VPR Commentary - Gallery Walks: The Perfect Tonic to Monochromatic Mudseason

Broadcast on Tuesday, March 3, 2009

http://www.vpr.net/episode/45564/
(click Listen)

Willa Cather once said, "Winter lies too long in country towns; hangs on until it is stale and shabby, old and sullen."

And nothing says shabby like mud-season, when our world has undergone its annual shift into a sepia-toned dirtscape.  Having been somewhat housebound over the last few months—by blizzards, sleet, ice storms and arctic temperatures—most of us are chomping at the bit to escape right about now.  On Facebook the other day, a friend's post said simply, "I need to get out of here" and I knew exactly what she meant.  With inclement weather having made drives to parties and other events on stormy nights too dangerous, we're all suffering from at least a little bit of isolation that the bleak landscape does nothing to assuage. 

The end-of-winter stupor combined with the monochromatic scene outside can have me searching for one good reason to trudge through the slush and head into the colorless horizon, barring a flight to Barbados that is.

But here in Vermont there's actually a darn good reason that's guaranteed to inject at least some color into everyone's winterized psyches and complexions.

Gallery walks. 

Once a month, in various towns around the state, galleries keep their doors open late, often also holding receptions with cheese and wine and, best of all, people.

And sure, maybe it's because I'm an art writer that I gravitate towards events like these but art really does speak a universal language that can make us connect in ways no amount of Facebooking or Netflix viewing can.

Whether it's engaging in a lively debate with a friend about the meaning of an oversized canvas that is entirely chartreuse or sharing wonder with a complete stranger over a sculptor's remarkable dexterity—art makes us connect as human beings in ways nothing else does.  At concerts or movies we sit silently and maybe exchange a few comments afterwards but with art, we can't escape it or our response to it, and we learn more about ourselves and one another because of it.

I remember this time last year at the Brattleboro Gallery Walk, which takes place on the first Friday of each month, I was at a reception that was packed to the gills and people were greeting each other with an enthusiasm rarely displayed during warmer months.  I ran into a usually reticent neighbor whom I hadn't seen since autumn.  He gave me a big bear hug and then, ignoring a comment I made about the terrific art, launched into a play-by-play of his ongoing ice dam saga.

Sure he might have been there for the camaraderie as much as the creativity.  But I'm convinced that being surrounded by the vivid hues of fine art and the dynamic dialogue it sparks is a galvanizing tonic not only to the pallid outdoors but the inexorable isolation that only winter brings. 

My advice to everyone itching for some color and conversation is to find the nearest gallery walk, put on your boots and go.  And don't forget to bring a neighbor.

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 Topic:  http://www.gallerywalk.org

VPR Commentary - Vermont's Entrepreneurial Spirit

Broadcast February 19, 2009

http://www.vpr.net/episode/45483/

(click Listen)

Ever since moving here eight years ago, I've joked about the unwritten law in Vermont that you have to wear at least two professional hats.  As of this month, I wear four: marketing consultant, freelance journalist, occasional tap dance teacher and now, B-n-B owner as well.  Actually, it's a guest suite at the back of my house but I had to get a formal B-n-B license, the first of what I discovered was a long list of official papers.

I'd thought renting a room out to visitors would simply be a case of getting a local zoning permit, slapping up some fresh paint, cannibalizing my livingroom for various decorative tchotchkes and bringing down the old TV that's been sitting in the attic.

Au contraire.    

What I'd envisioned as simply making smart use of a part of my house that's only occupied when friends and family visit, has become the most protracted, complex undertaking of my entire life.  But hey, I've made friends with folks at the Waste Water Department, the Health Department, the Tax Department and now count the Fire Marshall and the entire staff at my local hardware store as trusted advisors.  I've had a fancy cap put on my well (you know, that state-of-the-art, two-vent kind); special safety-code handrails added to the balcony stairs; a twenty-five-hundred dollar, energy-efficient propane heater installed; and I bought a spiffy new queen bed, futon couch, kitchen table, chairs, dishes, appliances, reading lamps and linens, among many other things.  Oh and a new TV.

After feeling as if I'd been starring in my own year-long episode of Extreme Makeover, I was all set.  Or so I thought.

Just as I was about to announce to the world that we were finally open for business, an ice storm came through and the bathroom pipes froze.  Suddenly the place was once again strewn with tools, sawdust and hardware as my significant other and I ripped out cabinets in order to access the culprit arctic air surrounding outer-wall pipes.  The cabinets have now been duly restored, albeit with fancy screened sections to let the ambient room heat in, and I've been able to laugh at my steep flatlander learning curve, thankful that at least it didn't happen when I had guests.

So the permits are posted, the pipes are toasty, the pillows fluffed and the website launched.  A year after this idea first took hold in my many-chapeaued head, it has finally become a reality and I'm excited to be an innkeeper now too.

Oh but wait - I forgot to get a boot scraper!

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Topic:
http://www.pleasantstreetsuite.com

Songs that unite past, present and future: Samirah Evans jazzes up weekend celebrations of Dr. King and the inauguration

Hope. Change. Possibility.

For a very long while, these words were largely missing from our collective lexicon in regards to the sociopolitical climate in this country and, since November, it's been clear that we were desperate to expand both our expectations and our vernacular.

One of the most eloquent and powerful indicators of any major shift in societal sensibilities is the arts. Artists not only record change but, by definition, they are agents of it as well, by virtue of the simple fact that they create. Painters realize the impossible with brushes and canvas. Writers conjure characters and situations with paper and ink. And musicians invent concepts and emotions with instruments and lyrics.

History has been documented by artists throughout the centuries and landmark moments, in particular, have provided inspiration for informative, galvanizing work that's filled museums, libraries and record stores with extraordinarily potent forms of creative expression.

So when jazz luminary Samirah Evans was asked by the good people at the Old Tavern at Grafton if she'd like to do a concert there this weekend and if she might have a particular concept for the show, it was a no-brainer like no other.

"'Do I have a concept?," she recalls thinking, "Yes, I have a concept!'"

With the show taking place a day before Martin Luther King, Jr. Day and two days prior to Barack Obama's inauguration to the United States presidency, Evans quickly came up with the perfect title — "A Vision Realized" — and began putting together a song list that would exemplify the values and vision shared by these remarkable men.

Speaking by phone in between rehearsing and hearing from colleagues eager to join in, Evans talks about her motivation behind organizing this momentous celebration.

Pointing out the connection between Obama's humanistic sensibilities and Dr. King's dream of a country where children would not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character, she explains, "Most people think you can fight it out but MLK put his life on the line for what he believed."

"And now there's Obama's willingness to feel that dialogue can make a difference," she adds. "Regardless of whether he's black or white, it's his impeccable character that's important."

The concert will celebrate present-day triumphs as well as reflect on struggles in the past. With a song list that includes impassioned comments on the Civil Rights Movement, such as Nina Simone's "Mississippi Goddam" and Sam Cooke's "A Change Is Gonna Come," Evans has planned a concert that will give voice to the evolution of America's conscience on the issue of race up to the pivotal event that takes place on Tuesday.

"I want to sing songs that deal with social injustice and lead to the idea of hope and moving forward and possibility," says Evans. "Like 'Imagine' and 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow.' It's so hopeful: 'If birds can fly so can I.' You know, we shall overcome."

Having started her singing career when, fresh out of college, she took the stage at the legendary New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival (this woman seems to do everything big and bold), Evans went on to become an acclaimed fixture in the New Orleans jazz scene. She has toured Europe, Asia and North and South America, playing alongside greats like B.B. King, James Brown and Irma Thomas, and has two exhilarating CDs out, including the freshly pressed, deliciously melodic and profoundly moving, "My Little Bodhisattva."

Listen to one bar of a Samirah Evans tune and her great success and stature in the jazz world instantly makes sense. With phrasing that inventively sculpts each line, whether she's singing a familiar standard or one of her many original compositions, and a timbre that ranges from sonorous to silken to sandy, Evans imprints her endearingly buoyant charm and palpable emotional depth onto every tune. Add to it a Klieg-light smile, a ready laugh and the energy of a kid in a candy shop and her lives shows are enigmatic and invigorating.

Considering that she hails from a place known for its vibrant energy, soulful style and robust appetite for pure, unadulterated fun, jazz is the obvious medium for someone like Ms. Evans and we Vermonters should count our lucky stars she's brought that mojo to our fair state.

After Hurricane Katrina, Evans and her husband Chris Lenois moved to his native Brattleboro and she has been building a new and enthusiastic fan base here ever since. Having bestowed her exuberant presence upon numerous clubs in the region, last September Evans kicked off the Vermont Jazz Center's concert season with a sold-out evening that featured saxophone maestro Charles Neville. She is clearly on the same sort of trajectory she experienced in New Orleans, making this concert — which takes place in the White Church across from the Old Tavern in Grafton at 3 p.m. Sunday — even more of a coup for local jazz fans.

With a dynamic, intuitive band comprised of bassist George Kaye, Bob Wiener on drums, pianist Miro Sprague and Dia Silverstein playing sax, along with special guests including indie-folk songstress Lisa McCormick, gospel-soul singer Moonlight and singer/guitar duo Cindy and Greg Hellmann, this event will pack a powerful punch, both musically and politically.

One of the most controversial songs slated is "Strange Fruit," a poetically ominous account of an Indiana lynching written by Abel Meeropol and made famous by Billie Holiday who first performed it at the Greenwich Village venue, Café Society, in 1939. House rules there were that when Miss Holiday performed this tune, with which she always ended each set, the entire staff was to remain motionless and silent, in reverence for the gravity of its message. At Sunday's performance we all will be, unquestionably, similarly attentive, particularly considering the monumental symbology to be found in the strides and struggles that have brought this nation from those somber days of oppression and hatred to Tuesday's awe-inspiring, unparalleled event on the steps of the Capitol.

Amidst her immense reverence for the sociocultural hardship and endurance that her concert is honoring, Evans emphasizes that joy is at its core. "I'll be singing New Orleans classics and choice standards as well," she attests. "I want it to be a show where everyone is welcome, an all-inclusive celebration of King's legacy and Obama's inauguration. They're songs that will leave people feeling really full and energized."

Tickets are $10 for adults (kids under 12 free), are tax deductible and benefit the Windham Foundation's Grafton Fund, which supports cultural programs in the area.

On a personal note: Due to an increase in other journalistic commitments, Sover Scene will appear on an intermittent basis going forward. I encourage everyone to stay in touch via the archive blog and by reading this phenomenal paper, Vermont's oldest, most eloquent and fearless family-run daily.

Change is good and, as with Ms. Evans' concert on Sunday, I too celebrate what I predict is a new chapter of hope and possibility for everyone!

Online: www.samirahevans.com
www.oldtavern.com
Annie: annieguyoncommunications.com

Take a cup of kindness: Reflections and resolution on New Year's Eve

I wouldn't call it schadenfreude, exactly, but at this time of year I feel an odd mixture of glee that I'm no longer a twenty-something urbanite scrambling to have the perfect New Year's Eve and a slightly amused empathy for anyone who is.

When I consider what Dec. 31sts used to be like during that phase of life, it all becomes one blur of so-so entertainment, insufferable crowds, mediocre food and, all too often, anti-climactic midnights.

There was the time my friends and I piled into someone's sprawling Cadillac and drove from San Francisco to Portland, Ore., to see The Pretenders, whose concert we'd just attended the night before, only to find a hand-scrawled note on the door of the auditorium saying the drummer had hurt his wrist and the show was canceled. When the clock struck midnight, instead of gyrating to "Brass In Pocket" and reveling in our collective cool under falling confetti and a spinning mirrored ball, we were drowning our sorrows in watery milkshakes at a low-lit diner.

One New Year's Eve I was scheduled to perform with my tap troupe in an opulent bar called Oz at the top of the Westin St. Francis in San Francisco. It was a well-paying gig and, as I was putting myself through college, I needed to put the budget before socializing

Peeking out from the dressing room, I could see that already most of the couples looked as if they were ready to change partners and groups of friends appeared bored witless by each other's company. Upon discovering that the marble stage area was slick as ice, we had to simplify the entire show just to avoid breaking a limb and our cocktail-infused, companion-maxed audience seemed about as enrapt as if we were delivering a lecture on the plight of the rare and endangered crested newt.

I recall another end-of-year disappointment when my friends and I got soaked as we waited in pelting rain to get into a new club to see a ska band from London. After being herded through the front doors, we were informed that the dance floor was beyond capacity. We therefore heard, but did not actually see the band from a sardine-tin lobby and ended up heading home where we rang in the new year with tea and toast (the bread, not bubbly, variety).

Probably the strangest New Year's Eve I ever had was in New York City, when my boyfriend and I decided to forego the club scene and have a quiet meal instead. He'd dumped me just before Thanksgiving and right after Christmas announced he could not live without me, pleading with me to go on a relationship-restoration jaunt to his hometown for some earnest wining and dining (no doubt in order to help me forget said dumpage).

The restaurant happened to be at West 72nd and Central Park West, right across from the Dakota apartments where John Lennon had been shot just a few years before. After dinner, we stopped and gazed at the arched entrance to the imposing, Germanic stone building, in a sort of delayed stupor at the gravity of the sorrowful event that had taken place there.

Suddenly, a couple came rushing out of the Dakota's inner courtyard, crossing the sidewalk and maneuvering through parked cars and into the street. The gentleman, dressed in a banana-yellow three-piece suit, with a mop of black ringlets covering most of his face, instantly began whistling for a cab. He flagged one down in short order and hurriedly escorted the women, who seemed flustered and none too happy, into the back seat. He did not join her, however, but instead said something to the driver, swung the door shut and gave a quick knock on the trunk.

As we stood observing this odd scene, the man in the yellow suit remained motionless, arms hanging at his sides, gazing at the tail lights of the cab as they rushed away. With a heavy sigh of what could only be interpreted as extreme relief, he walked over to our side of the street and hailed another cab for himself, heading in the other direction. It was at that moment we realized we'd been watching Tiny Tim, he of the tip-toeing through the tulips with a ukulele fame.

The mix of sadness with celebrity sighting made an already peculiar New Year's Eve yet more disquieting. Any thoughts of heading to Times Square to join the churning masses had somehow been duly squelched and we took the subway back over to Brooklyn Heights where we were staying. Midnight had me reflecting on the dumpage, the Dakota and the resigned expression on Tiny Tim's face. I could relate, somehow, and knew that would be the last New Year's Eve I'd spend with my beau who, I realized before the first sip of champagne, wasn't the one for me.

Thereafter, my only yearly resolution has been to celebrate at home with people I love. A lovely tradition along those lines continues tonight, when I'm having a few close friends over for a low-key evening of good conversation, laughter, munchies and music while the kids play board games and compare Christmas loot. The husbands of two friends who'll be here are musicians and both happen to be playing at pubs around the corner, so at some point my beau and I will sneak out to make an appearance and toast the New Year amid the pulsing throngs of our tiny Vermont village.

Cozy soirees notwithstanding, this area offers some marvelously en masse revelry for couples and families at various venues, the highlight being a remarkably innovative and inclusive event at Stratton Mountain Ski Resort in Bondville.

Adults can join in on a group snowshoe hike from the lower slopes up to the Mid-Mountain Lodge for cocktails and then watch two spectacles take place right there on the mountain, both of which can also be viewed from the base lodge: a torch-light parade, in which up to 100 top skiers and snowboarders wind their way down the mountain bearing blazing torches, followed by fireworks that reflect dramatically on all that white stuff. There are special family dinners and kids' parties as well, so it's a wonderful way for everyone to ring in the New Year in true Vermont style.

Happy 2009, everyone. I have a feeling it's going to be full of good change. As the lesser known chorus of "Auld Lang Syne" says, "walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart."

Online: stratton.com

Annie: annieguyoncommunications.com

My articles in The New York Times, The Boston Globe & Art New England

Art New England, Dec 08-Jan 09 issue  http://www.artnewengland.com/issues/Dec_Jan_2009/regional_reviews_vermont.html

The Boston Globe, September 28^th, 2008  http://www.boston.com/travel/explorene/vermont/articles/2008/09/28/for_artists_palettes_a_rich_backdrop_of_autumnal_color/

The New York Times, December 19, 2008  http://www.nytimes.com/2008/12/19/greathomesanddestinations/19away.html?_r=1&scp=1&sq=%22on+a+whim%2c+the+rural+life%22&st=nyt

Tis better to shop Main Street: A holiday pitch for our local creative economy

In our current economic spiral and with the holidays upon us, it is human nature to gravitate toward the discounts, clearance sales and brand name bargains that populate the papers, airwaves and ether. Hip ads on TV, pithy jingles on the radio, coupons in the dailies and pulsating banner ads online all beckon us to save, save, save yet spend, spend, spend.

With the recent focus on big business blunders and Wall Street woes, however, I’ve begun to question just where our gelt is going and who, specifically, it supports. While I understand that the economy suffers when consumers stop consuming, I look around my own community and consider the plight of struggling sole proprietorships long before worrying about the big boys. I look at the painters, potters, poets, novelists, musicians, photographers, woodworkers, jewelers and other artisans who make a high-quality original works of art but who do not have massive marketing budgets to help sell their wares. I think of farmers who choose to keep their enterprises small and organic in support of the localvore philosophy.

I also marvel at the tenacity and spirit of these folks who could easily abandon their chilly studios for well-heated mega-stores, give up their understaffed shops and go work for a brand name competitor or trade their agricultural ideals for more lucrative crop management. That they choose to stay the course in the face of encroaching corporations is beyond commendable — it’s why we live here and why a day of supporting the economy in our historic downtowns is remarkably pleasant, pragmatic and community-building, if not soul-nourishing.

Still, I’m no saint. About once a year I give in to time and budgetary constraints and stock up on various staples in mass quantities at mega-retailers, all the while tsk-tsking my momentary failure to support small retailers the way I usually do. By the time I’ve made my purchase, whether it’s through an online purveyor of every houseware known to man or in a vast indoor city of avenues lined with oversized cleaning products gleaming beneath a fluorescent sky, I feel just a little bit unclean.

Commercial Goliaths are everywhere you look and, when it comes to warm and fuzzy packaging, it’s hard not to be intoxicated by the marketing machine and buy in, literally and figuratively, to well-crafted ad campaigns. The sorry truth of it is that, between economizing and our easily seduced psyches, at this time of year it’s hard not to get in the car or open a browser and head straight for the most obvious options.

Heck, every year I equip my kids for Vermont winters with “Made in Vietnam” outerwear, ordered from catalogue companies that have brilliantly managed to transform the cultural symbology of a down-home, homespun, rural lifestyle into multibillion dollar industries.

“Experience marketing,” as it’s known in the advertising world, has been part of the retail industry for a couple of decades now and it’s awfully hard to be impervious to its multisensorial charms. Coffee chains surround the customer with carefully chosen aesthetics, music and smells while clothing stores are furnished with enticing leather chairs, exotic plants and chic travel photography. It’s all beautifully staged and makes shopping slightly less tedious, I suppose, but the faux-congeniality that usually goes with the retail chain experience is what kills it for me.

Downtowns in New England offer something that no perfectly appointed brand boutique or bulk bargain mother ship can: a true feeling of participation, belonging and connection. When I head to Bellows Falls to do my errands — choose a bouquet at Halladay’s Florist, buy a new novel at Village Square Booksellers, stock up on light bulbs at J & H Hardware or pick up a CD at Bull’s Eye Music — merchants know me, they know my kids and they impart a feeling of comfort and familiarity that no amount of ersatz-atmosphere or über-selection can replace.

Sure, I could go to the nearby multinational warehouse store to pick up some pens and have a hundred choices but when I go to Snow & Lear office supply on the square, the value is more than just the pens. There’s Nancy, the ever-cheery clerk who will order anything I need and usually knows what it is before I do, most of the time the price is better than the competition and there’s parking right out front. Nothing can compete with that, nor the cute cartoons she clips and tapes to the counter or the paper clock hanging in the door that shows when she’ll be back from lunch.

Talk about experience marketing. This region has it oozing from every warmly lit storefront, jumbled window display and wry proprietor’s grin and it ain’t manufactured and it isn’t the result of millions of dollars of demographic research by suits in big offices. It’s just embedded in the character of the people who make our small towns and villages so unique.

At this time of year my gratitude for local merchants is especially great, whether it’s toy stores or galleries, bath shops or bakeries, and as I look at my list of holiday gifts to buy, I map out routes through nearby vintage downtowns, knowing that I’ll not only very likely find everything I need but I’ll be supporting the region as well.

My favorite thing to get for loved ones is, of course, art and Vermont is a goldmine of one-of-a-kind gifts that were made by hand by people who live and work in our communities. There are purveyors of locally made original items throughout the state, some focusing solely on Vermont artists, while others offer work by craftspeople from around New England.

One of my regular stops is Vermont Artisan Designs, in Brattleboro, where more than 6,000 square feet of space showcases paintings, glassware, jewelry, bowls, furniture and other assorted gifts, 75 percent of which are made in Vermont, with most of the remaining items from the surrounding region. Having opened 40 years ago, the store is testament to the vision and diligence of people like Suzy and Greg Worden, who have owned it for the past two decades and who are committed to supporting the work of high-caliber artists with the store, the fine art gallery upstairs and their online business, Buyvermontart.com.

Greg Worden reckons that, with prices starting at $5 and going into the thousands, it’s a great place for all holiday shoppers wanting to support their local craftspeople. “What we’re trying to do is maintain quality for the same price-point,” he explained recently, “so when you get something from here and see the paper it’s wrapped in, it’s something that everybody can feel good about.”

This type of one-stop shopping from an expansive collection of original works in a broad range of media also satisfies that urban/suburban experience that’s somewhat rare in rural areas. “It used to be a department store,” Worden attests, “so we’ve reclaimed that, in a way.”

There are numerous retail stores in the area offering a similarly pragmatic approach to supporting the creative economy, including Maplewing Artisans in Bellows Falls, the Jelly Bean Tree in Saxtons River, Frog Hollow Craft Center and the Artists Guild in Manchester, Gallery 103 in Chester and the Bennington Arts Guild, to name just a few. And don’t forget Vermont-grown, homemade foodstuffs that can’t be found anywhere else.

Give neighborhood arts and crafts merchants a look this year and ye shall come to holiday parties bearing beautiful gifts that will be loved by the receiver while simultaneously injecting much-needed fuel into our local creative economy. Be assured, too, that original art does not have to be expensive, as Worden will attest.

“Pewter pocket angels are the size of a quarter and they start at $5. You can even carry a pocket Buddha with you.”

Ah, the gift of serenity in the season of shopping. I’ll put that at the top of my list.

Annie: annieguyoncommunications.com

Appreciation for the Arts: Because they just make the world a better place

It's that time of year again, the day when we sit down with loved ones after a week of rushing from store to store, picking up feast-makings and juggling vacationing kids with last minute work projects before either mobilizing the entire family show to a relative's or bracing ourselves for an onslaught of guests.

In the midst of that brand of delightful chaos that only holidays can conjure, it can be hard to remember what this day is all about: Being thankful.

Whew … oh … uh, right!

So, let's all take a deeeeep, cleansing breath and reflect, for a few moments, on the many gifts of living in a remarkable place such as Vermont. Of course, you know I'm going to go right to the arts because, well, that's just what I do. And each Thanksgiving, I focus on a few people who help make this the most culturally stimulating, creatively charged and artistically soul-nourishing place I have ever been lucky enough to call home (and that's saying a lot).

Firstly, I'm thankful to Ruth Allard, who runs an amazing literacy program called Windham County Reads, which has been fostering partnerships with schools, businesses, libraries and human service organizations for 20 years. Founded by the late Betsey Bonin, the project maintains high ideals for kids up to age 12, including working towards getting 100 percent of students from kindergarten through sixth grade involved in year-round reading advocacy programs. WCR also seeks to motivate 85 percent of all parents, guardians and caregivers to read to their young charges every day, with the hopes that 80 percent of them will begin their school careers ready to read.

I remember years ago feeling a little dorky lying on the bed with my infant son and daughter, holding mini-board books in front of their excited eyes and reading extremely abridged tales of "Puss in Boots," "The Lion and the Mouse" and "Peter Rabbit" to them. When I'd finish reading and hand the book to them, they'd promptly put it in their mouth and start gumming it.

I always thought at that age, when every stimulus taps into a primal sense of curiosity and thrall in babies, that there had to be something Pavlovian about it: "Huh," I'd imagine them thinking as they eyed the book while listening intently to the shifting tones and expressions in my voice, "whenever Mommy holds this colorful, strangely segmented thing in front of me, she makes those goofy sounds and sometimes even laughs and sings. Whatever it is, it's fun!"

We did this every day, until the books became less of a chew toy and more of a fascinating object to simply hold and explore. Eventually, after logging in thousands of hours reading aloud to my kids through the years, they were the ones reading to me. In fact, my son (now an 11-year-old who reads at the college level and regularly swipes my New Yorker) and I passed a lovely afternoon yesterday being regaled with the adventures of "Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH" by Robert O'Brien, read to us by his 9-year-old sister, who has also become a voracious reader.

Hearing her fluidly pronounce words like "illogical", "agricultural" and "approximately," she may as well be getting sworn in on the steps of the Capitol, I'm that proud. And you can bet I kept a few of those dog-eared (more like beaver-gnawed) books for purely sentimental reasons. Knowing that folks like Ruth Allard at Windham County Reads are out in the community making it a mission to render all young kids' tomes similarly tattered by regular use, thereby cultivating entire generations of future readers (and writers, goes without saying), is a truly awe-inspiring notion.

In the spirit of full disclosure, and as the perfect segue to the other of my favorite arts besides the literary — that of the fine — I should say that my son was this year's winner of the Windham County Reads poster art contest, which encourages kids in the region to dovetail their love of books with a painterly muse as well.

Art teachers throughout the area motivate their students to get involved in the contest and, in my son's case, it was his fifth-grade art teacher, Colleen Grout, who got her students involved. That his prize was an art supply store gift-certificate bestowed by a literacy organization not only validated this symbiotic connection between the arts, but it was a testament to how integrated the literary and visual arts are in this area. As a parent, it is wonderful to note how exponentially a child's interest grows in each of these vital creative quarters when they receive support from both.

At Great River Arts Institute in Bellows Falls, this amalgam of literacy and fine arts is a core tenet that's put into motion through their Open Art outreach program that brings local artists into the public schools to teach after-school programs. Created in response to recent cuts in school arts and writing programs, GRAI decided to fill the void with 6-week after-school classes taught in the fall, winter and spring in schools throughout the region.

According to Education Director Kristen Fehrenbach, these courses aren't simply about reading and art. They weave together both pleasures, using one to inspire the other and vice versa. Saxtons River painter Julia Zanes, for example, recently taught a class in which a folk tale directly inspired the art.

"Julia started off each class reading a story," says Fehrenbach, "like Ganesh, with his sidekick rat and his tray of sweets, and she'd set the kids up with materials so they could start creating as she read."

Alexis Doshas, GRAI Director of Programs for Adults, also taught a class that brought words and images together, first having the kids write haiku in response to photographs and then taking photos inspired by haiku.

Sometimes I have to pinch myself that I'm raising my kids amid artists, educators and child advocates like these who posses such a breadth of expansive thinking and it's something for which I am, on this Thanksgiving, profoundly grateful.

By the way, from Friday through Sunday, Windham County Reads is holding its annual Book Sale, with new books at half-price and all proceeds going to WCR. Likewise, GRAI always welcomes donations.

Have a satiating Thanksgiving and if you can fit it in, between the turkey and the pie, read something aloud and make a picture with any and all kids that are present. Don't forget, it doesn't just take a village to raise a child, it takes a village to inspire them too.

Online: www.greatriverarts.org

windhamcountyreads.org

Annie: annieguyoncommunications.com

Champions of Change: How shifting political climates influence the arts

"The arts embody the American spirit of self-definition. Our nation's creativity has filled the world's libraries, museums, recital halls, movie houses and marketplaces with works of genius. To remain competitive in the global economy, America needs to reinvigorate the kind of creativity and innovation that has made this country great."

These words introduce Barack Obama and Joe Biden's official platform in support of the arts and, though eclipsed during the campaign by other issues such as the war, the economy and health care, their stance on this topic will affect artists, art administrators and art lovers around the country for years to come.

The absence of meaningful discussion of the arts or arts education in both candidates' stump speeches did have me concerned, however. I consider the empirical nurturing and presence of creative achievement to be core evidence of a healthy society, right up there with crucial social services, a strong financial infrastructure, high-caliber education, accessible health care and, contrary to Sarah Palin's sensibilities, a robust national network of committed community organizers.

Arts organizations strive to stay the course regardless of who's occupying the White House and, here in Vermont, one group has navigated the winds of political change with clear vision and a steady hand throughout the tenure of nine presidents.

The Vermont Arts Council was established 44 years ago in response to a federal law intended to funnel arts funding to every state and it was an opportunity that a handful of astute local movers and shakers wanted to harness as efficaciously as possible.

Alex Aldrich, who has been the executive director of the council since 1996, recently reflected on the evolution of this remarkable organization which serves as a comprehensive resource for artists, arts organizations and art advocates throughout the state.

"We started in anticipation of the federal law that created National Endowment for the Arts," he explains. "Judge Bill Billings of Woodstock, his wife Polly and a few other very sharp, forward-thinking people said 'If they're going to create this law that will give us state funds, let's not wait until it happens and have the governor decide who gets funded', which is what happened in all other states with the possible exception of New York."

"In Vermont," Aldrich continues, "the VCA was created in the fall of 1964 and the following spring Judge Billings, who at the time was speaker of the House, introduced legislation in the very late hours of the last day (of the session) designating this new entity known as the Vermont Arts Council to be the official recipient of state and federal funds. As a result of that brilliant piece of legislative maneuvering, we've always enjoyed complete independence from political influence."

The VAC has since served as the only nonprofit state arts agency in the country, integrating private and public arts resources and objectives into one cohesive effort. Through its mission — "to advance and preserve the arts at the center of Vermont communities" — the VAC offers everything from professional development and technical guidance for artists and grant opportunities for individuals, schools and nonprofits to key partnerships with municipal and community entities that foster arts education, exhibitions, appreciation and awareness throughout the state.

With its 2009 fiscal budget slated at $2.04 million, comprised of federal, state and private funding, the VAC has always served a distinguished constituency by upholding consistent criteria in all of its programs and services.

When I asked about the VAC's giving guidelines, Aldrich described the review process. "Over the years, we haven't given the public or the government reason to scrutinize our work because we have a standard process of grant review by peer panelists which our board then reviews. Everything's done by the book."

He went on to reflect on the evolution of the VAC in relation to the changing political landscape over the years, echoing the organization's own expansive perspective and enduring aim to maintain its original ideals and intentions.

"What's interesting is that we went along like this for about 25 or 30 years and then into that horrible period of time, at the end of the Reagan era and the beginning of Bush and then going into Clinton era, when the culture wars heated up.

"Our country lost the culture wars," continues Aldrich, "and what was sad about that is that we lost an unfair amount of trust on part of the general public. We realized we needed to get his back on track, so we asked 'Why are the arts important?' 'Who benefits from an investment of tax dollars into the arts?' And we began to come up with a whole new language around the public value of and participation in the arts, far more than simply funding things that are entertaining."

When one considers that just a few years ago in the midst of G.W.'s two terms as president, Pat Buchanan declared that it's "time for Congress, in this culture war, to lead, follow or get out of the way," it's reassuring to know that people like Aldrich are asking these vital questions.

With regard to how support for the arts shifts from administration to administration, Aldrich offered a genuinely fair and balanced view. "I do find it's more about who's in Congress. It really does take both Congress and the administration to step up to the plate to improve what's going on in the art world. And that's how it should be, how our republic is supposed to function."

"Politics and art are completely connected," he avows. "Every now and then we have to pick a new Vermont poet laureate and when we were investing Grace Paley — one of the most visible poets with an arrest record for being anti-war — in February of 2003, a month before we attacked Iraq, I was very grateful that Gov. Douglas allowed her to be nominated. He said artists disagree with the artistic opinions of politicians about as often as politicians disagree with the political opinions of artists."

"For both artists and politicians, their livelihood is all about communicating. We're basically in the same business."

Aldrich recalled a well-known anecdote from the annals of World War II about Winston Churchill's finance minister suggesting that, in order to better support the war effort, they should cut funding for the arts and Churchill is said to have responded with something along the lines of "Good god, what are we fighting for if not that?"

"Art is important because it builds community," Aldrich attests. "Our art community is a huge part of what draws people to move to Vermont, to settle down and raise their children here. It's a certain indefinable quality of life issue that the arts bring to the table and that can be found nowhere else. If you don't have the arts going on you're going to have a hard time making people stop and think "I'd really love to live here'."

With a robust laugh he concludes, "I've been on that rant for at least 25 years."

As far as new presidential administrations go and whether promises made during campaigning come to fruition, opinions vary widely.

Avant-garde writer and social critic William Burroughs once said, "Artists, to my mind, are the real architects of change, and not the political legislators who implement change after the fact."

To this I would add that, in between the artist as instigator and the politician as implementer is the arts administrator as propeller, facilitator, defender and all around champion of the creative spirit in all of us.

When it comes to Obama and Biden's intentions to improve the state of the arts in this country, the audacity of my hope is that they're able to be true to their words despite the immense pressures of other issues that typically receive far more ink, sound bytes and discussion.

Fortunately, there are people like Aldrich and his staff who, with diligence and determination, manage to stay the course regardless of who's at the national helm.

Online: vermontartscouncil.org

Annie: annieguyoncommunications.com

Goblins, witches and politicians: Tricks and treats of every variety abound

As my kids fill the front window with ghoulish drawings in anticipation of tomorrow night's sugary festivities, I find myself haunted by the ghost of one particular Halloween past.

The United States was submerged in a costly, increasingly questionable war and there was a fierce presidential campaign under way that had become mired in nonstop volleys of divisive accusations and cookie-cutter rhetoric. Hmm ... sound familiar?

It was 1972 and as a budding political junkie, thanks to an activist older sister, even at age 10 I sensed that the escapist fun of Halloween was mightily diluted by what was happening on the political stage. Though parents probably assumed national politics didn't distract us kids from visions of bubble gum and mini Hershey bars, it managed to infiltrate even grade school psyches, casting an ominous cloud over the whimsical proceedings.

Conversations about costumes were peppered with discussions of whose parents were Nixon supporters and whose folks were voting for McGovern. I remember one little girl who proudly wore a Nixon button on her Cinderella outfit during the Halloween parade, telling me that my hippie costume and peace-sign necklace were stupid.

Thanks to a diplomatic and politically engaged teacher, we held mock debates during history class, though I wondered if anyone else had noticed the McGovern bumper sticker on her brown Pinto.

The beginning of that school year was steeped in heavy issues of the day and yet, as Hallow's Eve approached, most kids focused on the pumpkin-carving and sweet loot to come. I had my orange UNICEF boxes folded and at the ready, as well, anticipating plenty of coinage.

My 15-year-old sister, Dale, however, was a bit distracted from all the faux-suspense of Halloween by a very real sense of anticipation that held the nation in its grip. She and her best friend Karen had been volunteering in the McGovern-Shriver campaign and were planning to go out before sundown on Halloween to canvass the neighborhood. I remember thinking how unfair it was that I got to go out and collect candy and she had to pass out fliers and talk about politics. For some reason, I had it in my head that all teenagers had to go door-to-door before elections, the way young adults go to college and grownups go to work — just part of the job description.

At the end of a bountiful night, as I was examining my mountain of Charleston Chews and Sugar Babies — and while Mum confiscated any apples, which in those days were common but regarded as nefarious objects of suspicion, much to the delight of children everywhere — the political activists were sprawled on the couch, exhausted, brooding and seemingly oblivious to my treat-induced rapture.

A week later, while my candy supply prevailed, their hope for the future did not. Nixon won, by a landslide, and my sister was devastated. I remember thinking, as she cried in her room and the adults spoke in somber tones in the kitchen, that we probably wouldn't even have Halloween anymore, since everyone seemed so upset. If the whole family was this distraught, it must mean everything was going to change, as if something apocalyptic had happened that would alter life as I knew it.

But lo, Halloween arrived the next year as per usual and costumed kids went house-to-house with their sacks and flashlights collecting that autumnal windfall of individually wrapped goodies.

Years later, when I became a parent, I was reminded of the joys of this annual costume-candy cocktail, but it wasn't until we experienced Halloween in a tiny rural village that I learned for the first that it can actually be a galvanizing event in terms of community.

In the big city, Halloween is all too anonymous and laced with parental trepidation. Moms and Dads walk their kids right up to every door, later examining their spoils with a metal detector and a klieg light, and it's unheard of to accept anything homemade.

So on our first Halloween in Vermont, when my kids were 4 and 6 years old, it felt a bit like walking into a scene from "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown," with its tacit atmosphere of safety and familiarity. In our little village, a sweet, informal parade forms in front of the elementary school and winds its way through a few streets before returning to the gym where the PTO puts on a supper of soup and sandwiches.

Afterwards, flocks of kids criss-cross roads that are blocked off from traffic, with parents strolling casually behind, chatting, or Moms convening on a front porch to give out candy while the Dads are out with the little ones before trading shifts.

When it's my turn to man the fort, I'm always amazed at how many kids I know personally, if I can recognize them behind their masks and make-up, that is.

There's one house up the road that always makes me pinch myself yet again that I am so fortunate to be raising my children in Vermont.

Instead of bearing a vat of store-bought candy, the woman of the house stands at the door holding a bowl brimming with warm, freshly made doughnut holes. It's the most popular stop in town and every year I joke that next time I'm bringing a Thermos of coffee to go with her scrumptious treats.

This year my Mum's cousin Dutchy will be here visiting from England and, as he usually makes his yearly sojourn during the summer, it'll be his first encounter with a proper Hallow's Eve. Some kids trick-or-treat in the UK but it's a very Americanesque holiday that went over on the Hallmark boat, no doubt. They might have their Guy Fawkes Day, with the bonfires and everyone running around saying "Penny for the guy," but there is nothing like an authentic American Halloween to make kids of any age appreciate the chill and expectancy of autumn, not to mention elections.

Dutchy had decided that this year he'd come over to finally experience not only New England foliage, but the American electoral process as well. Little did he know that about a week before the vote-counting, he'd be stationed on my porch handing out candies to 2-foot-high ghosts and diminutive fairies. He'll be equally amused by the big guys as well, since every Halloween at least one teenager seems to show up in one of those rubbery Nixon masks, though this year a few other visages might be in the mix.

And though I will not be taking down my daughter's colorful Obama sign that she made — of her own volition, I might add — that hangs in the window among cut-out pumpkins and squiggly spectres, I do plan to bring in my lawn signs tomorrow night.

Don't want the little tykes tripping over my political activism, no matter who their parents are supporting.

Annie: www.annieguyoncommunications.com

Painting as performance: Tim Allen shifts dynamic between artist and viewer

Of solitude, Claude Monet once said, "One's better off alone and yet there are so many things that are impossible to fathom on one's own. In fact it's a terrible business and the task is a hard one."

Putney painter Tim Allen has been thinking about this issue. Working alone in his studio during the past year on a bold series of large oil paintings based on birch trees and bamboo, Allen has reflected on the typical mandate of the artist to toil in solitude, the role of the viewer to observe the work once it is complete and ways that those two roles might intersect.

He's decided to shake up this standard dichotomy of creation versus response, transforming the Windham Art Gallery in Brattleboro into a temporary studio and making a painting from scratch in the hallowed environs where art lovers expect to see finished works safely hung (and dry).

The show, which runs through Nov. 2, will therefore include Allen who will be in the gallery painting during regular business hours, Thursday through Sunday, noon to 5 p.m. — surrounded by six finished works. An opening reception will be held from 5 to 8 p.m. Friday.

The idea to integrate the act of painting with the exhibit itself came from a curiosity about the role of the witness in creative endeavors, how spectators influence artists and whether the work evolves differently when an observer is present.

"I often feel fairly isolated at my studio," says Allen. "I realized that I'm working alone most of the time so I reflected on the work of performance artists and imagine how they might be fed by having an audience there. There's certainly a different energy."

He went on to describe theatrical events in which the dynamic between the viewer and the viewed can be, in and of itself, mutually cathartic.

"I like performers who perform in very intimate settings and create a real synergy with the audience, like Sandglass Theater," he explains, referring to the popular puppetry ensemble in Putney whose performance space is comparatively small. "It has an intimacy that's very sweet."

"I was thinking of how little our process is visible and it got me wondering if painting in a more social setting might affect my mood."

When I asked whether input from gallery goers will be welcome, he was enthusiastic about the notion. "I will be open to comments from people and part of what I feel excited about is the possibility of interactions that might happen and how they could influence the work. It might not be any interaction related to painting but just having a conversation about something specific."

Allen first began painting in earnest at age 9, when his parents gave him a full set of oil paints at the behest of a beloved art teacher at a community center near where he grew up in Florida.

"I sold my first painting at age 11, to friends of my parents, and painted all through high school," he recalled. While attending the Parson's School of Design in New York City, he became focused on medical illustration and then shifted to industrial design. "Eventually, I stopped to figure out who I was behind my artist identification and explored other aspects of life."

Taking a few years off from artistic pursuits to become a certified massage therapist while living in Boston, Allen was ultimately able to redefine what art meant to him and life took him full circle back to the studio. This inventive use of a gallery exhibit is, therefore, part of a larger personal and professional progression with possibilities that are both invigorating and healing.

"Another aspect is that, when I was young, art was a bit of performance," he acknowledges. "My mom would ask me to paint a pretty picture for my grandmother, so I felt like I wasn't really being seen for who I was. It was praise that wasn't terribly satisfying."

"So when I started painting again, I didn't want to paint for other people's approval. It was a question of 'can I show who I am and not just be pleasing to other people, can I be visible or do I get lost in the presentation of the process?' This is a way of challenging myself, where there's a bit of tension with putting it out there and risk-taking. And I like connecting with people."

The work in progress takes place in the context of a comprehensive exhibit which showcases Allen's inventive approach to painterly methods and composition. Each deftly rendered panel, some of which are three feet high and six feet or more wide, is filled edge to edge by trunks and branches with neither roots nor tips visible.

Forests of delicate white-and-black limbs are cropped along the top and bottom, resulting in images that read as compelling, enlarged details of larger paintings. By closing his aperture on specific aspects of common natural scenery, we see the environment anew, reconsidering patterns, volume and textures via shifts in depths of field and focus.

Another absorbing pictorial device that Allen employs is the balancing of subject and context through a decidedly innovative means of bestowing supposedly negative space with as much import as multidimensional elements. Vivid skies are treated with the same regard for shape and modulation as dense branches, so that they command a visual presence equal to the limbs that dissect them.

In "Fantasy in Three," varying tones of blue are divided into brilliant mosaics of slightly altered hues, resulting in a patchwork of refracted light like a glimmering yet monochromatic stained glass window.

Throughout the show, flat surface is as crucial and thoughtfully worked as shading, light and texture, so that a section of air holds our interest as much as a deftly limned twig or patch of papery bark. In some cases, purposefully executed, organically shaped sections of sky overlay leaves, impossibly yet evocatively, as if a strong breeze is moving through the room; the only thing missing is the sound of rustling.

"I had the idea of treating spaces between intersecting branches almost like objects," Allen attests.

"I just started playing with that idea of atmosphere as object and started working with different spaces. I ended up going back and forth between trees and atmosphere and it became a push-pull. The part that excited me was the edges and how they create a tension between what's going on in the foreground and what's going on behind it."

"I often paint the tree first and bring sky through," he continues. "Confusing the viewer about what's object and what's atmosphere creates movement, vibrancy and energy."

This bending of rules — visual, professional and social — comes from one core well of courage, with which Allen challenges the traditional trinity of art, studio and patron.

Leonardo Da Vinci believed that, "If you are alone you belong entirely to yourself." But by allowing viewers behind the veil, Allen is augmenting the aesthetic possibilities of his work yet further, with visitors' dialogue infiltrating his methodology and his willingness to make his technique transparent affecting how the end result might be perceived.

It's a rare opportunity for both artist and art lover to enter into a meaningful, symbiotic relationship.

Online: www.timallenart.com
www.windhamartgallery.com
Annie: www.annieguyoncommunications.com