Don't Edit for a Friend by Carolee Ross (copyright 2010)

Don't Edit for a Friend

by Carolee Ross

 

My friend of almost 50 years

Asked me to edit his memoirs

I trust your judgement, he said

I've read your stories

And your letters and know I'm making a good choice.

His letters had always been beautiful

Full of intelligence and sensitivity and kindness

But what I read in his memoirs

Was trite and maudlin and uninteresting

Incredibly uninspired.

So I went to work,

Smoothing transitions,

Clarifying, adding suggestions,

Working on the pitiful document for more time than I ever had before

And sent the revision on.

I encouraged him and told him not to mind all the red

And urged him to keep going,

That writing wasn't easy

And that I'd been redlined for decades

And learned, and grew, and finally became a bit of a writer.

He wrote that he felt he'd been raped

That he felt as if I was telling him to stand in a corner

And excused his attempt at writing

As "not for publication"

Not for public consumption.

His story was an attempt to tell a tale from the past

It was part of a larger story whose chapters came before this one

He wrote it as a stream of consciousness exercise

And didn't think I'd rip it apart

With such hatred.

Now, for the first time in years,

There is silence

And I suspect anger on the other end of Internet space

Was it retribution for wrongs done long ago

Or a good editor trying to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear?

Don't edit for a friend,

Don't try to teach a pig to sing

It will only

Annoy the pig

And waste your time.

Once Upon A Time

Once Upon a Time

By Carolee Ross

A Time of Innocence
circa 1958

Once upon a time,
Elvis was a visual delight,
Teens hung out at the Malt Shoppe
Eisenhower warned of the Military Industrial Complex
And I danced the night away at the Palladium Ballroom.





Once upon a time,
Paul McCartney looked like a cherub,
Elfin Goldie Hawn did the frug on Laugh In
John and Yoko shared a bed for Peace
And I fit into a beguiling size 4.

Once upon a time,
Harrison Ford was a young Hans Solo
Natalie and Robert were wed again
Nixon resigned on TV
And I believed I'd finally stopped marching for Peace.

Once upon a time,
Farrah was the Angel every boy wanted,
Rachel Carson warned us of Silent Spring
We waited on long gas lines and worried about hostages
And I was Mom to two pretty, innocent little girls.

Now Paul's jowls are showing his maturity
Goldie is a grandmother
John is gone while Yoko lingers on
There are no long gas lines, who can afford gas?
Al Gore warns about Polar Bears drowning and
The Military Complex is no longer a Myth.

I'm marching again and again
because Americans are putting up with worse than Nixon,
My little girls are both grown up
Disillusioned and disgusted
And I struggle to keep alive,
Watching in utter disbelief
as I see the Planet dying.

Who cares -- you ask?
Even the dinosaurs went extinct
and they were here much longer than we've been.
Who cares?

I care,
for the innocents of the World,
for the animals being abused and poached,
for the trees being ravaged,
for the ice caps melting,
For the deluded religious right who will be
seeing Armageddon
much sooner than we'd all hoped.

Idealists and Fools

Idealists and Fools
by Carolee Ross

Goddess
by
Sandy Starr

We were Idealists,
Save the Rosenbergs!
Ban the Bomb, No Nukes,
and later,
Make Love not War.

We marched,
We protested,
We voted,
We were so sure
We'd changed the world.

But did we?
writing letters,
signing petitions,
Idealists and Fools,
The more things change, the more they remain the same.



Hippies became Yuppies,
Carter bowed to Reagan
and Clinton,
still hurting from Monica and Impeachment,
greeted Bush and Cheney and Gang.

And here we are, decades later,
protesting,

writing letters,
signing petitions,
Idealists and Fools,
The more things change, the more they remain the same.

The Evers Chronicles by Carolee Ross

Chapter One:

Harry Evers was having some strange dreams lately. He'd wake up disoriented, scattered, with the taste of fear in his mouth, hot, dry and bitter.

The dreams were all the same; he was sitting in the passenger section of an old, pre-1900 train, the only passenger. The seats were old, brittle leather that crackled when he moved. Outside the window, there was only white -- no buildings, no trees, no life. Only white, everywhere. The sky, the ground, the air, were full of white nothingness as if he were moving through a cloud.

There was eerie laughter, coming from somewhere above his head. It would subside for a while, then, when he thought everything was still, it would start again. It sounded a lot like his friend Doug, who'd died next to him in Nam. Harry would call out, "Doug? Is that you?" But there was never a reply. Not that he expected one. Doug has been gone since '71 when he'd walked into a landmine. That was one image Harry had never forgotten. The explosion, the screaming, that same rotting taste of fear.

The train smelled as if someone was cooking in the next car and he was hungry. His stomach rumbled and he swore he could smell his Mom's Sunday pot roast. As plain as day, as good and as tempting a smell as he could recall. He used to make frequent visits to that kitchen, hoping to get a taste of the gravy, but mostly to get a glimpse of his pretty Mom. She had long hair, just like the movie stars, and long, slim legs. When she smiled, it was as if it was just for him, her son, Harry. He could feel her kissing the top of his head and it felt good, comforting.

He touched his head to scratch it, and found a peculiar hat, made of a fabric he'd never known. He took it off, looked at it, and saw writing he didn't recognize. Down around the sweatband, he saw ants swarming and threw the hat on the floor. When he did this, the train would screech to a halt and he would be thrown out of his seat, out of the train, on to the tracks below.

And then he'd wake up. In spite of his trembling, he managed to get up, drag himself to the bathroom and take his first morning piss. He looked in the mirror, lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and thought about the dream for a while. He was still hungry and walked downstairs to the kitchen.

There was nothing but an ashtray full of butts, a half-filled coffee pot and a dead mouse. Harry put on his sweats, and still scratching his head from the dream, went to get some breakfast.

The Easter Egg in Art History

The Easter Egg in Art History

By Carolee Ross

When did recorded civilization begin decorating eggs?

The egg, decorated with colors or gilt, has been acknowledged as a symbol of continuing life and resurrection since pre-Christian spring celebrations. It has represented mystery, magic, medicine, and omens or portents of things to come. It is the universal symbol of Easter celebrations throughout the world and has been dyed, painted, adorned and embellished in celebration of its special symbolism.

In Pagan times the egg represented the rebirth of the earth. The long, hard winter was over; the earth burst forth and was reborn just as the egg miraculously burst forth with life and was believed to have special powers.The name of this festival, itself, shows its heathen origin. "Easter" is derived from Eastre, or Eostre, the Anglo-Saxon Goddess of spring and dawn. There also is some historical connection existing between the words "Easter" and "East," where the sun rises. The festival of Eostre was celebrated on the day of the Vernal Equinox (spring). Traditions associated with the festival of the Teutonic fertility Goddess survive in the Easter rabbit and colored eggs.


The Romans, Gauls, Chinese, Egyptians and Persians all cherished the egg as a symbol of the Universe and practiced giving eggs as gifts at their spring festivals. The egg also appears in pagan mythology, where it represents the Sun-Bird being hatched from the World Egg. In some pagan customs, Heaven and Earth were thought to have been formed from two halves of an egg.

The Egg as a Christian Symbol

With the advent of Christianity the symbolism of the egg changed to represent, not nature's rebirth, but the rebirth of man. Christians embraced the egg symbol and likened it to the tomb from which Christ rose. As the egg was an obvious symbol to early Christians of Jesus' Resurrection, it was felt to be a most appropriate and holy part of the Easter tide celebration.

Decorating and coloring eggs for Easter was the custom in England during the middle ages. King Edward I's household accounts for 1290 include the purchase of hundreds of eggs to be distributed to his household. In the 17th century, Pope Paul V blessed the humble egg in a prayer to be used in England, Scotland, and Ireland, saying "Bless, O Lord, we beseech Thee, this Thy creature of eggs, that it may become a wholesome substance to Thy faithful servants, eating in thankfulness to Thee, on account of the Resurrection of Our Lord."

Forbidden during the solemn fast of Lent, eggs were reintroduced on Easter Sunday, both as part of the feasting and as gifts for family, friends, and servants. Easter was originally called Pashch, the original name given to Passover during the times of Jesus Christ. The original name was Paschal, from the Jewish feast of Passover, referring to the Israelite's passage through the Red Sea (Exodus 13: 17-14:30) and later adapted as Jesus' passage through death to new life.

Polish Egg Folklore

Old Polish legends blended folklore and Christian beliefs and firmly attached the egg to the Easter celebration. One legend tells of the time the Virgin Mary gave eggs to the soldiers at the cross. She begged them to be less cruel and she wept. Mary's tears fell upon the eggs, spotting them with dots of brilliant color.

Another Polish legend tells of the time Mary Magdalene went to the sepulchre to anoint the body of Jesus. She had with her a basket of eggs to serve as a repast. When she arrived at the sepulchre and uncovered the eggs, the pure white shells had miraculously taken on a rainbow of colors.

The Tradition of Faberge Eggs

Faberge Egg Basket
with jeweled flowers
courtesy of Google

The most famous decorated Easter eggs were those made by the well-known goldsmith, Peter Carl Faberge. In 1883 the Russian Czar, Alexander, commissioned Faberge to make a special Easter gift for his wife, the Empress Marie. The first Faberge egg was an egg within an egg. It had an outside shell of platinum and enameled white, which opened to reveal a smaller gold egg. The smaller egg, in turn, opened to display a golden chicken and a jeweled replica of the Imperial crown. This special Faberge egg so delighted the Czarina that the Czar promptly ordered the Faberge firm to design eggs to be delivered every Easter. In later years Nicholas II, Alexander's son, continued the custom. Fifty-seven eggs were made in all.

Although the omens and the mystery of the egg have disappeared today, the symbolism remains, and artists continue in the Old World tradition of adorning eggs.

Ukrainian Eggs are Called Psanky

The Ukrainians call their eggs pysanky, from the Ukrainian word pysaty which means to write. Originally, these intricately decorated eggs were associated with the mythical or spiritual  beliefs of pagan times, but with the coming of Christianity, they took on a new meaning of rebirth. They were brought to church Easter services in baskets, along with other delicacies for blessings and afterwards, they were exchanged with family and friends with the customary greeting, "Christ is Risen."

An assortment of
intricately engraved and etched
Ukrainian pysanky eggs
courtesy of Wikipedia photos

These eggs usually take several days to several weeks to create, depending on the intricacy of the patterns which may include ribbons or belts (the endless line of eternity), fish, which have stood as symbols of Christianity since its inception, the Sun, which symbolizes good fortune and leaves or flowers, which mean life or growth. Some decorators include grapevines, which are understood to mean good fruits of the Christian life, pine needles, that symbolize youth and health, wheat, which means wealth and prosperity and rams horns, which stand for strength and fertility.

The Eastern and Russian churches celebrate Easter on a different date because of the difference in calendars. In the sixteenth century, the West accepted the new Gregorian calendar, while Eastern and Russian churches kept the Julian calendar.
 
Whenever or whatever you celebrate, have a glorious and beautiful holiday.

My Night with Buster Poindexter

alias ``But Ricky, I want to be in Show Business"


by Carolee Ross

Originally written in 1993 and published Feb. 1993 in Times-Mirror Newspapers

Carolee Ross,
show biz wannabe
onstage at the age of 17

My elegant, aristocratic, Russian-born father wanted me to be a university art professor. My mother, born into a poor, conservative family, thought that either a good secretarial or an accounting course would be more practical.

Me -- well, being a child of the Hollywood musical fifties, my head was full of other dreams. I wanted to float like a feather with Fred Astaire as my partner, heat up the stage alongside Rita Moreno in ``West Side Story,'' play the timbales with salsa bandleader Tito Puente, rock along with Grace Slick and Jefferson Airplane, belt out a tune with Bette Midler. I became, in due course, an adjunct art professor at Hofstra University, a manager of several art galleries, and an office temp during some particularly hard times. Ultimately, I found myself in the most interesting, exasperating, frustrating and gratifying of all professions. I became a freelance arts writer and did corporate writing to support my "art habit."

There's an old expression which goes something like, ``If you wish for something hard enough, you just might get it. My dreams were fulfilled, out in ski country, last weekend, in Snowbird, Utah, while on assignment, writing a daily newsletter for one of Fairfield County's largest corporations.

Contrary to common belief, corporate trips are non-stop grueling assignments. They do have their up side; lots of food and drink, combined with some pretty wild nighttime entertainment which is always kept a secret, up to the last minute.

Last Thursday evening, the lights dimmed in the resort's theatre and there was our evening's surprise. Straight from the bayou country of Louisiana and the streets of New York, was Buster Poindexter and his band. Buster proceeded to rock us, titillate us with his raunchy, bar room style humor, and amuse us with the mobile contortions of his marvelously silly face; somewhat of a cross between the Stone's bad boy, Mick Jagger and comedian Joe E. Lewis of ``Some Like it Hot'' fame. But wait, folks there's more.

Buster Poindexter
aka David Johannsen
courtesy Google photos

In the improvisational, anything-goes spirit of the evening, the band's drummer, Tony, jumped off the stage, bringing his drumsticks into the audience and cajoling a beat out of anything he could get his hands on -- bottles, glasses, tabletops, even a spare pate or two.

Along with the rest of the audience, I was caught up in the rhythm, rockin' and clappin' along with the beat, temporarily forgetting that I was in the presence of about 500 of my client's employees, including the CEO, Chairman of the Board, and several vice presidents. That's what watching Poindexter and group can do to you.

Suddenly, the spotlight was on me. Tony the drummer was grabbing my hand, leading me in a sensuous tango, whispering that I was an exceptionally good sport.

That's when I lost it. Buster and crew started playing a burlesque bump and grind and with Tony egging me on, there I was, performing to the music. Almost immediately, Buster came downstage and claimed me as his partner, leading a conga line to the tune of `Hot! Hot! Hot!' that went round the house. The last thing I remember was grabbing several upper management people and leading them in the line.

Well, Buster is coming to Stamford, Connecticut, folks. And I've been invited to be his guest at the Terrace Club this weekend. I've also had a request to do a command, repeat performance. I guess I'd better take him up on his offer. After last week's display, my writing days may soon be at an end.

Thank goodness for those secretarial courses.

Cici Artist: From Mathematician to Artist

Cici Artist
From Mathematician to Artist
By Carolee Ross

Much like her current professional name, cici artist always wanted to be an artist. Her parents didn’t agree with her passion, although she’d been drawing and painting since childhood. (lower case letters for her new name are cici artist’s choice).

cici artist (the movie)
by cici artist
selected for 7th annual Big Apple Film Festival

When she went to college, parental restriction forbade her from majoring in art or even taking more than two art classes. An obedient daughter, she majored in an “approved” area – Applied Math. She did well scholastically, getting a fellowship for a Master’s degree in Biostatistics and worked in that field for 25 years.

Her vacations, however, were “her” time and she always took drawing and painting supplies with her. “My vacations were always art vacations,” she explained in a recent interview. She married, had a son, divorced, and raised her son alone.


Cici Artist took a solo vacation to Sundance and ascended the mountain to the Sundance Resort where she took “Bed and Art” classes. “I took two hour classes in watercolor, photography and ceramics,” she recalls. “When I came down the mountain, I was never the same.”

The fledgling artist had managed her finances well, saved for her son’s college education and knew she had to make a change in her life. She gave herself six months to save some more money and at age 50, she took a risk, leaving a successful career developing computer systems (her advanced degrees are in applied mathematics, biostatistics and education). It was time to embrace risk and finally follow her passion.

How a Mathematician became an Established Artist


Artist developed a plan for her first year. She decided to focus on a theme, “Transformation: The Face and the Mask,” as she had radically changed her life and felt this embodied the change. She took art classes to keep structure in her life and took hand building pottery classes at Lakeside Pottery in Stamford, Connecticut, where she began making small ceramic masks. (Writer’s note: It’s a given: from earliest childhood, the sight of the human face engages our interest more powerfully and more consistently than almost any other visual fact).

Faces in the Crowd
by
cici artist
24"x12"x3"
Cut Bronze mounted on Canvas

Next, she took welding courses at Silvermine Guild, New Canaan, Connecticut, and made masks in steel and copper. She joined online art groups, participating in themed online shows and trying to sell her work. She notes, “I made very, very little money.” She drew every day and invested in a large format printer so she could make giclee art prints of her work (pronounced zee-clay).

The word “giclee” refers to the fine art prints produced by an ink-jet digital printing process. The term giclee refers to the French word “gicler” meaning to spray or spurt out. The first giclee art prints were produced in the 1980s so it is a relatively new art form. Since many people cannot afford to purchase original art or artists would like to make more than one sale from an original painting, giclee art prints are an affordable way to capture the color, clarity and quality of the original piece of artwork in a printed art sheet. The end result looks as much like the original artwork as possible.

The Breakthrough aka Fairy Tales Can Come True


Morty Bachar, owner of Lakeside Pottery, gave cici artist her first solo “One Day Art Show,” and simultaneously, Sandy Labriola, Labriola Frame & Art Gallery, named her artist of the month and showed her ceramic masks. Since then, “artist” has joined the Loft Artists Association (Stamford), and has had several shows, including “Music & Masks," at the Sackler Gallery, Palace Theatre (Stamford). The exhibit was sponsored by the Stamford Center for the Arts Cultural Fine Arts Program. “Music and Masks” celebrated musicians, who held their childhood dreams to pursue g-clefs and quarter notes with the same inspiration that artist uses to bend metals and paint canvas.

RedHeaded Violinist
by
cici artist
30" x 24"



Allegro Violinist
by
cici artist
24" x 30"



Artist has published several books, including “People and their Pets,” “Diminutive Nudes,” “Love in the Wild,”, “The Fruit Ladies,” and Laura-Lee and Laura-Lye: The Best of Friends.” “Cici artist (the movie)” was selected by the Big Apple Film Festival 2010 and is a short animated art murder mystery that can be found at the artist’s website, http://www.ciciartist.com/ciciEvents. It is produced, directed, animated and edited by cici artist with the screenplay by Bill Buschel. Also on the site is cici's Daily Flips, a short video record of 77 consecutive days created using a Flip Video camera.

Cici’s current show is “Musician Series – Notation 1” which consists of eleven works on canvas. The exhibit is located at Allegro Pianos, 205 West 58th Street, New York, New York. Call (800) 968-9250 for details.

The Musicians Series
works on canvas
by
cici artist