Magnificent Jewels…Indeed

Oh to have all the money in the world. I would be kind to my fellow man. I would do good for others, share, be kind. Help kitties and bunnies, cure world hunger, avoid crooked politicians and garden for good. I wouldn’t become a snotty, manicured charlatan and swan off to Biarritz to play cards with the hoi-polloi. I promise I wouldn’t.

Jins trapped in bottles in the deserts of Egypt and Saudi Arabia…are you listening?

If I had all the money in the world I’d be front and center this coming week in the great halls of Christies Auction House in New York. I’ve been reading Manon Lescaut of late, so maybe I’m primed to be taken advantage of by the French and their great ability to make even the most decadent look stylish. With that in mind, I’ve fallen in love with a little beauty created by the House of Boucheron that goes up on the auction block this coming week. First- it’s a Boucheron. Enough said? The audacious 28 year old Frederic was the first jeweler to open premises on the Place Vendome in 1858. Luxurious and utterly opulent, decorated with crystal chandeliers and velvet fabrics, his boutique quickly attracted a prestigious clientele. His experiments with diamond engraving are simply breathtaking, and were the precursor of the “nature” style that he created by using snakes and other symbolic animal figures of the 19th Century Art Nouveau period.

Simple but intricate, like the very subject itself, this divine Art Nouveau bumblebee brooch is adorned with diamonds, sapphires and enamel. Valued at a paltry $60,000 to $80,000 dollars its a bargain of the day in my humble opinion.

Oh, this piece must have such a history. Where has she been? What balls and fine restaurants and soirees has she attended? What envious eyes have been cast upon her graceful beauty? The unknowable history of the piece makes it more appealing to me than its monetary value.

Come on-give a girl a present. You know you want to.

By the way, should you feel so moved, there’s also a pretty scrumptious Belle Époque diamond aigrette bandeau by Cartier (estimated to auction for $450,000 to $650,000) that would look divine on my cat Meshinko.

Sigh. A girl can dream. And with creations like these, what sweet dreams.

Book Autopsies

If you haven’t figured it out by now, I love books-any book. I love the smell of them, the feel of them, the fonts, the paper, the words that tie them together, even most of the people who are brave enough to write them-even twaddle. I hate going into a bookstore and seeing someone slamming books on and off shelves. I literally shudder when I see people mistreating books. Not being a fan of small human beings I hesitate to compare them to babies-but they are-they are like delicate things to be treated with caution and love.

So, the concept of someone taking a scalpel to an old tome to make it into a piece of art should raise my hackles? No? Well-I thought it would but I’ve found a considerable exception to the rule. I can barely find a way to explain the amazing work that Brian Dettmer is doing. They are called Book Autopsies.

I’ve tried to find more information on the artist, but there’s not much on the Internet about him other than lots of images of his work, which in my opinion is a harmonious balance between the collage work of Joseph Cornell and the intricate perfection of a Hieronymus Bosch painting.

Brian Dettmer-I’m looking for you. I want to own some of your work. I want to see inside your head. I am officially fascinated.

Very superstitious, writings on the wall....

A black cat crossing your path signifies that the animal is going somewhere. --Groucho Marx

Yes, I am actually pretty superstitious. I admit it. I embrace it.

I'm 36 and I lift my feet when I go over railroad tracks.
I cross myself when a hearse drives past me.
I throw spilled salt over my shoulder.
I don't walk under ladders.
I get the willies when a broom falls.
I never put my shoes on the bed.

I started thinking about superstitions the other day when I was out shopping and watched a man take four umbrellas from a Marshall's store, walk outside and open them to see which he liked best. Nobody jumped him. Nobody yelled "STOP THAT WILEY UMBRELLA THIEF!". It was just like he was stopping to tie his shoes. He made his selection, went back inside and made his purchase. In these cynical, wary-eyed days I thought it was fairly amazing to see that our superstitions are still so prevalent. We might not believe in the words of the press-but dangit, we're not breaking a mirror in fear of 7 years bad luck.

These things seem so amazingly silly. I mean, do you know anybody who has ever broken his mothers back by stepping on a crack? Have you seen someones car break down after they said "this thing never breaks down"? But still we do it. It's like blinking-it just is.

I honestly think that we're a bit superstitious whether we're willing to admit it or not. I've never gotten the "evil eye" but I think I'd know it if I saw it. And, I'd probably follow suit by going "phoo, phoo" while spitting between my pointer and middle finger of my right hand. Hey, just being cautious. Why the heck not.

I think the thing about superstition is that it's not provable. Why did Uncle Jethro loose his job? Not because he was a total slacker, or the stock market plunged. It must certainly be because his daughter touched his shoe with a broom while sweeping the kitchen.

Why did I get a raise last week? Because I had an itchy palm.

See-good or bad. There's a superstition for everything.
So, I admit it. I'm superstitious. Why not? If there's fate, then maybe there's superstition. Meanwhile, I'll continue to terrify my passengers by lifting my feet while going over railroad tracks. Chill. I haven't killed anybody...yet.

Resume for a Season

Fall is here, and I'm far from down at the mouth about it. I, unlike many others find that the dying days of summer and approaching of winter is my most vibrant time of the year. While others are knocking up their daily dosage of Prozac, fall seems to bring an absolute calm to me. Maybe it means I should go live in Portland. When I tried to explain my "spring blues" to my psychiatrist this year he gave me a quizzical look, and said "I should write a paper on you." I love that. Someday I'll grow up to be a lab rat.

A friend just called and said he'd procured a book for me at a Salvation Army in Gastonia, North Carolina. It's "Might As Well Live" about Dorothy Parker. I've been meaning to buy the book forever. Thank you Clay! Thank You Gastonia Goodwill!

In tribute to my favorite time of the year, and my favorite melancholy mistress of dark prose, I give you this poem. Smile when you read it, it makes life look much brighter.

Resume

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.

When Art Inspires Literature

There is a story which has been handed down through literary history, which may be an urban myth, and might well be fact. It is that of a nightmare sparked by a famous (or rather, infamous) painting by Henri Fuseli upon the opium addled mind of Mary Shelley which led her to create the story of Frankenstein.

Years ago, I saw a rather bad film called “Haunted Summer” which was based loosely upon the relationship between Shelley, her husband and Byron. The painting by Fuseli looms throughout the film and eventually causes the nightmare which spawns Frankenstein. This was my first encounter with the famous painting and my first with the incubus, which I have since often mixed-up with the other soul sucking demon, the female of the type; the succubus. So remember boys and girls- incubus is a boy, succubus is a girl. Both are nasty little buggers who suck your soul out and rape you in the night.

So-other than a nasty nightmare, how do the two intersect? Interestingly enough, the artist is said to have had a very odd affair with one Mary Wollstonecraft- Shelly’s mother. Seems that Wollstonecraft fell utterly in love with the married Fuseli, and she poured her platonic love over him like the waves of a turbulent storm. So enamored with him was she, that she approached
Fuseli’s wife with a proposal. Since her love for him was so utterly platonic, wouldn’t it be lovely if the three of them lived together? With that, Fuseli had to end their odd unconsummated affair. Heartbroken, Mary Wollstonecraft went on to marry someone else. Then she died giving birth to the girl who would become Mary Shelley.

Nineteen years later, back in Fuseli's homeland of Switzerland, Mary Shelley penned Frankenstein as an exercise in Gothic style. The day of Gothic novels was past by then, but Frankenstein became the most famous Gothic novel of them all.

There are two versions of this painting-once much more sinister than the other. In the first, the incubus seems almost munchkin-like, and there is less terror in the scene overall. In the second, it seems that Fuseli delves deep into horror for inspiration. The eyes of the horse are stricken with fear, and the face of the incubus is much more sinister.

As a final tasty little note; Sigmund Freud was known to have an engraving of this work in his Vienna apartment in the 1920s.
Interesting, eh?

Through Smoke

[French parfum, from Old Italian parfumo, from parfumare, to fill with smoke : par-, intensive pref. (from Latin per-, per-) + fumare, to smoke (from Latin f m re, from f mus, smoke).]

Each day as part of my ablutions, my favorite thing is to choose the scent that will make up my day. Before I choose my clothes, before I poke my head out the window to see what Mother Nature has in store for me, I choose the perfume that will be the pleasure of my olfactory senses for the day.

Coco Chanel once said, “A woman who doesn’t ear perfume has no future.”

Chanel was one of the first perfumes that I had the privilege of knowing. I smell it and think of the expensive little square bottle, and my mother running the glass stopper across her elegant collarbone and behind her ears. It was femininity to me-what it meant to be a woman. So, of course, I wanted to wear it-NOW-at seven years old. Of course, it was inappropriate for a child. For that matter, if what some of the fashionista’s and those in the know seem to believe, I’ve another 20 years before it will be appropriate for me to wear the sultry scent. Just thinking of this makes me recall Holly Golightly standing at the diamond counter at Tiffany's saying "I simply adore diamonds darling, they're wonderful on older women, but not right for me, you understand."

If you think about it, I’m sure you can conjure a few people in your life, maybe someone long past, maybe someone you only met for a second, with the memory of their perfume. If you want to be irreplaceable-be unforgettable. There are few memories that can be locked away deeper than those we associate with a distinct scent.

There are three or four perfumes in my arsenal. I sometimes layer them, but I like the purity of one complex perfume. I’m sad to say that my taste in perfume is much like most of the things in my life-terribly expensive. Earlier this year I was in a famous department store in New York City and a lovely girl waved a scented piece of cardstock near my nose and I was trapped, like a deer in headlights. “I’ll take it!” I huskily replied. She was taken aback at my instant response, though I doubt I’m the first or last who will have it. Sadly-I left the store without anything other than the little piece of scented cardstock and a deep yearning in my heart. My picky little olfactory sense had betrayed me again. I had fallen rock hard in love with the most expensive perfume LITERALLY made- Clive Christians’ No. 1. The bloody stuff comes in a hand-cut Baccarat beaker with a carat diamond in the 18K gold collar of the bottle. Priced at a modest $2,150.00 an ounce I figure when I win the lottery I’ll just fill a bucket with the stuff and slosh around in it till I get pruney.

Meanwhile, I’ll have to be pleased (which I most certainly am) with my few favorites. My scents of choice are as follows; Angelique Encens by Creed, George Sand by Perfumiers Historique, Voleur de Roses by L’Artisian Parfumeur and Mitsouko by Guerlain. As I said while walking down Park Avenue in New York after buying my first bottle of George Sand, “I smell like money”. No 50 Cent-I will NOT give you the credit for that quote!

It may sound utterly conceited to anyone who finds no value in the art form of scent. My perfumes remind me that each day a little grace must fall into your life to keep you truly alive. It assures me that if nothing else, while some people think that "luxury is the opposite of poverty. It is not. It is the opposite of vulgarity.”

Small Things Can Have Big Histories

A few years ago I stumbled upon a little book in my local library that captured my imagination from beginning to end. I’d been to the British Museum a year or so earlier and seen the vase, but it didn’t stick in my mind as a thing of astonishing beauty or rarity. Like many of the items in that colossal building, their majesty is usually marked only with a small, discrete card with little or any background. You could be looking at the hand of God himself, and unless some docent or passer-by happened to point it out, you’d as likely as not pass it by unnoticed.

The fact that it is a beautiful piece of work aside it is the history of the Portland Vase that intrigues me. It has “survived” (a term that must be used loosely here) a deranged vandal in 1845, and the bombing of the British Museum by the Germans. It has been literally smashed to bits and rebuilt from the ground up twice. Lord knows how many times it has avoided complete destruction.

The 9 ¾-inch glass vase is a deep opaque violet blue-nearly black, and is overlaid with white glass in which scenes of mythological figures are cut. Notice the resemblance to Wedgwood? Yeah-there’s a reason for that—we’ll get there. While renowned for its beauty, the meaning of the decorative scenes carved into its sides have never been fully ascertained (though highly speculated and written about), and its origins remain utterly mysterious.

Scholars do not agree on who owned the vase in ancient Rome, and even its emergence during the Renaissance period is shrouded in mystery. It was said to have been discovered in a sarcophagus outside Rome in the early 1580’s, but there seems to be no documentation of its unearthing at this time. By the early 17th century it was owned by Cardinal Francesco Maria Borbone del Monte, who died in 1626, and whose heir Alessandro, promptly sold the family heirloom to Cardinal Antonio Barberini. The vase remained in their palace in Italy, along with the rest of the Barberini’s fantastic collection of paintings and sculptures for 150 years. Much to the chagrin of Italians everywhere, the vase was next acquired by a Scottish architect living in Italy named James Byres. Byres had a reputation-not all of it good. Most of the time he made his gelt by giving rich Americans and British subjects tours of the region, serving as docent, guide and expert. Not being a man of settled financial means, it is not surprising that Byres sold it to a Sir William Hamilton.

Hamilton was WILD about Roman vases. Sent them home by fairly the crate-load. Literally. When he made the hugely expensive purchase (basically on a whim) he quickly realized that getting his acquisition home would be a bit of a challenge. Byres of course had the solution, and went about getting the false documents and provenance that Hamilton would need to ship home the piece without having to pay a kings-ransom in duties, and of course-that would keep the Italian government from ceasing its exit from their shores.

So far, the vase was just called a vase, sometimes the Barberini vase. It was not until 1784, when Margaret, the duchess of Portland, saw the vase. She was instantly in love, and sought the piece for her collection. Sadly, she was unable to enjoy her new vase for long. She died on July 17, 1785 less than a year after she first saw the work. This is when the breaking begins. In 1810 a friend of Margaret’s son, the duke of Portland, broke off the base of the vase. He decided not to take any other chances with it and lent it to the British Museum, where it presumably would be safe and cold be enjoyed by a wide audience.

No such luck.

In 1845, a young man named William Mulcahy who had been drinking for several days before stumbling into the British Museum for a tour, grabbed an object, shattered the case holding the vase and then smashed the vase. The onlookers were astonished, and frankly baffled as to his motive. Its never been ascertained as to what was going through his mind when he wreaked this destruction, and because British Law did not provide penalties for destroying items of high value, he was soon released after an anonymous person posted his bail. Needless to say the British Museum was a bit embarrassed, but rather than send a personal representative, they chose to send the Duke and his family a note about the smashing in which it pronounced the culprit mad. The vase has been restored three times in its known existence. After Mulcahy broke it into some 200 pieces, it was repaired by the museum’s John Doubleday, who was left with a little box of extra shards. Over time, the color of the glue that he used to piece the vase together changed colors and the Museum decided to have a restoration attempt made again. This time they hired James H.W. Axtell, who carefully broke it apart and repaired it again using transparent glue. He too had over a dozen chips left at the end of his restoration. Lastly, in 1986 Nigel Williams, the chief conservator of ceramics at the British Museum broke the vase and restored it with modern epoxy and other materials.

From the standpoint of art history, the vase is interesting as it has twice served as a major source of artistic inspiration. One, a copy created by Wedgwood, and the second a copy commissioned by Benjamin Richardson who offered 1000 pound prize for anyone who could duplicate the cameo work in glass. It took glass maker Philip Pargeter three years with the assistance of John Northwood (who did the engraving), to win the prize. This copy stands today in the Corning Glass Museum in New York.

This lovely piece remains in the Museum today, apart from three years (1929-32) when The Duke of Portland put the vase up for sale at Christies. The vase failed to make its reserve price, but was purchased in 1945 by the British Museum with the aid of a bequest from James Rose Vallentin.

Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose

Some people believe that John Singer Sargent’s paintings are too perfect, too sweet, and too beautiful. I am not one of those people. I simply adore his work. If I had a month left of this life, and could choose, I think one of those days would be spent standing stock still on the creaky floors of the Tate Museum in London whiling away the precious minutes staring at his work.

One of the first you encounter-or that simply snatches out at you in that wonderful old place is Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose, the title of which was lifted from the light-hearted lyrics of a popular song of the time.

The story of its birth is a lovely little one, first conceived in the magnificent garden of the Lavington Rectory in 1884 when Sargent was staying with the Vickers family. The idea (a purely fanciful one to be sure) was to capture, not the most perfect sunset, but the affect of the most perfect sunset has, in terms of color, shadows and light on a scene. But it was more than that. How about the artificial light of Chinese lanterns at the precise moment of twilight when lanterns and sun are at perfect equilibrium? Sargent was a strict follower of Impressionism-he painted exactly what he saw-not what his imagination wanted him to see. So, he painted for only minutes each day. Minutes.

He began by using a friend’s young daughter who was only 5 at the time as a model. They put a wig on her to lighten her hair and then propped the darling thing up as if she were lighting a Chinese lantern.

He worked on the picture, from September to early November 1885, and again at the Millets's new home, Russell House, Broadway, during the summer of 1886, completing it some time in October of that year. Each chance he could get; he would dress the children in white sweaters which came down to their ankles, over which he pulled the dresses which appeared in the picture. Even in the cold, he painted. When the roses in the garden gradually faded and died, he requisitioned artificial substitutes, which were affixed to the withered bushes.

The picture was bought for the Tate Gallery in 1887, under the terms of the Chantrey bequest, largely at the insistence of the Royal Academy President, Sir Frederic Leighton. A portrait by Sargent of Mrs. Barnard (1885), made at the same time as Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose, is also in the Tate.

His work is beauty itself. If you have ever the chance to see it-please, do yourself the favor and do.