While Walt Whitman waxed poetic naming his masterpiece Leaves of Grass (which, sorry Whitty, makes no sense) he did draw attention to those objects of wonder and wow—leaves. Fallen fruit of so many trees, floating, flying, fabulous leaves have been the muses for many poets (this one included), the catalyst for umpteen zillion little kids’ art projects, and now, finally, deservedly, they have a chance to speak their flaky, funky, fantastic truth by replying to the following five questions: 5Q4 Autumn Leaves.
At what moment did you discover you wanted to be an artist?
I can speak for nearly all of us leaves and say at first, as a bud on a branch, becoming an artist or having anything to do with art was not foremost in our minds. It’s all about photosynthesis: feeling the life juices drawn from the ground rise in Mama Trunk and then separate like fireworks, spreading to each arm of the tree. When we buddy buds finally get that natural nourishment, wow, it’s like a warm shower after a hard workout. And then, once we start to unfurl and feel Papa Sun on our papery skin, well, crescendo is the word. Crescendo, the perfect word. I suppose that’s the moment we start to know who we are, what we are, filigreed fellows.
Who was the most influential person who helped you achieve your goal?
Well, let’s be honest, it’s Mother Nature, God’s second greatest creation (Life is No. 1 on all the charts). From the maple to the ginkgo, she made us all. And with such detail and variety—some shaped like starfish, others roundish, and all speckled in colors, browns and greens and red and golds. Motley, smooth, and so stunning that, even when a silly worm bores a hole through us or nibbles on our edges, our brilliance preserves. Greater than Picasso or Vermeer or Rembrandt or even Jean-Michael Basquiat, the artwork Mother Nature splashed upon our happy backs is without parallel or peer.
Be a leaf. And if you can’t be a leaf, be like a leaf.
Tell us about the best—or a best—experience you’ve had as a performer?
Oh my, so many stories to tell, but here’s one familiar to many leaves. Once upon a time many years ago, a young man traveled off to New England (home of arguably the most fantastic display and array of leaves) to go to college. He was young, it was his first time that far away, and one day, walking home from class he spotted a leaf of such redness, of such reddy red, deep crimson really, that he picked it up and preserved it in the pages of his journal, fixing it into place with cellophane tape. And now, over 45 years later, that leaf, representing Fall and Life and his new adventure, is still between those pages, and still looks pretty good.
Conversely, tell us about a pretty bad experience?
Not to kvetch, but what happens to us when our time has come to leave the nest so to speak, when the season changes and we leap from home, dance in the air, and then settle upon the ground, is sometimes kind of miserable. Yes, we get to transmogrify into mulch and give back, and we do have to endure being scattered about by those annoying blowers mounted on the backs of well-intended landscapers, but let’s talk about teenagers sitting in a park during lunch, who reach out, pick one or more of us up, and take out their adolescent angst by disassembling us. Of course human hands, human touch, is kind of wonderful and, yes, we don’t feel it too harshly, but to take a full leaf, really a complete thing—stem, palm, and pointy fingers—and break us into shards of our former selves, well, it’s ouchy.
Don’t get me wrong, we know we’re hard to resist, kids will be kids, and it’s better than when dogs do their business on or near us, but next time you’re sitting cross-legged in a park, maybe with that cute person you’re hoping to kiss, take a moment to say thank you before you whittle us apart.
Any advice to folks out there hoping to pursue a life in the arts?
Be a leaf. And if you can’t be a leaf, be like a leaf. Respect where you come from, celebrate your family, be thankful for how nutty wonderful Nature feeds and cares for you, spread yourselves and let everyone see how magnificent you are, all of you together, and then, when your time comes, enjoy the letting go, that one and only flight through the blissful air, and then lay back upon the ground and reflect on how fortunate you have been to have been, lucky to have lived and breathed the air, been admired by everyone, and then take comfort that you are part of this great big beautiful world. And know that while you will leave, you will come back, for it is all one, and you will help raise the next generation, equally beautiful, equally gifted and gorgeous.
Gene Kahane is the founder of the Foodbank Players, a lifelong teacher, and former Poet Laureate for the City of Alameda. Reach him at [email protected]. His writing is collected at AlamedaPost.com/Gene-Kahane.
