Thrillingly threatening art

Séraphine Pick

Wellington City Art Gallery, 20 February – 16 May 2010

If I had to use one word to describe the art of Séraphine Pick, it would be ‘disturbing’. Her paintings illustrate several stages of her development but the themes are constant. She includes spectral dresses, leaky baths and teetering suitcases in her psychologically charged dreamscapes.

I like the barely-there white paintings such as A Place of Passage and High Rise, both from 1995. They are like sketches but deliberately so. Domestic objects hold powerful memories: bandages, bags, beds, ladders, trees, balloons, shoeboxes, colanders, cheese graters; their perforated sides and leaking forms suggest the past that slips through your fingers.

Speak (1996) features two tiny central figures overwhelmed by their background. A year later, Insomnia suggests images of past relationships fraught with uncertainty, misunderstanding and emotional tension by positing half-erased doodles on a classroom blackboard.

Things become altogether more surreal with the half-forms of Room. The people with wings, skewed perspectives, and man with a rabbit head deliberately confuse and disconnect us. Pick deliberately undoes our expectations of hierarchy and perspective, piling vignette views on top of one another and causing our focus to shift restlessly from scene to scene.

Huntress with Wall Flowers (2004) has a pre-Raphaelite/William Morris style beauty with a cruel edge of hauteur. He (disappeared into Silence) (2004) references Henri Rousseau, the Garden of Eden, Adam and Eve, and Victorian styling. Sensuality, violence and unfurling imagination combine in this lush, exotic and erotic, make-believe and fairytale world of the eternal feminine.

The flowers, plants and birds (including NZ native ferns and toetoe along with large tropical orchids and a pair of huia) reclaim the landscape. The women look sideways and shifty in full-length ball gowns while the solitary male is naked; his genitals prudishly covered and he holds a limp lily in his hand. The entire affect is thrillingly threatening.

Meanwhile there are hints of Dali in Girl (with offered eyes) (2004). A dishevelled blonde in beaded flapper underwear stands holding one shoe in a desert with random images of a married couple, poodle, cowgirl, dead bird scattered about. Is there a meaning in these emblems?

Looking Like Someone Else also defies interpretation: the succession of portraits is either blurred or the face is obscured in some way; hiding behind their hair, superimposed one atop another, or revealing only the back of the head.

Pick moves on to the influence of Francisco Goya’s nightmarish malevolence with Phantom Limb (2007), Devil’s Music (2009) and Hole in the Sky (2009). The human figures look like zombies or clamouring demons. The crowd at a concert or children around a bonfire are profoundly unsettling. The colours and composition draw out their potential for violence and malignancy.

Once again Pick resumes the theme of domestic warfare with Burning the Furniture (2007). She seems to ask if there is any point in preserving symbols of the past. Personal effects are piled on the ground like a marital funeral pyre or a carefully-balanced arrangement while the figures positioned beside them seem disturbingly detached.

Her art is certainly confronting – if you like things that make you feel warm and content you should steer well clear, but if you fancy an artistic thrill, you could do a lot worse.

Cream on top?

I used to think that whether you spread your scones with jam then cream or cream then jam was a North/South divide thing. According to this Guardian article, it's actually a Cornwall/Devon thing. It turns out, I am a Devon devotee - it's got to be cream then jam for me.

A Kiwi friend pointed out that in New Zealand it is always jam then cream, because they don't have clotted cream (even double cream is hard to find), and if you just use whipped single cream, the jam will slide off if you put that on top.

This is why Devonshire teas should be trademarked. It's a divisive issue, but one of great importnace!

Levelling the playing field

Today I went for a run along the Kelvin Heights Track. I used to love this track; with its dips and twists and tricky terrain it gave me something on which to focus (other than tired legs and burning lungs). When I rode my mountain bike along it, there were three points where I had to dismount – I knew when I was getting fitter and my technical ability was improving when I could negotiate the steps, rocks and narrow hairpins with more ease.

Admittedly I once took a corner too fast and went flying over the handlebars, chipping my front teeth as I fell. It’s actually a good job I did (come off that is) as the bike itself ended up in the lake. That was part of it – it was exciting and exhilarating and you had to concentrate on what you were doing.

Now the track is practically unrecognisable. It has been widened and levelled and smoothed out. There are no more rocks, steps, streams or light corners to negotiate. Toddlers on tricycles, parents with pushchairs and women in stilettos can amble along it. They scenery is still as stunning as ever, but you might as well stick it on a video and run on a treadmill. It’s boring. I suppose the only good thing about it is that it is now accessible to people in wheelchairs. It is accessible to everyone. And that’s the problem.

These days it seems that to avoid the charge of being elitist (apparently a heinous crime), we have to make everything available to everyone. Which brings me to tertiary education. There was a time in Britain when the top 2% of students went to university. Those wanting something slightly less academic and more vocational went to polytechnic (this was approximately the next 5%). If they passed all their exams and fulfilled their course requirements, they got degrees.

There were no fees involved because the government could afford to subsidise the brightest (by which I mean most academic in this instance) 7% of the populace. Now anyone can go as long as they can afford it – no one fails but most get hefty debts with which to begin their adult life. Of course the government can no longer afford to pay everyone’s fees but never mind – it keeps folk off the unemployment figures for a few more years.

Where there used to be diplomas, certificates and apprenticeships for those wanting to pursue a career in the trades, now there are wall-to-wall degrees. We want everyone to have one because it ‘proves’ we are becoming more educated. So, you can get a degree in golf management, pet psychology, food and drink design, e-bay, and Klingon. I’m not kidding. A degree used to carry some weight; now it’s not worth the piece of paper it’s written on.

By banning elitism, we are encouraging mediocrity, and it starts at school-level, both in the classroom and in the playground. Everyone who enters the race gets a certificate and spot prizes are more valued than performance – it really is the participation and not the winning that counts. This is all well and good, but don’t expect honour and glory, or medals and awards.

In allowing everyone to achieve, have we not simply lowered the standard of achievement?

Oliver! It's a fine show

After the glut of (admittedly well-deserved) self congratulation that surrounded last year’s bombastic production of Les Misérables, Showbiz Queenstown have triumphed with their bright and breezy interpretation of Oliver!

Director Stephen Robertson is a stickler for detail, which is evident in the overall look of the show. Costumes, set and lighting combine to create the effect of a Bruegel painting in which splashes of colour illuminate a highly-styled background. Colourful silk handkerchiefs are judiciously used for everything from set-dressing, dancing props and the pickpocket scene.

The music (under the direction of Cheryl Collie) is befittingly bold as brass. It is a delight to hear the bassoon, although the French horn occasionally drowns the singers and there are a few technical issues with the balance of sound. Choreography is handled expertly (also by Stephen Robertson) with strong moves that engage the children and fill the stage. Both the workhouse 'boys' and Fagin's gang are charmingly proficient.

The adult company assist in the slick scene changes that allow few pauses for breath, and their ensemble numbers are vibrant highlights. Who Will Buy can be a difficult and messy number but this is a huge success – the soloists add a piquant edge to the forthright professionalism of the morning’s traders. Often standing at convergent angles and with sweeping side-to-side movements familiar from the Ascot Gavotte, the company bring the bright shiny morning bustlingly to life.

The Artful Dodger (Caleb Dawson-Swale) is full of nervous energy and rapid gestures like an out-of-control tic-tac bookie – I would definitely want to be in his gang. Energy bursts off the stage as he leads the company in the remarkable Consider Yourself, enhancing the Wurlitzer fairground attraction atmosphere. The dance itself is three parts Lambeth Walk to two parts Macarena and has everyone in the audience tapping their feet. The reprise also makes a fantastic ending, my only quibble being that this should come after the bows, leaving an overwhelming impression of music and company rather than figures shuffling off the stage in the half-light.

Most satisfying of all in this production are the solid outbreaks of acting, seldom seen in amateur musicals. Fagin (Marty McLay) praises Nancy’s acting but he is obviously the consummate performer here, always trying to ‘win friends and influence people’ by whatever means possible. Desperate to please or persuade, he acts many roles with rolling eyes and waggling fingers but never crosses the line into pantomime.

McLay eschews the stereotypes to make his Fagin uniquely human. He uses the street urchins for private gain, unconcerned with their welfare, and his attitude to Nancy is despicable. He is pleasant when he can afford to be but ultimately selfish and greedy, caring for no one but himself; John Key would be so proud.

Nancy (Fiona Stephenson) is also excellent. She brings extra vigour and authenticity, a natural compassion for the children, and a sense of fun. Earthy and gruff, she sings guttural songs which suit her gutter origins and has natural interjections, although some are a little modern (‘Listen up?’).

The compact stage works in the show’s favour making the action up close and personal. Empathy with the characters is encouraged so there is an intimacy often absent from musical theatre. When Nancy briefly regrets her errant lifestyle ‘Not for me the happy home, happy husband, happy wife’ it is profoundly touching.

There is no honour among these thieves; they may play games and be jovial but they won’t stand up for each other. A nice subplot hints at Dodger’s affection for Nancy, but he won’t take on Bill Sikes (a brutish and menacing David Oakley). They are all afraid of being alone and friendless – Fagin keeps a caged bird for company, and Dodger admits with a touch of sadness, that he “ain’t got no ‘hintimate’ friends.”

Oliver (Angus Reid) avoids the mawkish sentiment that mars many orphan Olivers, as he is presented with a succession of patently unsuitable parent substitutes. At the workhouse he suffers the wonderfully manipulative Widow Corney (Kathleen Brentwood) and the suitably pompous and disturbingly lecherous Mr Bumble (Mark Ferguson).

After causing a disturbance (committing the heinous crime of asking for more gruel) he is sold to the Sowerberrys (Nick Hughes and Amy Taylor) with their sneering disdain and unfoundedly high opinion of themselves. Their duet, That’s Your Funeral, cuts and thrusts with barbed comments, making Mr Bumble’s well delivered, ‘I don’t think this song is funny’ all the more entertaining.

Oliver fits most suitably with Mr Brownlow (David John) and Mrs Bedwin (Jane Robertson whose calm understanding contrasts delightfully with Nancy’s fiercer instincts). The cameo roles are all generally strong, although a couple of the males are teetering on the cusp of caricature – if they plunge over that precipice as the season persists it will be to the detriment of the show.

The ending is always problematic in this musical as all the loose ends are hastily tied up and the implausible explanations offered, but the cheeky Cockney character (and yes, it does help if you have the accent) shines through. Whereas some productions are epic and grandiose, this one is cheerfully engaging – consider yourself well in, indeed.

The Red Cross - will be there

“When I needed a neighbour were you there, were you there?

When I needed a neighbour were you there?”

This used to be one of my favourite hymns at school. I loved the idea of global benevolence; the thought that someone could give without judgement and without expecting to receive. I liked to think that was a basic tenet of society and that compassion for one’s fellow man was what raised us above beasts (that and an appreciation of art in all its forms).

When I was a child I joined the Red Cross. My sisters and I (although, strangely not my brother from memory) went to a hall every week and were taught first aid, basic hygiene and survival techniques. Some of the things I learned there – how to find clean water or tie a tourniquet – have never left me.

There were many occasions where we helped make up care-parcels; sometimes we sent hand-knitted socks and scarves to people in cold countries far away; sometimes we sent tins of baked beans and canned fish to the old folk’s home down the road. We laid a wreath at the cenotaph in memory of all the dead soldiers who fought for our freedom and we helped collect money to send to disaster-ravaged communities. The aim of the red cross is to help people in crisis, whoever and wherever they are.

The Red Cross is still one of the charities to which I give money through a monthly donation. I admire their egalitarian principles and their universal humanity. I am not alone – the movement has 97 million volunteers worldwide. As an example of what they do, you can’t go past the ‘Boxing Day Tsunami’ in which aprroximately 230,000 people lost their lives across 14 countries.

Since December 2004, The Red Cross has built over 51,000 homes, 289 hospitals and clinics, and 161 schools in tsunami-affected areas such as Indonesia, Sri Lanka, the Maldives and India. Regardless of faith or ethnicity, over 680,000 people now have access to an improved water source, 340,000 people have access to improved waste management facilities, and over 277,000 people have been certified or skilled in community-based first aid and psychosocial support.

Whether they are providing transport to make sure elderly patients keep their hospital appointments on the Kapiti Coast, providing facilities to collect essential blood donations, or providing shelter to those devastated by earthquake in Haiti, Red Cross volunteers are donating their time and skills to help those less fortunate than themselves. I don’t know about you, but to me that’s a credo worth following.

"Wherever you travel I'll be there, I'll be there,

Wherever you travel I'll be there.

And the creed and the colour and the name won't matter, I'll be there."

If you want to make a difference, start by making a donation.

Books read in December

Below are short reviews of the books that I read in December 2009. The numbers in the brackets are the marks I have given them out of five.

Life Stories – David Attenborough (4)
In 2009 BBC4 asked Sir David Attenborough to do a series of weekly talks on the radio. They were to last for ten minutes and be on any topic he chose. The results are gathered in this book which ranges over a host of subjects from various mammals, reptiles, plants, insects and birds. While it would be nice to hear his voice (and there is an audio version available) this book has illustrations, botanic sketches and photographs which enhance it in another dimension.

The book contains both interesting facts and well-written, amusing anecdotes. He relates myths that local cultures have been used to explain the presence of certain mammals, while content to admit that he doesn’t know all the answers himself. He is curious as to why humans have eyebrows or why we sing, as it serves no specific evolutionary purpose, and part of his love of life on earth is the constant search for knowledge. Curiosities and missing links hold great appeal for him and several of the chapters are concerned with extinct animals and fossils.

I grew up with David Attenborough’s nature shows on television. He was part of my childhood; simultaneously comforting, reassuring and educational. He’s an extremely likeable man and part of this appeal is that he shares his enthusiasm for natural history in a charming and accessible manner. His warmth, humour and sense of childlike wonder come through in this collection that reminds us we are privileged to share his life stories.

Hungry Hearts and Other Stories – Anzia Yezierska (3.7)
In this series of interconnecting short stories, Jewish immigrants from Poland and Russia come to America in the early 1900s with dreams of education, marriage and bettering themselves. They hunger for love, friendship, and self-improvement. Everyone hopes for a brighter future, leaving a life of poverty and repression behind, believing that America will be a panacea and right all past wrongs.

They are inspired by thoughts of freedom and democracy, is supposed to make everyone equal, but only if they have money. Of course, when the dreams confront reality, there is bound to be disappointment. Some struggle with the lack of community and the individualism that the supposed meritocracy creates. The immigrant story is one of steerage ships, sweatshops, unscrupulous landlords and bosses, keenly felt injustice, “dreams and the battle for bread”.

There are contradictions at every turn. America is the land of the free where people dream and hope, but it is also the land of rising food prices and crushing rents. Those without money have to accept charity often at the expense of their pride and dignity. In America you can lose your past and reinvent yourself, but the converse of this is that heritage is discarded. Can you have it both ways? There is further conflict with the next generation as they try to escape the past that defines them and, in doing so, reject their parents.

Education is a major theme among these stories, as many of the characters seek to ‘work themselves up’ and there is evident respect for teachers and men (and women) of learning. Anzia Yezierska writes in New York Jewish idioms and captures the voice of “my own people”. This collection was originally published in 1920 and Yezierska achieved great success when the book was snapped up by Sam Goldwyn and became a silent film. She was feted with an extravagant lifestyle but she missed her roots and fell from popularity during the Depression years, only to be rediscovered during the feminist 80s and Virago publishing. (I couldn't find a picture of that jacket, so I've used the Penguin one instead.)

Imperial Life in the Emerald City – Rajiv Chandrasekaran (4.1)
Rajiv Chandrasekaran spent two years (2002 – 2004) reporting in Iraq for The Washington Post on the 15-month American-led occupation of the country. To his mind, it was ill-conceived, badly-run and deeply unsuccessful. Jerry Bremer, the president of the Coalition Provisional Authority (CPA) was the viceroy of Baghdad who “had come to Iraq to build not just a democracy but a free market. He insisted that economic reform and political reform were intertwined.”

The CPA tried to rule Iraq following the fall of Saddam Hussein from the Green Zone, a bubble of Americana with American restaurants, bars, swimming pools, offices, convention centres and a hospital. Because so many hotels had been destroyed, the Americans moved into the Republican Palace, Saddam’s former home. They were removed from reality of the place they were trying to rebuild and few of them spoke the language or even met any Iraqis.

There were problems with priorities – what to do first? The schools and hospitals were in a terrible state, the factories and utilities were under-producing, and the economy was suffering. The CPA concentrated on traffic law, purging the country of the Saddam-supporting Baath party, and dissolving the security forces. When the Iraq army was reformed, many soldiers didn’t join but became insurgents instead because they felt they had been disrespected. Many of those who did join refused to fight insurgents in the streets because they believed in their principles and didn’t agree with the American orders.

The similarities between the Americans and Saddam are mentioned often. In Saddam’s regime, “Contracts were given to firms in countries supportive of Saddam instead of to suppliers who provided the best price or quality.” In Bush’s regime people were given jobs not because they had qualifications but because they were in with the right crowd. But the major differences were ideological. The Bush administration favoured privatisation, and the Iraqi people were against privatisation of government-owned enterprises. Bremer worried that popularly elected Iraqis might not produce a document “that endorsed a separation of mosque and state, provided equal rights for women, or enshrined any of the other elements sought by the White House, which wanted to be able to point to Iraq as a model of enlightened democracy in the Arab world.” So he controlled the way the elections were run. Capitalism and democracy were the main things the Americans wanted to achieve in Iraq, whereas the ordinary Iraqis wanted public order, safety, and basic utilities.

Chandrasekaran writes well and intelligently, creating what Richard Eyre in the Guardian calls, “a tragic tale of naivety, hubris, waste and wilful ignorance.”

Chocolate Quake – Nancy Fairbanks (2.3)
I quite enjoyed Crime Brûlée, which is another in this culinary crime series, and thought this might be interesting as it is set in San Francisco. It is pretty poor, however with no real feel or flavour of the city and the detective story is messy, uninteresting and riddled with errors, while the characters are clichés.

When Carolyn Blue arrives in town with her husband Jason, for a scientific conference, she phones her mother-in-law, only to find that she has been arrested for a murder at the women’s centre where she works. Jason does nothing to help his mother except to hire a private detective, Sam, to try and exonerate her. Carolyn immediately gets to work solving the murder with the help of the gay motorbike-riding Sam. There are way too many subjects to make this a clean story, and Carolyn bumbles about interviewing them with ridiculous ease and even finding the murder weapon, which the police had overlooked, in a drawer at the centre.

There are glaringly obvious errors in the narrative and the characterisation is sketchy and clichéd. This is not a good detective story and the culinary angle is far from sharp either. Even the description of the city is tacked on and echoes a tourist brochure rather than providing any insights. The hackneyed descriptions of earthquake tremors, hilly streets and the gay scene are pretty unpalatable and I doubt I will bother with any more of her stories.

Run for Home – Sheila Quigley (1.5)
This novel is set in a rough area of Sunderland, complete with regional dialect, swearing, drugs, human trafficking, organised crime and title from a Lindisfarne song. However, it is completely unrealistic with a terrible plot, unbelievable dialogue and woeful lack of characterisation. Quigley often resorts to telling rather than showing us what is going on.

The morals and attitudes are so traditional as to be reactionary with rants about drugs, homosexuality and the white slave trade. It sounds as if written by an over-earnest teenager or a middle-aged mother trying to be contemporary.

The story is hackneyed and predictable. The ‘baddies’ have in-depth discussions about their criminal past and future plans in front of others, which is not only convenient but totally unrealistic. The older children investigate their sister’s disappearance, finding out far more than the local constabulary, and the police are ever so impressed with their efforts. The coppers turn up to save the day just in the nick of time and even say, “Good going, kids.” It’s like something out of The Famous Five, but not as engaging.

The Last Kabbalist of Lisbon – Richard Zimler (3.8)
Richard Zimler was described by The Spectator as the American Umberto Eco, and with this murder mystery, complete with religious overtones, clues, symbols and illustrated manuscripts, he assumes the mantle with aplomb. The Last Kabbalist of Lisbon is partly an intriguing murder mystery with an historic background, and partly a novel that examines the nature of faith, and it weaves these threads so tightly together that they are indissoluble.

Jews were expelled from Spain in 1492 and many fled to Portugal, where the King forced them to convert to Christianity and become ‘New Christians’, to distinguish them from ‘Old Christians’, although many risked their lives by practicing their faith in private. Nine years later a violent riot turned into a massacre as the Old Christians burned the New in an attempt to appease God who had sent drought and plague to the city of Lisbon. Berekiah Zarco, one of the ‘New Christians’ is sent on an errand by his uncle Abraham (a master of Kabbalah) and returns to find him dead in the cellar next to a naked woman – also dead. The cellar, whose existence is known only to the secret prayer group, is locked from the inside causing Berekiah to believe they have been betrayed by a close friend. He sets out to solve the crime and avenge his uncle’s murder, but as he examines the facts he learns more about his uncle and himself.

His uncle taught him to illustrate manuscripts and he now learns that people are willing to sacrifice their lives to smuggle these books out of the country so that their faith can spread and their narratives be told. A people is the sum of their stories, and this is a novel of faith and of storytelling – who has the right to tell the story and which version do you believe? It seems almost natural that Berekiah would begin to question his faith. How could anyone retain it in the face of such horror? Without the assistance of his master he must become self-reliant and he chooses to fight for survival through words. Some of the semantic subtleties are lost in the translation (the novel was first published in Portuguese) which is a shame because language and words play an important role in the passing on of stories and faith.

Although at times the novel lacks soul and is in danger of becoming a mere riddle, Zimler maintains the intrigue to the end. It is almost too clever and is slightly pedantic as though the beauty of the illuminations is merely decoration for the dusty contents. You have to concentrate, like one of those magic eye pictures which seem impenetrable at first until the image burns itself on your retina. The question is, whether you have the patience to refocus.

The way the cookie crumbles

When I was living in Manchester I got knocked off my bike and dislocated my shoulder. I was taken by ambulance to the hospital (A&E in Manchester Royal Infirmary is not a place I long to be) where they assessed my head injuries – I had been wearing a helmet – and then made me wait in a cubicle before they could see to me after all the other emergencies – I popped my head out to go and be sick (a dangling arm can do that to you) and saw a man with half a pint glass sticking out of his face. It didn’t help matters.

The nurses were great and the doctor was calm and understanding – with all that violence and trauma going on all around them, they were impressively relaxed and I have only good things to say about them. Him Outdoors collected me with ‘What on earth have you done to yourself now?’ took me home and put me to bed. He had to go to work the next day and I assured him I would be fine.

It’s amazing what I suddenly realised I couldn’t do. I tried to get up in the morning and I couldn’t roll into a sitting position. Being the anal Libran that I am, I always make my bed first thing in the morning; I couldn’t. It took about half an hour to haul my clothes on and I decided to reward myself with a cup of tea (I had not long stopped being a student, after all) but I couldn’t open the carton and dropped it on the floor in my struggle. So I thought I would go and buy another one, but I couldn’t tie my shoelaces.

I broke down in tears and called my sister, who raced to the rescue on her white charger (well, it was a red Golf GTI actually), took me back to her place and looked after me. I tell this story because it is incredible to find what an injury can do to you – how you have to reassess your abilities and find alternative ways to do things (especially if you haven’t got a saintly older sister to help out).

The big things are obvious, but they lead to smaller issues which can be equally frustrating. If you are still able to perform your job, the doctors will say you are rehabilitated and you won’t get any further assistance on the National Health. At the time I was working in a book shop. I could still do that. But I couldn’t do handstands any more. This apparently is unnecessary to lead a full and happy life. I disagree, so I paid to go to a gym to build up the strength in my shoulder so that I can swing from bars, stand on my hands, and box – it was an excellent boxing gym.
 
Fifteen years later, things are fine most of the time, although my shoulders are slightly uneven and the left one sometimes aches when it rains. But I can’t rub butter into flour to make crumble or pastry. Not a big issue, you might think, but I love crumble – it’s usually so easy to make and comforting to eat – and so I was delighted to find a recipe that doesn’t involve all that rubbing. I serve it at dinner parties and it always gets a favourable reaction. In fact, last week my friend Scally-wag asked for the recipe – so here it is.

Apple and Peanut Butter Crumble

Ingredients:
4 cups peeled and thinly-sliced apples
1 cup sugar
1 cup standard flour
3 tablespoons butter
1 cup rolled oats
½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 cup crunchy peanut butter

Method:
Heat the oven to 180C
Grease a 22cm baking dish
Stir together apples, ¾ cup of sugar and ¼ cup of flour in a large bowl; spread into dish and dot with 2 tablespoons of butter
Combine oats, remaining ¾ cup of flour, remaining ¼ cup of sugar and cinnamon in a medium bowl; set aside
Place remaining 1 tablespoon of butter and peanut butter in a small microwave-safe bowl; microwave on high for 30 seconds or until butter is melted; stir until smooth
Add to oat mixture and blend until crumbs are formed
Sprinkle crumb mixture over apples
Bake 40-45 minutes or until apples are tender and edges are bubbly
Cool slightly
Serve warmed with whipped cream or ice-cream