I was privileged — and it was a giant privilege — to know Asawa in the decades before her death. Whenever she visited her hands were busy, usually leaving a small pile of origami doves on the table.
In the recent “Bouquets to Art” show at San Francisco’s de Young Museum, Ikebana artist Yoko Tahara, assisted by Nora Dowley and Beth Ross, designed the above tribute to Asawa’s wire sculptures.
(And another, by Soho Ikebana Art Studio, Soho Sakai, Riji; Neuza Lake, Veronica Leung & Dorcas Walton, assistants. Author photo)
Today’s news is an overdose of wars and politics, protests and suffering that can color the heart gray. But I have these photos on my bulletin board.
On a recent Zoom event President Emma Belcher of Ploughshares Fund, one of my all-time favorite nonprofits, talked with Iranian affairs expert Ali Vaez about that beautiful, once-friendly country and its nuclear weapons situation. I brought every ounce of my congenital optimism to the conversation.
It is worth emphasizing here that my understanding of nuclear weaponry is about on par with my understanding of Iranian affairs. I.e., nonexistent. What I do know is that we have a lovely planet to live on and it would take only a few nuclear weapons to do it in. The U.S. now has 5,000 or so; Russia pretty much keeps up, and then there are China, N. Korea, a few somewhat friendlier countries . . . but so far not Iran.
How to maintain optimism in light of the above? Currently no one able to pull the first trigger wants to risk blowing himself and the rest of us to bits. And most of these guys — they’re all guys — are relatively sane. (This is debatable, and could change.)
Throw in the complicated animosities of Israel, Saudi Arabia (“If Iran gets one, we’ll get one ourselves . . .”) and others, and pessimism quickly prevails.
It is a bizarre game, this You-fire-at-me-and-I’ll-fire-at-you, but once we Americans launched it others wanted in. Proliferation rapidly became strategy. Then, some years back, a few level heads acknowledged that things (and weapons) were getting out of hand and we began cautiously moving in the other direction. (“I’ll reduce my supply if you’ll reduce yours.”) Ploughshares was founded in 1981 to support the reduction — and in a best case scenario the elimination — of nuclear weapons;
Bringing Iran into the nuclear-armed fold has not seemed a very good idea. This led to the “Iran Nuclear Deal” — the Joint Cooperative Plan of Action (JCPOA to its friends) signed by Iran, Russia, China, the U.S., Britain, France and Germany in 2015 — which limited Iran’s nuclear activities (the things one does on the pathway to getting a nuclear weapon) in return for removal of a bunch of anti-Iran sanctions.
People who understand these things speak in terms of how long it would take Iran to have its own nuclear weapon. It was a matter of months when the treaty was in force. It is now a matter of days.
This is largely because former president Trump, in his infinite wisdom, pulled us out of the JCPOA treaty in 2018. It’s complicated, but the Council on Foreign Relations summarizes it here. The chaos since then is also complicated, as anyone who reads the headlines (in legitimate newspapers, not on social media) can attest. JCPOA participants periodically try to resurrect it. Such efforts have been thwarted, though, by the wars in Ukraine and Gaza and other struggles of humankind.
Much of the above was discussed — far more completely and eloquently — by Dr. Belcher and Presidential Adviser Vaez. Toward the end of the conversation there was this exchange:
“All we can hope for,” said Vaez, “is preserving the status quo.”
Added the Ploughshares president, “It’s a very bad status quo.”
Here is the question I was poised to enter into the Chat: “Is there a ray of hope anywhere?” It felt unanswerable.
Still, Ploughshares is strong, and there are yet a few months until election day.
If you’re going to be in Manhattan and can snag a ticket, Go See SUFFS.
Absolutely marvelous fun. And if this rousing musical doesn’t make you want to take to the streets to get the Equal Rights Amendment passed, I don’t know what will. This is a show for grandmothers, mothers, daughters, granddaughters and men who have hearts and good sense.
Ask any ten people if the ERA is law, chances are five of them will say “Of course.” As if women really had equal rights in the good ol’ U.S. of A. First introduced in 1923, the ERA would guarantee women equal rights, period. Initially that meant things like property, employment etc, but today it’s being thwarted because the ERA could confirm the right to control one’s own body, which means — horror of horrors — women might choose not to have babies, or even to have babies via IVF.
Alice Paul (1885–1977,) the heroine of SUFFS the Musical and a ferocious freedom fighter in real life, followed in the footsteps of her suffragist mother Tacie Paul (1859–1930.) Both lived to see the 19th Amendment pass, but Alice would not see the ERA become law. Other 20th century activists for women’s rights, this writer included, will likely be long dead and gone before it happens.
But that doesn’t mean the ERA is dead and gone. My friend Ally McKinney Timm, for (one) example, is out there working for it every day. Founder and Executive Director of DC-based Justice Revival, Ally and her associates may be slightly less inclined toward getting jailed or going on hunger strikes than was Alice Paul, but they are no less committed to equal rights for all humankind — including womankind. Periodically they are optimistic about living to see the ERA become law.
The suffragist musical also features other heroines of the 19th Amendment, and addresses the complexities of race, infighting and personal conflicts that necessarily attend any such movement. Some freedom fighters of today believe that if women could win the vote in 1923, maybe they could win full rights a century+ later; time will tell.
SUFFS the Musical, nominated for a bunch of Tony Awards, won Best Book and Original Score honors for Shaina Taub a few hours after I saw it. (Hawley Gould, rather than actress Taub, played the part of Alice Paul in the matinee and absolutely rocked the role.)
My own mother (1897–1967,) a suffragist marcher in 1920, later turned out to be too much of a proper Virginia lady to march in the streets. (Not so her youngest daughter…) But since she believed deeply in the ERA — and would be horrified to know it still languishes un-ratified nearly 60 years after her death — I imagine her clear soprano joining in as the Suff’s full ensemble sends us out to the enthusiastic finale — —
This marks the official end of my 90th birthday celebration. Please help me celebrate #91.
All I want for my birthday is for EVERYONE in the State of California to know of the legal right to Medical Aid in Dying. Easy peasy present for you to give me and everyone you know and love in California! (And/or 10 other states, more on that below.)
SUCH A CRITICAL HUMAN RIGHT, AND WE DON’T KNOW WE HAVE IT?
Before the California End of Life Option Act took effect, on June 9, 2016 (another birthday to celebrate!) I spent a good 5 or 10 years of my life working to make it happen. Pulling on yellow T-shirts, roaming around Sacramento, the whole activist thing. Gov Jerry Brown signed it into law, said he “couldn’t deny (Californians) the right.”
AT LEAST EVERYBODY SHOULD KNOW WE HAVE THIS RIGHT, RIGHT? A mere 25% of the good citizens of California even know such a right exists. Please help change that statistic.
My favorite California nonprofit, End of Life Choices CA, helps people know & understand all of their legal end-of-life options. (Among a LOT of other good works.) Other states, in addition to Washington DC, where MAiD is legal are Maine, New Jersey, Vermont, New Mexico, Montana, Colorado, Oregon, Washington, California, and Hawaii. Maybe you want to help some of them know their rights!
Meanwhile, for my birthday this year, please visit our website, send the link to a friend or two (or 3 or 4,) post a note about the CA End of Life Option Act on Instagram. Facebook. X or whatever it is now. Tik Tok if you’re that savvy. Spread the good word is all I’m asking.. . but you’re welcome to Like our FaceBook Page, Join our Volunteer Team, Invite us to speak to a community group or donate. Donations are always welcome, even when it’s not my birthday.
Occasionally, when not looking at interesting architecture on city walks — college classes taught me to look above ground level — or admiring the clouds, I like to look down in search of urban art underfoot. To take time, sometimes, studying what the sun is doing. The sun is often busy making art. Renaissance. Abstract. Art Deco. With the help of street trees, leafy designs splash across sidewalks and stretch upward to green shrubbery. The result is an invitation to slow down, wonder and appreciate.
The opening invitation might come in the form of a mixed-media design, such as this assemblage of line, texture, color and imagery — despite the green being only overhead and out of the frame. Random chalk-mark additions are not infrequent. Including advice messages:
When meditating on urban art, one has to practice dismissal of interruptions along the way.
But back to the sunlight and shadow. The light plays on sidewalk shrubbery, creating green-leaf foreground for an artwork of patterned shadow background. In hindsight, the work could have done without the intrusion of that cellphone image at the bottom edge, but we try not to overthink things.
Even when confronted with the challenge of downtown business districts the sun often finds a way. These are the times when walking meditation goes in different directions: skyscraper dreams. Are any of my fellow humans noticing the sidewalk shadow-painting at their feet? Can the introduction of steel and concrete have something artistic to say for itself? Urban architects hope so.
Welcome to Urban Art Appreciation 101. We’re all in this together.
WHEN THE FULL MOON POSITIONS ITSELF JUST SO FOR A PHOTO OP
(Photo by Lisa Schilbe)
I am a hopeless moon freak. Friends and relations are used to finding moon shots in their Instagram feeds or on Facebook pages. Usually they are taken at 3 AM from my west window:
(Author photo)
Through the trees when I’m walking the nighttime streets . . .
(Author photo)
Or occasionally looking east from the rooftop of my building when the rising moon’s temptation is great:
(Author photo)
But a recent full moon directly across from my south-facing balcony offered a prizewinner: the urban sky over St Mary’s Cathedral. I whipped out my trusty cellphone and was pleased with this one –
(Author photo)
That is, until I spotted the shot at the top of this mini-essay showing the same moon over the same cathedral taken by my friend Lisa Schilbe. She posted it on Facebook with this advice: Pause. Take a breath. Enjoy the beauty.
A recent New York Times story tells of two voice actors, Linnea Sage and Paul Skye Lehrman, who were stunned to hear his A.I.-stolen voice coming from a podcast. They’re suing. The case is being reported elsewhere, amid theories of potential satisfaction for the couple — or not.
Nobody wants to clone my voice. Whew. Although I still do public talks and presentations, mainly on end of life issues for a nonprofit I support, my voice is old and raspy and revered primarily by my children, who advise me to think of it as sexy. (Good luck with that, Fran.)
But my words? Trillions of them are out there in cyberspace. A.I.’s for the taking. And the world population’s for the using.
Granted, probably not many people want to clone my words either. But I have worked extremely hard, over many decades as a reporter, essayist, author, speech-writer, blogger, you name it, to put them together in a fashion that hopefully provides information, entertainment and — most importantly — Truth.
A.I. does not recognize truth. Nor does it recognize empathy, persuasion or compassion, among other valuable emotional traits.
If you’re a writer, you probably seek to build a reputation (or not) for writing truth. It doesn’t come easy. It comes by slogging through data and proven facts to create sentences and paragraphs that express truth. While you’re at it you very likely watch facial expressions in interviews, or take notice of things like the scent of flowers and forests, the mysterious elegance of a foggy morning, the mood of a crowd, the brilliance of a summer sky. Then you put it all together in words that ring true.
A.I. just takes words and puts them all together. How do you think ChatGPT writes those fine job applications or school essays? By grabbing the words someone else has sweated blood to put together.
I like to think that occasionally, over the decades, I have put together a sentence or phrase that is singularly expressive. It’s surely not going to hurt my feelings for ChatGPT to grab it for an application essay. But how about you writers just starting out, or mid-career? Once you’re paid (or not) to create effective, even borderline unique (if such a classification exists) phrases, should you not care that you’re sucked into the content provider abyss and ChatGPT gets the glory?
As much as it fails to distinguish between truth and falsehood, A.I.’s inability to know empathy or compassion gives me pause.
Voice actors Sage and Lehrman presumably built their careers on the ability to show traits like these through their vocal expressions. That ability is partly a gift, but largely a learning process. I don’t know Sage or Lehrman, but I’d guess they have invested a great deal of time and effort into perfecting ways of expressing emotions like these. A.I. just grabs and spits out.
I have a book of short stories on Audible, recorded by a professional actress who was aging out of stage work and into book readings. Though it’s still a little jarring to hear my words in accents and inflections I might not have intended, I appreciate the long, hard work that the gifted Katherine Conklin devoted to this project.
Introduced through a mutual friend, Katherine won my own friendship, and admiration, by the time the book was done. Early on, when I explained that the Central Virginia accent of the characters in these stories was not as ‘deep south’ as the accent she was using to read them, she found an interview by a radio personality in Henrico County, VA, next door to the Hanover County of my childhood, and sent it to me for reference. Another time, when struggling to communicate exactly what I’d meant by one phrase, she sent a voice recording repeating it six times with different inflections.
I’ve no idea how hard other readers work to produce the audiobooks I enjoy on daily walks, and I know they’re paid. But their voices are now floating around in the ethersphere and are A.I.’s for the taking; no hard working voice actor gets a penny.
It’s not just about the money. What creators slave over to express are the emotions and values with which they embue their words.
I don’t want just to tell truth. I want to amuse or lift spirits, to comfort or console, to persuade. These are things words can do, but only when the wordsmith writes, rewrites and rewrites some more until, hopefully, the words fit together to evoke a desired result.
I am quick to admit the limitless potential of A.I. in fields like technology, medicine, ecology and many others. But it is artificial. Human intelligence, one would hope, will always incorporate the basic elements of humanity like those above. Empathy. Compassion. Truth.
And that, my right-brained friends, is why I worry.
Storytellers come and go, but Alice Munro is forever.
The immensely gifted Canadian writer, whose death at 92 leaves us bereft, could put you into a time and place faster than a speeding sentence. Simultaneously introducing you to characters you might love or hate or question — but you knew them.
By the time I did an MFA in short fiction (USF Class of ‘00,) teachers had begun to favor other great writers with styles all over the place. Munro kept right on creating stories with beginnings, middles and ends and no one ever displaced her in my heart.
She was also gracious to a fault. Once, finishing a book of stories, I sent her a note just saying what an inspiration she was. And got a note in return.
