Watching Wimbledon Makes Me Remember London

Watching Wimbledon on TV is a summer ritual for me.  The tennis is so awesome, plus the leads, closings and commercial segues of the broadcast always show scenes from in and around London.  "I was there!" I say.  "And I was there - and there - and I rode that double decker!"  whatever.  I did.

This moment (below) was the highlight of my trip to London in 2010.  It's from a journal entry I wrote at the time.  I believe this was one of the most special moments with my daughter - subtle and loving and breathtaking, like her:  

National Gallery, London

Here I am again, lost in the paintings of a museum.  I’m with Mary, though not now. She’s in another gallery somewhere.  We’re at the National Gallery of Art in London and this is my 3rd visit here in three days.  The Gallery is way too heart-stoppingly, hyper-ventingly dangerous that I need to do it in bits - pace myself.  breathe.

​

I’m so happy to be here in London with Mary, if even for a short time.  She is studying and I am visiting, and she has taken me to this museum. Her gift to me.

Young Man Holding a Skull

Frans Hals

1626-1628

​
Each gallery is paradise - each artist, each painting has an idea for me.  I am caught up in Young Man Holding a Skull (Frans Hals, 1626-28) wondering if it really does look quite modern in its brush strokes and expression, when I hear,

“mom . . . MOM . . . come here.”

​

I see Mary’s face now, eyes wide, turned to me like Girl With a Pearl Earring (Johannes Vermeer, 1665, The Hague) . . . art is everywhere. 

Girl With A Pearl Earring

Johannes Vermeer

1665

The Hague

I go to her where she is standing just inside the next gallery, watching her as she motions me to see what is there, now, right in front of me.  I see.  My breath leaves me.  I look at Mary and want to cry.  

​

“Leonardo,” she says. “It’s Leonardo.”

                            

She just knows all that it means to me.  

The Burlington House Cartoon

Leonardo da Vinci

1499-1500

 

Thoughtful Kind of Day: Damn, It's Raining - Again

Breaking Wave

Charles H. Woodbury

1917

It's raining for the fourth day in a row.  Too many days to justify anymore that quiet is nice, house cleaning is gratifying, reading is transporting, and writing is therapeutic.  The TV has been on Wimbledon and Netflx the whole time, but I haven't been trying to justify that. Though even with my "shows", it's gotten a little lonely - John is out of town at the Wooden Boat Show in Mystic - and I'm starting to think and daydream maybe too much.

However, I have art.

I discovered a new artist, for me, someone who has given me much to think about.  Charles Herbert Woodbury (1864-1940), American painter, etcher, illustrator.  I've become fascinated with his seascapes - his representations of water in particular.  The still and shifting surfaces are thickly painted with rich colors that create both translucent and reflective qualities.  The water he paints is graceful and fluid in it's movement.  He is painting it as it is:  "...he painted what he saw, satisfied that what he saw was really there, all in proper relationship, checked and rechecked by endless reference to the real world" (David Woodbury, son).

And his maxim, “Paint in verbs, not nouns.”   

I can see that.

Gloucester Docks

Charles H. Woodbury

1935

The Irish Lady Off Land's End

Charles H. Woodbury

1900

The Blue Cliff

Charles H. Woodbury

1916

Deco Wave (Dancing Wave)
Charles H. Woodbury
1914

It's not intentional that this post is about water when it has been raining endlessly.   At least I didn't think about it until now.  It's a curious coincidence.  But Charles Woodbury helped me pass the time.

It's even raining at Wimbledon . . . ugh:

(www.london24.com)

a mom memory

I'm thinking of my mom these days.  Every day, really.  I miss her. 

We all miss her.  It's our first summer without her.

In 1978, for my birthday, she sent me a card, a card that I have safely tucked away between pages of my Gardner's Art Through the Ages, except for now.  It's right here in my hands, her lovingly handwritten and thoughtful words are right here with me now.  I can even hear her voice:

"Sari Dearest - 
          
          Wishing you a happy birthday!  Will be thinking of you with all of our love on your day.

          We saw this print - and remembered that Winslow Homer is one of your very favorite artists.  Also - this particular work reminded me of the many times I held you just like this while we waited for Dad's ship to come home.  Do you remember those times at all? - or were you too little?

          . . . It is Sunday morning - a beautiful day.  We are going to play golf this afternoon.  Dad worked hard yesterday - fertilized the garden et al - The mallards arrived on the pond a week or so ago.  Lark is napping in the sun along the front wall of the barn as he usually does at this time of day . . .

"Dad's Coming!"

Winslow Homer

1873

I was away at school and far from home when I received the card, and I missed her, although being far away at that time in my life was good for me.  I had some growing up to do.  This card meant so much to me in that moment, and I've saved it and rediscovered it many times over the years.  In that moment in 1978 I was back snuggling in her arms as she softly sang, "When you're smiling, when you're smiling, the whole world smiles..."  I go to that place again these days as I think of my mom and my own daughters.  So much love.  

family dinner (me in the foreground)

Mom and Dad ( a young Officer) just starting out

My mom then continues to write:

". . . Will turn this over to Dad now - "
(uh - uh - )

". . . Work hard, Honey - and the good times will bring you that much more pleasure.  Love you - Mom    xxx
(oh, reality . . . here it comes . . .)  

Dad, the pragmatist:

"Hi:

Hope that you have a fine birthday and that you are having a fine school year.  We are all so very happy that spring is spranging and sprunging into being so I can begin to worry about the yard, muck in the manure, stride among the sticks, and gambol in the gardens.  Hang in there and do not let the spring fever take over your being too much.  By the way - (oh no!  don't bring up . . .!!!) please send me a listing of your grades (GRADES!) for last semester, (aaargh) and your predictions as to what they are now. (whimper)

Love you and are looking forward to seeing you soon.  Dad

love you too Dad
miss you

oh, and Dad - I'm back in graduate school and I have straight A's.  

Mom, thanks for the card.

My Summer Morning Drive

I'm reminded lately that my usual summer morning drive is not typical.  By slowing down, even just a little bit, and looking beyond the slowpoke in front of me or the radio dial or the clock because I'm late, I can look at and experience the same views that artists see and have seen since they first started coming to the Maine coast in the early 1800's:  natural harbors and coves, working waterfront, villages, mountains, and sky. 

The paintings below are of places that include Southwest Harbor, but also Georgetown and Monhegan Island.  All along the Maine coast there are beautiful and remarkable similarities of places.

The photographs are my own, taken from the driver's seat of my car, except when I reached my destination and I got out.  There I had to pause and exhale, as I do every time I arrive - it's beautiful . . .  and remarkable.

Road to Georgetown

William Zorach

1922

On the road.  7:30 am.

Southwest Harbor

View From Southwest Harbor, ME

Henry Isaacs

date unknown

Great Harbor Marina

Fishing Dock

Marguerite Zorach

date unknown

Downtown Southwest Harbor

Mill Pond

Robinhood Cove, Georgetown Island

William Zorach

1931

Western Mountains

Untitled

William Zorach

1914

 End of the road.

The Causeway

Entrance to Somes Sound from Norwood Cove

Destination

On time.

So Much Depends Upon

Miss you, Alice.  Everyday.

Alice hated having her picture taken.  You can see the discomfort in her face, but she stood still for me because I asked her to, this time.

Alice loved going for walks at "Betsy's Field" with John on Sundays.  They would leave me at home and go off and do their thing.  I went with them on this day though.  Two years ago.

"Betsy's Field" is a hillside clearing that overlooks the entrance to Somes Sound and across to the Northeast Harbor shore.  I don't know if anyone else calls it "Betsy's Field", but we do because we know Betsy, and it's her field.  Alice lost herself in the scents, the tide pools, the rodents, and crunchy shoreline tidbits - and running and running, herding seagulls - every once in a while lifting her head to locate John, keeping him close.  "Betsy's Field", for both of them, was a Sunday kind of place to find peace and confirmation of all that is beautiful in the world.   

   

William Carlos Williams inspired me to write a poem for Alice, who died a year ago.  

                                                                    so much depends

                                                                    upon

                                                                    Alice's greeting

                                     

                                                                    her nose between door

                                                                    and frame

                                                                           

                                                                    then

                                                                    her smiling face

                                                                    and eyes

                                                                                                        

                                                                    paw reaching, a kiss

                                                                    a confirmation

                                                          

                                                                    oh, happy day

                                                                    you're home!  

                                                                                         - spm

                                                                            (based on WCW's "The Red Wheelbarrow")

                                                          

                                                                           

Afternoon Squall

View Across Frenchman's Bay From Mount Desert Island, After a Squall

Thomas Cole

1845

A squall came through this afternoon. I had just finished up some work in my garden when I noticed the bright blue sky and golden light had faded quickly to grey. Didn't seem like a big deal because I had heard it would get cloudy in the afternoon. But by the time I had gotten into my house, I needed to turn on lights, though it was only 3:00. I looked out the window at the sky and above the treetops I saw a huge black cloud that was rolled up and pushing against the atmosphere from SW to NE. It looked solid and aggressive - and scary. I heard thunder in the distance.

So I tucked myself in, settled, and decided to make my regular afternoon call to John. 

"Hello, hello?"
nothing
"Hello! Can you hear me?"
(distant)  "hello - hello - speak louder!"
"Are you ok?
(distant)  "yes, I'm out on the water. I'm towing a boat to Blue Hill. 
"WHAT!!? O-M-G!!"
(distant)  "I just went through a squall, but I'm ok."
" . . . jeezum, John. Call - me - when - you - get - in!"

The instant I put my phone down it started pouring rain, the wind began to whip, and thunder boomed right above the house. I ran to close each window and wipe down the sills. Then I wondered for half a second if I was more worried about John in the middle of Blue Hill Bay in a squall or my seedlings that I had just planted in my garden. In the second half of the second I knew it was John, of course, but I was mad that he put himself out there in this weather. Why . . . oh, whatever!

The squall lasted for fifteen minutes outside and as long inside my head. I was worried, and angry, and scared of the thunder and lightening, and I was home alone.

Then the phone rang.  The squall passed.  And everything was fine.

My Father Taught Me How To Write: Thanks on Fathers Day

My father taught me how to write.  He was a writer, a poet, and a storyteller and I realized this at a very young age.  I always thought this was special about him.  His bedtime stories to my sisters, brothers, and I primed our imaginations and continued as our dreams through til morning.  We became characters in his epic poetry and tears turned to giggles with his silly limericks.  Letters to the editor expressing his strong opinions about community affairs were read by a large audience while his very personal letters to friends and family were beautiful and meaningful.  His writing was full of endless imagination, sincere thoughts and feelings, and passionate opinions - and that is what he taught me writing is.  It's honesty and it's bravery.

"spinning a yarn"

His writing was only a part of who he was.  He was also a career Naval officer, graduated from the Academy, and spent much of the Cold War in a submarine "somewhere" in the North Atlantic.  In the meantime, he had six children and a wife moving from station to station along the eastern US coast.  I can't help but wonder that he spent many hours writing and thinking and imagining and worrying and sorting out all the things that were most important to him while he was away from us.  My mom said his letters helped her keep going when her life was incredibly difficult without him home.  And his homecomings were beyond joyful with his stories of adventures in European ports and the treasures he brought home for us.  These times continued to fuel our own imaginations and define our own lives.

Dad home on leave 1962

So when my father retired from the Navy and returned home to his family, he must have had to make the most incredible transition while still maintaining his sanity.  To go from his role in keeping the world safe from destruction and maintaining a balance of power, to, well, he basically had the same role . . . only with his children.  I think we were perplexing to him, especially my sisters and I.  He would often just randomly say, "girls . . . ", shake his head, and walk away, while at other unavoidable times, he would clearly, strongly redefine for us the center of household power, therefore keeping us safe from destruction.  I wonder if he missed the Cold War.

Dad (far left) somewhere in the North Atlantic

Our dining room table became a center for family time.  It was a place where we all got to know each other, really.  Dinner time became hours of passionate discussion that sometimes included yelling - that's ok, it was productive yelling - sometimes tears, productive tears . . . fist slamming, "I'm leaving!", humbling - all good.  My father was the moderator, inquisitor, devil's advocate, the traditional conservative amid the gradually evolving liberal, idealistic, knee-jerk reactionary household (including my mother because she went back to college . . . poor dad.).  He forced us to think about and articulate what we honestly thought, to come to a conclusion, to take a stand.  The "audience" (any of the rest of us) was pretty critical, or just safely quiet.  We look back on all this experience with . . . love and fondness (humor), and respect.  I look back on this as my preparation to becoming a writer.

Dinner Table 1987

The dining room table also offered quiet, peaceful moments - morning coffee and weekend "breakfast" made by dad, afternoon crossword puzzles, late night cookie baking, one-on-ones.  Like the one-on-one I had with my father on the morning of my high school graduation.

I had been struggling for several days writing a speech for my graduation ceremony.  Because of my participation in student government, I had been chosen to give a speech on a topic of my choosing.  I knew I had to address the fight between the teachers' union and the school board that was still not resolved after three years.  I had to.  It was like the 800 lb gorilla in the room - many students barely acknowledged it, even though it became a major distraction and intrusion on our entire high school career.  But in this final moment, I was panicking, unsure, ready to throw in the towel.  I lost confidence and direction, I lost courage.

I emerged from my bedroom after being up all night and sat at the table with my father.  I put my head in my hands and sort of sobbed for a while thinking that it was at least better there than in my room, like maybe it offered some possibilities for a way out.  I looked up at my dad after settling a bit.  He looked just a little uncomfortable, and my face went back into my hands for more sobbing.  When I settled again I slowly lifted my face with my hands still attached, and he said,

"uh...so...what's up?..."

Immediately I went out of control with sobs and half words and snorts and whining and moaning and "I - I - I just - uh - uh - uh --- I don't know -- what -- to -- write - uh, uh, uh . . . uh?"

Ex-ha-ha-ha-hale.

Finally, my father spoke.  Very simply.  He said, "Well, um, just write what you think, and just write what you feel, eh?"

Smart. Like he thumped me on the forehead with the heel of his hand, Duh?  I was liberated.

So,

My speech followed two of my classmates who tearfully spoke about life-long friendship and sad good-byes and happy, happy happiness and memories, and love and peace, not wanting to leave. . . ugh.  My friend, Richard, who was sitting next to me had to nudge me out of my chair to get me to the podium.  Complete silence as I began to speak:

"...educational system in North Stonington...inconsistency among teachers...apathetic attitudes and lack of pride...student body...lack of understanding...townspeople...

(YIKES!)

...enlightening and emotional experience...both sides...solutions...talk about our future and not our past..."

My father clapped the loudest.  It was so wonderfully controversial.  People loved me and hated me.  I was on my way.  Thanks dad.

Dad 1984
Happy Fathers Day

Up Close and Personal

The Seine at Chatou
Andre Derain
1906

The William S. Paley Collection is on exhibit at the Portland Museum of Art.  I went to see it this past weekend.  I was extremely excited - I had planned for several months to see it, so as the time approached, my excitement and anticipation built.  Then it was everything and more than I expected and ever wanted.

I don't often talk about art with most of the people I know because, well, perhaps I'm a little embarrassed that I talk too much about it or the conversation may be one sided, and our relationships are based on other things anyway.  My life is pretty compartmentalized - I have my tennis friends, my work friends, my summer friends, and my family.  I know that they all appreciate my interest in art, but it seems less complicated sometimes, for me and for them, if I keep it more personal.

That's OK.  But when my excitement is building for a museum trip or I've just returned from a trip, I'm bursting and when, like today someone at work asked me what I did for my weekend and I told them about this fabulous exhibit filled with Matisse and Picasso and Cezanne and Degas and Gauguin and Braque and Toulouse-Lautrec and . . . oh my gosh I was right there in the same room with these paintings and . . . it was totally amazing . . . and . . .  the colors . . . the brushwork . . .

. . . and I notice their gaze averted and they mumble something like oh . . . cool.  So, I zip it, I exhale, and take a moment, and say, so? how was your weekend?

I got a thought at the museum as John and I were getting our tickets for admission to the Paley Collection.  I thought about how I was behaving when I said to the 20-something admissions hipster, "I'm so-ooo excited!" and I giggled and he just looked through me.  And also when John told me that photo-taking was going to be allowed for this special exhibit and I immediately got my camera all prepared and decided that I wanted my picture taken with a Picasso and Matisse, like they, the paintings, were rock stars.  I even planned how I was going to do the thumbs up, lean in, hey look at me grin pose.  And when we entered the main gallery and I walked into the center and did a slow motion spin, awed, like Dorothy discovering Munchkin Land.

And even when I did a little inside dance when I saw Matisse's Woman With a Veil, 1927.

Henri Matisse

Woman With a Veil

1927

Can't I control my excitement just a little bit?

Now, I know that I am star-struck.  I always have been.  If I am anywhere in close proximity (like a mile radius) to a famous actor, athlete, musician, and now I guess, a painting, I get star-struck.

The Seed of the Areoi (Te aa no areois)
Paul Gauguin
1892

Today my thought became a worry about the seriousness of my relationship to art.  Star-struck behavior is not sophisticated and mature, like I should be at my age.  Do I love the art or the idea of art?  Is art truly what defines me or is it what entertains me?  How committed am I to growing in my knowledge and love of art?

Tonight my answers are yes and yes, yes and yes, and very.  I believe that art is fun for me so it's easy to maintain my passion and commitment.  I can be high-brow, too, in my work at the art gallery (my summer job) where I can present myself professionally and intellectually.  But I'm also going to continue doing little dances inside and annoying hipster brats and wanting my picture taken with Picasso's Boy Leading a Horse, 1905-06.  John will even take the photo for me.

Boy Leading a Horse
Pablo Picasso 
1905-06

He would have, too, this weekend, BUT my camera's battery DIED mid gallery!  Aarrgh.  I will drive for three hours back to Portland, to get my thumbs up photo for my Facebook friends.  It's so exciting to be up close and personal with these Modernist paintings.  

    

Spain's "Raging Bull"

Rafael Nadal

French Open Champion 2013

June 9, 2013

Getty Images

                                                                                                                Getty Images

 I think Spanish tennis players are . . . exciting.  Rafa is amazing.  I see art here.

Bullfight

Pablo Picasso

c. 1930

                                                                 Getty Images

Bullfighting Scene, The Torero is Raised
Pablo Picasso
1955 

The Corrida
Pablo Picasso
1901

 

                                                                                         Getty Images

                  

rafaelnadalfans.com

Plaster Male Torso
Pablo Picasso
1893

                 clas-sic

                 adjective

                 judged over a period of time to be of the highest quality and outstanding of its kind;

                 noun

                 a work of art of recognized and established value

                 (dictionary.com)