M.K. Hobson (mkhobson) wrote,
M.K. Hobson

I saw Philip Glass last night!

I'll never wash these eyes again!

They're having this five-day series through PICA (that's the Portland Institute for Creative Arts, not the malady suffered during pregnancy in which the pregnant woman craves clay, ash, lime or other weird indigestible things) called "Philip on Film" during which La Philip and his Fanjoobulous Band provide live accompaniment to some of the films he's scored. I took a pass on Poyasquattsi, Koyannisquatsi and Dracula (The soundtrack for Dracula didn't turn my crank and I've seen Koyannisquatsi about eighteen quadzillion times) but there was one that I just couldn't miss--Jean Cocteau's "Beauty and the Beast."

Yow! What a superb film! What sublime music! What utterly crappy seating! (hard steel & vinyl chairs, the kind you find in a Holiday Inn Banquet room)

I got all dressed up in a short black wool skirt, a purple silk noil shirt, and to set off my embroidered raw silk clutch purse, my NEW black velvet coat! (it came the other day, it's so lovely.) I wore Todd Oldham* perfume, my favorite.

*Note to Karl Mamer ... sorry, it was the only brand name I could drop! I buy everything else wholesale! Horrors! ;-)

Oh, how sophisticated I felt walking through the Portland Art Museum's sculpture gallery, with all the trees lit up with little white christmas lights. How chic I felt mingling with all the very intellectual-looking Philip Glass fans, with their tortoise-shell rimmed glasses and their very black clothing and their vaguely New Yorkish air of boredom and disdain! How sore my butt felt after two hours of sitting in those crappy chairs!

After the performance, Philip signed CDs. Luckily, I'd had the forethought to tuck a couple of CDs into my pretty little purse against such an eventuality. I was second in line and he signed my copy of his exquisite Symphony Number Five. Then he passed it to Michael Reissman, the conductor of that night's performance, and Monsieur Reissman signed it also. Which is kinda lame, given that Monsieur Reismann had nothing to do with Symphony Number Five, that I can tell. So what, you just sign something that you didn't have anything to do with? That seems a bit cheesy in my book. I mean, if I'm ever a famous author at a swank booksigning, and someone hands me a Terry Pratchett book, I'm sure as hell not going to ink my name on the inside cover, you can take that to the bank!

Anyhow, the signing was all very anticlimactic. Of course, I wanted to say something very clever and memorable to him, like "Your work means so very much to me, genius God man!!!!!!!!!" (with all those exclamation points indicated by little spasmodic up & down bounces) but when the man signs autographs, he does so like a machine; head down, completely focussed on his work. Pass the CD, sign. Pass the CD, sign. Pass the CD, sign. Can't talk. Signing.

Oh well. What do I care if Philip Glass knows I like his music? More importantly, what the hell does Philip Glass care if I like his music?

It was a fun evening all around. And when I got home, I found that my husband and daughter had baked me a huge chocolate chip cookie, rather burnt.

Of course, I ate it.

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