Art Appreciation

28 April, 2014

No great artist ever sees things as they really are. If he did, he would cease to be an artist.

Oscar Wilde

The purpose of art is washing the dust of daily life off our souls.

Pablo Picasso

Before moving to Spain, art held a pretty low priority for me. I put visiting a museum up there with kissing a goat. It might be an interesting experience, but not one that I would venture to try twice.

Living in Spain has opened my mind to trying new things. No, I have not attempted any relations with a goat, but I have grown in my appreciation for the arts. Over the past two weeks, we have visited four top-tier museums, and I can say that I enjoyed all of them.

It is helpful to me to divide the art world into two categories--classical and modern. Those lines blur a little at the edges, but they serve their purpose in general.

The Prado

The Prado in Madrid is a bastion of the classical world, comparable in style and collection to the Louvre in Paris. They have 2,000 year old sculptures and 600 year old paintings. Sculpture, especially of the human form, is almost magical to me. I cannot understand how somebody can transform a piece of hard marble into an object that looks so soft. My favorite at the Prado was Isabella II, Veiled, by Camillo Torreggiani. You can see a face behind a veil, all of which is carved out of one piece of stone. It appears to allow you to see through the stone veil.

I also had the unique opportunity to view Felipe IV, by Velázquez. This is the same painting that a friend of mine's aunt is hoping to restore for a museum in Australia, prior to their purchasing it. This was not my favorite Velázquez painting, but it had an interesting story for me. Las Minenas also became a favorite of our family after visiting the Picasso Museum in Barcelona. By viewing the Velázquez first, we were able to understand, not only Picasso's version of the same painting, but also a little bit of Picasso's cubist style. 

Reina Sofia

I must confess that modern art quite often looks to me like nothing more than random splotches of color or haphazard doodling. Some of it, however, even made sense to me, which will no doubt relieve any consternation on the part of modern artists everywhere. Some of the pieces, to be sure, were simplistic, childish and downright stupid, in my humble opinion. Placing a few sticks against a wall and sticking a label on it does not constitute art, unless you are a good enough huckster to get the curator of Reina Sofia to display it.

Seeing such absurd displays makes me wonder if the creative juices have run out of modern art and into other venues, such as the digital sphere. Perhaps we are simply between great periods. Another possibility is that I am totally clueless.

The one redeeming part of Reina Sofia is Guernica, by Picasso. He captured the truth of war by smashing his images into shards of horror, fear and destruction, painting in death-pale hues, leaving us hopeless and lost. You can read more about Picasso in my blog here.

Picasso

The Picasso museum presented us with a different view of the artist. He was classically trained and fully able to paint like the Masters. His genius lay in his ability to diverge from what was acceptable and known and to create a new language. As mentioned above, I have already written a blog about Picasso.

Guggenheim

The final stop on our Spring Break tour of Spain was in Bilbao. We were not prepared for the beauty of that fair city. It is difficult to weave antiquity and modernity in the same tapestry, but Bilbao has done it. Five hundred year old buildings provide the base fabric, while ultra-modern structures act as stylistic foils. The Guggenheim Museum is one of those splashes of color and style.

Sitting astride the river that runs through the city, the museum is home to some very avant-garde art, but they have accomplished the impossible by making it accessible to simple folks like myself. In a stroke of genius, the artists actually created their pieces unfinished without the interaction of an audience. In other words, the pieces are only complete when we interact with them. We literally became art. 

Ernesto Neto created sculptures, entitled The Body That Carries Me, out of netting and pantyhose material that took up entire rooms. You were allowed to crawl through, touch and even smell the exhibits. He filled several sacks with pepper, cloves and rice. It was something like an artistic jungle gym. His purpose was to make us think about our own bodies, and particularly our own skin, to help us see the beauty in the way it moves and functions.

Christian Marclay's The Clock is a fascinating 24 hour long video that captures time in real time. He has spliced thousands of films, each with references to time, that correspond to the exact time of day in which you are watching the film. It was fascinating to watch the movie unfold seamlessly along this unanticipated path. The next time you watch a movie, look for clocks. You will be amazed at the number of times you see time.

I learned a great deal about art on this trip, but even more importantly, I learned a great deal about myself. All art is intended to evoke a response. Whether you enjoy the response is not up to the artist, but to you. 

Street Performers

20 April, 2014

Our family is in Madrid on Spring Break. It's payment for the girls' hard work in school and also an opportunity to hang out with my mama, sister and niece. Our cup runneth over.

Over the past couple of days, I have noticed several street performers on Plaza Mayor. They have always fascinated me. You can separate them into a few categories:

• Musicians
• Contortionists
• Artists
• Hip Hop Dancers
• Magicians

The musicians seem to be driven more by passion than money. I am sure they are hoping to rake in a big haul, like everybody else, but quite often they don't even acknowledge the crowd. The musician just needs an outlet. I met a band yesterday. They were all young and sang 80's rock covers with a weird kind of Spanish/British accent. They drew a decent crowd every time, but didn't generate a lot of money. All the guys were friendly and excited about their upcoming CD. They told me their main purpose for being on the Plaza was to be close to the fans. If that's true, they succeeded.

The other day, we visited a street market in Madrid and I came upon a guy playing a set of wine glasses. I was excited to see him, because I had just demonstrated how to make that distinctive sound to Katherine on a wine glass at home. He was talented, but lacked an ability to engage the audience.

That same day we encountered a group of classical musicians that included a singer. He had a rich baritone, and possessed obvious talent. A crowd of 50 or so people gathered around. He captured all of us and held us in spellbound attention. Money flowed out of our pockets like water over the Niagara Falls. A little bit later, a woman joined the group and sang in a beautiful soprano. They were definitely professional singers.

Contortionists come in all shapes and sizes, literally. The big thing these days is levitation. Even Jesus got into the act.

The really good ones will generate €150/night. That's not bad for just hanging around. Francesca, the ghost bride, is an aspiring actress. She is new to the street performance business and only makes between €30-70/night for five nights a week. That's not a great living, but enough to pay the bills, and she has most of the day to hunt for other work.

Street Artists make those caricatures that everybody has somewhere in their closet or proudly hanging on the wall. Katherine had been begging for one, and we finally found one in Plaza Mayor. It was hard for Katherine to sit still while the guy was drawing her. She was dying to know what it looked like. I showed him some of Katherine's work, and he was really impressed. It's a great picture, and I think it will bolster Katherine's growing love of art. 

Hip Hop Dancers fascinate me. This is an art form that literally started in the streets. Perhaps it is the lovechild of Contortionists and Musicians. Michael Jackson supposedly first saw the "Moonwalk" on the street. As this art form ages, it has begun to attract and retain an older, read richer, audience. All the dancers have worked hard at smiling and engaging the crowds. Many times, they have a "plant" in the audience, usually a little kid, that they will "beg" to come inside the ring and dance a little bit. Of course the kid is a prodigy and the audience goes wild.

Magicians are definitely the top of the food chain. It makes sense, because illusions transcend language and culture and don't require a lot of props. All the successful magicians are great at involving the audience. They select an older guy, a good looking woman and a child, often reaching into the second or third tier for "volunteers". Rubén has been performing street magic for a couple of years now, and he makes about €200/night, four nights a week. That's about $55,000 per year. Not bad for a 20 hour work week. He also performs for private parties, and I am sure he practices ad nauseum to hone his skills and work on his delivery. His whole performance was with a set of magic ropes that got longer and shorter, while twin brother passed the hat.

All the acts work hard for their money. It's not easy performing in front of a big crowd that is constantly looking for other diversions. Quite often we watch with amusement and then saunter off to the next thing, without ever dropping a coin in the hat. I would suggest you support the arts, in whatever form and location you find it. One day you may find yourself on the street and need a little magic yourself.

Pablo Picasso

22 April, 2014

Today we toured more of Barcelona, as part of our Tour of Spain, over the Easter holidays. The highlight for me was the Picasso Museum, which showcased some of his earlier works.

Pablo Picasso's father was a painter and started training him at age 3. He was a child star, the Michael Jackson of painting. By the time he was 12, young Pablo was being compared to the classic painters of antiquity. He said of himself, "It took me four years to paint like Raphael, but a lifetime to paint like a child."

Science and Charity--Picasso Age 15, Picasso Barcelona

Prior to studying some of his work, I had never appreciated Picasso's paintings, due mostly to my vast ignorance of art. He's still not my favorite, but I do have a much deeper respect for his talent.

Picasso's cubist style allowed him to take apart a picture and reassemble it, transforming people and things into shapes and colors. Once deconstructed, he could play around with the images like pieces of a puzzle. One of my favorite exhibits was Las Ménines. This was actually a Velázquez painting from 1656, which we saw at the Prado in Madrid. Picasso disassembled it and changed the colors several times. Each version took your eye to a different focal point, which was fascinating. Velázquez, as a realist, wanted to create an image that closely approximated life. Picasso, as a cubist, wanted to give the picture a life of its own, separate from the original figures.

Les Ménines--Velázquez, Prado Madrid

Les Ménines-Picasso, Picasso Museum Barcelona

We also saw Guernica at the Reina Sofia in Madrid, which depicts the horrors of war. Germany practiced blitzkrieg in April, 1937 on several Spanish towns as part of the Spanish Civil War. Guernica was one of the unfortunate targets of death and destruction. The painting was unveiled at the Paris World's Fair in 1937 and caused an instant sensation. Rich in symbolism, Picasso used his cubist technique to throw together several disjointed images into one collage of Hell. Everyone and everything suffers during war. The painting is massive, over 28 feet long and 11 feet high, commanding your attention. You cannot escape. The color and light reflect misery and pain, while the images convey true horror. I have not read anything about the name of the painting, but guerra means "war" in Spanish, so maybe there is a cruel irony in the fact that the Germans chose that city to bomb. Picasso dictated in his will that the painting would not reside on Spanish soil until democracy returned to the nation. The painting finally arrived home in Madrid in 1981, just in time to celebrate what would have been Picasso's 100th birthday.

Guernica--Reina Sofia, Madrid

Pablo Picasso used his art as a voice to speak about a variety of subjects. The true beauty of his art is that it still speaks today, even to a simple Redneck in Europe.

I Need a Bigger Sack

10 April, 2014

I have rightly earned the reputation for being a gorron, or mooch, both here and in the USA. It is a gift. Somehow I am able to position myself to receive free stuff that other people happily gather on my behalf. It would be sinful for me to turn down their hospitality, so I humbly accept whatever comes my way. Evidence of this fact is that we have driven a car here in Spain for 7 months. Free of charge. We neither asked for it nor expected it, but there it is. What was I supposed to do? 

The same goes for fruits and vegetables. Sure we buy things at the market, but almost on a routine basis, somebody gives us a sack of something. Quite often, it's oranges.

Murcianos are very proud of their agriculture. They will tell you, without a shred of doubt, that their fruits and vegetables are better than anywhere else in the world. After living here for seven months, I am inclined to believe them. Two of their most ardent passions are lemons and oranges. Orchards stretch as far as the eye can see. Anyone with more than a postage stamp of dirt will have a tree, bursting forth with great globules of juicy sweetness. Every morning Susan drinks two oranges, fresh-squeezed. She has made some incredible lemon squares as well. The locals even sprinkle lemon juice on their potato chips and sliced ham. You just have to try it. 

Yesterday, a friend of mine gave me a big sack of oranges. I asked where he got them, and he said they came from an abandoned orchard. This blew me away, so I told him I wanted to go on the next procurement mission. And another adventure begins.

When we arrived at the orchard, I saw about 200 trees, full of oranges. Gonzalo asked me what I brought for a bag. My plan was to fill my backpack, and I also had a shopping bag. He chuckled and told me I didn't bring a big enough sack. Luckily he furnished one for me.

We picked oranges for about half an hour, and I came away with about 70 pounds of oranges and lemons, all there for the taking. Thousands of oranges lay on the ground. Many more still hung in the trees. The season is coming to an end, so they will probably just rot away.

The scene left an indelible mark on me. I started thinking about how God doles out blessings. My family is incredibly blessed, beyond measure. We have so much for which to give thanks. I am not speaking about material possessions. We gave up many of our "things" before we came to Spain, and we are better for it. I am speaking about intangible blessings like:

• Friends 
• Family
• Health
• Opportunities
• Mercy
• Peace

God has an infinitely large orchard and tells us to take all we can carry. I think he laughs sometimes at our bags. They are so puny, compared to the abundant harvest that awaits us. 

The tragedy is that most people don't know about the orchard and starve just outside its borders. I have a bag that is stuffed to overflowing, much more than my family can consume, so I am left with the happy task of finding other people who would like to share in the bounty. I am an orange/blessing missionary.

The truth is that the trees would produce even more fruit, if they were pruned and cared for. They actually respond better to being picked than to being left alone. The oranges need to be taken for the health and well-being of the tree. If we could see God's blessings rotting on the ground, due to our neglect and unwillingness to pick the fruit for others, I wonder if we would be more inclined to do the work. 

Of course the greatest blessing of all is salvation. I have neglected that part of the harvest while here in Spain, to my discredit and shame, choosing instead to keep all the fruit to myself. 

These were his instructions to them: "The harvest is great, but the workers are few. So pray to the Lord who is in charge of the harvest; ask him to send more workers into his fields. (Jesus. Luke 10:2)

I'd better get a bigger sack.

Working Out the Worries

7 April, 2014

Exercise to me is the best way to untangle the knots within. I remember a few years ago, when my boss reamed me out for something that he had just given me the green light to do. He questioned my integrity and work ethic. Nobody calls me lazy, except my wife, and lives to tell about it. 

I ran 5 miles that night, as if it were a lazy stroll around the block. The anger and indignation seeped out of my pores. The contempt for his ham-fisted, bi-polar management style pounded into the pavement. When I got home, I felt at peace. The next day I went back to work. He apologized. I did not kill him. We had an accord.

The other day I went hiking up the mountain to a destination unknown. I was by myself, since all my friends crapped out on me, but I was determined to go anyway, demonstrating my incredible resolve and iron will. Or perhaps I was just really bored. Either way, I went. Into the void. Off the beaten path. The road less travelled. Boldly going where no man has gone before. Okay, so it was almost entirely on paved roads, but since you're not here to see them, and I since I selectively shoot pictures, you will never know the difference. 

Actually my main purpose in walking up the hill was to clear my mind a little bit. 

Katherine, and for that matter, Elizabeth, inherited their stubborn, stiff-necked dispositions straight from me. This is a fact that I have shared with both of them quite often, usually after a brazen display of genetic lineage. We share a conspiratorial chuckle and take sheepish glances at Susan, knowing she bears the brunt of our furies.


Lately we have been struggling with Katherine, desperately trying to bring her to a place of peace within herself. She will get there, on her own terms, in her own time, with her own ways. We simply have to surrender and beg for lenient terms. I think she will be benevolent toward us. Not being sure, however, I have forbid her to read any accounts of biblical kings, who cut off the thumbs of the defeated kings and left them to beg scraps from the table, like so many mongrel dogs. (Read Judges 1, if you dare.)

I trudged up the mountain, backpack in tow, full of whatever I might need for an extended mission, except a flashlight, ensuring a relatively early return. Intentionally taking paths that were totally new to me, I scaled the heights for a good 30 minutes and eventually ended up exactly where I had been many times before. At first I was little disappointed. I really wanted a cool adventure. Then I was reassured. Maybe a little familiarity was exactly what I needed.

I found a convenient tree to lean against, dropped my cushy backpack on the ground and broke open my phone to read The Problem of Pain, by C.S. Lewis. I love his writing style and ability to make incredibly complex things clear and easy to understand, even for a Redneck. The premise is that pain and suffering only make sense in the context of a biblical worldview. Otherwise it is all random, meaningless and fruitless. 

Things have to make sense, even when they don't. I have crawled up many paths in my life, seeking to know truth. Every time I think I am on some brand new trail, I end up at the same place. The irony for me is that there is always an easy, paved road to get there, but I always seem to take the path that is full of briars, slippery rocks and unsure ground. 

God will make sense of this crazy path we call Spain. Perhaps it was meant to bring out some issues for all of us that would have remained hidden back in the States. At any rate, I know where the trail ends and who will meet me there, with a cold glass of water and a pig pickin'. 

"But his father said to the servants, ‘Quick! Bring the finest robe in the house and put it on him. Get a ring for his finger and sandals for his feet. And kill the calf we have been fattening. We must celebrate with a feast, for this son of mine was dead and has now returned to life. He was lost, but now he is found.’ 


So the party began." (Luke 15)

Growing Up is Hard to Do

5 April, 2014

I once heard about a guy that wrote The Ten Commandments of Parenting. Then he had a child. His second edition was entitled, Ten Suggestions for Parenting. After his second child, he became a plumber. He just wanted to be able to fix something and walk away.

I am great with kids, of almost any age. Most of my acumen derives simply from a selfish attempt to make people like me. Kids are easier prey, because they react to less subtle attempts at humor. If you can break wind, you can make most boys squeal with delight. Easy. Thanks Dad.

Girls are usually pretty easy as well. They just need a little more time to adjust to the obvious breach in social decorum, not to mention air. Once you have them, though, they are yours forever.

Raising kids, however, is a totally different plane of existence from merely entertaining them. I am totally clueless. The baby stage wasn't too hard. That is more an issue of endurance than knowledge. An infant has some pretty basic needs and only cries when one of those needs isn't being met. That is exactly how men operate:

1. Acknowledge the existence of a problem.
2. Analyze the situation.
3. Determine the best course of action.
4. Instruct your wife.
   
5. Return to the ball game on TV.
6. Adjust volume if necessary.

As children get older, they begin to learn how to manipulate emotions to achieve desired results. This requires the parent to learn how to discern truth from reality, even down to shades of truth. Men are not designed for this type of work. We are the hammer, making every problem a nail to be driven. 

Women have more tools in their toolbox. I think it's because they were the second model off the assembly line. God added some pretty cool modifications to Eve, like subtlety and compassion. Man's dearth of so many good qualities leads him to seek out the One who possesses them. The abundance of good qualities in women leads them to search out the One that understands them. That's some really bad theology, but it is at least fun to think about.


Teenagers have overrun the castle walls in my house. Elizabeth is 15 and Katherine 12 9/12, so I give her full credit by virtue of rounding up to the nearest whole number.

When faced with an enemy with superior numbers and an iron will, it is best to seek terms of surrender and live in peace, rather than die quickly and go down in history as an ignominious despot. "Better a live dog, than a dead lion." (King Solomon, Ecc 9:4)

Fortunately for me, I am a good negotiator, and Elizabeth was my first born. She asks for relatively simple things, like staying up later than usual, eating ice cream and applying makeup. She is something like Mollie, the horse in Animal Farm, that chooses a life of servitude with the humans, in exchange for pretty bows in her hair. Done. One day she will realize her best qualities lie deep within. Elizabeth will refine her talents and use them to take over the world. Until then we just need to provide some guardrails to keep her from getting hurt.

Katherine is more like Napoleon, the ultimate victor in the Animal Farm rebellion. Snowball started it, but Napoleon sent him to the slaughterhouse. "All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others." I admire Katherine's style, even while I cower in fear. She raises the ante until you are forced to fold your hand. With Elizabeth, you can withhold phone or makeup. Katherine will give you her phone before you ask, as a way of saying, "I don't give a rip what you take away. Now whatcha got, punk?"

The interesting part to me is that we really don't ever need to punish Katherine. She does a pretty good job of that herself. We normally tell her to relax, don't worry about grades, go have fun. She responds with more drive, more anxiety over grades, more stress. The castle gates are open, but she seems to prefer scaling the walls instead. The only thing that we have learned so far is that she responds better to whispers than shouts. She expects bluster, but we respond, sometimes, with a gentle breeze. One day her anger will subside and she will channel her passion for creative, constructive endeavors. I have no doubt about that. Between now and then, we just need to hang on, until the storm abates. It will run its course, and we will repair the damage. 

Somebody once told me that children are like the moon, always moving into a different phase. I take great comfort in that, knowing that whatever our current situation, we can make it to the next phase in the cycle. It also scares me to wonder whether we are heading toward a full moon or have already passed it. 

The best consolation is knowing that we just need to follow the Light. 

“I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.” (Jesus, John 8:12)

If You're Skeered, Say So

1 April, 2014

Without trying to be antagonistic or patronizing, I believe that the USA has shifted considerably in the last two or three decades. I don't pretend to know why, nor do I have any answers. I am just making anecdotal observations from afar.

Let's take a look at the year 1980:

• Ronald Reagan was President.
• The enemy was the U.S.S.R.
• Cartoons were on Saturday mornings.
• Space Shuttle Columbia was preparing for an April 12, 1981 liftoff.
• We were between Rocky II and Rocky III.
  
• Nobody locked their doors.

How about the 90's?

I remember coming home from college one weekend and standing, bewildered, at the back door of my home. The door was locked, and I didn't know what to do. I had never encountered a locked door at my house in my entire life. The year was 1992. I knew Linda and Louis would be home, so I went to their house and ate dinner, while waiting for my parents to return home. Something was changing in my world.

The 2000's?

Susan and I finished building our house in 1997. Her family lived in a gated community, behind locked doors, safeguarded by an alarm system. Susan would attach the "Club" to her steering wheel when pumping gas.

We needed to reach a detente about the front door. Our compromise was that the door would remain locked at all times, but I was free to tell everyone that the key was ingeniously hidden under the ceramic rabbit right beside the door. Every night before I went to sleep, I would check all the doors in the house and close the garage for the night. We lived in Pinehurst, North Carolina, home of golf retirees and Special Forces soldiers.  Why did I need to lock the doors?

Now?

Everybody in my family back in South Carolina and most of my friends in Pinehurst, NC tote at least one weapon at all times. Don't get me wrong. Where I come from, gun control means you have a steady hand. I believe in the right to bear arms, and to use them, if needed. What disturbs me, however, is the culture of fear that seems to be permeating our society. We always believed in the right, but never thought we would need to exercise it. Somehow a boogieman has arisen among us, and we no longer feel safe at night, or really at any time, even when surreptitiously toting a .45 through Wal-Mart. 

I didn't realize how pervasive this attitude was, until I moved to Spain. I was shocked that good Spanish parents allowed their sons and daughters to roam the streets without a guardian. I was nonplussed to find out that nobody coordinated play dates, where parents could watch over their little ones. I was disabused to find no hand sanitizer and that they drank water straight from the hose.

Then I realized that this is exactly how I grew up. My parents did not have one clue regarding my whereabouts, until I slinked back home. The entire town of Hartsville, South Carolina was at my disposal. I could pedal or drive anywhere I dang well pleased, and I was not alone in this privilege. It was normal. What happened?

Statistically, nothing has happened. If anything, Hartsville is a safer city, overall, than a decade ago. To be sure, there are pockets of danger, as is the case with every town or city. If you go looking for trouble, you are sure to find it. The change, in my opinion, is occurring in our minds and in our perceptions of risk. We are scared.

Somehow, we are changing from a nation of achievers and risk-takers to a nation of nonstarters and milquetoasts. We would rather watch other people try something, experiencing a rich, fulfilling virtual life. Red Bull has capitalized on this obsession by promoting death-defying sports. Their athletes have become modern day gladiators.

We cheer whether they succeed or fail, reveling equally in their glory or demise. Perhaps we are following the way of other great civilizations, falling into decay and debauchery. In our case, however, we seem to be traveling at incredible speeds.

I don't know what to do with this. Perhaps I am seeing what is not there, but I don't think so. I am no bastion of virtue, to be sure. I love the Red Bull sports and I am inclined to partake in debauchery at certain levels as well, depending on your definition, so please don't blow up my inbox with invective.

Many people thought we were crazy for moving to Spain. The risks were too great for minimal and questionable rewards. Perhaps. Or maybe we are just vestiges from another generation, looking more and more antiquated by the day.

What is Your Superpower?

I once asked several middle and high school students what kind of superpower they would want to have. The answers were a little surprising to me at first, but upon reflection, I understand more clearly. Being unsure of their surroundings, scared of imminent dangers and petrified of being embarrassed, these students valued invisibility over flight, great strength or laser beam eyes. We live in a society of fear and ambiguity, and they want to disappear into a virtual reality.

In a recent conversation with my sister, we discussed our superpowers. Hers is creative intelligence. Becky can put together incongruent pieces of information and explain it to somebody like me. She can make the blind see and the deaf hear.

Mine is the ability to quickly adapt to any situation. I have learned to be happy in every environment, foreign or domestic. Everywhere I go, I find a way to fit in. In large part, this is a defense mechanism that I acquired in middle school, as a way to survive. None of the normal categories fit me. I was not, and am not, a jock, musician, artist or whiz kid. Without any identity, I faced a school career of isolation, which is kryptonite to me. The weakness of yesterday is now the strength of today. I am Adaptaman.

Every superpower comes with limitations and responsibilities, however. We must use our powers for Good, not gain and for others, not ourselves. One of the shortcomings with being so adaptable is that I often get confused about who I really am. What color is a chameleon? The answer could be the color of his surroundings, but sometimes the outside world doesn't match the inward realities. The danger in adapting is in not being able to return to your original self, if you can even identify who that self was in the first place. Being all things to all people sometimes means being nothing to yourself.

Spain provides an excellent laboratory to work on my powers and to pass them on. Elizabeth seems to have some of the same abilities. She fought our move at first, refusing to give up her American identity, fearing it would be lost forever. Now she has learned that it doesn't go away. The new Spanish identity is added to it, like another tool in the toolbox. She has learned the language better than any of us. The other day, I asked her to write for ten minutes about the importance of learning Spanish. She wrote two pages of beautiful Spanish, as if it was her native language. I was amazed. She has also learned how to navigate complicated relationships, especially with girls. Regardless of culture or language, high school girls can be catty. Elizabeth has learned to be a bridge between people, instead of a wedge. She can bend without breaking. She is Flexigirl.

Katherine has not discovered her power yet, but it is not adaptability. That much we know. She is struggling mightily with the myriad changes in her life. A new language, new culture, new school, new people and a new body is hard for any person to handle. My heart hurts for her. We have cast her into the deepest ocean and have asked her to swim toward a shore that she cannot see. Her resolve has run out, and she wants to stop swimming, but she has a stubborn will and iron resolve. Spain is applying the heat she needs to melt away some of the slag in her life, so that the will and resolve can be mixed to create a powerful and pure steel alloy, capable of withstanding incredible forces and strains. One day she will save the world, if we can just help her endure the unbearable heat of the crucible. This is an incredibly painful process, but she will endure and triumph over her challenges. Katherine is Steel Magnolia.

Susan's power is more subtle. She is quiet and reserved, which leads some to believe she is weak. That is a huge miscalculation. Susan has powers that defy imagination. She is like water. At rest, water seems innocuous. In motion, however, it can cut canyon walls through solid rock like the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon. She is an unstoppable force. We ride along her river and enjoy the views. Without Susan we would simply sit in our little canoe, wishing for some water. She is Madame Aqua.

We have not yet perfected how to use our forces together as a team. That time will come, though, when we unite. We are world changers, on a mission from God, aka Master of the Universe. Join forces with us. I can only speak a word of caution to any who oppose us. You will lose.