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Visual
Arts: Theater:
Gardening:
Food:
Earthy
& Uplifting Imagine: the soil and rock that lay bare on the Oregon desert, the rustling leaves and grass that lend the Willamette Valley their beauty, the raw sheep wool that connotes warmth ... being transformed, without losing their integrity, into various emotional landscapes of one's life. The place and possibility to experience this transformation is in Nancy Pobanz's art currently shown at the White Lotus gallery at 767 Willamette St. in Eugene. My first encounter with Pobanz was years ago at a local Chinese restaurant. I remember asking about her profession. She said, "I'm an artist." An answer as succinct as her personality. Recalling that, she acknowledged that she was glad I did not ask for more details. She would not know how to describe her art work to me. She prefers to let her work speak for itself. From grinding Oregon desert soils into pigments to distilling ink out of boiled plants; from pounding and forming bark, leaf, and grass fibers into paper to hand-manipulating raw sheep's wool into felt, Nancy's work begins with the most natural elements of life and ends with some of the most abstract forms articulating her artistic aspirations. Trying to define or categorize her work risks losing the spiritual vitality embedded in her art.
Be it fiber assemblages, sculpture or mixed media, Pobanz's art work stimulates and inspires viewers with its beautiful execution of her artistic vision. A vision deep-rooted in the rich soil of the ancient artistry of paper-making and fiber-making, and much invigorated with a modern sensitivity and vulnerability. Born in Ontario, Ore., Pobanz grew up under the influence of her mother, a pottery artist, who made almost everything from scratch, including firing dinnerware in her own kiln. But not until her late 20s did Nancy realize that she could no longer resist her destiny — to be an artist. Her graduate studies at the UO winged her gift for art, especially in the fields of paper-making and book-binding. She was invited to the 1985 Duntog International Paper-making Symposium in the Philippines, and decided to run a paper-making workshop there in Baguio, a remote mountainous area with a thriving arts community. For almost six years, she witnessed and weathered political and natural disasters with the local people. The experience opened her eyes to a different zest for life and a stronger poignancy of beauty. It gave her art the emotional weight that's often lacking in some modern art work. As a child, Pobanz always wanted to find "somewhere greener" than the desert. She found Eugene. But a slow drive home in 1997 ignited her rediscovery of the vibrant yet subtle beauty of the Eastern Oregon desert, her birthplace. The desert tones run through most of her work at this show. It displays an essential, yet often unnoticed quality of a great artist — the instinctive understanding of her material, its right use and possibilities. One of my favorites at the show is "Mum's the Word." The Alabama red soil covering the background sets a tone of intensity. Sewn to the canvas with hand-rolled cord from daphne paper are cut cedar bark paper squares. The visible gnarly fiber with black-inked writings exhibits a pent-up energy not to be stopped. The piece carries a vibration that goes much deeper than pleasing the senses. An integral part of Nancy's work is her indiscernible journal writing. As she said in her statement for the show, "I create the substrate (handmade paper slabs, thick felt pieces, soil-painted linen) and then write on the surface ... The content of the writing is personal, visceral, and cathartic — allowing me to purge myself of issues or emotions. ... After writing, concealing the words satisfies my desire to obscure and release those thoughts and allow the piece to take on a life of its own." As a viewer responded in Nancy's comment book, her work "actually breathes." Also visible is the influence of Eastern philosophy on Nancy's work, observed Debra Beers, drawing professor at Lewis & Clark College. Her work is "calm and meditative." It reflects "an inner peace" through the tears and thorns of life. A great illustration of this quality is her piece titled "Vigil." Though "revealing/concealing is the most pronounced theme," as Nancy puts it, one sees no signs of escapism in her work. She confronts and even penetrates the core of life with her unique perspective. Her art exemplifies an exquisite fusion of form, color, line and texture. The simplicity and honesty intrinsic to her approach to mankind's complex inner reality gives impetus to her creativity. Her art reconnects us to life's essentials.
Blank
Slate Imagine waking up every morning with virtually no memory of the previous day. Such is the case of Claire, the lead character in David Lindsay-Abaire's screwball comedy Fuddy Meers showing at ACE Annex. Making good use of spotlights, the action takes place on a modest set that serves as four separate locations — Claire's bedroom in the opening scene, then Gertie's kitchen and cellar, and a traveling automobile.
Claire is a blank slate. Suffering from a rare type of amnesia, she can remember events of the current day, but loses everything when she goes to sleep at night. Each morning, her vaguely insincere husband Richard has to remind her that her name is Claire and that he is her husband, and recap what her likes and dislikes are. To make it easier he's prepared a book that includes a layout of the house and other reminders to help guide her through the day while he's at work. But today is no ordinary day. While Richard is in the shower, a stranger in a ski mask shows up in Claire's bedroom. Claiming to be her brother, he tells her that he is here to rescue her from her homicidal husband. Not entirely convinced, but unable to recall anything anyway, Claire goes haplessly along. On the way to their mom's house in the country, he explains that their mother has had a stroke and can't speak clearly anymore, but Claire has some misgivings about her brother's story, and why does he have a lisp? Why doesn't he take off his mask? Why does he limp? Why does he have a handcuff dangling from one wrist? At mom's (Gertie) house, Claire begins to feel a sense of familiarity, although she can't quite piece it all together yet, and Gertie's attempts to enlighten her daughter are profoundly hindered by her tortured, meandering speech. Arriving next on the scene is Claire's brother's accomplice Millett and his peculiar sidekick, a naughty sock puppet named Hinky Binky. Meanwhile, Richard and his troubled, pot-smoking son, Kenny, set out in search of the missing Claire. Along the way, a female state trooper stops the pair for speeding. Fearing that his questionable past may be revealed, Richard uses Kung Fu to wrangle the gun from her, and then forces her at gunpoint to accompany them to Gertie's house. With all the loonies gathered in one place, the play kicks into high gear — there's a stabbing, a gunshot wound, and a shovel blow to the back of the head, and most importantly, Claire is beginning to piece together the fragmented pieces of her puzzled psyche. Was she a dreadful mother? How did she lose her memory? Who is her brother and why does he hate bacon? And what is Fuddy Meers? It's been an eventful day of self-discovery for Claire, but the question remains, will she remember it all tomorrow? Marla Norton is charming as the befuddled Claire. As Claire's earnest mother, Gertie, Mindy Nirenstein deserves high praise for her fine performance, and for her ability to deliver lines entirely in stroke-victim-ese. Bruce McArthur, as Claire's cheerful husband and caretaker, and David Gallic as son Kenny are both terrific, but particularly amusing as a combo, especially in the road trip scene where the two share a joint in a hilarious father-son bonding moment. Although his back and forth conversations between himself and puppet Hinky Binky sometime blur beyond distinction, Mark Garner is convincing as the wild-haired and frenetic Millett. Benjamin Newman is a riot as the deaf in one ear, blind in one eye, hobbled, lisping, pathetic Limping Man, aka Claire's brother. Make-up artist Adam Goldthwaite did a fantastic job constructing Newman's deformed face. In turn, Julianna Zarzycki was hilarious in her over-the-top portrayal of female cop/lunch lady and accomplice Heidi. Dark and uproariously funny, Fuddy Meers is a twisted funhouse of surprises. The play runs through Feb. 8.
Invasive
Species Invasive species: plants, animals, and microbes not native to a region which, when introduced either accidentally or intentionally, out-compete native species for available resources, reproduce prolifically, and dominate regions and ecosystems. — Oregon Invasive Species Council Until a year or two ago I hadn't given much thought to exotic plant invasions. I had long ago eliminated purple loosestrife from my gardens. I hated Scotch broom for inflicting its harsh yellow onto miles of Oregon spring scenery designed by nature to be delicately pink, white and misty green. I encouraged people to keep their English ivy from blooming and producing seeds. I had blind spots, though, and I still do: I love European holly, and I think Portugal laurel makes the niftiest hedge. But recently the invasives issue has been harder to ignore. News of it arrives in the mail from environmental groups, the USDA, the Extension Service and the Oregon Nurseryman's Association. Worse still, plants I like and still grow in my own garden (Verbena bonariensis, for example) are beginning to show up on invasive species lists. With growing discomfort, I realized it was time to educate myself, and I turned to a book that lays out some disturbing facts and figures. A Plague of Rats and Rubbervines; The Growing Threat of Species Invasions (2002, Island Press) is a thorough, detailed but very readable account of a worldwide problem. The author is Yvonne Baskin, who had access to "front line" sites around the world. Thanks to a massive increase in trade and travel, alien plants, animals and microbes are exploding everywhere, and global warming appears to be making things worse. Old invaders continue to gain ground, while new ones can be counted almost daily. They arrive in the wheel wells of airplanes, in cargo crates, in the bilges of ships, on the boots of travelers and in their luggage. Why do species invasions matter? To begin with, they impose huge costs on trade and agriculture, and endanger food supplies. They cause an overall loss of diversity that may rob us of alternative food and fiber sources, and species of medical and aesthetic value. And, of course, they are a serious threat to that uniqueness of natural communities that helps create what we call a sense of place. What can be done? All too slowly, some countries are increasing inspections at points of entry. Unfortunately, they are usually aimed at a particular species only after it is so well established that eradication is no longer feasible. Expensive, long-term containment becomes the only answer. According to Baskin, plants may pose the biggest threat. Sadly, as Baskin writes, "Horticultural introductions have supplied the majority of plant invaders." There are at least three reasons why gardeners and landscapers like to plant "exotic" or alien species. One, people like to grow familiar plants. When we move from one part of the world to another, we take our favorite plants along to make us feel at home. Two, people like novelty (and the nursery trade likes it even better). Three, there is a genuine demand for tough, adaptable growers that can flourish in degraded habitat and man-made environments too harsh for indigenous species to flourish in. The vast majority of introduced plants are not a problem, just as they are not a problem in their native place. But as yet we can't predict which species will go berserk when moved to another habitat. Baskin's book discusses this dilemma, along with some fascinating complexities of species invasion, such as interactions between animals and alien plants. The animal involved is usually a grazing quadruped, but one particularly sad example involves that gardener's friend, the earthworm. It seems that earthworms, introduced by accident or by organic farmers, speed the decomposition of the organic layer in forest soils, making them inhospitable to the native flora that evolved to grow in duff. The soil is then colonized by invasive, often non-native plants. This has happened in Eastern U.S. forests, and now it has happened in Ceylon. "Exotics species remain vital to every modern culture," Baskin says. "We will always have to walk a tightrope between the benefits that exotics provide and the dangers posed by the few invaders among them." But responsible gardeners can become part of the solution instead of the problem. We can protect our collective back yard by planting more natives, by eliminating known invasives, by observing how new plants behave in our gardens, and rejecting any that reproduce too enthusiastically. We can encourage the nursery industry to do the same. (Many plant collectors and smaller nurseries are already quarantining unfamiliar plants before they go on sale.) Doing nothing is no longer an option, precisely because gardeners can make a difference. An ecologist documenting alien plants in Maui compared the alien but monotypic eucalyptus stands in the hills with gardens down below. "The real diversity of sleepers is down here in peoples' yards .... this is where the winnable battles are, so that's where we're focusing." Relevant invasive species lists are available through links on the following websites: wnps.org; invader.dbs.umt.edu; oda.state.or.edu; ci.eugene.or.us/parks/hendricks
One
Dish Wonders I bought a box of Hamburger Helper the other day. I was feeling a little lackadaisical, menu-wise, and thought I'd give it a whirl. My girlfriend cooked it up and left me some leftovers, which I topped with cheddar cheese and nuked for four minutes on high. And I have to say, in spite of the incredible amounts of sodium, it was, you know, OK. Actually, for what I wanted, it was pretty good, because all I wanted was the idea of casserole. What is this idea of casserole? What is its set of Platonic principles that transcend yet inform any actual recipe? As I understand them, casseroles are starch plus meat plus sometimes-but-not-always vegetable, tossed in a sauce that frequently derives its flavor from canned goods, topped with junk food (onion strings, potato chips, tortilla chips), and then baked while you're eating a bit of salad. The starch is to absorb the sauce and fill you up; it could be anything from rice to torn pieces of tortilla to the reigning champ, pasta (the more varied the shape, the more thoroughly it holds the sauce). The meat must be abundant and cheap, something that you might have clipped coupons for or bought in a 10-pound Valu Pak, ground beef or diced turkey, or tuna fish (not solid white albacore, but the feathery pink stuff). The vegetables, if you must add them, are undeniably overcooked. Green beans should be well on their way to gray; carrots should be beyond tender and into melted; the bits of mushrooms, which have been cooked once to get into the can of mushroom soup and again in the casserole itself, should be rubbery sediment collecting at the bottom of the baking dish. The sauce, for many American casseroles, is the aforementioned cream of mushroom soup, or cream of celery if you really feel rebellious. Quasi-ethnic efforts have other flavor bases: tomato for Italian dishes, tomato or chile for so-called Mexican food, laced with the contents from 49-cent packets of enchilada sauce or instant mole from the "ethnic food" aisle. As essential as any ingredient is the time element: casseroles must have time to sit. You don't want to serve it hot from the oven. It'll be too hot to eat, for starters. (Did you know that a 1/4-inch thick layer of potato chips is a surprisingly effective insulation?) But what that lag time mostly does is marry the flavors. Doesn't take long, just five minutes on top of the stove, or overnight in the fridge, for leftovers to acquire that soft delicious blur. The flavors must lose all sense of self, they need time to mingle, to marry, to merge and generally become thoroughly codependent. For people this is a bad thing, but for casserole ingredients, it is essential. Casserole is not about surprise, it is about comfort and predictability. And there is nothing more comforting on some basic level than a pan of food in which every bite tastes like every other. I realize that I'm speaking of a certain type of casserole, a certain lower-middle-class construct. But in truth there is no other kind of casserole, not in these United States. The well-to-do don't do casseroles. They do gratins, which aren't usually hearty enough to fall in the casserole camp. Or they do cassoulets, which are far too rich. No, casseroles are generally the province of large families, one of the time-honored ways for struggling mothers to feed their brood cheaply. But in my house we cook for two, at most. And we are surrounded by a gourmet culture, which means I tend to go against the cheap-ingredient dictate without even meaning to. Homemade spaghetti sauce and pounds of mozzarella in my lasagna is a little too much to make it a money-saving endeavor. Might as well slice in a couple of truffles that I dug up myself and really go for it. No, I better stick with Hamburger Helper for my casserole cravings. In these days of national distress and personal upheaval, it's just the thing. And if it remains for most people of my acquaintance an anachronistic culinary artifact, so be it. More leftovers for me. Guest columnist Marina Wolf of San Francisco was known for years as The Wide-Eyed Gourmet, but retired recently to organize dance workshops for large people.
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