Loon Point

This year's Monadnock Art Tour took place on a beautiful fall weekend. A friend and I set out to see the Dublin artists on the tour (we made it to just four). A highlight was our stop at Loon Point for an unofficial open studio visit -- a young painter recently graduated from RISD had some wonderful portraits on display. I think Joseph Lindon Smith, the artist who once made Loon Point his home, would love what is happening there now.

It was such a gorgeous day on Dublin Lake that we ended up walking around the Point and taking photographs and reminiscing about the house that was once there. Loon Point and Pompelia were two places so central to Dublin's cultural history and to our families. Even though both are gone now, the landscape is filled with the presence of those other times. There is something wonderful about art in the woods -- the celebration of nature and human creativity together.

La Zucca!

This photograph of a pumpkin (or zucca) was taken today, a crisp mid-October morning. I wanted to capture the first snowfall of the season. It's a zucca kind of year. Recently we harvested lots of small pumpkins at our little Bee's Wing Farm in Dublin. They were delicious roasted and stuffed and their beautiful color is an emblem of autumn bounty.

This year I've been taking a lot of photographs and spending time with the garden, but now that winter is on the way I hope to get out into my little studio in the barn to make some art. Somehow, despite my best efforts, the barn got filled with furniture from my parents' move last winter. And then farm produce took over; we cure the garlic in the barn. But that is all getting cleared out now and I will have my little haven back shortly.

We'll be in Venice this year at Thanksgiving, and we've made plans to return to a place we stumbled on a few years back: La Zucca. This is a small restaurant close to San Giacomo Square, right on a canal with a lovely little bridge. November is a great time to be in Florence and Venice as it's not too cold yet but the tourist population should be way down. This is our son's first visit to Italy and I can't wait to show him some of my favorite art and architecture.

I get tremendous psychological mileage out of a trip booked well ahead of time. I used to love to have a plane ticket stashed in my jewelry box along with my passport, and back in the frequent flier days I had stacks of coupons from my father who did a lot of business travel. Those were the days! It's much harder to get away now, with work and school schedules, a little farm and just life in general, but I still love to turn the pages of my passport while I wait for departure day.

Here's to La Zucca for Thanksgiving and getting back to Italy this autumn. I give thanks for bushel baskets of pumpkins, trips to Europe and uncluttered barns. From this perspective, life is very good right now.

Eight small collage pieces

Getting pieces ready for artist's swap last Saturday in Peterborough...

Mother & Child

Recently my cousin sent around this picture of a Mother and Child sculpture by George de Forest Brush (1855-1941), now at Brock & Co, in Concord, MA. This gallery specializes in 19th and 20th century works of art. Perhaps it would be good to make a summer pilgrimage for one last glimpse of this piece of family history.

Brush's Mother and Child was sculpted in 1894 and cast twice in bronze at the Gorham Foundry in 1913 (34 x 14 x 15 inches). In my lifetime, the sculpture in the photograph above was owned by my grandmother's sister, Jane, who lived in Oyster Bay. Seeing this photograph in the gallery notice brought back a flood of memories.

My grandparents lived at Brush Farm in Dublin, NH, where a mother and child sculpture stood in a small walled garden off of what we always called "the Big Room" -- the epicenter of that universe. Somehow, even despite so much societal and economic change, my grandparents managed to cling to the Gilded Age sensibilities they themselves grew up with in a timeless world that they passed on to their grandchildren.

Another piece of family lore went up for auction recently: a Family Group painting in a large ornate frame that lived for many years in the Big Room at Brush Farm. It had been heavily worked on (a restoration nightmare, really) and was probably never a good example of Brush's work, but we all loved it because it was part of our own family group. There's a photograph of the painting at this site which I can't seem to load here.

The auction took place in Pennsylvania and I am curious where the painting may be now; the frame itself is spectacular. But who will love those cunning Brush family faces? The head of Gerome painted in as an after-thought? I remember when the painting was taken out of the frame, perhaps to be assessed for whether it could be restored and exhibited. There is a note in the corner about remembering to wear spectacles. I suspect this was either an artist's note to himself or perhaps one from my great-grandmother warning him not to overwork the painting.

In the summer, my grandparents would move to another family house, Pompelia, an Italianate villa that burned down in 1979. Pompelia was spectacular and filled with wonderful artwork. I have amazing detail etched in memory and look forward to writing more about that magical place. But despite the grandeur and magic of those summers, the suspension in time, it was always Brush Farm that felt the most like my grandparents' real home.

My grandmother was the youngest of the Brush children and family gatherings, formal and informal, were a feature of my childhood. In total I spent 28 Christmases in front of what will always be my favorite fireplace. When my grandfather died I moved from Annapolis to live with my grandmother in her little apartment at the Farm; we had such fun in those years. After she died I lived there on my own for a time, and then with Jeff. We were married at Brush Farm under the old apple trees where my grandparents also said their vows.

There's something strange about private works of art in the public realm -- seeing artwork out in world that was once such a part of our daily lives. In a way, of course, it's wonderful to have these pieces displayed in museums and galleries where we can all go visit them. And it's good to have sculpture in out of the rain and paintings that are lit well and preserved for posterity. But seeing this sculpture makes me miss my grandparents and those childhood times when the art was just there all around us.

House Museums

While I love art museums and galleries, aquariums, natural history museums, and almost any place with an Imax theater, I never really thought of myself as a house museum sort of person. That is until recently. It makes sense, though, as the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston has always been one of my favorite places. That's a house alright.

When I got to thinking about the diversity of house museums, I realized that over the last year or so I've actually been to several. There was Historic Deerfield (a business trip, but I really enjoyed seeing their museum collection as well as a few of the houses), and then Gibson House in Boston, where my friend Catherine once lived on the fourth floor. She was giving a talk on her book, The Pantry. Come to think of it, Whitcomb House where she lived in Hancock, NH, until last year was something of a museum itself, and we enjoyed a wonderful Emily Post tea there just before the house sold.

A visit last fall to Edith Wharton's house, The Mount, in Lenox, MA, was meant to be a birthday pilgrimage to the home of a favorite author, and I had fun day-tripping with my friends Henry and Rosemary. But what would Edith think of that? Here's a link to the Cupcake Chronicles book group blog for more on the fate of Edith's place in the Berkshires. She rather liked Europe better anyway.

Speaking of travel, last spring our little book group visited Stan Hywet Hall and Gardens in Akron, OH, and now we are just back from Asheville, NC, where we visited the largest residence in the country, The Biltmore. These pictures are from the splendid gardens there. I'm starting to wonder what's next in general, so I must have the bug. Perhaps this is another sign of middle age!

The architecture of house museums (large and small) is fascinating, and it's interesting to see the ways in which interior design elements are incorporated into various settings. The Biltmore estate has several John Singer Sargent portraits, for example, and I enjoyed seeing them there in the house (though I hope the Vanderbilt's have a lending policy so we can see the paintings in themed exhibitions as well). And then there are the gardens, the fabulous landscape architecture that brings together the artwork and natural beauty of a site with the structures themselves. I think I could become quite a fan of garden tours.

In fact I have a feeling there are many more house and garden visits in the near future. Next up I'd like to visit the Isle of Shoals (ferry boat!) and Celia Thaxter's garden. Smith College and Wellesley both have fabulous greenhouses; I'd like to tour those with my camera and plenty of time to linger. And then there is Emily Dickinson's house in Amherst, MA, and of course Saint-Gaudens, which is quite nearby. These are all trips to look forward to as we wait for spring and warmer weather here in New England. So many gardens ahead, including my own.

Ann Patchett

It was thrilling to meet Ann Patchett last night at the Peterborough Players and to hear her talk about her life in books. She is such an accomplished and engaging speaker. A few different times she remarked, “I do the best I can.” I love that message about moving on from second-guesses. “Fiction takes us outside of ourselves,” she said, “it’s an empathetic act.”

This morning I woke up early to perfect light in a silent household – just right for finishing up the last pages of Run while the dogs were out doing just that. When it was first published, a friend lent me her hardback copy and I read it in one sitting out on the old couch in our greenhouse room. Much of the plot is centered on a twenty-four hour period, and it was pure pleasure to take in that book all at once. It was like those moments in traveling when you are completely keyed to a particular experience; the landscape of it all becomes indelible.

This week, however, I enjoyed rereading Ann Patchett's most recent novel while in no great hurry to turn pages and discover what is happening next in the plot. There is such satisfaction in reading a book over again; phrases are savored and sentence structure admired. This is a story of adoption within adoption, of hope and a race for being better as human beings. It’s a run.

A half hour later the household was still asleep and the dogs were back at the bottom of the bed. I pulled out the volume I purchased yesterday as something for the author to sign, What Now, a commencement address Ann Patchett delivered at her alma mater, Sarah Lawrence. A tribute to her friends and teachers, the speech is very much about paying attention. My favorite line is, “I breathed that wisteria.”

To tell the truth, this little hardback from Harper Collins really needed a good book designer. It’s not laid out well and the pictures didn’t print well on the paper, all of which distract from reading the words themselves. Perhaps this piece really just belongs on 8 ½ x 11, or would be better listened to on audio. And speaking of publishers, my edition of Run has a typo. It’s in the back, in the description of Bel Canto. I love my odd proofreading gift and saw the Roxanne Cross right away. Errors like this are fuzzy and lift up off the page; they vibrate a bit. The opera singer’s name is Roxanne Coss. Doesn't every one know that?

It was so much fun to hear Ann Patchett talk about writing Bel Canto. She knew nothing about opera when she began, and now she has been backstage at the Met lying on a stage set bed with the soprano just before the curtain went up – what fun! Clearly, she knows all about experiencing delight while watching and listening. She recalled an oven cleaner commercial that reminds her of what it’s like to write. A woman is out playing tennis and shouts out, “I’m cleaning my oven right now!” Writers are in the right now, noticing everything for later.

There was a lot of synchonicity for me last night. I gave Ann the letter I wrote her yesterday afternoon (see post at Cupcake Chronicles). It was in an airmail envelope and she looked hard at me, “You’ll hear more about this in a few minutes," she said. Later when she read us the first pages of the untitled book she’s working on now, airmail stationery is an important part of the way a message is delivered to kick off the unraveling plot of a pharmaceutical company in Brazil and the death of a doctor. Ann is married to a doctor and found herself talking about her marriage quite a bit. She is very witty.

A favorite moment occurred for me when she was talking about books she loves. Some one asked for her favorite and of course she doesn’t have one. Who does? That would be like choosing a favorite flower in the garden – sometimes it’s one lone gorgeous flower and then it may be a whole display. Sometimes we’re remembering gardens from other times or anticipating blossoms not yet in bloom. They are all favorites, or not. It changes.

But then Ann began to talk about Madame Bovary, a book she taught over and over again. In my note yesterday I wrote a bit about Laura Brown, who, like Emma Bovary, reads passionately and addictively. Ann is thinking these days about why people read and the role fiction plays in our society. I love that. Henry James was mentioned (an author I read passionately, addictively), and I wanted to tell her about the Jamesians, the HJ Scholars who meet up in Paris, Venice and Newport. She would have fun with all that -- the pursuit of a single subject.

A writer like Ann Patchett needs a reader like me. Or the books do, they need readers like both of us. When she mentioned The Leopard I was taken aback. This is absolutely one of my all-time favorite novels and I’ve read it over and over again. I have even traveled to the island of Lampedusa (the book is written by Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa; I have his biography). In the Italian, Gattopardo is not a leopard but an ocelot that was hunted in the Sicilian mountains. I have long wanted to write about that novel which is set during during Risorgimento, a profound time in Italy’s history. Perhaps I could invent a modern-day Tancredi. Now that’s all come up again.

Meanwhile, the early morning slant of light has turned into mid-morning. Three other human beings are awake now and trolling the house; clearly it’s time for me to move on from books and writing and into the day at hand. Going to this event last night was very inspiring. Sometimes I feel alone in my thoughts, but I am realizing that this is part of who I am as a listener and observer. A rich interior life is both the driving force and the reward.

Last night Ann Patchett remarked about being a writer, “I am a professional imaginer.” Last night I got to breath that wisteria.

Transitions

Well, the time has come and my parents are moving into a long-term care facility. Today. But it's Groundhog Day! What if my mother sees her shadow and doesn't want to do this after all? There is no question about whether or not we'll have extra weeks of winter. This is New Hampshire after all. But will my parents be happy in their new place? If only a small furry animal could predict the next decade for all of us.

I have been against this plan from the get-go. We moved to Dublin with the idea of being nearby; we wanted the grandparent factor for our child and we hoped my parents would stay in their house until they couldn't do that anymore. We had builders give estimates on a wing or a separate cottage on our property, but this was not to be. Now they are moving into a place where we have to sign in at the front desk and wait to be announced and where every one is - well, old.

This is luxury accommodation as far as these kinds of places go, and the apartment they are moving into is nicely appointed. My mother is excited about setting up a new little household, one which will be their last. When they are no longer able to be in this apartment, they will be move up to increasing levels of care until the end. As a retirement community, there are all sorts of planned activities -- field trips to museums, musical recitals, costume parties and the like. But this all seems so pat to me, and lacking in intimacy.

"I don't want to be a burden to you." This is the great refrain of my parents' generation. Since when is it a burden to take care of the aging members of our society? As an only child I always thought I would be caring for my parents when the time came. It feels to me like the natural cycle of life, babies, families and old people. Jeff and I both took care of our grandmothers in their elder years and it was a privilege, but this is not how my mother wants to do this and I need to respect this decision even while I am in disagreement with her.

And I am beginning to feel more free, it's true. I question whether we need to be here at all since we really have so little extended family anymore and came back to the Monadnock Region for that reason alone. Ideas like living and working abroad are becoming real possibilities again, and it will be interesting to see how things unfold over the next decade. Our child is a teenager now and we will not have the care of my parents after all. I want to see this as a gift, not a rejection.

Today is the day, then. There will be weeks more of getting the house emptied out and it is on the market and will hopefully sell. And we'll be assuming a new pattern of having my parents over for supper and visiting them at their new digs. Here's to Groundhog Day and transitions, and to my parents. I recognize their bravery at doing this and that the process is exhausting and difficult for them, and I do know they love me. But still, there's a shadow on the snowscape this morning and I needed to write down some of these thoughts.

Doorways

The great 13th century poet, Rumi, was born in Afghanistan, which at that time was part of the Persian empire. Rumi has long been a talisman poet for me, but it is only recently that I learned that the word dervish literally translates as doorway.


My favorite book of Rumi's poetry is a slim paperback of his Quatrains as translated by Coleman Barks. Coleman visited the MacDowell Colony many years ago when I worked there, and I love having a volume inscribed by the man who has spent his life studying Sufism and translating Rumi.

Language is so fascinating, and translation is truly an act of intimacy. Scholarship is coupled with reverence, but the actual choosing of the right word to convey a particular meaning is itself a moment of poetry. I imagine a word humming when the right companion in another language is chosen, vibrating on the page.

Here is one of my favorite of the Quatrains, something I recite to myself sometimes when I can't get to sleep:

Some nights stay up till dawn,
as the moon sometimes does for the sun.
Be a full bucket pulled up the dark way
of a well, then lifted into light.
-- Rumi

Inauguration Day!

Today we celebrate the inauguration of President Barack Obama; what a day in history! Here is a link to the Bee's Wing Farm blog for more thoughts on this transition in leadership and the hope we are feeling at this dawning of a new age. Patriotism, imagine that!

Yes Is this Present Sun

As the inauguration approaches, the word 'YES' is like a drum beat keeping rhythm. I am filled with hope and possibility, not only for our world and country but on a personal level as well. Just now, at this moment in history, even amongst all the difficulties, we have so much to celebrate. Yes We Did. Here's to a new administration and being part of the change, however that may manifest.

After the final no there comes a yes
And on that yes the future world depends.
No was the night. Yes is this present sun.
–– Wallace Stevens

Artifacts

Like an archaeologist who specializes in a particular region of the world, I seem to dig up similar artifacts over and again. There’s something soothing about familiar territory. I’m not so afraid anymore that I might drop or chip something, and these days I catalogue what fragments come my way with a kind of professional ease. Sometimes I think there will be a major find – an outstanding piece somehow missed by earlier excavations – but I’m beginning to think that any keys to civilization (my survival, that is) are already with me and it’s only a matter of illuminating the collection a little differently. It’s turning out that the science of digging up the objects is not what’s most important to me anymore; it’s about the interpretation. The art of display. That’s what I’m seeking here, a way to look at my finds objectively, to see the fragments as a collection.

Backstreets of Florence

Here is a favorite map, the one I used to navigate my way around Firenze when I was lucky enough to live there on and off over the course of a year and a half so long ago. I loved finding a little circle around Via D. Anguillara, where I shared an apartment just off of Piazza Santa Croce with a woman named Anna from Puglia.

Anna had a tiny red Fiat converted for hand controls to accommodate leg issues. She wore a cumbersome brace and preferred not to drive when possible. What fun I had buzzing around Florence in that car when we'd go out in the evening to meet friends. The steering wheel was the size of a dinner plate with extra rings around it for brakes and acceleration.

There was quite a community of Southern Italians and Siciliani in Florence, and they generously enveloped me into their lives for the time I was there. The old north/south tensions were alive and well then and I imagine there is still a lot of that snobbery and racism even now. It was particularly alarming to see how African Americans were treated in Italy. How could such loving people be so prejudiced over the color of skin?

I loved the apartment on Via D. Anguillara. I would sit and write at the kitchen table hour after hour and then go out and walk the city when construction workers came to work on the outside of the apartment. The building was under renovation, and the fascade was draped in heavy netting over the staging so that bits of plaster wouldn't fall on pedestrians below. It was like being inside a giant screened tent.

Piazza Santa Croce was just a stone's throw away and a perfect destination in the evening for people-watching. Grandfathers would bring children by the hand for games of soccer and feeding the pigeons while old women gathered to sit and talk about their days. At the end of the day the Piazza gave up its tourists and turned into a neighborhood meeting place.

Anna worked at the Uffizi and I was able to get in free through the staff entrance. I got to know some of the other guards as well, and this is how I came to find myself on behind-the-scenes tours not only of the Uffizi but the Palazzo Vecchio nearby. The network of old hallways and passageways was amazing, and I loved sneaking through these secret places.