Lake Effect

After a lengthy break in Maine, I am now back at my post.

The story in Thursday’s Times on the house belonging to Vera Scekic and Robert Osborne (on a very different lake from the one I just left) in Racine, Wisconsin caught my eye. http://www.nytimes.com/2010/08/26/garden/26racine.html

The house is stunning, but I was struck by several points in the article about the owners. First of all they decided to live in Racine, Wisconsin, no garden spot, though it is home to the Frank Lloyd Wright designed Johnson Wax Building of the wonderful lily pad ceiling. Aside from that, and Ms. Scekic’s mother, there’s not a whole lot to recommend it. Secondly, they decided that it would be unconscionable to buy a useable house and tear it down to make room for their new house, and so paid way more ($500,000) for an empty lot. Now, that kind of selfless integrity you don’t see every day. Lastly, the house has only one bathroom. How refreshing. Most Americans are so spoiled these days they couldn’t imagine a family of four surviving with just one bathroom and yet, in 1941 just 46% of Virginians had indoor plumbing. The reason I have this figure at my fingertips is because I’ve been writing about the Pope-Leighey House designed by Wright. (The article has been occupying me and keeping me from this blog. But I think I’ve wrapped it up.) So much about the Scekic/Osbornes approach echoes Wright’s Usonians. Their house may be short on “extras,” but it’s long on good, intelligent design. The Scekic/Osbornes are savvy; they know a small house and sharing rooms will promote family togetherness. It’s a lesson lost on those occupants of those huge houses where family members basically live separate lives sequestered off in their respective wings.

The article mentioned Scekic was an artist and I was delighted to Google her and see her beautiful work (an image of one is above).

Mash Note

I guess it’s pretty clear from my blog how I feel about Gerhard Richter. He is simply the best. There aren’t many who can move deftly between styles. Richter does it with such élan and surety, it’s dazzling. Everything he does is superlative and pulse quickening: the early monochromatic blurred paintings, the abstracts, the pixelated cityscapes and last but not least, his glorious photographic paintings of landscapes, candles and his children. I even love the Baader Meinhof series. That’s why, as far as I’m concerned, he’s the Man.

Eye Music

On Thursday I went to the Pope-Leighy house in Fort Alexandria, Virginia. It’s a Usonian house designed by Frank Lloyd Wright in 1941. I’m working on a piece on it, which will appear here in the future.

But now, as I begin the writing process I’m trying to put my finger on just what makes Wright’s houses (for me, it’s the Prairie and Usonian houses) so appealing. They seem to really nail that emotion of “home.” I was thinking it had something to do with their horizontal orientation, which engenders a sense of serenity, but Wright also uses verticals to play off the horizontals and to add strength as part of his compression and release pas de deux. Is it the materials? Just four in this case: wood, brick, concrete, glass, or maybe it’s the way the light pours in. (At the Pope-Leighy, Wright sandwiched glass between wood cutouts that vaguely resemble a Southwestern Indian motif, a less expensive version of his stained glass. These cast dappled patterns on floor and walls, which Wright called “eye music.”) Or perhaps it’s the way the houses relate to their natural settings. Clearly, it’s all these things and the spirit of harmony, integrity and honesty that they embody.

Mary Keller

After my wallet went missing I took inventory of what I had lost. Of course, there was the wallet itself, a nice black pigskin number with brass hardware by the Florentine leather maker Il Bisonte. True it had seen better days, the credit card sleeves had become stretched and the cards would periodically tumble out littering the floor around my feet.

The credit cards were easily cancelled, but it was a bother nonetheless; the prospect of going to the DMV for a replacement license made my head hurt. I'd had some cash, but it was a nominal amount. There were a number of business cards from contacts I’d encountered and other scraps of paper of sentimental value or bearing information that I knew was gone forever. Among the photos, mostly school shots of freshly scrubbed nephews and nieces, I realized was the only picture I had of my godmother. This was the missing item I mourned.

My mother had met, Mary Keller during World War II when they were both WAVES. Mummy went on to pursue the traditional female role of wife and mother; Mary Keller (I always called her by both names, never just Mary) became a “career girl” in New York City. She worked for Standard Oil which became Esso and eventually Exxon as an executive in the stockholders relations department. It being pre-Woman's Lib, I am sure she was under-appreciated and underpaid as she climbed the corporate ladder. She dressed well, always in lady-like suits or frocks, her auburn hair was coiffed in soft waves and her nails manicured in a tasteful coral--a perfect muse for the Mad Men costume designer. She wore tinted tortoise shell glasses and resembled the fashion designer, Pauline Trigère whose clothes she probably wore. The snapshot in the wallet was an anomaly, showing her at our weekend house in Rhode Island. She is sitting on the deck in Aran sweater and slacks.

Being a child, I didn’t think much about Mary Keller’s life. I was fond of her; she was like an aunt and kind and generous to me. She was a fixture at my birthday dinners and at other times throughout the year. I can see her in our living room drink and cigarette in hand laughing as my father regaled her. But I have thought about it many times since then. In some ways it was a golden time to live in New York. I still get whiffs of the era. It’s present in places like The Four Seasons, Lincoln Center and along Park Avenue in the '50s on an early Sunday morning. Certainly it was tough to be a single woman making your own way in the ‘50s and ‘60s, but the city, which still had a vital middle class, giving it real humanity, was so livable then. I assume she dated, but she never brought an escort with her to our gatherings.

One Saturday I remember going with my parents and Mary Keller to Cartier. We sat at a circular counter in that hushed temple of luxury as Mary Keller tried on a series of gold necklaces, turning this way and that to show them off for our inspection. The necklaces were similar heavy circlets, varying in color and detail. It was thrilling being there with my parents and our wonderful friend in this elegant setting. I felt special to have been included in the outing and very grown up because my opinion was being solicited. I was eight or nine. She finally made her selection, picking one, which had a burnished quality that lightened the gold on the front giving it a matte surface. I believe it cost $500. That doesn’t sound like much now, but it was a princely sum in 1966.

It wasn’t until many years later that I learned the back-story of the necklace. My father had a great friend, a war buddy and godfather to my older brother. At some point, he and Mary Keller met and fell in love, I believe this happened through my parents, although I am quite sure this wasn't their intention in introducing them, as the man was married. Eventually the man left his wife hoping to marry Mary Keller. But not long after, he was diagnosed with cancer. For reasons unknown, perhaps he didn’t want to burden Mary Keller (though knowing her, she would have gladly taken care of him) with his illness, he went back to his wife and died within months. The necklace was his parting gift. 

It seems so very fin de siècle, so Colette, the proper way to end an affair by a man of means. It reminded me of when I worked at Tiffany’s, fresh out of college. During training, we were told about the oh-so-coy, “Mister Bill Special.” This had become part of Tiffany’s policy after a good customer had purchased a very pricey necklace for his mistress; when the wife found the bill, he was forced to buy a second necklace to cover his tracks. The Mr. Bill Special ensured that certain invoices would be sent to the customer’s office, not his home. Unfortunately, I worked in the china and crystal department so never got to experience a Mr. Bill Special first-hand. It was unclear if the purchaser would actually refer to the purchase as a Mr. Bill Special, or if there’d be some other awkward exchange. I have often wondered through the years, if the former, how did the man know what it was called? Was this information passed along at Skull and Bones or the Porcellian Club together with the secret handshake?

Mary Keller wasn’t able to enjoy her beautiful necklace for very long. She too succumbed to cancer within four years. When she died, she left it to my mother who still wears it at age 91. To me, she left 20 shares of the Standard Oil Company which having morphed into Exxon and splitting several times, have developed into a nice little nest egg. While I am conflicted about owning a stake in Big Oil, I feel that I have a voice however small which I make heard through my proxy votes at the annual shareholder’s meeting. Also, Mary Keller worked there all those years and I feel I have to hold on to them in deference to her loyalty. In her will, she stated they were given to me with the “hope that [they] will be used for pleasure and frivolity.”

Revisionism

For the past few months I’ve been immersed in the Tudors, reading the superb, Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel, winner of the 2009 Man Booker prize for literature (the gold standard as far as I’m concerned), and watching the oh-so steamy Showtime series, The Tudors. It’s an interesting exercise because they cover much of the same fertile ground of incidents and intrigue that make up the tangled history of Henry VIII.

All in all, The Tudors is a very good production, but I wonder why in the book it is Henry’s sister, Mary who is married to Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, whereas in the series it’s Margaret. I also wish the women didn’t all look like Victoria’s Secret models and (picky me) think the costumes, headdresses and jewels sometimes don’t look quite right—a pity since there are so many contemporary portraits out there to draw inspiration from.

In fact, when I was at the National Portrait Gallery in London this spring, I happened on an exhibition on the Tudors with the famous Thomas More family portrait, (referred to in Mantel’s book). There was also a gorgeous full-length Hans Holbein of Katherine Parr. It is so beautifully done, so sumptuous in every detail. I loved noting that at the edge of her brocade overskirt, one can see the wisps of its fur lining peeking out.

Both the series, and to a larger extent, the book, present revisionist portrayals of More and Thomas Cromwell. The book is less kind to More than the series where he just seems misguided, but still a man of principle. Mantel’s More comes across as a merciless religious zealot. In her book it is Cromwell who’s the hero: he’s the humanist, the loving pater familias, the true friend to the king. The series presents him as a brilliant strategist, a loyal subject, tough when he needs to be, but reasonable given the circumstances.

It was Cromwell’s transformation from blacksmith’s son to the Earl of Essex that piqued Mantel's interest, causing her to contemplate a contrarian approach to him. It’s a daring undertaking and she produces a wonderful unorthodox portrait of a well-known historical figure. I’d like to believe it’s true, as I’ve become fond of Mantel’s Cromwell. He’s an astute observer with a wry sense of humor and part of the fun of the book is seeing the machinations and personages of Henry VIII’s court through his eyes.

But two things stand in the way of me totally buying it. They are the Holbein portraits of More (with the gorgeous crimson velvet sleeves) and Cromwell at The Frick Museum in New York. Holbein actually appears in Wolf Hall as a crony of Cromwell’s working at his behest on the decoration of the Queen’s apartments in The Tower in advance of Anne Boylen’s coronation, and at the Cromwells’ house as well. I suspect Mantel did this because she was uneasy about the Frick portraits which depict the two men in a manner very much at odds with her version: Cromwell is thoroughly unappetizing, pig-eyed, pinched and furtive. By contrast, More with his kind, open face seems to epitomize humanity and goodness—an interesting dichotomy given that Holbein was a Protestant and thus on Cromwell’s side, not More’s. The fact that Holbein was a contemporary eyewitness and spent time in the company of each man gives his portrayal of their characters the more weight.

Addendum: Talk about timing, no sooner had I finished the above that I read the very passage where Cromwell views his completed portrait. Mantel wisely addresses the issue head-on (she needs to, to bolster her argument): his family complains that he’s never worn such an unpleasant expression and Cromwell decides that Holbein intentionally made him look “like a murderer” to inspire fear in his adversaries.

Happy Birthday Mr. President

There’s a tempest in a teapot brewing in South Africa over a painting by Yuill Damaso modeled on Rembrandt’s The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicolaes Tulp that depicts Nelson Mandela as the corpse surrounded by various South African political luminaries (Archbishop Desmond Tutu, South African President Jacob Zuma and former presidents F.W. de Klerk and Thabo Mbeki. Performing the autopsy is Nkosi Johnson, an HIV/AIDS child activist who died from the disease in 2001 at the age of 12.

The painting’s artistic merits are questionable (In all fairness I can’t really judge it based on the online image) but it’s too literal for my taste and looks a little awkward: all those well-known visages corralled around the autopsy table. And Mandela’s arm and chest area look clumsily rendered. But the metaphoric message is quite clever. Here you have Johnson (the only one who has “passed on” to the other side) showing the assembled group, who’s on a fact-finding mission to discover what makes Mandela tick, that he’s but a flesh and blood man. Damaso has said his message is clear, these leaders need to stop searching for what makes Mandela a great man and get down to the business of leadership and build the country.

I guess I’m sorry Mandela had to be faced with this on the eve of his 92^nd birthday and so soon after the death of his 13 year-old great granddaughter, Zenani. But I also think he's a sophisticate, and if he didn't initially understand what the painting's about, once he grasped its meaning he'd see it was not meant to be disrespectful to him. Of course, at 92 he's uncomfortably close to that autopsy table and therefore it might not sit all that well.

It’s a funny thing about outrage; loud enough and it ends up drawing attention to something that if left alone would pass by unnoticed. (The painting’s on view at a shopping center after all.) With the notoriety, not only has it probably come to Mandela’s attention, but Damaso’s future success is no doubt assured.

Museum Visit

“Later one discovers that reality cannot be captured, that the things we make always represent just themselves.” -- Gerhard Richter

Yesterday, I visited the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts' massive new addition. While the building is a handsome Contemporary structure, the area around it (referred to as the “VMFA Campus” yuck) is a bit of a hodge-podge with too much macadam, a random (I know it has historical significance, but it looks odd sitting there all by itself) Victorian Italianate house and a cluttered network of metal ramps and walkways leading from the garage to the museum. I liked the garage (I have a thing for attractive parking decks) with its metal basket weave panels that disguise its true identity.

The museum building is a long, sleek horizontal, unadorned save for an opaque glass rectangle, which turns out to house the clear glass elevators. The interior is very appealing. It’s airy and expansive and yet still manages to feel intimate, unlike the New MoMA, which I find cavernous and cold. There, the artwork is dwarfed and I can’t shake the feeling that when I get off the escalator, I’ll find myself in Neiman Marcus.

The VMFA atrium boasts a seating arrangement of such cool orange chairs I thought at first they were sculptures. Two monumental “dumpling” works by Jun Kaneko had just been installed with a third visible through the window opening out to the sculpture garden. Made of ceramic they have wonderful surfaces, beautiful glazes and an ancient, totemic feel. I particularly liked the one with the indigo polka dots.

The VMFA’s Modern and Contemporary collection is first rate with a stunning Jackson Pollack Number 15, 1948 small enamel on paper, Willie Cole’s Fast Track Home made by scorching the canvas with hot irons is a new one for me. There’s a luscious David Reed, #341, I’m not sure why he’s not where James Nares is in terms of reputation. Reed’s better, more inventive and complex. The beautiful little Vija Celmins galaxy painting is so still and alluring you wanted to contemplate it for hours. The Chicago Imagists are well represented with a dazzling Roger Brown and creepy Ed Paschke, both luminous and arresting. The Gerhard Richter, Abstract Painting (594-1) features slashes of paint that are at once so free and full of control; it’s muscular and lyrical. Contemporary photography's well represented with a terrific Thomas Struth of a church interior that's a contemporary version of a Pieter Saenredam. The collection boasts stellar work from many other masters; these are the ones that jumped out at me.

Just like I always do when I go to the VMFA, I had to visit the extraordinary art nouveau and art deco furniture and decorative arts collection. Neither of those is my style of choice, but the pieces are of such a high order, so inventive and well made I find them irresistible. If you really look at say, the Tiffany lamps, you find yourself drawn to them and discover they aren’t as gaudy and hackneyed as you thought they were. It makes you realize that the very best, does have a special appeal. Anyway, there are wonderful holdings of Charles Rennie Mackintosh, the Greene Brothers, Ruhlman, Eileen Gray, Josef Hoffman, etc. Beautiful clocks, porcelain, chairs, desks; made with exotic woods, ivory, snakeskin and a personal favorite, shagreen. It’s a side trip into a sumptuous world.

After that I had to go see one of my favorite paintings, a small George Catlin. I love Catlin’s charming (yet unsaccharin) sketch-like paintings of Indians. This one’s a snow scene. A group of Indians is sitting around in a circle listening to another standing Indian. The snow has nearly covered the sitters, forming little white mounds with feathers peeking out the top. The title makes it. It is: A Long Speech.

These three galleries abut the atrium that was constructed in 1985 and boy does it look dated. I never liked it, it reminded me of the Trump Tower lobby with its copious amounts of red marble and brass. A showy monument to excess it’s all about pricey materials, but with zero design integrity. Thank goodness the museum’s taste has evolved and they picked an architect like Rick Mather this time around. His pure design will endure.