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Gerda and Her Companions.

Gerda and Her Companions. From around the mid1980s into most of the 90s, I had to split my time between Seoul and New York.   And as a way to compromise and live harmoniously with the routine jetlag,  I decided to leave the decision of when to work and when to sleep to the body clock. As the result, my painting time had been set, at least while staying in New York, to start at sunset and end at dawn. I usually started with a cup of black coffee and a bag of Chips-A-Hoy from Lina's Deli🍪☕🍪. Past midnight,  I often tuned my pocket radio to the Columbia University Radio for the start of the vintage jazz and the following classics program. They gently filled the void of midnight silence and kept the brush dancing steady. One night, an unusual music came through the headphone. The music sounded like an opera, but it came on small, gentle and intimate. An unusual texture. The cathartic duet between the young lovers captured that awkward,  sweet, aching, soaring moment of the first decl
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Parsifal. In the 1970s and through the early 80s, a new wave of European filmmakers were a sensation among the film students and film enthusiasts hanging out in North Beach,  Telegraph Avenue,  St.Mark's Place,  Holiday Bottleshop..... One of the most original and fascinating among them were Hans-Jurgen Syberberg. He became known for the works that pry open and closely examined the  pandora's box of historical issues haunting the modern Germany. His better known films, Our Hitler, Ludwig The VirginKing, Confessions Of Winifried Wagner were irresistable, first for the subject matters, and then for the imaginative telling of the narratives that were original and compelling!  In Parsifal of 1982, he triggered, intended or not, a ferocious but a hopelessly one sided battle on screen between the well, beautifully crafted images by the director himself  and RichardWagner's most mature and heartrending stream of testament in music that revealed the composer's exist

The Eagle is Back!

Summer of 1996. On a summer afternoon, while strolling down St.Mark's Place,  I picked up a cassette tape from a street vendor. What brought the cassette to my attention was the cover photo that reminded me of the dark, moody Spanish Baroque portrait paintings widely shown in New York Museums.                                                                                 I am a painter.                                                                                               Around this time, I was buying cheap cassettes and playing them on my new "vintage" audio set(CoralSpeakers!) that I put  together in honor of the enormous dimensions of the studio that I was then renting.    The cassette was priced at 4 dollars, which was way beyond the norm. But the vendor looked sincere,  so I didn't haggle.                                        Later, a thought came to my mind that he, the vendor, likely was a musician. The front of the cassette showed the ph