The flea market November 3, 2014

At this blog’s inception, I had considered naming it “Fifty New Things”.  I expected that I might actually relax a bit after retirement and use my newfound free time to explore parts of the Bay Area that I had ignored for thirty years.  Of course, that free time was quickly sucked into music and art, and Fifty New Things morphed into The Passaggio.

Yesterday, though, I did make some traction on my original intention, and it was all because of the fall time change.  The crack of dawn came so early and the weather was so fine that I was compelled to get out and about right that minute.  I knew there was some kind of massive flea market held the first Sunday of each month in Alameda, so I checked online, and sure enough there it was – the Alameda Point Antiques Faire. I grabbed my gear and a couple of collapsible bags just in case, and I was off.

I had set my iphone to map the route, but there was really no need to check it.  By the time I was headed south on 880, I folded into a stream of cars heading through the tunnel to Alameda.  I followed them to a gigantic parking lot, which in fact was the site of the Navy airfield in times past.   Noting that my parking row was labeled “U”, I joined the line of human cattle with their carts and buggies as we trod past T, S, R etc, with a vista of colorful shipping containers and enormous white cranes along the loading docks to our right.  Arriving at the entrance at precisely 9 am when the admission price drops to $5, hundreds of us charged through with anticipation.

I methodically wended my way up and down the rows (also lettered) to the right of the large center aisle, checking out the scene but not committing to a purchase and fueling myself all the while with leftover Halloween candy.  I passed by white-awninged stalls devoted to recycled linen grain sacks, lighters, brass tchotchkes, cigar paraphernalia, Bakelite bangle bracelets, and colorful old Corningware and Creuset cookware.  But for an event touted as an “antiques faire”, there was a lot of junk, some stuff so forlorn and creepy that I just had to pass by as quickly as I could.  Yet people seemed to love it and were loading up their large flat shopping carts and waiting at the loading zone as though they were at Ikea.

I came away with only two small purchases – a few glyphs from an old metal typeset and two old photos of downtown Point Reyes Station circa 1900 – and a small start on my list of fifty new things.  In fact, if you add in zumba, the World’s Series, and the many new performance venues I’ve been to in the past year, I'd say I'm not doing too badly.

Art vs. Science September 22, 2014

My art classes are so compelling.  It is uncanny to witness ideas bubble to the surface and delightful to try to manifest them in a small work of art. 

I am also struck by the difference in the overall goals between my current endeavors and those I have left behind as a scientist.  As scientists, we are all rushing to address a question, using many different strategies, but competing to find a single answer.  In art, even though a single question may be posed, there are as many answers as there are people trying to address it.  I love that.

I'm back September 21, 2014

At the time of my last entry, I hadn’t quite decided whether to terminate this blog or to keep pressing forward until I felt that I was securely on a new path.  My resolution was further stalled by a family difficulty that needed my full attention and sucked all of the joy and much of the momentum out of my life.  I dropped out of the West Marin Players summer show, terminated my weekly vocal coaching sessions, and opted against auditioning for the next West Bay Opera production.  But because I needed to learn to draw, I latched onto a lifeboat in the form of an intensive summer course in drawing and composition at College of Marin.  Those four and half hours of daily immersion in graphite, charcoal, and water color wash were the rudder that focused my attention and provided a direction to weather my personal storm.

Now that a patch of calm has opened up, I have decided to take up the blog again and continue to chronicle my passaggio.

I seem to be hurtling more and more toward architecture, design, or art in some form or other as my next big adventure.  My summer drawing course certainly pointed out my abundant weaknesses, but they also demonstrated that persistence and practice can pay off.  For example, our teacher demanded 14 self-portraits from us as two weekends’ homework; I began by cringing at the wrinkles and the bags, but ended up making peace with my mug and came up with one or two drawings that at least were recognizable to myself as me.  And despite how difficult I found the black water-color washes, I ended up loving their zen-like unpredictability and simplicity.

This fall I am again a student at College of Marin.  After a bit of a stumble as I tested out painting, sculpture, and beginning architectural design, I finally settled on two art classes, digital architectural drawing and color theory, as well as two performance groups, Marin Oratorio and Chamber Singers.  In theory, my “major” is visual and performance art, but I’m not sure there is an actual degree in that combo, not that I really need one.  More about these courses in future blog posts seems likely.

But for the moment, I’ll just say that I see myself heading toward an application to California College of the Arts for next fall, likely for an M Arch, but possibly for and MFA in Design.  A destination is starting be in sight.

Where to go now June 29, 2014

Tomorrow it will be one year since my retirement, and coincidentally my birthday.  By now I was supposed to have developed a plan for a new “career”.  I haven’t. 

I realize, too, that I have failed to comment on this blog’s moniker, “The Passaggio”, and perhaps now, given the blog’s impending anniversary, is a good time to correct that oversight and reflect on its meaning.

In singing, the passaggio refers to a transition point between two different registers of the voice, a transition between the chest voice and the head voice, for example, in women.  One of the goals of classical singing is to smoothly transition between these two registers, to make the voice seamless as the singer navigates her way up or down the vocal scales and passages. 

I chose this metaphor for my year of adjustment after retiring from UCSF, with full intention of having a second career in view by year’s end.  Passaggio may have been the wrong metaphor since I’m actually struggling to find this other voice at the same time as I am struggling to transit to it.  It has been a rewarding struggle, but one still with no end in sight. 

"Jeu Nadal" June 12, 2014

And so it came to pass that I boarded a flight to Montreal then transferred to Paris to intersect with my friend Sue for the French Open.  I was hoping to witness the march of Rafa Nadal toward his ninth title at Roland Garros, and he did not disappoint.

Sue and I treated ourselves to two days of tennis – the ladies’ semis on Thursday, the men’s on Friday – preceded by lovely three-course luncheons at the site.  The courts at Roland Garros are clay, and the lush grounds are festooned in green, white, and orange to match.   The weather was perfect, and the international crowd we sat among in the second tier was enthusiastic.  At one point late in the second men's semi (Nadal v. Murray), "the wave" made its way around the entire stadium at least a half a dozen times, delaying Nadal's serve and causing consternation to the umpire, but history was in the making – yet again – and there was no taming this crowd.

I was not the only woman gaga over Nadal, although Sue – a Brit – was compelled to shout out “go Andy” for his Scottish opponent now and then.  Murray had no chance, as game after game the umpire decreed, “Jeu Nadal”.  “Jeu Nadal!” we echoed.  Just in front of me sat a petite and primly dressed elderly woman who quietly kept some kind of score during the match.  At the end she turned around, revealing herself to be Japanese, and indicated that she too was a Nadal fan.  She dipped into her handbag and withdrew a small silk satchel into which she had embroidered a photo of Nadal and gave it to me.  Clearly, I am not the only kook.

On singing June 1, 2014

It has been quite a whirlwind of music activity these past three weeks.  First was Marin Oratorio with three weeknights of rehearsals for the Brahms Requiem and Liebeslieder Walzes and then another week of intense rehearsals and two weekends of performances of Mozart’s Magic Flute with the West Bay Opera.  It was hard for me to embrace the latter while the former occupied my energy, but I soon got into the spirit of it, donning my burlap peasant costume, false eyelashes, and face glitter and enjoying the camaraderie of the group.  Today was the final performance and I was delighted that many friends came to see it and to support me. 

Indeed, it has been a remarkable year for singing.  I was able to relocate and start to work again with my coach Daniel, I practiced almost every day, I had a steep and exciting learning curve in music theory, I auditioned for half a dozen different groups, and found a happy home with two.   So much energy, so much discipline, so much “putting yourself out there.”

There is one final audition on the docket, the SF Symphony Chorus, on June 16^th.  I am terrified, of course.  I would love to sing with them but there are so few slots and I am so old.  This of course is the nub of the problem.  My voice is sturdy enough, but not what it once was, and as regards singing at least, I fear that my future is behind me.

The final crit May 20, 2014

Today was our final critique in 3D art, and the culminating project was entitled “Home, shelter, shrine”.  I chose to design disaster relief shelters, developing an earthquake camp in Kezar Stadium as my prototype.  I had a lot of fun thinking about how to package pre-fab units into shipping containers and constructing the models.  But I was simply blown away by the other students’ concepts; with only three exceptions, including mine, the projects all were powerful nods to members of their families.  Two designs were homes for their parents who could never realize their own dreams.  Several were shrines to mothers or grandparents, one was a reconstruction of the home he had grown up in in another land, and another was a statement about the homelessness she had experienced.  I held back tears with each presentation, powerfully moved by the love these young people had for their families and their heartfelt testimonies.  

Nearing the end, and grieving it May 15, 2014

Today was the last official day of classes at College of Marin, and my immersion in music theory and ear training with Trevor as well as my adventures in 2D and 3D art fundamentals with Katrina are coming to an end.  I have been lucky to have these two remarkable teachers for the duration of the academic year and have learned so much from them.  I’ve loved the rhythm of my Tuesdays and Thursdays at the Kentfield campus, with a little noon break singing in the chilly practice rooms.  I’ve enjoyed getting to know the other students, learning about their backgrounds, their aspirations.  I’ve looked forward to the drive every morning across the Golden Gate Bridge, the beauty of the Bay and the Marin Headlands as the fog dissipates, the little clump of redwoods on the campus. 

This year at College of Marin has given a structure to my first year of life as a “retiree” and has challenged me.  It was exactly what I was hoping for, in fact, even better.  I have come to realize that this has been one of the happiest years of my life.

The Hab May 3, 2014

I’m immersed in “The Martian”, a popular new book by Andy Weir.  Its cheerful protagonist Mark is stranded on Mars, and (spoiler alert!) his home there – “the Hab” – has just been ripped apart by an air pressure vulnerability in the aging Hab canvas.  No worries, Mark goes about fixing the whole thing (although I’m not yet sure how he is going to manage this).  Mark is so careful, so patient, so clever.  He has to be, because he needs to live another four years until the next Mars mission arrives to rescue him.

Anyway, Mark’s admirable attention to his environment made me think about my own hab, and its continual disarray.  I woke up today determined to make a dent.  Mark – I need you!

I’m not sure how one woman can possibly generate this much chaos, but I find myself in a continual struggle with entropy.  First there is my study, which is the repository of books, journals, magazines, mail, newspaper and journal clippings, gestational writing projects, financial stuff, old photos, along with pencil sharpener, computer, and printer.  Any visitor to my house would be prepared for the clutter of my study because it is approached from the runway of my upstairs hall, which itself is presently a tunnel lined with stacked boxes of old files and books from lab. 

Then there is the kitchen, which, although it is actually used for cooking, now mainly serves as my art studio.  Its island is strewn with paints, brushes, pencils, wire, wire-cutters, glue, tape, thumb tacks, paper, art books and magazines and its big round table is covered in thick brown paper forming a work area with cutting mat, exacto knives, cardboard, and Elmer’s glue.  The kitchen floor offers its own little archeological dig, as it is littered with a week’s worth of shoes (this is a bad habit I have had since childhood).  The window bench is home to a pile of music textbooks and vocal scores, the latter of which are strategically placed in sight of the back door so I won’t forget them on the way to rehearsal.  This batch of notes has a counterpart a few feet away in the dining room, where books, sheets, and Xeroxes of vocal music lie in piles on the sideboard and piano. 

Finally, there is my bedroom, which is truly scary, and really I am completely mystified as to how it can be in such a steady state of instability.  I make my bed every morning and dirty clothes do make it into the hamper.  My closet is the essence of order as I have arranged it in a hierarchy of color (pretty simple as I generally wear only black, white, and grey) followed by garment type.  Yet there seem to be a lot of clean clothes everywhere – fresh from the laundry waiting for me to put them away, things pulled out to wear but then rejected, or clothing that never quite made it back to its storage station after a night at the ballet.  Ditto for jewelry.  And of course, there is the landmine of shoes near the foot of the bed balancing the half-finished crossword puzzles, pens, and half-read books that accumulate near the pillows.

And then it hit me: since I’ve retired, I’ve become multidimensional!  When I was still working, I had a job, and before that a job and a child (who certainly spawned her own clutter, but that was largely kept to her own bedroom and my bathroom).  I didn’t sing, I wasn’t taking art classes that somehow involved every medium known to man, and my tickets to musical events were limited to one every few weeks.  Now I’m singing in two groups, tackling a new art project every other week, and taking in every ballet and vocal event San Francisco has to offer.  And hey, there is no one else living here to irritate and no one who needs an organizational role model.  But in truth, I crave order and serenity, and every now and then I need to rein in this explosion.

So this morning I steeled myself, like Mark on Mars, and said this is the day to get organized.  So far, the kitchen has been “neatified” and my desk top looks better.  But, let’s put it this way: If I discovered myself stranded on Mars, I’d just pack it in. 

The Kezar Track April 30, 2014

Whenever I contemplate downsizing by selling my big old home in San Francisco, I stop short when I think about the fabulous walks I can take right in my neighborhood.  Golden Gate Park is just a few blocks away, the lovely trails on Sutro mountain cut through the forest right behind me, and the well-kept neighborhoods of Buena Vista and Cole Valley lie just down the hill.  But easiest of all is Kezar Stadium, almost within spitting distance.  I enjoy lacing up my threadbare sneakers on sunny late-afternoon and slipping down to the track or the oval above the bleachers for a few spins. If I'm lucky, the local middle and high schools are there too to train or to compete, and I find myself tapping into their motivation.

Today, Kezar held the San Francisco Unified School District middle school track and field qualifying events.  Parents, kids, and teachers were out in full force cheering on their teams.   Each time the relay gun went off, I paused to cheer, too.  It was a riot of shapes and sizes, ethnicities, languages, and colorful jerseys.  A perfectly beautiful San Francisco spring day and a celebration of the students who are willing to go for it.