of Serpeintes y Escaleras was happening later that day.

Amber calls the work “Re-Turning,” and she is considering submitting it to the Houston fringe festival. I would love to do it again.

Here’s the full performance:

A moody ambient piece I constructed to better understand my way around Ableton and Max for Live. The central bed is from a field recording I made with a pair of MXL 604s microphones of the I-410 overpass at the San Antonio River. The drum rack was created with recordings with the same microphones of plastic cups, zippers, rubbed foam rubber, and crinkled plastic. Some voice recordings of myself. And a very heavy hand on a diverse array of effects.

This whole project began when Pamela Dean Kenny gave me a little gift before one of the performances of my Jump-Start show I staged in March of 2014 (Tales of Lost Southtown). Pam was one of the performers. When I opened the little roll of laminated card stock I found a board game. Serpientes y Escaleras. The Mexican version of Snakes and Ladders, or Chutes and Ladders. The art work was the first thing I noticed. It reminded me of the iconic Lotteria graphics. And then it occurred to me that the little couplets of images (an action, followed by a consequence) which represented either a virtuous ladder or a iniquitous snake could be acted out in a wryly playful manner on stage.

At some point I proposed the concept to Jump-Start with me and Pam in the position of lead artists. It was accepted and placed in the 2014-2015 season, with performances slated for March of 2015.

I asked Laurie Dietrich to direct. I also wanted her involved in the development stage. We wanted a fairly small cast, as the new location of the Jump-Start performance space was very limited. We also wanted several scenes conveyed just through motion. We decided to wait to develop the choreography until after the script was finished. So, we concentrated on getting our actors lined up (and locking our two dancers later). I would be performing on stage, as well as Pam. We also brought in Monessa Esquivel, Clint Taylor, and Martha Prentiss. We began improvisational character- and scene-building in October of 2014.

I soon realized we were crafting a much more nuanced work than was my initial plan. What I had envisioned was a darkly comical surreal TV game show where two members of the audience (planted shills, most likely) would be invited to compete. The cast members would enact stories from these “random” contestants lives. My role would be as the assistant to Pam’s quiz-mistress role—a sort of Ed McMahon sidekick. I also would design all the media components of the projected electronic game board, and manipulate the visuals in realtime. My thoughts were to devise a sort of modular production, with each contestant landing on 6 to 8 snake or ladder squares. 12 to 16 short scenes in total.

What I wasn’t anticipating was that we would all begin to add a significant amount of back stories of the characters who work on the game show itself. At some point the politics of the TV production team became as important as the central conceit itself (the struggle for each contestant to make it to the winning square).

The plan was that the development sessions would end by the first week in January. At this point, Laurie and I left town to have some privacy to write the script. We spent about five days in New Orleans and returned with the working script for Serpientes y Escaleras.

As we began rehearsing, we also brought in Stephan Gaeth to choreograph the four dance pieces. He, along with Michi Fink, provided the dance performances. Deborah Keller- Rihn created the art work for the game board. Karen Arredondo came in and provided set design and lighting design. Chuck Squire and Jordan Cimmino ran the light board. Mellissa Marlowe was our costumer.

I would like to say what a wonderful experience the whole endeavor was, however, it was a fucking mess (this was chiefly behind the scenes, and, for the most, I think the audience was spared the angst from all of our challenges). Many of the people whose names I mentioned did extraordinary work. A few, not so extraordinary. Also, there were about half a dozen people who absolutely flaked on us, enthusiastic one day, and utterly absent the next. Many of these people profess to be professionals. I guess even though we were paying, and trying very hard to be pleasant and accommodating, we just fell to the bottom of quite a few people’s priority list. The concept of a solid work ethic seems to be less important than it was ten or twenty years ago. Or, so it seems to me. One of the problems was that we didn’t have a stage manager. And we sure could have used some harsh taskmaster who might have, well, you know, fired some people. I’m too nice.

What a shame. A great deal of work went into the show. And, really, the concept was weird and promising. And, honestly, I’m proud of the finished work, the final four performances were solid. And I think I might write it as a novel. However, this could well be the end of my short foray into the theatre world. We’ll see.

Here are some wonderful photos of the production shot by Fadela Castro:

Finally I’m diving into Ableton deep enough to feel I should make something. This is comprised of field recordings of a morning thundershower I gathered from my front porch with a pair of MXL 603s. I also tossed in a track each using Tom Exile’s the Finger as well as the Mouth. The vocal is of myself reading a portion of a short story of mine titled Ambrosio. The mix is embarrassingly muddy. But, I can only get better.

This is the edit of the video which screened at the final event of Deborah Keller-Rihn’s Mandala Healing Arts Project, a five month long series of workshops and discussions of topics which exist in the intersection of art and wellness (emotional and physical). Several of the participants of these workshops (free and open to the public) took advantage of creating healing rituals which were also captured on video. The music added here is from Pseudo Buddha, a San Antonio music project comprised of some of the most accomplished artists in the region (here is a link to their full album, Motive). When this video screened at the Blue Star complex on Sunday, March 8th, it was accompanied by the live music of Rick Henderson and Alice Zimmermann, who performed in an adjacent room.

I was intrigued with helping whoever might want to fashion a healing ritual which could be made into a short film. Several participants took us up on the offer. Some were done very quickly and with little planning, others were more planned and contained a stronger narrative shape.

One of the staff with the DCCD (the arts funding arm of the city of San Antonio) suggested that Deborah not run her workshops every Saturday from October to March. The grant was substantial, not not really intended for such an involved project. Over 20 workshops. About a dozen facilitators from a wide range of disciplines. A gallery show one night. And a large celebration on another night, with chants, song, dance, film, art, mandala-making, and even cake. About a dozen mandalas created by the participants were printed large and mounted between plexiglass and set onto inflated inner tubes and fashioned in such a manner as to float on the river with light coming from beneath. Oh, right, and a finished 20 minute film. It’s incredible what some people in the town can do with very limited funds (and quite shocking how little some people and institutions can do with overly-generous funding). It’s hard work to pull off something this involved, but Deborah managed to maintain grace and good cheer. She always amazes me.

Sadly inclement weather forced a change of venue for the culminating event on Sunday . The original idea was to have the mandalas floating on the river adjacent to the offices of the San Antonio River Authority. There was a nice grassy area to relax on, as well as a paved circular overlook on which dancers and musicians might perform. The rain plan was implemented, and the event was moved to the second floor of Building B at the Blue Star Arts Complex where Deborah’s studio is located. I projected the film (with the assistance of Trey Cunningham) onto the outside wall of the facing building until the rain began again, and we moved the projection inside.

The event was beautiful, moving, and well-attended. It was an honor and a privilege to be involved in this project.

The Mandala Healing Arts Project was generously supported by the San Antonio Department for Culture and Creative Development.

Writers in Communities is a long-running program of Gemini Ink which takes professional writers and places them into schools, community centers, etc, as an important part of their literary outreach. This is a little promotional video I did for them to highlight a reading which was the culmination of part of the WIC program.

This is the third year I’ve done this. Bulk-loaded 12 months of images from my Instagram feed into a video editor and spit out a year of memories. For some reason they didn’t land onto the timeline in chronological order. Oh, well. I love making these years in review. I, mostly, fear I fritter my life away, with not direction, no plan. But at least when I look back over a year with beautiful images of interesting projects, unplanned excursions, and warm friends, I feel some vague sense of, well, I guess vindication for living such an irresponsible life. (This song is “Shut Up,” by Posse. I love their sound.)

I was commissioned to write a short piece for a collaborative event between Gemini Ink and the San Antonio Museum of Art, to highlight a show of Matisse’s book illustrations. I wrote a short story titled “Saved From the Silverfish.” Here it is:

SAVED FROM THE SILVERFISH

“It’s called Asylum Creek,” said the woman, Irma, who handed me a glass of iced tea. “On account of, you know, the State Hospital just up the road.” Irma turned and nodded at the pale woman with braids who sat on the sofa leafing through a used coloring book.

“Maisie here used to live there, at the State Hospital. Isn’t that right, Maisie?”

“C’est un peu vrai,” Maisie said softly, without looking up.

“Oh, it looks like she’s French, today.” Irma smiled and walked over to adjust Maisie’s braids so that they fell behind her shoulders. Maisie kept her attention focused on her coloring book.

“Well,” Irma said to me with a sigh, “I’ll leave you to it. Don’t mind Maisie. She’s a quiet one.”

I watched a sly smile flit across Maisie’s lips as Irma left. She turned a page and, without looking up, mouthed the words “C’est un peu vrai.”

There was a desk in the corner, and it was clearly set up for me. The gooseneck lamp was turned on, and a large Royal manual typewriter had been pushed aside. I placed my shoulder bag on a folding chair and set my laptop on the desk.

I’m not sure how Irma found my contact information. I’ve been out of the rare books appraisal business for at least five years. But I needed the money, and well, South Presa Street was not too far from home, so I said yes.

I walked up to the bookcases. There were five cases, each with five shelves. If soon became obvious there wasn’t much—the basic reprints of classics, mid-century fiction in book club editions, some later printings of art books. All in all, the sort of books one can find used on the internet for a few dollars each. There was one, however, which stood out. I instantly knew what it was, but I kept combing through the shelves, saving it for last. When I was done, I turned towards the middle bookcase and bent down to the bottom shelf. As I lifted up the large, slim volume, and placed it on the desk beside my computer, I heard Maisie clear her throat.

“Cela n’a pas pris longtemps,” Maisie said, placing her coloring book in her lap. “Nothing of much interest, right?” she continued in English, with a French accent. “Just that one. The obvious one.”

At that moment Irma walked in.

“Don’t let her throw you off,” Irma said, patting Maisie on the head. “Our little girl here grew up in a tiny town outside of Beaumont. She has an east Texas accent thick enough to march an alligator across. Poor child. Grew up in the bayous of Jefferson County, and then off to the San Antonio State Hospital after her daddy died. All the while her momma’s waltzing across Europe, Hawaii, and Cuba.”

I’m sure much of the juicy parts of the family history were left out, but from what I gathered, the mother came into some money and bought this little house to be close to her daughter. One day she moved Maisie out of the hospital and hired Irma to help out. Irma eventually found herself taking care of both mother and daughter. When the mother died, Irma stayed on. They’d been scraping by, barely making the monthly mortgage payments. Nothing much left, just a lot of furniture and kitchen appliances which were purchased back when avocado was a color. And, of course, the library.

Irma explained that she had some errands to take care of, but Maisie would be no trouble. Normally this is when I’d explain that there was really nothing of value, waive my consultation fee, give the names of a few local book dealers who might buy the lot on the cheap—and then, make good my escape. But there was the matter of that lone, slim volume.

I sat down at the desk. As I waited for my laptop to warm up, I saw Irma crossing over Asylum Creek in an old rusty Impala.

The book was a collection of poems by Charles d’Orleans. He was a 15th century French nobleman, the bulk of whose poetry was written as a prisoner of war in England. The book’s value has very little to do with the poetry of the Duke of Orléans. In fact, the selected poems are not even in their original state. The illustrator took it upon himself to rewrite the poetry into a more modern French. The book is notable because of the illustrator, Henri Matisse. Matisse provided 54 color lithographs, as well as some additional illustrations. The edition was limited to 1,200 copies, each signed by Matisse.

I know the book well. I had been working at an auction house in Dallas several years back and had written a description of a copy consigned by an elderly man from Pauls Valley.

Maisie pulled a chair next to mine and sat down. She ran her hand over the cover of the book. This collection of poems is not what everyone would recognize as a proper book. It is what is often referred to as “livre d’artiste,” that is, an artist’s book. The publisher, printer, typesetter, designer, bookbinder, all of them, worked to showcase the work of the artist—the text, often, being quite supplemental. Poèmes de Charles d’Orléans resembles more of an unbound portfolio. The front and back covers are stiff pasteboard, with an illustration on the front. This unattached cover (often referred to as a chemise) was wrapped in the publisher’s original glassine paper. The pages, inside, were loose gatherings, never bound by the publisher. Strictly speaking, it was not a rare book. If all the plates were present, and lacking any notable flaws, it was worth maybe four to six thousand dollars. Not enough for Irma and Maisie to make it through more than a couple of months, was my guess.

“I love this cover illustration,” Maisie said. “It looks like it was done by a child with crayons. I think Irma believes it’s one of my coloring books from when I was a girl.” She placed her hand palm down on the book and looked into my eyes.

“Charles d’Orleans was imprisoned by the English for 25 years. For me it’s been longer. Well, not by the English, you know. The doctors.”

I opened the book. On the preliminary limitation page, I saw Matisse’s familiar signature.  The letter “h” followed by a period. And “Matisse” was written out with a long “s” (crossed like an “f”) followed by a short “s.” But there was no printed number to identify this copy between 1 and 1,200. It’s what is called an out-of-series copy. Sometimes these were test copies where the printer was checking the general layout or various types of paper or ink. Often they served as proofs for the scrutiny of publisher or author. But mostly, they were extra copies to be used for any unforeseen contingencies. This copy wasn’t blank, however. Instead of a number, there was a small red heart inked with a broad nib in a hand firmer than that of an 80 year-old Matisse.

“It’s a heart,” Maisie said. “You know, for love.” And she pushed back her chair and left the room. I could hear her rustling around back in the kitchen.

I checked some reference material on my computer to see the proper pagination of the book, with the number of leavers and lithographs and other illustrations, and began the process of collating, making sure that the book was intact and complete. It didn’t take long. All was as it should be. At the back were three envelopes. I love finding things like that. It’s where things can get interesting. Before I could dig deeper, I heard Maisie return.

She wore an apron and set down a chipped Wedgwood platter with celery stalks stuffed with peanut butter and topped with green olives. “I would have brought the jam. But there were ants. So many ants.”

She wiped her hands on the apron, sat back down beside me, and gathered up the envelopes. “There’s a story that goes with these. And I thought you might want a snack.” She waited patiently, leaning in a bit towards me, her eyes wide and expectant. When I finally took a bite of one of the celery sticks, she began.

“Her name was Lilly, short for Lillian. It was 1943 and she was young, traveling alone through France. This was during the second world war. I think she was a spy. Irma says she was just a loose woman. I don’t know why she couldn’t have been both. But she was my mother, so I’ll never know the whole truth. Anyway, this is way before I came into the picture.”

Maisie lifted up one of the envelopes. She removed a crisp sheet of paper folded into thirds. She handed me the envelope and read from the letter. “Mon cher monsieur Tériade….” Maisie looked up. “How’s your French?” I shrugged, and shook my head. “Pity,” she said. “It’s from Fernand Mourlot. He did the lithography for this book. He and my mother were also lovers. It’s all in the letter. You have to read it right. He quotes some of Charles d’Orleans steamier couplets. Anyway, the letter is written to Tériade, who my mother said was a snake. Tériade published this book. He and Mourlot did all sorts of things together. They created Verve magazine. Verve. Hmm. Verve. That’s a sexy word in any language. Here he’s instructing monsieur Tériade to track down my mother and deliver this copy to her, heart and all. The book took a couple of years to get published and Lilly had moved on with her travels.”

Maisie opened the book to a page with a nude woman seated with her knees to her chest and holding her hair back with a hand.

“That’s my mama, Lilly. She would have been 19 when this was done. Here’s another picture of her.” She handed me the larger envelope.

I pulled out the original charcoal drawing of the print in the book. It was signed and dated by Matisse. Maisie tapped the back of the drawing. I turned it over. Even my poor French could translate “ma flour préférée, Lilly” as “my favorite flower, Lilly.” I noticed there was another piece of paper in the envelope. I pulled out a slip of pale blue paper with a one hundred franc note pinned to it. There was a short paragraph in ink on the paper.

“It’s Matisse explaining that he had forgotten to pay Lilly for the sitting. 100 francs? In the ’40s? What a cheapskate!”

Maisie handed me the final envelope. It was thicker than the others. I removed a folded panel of brown butcher paper which had clearly been used to wrap up the book for mailing. It had French stamps, a return address for a M. Tériade, in Paris, and was addressed to Lillian Calhoun, 7300 South Presa Street.

“I don’t know why the book took so long to find mama. I like to think detectives were employed. It arrived in the post while she was living here, running through a small inheritance with cheap wine, palm readers, and therapists. One day she cleaned out a little room in back and moved me out of my prison across the road at the State Hospital into this new prision here, on the creek.”

We heard Irma come in the back door. Maisie took the book and returned to her sofa.

“Not much of interest?” Irma asked, pointing to the wall of books. “I use her mothers cookbooks every now and then.” She looked over at Maisie. “I hope she wasn’t too much of a pest. She’s good one-on-one, but put two people or more in a room with her and she just shuts down. It’s not that hard to imagine. But for some reason, the doctors don’t even have a name for her condition. And all this talk about being in prison….” Irma shot Maisie a look. “Yes, Maisie, I know what you get up to when I’m not around. Anyway, don’t believe a word of it. She comes and goes whenever she wants, but she will never cross that creek.”

Irma sighed and ran a hand over the spines of some books on a shelf. “I was hoping that these would get us some money. I work when I can. And Maisie helps out, too. She cooks at least one meal a day for us. Isn’t that right, Maisie?” And then, quieter, but still loud enough for Maisie to hear. “And it’s awful.”

When Irma had left, I shut down my computer, gathered up my things, and told Maisie that she had a wonderful book and I thanked her for telling me about her mother and Matisse.

“It belongs to me,” Maisie said, holding the book tight against her chest.

“I know,” I said.

“I kept it safe all these years, saved it from the roaches and the silverfish.”

“You’re doing an excellent job of it,” I said. “You really are.” And I placed one of my business cards on the table beside the gooseneck lamp.

Maisie got up and walked over. She picked up the business card and returned it, and then she handed the book to me. I looked at her, but she just lowered her head and shrugged. So I walked into the kitchen to tell Irma that her life had changed. I wrote out a description of the book, the letters, and the original drawing by Matisse. I gave her the phone number of a friend who worked at Christie’s. “Tell him everything I’ve written. Mention my name. He’ll fly out and take it from there. He can call me if he needs to.”

I walked out. Maisie never looked up from the sofa. I got in my car, drove across Asylum Creek, over the railroad tracks, and then I turned left on South Presa Street.

I never did learn what Maisie’s affliction might have been. Certainty something more than just being, well, “French.”

I wonder what ever happened to them.