Where the Wild Art Is

...

Somewhere on a Desert Highway . . .

...






The TA rumbles off on her
Schwinn Roadster 12-inch Trike


























The Best Tricycle in the Whole World

The TA Takes Manhattan

...




eff 1994–2000


"Balloon Dog" (Yellow)
1994 - 2000
Jeff Koons







Once upon a time, I wheeled a drowsing TA through Boston's nap-inducing MFA. The TA enjoyed some much needed Z-time, while Papa meandered aimlessly about Monet's Haystacks. She cooed when I held her up to a Miro (who doesn't?) and scrunched up her face at a late Picasso (who hasn't at one point?). Of course, all that ended the day I tucked her in the Baby Bjorn to check out the David Hockney exhibit and she squealed and squirmed up a storm, angling for a handful of 20th Century Pop art.

The museum guards were not amused.

These days, I just cut her loose and let her dash wildly through the corridors of Western culture. If she knocks over a 4000-year-old example of Greek statuary, well, that's what running shoes are for. Until then, I say, "The bigger the museum, the better." And few do bigger and better than NYC and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. High atop the Met, you will find the spacious and toddler friendly Iris and B. Gerald Cantor Roof Garden. Cantor, who once hawked hot dogs outside of Yankee Stadium as a lad, was a paragon of self-improvement. Not only did he ditch the House That Ruth Built for uptown, he amassed one of the world's finest collections of Rodin's sculpture; one of which is always on the roof. (Note: Rodin's sculpture is only slightly more expensive than the sandwiches served at the rooftop cafe.)

The Jeff Koons rooftop exhibit is perfect for kids. Unlike much head-scratching, video-centric contemporary art that results from the perfect storm of A) a trust-fund, B) way too much free time, and C) public revenge against Mom and Dad, Koons' art is as playful as it is insightful. Koons has a way of appropriating Milan Kundera's coprophilic conception of 20th century "kitch" and making it winsome and childlike.

Like a kid, he makes everything new again for the rest of us.

The TA warily approaches "Sacred Heart (Red/Gold)"


I have no idea what she's doing here.

The TA confronts the 18 ½-foot-tall Coloring Book.
"Is coloring inside the lines just a lie we tell ourselves?"

Taking him by the hand,
the TA interprets Koons' sly mockery of the
"youth-obsessed infantilism of modern culture and society"
to an uncertain Cousin X.

Rejecting glib polymers and abstractions,
the TA contemplates the concrete beauty
that is the New York skyline.

Full speed ahead through the halls of the Met.
(A TA's view of Canova's"Perseus with Head of Medusa.")

Afterwards, we took in
Central Park on a Sunday afternoon.
Few things are more perfect than this.

Getting dizzy on the swings!

Momma had to pull an overexcited Daddy back through the open car window
when he hollered, "Can David Brooks come out and play?"

The TA Turns 3

Hiking to the Highland Center at Crawford Notch, NH

all those years ago.

My Daughter, the Woodland Fairy

Happy Halloween, folks.
(Photos courtesy of the TA's Mom)

I Love You With All My Mi - i - i - ight!

The TA captured on a camera phone . . . and the classic Frances England video

Toddlers For Obama

For some of us, democracy can't wait.

Today, my daughter participated in history. We made the trip together to Barack Obama's regional field office in Nashua, NH.

I have read bedtime stories to her -- Goodnight Moon and The Runaway Bunny (ever a joy all around). I have read Walt Whitman (cooing in her cradle endlessly rocking) and Georg Trakl (ok, some definite nose crinkling there). And I have always made a point to read something from the New York Times to her at breakfast. She may not grasp international monetary policy (which I guess is alright, apparently those in charge don't understand it either), but I'll wager she can identify more politicians than any dithering undecided. She certainly knows who Hillary is. For a week, she marched around house repeating, "President TA . . . Why not?"

She giggled every time she tried to pronounce 'Huckabee'. She is the same two-year-old girl who screamed "Obama!" every time we saw a video of Kennedy at a podium when we visited the JFK Museum earlier in the year. Who knows? She may go all John Birch on me when she's a rebellious teen. But today, as a family, this is all about her future.

Progressive-palooza!

One could argue the "U-SAVE" sign fits in just fine with the others.

I didn't snap any pictures inside the office, but the people were all very nice and indulged the TA when she repeatedly demanded, "But, where's Obama?" The nice volunteer man explained that the good Senator was in Nashville, Tennessee for his debate that evening. The TA looked up at me and asked, "Can we go to Nashville?"

I admit, I was tempted.

We scored a lawn sign and some sundry swag. Then we were back on the road to strike a blow for democracy in our corner of the world.

Direct democracy.

Grabbing the sign from the trunk, the TA takes matters into her own hands.

She wasn't exactly sure where to plant the sign.
She wandered around the yard asking, "Where does this go?"

That's one small yard sign for a TA,
one giant leap for toddlerkind.

Thomas Jefferson would be pleased.
Afterward, we celebrated with peanut butter and jelly,
then took crayons to Maureen Dowd's latest column.

After Apple Picking

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.







Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.



But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.






And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.

Robert Frost

. . . And the Living is Easy

The TA Loves a Parade

Update from Cannes

The TA's brief cameo in "Good Will Hunting."

All the Colors of the Rainbow

The TA stares down a jolly red crayon sporting Mickey Mouse hands.





Road Trip! The Crayola Factory, in Easton, Pennsylvania. is dedicated to all budding artists, or any kid who likes showing that coloring book who's boss. In terms of DIY creativity, it runs a rainbow of rings around Disney World.

While manufacturing plants for Binney and Smith's Crayola Crayons are scattered throughout the Lehigh Valley, the Crayola Factory allows kids to immerse themselves in a sorts of creative activity involving crayons, washable markers, chalk, watercolors, finger paints, and interactive video. All without the bother of messy clean-up or those annoying factory-mandated hairnets.

But there's more! Upstairs you'll find the National Canal Museum at Two Rivers Landing. You see, Easton straddles the historic confluence of the "Prussian Blue" Delaware River (separating the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania from the state of New Jersey - for which generations of Pennsylvanians are eternally grateful) and the "Wild Blue Yonder" Lehigh River. In fact, the first crayon ever manufactured and guided through a complex series of canal locks by donkeys of "Raw Siena" who ate carrots of "Outrageous Orange" was handcrafted by one Thadeus G. Pencilhoffer in 1868. Pencilhoffer was a colorful character. Despite a bleak and colorless childhood on a Dutch settlement just east of . . . .

History. Schmistory.

Where are all the crayons?

The TA loads up on ammo at patented crayon kiosk.

Crayon-palooza!
The TA dives into an overflowing bin of crayons.
Seated to her immediate right is her cousin, herein known as "Cousin X."

The TA sharpens her wallpaper writing skills.

Rocking out to the Interactive Video Color Simulator.

One mess I'm not cleaning up.

The World's Largest Crayon.
15 Feet. 16 inches in diameter. 1,500 pounds.
Derived from 123,000 blue "leftolas" donated by kids around the world,
Crayon-zilla is capable of drawing a ten-mile line or coloring in a football field.
The Coloring Book for would probably take out entire Northwest Forest.


The TA scampers into the injection mold for Crayon-zilla.

The TA channels Charles Strickland in "The Moon and Sixpence"

She dropped everything and said,
"I must paint."

Later, The TA and Cousin X share a precious moment by the garbage cans.
Anne Geddes would be rightfully quite horrified.

From our hotel window in lovely Newark, NJ, Dad spies our next adventure.

"I don't yike Muppets. I yike Badfinger."

Attack of the 20-foot Wabbit

How does a toddler get to Symphony Hall?

Practice. Practice. Practice.

The TA visited Tanglewood to hear the BSO, but getting her into Symphony Hall was a personal best for this toddler-toting Papa.


I had a choice. Drop $85 to watch the TA squirm through fifteen notes of Mendelssohn and weather the whithering scowls of inveterate subscribers, or pack up the entire family for the 10th Annual WCRB Classic Cartoon Festival.

On a cool gray Saturday, over 4000 fans of Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, and Wile E. Coyote descend on Symphony Hall to benefit the Brain Injury Association of Massachusetts. The initial idea is to introduce kids to classical music, but it's also an excuse for adults and kids alike to laugh in the dark at some joyfully violent fare (all in the name of high culture, of course). For many people, Looney Tunes are their introduction to classical music. Who doesn't have the swirling whimsy of Carl Stalling hardwired to their childhood? That introduction may end there too, but I grew up in a house where Beethoven was as common as baseball. So for the TA, classical music is her introduction to Porky Pig.

But there's more! Face painting. Jugglers. Clowns. Magicians. The Bonne Bell Manicure Station. An "instrument petting zoo." A dunking tank for cranky BSO subscribers who hate Arnold Scheonberg (okay, I made that one up). Beyond the giddy pop culture of Bugs Bunny et al., there are instances of genuine high culture. The Boston Youth Symphony Orchestra’s Young People’s String Orchestra and the Handel & Haydn Youth Chorus are on stage as well.

Mama snapped this portrait of the TA's purple wontons and Dad's moccasins.
I have no idea what the person with the poor taste in footwear is doing in this family portrait.

For a while, it was all about the sonorous beauty
of classical music and the rich history of
Major Henry L. Higginson's Symphony Hall.
Until this guy showed up.
From that point, the entire focus of the day changed forever.

The TA stalks "Titty tat" through the corridors of Symphony Hall.
It was almost like something out of "Phantom of the Opera."
Almost.

We eventual cornered the the cat outside the door of Symphony Hall. I think he (she?) was trying to sneak a smoke, but apparently couldn't work it with those fuzzy paws. From the foyer, the TA shrieked when she saw him, so out the door we went. I almost died when it looked like Sylvester was going to remove his head (all I could see was years of therapy for the kid). But we cornered the cat (and Tweety!), and Mama snapped a priceless shot of the great toddling hunter in the arms of her prey on the steps of Symphony Hall.

I would share it, but you can clearly see someone inside Tweety's costume through the black screen of his nine-inch-high eyes. And and we all know, this blog is all about protecting Tweety's anonymity.

Go ahead. Say it.
"I thought I thaw a putty tat."

The TA runs free around the Reflecting Pool
of the Boston Christian Science Center.

On the way home, she snoozed to Brahms
(and Elliot Smith).

Where the Wild Books Are

What do kids really love?

Because I am the TA's dad (and she is my TA), I want to say that she loves books.

And the TA would no doubt agree she adores books. Lots of 'em. And preferably scattered everywhere. Books at bedtime. Waterproof books in the tub. Coloring books in the diaper bag. Board books underfoot in the kitchen.

But who is kidding whom?

The truth is that TA's one true love is not books, but stairs. Lots of stairs. Stairs to go up. Stairs to come down. Stairs to run toward with open arms. Stairs to stare at lovingly before ascending and descending infinitum.

But because I'm the Dad, we started our day not in pursuit of stairs, but in pursuit of books. And when it comes to books, Barefoot Books, in Cambridge MA, is probably the coolest bookstore on the planet. Titles like Alligator Alphabet, Counting Cockatoos, Zoe and Her Zebra, and, of course, Bear's Busy Family are staples of the TA's expanding library. Although maybe exploding library would best explain the scene in her room. Let's just say the Dewey decimal system is nonstarter.

Barefoot Books is street level (i.e., no stairs), but she was thrilled all the same.

The TA runs wild through the offerings of Barefoot Books.
For whatever reason, she kept grabbing titles in Spanish
and asking me to read them to her.
What did I do?
El punto en cuadros y arregla cosas!
(Point at pictures and make things up!)

In the end, we bought Yoga Pretzels for the TA to share with Mama, and some African Wildlife Finger Puppets for her to pass the time en route to our next stop.

The venerable Grolier Poetry Book Shop in Harvard Square is renowned both for being the oldest bookstore in America devoted exclusively to poetry and for its epic struggles to remain open. The public may be indifferent to poetry, but Grolier is a hidden jewel.

Spacious as a phone booth, but boundless in her offerings, Grolier is worth the trip from anywhere on the planet. We discovered a copy of Rodney Jones' "The Kingdom of the Instant" and were on our way. Later, I read some poems to the TA, while she provided interpretation with assistance from Ms. Giraffe and Mr. Lion.






The next stop was Harvard Yard. It's a short walk across the street, and it gave me an excuse to cut the TA loose for a romp.

Legend has it the Widener Library contains 53 miles of books.
This might make Dad's book-loving heart go pitter-pat,
but the TA had other plans.

With an immediate about face, the TA bolts for the Memorial Church

There are few books in a church (actually, just one).
But for the TA, it was all about the stairs.
Twenty-five minutes of her going up and down mercilessly sharp granite steps wore me out.
I tossed her in the backpack, and we wandered towards the Barker Center.

Helen Vendler's office.
It's not every day you can introduce your toddler to a living legend.
Organic chemist. Mathematician. Keats scholar.
The first woman offered an instructorship at Harvard.
Introducing the TA to as many accomplished independent
women as possible can only help.
Unfortunately, she wasn't home.
I wasn't sure what we were going to do if she was home.
Maybe just wave and ask her to sign the TA's
backpack copy of "The Runaway Bunny."

The next stop was Curious George Goes to Wordsworth.
The monkey, of course, needs little introduction.

Of course, the TA simply ignored the books
and insisted instead on marching up and down the stairs
for the next 20 minutes.
(All the while, liberating random monkeys from their pails.)

All in all, it was good trip, but I've been mulling over some possibilities for our next jaunt into the world.

Like maybe a lighthouse . . .

or maybe something further east . . .

or maybe we'll just stay home with a video, while
the TA breaks in her newest toy . . . .