KUPALA 2010 (Summer Solstice)

Kupala is a Ukrainian celebration of summer solstice, which also couples with a midsummer's night dream, and has its origins in the original pagan festival (Kupalo was the god of Love and Harvest). Christianity appropriated it and combined it with the Nativity of St. John the Baptist. Somehow Summer Solstice is also appropriated as a significant part of the celebration as the longest day... the ultimate triumph of light over darkness awaiting the return of increasingly dark days as the earth swings into the next arc of the orbit when night regains its ascendancy.

At the Ukrainian Sports Center on Second Avenue in the East Village, Virlana Tkacz, Founding Director of the Yara Arts Group, created an evening of Kupala 2010, complete with entertainment, rituals, love potions, and a surprise guest. There were also two installation pieces: Infinity by Marybeth Ward, and Kupala, North Collins, NY by Andrea Wenglowskyj. It was an evening full of fun, and for me, a revelation of Ukrainian lore, which I have been investigating in preparation of creating new work.

All the women fashioned garlands that they wore for the celebration, which originally once meant the availability of the young girls for marriage. Everyone wrote a fortune that was fastened to a tree, and all were given candles.

The program began with a film Dora Was Dysfunctional by Andrea Odeznyska which was a beautiful, achingly funny account of the romantic life of a Ukrainian woman in L.A.
Cruel Love Songs were featured by Odarka Polanskyj-Stockert singing as she accompanied herself on an electric harp, supported by Redentor Jimenez on guitar. The delivery was soft and undulating, alluring and charming. "On the Night of St. John's Eve" was an evocative poem by Olena Jennings, enthusiastically received by the revelers of midsummer's night.

One of the highlights of the evening were the poems read by Bob Holman with the brilliant Bandura performer Julian Kytasty. Featured was a new poem about the Solstice, "Midsummer Night~My Heart is a Real Thing", performed by Bob Holman in association with Julian's intimate and mesmeric music. There was a casual presence in the execution that was attractive and sensitive to the moment.

A surprise celebrity was violinist Valeriy Zhmud who performed with the "technical support" of his iPod "ensemble," selections that were even more electrifying than his electrified fiddle. His work was dazzling and fearless, the music exploding from the strings with bravura and passion.

The Songs and Rituals were performed by a group, Girls, Girls, Girls, made up of Laryssa Czebiniak, Lycyna Kuncio, Olena Martynyuk, and Meredith Wright. Their singing created a sense of festivity during the candle lighting/floating ceremony and the distribution of Olesia Lew's love potion.

Closing out the program was The Debutant Hour, a girl's trio that was inventive, humorous, and lively. At the end they sang Happy Birthday to to Virlana, who is the spirit that drives and defines these wonderful events. As the audience dispersed, we each picked our fortune off of the tree. Mine was that "something interesting would happen to you under a bridge." I'm still waiting, but it clearly was more evocative than most fortune cookie messages.

As I reflect on the spirit of Kupala and my experience of cultural nuances that influence my work, I understand that the Ukrainian culture permeates the East Village, and the cultural energies of other groups intersect with the Ukrainian in forging an emerging identity that continually shifts and adjusts to the needs and vagrancies of time, place, and peoples. The Ukraine serves as the gateway to Russia from the West and the entrance to Europe from the East, assimilating the great traditions of the world into its own unique vision and art. Wandering around the Ukrainian Museum in the East Village, I began to see the Ukraine as a metaphor for humanity's struggle for freedom. I am told that the word Kozak (Cossack) came from an Arabic word that meant "free man".

The Ukrainian culture in the context of the East Village assimilates and distributes its energies into emerging identities that embrace the great traditions and cultures of the world. That may be the source of potency that makes the East Village so vibrant. It is East and West and South and North, pinpointed with an intensity that makes everyone a vital constituent in an an emerging cultural personality.

Sudden Fiction: The Ferry & Walt Whitman

He stood at the rear of the Staten Island Ferry, looking through the rain at the buildings of Manhattan. Hadn't Walt Whitman ridden the Ferry to Staten Island a hundred years earlier? What had Whitman seen? Somehow his words seemed to permeate the air around him --- each drop of rain measured itself to the irregular rhythms of his verse:  

What is then between us? What is the count of scores or hundreds of years between us? What ever it is, it avails not --- distance avails not, and place avails not, I too lived, Brooklyn of ample hills was mine, I too walk'd the streets of Manhattan Island and bathed in the waters around it, I too felt the curious abrupt questionings stir within me... Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged, Missing me one place search another, I stop somewhere waiting for you. 

 At last, he thought, I have found you. You ride these waters with me, as you always have. I was not silent before --- therefore I couldn't hear your songs in the air. When I looked at Manhattan, I strained to see myself, so I looked right through you. But you are here, Walt Whitman, your laughter and your tears comfort me. I feel you in the rain --- I hear you in the night. 

The ferry swung around Governor's Island. The Statue of Liberty could be seen through the rain, and the rain had provided him privacy on the deck. He roamed from side to side as if he was afraid he would miss something important that he should see. But there was little to see. The night and the rain were like huge curtains draped around him. 

The Statue of Liberty could be discerned as through a haze and looked more painted than real. He wondered how it could seem so beautiful from the front. When he had seen it from the New Jersey Turnpike, it looked as if you could wade out to it from the New Jersey Shore. He remembered also that you looked at it over the roofs of dirty old buildings and several junk yards. He thought this must demonstrate how all things beautiful have their ugly side, but he felt this reasoning was more a word game than the truth. 

Soon the Ferry was past the Statue and was suddenly suspended in time it seemed --- gliding on air --- for some unexplained reason the engines had been turned off and the ferry slid silently and smoothly through the darkness. To the side of the Ferry a barge floated with smoking garbage loaded on its surface. The rain had evidently extinguished the flames. 

The sound of a deep horn made him cast his glance on the other side of the Ferry. A large tanker moved by--- like a huge ghost ship --- ablaze with lights, the loading booms looked like ancient abandoned masts. 

The engines of the Ferry began to throb again abruptly, and the vibrations shook the frame of the ferry with a constant caress---as a mother gently shakes the cradle to coax her infant to sleep. He realized the engines must have been cut to permit the tanker to pass by the Ferry. 

As the Ferry cut an arc in the water in preparation to land at Staten Island, he looked into the sky. He couldn't be sure whether there were tears in his eyes or whether it was just the rain, but he felt an ineffable sadness, for he knew he would miss this. 

He looked at everything for the last time, and he was aware that there was too much to be seen at a single glance. He was sorry he had failed to look at everything with eyes that understood---until now. This final moment only impressed upon him how much he had missed, and how much more he would miss after he was gone. He stepped off the Ferry wondering if Walt Whitman had stopped, waiting for him somewhere up ahead.