Thursday, March 13, 2014

Jamaican Honeymoon Song


Jamaican Honeymoon Song
by Greg Larson

I dedicate this blog post to my Wife, Gretta, who is the love of my life.

       I can sing in public, but it is not my forté. It has to be a really special occasion, and I have to really believe in what I’m singing. Such is the case with the Jamaican Honeymoon Song, which I wrote when . . . you guessed it . . . Gretta and I were on our 2004 honeymoon.

       The Montego Bay airport had a book shop to which we gravitated. While browsing, I found a small booklet with Jamaican slang terms like ya-man, etc. I was intrigued by the term oo-man, so I looked at the definition, which was “wife or girlfriend.” I looked at Gretta and thought “she’s my oo-man!” But I wondered if it was pronounced ohh or ooo.

       On the flight back home, between naps of honeymoon memories, I wrote the short song in my head. I pictured the warm sand and the palm trees framing the deep blue ocean water. While relaxed, I could smell the Jamaican barbeque and listen to the steel drums playing the melody.

       It’s a great song for me to sing in my head while I ride the bike or mow the lawn. It’s always with me, just like Gretta.

       The first time I sang it, we were on a bike tour in Italy. One evening after a little wine, with people we hardly knew, I belted it out. The second time was the other night at our tenth-anniversary party, a most appropriate venue. You never know, I may sing it again, but probably just once in a Jamaican blue moon.

Now that I’ve put the words to paper, the lyrics are copyrighted, so I’m anticipating royalty checks:

Jamaican Honeymoon Song
by Greg Larson

          Oh man, she’s my oo-man
          Oo man, she’s my oh-man
          Oh man, she’s my oo-man
          And I love her all of my day!

          I love her in the morning                                             [point to the east]
          I love her in the evening                                              [point to the west]
          I love her in the afternoon                                           [point to the sky]
          And all night long!                                                      [fist pump to the sky]

         Oh-oh-oh oo-man, my pretty, pretty oo-oo-oo-man
         And I love her all of my day!                                      [kiss Gretta, crowd cheers]

 

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

All About Nothing



All About Nothing
commentary
by Greg Larson

I dedicate this article to my good friend and writer John Davis, who continually encourages writers to start writing, even when it seems impossible to think of anything to write about.

     Sometimes I try to write, but nothing comes to mind. It’s a common malady called writer’s block. But this time I’ve decided to write about nothing. In the doldrums of winter, it is a topic that I want to shy away from. Even the landscape seems empty and barren. Nothing . . . nada . . . absolute zero . . . a scary concept. Chasms of emptiness come to mind. Big voids unfilled . . . cold cavernous areas of nothingness from deep space to empty hearts. It gives me the shivers.

     But on further inspection, there’s more to the subject than meets the eye. I’ve concluded that nothing does not exist. Now there’s a double negative that puts a body slam to the old zippity-do-dah. Nothing is made of something. Even the pencil mark of zero was created by someone who smeared volumes of graphite molecules onto the paper. And what about those nano-bits of charged data particles that are seemingly nothing when filed away on the motherboard? Computers have the capability to store entire libraries in a space the size of a pinhead. That’s nothing to sneeze at.

     One might think the utter emptiness of outer space is a good definition of nothing, but scientists will tell you it is filled with quarks, dark matter, and even the God particle. Heady stuff. Einstein himself visualized riding a beam of light through the realms of glory and mathematically proved the time clock on Earth would not move if he took a spin around the cosmic block and returned to earth on his bucking-bronco wave of energy. Now that’s something. I don’t understand it, but it is something.

     What about Absolute Zero, the coldest of cold? To scientists, the word cold doesn’t exist. They call it “absence of heat.” So far, Absolute Zero (-273.15 degrees Celsius) is only a theory. It’s a temperature that has not been attained. They’ve come close, within a tiny fraction of a degree, but the atoms just don’t roll over dead. They act a little weird, but they keep on tickin’. You’d act a little weird, too, if your temperature was a fraction from Absolute Zero.

     The closest I ever came to absolute zero was when I loaned my Starbucks gift card to Gretta, my wife. She was going to a Starbucks, so I gave her the card which I’d been carrying for months. I told her I thought it had something on it. Well, the look on her face when she returned gave me a clue that the card had been used up. The value was zero. I felt like a zero. I figured she might think of me as such. But in all of her wisdom and beauty, she came and told me I was not a zero. To her, I was a hero. For me, it was a great day to be alive in the universe, even though the beings on that far-away galaxy have no clue to the beauty and magnificence of our captive Garden of Eden that we call Earth.

     So the next time the concept of nothing comes to mind, go find that honey-do list. If you think your refrigerator is empty, go clean it out. No telling what you might find. Just be sure to throw away the cheese with the fuzzy green stuff on top. If a wall looks empty, paint it a different color or hang a picture on it. It could be the beginning of a project that really becomes something.

     If there’s nothing on the calendar, don’t (in the words of Jimi Hendrix) let the traffic lights turn blue tomorrow. Call up a friend, or take your significant other out to the coffee shop. Fill those relationship voids with love and consciousness. Keep those atoms tickin’. Get cozy and enjoy a warm cup of coffee and chocolate croissant. Then, in a Seinfeld kind of way, revel in the magnificence of the concept that nothing is something.

     Now that reminds me of the time that . . .

Friday, January 17, 2014

A Scouting Life

memoir
by Greg Larson



Eagle Award and miscellaneous badges

“Hey! You guys need to quiet down in there and get some shut-eye.” My dad grumbled as he stuck his head into the teepee, “I don’t want to have to come back here again. It was ‘lights out’ over an hour ago.” We listened to the faint steps in the grass as he walked away. The snickering continued among the members of the Flaming Arrow Patrol of Troop 704, but nobody wanted my dad to come back again. We finally trailed off to sleep.

I grew up in a camping family, and was eager to progress from Cub Scouts to Boy Scouts in 1962. My older brother was already a high-ranking scout. As a young boy, I concluded that my dad’s master plan was to be a leader in the scout troop so that he could keep watch over my older brother and me.

We attended weekly troop meetings and were given handbooks to read, but the most fun of being a scout was going on the campouts. Our troop was unique because of the large teepees we used instead of tents. It was possible for an entire patrol of eight to ten boys to sleep in one teepee, with its huge, circular base. The troop camped in Colorado every summer to collect the tall pine poles for the teepee frames. When it was time to add another teepee, some of the mothers sewed the canvas, patterned after the real teepees used by  Native Americans. We painted each teepee to identify the patrol. Ours had a flaming arrow, but others had bears, wolves and other insignia adorning the canvas.
 

The author next to a teepee at the Colorado camp


As I think back to my scouting days, I realize it was a great experience to prepare me for life after childhood. Immediately, it taught me how to work with other people and I became aware that we all have different attitudes and behaviors. Before every campout, we had a patrol meeting to plan a menu, buy the food, and calculate the cost for each person. We also planned activities that were designed to help us advance up the ranks. With the scout leaders watching us, we packed and repacked our camp gear, using checklists to confirm we had all that was required.

But all the planning in the world couldn’t hold back the unbridled enthusiasm and sense of freedom unleashed in each scout when we pulled into a campsite. As the teepees were unloaded and erected, many of the troop members were already exploring the area, throwing rocks in the creek, playing tag in the woods or finding good walking sticks. I quickly learned a life lesson of trying to keep some sense of order and sanity during the chaos that ensued, and found that I could have some fun mixed in with the chores.

I have fond memories of waking up to the smell of bacon on the campfire, then tossing a football around the campsite after breakfast (this was before frisbees were invented). The camping days were filled with hiking, swimming and numerous other activities. After a big dinner, each patrol would plan a skit for the evening campfire, which was a big bonfire that tended to hypnotize all of those gathered around it. I’m sure Mom enjoyed the peace and quiet at home, but when we returned she ordered us to pile all of our smoky-smelling clothes in the garage, then strip down and go take a shower.

During my first time at summer camp in Colorado, our troop went on an overnight survival hike. I was the lowest rank, a Tenderfoot, and every experience was new. Our five-mile hike followed a pipeline that was being installed in the national forest. In the heat of the afternoon, I began to choke on the dust. Blisters formed on my feet from negotiating the clumps of dirt along the pipeline trench. It seemed as if the hike would never end, and just as we arrived at a remote campsite in the lodge-pole pine forest, the typical afternoon deluge in the mountains began. Ponchos were pulled out of the packs, and we hunkered down under the trees.

I was exhausted, but it was time to fix supper, which required us to boil water for dehydrated soup and beef stroganoff. Before the hike, we were each issued two matches to carry in small waterproof containers. My two buddies and I tried to get a fire started, but all we could find were wet branches and sticks. In our foolish desperation we used two matches at once on our final try to get a lasting flame. With our matches gone, we approached our scoutmaster, Mr. Lein, and told him that we had failed. Oh, the shame.

Mr. Lein was not upset. He kindly showed us where to snap the dead, dry twigs from the lower trunks of the pine trees. He configured the twigs into a small teepee and lit them with one match. Although I was glad to see the fire grow, I was exhausted, and tears began to well up in my eyes. I felt even more embarrassed, as we huddled around the fire. Mr. Lein, noticing my predicament, poked me softly in the ribs and matter-of-factly commented, “That darn smoke gets in your eyes sometimes, doesn’t it?” After supper we built shelters with our ponchos and pine boughs. I slept well that night.

The next year in Colorado, one of the activities was a one-day, ten-mile hike to the summit of Mt. Ouray, a big mountain just shy of 14,000 ft. in elevation. I felt more like a veteran as I began the trek with five leaders and twenty boys after breakfast. We hiked for a couple of hours through the woods, then the path became rocky and less visible as we rose above the timberline. The cold wind and the ominous clouds forced us to put on our ponchos while we wolfed down our cheese sandwiches and apples.

The giant boulders and rock towers to the side of the ridge to the summit became our shelter from the wind and sleet as the storm blew past. I remember feeling quite small as the lightning flashed and the thunder shook the ridge. Once the rain stopped, we continued on, but many of the leaders and scouts had turned back, due to altitude sickness and the weather. Just six scouts (including me) and two leaders continued to the top of the mountain. When we got to the summit, I thought I could see all the way to Kansas.

My scouting path took me many places, from the boundary waters of Minnesota and Canada to the slopes of the mountains in southern Colorado, where I worked on the Spanish Peaks Scout Ranch staff for the first year of operation in 1967.

My brothers and I thrived in the scouting program, and we each obtained the Eagle rank. Although it is a significant achievement, I believe that by the time most scouts have the Eagle medallion pinned on their uniforms, they have learned that the process of learning will continue for their entire lives.

Three future Eagle Scouts (author with dog at right)

 

In 2007, I was returning from a business trip, flying back to Kansas City from California. I was worried about my dad, who was ill, and I was anxious to get home and drive to Wichita to see him. As a scout, I loved to look at maps and use them to determine my location. Many times while looking out the window of an airplane, I used those skills to identify certain features of the landscape and the cities below. That day was no different. The clouds over the Rocky Mountains were few, and I viewed the San Luis Valley below. Quickly, the jet flew over Mt. Ouray and for a few seconds I spied its summit where I had stood decades ago. I looked down on the vast forest of lodge-pole pines and remembered the long, exhausting hike. I also remembered the time Dad woke us up one night at the Mt. Ouray camp to see the beavers at work on the nearby ponds. With child-like excitement, he rustled us out of our sleeping bags to show us the beavers swimming and splashing in the moonlight. “Look, there they are!” he exclaimed as he pointed his battery searchlight at them.

The jet landed in Denver and I checked my phone messages while waiting for the plane to continue on to Kansas City. A message from my brother asked that I call him, and when we talked, he gave me the hard news that our dad had died within the hour. I realized that I had been looking down on Mt. Ouray about the time that Dad had passed away. The flood of memories came back to me.

Dad helped lead the troop for countless years. I realized that he volunteered as a leader because of his love for scouting and for each of the boys, including me. Now he was gone, but a smile came to my face. Dad and the other leaders taught us the scouting skills, and they taught us how to live, too. I’ll keep using those skills the rest of my life.

Thursday, December 12, 2013

Toyland Heaven


 
Toyland Heaven
memoir by Greg Larson
 
            The 1962 Fall edition of the Sears and Roebuck catalog seemed to weigh a ton. I held it close to my chest, then threw it down in front of me on the sleek sofa, spread out my legs behind me, and began flipping the pages, one by one. The tinsel on the Christmas tree in front of the big picture window glistened in the sunshine. It was my afternoon ritual, part daydream journey into fantasy Christmas mornings and part mission to select important things to put on my list for Santa. Wasn’t the meaning of Christmas to seek out the favorite toys to get on Christmas morning, and then blissfully play hour after hour without thinking about school?

In the electric train section I looked at all the sepia-toned images of every train imaginable, from giant locomotives roaring across trestle bridges in the forest, to stubby-looking switch engines working the freight yards of big cities. The Great Northern Railway locomotive was my favorite, hauling Mesabi iron ore through tunnels in the birch forests. I closed my eyes and pictured small towns with wooden train stations and goose-necked lamps along the platform, with the countryside full of mirror-surfaced lakes and snow-capped mountains beyond.

The anticipation of Christmas was almost unbearable, but Christmas Eve finally came and we all gathered around the tree to take turns reading parts of the real Christmas story from the Bible. After our fill of sugar cookies and hot chocolate, we grabbed a flashlight and a wristwatch to keep under the bed covers. Mom had a rule: nobody gets up before 6:00 AM. The night went on forever. My brothers and I tossed and turned, checking the watch every ten minutes.
 
Christmas Eve 1962 - Brothers Tim, Dan, & Greg

At 5:50 AM we rousted our parents. Dad had to get up and position himself with the 8mm movie camera and floodlights before we ran down the hall and into the living room. The blinding light and the buzzing camera motor were the signal to see what Santa had brought during the night. Everything in the room was flooded with silver light, creating a surreal atmosphere. I thought it must be something like heaven, all silvery with shiny toys spread about the room.

There it was! Low-hanging tinsel fluttered as a Lionel train rolled on a track set up in front of the tree. Wow! New train cars; a Sunoco tank car, a double-decker car full of automobiles, and a boxcar with a Baby Ruth trademark on it. The camera lights, the train whirring along the track, and our yelps as we explored the room made for a heady experience and a great Christmas memory. Santa (aka Dad) was a smart cookie. He had not disappointed us.

Immediately, Dad began to talk of a project for the rec-room he had built in the garage. He wanted to build us a train table that would fold up into the wall. My older brother started planning a track layout that would fill a four-foot by eight-foot table top.

Over the next few days we watched Dad assemble the plywood table. At times, he allowed us to hold a piece of lumber when he ran it through the power table saw, or sweep the sawdust and pick up the wood scraps. He installed a big piano hinge along the table edge and wall box, and added folding legs for the outer corners of the table.

Brother Dan installing track

After a lot of discussion between my Dad and brother, they began to attach the trestle pylons and pieces of track to the table. My brother consulted with his friend across the street to determine how to maximize the track. Only one piece of track had to be cut and spliced.

In no time at all we had our Katy switch engine pulling train cars along the track. On our nearby blackboard, I created lists of train cars, and we spent hours rearranging the cars, using the sidetracks to create new trains to pull. We took turns controlling the train from the transformer, which became warm to the touch. Occasionally, we were able to run two trains at the same time, but that put our small transformer to its limit. On the busy days with the train, the room became warm and the engines emitted the fragrance of ionized electrons and three-in-one oil.

Before the end of the Christmas holiday, we had daily visits from our friends bringing their favorite Lionel engines and cars to run on the tracks. My friend Mike brought his silver Santa Fe engine and we had two trains running at full speed. I remember thinking it was the best Christmas ever for an eleven-year-old boy in Kansas.

Friday, November 22, 2013

The Getty Museum: Legacy of the World's Richest Man

The Getty Museum - Brentwood, California
public domain photo

The Getty Museum: Legacy of the World’s Richest Man
non-fiction
by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

At the hilltop entrance plaza to the Getty Museum in Southern California, I listened to the soft hum and flow of vehicles on the 405 freeway, some 800 feet below. My eyes scanned the adjacent hillsides of Bel Air and Brentwood where modern mansions perched on the edges and tops of the Santa Monica Mountains. Farther out, the skylines of Hollywood and L.A., and the Pacific Coastline congealed with the haze on the horizon. My first impressions of the museum were its size, the modern design, and the unusual location. The complexities of the museum’s history, its bigger-than-life benefactor J. Paul Getty, and the massive campus designed by renowned architect Richard Meier, all seemed to melt away in the warm sunlight and the cool breeze.
 
J. Paul Getty’s life (1892-1976) had many phases and facets. Through cultivating his skills in the Oklahoma oil patch, he became a millionaire at the age of twenty-three. He briefly tried retirement, lived in Southern California and partied with the Hollywood set, becoming a womanizer and a bored bachelor. Eventually, he turned his focus back to the oil business in Southern California, where he began acquiring other oil companies. Unfortunately, his business acumen didn’t translate well to his family life. He married and divorced five times from 1923 to 1958. His focus was on the growing network of oil companies, as well as chasing women, and he had little time for his ex-wives and his children.
 
View looking south from the entry plaza
photo by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

The three-quarter-mile-long funicular/tram ride from the valley removed me from the mundane burdens of the work-a-day world below and delivered me into the heart of the unusual campus. The building elements of canopies, stairways and overhangs created interplay of sunlight and shadows. I sensed this was a place of genuine cultural enlightenment, and quite possibly, a mecca for modern architecture. As I walked up the steps of the plaza to the main entrance, I felt I had been transported to a 21st century version of one of the ancient hilltops of Rome.
 
Entry to The Getty Museum
photo by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

Getty’s interest in art began as a method to shelter his growing wealth from taxes. It was a simple business solution – not a deep love for the art. He acquired European antiquities of pottery, furniture and tapestries. The thrill was to find quality items for a bargain price using the same principles he used in growing the oil business.

The wealthier he became, the more time and interest he gave to the purchase of art. He surrounded himself with art critics, brokers and dealers, and absorbed as much information as he could about the world of art. In his autobiography As I See It, he admits that he became an art addict:

“My use of drugs doesn’t go beyond the aspirin and antibiotic level. Yet, I am an apparently incurable art-collecting addict. The habitual narcotics user is said to have a monkey on his back. I sometimes feel as though I had several dozen gorillas riding on mine.”

A journey to the Getty Museum is best described by the joy and energy seen on the faces of the visitors. Many come to see the collections of art, but quickly become enthralled with the experience of walking around the buildings, gardens, sculptures and fountains. The visit is transformed into a restful walk and the museum campus appeared as one giant piece of art. Couples and families picnic on the grassy hillside and school children laugh and play on the grassy slopes of the garden. 

Visitors relax and stroll at The Getty Museum
photo by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

In his later years, Getty was shamed by the movers and shakers of the art world to spend sizeable amounts of money on significant works. Although Getty had become an expatriate U.S. citizen, living in various places about Europe, he facilitated tours of his art collection at his Malibu estate, which is a different location than the current Getty Museum.

In 1958, Fortune magazine listed him as the richest man in the world, and he realized it was necessary to find a permanent home in Europe which would provide a secure location and a place to display some of the additional art he had acquired. In 1959, he purchased the estate of The Duke of Sutherland, Sutton Place, in Surrey, England. Other than brief travels in England and continental Europe, he stayed in Sutton Place for the remainder of his life.

In the late 1960s, with growing demand that he display more of his art collection, he bucked the art world and executed his own idea for a museum, a recreation of a Roman Villa, built adjacent to his former home in Malibu. The $17 million museum was the repository for art and artifacts worth over $200 million ($1 billion in 2013 dollars). A $55 million charitable trust supported the operation. The reviews of the controversial museum, which opened in 1974, were mixed, making Getty feel that he had not yet been embraced by the art world. He never made the trip from his English estate to see his pet project first-hand.
 
The Getty Villa in Malibu, California
photo by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

Upon his death in June of 1976, the wills of his personal fortune and the Sarah Getty Trust (named for his mother) were read. The art world was rocked with the revelation that J. Paul Getty had bequeathed the bulk of his personal estate, over $660 million, to the Getty Museum. Overnight, the museum had become the wealthiest art institution in the world.  The intent of the $1.2 billion Sarah Getty Trust was to provide for future generations of the family, but both wills were contested and tied in litigation for years, due to the complex business interests and the abstract family tree created by Getty and his wives.

The visit began in the morning with an architectural walking tour led by one of the docents. I shared that I was an architect, which caused her to add to the end of her comments at each stop, “Does the architect have anything to add?” Each time I tried to respond with something that sounded halfway intelligent.

Impressionist gallery at The Getty Museum
photo by Gregory E. Larson, AIA
 
After lunch at the restaurant with a view of the adjacent hillside neighborhoods, I visited the temporary exhibit “Overdrive,” which presented the Los Angeles architecture and urban design of the 20th century. I wandered the fountain plaza between museum buildings on the way to view the Van Gogh “Irises” painting and the other impressionist works. The building shapes and textures revealed themselves while I walked slowly outside. It was a veritable candy land of modern architecture.

The Getty Museum Courtyard
photo by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

Once the litigation involving the Getty Trust was complete in 1982, the board members of the trust determined that a larger, new museum was necessary to support the collection and the ongoing acquisitions.

The facts surrounding the design and construction of the $1.3 billion Getty Center are staggering. It has been called the “project of the century” and a project “bigger than life.” The 742 acre site in the Santa Monica Mountains in Brentwood was purchased in 1983 for $25 million, and the board began a year-long process to select a design architect. A beginning list of 110 architects was eventually pared to three: Richard Meier, James Sterling, and Fumahiko Maki. Richard Meier, a modernist architect who had gained international recognition was the final selection. It was the commission of a lifetime, and it demanded the majority of Meier’s attention for the next thirteen years.

After a thorough investigation of the site, Meier decided to place the buildings on two intersecting ridges, one of which paralleled the freeway below. According to Meier, his buildings embraced the abstract and became forms in light, playing with volume and surface. He believes good design must have a timeless look and feel. Meier is a true modernist. His favorite architect was Le Corbusier, considered one of the fathers of modern architecture.

As I walked the plazas, balconies and stairs, many planned and unplanned vistas and nodes came into view around the corners and spaces between the campus buildings. At the extreme south end of the complex, I viewed a large, circular cactus garden, a symbolic exclamation point where the ocean breeze was stiff and the panoramic view displayed the freeway, the L.A. basin, and the ocean beyond.
 
South promontory - Cactus Garden
photo by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

Two of the biggest design challenges to the museum design came from the community of Brentwood. Residents of the toney neighborhood had extreme concerns about the height and color of the proposed museum. No building was allowed to be 64 feet higher than the hilltop, and the nearby residents complained they did not want the color to be the stark white used by Meier on most of his projects. Meier’s solution was to use both travertine marble and enamel-coated aluminum panels of travertine color for the building surfaces. When the campus design was unveiled, Meier’s solution launched him to “rock star” status among the design world.

Construction began in 1989 and continued beyond the grand opening in December of 1997. For years the daily commuters on the freeway below watched the slow building progress. The mountaintop location was formidable, and created havoc with the construction due to the limited access. Steel, concrete, marble, and glass; all had to be transported up the narrow road on the steep mountainside.

Over 16,000 tons of travertine marble were quarried in Bagni di Tivoli, Italy, the same quarry used for the Coliseum in Rome and for the Colonnade at St. Peter’s at the Vatican. The marble was sliced and cut into 30” square panels, then shipped to California.

View of The Getty Museum looking northwest from south promontory
photo by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

I touched both the rough and smooth travertine surfaces of the buildings, inspecting the layers of sea floor created over millions of years. It was a peek into the past, unlocked by the stone cutter. This was permanence – somewhat different than the temporal feel of  L.A.’s urban landscape.

Meier’s design ego has caused him to disagree with some decisions made by the museum board, most notably their decision to hire Robert Irwin to design a garden/park for the south end of the complex. Although Meier does not approve of the park design, he believes the total museum experience is a success, creating “order out of chaos.”
The Getty Museum Central Garden and Azalea Pool
photo by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

The walk through the garden was a fitting way to end the day at the museum. I sat under the metal-sculptured trees, which were individual trellises for the crepe myrtle. There were smiles on the faces of young and old as they passed. Most had a peaceful, happy look, as if they knew this was a time of respite and a place to forget about the daily world below, a place to appreciate art and nature on the same day.

Robert Irwin, a modern artist, had accomplished very few gardens when asked to design the garden space at the Getty Center. The controversial garden, which included a pool with a maze of azaleas has become a favorite spot for museum visitors. The stream begins with a fountain at the edge of the entry plaza, and takes advantage of the natural south slope of the space between the Getty Research Institute and the Getty Museum buildings. The London Plane trees which line the stream create a micro-climate through which the public passes several times on the path to the azalea pool.

As I walked the plaza steps to board the funicular/tram and exited the museum, I realized that J. Paul Getty, a legendary tightwad and the world’s richest man, had finally opened up his money bags one last time. The giving gesture at his death was, in some way, a final attempt to be accepted by the art world. The campus and museum, an enclave of enlightenment and a space free to the public, is proof that his legacy will continue on much longer than his life.

 

Sources:
Getty, J. Paul, autobiography, As I See It, Englewood Cliffs, NJ, Prentice Hall, 1976.
 
Lenzner, Robert, The Great Getty – The Life and Loves of J. PAUL GETTY – Richest Man in the World, New York, NY, Crown Publishers, 1985.

Panich, Paula, The California Garden – Robert Irwin still marvels at Getty Gardens 10 years later, Los Angeles Times, style section, July 24, 2008.

Video, Building the Getty Center, The Getty Museum, February 2, 2012:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3pqXk1mL3sY
Video, Richard Meier, The Getty Center, Web of Stories, December 23, 2008: http://www.webofstories.com/play/richard.meier/17
 
The Getty Museum – Architecture Tour, June 19, 2013.

Wednesday, October 16, 2013

Out of This World

Internet Image of Hubble Telescope Repair


Out of This World
by Greg Larson

          Ethereal beauty surrounded me in such an inhospitable place. Everything seemed in focus as I floated 250 miles above the earth. The extreme quiet, extreme heat and cold, extreme light and darkness; it was all encompassing. Menacing storms on the ocean below floated past as we continued in orbit. The light and shadows slowly changed with the constant movement.
          I gave undivided attention to my duties during the spacewalk as my partner carried out her task to repair the Hubble telescope. I ducked when I saw a large wrench spinning towards me, but she quickly grabbed it just in time.
          Woah! You need to be more careful with that thing.

          Mission Control interrupted our work and informed us that a field of debris was coming towards us. We needed to return to the cockpit of the space shuttle and prepare for our return to earth. Damn! I’d done a lot of preplanning to get my ticket to be here. I didn’t want the mission to end now.
          In the dark cockpit, I was on the edge of my ergonomic seat, pressing buttons and communicating with those who served me. I decided to do as I was told if I wanted the mission to be successful. The space was comfortable and the view was one I won’t forget. Special lenses on my optical device enhanced my ability to view and focus far and near.
          It was inevitable. The debris field began to hit us before we were able to drop out of orbit. First, it was pea-sized particles racing at the speed of bullets, piercing the telescope’s solar panels, and then larger pieces ripped off the shuttle’s robotic arm. The life-support systems were in jeopardy. Would we survive? My partner returned to the cabin. She climbed out of her overheated space suit, gasping for oxygen.

         I dipped my battered fish into the special sauce, took a big bite, then sipped on the straw in my coke. Yuck!         

I turned to my wife. “This is a diet root beer. I ordered coke.” I turned back to the giant theater screen and adjusted my 3-D glasses. I didn’t want to miss anything.
          Sandra Bullock filled the screen. She looked pretty good in space underwear. One more hour . . . I think I’ll survive.   

Thursday, October 3, 2013

It's a Dog's Life

memoir 

by Greg Larson           

Thirteen-year-old Douglas, our cairn terrier, has no problem with self-image. He goes about his day as if he owns the world. He’ll lie down in the middle of the hall or a doorway, expecting respect for his position. Sometimes, this requires us to ask him to move, which triggers a look from him that says, “Yeah, right,” as he remains in his selected spot.
I’ve learned to carry a flashlight and walk with care when getting up in the night. Once I think he has developed a routine, he’ll move to a new and unusual location which is usually in my path. He gets really cranky if my feet get too close or if I surprise him. The snarling and show of teeth is annoying in the middle of the night.
When I first met Douglas, he was one year old and full of energy. He was Gretta’s dog. Although I didn’t know it at the time, Gretta would become my wife and Douglas would be our faithful pet. I’d sit on the couch and watch him circle the room. In one quick maneuver, he’d leap to the couch and bound over me and the end table. I guess it was his way of bonding. He didn’t come and beg to be loved. At first, I thought this meant he didn’t like me, but Gretta explained that cairn terriers already know they’re top dog.
He’s a big dog in a small package and he truly believes he is the alpha dog of the world. The positive side is that he rarely barks at anything. The mailman will walk right up to the front door where Douglas is positioned, and there is not a peep. Douglas knows the mail has arrived, and there is no significant reason to get excited. The biggest response is usually a sigh and a repositioning of his head on the floor.
Douglas watches out the front door at the parade of dogs and owners passing by on the sidewalk. On rare occasions he offers a short bark or raises his ears and his tail. If he sees one of his friends, he gets up to let us know he wants to go in the backyard, which is adjacent to a path in the park behind our house. He knows which dogs will be coming by the fence to greet him.
Once outside, he strategically waits for the parade to come. He’ll tag the bottom of the chain-link fence with a quick shot of urine and wait for all of his buddies – Max, Sanford, Twitter, and others. Eventually, I learned most of the dogs’ names. Everyone knows Douglas, but most don’t have a clue as to who I am.
Douglas' domain
 
The physical size of his friends has no meaning to him. He’ll sniff at them with a nonchalant attitude, whether they are a German shepherd or a poodle. If he doesn’t know the dog at the fence, he gives them a stone-cold stare or he’ll turn and walk away, as if he’s not impressed. Some of the dogs will bark and jump towards him. Douglas doesn’t flinch. It’s as if nothing happened. It’s his way of letting the other dog know that he’s the boss and he’ll decide when he wants to get excited.
There is only one dog that causes Douglas to go berserk. She’s a golden retriever/mix and her name is Maggie. Every evening at 8:20 a distant neighbor brings a pack of dogs, including Maggie, to the park to exercise them off-leash. Maggie rushes to the fence and stares at Douglas. At first, he doesn’t move. With her eyes drilling holes and her tongue hanging out, Maggie bounds towards the fence and taunts at Douglas. In a flash, he’s rushing across the lawn, his blond hair flowing as he accelerates . . . and Armageddon begins. Paws kick up dirt as they race back and forth along the fence, looking like an arcade game as they change directions several times. Instinct latches hold of both dogs with a show of teeth, and garbled noises of shrieks, growls and barks. At break-neck speed they chase each other, oblivious to the world around them.  As quickly as it starts, Douglas turns from the fence and trots back to the patio, acting like it’s just another usual day. If the other dogs are with Maggie, it becomes Armageddon to the fourth power. Douglas takes the lead in the chase along the fence, with the big dogs tripping on each other while they try to get their snarling faces in front of him. When this ritual first began, the neighbors turned on their lights in their backyards, just to see what caused the commotion.
I’ve never understood why Maggie causes Douglas to flip the switch and turn into a raging maniac. I thought the alpha dog issue was between males only. What causes him to respond to Maggie, a female? I could speculate, but that is entering dangerous territory where any remark could be construed as sexist. Besides, a dog’s world is very different, with Technicolor smells, radar hearing, and primal thinking. Surely, Douglas isn’t having fun with Maggie . . . or is he? It just seems that all the rules get thrown out when Maggie comes around.
Douglas doesn’t give it much thought.  He lives for the moment. On his walk this morning, a cicada began to buzz on the sidewalk in front of us. He stretched the leash and stabbed his nose at the buzzing bug. As far as Douglas is concerned, the cicadas are “mini-rodents” and keeping their population in check is his reason for living. I thought I’d pulled him away in time to save the cicada, but then I heard the buzzing coming from Douglas’s mouth as we walked.  I looked down and watched him savor the catch . . . crunch, crunch . . . gulp. For Douglas, it was a delicious moment. 
Ah, it must be great to live a dog’s life.