Where Has A Month Gone?

I realized today it has been a long time since I posted to this blog. If you, dear reader, are still out there, I've not ditched this blog. It's been a stinker of a fall/winter season. Surgery, infection, slow healing, pain meds, all-together unpleasant. But, slowly, slowly healing.

If I don't get a chance to post again before Christmas, I wish you a happy holiday.
Best hopes and wishes for the new year.

In of All Places....

From time to time great masterpieces turn up, having been hung in Russian dentists offices or shoved beneath couches that haven't been moved in 100 years. You've read the stories. They never cease to thrill me.

Well, up springs another one. Recently, a painting by the Italian master Sebastiano Ricci, long presumed to be forever lost has turned up in of all places - Texas. The painting titled "The Vision of St. Bruno" is a portrait of a beautiful town in Italy. In my opinion, it's so finely crafted upon first glance it appears to me more like a photograph than a 3 centuries old painting.

The journey from the hands of a European nobleman playboy to a fur trader and finally through generations of family to its current owner is fascinating, but of course cannot be fully known. The last known documentation of the painting was in a 1776 catalog of the collection of Count Francesco Algarotti, a Venetian playboy and art collector. The painting seems to have been passed along through descendants of Charles Rannells, a St. Louis lawyer. The family believes it was originally given to the family in lieu of payment for legal fees.

The painting will go to auction in late November through a Dallas-based auction house called Heritage Galleries, and is expected to garner at least $600K.

The Little Island off the Big City

I was browsing through my New York Times this morning when I came upon a story that made me smile for the sake of art. It appears that the Lower Manhattan Cultural Council has been selected to run an artist’s studio and exhibition space on Governors Island.

What is Governor’s Island? Situated just 800 yards from Lower Manhattan (and even closer to Brooklyn), for two centuries it was a military base for the Army and Coast Guard. In 1996 it was “mothballed” by the U.S. government and sold to the people of New York for $1.00 in 2003. Today, 150 acres of the island are governed by the Governors Island Preservation & Education Corporation and the remaining 22-acres are considered a National Monument which contains two early 19th century efforts.

The Lower Manhattan Cultural Council, responsible for rejuvenating the arts downtown after the 2001 terrorist attacks. It’s also well know for creating and providing studio spaces for artists all over Manhattan, beginning with its World Views Program at the WTC in 1997. Their latest project will include a year-round artist residency on Governor’s Island, and weekend events. The residences will provide space for all walks of creative life from dance to writing to painting and sculpture. The group will organize shows of the residents’ art as well. The artists will keep bankers’ hours on the island: Monday to Friday, 9 to 5. (No overnight stays are permitted.) But during the island’s “public access” season — from the end of May to mid-October — artists will also be in their studios from 10 a.m. to 7 p.m. on Saturdays and Sundays.

The building is to have 30 artist and three rehearsal studios, and the council plans to have up to three performing-artists, dance or theater ensembles and up to 20 visual artists’ studios at one time. Residencies will last three weeks in the public-access season, and three months the rest of the year.

All I can say is YEAH! And, that I’ll be taking a little trip to the island the next time I’m in the big city.

Alexander Calder at the Whitney

I don’t remember when or how I was introduced to Alexander Calder’s work. He just seems to have always been in my life. I remember being a Girl Scout (maybe even a wee Brownie) and when we made mobiles during craft time, Calder was an example we worked against.

As a young teenager, if you’d have asked me who was my favorite “modern” artist I would have said Calder. Partially, because I really loved his work, and mostly because he was probably the only “modern” artist I knew other than say Picasso.

This week the Whitney in New York is opening an exhibition of Alexander Calder’s work. Of course, I’d love to go. It wasn’t until my early 20’s when I got to experience his Circus-which is part of the Whitney’s permanent collection. And frankly, it’s my favorite. The show is focused on his years in Paris, from the ages of 27 to 34, when he created his first wire drawings in space, created the Circus, and invented his signature mobiles.

Of course, I’m going to find a way to go. The show runs through the middle of February.

For more info on the show, go to http://www.whitney.org/
While you’re there, make sure to check out the ‘Signs of the Time’ photography exhibition in the Sondra Gilman Gallery. It features pieces from the museums permanent collection, including some awesome work by Sam Durant, Gordon Parks, James Casebere, Zoe Leonard, Katy Grannan, Philip-Lorca diCorcia, Sam Samore and Sara VanDerBeek, among others.

The Right Way to Be a Collector

I know I sound like a broken record, but it's true. I wish I had millions of dollars to collect art and literature. If I did I would follow in the footsteps of someone who I never thought I'd look to as a model for modern art collecting.

The New York Times announced today that Metallica drummer Lars Ulrich is selling a Jean-Michel Basquiat painting from his art collection that could set a new auction record for the artist. The painting entitled "(untitled) Boxer" is one of my favorites. Like the majority of Basquiat's paintings it screams of urban folk art and the 80's in New York City. Looking at it makes me think of the pre-Gulianni, rough streets and the raw energy and danger of that time in history.

Starting today Christie’s will be showing the painting in its King Street galleries in London. It will also be the cover image of the sales catalog for the New York auction on Nov. 12. While the economy is shaky right now, Ulrich doesn't expect there to be any trouble selling the work. Brett Gorvy, a co-head of Christie's postwar and contemporary art department agrees. “We’re talking about a very finite amount of material by an artist who died young,” Although Christie’s coyly states that the sales estimate can be obtained “on request,” Mr. Gorvy said it could bring $12 million to $16 million.

Art collectors in general wonder if the painting will fare as well as an untitled Basquiat canvas from 1981 — of a primitive figure with clenched teeth, his oversize hands held high in the air — that brought $14.6 million at auction last year, a record for the artist.

Ulrich has owned the painting for the last 10 years, and feels like its time to put it back out into the market so that other collectors can appreciate it. A lovely thought. This is the last piece of Basquiat's work that Ulrich owns. He has within the last five years auctioned off two other pieces by the late painter.

Hopefully, whomever next acquires the painting will hold the same altruistic mindset as Ulrich. It would be a shame for this amazing piece to dissapear into a private collection, never to be displayed in public again.

Just a Slow Month

I don't actually know if many people stumble upon this little blog. I write it for myself for the most part, but it would be nice to know if there were people out in big ole Internet land who enjoy my ramblings.

It's been a slow month for interesting news, and a busy month for personal matters. So, this blog o mine has suffered from lack of new content.

Off the top of my head, discoveries that I should pass along are a couple of bands - My Brightest Diamond, who's lead singer Shara Worden's voice is so beautiful it is almost painful, and Patrick Watson who sings on my favorite Cinematic Orchestra song "To Build a Home".

Meanwhile, as usual when things are slow and my life is busy, I turn to Ms. Parker for words of wisdom. Maybe you'll find some here as well.

Bric-a-Brac

Little things that no one needs --
Little things to joke about --
Little landscapes, done in beads.
Little morals, woven out,
Little wreaths of gilded grass,
Little brigs of whittled oak
Bottled painfully in glass;
These are made by lonely folk.

Lonely folk have lines of days
Long and faltering and thin;
Therefore -- little wax bouquets,
Prayers cut upon a pin,
Little maps of pinkish lands,
Little charts of curly seas,
Little plats of linen strands,
Little verses, such as these.

Begrudgingly Promote a Book Sale

I have to admit it, I hate to advertise a good sale. You might get there before me and find something wonderful that I want! But, its for a fantastic cause and everybody knows that I love books. So...make plans.

THE KENAN RESEARCH CENTER AT THE ATLANTA HISTORY CENTER HOSTS FIRST ANNUAL BOOK SALE

Atlanta, GA The Kenan Research Center will hold its inaugural Annual Book Sale the weekend of September 21-23, 2007 in the Jesse Draper Members Room of McElreath Hall at the Atlanta History Center. The sale is open to the public from 10:00 AM 4:00 PM on September 21st and 22nd, and 12:00 PM 5:00 PM on September 23rd.

Come choose from 1,000 titles featuring a wide-range of topics including Atlanta history, American history, southern gardening, fiction, biography, and the Civil War at bargain prices while helping the Kenan Research Center!

Admission for the Book Sale is free. Most books are priced between $1-$5. All proceeds from the book sale will benefit the preservation of rare books and manuscripts at the Kenan Research Center. For more information about the Book Sale or the Kenan Research Center, please contact Senior Archivist Paul Crater at 404.814.4049.

The Ladies of the Corridor

I got a tasty little morsel in the mail yesterday. Anyone who has read this blog knows that I'm a fan of the marvelous Ms. Dorothy Parker. Recently, Pengin Classics released a new edition of her collaboration with Arnaud d'Usseau.

The play is heartbreaking. It's so honest. You can see shards of her in every page- the real Dorthy Parker - not just the witty, fork-tongued dragon (though there are glimpses) but of the deeply depressed, alcohol-soaked anger that she struggled with throughout her life.

Marion Meade wrote a wonderful introduction to the book that puts the reader in the picture as to what was going on with Mrs. Parker during this time in her life. As usual Marion Mead is brilliant. She is without a doubt my favorite biographer.

This is a wonderful play. It was badly received on Broadway when it opened, and not incredibly well received in 2005 when it was reprised. It's a play that should be read. It's a play for for those who love Mrs. Parker.

Like Dorothy Parker - it is beautiful, tragic, perfectly-imperfect, and heartbreaking.

Obsessed with Obsession - Millhauser's Dangerous Laughter

I generally have a stack of books beside my bed, in the backseat of my car, in the kitchen, next to the sofa, you name it. There’s usually something in my life waiting to be read. After my recent move I reshuffled the little stacks and decided it was well past time that I read one of my favorite author’s new offerings. I nearly fell over myself to purchase Steven Millhauser’s new collection of short stories. So, it was about time I read it.

I LOVE Millhauser. I love his delicious descriptions and his story lines. I always feel a little dreamy, almost transported, when reading his work. Sort of the way you feel after a really good first date. This collection is no exception. Divided into three parts, it examines the obsession of obsession.

“Vanishing Acts” looks at risk and escape-be it from a “kingdom of forbidden things” or from a relationship with a troubled girl. Lots of people have hailed the “Cat ‘n’ Mouse” story, and it’s not my favorite, but well worth quoting:

“The mouse, dressed in a bathrobe and slippers, is sitting in his plump armchair, reading a book. He is tall and slim. His feet rest on a hassock, and a pair of spectacles rest on the end of his long, whiskered nose. Yellow light from a table lamp pours onto the book and dimly illuminates the cozy brown room. On the wall hang a tilted sampler bearing the words HOME SWEET HOME, an oval photograph of the mouse's mother with her gray hair in a bun, and a reproduction of Seurat's Sunday Afternoon in which all the figures are mice. Near the armchair is a bookcase filled with books, with several titles visible: Martin Cheddarwit, Gouda's Faust, The Memoirs of Anthony Edam, A History of the Medicheese, the sonnets of Shakespaw. As the mouse reads his book, he reaches without looking toward a dish on the table. The dish is empty: his fingers tap about inside it. The mouse rises and goes over to the cupboard, which is empty except for a tin box with the word CHEESE on it. He opens the box and turns it upside down. Into his palm drops a single toothpick. He gives it a melancholy look. Shaking his head, he returns to his chair and takes up his book. In a bubble above his head a picture appears: he is seated at a long table covered with a white tablecloth. He is holding a fork upright in one fist and a knife upright in the other. A mouse butler dressed in tails sets before him a piece of cheese the size of a wedding cake.

From the mousehole emerges a red telescope. The lens looks to the left, then to the right. A hand issues from the end of the telescope and beckons the mouse forward. The mouse steps from the mousehole, collapses the telescope, and thrusts it into his bathrobe pocket.”

There, that should whet your appetite.

One of my favorites is the story of Harlan Crane. The owner of the “Phantoptic Theater” displays paintings so real that spectators insist that their contents move. Millhauser teases us with the tenuous connection between reality and imagination and as usual leaves us with the true reality of mankind.

A nation covered by increasingly larger and larger domes, a city (which closely resembles modern America) which has become not a mall, but an immense hall of entertainment, museums that enumerate the “New Past” with monopoly pieces and badminton rackets, a “microscope of touch” created by Thomas Edison…there is just so, so much to rave about in this book.

As with a fine wine, this book is best savored in little sips and cherished swallows. Reading it all at once may turn out to be a mistake. You may find the bouquet of the stories diminished if you take them all at one sitting. (I believe I’ve worked this particular metaphor to its fruition)

Trust me, it’s certainly worth a read, and I’m glad it moved to the top of my stack of things to read.

Punk Gets Punk'd

Oh the irony. OH the irony.

There is a wonderful article in The Independent today about a war being fought between Malcom McLaren, (the creator of the Sex Pistols) artist Damien Hirst, and a man called Simon Easton. What is this battle; copyright infringement, political differences? Nope. The root of the ballyhoo is an e-commerce scam that one of the most popular modern artists of the decade fell for, hook, line and sinker.

It turns out that last year Damien Hirst bought 80K Pounds worth of punk clothing from Mr. Easton’s Punk Pistol website. The clothes were supposed to be originals of McLaren and Vivienne Westwood’s 1975-79 punk collection.

That’s a lot of torn up t-shirts and bondage pants.

In the 70s punk fashion first emerged in London on the backs of about 200 people who defined themselves as anti-fashion urban youth. It closely aligned with the punk music movement. The clothes suited the lifestyle of those with limited cash due to unemployment and the general low income school dropouts and students often experience. Punks cut up old clothes from thrift shops, destroyed the fabric and refashioned outfits in a manner then thought a crude construction technique, making garments designed to attract attention. Tattered edges and ripped holes were patched together with ragged stitches and safety pins. McLaren and Westwood were cornerstones of the anti-fashion movement, creating the famous “God Save the Queen” t-shirt that is synonymous with the Sex Pistols and punk movement.

McLaren apparently took one look at Hirst’s collection and damned them as complete forgeries. They were made of fabrics that weren’t even available in the 70s and the stitching was completely different than the style that McLaren and Westwood used. McLaren told the New York Daily News: “I felt terrible, but they were fakes. We simply didn’t make that many. I mean, we literally made these clothes on my kitchen floor. They were each unique.”

Of course Mr. Easton says that they’re not fakes and points out that the Sex and Seditionaires (the boutiques started by McLaren and Westwood) sold their garments via mail order after 1979 and through the Boy shop on London’s Kings Road.

So where’s the rub? Hirst got scammed-that’s his deal-right? Wrong. Apparently, Easton wrote a book about clothes sold through Sex and Seditionares shops and McLaren wrote an introduction for the book-which it turns out, is full of images of the fake clothes from Hirst’s collection. McLaren has approached the books publisher and told them to remove his name and essay from the book.

See the irony? McLaren is now a hugely wealthy man (as is Westwood). The complete opposite of everything they stood for in their angry punk days. They ARE the man. And the man is getting scammed. A scam, I might add, that they would have most certainly rolled on the floor about when they were in their late-teens and early 20’s and have thumbed their noses and thrown a bottle at just for good measure.

I love irony. And of course, Damien Hirst, The Sex Pistols and most of all the jaded and mean British Press. (I’m just glad they don’t have their guns pointed at me.)

An Aladdin's Cave of Stolen Delights in NYC

Sometimes I wish I had absolutely no scruples and was full to the brim with audacity. With these two traits I could wander the world doing as I pleased and having no scruples about who was affected by my actions. Sort of like William M. V. Kingsland of New York City.

Apparently, upon his death it turned out that not only was his name false (his birth name was Melvyn Kohn) but most everything about him was also quite fabricated. One thing is for certain though, he had a heck of an eye for art. The F.B.I. has been flummoxed by the late Mr. Kingsland for the last four years. Upon his death they were called into a small apartment on East 72nd where quite a magnificent art collection resided. Only one problem, there was little if any provenance that much of it actually belonged to Mr. Kingsland and it appears that quite a bit of it was pilfered from private and public collections around Manhattan and the world.

A charming bust by Giacometti was used to prop a door open, while four paintings (two Porters, a Redon and a Kurt Schwitter) turned out to be reported stolen in the 60s. As Agent James Wynne of the F.B.I. began digging deeper in the mystery of the collection he began finding previous owners who were either unaware or unconcerned that their pieces had gone missing. But, the case must be resolved- what happens to all this wonderful booty?

Part of the “collection” has already been sold through Christie’s Auction House, including a 1790 Copley portrait of the Second Earl of Bessborough which turned out to have been pinched from the Fogg Art Museum at Harvard in the 1970s. The gallery owner who purchased the piece got it at quite a deal ($85K) and expected to make somewhere in the neighborhood of $400K on the piece. But because it was stolen he’s out of luck.

Ironically, when New York City hired two auction houses to go through the floor-to-ceiling stacks of sketches, sculptures and paintings two movers made off with two Picasso’s. They were caught (don’t mess with Christies) and sentenced to probation. Kingsland's collection, which came mostly from Manhattan galleries, is considered to be diverse and interesting, but isn't necessarily a find of epic proportions. Still, the Picassos pinched by the movers were worth at least $60,000 total, and other Picassos in the collection were worth about $600,000.

The FBI has posted a portion of the works found in his apartment in hopes that the rightful owners will come forward. Quite an impressive little cache.

So what happens next? Auction houses attached to the case have cancelled all sales related to the Kingsland estate. Harvard University is working with the authorities to secure the safe return of the Copley and another piece reported stolen from the university in 1968. The FBI waits for people to come forward to make whatever claim they can of the galleries of work. And the public administrator of the New York office who will end up with the loot from the eventual sale and auction of whatever isn’t claimed? She’s treading carefully. Ethel Griffin is quoted as saying “ We don’t want to destroy the man’s reputation if in fact he acquired these from someone else,” she said. Still, she added, “This one is for the books.”

Indeed.

A Little Ms. Parker for a Monday Afternoon

Ballade at Thirty-five

This, no song of an ingénue,
This, no ballad of innocence;
This, the rhyme of a lady who
Followed ever her natural bents.
This, a solo of sapience,
This, a chantey of sophistry,
This, the sum of experiments, --
I loved them until they loved me.

Decked in garments of sable hue,
Daubed with ashes of myriad Lents,
Wearing shower bouquets of rue,
Walk I ever in penitence.
Oft I roam, as my heart repents,
Through God's acre of memory,
Marking stones, in my reverence,
"I loved them until they loved me."

Pictures pass me in long review,--
Marching columns of dead events.
I was tender, and, often, true;
Ever a prey to coincidence.
Always knew I the consequence;
Always saw what the end would be.
We're as Nature has made us -- hence
I loved them until they loved me.

L'Envoi

Princes, never I'd give offense,
Won't you think of me tenderly?
Here's my strength and my weakness, gents ---
I loved them until they loved me.

***

Ditty for Monday Afternoon- Ballade at Thirty-five

A little Dorthy Parker for a Monday Afternoon

Ballade at Thirty-five

This, no song of an ingénue,
This, no ballad of innocence;
This, the rhyme of a lady who
Followed ever her natural bents.
This, a solo of sapience,
This, a chantey of sophistry,
This, the sum of experiments, --
I loved them until they loved me.

Decked in garments of sable hue,

Daubed with ashes of myriad Lents,
Wearing shower bouquets of rue,

Walk I ever in penitence.

Oft I roam, as my heart repents,

Through God's acre of memory,

Marking stones, in my reverence,

"I loved them until they loved me."

Pictures pass me in long review,--

Marching columns of dead events.

I was tender, and, often, true;

Ever a prey to coincidence.

Always knew I the consequence;

Always saw what the end would be.

We're as Nature has made us -- hence

I loved them until they loved me.

L'Envoi

Princes, never I'd give offense,

Won't you think of me tenderly?

Here's my strength and my weakness, gents ---

I loved them until they loved me.

***

Behold..A Hidden Van Gogh Revealled

Science has given the art world a view at a Van Gogh that was never intended to be seen. Beneath the bright strokes of green, yellow, pink and blue that make up his 1887 landscape titled “Patch of Grass” lies the face of a simple Dutch peasant woman with haunting blue eyes.

A remarkable new X-ray technique, called X-ray fluorescence spectroscopy, which relies on the science of particle acceleration has recovered the hidden image in remarkable detail-even down to the colors Van Gogh used. While researchers were aware of the existence of the portrait, until the development of this new technique technological limitations could only show the outline of the woman. This new technique is able to show the entire painting and differentiates between color pigments, showing not only the distinct strokes but the original colors used.

The painting, owned by the Kroller-Muller Museum in the Netherlands, harkens back to a series of pieces painted by Van Gogh while he lived in the Dutch town of Nuenen. The most famous of his works from this period is his 1885 painting The Potato Eaters.

You may say “Patch of Grass” is quite lovely, but why would Van Gogh cover over his original painting? A fit of anger? A touch of madness? Maybe. But most likely it was his need to recycle canvases because of his poverty. Experts believe that this is not the only of his works hidden beneath another painting. They estimate that around one third of his works were painted over. Scientists, introducing the study in yesterday's Analytical Chemistry journal, said: "Van Gogh would often re-use the canvas of an abandoned painting and paint a new or modified composition on top... Our approach literally opens up new vistas in the non-destructive study of hidden paint layers, which applies to the oeuvre of Van Gogh in particular and to old master paintings in general." (I love that they got to say oeuvre)

They added: "These hidden paintings offer a unique and intimate insight into the genesis of his works. Yet current museum-based imaging tools are unable to properly visualize many of these hidden images." Maybe not any more gentlemen – I would expect that scholars and collectors alike would be more than thrilled to see beneath Van Gogh’s work just for the chance to see if they had literally gotten a two-for-one deal with their purchase.

It will be interesting to see how, now that they have made these discoveries these hidden gems will be exhibited. And, to see what other hidden treasure lies beneath the long dead masters canvases.

Oh Vincent, this world was never meant for one as beautiful as you.

A Serious Lady

Jane Bowles fascinates me. Her stern, unsmiling face in pictures by VanVetchen. Her circle of admirers. Her brief but impactful career.

While her entire list of work consists of one novel, one play and six short stories she was lauded by literary greats such as Tennessee Williams, John Ashbery and Truman Capote. She was considered a “writer’s writer” and yet, she is nearly unknown to the general populous.

Her book Two Serious Ladies, published in 1943 was met with mostly odd and uncomprehending reviews, and while she made several frustrating attempts, Jane never finished another book. The critics weren’t much kinder to one play that appeared on Broadway in 1953. In the Summer House was lauded by some and completely misunderstood by others – much like Jane herself.

While I find her a fascinating author, and have enjoyed her work, I must admit that her life and the circle of companions she travelled in just as much if not more fascinating. I first stumbled upon Bowles when I was reading “The February House” a few years ago. Once of my favorite non-fiction books, it tells the story of a period of time just before WWII in Brooklyn. A group of artists, including Gypsy Rose Lee, Carson McCullers, Paul & Jane Bowles, W.H. Auden and George Davis took up residence at 7 Middagh Street, a shabby brownstone, and busied themselves with creativity while playing host to a cavalcade of interesting folks from the children of Thomas Mann to Salvador Dali (who almost died in their study during a botched experiment with a diving suit) and his sullen wife Gala.

Jane married Paul Bowles in 1938. To be strictly honest, as one never knows what goes on behind another’s door, it seems to have been more a marriage of convenience, though they appear to have truly cared for each other. Jane was homosexual and the two lived fairly separate sexual lives. Paul was a well known classical composer, and Jane worked with him on several pieces while living in New York together and then in Tangiers, where Paul lived through much of the 1950s.

Jane’s life as an author was very brief; she always experienced difficulty writing, but by the 1950s things were made worse by alcohol and prescription drugs. Some blame her writers block on jealously of her husband Paul-who began writing after editing her book. Rumor had it that she felt that Paul had stolen her glory, but this isn’t a widely accepted belief.

In 1957 Jane suffered a major stroke at the age of just 39. The stroke left her with impaired vision and acute aphasia. While she tried to overcome the challenges of her impairments, she was unable to complete any more work after the stroke. Just ten years later, her mental and physical health had deteriorated to the point that Paul was forced to place her in a psychiatric hospital in their then home of Malaga, Spain. A year later she was moved to the Clinica de los Angeles in Malaga. She was released in 1968 and returned for a few months to her home in Tangier, where she visited her favorite bar (the Pergola) every day. Sadly, she had to be placed back into care in 1968 and stayed in a convent hospital until her death in May of 1973.

She Once Held an Apple - The Venus De Milo

The sculpture of Venus or Aphrodite stands in state in Paris's Louvre, mesmerisingly beautiful despite her broken form. She was discovered by a Greek peasant named Yorgos Kentrotas in 1820, on the island of Milos, broken into two large pieces, an apple in her left hand.

As soon as French naval officers recognized the historical significance of the ancient sculpture, they set about hauling the marble bulk off the island. A fight broke out as Venus was dragged across rocks to a waiting ship and both arms were broken off. The exhausted sailors refused to retrace their steps and search for the body parts, so the goddess's left arm remained cut off at the shoulder and her right at breast level.

The controversial plinth was initially found to fit perfectly as part of the statue, but after it was translated and dated, the embarrassed experts who had publicized the statue as a possible original work by the artist Praxiteles dismissed it as another later addition to the statue. The inscription read: "...(Alex)andros son of Menides, citizen of Antioch on the Maeander made this (statue)...".

The inscribed plinth would have moved the dating of the statue from the Classical Age to the Hellenistic Age because of the style of lettering and the mention of the ancient city of Antioch on the Maeander, which did not exist at the time Praxiteles lived.

So many "Oop's" for one magnificient sculpture.

A Moment of Silence for Audio Book Lovers

One of my dirty little secrets is that I love audio books. I have for years. I am a voracious reader, going through a couple hundred books a year. But, in my down time (in other words when my head isn't actually in a book) my ears are more often than not listening to one.

Audio books quench my thirst for what I call "snack books". Those are your garden variety mysteries and NYT Best Seller List titles. I like having a story told to me. I usually have one on the tape player as I nod off to sleep. Maybe it reminds me of my childhood-but I find it comforting. I've heard every audio book version of Sherlock Holmes and Agatha Christie that I could get my hands on..probably more than once. I discovered and fell in love with the indefatigable Amelia Peabody Emerson of Elizabeth Peter's works through audio books. I heartily admit that I adore the entire "Cat Who" series that for the most part has been voiced entirely by George Guidall. I know my book readers. I favor Barbara Rosenblat, George Guidall, Charles Keating, Michael Jayston and Meegan Fellows. And of course Jim Dale of Harry Potter fame.

This week marked the end of an era in the audio book arena. Last week there was a funeral at the midtown Manhattan offices of Hachette, the book publisher, to mourn the passing of the cassette tape. While the medium long ago shuffled off this mortal coil in the music business, it has lived and thrived among audio book publishers for decades.

"Cassettes accounted for 7 percent of all sales in the $923 million audio-book industry in 2006, the latest year for which data is available, according to the Audio Publishers Association. While many publishers, like Random House and Macmillan, stopped producing books on cassette in the last couple of years, there are holdouts.

At Blackstone Audio, which produces cassette versions of its roughly 340 annual titles, Josh Stanton, the executive vice president, said there was still demand from libraries and truckers, who buy them at truck stops. But he could forecast only that his company would produce cassettes through 2009.

Recorded Books, whose authors include Philip Roth and Jodi Picoult, still issues cassettes of all its titles, roughly 700 a year. Retailers like Borders and Barnes & Noble have essentially stopped ordering them, but libraries have been slower to abandon them, said Brian Downing, the company’s publisher. "

So goodbye dear friend. I'll miss those funny little comments at the beginning of most recordings; "if you have difficulty with any of these cassettes, hold the cassette in your hand and slap it smartly across your palm." Without my audio book cassette, what am I going to slap smartly across my palm? I ask you?

Ah well. I'll be holding onto my good old reliables until they snap and break.

Keep your paws off my Whitney Otto's and we'll be just fine.

Big Birds Daddy has Died...on My Birthday

Six years ago my Grandmother died on my birthday. This year we lost another great- Kermit Love, the man who brought Jim Henson’s characters- Big Bird, Mr Snuffleupagus, Oscar the Grouch and Cookie Monster to life.

Born in Spring Lake, New Jersey, in 1916, on leaving school Love became a puppet-maker for a theatre company. Switching to costume design, he worked for Orson Welles's Mercury Theatre in New York, before progressing to Broadway productions such as The Fireman's Flame (1937-38) and One Touch of Venus (starring Mary Martin, 1943-45).

Following his costume design for the New York City Ballet and Agnes de Mille's Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo production of Rodeo (1942), Love worked with Jerome Robbins on Broadway for the ballet Fancy Free (1946) and with other leading choreographers. With George Balanchine, his creations for Don Quixote (1965) included a 28ft-tall marionette giant.

Then came Sesame Street, with Love also designing characters for 22 foreign versions of the program. His most famous character, Big Bird, also made a cameo appearance in The Muppet Movie (1979).

Jim Henson insisted that his Muppet Kermit the Frog's name was settled before he met Love, who went into semi-retirement in the 1990s, although he continued to work with the Joffrey Ballet. His partner of 50 years was Christopher Lyall.

Mr. Love, thank you for making my childhood magical and sweet dreams.

A Fragile Display of War

On April 26, 1937, twenty-eight Nazi German bombers surged through the skies of the town of Guernica, Spain wreaking havoc and killing between 250 and 1,600 people. This act of cruelty brought the Spanish Civil War to the eyes of the world. It also sparked the creation of one of the most famous modern paintings- Pablo Picasso’s great masterpiece “Guernica”. The painting portrays Picasso’s interpretation of the air raid bombings and destruction brought down upon the Basque town, it presents death, violence, brutality, suffering and helplessness. It is often said that this work stands above all as a perpetual reminder of the tragedies of war, an anti-war symbol, and an embodiment of peace.

















Commissioned by the Spanish government, the 11ft tall, 25.6 ft wide mural was originally created for display at the Paris International Exhibition. At the completion of the World’s Fair event in Paris the massive painting went on tour around the world. In the over 70 years since its creation it has continued to tour, showing in great museums and even the United Nations building. But the time for touring may be drawing to a close.

When it was on display at the Metropolitan Museum in New York City restorers spent painstaking hours working to preserve the integrity of the piece from the wear and tear of thousands of exhibitions and as many miles of travel. It now resides at the Renia Sofia museum in Spain.

This week art experts have alerted the media that Picasso’s masterpiece is in “stable but serious” condition. Apparently, the years have taken its toll and has “suffered a lot and needs special care”. Curators from the famous contemporary art museum in Madrid gave their initial conclusions of the first detailed examination of the painting in ten years in a press conference on Tuesday.

There are no imminent plans for another restoration of the painting, as it would risk damaging it even further. The Spanish government has refused to move the famous work from Madrid to Guernica, in the Basque Country – or to the Guggenheim Museum in the Basque city of Bilbao.

Banksy Revealed? Is He Really Robin Gunningham?

For years people have wondered about the real man behind the name Banksy. One of the world's most famous names in art, his identity has been a closely guarded secret known to just a handful of friends. His grafitti art has changed how people look at grafitti. His secretiveness only added fire to the flame.

Such is the curiosity around Banksy that when he supposedly threw a pizza box into a garbage bin in LA, the box resurfaced on Ebay, with the seller suggesting that the few anchovies left inside might yeild DNA.

He is the Scarlet Pimpernel of Modern Art. The Robin Hood of the Council Estate Wall.

His stencil-style 'guerrilla' art started popping up in public spaces years ago in London, Brighton and Bristol. It's even appeared on the West Bank of Gaza on the wall seperating Israelis adn Palestinians. His work is interesting, contrversial and of late..quite sought after and expensive. Just ask Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie.

Turns out that he may well be a Bristol boy who made his way through public school and went on to paint public walls. Renowned for his use of stencils instead of the freehand grafitti style, some councils and businesses have started protecting his creations.

But is this real or rubbish? People who know Gunningham are now unable to say what has become of him. His father Peter, who lives in Kingsdown, Bristol, denied that the man in the photograph was his son, and his mother Pamela was surprised by the picture, then denied she even had a son, let alone one called Robin.

Banksy’s publicist would neither confirm nor deny whether the artist was Robin Gunningham.

My Favorite Post Secret of 2008

I read PostSecret.com every week. It's sort of like online therapy to me. If nothing else sometimes it humbles me and reminds me that no matter how good or bad I think my life is, there are plenty of other human beings on this planet that I'll never know who are experiencing the same things, the same heartbreak, happiness, depression, pure joy, insecurity, silliness..name an emotion..that I am.

I saw this today and had to save it. I love this.

The Deliciously Fascinating Fernado Pessoa

Sometimes the New York Times has some really delicious articles. I mean, the kind of interesting writing that makes me literally salivate and sparks my mind to fifteen different directions of thought. The latest example is Michael Kimmelmans article on Fernando Pessoa, the Portuguese writer and poet.

How on earth he whittled down this positively fascinating subject into two pages is quite beyond me. Pessoa, dead from cirrhosis in 1937, at the age of just 47 is a character who has so many layers it is almost unimaginable that even the surface could be scratched. In point of fact, Kimmelman lays the foundation for readers like me to find the foot and finger holds into the face of the story and begin to do our own exploration.

A lot of people find Pessoa fascinating because of his multi-year penpal relationship with the notorious Aleister Crowley. What must this quiet, spectacle clad, celibate have found to say to the British mystic, mountaineer, writer and practitioner of black magic?

I personally find him so fascinating because his mind is like an intricate labrynth-different people and lives living inside one man. While not psychotzophrenic, he literally had invented characters that he would write as-for example-Alexander Search, a Scottish engineer, Alberto Caeiro, Ricardo Reis, and Alvaro de Campos, a retired bisexual naval engineer and melancholic with an addiction to drugs. Delicous! Pessoa’s name literally describes him. In Portuguese Pessoa means “person.”

And what a person he must have been.

Get Up on the Soapbox

Talk about the world’s biggest soapbox. Soon Trafalgar Square’s Fourth Plinth will be transformed into a gigantic platform which will give anyone and everyone a chance to do whatever they want for an hour at a time.

The concept, developed by Anthony Gormley, is called “One and Other” is the latest winner of the “Fourth Plinth” project. Expected to go live next spring, Gormley’s piece will be a “haven for a certain degree of anarchy”. Originally scheduled to run for 365 days, the Gormley project – which will incorporate a safety net around the plinth to prevent people falling off and will necessitate six curators to guard it day and night – has since been scaled back to 100 days. The hydraulic stairs he first proposed to transport people on to the plinth have also been replaced; now a crane will lift people up for maximum theatrical impact.

"I'm favouring a crane because it will be a moment of theatre, someone lifted from common ground and made into an image when they are on top of the plinth ... It will be a spectacle, but I'm also concerned about the subjects, what they learn about themselves, exposed in a public arena," he said.

People who wish to take part in the project will be able to apply online.

Gormley did have one new, and slightly unusual, suggestion: a statue of the Mayor himself. "The idea of Boris Johnson not saying anything but simply standing there, with his hair blowing in the wind, looking at the city which he has come to be Mayor of might be a very nice thing," he said.

Another Eyedrum Book Sale- July 24th

If I Was A Rich Girl..Monet's Le Basin Aux Nympheas

Oh, to have money to burn. I wouldn’t burn it. No. I would buy art.

Lots of art-and I’d be nice and share it with everyone.

I would loan it to museums and go stand in awe of it next to the esthete’s and the flip-flop wearers and the screaming three year olds. I promise.

If there is a genie in a bottle somewhere or a bank robber or major corporation looking to divest themselves of a few hundred million dollars, I promise I’ll treat your funds with kindness and conscience.

For example, this week I’d have been front-row-center this week when “Le basin aux nympheas” by Claude Monet went on the block in Europe. The most important work from his Waterlilies series to be auctioned in Europe, it sold for 41 million Euro, a record price for the artists work.

The painting, produced in 1919 is unlike most of Monet’s other work which remained unfinished in the studio when he died in 1879 of lung cancer in 1926. Of the three other large-scale water-lily works, one is in the collection of New York's Metropolitan Museum of Art, one is in a private collection, and the third was cut in two before the Second World War.

Damien Hirst and his Golden Calf

Damien Hirst is famous for his audacity. Since the launch of his daring career in the late 90’s, he has dominated the modern art scene throughout the world. Now he’s really pushing the envelope and possibly slaughtering his own golden calf to boot…literally.

This September Hirst will do something that simply isn’t done..he’s taking his new collection straight to the auction block and circumventing the galleries. Needless to say, Sotheby’s is delighted. This audacious move is a first in history for a living artist. Sure, lots of art is sold through the fine auction houses of the world, but usually the artist is long dead. Hirst feels this will give the artist more control and provide a wider audience with the opportunity to purchase his work. Art experts predict the auction could mark a turning point in the way artists sell their work. Look out Christies, bet Banksy will be knockin at your door any day now.

The highlight of the collection is a typically outrageous piece of Hirstian creation called “The Golden Calf” which is of course, a gigantic calf suspended in formaldehyde. The 2.15 metre bull sculpture is crowned by a solid gold disc, while its hooves and horns are cast in 18-carat gold. The piece sits on a gigantic marble base and is encased in a gold-plated box. It’s expected to fetch at least 12 million Euro. The sale will also feature new paintings and sculpture of some of Hirst’s favorite subjects, butterflies, cancer cells and pills. Four of the pieces from the collection will be sold for charity.

Cheyenne Westphal, the chairman of Sotheby's contemporary art in Europe, said: "We are hoping museums and private collectors who make their artworks available to the public on a regular basis will be present."

She added that the latest creations took Hirst's large-scale sculptures to a "new level". "What's new here is the monumental scale and the use of gold," she said.

Check out the Christie’s site for a closer view of some of the other works that will be up on the block. I know I will!

The Quintessential Dancer Has Left the Stage - Cyd Charisse

When I was a little girl I loved Sunday afternoons. They meant old movies and musicals on TV. I gobbled up all the Fred and Ginger that Chanel 47 could put out. I saw Easter Parade, Royal Wedding, Top Hat, and Singin’ In the Rain so many times my parents begged told me they’d rather hear me learning to play the oboe than have to hear the songs again (which trust me sounded like I was slowly strangling a soprano goose with a bagpipe).

After the 3 o’clock flick was over I’d be pushed outside to play and would spend hours hanging upside in a tree, or running around the backyard pretending to be dancing with Fred or Gene. I loved the costumes and the sets. I loved the romance and the songs. I was probably the only kid on my block that could sing most of Cole Porter’s songs by heart by the age of nine.

There was one dancer who absolutely enchanted me. She was all legs- slinky, smooth and seductive. She seemed to turn the men she danced with into shadows. When she was on the screen nobody else existed. Cyd Charisse. Even my father, who rarely made comments about women other than my mother’s good looks, would stop and watch. She had something special. I didn’t get exactly what she had, but boy did she have it in spades.

Yesterday part of history passed when Ms. Charisse was taken from us by a sudden heart attack. She hasn’t appeared on film in decades-1958 to be exact. But she remains trapped like a magical spectre in those knockout numbers like “Dancing in the Dark” in Band Wagon and “Girl Hunt Ballet” where Fred Astaire dances with two stunning women-one blonde and one brunette-both danced by Charisse.

There was a fantastic comment in the New York Times this morning that I can’t help but quote. “The number, “Broadway Melody Ballet,” occurs in a film within a film that takes flight with Gene Kelly as an eager hoofer looking for his Broadway break, singing “Gotta Dance!” He slides on his knees toward the camera, abruptly stopping before his hat, which has somehow become perched on a foot attached to a long, long leg. He gapes (as do we) as that leg then rises straight in the air with phallic suggestiveness, a prelude to a carnal encounter that was as close to on-screen sex as was possible in the 1950s and wholly sublime.”

She was sex before I knew what sex was. She was beautiful and sublimely talented. And she will be greatly missed.

Picasso's "Sylvette" Breaks Auction Records in Australia

If you are a follower of Picasso you know that the women that graced his bed also grace his pictures. You could always tell when Picasso had taken a new lover (and sadly so could the women in his life) as his painting style would start to morph and new faces, new styles and even new colors would begin to push their way out of his canvases and creations. Not that his discarded ladies got much slack. As he was tiring of them they would begin to morph on the canvas as well. For example-Olga Koklova, his first wife became a face of pointed teeth and gaping mouth as Picasso dealt with her nagging and anger. Dora Marr who began as large yes and bright colors became a hardened, bitter woman who Picasso portrayed as the “weeping woman”.

There is one model that (wisely) never made the jump from model to lover. Sylvette David, who sat for the famous “Sylvette” painting at the age of just 17, kept her relationship with Picasso a platonic one. It’s even said that Brigette Bardot got her signature long, blonde ponytail from David.

Picasso met Sylvette when she was living in the south of France with her English-born mother and her mother’s boyfriend Toby Jelinek, a maker of avant-garde metal chairs. Picasso took a fancy to Jelinek’s style and ordered two chairs for his nearby studio. When Jelinek delivered the works he had Sylvette in tow. Several days later, Picasso appeared with a picture of her, drawn from memory and asked her to pose for him. In the months that she sat for him he produced over forty pictures of her.

Yesterday, in Sydney, Australia one of the most famous of those portraits entitled “Sylvette” was auctioned off for $6.9 million (6.1 million American dollars) smashing the record for the most paid for a work of art in that country. The painting was formerly part of the collection of the director of the gallery and famous art collector, Rodney Menzies.

Firewater- A Beautiful Mashup of Cultures

You might think I've been carried off by flying monkeys and completely forsaken this blog, but you'd be wrong. I am still and will always remain the bookishredhead. I've just been exceedingly busy of late.

I am positively impelled talk about a show I was fortunate enough to see this weekend. If you don't know about Firewater then get ready for a nearly religious experience. If you've ever felt the need to whirl like a Dervish and not look stupid in a crowd-this is the band for you. I've seen Gogol Bordello three times and Firewater would kick their ass and not apologize for it. Getting the point?

Anybody notice that some damn remarkable music is coming out of Brooklyn these days? Well-Firewater is originally from Brooklyn, and actually originally a punk band called Cop-Shoot-Cop (which happened to totally rock). But, then George Bush was elected again and the lead singer, the remarkably talented and visionary Tod A proclaimed he'd had enough of monkey boy and hit the road. I'm not 100% on the history-so don't quote me. But, I'm told he travelled from Deli, India to the Afghanistan border recording along the way. The trip produced an amazing amalgam of musical sounds from some of the best musicians of the area.

Saturday night brought Firewater to The Earl in Atlanta (sans a bass guitar which Eric seems to have left in Austin). I don't think the band thought that we were much of an audience when they first got there. A friend of mine spoke to Tod before the show and said he seemed a bit "whatever", but frankly, I would be a total butt if I was going from town to town and playing in hot, sweaty venues. I just wanted to hear the music. And BOY did we get music. The band played for nearly two hours and honestly blew us all away. I don't think any of us hadn't sweat through our clothes by the end of the night.

I can't decide who to compliment the most? It goes unspoken that Tod A was amazing. His dark, brooding lyrics and sarcastic attitude are absolutely wonderful. Did I mention he's a babe to boot? Meanwhile there is this stunning young woman named Avi Leibovitch, I think, who rocks the hell out of a trombone in a way that I didn't know was possible. Most bands travel with one drummer-but not Firewater. They have the excellent drummer, guitarist and bass player who's names I cannot seem to track down online to give them the heaps of praise they greatly deserve. Then there's Johnny Kalsi-the percussionist. All I can say is Good Lord. He absolutely brings people up off the ground. I haven't danced that much at a show in lord knows how long. Even the sullen little punk rockers behind me were dancing at the end of the show.

I have read blogs about the band before, and Tod A seems surprised that anybody bothers to come out to see them. I don't know if this is their shtick or if its real-but Mister-lemme tell you-come back to Atlanta. We'll be waiting for you.

Oh, and after all was said and done - two encores and a fantastic rendition of a personal favorite "Three Legged Dog", I looked around to see Tod A manning the t-shirt booth. Sweating as much as the rest of us were, he was absolutely charming. I even fanned him with my ever-present fan, to which he gave a kind thank you in return.

Firewater-you have a fan for life.

Total Advertising I Know, But It's for a Good Cause

So I'm doing another book sale at Eyedrum on June 20th. We're looking for donations. So, if you have shelves full of books you want to clear off let me know and I'll come get them.

Give Your Spare Change to Eyedrum

Okay-I never write about Eyedrum. I feel like its a conflict of interest since I'm on the board. But, we're hurtin for funds these days. So, if you're reading this and you're not a member, or you're a member and you haven't re-upped your membership this year-PLEASE do. We need to keep the lights on and no kidding-we might not be able to this month.

Cinematic Orchestra- Almost Painfully Beautiful

Two weeks ago I made a sojourn to the big city for an experience I knew would be one of those moments in life that if you let pass you by, you will always regret. I was right. It was a life changing musical event.

Cinematic Orchestra played one of their THREE (what a crime) U.S. shows in New York in the last week of April. They played in a tiny little venue in the East Village called the Jazz Standard. Somehow they shoehorned their seven bodies, piles of equipment, instruments and talent onto a stage that couldn't have been more than twelve feet deep and 25 feet across (when you have a stand-up bass, a piano, a sax player, and two guitars-that's damn snug).

These guys are musicians with a capital M. We're talking people who GET IT. They weave sound in this unbelievable web of beauty. Voice, electronic, real instruments, amazing, amazing. I was literally moved to tears. I have seen a lot of shows. I thought that maybe Andrew Bird was my favorite, or Zoe Keating..but this has to be it hands down. I just wanted it to go on and on. I don't think I could have gotten tired of hearing them play. I suspect if there weren't non-smoking laws in NYC they probably would have played longer. But they (and truthfully I) really needed some nicotine.

I also got to discover Grey Reverend, a friend of theirs who calls Brooklyn home and has done some work with them in the past. He played most of the set and did an acoustic'ish version of "Build A Home" that was breathtaking. Needless to say, I recommend you dash out today and buy everything they do and pile on the Grey Reverend while you're at it.

After the show I got a chance to chat up their road manager and their remarkable (and downright cute) sax player. They were of the opinion that there was nowhere in the south worth playing and I *hope I disabused them of this and they'll come to Atlanta. My fingers remain crossed. But, if they come back I'm certainly doing the road trip again.

Been Gone Too Long

I haven't forgotten about this blog. I have just been up to my eyeballs with life of late. Things haven't slowed down, so I'll just leave you with the following little snippet from Mrs. P. I stumbled upon a first edition of 'Death and Taxes' the last time I was in The Strand and I haven't been able to stop reading it.

Lady, lady, never start
Conversation toward your heart;
Keep your pretty words serene;
Never murmur what you mean.
Show yourself, by word and look,
Swift and shallow as a brook.
Be as cool and quick to go
As a drop of April snow;
Be as delicate and gay
As a cherry flower in May.
Lady, lady, never speak
Of the tears that burn your cheek-
She will never win him, whose
Words had shown she feared to lose.
Be you wise and never sad,
You will get your lovely lad.
Never serious be, nor true,
And your wish will come to you-
And if that makes you happy, kid,
You'll be the first it ever did.

Peter Callesen-From A Single Sheet of Paper

Someone from ArtPapers sent me a link to this persons work a few weeks ago and I'm still utterly fascinated with it. I'm actually beginning to see trends in my own tastes, and you dear reader may see them as well. There was the Brian Dettmer works that swept me off my feet earlier last year and now Peter Callesen.

How can you not find these fascinating? Single pieces of paper that literally come to life. Callesen creates characters and entire worlds with simple snips of scissors. Some of the work is even disturbing. For example, the dying birds. They are not real, but there is still such a heart-rending emotion attached to the visual of these beautiful, delicate little forms struggling. You can almost hear the tiny thumps of their panicked hearts.

I very much like his explanation of these particular works. "A common theme in many of my works is a reinterpretation of classical fairy tales as well as a more general interest in memory in connection to childhood - for instance in my performances Castle, Folding and Jukebox. These playful performances exist in the lost land of childhood, between dream and reality and it is in this meeting or confrontation of these two conditions, in a kind of Utopian embodiment, that these works of art become alive, often in a tragicomic way.

This interest for the romantic is extended in my later exhibitions White Shadows at Esbjerg Art Museum and From dust to dusk, but here with less focus on the confrontation between dream and reality leaving more space for the poetic aspect as well as the possibility of a reality behind or within the dream."

Please do visit his site. These are just a few photographs that are available. I'd LOVE to see his work in person.

http://www.petercallesen.com/index.html