Dwuno Son

Dwuno Son, Dutch/Indonesian bohemian,
wore her own hand-painted shoes and self-styled dresses.
A Taoist & frequent consulter of the I-Ching,
Dwuno opened my eyes to the unnatural of social imprinting
& opened my heart to the magic & the mystery of the invisible.

In conversation with me in Den Haag in 1986.
Mentor and dear friend that had a huge impact in my life.
#InternationalWomensDay

My American Dream?

33 years ago, September 16th, 1978 I set foot on American soil for the very first time, in the early morning hours, burdened only with one special, made for me shoulder bag packed with two changes of clothes, Miso (Japanese soy paste) chopsticks and a Chinese bound diary with pen and color pencils. 

It was on a quest for self-actualization that had brought me to the United States. I was determined to pursue the creative impulse full time. I hoped to immerse myself and to marinate in those juices. I sought a conducive environment, fertile grounds. I was up for adventure. Nah, I was desperate.  

Desperate to escape what seemed a deadening, stifling working class Swiss upbringing dominated by a post World War II cautious conservative stance to life. Today I would consider myself then a cultural refugee. Like so many of my generation, I had rejected the status quo, the concerns for security through insurance and the hoarding of money and keeping of a steady employ, no matter how deadening to the spirit. Instead I had turned anti-establishment.

Still in 9th grade, I had demonstrated for the rights of Palestinians, the underdogs, and for one exiting evening we protested by forced occupation the planned conversion of an old charming theater  in to a new capitalist shopping center until the police forcefully upheld the rules of the bourgeoisie and made us abandon our sit-in. I still can remember that dark cavernous hall we occupied for a few precious hours, which since turned in to something comparable to a Walmart in the US.

A drop out, I had had the good fortune to meet not one, but several outstanding, creative, artistic mentors, that lit a fire in me, a desire to burn and sparkle with life. With an unwillingness to settle for less, I wanted it all. I was young, dumb and very naive and that is how I had put down my foot on American soil for the first time, 33 years ago.

I did not know much about the United States, did not know what to expect. Big boned, blue eyed, rosy cheeked Peter Smith from Whitewater, Wisconsin had lived with us in Zurich and  had taught us how to bake Tassajara whole wheat bread and how to make granola (I would be the one to supply us with the  needed raw, whole milk, brought home inside a traditional aluminum container.) I probably expected most Americans to be a variation of Peter's wholesome, generous, cheerful spirit.

33 years ago I had no interest in politics. Having had to endure gruesome images of the Vietnam war as regular fare on Swiss TV, I detested and ignored main stream media and culture.  I had not the slightest idea how the political and social climate in the US would change shortly after my arrival, certainly with the surprise election of President Ronald Reagan. 

6 years later, or 27 years ago in mid-September, done with New York, never ever wanting to go back, done with an impossible relationship, almost broke, we had made it in a red Toyota pick up truck in to  The City Different. 2 1/2 years later, married, a legal resident, I owned my first (and only) home. As a first (and only) generation immigrant, I was living The American Dream!

But hey, is this really my dream? Did I find what I came here for? Did I actually actualize myself?

Am I living the American Dream, 
or the American Nightmare?   

To be continued ...

9/15 Part Two

We had listened to Krishna Murti in Brockwood, England, spent a few days in London and it was time for me to leave everything I knew behind and board the cheapest flight to America. I wore my  favorite Genie pants,  created by dear Joe just for me from old soft curtains that flowed wide down my legs and gathered around my ankles. The other pair was at the bottom of my carpet shoulder bag, another work of practical art from recycled fabric by gifted Joe, a former actor turned artisan. I had perfected the art of traveling light and had become a true carpetbagger! There were two convenient outside pockets. The front one held my money,  passport, pen, special color pencils and Chinese diary, the back one held my toiletries, no room for a  hair brush, but chopsticks and a package of Miso (Barley Paste.) Little did I understand that plenty of Miso was to be had in the Asian parts of New York City.

The stewardess would come around to offer drinks and food. I did not accept. I heard them wonder out loud if maybe I was afraid of cost and if maybe I did not understand it was included in the fare. True I barely understood English and was not sure if I was expected to pay, but I also felt snobbish, as I had been eating very clean, involved with the Macrobiotic Restaurant in Amsterdam for over 2 years and limited to vegetarian fare ever since I had moved out my parent's home. I despised conventional meat based meals. Of course I also was young and anxious, in no mood to eat. Now I am old and eat any time anywhere, although I am still a snob of sorts as to the quality of food. But then I often preferred to abstain from eating for extended periods of time, especially while traveling.

When finally I arrived in the US, at Kennedy Airport, it was after midnight and the buses had stopped running. Of course I would not dream of spending my money on a cab, much less would I have known where to take it to. So I settled on one of the benches in the back, prepared to spend a few hours until the first bus would take me in to Manhattan proper. This black worker noticed me and asked where I was going to and assured me he would wake me and take me right after his shift to the first running bus. This he did and as we were crammed in early morning traffic he inquired about where exactly I was going. No idea I told him, he insisted that I must know someone in New York. So I took out my address book and showed him my only New York address, the one of my mentor/teacher. I was not even sure how, if and when I would contact Alec, but this black guy decided this was where I was to go and he would bring me there safely. He got us in to the A train that of course would not stop on W 72nd street which did not deter him, we got out and right back the other way until he safely deposited me at the proper station. All the while he would comment on my incredible calm. And he was right, I was on alert, focused and present. Say what you will about New York and black guys, but that man gave me an impressive welcome. Talk about the kindness of strangers, specifically from a black guy to a white woman, with no strings attached! He did more then got out of his way and this after a long night's work.

I was Alec's guest for several months. Barely able to speak English, I took part in an extemporaneous performance series that kept us busy most nights in to the early morning hours. I practiced the slipping in and out of altered states. Form Follows Feelings was Alec's motto and we worked hard at perfecting our form at any given moment and were diligently in the pursuit of our feelings. I practiced my Mermaid  persona at the edge of the pond in Central Park. On my way I would pass the Dakota where John and Yoko had their home. (The night of John's murder we were attending a piano concert by the amazing Keith Jarret, only blocks away.) Alec had taught at the Actor's Studio, had been a Ballet Dancer and had developed his very own style of performance art. The man had charisma with a great sense of humor. Our rehearsals were adventures in to inner space. We never knew where it would lead us and if we would have the guts to follow - all the way. We practiced our emotional vocabulary and grounded ourselves in to our bodies.

I took up Contact Improvisation a form of movement that relies on gravity and a smooth, uninterrupted flow. I gave up on Tai Chi, Chinese martial arts, too boring in comparison, so it seemed to me then. Although with my Dutch master Joe Onvlee, Tai Chi had never ever been boring, but Joe with his beer belly, greasy hair and sparkle in his eyes was extra-ordinary and employed methods by Gurdjieff that kept us on our toes, or rather in our core or Tantiem. He would yell at us: "Relax, relax, relax" and then burst out laughing. He would tell us funny stories while we had to hold our space for what seemed an eternity, with no adjustments to alleviate any discomfort. He would have us practice in front of a mirror, confusing us. He would pick a senior student to invent a form we had to follow, on the spot, as if we always had done so. Joe Onvlee was phenomenal and had an international following and was likely the first to spread Tai Chi in and through out Europe and beyond.

Yeah, it was the seventies and I had the good fortune to have come upon some charismatic folks: Dear sensitive Joe the actor turned artist and expert crafts man, the one that made it possible to leave my parent's home while I was still a student, Dwuno, the powerful and mysterious Dutch/Indonesian puppet maker, bohemian and Taoist, Joe Onvlee, the Dutch sailor with his wicked smile, that introduced Chinese martial arts to us Hippies, Paulo Knill the Swiss director of the Lesley College Theater department, who gave us absolute permission to be ourselves, even sleep through his classes in order to please ourselves rather then him the teacher. Last but not least Alec Rubin, former ballet dancer turned therapist and acting coach along the lines of the Actors Studio. I had been deeply involved with each of those gigantic souls. They each transformed my life. And all of this happened outside any formal school or institution, with no need to pledge future income for decades. With no aspirations, at least on my part, to garner certificates or titles and letters behind my name. We were driven by our own excitement only.

to be continued ...

Mentor

I was introduced to Dwuno on a cobble stone street in old town Zuerich. Her silvery hair hung over her back, her cheeks pronounced, her eyes dark, deep, large and full of mischief, her clothes seemingly home made, a tunic of sorts hung of her voluptious body, her feet stuck in sandals she had painted with sacred designs of her own pleasure. I was 19, Dwuno could have been my Mom, but then she could not. Dwuno gathered us in to "under-intellectual" Sunday gatherings. It was the seventies, meaning the sixties for us in Switzerland. Dwuno introduced me to an aspect of my self I did not know existed. A state of being, a state of bliss, a state of wholeness and movement with no intent. Dwuno, exotic, dramatic, stunningly beautiful was my very first mentor. I owe her, the world, a gift in kind.