A footprint in the sand along Moonstone Beach near Cambria that I found last summer.
A year or so ago I lost something – and I keep looking for it.
When he was making his glass art pieces, Eric made me a small ruby red glass heart, embellished with a gold filigree. I loved it, and kept it in a small crystal dish on our bedside table. After he died, I would look for it, pick it up, watch it glimmer in the light, and then return it to the same crystal dish. And one day it was gone. I was stunned. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen it. I live alone, with occasional company, but no one knows of this particular object. I’ve looked everywhere for it.
It’s been over a year and I keep looking for this red heart. I’ve looked behind furniture and in drawers, on shelves, in a box of keepsake mementos, and on top of the refrigerator. It’s gone. But I keep looking.
A few years ago I lost a notebook I kept at home for a writing project – I used it for spontaneous scribbles I wanted to corral together for a new script. And it too, suddenly went missing. A small black notebook, something I used frequently, and it just vanished. I have no idea where it is. I’ve looked at all the usual suspects, the desk, the office, the bookshelves, also the top of the refrigerator. It’s still missing.
This spring I decided to investigate this idea of the Disappearing Objects Phenomenon (DOP) and the idea of “jottles”. This is the in-explicable vanishing and sometimes unexpected reappearance of items. There’s some humor in this subject: ghosts, cats with extraordinary powers, a glitch in the matrix. And there are some interesting stories. I especially love the idea of items that unaccountably just appear again. Rings, keys, a beloved plastic cup. They just show up right where they were lost.
The research on “jottles” led me to other authors and research I knew nothing about. So I did find something new in all of this.
There are groups online that pursue the attending ideas around these “in-explicable” disappearances: worm holes of time, multidimensional beings, vibrations of “fae energy” and parallel realities where the lost objects gather together in the matrix storage room.
There are also discussions about behavior with an absent minded focus given stress, medication, aging or that second glass of wine. I’m interested in all of that. But I’m still looking for that glass heart. And that black notebook.
And I especially do love those stories of things that are suddenly “found”. I’m reminded of the story of my mother’s ashes. When she died after a long battle with cancer, she left conflicting instructions on where she wanted her ashes scattered. It was decided that a small group of family would sprinkle her ashes in the Spokane River, which was roaring along with record levels from the recent snow melt. We mixed rose petals with her ashes, gathered by the river banks, and scattered them in the furious water. We watched the ashes and the rose petals disappear. It was a strange and powerful reminder of loss.
Years passed. When my grandmother died, my sister Susan and I went to her funeral in Upstate New York. My grandmother had a poignant service at the small countryside church, with a beautiful white coffin covered with roses. She was buried in a small private cemetery, surrounded by the graves of our grandfather and other relatives. I hadn’t been in that cemetery in many years and as we walked over to the open grave for our grandmother, we stopped and stared at a new graveside marker.
In loving memory. Joell Dolan Wands. 1933-1997. My mother’s name appeared.
I flashed back to the day we tossed my mothers ashes in that roiling water, and for a moment, I wondered if that really happened. Because my mother’s name was now on this marker in this private cemetery. For just a moment I hung between the reality that I knew and what I was seeing. Susan squeezed my hand, I think mostly so I wouldn’t yell something, and we stumbled along to the rest of the graveside service for my grandmother. We found out later that my grandmother was so furious that my mother wasn’t buried in the private family cemetery that she put together a graveside marker for my mother and had it installed there, because it was the right thing to do. She didn’t want to tell us about it, because, well, that’s the way my grandmother wanted it done. That is some fierce “fae energy” from my grandmother. And really, surprisingly, it was lovely to find my mother’s name again.
This assignment of looking for something, paying attention, trying to make sense of loss – is very much akin to my life journey right now. This morning I gathered a bowl of rose petals from the garden and was reminded of that day by the river, where we tossed my mother’s ashes into a furious river, accompanied by a scattering of rose petals.
And then I laughed when I remembered that day at the cemetery, and the “found” marker for my mother’s name. Joell Dolan Wands.
April rose petals, now ready for the next transformation.
The growing trees in Lori Nix and Kathleen Gerber’s artwork (@nix_gerber_studio) ‘Library’ reveal a glimpse of hope surrounded by the slow decay of human culture. This striking image is part of the artists’ series exploring post-apocalyptic landscapes and interiors, created entirely by hand using miniature models and painstakingly assembled dioramas.
I used this image as inspiration for a play I wrote about ghosts, hoarding, the artist John James Audubon and a historic home that faces decay, “The Hoarding House”. I was drawn to the idea of creating a space onstage that would share the world of an interior space that had been lived in and loved and left. The pulse behind this idea came from my grandparents home and it’s slow decay, a grand house in Upstate New York that they called Bonnie Brae.
I was reminded last night of the power of interior spaces when I went to the opening night of Catherine Butterfield’s play at the Open Fist Theatre, “Brownstone”.
I haven’t been to an opening night in quite a while, so I was thrilled to be part of a full house of theater people, who gave themselves over to the magic of a first night. The performances were wonderful, the direction crisp and nuanced, and the story especially poignant. I’ll just say that I loved the last moments of the play. But I left marveling at the silent character, the magical element – the home. The Brownstone became (for me) a wonderful felt experience of aging in place, with chapters of lives and energies played out over time. I also loved the set design of the interior – with minimal adjustments, you could see what was once a grand home shape shifting through the decades.
It was a lovely evening, and the audience response was a great experience. I was especially chuffed to hear this morning that this play has been extended to March 14! If you can, come see this show; it’s a beautiful kaleidoscope of memory, the echo of different lives, and the silent testament of interior spaces.
I had my first gin martini this weekend after some years of staying away from martinis. After a difficult week, I was thinking of villains and forgiveness.
On Saturday I saw a matinee performance of Patrick Page in his one man show: ALL THE DEVILS ARE HERE at the Broad Stage in Santa Monica. It was a virtuoso performance in a well written, beautifully executed production, with a full house, and a rapt audience. This is an extraordinary performer with a full, deep resonant voice – able to give full meaning to Shakespeare’s villains. His command of the language was extraordinary. The beautiful vibration of his voice was seductive and powerful and illuminating.
And then. A few minutes just before the end of the performance, his on-body microphone failed. I’m not sure if it fell off, or if there was technical issue, but the sound of his voice changed immediately.
This is an actors nightmare. (Also, a nightmare for the sound technician and the stage manager). He continued speaking, but without amplification, and still gave a beautiful performance.
Although the Broad has wonderful acoustics, now he was almost hard to hear (sitting center orchestra), in contrast to his forceful volume that we had heard for almost 90 minutes. His last climatic section, Prospero from THE TEMPEST, was heard as a much softer, quieter monologue. Very wisely, he did not try to roar out the last bits, this was a matinee and he had an evening show in a few hours. I thought he handled the problem with such grace, he gave a really wonderful performance, and afterwards he hosted a talk back session with the audience, where he spoke with perfect volume.
It sparked an old observation for me that well spoken men, loud men, men that that fill the space and focus with the sound of their voice – have incredible power. The Alpha Male speaks and the vibration of authority is acknowledged.
This vocal power also played into the enjoyment of seeing men as villains who embody the world of evil – the sociopath. The curious audience satisfaction of seeing a villain who loves being bad, getting away with it, flapping about with the sins of an evil mind.
And the contrast, when the vocal power was reduced – when the voice was not overwhelming – then the specter of evil seemed smaller. It brought me to think about women’s voices, their vocal power, how they are heard when they have focus and authority. How do they sound when they are the villain?
It also brought to mind all the stage accidents I have ever seen and been in over the years – the missed entrances, the batteries that fall out of the floating candelabra, the onstage phone that doesn’t ring, the medical emergencies, the play that does go wrong. The absolute nerve you need to pick up that cue, substitute the missing prop, try and jump back into the music when you mess up the lyrics.
So after that performance, I’ve been thinking a lot about villains. The villains in our life right now. With the incessant bombardment of news about evil sociopaths and immigrant hunting villains and political mayhem – I did think – I might need a gin martini. Maybe later.
And an interesting tie in to the idea of villains and force, and all that, was a wonderful service I attended to celebrate the anniversary of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. at a little church here in Woodland Hills. This was a anniversary of the sermon Dr. King gave at the church 65 years ago – and a marvelous actor – Mr. Gerald Rivers, gave an incredible performance, as he embodied Dr. King’s words and person. It was a packed house in the church, and the gospel songs the choir sang beforehand were so uplifting. But it was his performance of Dr. King that really pierced my heart. I especially heard themes of forgiveness: “Forgiveness is not an occasional act, it is a constant attitude.”
Mr. Gerald Rivers, an extraordinary actor who brought the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. to life.
I did hear Mr. Rivers share the story of his path to portray Dr. King, and his own advice to us was “Forgive Everybody”. I heard him say that and I found myself shaking my head. No sir, I am not forgiving everybody. No way, no how, not then, not now. And then I sat with that for a while and realized I have to do some more thinking about forgiveness. And later on that evening, when I was home with my cat Ted, and we were blinking at one another, I realized. Now would be the time for that gin martini.
After the recent focus I had on villains and sociopaths, this idea of forgiveness was a real challenge. Here’s to the inspiration of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and Mr. Gerald Rivers. Thank you.
In October I saw something remarkable at the cabaret of The Agile Rabbit in Paris. (Forgive me, I just loved writing that.) My sister Susan and her husband Robert had gifted me a birthday adventure with them, and it was a dream come true: we stayed in an apartment near the Notre Dame Cathedral, ate fabulous meals, drank champagne, ate chocolate croissants, and saw dear friends. In short, it was a wonderful excursion, one I will treasure always.
But one of the most unexpected gifts, was the experience of watching the faces of the audience at a cabaret located in Montmarte, in a musical revue that was deeply touching.
We had researched some performance venues to visit while we in Paris. Perhaps we would go to the Palais Garnier, Opéra Bastille, (I’ve never been and someday I vow I will go to an opera there), or Les Folies Bergère, and then, just to bedevil Robert, we might go see the Moulin Rouge Paris show. Robert is back on Broadway right now in the musical Moulin Rouge, and had spent the last two years on the road with the show. But Robert had asked to see something more akin to a Parisian evening, and we kept looking.
And then I found a post online about Au Lapin Agile – The Agile Rabbit – a cabaret that has its own place in Paris history. We were looking for something authentic, not a Vegas style show, and this place sounded promising: “Au Lapin Agile is located in the Montmartre neighborhood of Paris and hosts intimate, traditional French performances. The atmosphere is cozy, dimly lit, and focuses on audience participation and classic French “chansons”. The current show, “Songs, Music, Poetry,” features a variety of performers singing old French songs, Parisian melodies, and drinking songs, with the audience encouraged to sing along.” We were intrigued.
And here’s a bit of it’s history:
“The name means the agile rabbit, or Gill’s rabbit. It comes from the commercial ensign painted by the artist André Gill in the 1870’s showing a rabbit skipping out of a frying pan. The rabbit carries a bottle of wine, and is wearing a red neckerchief and sash. Because the rabbit (lapin) was painted by Gill, the sign – which quickly became famous in Montmartre – came to be known as the Lapin à Gill (Gill’s Rabbit). By repetition this became Lapin Agile (Agile Rabbit), this latter name stuck.”
Image by the artist André Gill
“In 1903 Frédéric Gérard known as Frédé became landlord of the property that would become Au Lapin Agile. Frédé was well known in Montmartre where he would go round the streets selling fish carried by his donkey. Frédé’s crow, goat, monkey or his pet white mice would sometimes also make an appearance at the cabaret.”
“He also had another café called the Zut where Picasso was a regular, so Picasso came to the Lapin Agile too. Frédé was musical and easy going. Just like Lapin à Gill (Gill’s Rabbit) he too wore a bandanna around his neck and sometimes on his head. We can catch a glimpse of Frédé (wearing clogs), in Picasso’s painting Au Lapin Agile, painted in 1905 and hung in the cabaret. The work can just be made out to the left of the sculpture of the Christ figure in the attached photograph.” (The photograph shows him singing and playing his guitar as an attentive bohemian audience looks on.)
And yes, this is the place that inspired the writer/performer/musician Steve Martin in 1993 to write the play Picasso at the Lapin Agile. The play features the characters of Albert Einstein and Pablo Picasso, who meet at the Lapin Agile in in Montmartre in 1904. In the play, at the Lapin Agile, they have a lengthy debate about the value of genius and talent.
On a beautiful night in October, friends traveled from London and Ireland and Montreal to join us in Paris, and we were a chatty bunch, out on the town. So we gathered our group together, and headed off to what was billed as an authentic Paris cabaret.
We arrived, somewhat early, I realize now; and we loitered around the closed front doors, as the singers appeared, banged on the doors with vigorous knocking, and were let inside. Eventually, the doors opened and we were escorted upstairs, to a large open room with square tables, an assortment of chairs, and a piano that was stacked with sheet music. We ordered drinks, and watched as more and more people crowded into every available seat, the noise and laughter creating its own kind of music.
Once the room was very full, the lights changed, and a quietly elegant musician sat down at the piano, which was right next to us. Then several singers appeared. They all sat down at a large table in the center of the room; nodded at one another and the music began. They started singing together, with the pianist playing such incredible melodies, without looking at sheet music, but referencing a play list that was announced with a nod, or a pointed finger at one of the singers. They sang drinking songs, and duets, and beautiful solo melodies.
And it was fabulous. It was unexpected. And also crowded and emotional and intimate. The crowd seemed to know every song, and would, on command, join in. Our friend Jennifer speaks fluent French, and sang along with such spirit, that it seemed she had been there before. My sister Susan knows and speaks French, and she could nod and comprehend the nuance of the songs and lyrics. I, other hand, could only marvel at the expression and nuance of the language, gauging my reaction on what was meant by the faces of the audience.
And here’s the gift of the evening – the faces of the audience: uninhibited, engaged, positively charged for hearing and enjoying the music. It was such a committed crowd to the singing – you saw the nods and then the laughter, and the anticipation of knowing what comes next. You could feel the transmission of the emotions and the receipt and acknowledgement of the audience – and it seemed so much like gospel in a church. The call and response. The encouragement and acknowledgement, all done with such enjoyment and connection. I haven’t seen an audience this energized and connected in a long time. It spoke of community and history and shared perspective.
There was also the performance of a man, who was introduced as a 93 year old singer, who sang several songs, and the crowd LOVED him. And wanted more. I couldn’t help but think of our American idea of youthful charisma on stage, and the contrast with this venerated gentleman.
We left at 11:00pm, as we had an early morning the next day, and the cabaret was going on strong when we left – our seats were immediately claimed by the crowd.
But I left with the memory of the faces in the audience. The singers who could create such magic with their songs and such exquisite vulnerability with the audience.
If you ever have the chance to go to Paris, and you’re looking for a conduit to the real night life, consider this encouragement to visit Au Lapin Agile. I hope you have the kind of evening we experienced.
I wanted to share the article in this week’s issue of THE NEW YORKER, it’s an interesting take on what is happening for women playwrights. It’s a bit of a read, but I found it very informative. Here it is:
In the late days of June, as the old theatre season was ebbing away and new-season announcements were streaming in, a shock hit New York.
Playwrights Horizons, the birthplace of shows including the Pulitzer Prize winners “Sunday in the Park with George” and Annie Baker’s “The Flick,” announced its programming for 2025-26. It was, in some ways, a standard mix, including works by returning Playwrights artists (John J. Caswell, Milo Cramer, Shayok Misha Chowdhury) and several writers new to its stage (Jacob Perkins, Nazareth Hassan, the writing team of Jen Tullock and Frank Winters). These days, a six-show season is a surprisingly full slate; many theatres of similar size, crippled by rolling funding crises, have reduced their offerings. But something else stood out, too: in a notably diverse lineup (the majority of lead artists are queer, and two are nonbinary), there was only one woman writer, and she occupied half a slot.
Playwrights Horizons wasn’t alone. Other major theatres revealed their programming, some of which reverted to familiar patterns from a decade ago. The Roundabout Theatre will give one slot out of four to a woman, whose work will appear in the nonprofit’s Off Broadway space. The Manhattan Theatre Club, which, like Roundabout, uses both Broadway and Off Broadway theatres, will host two plays written by women of the four shows it has announced so far; however, in what’s become a common trend, both will be produced on its smaller, and thus less remunerative, Off Broadway stage. Classic Stage Company, under its artistic director, Jill Rafson, confirmed a season of three shows, all written and directed by white men. And the Williamstown Theatre Festival, enjoying its first summer under its new director, Jeremy O. Harris—the playwright who, in 2021, requested to withdraw his “Slave Play” from Center Theater Group when it presented a season with only one woman in it—has zero plays written by women among its 2025 productions.
In 2015, the Lillys, a group that honors women in the American theatre, published the Count, a national survey that assessed the demographic makeup of playwrights found on the country’s stages. As one of the group’s founders, Julia Jordan, puts it, “Statistics are our superpower.” For years, advocates had been protesting the underrepresentation of women playwrights, particularly women of color, but they were getting little traction. Some theatres pointed to the canon and shrugged helplessly—was it their fault that Tennessee Williams, Eugene O’Neill, and Shakespeare were inconveniently male? Notably, when a theatre did program a woman, her play was relegated to the so-called “second space” or to a reading series. The Count gave theatres a way to see their place in the larger field. Individual programming choices—reflections of one theatre’s, or even one person’s, taste—looked rather different when placed in a national context.
Attention-getting methods like the Count—and, later, accountability projects such as “We See You White American Theater,” which published an extensive statement calling for the American theatre industry to address racial imbalance, as well as publishing hiring metrics on Instagram—pushed the field toward change. In 2023, the Lillys announced at its annual awards that, for the first time, New York theatres had achieved what the Lillys called “parity,” with the city’s playwriting lineups roughly paralleling the gender and racial distribution of the country at large. Was this victory? The Lillys began to think about disbanding; perhaps its work was done.
So when the new Playwrights season hit inboxes, Jordan called the company’s artistic director, Adam Greenfield, to ask what had happened. (Greenfield is a longtime friend of the Lillys; the group actually got its start at Playwrights, in 2010, back when Greenfield was still an associate artistic director, and the group holds its annual awards ceremony on the Playwrights main stage.) The Lillys told him that it wanted to convene an open meeting about what felt like a serious backsliding, and Greenfield instantly responded.
At the ensuing town hall, the Tony Award-winning playwright Lisa Kron said, “Adam acknowledged it as a ‘misstep,’ ” and noted that he quickly offered the Playwrights theatre for the occasion. Six days after the Playwrights announcement went public, a capacity crowd turned up to talk about representation and curation, and to try to imagine how to regain progress already fought for and, if temporarily, won. “We are here to mark that something seems to be amiss,” Kron said from the stage. “It feels emotional to us because this happened at Playwrights; it happened under Jeremy O. Harris. We feel these people to be our allies—they are our allies.” She went on. “Our issue is not with each other but with a system that considers one group central and the others as disposable.”
In the meeting, Jordan noted that the low representational numbers for women are difficult to square. By various measures (including the numbers of women graduating from degree programs in the arts), roughly two-thirds of the field’s writers are women—there is not, as artistic directors once argued, a pipeline issue. It seemed particularly bitter that, even as theatres made passionate arguments for diversity and new artistic directors took over from the old guard, certain habits were creeping back. Are we seeing a reflection of the country’s increasingly misogynist politics? Is there a kind of moral fatigue at play? “Last year, an all-male, all-white season didn’t exist,” Jordan said. “But this year . . . permission has been granted.”
At the meeting, Greenfield answered some questions from the crowd. “What does balance mean? In the past week, I’ve been thinking about that topic a lot.” Greenfield later wrote to me about his reasoning and about whether “misstep” actually describes his feeling about the season. “At the meeting, I wanted to immediately acknowledge that I should have prioritized women writers more in my decision-making. I see that, and I agree that it’s a shortcoming. In my efforts to uphold diversity and bring range to other aspects of the season, while staying mindful of budget constraints, I failed to make enough space for cisgendered and trans women,” he said. “But I would never call this slate of plays and artists a ‘misstep.’ I deeply love every one of the plays and artists programmed next season.”
Greenfield continued, “One of the many questions this meeting left me stewing over is, are we working from a shared definition? The definition of a ‘balanced’ season was vastly different five years ago than it is today, and it will be vastly different five years from now; it evolves alongside a global cultural conversation. Can any one season hold perfect balance from every person’s perspective?”
Rafson, from Classic Stage Company, wasn’t in attendance, but she told me later that she was aware of the paradox of announcing a season with no women in it while also strongly believing in inclusivity. “It would be wildly misleading to say I hadn’t noticed, and I feel confident that my colleagues were in a similar position. We know that it’s an issue when it’s happening,” she said. Rafson noted several factors that contributed to the situation: the brevity of a three-show season (“It is so hard to get a full representation of your theatre’s interests across so little work”) and the Classic Stage mission to reëxamine the canon (“I only have two commissions out right now. They are both to female writers doing adaptations of classics.”) “Don’t judge me by one season. Judge me by the breadth of work,” Rafson said. She takes comfort in the openness of the conversation around the issue. At least, she said, “we will not pretend that this is perfect and O.K.”
At the town hall, the question of what might happen next still seemed very much up in the air. One person suggested that artistic directors announce their next seasons early, weighting them more heavily toward women writers. One commenter levelled criticism at the Lillys for not studying another underrepresented group, disabled playwrights; others advocated for women writers over fifty. The playwright Chisa Hutchinson asked that the room stay “solution oriented” by reminding those present that women buy the majority of theatre tickets. “Show up! Buy some tickets!” she said.
And there did seem to be a certain amount of exhilaration, in fact, in the showing up itself. In the weeks after the meeting, Jordan said that she was actually feeling optimistic: “Our theatre community is so small and is so easily shamed!” She spoke warmly about Greenfield’s response, as well as Harris’s, who wrote to her immediately expressing his allyship. And—more than most—Jordan knows that this is a tide that can move back in the other direction. “There’s not that many theatres, maybe five hundred across the country, and, by and large, I would say 99.8% of them do not want to be assholes,” she said. “They don’t see themselves that way; they don’t want to be that way. Before, all we had to do was show them the mirror; once they looked in the mirror, they actually changed really quickly,” Jordan said. “So I just—I am extremely hopeful, and I feel like, if anybody can, we can make this correction of turning the ship.”
Perhaps the old strategy will work again: a public calling out, appeals to the well-meaning in power, careful application of both pressure and gratitude. But what’s worrying is how easy it was for the most conscientious among us to overlook such a huge swathe of the landscape. It’s true that it’s possible to program a diverse season—the Playwrights lineup shows a thrilling range of race, gender expression, sexuality, and artistic approach—and yet still almost ignore half the population. What is it that makes women so invisible? So many are standing right here. ♦
These last lines: “What is it that makes women so invisible? So many are standing right here.”
I feel this so deeply right now. Here’s to a changing culture.
Cynthia
Sharing an image of mine, very much in alignment with chaos, structure, and foundation.
I was able to see several theater pieces by LAFPI members this winter/spring; and it was wonderful to see and hear such incredible voices in our community. I’m grateful to have seen “Four Women in Red” by Laura Shamas; “Wound Care” by Jennie Webb; “Willing Suspension of Disbelief” by Katherine James, and “Curly Wings” by Sarah Garic. Kudos to the EST/LA Winterfest 2025 and the Victory Theatre for bringing the spotlight to these playwrights. I so appreciate watching live theater again, and witnessing the magic space that theater creates.
I especially needed the distraction away from the our current news culture. Because it seems that the planet has run mad. Politically, morally, seasonally, financially – mad.
I’ve needed an escape, and so I’ve been spending time in the garden, and the roses are very late this year. Usually, in the first week in April, most of my roses have bloomed at least once, and they would have branched out with lovely baby buds. But this year, I only have one rose that has opened up, the Redcoat rose. The weather was dry, and hot, then cold, a bit wet, then windy, and finally topped off with a couple of mild earthquake shakers. I mean, what could possibly flower amidst all this damn chaos. Hence the idea of oubaitori: the idea that people, like flowers, bloom in their own time and in their individual ways. (I myself am a late bloomer.)
The Redcoat rose, April 11, 2025
The Redcoat is one of my oldest David Austin roses and, like a racehorse, she has a genetic lineage that is worth a giggle: she’s crossbred from the roses Seedling and Golden Showers. I love her light scent of cold cream, apples and fledgling hopes. (That last bit is my description; the rose catalogues say she’s “slightly musky”. What do they know – she’s not the least bit “musky”.) And she’s not a showboat rose, hasn’t won any of the awards or acclaim that the more extroverted roses in the David Austin catalogue have won – but here she is. She persevered. She found her own individual time to bloom.
But back to spring. New seeds, new flowers, a fresh start. But what the hell. The planet is on fire this week (the highlands in SCOTLAND are witnessing catastrophic fires right now). There were hundreds of tornadoes in the Midwest, and now more catastrophic floods in the Southeast, and Spain has recorded its wetest season ever with massive floods in March.
Fires in Scotland, April 12, 2025
Floods in Spain, March 2025
And there’s our current political environment, which I can’t begin to write about. So this spring, I’m witnessing the chaos that we’re living in, and trying to manage my expectations.
A friend recently shared a writing exercise that I found – challenging.
Part one: you write down all your Milestones. Events that happened in your life that were a significant point in your development. Write all of them.
Part two: edit down all your milestones to just twenty (20) significant events.
Part three: winnow down all your milestones to just ten (10). And then to just five (5).
So you’re left with the five most important milestones in your life, thus far. It’s an interesting look at what has bloomed and when. I encourage you to take a look at it.
The view from my house on Tuesday, January 7, 2025
by Cynthia Wands
January 11, 2025
It’s Saturday afternoon. I’m writing this while I’m watching the smoke from the Palisades Fire continue to menace the skyline. I’ve been on evacuation alert since Tuesday, when I packed up my car, reassured the cat (Ted) that we’re in this together, and that we’ll leave once I’m given a Mandatory Evacuation Order. It’s been four days of trying to remain calm and organized during the power outages, the buzz of evacuation alerts, and the sleepless nights hunched over the phone, tracking the Watch Duty fire maps.
Dear friends have lost everything, their house burned to the ground that Tuesday night. And so did thousands of their neighbors. The images of the neighborhoods charred beyond recognition look like the aftermath of the bombings in Dresden during World War Two.
And there’s a lot in this disaster that reminds me of what war might be like: the constant awareness that at any moment your life could be shattered; knowing that other lives have already been ravaged; there’s the unexpected roar of helicopters, and the shock of the hurricane winds that slammed through that dark night; the occasional burst of acrid smoke that make your eyes water; and the scent of burnt everything when you step outside to see if the fire is on the ridge line.
You get jumpy. And bursts of emotion can surprise you. Last night a friend was online with me as we were both yelling at the newscasters ON THE TELEVISION. I know. I know they can’t hear us, but it was the only yelling we could do. HOW MANY HELICOPTERS ARE ON THEIR WAY? WHERE’S THE FIRE? STOP THE STAMMERING! WHERE? WHERE IS IT? STOP IT!
That kind of thing. You’re so helpless that the only sense of engagement is yelling at the television. At least the power was on.
I’m thinking that these fires, and the disaster of these fires, will change the stories we tell about our life here in Los Angeles. We’ve had other fires, and earthquakes, and riots. And mudslides. But this disaster feels differently for me – its about the four elements: fire, air, water, earth. Its about home and refuge and community.
It’s also about the thousand little things we live with, the thousands of decisions we make about the things in our life. When I was packing up the car in case I needed to evacuate, I had to evaluate the value of any item I would carry away with me. And that’s when the story of my life here became a kind of inventory – what do you take with you when you have to leave everything else behind? After I packed up the legal documents, the computer, the medicines, cat treats, my grandmother’s quilt, Eric’s artwork – then I paused. Could I fit the artwork on the walls in the car? Family portraits? Some of it would fit. But could I fit the big pieces of artwork, the big paintings, the six foot mannequin, the six panel art screen – maybe not. The family china? The books? Oh, the many books – do I have time to go through my favorite books? Maybe I’d get more books. Later.
And that’s when the story became a thousand different stories. The mosaic of my life here: when I lived here with Eric, as I’ve lived here without him, the dinner parties with the fancy wine glasses. I felt every object asking “Would you take me?”
In the end, I took what I could. I hope I’ll be able to unpack it all when the evacuation alerts end, and the air is cleared of smoke, and the bits of the mosaic of lives burnt by fire finds a new pattern.
Just now I stepped outside to watch the trees thrash around in the winds. The air tasted like fire.
Betty and Charlie Dolan, my paternal grandparents, around 1918
I recently traveled to Ireland and England, my first international travel in many years, and returned as a different person. I suspected that this journey would change me, but I was surprised at my intense internal struggle as I tried to adapt between me and my (travel sized) demons.
Thanks to the generosity of a dear friend, I was able to travel the Irish countryside, drink beer and listen to Irish music in pubs, and investigate leads to my mother’s family. “The Lost Dolans”, my grandfather’s family from Ireland, have always been a missing link in our ancestry, with many stories and wild claims that could never be tracked down. Now I was actually in the country of my mother’s family for the first time, and I hoped to find some connections.
Ancestry can be such an emotionally charged arena; there were hopes to find dissolved family ties, names that would refocus our Dolan legacy, and also, a discovery of a few fine country mansions and discretely wealthy family members. Dear Reader, I did not find these.
Instead I found that thousands of Dolans fled the island during The Great Hunger, a famine that decimated the island between1845-1852. The migration of over 2 million people by 1855 changed Ireland – and my grandfather’s family seems to have immigrated sometime, in phases, during the late 1800’s. I already knew that Charlie Dolan, my grandfather, was one of 13 children, had a twin sister, and was actually born in New York, not Ireland, and served in the United States Navy in WWI.
There was an evening in the Brazen Head Pub in Dublin, (I know, those Irish pub names!) where I was moaning about the fact that I was at a loss of finding my Dolan family roots.
Suddenly the fellow at the table right next us, overheard me, leans back and says to me, “I’m a Dolan.”
Yes, he was. Shaun Dolan is from Australia and he was in Ireland looking for his Dolan roots, and had researched a “Dolan’s Bar” in Clara, up in County Offaly. He had just been there, and suggested we asked for Dessie, Dessie Dolan, who owned the place. That’s the thing about Ireland: you can find a part of your family who went to Australia, and they’ll tell you the bar to go to so you can get more family information. So the next day we went to Dolan’s Bar in Clara.
So I did meet with Dessie Dolan and his beautiful wife, and I can tell you that they were wonderful people, and after a good 30 minutes of besieging them with questions about their Dolan family legacy, we agreed that a Charlie Dolan, an ancestor of his, could have been a distant ancestor of my grandfather. I’d like to go back to Dolan’s Bar in Clara; they have live music at night, and it seemed like a wonderful place. Dessie suggested we look for his brother’s place in Blacklion, County Cavan, at the Dugout, a pub where we could find more information about the Dolans. So we drove over to Blacklion and the Dugouot and- well. Here’s where we realized that we were playing whack-a-mole pub style. We could probably go to every pub in the midlands and find a connection to a Dolan family member.
And that was the end of my Dolan research. There are no church records, or civil register records of my branch of Dolan family that came from County Cork to Upstate New York. So we went on to have more adventures in Ireland, and I know I’ll meet up with more Dolans in my future travels.
And even though I didn’t find more of my Dolan family history, I did find some surprising lessons in adapting strategies. I found that having the courage of my curiosities to pursue the unknown, that I had to trust that sometimes, you just don’t find the answers you’re looking for, but you might find some different questions.
The next week, I was in London and I had a chance to see the Irish play “Juno and the Paycock”, by Sean O’Casey at the Gielgud Theatre. The production had mixed reviews, with the actor Mark Rylance portraying a “drunken fantasist” in a tragicomedy that features a tortured Irish family caught up in poverty and war. It was brutally funny, tragically bleak, fascinating and hard to watch.
Watching a play about an impoverished Irish family, having just attempted to find more information on my own impoverished Irish family, made for a strange dissonance. I could appreciate the performances and I was also far away, thinking of my Irish ancestors, and their struggle for survival.
In my writing I often think about molecular memory – the body memory – the platform in which our DNA dances to the tune of their biochemistry. The documented history of my Irish family remains beyond my grasp, but I carry them with me.
I’m sharing an image for this blog that my husband, Eric Boyd, created some years ago, and it’s a favorite of mine. The model for this beautiful image was my sister, Barbara. Eric’s legacy of artwork, in images and art glass pieces, reminds me of our evolving viewpoint, and how we frame our perception of the world.
The world has changed in profound ways in the last two weeks. I’m referring to politics, of course, and to Kamala Harris now running for president, and the newly energized Democratic Party. But I’m also referring to how I see the world, how it feels. I’m curious to see how this viewpoint will change how I write, how I grieve, how I experience theater, and how I look at character development again.
I’ve dreaded this election – the ongoing political maelstrom was depressing, infuriating, and my feeble efforts to become involved again as a pollster/volunteer seemed futile. Last year I stepped away from writing. I was finishing a script that I was initially enthused about, but writing with grief as a partner found me profoundly lost. So I just stopped writing.
In the past few months I’ve started to write again, this time working with a fiction writer’s group and it’s a very different dynamic – one I’m enjoying – although I refer to the feedback of the other writers as “puppy dogs and rattlesnakes”. (I miss my playwright comrades too.) This style of writing is a bit like wearing someone else’s clothes: they fit funny, look funny, and get a completely different response. I’m continually reminded about the crucial value of dialogue: words being offered and a change taking place because of that dynamic. And viewpoints being changed because of that interaction. Perhaps like politics this year.
Many years ago, I was cast in a movie , A LITTLE DEATH, based on THE DECAMERON, stories by Giovanni Boccaccio, written in response to the plague of 1348. I have mostly forgotten it, and misplaced most of the production stills from that project. But I recently saw that Netflix is showing a version of THE DECAMERON this month. And it reminded me of a moment that changed me.
At one point in the filming of A LITTLE DEATH, I asked the director why he was so focused on including a lit candle in the shot. It seemed all the effort to balance the light for this brief image was unnecessary. We were filming at Hammond Castle, and it was cold and damp and it was a thirteen hour day, and the crew was tired. That’s when he told me: “It’s all in the frame. How we see it, what we see, what we understand. It’s all in the frame.”
That was a moment of zen for me. I looked at this busy, crowded set where everyone just wanted to get to the next shot. And he was looking at one image, and what was revealed in the frame of the shot. How we frame what we see, how that tells us the story of what we include and focus on. It changed me.
I don’t know that the image of the lit candle created much meaning for the movie. I don’t even know if that image was included in the final version. But it was important to him. His artistry was trying to find – I don’t know – symbols? atmosphere? overtime? But I do know that he created beautiful images in the lightning and filming of this project; and I really admired what he created. (His name is Alan Ritsko, he was a Managing Director at NOVA, and he wrote the book, literally, on lighting for motion pictures: Lighting for location motion pictures: https://a.co/d/3Ec06Uu)
So – when Kamala Harris became the nominee for the Democrats – just two weeks ago – it changed how I saw the election. It changed how I saw where I belonged. So, it became for me, something that was “all in the frame”.
I managed to find two images of a young 19 year old Cynthia, from that film. I wish I remembered where I saved the rest of the production stills.
These still images from A LITTLE DEATH were taken by the photographer Francesca Morgante, who worked with Alan Ritsko on the set.
Even with all the chaos and noise in the political world,I’m going to try to find focus and meaning in the months ahead. I’m going to try to keep writing. I hope you do too.
A raw image (photograph) that I use for some of my digital artwork. I’ve taken cast away silverplate tea pots and added some twinkle, then I photograph the work, and use this image for a base in my photoshop images.
I’ve been following some of the stories of what AI (Artificial Intelligence) has become in the world of “creators”. Artwork, writing, architecture, design: AI is becoming a sought after tool to “enhance” creativity. And I’m also reminded of this issue as part of the actors strike – the AI generation of actors’ images to create new content without the actual participation of the actors themselves.
And some of the issues are profound, infuriating and bizarre.
There are schools and blogs and videos online on the use of AI to “enhance” story telling for screenwriters.
But the most apparent visual representation of AI mechanisms I’ve seen is in the visual world ~ as a “digital artist”, I’ve seen the highjacking of my own artwork. My digital art images, which are available on a website, have been lifted and used in a myriad of unexpected ways. I’ve found my images for sale on other sites – and I’m powerless to control or stop the theft of these images. It’s changed the way I shared my artwork.
But I also belong to an online group that discusses AI Generate Images: mostly artists, some art directors, curators and the assorted grumpy scholar. Here is an insider comment, about the use and caliber of hiring “AI Prompters”: staff who attempt to create images by pulling images from social media through prompts to use existing found images.
Posting this on behalf of a member who would like to remain anonymous:
I’m an art director and supervisor for a large studio. The studio heads had the bright idea before I started to hire prompters. Several bros were brought onto the film project. I absolutely hated myself for not quitting on the spot but stuck with it because it’s mercenary out there. Have a family to feed etc. I decided to use this time wisely. Treat them as I would any artist I had hired. First round of pictures of a sweeping Ariel forest landscape comes through and it’s not bad. They submit a ton of work and one or two of the 40 are ok. Nearly on brief. So first round feedback goes through and I tell them about the perspective mistakes, colour changes I want, layers that any matte painting would be split into. Within a day I get 5 variants. Not changes to the ones I wanted but variations. Again. Benefit of the doubt I give them another round of feedback making it clear. Next day it’s worse. I sit there and patiently paint over, even explaining the steps I would take as a painter. They don’t do it, anomalies start appearing when I say I want to keep the exact image but with changes. They can’t. They simply don’t have the eye to see the basic mistakes so the Ai starts to over compensate. We get people starting to appear in the images. These are obviously holiday snaps.
“Remove the people”
“What would you like them changed to?”
“… grass. I just don’t want them there”
They can’t do it. The one that can actually use photoshop hasn’t developed the eye to see his mistakes, ends up getting angry at me for not understanding he can’t make specific changes. The girl whose background was a little photography has given me 40 progressively worse images with wilder mistakes every time. This is 4 days into the project.
I’m both pissed about the waste, but elated seeing ai fall at the first hurdle. It’s not even that the images are unusable, the people making them have no eye for what’s wrong, no thicker skin for constructive criticism and feedback, no basic artistic training in perspective and functionality in what they’re making.
Yes the hype is going to pump more money into this. They won’t go anywhere for a while. But this has been such a glowing perfect moment of watching the fundamental part fail in the face of the most simple tasks. All were fired and the company no longer accepts Ai prompters as applicants. Your training as an artist will always be the most important part of this process and it is invaluable. I hope this post gives you a boost in a dark time.
Anonymous Author on generating AI
An image that accompanied this online article:
The article and the image provoked me to think about the value and cost of the artist to create – the emotional, psychological, spiritual, cultural cost. What we bring to the table. What we leave behind.
As a writer, and digital artist, who uses complicated software, and social media, and resources that are linked to the access of ideas and images and conversations (like this one), I’m very invested in the identity and core value of what an artist is. I’ll be watching the world’s imagery to see if AI is the immoral monster, or a seemingly magical assist to our creative life.
A finished image, using raw images, brewed around in Photoshop and Illustrator: Tiger Tea, by Cynthia Wands, 2022.
