Red

"There is only one thing I fear in life, my friend... 
One day the black will swallow the red"
                                                                              Mark Rothko, "Red"

via

Here is my beginning disclaimer...
I have never fully appreciated nor understood abstract painting.

Last evening we attended the production of "Red",  a ninety minute, without  intermission, two actor play about the artist Mark Rothko.  I knew the name, was somewhat familiar with his work, but wasn't "tuned in".

via google

Set in Rothko's studio in New York City, 1958-1959,  we watch a reclusive, abusive, and narcissistic Rothko mentor, challenge and at times terrorize his young assistant, while creating a series of commissioned murals to be hung at the newly designed The Four Seasons restaurant.

As Ken, a young artist, enters the studio for the first time applying for an assistant's position,  Rothko announces in a tirade "I am not your teacher, your mentor, your Rabbi, your father, your friend....
I am your employer".  Yet by the end of this emotionally layered play you come to the understand the artist took on so many of these roles, as he developed, molded, bullied  and pushed his assistant to see beyond the obvious and find his own place in the art world.  And as so often happens in the classroom the teacher often is taught by the student.

I was moved by this play without seeing one finished canvas.
I walked out of the theater maybe not with a better understanding, but most definitely a new appreciation for the artists who gave us these pieces labeled abstract expressionism.

Rothko believed art should be about emotionally layering and allowing oneself to be stripped naked by the energy and emotion of the work, facing what we as human beings so often find hard to meet, the reality of past and present.  Color and texture were insignificant elements.  I believe it is as much about the artist as the art.  Rothko said, a landscape stays a landscape.  No matter how or where you look at it, a landscape doesn't change, the abstract breathes, moves and changes.  He saw his pieces as a community that communicated, moved and cared for each other.

My favorite artists will remain the Impressionists.  Like the books I enjoy, when I study a painting I want a story, an adventure.   I want to travel to places and times I will never go.  I want to see good lines and technique.  I want to view something amazing and beautiful.  I want to be educated.  I want to say I stood in front of a Degas, a Matisse, a Renoir and say it was more beautiful than I could have imagined.  I don't want to face the glare of reality at every turn, but desire escape.  I want to be healed, and leave the experience feeling well.

While I may continue to browse the Abstract Expressionism exhibits with a question mark floating over my head, I will certainly slow down, stop and appreciate the artist's being, emotion and energy stirred and mixed with pigment and applied to the canvas.

The black did finally swallow the red.
 On February 25, 1970,  Mark Rothko committed suicide.

Wednesday Book Notes

"Boston, MA -- In the early morning hours of March 18, 1990, two men dressed as police officers bound and gagged two guards at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum and stole thirteen works of art worth today over $500 million."

The stage is set.  

Using the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum art heist as the inspiration and backdrop

 for her novel,  The Art Forger, B.A. Shapiro takes her reader into the underbelly of the

art world where all things are not as they seem.

"Markel clears his throat, takes another sip.  'Claire, I've just been given the opportunity of a lifetime.  A chance to do good, real good for lots of people.  And I hope you'll feel the same way about the one I'm about to give you.'  He pauses.  'Although I suppose yours is really more like making a deal with the devil?'

'...And are you the devil?' "

Claire Roth is no stranger to copying.  She has studied the art of masterpiece forgery, is an expert on Degas, and semployed with Reproductions.com, a company whose sole business is built on selling copies of masterpieces.  This would not be the first time she has found herself in the role
of the forger.

With the promise of a one-woman show at a prominent gallery, Claire accepts the job.   As she studies the brushstrokes of Degas's After the Bath, she begins to suspect it is a forgery, sending her in search of the painting's history and its forger.  

Ms. Shapiro delivers a multi-layered tale of greed and deception, while taking us through the backdoor into the world of collecting and curating.  I'm not for sure I will ever stand in front of one the great works without wondering...

Did I enjoy this book?

I will be honest, I picked up "The Art Forger" several times and placed it back on the shelf.   I'm not certain why I actually came home with it.   I almost set it down several times.  I read Ulrich Boser's The Gardner Heist a few years ago, and became confused as I began reading the description of the stolen Degas.   After a little research I had my "aha" moment.  While the details of the robbery are accurate, the painting that is the subject is a fabrication of Ms. Shapiro's imagination.  Once I let go of the "fictitious" Degas (this being, after all, a work of fiction) I found myself drawn into the story and unable to put it down.

Yes, this was another good summer read.
And,
                                                              yes I do recommend it.

If you are interested in the Isabelle Stewart Gardner Museum heist, check out

.

And enjoy your summer reading!

I have a few weeks left before my thoughts return to the classroom;

I'm still collecting titles...

Weekend Away...

"Laparisienne is not in fashion,

she is fashion"

                                    Arsene Houssaye

I had the chance to disappear this weekend.

We caught an early flight Friday morning and

arrived in a city celebrating.

Streets were closed for a parade; fans

crowded the shops and restaurants up and down

Michigan Avenue.

Thankfully we had a street savvy cabbie who

transported us to our hotel with minimal detours.

The question of the day...

"Are you here to celebrate the Blackhawks?"

"Ummm...not really."

Art, fashion and food are more to my liking.

Chicago didn't disappoint.

As the sun fell past the Chicago skyline we were  off to the

Art Institue for an evening of art and fashion.

Impression, Fashion, & Modernity.

"Were the Impressionists fashionistas?

And what role did fashion play in their goal to 

paint modern life with a "modern" style?"

"She could be pushed but never swayed  into wearing fewer bows."

This is an amazing exhibit mixing both the paintings by
the artist from the impression movement, and
many examples of similar dresses and accessories.

Photography was not allowed in the visiting
exhibit gallery, but we were allowed to take
photographs of the lovely models showing off the
contemporary and eclectic designs by ikram.
(iphone photography)

Every moment, an enjoyable treat. 

Are you are a fan of the Impressionist, Renoir, Monet,

Degas, Manet or my new favorite, James Tissot?

Take a tour.
And enjoy!

With No Regrets

"Those who make the worst use of their time are the first to complain of its brevity."

Jean de La Bruyere

image via

My summer break is over.   I've spent the better part of this week dusting shelves, straightening books and changing out my bulletin board.  I am looking forward to a new school year.  I am ready!

Next week we will begin our meetings.  It is always fun to see everyone again.  I am sure the question, "Where did the time go?" will be bandied around with discussion of summer activities.

My summer?

I had so many plans, and I failed miserably
 to execute even the smallest task on my list.

Yes, I traveled a bit and read a few books. 
I have enjoyed lunch and tea with friends. 
I have celebrated weddings, births and anniversaries. 
There were experiments in the kitchen, in the garden, 
with my writing and my paints.
Dinner invitations were accepted and dinner parties held.
I browsed galleries, museums, bookstores and estate sales.
I have made a few new acquaintances, reconnected with old friend and
 accepted that to at least one my name and face is no longer remembered.
I have laughed  a lot and shed only a few tears.
I survived the record heat and two weeks with a rationed water supply.

I have lived
 and 
regret not a wasted moment.

I still have a weekend remaining and my children will be here for a quick visit.
The perfect ending to a good summer.

And I am blessed.

Art:  A Young Lady Reading in an Interior

George Goodwin Kilburne

English (1839 - 1924)

We Are What....

"I am a part of all that I have met."

                                                                                       Alfred Tennyson

I believe I have mentioned I receive a quotation through my email each morning.   It is the first thing I check as I slip out of bed and begin on my morning path.   Sometimes I am given a chuckle, sometimes I am delivered something to think about, and sometimes I am given a line that sends me off to the place where I store my memories...my heart. 

And so, with those ten words Mr. Tennyson handed me all three.

via
(you may find the poem, "The Lady of Shallot"
 and other beautiful illustrations on this site)

My daughter has alway loved books.  This shouldn't have come as a surprise as I actually began reading to her before she was born.  I loved Beatrix Potter and many nights would read Peter Rabbit along with her other creations aloud.    I decorated the nursery with all things Beatrix Potter (and  lots of rabbits) long before I knew if I would bring home a boy or a girl.

via Wikipedia

Once she arrived Roger found joy in reading to her each night.  It became their nightly ritual.  Books were always found under the Christmas tree, among birthday presents and in in Easter baskets.  Her love of books grew as did our book population and her vocabulary.

When she was four one of the preschool teachers mentioned how proud I must be of my daughter.  "Well yes, I am always proud of her."  I must have had a bit of a quizzical look on my face as she added, "she has read everything in my room this afternoon".  I was stunned!   She was reading?  I am her mother, how could I not know she was reading?

When we got into the car, I ask her why she hadn't read for me.  She said, "because I was afraid you wouldn't read to me anymore".  We began a new ritual... we began reading to one another.



Just as I had devoured The Oz series, every Nancy Drew book in the library, Little Women and A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, I watched her plow through Little House on the Prairie, Anne of Green Gables, and Little Women as well as other wonderful books.  Halloween costumes were stitched on my sewing machine, but must often spun from inspiration she first found in a book.    I can still remember her standing at the top of the stairs with hand against a furrowed brow declaring, "I am in the depths of despair".  And, she would have fit in quite well upstairs in the March attic writing for "The Pickwick Papers".

During a parent/teacher conference her fifth grade teacher ask me how I would describe my daughter.  I said, "she is a little bit Laura Ingalls, a little bit of Anne Shirley, and a little bit of Jo March".  I can still remember the teacher's face as she said " That's wonderful!"



I always loved my daughter was influenced, at an early age,  by the characters she found while reading.   I was not in the least surprised when she came home from playing at a friends house with red lipstick on her blouse.  When I ask how she got it on her, she simply said it was blood.  "A. killed me and said 'et tu brute' ".   "Why?"  "We were playing Julius Caesar!"  Silly me, don't all third graders play Julius Caesar?  Yes, I've always thought she had Laura's spunk,  Anne's love of drama and Jo's drive and creativity.  She is all this, and so much more, blended into the her perfect self.

I shared the quotation and my thoughts with her Tuesday and  ask if she remembered spending an afternoon (twenty years ago) searching for a book with Tennyson's poem "The Lady of Shallot".  (It was one of Anne Shirley's favorite poems)  Could we have found it in the States?  Absolutely, but what fun we had finding it in England.

It is still upstairs in her room, a bit tattered and worn.

So...

Lord Alfred Tennyson, sir, you have entered my life once again, 

and I must agree, 

we most certainly are a part of all that we meet, 

especially those we spend time with between the covers of a book.

Happy Reading!

Always Have a Camera Available

Last week one of the children brought the perfect bird's nest.

I was so disappointed I did not have my camera with me.  I thought it would make a perfect subject to paint.  During the regular school year my camera accompanies me almost every day.  You never know when the unexpected is going to happen and you need a camera.  This day my camera was at home.

Yes, the unexpected happens when you least expect it.  Many many years ago after asking the children to put on their coats.  One of my girls decided to put on her jacket (with the help of her best friend) while it was still hanging from the hook.  When I walked out of the door there she hung, arms outstretched toes barely touching the floor, coat still attached by the little loop at the neck.   She thought it was the funniest thing ever, and like the marvelous teacher I am told her not to move until I could find the school camera to take a picture for her book.  Bless her she did exactly as I ask giggling the whole time.   I'm sure I put it in her book with some cutesy caption like, "Just hanging out". 

The next weekend I bought an inexpensive camera to leave in my classroom  cabinet.  It survived maybe to the end of the year.  Now I pretty much take my personal camera every day to capture all those little surprises, except for summer play day.  My mistake.

Lucky me!  The birds nest was accidentally (I can be pretty persuasive) left, and I just happen to remember my camera the next day.  I took closeups

and  photos from different angles.

I even took pictures of the branches.

My daughter is an artist.  My mother was an artist.  It skipped a generation (I promise, I am not being modest)...I am a dabbler.  But, I will have fun pretending!

(I may let you see my best effort)

I'm collecting specimens.

The Paper Garden

"A great book should leave you with many experiences, 
and slightly exhausted at the end.
You live several lives while reading."
...William Styron



I knew nothing of Mary Delaney prior to reading The Paper Garden by Molly Peacock.  This book was recommended to me by someone who sat next to me in the St. Louis airport several weeks ago.  We began talking books and she told me she had just finished The Paper Garden and enjoyed it very much.

image via Wikapedia

Having a week left of school and halfway through a book I was not enjoying, with gift card in hand I was soon off to the bookstore to look for this book.  I picked it up and walked around.  I placed it back on the shelf and walked away.  I browsed the shelves and handled other books.  I decided to just leave, I didn't have the time to commit to another book.   I passed the biographies one more time; temptation got the better of me.   I grabbed the book and soon found myself walking out with a new book in my hand and a smile on my face.

"Imagine starting your life's work at seventy-two.  At just that age, Mary Granville Pendarves Delany (May 14, 1700 - April 15, 1788, a fan of George Frideric Handel, a sometime dinner partner of satirist Johnathan Swift, a wearer of green-hooped satin gowns, and a fiercely devoted subject of blond King George III, invented a precursor of what we know as collage.  One afternoon in 1772 she noticed how a piece of colored paper matched the dropped petal of a geranium.  After making that vital imaginative connection between paper and petal, she lifted the eighteenth-century equivalent of an X-Acto blade (she'd have called it a scalpel) or a pair of filigree-handled scissors - the kind that must have had a nose so sharp and delicate that you could almost imagine it picking up a scent.  With the instrument alive in her still rather smooth-skinned hand, she began to maneuver, carefully cutting the exact geranium petal shape from the scarlet paper.

Then she snipped out another.

And another, and another, with the trance-like efficiency  of repetition - commencing the most remarkable work of her life."

image via

And thus Molly Peacock begins her own work of art intertwining the story of Mary Delany's seventy-two years of life and creations with occasional shadings of her own history and thoughts.

The Paper Garden is a lesson in history, art, botany and horticulture.  I am certain we might could say a little philosophy as well.  Ms. Peacock does a beautiful job of making this study both readable and enjoyable.  It was not difficult for me to find the poetry amid the prose.

I have no credentials to review a book.  I would never attempt to critique.  I am but a humble reader passing on a book I very much enjoyed.

I am forever grateful to a stranger in the airport.
I think book lovers are drawn to one another.

Happy Reading!

Paints, Portraits and Ponderings

This time of year is impossible.  There is just not enough time to get everything accomplished.  There is program art, program practice, the end of the year program, work to be finished, books to be read, end-of the-year books to begin and finish....and the list just goes on.   The sun is out, the warm winds are blowing and the children do not have a care in regards to my to-do list.  Their thoughts and limbs long to swing, jump and run around on the playground.  While I worry about what is left to do, I know when I awake the morning of the last day of school (three weeks away), somehow I will find everything is finished and as it should be.  

One of my moms emailed me an afternoon earlier this week to give me some information, and added she was already sad thinking about the end of school.  I sent a rather abrupt email,  "I can't think about it".  And, I can't.  Even though these last weeks could take even the strongest of men to their  knees,  I am always sad to send my little ones on their way.  In my eyes, no one will ever appreciate them the way I do.  Of course, this is not true, but it is what my heart tells me.

These last two weeks the children have had a lot of free time playing in the room as I worked with each child, individually, on their portraits.  I bring my paint brushes from home, and as we we work I talk to them about art and artist.  Even the children who resist picking up a crayon are excited to begin their own portrait.  We work in stages beginning with the head, hair and face then onto the clothes, allowing each to dry before continuing.  Each morning they critique their progress.  One will say "I don't have a nose, I can't smell".  Another will answer "When will I paint my feet?  I need feet to walk."  

Some will want to paint the clothes they are wearing, while others will create a brand new look.  It is amazing when finished I actually see a resemblance. 

Yesterday while listening to the children one said with a smile, "I did that a fast a monkey in the sun".  After repeating it several times (I have never heard it before...I am clueless) she giggled and continued, Miss Bonnie, I love saying that."  Her remark began the children repeating little things they have heard others say.  I wish I had thought to write them all down, but I was having too much fun listening while pretending not to.  Finally one child, pointing his finger to the ceiling, in the most statesman like manner,  said, "And (pause) never bite your fingers that you eat your food with."  There was complete silence...no sound to hide my own giggling.  Aren't children the most delightful beings?

The children have painted themselves, but they still have the most important masterpiece to begin.

My favorite project!

Tonight is book group, with so much to do I truly should stay home and work, however, I am going to go and spend a little time talking about  "West with the Night" .  I will then limit my outings and all will be finished....

"bird by bird"

More Books

"Did you read Beryl Markham's book, West with the Night?  I knew her fairly well in Africa and never would have suspected that she could and would put pen to paper except to write in her flyer's log book.  As it is, she has written so well, and marvelously well, that I was completely ashamed of myself as a writer.  I felt that I was simply a carpenter with words, picking up whatever was furnished on the job and nailing them together and sometimes making an okay pig pen.  But (she) can write rings around all of us who consider ourselves writers.  The only parts of it that I know about personally, on account of having been there at the time and heard the other people's stories, are absolutely true. . . .I wish you would get it and read it because it is really a bloody wonderful book."

---Ernest Hemingway

I just finished Beryl Markham's autobiography, West with The Night.  It is the book we will be discussing next month when the Book Belles meet.  As I often say, this book was nowhere near my radar;  hearing it described as similar to Isak Dinesen's Out of Africa I couldn't wait to begin.  From the opening paragraph to the last word, I was not disappointed.  She shares with us her love of Africa and heart-stopping adventures.  We are with her when as a young girl she is attacked by a lion and when she becomes the first woman to attempt flying across the Atlantic from Abingdon, England to New York.  

Upon researching Ms. Markham I learned she was abandoned by her mother at the age of four and that she had relationships, marriages and children during the years of which she writes.  While these facts might have added drama and pages to her book I appreciate she chose to tell only the story of her life that defined her as an explorer and which led her to the twenty one hour, twenty five minute Atlantic flight.  She allowed, for whatever reason,  her intimate life to remain private.

I am not as eloquent as Mr. Hemingway, so I will only second his statement...

"I wish you would get it and read it, because it is really a bloody wonderful book."

(The above excerpt is of a letter from Ernest Hemingway to Maxwell Perkins

 taken from the back jacket of Beryl Markham's book)

******

Earlier this week I also read A.S. Byatt's The Matisse Stories.

Byatt does not tell us a story about Matisse, but uses several of his paintings as inspiration to create a trio of insightful and timely short stories.  In these beautifully written tales we are confronted with aging, professional jealousy and sexual harassment.

A.S. Byatt never fails to give the reader a wonderful read.

Happy Reading!

Lost in Paris

 I finished reading Dancing With Degas , Kathryn Wagner, the first of last week.   It was my favorite kind of book.  A book, when reading,  I can't wait to turn the page; when finished I find myself lost.

It was the kind of book, when finished, that sends me rushing out to the bookstore or the library to find the next wonderful read, knowing I won't enjoy my next selection quite as much.

I loved Dancing With Degas for the same reason I loved the movie "Midnight in Paris".  With each turn of the page I knew I would find someone familiar.   When watching "Midnight...."  I felt like it was I meeting up with the likes of Fitzgerald, Hemingway, and Stein.  When the main character traveled even further back, I knew the moment they would meet up with Toulous Lautrec.

I unexpectedly found Renoir and Degas sitting at the same table.

While reading Dancing With Degas I followed Alexandrie's preparation and entrance into the Paris Opera Ballet, I walked the back streets of Paris and visited with Cezanne, Monet, Manet, and, of course, Degas along with other artist of the time.  Although fiction, I felt I was an active participant in intimate conversations between some of the great names in the artist community of the time.

Upon finishing I returned my book to the library and began browsing the stacks for my next great escape.  I knew, after depositing the book into the return slot, I should have turned around and walked away.  Instead, I returned home with three books in my bag.  I opened each one; read a couple of pages.  I stacked them, moved them from room to room and carried one or two of them to bed.   I returned them  to the library two days later without really ever beginning even one.

I received an email from someone who suggested I might enjoy Claude and Camille.  She continued to say she would be interested to know what I thought.

I am hopeless!

By the end of the day the book was mine.

If you need me, you may find me strolling across Monet's Japanese bridge at Giverny.

I am once again lost in Paris...at least for a few stolen minutes a day.

images are  my photos    

with the exception of the book cover 

via Goodreads

This Mother's Heart

“You can't stop time. You can't capture light. 

You can only turn your face up and let it rain down.” 

                                                                                          --Kim Edwards The Memory Keeper's Daughter

The Child's Bath, c. 1893
Mary Cassatt

This mother's heart is grateful!  I had the chance to talk, laugh, and reminisce with my delightful child, who is now a grown woman.

Friday evening we had a fabulous dinner out, just the two of us.  We chatted and planned the few hours we would share (she was home to attend a wedding).  We returned home, donned our pajamas, curled up on the sofa talking and giggling awaiting Roger's late return home from Boston.

Shoe Shop, c. 1911
Elizabeth Sparhawk Jones

Saturday after breakfast we needed a bit of spa time.   Later in the afternoon the three of us headed out to do some wallet damage with her daddy.  Once home we gathered in the kitchen to prepare her requested "Daddy's gilled steak" dinner.  Heather assembled a cheese platter, I roasted winter vegetables and brussel sprouts and Roger tended the grill.  We set the dining room table with linens and silver, but all was overshadowed by the conversation, laughter and love present.

This morning I woke early with aching heart; I knew it would soon be time to release her once again to return to her husband and the life they have built together.    And, that is how it should be.

As I sat alone watching the sun rise and waiting to hear movement upstairs, I couldn't help but think of wise Charlotte (Charlotte's Web, E.B. White) describing her egg sac to Wilber.  She told him it was her magnum opus.   And I agree with Charlotte, everything dims in the presence of my child,  she is my masterpiece.  She is my heart.

Life is returning to what it has been.  Tomorrow morning I will jump out of bed and ready myself for school.  I will head downstairs to send a quick email for her to open when she arrives at her desk.  It will begin as always "I am running late".  Tomorrow evening we will chat a time or two, and I will have a joyful heart.

The Bedroom, c. 1889
Vincent van Gogh

One day though...we will live closer together.....a mother's hopeful heart.

pictures of artwork taken

 on my earlier trip to Chicago  

Just a Quick Trip

While everyone was anxiously awaiting Irene's landing, I flew off for a day in Chicago.  Roger had a meeting, and I found it to be the perfect opportunity to take one last quick trip before settling in for another school year.  It was also an excuse to stop in St. Louis, on return, to visit my children.

Upon seeing the view from our hotel room I might have been happy

to sit at the window and read...

if it rained all day.

We stayed on Michigan Avenue and  

within walking distance there was too much to do in my one and half day visit.   There was the Science and Industry Museum, the History Museum, the Aquarium and the Planetarium 

just outside and to the left of our front door.

I chose to turn right.

There was architecture to be photographed.

Every step I took I was surrounded by the beautiful flowers and gardens.

A wonderful idea to add color to your garden.

Within the gardens there were greeters,

fountains,

with dancing waters.

statuary. 

If I had found myself with a few moments to spare
I might have stopped to listen to



 a street musician or

or play a game of chess.

But I had one thing on my mind.
The Art Institute of Chicago.

I spent my day and a half roaming the many galleries at The Institute

where I was awed by

Marc Chagall

Monet

Renoir

and Van Gogh.

There were the amazing Thorne Miniature Rooms

and so, so much more.

Oh my...it is I.

Walking back to the hotel, I
looked back at the night skyline with Marilyn
and vowed to return and stay longer.

My thoughts and prayers are with everyone who is recovering and cleaning up after Irene.  Stay safe!

I hope to soon add a slideshow with all the 

wonderful pieces I photographed.  

And, this trip, there was food!

(These are my images.)