Visions of Plumshuga

Every night, my mother would tuck me into bed. 
“Good night, Sugar Plum,” she said.

I miss my mother.

Especially here at the holidays, I wax nostalgic.

Many years ago, my mother would read me ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas and she took me to see the Nutcracker and visions of sugar plum fairies danced in my head. The following story is only loosely connected.

***

Sometime mid-October, I was scrolling Facebook when I stumbled onto a theatre review in the Houston Chronicle, written by my friend Doni Wilson: “Explosive ‘Plumshuga’ brings Houston dancer’s story to life.”

I skimmed the review of a play about Lauren Anderson, the first Black principal ballerina of the Houston Ballet, written by the former Houston Poet Laureate, Deborah D.E.E.P Mouton. I knew of Mouton, but new-ish to Houston, I hadn’t heard of Anderson. In the back of my head, I felt this was a show to see. I didn’t rush to buy tickets.

On Tuesday, October 25, I grabbed a bite to eat down the street from my school. On my way back to my classroom, I took the stairs and strolled by the dance studios on the third floor. Lo and behold, Doni’s review was on the wall of the hallway bulletin board outside Studio A. I know the date because I snapped a photo and texted Doni. “Your name is on the wall at my school,” I said, feeling proud to know her.

On Thursday, November 3, who should come to my school for a lunchtime Q and A?

Lauren Anderson!

Come to find out, her father was the first assistant principal at my school beginning in 1972. And this lady mesmerized me in the woman power sort-of way. I wanted to know more of her story than the fifteen minutes or so that I heard that day, and I was especially interested in the connection between the Houston poet turned playwright and the Houston ballerina. How many signs does a person need that she must see a performance?

I found myself Googling Deborah D.E.E.P Mouton and stumbling upon “The Making of Plumshuga.” Mouton says, “I’m not originally from Houston, so coming into this city as a transplant…over a decade ago, I wanted to feel the pulse of this city. I didn’t want to live as someone who was just visiting, but I wanted to make a home here.” Her words resonated with me, a transplant, someone trying to make a home in Houston. I searched for tickets for the play that would close in a matter of days. Then I asked my husband on a date.

He said, “Yes.”

The play happened to coincide with our 11^th anniversary of our 2^nd marriage (11/11/11 to 11/11/22). There’s something about those ones and twos. I just happened to find two first-row tickets.

Doni said the story would stay with me “for its honesty and the original and superlative collaboration of words, music, and dance.”

At the end of the performance, Kody said, “That was the best show I’ve ever seen. I mean, much respect for those dancers.”

I agreed. The dancers. The writing. Lauren Anderson. Her story. The way she overcame racial barriers and bad relationships and addiction. I left the theatre inspired.

This play is an important reminder that if you are an excellent artist, even if you don’t feel like you belong, you do. And that psychological dimension of artistic insecurity, regardless of the source, is part of the difficulty of creativity.
Doni Wilson

Counting My Blessings

(Art School Version)

In thirteen weeks,
I climbed 8,125 stairs,
from the underground parking 
to my classroom on floor four.
Not that I’m counting.

Okay, I am.

125 per day. 6 flights.
5 mornings per week.
13 weeks.
Somedays more.

My phone keeps track—
13 flights on Friday,
12 on Thursday,
10 on Wednesday,
11 on Tuesday,
7 on Monday.

Each time,
my thighs burn,
my heart pounds,
I breathe hard—
but easier 
through 13 weeks.
I’ve lost a pound or 2—
okay 8, depending on
when I weigh.
Not that I’m counting.

Okay, I am.
Blessings have a way
of hiding
until
you look.

I count more
around the school
Steps and blessings
and such great kids.

I don’t know 
the girl
in the t-shirt 
that says,
“Nice 
is the new cool.”
But I smile, 
as does she.
Then my student 
greets me, 
“What up, 
Mrs. Byers?”
Her good energy 
spreads like fire. 
I overhear another say, 
“Today—
is gonna be amazing.”
He catches my eye, 
and his flicker.
I nod and hope 
mine spark, too, 
a torch to pass on.

There’s often time 
in my day
for extra steps.
Time—
another blessing. 

Music swells 
in the stairwells
a flute trio, 
a vocal solo.
My heart responds,
drawn by the pulse
of art and life.

One flight down, 
Dancers in leotards 
perfect techniques 
at the barre.
And I—
stroll a little straighter,
arabesque 
if only in my head,
held a little higher,
past the studios,
past the tune of piano,
down another flight 
to the art gallery
to contemplate
lines and images,
color and messages. 

There are days 
I descend 
two extra flights 
exit the building,
walk a few city blocks 
for lunch and fresh air
before ascending the stairs

back to floor four,
somedays to the fifth,
where rehearsals ensue

and my heart beats to
the Mariachi, 
vocal, and
orchestral 
excerpts.

In a small practice room
with an open door,
my student sits 
before a harp.
“I didn’t know 
you play harp,” 
I say.

“I don’t usually tell," 
says she, 
and I leave
her to her secret 
and take the stairs
back to my classroom
and prepare 
for my last class
of Week Thirteen,
not to mention
Thanksgiving.

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A post shared by Kinder HSPVA (@kinderhspva)

Proud teacher moment. One of these kids slaying Pavane by Fauré is my student. Please click the link and enjoy!

On my classroom desk, “One Minute with God.” Thank you, Becky! And Happy Thanksgiving, Everybody!

Last Night I Dreamt of Cats

Recently anyway.

About two months ago, I adopted Nora, a silky black feline, born of a feral mother, destined to live her life mostly outdoors. My neighbors had cared for her these past five years. Then they moved. I felt moved to step in. Nora is adjusting to her new family. She slept with me last night. By morning, she was gone. She has almost mastered the cat door—to exit at will, anyway.

Nora has a boyfriend. I’ll call him Tom. He looks like a bobcat, uglier though, a brute of a cat. Nora doesn’t exactly cat around with him, but Tom hangs around in hopes we’ll throw him a bone. Nora doesn’t seem to mind his presence. It’s hard to know what a cat thinks. Maybe Nora and Tom triggered my dream.

Benedict Cumberbatch and Claire Foy in *The Electrical Life of Louis Wain*

Maybe it was the movie I saw recently: The Electrical Life of Louis Wain. An illustrator and lover of cats, Louis Wain was elected president of the London Cat Club in 1890. He drew millions of cats and popularized them as pets in Victorian England. Louis Wain also had schizophrenia. His illustrations grew increasingly psychedelic. None were copyrighted. His story pulled my heartstrings.

In one corner of our yard, there’s an overgrown flower garden where the cats convene, dozens of them, perfectly posed. Kittens frolick. That is all. Maybe a kind reader interprets dreams.

Meowy Christmas! In memory of Louis Wain.

At the Art Institute of Chicago

Gustave Caillbotte’s Paris Street; Rainy Day, 1877. Artwork captured by iPhone.

*Little Dancer Aged Fourteen* by Edgar Degas, 1881

Georges Seurat’s *A Sunday on La Grande Jatte*, 1884

My date knows the way to my art. July 2017.

*Portrait of Jeanne Wenz* by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, 1886

*Self Portrait* by Vincent Van Gough, 1887

*Notre Dame de Paris* by Jean-Francois Raffaelli,
1890 – 1895

*At the Moulin Rouge* by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, 1892 – 1895

*The Girl by the Window* by Edvard Munch, 1893

*The Old Guitarist* by Pablo Picasso, 1903-04

*Fisherman’s Cottage* by Harald Sohlberg, 1906

*Cow’s Skull with Calico Roses* by Georgia O’Keefe, 1931

René Magritte’s *On the Threshold of Liberty*, 1937

*White Crucifixion* by Marc Chagall, 1938

*Nude under a Pine Tree* by Pablo Picasso, 1959

*Ohhh…Alright…* by Roy Lichtenstein, 1964

*Stamford after Brunch* by John Currin, 2000 (or as I like to call it, The Three Sisters)

At The Art Institute of Chicago
	
I gazed at the blue-eyed
Vincent Van Gogh. 
With turbulent stroke, 
deep dejection clear,
hospitalized a whole year 
before the ear incident.
Then death by suicide.

His eyes held mine. 
“I want to touch people 
with my art,” he said.
“I want them to say: 
he feels deeply, 
he feels tenderly.”
I felt it down deep, 
faced him, and cried.		

“You remind me 
of my son,” I said.
“His gift, the cello,
sings. Yet other voices 
reside inside his mind.
Relentless and mean. 
I see you, dear Vincent.
Your help arrived too late. 
My worst nightmare 
is your fate.”

Photograph.

One Friday in April, I found myself home alone with time on my hands. I hopped in my car on a quest for murals. If you’ve been reading recently, you might guess that I Googled locations first, and you would be correct. With the first address in my phone map, I stumbled upon a little pot of gold. I ended up in EaDo, also known as East Downtown Houston. I can’t believe I’ve lived here nearly five years and had never seen this revitalized neighborhood. It’s vibrant and thriving, and I’ll be back. Meanwhile, I photographed the opportunity.

Thank you so much for supporting today’s A-Z Challenge post. After a year at home, I wanted to mix it all up a bit and thought surely someone would like a suggestion or two, maybe even twenty-six. This April, I’m sticking to a theme of action. Some are mental feats. Some are physical. Others spiritual. Some I practice already. Some I haven’t attempted in years. Others never. Your guess is as good as mine whether I can keep it up for ten more posts. Links below to my first fifteen:

Abstain, Ballet, Cartwheel,

Devote, Encourage, Forgive,

Google, Headstand, Innovate,

Jog, KISS, Listen,

Memorize, Nominate, Observe

Ramona Lives Her Life

Last weekend Kody and I masked up for an event at the Museum of Fine Arts Houston called The Marzio Years. Peter C. Marzio was the museum’s longest-serving director from 1982-2010, and the exhibition celebrates his thirty years of acquisitions.

At the museum entrance, an attendant took our temperature from an eight-foot distance with a device that looked like a camera. I’m not sure how that worked, but I didn’t ask questions. We were deemed good to go. Kody and I spent some time with Munch and O’Keefe, Pollock and Picasso, Rembrandt and Rothko. We saw Warhol, too.

Marzio helped found the MFAH International Center for the Arts of the Americas. He expanded African-American, Texan, and Latino art collections. When I visit the art museum, my goal is to really see one piece. Of course, I’ll see more, but I wait for the one that sees me. The one piece that will see me and speak. And da dum, da duh—this is she:

Ramona vive su vida (Ramona Lives Her Life), 1963

According to the museum plaque, Ramona Lives Her Life is one of the most iconic prints of the Ramona series. Argentinean Antonio Berni’s “xylo-collage” technique earned him the acclaim of international critics. Berni glued and collaged elements from Ramona’s everyday life—lace, machine parts, discarded gears and other industrial refuse—onto the woodblock print. This method gives his work an elaborate texture and relief.

I thought about Ramona…and me…and you…We are textured people. With interwoven fibers and elements. With distinctive qualities. Ramona in all of her texture reminded me to live my life. In these days of COVID, life looks different for us based on our qualities. As an introvert, I’m okay living my life at home. School is my life for now. I read books, and I’m writing one, too. I enjoy this time. School is online. Distanced. I walk outside most days. Distanced. I notice the squirrels fattening up. Do squirrels always size up in the fall? I’ve never noticed. The sun sparkles in the leaves at the tops of the trees. I take pleasure in these observations. I try to stay connected with my friends and family by text and phone. From a distance. Our conversations weave us together. These interwoven fibers make us stronger.

Sometimes I find myself surrounded by drama. That happens in families. I usually find myself able to distance from drama, except when it comes to my kids. With mental illness in the family, I’m not at liberty to give ultimatums. I mean, of course, I could. But I don’t want to be the mother who gives up. In my experience, there is no reasoning with brain disorders. Sometimes I feel like I’ve hit my drama quotient, like I just can’t share any more ridiculous stories, even with my closest friends. My introverted self keeps the drama concealed until I feel I might be breaking. How many times have I glued my own pieces back together? Then suddenly, I run into a piece of art called Ramona Lives Her Life. Ramona whispers directly to my heart, “Girl, go live your life.” I rub my hands together and feel their texture. Age. Experience. Ramona says, “You’ve made sacrifices your whole life. Take care of yourself, and speak your truth.” I allow these ideas to sink in. There is silence. I think of my own lace. My own machine parts. Ramona speaks again, “Your fibers are strong. You can handle whatever comes your way, and you inspire others to do the same. Be courageous, and do you.”