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Novembersonne

Posted on by Frances Livings

 

Werner Scholz. A Forgotten Artist of the Weimarer Republic

Seated at my breakfast table, I had been looking out through large windows, across the heavy and sturdy roofs of the houses opposite, into the vast, always grey-tinged Northern German skies, pen in hand. It was hard to pinpoint my feelings, bedded in a deep-rooted sense of anguish. There was still so much grief and sadness, often disguised as anger or rage mixed with isolation and loneliness. I longed for warmth, rich, warm colours, golden hues – for a simple hug, an embrace from some source of warmth and care. The gothic light and the ever-impending sense of doom was gnawing at me.

Little did I expect, a few days later, to walk into an exhibition and be greeted by those very feelings from my diary entry in the form of a painting. But there I was, in a spacious, well-lit and elegant art museum, the Ernst Barlach Haus. From the entrance area, I could already see the picture, which was displayed as the first artwork of this newly installed show, from afar and I was immediately drawn towards it. I’m in a very inquisitive and highly susceptible mood. After all, this German artist, Werner Scholz (1898–1982) is being placed amongst other world-famous artists of his time such as Rudolf Schlichter, Georg Grosz, Karl Hubbuch or even Otto Dix – but hardly anyone has ever heard of him.

A quick search on the internet before my visit had only resulted in a handful of very rudimental information on him, like from one small past exhibition and auction prices that were nowhere near those of his contemporaries. Titled, Werner Scholz. Das Gewicht der Zeit (The Weight of Time) this exhibition shows paintings that were not destroyed when Scholz’ studio in Berlin was hit by a bomb in 1944. In 1937 the Nazis had banned him as a ‘degenerate’ artist from working and exhibiting. Scholz withdrew to Tirol in 1939.

I step closer to gain a better look: It is quite a large piece in portrait format, which is unusual for a landscape painting. It is still in its original very simple, dark wooden frame, which bears a small plaque at the bottom with its title: Novembersonne (November sun). It merely depicts bare black trees and the sun. There is no depth in the picture, no foreground or middle ground, just broad, slightly erratic vertical washes of gloomy blueish-grey shades interspersed by some streaks of white, even leaving in parts, the painting’s ground visible, interrupted by stick-like trees that make me think of the German word Strichmännchen (small stick man). Its central motif, like the title indicates, is an impasto sun, executed in thick, round swirling brushstrokes; palpable and cold, its light, oily-white – foreboding of all the terrors that were yet to come?

Not only did it so acutely reflect this “gothic” light, so pre-dominant in the North, but strangely enough, it also looked a bit like a highly stylised version of the very last photo I had taken with my iPhone and posted to Instagram: Huddled in a blanket at my desk, hugging a hot water bottle – I had had this urge to document this atmosphere, I needed someone to bear witness to this strange and stark cold sun, framed by the naked branches of two tall trees, glaring at me like the spotlight of an interrogation lamp, luminously but still only feebly, pushing itself with all its might through the dense, humid and nebulous sky. Only that my snapshot was from 2024, precisely 90 years later. But with its similarly gloomy notion could well be titled “February Sun”: The world was still recovering from the consequences of the COVID-19 pandemic and now, wars were raging in Ukraine, Gaza and Sudan causing disastrous humanitarian crises and consequences still to be feared.

Werner Scholz painted Novembersonne in 1934 – a year after the Nazis had forcefully seized power in Germany and whose dominant, aggressive and terrorising presence had been especially tangible since the 1920s in Munich and the metropolis Berlin. This is where Werner Scholz was born on October 23, 1898, to the architect Ehrenfried Scholz and the pianist Elisabeth Scholz, née Gollner – into an artistic, bourgeoise household, like one of his very early works, Wintergarten from 1919 shows. It was the second painting I walked over to, summarises. It depicts his father in an armchair, reading. Stylistically this early work shows all the prominent signs of a still-young artist experimenting with different late-impressionistic elements, trying to find his voice: There are some Matisse-like features, patterns and details, some flat, Gauguin’esque areas of colour with dark blue contour lines and some sun-dappled leaves à la Monet. It is the only painting in the exhibition executed on canvas.

 

The (Unexpected) Horrors of the First World War

In 1916, Scholz had begun studying art at the Hochschule der Bildenden Künste in Berlin, but then, in the following year, enlisted euphorically, like many other patriotic young men and women, in the army to fight in the First World War. His contemporaries included other artists: Max Ernst, Richard Dehmel, Otto Dix, Alfred Döblin, Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Oskar Kokoschka, Wilhelm Lehmbruck, Ernst Toller and Georg Trakl were among those who volunteered for military service. The offspring of the middle and upper classes, in particular, yearned to show Germany’s “enemies” what they were made of. Under the misapprehension – not only in Germany – the war would be a short-armed conflict and that they would return home by Christmas.

The First World War was the first industrialised war in human history and the murderous power of new weapons had been underestimated: Machine guns, heavy artillery, and tanks. The result: trench warfare, material battles, and poison gas – a regional conflict turned into a four-year world war that claimed 17 million lives.

Thus, on his 19th birthday, Werner Scholz was seriously wounded in action in Northern France and lost his left forearm. After convalescence and the ending of the war, Scholz resumed his studies in Berlin in 1919. But thereupon, was no longer able to stretch a canvas over a frame with only one arm, so he used, from then on, hardboard. He also started to reduce his colour palette drastically and developed fairly quickly, over the course of less than ten years a unique and highly recognisable style.

Berlin’s Nollendorfplatz: Entertainment Hub and Stage for Nazi Terror

In 1920, after having resumed his studies and then graduating from art college, he rented a studio on the famous Nollendorfplatz, a large and busy square in the central Berlin district Schöneberg. For anyone who has ever visited Berlin or is familiar with other artists of the Weimar Republic and its culture, the name, colloquially also called Nolle or Nolli, will ring a bell.

Ernst Ludwig Kirchner. Nollendorfplatz, 1912

In the “roaring” 1920s, many artists congregated in the district. The era between the wars was explosive and was later dubbed, “Der Tanz auf dem Vulkan” after a 1938 film (Dance on the Volcano). The cinemas and clubs served as popular hangouts and sources of inspiration for artists, writers and musicians. One of the most famous clubs was the Eldorado, which was, like the Nollendorfplatz, immortalised in multiple artworks: There’s a watercolour by Otto Dix Eldorado (1927) depicting three “women” in a very vibrant setting drenched in red, purple and gold or Ernst Fritsch’s slightly more demure triptych, Erinnerung an Eldorado (1929–32).

The “objective view” of the Neue Sachlichkeit shows these flamboyant characters unhindered, like in Christian Schad’s portrait, Count St. Genois d’Anneaucourt (1927), which depicts a Hungarian count fallen from grace, a virile baroness and a notorious transvestite form a glacial ménage-à-trois on the right side of the painting, who was a well-known transsexual, and a regular at the club Eldorado. Writers, like the English memoirist, Christopher Isherwood, who lived just around the corner in an apartment at Nollendorfstrasse 17, and was part of the vibrant gay scene, found much inspiration for his works. His building was full of eccentrics who inspired his novels “The Last of Mr. Norris” and “Goodbye to Berlin” – and, most famously his Tony Award-winning Broadway musical ‘Cabaret’. 

Werner Scholz. Junge Frau (Young Woman), 1932. Pastel

Christian Schad’s portraits have been described as “highly stylized […] their subjects’ overlarge, expressionless eyes and static poses, [which] tend to glamorize but rarely to flatter the sitters, and the frequent note of ambiguous sexuality stops short of eroticism.” As recognisable as Scholz’s figures are as characters of the Weimarer Republic, his figures are never sexually-charged, extravagant or flamboyant. He hints subtly at the period with fashionable accessories from the 1920s that many of his figures are depicted wearing: a woman with a blonde bob and finely pencilled eyebrows, plumed hats, fur coats, short dance dresses and children in uniforms, pigtails and striped socks, which contemporary film footage from Berlin in 1927 can attest to at the end of this post.

 

Isolated Marionettes with Angular, Wooden Movements

Werner Scholz. Widwen (Widows), 1931. Oil on hardboard

In Scholz’ early paintings from 1927 (the exhibition focusses solely on his works from 1927 to 1937) his figures are cartoon-like marionettes with stiff and angular, wooden movements. Influences from the Dada movement are apparent. Some have animal-like heads, some have puppet faces, are beady-eyed or even one-eyed, and many have pursed lips. He may add an individual prop, an occasional park bench or a café table. But none of them are especially inviting. They add moreover, like his non-specified backgrounds, to a great sense of isolation.

Specific motifs like desperation, grief, isolation and the imbalance of power start to become apparent in his early works from around 1927 and culminate in the late 1930s.

These details appear almost bizarre in contrast to the anguish of the actual figures – mostly expressed in the faces and postures of increasingly block-like figures. In the late 1920s and early 30s, Scholz turned to these more picture-filling and compact figures compiled of trapezoids, squares and other angular shapes. These paintings’ backgrounds become very ominous and vague, staging the bizarre and whimsical theatre performances of his figures in barely defined, monochromatic pictorial spaces.

Although the area around Nollendorfplatz was a flamboyant entertainment hub, it was where, on the other side of the coin, its residents and frequent visitors witnessed the so-called “Terroraktionen” of the up-and-rising National socialists. Even before the Nazis seized power in 1933, Berlin, like Munich, was a fierce political arena and on numerous occasions, the SA provoked violent street battles, in which its members tried to shatter its opponents: members of the Socialist Workers’ Party. Many other insidious tactics were utilised to cause uproar and panic in public spaces, like on Friday, December 5, 1930, at a movie première:

Also located on Nollendorfplatz, opposite the other large cinema UFA-Palast, was the Mozartsaal cinema, built in 1905/6, and now called Metropolis. That said Friday in 1930, members of the SA released white mice into the audience. Screaming women caused the film to be interrupted while the SA men roared with laughter. Goebbels himself was sitting in the audience. Two days before the “event”, on December 3, 1930, he had briefly noted in his diary:

On Friday, we’ll be attending the film “Im Westen nichts Neues” (All Quiet on the Western Front) – to teach those eunuchs some manners. I’m looking forward to it.

– Joseph Goebbels (NS-Propaganda Minister), 1930

The film was based on the novel by Erich Maria Remarque, a German veteran of World War I, and first published in November and December 1928 in the German newspaper Vossische Zeitung, a nationally known Berlin newspaper that represented the interests of the liberal middle class. In late January 1929, it was then published in book form, which sold 2.5 million copies in 22 languages in its first 18 months in print. It describes the German soldiers’ extreme physical and mental trauma during the war as well as the detachment from civilian life felt by many upon returning home from the war.

As an intuitive and sensitive observer, like many artists, Scholz was not only a witness of these terrorising propaganda activities but was well aware of the dangers that were looming on the horizon, especially for the already impoverished working-class population and noted himself, only a month later, on Saturday, January 17, 1931, in his journal:

Yes, it is high time to oppose the furious destruction of culture by the Nazis… The atrocities that the fascists are already able to commit legally must, in their irresponsibility, be pointed out to the entire general public. And … hammer into people’s brains again and again what will happen when this dangerous faction gains power.

– Werner Scholz, 1931

On May 10, 1933, at the initiative of Goebbels, Remarque’s writing was publicly declared as “unpatriotic” and banned in Germany. Copies were removed from all libraries and restricted from being sold or published anywhere in the country.

But not only the portrayal of these harrowing experiences in books and movies but the scarred and injured participants themselves were constant reminders, especially the expansion-hungry National socialists (embedded most obviously in the term the term “Third Reich”) were eager to negate. In the years following the First World War, men who had obvious and often most debilitating war wounds found themselves shunned by a society that no longer wished for visual reminders of the conflict. But artists, with a mixture of sometimes even cruel realism, expressiveness and empathy, such as Scholz, like Dix or Grosz, turned towards them.

“Brutality! Clarity that hurts! There’s enough music to fall asleep to! … Paint as fast as you can! … capture time as it races by…”

– George Grosz

 

Werner Scholz’s Protagonists: Those Left Behind

Werner Scholz. Trauernde (Mourners), 1930.

Many of Scholz’ contemporaries captured the decadence and hedonism of the Weimar Republic. Scholz’s work however, reflected the profound suffering and disillusionment of the era. After the horrors of his own war-experiences he turned pacifist and communist and devoted himself to the petty bourgeois, the underworld and the Berlin demimonde: People in mourning, the destitute, those fleeing and those left behind are his protagonists – dignified figures with a haunting presence*. These are the very qualities that the German art critic Kurt Kusenberg (1904–1983) also recognised in Scholz’s figurative works of that period, writing in 1932:

Scholz is essential because he (…) addresses the issues of our time and takes formal risks and presents issues of our time that concern us all.   

– Kurt Kusenberg (art critic), 1932

‌This sensitivity to the social and political climate around him was evident not only in his portrayal of human figures but also in his landscapes, like “Novembersonne,” which evoked the very same palpable sense of melancholy and foreboding. His art became a mirror of the collective angst and turmoil experienced by those who lived through the tumultuous interwar period. “Novembersonne” was a reminder, how art has the power to transcend time and evoke emotions that are universally human. The painting’s stark, almost oppressive atmosphere, with its dark, bare trees and a sun that barely manages to pierce the gloom, seemed to resonate deeply with the current state of the world. It was a reminder that while the contexts may change, the fundamental human experiences of grief, fear, and longing for connection remain constant. Scholz had the courage to put his finger on the wounds, to express these feelings, which was exactly what I was facing…

* * *

_______________________________________________

*Karsten Müller, Exhibition catalogue: Werner Scholz. 2024, p. 62

Uwe Klußmann. 2012. “Conquering the Capital: The Ruthless Rise of the Nazis in Berlin.” Spiegel.de. DER SPIEGEL. November 29, 2012.

Christian Schad. 1997. “URBANE DECADENT.” The New Yorker. The New Yorker. September 22, 1997.

Moon Songs. Coyote Moon

Posted on by Frances Livings

 

There are so many gorgeous moon songs. One of them is Coyote Moon, which has haunted me for a long time now. Before the pandemic hit, I often played it at concerts, always feeling a deep musical and spiritual connection to the song. And indeed, others have felt similarly touched by it, as the following passage shows:

“’Coyote Moon’ captures an ethereal yet pastoral beauty best likened to extra-terrestrial country music.” – Jason Ankeny

Don’t you love the phrase “extra-terrestrial country music”? This year, during an especially golden October, I felt inspired to finally record and release an intimate acoustic version of the song. I’ve been playing it on the piano a lot but similar to its original by the American singer-songwriter Terry Callier, I chose to keep it simple with just voice, guitar, and upright bass, enveloped in a warm tone, synonymous with the golden hues of autumn and the song’s first lines:

“Summer’s finally over, autumn’s in the air…”

The American singer-songwriter Terry Callier (1945–2012) was a self-proclaimed “folk-jazz mystic” with a “small but fierce cult following”, performing mainly in his birth city Chicago and in New York. Callier recorded the original version for his album Timepeace, which was released by the UK label Verve in 1998. Stylistically, it is typical for the genre Americana, an amalgam of folk, jazz, and blues, which makes up the musical ethos of the United States.

My rendition is – similar to its original – arranged in an understated acoustic way: The guitar has a transparent tone with silvery highs; the double bass supplies low realms of warmth and depth, and although the voice is embedded in a soft, golden space, giving it presence. I consciously recorded and released the song in the autumn, swapping out the line, “when the fog rolls down the mountains” with “when the fall grows down the mountain” – alluding to the sight of the slow, beautiful change of green foliage to vibrant reds, oranges, yellows, and purples.

This mood is also reflected in the sparse cover design. It depicts the softness of the golden tones of the fall and the expansive landscape, so longed for in the song and so often sung about and rejoiced in the tradition of Americana. This is exactly where I see myself situated. My rendition of this song is a tribute to the spirituality of both the moon and nature.

Moreover, Coyote Moon mirrors the styles that are also such a formative element of my very own musical journey as a singer and songwriter. It is forever accompanied by my personal spiritual aspirations, which I often perceive as embodied in the moon – as you can also read in this blog post on Mr. Moon.

 

P.S. Thank you for helping me choose the cover design on Facebook!

 

Moon Songs. Mr. Moon

Posted on by Frances Livings

 

One of the very first songs I wrote was about the moon: Mr. Moon was inspired by a lullaby my Nanna would sing to me when I was a child:

We used to live in London when I was really little. That’s where I went to primary school. I actually didn’t mind moving away to the countryside. But it made Nanna sad and then, me too. That day, she dabbed her violet-blue eyes with a pressed, cotton hanky, she always kept under the left sleeve of her hand-knitted cardigans, and hugged me with a proper Nanna hug. Her hugs were so warm, they always made me want to stay forever and just drift off to sleep: She has firmly tucked me into my bed. I can barely see her silhouette in the soft glow of street lamp outside my window and just peacefully listen to her low and warm voice, singing the words, “Mr. Moon, so glad to see you soon…”

– Frances Livings, The Invisible Foreigner (unpublished memoir)

Many years later, I am 19 years old and renting two rooms in a large, run-down Victorian house with a huge, overgrown garden. It’s a commune with fairly strange and often very high people who sit around most of the day and smoke too much hash oil. Sometimes the whole kitchen is filled with dense smoke. It’s a cold and damp house. There’s no central heating, just old furnaces and a large Victorian stove in the kitchen. It is often the warmest room, which is why we all often congregate there, including the cat. Both the cat and I had occasionally contact high.

The number of habitants fluctuates between five and seven. I am by far the youngest but at least I have got one ally: Andreas, who is an assistant professor at the local university in the maths department. He feels like the big brother I never had. He sometimes slips me a few Camel cigarettes for the day or some Deutschmark to be able to buy myself a bread roll in the morning. He also collects the rent; I somehow always manage to scrape together last minute.

 

Getting Myself an Education

I am struggling to support myself financially. But I am fiercely determined to get myself through junior college and go on to art college or university. Years later, it touched me deeply when my cousin told me that Nanna was really proud of me; proud that I “got myself an education”. She was talented in all things crafts but had to leave school at only 15 to support her family. She became a seamstress, survived two wars, three children, and an abusive husband – and stayed one of the sweetest people I have encountered. Moreover, been loved by. One of her favourite sayings – one of real determination – was:

“When at first you don’t succeed, try and try again”

In my little bedroom with creaky floorboards, I have set up an old, DX7 keyboard. I haven’t had any music lessons in years but am very resolute about learning to play at least a couple of my favourite pop songs by ear. I’m also one of two background singers in a band but we rehearse more than we ever play out. But having to focus mainly on my survival, consumes a lot of energy. Throughout my life, it has also become almost essential to be in denial about some of my deepest feelings.

 

Suppressing Painful Memories an Important Coping Mechanism

For me, especially the loss of Nanna – first geographically and then physically – had to be buried deep down in a box with a very heavy lid. But inevitably, feelings will still find a way through the cracks and emerge. So even after all those years, I have still got that song, her song in my heart. I often think of it lying in bed, gazing out of the small French window, surrounded by ivy, growing vigorously on the brick façade and ever-stretching its tentacles out. One night the moonlight is so intense and my heart so full of her love that I sit down the very next day and try to reconstruct Mr. Moon.

Floating around in my memories are, besides the pain of losing her, primarily the warm feelings connected to her singing the lullaby with such sincerity, and fragments of the lyrics. The words of comfort paint the picture that there is always someone watching over me – read them here. The melody, however, was hard to remember. Nanna always sang slightly out of tune, so I have to improvise a little. But that’s how my first moon song came alive: I recorded Mr. Moon with my first band, 4UrbanArtists but didn’t release the track until many years later. But that’s a whole other story.

Listen to the track – or download a copy – below and tell me what you think in the comment section!

Livings in Los Angeles – Ant Man, Teddy and Rabbit. Thoughts on the Artist Mike Kelley

Posted on by Frances Livings

 

Art saved my life. Art was the place that made me want to educate myself. When I became an artist, it was where the most interesting thinkers were.

—Mike Kelley

I seem to encounter certain artists’ works at sometimes random but also symbolic moments, like that of the contemporary American artist Mike Kelley. This afternoon I was strolling down Hillhurst Avenue in Los Feliz, and virtually bumped into a large mural depicting him. I immediately recognized his face and stood there for a couple of moments to take in the large double portrait, the zig-zag patterns, the black and white areole, bright colours, and flying teddy bears. I thought back to when I had first seen his work, which hadn’t been in L.A. It was years ago, on one of my outings to the Galerie der Gegenwart (gallery of contemporary art) in Hamburg, Germany.

I had leisurely walked into one of the large gallery spaces and found myself transfixed by eight very unusual portrait photographs. Individually depicted were seven cuddly toys. Their stitched-on fabric or glass button eyes, some lopsided or missing, were staring at me with such resolve as if most desperately wanting to capture my attention. The eighth photograph is of a stern-looking young man with slicked back black hair, who I assumed, is the artist himself. The portraits are all displayed in a very simple frame and hung as a group in two rows of four. Despite the cool ambiance of an art gallery, and the innocence of the objects, they look like mug shots.

But wait, mug shots of an adult and children’s toys?

That was in the mid-nineties. I was a junior student of art history and discovered Mike Kelley’s artwork for the first time. It had immediately clicked. I didn’t know anything about his background, but I couldn’t help thinking about these strange mug shots from time to time. Maybe because they had also already found their way into music culture after Kelley created the artwork for Sonic Youth’s 1992 album Dirty, using Ant-Man’s “portrait” on the album cover.

Kelley was very connected to the LA art scene, which saw, starting in the 1990’s a very palpable period of growth and resurgence. He had initially studied under teachers like John Baldessari and Laurie Anderson at CalArts, where he earned a Master of Fine Arts. In addition to being a renowned visual artist, Kelley was also a musician, and before going to CalArts, a founding member of the proto-punk Detroit band Destroy All Monsters, who earned a cult following with their experimental performance art. Writing in The New York Times, in 2012, Holland Cotter described the artist as “one of the most influential American artists of the past quarter century and a pungent commentator on American class, popular culture and youthful rebellion.”

The following photograph must have served as a template for the mural above. It depicts Mike Kelley as The Banana Man: Written in 1981 and shot in 1982 while Kelley was teaching a performance/installation class at the Minneapolis College of Art and Design,1 The Banana Man was his first completed video work.

"Portrait

 

Stuffed Toys, Wax Candles, Afghans and Dried Corn

I had my second very intense encounter with Kelley almost two decades later. I had been living in Los Angeles for about six years and on one fairly uneventful, sunny morning, I was flicking through the L.A. Times when I read, that he had committed suicide. I was shocked in the way I often am when I’ve been assuming that life just flows along, that others will somehow always be around. He was only 57 and had by then established himself as an internationally renowned artist.

I dug a little deeper online, and read in further articles that only around four hours after confirmation of his death, an unofficial, makeshift memorial had started to appear in an abandoned carport at the top of Tipton Way, a few blocks from Kelley’s home in the Farley Building in Highland Park. Built from stuffed toys, wax candles, Afghans, and dried corn, mourners began replicating Kelley’s More Love Hours and Wages of Sin. These were two paired installations he had exhibited in The Whitney’s 1989 Biennial. I also learned that The Mike Kelley Foundation was organizing a memorial that was to be held at his studio in Eagle Rock/Highland Park on February 25, 2012.

I spontaneously decided to go. So on one of these for Los Angeles, typical mild February evenings, I drove through dimly lit streets to Kelley’s former residence. I parked on a side street lined with old gnarly oak trees, spiked with well-kept 19th-century craftsman bungalows, typical for South Pasadena. Like many pockets of Los Angeles, it felt very insular and isolating. I walked up to the main road towards the building in which the memorial was taking place. Its concrete steps led up to a very triste-looking entrance where a handful of people stood, collectively nodding as if to acknowledge my arrival. I felt a slight wave of guilt wash over me for being curious in a weirdly voyeuristic way. I had never met this man and yet I was showing up at a memorial – like a grief tourist? But I was curious. Who was this artist really? What was his provocative art really about?

Like approximately another 100 people, I wandered around through this vast space, which had been, only days prior to his death, his studio. Plastic cup in hand, filled with cheap red wine, exploring a maze of small administrative-looking side-rooms, watching sometimes only for a few minutes films Kelley had created. The main space, his studio, where more art installations were displayed and further screenings took place, reminded me of a large airplane hangar [see more pictures below]. It was a solemn and strange event but I was glad to be able to participate in something…

 

Ant-Man, Teddy, and Rabbit…

Two years after his death, in 2014, the largest ever retrospective of Kelley’s work was shown at LA’s Geffen Contemporary, part of the Museum of Contemporary Art (Moca). An extensive catalog on Kelley was also published by Prestel. I was able to take a closer look at much more of his impressive oeuvre, including the Ant-Man, Teddy, and Rabbit ensemble, which was also on display.

What really struck me this time was the way they are sitting there: stiff and unhappy-looking, tatty creatures propped up to have their photograph taken. Their fur coat or croquet suit is dirty, worn, and faded, limbs are limp, and they sport a blank stare, exposed by the bright flash of a camera. They seem like visual proof, tokens of having been thrown, kicked, punched, spat, cried, and vomited upon – so ultimately the epitome of abuse and trauma. But were Ant-Man, Teddy and Rabbit really just physical witnesses to something horrible that was inflicted upon them? It is apparent that they are more there to tell a more complicated story.

Because on the other hand, these individual portraits still appeared to me like a collection of mug shots: seemingly innocent cuddly toys depicted as perpetrators on the stand in an almost accusatory manner. From that perspective they seemed to suddenly stand for shame and guilt – but how could stuffed animals be guilty of anything? Their images are physically enclosed, separate from each other, and kept in tyrannical order by a strict, linear picture frame – did they stand for something that was kept secret within the walls of a children’s nursery? But why were they augmented or maybe even contrasted by a further mug shot: one of a grim-looking male adult? Was he depicted as the abuser, with dark circles under his eyes, in a buttoned-up beige dress shirt? Or a prison guard?

That’s exactly what made his artwork so memorable, all of these questions and discrepancies…

There was more artwork on display in the exhibition including soft toys and I realized, how tempting it was to read soft toys as relics of an innocent and happy childhood. Moreover, to view in general, in society, nurseries as safe spaces. Childhoods are happy and parents loving. This is also why so many moral conflicts occur when these ideas are challenged; any notion that would disrupt these stereotypes and clichés is easier being denied, which is why at that point in my life, just intuitively, I found his work compelling and courageous. Ultimately, for the very reason, that parental abuse is so crazy-making.

Looking at his body of work, one may interpret his works of art, like those described above, as a result of trauma, translated into the many often disturbing, but clever images he produced. But this wasn’t what I was interested in asking. I didn’t need to know whether this ensemble of tatty, abused-looking creatures gave the observer biographical information about the artist. Nor was I really interested in speculating about why precisely he killed himself. The topics were evident. That was enough.

Standing there this afternoon, on a hot afternoon in September 2022, taking pictures of the mural, I realized that since his death in 2012, a whole decade had gone by. The mural also made it apparent that an artist (I have yet to find out who it is) revered Kelley enough to create a large double portrait on a prominent street corner. But also, that not only Kelley was deeply ingrained in the city’s cultural fabric but I was too. I had memories, whether of a painful or a joyful nature, which connected me socially, geographically, and emotionally to this schizophrenic city.

I suddenly realized why I had felt so compelled to attend his make-shift memorial in 2012.

I had felt on that strange, dimly-lit evening of his make-shift memorial that he deserved my tribute because I admired his courage to touch upon subjects that are still – decades later – socially somewhat taboo and sadly, therefore, for many unresolved. As children, we rarely have an alley when being abused or mistreated, ignored, or neglected by a parent. Moreover, until we heal we only too often put ourselves on the stand and take mug shots of ourselves – since, for any child, the reality of having an abusive parent is too painful and can threaten basic survival needs. Mike Kelley epitomized these complicated and highly problematic emotions.

Scenes of Mike Kelley's Studio during memorial 2012

The Healing Powers of Sound

Posted on by Frances Livings

 

“A heartbeat. This most fundamental of sounds carries great meaning and deep-seated emotion. From it comes the most basic sign of life. Through its rhythm, sound assumes a foundational role in our development.” – Lloyd Minor, MD

I recently had a very rich and soothing experience – a sound bath! Rather, a sound bath massage! Have you ever had one? I was lucky and a dear friend gave me my second hour-long session yesterday! It was heaven! The first time, a few weeks ago, I was still in awe by the sounds, created by the vibrations of the bowls – whether it’s a deep gong-like tone or lightly ringing, bell-like sounds with all of their overtones. It varies according to the size and thickness of the bronze vessels – after all, they are called Tibetan “singing bowls”. This experience made me think about the healing powers of sound.

 

The Principle of Faraday Waves

Having a sound bath is deeply soothing, in parts but also – like the heart bowl – softly invigorating! Yesterday, during my second session, I was able to focus more on the actual vibrations the bowls make when placed on my body and struck with a mallet. This is due to the principle of Faraday waves, named after Michael Faraday (1791–1867). He first described them in an appendix to an article in the Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society of London in 1831.

An article in the online magazine by Stanford Medicine offers a very easy-to-understand definition:

“Faraday waves, which result from a physical perturbation at the interface of liquid and air – if you’ve ever flown in a turbulent plane with a beverage; you’ve witnessed Faraday waves in your plastic cup! The waves cause ripples in the liquid, and anything floating in the liquid sloshes around too.”

That’s exactly what you see when a sound bath bowl is filled with water and struck with a felt mallet. And those are the waves that basically penetrate the soft tissues of the body. After all, we are made up of 70% water…

So if you get the chance, go!

 

Acoustically Choreographed Heart Cells?

Research has even shown, how heart cells can be choreographed acoustically, as described in the following:

Heart cells are among the most densely packed in the body — about 100 million fit into a space the size of a sugar cube. The compact structure crams the cells so close together that they can communicate with one another and beat as one lump. For tissue engineers, however, it poses a tricky hurdle: Pack the cells too tightly and some won’t get proper nutrients; too loosely and they can’t coordinate a beat.

Have a look at this amazing video below. Latest experiments have revealed that acoustics can create a form of new tissue that resembles natural cardiac tissue to replace parts of damaged hearts (even broken ones…?) Acoustics can be used in reconstructing other organ tissue and blood vessels.

And here’s another lovely, spiritual playlist on Spotify, which features my song Aganjú. 7 Wonders: Vision was compiled by Deva Munay, founder of Sacred Sound & Wonder. She also helps people who are struggling with anxiety, depression, overwhelm, or stress to find relief through the healing power of sound.

Aganjú’s Portuguese lyrics are really hard to translate. But the essence of the song and the name “Aganjú” is that of the African deity of volcanoes and deserts, who spreads magic and protection from Brazil… [read more about the song in my blog here]

My Spanish Repertoire

Posted on by Frances Livings
Víctor Meléndez, Poster design for National     Hispanic Heritage Month, 2019

I recently performed with my Latin jazz band, Frances Livings’ Ipanema Lounge at the West Covina library in California in honour of National Hispanic Heritage month, which is celebrated each year, from September 15 to October 15. For me it was a welcome occasion to dig a little deeper into my Spanish repertoire. In this blog post I would like to share my love of some of these often highly romantic and rhythmically enticing songs and some of their backgrounds.

During National Hispanic Heritage month the focus is on the histories, cultures and contributions of American citizens whose ancestors came from Spain, Mexico, the Caribbean and Central and South America. Especially significant is hereby, the 15th of September because it is the anniversary of independence for Latin American countries Costa Rica, El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras and Nicaragua. In addition, Mexico and Chile celebrate their independence days on September 16 and September 18, respectively. Also, Columbus Day or Día de la Raza, which is October 12, falls within this 30-day period.

I always love the process of searching for new songs to explore and interpret. So I spent a fair amount of time searching for new material and came across some beautiful songs to add to my Spanish repertoire ­– some written by contemporary songwriters, others deemed meanwhile almost classic. Since the venue I performed at was a library, a place of knowledge with most likely, information hungry patrons, I thought it would be nice to also provide some background information to some of the songs and music styles – which would ultimately, also honour the specialness of these Latin compositions for the occasion.

La Puerta by Luis Demetrio

Long before I even imagined that one day, I would develop such a passion for singing jazz songs in foreign languages, I fell in love with “La Puerta”. It is a slow, heart-felt ballad that was written by the Mexican singer and songwriter Luis Demetrio (1931-2007). I haven’t been able to find out when it was exactly written or recorded for the very first time but in 1957 “La Puerta” was placed among the great favorites of the Spanish-speaking public, interpreted by the famous Chilean singer Lucho Gatica. It has since then been made popular by contemporary singers like Luis Miguel and Laura Fygi. For a very long time it was the only Spanish song I had in my repertoire – but that was before I moved to Los Angeles…

I later discovered that Demetrio co-wrote another favourite song of mine, “¿Quién será?”, a bolero-mambo better known to the English speaking world as “Sway”. Like often falsely assumed however, Demetrio didn’t co-write the song with his fellow songwriter Pablo Beltrán Ruiz (1915 – 2008) but sold the rights to him. Beltrán recorded the song for the first time with his orchestra in 1953 as an instrumental cha-cha-chá. Dean Martin’s 1954 tongue-in-cheek recording with the Dick Stabile orchestra in English was then the first version to achieve considerable success in the United States. Norman Gimbel (1927 – 2018) who in the 1960’s became famous through his lyrics for “The Girl From Ipanema”, which is probably the most famous Antônio Carlos Jobim song, wrote the English lyrics for “Sway”. I recorded both “La Puerta” and “Sway” on my 2016 album, inspired by Dean Martin and the Mexican pop-singer Kalimba, I recorded it half in English, switching to the Spanish lyrics in the first chorus.

Hoy by Gian Marco

Another song really wanted to introduce at the library performance – and that I simply love singing live (ideally, with a minimal instrumentation of guitar, bass and percussion) –, is “Hoy” (which means in Spanish “today”). This contemporary ballad, written by the Peruvian singer-songwriter Gian Marco Zignago, known as “Gian Marco”, became popular after Gloria Estefan recorded the song on her Spanish album, “Amor y Suerte”. Estefan is the original Latin crossover international star. First as lead singer of Miami Sound Machine and then as a soloist, she has achieved success in both languages, English and Spanish.

Especially for the occasion of Hispanic Heritage Month I thought it would be interesting and relevant to introduce “Hoy” because it addresses the topic of being an immigrant, of your heart belonging somewhere else. Gian Marco wrote the song, after immigrating to the United States. Its lyrics, carried along by a beautifully crafted flowing melody, sounds like a love letter to a person with many beautiful metaphors, but is ultimately a love letter to his home country Peru that he left when he moved to Florida to pursue his music career. “Un camino empinado” (a steep path) for instance, is a reference to the Andes that are the longest continental mountain range in the world, and extend from north to south through seven South American countries: Venezuela, Colombia, Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia, Chile and Argentina. The line “tengo el mar del otro lado” means as much as, I have the sea on the other side, which refers to when he lived in Miami, saying in an interview that his ocean is “the Pacific, not the Atlantic”.

In his official video for the song he even integrated some of Peru’s traditional instruments: towards the middle, you can listen to and watch traditional Peruvian music and dancers. His musicians are playing a small guitar called the “Charango”, which is a native Peruvian instrument. A charango is a relatively small string instrument, around 65 cm long, similar to the size of a ukulele. It typically has ten strings in five courses of two strings each, but many other variations exist. Traditionally, they were made of armadillo shell, today superseded by wooden parts. Some designs however, still imitate the patterns of armadillos on the rounded back. Interestingly, and somewhat serendipitous (why it caught my attention maybe), is that as a spiritual animal totem, the armadillo symbolizes that it is time to define your own boundaries and space. It also symbolizes trust, peace, pacifism, balance, complexity, and compassion.

 

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CD cover EP A Breath She Took

A Breath She Took ~ A new Jazzoetry Release

Posted on by Frances Livings

 

CD cover EP A Breath She Took

While sorting through material for my first full-length musical poetry, aka jazzoetry album, I came across three poems I had already recorded. Listening back to them with fresh ears, I suddenly realized that they were thematically too different from the other pieces I was writing. I thereupon decided to release these three pieces separately. These poems – now jazzoems – will be available in January 2019 as a three-track EP in all digital music stores titled A Breath She Took, which is also the name of the first jazzoetry piece.

All three are of autobiographical nature. This is exactly why these three pieces stood out from the other pieces, which are about other women. In these still unreleased poems I have been exploring an array of unusual, often imagined stories about women from diverse cultural and socio-economic backgrounds. I have focussed on their unique struggles – but not my own. Although, maybe I did in a metaphorical and symbolical way, now thinking of them.

Jazzoetry. The Principle

The principle that unites all of these poems musically is that they follow the same approach of poetry in combination with jazz improvisation [= jazzoetry]. I developed this concept in 2009 when I first released my piece Gold & Frankincense as a single. It was followed by the EP During the Hours, which includes my favourite piece, Songs of the Soul, initially inspired by the saxophonist Zane Musa. You can read about the development of this story here.

Once I have completed a poem, the recording process follows the same method for each one but is of course at the same time, very individual: According to the sentiment and temperament of the piece, I search for a jazz musician with great improvisational talent. Atmospherically, I want her or his instrument and playing to feel and sound most suitable in the interpretation and illustration and communication of that specific poem.

Jazzoetry. The Recording Process

My goal is always to capture complete performances. Unlike the usual studio procedure of assembling tracks, I don’t want any overdubbing or editing to take place. This would spoil the principle of a live improvisation and any spontaneity involved. That’s why I ask each musical soloist –who has never read the poems prior to their studio arrival– to respond to my reading as if they were at a live jazz gig, improvising on the spot.

Each piece is recorded live in two separate recording booths in dialogue: with my recital of the poem and the individual instrumentalist’s interpretation. For my reading and performance, the atmosphere of being in the moment, just like on stage is often just as inspiring and electric as it is for the musician. Invariably, my concept is usually achieved within two to three takes.

Jazzoetry Recording of A Breath She Took

For the poem A Breath She Took, which is track number one on the EP, I chose the cello for its warm and resonant sound and its associated features: the softly swung curvatures of a female body. Albeit loving the piano, I have a very close relationship with the cello. It was my first instrument as a child. I was extremely proud that our music teacher chose me to be trained for the school orchestra. When we moved to Germany, however, I was completely heartbroken: the cello was a school instrument and I consequently had to give it up.

Le Violon d'Ingres (Ingres's Violin) Artist/Maker: Man Ray (American, 1890 - 1976) Culture: American Place: Paris, France (Place Created) Date: 1924 Medium: Gelatin silver print Object Number: 86.XM.626.10 Dimensions: 29.6 × 22.7 cm (11 5/8 × 8 15/16 in.) Copyright:
Man Ray, Le Violon d’Ingres (Ingres’s Violin) Paris 1924 © Man Ray Trust ARS-ADAGP

Ironically, later, my mother bought herself one and started taking lessons, which obviously brought up a lot of feelings. The cello therefore mirrors perfectly not only my longing for that instrument and the close relationship I was developing with it, but my longing for an empathetic, nurturing and loving mother.

I asked the cellist Matthew Cooker to provide his improvisational talents. He is one of Los Angeles most prolific cellists and has played in many orchestras and for diverse live artists (like Barbra Streisand and Luis Miguel). I first met him on a studio session for a few tracks on my fist solo album The World I am Livings In, which consists of very sparsely instrumented songs, surrounding themes of loss. Matthew’s playing has, in equal parts, the right amount of tenderness, fierceness and edginess a cellist. He moreover, possesses a sheer endless inventory of resin, ego, musicality, creativity and elbow grease.

When we were recording A Breath She Took live in the studio, I felt that that he was translating the contents of that piece and complimenting my reading so fittingly that I spontaneously decided to ask him to also improvise over my reading of another piece: Goldfish Bowl. [Read the lyrics by clicking here]

 

Jazzoetry Recording of Goldfish Bowl

So once again we were recording live, in a dialogue between voice and instrument and Goldfish Bowl, became the second poem on the EP. This piece is about the taxing and highly confusing effects of being psychologically abused. It’s about feeling trapped – even if only in one’s own head. And how a state of feeling crazy, slowly takes hold, destroying self-confidence and self-trust. Goldfish Bowl is about utter helplessness dwindling into hopelessness being that the abuse is already taking a severe toll. [Read the lyrics by clicking here]

 

Jazzoetry Recording of Ink on Silk


The third and last piece on the EP, Ink on Silk is similar to Goldfish Bowl because it’s about feeling highly frustrated and crazy-made. In Goldfish Bowl there’s a permanent state of lingering, total confusion and powerlessness. Whereby in Ink on Silk it is about trying to solve things but not having any impact, thus getting more and more infuriated and frustrated. This is why a percussive instrument with clanging metal bars seemed so suitable.

I had heard the vibraphonist, Nick Mancini, a couple of times live and was always impressed by his eagerness and fearlessness to improvise both rhythmically and melodically on his instrument. Some soloists carefully plan their improvisations. But Nick lets his instrument lead him, moreover, seduce him into stepping out onto stormy expeditions. During the recording of Ink on Silk, he was also able to create some quite unusual sounds by almost bending the aluminium sound bars with his felt mallets and giving the piece its perfect colourings. [Read the lyrics by clicking here]

 

Future Jazzoetry Projects

My next jazzoetry project will be to complete writing, and then to record and produce a full-length Jazzoetry album. It will comprise around 15 poems featuring a similar number of outstanding jazz soloists. The poems I am writing for this album explore an array of typical female topics. They are based on women from very diverse socio-economic and cultural backgrounds.

Being a woman myself, I have always been interested in my own and equally intrigued by other women’s paths. Being that per society and biology, we still face completely different challenges than men. There are so many stories and dreams of other women that ultimately seem to interweave with one another’s. Many stem from the sad truth that culturally, socially and politically (thus, economically) we are still confined and suppressed by expectations.

 

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https://franceslivings.com/poetry/goldfish-bowl/herbert-list-goldfish-bowl-santorini-greece-1937-gelatin-silver-print
© Herbert List, Goldfish Bowl, Santorini Greece, 1937
Frances Livings O Barquinho My-Little-Boat Brazilian jazz Bossa Nova

The Best Bossa Nova Songs: O Barquinho ~ My Little Boat

Posted on by Frances Livings

 

Finding new songs for my foreign-language repertoire always involves a lot of musical archaeology. It’s definitely very enjoyable. It’s like stepping into a dark, mysterious castle with only a spotlight at hand, never knowing what you’ll find. That was how I came across O Barquinho (Little Boat) from 1961. It’s a very playful and cute Bossa nova song about a boat sailing along on a calm summer day as the evening falls.

Frances Livings O Barquinho My-Little-Boat Brazilian jazz Bossa Nova

I had only recently discovered the American vocalist Karrin Allyson through a search for interpretations of the French chanson Sous le Ciel de Paris, which I was adding to my French repertoire. Her version of this 1951 classic from the French film bears the same title. It’s from one of her early albums, From Rio to Paris. I love her very grounded voice and her elegant intonation – despite finding her interpretation a little dry or even humourless. She frequently spikes her songs with very delightful and short, not endless, self-indulged scatting sequences.

So, while enjoying a cooking session in my kitchen, I flipped through the other songs in French and Portuguese. I immediately took to her very cute and enticing version of O Barquinho, sung in both beautifully phrased Portuguese and English. Later, I understood why The New York Times, had called her a “no-frills singer with a feline touch and impeccable intonation, […] is an interpreter who cuts to the chase, but with minimal psychodrama.”

 

Brazilian Jazz Rhythms ~ The Bossa Nova

I have now been performing O Barquinho after learning the Portuguese lyrics for a couple of weeks now. In its lightheartedness and cheerfulness, it very much reminds me of tunes like Summer Samba (also known as So Nice and in Portuguese Samba de Verão). So Nice is a song I also enjoy singing because of its cheerful bounciness. It was written in 1964 by the Brazilian composer Marcos Valle, with English lyrics by the American lyricist Norman Gimbel and original Portuguese lyrics by the composer’s brother, Paulo Sérgio Valle.

O Barquinho was written three years earlier and also has very buoyant lyrics. Its rhythmical temperament makes it a very typical bossa nova song.[2] When playing these kinds of songs live, it is crucial for the right tempo to be counted off. If it’s too slow it will lose it’s lightheartedness and cheeriness. When only a bit too fast, it’s like singing the title melody to a breath taking car-chase. Another element of course, is the groove itself. While So Nice is a Samba and O Barquinho is a Bossa nova, Brazilian jazz tunes like these have in general their very own rhythmic feeling – like the Bossa nova composer Carlos Lyra, described  in reference to one of his own songs, Influência do Jazz. He said that overall, the rhythm has a “swaying” feel rather than the “swinging” feel of jazz. The samba rhythm moves “side to side” while jazz moves “front to back”.[3] 

 

O Barquinho (The Little Boat) 1961 ~ The Topic of the Sea

This swaying notion lends itself of course perfectly to the topic of the sea. Indeed, Roberto Menescal used references to the sea in many of his songs – like in O Barquinho. Roberto Menescal was born on October 25, 1937 and is a Brazilian composer, producer, guitarist/vocalist and important to the founding of bossa nova.
The idea for the song came when Menescal, Ronaldo Bôscoli (another composer), and some other friends were in a boat just off the coast of Cabo Frio, a city near Rio de Janeiro, when suddenly the boat had problems and the motor broke down. To pass the time, Menescal started playing the guitar and making up a tune. By the time another boat came and rescued them, he had created the main parts of the song. He and Ronaldo Bôscoli completed it the next day. The English version, My Little Boat was written by the songwriter, musician and producer Buddy Kaye in May 1967.

The topic for the song was obviously already present but the Portuguese children’s song, that carries the same title, O Barquinho may have also influenced him. You can read the Portuguese lyrics and an English translation here.

 

O Barquinho was first recorded in 1961 by the guitarist João Gilberto. A year later, in 1962, it was recorded by the American guitarist Charlie Bryd – and many times since then. That year, the American entertainment magazine Billboard – also known for its music charts, including the Billboard Hot 100 and Billboard 200 – listed Charlie Byrd’s recording of O Barquinho in the column of singles with “strong sales potential”. Indeed, it was to become one of Menescal’s most famous songs.

O Barquinho Brazilian Jazz 1961 Roberto Menescal
 

And here’s João Gilberto’s version from 1961:

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*

Listen to O Barquinho and other beautiful Samba and Bossa Nova Songs here:

Further Info & Reading on Brazilian Jazz:

~ For some more insight into this music genre check out the book “Brazilian Jive: From Samba to Bossa and Rap” by David Treece, professor of Brazilian studies, author, and founder of the Centre for the Study of Brazilian Culture and Society.

~ Watch the documentary film “Coisa Mais Linda: Histórias e Casos da Bossa Nova“ (This is Bossa Nova: The History and Stories) released in 2005: Menescal and fellow trailblazing composer Carlos Lyra tells the stories of the people, places, and performances that put Brazilian music on the international music scene in the early 1960s, culminating in a 1962 performance at Carnegie Hall in New York.

~ See also this playfully illustrated and informative website called Mama Lisa’s World that collects international children’s songs from around the world.

Brazilian Jive (Reverb Reaktion Books by Treece, David

Here’s one of my Brazilian tracks, Aganjú, from my album Ipanema Lounge. It was written by Antônio Carlos Santos de Freitas (Carlinhos Brown) [EMI Blackwood Music Inc.]. My recording features a dear friend and fellow musician,  Robert Kyle on alto flute, tenor & soprano saxophone, who is also responsible for the arrangement at the beginning of the track: