Blog – Page 2 – TalkingGrid

Posted on September 9, 2016October 9, 2016 by Frau Kolb

Ten Tips on How to Be Green

Friends, Fans, and Supporters of Frau Kolb and The Talkinggrid,

Thank you for reading.

Awareness of the reality of climate change and the necessity of looking at our lives, levels of consumption, and habits of destruction, which we’d all love to deny, motivated me to change the way I lived to fit the world that is evolving. In other words, I did not emerge from the womb ready to give up plastic bags and straws. It has taken a lifetime of learning and effort to become the woman I am, today. Despite so much being said, written, and debated around the touchy green topic there are still many questions on the how and why to be Green. Well, I wasn’t always aware of the importance of mindful living. It is one of the gifts experience has given me. I understand that everything we take time to do in a loving, thoughtful, and respectful manner is better, more rewarding, and more likely to lead to a reality worth living.

Having a life that you want to live takes work. The decision to live a quality life is greatly enhanced by being careful about how you spend your time and money, as both influence not only your wellbeing but global trends, since we are all interconnected.

Here are a few ways I reduce waste in my life.

1.Take cloth or reusable bags with you, have a bag in your bag. So, that you can never forget.

(The French, make knit bags which expand and fit a lot of groceries, easily.)

2. Limit yourself. Buy what you can carry home. Of course, this doesn’t work with frozen foods or heavy cans upon cans of food. But, do you really want to eat unhealthy convenience foods, which are not as nourishing as fresh foods? The best part is that carrying one’s food home is a great work out. I live a mile away from the nearest shopping center. I routinely forgo the car and allow myself the privilege of movement. My body says thank you because I’m giving it the exercise it needs. My wallet is also happy because this puts a pause to impulse shopping. Who is going to buy something, “seen on tv,” when they have to carry it home?

3. Mend it. Think twice before you throw that dress away. Fabric waste, from a hyperactive clothing industry, is yet another environmental issue for us to face. Buying polyester/plastic clothing with designer labels is not an environmentally sound choice. Sorry. These clothes go out of fashion faster than you can fix. They don’t invite repairs. They were not made with the idea that you might want to keep garments for a lifetime. Avoid the flood of cheap imitation clothes, the antithesis of real or quality clothes, and buy clothing made of natural materials, when you decide to fork the money over you want quality, not quantity in your wardrobe and life.

4. Buy it used. It already exists. It is either old/antique/vintage. You can take an, “old,” thing and make it new with a little creativity. Express yourself with your patchwork. People routinely buy distressed, torn, and shabby chic attire. No one will know where your treasures were secured. No one cares. If you fear that used or thrift clothing are dirty or worn, well new clothes come loaded with chemicals which are bad for you and the environment. So… think twice. Second-hand goods can be just the solution you are looking for, often at a considerable discount in price.

5. Solar panels are a way to save money on heating costs, propel your car, and earn a tax deduction (maybe). You question the logic of solar panels if you live in a cold climate. Well, look to Germany for understanding of the use of solar power as a viable alternative to fossil fuels.

6. Recycle as much and as passionately as you can. Please, pay attention to where your trash goes. It has to go somewhere. Just as in our private lives, we are responsible for our debris.

7. Devote time to beach clean-ups and river rescue. There are many organizations aiming to preserve and protect our natural resources. Join a team of volunteer street sweepers, and sweep away classist tendencies, and embrace a cleaner world. Become one that makes time for the Pacific Trash Patch, aware that the litter of today is the Marine life poison of tomorrow.

8. Love nature. Don’t forget to get out and experience the beauty, first hand. Our national parks, city parks, river ways, lakes, and costal treasures deserve more attention than Poké Man Go. Get out and no, you don’t have to post pictures, every few steps. Step into the magnificence of the ocean. Allow the waves to lick away spiritual/emotional wounds. Cleanse yourself. Allow yourself to flower. You are a splendid example of marvelous, nature. Love yourself.

9. Garden. A little patch of dirt goes a long way, if only to make you more mindful of what it takes to grow food. How it works. Why it works. It is calming and therefore healthful to massage the soil and pluck a cherry tomato from the vine on one’s window box. Herbs, so small and tasty, can be easy to grow and add so much to our meals.

10. Teach. This is not all about you. Children, adults, friends, and foes deserve to be educated in the commitment required to create of the world we all must share, one which can sustain life. You have a responsibility to remind others that the environment matters and sometimes you have to take matters in your own hands by demonstrating your ability to always take a bag with you, recycle religiously, and live a worthwhile/fulfilling life, day in and day out.

Posted on August 22, 2016August 24, 2016 by Frau Kolb

Yesterday’s Poem: New Edition

I got up this morning and the first thing I thought of was Talkinggrid. I leapt out of bed and onto to my computer. I hit the keys and before I knew it,

BAM!

I wanna thank Joe Rez, our Rock n’ Roll Music Specialist for sparking renewed interest in publishing, reading and writing Talkinggrid.

Oh! By the way, I promised you a poem.

Here it is:

Yesterday’s Poem

Eye see the day when we awake.
Shake off tarnished yesterdays and
Dance in the fountain of forgotten youth.

Ponce de Leon liked it just fine in Florida.

Until the crocodiles came and ate his fifteen minutes

He was left to legend and the late night healers
“Splash!” says the serpent girl, curled on the banks
Of the Henry Hudson River, with a view of the
George Washington Bridge, at sunrise.
She’s not voting. Mermaids don’t vote.
They float over and under the words of Hope
Promises sway Neptune’s trident in Shakespeare’s Tempest.
The world has become a parody of itself.
Yates said, “the center can not hold,” since
the lamest claiming “Supremacy,” and
The Orange Orangutan parading his Illegal Immigrant Bride.

On that Happy Note, I wanna continue. Allow me to share with you,

Top Fifteen Things To Thank #DrabTrap 2016 For Now!

D.T. helped me to instantly shed a lifetime of feeling weird, outrageous, and “flamboyant,” in my big floppy hats and striped beach cardigans. Suddenly, I feel so normal, stable, and emotionally secure compared to the big Orange Turd. I am a magnificent garden of peace in comparison to the manic monstrosity of amped up blond Ape machismo that the perverse one embodies.
D.T. and his Immigrant Bride, how ironic! She inadvertently, but never-te he-less shined a spotlight on how amazing the first lady, Michelle Obama is.
Allow me to see that my petty self-promotion is precisely that.
You remind me to appreciate that I speak English and Spanish well. Thereby reflecting an American ideal. We see that speaking Spanish well is a plus on the campaign trail. Bilingual people are more likely to vote than… not? What am I saying? I don’t know. I’d like to thank DT for making me think about my multi-ethnic heritage and face it, in a white supremacist world, I’m not welcome.
I appreciate, more than ever, those of us, incapable of erecting gold towers and sitting naked on virtual reality thrones made of tweets and clicks are not slow, most were taught not to toot their own horns. In other words, D.T. has devoted his life to bragging about assets that may be a mirage the size of Texas, for all we know. Debt, being one of his best friends.
Everyday, I become more American. I’ve never before found the political situation worthy of my art focused, entirely self contained, and mostly maternal attention. Suddenly, for the first time, I really care… oh wait… this is not true. I cared before. Obama. Remember? Hope. Yeah… those were the days.
It becomes obvious that we have freedoms, rights, and ground gained to lose. We refuse with a BIG THANK YOU, to anyone that suggests that we are not invested and devoted to supporting life, love, and liberty to thrive within the existing political structure of American democracy.
Allow us to see clearly how important it is for all to become politically aware and active, making it clear that WE stand together in LOVE and refuse to be bullied by liars we intend to manipulate public opinion. We, Americans, that vote are not interested in politicians who want to reduce our rights and civil liberties, which are currently under attack on the streets, as men and women who are not white, are with shocking regularity abused by so call, “servants,” of the Law. We are on the road to more mutual respect, not less.
I’ve come to appreciate that being, “politically correct,” is a way to demonstrate caring for the sensitivities of others. In other words, it is akin to being polite or well-mannered. I don’t expect that everyone is suddenly going to become poised like Michelle Obama but we can try. We can attempt to “go the high road.” My mother, not my real mother, but the made-up mother I have inside me, always says, “take the high road.” I’ve done that, most of my life. However, I’ve slinked around—a bit—mostly for fun when I was an adolescent, runaway, punk-street-kid. It was only fun in the summer. As winter set in, fall really, I found I job. Waitressing, no less… and the rest is…
DT is proof that the history of inequality, violence, flagrant, systematic, and institutional exploitation of disadvantaged groups, all best left in the past, has the potential to repeat itself. We must take action to address the needs of those that feel so insecure as to wish to carry weapons. What is up with that? Yet we are here now and determined to make a difference. Voting has never meant more. The choice between Evil and Maintaining our multicultural, vibrant, jazzy, rich American way of life is yours. Vote with gusto and thank Delirium Trash-Muffin for motivating you to cherish our hard-won political and social status.
DT reminds me how important it is to laugh at myself, my supercilious and pretentious attempts at grandeur, my New Yorker Naiveté, and my recent near death experience. Yes! I am freakin’ hilarious! Anyone who takes themselves too seriously is set to blow a gasket whenever the wind blows their fake hair or top rug upside down pineapple upon their orange mash potato face. It is vital to keep laughing.
Speaking of laughter, I don’t really find you funny at all, Punk, you suck! However, I’m willing to admit that I’ve never felt so smugly superior in my life. Compared to you my manners are impeccable, my education: stellar, my personal achievement HUGE, Dude, I’m everything you are NOT. I am real.
In the war between good and evil you White Nigger Gold Digger Dunce Dream Daddy Pimp Punk are not worthy of a name. Just because your wife was born and raised in a communist country and your associates love Russia and you love Russia and you birthed the birther nonsense doesn’t make you worthy of a name. Please— slither—back under the golden turd you slithered out from under, pretty please. Ha! Ha! Funny right… I know, I know… all jokes fall flat, when we consider, “The Horror! The HORROR!” It would mean the end of American, home of the brave, beautiful, countless cultures and endless rainbow of economic and social possibility if you, two-bit clown, became the representative of our GREAT NATION.
That you are promiscuous and proud to father a bigamist’s dream of offspring with various women who you use and abuse at will is obvious. And Dude, one has to admire the audacity of you.
You are that which we thank god we are not.

Posted on August 8, 2016August 22, 2016 by Frau Kolb

Make Caridad Great Again!!!

Thank you for visiting www.talkinggrid.com! After a long silence, a long hiatus, a more mature, seasoned, understanding of reality is set to grace this rendezvous space, this on-line location, which you have come to cherish as you would an open home where celebrating life is the priority and a buoyant voice forever welcomes you.

Hello, Old Friend! So much has happened since we last met. Sit down. Kick back. There is a feast about to be served. I’m cooking up new stories for you. I wanna nourish your soul and feed your mind with what is possible, probable, and sustainable. Let’s eat up healthy ideas and look to build a world where love rules our actions and defines our conduct. We decide, the quality of our lives, daily we dictate the direction our lives will take with the way in which we approach living. Never shrug off the responsibility you have to create the world that you aspire to living in. We must shoulder creation, since we are the ones informed and blessed by the capacity and responsibility to make of the world we inherit into a garden of earthly delights. The culinary arts, agriculture, theater, fashion, and film all flow from creative souls who sculpt the edifices of culture which will house the findings of future seekers. We must continue our studies, enhance our experiments, combine our wits to make a world we can all find a place, a point, a parcel, and an acreage of love.

I am part of a circle of creatives, artists, that are ever ready to expand your world, with their fascinating insights into Art, Music, Spirituality, and Political Healing, taking you to the edges where the art world and reality kiss each other and keep moving. I come to you with mastery of “The Vacation Approach,” my way of making it from one day to the next, making the most of my time, and resources. I have living insights from, “Cancer with Style,” my second unpublished private handbook for getting on with the business of life, despite setbacks, obstacles, which I will share with you from time to time. (I might even publish some of my new poems and art works here. Image that!)

The staggering health challenges and the blessings that come with suffering have proven to be a portal to my higher self. Death almost ended my musings on art and culture, living and loving, my travel plans, and the perpetual discovery mission I’ve embarked upon, a year ago. It has been one year since my last post. Only today, did I feel strong enough to write to you again and reinstate my wish to inform and entertain.

Mr. Skip Snow, a full time art machine, promises to write to us about the shifting models of the museum level art gallery scene, in Los Angeles, a city we know too well, but eludes comprehension. The Talking grid’s Music Specialist, Joe Rez, promises to take us to the Guns and Roses concert and show us why Axel, ain’t dead yet. The Music Specialist, is also an expert on Chinese Medicine and Acupuncture Master, so don’t be surprised as Talkinggrid becomes, even more reliably, a source of healing for your wounds, aches, and pains. Since this is one with our intention, to heal you with love, laughter, music, art, travel, thereby reminding you of all that makes life a delight.

The Muse, New Mexico based, inspiring beauty and travel guru, Ms. Crane and Mr. Finehouse, concert pianist living in Boston, are sure to chime in from time to time with reports from the frontiers of Food, Art, Social issues, and Music. The Scientist (my husband) Dr. Hartmuth Kolb, may feel compelled to share his latest recipe for bread or holographic 3-D printer projects. We all want to learn from him, since he is so very knowledgeable. I plan to venture to an art show or two, including a group show in New York, sometime in October. Adventures beckon, creativity calls, and you are invited to take a seat at this long and commodious table, laden with possibilities.

So much may happen yet some of it depends on you. You have donated to this open mission before, do so again. Thank you so much for your previous donations, don’t forget that without your donations, comments, and general interest this show won’t shine. The plea is that you put your money into activities and individual projects, ours and others, that mean the world to you. Endorse with your attention and time, that which puts a smile on your mouth, in your eyes, and in your heart.

Thus:

Make Caridad Great Again

by Donating to Talkinggrid.

So simple!

Posted on August 21, 2015October 16, 2016 by Frau Kolb — 1 Comment

A Gaggle of Doctors

Around the foot of the bed a gaggle of white coats has congregated. The situation is urgent, critical. They’ve decided to operate tomorrow, Father’s Day.

The evening before yesterday, we were in the hot-tub, afterwork unwinding. He looked in my eyes and saw yellow.

All day, I was in bed, my body expanding… the swelling, which started on one foot a year ago has spread. I’m putting on several pounds a day in water weight. If you saw me, you’d think I was just another overweight person, but no. I’m dying.

Decisive and wise, informed and on point, my husband took me immediately to the Emergency Room. I saw the sunset from inside the car. We arrived and were admitted into the hospital.

My roommate is in pain. She screams, yells, hollers for morphine. “Junkie,” I snap judge her. She is pretty, like me. Plump and sexy. She has a Puerto-Rican accent, but I bet she doesn’t speak Spanish. She is from New York. She is visiting family… she ate something, she was on a hike… whatever. “Ghetto bitch.” I think, listening in on her telephone conversation(s).

The room is divided in two with curtains suspended from the ceiling. Her bed controls the door and the flow of traffic and noise.

My bed is wheeled to the other side of the room, by the window. Here, I will sleep.

Sleep is impossible with people streaming in and out of the room, all night. They take your “vitals,” they give you pills. The two IV “trees,” machines which monitor the flow of drugs and saline into the blood, beep, if our intravenous drips are tangled. All night, the two trees took turns beeping. Nurses, rush in the room to stop the beeping.

After a few hours, I feel that the hospital is making me sick. I want to go home and sleep, recover, from this ordeal. Morning arrives and I’m ready to die. The room is still, for a second, before…

They come in, one by one, and then a team, I’m overwhelmed, too tired to lift my head, they tell me what will happen, what might happen, and what happened—according to them. I don’t listen. I don’t care. I’m busy. Dying.

So… this is what it looks like, THE END. Soon, I will be back in my father’s arms, we will go for strolls, and wait, in bliss, until my husband and children join us! Finally, I will get to know my grand parents and ancestors… all the Africans, they wait for me to join them. Clearly, they won’t be waiting long.

Father, Daddy, the black and beautiful man that trained me to be me, to thrive, has visited me, us my husband and I, yesterday and today. He assures us. Yet… I’m not ready. I’ve got a plan. I’ve got a lot of living to do. I’m not going, don’t make me! I want to raise my own kids. Forty years is not enough.

En masse, the Doctors leave and Eileen, Irish and fierce, open and alarmed, Best friend, arrives. Just seeing her cheers me up! We start to talk and I forget where I am, a nurse (on her rounds) joins us, and it feels like a party. NO WAY AM I DYING! No way.

This is just the beginning. I’m at the start of my adult life. Maturity is around the corner! I’m going to be fifty, sixty, and so on. I’m going to be a grandmother. That is the plan, the vision, The Dream.

Husband arrives as best friend leaves, says “Goodnight,” and I’m left with my roommate. She has decided to vomit, all night. “Why don’t you call a nurse?” I ask her. “I’m waiting till the morning,” She tells me. I put on my Bose speakers, the noise cancellation ones, another death bed gift from Hartmuth and I shut out my roommate’s hacking and spewing until morning.

Morning comes and the day speeds by. I don’t remember much, but they say, “The Operation was successful.”

Posted on August 11, 2015August 21, 2015 by Frau Kolb — 2 Comments

Room Two (Revised)

A different room, a different roommate, each an experience, a window into another world. I drift. I float. High atop the crest of a Tsunami. I’m on a mattress in a narrow hospital bed on wheels. It folds up and down and it has a magic wand, upon which, you can call a surly nurse.

Surely.

“Hello! I’m dying.” No. I won’t admit it. Death is not part of my plan. I’m ok with a slow easy death from old age, not now. Now, I am busy. Writing. Painting pictures. Reading. Right now, the bulk of my dwindling energy is yoked to the privilege of taking care of my offspring and willing myself to live another day.

Roommate Number Two is young, perhaps a bit lighter shade of medium honey brown skin, a shade lighter than Cappuccino Me. I see her as they roll me in. I take her picture with my mind. Snap! Her story becomes mine for as long as we share this room. The curtain does nothing to separate us. This instance of forced intimacy, being a shared room while receiving visits from one’s doctors and nurses, friends and family is a radical change from the sheltered reality I know.

My dreams are torture. I go to hell and visit with an evil Southern Minister and his all white choir and congregation. I end up drowning in a flood cause by washing the plastic Negro soup dispenser.

Roommate Number Two is married to a young dark skinned man with a dollar sign tattooed on his neck. Her mother, a round quiet woman with blond hair, shaped around her head in a sleek bonnet, and her intense, and palpably, devoted husband, visit her. He spends the night, sitting in the chair by her beside. They barely talk. Thankfully. You can feel the quiet passion between them. When they whisper it is of their children. She wants to go home.

Daylight. Her t.v. wakes up. Desperate Housewives of The O.C. is on. I listen, curious. I want to learn. Those women are… well, whatever. I don’t understand. I sink back into “Inheritance,” a novel set in China, which I am slowly… until the doctors come.

A Gaggel of Doctors flock at the foot of my bed. They plan out my treatment. I listen. Scared. Doctors are really intimidating, lab coats akimbo. En masse they march into the room and nest. I am but a little bird, waiting to be told what is right, what is happening to my body!

I’m expanding. Each day I put on weight, no from food, but fluid… trapped under my skin. I am a prisoner in a huge body, now. I can not see my feet. Every step I take, is the Odyssey. Effort. Pain forms new shapes on the edges of my mind. I’m dying.

That night, I dream of a vast grave site. Deep tones of gray and unending shades of eerie blackness… There are tombstones. On has an open grave, lit bright, like a disco, with stairs going down. I fear this gaudy hole is calling me. The light pulsates bight, a green tinge to it. It whispers, “Come!” Death, oily and seductive, has come to lay claim on me.

Finito.

Posted on July 29, 2015August 21, 2015 by Frau Kolb — 4 Comments

Hotel Happy Hospital

“Pain!” she screeched. Her voice the chalk on the board. I glued myself to the bed and hoped to disappear. Not happening.

I caught a glimpse of her between the curtain that they strung up to divide the room and protect our privacy. She was pretty, a very similar shade of brown to mine, medium warm sassy brown skin, a little plump, juicy looking. Her phone blurted, “Hey Gorgeous, you got a message!” Every few minutes… she had the t.v. on to a surgery show, close-up of the insides of people, being operated upon. She returned calls, explaining how she’d landed in the hospital, again.

“The Pain!” Her wail deepened. I felt pain with her. I felt my own pain and I felt embarrassed for her feeling such acute pain. Pain is private. Isn’t it? Her Doctor offered her more morphine. “No.” She said. “If I do too much I get diarrhea for three days, that happened to me last time I was in the hospital.”

Just then, I fixed my gaze out on the bleak industrial moonscape. A squat box of concrete with shutter windows and turbines, the lobby of a hotel on the moon, an interplanetary loading station… a boy on a skate board pierces my moon fantasy, just as he is overtaken by a sudden jogging blond, with dark sunglasses. Surely, a spy. Exactly then, the sun flowers arrive. Sunflowers. Blazing yellow. Zinging bright. How appropriate! How Van Gogh! Inspired and SO KIND! FLOWERS! And the smile the pretty girl who delivered the flowers gave me, as she zipped into the room and put them down on the windowsill blocking the view of the moon, is something special, too… this moment sparkles.

Here I am in the hospital, again. How did it happen that a part of my story became about being really ill? The idea seems foreign odd to me. I’m so healthy! I’m upbeat. I’m optimistic. I’m not the cancer type. Yet, I’m deep in treatment. Sometimes, I feel like I’m facing a tsunami with nothing but a rubber ducky for protection. This is scary and yeah, it hurts. Ouch! I’m tired of being here. This stupid machine. Beeping. I have to take it with me to the bathroom, where they measure my urine.

Sun Flowers For The Moon — Van Gogh Paid a Visit

Posted on July 16, 2015August 22, 2015 by Frau Kolb — 3 Comments

May in Manhattan

Miraculously, I managed to pop into Manhattan twice in one month! My first visit, the city had burst into color. Cherry blossoms, tender pinks dominated the street trees. Yes! It was a beautiful visit, spent mostly on the Upper West Side. That trip was gratifying. Yet, on my more recent journey to Manhattan in May, I spent time in intimate discussion, closeness with two of my favorite people in the world.

The Mysterious Madame L., a beauty with a superior mind, and Mr. Constantine Finehouse, concert pianist. In town to participate in a clinical trail at Memorial Sloan Kettering, Hospital. Seeing my little Columbia University fellows, my comrades on extensive romps all over Manhattan, now grown up and immersed in their respective professions, one in the Law and the other in Music, is heartwarming. I came back to The West Coast ready to cope with the reality of my cancer complications, medications, and DRAMA. I returned ready to take action to stop the cancer progression which would soon threatened my life.

The trip to New York City was altogether healing and I managed to cram a good amount of art viewing, with a visit to The Metropolitan Museum of Art, and into the embrace of my dearest friends. Madame L, graciously, invested days into lounging in my grateful company at one-hotel-or-another on Lexington Ave. Champagne in no short supply… We had a great time, as usual. Reading, agreeing, and finding beautiful details to savor. We ate and walked, talked and listened. We reveled in the BLISS that is pure friendship, understanding. Yet, I was tired. Fatigued. Anxious and ill, very ill. She made everything better by being with me. We barely noticed that I vomited, after every lavish meal. Together, my inability to move, became lounging rather than aching. Thank goodness, Madame L was there, keeping me company, sharing secrets, and showing me how flowers grow between cracks in city streets, the poetry of small gestures, and the beauty of sacred pennies (rusted with time and invested with meaning), AH! I love you, Madame L.

However, It was the Male Muse’s, Constanti ne Finehouse, who made my day with Cuban Lunch from a quick, bright, restaurant across the street from Memorial Sloan Kettering, Hospital. He had the right idea bringing his car and making sure I had food that speaks to my heart before retiring back into the hotel room’s spacious king sized bed. We slept. Exhausted.

In the evening, the gallant Finehouse, concert pianist out of Boston, very cool dude, went out and returned with chicken soup and the nastiest but most welcome “New York,” Cheesecake. What a thoughtful human! What a friend! He drove all the way down from Boston to take care of me on a vulnerable day of medical treatment. (I had no idea at the time that soon, I’d consider myself sprightly in comparison to my current shape.)https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Constantine_Finehouse

The city, ever vibrant and packed with much to do was a backdrop to the intense days of conversation and camaraderie. One’s school chums, those met while picking up polish at Columbia University may be the very best remedy for whatever deficiencies in brisk, ardent, and inspiring connection which have afflicted my sensitive soul, lately. Mutual understanding is so precious a gift, exchanging it makes us rich. My New Yorker and Bostonian buddies, The Mysterious Madame L & the favored Mr. Constantine Finehouse, revered concert pianist, and long-term Talkinggrid supporter, made copious amounts of time to connect and cocoon with a very willing me. Ah!

Good times were had, dinner at Amelie on 8th street in the West Village, where that atmosphere was very French, followed by desert at one of my favorite places, since my teenage years, the utterly charming Cafe Reggio in the West Village!

At the Forager with lovely young woman, a new friend... more news later. — At the Forager with lovely young woman, a new friend… more news later.

Saturday Brunch at The Forager, recommended by Blossom V, artist based in New York. There I met up with a young writer, a woman of talent and enormous appeal. We ate and then Madame L. returned to fetch me, and we returned to the gentle sweetness that is our very comfortable and sincere friendship.

I took time on Sunday morning to PoP into The Bliss Spa on Lexington, so close to my hotel for some Spa Time at The Bliss Spa, where I enjoyed the eucalyptus scrub, with viccii shower, and lemon sage mini-massage. Patricia, a former Cruise-Ship Entertainer, had a light touch and a warm heart, making me feel much better, for a moment. (Running out for a quick scrub is a must if you want to remain feeling, open and receptive to the beauty that is living, especially, on a whirlwind weekend spiked with medical drama, trip to New York City.

The Shield she wields looks like it has a big crack down the middle.

Astoundingly, Madame L. and I managed to hit The Pompeii Room at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, one of my absolute favorite places on Earth, before tripping into, “China: Through the Looking Glass,” a smashing, throbbing homage to the cult of cut, fabric, and history in the superb Fashion Exhibit that will knocked my porcelain socks OFF! In a few steps,we crashed into another world, each room was inspired and dark, lights focused on the embroidery, so tight as to bogle the mind, far away from the mundane, and into the temple of commerce where The Image of Fashion Design as a route is loudly tooted as a glorious path to personal salvation.

On Saturday Evening, I poured myself into a fine new knit dress and rolled west to Broadway, on my little black mule sling-backs, balancing, because I had tickets to see, Wolf Hall Part Two, “Bringing Up The Bodies,” the play is by author Hillary Mantel, a gem. The acting was stand out and the lead, an English stage actor, Ben Miles, carried the character of Thomas Moore rise to the height of power in the possibly unfair beheading of our eternal beloved bad good girl, the controversial, Anne Boylen.

When I wasn’t out buzzing around, I was resting in my hotel room. I’m sorry to say that I missed a meeting with a great artist and best on-line buddy. We had dinner party plans and I was supposed to be her date for the evening. She is one of my favorite people and it was a disappointment not to find the strength to make it to our planed meeting. I failed to find the strength to make it, instead having a bit of quality time hugging the toilet bowl… but, that happens when you are in advanced cancer treatment.

Posted on May 15, 2015May 19, 2015 by Frau Kolb — 1 Comment

Spring in New York, 2015

Every trip away is an adventure, yet going to one’s home town has a special warm and fuzziness to it unlike any other trot around the park… especially, when the park in question is Central Park. The timing was perfect. The Park was in majestic bloom.

Ah! The early mornings, before the tourists hit the streets in smartphone click click clicking mass, on those sacred terse weekdays, when you can glide across the park and take in all the little birds, big robins and very blue twittering songsters, before the surreal street performers have claimed the park benches and the under passes… New York has its pristine beauty.

Stepping Through Spring — Spring in His Step!

I spent a comfortable night at the Renaissance Hotel. The bed was firm, tub deep, and wall panelling elegant. If you must POP into the city for a moment this a a place you might flop, thereby not falling too far away from the comfort you are accustomed to. The brick wall view from my hotel window was a heartwarming reminder that not everyone gets to see, everything all the time. We must enjoy each brick’s presence, stately endurance.

The familiar walls of black trash bags, ever so smelly, have an unmistakeable punch. They strike you with an unavoidable whiff of truth. A reminder that posh and poor alike we all have refuse, release, and unthinkable exchanges with toilets and plumbing, dentists and beauticians. We are all potential concubines and conquistadors, no matter what or present costume or apparent rank.

In New York, as a necessity, every type of human rubs shoulders with every other, yet gulfs between the Haves and the Have Nots are so vitally expressed, a pulsing truth, transitory and undeniable illusion. Everyone has equal footing, the same chance of making onto the subway and off, again. There is a thrill of danger, even when it is not there. Not a single person tried to mug me. I walked, not late at night, but by myself… I look like a person a mugger might target, I image. But, no… no attempts were made.

A quick jaunt up to Harlem for dinner with a Yellow Belt, artist friend was easy and delicious. Harlem is now an international hot spot, packed with trendy restaurants, and well healed humans looking for fine French or other International cuisine. I love it! Must explore, more, on my next visit.

The lovely and inspiring, artist, Dee Shapiro!

The allure of lunch with artist Dee Shapiro got me down to Gramercy Park, to The National Arts Club, a venerated establishment which hosts regular exhibitions of artists work, and boasts a very elegant private member’s dining room. I ordered a visually stunning yellow and red beat salad, capped by baked goat cheese. Delicious! Over lunch we discussed art and family life.

Tiffany Glass skylight of National Arts Club Bar.

Astoundingly, I managed to sneak in lunch at Fred’s with the one and only James Katson. You know, the artist, antique’s dealer, man-about-town… Yes, Mr. Katson! He positively oozes talent. He transported me with stories of his wayward youth to far away corners in a London best forgotten, scary and tender. He performed the voices of men that lived as ghosts in their own lives. Haunted. Katson’s edge is very sharp and one feels a thrill being in his electric company.

We had the most fun drenched sober lunch two song birds could ever tweet of! What a hoot!

Another stunning meal: lunch, at Cherche Midi with artist friends was an unmitigated pleasure. My people! All so smart and politically engaged. They enjoyed the fare and tasteful decor. I love how New York has so much French color and flavor to offer. We are Francophiles. Just as we appreciate our English pubs and Anglo heritage, immensely. Yet, everything is passed through an American filter and that works for me!

The Perfect Place to Brunch in New York City

A quick visit to The Whitney Museum of American was not enough but well worth the effort. My plan is to return as soon as possible to gather more art experience. I saw the two top floors. The jazzy elevator alone is worth the visit. The floors, soundless, marvels… no tap tap tap of crowds gawking at the splendors of American art on display. The curators have done an excellent job of picking work we know and love but not neglecting the work of traditionally underrepresented artists.

As I do with every visit into Manhattan, I traveled outside the city, for a night. Guest bedrooms are fascinating. I have made an informal study of them. They come in various sizes and the worst ones have entirely too much of the owner’s possessions in them so that you can not for an instant sustain the illusion that you actually own the place. On the other hand, rooms with ancient wicker chairs, and bodhi savat lamps, and handmade patchwork quilts are a rare pleasure. I slept so well. I shall not forget that the hospitality of a Best, a Dear One, an Old Love is a treasure.

Reflecting on Peace, at the private residence of great artist and dear friend.

Capping all these pleasures was a solitary evening of theater for one. Broadway! I treated myself to seeing a play. (I’ve never before attended a Broadway play alone. I’ve been a date, many times. Yet, buying my own ticket and seeing a play I wanted to see because I have read the book upon which it is based was a unique pleasure. I recommend it.) I saw Wolf Hall at the Winter Garden Theater. The book, the play, the mini-series: Hilary Mantel’s work translates to all these mediums with faultless grace. The story of Thomas Cromwell, common man that rises to the the pinnacle of power, is undeniably compelling. The production is just right, highbrow and educational enough, but with a little vulgar streak of something else… a little undertow, which is what makes New York City, Broadway, The Whitney… America’s glory.

Posted on April 17, 2015 by Frau Kolb — 4 Comments

On My Legacy

Recently, I had the misfortune of subjecting myself to cruel examination, from a harsh unenlightened perspective, in the office of a sub-par therapist, psychologist, PHD. I was looking for help, feeling a little overwhelmed… nothing major, just the mechanics of life with cancer, being a mother, artist, person… finding my way. It can be a challenge, since each person’s path is a mystery, to be discovered, defined in the process of unfolding.

Her job is to council individuals facing cancer. Mine is to keep my spirits up and stay focused on living and loving life. At least, that is how I see it. I know that I’ve undergone a multitude of surgeries, treatments, procedures. Yet, as a matter of policy, I don’t anticipate the pain, not in the treatments, or the many hospital visits. I simply go where I must, do what is required, guided by my husband’s scientific understanding and the doctors he selects to manage my care. I don’t complain. I don’t explain my condition to others. I don’t make a big deal about my health status. I don’t invite others to savor misery. I don’t worry about it. I don’t give into the thought that this surgery or the next might kill me.

Sure, I have symptoms. My life has changed. I’m a different person than I was six years ago when treatment started and I was not in the advanced treatment that I am in now. Yet, I’m still me… a person with optimism enough for a village, for myself, and the future of my children. I believe I will live a long life. Yet, looking at my medical records, current treatment, and the general prognosis for those in similar situation the Shrink suddenly asked me, toward the end of the “session,” no less; “So… being that your medical records and condition are what they are, indicating that you don’t have long to live, what do you plan your legacy to be?”

I blinked. “Everyday, I take care of my children, share my values with them, feed them my knowings and cherish that they are. That is my legacy.” Besides, I went on, gaining steam, “I am planning on being a grandmother. I have never seriously considered that I would die, soon. I’m always engaged in what I am doing and sure it isn’t always easy but, what life is?”

This was not good enough for her, “I thought that is what you would say.” She said, dismissing my words, clearly dissatisfied with my determination to stay focused on living, loving, and enjoying my life as it is. “But, I mean, don’t you think about death and what you want your life to stand for?” I thought I had made it clear, or that I make it clear with my actions that my life is a statement of appreciation. I’m grateful for every moment, everyday. Sure, there is pain. Suffering? Not so much. The pain comes and goes. Accupuncture helps. My husband’s love goes a long way to making everyday bliss. I’m aware that without him, it really wouldn’t be so easy. I’ve got these great kids, a home, and time. Yes, time, that mysterious good which others never have enough of… I’m rich in it because I’m focused on love. Loving my books. Loving my home, children, marriage, and life. When you are thus focused, days slow down and you make the most of this precious resource, doing more in a day than others dream of.

Moreover, “I’m an artist.” I told her, “I’ve made hundreds of paintings, hundreds more drawings, books full of them.” I went on. ” I write everyday. Even if I don’t publish everyday. I’m active.” What more legacy could one wish for? I capped it with my personal truth. “I rarely entertain fear. I don’t sit done with fear and caress it, milk it. I don’t look for comfort in lingering on what is inevitable. I accept death, but I’m not planning on kicking the bucket just yet. I see myself living well into my eighties.” I reminded her, what I told her before, that when the doctor originally told me that I had cancer, I saw myself, “an old woman, wrinkled and wearing huge sunglass, bangles to my elbows, and a loud knit dress, at an art opening, immersed in the world of creatives, culture.”

In recent years, I’ve come to value my relationships, friendships, and art world connections with more gusto. I’ve experienced that maxim, “live everyday as though it were your last.” I’m doing that in that each day I’m invested in those the individuals which enrich my day-to-day, those friends that care to contribute to my actual well being by sharing of themselves, their discoveries, passions, and secrets. I’m content in the present, even if my life doesn’t impress the inexperienced, young, and insensitive therapist. (I suspect that after a few months of seeing me regularly, she was simply bored, and not finding me to be the typical patient, oozing sadness over what can not be controlled, she wanted to prompt me to emote to the tune she prefers to hear over and over again, one in which she gets the pleasure of comforting a distraught person, not one simply in the middle of living a good life.)

The session was over, time to talk done. I wanted to go on and tell her about my books. I’ve actively collected many a book in the last year, bringing together, and unpacking my library from college years and ensuring that the children don’t have to go far for a good read. Our bookshelves are packed with literature (from Achebe/Allende to Zola) and history. Asian studies. Anthropology. British literature. German language. Spanish. Learn Guitar. Piano. Relationship and self-help books. Etiquette. Crafts and Fine Art manuals. Poetry. Theater. I’ve bought books on all the subjects that interest me and that represent who I am, for them, thereby creating a portrait of ideas, inviting them to converse with me, perhaps, when I am no more. Today, I’m a person that reads and writes and lives. Now. I’ll worry about death, when it happens, until then I’m ultra-busy learning, loving, and getting on with the business of life.

Feet up in the Desert — With these boots I may kick the bucket, but first I’ve got a list a mile on long!

Posted on March 10, 2015March 10, 2015 by Frau Kolb

A Naive Artist on The Fine Art of Believing

Usually, I manage to skip over obstacles. Cancer, advanced cancer, intensive treatment: NO Problem! Just POP on a cute wig and keep going, show up, flirt with the doctors, look at all the pretty machines. Be NICE to the nurses. Enjoy all the attention!

You want my blood? Ok, here you go.

May, I have a Champagne, oysters after my treatment? Great! All is well.

Yet today I feel down. I feel the weight of all the treatments, the waiting, the constant pricks and memories of nurses freaking out because I’ve no veins left for them to fill with poison. Some might say, that I’ve no right to feel down. I have a husband that loves me, great kids. I’m not hard on the eyes. I’ve got a home. I’m not pan-handling on the Bowery. Could I please just shut up and let others shine?

This morning, I was remembered how I fell for Hennessy Youngman. Remember him? The artist, Jayson Musson, created an alternate persona, an hip-hop urban art historian. HY was so perfect. So refreshing, finally someone like me, informed on art, yet with ghetto flair. He wore funny hats, baseball caps, with Elmo or Spiderman Eyes. That alone should have tipped me off to the fact that the Penn University MFA was spoofing his audience, playing with expectations, making a cunning statement about racial stereo typing.

Yet, at the end-of-the day I’m a girl from Washington Heights, a child of immigrants, who came to the United States convinced that they’d find a better life and they did. I managed to attend and graduate from an Ivy league school with a degree in art history and just as incredibly I married and am married to Dr. Hartmuth Kolb, from Germany. Yes, I’m lucky. I’m lucky that six years after the initial diagnosis, losing my breasts, undergoing so many surgeries, metastasis to the brain, grand mal seizure, brain surgeries, heart surgery (to correct the birth defect that would have done me in, at birth, if I hadn’t been born 2.2 pounds, three months

premature.) the whole enchilada, and I’m still here.

Fact: it isn’t easy. I’m a mother, taking care of children, making sure that they stay on-track with their studies and HAPPY. I can’t afford to be morose. I have to focus my energy on happiness, on love, on continuing to learn and laugh. Hennessy Youngman, came to me at a time when I was very active on the edges of a fast moving and apparently amorphous art world. I was going to Art Fairs, documenting the journeys, and participating in a quest to understand contemporary art, and get out of my art historical comfort zone. I was painting, pushing to sell pieces, and participating in group exhibitions to whatever degree was possible. In short, I became an emerging artist just as the cancer was threatening to call a lights out for me.

I’m convinced that most people seeing me, including my doctors, have a hard time reconciling the fact of how I look (young for my age) and my medical history. I was pumped up by fuzzy ambition and desire to participate in this Art game. I extended myself via on-line channels and come into communication with art critic, Jerry Saltz, on-line along with countless others. I felt as though I’d found my tribe and was finally “Home,” among others passionately invested in the art field.

Low and behold, I felt entirely too comfortable and really had no guard up. I was making a spectacle of myself and it was fun. I met a number of very cool and some absolutely insane artists, because as you know, the two seem to be inextricably mixed, madness and creativity, I mean. Moving quickly, I started to see behind the curtains of the art world, at one fair I attended a talk with the head of the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the head of The Los Angeles County Museum of Art. At the same fair I briefly met, Jeffrey Deitch, and impertinently asked him if it was true he was, “leaving MoCa.” He denied the rumor and then, “resigned,” about a month later.

I had a number of interactions with less than friendly art worlders that I’d have welcome as friends, but my bubbly brand of mushy ART LOVE is just too messy for some, too authentic, unschooled, unpolished and in other words, hopelessly: naive.