NYC Scene: Junk in the Trunk

5th Avenue at Washington Square. Photo: LB

Too much sitting in one place

Isn’t good habit for one’s waist.

It’s a fact, you must agree:

You’ve got flab, - and you’re a tree.

NYC Scene: Bike Share

Rental bikes on LaGuardia Place, New York; photo: LB

If your life has lost its spice,

You should try this new device:

Risk and thrill by Money Mike,

Rent today a Citi bike!

Чем пахнет Пушкин

Onegin, 6 Ave at Waverly Place, New York

Меня давеча спросили, что для меня означала бы следующая фраза, всплывшая в чьём-то сне: «Ты пахнешь, как Пушкин». Тот, кому эта фраза пришла, по-видимому, рано утратил связь с русской культурой, поэтому меня призвали в качестве эксперта по вынюхиванию классиков.

Чем пахнет Пушкин?

Как говаривала Баба Яга, «Чую, чую, русским духом пахнет!», а Пушкин ей вторил, правду говоришь, бабка, «Там русский дух... там Русью пахнет!»

Я подумала, что лирика Пушкина если и пахнет, то природой да положенными розами, а вот поэмы источают разнообразные ароматы, особенно Евгений Онегин. Веет от них жизнью, какой её воспринимал человек с острым глазом, ухом, нюхом и зубом, до этой самой жизни зело охочий. Не претендуя на полноту или даже добросовестность, я набросала шутейный и беспорядочный список пушкинских ароматов, которые запали мне в нос, по принципу «сколько ни говори халва», во рту сладко всё же станет, особенно если правильно говорить, в чём Пушкин был мастер.

Так чем же пахнет Пушкин?

Женщинами

Зимой, морозом, снегом, ненастьем, лошадьми, мокрым мехом и овчиной

Природой, погодой, остальными тремя временами года, влажным климатом, деревней, грибами и ягодами

Городом

Хорошей, недиетической едой

Хорошим алкоголем

Старым домом, хозяйством, чаем, дымом, табаком

Одеждой и парфюмерией

Театром

Деньгами, богатством и бедностью, подземельем, смертью, порохом, адом

Отсутствием запаха

Squeezing the Mongoose

Black Jambhala, Tibet, 13 c., Rubin Museum

No, I haven’t come up with a new euphemism (or have I?). 

I am referring to Jambhala, the pot-bellied deity of wealth in Tibetan Tantric tradition. Jambala exists in five different forms – Yellow, Red, Black, White, and Green Jambhala – and is usually portrayed holding a mongoose in his left hand. Jambhala squeezes the mongoose against his pudgy side, and the animal spews jewels out of his mouth.

The Black Jambhala (or Kubera in Hindu mythology) from the Rubin Museum collection is also accompanied by a snake, a guardian of treasure and a symbol of avarice, and treads on a supine Lord of Wealth, who appears to be quite lifeless. In his right hand, Jambhala holds a Kapala (cup made of a human skull). When worshiped properly, Jambhala’s blessings include freedom from poverty (so that one might practice Dharma), fulfillment of wishes, and good relationships. The correct ritual includes pouring water on his belly (for the Black Jambhala; or head for other forms) and chanting an appropriate mantra.

Tatyana at the not-so-lotus feet
of Mayor LaGuardia

I am no Buddhist, but Jambhala does not look like a jealous god, so I will make up my own appeal to him:

“O Jambhala, 
Teach us how much is enough.

Help us provide for the old and sick.

Allow me to have enough resources

to remain healthy 
and not to let fear and uncertainty

to distract me from doing 
what is important.

But first please give me 
some time and food

to figure out what is important.”

Now, is it me or does the good Mayor LaGuardia have something of Jambhala in his figure and body language? Alas, the mongoose is missing, perhaps due to budget cuts. 

Speaking of providing necessities, the bag of food comes from the tried and true Boyd Thai place (210 Thompson St. at Bleecker St. near NYU).

See more about Jambhala here and a very politically correct description from Rubin Museum here.

Thanks to Tatyana!

Gancho, Tibetan Style

Lords of the Charnel Ground, Tibet, 18th century,
Rubin Museum of Art, New York

Take a look at the double gancho (leg hook) executed by the Tibetan lords of charnel ground, who dance ecstatically to celebrate their joy of being free from attachment. These deities are brother and sister. The brother wears a garland of freshly severed human heads, and the sister wears a garland of dried skulls and holds a staff and a golden vase. They are revered as powerful protectors.

The prayer on the back of this plaque says (according to the Rubin Museum exhibit description):

“Eliminate misery from harmful spirits, fire, water, and lightning, the perseverance of ill-will, robbery, thievery, and harmful underground and earth spirits; in short, protect from outer, inner, and secret adverse conditions from today until attaining great awakening.”

Photo: Tatyana Rector

NYC Scene: Not My Problem

ABC Store, Jackson Heights, Queens

If your tail is flat and bony,

But you wish it weren't as scrawny,

Your defects are yours to hide:
Reupholster your backside!

An Ode to My Body

Hermitage Cat, St. Petersburg, Russia

While watching videos of the lectures by Tara Brach, I came across one lecture titled “The Divine Abodes”. Although dyslexia does not seem to be among my afflictions, I often misread things in creative ways, and every time I looked at this title, I read it as “The Divine Antibodies”.

Then late yesterday I was given a meditation task: “Write – and publish – an ode to your physical body. Be frilly and flowery. Lay it on thick.”

The Divine Antibodies

I am yet to make peace with you.

Every time I look in the mirror, I question how this creature could possibly be me.

I remember the times, eons ago, when you were different, – lean, fit, strong, and male. In those times, I liked taking risks and often put you in danger, but it was a thrill to live in that body. Now you are not as exciting, but I have lost my taste for death.

But now you seem to be as confused as I am. You cannot tell what is yours and what isn’t. You attack what you think does not belong to you, and I am caught in your friendly fire.

I do not understand the purpose of this confusion.

You spite me with those antibodies and rob me of energy. I resent it, but sometimes it prevents me from wasting my energy on things that do not deserve it.

I often create stress, and you get back at me by flooding us both with adrenalin.

Sometimes I eat the wrong things, I don’t let you sleep enough, and I deny you the joy of a better lymphatic flow. You have a million sneaky ways of reminding me that I cannot win against you.

You have a mind of your own. I do not always appreciate the competition.

You are supposed to be a vehicle of my soul. Sometimes I think that you know more about it than I do.

Why are you eating while I’m not looking?

I used to strongly dislike you. But it gets better with age.

Early on your size and shape saved me the trouble of trying to become a dancer. It was not a bad choice.

But you still have ballet exercises hard-wired in you. I am always puzzled about where you got it from.

You showed me what it means to have a natural talent, after I spent quarter of a century doing things for which I have no gifts. Talent is a 50% off coupon: you still need to work, but I have a huge advantage. I can trust you to figure things out.

I do not want you to grow any new things, unless you really, really need them.

I think I am your master. I am probably wrong.

I am learning to appreciate you.

I was taught that it is not good to like things that are not perfect, and you are certainly flawed. But you can still do beautiful things.

Once I dreamed that I died, but needed to come back and work. I made myself a new body out of otherworldly trash. That homemade vehicle was okay for the office, but it was not nearly as good as you, even though no one but me noticed the difference.

You are just what I need.

But please curb those divine antibodies.


Update 5.16.13: "Very well. And now keep writing and rewriting this ode regularly until it ends with an unambivalent 'I adore you!'" 

Ganchos with Pablo Pugliese and Noel Strazza

Thanks to Young Kim

Yesterday (5/12/13) I attended a workshop on ganchos with Pablo Pugliese and Noel Strazza at Dance Manhattan. This was a second time that I took workshops with them, and this workshop only reinforced my initial positive impression. In fact this workshop was calmer and quieter than the first one, which worked well for me. These guys have a good understanding of movement and can articulate it well; they are relaxed, helpful and humorous. Meanwhile the student groups at DM consistently follow the law of Forrest Gump, that is, you never know what you're gonna get. This time the group reflected the typical broad distribution of skills and attitudes.

Pablo has the most illustrious tango pedigree as the son of Mingo and Esther Pugliese (tango - tango - milonga - vals - I intentionally selected videos showing them in their 70s), who were to a large degree responsible for the creation of the modern tango style in the 1940s and 50s and the revival of tango both in Argentina and abroad in the 1980s and 90s. So far I found the most literate and articulate account of their story in an interview with Mingo and Esther for the French magazine La Salida (No. 47, February-March 2006). A Russian translation of this interview, along with several other notable articles, is published on TangoSquare site in Kazakhstan (yes, people, there is tango in Almaty - look it up on the map). Pablo began dancing tango at the age of nine, performing on stage at eleven, and in his teens started teaching tango abroad with his mother, when Mingo was unable travel.

In the Temple of Goddess Louisa

The Cloisters, New York

Once I was given the following meditation task: “Imagine being a minor deity. Create your own cult. Build your own temple. Be as decorative and aesthetically excessive as you wish. Do not edit or judge.”

I was inspired by this exercise, and part by part, quite effortlessly, my temple sprung into existence.

The first discovery that I made was an unexpected color scheme. I have always considered deep jewel tones – burgundy, ultramarine, purple, and emerald green – to be my colors. But my temple began to emerge in a much lighter and more subdued palette of moss-eaten stone, weathered yellowish and gray marble, light purplish pink of heather, deep green of pine needles, and light ochre of sand. A large compound of stone buildings quickly grew in front of my mind's eye, with arches and galleries, spacious chambers and quiet cloisters. Fountains and basins filled with water appeared in many places and filled the space with reflections and gentle sounds.

Sesto Will Make It: Giulio Cesare at the Met

Photo: Marty Sohl/Met Opera

“What do you think, will Sesto make it?” – “Of course, he will. It’s Baroque, only the bad guys die.”

I overheard this conversation in the ladies’ room of the Met Opera after the first act of Handel’s Giulio Cesare on Tuesday (5/7/13). Indeed, in 18th century operas the body count is low and the casualties are suffered mostly by the villains. But when the opera is four and a half hours long, the pertinent question is whether the audience will make it to the end!