He said I’m the wrong shape. I could do with putting on a few pounds and, almost as an after thought he said, you’ll have to cut your hair – yourself.  I know she was an artist, and a mother, and a gardener. I had to admit to him I didn’t know any painters. My cousin Julie’s a sculptor – same thing he said – but I had to tell him I hadn’t yet looked at her painting, only what he showed us in his presentation.  He then told me exactly where in the National Museum of Wales I could see one of her paintings – Gallery 14 – and its from this period, a Parisiene picture. He suggested I might go to Cambridge and spend a day at a place called Kettles Yard. There are more Winifreds there than anywhere else in the UK, and many pictures by her close friend Christopher Wood.
 
Oh dear. This is difficult. The only thing going for me seems I’m about the right age and I’ve have children, though mine are older than hers in the production. I was so surprised to get this part, but as Michael said over the phone, your profile fits. Except for the weight and the hair, and I know nothing about painting. Why should I? Jeff told me, the composer Morton Feldman once said if you haven’t got a friend whose a painter, you’re in trouble. I’m in trouble. But he has very kind eyes and when he touched me gently on the shoulder after Lizzie and I sung that shells duet I had to look away.
 
Reaching down arm-deep into bright water
I gathered on white sand under waves
Shells, drifted up on beaches where I alone
Inhabit a finite world of years and days.
I reached my arm down a myriad years
To gather treasure from the yester-millennial sea-floor,
Held in my fingers forms shaped on the day of creation….
 
They sleep on the ocean floor like humming-tops
Whose music is the mother-of-pearl octave of the rainbow,
Harmonious shells that whisper for ever in our ears,
‘The world that you inhabit has not yet been created’
 
Mind you, I don’t envy Lizzie being Kathleen Raine. Now that is a difficult part, even though she’s only in Act 2. Raine was definitely odd. He says I have to understand their friendship, because there was something about it that made them both more than they were. I don’t understand that.
 
Jane and the children are amazing already. Martin (my ‘other’ half Ben Nicholson) said they’d been rehearsing with Robert because his wife (Robert’s wife Debbie) is at WNO and they were scared about this one. I’ll say this for him he knows exactly how children interrupt, constantly. It’s clever the way he uses the interruptions to change direction of the dialogue. Conversations are often left unfinished. The bit when that ***** Barbara visits the apartment unexpectedly is brilliant. She’s completely demolished by these kids of her lover.
 
But those letters . . . he said, can you imagine your husband writing to you over a period of 40 years? Quite a thought that. David wrote to me a few times when I was in Madrid for Cosi just after we’d met, but it was all telephone calls after that. Why waste paper, time and a stamp. But I take his point – their letters are so beautiful – and they were separated for God’s sake. He’d gone off with another woman, and even brought her to Paris. And you could not have two totally different women – she ,slight, chain-smoking, work-a-holic, sharp-tongued with that Yorkshire edge, and me with ‘a quiet voice, trying always to be gentle and kind ‘– W would be called an earth-mother these days. She was a kind of hippie, only she had money – mind you most of those hippies of the 60s had money otherwise they couldn’t have done drugs (heard that on Radio 4 last week in a programme about Richard Brautigan). But they wrote to each other almost every day.
 
Dear Ben,.
            Do you know there are several kinds of happiness, and there is one sort which I have found. It is the sort that is within oneself, enjoying fresh promise, and taking all the experiences of life that one has been through, so-called sad ones and so-called happy ones, to make up understanding that is further on than joy or sorrow. I have been extremely lucky – I have had ten years of companionship with an ‘all-time’ painter, working in the medium of classic eternity and that has been better than a lifetime with any second-class person – isn’t it - I have found it so…
 
Best love Winifred
 
What’s clever about the letter sequences is the way the two-way correspondence is handled as a duet and right in the middle of it you’ll get a flashback – like Winifred suddenly remembering her first meeting with Ben.
 
I heard this voice
In the room next door
I couldn’t breath, I couldn’t move
I knew, I knew for certain
This was the man I would marry.
And when we were introduced
He seemed to know this too.
 
We gaily call this an opera, but it’s not. It’s something else. It simply doesn’t do what you think it’s going to do. Even when you do something for a second time the accompaniment doesn’t do what you expect and remembered. It’s this open-form business. Something else I know nothing about. He mentioned Umberto Eco – now I’ve read Name of the Rose. When Braque or Mondrian or Jan Eps visit unannounced I have no idea which one it’s going to be – these guys just used to turn up. Sometimes two at once. W didn’t invite them. They came for her English hospitality (home baking I think) and her beautiful apartment come studio – beautiful, because she made it so. Her French was appalling, and this is difficult because I speak quite well, and now I have to speak like an idiot. Bridget  (playing Cissy the Cumbrian nanny) having her French lesson is a hoot, and with the children correcting her all the time, it’s lovely.
 
He was very sweet when we broke for lunch. Sara, he said, as I collapsed into an auditorium seat to find my bag and mobile, Sara, we’ve got to find you a painter to spend a day with . . . so you’ll know how to stand in front of an easel.  I phoned Sarah Jane Brown who has a studio in Cardiff and she’d love to meet you. Here’s her number. She paints flowers and landscapes – as well as the abstract stuff - just like Winifred. Her tutor at the RCA actually knew Winifred. And with that he disappeared to a dark corner of the theatre and unwrapped his sandwiches. You can tell he’s not into break discussions with Julian or Michael. I think he’s terribly shy. He’s interested in the cast and so he picks them off one by one. Julian I know doesn’t like this. I think everything needs to go through me, he said at the end of yesterday’s rehearsal. Who does he think he is?! Lizzie reminded Julian he was the composer and what he doesn’t know about this whole period and its characters isn’t knowledge. Liz thinks he’s a sweetie – and she’s sung his Raine settings at Branwyn Hall last year – with Robert who was his MD with BBCNOW. Liz knows Julian hasn’t done his usual homework because he’s got this production in Birmingham on the boil. Unknown Colour is a distraction he can do without.
 
This afternoon it’s back to the mayhem of those ensemble scenes in Act 1. They’re quite crazy, but I’m already beginning to feel I can start to be someone other than me. Did you know I have this lovely song? It’s quite Sondheim . . .
 
*I like to have a picture in my room.
Without one, my room feels bare
however much furniture is there;
Pictures play so many roles.
My room has too much going on in it
for something extravagant.
In the morning it is a sanctuary,
in the daytime a factory,
in the evening a place of festivity,
and through the night a place of rest.
 
I want a window in it,  
And a focal point, something alive and silent.
A bunch of flowers on the window sill?
Yes, but they will wither.
A cat curled up on the hearth?
Yes, but it will go away and prowl upon the rooftops.
 
A picture will always be there.
It will make no sound. It will wait.
If it is true I shall never grow tired of it.
I shall see something fresh in it
when I glance at it tomorrow.
It will always be my friend.

Cut and paste unto your browser

http://www.playbill.com/multimedia/video/5723/EXTENDED-LOOK-Jeremy-Jordan-Darren-Criss-and-America-Ferrera-Perf­orm-Opening-Doors-in-New-HBO-Documentary-Six-By-Sondheim

Sondhei­m's only autobiographical song.

From Six by Sondheim. If u have HBO, find it, watch it.
Also whether-permitting see
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/lessons-of-us-what-is-your-target-market/

Teaching high school kids the craft
Directing them in their school show
Teenagers singing just off key
With a band that's one beat slow
Holding rehearsals when the gym is free
Have you really sunk this low
Are you truly at your bottom
Or are you "Waiting for Godot"?

"YOU'RE ON IN FIFTEEN MINUTES...MR. WILSON"

Doing plays in local theater groups
With untrained  amateurs on stage
You tell them all your stories
And you keep them on their page
It's not exactly where you started
Talent that you just can't gauge
Selling programs in the lobby
It's time you act your age

"TEN MINUTES TILL SHOWTIME MR. WILSON"

Touring shows around the country now
Second touring group, smaller towns
Doing revival shows of Sondheim
"Sweeney Todd " and "Send in the clowns"
Living out of an old suitcase
The countryside a sea of browns
Where you are at the local's mercy
And there's less ups than there are downs

"FIVE MINUTES TO SHOW TIME MR. WILSON"

You've made it, you're on Broadway
Starring roles are yours to choose
Where the highlights of last nights show
Are in today's reviews
Where a sold out run continues
And your name is in the news
You're an actor, and you're famous
The world is yours to lose

"SHOW TIME MR.. WILSON...ON STAGE PLEASE"

The kids are out there schlepping
working their way through the *****
singing songs sung by the Beatles
"All This and World War II"
You're just a pillar standing, sweating
As you see what you can do
You're still an actor, and you know it
You'll need a drink when this is through.

Fall is theatre

Sondheim of the seasons

One last extravagant show of dazzling firework shades

Daring and carefree, fiesta in scarlet and orange

A deranged Harlequin running riot, dancing with the wind

Raising Cain, a mad finale of colourful conspicuous excess

Refusing to leave the stage or even take a bow

Cool charm stills the orchestra  bringing down the curtain on a  riotous charade

Winter packs away the props and switches off the lights

Party over for another year

so listening to Sondheim talking
art, composition and
inspiration,
he says something that so astounds me, my core shaken.
hundreds of songs composed,
but only one,
only one!
autobiographical.

ashamed. I am ashamed.
99% of what is scribble-scribe, about myself,
so I flunk my very own poem exam.

worse, I knew it true
but would not say it lest,
my shame public pronounced,
till now.

his target market was the theater-goer,
the public, you.

mine, myself.
you invited into ******~voyage,
to peer into me
peering into me

but I have an oath modest taken,
from know-now on,
I will write
About You,
For you,
Less-on me,
Lessons of us....


Jan. 25th 2014.

(If you don’t know the song from GYPSY, "Everything's Coming Up Roses,” by Jule Styne and Stephen Sondheim, listen to Bette Midler’s version on YouTube. Then try singing this poem to the melody.)

We can all see…
The truth is so clear, people.
It's not just a smear, people.
It's what we should fear. Oh, people,

Like two peas
In a pod
Such a friendship might seem rather odd.
As for us,
We can see,
People, all roads lead clearly to Putin.

Business deals
Or *** tapes?
Microphones hidden in drapes?
So bizarre…
We can see,
People, all roads lead clearly to Putin.

They're going strong now.
What could be their desire?
Putin knows how
He'll make the president kowtow.

Will Trump lift
Sanctions soon?
Will both keep on singing in tune?
Just you wait
And you’ll see
Who is whose
Devotee.
It's strange to watch the two talk crook to crook.
People, all roads lead clearly to Putin wherever we look.

They contrive this
Situation at hand.
We'll survive this;
Maybe we'd better archive this.

Putin wants
In Ukraine
To make it part of Russia's domain.
Where this goes,
Who can tell?
Doesn't this
Ring a bell?
'Cause they know every trick that's in the book.
People, all roads will lead us to true Russian meddling;
All roads will lead to the White House’s cover-ups;
All roads lead Trump to just one place without a doubt;
ALL ROADS LEAD CLEARLY TO PUTIN WHEREVER WE LOOK!

-by Bob B (11-19-19)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cm6Vi7WdK-k

In New Haven, Lisa misses the sad, dark, city aesthetics of her hometown. Its crime podcast vibe, actinic crime-lighting and sirens in the distance, that lull her to sleep like lullabies. She has a disturbingly romantic attraction to hustle, bright neon lights, skyscrapers, subways, crowded diversity and swirling dance clubs.

Yep, we were in NYC for fall break - a week-long escape from school. We head back to Yale tomorrow. We’ve been seeing the sights, Broadway shows at night, the views from great heights, restaurant delights and sisterly fights.

Lisa's sister (Leeza, 14) can’t sit still, she’s all theater kid energy. She started playing electric bass and desperately wants to be in a band. She’s taking bass lessons, has calluses on her little fingers, and plays it (silently) even as we watch TV. Calling it an obsession would minimize it.

We saw the Eras Tour movie, last night, in iMax and it’s hypnotizing. Better than RL? Maybe.
We’ve seen two Broadway shows too: “Six’, a modern retelling of the lives of the six wives of Henry VIII (don’t bother) and ‘Merrily We Roll Along’, (two thumbs up) Stephen Sondheim’s weakest play saved by the cast of Harry Potter (Daniel Radcliffe), and King George (Jonathan Groff).

Lisa, Leeza and I were talking, earlier in the week, about Autumn comfort foods. I described the joys of cassoulet, fondues and tartiflette (potatoes, cream, cheese, bacon, and onions delight) - three French favorites and Leeza said, snootily, “This is New York City,” like, ‘you can find anything here.’ It was a freakin’ challenge!

So, we’ve hit French restaurants all week in search of these treats. We each order one of the three and compare them. So far, La Sirene (south village) had the best cassoulet - although it had a crusty top - which is just - No. Mominette (Brooklyn) had the best Tartiflette but they all treat it like a side dish?? And The Lavaux wins best fondue. So book those flights now!

Lisa, Leeza and I were sharing the couch in their dad’s all-glass, 50th floor, corner study, that overlooks the city. The view makes me feel like an angel watching over mankind from the firmaments - if the firmaments feature the winking, blinking lights of jets landing at Newark Liberty, Teterboro and LaGuardia.

“So, how’s Fall semester been for you?” Lisa asked me. Of course, we’re roommates so she’s seen the more obvious events in my life, but we all have complicated, internal lives.
The subtext to her question, of course, is Peter and how I’m dealing with his absence, so far, this year. But I’m not ready to go there, and I frown.
“I’ve been seeing so many Tumbler compilations, she added, to save me from answering, “saying how the start of Fall Semester is a time of agony, pain and reflection.”
“And I think that’s real,” I interjected.
“How so?” Leeza asked - she LOVES the uni 411
“School can be harsh,” Lisa continued, “the sudden, hella work, and, of course, it’s breakup season on campus.”
“Oh, Yeah,” I agreed, “Being away from home and those certain ‘someone's’ for months can be rough on freshmen.” We all nodded in agreement.

“Has anyone been vibing to anything regularly?” I asked (musically).
“I’ve been bumpin’ to Pink Pantheress,” Leeza revealed, “I think people see her as a TikTok, one hit wonder, but I think she still slaps!”
“Yes!” Lisa exclaims, “I’ve had “Picture in my mind” on a loop.

The city looked like an exquisite, miniature, clockwork toy. How could someone not love it when seeing it the way God does? It’ll be even prettier at Thanksgiving - I'm crossing my fingers and hoping for snow.

BIDEN (to Bush)
I have to say,
Because of you, man,
We have this mess
In Afghanistan.

BUSH
It's not my fault.
We were attacked
On 9/11,
As a matter of fact.
If we hadn't gone
To Afghanistan
What would have been
Al-Qaeda's next plan?

BIDEN (to Bush)
But wait a minute!
Al-Qaeda was routed.
But let's talk about
Other things you flouted.
Like the truth when you said--
Like a vicious hawk--
That there were reasons
To invade Iraq.

OBAMA (to Bush)
Ah, so it's your fault.

BUSH
No!
WE went there
Because of the production
Of dangerous weapons
Of mass destruction.

OBAMA (to Bush)
But how did they ever
Get on your list--
The WMDs--
For they DIDN'T exist?

OBAMA, BIDEN (to Bush)
See, it's your fault!

BUSH
No, it isn't!
I decided
As commander in chief
That Saddam Hussein
Was causing too much grief.
I had to do
Something about it.
So, I had my team
Try to figure out it.

OBAMA, BIDEN
Figure it out,
Is what you mean.
But come on now:
You've GOTTA come clean.

BUSH (to Obama)
Wait!
You're the one
Who pulled our troops
Out of Iraq,
Which then allowed groups
Of ISIS fighters
To spread their hate
As they tried to form
An Islamic state.

So it's your fault.

OBAMA (to Bush)
The Iraqis wanted
Us to leave.
I didn't have
Any tricks up my sleeve.
The war in Iraq
Was a major distraction,
It didn't help matters,
Not even by a fraction.
Because of you,
People lost their focus
On Afghanistan
With all your hocus-pocus.

BUSH, BIDEN (to Obama)
But then you suddenly
Had the urge
To initiate
A giant surge
Of troops again
In Afghanistan.
What the hell
Were you thinking, man?

TRUMP
You all bear
Responsibility.
The war was a lesson
In futility.

BUSH, OBAMA, BIDEN (to Trump)
You're the one
Who spun his wheels.
With Taliban forces
You made some deals
Without including
Officials from
The government.
And that was dumb!
Did YOU perhaps show
With your Sharpie and your chart
That by May 1
The troops would depart?

TRUMP (to Obama and Biden)
Now wait a minute!
Part of your campaign
Was troop withdrawal
From the Afghan domain.

BIDEN (to Trump)
And that's what I did.
I followed through
With an agreement
That was made by you.
It wasn't something
That I reversed.
I just moved it
To August 31st.
Who could know how long
The government would last
And that the Taliban
Would move in so fast?

BUSH, OBAMA, TRUMP (to Biden)
Then it's YOUR fault!

THE PEOPLE (to Bush, Biden, Obama, and Trump)
It's EVERYBODY'S fault…
Along with Congress
And others we could blame.
But stop pointing fingers
And end this stupid game!
You ALL bear the fault.
Be that as it may,
What is done is done.
That was yesterday.
We need to save lives,
So, find a way somehow
To try to figure out
What to do now.

BIDEN, OBAMA, TRUMP, BUSH (pointing at one another)
But it's still your fault!

THE PEOPLE
Stop!

-by Bob B (8-18-21)

°Very loosely based on Stephen Sondheim's song "Your Fault" from INTO THE WOODS