ChaiTeaLatte

The trappings of Hell (JLH)

The title refers to the 5th annual 'Iron Pour' at the Mass. College of Arts this past Friday night (rather than the facilities of my department)
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Minimally supervised college kids gathered to pour molten iron!
This is the mid-semester project for two groups of students; one that is interested in casting (i.e. sculpture), the other in events planning. 

The ticket girl drew a ghost on my hand

and we entered a courtyard set up for a party. A loud heavy metal band energized the crowd while iron-workers (IWs) stoked 2 furnaces with bags of coke, a low-smoke derivative of coal.  The sky lit up with fireworks of ash and a brilliant glow.

Campus security thought they were helping by dragging out a garden hose. Obviously, everyone feared a Johnny Tremain moment, but a trickle of water was not going to make a difference at 3000 degrees.

A student in medieval costume swigged some lamp oil and began to blow fire at us as the IWs, wearing asbestos coats and silver face paint, began to hammer the clay plug at the base of the furnace.  A massive two handled ladle was brought near, and the glowing molten metal flowed like the rivers of Hell. Distributed by two brave casters, it oozed down wooden troughs onto burning pumpkins, and dripped onto logs creating a cloud of sparks that enveloped the crowd.

As we waited for the second pouring, trying to stay warm by drinking coffee, I was amused to hear a girl with a sweet tooth say “nice night for a cookie.”

In my head....

My expectation for the evening had been either a scene resembling  Meatloaf's 'Bat Out of Hell' album cover or a play called Cellini.  It’s a rather meladramtic memoir of Benvenuto Cellini, the Renaissance Florentine artist famous for his sculpture of Perseus standing on the corpse of Medusa and holding her head aloft. The bronze casting in the second act is very much about the finished piece and the reputation of the artist; a highly choreographed event with as much of the artists’ ego as metal being poured into the mold. ‘Iron Pour’ is about creating community in the moment of an exciting and dangerous event. I may need to get to a Cirque show in Vegas to top this.

Reading Villette on a rainy afternoon (MD)

Yesterday was the strangest day: after meeting M at FT I walked home in the wind and rain, exhausted. Past the falafel place, past the rattling and clanking green line, past the displays of condos on sale in the windows of the real estate office on the corner of - street. It rained so hard yesterday, the wind gusted and blew wet soggy leaves around in the street; bright red and yellow against the pavement. When I got home, it was eerily still and dark inside my place, the white blinds drawn against silvery gray rain, drops of water blurring my windows. My brother called as soon as I got home. He had his appendix taken out on Friday - he drove himself to the hospital in the middle of the night. I found this out when I got a hushed and harried call from my mother at work on Friday. Mom was taking care of my niece while my sister-in-law was in the hospital with my brother. I tried calling his hospital room and got my sister-in-law on the phone - she said my brother was asleep and would call me later. Hence, the phone call on Saturday morning while he was on his way home from the hospital. "Dude, why are you calling me? Get home and get some rest! I wish I wasn't so far away so I could help" I said.

"Aww, I'm okay." And, thankfully, he was. He went to get a hair cut later in the day! I would have been collapsed in bed after something like that but he and I are cut from completely different cloth: I'm dreamy and tend to indolence when not trying to be a 'good Indian girl' (and trust me, whatever your age, you can always strive to be a 'good Indian girl', it's the culture), and he's restless as hell. So, in the unnatural-natural order of things, he got a hair cut after a night in the hospital and I spent the afternoon reading a little, resting from the cold and rain, nursing a case of the sniffles and a sore throat. Reading Villette. What a funny Gothic book to be reading on a funny Gothic day: Charlotte Bronte's Villette:

I dearly liked to think my own thoughts; I had great pleasure in reading a few books, but not many: preferring always those in whose style or sentiment the writer's individual nature was plainly stamped; flagging inevitably over characterless books, however clever and meritorious: perceiving well that, as far as my own mind was concerned, God had limited its powers and its actions - thankful, I trust, for the gift bestowed, but unambitious of higher endowments, not restlessly eager after higher culture.

It's a book, at least partly, about negation and deprivation and fear of Hope, fear of dreams that fail to materialize. It's a book about survival, I think, but then I haven't entirely finished it.

Shared memories-a lost neighborhood (JLH)

My landlady Patricia honored her father’s life and works at the South End Tech Center (SETC) this evening (10/28/06).  Eliot Lee, who died last year, was a photographer, musician and local advocate for community based alcohol recovery programs.

The photograph collection, and personal stories recreated a long lost South End of the 80’s, a neighborhood that has now evolved in to a mere city district.

I was greeted by an unimposing man in overalls named Mel, who turned out to be Mel King, famous for his Tent City protest of 1968 that kept Boston’s “urbanization’ plans at bay and maintained affordable housing in the South End for decades after.

Mel was also a candidate in the famous 1983 mayoral campaign that saw the four term reign of Mayor White by Ray Flynn, the tireless advocate of poor and working class.  King’s campaign posters showed up to some applause later in the evening in Patricia’s slide show.

We next saw a vintage (1986) NNN (Neighborhood Network News) feature.  Elliot, an alcoholic early in his life, had gone on a mission to document his ongoing interactions with the alcoholics in his neighborhood, what he called the “bottle community”. 

In philosophy, Elliot was reminiscent of photographer Nan Goldin who called the use of "heroin chic" to sell clothes and perfumes: "reprehensible and evil." He created collage contrasting the glamorous fantasy of alcohol ads with the stark reality of alcoholics.  A sequence of images showed an alcoholic subdued by the police, another showed a man dying of cirrhosis.

But what struck me were the candid photographs of the South End community with it’s block parties, colorful wall murals, and bustling activity – noisy Northampton station on the long since demolished Washington Street elevated train - groups of men, young and old, black and white gathering at the corner store to talk for hours.  In contrast to today’s chic restaurants and shops, their working class South End seemed almost menacing with raw energy. We all laughed at the young men with afros and big shirt collars and older men in a uniform of trench coats and brimmed hats.

The lives in the community were connected. Even those slaves of alcoholism were not nameless, remembered fondly by those present this evening. The building where I currently live was even a boarding house at that time for several of Elliot’s photo-subjects.  By contrast,  I live in anonymity.

Many of the slides and photographs were part of Elliot’s school and community education campaign to promote alcohol recovery. With diminished availability of rehab facilities, his daughter hopes to use them to revive the effort.

Gruesome in and out of context (JLH)

Eating my muffin before class, I happened upon an exhibit of photographs called “Inside Terrorism ” by Diane Covert at the Harvard Med. School.

At first glance, the images were x-rays containing foreign objects such as metal fragments and wrist watches.  These appeared to be the kinds of films we are shown in medical school to teach us the difference between what is ON or INSIDE a patient, or to demonstrate body cavities where foreign objects might be found (clamp in the abdomen after surgery, coin in the airway of a curious child, flashlight up the rectum).

On second glance, these are something quite different. A hex nut embedded into the calf bone, a watch embedded in the soft tissues of the neck at the carotid artery. Halloween joke, I thought, but then saw the exhibit kiosk. These are actual x-rays from victims of terrorist violence, and the findings are the residue of that brutality.  These bloodless images do not evoke an immediate horror reaction, but the significance sinks in deep (a different approach from FOX sensationalism).

I spent the next hour teaching my medical students over trays of organs from people who died from heart and vascular diseases, the slow natural killers.

My life is sometimes bizarre.

Hey, internet friends, it's been ages....(MD)

And, it's been busy.

-I gave a talk this past weekend at the Fairmont Copley which went very well, thankfully. There were many attendees (for the whole conference, not just my one teeny, tiny talk). I saw lots of my former fellows and I had lunch with some of the participants at a place called the Cactus/Cottonwood club or something like that. I can't remember the name exactly, but I did get a funny little birthday surprise of chocolate and vanilla mousse served in a margarita glass with a candle stuck in it, all lit up, because I gave my talk on my birthday and made sure everyone knew about it. Sometime during the past week a resident asked me how many candles there should be on my birthday cake and I said, "duh, you are supposed to say: I could never fit twenty five candles on your cake....."

-I bought a new couch. It is white. I never use it.

-My mother and I moved my tv onto a new table I bought, but we messed up all the wires when we moved it and now it's all unplugged and sitting on the floor. I suspect I will have an extremely productive week.

-I am going to work out with my trainer today, after a week off. I give you a pre-emptive, 'ouch, crunches hurt.'

-I have some lovely flowers sitting on my desk at work that a bunch of people got me for my birthday. There are big bright yellow sunflowers in the mix - cheery, happy, and friendly. Thanks, work-friends! Thanks, thanks, thanks!

-And, that's about it for the update. More to follow.

Art collectives thrive in Boston (JLH)

Just a short post to plug my friends.

One of my pathology residents belongs to an artist collective. Their rather Dada’esque show was written up in the globe (she’ mentioned on page 2- LC Hanley). I think these public show are rare for her group- she won’t even send me the link to their website, but I’m pretty sure it’s on Boston.tribe.net and I’m searching.

My long time friend, fellow Columbia P&S grad, and pathologist colleague Chris French is showing 15 new works and some old material at ‘Fresh Eggs' in the South End. The opening party Thursday night was a lot of fun; his recent work is a bit racy (naked women if you didn’t know what I meant), so he got a lot of foot traffic off the street. Chris is a former member of a colorful collective called the Humble School (I think the group has disbanded).

I own one of his older works- a scene from Boston similar to the on in the link.

Choreography by chance (JLH)

I attended a public conversation with Merce Cunningham at the MFA (part of the Shapiro Celebrity series)

I have found these lectures to be special. Rather than the usual intellectual masturbation, the lectures are what art appreciation should be; a personal account from the artist and an honest response by the audience.

I’m on the list (JLH)

I received an e-mail from the CDC that referred to me as a “well-known mesothelioma tissue researcher”.

I can’t say that I was “well-known” before this e-mail, but now that my e-mail address has been openly listed with 480 other recipients, it is now a certainty. Has no one heard of Bcc?

Although I have published 4 papers on diagnosis of mesothelioma, I can’t help feeling self-conscious about being listed with some of the notables on the list. I wonder if they noticed me or how they felt about the democratic lack of priority to the order.

More likely, they skipped to the poorly worded and not-so-anonymous (see bold text below) request for a survey response and hit delete.

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Dear Mesothelioma Researchers:
The Mesothelioma Virtual Bank (MVB) supported by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) is seeking your help in a study that will examine the information needs of mesothelioma researchers. This study will attempt to measure the variety and types of information used by mesothelioma researchers.
In the previous literature, there is no significant study that addresses the issue of the mesothelioma researcher’s information needs. As a well-known mesothelioma tissue researcher in the discipline, we hope that you will participate in this survey and fill out this questionnaire. Your participation is completely voluntary. You may withdraw at any time. There are no direct benefits to you for participating in this research study and there are no foreseeable risks associated with this study.
Through pilot testing it has been determined that the average time to complete this questionnaire is less than 15 minutes. All of your responses to these questions will remain confidential, indexed to your ID number (your email address).

Narcissistic Judaism (JLH)

I participated in Shabbat services with the “Boston Jewish Spirit” this week on the suggestion of my neighbor Joe. It’s more of a Jewish social group than a congregation at the moment – they don’t meet for minion (daily prayer)-- the scheduled events include a Jewish Freedom trail walk and even a movie night.

Tandoori Matzo Balls (JLH)

On Sunday morning, I delay going to the gym to catch up with the news. WGBH gives wonderful multi-point perspective on “religion and ethics news”, a women’s perspective on “To the contrary with Bonnie Erbe” and intelligent round table discussion (not arguments) with Gwen Ifill on “Washington week”.

My other reason for delay is to coordinate my breakfast visit to the Buttery with the focus of my obsession. We actually exchange greetings, so I pretend that it’s not stalking.