A CHANGE OF HEART

   When I left Los Angeles at 21 and moved to San Francisco I swore I'd never move back. I hated the cars, the smog, the sprawl, the dissipation and phoniness of everyone I knew there. I was part of the LA sixties music scene and a sadder scene there never was. All my friends could talk about was getting famous and rich. People I knew in the music business went from poverty to affluence practically overnight and the excesses that came with the money frightened me. As a fringe player I left without being missed. 

   By comparison to LA, San Francisco was a small town with clearly defined ethnic neighborhoods living cheek to jowel. Old Italian men would play bocce in Northbeach and the back alleys of Chinatown were as close to mainland China as you could get. You could ride the cable car for a quarter and rent an apartment in the Castro for a hundred dollars. I played in clubs all over town at night and for change in Ghirardelli Square during the day. San Francisco in 1970 was a lull in the transition from the acid high of the Love Revolution to the cocaine fueled Disco Mania. I was a few years too young and a few years too late to know San Francisco in the glory days of the Haight-Ashbury. I lived there through the early days of AIDS, the murders of Moscone and Milk and the death of San Francisco's greatest chronicler, Herb Cain. 

   In 1979 my husband and I bought a house in Oakland. San Francisco was already beyond our means and Oakland was still affordable. For 26 years we raised our sons there, built our business there and  never regretted the move. We rode out the earthquake of '89 and the influx of displaced San Francisco dot-comers  in the 90's. Like a cold coming on, I could feel the change in the bay area almost overnight. There were suddenly too many cars, too many people, the old neighborhoods were chi-chified and all anyone could talk about was making money in the stock market and the price of real estate. It was beginning to feel like LA.

   In 2006 we made our break with California and moved briefly to Prague then to Colorado. In 2007 a death in the family took us back to LA. There are more people and cars than ever. In Studio City where we spend a good deal of time, everyone is either an actor, aspiring actor, reading or writing a script or just generally trying to look like an important person in the Industry. LA hasn't changed much but I have. Somehow LA feels almost like home again. I like it here now. The people I see in LA are interesting. In restaurants and coffee shops I overhear them talking about art or music or films. People in general are friendly and relaxed (except behind the wheel of a car) and it's green and flowering all year long here.  I'm beginning to remember all the good times I had as a girl when I lived in the Los Feliz neighborhood.  I remember the lemony smell of magnolia trees on our street on summer mornings and the ice blue, clear winter nights by a fire at the beach. 

   Yeah, I like LA again.

     

   

CHRISTMAS MORNING AT HOME lyrics by Cheryl Ernst Wells, music by John Rosenberg

Wrapping paper everywhere

The sound of little footsteps running up and down the stairs

On Christmas morning at home

The sight of you by fire glow

A quiet moment for a kiss beneath the mistletoe

On Christmas morning at home

Up and down the streets of town

Decorations have been strung

And somewhere in the distance you can hear

Carols being sung

There's one thing I am certain of

The greatest gift is being happy with the ones you love

On Christmas morning at home.

CAN YOU TASTE IT?

   In my opinion there is no other food that induces joy more than cake. Think of birthdays, weddings, christenings, you name a special occasion, and cake is the high point of the celebration. Buche de noel is a favorite French cake made to look like a log and served only at Christmastime. Cakes these days are often works of art so beautiful it seems a travesty to eat them. There are reality television programs about cake making and pastry chefs become celebrities because of their skill at making fondant flowers and ornamentation. Wayne Thiebaud is well known for his paintings of cakes. 

   I really love cake, any kind except carrot cake. Cake makes me momentarily happy when I'm blue. I think I get happy just looking at cake.

 

THE SINGING FOUNTAIN by Cheryl Ernst Wells

VIENNA

   Diane slept peacefully during the turbulent flight over the Atlantic and woke shortly before landing. October in Vienna is the first faint hint of fall with pleasant sunny days and crisp cool nights. The young woman at the Hotel Karlskirche welcomed guests from three countries, switching effortlessly from German to French then English with dazzling courtesy. The hallways and rooms at the hotel were decorated with valuable contemporary sculptures and paintings, all in bright primary colors. The balcony in Diane's room overlooked the magnificent Kunsthistorisches Museum and it's twin, the Natural History Museum across the park. Voluminous white clouds filled the sky and Diane could smell the chance of evening rain in the air.

   She walked down to the busy Mariahilferstrasse shopping district. In a gift shop full of Mozart memorabilia and miniature violins in tiny velvet lined cases, she bought some postcards to write on the train to Brno. In the Museums Quarter where the Modern and Leopold Museums face one another from across the wide concrete plaza, Diane sat eating a ham sandwich from a street cart and watched some noisy boys in baggy pants do tricky maneuvers on their skateboards. Hanging three stories up, teetering on the edge of the gray, monolithic Modern Museum was an art installation by Edwin Wurm. It was a small white house with a red roof looking as though it would tumble onto the ground at any second. 

   Across the plaza the white cube shaped Leopold was exhibiting an Expressionist show featuring the work of Egon Schiele, Kathe Kollwitz, Lyonel Feininger and Emil Orlik among others. Within the serene interior of the museum was a white marble foyer illuminate by skylights four stories overhead. The most notable aspect of the architecture was the absence of echo throughout the vast atrium as the visitors streamed in. The galleries were housed on the floors above and as Diane passed from one to the next she absorbed the impact of the Expressionist movement; the ferocity of color, the boldness of form and the power of the content. She stood before an etching by Kathe Kollwitz of a mother and dead child that moved her so deeply tears welled up in her eyes. A painting by Lyonel Feininger of a woman in a long lavender dress amused her. Feininger had captured the movement of the woman's legs as she walked creating the impression that she would spin right off the canvas into the gallery.

   Diane left the Leopold satiated and inspired by the art. Early on in her education she had realized that she lacked the essential mysterious spark that separated a great artist from an average one. She didn't mourn the fact rather she had accepted it. Knowing her limitations allowed her to enjoy painting her minimalist concepts without the angst of longing for recognition or acceptance. Diane was able to revel in the genius of others without envy or self- deprecation in the face of their greatness.

   In the time-honored tradition Diane sat at a wood paneled, old world cafe at four o'clock with the Viennese. There were mothers with their children in school uniforms just out of class and tatty, older men smelling of pipe smoke reading the newspaper having cake and coffee. Later Diane slowly strolled through the Volksgarten admiring the last of the summer roses, their colors intensified by the warm radiance of the setting sun. At twilight she took the bus around the Ringstrasse past St. Stephen's Cathedral with it's elaborate Gothic tower pointing up to the heavens. She could see the glittering dome of the Opera house and horse drawn carriages escorting tourists through St. Stephen's Square. The street lamps glowed along tree lined avenues flying off of the circular boulevard like the spokes of a wheel.

   When night had fallen as she walked the narrow cobblestone alleyway back to the hotel past rows of little shops selling antiques, old prints and books, Diane wished that she could live half of every year in Europe. Somewhere in one of the apartments above someone was playing Chopin on the piano and Diane imagined that somewhere in Warsaw someone else was playing Mozart. Music and art, she thought, transcend borders. 

   

   

   

The Singing Fountain by Cheryl Ernst Wells

13th century Castle Louka was a fortress

Castle Louka Moravia, Czech Republic

   They turned off of the main road onto a long lane forested on either side by massive oak trees, the thick branches forming a sheltering arch and casting dark, leafy shadows across the lane. The first of the grounds keeper's sheds appeared two hundred yards up ahead, one of several on either side of the gravel pathway leading to the main gate. Once at the arched entry the castle could be seen in full. It was an imposing, rough hewn stone structure with sloped, red tiled roofs, turrets and towers.

   Ivan parked the car and they walked the pathway, passing a row of ancient workshops and finally what remained of the damaged storehouse. The blackened brick exterior still stood but the tiled roof and interior timbers had collapsed, exposing the building to the cobalt blue sky above. As they passed through the guard tower, the walls of the five-story palace loomed above them. This was not like the Renaissance Zamek Castle, with it's pristine white plaster exterior carved with geometric scraffiti. This was a Gothic structure, domineering and festooned with small windows on every level. Castle Louka was a fortress.

   It was only until the great carved wooden doors to the palace were opened that the real glory of Castle Louka was revealed. The ceremonial hall was as big as a playing field and its' alabaster white, alveolar vaulted ceiling rose three stories high. There was a fireplace one could stand upright in and the stone floors showed the centuries wear of noblemen and women, warriors, servants and now tourists that had trod them. Along the walls of the chamber were carved oak paneling and at the end of the hall was a leaded glass window two-stories high. On either side of the chamber were two wide staircases leading to the upper floors. There were no furnishings within the hall with the exception of a huge globe of the ancient world before the window. Diane had been in many European castles but this one felt different. It felt familiar.

   As they climbed the staircase and passed from one wing to another, Ivan spoke of the Vindrich clan, the Moravian family that had owned the castle through the centuries and the changes they had made to the original structure as their fortunes grew. In 1948 the last descendant who had supported the Nazis was forced out of Czechoslovakia and had sold the castle to Mr. Paul de Meyer for a desperately low price. Now there were tours all year long with the exception of mid December when the younger Mr. de Meyer spent his holidays there.

   Diane and Ivan crossed a covered wooden bridge connecting the palace with the tower, four stories above the main courtyard with a wonderful view of the river below. A small ferryboat was slowly shuttling tourist from the nearby village and depositing them at a dock from which they could climb the steep, wooded path that led up to the castle entrance. A group of ten or so people was gathered in the courtyard waiting for the next tour.

   As they entered the tower Ivan said, "This wing is off limits to the tours so you won't be disturbed. It now houses guest quarters and Mr. de Meyer's private apartments. The light is good most of the day. You will be sharing the large studio with Maria but you each have your own bedroom. We men are in the other wing."  Ivan opened the door to the studio which was a large converted sitting room flooded with light from windows on three sides. Maria Varias was in one corner working on a life size, Gothic marble sculpture of Christ on Mount Olive.

Excerpt from The Singing Fountain

   I wrote my first novel The Singing Fountain after returning from Prague. It is the contemporary story of a San Francisco painting conservator, Diane Nolan, who travels to Moravia, Czech Republic to restore fire damaged paintings at Castle Louka, 13th century ancestral home of the Vindrich clan. The castle is now privately owned by a Belgian billionaire, Stephen de Meyer. He has assigned Ivan Sudek the task of hiring a team of international conservators to restore the castle's valuable art collection.

   A love affair with de Meyer's enigmatic assistant, Willem Verhoeven, dramatically alters the course of Diane's life and the discovery of a hidden castle room reveals an 18th century Vindrich family secret that mirrors Diane's life in the 21st.  

   Summer in San Francisco, autumn in Vienna, New Years Eve in Prague, Spring in the Hampton's and a happy ending in Moravia.