Archive for December, 2008

The Art Galleries at TCU, 20 December 2008 – 1 February 2009

Attendance at Friday night's opening was considerable, guests enjoying both the art and an open bar.

A silk screen portrait of Shaindy Fenton, a Fort Worth socialite and art dealer, is Warhol's largest work in the show.

Dutch artist Reineke Dijkstra seems to turn the effect of the Warhol pictures on their head.  A catalog of some of her work is available for viewing, which consists of carefully produced portraits of very mundane people looking extremely awkward—sort of like the snapshots you choose not to have printed—in effect, the glamorizing of the mundane, rather than the “mundanizing” of the glamorous.  The effect is further developed in Dijkstra’s contribution to the show, “The Buzz Club, Liverpool, England/Mysteryworld, Zaandam, Netherlands,” which consists of projections of young people filmed in back rooms at night clubs. 

Many are trying to be glamorous in their own way, but don’t quite succeed, especially since they are largely out of their element (the dance floor), yet are close enough still to feel like they should be “doing their thing.”  I must say that I found the whole thing quite interesting, although it is hard articulate why.

British artist Douglas Gordon’s contribution to the exhibit are works in the medium listed as “smoke and mirror” from his series “self portrait of you + me, after the factory.”  These consist of images of Warhol silkscreen images that have been partially burned and then mounted on mirrors.  The effect is the mingling of the Warhol work with a portrait of yourself.  Dijkstra could have had a field day, filming people awkwardly looking into the paintings.

Toronto artist Tony Scherman’s contribution to the exhibit includes two paintings from his “The Junkies” series.  These images are in keeping with the “tearing down” tendencies in modern art.  They consist of iconic portraits of Marilyn Monroe and Marlon Brando (Warhol, again), but with a decidedly dark and foreboding palette.  Scheman has partially burned the paint after application, the effect of which is to melt partially the image.  Here, we are in the familiar territory of deconstructing sacred cows, with little in the way of constructive alternatives.

My son with his hand next one of the largest examples of the mollusk fossil we found.

A few days back we went to the park for a little recreation and my youngest, as usual, wanted to get down into the creekbed. This is something I have mixed feelings about — on the one hand, I remember how much enjoyment I got from wandering around waterey places when I was little. On the other hand, I have fear that there might be germs down there. So I compromise and go with him.

Exposed beds of limestone comprise most of the creeks that criss-cross Tarrant county. Today, there are puddles in the limestone, even though it hasn’t rained in at least a week or two.

We found fossils in the stone, and, by using Google Image Search on “Texas Fossil in Creekbed” I found out what they are: a creature called the “Tarantoceras sellardsi.” Of course, that answer doesn’t really provide me with any new information, it might as well be called the “Heba-Jeba-Sebalator,” so I put “Tarantoceras sellardsi” in the search engine. First it tells me to try a different spelling, and then when I do, there’s no hits.

Apparently the “Tarantoceras sellardsi” is not well known, throwing me back on my own resources.

It seems to be a type of mollusk, and the image I found of a similar fossil was unearthed, you guessed it, here in Tarrant County. So I have decided to name this strange creature the “Tarrant County Mullusk.” It is said to come from the Cretaceous period, so at least we have a good idea of how long the rock has been down there at the park: somewhere between 65 and 144 million years.

Editor’s note: image comes from creekbed in Kellis Park, in South Hills.

I’m still waiting for our reviewer to come up with a story about last night’s exciting opening of the Andy Warhol Portraiture show at TCU, so I’ve decided to let you all know about some other Fort Worth blogs you might want to be reading.

First of all is Fort Worthology, The Pulse of the City Song. Predominantly the work of Kevin Buchanan, this blog focuses on smart urbanization in Fort Worth, has its home in South Fort Worth (the Near Southside) and is known for really interesting images and graphics which show things like plans for redevelopment projects and the historic route of Fort Worth’s early-20th century streetcars. The blog’s tagline is “traditional urbanism, smart growth, transit, sustainability” and I believe Kevin’s work represents an astonishingly possible vision for making Fort Worth not just another prairie metropolis run by fat cats but a functional and dynamic city that belongs to the people.

Then there’s West and Clear. This blog takes its name from the two forks of the Trinity River, which are figured on its masthead.  West and Clear covers a wide range of issues from entertainment to politics and is the work of several writers.  Perhaps you should think of it as “Fort Worth Weekly” on the web. Although that might make FW Weekly a little bit uncomfortable. 

The there’s Fort Worth Can Do. This blog is published by Fort Worth Concerned Citizens Against Gas Drilling Ordinances, and covers the ongoing struggle against Chesapeake Energy and the urban gas drilling project. If you feel like you’re only hearing the pro-drilling side of the story–and most of us are–and you want to hear what the opposition is saying, you need to visit this site.

Finally, for really colorful restaurant reviews of places you may not have heard about but probably want to, there’s Fort Worth Hole in the Wall. They don’t publish as often as some, but what they do is worth reading. Latest story: a run into the Lunch Box, where your granny seems to be both cooking and eating.

Finding a good ethnic restaurant in Fort Worth isn’t really difficult, but you do have to pay attention. And it helps if you’re in South Fort Worth, or what they’re now calling “The Near Southside.” Particularly on Magnolia Avenue, where there’s a veritable slew of ethnic restaurants, from Benito’s Mexican and Hot Damn Tamales to Palermo’s Italian and a Thai place. But our personal favorite is the Egyptian restaurant, King Tut. I have this thing about hummus. 

On Magnolia Avenue in the Near Southside, the King Tut serves up authentic Middle Eastern cuisine at a reasonable price.

Food traditions from the Middle East start around Greece and run around the eastern end of the Mediteranean, including cuisines of Jordan, Iran, Syria, Egypt and Libya. Based on ancient cooking traditions and using the crops grown in the region, including broad or fava beans, lemons, olive oil and lamb as well as tomatos and peppers, Middle Eastern food is not just good-tasting, but with all that olive oil and vegetarian choices, it’s good for you. For those who relish flavorful crisp barbecued meat, there’s the shish kababs. So when my husband and I can’t agree–do we want sweet or savory, meat or vegetarian–the King Tut is a great place to compromise.

As you enter the establishment on the corner of Magnolia and Hurley, just a block from Baylor All Saints Medical Center, you see a counter full of exotic grocery items and in the back, the gold plaster statuary, including a King-Tut style sarcophogus and effigy of the Cat God. The floor is simple cement, the brick walls have been decorated with replicas of Egyptian tomb paintings.  Old-fashioned cafe’ windows look out on the street. The proprietor has been there every time I’ve gone, and he or a waitress quickly comes to take your drink order — but it will have to be soda or tea, the shop is Muslim-owned, so there’s no liquor.

Atmosphere aside, the main reason for going to the King Tut is the food. Whether you choose falafal salad, which is fava bean croquettes with tahini sauce, or hummus, chick pea puree with flat bread for dipping, or dolmadaikias, grape leaves stuffed with rice, onions and lamb, or shish kabab, or couscous, a rice-pilaf like dish, no lover of Middle Eastern food will be disappointed. The whole wheat flat bread, which arrives at your table warm and soft, is my personal favorite.

Yes, you can finish up with coffee and a bakava, or try shopping at the counter for grocery items which include imported olive oil, more baklava, and exotic cookies.

Price depends on what you order, but I’d say around $10 per person  for lunch and $15 for dinner.

King Tut Restaurant, 1512 Magnolia Avenue, Fort Worth, (817) 335-3051

Hours: 11-2:30, 5:30 -9, Monday through Saturday.

(turn and face the strain) – David Bowie, “Changes”

Change has occupied my mind much lately. Do people change? Relationships definitely do…places, to a point. Feelings, sometimes…life, constantly. This past summer, I considered how uplifting it was to go back to the family farm in Northern California and find the same trees, the same house, the same heat pressing people into the shade, the same thick juices oozing from plums, fallen in a ring around the tree. I also considered how disconcerting it was to return to my father’s home and find even the front doormat differing from that of my last visit.

I have had much opportunity to look at changes in people this year. Graduating, moving away, then returning, and seeing my old friends from high school again, these things have all presented changes – many which I receive painfully: my best friend’s empty bedroom, where we spent so many giggling nights, my other friend’s music, still playing though our friendship is damaged forever, my old school, still the same, yet unreachable as I have moved on, another friend’s countenance, looking across a table that feels it might as well be an ocean, though we connect, there is a gap that neither of us dares breach.

So, things change – but what is better to be remarked upon is what doesn’t change. One dry humor, the cursing of another as he drives along, the familiarity with which we pile into a car and cruise around. The thought “just like old times” floats in to my mind as we pass a movie theater and deem the current contents unworthy. As I rode around with the two aforementioned male friends, I felt a comradeship. I looked at them, and thought of all my friends.

I find the edges, frayed and worn, which I can still trace my fingers along; the memories, fettered by time, but still there, and in these I find strength – in that car ride, joking about, I found strength.

Stability is something I have grasped for my whole life, and found in the most surprising of places – and mostly in people. In my aunt, living on that farm, still going out to move sprinklers, and laughing with her dancing eyes; in my father, ever working, ever happy to see me, as I run into the same arms I have run into for almost two decades; in my mother, whom I looked up to as so tall and strong years ago, and whom I still look upon, though from a few inches above, as being as strong as ever; in my sister, still gesticulating with her arms over her head, jumping in excitement like a little child.

Do people change? Of course, some parts of them change. However, there is something intangible in each – whether a dancing eye or great mind or a childlike manner – which can be covered, buried, or even forgotten, but which is always there, and can always be found. Like Rusty said in Ocean’s Eleven: “Men like us don’t change, Saul. We stay sharp or get sloppy, but we don’t change.”

And those parts that remain eternally hidden as people move and pass on, remain in memory, or in the voices and faces of those they leave behind. They may be gone, but will never be forgotten, even as the whisps of sand that will dance across empty plains after we are gone will hold the echoes of our laughter and sighs.

This morning, the thermometer was dipping very low – 27 degrees reading out on the rear-view mirror of the Suburban, as we left at 7:10 a.m. of a Monday morning workday, and I thought how different it is when you work a day job.

But I wasn’t alone, I had the kids with me, and I was taking them to my mother, who would drvie them to their schools as I arrived at 7:40 a.m. to work as a substitute teacher.

Working days is something I haven’t done, really, for about 20 years. It was never my first choice, because I always had a complex about “being there” for my kids. However, as my youngest went to school this fall, suddenly there was no one to “be there” for, and so I decided to earn some much-needed extra money.

Part of the reason I resisted working is that I enjoyed being at home with small children. But part of it was because I didn’t want to be like my mother, who I thought of, as a child, as being the ultimate career woman, a cold-hearted sort who couldn’t care less what happened to her kids, just as long as they had nice clothes. Perhaps that wasn’t fair, (now with my own teenagers I’m learning that kids don’t always understand their parents particularly well) but the fear of being like her was enough to scare my away from serious consideration of “really working” for many years.

I’ve been a freelance writer, so I wasn’t truly malingering, I promise. But making the decision to go to work outside the house was hard. I was helped in the decision by the assurances of my mother that she could come to my aid. Retired, and living close by, she was in a position to do driving and light after-school childcare and I was desperate for any and all help. I still worried, however, that she was relishing this moment of finally showing me she was right, as I came over to her side – the working outside the home side – of the fence.

I’ve been turning this over in my head for weeks, as I am this morning when I bring them to her. She’s parked her car on the street to wait for them, and as we arrive, she jumps out. The one-time cold hearted career woman, who once wore a perfect red worsted suit, is now wearing jeans and a white Polartec jacket with matching gloves, and in the back of the Explorer she has a cat carrier with a cat in it on the way to the vet. The kids pile into the car, with joyful shouts of “Hi Grandma,” as she tries to wrestle her Border Collie, who’s coming along for the ride, into the cargo area. The dog has other ideas, however and finally Mom surrenders, and allows her to jump into the back seat right on top of the kids, who are delighted. She closes the car door and I reflect: she’s got a cat, a dog and four grandchildren in there. And she’s having fun! She smiles as she waves goodbye and I drive off. It’s like, the life I was living all those years, it comes naturally to her. She can do it! She even wants to!

Could it be, I think to myself, that all that nurturing energy I just saw was in there all the time, but never showed itself in the mother of my youth because it was hidden behind the same things that now dominate my life, worries about marriage, money, extended family, and that the true womanly nurturer is just coming into top form? Maybe so. Whatever the truth of the situation, my mom has become someone who’s eminently “there” for her grandkids and that’s a reason to rejoice. Not just for me, who’s struggling to learn how to work days, and the kids, who need a ride to school, but her dog and cat as well.

On cold winter days, nothing warms you up like a good bowl of Texas Chili

So I went to walk the dog last night, and the temperature was about 30 degrees. I had my hat, scarf, gloves, and perhaps most important, I’d had chili for dinner to keep me warm. The dog and I made it a full mile. Beating the winter like that makes you feel strong, proud, and effective. And it’s possible using using just a pound of dried beans, a pound of ground beef, and a crock pot. With a little bit of embellishment.

I developed my recipe by gathering other local’s women’s advice: my friend from Plano, Texas, my friend Lupe who was born in Zacatecas, Mexico, and I referred to the Cook’s Magazine chili version. I studied it all and made a crock pot recipe, because I like to forget about cooking dinner if I can.

The night before, soak 2 cups dried frijoles, also known as pinto beans, in the bowl of the crock pot. This is roughly equivalent to a one pound sack you get at the grocery store, though I buy a lot more than that and keep them in a cannister in the pantry. If you forget to soak them overnight, pour boiling water over them and let sit for an hour. 

First thing in the morning, pour the “used” water out and rinse beans, return them to crock. Fry up the pound of ground beef and put in the pot on top the beans. Cut up one onion, 6 garlic cloves and one red pepper. Put them into the crock pot.  Add 1/4 cup chili powder, 1 teaspoon ground cumin, 2 teaspoon ground coriander, 1 teaspoon red pepper flakes, and 1 teaspoon dried oregano. If desired (I don’t do this, but it has to do with how spicy you like your chili) you can add 1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper.  Now add one cup of chicken, beef or vegetable stock. We make ours at home, after roasting a chicken or turkey, we simmer the carcass with onions and celery, strain the stock and freeze it in one cup portions (maybe I’ll write about that another day) but you can use canned stock or a boullion cube and a cup of tap water (my mother’s method). Turn the crock pot on and test it to make sure there’s heat coming out. Nothing is worse than thinking your dinner is cooked when actually it’s sitting cold because you didn’t turn the pot on.

Add enough water to almost cover the mixture. Turn the pot on “low” and forget about it. Come back in 8 to 10 hours. Add 1 tsp of salt — we do that at the end because if you add it earlier the beans will be tough – and there’s your dinner. You can garnish it with cheddar cheese, avocados, red oinion, cilantro, or sour cream.  We tend to serve it with corn bread, soda bread, or any bread we can find.

Try it, and laugh at the cold.

December 5, 7, 10, and 13 2008
By Dean Cassella

Operetta is the most accessible of classical musical genres, and those examples of it composed by Johann Strauss, jr. (a.k.a “The Waltz King”) easily count among the most enjoyable. Operetta is a kind of half-way house between Opera (with a capital “O”) and the modern musical, in that they have scenes of spoken dialog between the arias—think The Marriage of Figaro without recitative dialog. In this production, the combination of frivolous plots, along with melodies that above all are meant to please, and a lax attitude with regard to the libretto (the text has been translated into English, with many effective alterations) means that everyone is simply supposed to have a good time. 

And a good time was definitely to be had in Die Fledermaus.  Set in late nineteenth-century Vienna, the sets, courtesy of Seattle Opera, beautifully evoke the elegant, refined style of the period (a kind of precursor to Art Deco). By far the star of the production is Ana María Martínez in the prima donna role of Rosalinde, a bourgeois wife whose husband is about to serve a brief jail sentence and whose old flame Alfred, a singer, has shown up to take advantage of the situation. Her voice is large and rich and reminiscent of the current soprano of choice, Renee Fleming. Whenever she is on stage, Martínez’s voice dominates. 

For those who like to know how the local talent fares in the rarefied world of classical music, this production boasts no less than two sizeable roles sung by Texans. Ava Pines, a soprano from Galveston, gives an admirable performance as Adele, a feisty and conniving chambermaid, especially in the second act. 

Hailing from Orange, Texas, lyric tenor Chad Shelton gives a fabulous performance as Alfred, the singer who once was the object of Rosalinde’s affections. In this production, the role of Alfred is modestly transformed into the Italian “Alfredo,” an amusing reference to the lead role in Verdi’s La Traviata. Shelton really hammed it up with a hilarious Italian accent, and parodic musical allusions to many romantic roles in the Italian repertoire. Perhaps the funniest of these was a brief reference to Cherubino, the star-crossed young lover in last month’s production of The Marriage of Figaro, as he (Alfredo) followed suit by jumping out of his would-be lover’s window. Shelton’s voice is both sweet and full and, like Martínez’s, really hits home at the crescendos.

Arguably the best laugh of the evening came from mezzo-soprano Marianna Kulikova in the ‘trouser role’ (see below) as the Russian Prince Orlosky, who in Act II informs his listeners that from his “home I can see Alaska.”

As far as acting was concerned, Grant Neale, in the non-singing role of the drunken jailer Frisch, put everybody to shame. It was clear from the moment he entered the stage that he was a professional actor rather than singer. This is perhaps ironic, since the highlight of his scene was an extended comic diatribe against opera provoked by an excessive dose of singing which he had to endure at the hands of Alfredo, thrown into jail by mistake.

To this production I took my eight-year old daughter, who has been nagging me for years to take her to the opera. Based on her reaction, I would say that this was a near-ideal introduction to the art. She was pleased that the production was in English and she found much to laugh at during the performance. Her favorite role was, understandably, Alfredo. The fact that Prince Orlosky was performed by a women led to an interesting discussion about ‘trouser roles’, i.e. male characters sung by female mezzo-sopranos, the purpose of which is to convey the sense that the male in question is very young.

Be sure to check back on January 16 for my “pre-game show” for Dallas Opera’s next production, Donizetti’s Roberto Devereux, which premieres January 23.

Fort Worth, the historic cattle marketing center for much of northeast Texas, has a long history as the place country folks go when they go to the “Big City.” And if you drive in from any direction other than Dallas, the Texas countryside can be strikingly spare, a brown undulating land of pastures and mesquite trees, small holding and small stores, until without warning, the houses begin to thicken and the roads become better maintained, the freeway widens and you see the skyscrapers on the horizon. Suddenly you are in CowTown, the City of the West.

Here we have the things that country folks like to come in to see. The Historic Stockyards the big, fancy steakhouses, the stores that sell Dickies and Panhandle Slim western clothing and Justin Boots, which used to be made here. Fort Worth is exactly what a country person would expect: sky scapers, a river, big houses, lawns, shaded streets, parks, and lots of shopping.

Even so, you don’t get the finer shadings of this fact until you’ve stopped in places like West, Texas or Amarillo or Wichita Falls, in the Dennys beside the freeway, or a Dairy Queen in Waxahachie where there are pictures or prize steers raised by local youth lining the walls and you see people from town looking at you. “You’re from the city, then,” their eyes say. And you look at your clothes and your haircut and your car, and listen to yourself when you open your mouth to speak, and instantly you know that they’re right. It’s all over you, you’re from the City, a place which to them is both mythical and dangerous, and everything that is usual to you to the countryside of Texas is utterly foreign. So if you’re living in Fort Worth, remember, you’re holding up the Urban End of things for a lot or rural Texans. Know yourself and be proud.

(This piece was left on our desk this morning with a note which said: “you wouldn’t dare print this.” However, we are short of copy, and decided to disprove the claim and go ahead:

BIGFOOT SIGHTED IN FORT WORTH

Several local residents claim they have seen Bigfoot walking around downtown this morning, first in front of St. Patrick’s Cathedral on Throckmorton, then proceeding down Throckmorton past the Bank One/Fort Worth Tower, and finally going through the parking lot into the Trinity Trails system.

Our reporter tracked him down as he was moving past Heritage park. Following is a quick interview we were able to get before Mr. Foot passed into the trees.

Reporter: Mr. Foot, what brings you to Fort Worth?

He: I had some Christmas shopping to do, and I heard your town was so dead it had a panther lying around City Hall, so I figured it would be safe.

Reporter: But Mr. Foot, that was about 100 years ago.

He: Dangit! I didn’t know that. I can’t count, you know. It does look a little built up.

Reporter: Is it true you are the missing link?

He: Ha. I’m more than that, I’m the grand-daddy of half the populaton of Medford, Oregon.

Reporter: Oregon? What were you doing there?

He: I moved there from California, that’s where I was whelped, but it was getting so crowded. You would not believe the wait for a restroom around Half Dome in Yosemite. I went a little further north as a young un, and that’s where my little ones were born, but man, people were just crowding in. So, like a lot of folks, I came to Texas – you know, there’s still plenty of room out here.

Reporter: So do you find Texas to your liking?

He: You know, I thought it would be safer than this. Here in town, it’s not bad, but out there in the countryside, there’s a lot of dudes with guns and they shoot at everything that moves.  Even if it looks human. Especially if it looks human! So I’ve been hanging in the Trinity Trails. It’s got lots of possums and coons, they’re tasty. And there’s good recreation, jumping out from bushes in twilight when there’s no one around, scarin’ the bejesus out of people. But some day, I think I’m gonna go back.

Reporter: Are there others bigfoots, er, bigfeet around these parts?

He: Sure, I’ve got an uncle in Public Administration in the mid-cities and my nephew’s on a road crew in Granbury.

He turned to stalk off but the reporter stopped him -

Reporter: Wait! There’s just one more thing I’ve always wondered -

He: (hesitating) Well  I’ve got to get down to the woods before too late to stalk the kids who come there to smoke, but, alright, if it’s quick…

Reporter: Well…maybe it’s silly…I’ve always wanted to know if the plural of your name is “Bigfoot” or “Bigfeet.”

He: Alright, alright. My uncle, the one in Public Administration, real clean-cut fellow if you know what I mean, he always makes a point of saying Bigfeet, something about proper Englush, he always was a litery fellow, sticking his head in books and ignorin’ stalkin’ and huntin’ and ladyfoots and other worthy pursuits, but my momma always said ‘Bigfoots’ real proud. And I jes always believed my mamma.  I guess the, whatchamacallit, coloq’alism is Bigfoots.

Reporter: Thank you, thank you so much! About your family–

He: “Sorry, I gotta go, I got things to do, ‘n the ladyfoot’d get real uppity if I came back smellin’ all hooman like.”

He walked away into the trees, disappeared like a shadow as though never there. The reporter turned off her tape recorder. Sighed. Was it possible that Bigfoot’s experience of Fort Worth was valid?  Was our town really so sleepy that a Bigfoot could go shopping, walking right down Throckmorton, and almost no one would notice? Would people care about his opinions? You be the judge.

Next Time: Chupacabra comes to Cowtown