A few years into the project, and certain themes have arisen. Notions on art,
and what it is; what it means to be creative; the mystery of inspiration.
Some points generally agreed upon, others discussed this way and that,
others almost impossible to answer.

But there's one universal truth I hope this project has begun to convey:
Art does not discriminate. Art does not discriminate.

Here's what I mean:
You can travel to any country, any city, any village in the world – no matter how
big or small – and there will be someone there expressing him or herself creatively.
Without fail.

And because of this, art does not depend on any of the categories in which we have
the habit of placing one another. Art does not depend on nationality. Social class.
Educational background. Economic status. Race.

If you've already shed these limitations when you yourself view a painting or listen to
a song or read a poem, you've gained the benefit of a completely unbiased view.
And if you haven't, it's something worth considering.

After all, if you can shed these biases for art's sake, you're only a step away from
shedding them altogether.

A woman sat down in the seat in front of me on the railroad this morning.
She was wearing a black raincoat over a bright pink scarf; her hair was
pulled straight back into a little bun.

It was mild for November; early and overcast enough that the sky wasn't
completely light. And from the small gap between the seat in front of me
and the window I caught the reflection of that bright scarf and her face.

She was looking out the window, across the Hudson, watching the Palisades
go by. Peacefully. Quietly. Same as I was. And every time she exhaled through
her nose, two little spots of vapor appeared and grew on the window. As soon
as she finished that outward breath those spots would shrink and quickly disappear –
leaving just enough time for her to softly breathe in and then breathe out again,
creating those spots of vapor once more.

I wasn't sure what sort of pressures or stresses that woman would face during
the day, but she'd always have those few minutes of quiet contemplation from
the morning. And to me, in this kind of world even a few minutes-worth is a success.
For that woman, regardless of what else would happen, this day was a success.

On a recent weekday morning I took the elevator down to the lobby
with a neighbor of mine: An always-bright-and-friendly woman perhaps
in her mid-30s. Tall and slender, dark eyes, lovely, and very unassuming.

With a goodbye we were out the front door, and there she went, skipping
down the sidewalk to her car.

Truly, skipping down the sidewalk. With an incredible, care-free smile.

And just now I think it's hit me how much good that moment did
(and still does) my heart.

Out on a walk this morning I saw a young woman on a Vespa, very chic
as she idled at a red light. She was dressed for the crisp, sub-60
degree weather; knee-high brown boots over designer jeans.
And a rich cognac-brown leather jacket. And a light, wispy scarf.
It all fit perfectly on that cream-colored scooter.

If only my camera were out and ready to snap a shot. But by the time
I reached for it, the light had turned green and she was off.

Still, it reminded me of the sophistication that defines autumn in New York.
My favorite time of year.

Fifty years ago today, in CBS studio 61, the Miles Davis Quintet
played So What in front of video cameras for an episode of
The Robert Herridge Theater.

Perhaps it's the black-and-white, or the way Miles and
a sharp-dressed horn section watch from the background as
thousands of notes burst like confetti out of John Coltrane's
saxophone—but for me there's something perfect about the film.
Something humanly, timelessly perfect. You'll have to watch for yourself.

Ultimately, in another 50 years I think some of my feelings will be
the same. And some might change. But above anything else, this film
and the quintet's version of So What will be eternally cool:

If there’s anyone I wish I could have featured in this project before
they left this world, it’s jazz pianist Bill Evans. His original compositions
are so incredible and contemporary. And more than any others, they
pull that string on my heart.

Late last night I found myself suddenly waking up with Bill Evans in mind,
turning on my computer, and searching the iTunes store for every 99-cent
version of Time Remembered they had. And I thought: how wonderful, the
time in which we live, where a person can do something like this so easily.

Sadly, Bill Evans passed away in 1980—body worn out from decades-long
addictions. I wasn’t yet three years old.

So now I begin to think—as simple and instantaneous as it is for me to find
and obtain his music today, in a very desperate way I’m wishing it were the
1960s and Bill and I were both alive. And to find his music I’d have to
venture out into the chill of winter, walking to the nearest record store with
his songs in my head. I’d finally get there and with ice-cold fingers I’d flip
through record albums in the Jazz section, hoping they’d have the particular
ones I was looking for.

There’s something about that kind of search, that kind of effort I love and
sometimes miss so much in this day and age.

Lying in bed I think of how worn down I’ve been, how the new sun
stings my eyes, and how, really, I need this morning to remain
tired for a while. I twist between sleep and a dream, asking dolphins
to coast underneath, pick me up, and swim out my window—
stretching me across the sky until I slowly pull apart, leaving only
a trail of wispy clouds behind.

On the way to the train I always walk along an asphalt path that
runs through a park, just off the Hudson River.

Sleeping in and missing the early train isn’t really ideal, but it does
allow me the chance to see more people who are out and making
their way through the park.

On these late mornings I sometimes come across a man walking
the path who cannot see. He gently waves a long wand across the
asphalt, and as he hears others walking by, very kindly says ‘hello’.

This morning – a late morning – I was wearing shoes with a leather
sole and a short, wooden heel. They make a distinct clip-clop across
the path.

I saw my friend waving his wand in the distance. As I approached and
walked alongside, I greeted him with a ‘good morning’, to which he
replied the same.

Just then he found the metal pole that marks the end of the path,
paused for a moment, turned his head more closely in my direction,
and as I continued to walk past he added,

‘Nice shoes’.

August is lying down.

For the first time, a chill has permeated the morning air in New York City.
And yesterday I saw a brown, crackled leaf tumbling across the pavement
here on the East Side. A gentle portent of the coming autumn weather.

For the past few years, these moments have delivered thoughts of singer
Susana Baca – I watched her perform for the first time in September,
back in the year 2000.

To me, there's a match between the autumn air and Susana's music.
It's about transition. Change. Turning a steady, warm, extroverted feeling
upside-down. The hesitant-but-necessary search for coat and scarf.

When I met Susana two years ago, she mentioned this. How her music is
about a refreshment, a change – even if you leave her performances feeling
many different emotions (which is not a bad thing at all).

This morning I listened to Susana's music for the first time in a little while –
as a way of remembering those moments when I first discovered her. Those
moments watching her sing right in front of me. A wonderful combination of
beauty and heartbreak. Of company and solitude. And to me right now: of brown,
yellow, and rusty orange, and that first chilly rain of the season.

If you haven't experienced her music, please make time for it, and if you'd like to
discover more about her incredible talent and love for Afro-Peruvian music and
history, I welcome you to read what I've written about her right here on the website.

Today NASA and the JPL announced that the Cassini-Huygens mission to Saturn,
which was to end in July 2008, will be extended another two years.

For me, this is wonderful news.

It was July 2004, after a seven-year journey from Earth, when the spacecraft Cassini
first approached Saturn and began to send back images. I remember them clearly.
Each day it was such an incredible thrill as the new images would draw us
just a bit closer. And the beautiful planet would grow just a bit bigger, as if we
were all passengers along for the ride. Absolutely amazing.


And in the four years since, the mission has uncovered amazing things: a tiny moon that orbits inside a gap
between the rings; and two moons – Janus and Epimetheus – despite sharing the same orbit around Saturn, one never touches the other.

The photo and video archives are stunning, and certainly worth a moment of your time.

To Grimanesa, Susana, Piers, Magali, Hélène & Célia, and Havana, whose interest
and participation came at a time when this project was not much more than
a few sentences written on a scrap of paper in my pocket.

On a street corner today I saw a man playing a small accordion, and the sight reminded me to
contact Richard Galliano about this project. Simply put, his musicianship changes the way
the instrument is defined.

When I see accordionists I always hope they're playing a musette. In a way,
a musette on accordion is better than almost anything to me; Paris, and springtime, and love,
and a peaceful Sunday promenade.

I've daydreamed about having a special knowledge of the instrument, and about taking a month away
from my normal schedule – stopping everything and perhaps just sitting on a bench in Central Park,
in my own little world, playing musettes and waltzes and watching people walk by.
Not saying a word. Just playing my musettes.

A friend asked me to tell her a bed-time story over the phone last night.
I thought of a setting, and memoirs on Monaco and the Grand Prix began to spin.

I haven't been to Monaco. But as I began to set the scene for my friend, thoughts
turned back to the mid-century. And typewriters. And a journalist watching from his
apartment balcony as cars raced through the streets below.

There's a romance about that scene – and at that moment everything balanced on
a distinct and solitary thought: The sound of a typewriter.

In a short story, Rudyard Kipling once shared a similar feeling about the sound
of billiard balls colliding. And really, how right he was. We hardly need the use of
our eyes to know when that solid ivory sphere begins rolling across
felt-covered slate, and then...clack! So distinct. Unmistakable.

And this image in my mind, reporter typing away from the balcony...how peaceful.
All you'd hear is the tick-tick-tick of his typewriter.
And a distant whispering of the Mediterranean Sea.

But every one-and-a-half minutes the race cars would come roaring around the bend,
and for just a few moments that unmistakable sound of slender, metal typebars
hitting paper would be drowned out.

Then, as the cars continued Northward through the streets and buildings, their wailing
engines would fade out and the tick-tick-tick would slowly emerge once more.

Really, a beautiful little cycle. Every one-and-a-half minutes. All afternoon.