The Crooked Mirror l Louise Steinman’s Blog
Journeys within and beyond
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Meredith Monk: Calling
November 6, Amsterdam, Oude Kerk
Every year on March 9th, at half past eight a.m. at the Solstice, the first ray of sunlight falls on the tomb of Saskia Uylenburgh—Rembrandt's beloved wife— in Amsterdam's Oude Kerk, the city’s oldest building (built in 1302) and as well, one of its newest art institutions.
Now it’s chilly November, the sky dark grey, and I’m walking from Amsterdam’s central station, through the De Waal (Red Light) district, to the entry of the Oude Kerk. This mammoth building is now the venue for a remarkable series of installations comprising the first-ever European survey of the work of polymath artist (choreographer; composer; performer; filmmaker) Meredith Monk. The retrospective, “Calling: Meredith Monk” is being presented in two cities, Amsterdam and Munich, in celebration of the artist’s 80th birthday and her sixty years of prolific art-making.
Greenwriting on the Skarpa
It’s dark when we arrive at Katy’s house in the Polish countryside, early fall, 2019. My friend and I, both road-weary, climb a flight of wooden stairs to retire. My friend installs herself in the bedroom of Katy’s daughter, Magda, now a young doctor in London. I bed down in the room that belongs to Katy’s son, Sammy, a classics major at the University of Warsaw. Everywhere there are stacks of book, fascinating books. Philosophy. History. Poetry. Books in Polish. Books in English. I want to look at all of them, but I’m so sleepy. Before I crash, I peek into Katy’s room/studio, noting piles of notebooks, vibrant watercolors. A chorus of frogs serenades me through the open window as I fall asleep.
The Verb To Inquire
Every Friday afternoon, I have been tutoring a fourth grader named Delilah, whom I view through a screen on Zoom. During the pandemic, Delilah’s school is the bedroom she shares with her two brothers. Her desk is her bunk bed. The family rarely goes out. Her mother quit her job to monitor the three kids’ schooling. Last December, they all got Covid. Her little brother bounces on the bed behind her, desperate for attention. Her older brother is playing a video game, with volume on high. After our first meeting, I cried. Delilah had no books. Everything was on the screen. She told me her eyes hurt after so many school hours on Zoom.
A Translator Remains Faithful
Imagine a world without the benefit of translation--the Bible is available only in Greek, Garcia Marquez's "One Hundred Years of Solitude" only in Spanish. You could read Dante's "Inferno" if you knew Italian, or Kafka's "The Trial" with a sure command of German.
