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Thanksgiving in April


Dinner Matters

Dearest Loyal Talkinggrid Supporters,

We ride up to the sunrise, catching it as it lashes about… 

a meeting in the morning…. sunrise happening again and coffee roasted.

Perfection in a tea cup. Ah!

Last night, we had the pleasure of dining at the most thoughtful hostess’s home.  It was, thanks to her and her husband’s hospitality T H A N K S G I V I N G in April, last night! Yet...

She is a vegetarian.  Yet, last night she served a delicious thinly sliced roasted fish, pesto and plain noodles, organic asparagus, lentils, bread, and more delicious conversation than I have had since, the other guest last night, my dearest friend invited me to her home, a magical place, with a big garden overlooking the canyon, where the children bounce and borrow books from each other.  I sit in the corner of, transport pad… launch, from domestic cosy space-to-the-universe kitchen, with tall pint of dark Irish inspiration, talking with whichever one of her rustic tribe of hand-picked misfits… a curly haired Caribbean woman, vague and obscure,  in San Diego via New York sits across from me jabbering on the ins and outs of hand made Japanese paper and book binding techniques… the kind of arcane topic WE ART NERDS live for.  Pleasure!

Recently, just over a week ago, last Saturday night, we attended a lovely house warming party.  We laughed standing around the hibachi drinking beers and talking about weaving pipe cleaners with artist Don Porcella. Social life in San Diego… isn’t hurting.  I’m happier here, than in LA, where without an active Film Project one is invisible… not always a sad state. Yet, I like it better here and in New York.  (I really must POP into Manhattan, soon… I have old art buddies to see… intimate art chats to have… digital video documents to create.)

Last night,  I sat at the table zoning out, feeling bliss. Thanking goodness that my friends and I were born to host and entertain, to love and to maintain. I think.  Yes… our garden F L O W E R S! 

The same group of friends, we take turns entertaining each other… we are very different from each other… glowing shades of an ideal female goddess, a mother, THE Muse… these women are my sisters, much a kin to the beautiful pet, egg laying, chickens… one white, another brown, another a fabulous GOLD chicken, clucking in the immaculate rectangle of rectangles and trees, heavy with long yellow fruit… into the evening and night  we talk about all the little details too tender for public discourse… we share these morsels of self with each other… rambling...we feast in each other’s company.  We are more than mere dinner companions (notice:  the latin root…)  WE break bread, together.  WE are surrogate family to one another, giving each other warmth and some… shit, sometimes, a little… But, only me, I’m the only one that doesn’t always understand everything.  I’m the rudest of the three tactful and trustworthy women.  Fortunately, they forgive me and overlook my short comings time and again.

Unfortunately, can not we see each other each and everyday. There was a point, when we had babies that we all lived in the same neighborhood.  Our friendship was established on the firm ground of affinity and now has roots in the passage of time and in the accumulation of memories, efforts, and shared news.   Fortunately, we live in the same city.  Thus, we are able to get together in turns, at least once per month.  We are mothers.  We work.  We guide our children’s growth.  We have projects, deadlines… stress… we carry the burden… among us… we laugh, making light of our personal troubles.

Last night, the Champagne, hit the spot!

The Children ate at their own al fresco table.  We sat inside and forgot about them.  They are big kids now… they don’t need us, so much, anymore.  They ran around, wearing funny hats after dinner, and my kids sang a Roland Kaiser song to the Irish-American-Mexican, by choice… Best Friend.  She could not believe how well the children sing in German!  

Three couples and their children… we have known, for a decade… we are dear to each other.  We form a group, an extended family.  It is marvelous to watch the children grow, together.  They know each other so well.  They are a team of sorts, each growing his or her own way, as we all have, over the years… We three mothers became friends years ago… having met in a mother’s group and founded a book club over copious amounts of Vueve Cliquot and petite fours… which thrives to this day.

“Noah,” Biblical Dude



Dearest Talkinggrid Regulars,

1 April 2014 -7 April 2014


Here is a meditation on taste… How do you feel about the guilty pleasure of a “BAD,” Movie? Is a “Bad,” movie akin to junk food, a poor substitute to authentic nutrition?

Frau Kolb is a total snob when it comes to films.  “Noah,” was G R E A T as a parody of  dysfunctional Malibu living.  The film’s total lack of respect for the biblical narrative’s gravitas, and the significance of LAW, authority… punishment… all foreign ideas to the Hollywood mind.  The film features: two herbal medicine junky parents, on the brink of a great flood… could be menopause or a midlife crisis… regardless the two, are battling.  The are "way too stressed," by the "evil," meat eaters.  Differences in diet, from gluten-free to vegan being an  “AWESOME issue,” in California, where this ancient flood takes place in a studio lot and computer chop-chop room, keeping a KOSHER KITCHEN versus an only ORGANIC GARDEN may be a never ending source of  Empty Hollywood “D R A M A!” 

In Los Angeles, affluent people often shop at Whole foods… which… might fit in an ark… if you drugged the electronic animals…  the cast of Noah dressed in anachronistic contemporary classic movie attire, over act their way from one scene to the next flood of bad… evil…  greedy trashy leather and hair extensions flaunting, trendy MAD MAX rival sibling... Ruler of the damned, hitching a ride, wounded, inside the cartoon ark, adrift in the middle of a bad plot and stupid invented biblical dribble.  The family of surf sipping fashion cast-aways, waiting for “the BIG wave…”  The moral of the story: DO NOT MURDER your twin granddaughters!  OK, Dude?

Do NOT set up your father to be murdered by your blood lusting uncle.  OK??? He will be Shakespearian in his on-stage twitching rage and bristling Anglo-Irish… what is that stupid… oh yeah… another movie packed with longhairs… the one about a lost Ring… cramp.   Moral number 15 of the story: keep kosher or dear ol’ god won’t give the snakeskin blessing... wait what?  This doesn’t make any sense… well the Old Testament didn’t make a whole lot of sense did it???  Slapped together from yarns, threads, ancient hebrew, ancient tongues, mysterious… powerful! 

Not a JOKE.  NOT FUNNY, really.

Noah is supposed to be serious and it really shocked me that I was the only one laughing throughout this farce of a film.


I dig the part about the groovy garden with a tempting tree and handy slithering salesman: SATAN.

The NOAH story told by Hollywood, puts Russell Crow in baggy denim trousers looking the part of a frazzled Los Angeles  "off-his-meds," unstable angry husband/DAD… an overworked father of three, a rushed and post industrial worker transported via lack of historical knowledge to an imagined past… very strange… belching stacks, polluted environment… all very LA NOW.  His wife,the dashing Jennifer Connelly, wears the organic hand stitched mantel of plastic trash bags left over from the set of Waterworld, another underwater Hollywood disaster picture, gone way wrong… The hyper unimaginative costume designer got the LOOK of a Prius Driving power-yoga-stressed out- BEACH queen MOM, perpetually aggravated from fighting traffic, on the Pacific Coast Highway, wearing her athletic gear and lambs skin lined bulky flat surf boots, despite claim to be “almost vegan…” yet LOVIN’ Skinny Margaritas… characteristic of the “laid back,” amazingly aggressive and self-centered inhabitants of one of the world’s most exclusive enclaves of wealth… sending out the sun-kissed image of Wind-Whipped Anime hair…  too much.  

Laughter erupting at the illogical slap-dash raft of a bloated "electronically mastered,” logic challenged, folly… perfect for those that love their entertainment ABSURDLY all Caucasian and without a touch of truth… those that crave  twisted, computer animated nonsense… I mean, what is with the talking rocks??? Why do all Hollywood brain busters have to have a giant robot folding over upon itself, a computerized Character, which is sent in to save a floundering script and pointless flick from sinking.    Noah, a movie made for those that image pre-history in terms of a simpler time; when wives were, animals, children, and all else were to be subject to a very macho and temperamental LORD; white DUDE.

Happy April FOOL’s Month, to those that, join me in celebrating Hollywood’s power to draw in audiences out of their, presumably, cosy homes to the public view situation of the Movie Palace or Theater… How do they manage to get humans to give up hard earned dollars to see pretty European California pampered brand name faces perform empty renditions of what might be our most sacred religious documents?

Imagine: a BIG WAVE wipes Malibu off the earth and then there is NO MORE TRAFFIC. 

Unfortunately, Noah did not have a surfboard strapped to the top of the ark...  It would have added extra––spice––to the already hyped-up Hollywood version… after all, they took so many liberties with the established biblical narrative

An alternate title for the film; “Noah Does Malibu,” and Mel Brooks really must make his own version of this hilarious jazzy Hollywood spun cheap and flashy pimp of biblical electric neon impossibly pretty Douglas Booth… fruity, really… and unbearable acting from the biblical British sounding princess, Emma Watson, with “healing wisdom,” from Wholefoods on Lincoln blvd, this version of Noah is loosely spun upon the biblical patchwork of polyester and acrylic twine costumes.

Humans: we love retelling an old myth... making it resonate with a new audience which doesn’t care that denim did not exist until the late 1800’s and that it is a uniquely American fashion choice.  The people of the ancient Greco-Roman world told many versions of the same stories about their mythological heroes.  

The fact that denim has become a possible toga for today’s international male, around the world, is testament to the imperialist nature of this nuclear family, we could-all-be-cousins, one family and its adopted sister… and their twin daughters… weird. Yet… perhaps… the film is but a mere joke, a comedy… destined to be erased when the digital libraries fail after the upcoming END of THE World!! ! IF you find yourself laughing at the silly slapstick rendition of the pre-historic manifestation of the miraculous, know that Frau Kolb is not laughing at you, rather with you, in this tenuous case.

Enjoy the “Shadows on the Cave Wall!” and please pass the fake butter flavor on salty GMO pop-corn.

Thank you,

Frau Kolb 

HOW DO WE FIND STEAM?

Dearest Readers of Talkinggrid., 


Thank you for continuing to show up here at this looney outpost in the sea of internet possibility.  I know the space around us is vast but if you will simply, come under the shadow/ of this red rock with me…” 

Hah! 

Todays theme:


The Enthusiasm to Thrive


Life rains, storms, and twitches of lightening… Rings OUT!  FIRE!  You run.  Hands up.  Fingers in the sky like a man about to be execute in a Velasquez painting.  Almost, screaming… It is dark.  No one helps.  You blaze.  The flames lick your face.  You are engulfed, yet… you silence yourself and… you exhale.  Then...

You stop.  You whirl around and gracefully remove the blazing blue and white fan print cotton kimono over your  cheerful silk robe.  You land on a specially prepared canvas strip.   Nude.  The audience inhales inward, joy.  They never thought they’d see you so… expansive, free.   You leave behind a massive streak of ash and flame colored pigment, smears of blood colored pigment in some natural oily binder … YOU are an artist, deep in the midst of a primal performance, a body painter in a near future art gallery on a barge somewhere off in a space previously unknown and now happening hotspot.  The Premium… juice is flowing from easy-access fountains.  

Imbibe!

Here we see ghosts dancing with Madams made of Smoke and Leprechauns coming onto Mermaids, “I see you dig wearing green, like me… May I buy you a pint?” Says a dashing short man in mossy leather trousers and a bent felt hat, from another era.  She smiles, down at her new suitor, and vows to sing for him a song he will remember, just after she sips the Margarita which sits before her, efficiently delivered by an invisible bartender, known for his quick hands and heavy pours.

Hah!  

You wake up and discover that your wallet is gone.  You never meant to have that second drink.  But the girl, with the well-read lips, swam over and offered nothing, she well she just looked thirsty and you ordered, “The Best for The Lady!”  Feeling buoyant.  The rest is written in sperm whale juice, shipped via Spain to the orient, after processing in a plant on the east side of Los Angeles.

Energy? Steam?  Hot air, wind, sun… what is gets you out of bed?  What is your urgent duty?  Who sings to you?   Do you LOVE someone?  Are you happy just to feel the wind kiss your faces as you enter the cozy entrails of the subway or are you the one laughing just because you have the freedom to spend the morning doing dishes and putting away the laundry?  Ah, lucky domestic person with a home to love, to decorate, celebrate, and brighten the space between rushing and silence.

On Blogging for Lunch Money

It LOOKS like this Blog is becoming MORE and MORE about blogging. Blogging is an interesting topic and I’m sure you could read up about it until the exploited farmed mammals come home.  Yet, what is it, really? 

For Frau Kolb, Talkinggrid, is in part a public diary, an ongoing and shifting record of emotional states… lately, it changes daily and has taken on an intensity which reflects my actual sense of self.  

That happens, I guess, as an artist blogger finds time for sneaking more words on the “edges of days,” tucking them in while the children and husband sleep… I slip out of bed and into the infinite.. The words are a gift to myself.  Yet, the thought of you reading them helps the words manifest in greater abundance… thus, I write more.  You read… you send me LUNCH MONEY… Businesses buy ads, individuals create accounts, others LOOK at the art… the sketches, the drawings, the paintings… to be found deep in the bowels of this meandering way-too-personal intimate art chat web-site knit for you, nice & cozy, by your host, Frau Kolb.”Zoom In With Frau Kolb,” if you require more of this unique art infused spiritual spree through a garden of refreshing perspective(s). 

Really,  the freedom of independent blogging of it is almost too much, everyday, I can OPEN up like a morning glory and give you a look into the synaptic leaps the thunderous gray matter encased within the well rounded skull of everyone’s favorite self centered intimate art chat provide. This daily blogging experience is the equivalent of jumping into the Pacific and realizing how big it is.  

The Menu Today is Filled with Piss & Shit

EAT THIS IMAGE!

IMG 6503


Whenever possible, I feast myself on ART.  Yes, that old fashion soul nourishing treasure of meaning we adore no less than sunshine and prosperity itself… the apparently superfluous luxury of thought invested object. Ah!  

Today, I celebrate THE ABSURD, the DaDA in ALL… the… calculated assault on order in order to address inequality of power, the daily war upon our senses, as countless beings blink in and out of being: ARTISTS, true ones, are forever feasting on the frenzied spirit of originality creativity.  The explosive need to create, is unstoppable.  The urge is too strong.

Thus:

Frau Kolb reminds you to think of  the work of Modern Italian born, artist Piero Manzoni (1933‑1963)’s  Title

Artist's Shit

Merda d'artista

Date1961

MediumTin can, printed paper and excrement

Today, I thank Thank Goodness for writers, that in their dogged persistence put down to paper words which signify and record the insanity of being; thank you Donatien Alphonse François de Sade (2 June 1740 – 2 December 1814), better known as the Marquis de Sade for making it possible that I write, so offensively to my dear readers and that they understand… Frau Kolb is chiseling her developing public persona in the tradition of  just as I offer thanks to the great Leopold Ritter[1] von Sacher-Masoch (27 January 1836 — 9 March 1895) who gave us “Venus in Furs,” a book we all must know, intimately.  Since its images of the “cruel,” puppet, a woman forced to wear fur and demand the outrageous in the man that was her humiliation loving master...

Dearest Talkinggrid  Regulars, 

My favorite aspect of having a growing little monster of a way-too-person informal art CHAT blog is that I get to write whatever I want, whenever I want… I want and do write everyday, by the way.  I get up early and write “in the corners of the day,”  I believe it was Maya Angelou or Toni Morrison that said that… (I don’t know… I will fact check, soon). I know it was a African American Author, a great one, that got a lot done and had children to care for…. In other words, a heroic female… be that as it may…  All the freakin’ writing on this extensive site, just “Zoom in with Frau Kolb,” if you demand proof of Frau Kolb’s indefatigable genius.   

Now, why on earth am is Cafe Talkinggrid  menu so… disgusting today… well, because Frau Kolb wants to remind you to take care of your insides.  "You are what you eat," after all.  What kind of diet are you keeping these days? 

I refuse to eat shit.  Instead, I eat oysters and guzzle Champagne in well-furnished restaurants where humans speak in hushed tones, maintaining the air of inter-dimensional calm, being essential to the success of formal venues such as hotel lobbies… and remember that time Frau Kolb went barging into the Essex House restaurant, to meet a “Grande Dame,” of Facebook… granted, the woman was showing a distinct smattering of hardcore materialist glamour spunk and character while playing online in the fridge or kiddie pool of hangers-on, hanging like turds… from the cosmic ass of the ART world.  Anyway… 

IMG 6505


LOVE LUNCH!


Frau Kolb LOVES to LUNCH.  

Today’s menu is special because, this virtual LUNCH was sent to you by a Talkinggrid 

supporter.  “I sent you cash,” the Facebook Friend wrote.  “I sent you money to take out someone you find interesting.”

Imagine that… a “stranger,” or one previously unknown to me has sent, Frau KOLB of all people on this teeming planet, CASH!!!  Get that?  Well, if you want to know the truth… this fact pleases me enormously.  Because I believe in CASH and Free LUNCH.  

Frau Kolb loves cash.  Yet credit card payment via Pay-Pal, via the DONATE button are even better… Frau Kolb loves making money writing about whatever strikes her fancy whenever her bell is ringing… yet, I write every day, daily uploads are making this one-woman-blog a modest success.  

We are delighted that the Talkinggrid  continues is once again, preparing to host the talented artist, Ms. Ola Mañana will be submitting new writings and paintings to the Talkinggrid.  

Well… there are many art Muses running around and ready to be showered with LOVE. One of my specialties is providing that FREE LUNCH for the fortunate souls that sail into the harbor of my welcoming website… Don’t be fooled by the simple cover, if you are willing to “Zoom in With Frau Kolb,” and take a LOOK under the hood of this roaring machine of efficiency, this absolutely intense, way-too-personal, luxury experience filled, treasure trove of informal art chat and fuzzy warm focus LOOKS at Museum exhibitions… which you crave and deserve, serve HOT and FRESH at the 

Talkinggrid 


IMG 6492


ART CAFE

Frau Kolb

26 March 2014

 

Ola Mañana in da' Frau Haus

We are so freakin’ LUCKY! 

Remember when… we had that weirdo attorney lady, she was a creeper, LIKING absolutely everything on our Facebook page?   She was pushing in all kinds of wrong directions...

I guess it happens to everybody, you attract the attention of the most far-out people when you are a space cadet, a time traveler, a dipper into the big blue sea of possibility which is NOW occurring everywhere at once, of course… THE INTERNET… so new, so cave wall graffiti on the streets of ancient Rome, eternal.  (I just checked, for example, who has me in their google plus circles, and I must say… it is pretty scary… I’m glad I trimmed my Facebook friend list to the essential beings, the ones that give good vibes and positivity to spare.)

This is now an obscure corner of the town square.  I can write whatever I want.  I write in the utter privacy, anonymity of knowing that those that read my tiny script are a special few… yet you do read… you spend more and more time here.  What is it that you come looking for? 

Muse News?  News of Frau Kolb’s art adventures, her fallings and findings, scrapes and tumbles down the rabbit hole and into the sauce of cosmic undertow...

Anyway, I’m feeling more and more like Samuel Beckett has invaded my brain… or perhaps not… perhaps that is too lofty a thought for this lowly, scattered, and way too personal, yet expanding and growing and excitingly weird little alternative intimate art chat… speaking of ART.

Do you remember Ola Mañana?  

Do you know Ola Mañana?  I do.  I went to the Barnes Museum in Philadelphia with her and La Suzy, a performance artist I saw unfold the map of time before a stunned audience of art hounds at Coagula Curatorial in the Chinatown Arts district of Los Angeles, which Frau Kolb covered… a couple years ago when Talkinggrid first started to become the little monster that we feed our caviar crumbs and finest wines… 

Ola Mañana and Frau Kolb met on-line.  Ola is an artist… from someplace far away, Nebraska… perhaps.  She studied art at Copper Union and when we visited the Barnes Foundation and were being annoyed by the intrusive and almost aggressive hyper active security guards which expect one to maintain a sanitary position in relation to great master pieces of mostly European Impressionist and Modern Masters… the one piece that I most remember is the Matisse… the “transitional,” Dance painting….Ah!  

That day, Ola pointed out some interesting… works which I wouldn’t have even seen without her, a Manet, which was all about light and reflection… or was it a Monet?  Then, that would make sense...  She also introduced us to an obviously very senior and highly respected Dean, or former dean, a man… so appropriately encased in a wheel chair, surrounded by an entourage of sycophants.  He was gracious; a king accustomed to pontificating… it was a preserved pleasure to meet him, briefly… it gave our visit an air of historical significance besides the insanity of Ola and La Suzy traveling out to Philadelphia, a beautiful and grossly underrated city–––by the way–––From New York to meet me.

It meant the world to me that my friends were there and we roamed, smashing into our brains as much of the Barnes Foundation collection as we could in our short visit, with our timed tickets and the distinct impression that the Barnes Foundation is holding artworks hostage which we all want, lust, crave, desire the intimacy which… most of us… seriously interested or mildly obsessive art hounds…  have become accustomed to having private moments in public places with the art we LOVE.  This type of un-interrupted revelry is not possible in the current Barnes Foundation.  Thus, we had the idea that Frau Kolb might strip naked and dive into the flat fountain of the Barnes Foundation NUDE in protest of the Barnes Foundation uptight atmosphere that made it almost not even that great to see some of the world’s most important early Impressionist and Modern art.  

Yet… we somehow managed to keep our clothes on… I lost a jewel, a semiprecious stone, a highly polished amethyst, it just POPPED right out of the ring and we went back to my spacious hotel room.  Minutes later, I ran a bath for the curvaceous beauty.  She sank underneath the weight of the day and allowed my sense of hospitality to warm her, relaxing.  We ate roasted chicken and organic roasted  vegetables from the local Whole Foods  

It was a splendid evening.  

Well… Now, Ms. Mañana is expected to submit content, paintings… this time.  

Are you excited? 

I know, I am…

Frau Kolb




Happy St. Patrick’s Day: Project Dublin

I was just on Facebook with a dear old friend in Dublin.  We decided that I absolutely must visit Dublin later this year and check out the IRISH ART SCENE!!!! YES!  I will. 


Now we have a P R O J E C T!  

Let’s get FRAU KOLB to DUBLIN by September!  How does that sound?  

Do YOU LOVE the idea of Frau Kolb, hitting London, first——of course— I mean, I can’t get that close to the Tate, and the Rothko Room, there and The Turners at the National Gallery… Ah!  I love art and I can’t wait to learn more about contemporary art in Ireland!  

Maybe I will have the pleasure of meeting Bono, again.  Thanks to a teenage best friend’s father’s connections I got to go dancing with the lead singer of U2 when I was a wee lass growing up in very IRISH Manhattan.  My maiden name is Irish and you know I got faded yesterday, in anticipation of today.  Thus, kiss me… 

I’m like Barack Obama, truly and honestly BLACK IRISH at heart, forever! 

Keep rockin’ the DONATE button!  Thank YOU!!!  Please share the link and leave messages with questions, topics, comment, and feedback.  I appreciate the hit rate spike and shower of generous contributions from friends and former enemies, too. Hah!


Dearest Loyal Talkinggrid Supporters, Readers, Joyful following 

Im happy today because Im able to show up and do what I do in the world.  Thank goodness!  

The last few years have presented me with too many opportunities to expire.  We all face that possibility on some level everyday.  Violence, bad art, or disease might be a sudden end to anyone that isnt careful. 

Thus, inoculate yourself against the dangerous world.  Retreat into contemporary art.  (Hah!)


Readers!   Frau Kolb is blown away by the fact that you keep coming back to read this lowly and scattered, strange and too personal, art infused blog by artist and personality, Frau Kolb.  YES!  WE make a great pair, you and eye.  YOUR eyeballs keep rolling over my early morning words.  Thus, I’m inspired to keep writing them.  We are a symbiotic unit.  Thank you! 

Finally, Ive achieved one of my lifes most important and previously unattainable goals: I write daily.  Writing, traditionally is a solitary practice.  I love reading and practice this on my own, quietly.  Yet, writing for me is best like this, in flow, daily and knowing that someone, one of my many friends, will read what I write and let me know if it is shite or true gold that I have spun. I have written, almost daily, for several years now.  I have to admit, however, that i achieved this lofty goal, in the most unlikely place, and least exclusive, on-line venue Facebook.  

It was on Facebook that I tripped into an incredible circle of amazing artists, art critics, consultants, power personalities one and all; many of whom Id never heard of before, some Ive known since my teens all are active, moving, pushing, edging forward.  It is fascinating to observe the Machiavellian style with which some wield their on-line art might. 

After about a year of dancing around the armies of humans flaunting their visual art prowess and connectedness I became fatigued.   I went on a campaign to rid myself of all the deadwood Id amassed in a friend requesting frenzy which took a big part of a year to initiate and then another year to prune this wild garden to what it is now: a tidy plot my Facebook list is now, reduced to the kindest, sweetest, and most uplifting people.  I recently, friended someone Id un-friended because, frankly, the woman is sharp, even her name suggests it.  I unfriended her and so many others because, I dont want to be an aspiring big personalitys Bitch.  That is right, Ive said it. 

Im competitive and IF Im going to write everyday it is nice to know that you come because you dig my words, perspective, art adventures, and quirky personal Caribbean history.  We may be fans of each other.  Yet, no matter how often I decide to take out my, SEND MONEY HERE! placard and brandish it in my most obnoxious Dance of Desire, I expect you to simply respect my wishes and click the freakin donate button, regularly, so that your $23.00 donation, or better $69.00 gift, or 200 bucks, or  do something NUTS and send Frau KOLB millions, I promise to invest it in entertaining myself and others, learning more about art, buying ART  furthermore, your generosity will aid in legitimating my continued commitment to showing up here for you with new MUSE NEWS and ideas, whichadmit it you find so stimulating and rare.  I think Id create a type of artists colony where we creatives cold chill out and get free spa treatments or some other RADICAL UTOPIAN art fantasy. just send the GREEN, if ya know what I mean.  

CLOCKS LEAPING FORWARD

LEARNING FROM EX LOVERS

Before I became Frau Kolb, I was a single girl growing up in Manhattan, New York.

Despite the fact that I always wore combat boots and thought myself some sort of punk; boys and men liked me and I went out on lots and lots of fun dates.  (There are so many opportunities for a beer drinking girl, that likes to listen to men talk, to be taken out in a city full of bars, and no need to ever drive a car.)  I like boys and men, too.  I’ve always seen them as those two distinct categories.  

Boys are cute, sexually attractive beings, with little else to offer.

Men are sometimes handsome, sometimes NOT, yet always come with financial muscle.  

Boys you play with and get over, because they are out there playing and getting on with being boys.

Men are dangerous.  One must be cautious.  Listen.  Say, “No!” often.  You don’t want a man to get the impression he can do whatever he wants with you.  Never.  Men will take you for a ride if they believe they can.  You must pay attention.  You must be ready to run or fight.  Don’t be scared, yet don’t be vulnerable.  

Anyway, that said… 

One love affair blended into the next and I dated some truly amazing men.  Having left home at age seventeen, by the time I was twenty-one, I’d lived with a man that got me my first job cooking at an exclusive health club in Manhattan.  I’d go into work at five am and “cut down a crate of carrots, onions, celery, wash the turkey, season it, turn on the convection oven…” I’d be there, focused, cooking… day after day… I made a turkey every week day for almost two years, straight.  Until I was promoted within the company to a better, more luxurious location at the Atrium building on 57th Street. 

So… from my beautiful, former model, tall and slender, blue-eyed Mayflower WASP professional bartender boyfriend, I learned: cooking as a way of making a living and to this day, I can make lunch for a hundred with ease.  Serving food is my forte.  I cook daily, at home and it means the world to me to do so.  Every time my husband and I have people over for a seamless dinner I thank good for my EX, boyfriend, who taught me how to keep it sizzling.  Every time. 

Yet, I left him for a man, with big green eyes, dark hair, creamy colored thick smooth skin, fat lips… ah!  I found him so sexually appealing, he looked like a man, he was twice my age, but really he was just an old boy… he had no clue how to make a living and I guess he was just waiting for his mother to pass away so he might inherit the house… whatever… I had to pay half the rent; this boyfriend was a chronic smoker of what is now called, “Medical.”   This boy-man and I sent a lot of time drinking and exploring horizontal positions.  We were happy children together, yet I had to pay half the rent, even though he was twice my age and I was… well frankly a long leggy stunner… 

Leaving room for the next boyfriend to slip in with his wallet.  I left the cozy, comfortable, German and Irish, beer drinking, and self-help book reading, Boy Toy Man that could barely pay his half of our East Village rent for the rust-funded Little MAN that dominated my life, ate my peace, destroyed my ability to earn a living working in restaurants, by taking me out to eat almost daily, to expensive joints in Soho, while showering me with presents and cash.  I was, seriously, his sugar baby.  I had no idea that was what I was.  I thought he loved me and that we would someday marry.  

At first, I felt so bad that he had a girlfriend living with him when we met.  Yet, he assured me… he pursued me, he seduced me with his elegant script on fine paper love letters… Ah!  At the end-of-the-day… I’m a Romantic.  My grandfather was Spanish… I have a soft spot for Picasso and bleeding bulls.

This important EX taught me about ART, Fibonacci wave patterns, and the stock market. (Lest we forget: he was mind boggling between the sheets, a true artist.) I loved him… but I was immature and… I kept finding myself with other guys, including that Irish/German Hippy apologeticallyStoner Dude, mentioned before… and the English boyfriend, the one with the golden red hair… oh, no… now my time line is messed up… anyway… there was some overlap.  The Little Art Man from California, challenged me, “I can’t marry someone who hasn’t gone to college.” He said smugly, one day.  Thus, I decided to apply to many a school, I got into all my choices, and was offered a full scholarship at Columbia University in the city of New York.  

Thank goodness.  

The boyfriend story, however, continues: 

Then came H.  We met at the bar at the brand-new Reebok Club in NYC.  I was a student at Columbia University, looking for a quite, refined place, to read my material for a literature class.  He was making Monica Lewinsky jokes, the news was on an old television set over the bar.  He was funny. He was cute, big brown eyes. He said he was 52 years old and yet, he looked great to me.  I was no ageist. 

Soon it became redundantly clear that he was really rich.  He introduced me to the pleasure of drinking fine red wine.  In his company I learned to eat as many oysters as I pleased, and to distinguish between luxury and everything else.  I loved him.  I would have gladly married him and had his Jewish babies.  I would have converted with pride and become more Jewish than any other convert.  Yet, it turned out that he had lied about his age, he was actually 72.  I was 24.  He was fitter than I, and I was fit.  He was still running marathons.  He did advanced yoga.  He was a physical marvel.  I wanted babies.  He was over it.  His sons were older than me. I only met one of them, at his Hampton estate, and I felt ill at ease: he could have been my father! So...

Toward the end of our six or seven month relationship, we met up in England… no I was in England, in London for the summer, staying with a friend and his girlfriend, chasing the red-haired Oxford illusion… that boyfriend, which actually, was a brief yet… not easily dismissed… I was 17 and he was 18, when we met… he was in NYC for the summer, it was his first job, mine too, at a restaurant on the Upper East Side.  He was staying with his classmate, whose father was the second at the British consulate.  (They used to call me, “The Pretty Negress.”) So… he had a whole floor in a brownstone in the best location… near the crappy restaurant, where the EX boyfriend that got me my first cooking job when RED left me to go back to his life of privilege and life quenching adherence to antiquated notions of propriety.  Ah… the British… love ‘em, hate ‘em… they continue. 

Anyway… RED, gave me insights into the mentality of a vaguely aristocratic or rather POSH mentality, which to this day irks me.  He was the most unapologetically classist being I’d ever met.  (I guess IF a system works for you, then you work to uphold it…), which I found refreshingly honest.  I liked him, a lot… I liked his voice: proper English.  Listening to him, chatting with him… is blissful, at times… we stayed in touch for years, I’d call him and he’d share his adventures, until recently… when it became clear that he was taking ME, Frau Kolb, totally for granted, he’d become used to having me share of myself with him.  Further more, he secretly prefers to date young black girls from the wrong side of London… a secret, which offends me.  Thus, I let go of that attachment, only recently.

Back to H.  

We were not together for very long.  He got along famously: both New Yorkers.  He was from the Bronx and had grown up struggling.  I loved his Alfa-Male energy.  Yet, he was very old and very wealthy.  I was completely at ease in his company.  I felt safe allowing him to make decisions… the only topic I knew more about than him was art… He started collecting Miro… I would have gladly married him.  He was the only person I ever met that had the capacity to keep me completely entertained and at ease; no need to work, invisible servants catered to our every whim when we lived together at the Hampshire House.  I had my own room, filled with books, and a wonderful view.  Every night we went out to New York’s best seafood restaurants.  I ate oysters.  He ate grilled fish and salad.  We drank VINO, together.  He was the BEST, until he dumped me.

Yes.  It is true.  

The lessons he taught me: he taught me that CASH, a big wad of it, waved at anybody in service with get you whatever you want.  Drop a hundred dollar bill on a host in a restaurant and you will get the best table.  Moreover, make a habit of giving to others more than they expect and then leave them when they get addicted to your magnificence and they will remember you for life. 


* Special thanks to my husband Hartmuth, for helping me, sort out my history and for not being afraid of ghosts.

On Equilibrium

The tendency is for me to float above obstacles.  I admit: I had both my children at home, without a hitch, into my husband’s waiting, prepared, and competent hands.  The midwife helped clean up and I nursed both babies in bed with the umbilical cord still on.  


The presence of the sacred is palpable in my life.  I am super sensitive.  Thus, I don’t watch much commercial television, the flashing lights and subliminal messages, the repetition and the insistence on that products and consuming might quench Desire... is absurd, in my book.


I am an artist.  I identified with the word as a young child.  The title, “Artist,” seemed big enough to fit little me, my many thoughts, drawings, dance, and theatrical being.  It was a word my half-brother used, to describe himself, while drawing or writing. He wrote poetry in Spanish.  He inherited the talent from our grandfather, the cockfight/casino gambling Monster.  Big Olive, White/Spanish Brother worked on realistic, Raphael inspired soft-porn on a drafting table in a walk-in closet turned studio.  He would save the nubs of his pencils for me and I had a spot to sit at, drawing at my older brother’s feet, which were quite smelly, at times... so... I did not linger in the role of apprentice to my talented, albeit, disgusting, older half sibling.

Recently, my mother came to visit.  She was with us for three weeks.  It felt like an eternity in the roasting bowels of El Inferno.  My mother is a very special woman.  She is admittedly and undeniably adorable.  If you dig little Spanish ladies, that speak terribly broken, shattered English, and gleefully waste your time, because they are  bizarrely self important; you simply have nothing better to do than listen to a little garbled English speaker ask you questions which have no thing to do with sense, a cute big brown eyed person, oblivious to formal demands of time and space.  Another type of Floater, my mother relied on her strange version of the mighty Hebrew g-d, for the hot air required for soaring... well, not soaring... barely clearing, above a few obstacles, sometimes, but mostly, my mother has run head long in the direction of Misery her entire life.    

She married the ignorant, pretty boy down the block.  The romantic, disco-era, Youth, my Half-brother is her first child... a mistake, clearly.  Therefore, in order to prove her point, which was and will always be, that she ALWAYS DOES whatever she wants; she had a second boy.

That guy, I simply will NEVER speak to... sorry... some people have LAWS with their names attached to them... some people are dangerous... in our culture... he’s the type that will “sell you and make you carry the cash,” (te vende y te hace cargar los cuartos...)  In Dominican Republic, where both my parents were born, there is a law named after my second half-brother, because of an elaborate system by which he defrauded members of our extended family of properties and holdings.  In other words, he’s a Con-Man, always looking for an a, Mark, never to be trusted.

Nothing... like a long visit from Mama to remind you how LUCKY you are that you hit the streets of Manhattan, got a job waiting on tables on the Upper East Side of Manhattan... met a few prep school boys, went on to dates a couple Wall Street Men, left those guys for the Artists, the first a true Hippy Bum and the second, I won’t mention because he is the type that would secretly be reading this humble blog and get inflated like the sinister puff fish he is... IF he even thought I was writing about his rust funded posterior... things might get ugly.  He always warned me NOT to WRITE about him.  Hah!

Well, tough.  Because the time has come that I must say: my mother had a huge crushes on all my handsome blue-eyed or green (in one case) boyfriends.  The man, she LOVED the most was the one, she thought looked the most like her father...the one with the master’s degree in fine art... and the loft, where he and his long-term girlfriend lived ... we met, I was the “Beautiful waitress,” according to his then girlfriend, (an active art pedagogue at the university level, a professional artist, recent winner of a Guggenheim grant).  He went for me, mercilessly.  I guess, he aimed to “kill two birds with one stone.”  He broke her heart, lanced mine and pulled me into a torrid affair which went on too long, through the first half of my twenties, yet, had serious benefits in that he challenged me, by saying, “I could never marry a person that hadn’t gone to college.  A statement that spurred me to applying to college.  The big surprise was that I got full scholarship to Columbia University, they were looking for bright students that might add to the the atmosphere of unearned privilege which prevails at exclusive universities.  He educated me, teaching me to watch the stock market , teaching me about Fibonacci wave patterns.  We went to museums, together.  I was astounded by his knowledge of materials and methods I was in love, at first, with his mind Yet, I was not mature enough to conduct a serious relationship with this introvert painter.  He shared with me his money and he was incredible in bed. Thus, I loved and hated him.  “Fucking and Fighting,” he called it.  Im glad I based my life on a relationship with someone solid, dependable.  Handsome and fit, my husband, wins my heart over and over, impressing me with his kindness.  Smarter, more accomplished, stronger, yet more gentle than most men will ever dream of being Im pleased that I did not fall for some flashy fun and that I married a worthy man.

Of course, that relationship could not last, because I am fundamentally a person that seeks and craves peace.  I love harmony, quiet, gentle days.  I love libraries and art museums.  I love reading and writing before dawn when the world is purple silence is the best part of any day... except.... sex is nice too... I dig it and that is best not peaceful but full of friction, tense... 

The entire month of February, which is normally devoted to celebrating Valentine’s Day and My Birthday, was eaten up entertaining the woman that caused me to be a Birthday hungry adult, since her “religion,” forbids celebrating Birthdays... another means of confusing the passage of time, the ticking toward the pending apocalypse, they promise.  She is so selfish, immature, and shallow... yet, she’s pretty, cooks well, keeps an immaculate home (cleaning compulsively, is a virtue in some circles), and she has a certain charm about her.  

My father fell for it.  He died in love with her.  I know because I flew her down to Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic to see my sweet ashy black father, the beaten down version of the radiant hero that I knew as my Papi, my father.  He was so pleased to see her at his bedside.  He didn’t even mind her taking the opportunity to insult and provoke him for hours, retelling her version of their horrid marriage.”  Daniel was an excellent father to me.  Yet, great husband or provider to her four children not so much I had to negotiate winter coats for them it was rough.  Each day, I realize that I know how to think, read, write, and sell things because he did.  He was an attorney in Dominican Republic.  He made a decent living selling good furniture in New York City.  He was honestly ambitious and he thought marrying my mother was a ticket into a family he’d grown up reading about in the local news, a power family that would help him with his career as an attorney.  

My parents grew up under the dictatorship of Trujillo.  My mother’s family were literally in bed,  with the dictator’s family, my grandfather’s cousin, Octavia Ricart was married to Rafael Ramfis Trujillo.  My great grandfather was born in Spain to a family with extensive commercial and agricultural holdings.  Olive oil was the family business.  Fortunes, were made, and lost, too much, horrific amounts of money were gambled away in the aristocratic sport of chance: gambling consumed my grandfather, trained as a boy by his father to place bets on cock fights; grandfather Ricart died young, a mere 47 years old.

In contrast, my father’s people were hardworking British Blacks from the isle of St. Croix.  His people spoke English.  Thus, my command of the language, is accented, yet deep.  His mother told my mother that her masters, back home, were good people, they did not hit and there was always enough food.  Yet, I know she grew up mostly indoors, serving as a domestic in an elite home.  Grandfather was a Marine Mechanic.  They left St. Croix for Dominican Republic, which was the bustling center of the Caribbean, rivaled only by Cuba, in hopes of gaining education and a brighter future for their yet unborn children.

My father was an ethical and responsible man.  He cared about me intensely and he taught me about torts and contracts, boxing and baseball, logic and observation.  People watching was our hobby; identifying types, making flash judgements, learning to distinguish between one class of human and another  Daddy passed on his values, learned in another age, of assimilation as the only worthy path for a smart person of a less powerful social group.  We spent so much time together, walking, talking sports... he thought I was like a little boy... his little buddy.  I loved how big and strong he was and his beautiful black skin... Daddy!  

My Mother and her children took delight in taunting him, us.  They called him, “The Gorilla,” and I was his “Monkey.”  This was companied by derisive laughter... he was a professional... he spoke English.  He was proper.  He was... sure he had short comings... he always just wanted to go home, back to Dominican Republic, so he could practice, his profession. 

He returned a year or two before dying, broken yet, he had some fun being driven around, whoringyet, my father bet on the wrong horse, having signed a contract with his Driver, his “adopted son,”  which stated that he would pay to me the cost of the buses, Daddy owned upon his death, to retain what my father intended to be my inheritance... yet, the inheritance he gave me in my long legs, lean fit body, he taught me sports, reading, writing, fighting, and instilled in me the desire to soar.