A Chinaman
(Kwang-tse
tells)
went to
sleep
and dreamt
he was
a butterfly.
Later, when
he awoke,
he asked
himself,
“Am I a
butterfly
dreaming
that I am
a man?”
- John Cage
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Indeterminacy 24
A Chinaman
(Kwang-tse
tells)
went to
sleep
and dreamt
he was
a butterfly.
Later, when
he awoke,
he asked
himself,
“Am I a
butterfly
dreaming
that I am
a man?”
- John Cage
The V.I.P.s (1963)
Fog delays a group of travelers headed for New York who wait at the V.I.P. lounge of London Airport, each at a moment of crisis in his or her life.
Who would have known that the rich and famous have the same problems like us mortals? There are some good scenes and some splendid acting, but if you add it all up, this is 2 hours of talking heads.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Vignettes #38
Up to my mid 20s I used to be an extremely shy person. I was afraid of embarrassing myself in any situation and avoided public displays of myself whenever possible.
Once I was invited to the birthday party of one of our film club members. She was a very nice and friendly person, she was a bit of a hippie type of girl. The party was to be held in the apartment of a couple who were close friends to her - and who were members of one of the richest families in town. So, the apartment was situated in a huge fin-de-siecle house and had the size of a house itself. There were about 50-60 guests present who were scattered in all the rooms, and 90% of them were completely unknown to me.
On arrival each guest had to draw a number and was told that the number had relevance for later in the party. I thought that was a bit mysterious, but I took mine. By the time the majority of the those invited had arrived there was an announcement. There was some kind of raffle concerning our numbers, each person was assigned to a certain task. My assignment turned out to be that I was to impersonate Marilyn Monroe!
You can imagine my panic! All through the evening there were interruptions, and each time someone had to fulfill their assigned task. They were all not quite exciting, some did better than others. I found out my turn would be at about midnight, and I tried everything to get myself out of this impossible duty. However, my hosts found it quite amusing that I was so nervous, I shouldn't take it seriously and it'll all turn out fine.
I was determined not to do the performance. I had the choice of either making a fool of myself or being a bad sport. I picked the latter option, and shortly before it was my turn I sneaked out and left the party.
Indeterminacy 68
When the depression began, I was in Europe. After a while I came
back and lived with my family in the Pacific Palisades. I had
read somewhere that Richard Buhlig, the pianist, had years
before in Berlin given the first performance of Schoenberg’s
Opus 11. I thought to myself: He probably lives right here in
Los Angeles. So I looked in the phone book and, sure enough,
there was his name. I called him up and said, “I’d like to hear
you play the Schoenberg pieces.” He said he wasn’t contemplating
giving a recital. I said, “Well, surely, you play at home.
Couldn’t I come over one day and hear the Opus 11?” He said,
“Certainly not.” He hung up. ¶ Then, about a year later, the
family had to give up the house in the Palisades. Mother and Dad
went to an apartment in Los Angeles. I found an auto court in
Santa Monica where, in exchange for doing the gardening, I got
an apartment to live in and a large room back of the court over
the garages, which I used as a lecture hall. I was nineteen years
old and enthusiastic about modern music and painting. I went from
house to house in Santa Monica explaining this to the
housewives. I offered ten lectures for $2.50. I said, “I will
learn each week something about the subject that I will then
lecture on.” ¶ Well, the week came for my lecture on Schoenberg.
Except for a minuet, Opus 25, his music was too difficult for
me to play. No recordings were then available. I thought of
Richard Buhlig. I decided not to telephone him but to go directly
to his house and visit him. I hitchhiked into Los Angeles,
arriving at his house at noon. He wasn’t home. I took a pepper
bough off a tree and, pulling off the leaves one by one, recited,
“He’ll come home; he won’t; he’ll come home . . .” It always
turned out He’ll come home. He did. At midnight. I explained I’d
been waiting to see him for twelve hours. He invited me into the
house. When I asked him to illustrate my lecture on Schoenberg,
he said, “Certainly not.” However, he said he’d like to see some
of my compositions, and we made an appointment for the following
week.
- John Cage
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