June 25, 2010

Water IS Life

If you rode in a car in Los Angeles sometime over the past several months and happened to look up, chances are you caught sight of a striking image — a man, illuminated by a celestial ray of light, floating ethereally in a turquoise pool, surrounded by cavern walls dripping with stalactites.

This stunning photograph, shot in one of the Yucatan Peninsula’s famous cenotes — the Mayan-derived word for the fresh water sinkholes that dot the region’s jungle terrain (and in which I have had the immense pleasure of swimming and scuba diving) — graced the streetlight banners advertising National Geographic’s recent exhibit at The Annenberg Space for Photography, entitled “Water: Our Thirsty World”.

Curated in connection with the venerated magazine’s April cover story on water, the show promised hundreds of images, displayed both in print and embodied in a film presentation narrated by award-winning photographers.  Its goal was to document the deleterious effects our planet’s rapidly diminishing water sources are imposing on humans, animals and ecosystems from California to Kenya.

Addicted to all things National Geographic and never having been to The Annenberg Space for Photography, I was sold the second I’d read about the program’s opening back in March.  Now it was June, the exhibit was about to close, and I was determined not to let procrastination cheat me out of the experience.

Generally speaking, I prefer going to museums on my own; doing so enables me to focus more on the exhibition and less on conversation with my companion. (Yes, I have self-diagnosed ADD.) But it seemed fitting that I attend this particular exhibit with Olivier Chatard.

Olivier :: L'Artiste

A talented designer with a passion for conservation, Olivier conceived, produced and directed — among other related projects — “Awareness,” a short film utilizing sensually stunning imagery and music to elucidate excessive water consumption in the western world. It was recently featured at the prestigious Cannes International Film Festival and Los Angeles’ New Media Film Festival. (You can read about and watch the film here.)

Our plan was to meet on Friday at 2:00 p.m. in front of the museum.

After spending a hideously frustrating 1.5 hours in traffic — I’m pretty laid back for a New Yorker but severely abhor being late — I finally pulled into the museum’s underground parking structure at 2:15 p.m. (Notably, parking is $3.50 with validation, and something obscene without … $34? $44?)

Descending towards P1 and accompanied by the sound of tires squawking on the glistening surface, the parking lot seemed strangely familiar.   It wasn’t until I emerged outside, dwarfed by twin office buildings that seemed to kiss the clouds, that I realized the museum was built at the base of the Century Plaza Towers — in which Gibson, Dunn & Crutcher LLP, the law firm at which I used to work, had an office.

Century Plaza Towers

How poignant, I thought as I looked down at my platform sandals and up at the museum’s glass doors; four years earlier, I would have been cloaked in business casual and cooped up in an conference room, reviewing documents on behalf of a corporate client.

I began to ponder how far I had come with respect to my shift in lifestyle, and where I still wanted to go in terms of utilizing my law degree, when the 2:22 p.m. display on my iPhone snapped me out of my reverie.

The Annenberg Space for Photography

I dashed up the stairs towards Olivier.  We hugged hello and breezed through the free entryway, taking seats just as the film presentation was to begin. (As my friend Monick likes to say, “My timing is perfect and elegant.”)

Over the next hour, we traveled to the Tibetan plateau, the Ganges, Haiti, the Dead Sea — and were deposited right back at home in California.

I witnessed Kenyan women making 5-hour odysseys, on foot under the blazing sun, to retrieve fresh water to haul back to their villages — every day. I was introduced to Asian farmers whose futures are in peril, due to the region’s rapid desertification. And I learned about how Southern California’s Owens Lake — which in 1924 was 108 square miles and, on average, 25-50 feet deep — was reduced, in roughly a decade, to a dry lakebed after its sources were diverted to the Los Angeles Aqueduct.

Kenyan Women As Beasts of Burden. Photograph by Lynn Johnson. © National Geographic

I had known that our planet’s water issues were critical. But this barrage of visually arresting images and fascinating historical perspective was astonishing. And seeing it in the wake of the Gulf oil spill made it all the more stirring.

The Virtually Dry Los Angeles River. Photograph © Edward Burtynsky, National Geographic.

I could feel the wheels in my head and heart churning, as I triumphantly located my validated parking ticket and bid Olivier goodbye. And as I drove home, looking up every now and then at one of those streetlight banners, an idea took root.

And now, as I dust off my resume, it is germinating…

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June 10, 2010

Santa Monica Slam

Anyone living in New York City with a penchant for tennis appreciates what an expensive and schleppy habit the sport can be.

The dollars my generous parents invested into lessons during my adolescent years might have nourished an Ethiopian village.  And the hours spent hauling out to Queens to access courts that didn’t force us onto food stamps unquestionably outnumbered those spent pummeling forehands and smashing volleys.

But I loved the game, and by high school, my skills earned me a position on the formidable Horace Mann tennis team.

Truth be told, though, I never had what my father used to call a “killer instinct.”  No matter how committed he was to instill in me a desire to slaughter my ponytailed, white-skirted opponents, I was always content merely to be out on the court, swinging my racket and savoring the crisp, east coast fall.

Playing tennis en plein air in Riverdale, a tree-lined enclave in the Bronx, was a welcome antidote to the frenzy of Manhattan life and a high school education as academically demanding as law school would later prove to be.  Bopping around the bright green surface, everything else that ordinarily weighed on my mind — from presenting my research on the seven sacred rites of the Lakota to pondering how long I’d be grounded after getting caught going to the Palladium — seemed trapped in the net that separated me from my opponents.

But when I left for college in Northern California, where free and available courts were as ubiquitous as warm sunny days, and my schedule was — shall we say — flexible, something strange happened.  I stopped playing tennis.

Perhaps it was the distraction of the then-unfamiliar wonderland that is California, with its sandstone beachside cliffs and 6’2” bronzed surfers.  Or perhaps it was the shocking ­news that my former tennis instructor had attempted to kidnap and rape one of his students (coincidentally, the sister of a guy who lived in my co-op during sophomore year) before taking his own life.  (See The New York Times article).

Whatever the reason, my tennis racket has languished, since 1993, in various closets across the United States.

Until now.

Reunited...

After several years of passing by open courts in city parks all over Los Angeles and muttering how ludicrous it is that I don’t play, I decided that the time to let my racket see the light of day had finally arrived.

And after seventeen years, it was just that easy.

Koo, a girlfriend who also had not played tennis in nearly two decades, quickly agreed to join me in an effort to jumpstart her game as well.  We decided to meet Sunday at 1:00 p.m. in Marine Park, just east of Lincoln Boulevard in Santa Monica and roughly a five-minute drive or ten-minute bike ride from home — hardly akin to rush hour traffic on the Queensboro Bridge.

Prepared to wait a good 30-45 minutes — it was, after all, a Sunday afternoon — I entered the park gate at 12:45 p.m., armed with my now ancient racket and slew of partially-flat tennis balls, ready to stake my claim to the next available court.

My vigilance, however, was superfluous.

Just as I began making my way between the courts and bushy green wall of vines, dotted with vibrant, fragrant flowers — again, the antithesis of a Long Island City tennis bubble — a middle-aged man rallying back and forth with his son called out that they would be done momentarily.

Marine Park Flora

Yeahhh … that this was the first time I set out to play tennis in Los Angeles seemed more preposterous with each passing moment.

Just as they began gathering their equipment to clear the court, Koo arrived with a bright smile and her typical, Aussie-inflected, “Hi darling!”

Game's On!

We spent the next hour and a half re-connecting with our strokes and footwork, and eventually played a couple of sets — proud when we slammed an ace and amused when a well-intentioned lob metamorphosed into a home run.  The doses of merriment we both experienced must have been good medicine for the agony that plagued our right forearms in the days that followed…because we can’t wait to play again this weekend.

If you have read either of my previous two posts (M & Ms:: Part 1 and M & Ms :: Part 2), you’ll know that I recently enjoyed an exceptionally fabulous trip to New York, visiting family, friends and the spectacular Dia:Beacon.

Happy Me

But when it comes to playing tennis, I’ll take Los Angeles any day.

Who else is in?

Happy Koo

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May 27, 2010

M & Ms :: Part 2

So, where was I?  (A week of post-NYC fatigue, a profoundly late night celebrating a friend’s birthday, a cold, and preoccupation with prepping for Lightning in a Bottle triggered my severe procrastination affliction and set my writing back a few days.)

Oh, yes.  Mother’s Day.

3:49 a.m.  After visiting with friends and bouncing around Brooklyn for several hours, I gingerly turned the key to my parents’ apartment, cautious not to wake them up.

I needn’t have worried.

My dad was slouched on the couch, with his head cocked back, glasses crooked, mouth wide open, and snoring like a freight train.

I kicked off my boots and sunk my toes into the plush carpet, luxuriating in the notion that it would be mere minutes before I could crawl under a fluffy comforter.  Walking towards the bathroom to brush my teeth, however, I noticed that the lights were on in my parents’ bedroom.

Now, for those of you unfamiliar with my mother, Donna, she’s what you’d call a worrier.

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking — ALL mothers worry.  But to a degree.

My mom’s capacity to fret might actually warrant a Guinness Record.  I recall an occasion, for example, when I had accidentally fallen asleep at a friend’s place.  She wandered Central Park at sunrise, searching for my dead body.

On this particular night, it turned out that not only had my iPhone battery died, but I had also managed to lose it somewhere between Bar Reis in Park Slope and East 90th Street.  So when I failed to respond to her text message asking when I would be home, she couldn’t sleep.

What do most people do when plagued with insomnia?  Brew herbal tea.  Read a magazine.  Count sheep.

Not Donna.

She had spent the previous hour trying on and reorganizing the more than fifty t-shirts and sweaters now stacked so neatly in her armoire that she might consider a gig at The Gap.

Anyways, this was all a really long-winded explanation for the rather late start to our Mother’s Day odyssey — replete with a 2-hour brunch and some irksome directional shortcomings attributable to my ordinarily map-minded father — to visit the stunning Dia:Beacon.

Approaching Dia:Beacon

The moment we walked into the museum’s expansive and light-drenched galleries, any residual irritability was absorbed immediately by the bright hardwood floors, which seemed to store a piece of history within every grain.

Formerly a box printing factory, Dia:Beacon rests on the banks of the Hudson River, sixty miles north of New York City.  (Though we made the trip by car, the Metro-North train runs from Grand Central Terminal and stops a mere five-minute walk from the museum.)  Since 2003, it has been home to massive works and installations by significant contemporary artists, including Andy Warhol, Agnes Martin and Richard Serra.

Much like Los Angeles’ Getty Museum, the space itself is a main attraction.  Even the penetrating cold the gray skies imposed could not undermine the setting’s spectacular nature; the calm that overcame me as I stepped inside was intoxicating.  And the vastness of its galleries permit art to be displayed on a scale unlike anything even remotely conceivable — in terms of both space and cost — in New York City.  I was giddily dwarfed.

The art adorning the museum’s walls and floors proved just as breathtaking.  Though it’s impossible to choose favorites, I was particularly dazzled by:

(Note that the museum doesn’t allow photographs.  Clicking on the links above will bring up images of these works.)

And just as we had begun traipsing through Richard Serra’s steel installation so colossal it might house a small village, nearby museum staff gently informed us that it was 6:00 p.m., and time to go.

Mom & Dad

As we made our way to Cafe Amarcord on Beacon’s main drag for dinner, I knew that we had all enjoyed a special Mother’s Day…which was followed by a night of very sound sleep.

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May 17, 2010

M & Ms :: Part 1

Museums make me happy.

Ever since I was a little girl growing up within one square mile of at least ten of them — including such supreme abodes of art as the Metropolitan, Guggenheim and Whitney — I reveled in wandering through galleries exploding with Jackson Pollock’s canvases and calmed by Constantin Brancusi’s bronzes.

Initially instilled by my parents, my appreciation for art increased exponentially under the tutelage of Mr. Yates, my beloved high school art history teacher, whose engaging wit made class more enjoyable than the vodka tonics my girlfriends and I would sip at The Coffee Shop after absconding from school on the number 1 train. (Ah, the pre-Giuliani days!)

My interest flourished over the ensuing years.  I interned at a SoHo gallery, penned a college paper on the parallels between Keith Haring and Navajo sandpaintings, and flew across the Atlantic to visit the Prado and the Louvre.

Ever since I moved to Southern California, however, my track record has wavered a bit.  And no, it’s not because living out here breeds vapidity.  It’s just that the weather seems to call out “hike in the mountains” more than it does “an afternoon inside windowless walls of art.”

In an effort to switch course, I decided that week #3’s activity should re-charge my artistic affinities.

So which one would it be?  The Hammer?  The Craft and Folk Art Museum?  Or maybe the Pacific Asia Museum?  Hmmm…

But then I looked at the calendar — Mother’s Day.  And it comes only once a year.

Knowing that my New York City-dwelling mom was steeped in self-pity over the fact that her two kids live thousands of miles away in Los Angeles and Denver, I called up my scheme-loving dad to concoct an early mother’s day surprise.

It worked.

So, too, did my week #3 plan to visit a museum — albeit across the continent from Los Angeles.

Stay tuned for Part 2, our Mother’s Day outing up the Hudson River to DIA: Beacon…

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May 4, 2010

Dawning of a New Day

I am not exactly what you would call a morning person.

Those who have had the delight of witnessing my 1.5-hour snooze sessions and incoherent pre-coffee mumblings understand that, for me, waking before sunrise is a far more daunting prospect than hang gliding.

That’s why this week’s activity — welcoming a new day on Venice Beach — was initially challenging, but, ultimately, perfectly peaceful.  A yin to the yang, if you will, of my last adrenaline-fueled adventure.

*   *    *   *    *

After exhausting the two snooze cycles I had permitted myself, I hauled my wine-weary body out of bed at 5:48 a.m. Saturday morning, and snuggled into my favorite sweat pants and hoodie. Unable to bear the shock of the bathroom lights, I lazily brushed my teeth in the dark and headed downstairs, leaning all my weight on the railing to prevent any klutzy calamities.

Given that 99.9% of the sunrises I’ve beheld have punctuated spectacularly long nights, I find it poignant that my first human contact that morning was with a twenty-something trio, decked in Friday night’s wear and sporting smiles as bright as the bougainvillea bushes into which they nearly stumbled.

“I love you,” the grinning woman called out to me, as her male comrades waved and nodded in unison.

A cheery start to the day.  And I was only 77 feet from my front door.

Tickled by their earnestness, I returned a broad smile as I pedaled past them.

Noticing suddenly that the sky was rapidly lightening, I pushed my legs, inexorably sore from my first foray into pilates, to work harder.  Moments later, I was quietly welcomed by the Windward Avenue “Venice” sign, humble beneath the still vibrant, nearly full moon.

 

Welcome to Venice Beach

 

Though I’ve biked this route on countless occasions, it was as if it were the first. The typical buzz of cars gave way to the soothing hum of my bike tires gliding across the pavement; the usual pedestrian traffic surrounding the post office and Windward Farms market was replaced by a lone man on roller blades and a posse of pigeons.

And as I rode underneath the sign and out onto the boardwalk, I was greeted — not by the loin-clothed body builder or the gold-painted statue-man — but by the thick ocean air and the sounds of surf.  I was in a backyard I had only just discovered.

 

Boardwalk Solitude

 

I wasn’t entirely alone, mind you.

A homeless man cheerily belting out a show tune rode past me on a rusted bike, laden with possessions.  A white-bearded gentleman, wearing a red sweater and toting an expensive camera, meandered towards the skate park.   And a sun-kissed, wetsuit-clad surfer waved hello as he trotted barefoot towards the sea.

But by the time I had locked my bike to a post and felt the give of the soft sand below me, the only company of which I was aware were the pelicans dramatically diving for breakfast, and the little birds darting across the glistening sand, exposed by low tide.  Even the handful of surfers bobbing up and down in the distance seemed to belong to the sea.

 

Fresh Deposit of Sea Kelp

 

Mesmerized by the joyous fluttering of life before me, I stood still and gazed out over the waves and the mountains, drinking in the horizon.

And then suddenly, something shifted.

Shuttering my eyes, I slowly turned around.  When I could sense that light rays were beginning to surround me, I opened my eyes to see the sun gracefully ascending behind the palm trees.

 

The Eastern Sun Appears

 

A new day had dawned.  And I was there to welcome it.

I think I could get into this morning thing…

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April 27, 2010

Flying High :: Part 2

Standing on a mountain’s summit — yes, even in the Valley — always seems to spark a spiritual rise in me.  Whether it’s because of an energetic vortex or merely relative oxygen deprivation, it always feels damn good.

So there I was, about to take my typically mystical mountaintop experience to a whole new level.

After my offer to help set up the glider was kindly ignored (for good reason, I’m sure), I spent a few moments relishing the 360 degree view and watching out for rumored rattlesnakes.

Fred and Barton Prepping the Gliders

Kagel Mountain :: View from the Summit

Then it was game time.

Fred guided me through a practice run, rehearsing our run, leap and launch.  We strapped on our helmets and kneepads, and wrestled ourselves into contraptions that would connect us to the craft.  He described the glider’s capacity and my harness’ strength — and how to operate the emergency parachute in the event that catastrophe struck and he was knocked unconscious.

On that note, we approached the edge of Kagel Mountain, and — after Rome and Barton assisted Fred with some last minute adjustments — we transitioned from earth to sky.

It is difficult even now to try to put into words how exhilarating it felt to tap into a thermal updraft and gain 1600 vertical feet within seconds, or how poetic it was to realize that the bird’s shadow moving across the canyon below was actually our glider.

Equipped with nothing more than a glorified kite, we peacefully meandered thousands of feet above a reservoir and desert hills still scarred from last year’s fires.   The house-lined streets and gemstone-looking swimming pools dotting the valley below looked as they would from an airplane; yet our skin was being kissed by the sky, not sucked dry inside a mechanized, pressurized, gas-fueled behemoth.

It was PURE.  And it was MAGICAL.

And then, after more than twenty minutes in the air, it was time to return to land.

Following a couple of intentionally dramatic descents — think Six Flags™ roller coaster — the grassy landing field grew closer with every second.  I bent my legs behind me, and we touched down so gracefully that it took a moment to register we were actually on the ground.

Physically, that is.  Days later, the euphoria lingers on…

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April 24, 2010

Flying High :: Part 1

I consider myself a woman of words.

This is not to say that I fancy myself a great orator or novelist, or even a professional copywriter.

No, what I mean is that I’m very seldom at a loss for something to say.  (An ex-boyfriend used to joke that I could conduct an entire phone conversation with myself.)

But every now and again, even I am rendered speechless.

And that’s exactly what happened this past week, when — after an augurous red-tailed hawk sighting — I literally took a running leap of faith off Kagel Mountain, 3,547 feet above sea level.

Kagel Mountain in Sylmar, California

The Adventure Begins

The morning began unlike most others.  A naturally nocturnal snooze addict, I awoke before my two alarms began shrieking at 7:00 a.m.  Excitement made the coffee I had brewed superfluous, and so I replenished a water bottle, tossed my new camera into a bag and headed northeast towards the 405.

Thirty minutes later, I pulled into Sylmar Flight Park, where I was to meet Fred, Windsports Soaring Center’s tandem flight instructor.  Settling in at a picnic table, I savored the sun’s warmth and gazed up at the mountain that would soon serve as my launch pad.

I had been sitting alone just long enough to begin wondering if I should be nervous, when an older man with a grand smile sat down at the adjacent table.  When he was joined by a duo of equally cheerful companions who mentioned that Fred should be arriving shortly, I walked over and introduced myself.

Sylmar Flight Park Picnic Area

The Cast

First there was Rome, an octogenarian elk habitat preservation enthusiast, Dr. Laura fan, and avid hang glider.  Grounded for a few weeks due to a bout of pneumonia, Rome was there to drive the van back down the mountain, after the rest of us took flight.

Then there was Russ, a former Chicago-based consultant in the power plant construction industry.  Now retired, Russ follows the wind, living a gypsy existence in his RV and traveling the United States in search of mountains off which to fly.  Paragliding was on that day’s agenda.

Then came Barton.  Celebrating his birthday by spending the majority of a four-day weekend in Sylmar, he too is a flight fanatic.  Barton’s also a devoted brother — proudly displaying his bald head, which he had shaved in solidarity with his sister, who just completed her final round of chemotherapy.  Oh, and he’s a rocket scientist.  Really.

And finally, as this gliding triumvirate’s enthusiasm boosted my own, Fred — who restores classic cars, when he’s not taking people like me on the rides of their lives — rolled up in a Dodge van, our mountaintop-bound chariot.

The Ascension

After loading our gear into the van, the five of us climbed in and headed up.

This, however, was no easy task.

A few minutes on the freeway gave way to a paved mountain road, which in turn led to a limited access, craggy, dirt path.  I questioned whether its width exceeded that of the van — a disturbing inquiry, given the scene below.  (Think riding shotgun in a car cruising south on northern California’s Pacific Coast Highway, only more precarious.)

But we made it to the summit, welcomed warmly by that majestic hawk.  After much anticipation, take-off was now imminent…

Stay tuned for Flying High :: Part 2 …

Kagel Mountain :: Valley View

Russ, Taking in a Pre-Flight Moment

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April 14, 2010

Taking Flight

I’ve always wanted to fly.

I often dream that I’m soaring over green valleys and desert canyons.  My frequent Topanga State Park hawk sightings leave me in awe, coupled with a twinge of envy.  I no longer have to request a window seat; at least four major airlines’ online booking systems are well aware of my preference.

Call it nature (my father earned his pilot’s license while in college) or nurture (I weighed only 7 lbs when my intrepid mother packed us up to visit relatives in Michigan), flying is in my soul.

That’s why I can think of no more poignant and thrilling way to commence this year-long endeavor than to literally fly over the City of Angels, my muse on this journey.

As the sun rises high above the Southern California mountains tomorrow morning, I’ll be heading to them — to take flight.

I’m going hang gliding.

And I can’t wait to tell you all about it.

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