Presidential Pumpkins & Cool Halloween Decor

Every year Halloween gets bigger and more expensive.  This year, according to the San Francisco Chronicle, Americans will spend  over $8 billion on Halloween  costumes, candy and decor--averaging about $80 per person.  According to the New York Post, Americans are going to spend $310 million just on Halloween costumes for their DOGS.

Which pumpkin are you voting for?

In the past couple of weeks I've been photographing Halloween decor as it appears in the Worcester area of Massachusetts where I live.  On Saturday I checked out the Great Pumpkin Fest at the Ecotarium, Worcester's Science Museum, which included 1,500 carved and lighted pumpkins and about a zillion kids in costumes.

Would you prefer one of these guys?

Or maybe this one?

Here's the entrance to the Museum.

And a black cat nearby.

Private home owners are getting competitive, spending as much time and money decorating for Halloween as they do for Christmas.  Maybe more.

Here's a home in Grafton right down Route 140 from our house, which is stopping traffic.

This house-owner on Lake Quinsigamond has inflatables for every holiday.

But I guess no one around here can complete with this house in  Leesburg, VA. which lights up and dances Gangnam style to the piped in music.  It has more than 8,500 lights and lots of computers.

http://news.yahoo.com/blogs/sideshow/halloween-goes-gangnam-style-video-184352374.html

Here's a skeletal couple that I glimpsed outside a bar while passing through the Miami, FL. airport recently.  They're ready for  Day of the Dead (Nov. 1 and 2), which is an even cooler holiday that celebrates the return of the souls of the dead.  In Mexico it's celebrated with wonderful decorations of flowers on the graves, candy skulls, candles, sitting up all night in the cemetery passing out the food and drink enjoyed by the dear departed, welcoming friends and relatives with music and fun and molé negro and decorated bread.   That's the kind of holiday I'd like to come back to when I'm gone.  

StART on the Street and the Urge to Create

 Sellers' tents on Worcester's Park Avenue, seen from Elm Park

Last Sunday, another perfect fall day, I went to take a look at “StART on the Street” along with nearly 50,000 shoppers eager to see the art and handicrafts produced by some 300 artists who were all displaying their wares on Park Avenue in Worcester, MA.  StART on the Street, which began with a handful of local artists and crafts people ten years ago, has grown into the largest Arts festival in Central Massachusetts… and maybe the country?

Looking at the dizzying variety of things for sale, all created by the person who was selling them, started me thinking about the nearly universal drive to create art, which seems to blossom in people once they have  taken care of basic needs like food and shelter.  This creative urge finds outlets in so many ways.  Lots of my women friends, once their kids leave the nest, have re-discovered their longing to paint, or sew, design jewelry, write a book or take piano lessons... things you don’t have time to do when you’re in charge of children and a home and maybe an office job as well.  Men have the same creative urge, but may express it in different ways, like woodcarving or designing fishing flies or a model railroad (and of course painting, music and photography.)

Last week I posted about walking along another Park Avenue—on the east side of Manhattan --and photographing art by world-famous artists, but at StART on the Street on Worcester’s Park Avenue, I was moved by the energy and dedication of these local artists who create in so many different ways, devoting their nights and weekends, because nearly all of them, unless they’re retired, have a “real job” as well.

I saw dozens of artists selling their paintings or photographs or pottery or weaving, but here are some of the non-traditional artists who caught my eye.

This young man makes things out of hemp coffee bags, and also turns out “super ukuleles made from repurposed cigar boxes and broken skateboard decks.” He’s at www.birdmen.etsy.com.

 Jen Niles does lovely folk-arty paintings of cat and dogs and will make a personalized memorial painting of your deceased pet..  www.JenNilesArt.com

The busiest booth I saw was KD Wind Spirals, where a couple, originally from New Zealand, had nearly sold out of their creations, which ranged from $35 to $64.  The aluminum- tubing spirals turn in the wind and the glass balls appear to move up and down but never fall off.  www.etsy.com/shop/KDWindSpirals.

 This man creates weather-proof birdfeeders from teacups, saucers and spoons—they attach to a rod to stand in the garden.

 The Gravestone Girls make art by rubbing the Colonial slate gravestones they find in New England cemeteries and selling the rubbings to hang.

 I saw several blacksmiths and people who created art out of iron, and quite a few of them were women.

 I bought these soft baby shoes for my granddaughter from Meghan Bergstrom who makes clothes and shoes “for hip kids.”  www.etsy.com/shop/edieandfin.

 There were hooked rugs and knitted creations galore.

 Painted silk scarves

 Carved wood goblets and bowls

 Vintage clothing

 Participatory wall murals

 And loads of food trucks with every kind of New England culinary delight.

Art isn’t just what you make with your hands.  There were physical arts on display:

 Dueling

 Dancing

And a variety of bands and singers all day long

 Play areas and crafts for children

 And pumpkins to take home.

Worcester, once a bustling metropolis during the height of the industrial revolution, has now been given a number of ironic nicknames like “Wormtown” and “The Paris of the Eighties”,  but every year, when  it comes alive with art and music and the excitement of “StART on the Street” it’s clear that the city is an important center for art and culture that becomes more exciting every year.

Shrewsbury Street on a Summer Night

Please click on the photos to enlarge them.

I’ve been taking a course called “Night Photography” at the Worcester Art Museum from photographer Norm Eggert, and our assignment on Wednesday night was to transport our cameras and our tripods to Shrewsbury Street, the “Restaurant Row” of Worcester, MA. and take pictures.

We who live in Worcester get rather sensitive when outsiders refer to our city as “Wormtown” and call it a “sleepy industrial backwater” long past its prime.

But on Wednesday, Shrewsbury Street was humming with life on a balmy summer night.  It was more like a street in Europe.  People were sitting at tables on the sidewalk, deep in conversation, with not a cell phone or I-pad in sight.  Cars rolled by with music blasting, kids hung out in Cristoforo Colombo Park, everyone was friendly and no one was afraid.

The Boulevard Diner is the Queen of Worcester’s famed diners (all manufactured right here by the Worcester Lunch Car & Carriage Company between 1906 and 1957.)  It was at the Boulevard that Madonna and her entourage ordered a hearty spaghetti dinner after a performance nearby.

 On  Shrewsbury Street, as you can see, there are plenty of places to get a drink—many of them resembling the friendly neighborhood bar in Cheers where everybody knows your name.

And there are elegant restaurants with valet parking and cuisines from every corner of the world.

At the end of Shrewsbury Street is a large rotary where the restored Union Station stands, looking just as it did when it welcomed thousands of immigrants to the factories of Worcester, in search of their American dream.  Finished in 1911, it was called “A poem in  stone,” and considered one of New England’s primary  architectural treasures.  But in 1963 the last passenger train pulled out and for more than 20 years the huge building was deserted and deteriorating, huddled in the shadow of the wrecking ball. The twin towers had been removed in 1926 because they were weakened and in danger of falling.

The city managed to restore Union Station to its former glory with the help of  alumni of WPI--Worcester Polytechnic Institute. who created new towers out of fiberglass.  It re-opened in 2000, once again a major transportation hub.

On Wednesday night as I approached  Union Station, half a dozen fire engines screamed by, and then a huge pack of motorcyclists descended—there were dozens—reminding me of the furies in the film “Les Mouches.”  I watched the traffic circulate in front of Union Station, with its new mascot—a statue of Christopher Columbus--  overlooking the scene.  Eventually it was time to walk back up Shrewsbury Street, to find a place for dinner and perhaps raise a toast to Worcester’s slow but steady renaissance.

Amalia’s Big Fat Greek Baptism

 When I was growing up a Presbyterian in Minnesota, I thought that the ceremony of baptism consisted of a short period after church when the minister said a few words over the baby and splashed some water on its head.

That was long before I met a Greek-American, married him, and produced three children who all enjoyed a real Greek baptism with a cast of thousands and a long  church service which included the priest completely submerging the baby three times in the baptismal fount, and also cutting three locks of hair and anointing the child with holy oil among other colorful rituals. 

It was a learning experience.  At each of the first two baptisms—both held in St. Spyridon church in Worcester, MA., I wore a floor-length gown (as did the guests) and sat in the  front pew to help with the undressing and re-dressing of the screaming child. (The third baptism took place in Greece and was slightly more low-key, but a caterer and a tent were involved.)

Inevitably, in the church,  I would worry, like every Greek mother, that  someone would drop the screaming, slippery baby.  (In the olden days, in Greek villages, the mother didn’t even get to go to the baptism.  The godparent would bring the child to her afterward at home and inform her what its name was.)

In each baptism in St. Spyridon, as soon as I unconsciously and nervously crossed my legs, my aged father-in-law would stand up, stalk across the front of the church and scold me: “Never cross your legs in church.”  Not that I was showing as much as an inch of ankle, mind you. I would uncross, then forget and do it again.

 Proud father Nick Gage at left and godfather Steve Economou at right, dance at Eleni's baptism 36 years ago.

The baptisms of our babies were followed by a major party, major cake, lots of Greek food and wine and a live orchestra including the all-important clarinet player whose skills inspired the dancers into athletic feats that including writhing on the floor while appreciative on-lookers threw money. 

My father-in-law would lead the Greek line dances while balancing a glass of Coca Cola on his head.  He never dropped it.

 Well, the baptism last Sunday of our first grandchild, ten-month-old Amalía, at the same St. Spyridon Cathedral where her mother was baptized 36 years ago, was less over-the-top, but it was a total delight to the 131 guests, from small children to aged great aunts, some of whom threw aside canes and disabilities to demonstrate their dancing skills.

 Proud grandfather Nick Gage, now with a white beard, still is a Greek dancing star.

Amalía’s godmother Areti Vraka, came from Corfu, Greece and her godfather, José Oyanguren, came from Managua, Nicaragua.  They had both  served as attendants when Amalia’s parents  were married in Corfu two years earlier, on 10/10/10.

Areti at left dresses Amalia.  Jose at right reads from St. Paul at the baptism.

 Baby Amalía entered the church wearing an antique lace christening gown brought by her Nicaragua grandmother,  Abuela Carmen Oyanguren. It was originally made for Carmen’s father in Bruges, Belgium some 115 years ago.

 It was the inspiration of Amalía’s mommy, our daughter Eleni, to design an invitation featuring the baby dressed in the traditional “Amalia” costume which Greek girls put on for festive and patriotic occasions.  As Eleni explained in the invitation:  “Amalía is…the name of the first queen of modern Greece. ..the name of the traditional Greek costume shown here… the name of the Queen of our hearts.”

 The colors of the Amalia costume—pale blue and deep red—became the color scheme for the baptism and the flower arrangements on the tables. Amalia’s photo from the invitation was reproduced on the 24 cupcakes surrounding the baptism cake, which resembled the white lace christening gown.

The same colors were echoed in the ribbons on the religious “witness pins” worn by everyone who attended the church, and in the blue Murano glass crosses attached to the traditional “boubounieres” –the candy-almond-filled favors on the tables. On every table was an "Amalía doll"--Every child got one.

Last Sunday the dresses were no longer floor-length gowns and the live orchestra was replaced by a DJ, but he pulled out old favorite Greek songs and dances as well as Spanish-language  standards for the Nicaraguan contingent.  Amalia’s Daddy,  Emilio, danced first with his daughter and then with his wife.

 And before the party was over, ten-month-old Amalia, no doubt on a sugar high caused by my feeding her an entire cupcake, managed to dance to the Greek music on her own two feet, just as her mother had danced at her own baptism 36 years before.

(For a moving and insightful explanation of the meaning of the baptism rituals, check out the  post of Amalía’s mommy, author Eleni Baltodano Gage, on her blog "The Liminal Stage":  “The Circle Dance: The Sacred and the Mundane.”)

Found Art: Greek Windows

As I’ve mentioned before, when I’m traveling in Greece, I find myself often photographing windows. (In Paris it’s doors and in Nicaragua, it’s chairs!)

Greek windows, with their pristine white lace or cut-work curtains and the inevitable pot of basil in the window, are so carefully composed and so indicative of the creativity of the homemaker within, that I think you can call them found art.

The pot of basil, by the way, is not just for cooking.  It’s considered a holy plant, and brings good luck, so every home must have one.

At the recent Grecian Festival in the Cathedral of Saint Spyridon, our church in Worcester, MA,  I sold out of the packets of note cards of my Greek windows.  Guess I’d better print some more.

Here are eleven of the designs and a little about where I found them.

The window on the left, on the green island of Skopelos in the northeast, demonstrates the beautiful cutwork of the handmade curtains. The reflection shows the arched window of a church (?) next door. 

The window on the right, of a shop in the mountains of Crete, displays the colorful local embroidery and the classic caned Greek chair found everywhere throughout the country.

Both these windows are in the charming Hotel Kastro, in the walled city in Yannina, Greece, which looks exactly as it did when the Turks ruled the country.  Now the mosques have been turned into museums, but the city still has the exotic beauty that seduced Lord Byron when he came to visit Ali Pasha and marvel at his riches.  The window on the left shows the Greek tendency to train climbing vines everywhere.  In the photo on the right, I was remembering something my friend, award-winning photographer Mari Seder, once told me--sometimes the shadows are the most important part of the photograph.

On the left, a window in a popular taverna on the island of Hydra, echoes the blue and white of the Greek flag.  The miniature sailing boat in the window speaks of the seafaring history of the island.  The  window on the right belongs to a humble restaurant on Mykonos, tucked far, far away from the areas thronged with tourists.  The food is magnificent and so is the view.  If I could remember the name of the restaurant I wouldn't tell.  Its patrons want to keep it unspoiled.  (Here's a hint. The beach far below is called Agios Sostis.)

The window on the left is in a very rustic eco-resort--Milia-- high in the mountains of Crete.  The views far down the mountain are to die for.  On the right, in the unique town of Pirgi, on the island of Chios, the curtain in the window echoes the geometric designs scratched into the plaster of the exterior walls on all the buildings.

On the left, outside a taverna on Crete, is what I call the mermaid window, although it may have started life as a door before it was boarded up and turned into illustrations for the story of the Gorgona--the giant mermaid who was the sister of Alexander the Great before he cursed her.  (If you want to know the whole story of the mermaid, read it in my book "The Secret Life of Greek Cats.")

The window on the right is in an ancient church in the beautiful town of Pirgi on the island of Chios.  Originally I posted this photo in a blog post called "The Scraped Walls of Pirgi, Chios".  I said the angel-like figure over the window was a representation of the Holy Spirit, but I was wrong.  A sharp-eyed and much better-informed reader named Matthew Kalamidas wrote: "Lastly, the angel in the wall painting is actually a six-winged seraphim. In Greek, an exapterygo. Besides the six wings, the words beside it are 'Holy, Holy, Holy Lord', which is an abbreviated form of the never-ending prayer."

That's one of the great things about writing blog posts -- you learn so much.