Given “miniature” as a subject … and since, just last week I did a whole series of pictures of tiny carved Native American fetishes, this prompt certainly seems to be begging for more of those pictures. So here they are.
Every piece was hand-carved by an individual. The carvers are all either Navajo, Hopi, or Pueblo … with (I believe) a couple maybe Sioux or Cherokee. I have one carved by a local Wampanaug man who lives on Martha’s Vineyard. He carved it for me and I got to see it emerge from the antler.
I used to have all the paperwork that told me who had carved which piece, when, and where. I lost all the papers. Not just one … the entire packet. Moreover, having bought these from a lot of different places, often directly from the carvers themselves, I can’t reconstruct the trail.
I don’t, honestly, care about the provenance, except for wishing I could honor the artists by giving them credit for the work. I just love these beautiful pieces.
The Corn Maidens are (mostly) much larger than the animal fetishes, but they vary quite a lot in size.
A healing bear feish
These are all parts of my modest, but lovely collection of modern carved fetishes. Although some (many) are “old-style,” the oldest of these is no more than 20 years. The materials are wood, alabaster, marble, turquoise, antler, and bone.
Each of these animals and the Corn Maidens have meaning in a ritual or religious context, but none of these have been appropriately blessed. I admire the art, but I would never appropriate someone else’s religion and pretend it was mine.
I have been on the other end of that sometimes. It’s annoying. Sometimes, it’s also pretty funny.
It’s one of the first things every mother teaches her kid. Or should.
“Play nice. Don’t hit little Jimmy with that shovel. Don’t take Ellen’s doll. Play nice or other children won’t want to play with you.”
Apparently, mom’s lesson went in one ear and out the other. Because no one remembers how to be nice anymore. Civility has vanished. Everyone seems to be on some kind of weird narcissistic power trip where only their needs, their opinion, their feelings matter. Screw everyone else. It’s all about me. Only me.
Mother — yours and mine — had a point. If you don’t play nice with the other kids, they won’t like you. They won’t invite you to their parties. They may not like you anyway, but if you’re mean and hit them and take their toys? They definitely won’t like you.
We’ve been binge-watching “Scandal.” As we head around the bend into the final few shows of the fourth season, I looked at Garry and said “If they weren’t so horrible to each other … if they weren’t always spying on each other, threatening each other, torturing and killing each other … they wouldn’t have so many enemies. They wouldn’t have to watch their backs all the time. If they were just nicer to each other, a lot of problems would vanish. All it would take is simple civility.” Of course it wouldn’t make a very interesting show, but that’s a completely separate issue.
Which is not, apparently, all that simple.
And not just on the TV series. In the real body politic. On a national and international level. Everyone is so adversarial, nasty, cruel, ugly, dirty, mean-spirited. They’ve forgotten the old “you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar” thing. Not that I ever understood why you’d particularly want to attract flies, but obviously, that’s not the point.
What it — and all our mothers — meant is that being nice often works out better, gets you what you want in more situations than being unpleasant and contentious. When I watch television and they show reporters attacking the people they are supposedly trying to interview, I remember that Garry never attacked anyone … and he always got his interview. Because he knew that some chit-chat — friendly conversation — would get him a better interview than an attack.
We should all get back to basics.
Please. Thank you. Excuse me. Like that.
Not hitting each other with shovels, verbally or otherwise. Our world could be a fine place if we would just play nice. We are in the sandbox together. We might as well make an effort to get along.
Perhaps you have noticed that it seems to be dying out. You are probably glad of it too. You did not like it. You may even have been insulted by it, so it is so long and farewell. It should be like many style statements we have seen over recent generations. It is here for a while, then reason sets in.
Of course, we are talking about that so-called “fashion trend” that saw young men wearing their baggy jeans below their rear ends so that we could see their boxer shorts. I am sure this did as much for makers of boxer shorts as it did for sellers of baggy jeans. Perhaps these guys have started to realize just how crazy this was. There may have been some cheap thrill in letting us see their underwear, but as a practical point of view it could not have been dumber. At least you know these guys were not going to cause trouble. It is tough when you have to waddle away from the scene of the crime.
Maybe the lack of a Justin Bieber tour helped to kill this idea. Let’s hope that his next tour does not bring it back or some equally strange wearing of clothes. The alleged singer-songwriter will take his “Purpose” tour on the road this year. We are not sure of the Purpose or style yet.
When I was younger we had our strange fashion trends, which I am sure were heavily influenced by the entertainment industry. If someone looked cool in the movies or on television, then I guess we wanted to look cool too. I was too young to be influenced by the first wave of the British Invasion. It did not matter to me what John, Paul, George and Ringo were wearing. For clothes choices, I got whatever my mother thought I should have.
As I got a little older I realized, as all kids do, that a little (or a lot) of whining would probably get me a few of the things I liked. By high school, it was white Levis, madras shirts (plaid) and penny loafers. I thought this ensemble was cool. I guess I still do. For a while it was “skinny jeans.” I don’t think we called them that but they were the type that were difficult to put on and the opening at the bottom of the pants leg was barely big enough for your feet to go through. I guess we thought we were sexy, like the boys showing off their boxers in more recent times. Skinny jeans also seem to be quite popular at present.
It was just a few years and that whole “preppy” look I loved so much was out, and a whole collection of things that would not stand the test of time came in. When skinny jeans gave way to “flares,” that is pants that had wider leg openings at the bottom, and then bell bottoms we had a whole new look. Yes, I got those, including the “hip huggers” style. Those had a lower cut. Neither my parent nor my grandparents ever wore any such items.
Your wide pants might go with a variety of looks, but maybe not with your Nehru jackets or shirts. These items may have retained their popularity in India, where they are named after Prime Minister Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru who served from 1947 to 1964, but they were a brief trend here. The jackets and shirts with the “mandarin collar” would make you look like a priest if you wore something dark.
Your 70’s hippie look did need “tie dyed” t-shirts. I guess those just keep coming back around the style block. They were always popular with the Grateful Dead crowd and then with Phish, the Grateful Dead for the 21st Century. I am glad to say I never owned one. You may think that picture of you with beads, tie dye shirt, bell bottom pants and sandals that one of your friends posted on facebook on “throwback Thursday” looks really cool, but I have news for you…
All of this was followed by the regrettable trend we called “leisure suits.” The polyester creations featured jackets that looked like shirts trying to be jackets. Unfortunately, a number of pictures of my youthful self in these suits can be found. My friends who escaped the camera at the time are pleased to point out how unfashionable that look is today, using one of my pictures as an example. The worst looks were the ones with the leisure suits featuring polyester, flower patterned shirts with big collars. Thanks to the internet and some Boys Club photo albums, I may never live that down.
It would have been easy to be an Urban Cowboy next. Who does not love a classic American western look? Following his success in making us all want to look like something out of Saturday Night Fever (which I saw more than once), John Travolta soon convinced us we should change to jeans and ride a mechanical bull. Yes, the fashion bull kept galloping through our lives and many of us got trampled by it.
It probably would have been better to stick to standard looks that stay in fashion generation to generation. Frank Sinatra always looked cool. He has styled throughout the ages, even if it was all pretty much the same. A sharp suit and a fedora hat would have been good, but not as good as a tux with carnation or other fresh flower and a hat tilted to the perfect angle. If you do not understand, here’s your primer:
A mile high in the Andes mountains of Colombia, located in the Aburrá Valley, lies the city of Medellin. It is somewhere between the size of Los Angeles and Chicago. Some of its neighborhoods are built up the sides of the mountain, but the city center is mostly flat.
Nevertheless, bring a good pair of walking shoes to make you tour around town. Traffic in downtown Medellin can be something close to gridlock in midday. The large number of buses and taxis will not help you get around quickly.
My trip was somewhat of a lark. A longtime internet friend encouraged me to come visit. Although we talked often on Google Hangout and Skype and chatted on Facebook Messenger, we had never actually met. After seeing all the Facebook pictures of friends and relatives, it was as if we were old friends.
The weather there was just about perfect, so I decided to use my few remaining vacation days and hop a plane south.
I was not eager to transit another country, I decided to take American Airlines from Chicago to Miami and then fly directly to Medellin. It would have been cheaper to connect in Panama City, but lacking Spanish, it seemed a better choice to connect in an American city. Besides, the Miami connecting times were shorter.
Columbia’s international airport is in Rionegro, 45 minutes from Medellin. It’s at a higher altitude than Medellin and offers amazing views of the tropical region. Although the airport is the second largest in Colombia, it was closer in size to Sarasota, Florida, though much busier. The airport is modern and efficient. Much easier to get through customs than Miami — a story for another time.
My friend was waiting for me as I came out of customs. From this point on in the trip, it’s a good idea to have someone local with you, even if you speak Spanish, which I don’t. Most signs are entirely in Spanish … which by itself can be a problem for tourists.
I had exchanged currency at the airport in Miami — never a good thing. Rates of exchanges at airports are the worst. Even ATM rates would have been better, but then you have fees, so I suppose it’s a toss-up. I did not see currency exchanges in the city, but there were some large banks in downtown Medellin that might have been able to make the exchange at a better rate.
You definitely need cash. Most stores and restaurants take only cash, even when you see a MasterCard sticker on the door. The only place you’ll likely use plastic is at an ATM.
There are plenty of taxis and buses at the airport, so transportation to the city should be no problem. My friend took us to the taxi line. The first one was for a shared cab to a designated spot in the city. He chose this for economy
We shared the ride with a couple and a single person. A three-way split is very economical. In fact, it was cheaper than from O’Hare airport to downtown Chicago — and O’Hare is actually in Chicago proper.
The ride down the mountain in the dark was an adventure. The road into the airport is wide and well-lit, but shortly you are on a winding two lane highway. In the mountains. At night.
The driver knows the road well, but racing down was quite a thrill. We would get tossed from side to side like a roller coaster ride. When we arrived in town and dropped off the others, my friend negotiated a rate to his apartment.
At night we visited a neighborhood filled with outdoor cafes and sports bars. A large central square was crowded. You could buy beverages at nearby stores. The square and two streets along it formed an “L” and was like Bourbon Street in New Orleans — one big open air party.
The downtown shopping area the next day was crowded. We went by Metro and returned by taxi. The wide walkways on many streets could accommodate outdoors stands and carts where a variety of goods were available. Tropical fruit drinks (non alcoholic) were everywhere — a good thing when you’re doing serious shopping.
Many stores featured products from the US. We saw one store supposedly selling “USA brand” clothes. My friend said to me, “all originals,” with a wink and a laugh. I decided after a while that I could figure out which places sold authentic goods and high-end merchandise because they had armed security guards at the door. It did not appear the police walking the streets were armed, although I didn’t study them.
Medellin is known as the “City of Eternal Spring” because of it temperate climate. The average annual temperature is 72 degrees Fahrenheit. Most days are in the 80’s all year-long, but since they are in the mountains, it cools off to low 60’s at night.
Upper 50’s would be a cold night. Few places had air conditioning. Restaurants and bars are open air and the climate is perfect for living outdoors. Cool enough for comfortable nighttime sleeping, too. The days were in the upper 80’s, and the cooler nights did not require jackets. Pretty good compared to December in Chicago.
If your knowledge of Medellin comes from news stories from 1993 or earlier, forget it. They have worked hard to live down the past and transform the city into a welcoming place.
If he comes up in conversation, locals will tell you that Pablo Escobar does not live there anymore (died in 1993), just as Chicagoans sometimes have to say that Al Capone does not live here anymore (he died in 1947).
The people are friendly, food is good, climate is great, and the scenery is beautiful. The trip was too short and I wouldn’t mind another visit. Especially in the winter.
Visit the Medellin photo gallery at Sunday Night Blog here.
You’d have to include the cell phone. Probably an iPhone, clearly the quintessential techno-gadget of our generation. Or maybe one of the new Android tablets that’s sort of also a telephone, or is it a telephone that’s sort of a tablet?
What about a loaf of sliced bread? Everyone always says “It’s the best invention since sliced bread!” Thus sliced bread must, in some way, be a classic piece of intelligent design from the people who gave you the Edsel and the Bunny Hop. The open bar and happy hour. How to you package up those high points of culture?
Do you include a few drunks in the capsule? How about a box of White Castle sliders? How about at least one politician?
I know I’m not thinking clearly. I’m missing so much. So many great things. Monumental achievements we could package in the guise of a small gadget by which any advanced civilization would be instantly recognized peers, equals, and perhaps, superiors. I just can’t think of them right this minute.
Don’t forget to include a cold six-pack of beer. It will be the intergalactic male bonding moment when they all chug it down together.
Sweet old lady is an oxymoron. It’s one of those myths, probably perpetrated by childhood memories of grandma, a rosy film smoothing over the lumps and bumps.
Age makes everyone cranky. Men get grouchy. Women get snarky. Old people are impatient and significantly less reserved about saying what’s on our minds. We don’t have much to lose, so why not?
Our body is not the only part of us that ages.
It’s possible the only people who find old people sweet are very young children. Everyone else gets the sharp edge of the tongue and the flaring temper.
American culture has little use for old folks. From the founding of this country, we have prized youth and energy. We give lip service to admiring experience and wisdom, but we don’t hire the old and wise. Companies fire workers the moment they can’t keep up with workers half their age.
It turns out, older, irascible guys and gals resent being told how to do their jobs by kids who couldn’t do the job, but have lots of opinions and theories. They are not easily managed and do not willingly gulp the company Kool-Aid. Yuck.
To make the cycle perfect, the Social Security retirement age has been steadily raised. You young punks are going to have to find a way to stay on the job until you are 67, 68, even 70. Probably it’ll get up to 80 eventually, with the not-so-subtle suggestion that you’d be doing the world a favor if you would please just die before needing benefits.
Statistics prove people are living longer, so it logically follows they should work longer, right?
The result? You’ll see millions of unemployed old people who should be able to take it easy, but have to find a way to keep working. No longer able to do what they did for 30 or 40 years, they will be unemployable. It’s already happening. Just look around.
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