Need an Extra Kidney?

     Recently my Colombian friend, Rocio, and I brought my ailing poodle to the Sarasota clinic of veterinarian Dr. K (as his office staff calls him).  Even though I know he shortened his name because the longer version is too ethnic for anybody to pronounce correctly, I can’t stop making the connection to another more notorious Dr. K.  You know the one- the man equally revered and despised the world over, but forever connected to the sobriquet “Dr. Death.”

       Now my Dr. K, local healer of Sarasota puppies, is a very sweet man.  From the many recommendations I’ve received about him, he’s also a great vet with obviously no connection to the other Dr.K whatsoever.  But I’m a sensitive sort with a vivid imagination so when I had to leave my dog for a minor procedure with him, I required some sustenance.

     “What you need is a pandebono; it’s delicioso,” Rocio suggested when she saw the color drain from my face outside the doctor’s office. “No, what I need is a vodka tonic, immediatemente,” I replied. (Although I’d have been game for a pandebono if I'd known what it was.)  Rocio is a dear old friend of mine, so when she said I needed a pandebono, I listened.  We jumped in the car and headed to the Latin food market and restaurant Mi Sitio, on Webber and Beneva.  Neither of us had ever been there before, but when we entered, we were greeted warmly by the owner, Juan.

     Before getting down to the purpose of our visit, Rocio and Juan, complete strangers five minutes earlier, discussed towns they mutually knew in Colombia, favorite family recipes they loved and the location of Sarasota’s bilingual churches.  Enough already, you two; what of the elusive pandebono?

     There they were: small rolls sitting on the counter looking like plain fat dumplings. “It’s the Colombian bagel!” Rocio exclaimed persuasively when she saw my nonplussed reaction. She knew I thought a bagel with a shmear is one of life’s greatest gifts, so who was I to say no to a pandebono?  We bought two of the cheese filled delicacies  (a tasty reminder of the wise adage not to judge a book by its cover) and sat down at the counter to eat them with their customary chaser of hot chocolate.

     Soon we were joined in lively conversation by other Colombian and Cuban customers in the market. By the end of our snack, I swear they would have donated their kidneys to each other if one of them had asked. Eventually, Rocio and I, full and contented, returned to liberate my dog from Dr. K’s clutches and found the pup happy, calm and healthy.

     The curative power of a pandebono got me thinking about how most of us living in Sarasota started off in other states and are now, far from the comfort foods of our childhoods. If Rocio could find a Colombian pandebono in Sarasota, then I could find a real New York Bagel in this town as well.

     After some unsuccessful attempts I was directed to the Lox n’ Egg on 41. Upon entering the restaurant, the delicious smell of freshly baked bagels brought me back to Sunday mornings as a child in the city.  Back in the day, my father would rise early to buy the bagels, lox and whitefish my family devoured for breakfast while we read the multi sectioned treasure known as the Sunday New York Times.  If there is such a thing as heaven, that was it.

     Scattered between the noisy tables of happy diners at Lox n’ Egg, I could easily spot the look of need in a handful of solo diners.  One man in particular had it bad.  He stared at his bagel as he brought it ever so carefully to his waiting mouth.  I took a gamble and asked “Is it as good as H & H bagels in Manhattan?”  He tore his eyes away from his food abruptly and stared at me as if I were his long lost sister. “You wouldn’t believe that these bagels here are just as good as those!” he replied with a big smile. “You’ve gotta’ try them. My other New York friends meet me here on Sundays and we get every type, although my favorite is poppy seed.  Get your order and sit with me,” he continued. “I wanna’ hear your opinion.”

     He was right; the poppy seed was the best.  I didn’t think life in Sarasota could get much better, but come on, everybody needs their own pandebono when the chips are down (or you’re afraid your Dr. is a psychopath).  I told my new friend that I’d try to stop by occasionally to meet the group for Sunday bagels.  But now that I’ve experienced the joy and camaraderie a pandebono can bring, I'll be returning there quite often.

And let's face it, while the merits of a New York bagel are significant, you just never know when your number comes up and you might find yourself in dire need of an organ transplant.  Those pandebonos are looking better and better.

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Painting Unplugged, for my new column, ARTdart, Sarasota Visual Artarasota Visual Art

Home » Painting Unplugged by Pamela Beck

Painting Unplugged by Pamela Beck

by Pamela Beck

I’m starting to think about paintings differently these days. And even the plain old paint itself seems different too. I’m talking about the messy, drippy, oil on a canvas deal; the rich squeeze out of the tube that ruins the painter’s clothing in a good kind of way; the choice of several paint colors that have to be mixed or not, thinned or thickened, and spread on some kind of palette to be retrieved by a paintbrush being held in the hand of an artist who, by choice, is focused only on the painting and not incorporating some kind of dance/digital/music performance around it. I’m talking about painting unplugged.

Because it’s becoming more common to have artistic collaborations, and often ones that employ some kind of technology, it almost feels charming that the only things that might accompany a painting are some drawings or sketches. Nowadays, with the hint of multidisciplinary art lingering in the air, when I look at a single painting hanging simply by itself, what often comes to mind is an image of the painter working alone in a studio. In other words, an awareness of the very absence of collaborators has become part of my experience in viewing a painting.

Elegy to the Spanish Republic, 70, 1961
Robert Motherwell (American, 1915–1991)
Oil on canvas
69 x 114 in. (175.3 x 289.6 cm)
Anonymous Gift, 1965 (65.247)
© Dedalus Foundation, Inc./Licensed by VAGA, New York, NY

It’s not that I’m not a fan of performance art, digital art, film/video art, installations, collage, drawing, photography, printmaking, sculpture, mixed media, land art and more; because I am- and a big fan at that, of all the above, individually and together. It’s just that suddenly people who primarily like to paint are beginning to seem like an endangered species to me.

In comparison to the deluge of multisensory art experiences I’ve been a part of recently, looking at paintings has taken on more of a contemplative, slow-down-and-notice-me quality than before. A painter’s choice to work mainly with paint on canvas now seems more deliberate given all the options at the ready. As a result, a painting that is done just like it’s been done for years, suddenly stands out for having remained the same.

From this perspective, paintings have begun to feel like a go-to refuge from the plugged in, ever-changing art world. Standing before them, it’s only you and that luscious paint, just like it’s always been. But unexpectedly, old school is starting to feel very new.

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Sarasota, Mediterranea-No-No Style

I like to watch my pool’s decorative sprays shoot water dramatically into the air. Years ago I would have found this pool feature excessive, even tacky. I certainly wouldn’t have stared at it gleefully transfixed as I do today.  But that’s because I used to be the too-serious sort; the kind who preferred Masterpiece Theater to American Idol, Yoga to Zumba, glasses to contacts. I wore mainly black- you know the type- they like to speak French.

Then I moved to Sarasota. It’s not that I don’t still do the things I used to do up North, I just have more fun doing them down here, along with other new hot weather activities. Take the large pots of abundant flowers I’ve been placing around the pool. Home is now affectionately known as the Jungle Gym de Flores; flowers are everywhere- climbing up ropes, cascading down pipes, peeking out from boxes. There are so many it looks like I’m in the landscaping business and have overstocked. I admit it, it’s unusually colorful on the lanai. Which is why, while I love Sarasota’s fashionable mid century modern houses with their elegant and clean architecture, I couldn’t live in one. Only a plant with the soul of a bonsai would work well in those settings.

Instead, I live with this riot of color in the type of home you see lots of around Sarasota, in both ordinary subdivisions and waterfront properties alike- the ever-popular Mediterranean Style. These houses are just pleading to be covered by climbing flowering vines, and for some Mediterranea-no-no’s, what a great idea that is.

Isn’t the Mediterranean Style house architecturally derivative?  Of course, Purist.  But you go and buy an original in the Mediterranean. And btw, if you go house hunting, count me in. We can start in Lake Como, preferably near that gadabout, George Clooney, and his hideaway Villa Ucantahaveme.

Until then, I’ll enjoy the abundance of Sarasota homes with their clay-tiled roofs, bougainvillea flanked arched windows and walls of vibrant colors that go so well with our gorgeous semi tropical weather.

And I’ll watch my pool sprays and listen to their tinkling sound while I’m writing. They’re not only a natural accompaniment to my Jungle Garden de Flores, but they also conveniently block out all unwanted interruptions. For example, when someone talks to me from inside the house, I can do that universal index finger to ear “I can’t hear you” head shaking gesture and still appear polite, even when I hear them perfectly well. (It’s the water’s fault, all parties concur.)  I don’t know why people don’t just come outside to talk to me when I do that, but thankfully, they never do.  Must be those water sprays have miraculous powers.

I could see their powers at play recently when a writer friend and I were sitting by the pool working. Four hours flew by and we both had finished our stories without a word having passed between us. Perhaps these magic waters provide not only privacy but a new way to meet deadlines too!  This thought made us giddy until my friend starting reading the newspaper that included the results of a new Finnish “Sitting” study. Apparently the conclusion was that the more hours people sit every day, the greater their chance of dying prematurely.

Our mood changed abruptly.  Being a highly suggestible person and not yet ready to die, my heart leapt at the thought of changing my career to become, say, a professional dancer (although I have virtually no experience in this field). My friend, being a normal person, suggested that we take a long walk, which we both agreed was a more reasonable and immediate solution.  So out of the chairs we were. Ciao, bella pool sprays and bougainvillea dominatrix. We headed in the downtown direction with my two poodles, Dash and Domino.

                                                Domino, 19th century Ancestor,  Dash
                                           
Sarasota Bayfront Park near Marina Jack’s was a perfect place to stop. It’s a treat to walk around there. Lovers are out, children play in fountains, and people are picnicking along the bay. We strolled near the water’s edge and a young girl of about 7, Dina, and her mother, stopped us to see my dogs.  Dina began to play with them, holding the arms of the bigger one in the air so he had to stand on his hind legs. “He’s dancing. He’s dancing,” she happily cried out.  Sure enough, she had picked Domino, the one who actually does do a little jig standing on his back legs. (Good thing she avoided Dash, nobody’s friend.)  The girl was beside herself.  Eventually, her mother told her they had to go. “Will you come back tomorrow? We’re here every day at this hour. Pleeaase,” Dina begged.

I knew I had to work the next day, plus The Voice reruns would be on TV. And something really had to be done about those flowers that are all but strangling my Mediterranean Palazzo; it’s beginning to take on that unhinged, maniacal look of a gingerbread house made by a pre-schooler.  But now that I knew I had those magic waters at my disposable, couldn’t I cut my work time in half and bring Domino to meet this young girl again? I could always TiVo The Voice and machete the garden later.

I told them we’d be back tomorrow and Dina shrieked. The thankful mother suggested we meet at the restaurant right there on the beach, O’Leary’s Tiki Bar & Grill and start with dinner.  It sounded delightful and I could picture it well: While the adults would peel some shrimp, Dina and Domino could play in the sand. They would dance together again and attract attention. Some other bystanders would surely join us to check out the commotion and another girl from the crowd would try to dance with my other dog, Dash.  Dash would then bite her and we’d all wind up at Sarasota Memorial Hospital in the Emergency Room and/or one of the local police stations.

Sarasota is not the cure for every living creature, it must be acknowledged.  But sometimes my daughter sets Dash afloat on a long green raft in the magical waters of our pool.  Legs akimbo, he stands proudly, even happily, as he drifts slowly through the Jungle Garden de Flores, staking his territory at our Mediterranea-No-No home.

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