April Shower

I left the biblioteca and was amazed to discover that in the hour since I had sat in the warm sun on the plaza, dark clouds had gathered all around Almería. I started down the hill, wondering if I would make the 2km back before the clouds caught up with me.

A few drops splattered on the pavement and thunder rumbled. I was about halfway – not far enough and I ducked into a little gift store. After collecting a few items, and looking over the entire stock twice as the thunder grew louder and the rain began to pour I final purchased the 3,30 worth of trinkets I had gathered and stood in the entrance way. The shop owner pointed out that they had a nice stock of paraguas for only 3 Euro which I dutifully examined with great attention for another 5 minutes hoping the downpour would lessen. A cheap paragua was probably not going to keep me entirely dry for the remaining 2k to the Fundacion. So I dashed across the street to a bar and ordered a café con leche and am lingering with the few other stranded occupants, watching high def music videos punctuated by thunder still stubbornly overhead. Still the rain pours down. Really pours! Thank goodness for laptops!

Fundación Valparaíso

This, my first international residency, is a strange mixture of familiar and foreign. I am in Andalucia, the southern-most section of Spain, on the Medditerranean coast in a small town called Mojácar. The town had draped itself over a steep hilltop like a puddle of melting whipped cream. Behind it rise grand, mysterious mountains that have been clinging to the fog for the last few days, only allowing sonambulent glimpses of their peaks and mounds. Orange groves around the hills are doubled over with fruit and flowers, the scent of blossoms of all sorts intoxicate the air. Wildflowers abound – bursting from the ground in spurts and sprays of yellow, purple and pink, with smaller scatterings of blue and white. The sea is a long walk away, and at present with the early April chill, I prefer to look at it from the top of a hill rather than walk along its shores, but that may change with the seasonal transition.


There are 3 ladies who come everyday to cook lunch and dinner for us and clean up after our messy breakfast forays to the kitchen. We are treated to authentic Spanish cuisine in giant earthen casseroles– tortilla, calamaris en su tinta (which only four brave souls dared to try), bread that comes steaming out of the oven right at dinnertime as we sip the red table wine and nibble tapas.

The first evening was spent with the usual questions – family, children, work, and what other residencies have we all been to. The writers do get around and there was some overlap and some tips thrown into the conversation. Now, as the first of 4 weeks slides by, we come to the hard business of actually getting to know one another. The heavy drapery of our artistic reclusiveness pushed aside by our curiosity and the awareness that this is the extent of our social world for the next 4 weeks. Bits of the past life dropped casually into conversation and left clattering loudly on the table like a lost marble that no one jumps to claim. I am the youngest here by a good 15 years, which makes my upcoming 30th birthday suddenly seem rather trifling. Everyone, (with the exception of, Hagit, the Israeli playwright) is on their second marriage, or recently divorced. Life takes on a new perspective, depending on the company.


I was in Andalucia last fall for 6 weeks and while I was ostensibly here to be highly productive on several projects that were sorely neglected at home, I found myself pulled out of focus by a need to thoroughly explore the landscape and culture surrounding me. Reflecting back on that time has led me to the realization that my artistic productivity is based on external and internal exploration. Because landscape is so much a part of my work, I must internalize it before I can infuse it with the internal meanings and concepts bouncing around in my head. One friend, a master of metaphor, described my need to set out anchors in a place, familiar landmarks from previous explorations which make that particular external place a safe place in which to explore internally. Now, here once again in Andalucia, I am no longer dazzled by the white towns on the hillsides, no longer entangled within the narrow web of old men and women winding through the streets to the plaza mayor. I am no longer surprised by the crumbling, roofless houses tucked away in the hills or the little dogs yapping at the edge of the drives as I walk past. I know I should order a vino tinto or a café con leche. There are still things to discover to be sure, but the anchors hold firm and my mind is free to begin its own exploration.

You can see more photos of the first week on Facebook

A Nice Day for a Ride

When I took my first motorcycle ride up the Pacific Coast Hwy and through the Santa Monica Mountains, snuggly situated behind my friend Dave, he explained to me the reason riding is so addicting. When you take a drive in a car, you move along the road enclosed in your protective box, safe from experiencing the speed and environment of your journey. On a bike, the elements become immediate – the warmth of the sun tempered by the air moving over my skin; the smells of the bush, the farmland, the exhaust of the truck loaded with bananas groaning its way up the hill in front; the bugs bouncing off my sunglasses and the cat calls of the local men as two Americanas on a moto whiz by. All these are immediate, visceral and turn a Thursday afternoon drive into an adventure.


With a blue-sky and pleasantly warm day, Erica and I escaped the city limits on her zippy little moto and headed up into the mountains. Our first stop was a short trail through the jungle, which wound behind a rickety house with a pleasant woman doing her laundry, past a few wild fruit trees that tempted us with their laden branches. The oranges were sour and the lemons were sweet! We followed a river to a series of cascades below the Monasterio Cisterciense Santa Maria del Evangelio. At the base of the falls we chatted with a woman from Honduras who was with a small group of service workers touring the monastery. The padre leading the group greeted us and chatted with Erica about her work with Vida para los Niños and eventually they found someone they both knew and were immediate friends He soon was affectionately dubbed “Parrot” by my sister, after a lengthy explanation that his name was Laro not loro (like the green bird that repeats everything you say). Erica promised to attend church at the monastery soon so she could try his pan con chocolate. The monks are famous for their baking and before we left we managed to purchase un pan baguette and un pan de campo. As it was well into the afternoon and our stomachs were rumbly, the pan baguette didn’t even last the walk back to our bike. Good bread is hard to find in the DR. Erica will be back.

We continued on our journey, enjoying the beautiful day and the winding road by the river. Eventually we began climbing and climbing and climbing and just before the crest of the winding curves the bike rebelled and puttered out. Two kids watched our repeated attempts to start it. Reluctantly, saving us much embarrassment, it did rev up and we made it to the top, a long downhill and rows of green mountains ahead of us receding in the distance. We continued through several small communities and finally reached our destination, a small town nicely situated on the banks of a river. Then we turned around and rode home. Really, the destination was the journey and the ride back, in the cooling air with the sun on our backs was just as pleasant.

The Best Job In the World

The Ultimate Blogging Job!

The music is called "Puddles" and was composed and performed by my friend Matt Wood.

Estepa Steps

On this week's agenda was a field trip with Don and José Maria from the video production crew. Our goal was to gather shots of the towns in the area for the new intro, which I had been one of my tasks here. So we packed up the cameras and after a few false starts due to inclement weather, we finally were on our way Thursday afternoon.

Our first stop was Aguadulce, just a few kms down the highway. We drove through the streets of this tiny town looking for the centro urbano - the cernter of town where there was likely to be some sort of landmark to photograph. Eventually, we found a tiny plaza mayor with an ayunamiénto (town hall) and a pretty fountain. That's it. We asked some locals - no nothing else in town. And they didn't even know why it was called Aguadulce! At least they could have made something up!

Next stop - Estepa. If I was moving to this area, I would live in Estepa. It is huddled part way up two rocky hills that promise some great sunset views. And below, spread out to the north is a buena vista de campania. There is a crubling torre on a hill with a lovely park, and a nice bustle of people climbing steep, narrow streets. But really, the reason I want to live there is that every year, from October to January, the town is permeated with the sweet, smell of browning sugar and cinnamon. Polvorones y Mantecados are the traditional dulces of Estepa and they are so famous they are shipped all over the world. Several factories are scattered throughout the town and there is a sweets shop on every corner. Don't ask what they put in these crumbly treats. (Really, you don't want to know!) But I tried one in the museo and well... just had to buy a whole bag!

After a lengthy lunch in the upper floor of El Morocho, watching businessmen wheel and deal as we waited and waited for our food, we quickly headed to Herrera. Again, on plaza, and one fountain. Not much else.

El Rubio was a bit more promising, but there was a funeral at the church so we couldn't really stop and take pictures. I tried to find out who this Blonde Guy was that had such a quaint little town named after him, but to no avail. I guess there are lots of blondes roaming around getting things named afer them.

The final stop was La Antiquela, José Maria's hometown. The light was fading fast, so we snapped some pictures and headed back to Osuna just in time to catch the dusk on the cathedral.

It was a long day! But well worth it. The intro is done and with only a few more weeks left, I have many things on my list of hope-to-finish!

Más fotos de España

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Osuna

The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plains

The temperamental nature of autumn is truly evidenced in Andalusia. We have had rain showers followed by near summer days of warm southern sun and then rain showers again for the past few weeks. I am still finding my rhythm within the Spanish schedule and artist’s temperament. For one more week before the clocks turn back, the town is enjoying the evening paseo before the sun sets at 7:45. The fact that it is still dark at 8am makes lingering in bed quite appealing after my late nights, but the time change might help me to shift back to a slightly more average schedule.

For the first time in months I have a kitchen to play in again and I am indeed playing. My first weekend, I attempted the famed tortilla espana, not to be confused with the tortilla mexicana – which seem to have no influence here whatsoever. A tortilla, in Spain is more like an Italian frittata or an open omelet. Anything can go in one, but usually potatoes and onions are the classic version. I tried my hand, managing to flip the thing (there is a secret!) without sending the contents all over the stove. Aaron, the son of my hosts, who grew up in Spain and was back home for a weekend from Sevilla, gave my resulting tortilla a B- It tasted great but looked a little on the thin side. Next time I will have to fill the whole pan (they have special tortilla pans here!) to the top and see what happens.Osuna is in the heart of farm country. The olive harvest is beginning. Trucks of green olives for canning are carted from the groves each day. Soon the black ones will be hauled to the presses just down the road to make the delicious local brand of oils Santa Theresa 1881 that I find in the stores all over here. I think the reason my tortilla tasted so good to me what because I could taste the subtle flavors of oil holding all the tastes together.

Osuna is not on the tourist highways of Spain. It is industrial farm country, the gritty back-country that feeds much of Europe. Walking around town there were times when I would turn a corner and feel I was in Mexico. Buildings crumble behind fences made from old bedsprings and chicken wire. Stray dogs dig through piles of trash as they roam the streets. The occasional look on the face of an elder person I pass on an evening walk hints that this is not the happy pastoral peasant life that is so often painted in our minds when we think of the Old World. But neither is it a worn and weary existence. The town hums to its own rhythm. At 2pm the streets liven up from a quiet morning and children stop for dulce on their way home from school. By 3pm, silence has settled over the town as people eat, rest, and pause in the middle of the day to recollect themselves. Around 430pm things begin to stir again, reaching a crescendo of soccer matches, street games, paseos and housewives dashing out for pan caliente before everything shuts down after sunset. On a Friday night, the main drag, Calle Alfonso XII, plays host to the local youth popping wheelies on motorcycles and enjoying the 85cent tapas at El Ejido and other bars around town.

Next week we start talking about the TV program, which I am here to improve, or at least add an outside perspective and creative breath of fresh air. Luckily Don will be translating for me, so there is another opportunity for improvement. Nothing like hearing the words you wanted to say in Spanish immediately after saying them in English! I have mostly been learning through osmosis, with a little bit of daily study with the dictionary. Already, I have noticed an improvement. I can actually put together whole phrases when I walk into a shop, rather than just blurting out the occasional word. Hopefully by the time I leave I will be speaking in sentences!

osuna espana

After a very busy summer, I have the great fortune to be transported to a place of rest and inspiration. Some friends have kindly let me stay in their empty house in the small town of Osuna, one of the white towns of Andalucía, in the south of Spain. My purpose for being here is to shake the dust of daily life off my soul and excavate the new animated short that is underneath. As I step out of my social and professional worlds into this town of cobbeled streets, siestas and aceitunas, I find the autumn overcast and language barrier provide the right environment for creative work.

Yesterday evening, my first in Osuna, I took a stroll up to the plaza mayor to check out the scene. At 7:30pm the town square is bustling with children, old men on park benches, old ladies strolling. The sounds of sport spilling from the local bars and the bass from the university student's cars are drowned out by a saturation of swallows in the trees. They perch there, like an overabundance of ripe fruit chattering and squabbling away. Truely the social hour before la cena. As dusk falls, people begin to head to their casas for the evening and I wander down quiet streets to my own place of rest.