FRIDAY NIGHT AFTER THE SHOW

It was the way I always wanted New York to be, the way I always envisioned my life here.

Walking down a street after a performance, catching up with a group of dancers and their friends ambling along and being warmly greeted by them and told how much they liked my work.

We continue walking side by side, a group of artists who have just performed different pieces in a group show.

Coming up on the other side of the dance group now are two women dancers from a more experimental group, carrying a huge plastic bag full of props.  The first dance group hoots and hollers and howls like a dog showing the women that they remember their set.  Everyone laughs.  People walking by look at us with interest, the way I always do when I see groups of people laughing and talking together and it looks like so much fun.  At those times I wonder what their bond is, their history, and, sometimes, envy it.

This night was the way I had always wanted New York to be but it hadn’t happened often --- walking along after a show, greeting each other, encouraging and congratulating each other, then deciding in smaller groups where to go --- down the subway steps and home or out to eat.   The two women from the dance group ask me to join them for margaritas but I say “no.”  I’ve worked all week at a day job, performed tonight and we have another gig tomorrow up in Harlem.  Later I’m real sorry that I didn’t go with them.  Those opportunities don’t come along all the time.

Still, it’s a warm late September evening on the lower east side of Manhattan, way down.  The air is soft and lilting and I’m relaxed after my earlier horrid pre-show nerves. 

 

It was one of those nights when New York was the way I always thought it could be, New York at its best --- people creating, the audience responding, a group of artists showing the many different versions of our art --- sharing our work, our walk, our city and the soft sweet night.

by Mary Pat Kane

re-written, March, 2012

Farmer’s Market, Friday afternoon, February 17, 2012

I fell in love with all the tulips, great colors, but chose only two.  Aren’t they exquisite?  And, when I look at them, I see the lovely face of the woman who sold them to me, helped me pick them out --- she as gentle and kindly as the tulips themselves.  There is often so much more to a picture.

MPKane, Monday, February 20, 1012

DOWN BY THE WATER --- the price you pay for loving

I did this photo one spring day, obviously in 2000 or 2001, as the Towers are yet there.  I love to go down to the water in DUMBO at all times of the year but in spring and summer it’s astounding. 

On January 21, 2006, I went down to the water to do a service for the second anniversary of my cat Star’s dying.  It was actually a surprisingly warm Saturday for that time of year.

I sought out a bench off to the side, alone --- in case I cried.  It would be sunset soon.  Star had died at 4:40 in the afternoon.  I remember the rosy-orange light bouncing off a window over on Court Street as we sat on the floor of our apartment.  Now, here by the water, I would honor the anniversary of her death.  I wasn’t sure how but I would be quiet and remember her.

But, just at that time, a loud joyous wedding party arrived with two photographers jumping around and snapping away.  The best man carried a bottle of champagne and everyone was laughing.  The bride was exquisitely beautiful --- petite with tiny fluttery hands; soft white lace circled the tops of them.  She had dark dark black hair and green eyes and perfect skin that actually glowed.  She was a more beautiful version of the young Elizabeth Taylor.  So, when a raucous laugh came out of her, it made me smile.  I thought it a nice combination of traits.  The wedding party spoke quickly in Russian; they were buoyant and garrulous.

I apologized silently to my cat Star for the interruption of her memorial service though I knew she would have liked the scene, she who so enjoyed humans and, well, all cats love movement and action.  She would have been all eyes.  I told her I was sorry for getting diverted by watching the wedding party.  But, right then, several families came streaming by where I sat, families with the cutest children and wonderful dogs.  A giant schnauzer let loose by a five year old thrust his head helplessly into my lap as I sat on the bench trying to conduct a memorial service!  I laughed out loud looking into his begging brown eyes. 

There was a lot going on.  I worried for the children by the water when the parents were engaged in conversation, so I watched over them.  Dogs kept getting tangled up with various kids.  It was like a wonderful little noisy circus there in late January by the water.

“Oh, Star, I’m so sorry.  We’ll have your ceremony tonight, at home, just us, I promise.”

The winds started to whip up, the temperature quickly descended.  I now started worrying about the wedding party catching cold as I got up to leave the water to walk back up through the streets of DUMBO and catch a bus home.

In the growing darkness, a man was walking two large dogs on the cobble-stoned streets. One dog, a chow was dragging far behind the other, slowly padding on wide furry feet.  She was a dark auburn color, deeper than the usual orange I see in these dogs, the color of my Aunt Gena’s hair.  The chow looked up at me with deep-set knowing eyes and I had the feeling of being in the presence of a wise being.

I asked the man walking the dogs if I could pet the chow and he said “Sure.”  I asked if she were old and he murmured, “”they both are.”  The dog’s fur felt like a great thick rug and was incredibly soft.

The DUMBO area has a lot of private places, little alleyways and crevices where you can be alone.  I hope that does not get ruined with the planned building changes, the “progress.” 

I knew that large dogs didn’t live as long as small dogs, so that the man walking the dogs would probably lose his two in the not far off future.

I had lost my cats, Star and Iris, within two years. 

I slipped into a quiet alleyway and sobbed for the man who would lose his dogs, for the loss of my two beautiful cats and for the price you pay for the privilege of loving.

MPKane, revised January 24, 2012

IF I WERE AN ICE DANCER ---- remembering the good

If I were an ice dancer, I would not remember the falls, nor recall the time I only did the double salchow instead of the triple --- no I would not remember those things

I would only remember how beautiful I looked in my skirts that flipped up and down around my perfectly carved legs or the beautiful color of the costume --- perhaps there would be sparkles on it

I would remember all the cheers of fans, their good wishes, the flowers thrown on the ice, the exhilarating pounding them- music of my piece

I would recall all the speed I had, the many twirls and how my partner held me up above his head and when I came back down we moved in perfect unison --- as if I had never left his side

Oh, if I were an ice dancer, even in a large competition, I’d remember the thrill and beauty of it, how my movements made people gasp in awe; I would remember the smoothness of the ice under me and the glorious swishing sound my skates made

For when it would be over, it could be like the other parts of my life --- and, the age-old question:

Why don't people remember the things I did well, why don't they talk to me about all the motions that clicked into place after years of practice?

Why can't they recall the fine joyous moments --- my skirts flying, my smile? --- how I made so many people happy, how I did almost all the exercises to perfection?

Why do they choose to talk about that one time I fell or the other competition when I did not land perfectly?

WHY DON'T PEOPLE REMEMBER THE GOOD?

STRINGS

I never liked New Year’s much or understood the desire for craziness at midnight but after coming to live in Philadelphia, I slowly got involved in the traditions of the Mummers and their amazing New Year’s parade.

I began watching way down on Broad Street when I lived deep in South Philly and graduated to Broad and Christian with my neighbors and their children when I moved to ‘northern South Philly’.  I swore I would never watch a parade uptown.

But, in time, I began going to the popular bars around 13^th and Pine Streets and I knew and enjoyed lot of people so one year I slowly gave in and watched from the corner of Broad and Pine.  It was tremendous fun.  Our friend Billy would yearly climb the light pole and just as annually be hauled away by the police.

I had a very old blue duffle coat that looked like a blanket that I saved just for that day.  I carried a large plumber’s bag that Rose Fantasia had sewn my initials into.  It was filled with extra socks, scarves and mittens to use and share with anybody who needed them.

My goal every year was to escape the street barriers and the police and dance in the middle of the street with a String Band Captain.  I was usually successful in this endeavor.

We ‘liberated’ men’s rooms at the local pizza parlor.  The men’s room lines were always so short compared to the women’s room ones.  My sweetest, shyest friend Mary Ann helped me the first year. I was terrified, especially when I heard Mary Ann outside the men’s room door that I was behind, staving off, sweetly, a man wanting to come in. 

After I moved to New York, I heard that the parade had fallen on hard times for a few years.  The last time I saw it, it was a straggly little group, marching along Market Street, not Broad, and it made me sad.

I hadn’t thought much about the Mummers in a long while but on the way down to Philadelphia for New Year’s Eve with friends, they came to mind.  The Parade was revived and back on Broad Street again.  I wondered if any of my friends from ‘before’ would still come out?  Would anyone I knew come by Dirty Frank’s Bar or would I just feel sorry that I had ventured to the area again?  I was scared; sometimes these ‘going-back’ things really don’t work.

I walked slowly past 13^th and Pine seeing only lots of young mummer clowns with bright green faces hanging out the door of the old bar.  How many times I’d had paint on my face from mummer kisses!

I carried on slowly towards Broad Street.  The pizza shop with the bathrooms was right across the street.  I wondered if our tradition had been carried on?  In front of me walked a tall man with a gray ponytail under a wonderful hat set at a rakish angle.  Joe?  --- Could it be Joe?  Yes.  The artist, Joe Tiberino welcomed me royally, as did the people with him including Gail and his beautiful daughter, Ellen.  And, the parade itself was delightful.  The audience, new and old, was as thrilled as I had always been.  Joe encouraged me to go back and enter the bar and push past the clowns.  He said I might see some old friends.  Sweet familiar faces welcomed me, some looking very much the same.  It was like a painting, a beautiful painting with different people popping in.

I didn’t stay long, just long enough to hug and remember; to collect some addresses and say that today I didn’t want to hear the long litany of who had died.  Over the years I had heard but not today.

Today was a New Year and a day for memories, a time to make plans for moving forward and a day for honoring a past time of great fun.  My whole few days back in Philadelphia had felt soft.  I walked the streets of my old neighborhood and sat on the stoop of my former building; I had good conversations.  It was a time of wisps, soft clouds, touches; vows to be in touch more, a time of gratefulness for the past and hope for the future.

Happy New Year everybody.  Mary Pat Kane

THANKSGIVING DAY, 1981

THANKSGIVING DAY, 1981

by Mary Pat Kane

            I take the Greyhound bus along the road you traveled to see me just a year ago.

            It was a long trip for such a sick man, the grandchild in the back seat with computer football game ‘beeping’ all the way.  You said --- “I thought he’d get tired of it but he never did!”

            The thermostat on my oven had broken and burned the beautiful fresh turkey but you didn’t care.

            You had come to my house, as you would say later, knowing you would probably never come again.  You loved my house which made me so happy; I did too.  The day after Thanksgiving, I found you in my kitchen with all my cupboards open wide --- just checking, making sure your daughter would never starve.

            I think of your nervousness waiting for Jim and Casey to pick you up, your normal nervousness about the weather, would it snow on your way down? --- A long trip, 7-hours at best and you a nervous driver and worse passenger always.  And, you worried whether you brought the right kind of wine (you had spent a long time asking opinions in the wine shop but, still, you worried).  We are such worriers, both of us --- wanting so to please, wanting everybody to be happy, to make it all work.  Yeah, wanting to make it work.

            In the back of Jim’s station wagon, there were so many brown paper bags full of food that it looked like you thought they didn’t have food in Philadelphia, though you were not eating much by now.

            Pumpkins lie sunken and rotting in the fields and I wonder which farm houses you might have seen just a year ago today.  But, I pray that you didn’t see the deer hanging in back yards, you who loved animals so, deer our special family bond.

            The hills are golden beige at this time of year, a bit of snow dusts the leafless trees --- a barren but beautiful landscape.

            Today I wanted to be between where I once lived with you, my only father, and where I now make my home.  I wanted to be between all the turkey dinners and fun banter of jostling tables in both cities.  I wanted to ride the route you took to my home for that one last brave time and to celebrate who you were ---

Your generosity of spirit, your inestimable kindness and consideration, your shyness with affection --- the kind of kiss you gave me the last so many years of your life --- putting your two fingers to your lips, then, putting your fingers to my cheek. 

I give those fingertip kisses to my friends now and tell them why and where it came from.  And, I always add --- “My Dad didn’t go in for big displays of affection but you always knew he loved you; there was no doubt, no, no doubt.”

Thank you, Ollie Kane.  Thank you so.

Mary Pat Kane

As taken from the original, Thanksgiving Day, 1981

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Have a wonderful holiday, one and all.

mpk

AN EVENING WITH HARRY BELAFONTE

I went to a talk at the glorious public library on 42nd St. last Wednesday night where Harry Belafonte was the interviewee.  His new book, My Song --- a Memoir, came out last week.  The room is beautiful and the Emcee, Paul Holdengraber is always good, though that night I saw him as superb and, besides for my artist friends, it’s a reasonably-priced ticket --- yey!   

When I arrived, wonderful music was pumping out across the room; I had forgotten the largeness of Harry Belafonte’s repertoire.  I think we tend to remember ‘Day O’ immediately but there’s a lot more.

When the music stopped and Mr. Belafonte was announced, I found myself jumping up immediately to applaud with most of the audience doing the same and when I did, I noticed I was shivering.  It was a profound moment. 

He wore a softly-colored pale yellow sweater, his voice was a bit raspy but the stories that came out were phenomenal --- tough, touching, very funny at times and he so depicted the life of an artist --- you have nothing one second, something the next. 

A few things stand out --- like Harry Belafonte had a 9^th grade education and enlisted in the Navy and was in a segregated unit where he was surprised there were so many different types of black people --- their colors, languages, accents.  He hung around with a more formally educated core of men and picked up many reading ideas from them and read and read.  There is a touching library story, too long to include here --- you’ll have to buy the book!

I hadn’t known the extent of Harry Belafonte’s acting career, nor how he hung in the West Village evenings after classes at The New School and heard the great jazz people of his time.  He had long followed Count Basie, Ella, Miles, Thelonious Monk and Charlie Parker.  But, in the old “Royal Roost” near school, he heard many more jazz artists and, in time, they gave him a chance to sing (at first during intermission!).  He had to talk his way into college because he didn’t have a High School degree.  Many of his finest theater teachers there were German Jews, recently escaped. 

In the whole over-two-hour interview, Harry Belafonte came off as fully open to people, interested, and, as such, he received great riches from them.  Some of his colleagues in theater class were Marlon Brando whom he loved, Rod Steiger and Bernie Schwartz who would later become Tony Curtis.  They were just young students in school together and, of course, Marlon mumbled.

I left before the talk was over, I had to.  I was overwhelmed.  As an artist what I can tell you is that Harry managed a building and took out the trash (something I do!);  he had a lot of things go wrong, and he had a lot of people out of nowhere (sound familiar???) support him and, mostly, he heard what they said.  They proffered advice and he was open to it.  Once someone helped him totally change the order of songs for a raucous and unresponsive audience and he did it and it worked.

What a great night at the New York Public Library and there are many more nights to come in this delightful series. 

Mary Pat Kane, October 20, 2011

http://www.nypl.org/events/live-nypl