Remembering the Freddies, My Queens

Freddie (Endrich, Jr.) was my mother's most beloved first cousin. She adored him. He called her Maisie, and bought her daybooks every year, in which she faithfully recorded the weather, as well as whether or not my father or brother were at home.

When I was growing up, during the 1960's and 1970's, Freddie was the most gentle soul I knew. He sported a thin mustache above his ever-amused lips, and a beret. In 1959, our statewide paper called him a "beatnik" and reported on how he wished to conform with no one. Unlike the rest of the men in his German family, he spoke in a soft tenor. And he was educated: not only had he been to college (his father, a plumber, had a sixth grade education like most of our family from that generation) but he had been around the world, serving in Korea, teaching at the American University in Beirut for many years. He brought me home a copy of Aesop's Fables from that sojourn, a book I held, and will always hold, dear. The tortoise and the hare?! The lion and the mouse?!

We will, we will, rock you. - Freddie Mercury and Queen 

Freddie loved my long, 1974, 13-year-old platinum hair. Somehow I had genetically mimicked the Swede who had adopted me, while with its length rebelling against parental authority all in a single act. Freddie took it as a sign of my Bohemian/artistic temperament. I was his, and he was mine.

I just gotta get out of this prison cell, one day I'm gonna be free: find me somebody to love.

Freddie had a former tenement house in the Lower East Side, south of Houston, which was a slum when I moved there in the mid-1980's. It's difficult now for people to envision NYC as it was then; so much dirt, so much crime, so much violence. The building in which Freddie lived with Basil and their twin dobermans and monkeys-in-the-shower recently sold for millions of dollars. It makes me laugh until I cry -- and I know it would him, too, if he were still around.

We are the champions, my friends. And we'll keep on fighting, 'til the end...

Freddie died of AIDS on February 12, 1988. He was 58 years old. He'd been gay for as long as any of us had known him, bringing his partner, Basil, to Christmas at my aunt's in New Jersey where he knew he'd be tolerated by a Catholic family focused on love. I couldn't find an obituary for him, and I am trying to locate his sculptures and papers in light of the recent death of his younger brother.

Freddie Mercury -- like my Freddie, a queer man who lived on the cusp of a transitioning society -- died of AIDS three years later, in 1991. There was no telling, in those days, who would die when.  Some of those diagnosed died within weeks or months. Others are still here, amazingly and against the odds, to tell the tales. This year's Oscar-nominated film for Best Picture, Bohemian Rhapsody, tells Mercury's tale remarkably well, and re-plants the band's splendid glam-rock ear worms in our heads where, with luck, they live on as reminders to us all. The holocaust is not over, with more than a million people around the world dying of AIDS every year. And there is something about Bohemian Rhapsody, as a song, that always felt eerily prescient to me..."sends shivers down my spine/body's aching all the time...gonna leave you all behind..."

But life still goes on, I can't get used to living without you by my side. I don't want to live alone...I've got to break free.

I moved into the queer world of NYC in 1985, my partner Kathryn and I staying with Freddie and Basil on Eldridge Street and also at their cottage in Cherry Grove. We had stepped into a holocaust. Our pretty, smart, creative and beloved boys were dying every hour of every day of every week. Our lives were filled with visits to St. Vincent's and memorial services. But when my Freddie died, his illness was kept under wraps. I did not even get to visit him in the hospital. Suddenly, he was gone -- like so many others.

We cannot count the dead they are so many -- but we can remember them. I remember Freddie, his soft voice, his intellect, his laughter, his desire for pleasure and for joy, his sculptures made of neon light. Freddie wanted us all to be free. And we can continue our fight for a future in which the Freddie's do not die in their quest for pleasure and freedom.

These are our birthrights as humans, challenging to achieve though they are; and it is not god who punishes us in our quests for them. Long live our struggles for pleasure, and for freedom. Long live Freddie Endrich, and Freddie Mercury. I am so grateful to you both.

#ActUp. #FightBack. #Silence=Death.

Whitey on the Moon

Close to 50 years ago, Neil Armstrong was the first man to land on the moon.

This landing — only the first of six that occurred between 1968 and 1973 — is an all but forgotten scene from American history. It’s importance to us lies more in its context than it what it achieved.

The “one small step for man…one giant leap for mankind” and President Kennedy’s desire to prove that Americans could do things precisely because they are difficult fell prey to a meaningless yet deadly war in Vietnam; a string of political assassinations of progressive leaders; race riots; domestic bombings and the National Guard shooting of students at Kent State; President Nixon’s impeachment and resignation — and most recently to reality TV.

The “space race” was just that: an hubristic enterprise by white American men, spending billions of dollars of public money to beat their Russian counterparts to the moon while America burned.

African-American musician Gil Scot-Heron captured the sentiment at the time with his poem and song, “Whitey on the Moon:” “I can’t pay no doctor bills / but Whitey’s on the moon… / No hot water, no toilets, no lights / but Whitey’s on the moon…"

Armstrong’s landing might have imbued us with a reverence for our planet and its solar system. Instead, it became just another victory march for white Americans, plowing forward, as Armstrong’s wife Janet says (her fear-based anger well portrayed by Clare Foy in “First Man,” the recent Damien Chazelle film epic of Armstrong’s flight, now playing at Opera House Arts), like “boys with balsa wood toys.” The program persisted through loss after loss of astronauts killed as test pilots and, most famously, three burned in their capsule before the takeoff of Apollo 1 in 1967. After which, we were rewarded with many shots of other astronauts planting the flag -- along with a bit of scientific research.

There just wasn't much to find on the moon itself. As Armstrong put it before he even went, what we might get was, at best, most likely to be a clearer picture of ourselves in context from outer space — one we perhaps should have had already. Armstrong himself came back from his first flight beyond the atmosphere in amazement at how thin it was.

That was 50 years ago. Little did he know that oversized U.S. fossil fuel consumption would make our atmosphere even thinner and more fragile in the years to come.

Despite the awe and positive impact sparked by the Apollo voyages' famous “blue marble” image of the earth from outer space, we’ve continued to exploit the planet more than steward it. We've continued to be distracted by political mayhem, and remained unable to invest in solving the problems of the most needy right here in our own country. In all of this, we follow in the all-too-large footsteps of that first “whitey on the moon."

Dahlov Ipcar's Joyful Visions at Bates Museum of Art

Sheep of Insight, oil by Dahlov Ipcar
in the exhibit "Blue Moons & Menageries"
Bates Art Museum through October 6

One of the great pleasures of working in the arts -- well, really, of being human -- is making time to see a lot of it. Performance, concerts, films, exhibits: we each have the chance to exult in the human imagination and creativity.

This is perhaps particularly important when the news of our day to day lives is as dark as it has been of late. If you, like me, are a citizen of the world's richest nation -- a country which makes up 5% of the world's population and consumes 25% of its energy resources -- you'd expect the default value to be one of generosity.

Unfortunately, that does not seem to be the case. Rather, our default appears to be fear. Which on the ground is translating into a new "zero tolerance" policy for immigrants and asylum seekers at our southern border. More than 2,000 children have been separated from their families in this ignominious action, an attempt by the President to bully Congress into passing the immigration legislation he wants.

Let's be 1,000% clear: separating children from their families is an act of torture.

In the meantime, I, while speaking out, sending money, and planning to put my body in the streets to protest the regime that is now running our country, was also able to enjoy my first world privileges and take in this exciting new exhibit at the Bates Art Museum today.

"Dahlov Ipcar: Blue Moons & Menageries" is brilliant to behold. In color, yes, but most importantly in the maker's internal vision of life.

Like every Mainer I've ever met, Ipcar's vision is completely her own. Unique. Visionary. Her animals have third eyes. The painted insides of their bodies often represent the worlds around them. Looking at these paintings, I could feel the expansive peace that rushes in and opens out when one looks into one's own mind to see such images.

She seems to have expressed her magical vision of the world effortlessly, in uncountable paintings (some oil, some watercolor); wood block prints; soft sculptures; textile collage; needlepoint; drawings; books...and farming.

Continuing to make art to her final days, Dahlov Ipcar lived in Georgetown, Maine, off of Bath, until she was 99 years old.

THIS is what it means to be an American. Here is empathy and compassion, for the world via animals, extended far beyond the individual self. This is why we create.

Go make some art. And, failing that, get to Lewiston to see this exhilarating, inspiring, joyous exhibit.

Ragtime is Our Time

Racism? Immigration? Musical theater?

Yep. You can catch all three in intimate relationship right now in the musical "Ragtime" at the Ogunquit Playhouse through August 26.

Among the many high performance treats of summer in Maine, the 85-year-old Ogunquit Playhouse, on the National Register of Historic Places, with its legacy of being "America's Foremost Summer Theatre," is surely near the top.

Especially when history nicely synchronizes itself with the theater's production calendar, as it does currently with its production of "Ragtime," based on the 1975 E.L. Doctorow novel of the same name.

It's the story of a talented black musician, humiliated by some working class white men, who seeks his revenge in a bomb-throwing, hostage-taking kind of way.

And, as a parallel narrative, an oppressed Jewish immigrant who makes good in America's nascent film world and marries up.

The face of Lady Liberty graces the
Ogunquit Playhouse's production
of "Ragtime."

The production opens with a gloriously giant mask of the face of Lady Liberty gracing center stage, a talisman for the audience to reflect upon before the actors arrive.

You can't make this stuff up - I mean, wait, you don't have to. It's all in our headlines, right now. Don't forget, this season had to have been planned and cast at least a year ago. The fates of current events are shining on "Ragtime"'s relevance.

A child of the tumultuous 1970's myself, I love that "Ragtime" is oft described as "a unique adaptation of the historical narrative genre with a subversive 1970s slant" -- by which its describers mean that it's author wielded a distinctly politicized, progressive point of view.

The musical's beating heart is a score based in the gorgeous genre of music of the same name, which, with its melding of African-American jazz to pop, came to define the U.S. during the opening of the 20th century. But its story is pure National Book Award winner Doctorow's.

In an effort to educate middle-class white Americans on our history, Doctorow wrote several pastiches, bringing together motley assortments of historical characters to provide us with a snapshot of the political and social history and turmoil that defined the U.S. during the 20th century.

"Ragtime" was his first in this genre, bringing together to the page and later to the stage the anarchist activist Emma Goldman; the pop-culture, Hungarian immigrant sideshow hero Harry Houdini; the "notorious socialite" Evelyn Nesbit, lover of murdered architect Sanford White; financier/robber baron J.P. Morgan; and black, turn-of-the-century politician Booker T. Washington. Its protagonists are the African-American ragtime pianist Coalhouse Walker, modeled on a 19th century German novella of a similar name; the Jewish immigrant artist, Tateh and his daughter; and the eponymous "Mother" -- who surprises with her fierceness.

You can't watch this musical -- even without the subliminal reminder of Lady Liberty looking out over the audience during the pre-show and entre'act -- without your heart swelling for America's oppressed groups -- its immigrants, its former slaves -- to be victorious over the wealthy white family from New Rochelle against whom they are based. So for those of you who prefer Republican policies on these matters: come prepared to be transformed.

Yet as with any good and true story, the conflicts are not easily resolved. Will the musical's underdog protagonists -- Coalhouse, Tateh --  triumph in the end? With the use of violence, following the radicalism of Goldman; or of political persuasion, in the mode of Booker T. Washington?

That is for all of you not only to witness at the Playhouse, but to play your own supporting role for in our country right now, as we circle back around on these yet-to-be-resolved issues of the who, what, why, and how of being an American.

The High Performance Events of Summer

Summer in Maine displays the full diversity of the state’s many marvelous ecosystems—including the performing arts, which bloom with the energy and color of dinner-plate dahlias -- and, like dahlias, are extremely temporal. I’ve been lucky to immerse myself in a number of high quality, diverse performances in the last three weeks alone.

Vaudevillian Thom Wall at Celebration Barn's
Big Barn Spectacular in July.
Photo by Michael Menes.

I made the not-as-far-as-you-fear trek out to South Paris in western Maine to take in, for my second time, Celebration Barn’s Big Barn Spectacular. The Barn is a centerpiece of Maine performance history, founded by internationally-renowned mime Tony Montanaro and extending his legacy to generations of Maine mimes, jugglers, clowns, and eclectic performers who return here each summer to hone their crafts and delight audiences. This year’s Spectacular featured several Barn / Cirque du Soleil alumni, the most astounding of which was juggler Thom Wall, acclaimed as “a master of modern vaudeville.” Thom balanced stacks of many glasses and other breakable things (such as balloons) on the edges and points of knives themselves balanced on each other and held in his mouth…yeah. You have to see it. And personally, I fell in love with a new act by old Maine friends Mike Miclon, Executive Director of Johnson Hall; two of his sons, Shane and Collin; the Barn’s Executive Director Amanda Houtari and several others — The Buckfield (ME) Synchronized Swim Team. Again, its vaudeville: you have to be there. So head west, to Celebration Barn, before the summer is over!

Next I headed Down East to Stonington: also not as far as you might think (if you were a New Yorker with a summer place in the Hamptons or the Catskills, you’d be making trips of this length every weekend). There, at Opera House Arts at the 1912 Stonington Opera House, on the National Register of Historic Places (for which I was founding Executive Director until 2015), I took in an original performance of the nation’s longest running and arguably most beloved Off Broadway musical: The Fantasticks. The song “Try to Remember” is what most remember from this twist on several Shakespearean classics, notably "Romeo & Juliet;" and established Shakespeare in Stonington co-founder and director Julia Whitworth (who “moonlights” as an Episcopal priest) brought her usual smarts and a few plot twists to the show that gave it more of a feminist edge than you might expect.

Finally, in a two-for-one hat trick of a week to end July and ring in August, I caught both a staged workshop reading of Maine playwright John Cariani’s newest, cul-de-sac, at Portland Stage; and Bates Dance Festival’s original, site-specific commission, Mill Town, at the Bates Mill in Lewiston.

Playwright John Cariani and Director Sally Wood at the
Portland Stage workshop for John's new work.
Photo by Aaron Flacke.

The former - a typically-Cariani, fast-talking, dialogue-driven, humorous take on the American obsession with happiness (and its fall outs) — is a tribute to the work of Portland Stage and its Affiliate Artist Program in the development of original Maine theater. This is the only way high quality new plays come to us in a finished form - they must be workshopped: heard by and responded to by live audiences for the playwright to understand whether the script works or not. The staged reading, well directed as always by Affiliate Artist Sally Wood and with terrific acting by AA Abby Killeen, was followed by a lively feedback session with highly engaged (read: opinionated) audience members: just the ticket for John to work on the next iteration of his script, which will join Almost, Maine, Last Gas, and Love Sick among his published works.

A scene from the prelude to Mill Town in the courtyard
of the Bates Mill.

Mill Town, directed and choreographed by Stephan Koplowitz, holds the honor of being the finest all around performance I’ve seen in Maine in a long time. In a fitting tribute to outgoing 30-year Artistic Director Laura Faure, to whom it was dedicated, Mill Town used Lewiston-Auburn’s, and the Mill’s, history and artifacts to propel Bates Dance Festival dancers through and around the mill’s remarkable spaces. The original music, choreography, video, scenic and lighting design, and of course performances gave us, the audience, an extremely special and intimate way (despite there being more than 200 in attendance) to witness and experience this place. From the opening tableaux of young dancers, in costumes reminiscent of Bates Mill workers clothing, to the six small performances on the third floor and the grand finale on the fourth, this was an evening of magic that I was glad to have shown up for.

Still to come; Ragtime at the 85-year-old Ogunquit Playhouse; and Orgelfest 2017, a celebration of Portland’s famed Kotzschmar Organ with retiring municipal organist Ray Cornils and the Kotzschmar Festival Brass.

Yes, there are lobsters and lighthouses on the coast, canoes and camps on the lakes, hikers and hills in the west. And strung throughout all of these, like the glass floats on a Japanese fishing net, are Maine art, performance, and historic cultural venues. Be sure to add these to your summer collection. Remember, with live performance: you have to be there. Locate a place, travel to it, and experience it. I can guarantee that, like me, you won’t be disappointed.