Monthly Archives: December 2015

Evidence for an American Original.

December 31, 2015civic commentary, classical music, contemplative essays, Deep Questions, Uncategorizedarchitects, Artistic Director Chautauqua Institution, Board of Directors Chautauqua Institution, Board of Trustees, Board of Trustees Chautauqua Institution, Chautauqua Institution, Director of Programming Chautauqua Institution, evidence to convict, hostile takeovers, International Musician, marketing ploys, preserving cultural institutions, Save The Amp, saving the trees, The Smithsonianruth ann scanzillo

ChautauquaTreeStump

New Year’s Eve, 2016. The precipice of change.

Media press releases are already abuzz with the upcoming year’s promises, from the ridiculous to the sublime. Among them, one bit of news which, on its face, might seem of interest only to the relatively unimportant; apparently, the Board of Trustees of the Chautauqua Institution has just voted to replace its 100+ year old amphitheater with an alleged “replica”.

Their argument goes that the structure, weakened by years of neglect, is in danger of imploding.

But, apparently, several surrounding trees – part of the canopy of a century of oaks – have just been destroyed, many of them as old as the amphitheater itself. The fact that these are already gone just might speak voluminously to what is really happening, here.

Had said Board a genuine interest in preserving the Institution’s historical mission, architect’s plans would never have included the removal of these 100 year old trees. This is all the evidence one needs to realize that the devoted residents of Chautauqua are being played. Getting the Board to agree by calling for a proposed “replica” only gives license to those in power for far more than an amphitheater; clearly, this writer suspects a gradual displacement of the entire Institution.

Chautauqua Institution was not founded as an entertainment venue. Read the history.

(paraphrased from ciweb.org): The Institution was established as a not-for-profit, 750-acre educational center beside Chautauqua Lake in southwestern New York State which grew to accommodate approximately 7,500 persons in residence on any day during a nine-week season, drawing a total of over 100,000 to its scheduled public events. To this day, over 8,000 students enroll annually in the Chautauqua Summer Schools which offer courses in art, music, dance, theater, writing skills and a wide variety of special interests. Succesfully founded in 1874 as an educational experiment in out-of-school, vacation learning, it broadened almost immediately beyond courses for Sunday school teachers to include academic subjects, music, art and physical education. Becoming Ecumenical in spirit and practice, Chautauqua’s Department of Religion presents distinguished religious leaders of many faiths from this country and abroad, both as preachers and teachers. In addition, the Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle (CLSC) was started in 1878 to provide those who could not afford the time or money to attend college the opportunity of acquiring the skills and essential knowledge of a College education. This spawned satellites, “daughter Chautauquas” around the world. The Chautauqua Symphony Orchestra, founded in 1929, now performs thrice weekly with leading soloists, and Chautauqua Dance also appears in the Amphitheater. The Institution continues to play a unique educational role today, offering studies on a vacation level, a more serious level and a professional level. In addition, there are enhanced learning opportunities within Chautauqua’s other programming. Music, the arts, religion, recreation and the pursuit of knowledge are all available. Younger and older students often share learning experiences in an open, congenial atmosphere.

Yes; evolving gracefully from its roots into a center for both religious, political, and artistic discourse, the Chautauqua Institution is an American original.

And, its Amphitheater is a national treasure.

I did some digging. Apparently, the Board consulted with FORECON, a forestry consulting firm, before destroying the trees that were growing several feet away from the structure (see the photo included above). FORECON appears to be in place to advise foresters regarding the proper care and maintenance of their trees, per their marketability as timber. I never once saw the term “preservation” anywhere in their descriptor.

Yes. To that certain, remote few, this oasis seems nothing more than a vast piece of select property. Somebody convinced somebody else to take the vulnerable amphitheater’s repair cause and morph it into their notion of revolutionary change.

There will be no revolution. Instead, watch for the opposite. Expect the new, 41.5 million dollar monstrosity to be fully equipped with a sound system capable of the kind of “smoke and mirrors” show equivalent to a Vegas magician. Look for technology producing decibels of tympanum-killing intensity. Such ideological changes should send its decades-long community of residents – intellects, writers, readers all, superior artists, reflective thinkers – running for the hills. Dissolution, waiting at the gate.

This appears to be the intent.

The Board’s defenders might argue that Chautauqua has always been about evolution and expansion. But, all it takes is a discerning mind to inspect the situation; calling for $41.5 million for a performance space is a recipe for destruction of more than a faulty amphitheater. The residents of the village, and its patrons, didn’t have to come up with that kind of cash alone. While asking it of them would have been obscene, I wonder if perhaps those who already donated to the Institution last year may come to discover that their monies were appropriated in ways that they never realized. This kind of stealth is only a couple genteel steps away from a coups; overtake the people, disempower them, and what is theirs is easily attained.

Predictably, money is poised to capture the mentality of the graceful, the elegant, the precious. Just like tasteless city “planners” notions of what constitutes “class” maraud the landscape, the proponents of such vapid notions likely stand ready to seize the entire village.

So, as we review and contemplate our own resolutions for the coming year, might the rest of us stand to defend the causes of institutional preservation. Wherever we can, might we resolve not just to speak out but to act against the powers of greed and covetousness that seek to demolish them. If we aren’t finally willing to resist these forces, they will succeed in destroying our very belief in the value of history, itself. And, once we turn our backs on our legacies, we condemn ourselves to a bleak and barren future.

The trees will be listening.

.© Ruth Ann Scanzillo 12/31/15

All rights explicitly those of the author, whose name appears above this line. Requests for reproduction, in quote or whole, should be made in writing to : littlebarefeet@msn.com Thank you, and Happy New Year!

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Presence.

December 25, 2015contemplative essays, Deep Thoughts, grief, nostalgia, UncategorizedChristmas Eve, Christmas morning, gifts, memories of family Christmas, presentsruth ann scanzillo

In Christmases past, there were always two kinds of folks: the Eves, and the Mornings. We were, because mum was always up, Mornings. And, it didn’t matter how late we stayed awake the night before; my little brother and I were out of bed, and always before we’d had enough sleep.

I think it might’ve been class related. Rich people opened gifts in the evening, after a posh meal and a high Catholic mass. Poor people liked to savor the sight, one more night; presents, we called them, falling over each other under the tree, in just the light from the strands wrapped around it.

In families where the cousins and grandparents lived nearby, that extra evening gave everybody more time to finish wrapping and delivering. For us, it was always an extended family affair; we had more than one gift for siblings and parents, plus something both for and from every cousin who came from across the street and around the corner and as far away as Lawrence Park.

When we were toddlers, I don’t even remember eating breakfast first. It was all about the living room floor, in pajamas and housecoats. Dad, sitting in the corner of the davenport, eyes closed, robe and slippers on.

Union Bank had a Christmas Club. This was a means of saving meager earnings, all year, so the windfall on Christmas morning could make up for all the sacrifice – that sacrifice, of course, being the exclusive domain of mum, who never bought a single thing for herself, ever, and made all her own clothes and ours, too.

Making mum her special Christmas card was always a big deal. And, in later years, finding her that one outstanding present, just like she had for us – several small, but one big, climactic box which, from her, meant a completely tailored suit or dress – was always the challenge; and, as the years passed, meeting this one successfully became more difficult. From me, the electric potato peeler and portable shower rail were two stand outs; she never had to use the peeler, and died before the shower rail ever became necessary.

We always, as children, had a real tree, too. Mum’s arthritis kept on, though and, once we reached our late teens, green branches made of twisted wire and flexible plastic needles took their permanent place. Yet, like everything else valued by the children of the Great Depression, the glass ornaments and lights as big as your grandfather’s thumb and table candles and window wreaths were as carefully brought out as they always had been, after the trunk was firmly set in its screws in the steel stand.

Dad, raised in an orphanage, had no need for any of this. He already knew that just being in a warm house, having had a solid night’s sleep, his brood all around him, waiting for some hot oatmeal, was more than enough. But, eyes closed, he’d be listening to us, with a smile on his face.

Memories like these are what make the present hard. Living in The Now is overrated; take me back, any day, to what we had growing up. Nobody could have ever told us how it would be later, and we wouldn’t have wanted to know. The Bible says that the poor ye will always have with you; but, there used to be a day when even those who had little could enjoy the reward of being alive, like the baby Jesus. Our parents knew that secret, and this is what I miss. Christmas, my friends, used to be for everyone.

Mourning.

December 22, 2015Uncategorizedruth ann scanzillo

R.A.atDad'sGrave

[final edit].

***

Dear Readers,

Perhaps I have been conspicuously absent; perhaps unnoticeably so.

Whichever the case, this comes to you by way of mourning.

I mourn the death of my mother. My father. Relationships from childhood. My loves. And, missed opportunities. Apparently, when one never grieves such losses, the pain compounds within.

As a result of this complex anguish, my attempts at healthy relationships with others have been unsuccessful. Some of you reading this may have been the victims of these failures; if you recognize yourself among them, I offer you my deepest apologies.

Most recently, and most acutely, I have been grieving the loss of my identity as a writer in this blog. Believing the ideas expressed to have been pilfered by trolling parasites, the ensuing aversion has been total; I no longer have any desire to share my creative self in print with strangers, whose motives might be completely self-serving in the reading.

So, after completing this declaration, I will likely cease entering posts in this blog for as long as it takes to finish mourning. In the meantime, cheaters and thieves will submit for thesis, and publish, and tour their books, and sign every copy, and compose their scenarios, and market their contraband, and make all the big headlines; such charade parades have happened before, and will certainly pass by, again. With cymbals.

But, I have so many loves to remember; to forgive; to thank; and, to bid goodbye. I must carry on, and so must you. Just, please; do so with your very best selves. Condemn all the corrupt spirits that prey upon you with their lusts for power or prestige.

Nobody worthy among them is looking. Really. Nobody good is listening. To yourselves be absolutely true; then, just walk away.

Yours in earnest,

littlebarefeetblog.com

R.A.atMum'sGrave