icon caret-left icon caret-right instagram pinterest linkedin facebook twitter goodreads question-circle facebook circle twitter circle linkedin circle instagram circle goodreads circle pinterest circle


Virus Without Borders: Chapter Sixty-Six

Spring blossoms, a reminder of the cycle of life.  Photo © copyright Carol Bergman 2021


As Time Goes By; An Interlude



Time, which changes people, does not alter the image we have of them.


― Marcel Proust



In Memoriam: Dudley Stone



And it's nearly May, 2021. The other day I almost forgot that the year had turned from 2020 to 2021, the brain's way of processing pain: suppression. Psychologists recommend that we dip into the flow of—normal  —life slowly. Is this possible? We've been holding our breath and now we are gasping fresh air, meeting friends and family, hugging everyone once we've established vaccination status. No more elbow bumps. No more masks. Oh, you have a face! I remember that face. Big lips, small lips, I can see your lips, the expression on your face. I can read you again. I can, literally, see you again. Oh, you are not on Zoom, you are here in all your corporeal reality. This is, truly, a miracle.


The other day, at Main Course in New Paltz, NY, I saw the young woman at the register who had texted me early in the pandemic to ask if there was anything she could do to help, such as shopping, for example. She had started graduate school,  and way back before the lockdown, she'd asked if she could interview me for  an assignment, which is how she knew me beyond ordering food at our favorite go-to restaurant in town where, happy to say, she still works. I hadn't needed her to shop for a while and fallen out of touch, now here she was again. First things first, a big thank you for helping us out in those early nerve-wracked pre-mask-mandate days when it felt dangerous for those in our age group, the more vulnerable age group, to go into a supermarket. Oh, it was wonderful to "see" her again and to be able to thank her in person.


The next day, my husband went into the city for the first time in more than a year. I was skittish. This was more than a toe into the water. But he was determined. A tournament table tennis player, he had missed his friends and the intense athletic effort he'd been used to. Zoom calls twice a month with his pals weren't enough, to say the least, and he'd been trying to stay in shape on his own without the incentive of competition. Our apartment is a gym—two bikes, a rowing machine, and weights. Will this apparatus soon become artifact? Our local gym and pool are open again, by appointment and Covid questionnaire only, please, and I am so relieved I can alternate laps and the elliptical machine with walking.


And, then, yesterday morning, my city friend, Nancy, and her sweet pooch, Rudy, came to visit on their way back into town after a two-day getaway. This was as overwhelming as the first hug my daughter gave me on my birthday back in March, which as time goes by, feels like yesterday. I am teary just writing about it. I met Nancy in the parking lot behind our apartment complex where she was walking Rudy, we ripped off our masks, and had a big hug. Oh, my goodness!!!


And then, and then, and then, an invitation arrived on email from Alan for a Mediterranean meal with mutual friends in celebration of our release from pandemic incarceration. I can't wait.


So, I suppose, a kind of euphoria has set in, the euphoria of survival: most of us have made it through this terrible ordeal. And though we continue to mourn the loved ones we have lost, we must not minimize the experiences, connections and skills we have gained in this challenging interim in our lives. Indeed, dear reader, we are permitted some happiness in this one small moment in time.







Post a comment

Virus Without Borders: Chapter Sixty-Five

Yenka and Adam in the mountains. Their immediate environment has sustained them during the pandemic. It's a protected UNESCO Heritage Site nominated for its biodiversity. Photo © copyright Zuleika Henry 2021


Sustainable Living in a Plague Year; A Love Story



We will never stop fighting, we will never stop fighting for this planet, for ourselves, our futures and for the futures of our children and grandchildren.


-Greta Thunberg


Take only what you need and leave the land as you found it.


-Arapaho Proverb



Yenka Honig and Adam Rose live in a modest house in Aramengo, a small village, pop 600, nestled in the foothills of the alps in Northern Italy. How did two Brits end up here? Both were born and raised in London; they grew up together, their doctor fathers friends since medical school. "I asked Yenka to marry me when we were both eight, but she refused," Adam tells me at the beginning of our recent Zoom call. Yenka, model beautiful with her long hair and make-up free face was in charge of the iPad, which worked fine, I assured her, even though they were sitting outside on their patio. I asked her to turn the camera around so I could see their vegetable garden, the hills in the background, and the darkening sky. "We're in the midst of a drought," Adam said. "Climate change, of course."


It was late in the day for them, early in the morning for me. I was grateful for the modern technology that enabled this visit, although it is oddly antithetical to how Adam and Yenka prefer to live each day: embedded in nature. And though Adam has been teaching on Zoom, it is also counter to his hands-on well-studied teaching method. In a recent video posted on You Tube, he is sitting on the ground next to a bed of wild violets explaining their sometimes poo-like odor to his invisible audience. He's a raconteur, Yenka quieter but thoughtful. I knew that their life journeys had taken them across the globe in opposite directions until 2012 when they found each other again back in the UK. "He walked in and a lightening bolt lit up my parents' house," Yenka said,  It meant a move from Los Angeles where she had been a Shiatsu/Seitai practitioner touring with rock bands, to Italy where Adam had already been living for a long time. Married to an Italian, he had two daughters, gotten divorced, and created Ecowise Italy, a company dedicated to immersing school children in the natural world.


Pre-pandemic the tours and classes were constant. Undoubtedly, they will continue apace as lockdown ends and vaccinations ramp up. The  27 member countries of the EU are behind as  distribution must be equitable, rich nations subsidizing the poorer nations, a utopian ideal realized. "We live in a community," Adam explains, "and most people here still live close to the land."  It's one reason, among many, Yenka says, she left the United States without regret. "I couldn't get affordable health insurance, for starters." Adam folded her into the business as a photographer and IT maven. The survivor of an aneurysm at aged 24, she is beloved for her courage, compassion and sense of fun. 


I thought of the move my husband and I had made from the city to upstate New York. Though our daughter and son-in-law had de-urbanized more than a decade ago, and we'd visited often, we hadn't changed our city ways. In our apartment water was plentiful and we ran it while washing dishes without thinking that it originated in the Catskill Watershed, and that it might one day run dry. The words drought or scarcity—of  natural resources—was  not in our vocabulary. But once we moved, we quickly adapted, paying rapt attention to the cost of our utilities, the shift to solar power on our daughter's property, and the reason for it. Now, when friends come to visit, we prevail upon them to take short showers and turn off lights they are not using. We hope that these admonitions will raise their consciousness and that they will remain our friends.


Many city dwellers headed north as the pandemic hit, bought up houses and rented apartments gentrifying the county. "We had the same situation here," Adam said. Will these opportunistic urban migrants return to the city with a new understanding of the amount of energy a city uses and other environmental degradations? Will cities eventually cease to exist and become artifacts of a dystopian age?


A sustainable planet begins with every individual, every family, every government, local and national. It includes universal health care, food and water supply, affordable housing, the protection of the bees that pollinate our flowering plants and the habitat we continue to destroy with our careless disregard.


For information about virtual tours, contact Yenka and Adam @  www.ecowiseitaly.com









Post a comment

Virus Without Borders: Chapter Sixty-Four

For those who remember what Gloria said when she turned 50, this is what 87 looks like. Stunning.



Gloria, Where Are You?



I can go on the road— because I can come home. I come home—because I'm free to leave.


Gloria Steinem, "On the Road"



I received an invitation to Gloria Steinem's three-floor upscale Manhattan apartment. Would I like to visit, peruse the memorabilia of the Women's Liberation Movement dating back to the 1960's, and perhaps have a cup of green tea, sit and chat for a while, toast Gloria's 87th birthday? As my visit would be managed by Google Arts & Culture, I'd be unable to ask any probing questions, however. In fact, the visit would only be virtual, and not interactive, not even a chat function, more like a museum tour. That stung. I wonder if Gloria knows about it? As a former investigative journalist herself, I am certain she would not approve of the anonymity of Google's Street View tool. Indeed, the apartment was desolate as I entered, no human in sight except for those framed on the walls. Yes, the bookcase, of course, that is of interest, but was it enough? No. I was looking forward to seeing Gloria in person. I wondered if I would bring up my connection with Ms. Magazine. It was brief, but unforgettable. I had been assigned an article, what I cannot remember. Just the very fact that I was working for Ms., that in itself was heavenly. And there were editorial meetings and social occasions and we once or twice must have said hello. But Gloria, where are you now? On the road again? I read somewhere that you fled to California as the pandemic lockdown began, leaving your home to the Google curators. Maybe you are living in a pod with your good friend, Alice Walker. Maybe you will stay in California and never return to the townhouse. Maybe you will end your life in California. Maybe the townhouse will become a customized mausoleum, a structure planned well in advance of a person's death, by the person herself.


What a strange experience, dear Gloria. How much you have meant to women of the Second Wave, what an iconic figure you have become, honored in life as you certainly will be in the after-life.  And have you aged a hundred years this year, as all of us have, no matter our chronological age? Are you 187 and still counting? Has time collapsed or expanded for you? How are you feeling? Healthy? You are a breast cancer survivor. Brava to that and so much more, Gloria.


Your absence became a presence as I entered your apartment. Alas, only the camera was my guide. No voice-over narration, your strong mezzo silenced, and just some potted written history of the women's movement, most of which can be found online on Oprah's site or in Wikipedia. Alas, did someone you hold dear suggest this special invitation to promote your foundation? Is that what this is all about?  If so, I forgive you.


Post a comment

Virus Without Borders: Chapter Sixty-Three

One of Stuart's montages, a drawing superimposed on a photograph of Lenoir, a professional artist's model. © copyright Stuart Bigley 2021, by permission of the artist. Watch Stuart draw in a video on his website: www.stuartbigley.com   


Covid as Muse



One of the things that I tell beginning writers is this: If you describe a landscape, or a cityscape, or a seascape, always be sure to put a human figure somewhere in the scene. Why? Because readers are human beings, mostly interested in human beings. 


-Kurt Vonnegut



One summer, between my freshman and sophomore year of college, still so young, I took a job as a swimming instructor at Manitou Fine Arts Camp about four hours north of Toronto. It was cold up there under the Northern Lights and no one wanted to go swimming. In between canoeing, playing tennis and escorting campers to bed, more or less, I modeled in the art studio. That is, I modeled my head and nothing but my head. I had to keep still, no posing necessary, no instructions other than to sit. I sat and sat and day dreamed that one day I'd travel to Paris and become a writer. I was already in Paris in my imagination, I already was a a writer in my imagination, though it took me many years to become a writer. The teenaged artists sketching me, however, were precocious, gifted and disciplined, very serious about their work, which is why they had chosen the camp. Immersion in art with some athletics and romance for balance all summer long. It was bliss for them and for me. Then one day, the art teacher asked me if I'd pose for him off hours in the nude. He was about twenty years my senior, handsome in a rugged way, not my type exactly, but I wasn't sure—being young and naïve—if he was coming on to me (is that what we called harassment when I was coming of age?), or if I wanted to come on to him, or if I even knew what a nude model did, or why artists since antiquity have used nude models to practice their drawing skills and create great works.


   "What would that involve?" I asked.

   "Undraping yourself," he said. "Shifting your body into various poses. Do you think you can do that?

     "Like a dancer?"



          I'd had some dance experience and sort of knew what to expect. But was I willing? Was I being groomed?  Was I flattered? No, none of those. I was in the presence of an artist and that was exciting for me at the time, and I felt safe, and mostly curious. I did wonder how I would respond to the sometimes voyeuristic male gaze, what is known as  "le regard" in France. But I had an emancipated European mother and I was emancipated, I thought, or at least I planned to be. So I said I'd think about it. L'artiste didn't press me, the decision was mine, he had other models, other counselors who were willing, he said. 


"But you, maybe, there could be something more."  

"Like what?"

"Model as muse."


       Alors, he was in love with me, I decided. So I said no definitively. I had a boyfriend, I was still so young. But it didn't take long for me to regret my decision.  To be an artist's muse, ah well, that would have been a memory to take into full adulthood.


          Fast forward decades, I've never had a similar offer or request, though I have had a muse or two myself, have written about art a lot in both fiction and nonfiction, and when I am in the company of visual artists, my spirit soars. I make certain I interview them regularly, artists near and far, so that the life affirming conversation about making art can continue. And so I was pleased to be able to meander –masked, distanced, and vaccinated—through the Unison Arts Gallery a few days ago with  Stuart Bigley to peruse his work and ask him about his process. The title of the show is "Covid Muse," though Covid itself has not been the inspiration. Rather, Covid sheltering has provided time for quiet contemplation and experimentation, a "forced retreat," Stuart says. Most artists and writers I know have had a similar experience during the pandemic.


     "When I retired as Director of Unison Arts, I decided I wanted to nail drawing," Stuart continued. "I question artists who can't draw. It seems necessary, even as I moved into abstraction, to be able to observe and record accurately."  As usual, there are analogies to writing; our devotion to practice is similar. A life drawing class, which Stuart hosts in the gallery once a week, is the same—practice and preparation. These days, though the models are still mostly female, the class attracts both men and women image makers. It's a reminder that women, too, enjoy contemplating the contours of the human body and transforming it into art.



Post a comment