dual personalities

Tag: Donna Tartt

Yours, yours. I was painted for you.

by chuckofish

Today is the birthday of Frederick Childe Hassam (October 17, 1859 – August 27, 1935), one of our favorite American Impressionist painters, so it is a no-brainer what our post will be about.

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Self-portrait

In case you were wondering, his name “Hassam” comes from a seventeenth-century English ancestor whose name, Horsham, had been corrupted over time to Hassam. At least, that’s what Wikipedia says.

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“End of the Trolley Line, Oak Park, Illinois”–a flyover subject!

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Childe Hassam painting on Appledore

“Great paintings—people flock to see them, they draw crowds, they’re reproduced endlessly on coffee mugs and mouse pads and anything-you-like. And, I count myself in the following, you can have a lifetime of perfectly sincere museum-going where you traipse around enjoying everything and then go out and have some lunch. But if a painting really works down in your heart and changes the way you see, and think, and feel, you don’t think, ‘oh, I love this picture because it’s universal.’ ‘I love this painting because it speaks to all mankind.’ That’s not the reason anyone loves a piece of art. It’s a secret whisper from an alleyway. Psst, you. Hey kid. Yes you. An individual heart-shock. Your dream, Welty’s dream, Vermeer’s dream. You see one painting, I see another, the art book puts it at another remove still, the lady buying the greeting card at the museum gift shop sees something else entire, and that’s not even to mention the people separated from us by time—four hundred years before us, four hundred years after we’re gone—it’ll never strike anybody the same way and the great majority of people it’ll never strike in any deep way at all but—a really great painting is fluid enough to work its way into the mind and heart through all kinds of different angles, in ways that are unique and very particular. Yours, yours. I was painted for you. And—oh, I don’t know, stop me if I’m rambling… but Welty himself used to talk about fateful objects. Every dealer and antiquaire recognizes them. The pieces that occur and recur. Maybe for someone else, not a dealer, it wouldn’t be an object. It’d be a city, a color, a time of day. The nail where your fate is liable to catch and snag.”

―Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch 

Standin’ in the rain talkin’ to myself

by chuckofish

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I was reading The Secret History by Donna Tartt, which is her first novel, published when she was 29 years old. It is about a group of self-involved college students (classics majors) at a small, elite college in Vermont.

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The book has problems, but I can appreciate Tartt on different levels. Hailed as a literary star, she has won many awards. I usually find “stars” unappealing, but I have to admit she’s pretty darn good.

Pur: that one word contains for me the secret, the bright, terrible clarity of ancient Greek. How can I make you see it, this strange harsh light which pervades Homer’s landscapes and illumines the dialogues of Plato, an alien light, inarticulable in our common tongue? Our shared language is a language of the intricate, the peculiar, the home of pumpkins and ragamuffins and bodkins and beer, the tongue of Ahab and Falstaff and Mrs. Gamp; and while I find it entirely suitable for reflections such as these, it fails me utterly when I attempt to describe in it what I love about Greek, that language innocent of all quirks and cranks; a language obsessed with action, and with the joy of seeing action multiply from action, action marching relentlessly ahead and with yet more actions filling in from either side to fall into neat step at the rear, in a long straight rank of cause and effect toward what will be inevitable, the only possible end.

The problem is I don’t care anything about any of the characters. She makes me feel nothing for them. They are sociopaths with few (if any) redeeming qualities. They are not even very interesting as “bad guys.” Having gone to a school similar to the fictional Hampden College, I get it. But the jerks she writes about are her heroes and they are not, believe me, heroes. I read half of the 500+ page book, and then thought, no, this is not worth my time. I skimmed the rest and read the end. I do not feel guilty about this.

I read The Power of Her Sympathy, the autobiography and journal of the mid-19th century author Catharine Maria Sedgwick (December 28, 1789 – July 31, 1867). She lived in Stockbridge and was a descendant of Ephraim Williams, founder of Williams College, among other noteworthy ancestors. She is very appealing to me.

The first of our Sedgwick ancestors of whom I have any tradition was Robert Sedgwick, who was sent by Oliver Cromwell as governor or commissioner…As I am a full believer in the transmission of qualities peculiar to a race, it  pleases me to recognize in “the governor,” as we have always called him, a Puritan and an Independent, for to none other would Cromwell have given a trust so important. A love of freedom, a habit of doing their own thinking, has characterized our clan…Truly I think it a great honor that the head of our house took office from that great man who achieved his own greatness, and not from the King Charleses who were born to it and lost it by their own unworthiness.

Don’t you love that? Well, she was something of a literary star in her day as well. I will need to follow up with one of her novels–Hope Leslie or The Linwoods.

I tried The Round House by Louise Erhdrich, which won the National Book Award in 2012. Meh.

I may have to go back to Pierre. I could do a lot worse.

Now that we are over a week into Lent, I need to turn my movie watching to a more spiritual focus. I watched Cool Hand Luke (1967) a few weeks ago, and was reminded what a tremendous movie it is indeed.

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I highly recommend it as part of your Lenten fare.

But first, I will remind you that 71 years ago today 30,000 U.S. Marines stormed Iwo Jima. If you need a good reason to watch John Wayne in Sands of Iwo Jima (1949), here it is!

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And news alert: ninety-two percent of college students prefer reading a traditional book rather than an e-book, according to a new study.

Have a good weekend!

Everything was blazing

by chuckofish

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…Everything was blazing, everything was sweet. They were playing old Bob Dylan, more than perfect for narrow Village streets close to Christmas and the snow whirling down in big feathery flakes, the kind of winter where you want to be walking down a city street with your arm around a girl like on the old record cover–because Pippa was exactly that girl, not the prettiest, but the no-makeup and kind of ordinary-looking girl he’d chosen to be happy with, and in fact that picture was an ideal of happiness in its way, the hike of his shoulders and the slightly embarrassed quality of her smile, that open-ended look like they might just wander off anywhere they wanted together, and–there she was! her! and she was talking to herself, affectionate and old-shoe, asking me about Hobie and the shop and my spirits and what I was reading and what I was listening to, lots and lots of questions…

–Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch

Okay, I have finally finished this magnum opus and I have to say I liked it. I think it is overly long and could have used some tightening up. At times I wanted to tell ol’ Boris to shut the hell up, but, you know, he was a talker.  I have heard some blog-grumbling about the end of the novel. Personally–spoiler alert–I was relieved to have it work out the way it did. And I think the last twenty pages were worth waiting for.

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I guess they are making a movie. I’m sure it will be awful. Sigh.

 

What are you reading?

by chuckofish

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This past weekend I went to several really good estate sales. One was at the home of a woman who had gone to my school, graduating 20 years earlier. Clearly it was a home she had moved to after either getting a divorce or being widowed. You can always tell when this is the case, because the woman has painted the inside of the house pink and redone the closets to suit herself. She has said, in effect, finally I’m going to have things the way I like.

She had obviously been an avid needlepointer. I bought a couple of unfinished kits and two books.

One is a vintage copy of Mary Martin’s Needlepoint (1969)–a delightful look into the hobby and home of the famous Broadway star.

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You remember Mary Martin–she starred on Broadway in the original productions of Annie Get Your Gun,  South Pacific, The Sound of Music and a host of other shows.

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She took up needlepointing as a way to pass the time waiting in the wings offstage and on sets. She started BIG…with a rug!

Mary posing on "the rug" with other projects

Mary posing on “the rug” with other projects

“The Rug is known by a variety of names. It was the innocent, impulsive beginning—all five and a half by seven and a half feet of it!—of my doing needlepoint.”  She designed it herself, incorporating symbols that represented important aspects of her life. It took a few years, but she kept going. Impressive. Also impressive is the fact that she designed all her own work. No  kits for her! Her stitching is all very personal and heart-felt.

Through the years several of her friends found and bought antique samplers from the 18th and 19th centuries for her that included the name “Mary Martin” on them. Nice friends! Eventually she designed her own sampler incorporating motifs from shows that meant the most to her.

Mary's theater sampler

Mary’s theatre sampler

Mary Martin made pillows, purses, pictures, upholstered furniture, and more throughout her storied life. For needlepointers or theater-lovers, this is a fun book.

Meanwhile I continue to work my way through The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt. I am determined to finish this rather Dickensian opus, but I do think it is overly long. The author writes very well; we’ll see.

I must say that I believe I would get along famously with the author, who is considered one of the most reclusive contemporary authors around. Moreover, she’s indifferent to technology, avoids social media and does most of her writing by hand in notebooks. According to one of the very few articles I could find about her (in Business Day), “when her novels are released, she grants few interviews in which she reveals very little about herself. She’s known to become prickly when journalists dare suggest certain characters in her books are based on people she knows. Her private life is just that, private.”

What are you reading?

The weekend approacheth

by chuckofish

Well, this time last week I was going out to dinner with cute boys and hanging out with daughter #2. This week it has been back to the salt mines for me as usual. Work, work, work.

One bright spot was going to my first lacrosse game of the season.

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The boy’s Varsity Hounds creamed his old high school team 15-3.

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It was kind of weird sitting in the KHS football stadium cheering for the “visitors”. It was also quite cold! Once it started to get dark, I had to bail and go home even with my winter coat and a Bean’s wool blanket to sit on.

At home I am keeping my spirits up with these pretty flowers–and, yes, the Christmas Cactus is blooming again.

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On the reading front, having finished Peter Carey’s wonderful Olivier and Parrot, I started reading The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt and I am hooked. The book, which took more than 10 years to write, is narrated by Theo Decker, a 13-year-old New York boy whose world is violently disrupted during a routine visit to the Metropolitan Museum of Art with his mother. A terrorist bomb explodes, killing Theo’s mother and other innocents, including a man who, just before dying, implores Theo to take “The Goldfinch” out of the smoking wreckage of the museum. I have not read Tartt’s other two books, but I am impressed. We’ll see if she holds me for 700 pages. I plan to find out this weekend.

Have a great weekend!