July 2007 Archives

Woke up this morning to find that some wonderful human being over at Yahoo had selected us as Yahoo Picks' "Pick of the Day." If you've discovered this site through that review, welcome!

The artist interviews to-date include: poets Kim Addonizio, Maggie Nelson, and Bob Holman, web innovator Ze Frank, musicians Jonathan Coulton and Van Dyke Parks, choreographer Natalie Marrone, authors Lemony Snicket and DyAnne DiSalvo, visual artists James Warren Perry and Tucker Nichols, clown and playwright Jeff Raz, standup comic and sitcom writer Howard Kremer, cartoonist Dan Piraro, columnist Jon Carroll, and screenwriter/director John August. Scroll down to peruse the interviews from most recent to least-most-recent.

You can also subscribe to future interviews -- I'll be posting a new one every week or two. Upcoming interviews include comic book creator (Mage/Grendel) Matt Wagner, musician Adrian Belew, and World of Warcraft storyteller Chris Metzen.

Thanks a lot for dropping by. If you get a chance, be sure to leave a comment to let us know what you think,
-Cecil

Photo credit: Joe Allen.

Kim Addonizio is the author of three books of poetry from BOA Editions: The Philosopher's Club, Jimmy & Rita, and Tell Me, which was a finalist for the 2000 National Book Award. Her latest poetry collection, What Is This Thing Called Love, was published by W. W. Norton in January 2004. A book of stories, In the Box Called Pleasure, was published by Fiction Collective 2. She’s also coauthor, with Dorianne Laux, of The Poet's Companion: A Guide to the Pleasures of Writing Poetry (W.W. Norton). And her new novel, My Dreams Out in the Street, has just been published by Simon & Schuster.

Addonizio’s awards include two fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, a Guggenheim Fellowship, a Pushcart Prize, a Commonwealth Club Poetry Medal, and the John Ciardi Lifetime Achievement Award. She teaches private workshops in Oakland, CA.

Kim Addonizio on the Web: kimaddonizio.com, My Dreams Out in the Street, What Is This Thing Called Love

Cecil Vortex: When did you first start to identify yourself as a writer?

KA: I remember my first unfinished work. I wanted to write a novel when I was around nine. I wrote ten pages. It was a mystery, I think. I don't remember why I stopped -- probably because it was too hard. I remember writing a short story at fifteen and being eager to show it to my dad, who was a sportswriter.

CV: Do you remember what drew you to writing poetry?

KA: I wrote down my feelings in lines in high school and after, but it was hardly poetry. I seriously started trying to write it in my late twenties. I think poetry drew me to it -- I think I was always meant to find it.

CV: How has your creative process changed since then?

I've been wondering lately how my kids will be affected by these times. How will it shape their view of politics and patriotism to go through their early years with an unpopular war, with a President so widely disliked and distrusted by people in both parties, one who seems to have, well, obvious contempt for the rule of law? What kind of people will an era like this breed?

Oh yeah, I realize. "A doi now," as we used to say. It's me. My gang. Folks born in the mid-to-late '60s, with Vietnam and then Nixon on TV alongside Romper Room and the Electric Company. I guess, for better and/or for worse, times like these breed folks sort of like us.

We're back in the States now, and I realize I nearly forgot to mention the time I came this close to getting into a fist fight with a Belgian chocolatier. We were buying truffles and, having already bought a bag of ten or so, I asked her if I could buy two more. "That's not the baby-style chocolates," she said, with what I thought was a pretty haughty tone.

"Are you kidding me?" I thought. And, "Who are you calling a purchaser of baby-style chocolates?" Against my will, I started to tighten my left fist (or "Mjolnir," as I like to call it) into a hammer-like ball of pride-protecting thunder.

Fortunately, my lizard brain kicked in right about then and re-processed what she'd said, which turned out to be "That's not the way we sell chocolates." (They sell them in 100 gram increments, or so she claimed.)

OK. More reasonable. Or at least less flat-out insulting. I relaxed Mjolnir until it was more like a hand-type thing again, and I went outside to cool off with a heavily sugared pastry treat and some mayonnaise.

Anyways, for the rest of the trip, that became the phrase we used for everything that was a little different than the way we roll state-side. For example:

Baby-style: Can I have my espresso to-go?
Euro-style: Cool your jets, you big baby. No paper cups. Take a seat. Or are you too much of a baby to have your espresso here?

Baby-style: Soda with ice, please.
Euro-style: This drink is cold enough. Who needs ice? What, are you afraid you might actually taste something, Mr. Baby Man?

Baby-style: Um, would you mind not tailgating me at 140 kmh?
Euro-style: I will tailgate you across three countries if that's what it takes to get you to get out of my way, you gigantic American baby person.

We spent a swell morning in the town of Gouda today, where my 9-year-old daughter offered up this memorable quote:

Daddy? I forget. Oh wait -- I remember. Daddy -- compared to Gouda, American cheese is vomit.

And I say, if that's all she's learned, this trip has been a huge success.

The longer we're in Europe, the clearer it is that Walt Disney owes all of these countries like a bajillion dollars in copyright violations. For example...

...this lovely townhall (stadhuis) built some 600 years ago (plus or minus) all but demands to have Tinkerbell fly over the top and smack it with a sparkle-pop.

In addition to great food and beautiful buildings (and some incredible stained glass from the 1500s), Gouda reminded me that one of the best parts of revisiting spots from your childhood is finding things you didn't even know you were looking for. I was heading back to our car to pay for another hour of parking when I came across this:

As a kid, I just loved these Dutch street organs, which we routinely found at the mall in downtown Den Haag, with someone shaking a cup of change in time to the music. I haven't seen or heard or thought of one in decades.

Hello, old chum.

When I was seven, my folks moved our family to Holland where we lived for the next five years. A big motivator for this trip has been my longstanding desire to make that return to wooded Wassenaar with my wife and kids -- a little journey back to Narnia, to smell old smells and eat old treats.

Because I was a kid back in those days, almost all of my key food memories are snacks, and ever since we entered Belgium, I've been knocking items off my list like some revenge-driven dude in a Clint Eastwood flick.

Frites met (fries with mayonnaise): check.

Meat croquettes ("What's in them? What's in them? We don't know!" laughed our waitress who confessed she never ate the stuff): check.

Cassis soda: check. (OK, seven Cassis sodas: check)

Poffertjes (micro-pancakes with powerdered sugar): check.

Pankoeken (crepes-like macro-pancakes): check. Stropwaffles (molasses 'n waffel/cookie treat): check. No photos for either of these, unfortunately -- they went too fast to capture.

Just about all that's left is jonge (young) Gouda -- you can get Gouda cheese in the States but it's almost always smoked, with all the Gouda (pronounced with a Yiddish-esque "chhhh"-ouda)-ness blown out. Jonge Gouda's a whole different taste sensation. If heaven was made of cheese, it would be thin-sliced jonge Gouda.

Jonge Gouda, I'm coming for ya....

Addendum....

Jonge Gouda: check.

Addendum to addendum...

A slower-moving stropwaffle.

Likewise, this pankoeken with kiwi was eaten in 14 seconds rather than the usual 10, giving us just enough time to snap a quick pic.

Lovely afternoon on Tuesday. The highlight was a 320-step climb up that 13th Century Brugge belfry. Here's what the tower looks like by day:

We adults were quite winded. Our 6- and 9-year olds were pretty much unaffected by gravity. They practically floated to the top. On the way down, I tried to convince my youngest that we were actually heading up to the top now and nearly there, nearly there. He seemed to almost buy it. Or at least, to buy that I bought it. Below a certain weight, gravity appears to be substantially a state of mind.

The square looked lovely from about halfway up:

The only thing marring the view was the presence of my nemesis, the Portsmouth City Youth Band Brass Ensemble. If you look closely, you'll spot them in the bandstand. Why do they think it's so funny to follow me around the world, performing "Theme from Goldfinger" wherever I go?

Portsmouth City Youth Band Brass Ensemble: Total. Jerks.

In other news, all the legends are true. The people of Brugge really are paved with gold:

We've run into lots of crazy laws here in Europe. For example, did you know it's a crime to transport livestock in a Volkswagen Passat?

This is one law I agree with, however:

The locals here in Brugge tell me it means "Please don't wear a derby hat and shovel coal onto my lawn." Who can argue with that?

Most of today was spent racing from Colmar to Brugge -- our version of the Gumball Rally (I like to think I was part of Cobra Team).

In France, every cute little village was noted with a sign by the road featuring a lovely drawing of that town's gem -- a church or a castle or the town square. While we didn't actually see any of these cute little towns in person, we did get to see several excellent drawings of cute little towns zip by at 130 kmh.

We got to Brugge right around dinner time, with the rain suddenly starting to fall in thick, gloopy drops. Our hotel's in the old town and, as it happens, it's on one of those fifth dimensional side streets that you can only find by driving in reverse. After a few loops around Old Brugge in the rain playing my new favorite game ("Sidewalk or Road?") we came in for a safe landing and lugged our luggage upstairs.

A quick dash through the downpour took us to Brugge's spectacular market square and a great meal of mussels (a regional specialty) and shrimp croquettes here:

This building was named back in 1303.

After dinner, we didn't particularly mind getting soaked on the way home with views like these:

The belfort dates back to the 1200s and has 47 bells, which were a' chimin'.

A dry view of a wet town. (As an aside, my mom tells me that she went to dinner on this row years back. After they'd spent a while puzzling through where to eat, they learned that all these restaurants serve from the same kitchen.)

As I mentioned a little earlier today, we've driven from Switzerland and the snow to sweltering France. Crossing over (with less than a wave from the border guards) we were struck by how much the countryside in this part of France looks like good ole Northern California.

For the last two nights we've been staying in Colmar -- a lovely Alsacean city ribboned with canals. Here's an entirely color-inaccurate shot of the "Little Venice" part of town:

Colmar!

As also mentioned earlier today, Colmar is the proud birthplace of Bartholdi, the creator of the Statue of Liberty. Three years ago, they produced a replica that happens to be a short stroll from our hotel.

Mini-Lady Liberty directing traffic.

After a day of canal rides, street wandering, and excellent, heart-imploding food (everyone tried the escargot, including the kids -- if you haven't had 'em, they're basically a butter/garlic delivery system, a.k.a.: yum) we escaped the brutal heat by checking out Colmar's Museum of Toys.

I'd always heard that celebrities were much more accommodating when you run into them abroad, and that was exactly what we found with Harrison Ford, who's so incredibly nice, he's apparently agreed to carry a name card with him at all times.

Harrison Ford: nice guy.

It was a fantastic museum, and I'm not just talking about the air conditioning, although let me just say: Wow. That was some well-conditioned air.

A few other highlights....

This monkey broke our heart:

Sad monkey.

These fellows didn't actually know how to play their instruments, but they more than made up for it with attitude:

Rock and roll animals.

And I'm pretty sure I'll be having nightmares about this guy for the rest of my life:

What is this creature and why does it haunt my dreams?

Trips like these afford you a lot of time to stop and think about things. I've been using that time to develop a new musical theory. It's a little hard to put across in "coherent sentences," but it boils down to the idea that all truly great songs end in "Hey!" For example: "The Dreidel Song." Also, some versions of "The Birthday Song."

This new idea of mine may be partly influenced by the fact that I've been spending a lot of time with kids on this trip. Or mebbe it's something about the 90+ degree clime we're experiencing here in beautiful Colmar, France (birthplace of Frédéric August Bartholdi, creator of the Statue of Liberty). Or maybe, just maybe, I'm right.

Speaking of things I may well be right about: I saw a sign in Switzerland that I'm pretty sure said "please don't dress up like a dog and poop on my lawn."

Having spent a week or so near moutains, on moutains, and occasionally in mountains, I've reached the conclusion that mountains are a good thing. Especially the high mountains -- the ones with glaciers and whatnot. In case you haven't seen that sort of mountain for a while, here's what one looks like:

Mountains.

There's lots to like about mountains:

• They put things in perspective (particularly size-wise).
• They break up the sky into interesting shapes.
• They're fantastic places for planting a flag and/or having a bowl of soup.

For all these reasons, I've decided that my hometown back in the SF Bay Area really ought to get a high moutain. Preferably by the time I get back.

At first I thought we should start a petition to have one made out of landfill. But now I'm thinking, hey, the Swiss have a lot of mountains (seriously -- I stopped counting at forty!). They probably have more than they need, if we're really honest about it. Can't they spare one?

So what say you, good Swiss-folks? Brother, can you spare an Alp?

A bright smiling extremely helpful East German woman -- the designated English speaker at our local pizza shop -- explains that she comes to Switzerland every summer because the East German economy is compeletely thrashed. She tells us, still smiling, that the last year or two it's been worse there than it was during communist times. I'm rooting for her.

Elsewhere, an angry man with a silly mustache pulls his car up besides us as we're parking. He barks at me in high-speed German. I say "Hunh?" Then he jumps back into his car, tears around the corner, parks above us, and throw down some more unkind compound words we can't understand. Odds are he's Swiss. Still, I can't tell if he wants me to move my car or give him Poland.

We're staying in a lovely valley surrounded by a tall, stern, jagged mountain range. The peaks are white-capped with fresh snow.

I'm walking home at dusk as a slender train trucks along the base of these mountains, glittering like a sardine. The peaks feel like they're bending down just a little. Tall, stern. It's very easy to believe in Norse Gods tonight. Some kind of snow-covered pantheon.

Today we drove through the city of Cuhr. Interesting sidenote: Back in the '40s, a guy named Bruno Färber ran for mayor of Cuhr with what may be the worst campaign slogan ever: "An Almond in Every Pot."

Färber's attempts at damage control only made things worse. "Five almonds in every pot!" he promised. Then: "Twenty almonds in every pot!"

He could have promised one hundred almonds in every pot, and they'd still have called him Herr "Geben Sie Jeder Eine Mandel" (Mr. "Give Everybody an Almond").

I don't care what decade it is. And I don't care what country you're in. Nobody's going to vote for Herr "Geben Sie Jeder Eine Mandel."

On closer inspection I now realize those weren't actual Swiss people, they were German-speaking baby giraffes. But in my defense, it's an easy mistake to make.

Actual Swiss people have struck me as exceptionally quiet, at least compared to us yackety yack Yanks. We went through a plaza today with well over a hundred people and there was barely an audible murmur. Walking past a gent on a cell phone, we were amazed (and, frankly, moved) by his ability to hold a conversation while emitting a noise about as loud as a summer breeze.

OK. Must stop now. Typing too loud. Some folks across the street are starting to scowl.

We grab a cab in Zurich and head from the airport to our hotel. The first thing I notice is that the Swiss people are gigantic. The men are 8-9 feet tall. The women, even larger.

I see them loping across the street. They're tall and thin and they make no noise as they move, except when they reach up to tear an odd leaf off a tree. There's a rough, rumbling sound when they chew that makes me uncomfortable.

Why isn't this talked about in the outside world? More to come...

Nothing sounds more like the future to me than a hybrid British accent -- someone speaking with an accent that's part English, part something else.

At the Amsterdam airport we hear a woman on the PA with an accent that's 40% Dutch, 60% BBC. Over and over, in fabulously layered tones, she announces: "Passenger [X] for [destination y], you are delaying your flight. We will proceed to [pause] offload your luggage." If I close my eyes, it could be the year 2417.

I keep waiting for her to say "Passenger Davis for Titan, you are delaying your flight. We will proceed to [pause] vaporize your luggage."

Still waiting.

I'm on the road right now, and for the next little bit this site will be transformed into a travel journal. I know you're busy so I'll try to boil things down to only the most salient observations. For example, this first one, I think you'll agree, is almost entirely salient.

Leaving town yesterday afternoon, I saw a sign in the international terminal at San Francisco Airport. It read: "Gourmet Chocolate Lollipops: A California Tradition."

Adding avocado to our sushi, that's a California Tradition. We also like panning for gold and hypnotizing each other. Sometimes we tame wild grizzlies and ride them around our 1200-square-foot bungalows shouting “Hyah, little pony! Hyah!” These are all legitimate California Traditions.

But gourmet chocolate lollipops?

Please.

photo credit: Lisa M. Hamilton.

Tucker Nichols has had solo exhibitions at ZieherSmith Gallery (New York), Kunstpanorama (Luzern), Lincart (San Francisco), and the Brattleboro Museum (Brattleboro, Vermont). His work has been featured in numerous group shows internationally, including Rocket Gallery (Tokyo) and John Connelly Presents and the Drawing Center (New York). An exhibition of recent work will open in September 2007 at ZieherSmith Gallery.

Nichols' book of drawings, Postcards from Vermont, was published by Gallery 16 Editions last fall. His work has appeared in McSweeney's, The Believer, Zoetrope: All-Story, and the New York Times. He also maintains an excellent image-of-the-day website called "What A Day."

Tucker Nichols on the Web: What A Day, Postcards from Vermont, online gallery

Cecil Vortex: How would you describe your creative process?

Tucker Nichols: Recently I realized I'm trying to make work that freezes a moment in time that I would otherwise discard (or refine to make look like other images already in the world). In a text piece, that means writing something down that I'd otherwise pass by and then making a drawing of it later where it's totally out of context. Or coming up with something slogan-like on the spot and painting it across a storefront window.... Planning a drawing is tempting, but I've found it rarely works for me.

With my abstract drawings, it's more of a puzzle where I make up the rules as I go -- like, what would it look like if everything's being pulled to the edge on the left and there can only be two things and they have to be really different. I'm always trying to stop short of a completed thought because once it's fully formed, it tends to lose some of its juice for me. Early thoughts have so many different possible outcomes; I prefer thinking about where other people might take them.

And then sometimes I have to draw a glove or a ketchup bottle or a branch because it feels like the right thing to do, and to not draw it would be adhering to some arbitrary rule about what kinds of things I am supposed to draw and what kinds of things I am definitely NOT supposed to draw. The early parts of thoughts don't obey rules very well.

CV: Are there particular tools that you rely on to gather and develop new ideas?