Ebertfest 2013

             I learned of Roger’s death from a text I received from my sister-in-law.  I had just arrived at Café Kopi that afternoon to grade a pile of papers.  I went up to the counter and waited until Paul, Kopi’s owner, had served the customer in front of me, and then asked, “Did you hear that Roger Ebert died?”

            “Yeah.”  Someone from the local paper had just told Paul.

            “It’s so strange.  Hard to believe.  Ebertfest is supposed to be on soon,” I gestured in the direction of the newly restored Virginia Theatre two blocks away, where the fifteenth annual Roger Ebert’s Film Festival was to begin in two weeks.  “Well, I’ll be back to place my order in a minute.” 

            “You just wanted to tell someone?” Paul smiled.

            “Yes, so it would feel real.  I know he was sick, but still.”

            Paul nodded.

            When Chaz, Roger’s wife, announced that Ebertfest would go on as planned, my partner, Marilyn, and I were thrilled and relieved—as I’m sure were hundreds of other festival regulars.

            (Chaz.  Roger.  That’s how festival goers refer to these celebrities, even if they have never had a chat with them in person.  Even the festival guests, even the superstars, are drawn into the intimacy.  This year, we had Tilda [Swinton], with her film Julia. 

Chaz Ebert, Tilda Swinton, and festival director Nate Kohn chat after Julia.

            “Did Tilda make it in?” we’d ask, after Jack Black was kept away by weather too stormy for flying.  He was with us by phone though to discuss his role in Bernie).

            At the festival, interesting conversations occur in the line at the restroom.  On Saturday, after the screening of Escape from Tomorrow, a young woman in the restroom doorway said to all who could hear, “Does anyone know what it was we watched for the past ninety minutes?”

            “That was a film made for men by a man,” someone in line replied.

            “There sure were a lot of phallic symbols,” I chimed in, as I headed to one of the marble-walled stalls.

            I returned to the auditorium for the Q & A with the director and cast.  A woman in the balcony received the microphone: “In the ladies room just now, some people were saying yours is a film made by a man for other men.”  Hearing her slight German accent, I looked up and recognized the woman at the restroom sink who had been trying to make the line move efficiently. I chuckled.  Writer and director Randy Moore didn’t seem offended by her question and discussed connections between the film and his relationship with his own father. 

            That conversation coming full circle was quintessentially Ebertfest.  Roger always had a way of getting people talking to each other, and this year was no exception.

            The most welcome words from the festival stage this year came at the very end, when Chaz said, “See you next year!”

 

Chaz had gifts for those who had attended all fifteen festivals.

A detail of the gloriously restored Virginia.

Roger's presence was felt at the festival.

In the upstairs foyer of the Virginia.

A detail of the ceiling in the upstairs foyer.

I took this photo in downtown Champaign as I walked to dinner Saturday night.

Roger, of course, for bringing us the festival.

Poem in Your Pocket

A pocket-size copy of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's collection.

April 18 was Poem in Your Pocket Day,  when the Academy of American Poets encouraged readers to share poems.  I loved the idea of handing out poems to people  I might meet, so I clicked on some of the "pockets" on the website and found the poem I wanted under the one labeled "Walk": Walt Whitman's "Miracles."

That morning, I distributed copies to the students in my poetry course.  One of them volunteered to read the poem to the class.  It was a rainy, April morning, and I said to the students, "Whitman would probably think our rainy morning was a miracle, too."  

Here is Whitman's poem for you to enjoy:

Miracles

    by Walt Whitman

Why, who makes much of a miracle?

As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;

These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,

The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.

Why, who makes much of a miracle? As to me I know of nothing else but miracles, Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky, Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of    the water, Or stand under trees in the woods, Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night    with any one I love, Or sit at table at dinner with the rest, Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer    forenoon, Or animals feeding in the fields, Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so    quiet and bright, Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring; These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place. To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle, Every cubic inch of space is a miracle, Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with    the same, Every foot of the interior swarms with the same. To me the sea is a continual miracle, The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—    the ships with men in them, What stranger miracles are there? - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20162#sthash.B7QPs2JV.dpuf

Miracles

  by Walt Whitman

Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles, 
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, 
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky, 
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of
   the water, 
Or stand under trees in the woods, 
Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night
   with any one I love, 
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest, 
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, 
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer
   forenoon, 
Or animals feeding in the fields, 
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, 
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so
   quiet and bright, 
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring; 
These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, 
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.

To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with
   the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.

To me the sea is a continual miracle,
The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—
   the ships with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20162#sthash.B7QPs2JV.dpuf

Miracles

  by Walt Whitman

Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles, 
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, 
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky, 
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of
   the water, 
Or stand under trees in the woods, 
Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night
   with any one I love, 
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest, 
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, 
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer
   forenoon, 
Or animals feeding in the fields, 
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, 
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so
   quiet and bright, 
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring; 
These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, 
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.

To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with
   the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.

To me the sea is a continual miracle,
The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—
   the ships with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20162#sthash.B7QPs2JV.dpuf

Miracles

  by Walt Whitman

Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles, 
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, 
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky, 
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of
   the water, 
Or stand under trees in the woods, 
Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night
   with any one I love, 
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest, 
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, 
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer
   forenoon, 
Or animals feeding in the fields, 
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, 
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so
   quiet and bright, 
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring; 
These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, 
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.

To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with
   the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.

To me the sea is a continual miracle,
The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—
   the ships with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20162#sthash.B7QPs2JV.dpuf

Artists Against AIDS

 

On Monday evening, I sat in a large room in the old YMCA near downtown Champaign, sticking price tags on the handmade cards I was donating to the annual fundraiser for the Greater Community Aids Project, Artists Against AIDS.  

My part was nearly done. I had sat at the table in my studio, a table covered with my collection of used paper, tubes of paint, and jars of brushes.  All kinds of material are fair game when I make my cards: chocolate wrappers, used postage stamps, old maps, bits of yarn. My hands and eyes had delighted in the textures and the colors.  

I used to sell my handmade cards at a downtown art gallery until it closed in 2006.  On Monday evening, I was reminded of the old ritual of packaging the cards to send them out into the world.  Not knowing who buys them, not knowing whether they are mailed or framed or just tucked in a drawer is somehow pleasant. 

I am grateful to the AIDS Project for this opportunity it offers artists every year.  And grateful for all the work it does for people with AIDS in our area.  If you are in or near Champaign-Urbana, please stop by between Thursday and Sunday to enjoy a feast for the senses.