What Are You Looking At? by Will Gompertz

Source of book: Borrowed from the library - but I want to get my own copy

Before I started this blog, I read a book that I consider to be one of the most enlightening I have ever read. That book is The Rest is Noise by Alex Ross. I play classical violin professionally, and had a pretty good baseline music education. But Ross was able, in his history of modern classical, to bring a new perspective - and appreciation - to my understanding of 20th Century music. 

In the same way, What Are You Looking At? gives a history and perspective on modern art that is truly helpful in understanding the meaning and significance of an often maligned subject. Although my knowledge of art is, perhaps, not as extensive as music, I do not consider myself to be a neophyte. I have a pretty good collection in my library of art and art history books. We live within a reasonable distance of several world-class art museums. (The De Young in San Francisco, the Getty, Hammer, Norton Simon, and LACMA in Los Angeles, the Timkin and San Diego Museum of Art, to name just the ones we have been to.) In addition, I have spent several days in the Louvre, a day at the D’Orsay, and a day at Versailles. Between all of these, I have seen quite a few masterworks in person. (Most recently, a travelling exhibition of late Monet at the De Young.) So, I have some experience and knowledge. 

That said, I, like many, have found the experience of modern art to be a bit confusing - even when I found myself moved. What Are You Looking At? is essentially a layman’s introduction to the different movements in modern art, and their goals, major works, and major artists. For myself, I found that I knew some of the information already, but it was helpful to put things in full context. I should mention as well that my 13 year old son has been reading this too, and says he is really enjoying it. 

Will Gompertz is currently the arts editor for the BBC, and served as a director at the Tate gallery for seven years. He has also spent 30 years writing about art. These experiences make him particularly qualified to write this book. He knows his art, but he also writes in an understandable manner, without the purple prose and obfuscatory language that makes many art critics incomprehensible to anyone outside the clique. 

Gompertz makes a crucial decision in how he starts the book, which I thought was brilliant. First, he introduces perhaps the best known (or infamous) incident in modern art history: the creation of Fountain by Marcel Duchamp. (If you aren’t familiar with it, it is a urinal repurposed as art - it is still hard to believe it happened way back in 1917, and modern art ever since has been in many ways a reaction to that shockwave. ) 

From there, he starts where any history of modern art should: with the Impressionists. For many people, “modern art” starts with, say, Picasso, or even with Duchamp, while Impressionism is grouped with “classic” art. But nothing could be further from the truth. The journey that art would take in modern times does indeed start with the break that the Impressionists made from the old way of doing things. Rather than attempting literal representation, the Impressionists sought to create a deeper, artistic truth. This, and the break from aristocratic patronage, set a new course. It is more complicated than that, of course, and Gompertz explains it better than I do. 

There are a few quotes or passages that stood out as particularly relevant to me. First is on the way that titles are given after the fact. In discussing the Post-Impressionists (van Gogh, Gauguin, Seurat, and Cezanne), Gompertz notes that none of them would have considered themselves Post-Impressionists, for the simple reason that term wasn’t coined until they were all dead. Gompertz then discusses the problem inherent to the issue: how to describe an exhibition in a way that draws people in, while also meaningfully describing the art. He opines that this highlights a central tension in the art world: “public engagement versus scholarship. Curators and artists recognize the helpful role the media plays in communicating their ideas to a skeptical, non-specialist public, but in all honesty most would rather not bother. And they would rather have rusty nails poked in their eyes than acquiesce to an  exhibition title that might humiliate them in front of their peers by being remotely ‘populist.’” 

I also liked the use of a van Gogh quote about art, namely the modern “distortion” of reality in representation: “I have a longing to make such incorrectness, such deviations, remodelings, changes in reality, so that they may become, well -- lies, if you want -- but truer than the literal truth.” In this sense, for van Gogh, painting aimed to be poetry, a truth beyond literal truth. 

One chapter that really blew my mind was the one on Futurism. I will confess that this was not a movement I really was familiar with. Gompertz quotes Filippo Marinetti, the provoquer who wrote a manifesto for the movement - a manifesto which was proto-fascist. 

“We wish to glorify war -- the sole cleanser of the world -- militarism, patriotism, the destructive act of liberation, beautiful ideas worth dying for, and scorn for women.” 

Yikes. And yes, this was in the run-up to the rise of Fascism in Europe. 

On a more positive note, Gompertz really explains abstract art better than any other writer. He makes the observation, obvious in retrospect, that abstract art is an attempt to make the visual arts into an analogue to music: art, expression, emotion, beauty in its pure form, unencumbered by the needs of literal representation. It is the equivalent of a Mozart symphony - it isn’t “about” anything. It is music for music’s sake. 

I also have to quote Gompertz’ analysis of the the Soviet “non-objective art” movement.

In terms of global influence and longevity, the Russian artists beat their politicians hands down. Communism caused a cold war with the West, could have ended in Armageddon, and eventually failed. Whereas non-objective art gave form to twentieth-century modern design and provided the basis for Minimalism to emerge in America around fifty years later, a development that is not without irony. While the politicians embarked on a cold war, art was demonstrating that the two countries influenced each other more than either cared to acknowledge. 

And in a way, Gompertz is spot-on. Most of what we take for granted as “modernist” design - the very language of our buildings, appliances, fonts, brands, and so on, show great influence from the Russian artists. 

I will end with an observation of one of the reasons Gompertz is successful in this book. At the outset, he defuses one of the most enduring criticisms of modern art: that it is a sham foisted on the gullible public. Gompertz makes the cogent point that one need not “like” a particular work of art to understand its significance or its place in history. In fact, he gives full permission to dislike a work of art, or an artist, or a movement - and not everything ages well. We may well look back on this era and reevaluate which artists were truly great. But understanding how it fits together can make sense of what is considered great from our own time. I personally find this useful. I love art, as a general rule. But there have always been artists and eras that, while I appreciate that they are art, fail to move me. One example of this is a certain Baroque style, with the cherubs and allusions to Ovid, and so on. Great art? Probably. Do I enjoy it? Not really. Ditto for some modern art and styles. Just not my thing, and that is okay. 

Gompertz succeeds in his goal, which is to make sense of modern art and the threads that run through it. (Or, perhaps I should say, rail lines? One of the great things about the book is a map of modern art, modeled after the London Tube map. Seriously, it’s great. 

I do intend to find my own copy of this book - it can be the companion to my copy of The Rest is Noise, where I can look up artists and ideas whenever I want to refresh my memory of where things fit. It is a truly outstanding book, and helpful to any lover of art who wants to better understand the last 140 years. 

***

Not that anyone asked, but here are my favorite artists, in roughly chronological order. I have prints of some of these at my office. 

1. Albrecht Durer. I must have been in single digits when I first experienced his work. I love it all, from the realistic magic of The Large Piece of Turf to his allegorical works. 

2. Rembrandt. I have seen several of his paintings in person. There are no words to adequately describe the emotional impact. He is the visual equivalent of Dostoevsky, probing the darkest corners of the psyche of his subjects. 

3. Goya. Again, hard to put into words how these make me feel. He went to some dark places, but in a genius way. 

4. Delacroix. I usually get a blank look with this one. Which makes me sad. The Louvre has an outstanding collection of his paintings, and they are nothing short of spectacular. Liberty Leading the People is perhaps the most famous - for good reason - but literally everything of his I have seen has struck me with his amazing technique and vision. Each feels like a novel in itself, with a compelling story. 

5. Van Gogh. Call it a cliche if you wish. His works speak to me at an emotional level. And seeing them in person is an experience not to be missed. 

6. Cezanne. Again, this is definitely at an emotional level. I can’t even entirely explain it. I find my eyes drawn to his works in any gallery. 

7. Braque. My favorite Cubist. Again, I find my eyes seeking out his work - there is something about his art that draws me in. 

8. Frieda Kahlo. I love her works, particularly the allegorical stuff. 

These are the ones that I like best, but by no means are they the only ones I like. Art, like music, literature, poetry, and nature, are what inspire me, and make life more than a grinding routine. 

English Music by Peter Ackroyd

Source of book: I own this.

I have enough books in my library that I can’t always remember where I got them and when. This is such a book. My best guess is that I found it at a library sale at least five years ago. It is a Franklin Library hardback signed by the author - and it matches copies of Jurassic Park and The Lost World by Michael Crichton - so I am pretty sure I found them together. After all, it is hard to pass up a really nice hardback.

What I am less sure of is that I had any idea who Peter Ackroyd was when I got the book. I may have been vaguely aware of him, but he wasn’t on any of my reading lists. In any event, he is still living and writing, and is best known for having a wide variety of subjects and styles, from well respected biographies to fiction spanning a range of genres.

English Music is a somewhat unusual book. One could even argue that it is two books in one and that either part could stand alone.

The odd numbered chapters form one of the parts: they are a first person narrative by the protagonist, Timothy Harcombe, of his life. That part of the story is essentially a coming-of-age story as well as a tale of a boy and his complex relationship with his father. Clement Harcombe is a former circus performer turned faith healer, who has raised Timothy alone since birth - Timothy’s mother died in childbirth. Although the character has all the hallmarks of a charlatan, Clement actually does have the ability to heal - as long as he has Timothy to assist him. (It is never clear to the reader or to the characters exactly how much of the ability belongs to Clement and how much to Timothy - although it does seem that the two of them have to work together.) Timothy is taken from his father to go live with his maternal grandparents - and get a real education and grow up as a normal child. He ends up seeing his father again a few times during childhood and then as an adult - and eventually goes back to working with his father. Their both loving and dysfunctional relationship forms the core of the narrative - and it is clear that Timothy is torn between his two natures: his conventional aristocratic mother, and his self-taught bohemian father. These two natures are represented in a rather metaphorical way by the art which forms the second part of the book. Timothy’s father teaches him during his childhood using English literature. When he goes to live with his grandparents, he discovers his mother’s collection of classical music - primarily English composers. The author combines these traits in Timothy, and literature and music in what he calls “English Music,” which is really the entire art of the English people, from painting to music to literature to poetry.

The second part of the book is rather distinctive. The even numbered chapters represent dreams (or visions or hallucinations) that Timothy has during his unconscious spells which afflict him during times of stress. These dream sequences are told in the third person, who observes Timothy as he interacts with various representatives of “English Music.”

So, for example, in the first one, Timothy finds himself in a world which is a mashup of Pilgrim’s Progress and Lewis Carroll’s Alice In Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass. Yes, that is as odd as it sounds. Furthermore, Ackroyd writes these sequences in the style of those stories - and yes, Bunyan and Carroll mixed together does make for a bizarre style.

That is just one example. Other chapters feature Great Expectations, Robinson Crusoe, Morte d’Arthur, and Sherlock Holmes. The poetry of William Blake gets a chapter, as does the gallery of great English painters. William Hogarth gets a chapter to himself - a harrowing vision of Gin Alley and Bedlam. Composer William Byrd gets a chapter as well. There are other authors and books that get at least small references.

Ackroyd has been criticized for his choices in putting together his English pantheon. Women are barely mentioned (just George Eliot and Emily Bronte), and his idea that English art forms a single, coherent narrative is both a stretch and a bit jingoistic. On the other hand, you can tell Ackroyd loves the artists he selects, and is intimately familiar with their works. This isn’t just a greatest hits list, but an exploration of the artists that made Ackroyd who he is. I myself have mixed feelings about this, because I am an Anglophile myself. If I were to pick, I would say that English literature has been the most consistently influential and best written (on average) for the last 500 or so years. But of course, I am biased both because my native language is English, and I grew up immersed in the English language classics. Music and the visual arts, however, are different - England has a few distinguished names, but is hardly a leader in those areas.

As for the book itself, I thought it was good, but not great. The writing is excellent of course - Ackroyd is a craftsman of words. The dream interludes were quite interesting, whether or not you agree with his theory. I would go so far as to say that his ability to write “in the style of” is quite impressive - the poetry in particular is spot on. Where I felt it fell a bit flat was in the basic concept. The faith healing just feels kind of weird, as it is never given an explanation or a reason for existing. The book isn’t written like Magical Realism, and it has no other supernatural elements - or even the acknowledgement of any. We are just to assume that within an otherwise realistic book that two characters can heal people without knowing how they do it, or with any natural or supernatural explanation suggested. I also found Timothy to be annoyingly directionless. He never does seem to have any idea what he wants to do with his life. And that includes even in his old age. He never really does find himself or get beyond his tendency to expect that others will give his life direction. For that reason, it was difficult to warm up to him as a protagonist. I kept waiting for him to grow or discover something about himself. But it never really happens.

I am rather curious to read some more Ackroyd, however, because he is clearly a skilled writer, and his other books are apparently quite different from this one and from each other.

***

So, a few things from the book:

A number of paintings become part of the story. Here is one I particularly like, “Landscape With A Castle” by John Martin. 

William Byrd wrote nearly 500 works - a prodigious output to be sure - and also taught extensively. He is one of the few of his time to live long enough to see his works go out of style. In recent times, his music has been rediscovered. Here is a taste of his skill:

Although it doesn’t make it into the book, I figure I might link one of my favorite English composers, Ralph Vaughn Williams. This work is a bit more obscure, but it is one I have played - and it is quite fun.

The Hermitage Cats by Nicolai Gol & Maria Haltunen

Source of book: Gift from a friend.

This is a bit of an unusual book for the blog - it falls in the category of “coffee table book” although it is a good bit smaller than that image invokes. It is heavy on the pictures and light on text, more for perusing and enjoying, than spending time engrossed in a narrative. This isn’t a bad thing, obviously. Different books for different purposes.

Let me start out by disclosing that I am a cat person. I have had cats nearly continuously since age 5, and seriously love them. I love how they purr, I love the soft spot behind their ears, I love the way they sleep in specific shapes I dub “catiforms” (like cuneiform, but with cats…), and I like the way they aren’t perpetually needy. This is not at all to say I hate dogs. I actually like most dogs - just not Pomeranians, with which I have a long history of mutual dislike - and dogs mostly like me. I’m just a cat person.

So anyway, a friend picked up this little book for me last Christmas, and I read it.

The Hermitage is the State Hermitage Museum of St. Petersburg, Russia. This museum was founded by Catherine the Great as a place to house her private collection. She located it next to her winter palace in St. Petersburg. Later, it was opened to the public. These days, it has expanded to five interconnected buildings - including the palace itself.

The Hermitage is famous for its cats. Famous enough that the cats have their own press secretary. Originally brought in by They live in and around the museum, keeping the rodents at bay, and entertaining visitors. In addition to the living cats, the museum also has a number of works of art featuring cats, many of which are reproduced in this book.

The text portions of the book cover the history of feline domestication around the world. (Russia was a rather late adopter.) The history of humanity is largely one of agriculture - and with agriculture came granaries - and with granaries came rodents. Hence, the need for cats, to protect the precious grain from the insatiable rodents. It has long been known that cats have been domesticated for at least the last 5,000 years - the Nubian breed is a point where the wild crossed into domestic. However, more recent discoveries show that cats and humans go back much further. A grave in Cyprus has both human and feline bones dating back 9,500 years. This is highly unlikely to be a coincidence: wild animals were not buried with humans.

Obviously, Ancient Egypt gets some love. There are plenty of cat-themed artworks from there. Europe was interesting for a different reason. While Pope Gregory I reportedly had a kitten he carried with him everywhere, by the Middle Ages, cats were viewed as in league with the Devil, and thus mistrusted. And of course, they were equated with witches. Cats were burned at the stake along with women. We still see this in the trope of the “catty woman.” Even now, in certain circles, cats are viewed as “feminine” pets, with dogs as the “manly” companion. 

 The Nativity of St. John the Baptist, Tintoretto (1554)

Note the allegorical cat trying to kill the chicken.

The art followed the views. Even during the Renaissance, cats are depicted as malevolent creatures. Later, the prejudice softened, and cats are pictured as a normal part of domestic scenes.

I found the section on China to be interesting. The primordial cat was named Mao - both phonetical and interesting in light of later politics. In China, as in Egypt, the relationship of rodents, food, and cats is depicted in some rather striking artwork. 

 The Cat Hills, China. Late 19th - early 20th Centuries

Japan too viewed cats as royalty. None less than Muhammad taught that cats had a special place in paradise. (I for one would find a paradise deficient without a cat.)

One final bit that was pretty interesting was the various Russian tales of cats and mice. Usually the cats win, but more memorable are the tales in which the cat is finally caught by the mice. They throw an elaborate funeral. Sometimes, the cat is indeed dead and the mice celebrate. Other times, the cat awakens and eats the mourners.

The book is short and fun, and does make me want to visit The Hermitage some day. 

***

And, because I know you want to see a couple more cat pictures, here is my little companion. Chocolate Chip is ostensibly my youngest daughter's cat, but she knows a cat person when she sees one. She likes to purr and cuddle while I am reading after the kids go to bed. And, while I typed this post, she took up half my chair.

Come on, scratch behind my ears again...

What? You think you get the whole chair?

The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt

Source of book: I own this.

Some friends of ours invited my wife and me to join their book club, appropriately entitled the Literary Lush Book Club. Because food and adult beverages are also important to the experience. I previously read (but was unable to attend for) The Master and Margarita, and finally participated in the meeting for The Island of Dr. Moreau. While my music and camping schedule interfere with perfect attendance, I do hope to at least read most of the books this year. In general, they tend to pick books that I would not necessarily have read on my own. The Goldfinch is a good example of that.

The Goldfinch won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction in 2014. Honestly, I have always thought of the Pulitzer as something for journalism and non-fiction, and, while those categories are important, there are also prizes for fiction, poetry, drama, and music.

The basic setup of the book is this: 13 year old Theo is visiting the Metropolitan Museum of Art, when a terrorist bomb explodes, killing his mother among others. A dying old man hands him a ring, and points to a small painting, The Goldfinch by Carel Fabritius, which Theo puts in his backpack before finding his way out of the building through the rubble. From there, Theo lives briefly with a friend’s family, before his deadbeat dad and new girlfriend whisk him away to Vegas, where is is basically left to his own devices - and those of his new friend Boris, a Ukrainian immigrant who has traveled the world. The two boys get high and into trouble, unsurprisingly. Later, Theo’s dad gets drunk and dies in a car accident, and Theo finds his way back to New York, where he is raised by the business partner of the old man who gave him the ring. I’ll stop there, because there are plenty of crazy plot twists and developments that I would hate to give away.

 The Goldfinch by Frabritius. A pupil of Rembrandt, Fabritius was killed in the Explosion of Delft, when a gunpowder magazine blew, destroying most of the city - and most of Fabritius' paintings as well. A sad loss of artist and art.

In some ways, the book is a coming-of-age story with Theo as the protagonist. But in others, it is a tale of the painting itself. When the book ends, there are a number of questions involving Theo which are left unresolved, while the painting experiences a full resolution.

I would also describe the book as a bit of a modern day Dickens story, in the vein of Oliver Twist and David Copperfield. In fact, the first half of the book is chock full of “easter eggs” that Dickens fans such as myself can discover. My wife pointed out the parallels between Pippa and Little Nell in The Old Curiosity Shop, although Pippa might also be compared to Emily in David Copperfield. There are also a number of references to Harry Potter, leading my wife to note that it looks like there is a generational divide there: from Gen Y onward, Potter will be similar to Shakespeare or Greek Mythology in that it will be a constant source of literary references that the reader will be expected to know. Which means I really need to read the Harry Potter books, apparently.

(I was 20 when the first Harry Potter book came out, so I was too old to read them at the intended age. By the time my kids were old enough, my wife read the books to them, so I just never ended up reading them. That is in addition to the fact that they were considered evil by the Fundie subculture my family was in, so I might have missed them back then. Even now, I think my kids’ love for the books freaks my mom out. Sigh.)

I do have to mention one more allusion which I thought was a nice touch. In order to return the ring, Theo has to find a certain address, and ring a green doorbell. I cannot but conclude that Tartt has given a nod to O Henry, and his delightful tale of adventure and coincidence, “The Green Door,” where a random advertisement leads to unexpected happenings. (That story is one of my favorites by O Henry - and I have read them all.)

Donna Tartt does write well, with many singularly beautiful and evocative descriptions. The book is quite long (962 pages in the paperback edition), but not long in the same way as, say, Tolstoy or Trollope. It does get a bit bogged down occasionally, particularly in the last 100 pages where it waxes philosophical. However, much of it flies by quickly, and few if any details are wasted. In fact, when I reached the end, I was surprised how many early details turned out to be important for either the plot or the character development. Tartt took her time with this book, and as a result, the book feels tightly written.

One of the choices that was interesting was the way that Tartt kept circling back to certain ideas and topics, which I believe to be tied to Theo’s PTSD and resulting obsession with his trauma. He keeps returning to the same thoughts, even as he wishes to move on, and thus Tartt brings us along with him in his spiraling inner life.

I think Tartt was really perceptive in her description of the various professionals tasked with making sure Theo is okay after the bombing. The vast majority of the adults seem rather clueless, and unfortunately, this is all too realistic. (One area I work in is in the Juvenile court system, on cases where children are removed from the custody of their parents due to abuse or neglect. There are lots of well meaning people, but all too often, the things done resemble, as Theo puts it, reading from the “checklist of Things to Say to Troubled Kids.”) What Theo needs more than anything (and that he gets from Hobie) is someone to talk normally with him, and just be a friend. I understand the need (and benefit) of professional help, and so on, but I think this is often an overlooked and underprovided need.

Looking back on my notes, I also jotted down an exchange between Boris (the Artful Dodger of the book) and Theo regarding Boris’ dad.

“He feels bad for leaving me so much alone. He knows is a holiday coming up, and he asked if I could stay at your house.”

“Well, you do all the time anyway.”

“He knows that. That’s why he thanked you. But - I hope you don’t mind - I gave him your wrong address.”

“Why?”

Because - I think maybe you don’t want him rolling up drunk at your house in the middle of the night.” 

Boris’ dad is just one of the picaresque underworldish characters that come into this book. There is a funny line about Horst, the stolen artwork dealer, who keeps chickens in his posh house in Miami - to shoot at. As Boris queries, “What kind of crazy thing is this for these people to keep chickens in Miami?” We might all ask that question.

Another line that made me smile was the term that Theo uses for his fiance Kitsey’s godmother, who swoops in to take over their wedding plans. “Wedding Obergruppenführer.” Yep, that was an official Nazi rank in the SS. And yes, it applies to certain sorts I am rather familiar with from my days playing weddings in a string quartet. (I still do occasionally, but less since having kids.)

There is also a fun scene in Amsterdam - although it could have taken place anywhere, honestly. Those of us who live in California certainly are aware of the little hole-in-the-wall hipster health food restaurant. One is spoofed here - although they really tend to self-parody.

“Food is so awful,” said Boris. “Sprouts and some hard old wheat toast. You would think hot girls go there, but is just old grey-haired women and fat.”

One final line caught my eye. Theo and Boris are having a bit of a philosophical discussion near the end, about the role of fate and/or providence in our lives, and the way seemingly bad things can have unexpected and unintended consequences, some of which are positive.

Theo counters Boris’ optimistic view:

“I believe this goes more to the idea of ‘relentless irony’ than ‘divine providence.’”

“Yes - but why give it a name? Can’t they both be the same thing?”

I’m kind of with Boris on this one.

The Goldfinch is an interesting book. It’s a compelling read, with an interesting story and good writing. It is a bit sordid in a way, with a lot of drug use, some language and violence, but an intentional minimum of sex. Theo pushes away intimacy of all kinds as part of his damaged psyche, and this is part of how the sexuality works. Things are always mentioned obliquely, whether it is his series of non-serious girlfriends as an adult, or what probably took place with Boris when they were teens. Like his trauma, Theo doesn’t want to go there or admit what he feels. But that is part of the point of this book. Theo is damaged, but you still root for him. He makes horrible decisions, but you still want it to come out okay. He will never be who you hope he could be, but he is still human and interesting.

I was not aware of this book before it was nominated as an option for our club, but I am glad I read it. It is definitely worth reading. As with many literary novels, be sure to stay with it for a while, as the slower first pages are there to set the stage. As one of our members memorably put it, he waits to decide if he is going to finish a book until he can see that it is transitioning from the first act to the second. By that point, one knows enough to evaluate whether the book will be worth finishing. I tend to agree with that. (With the caveat that a few “books” are so dreadfully written that you can discard them within a few pages just because of authorial incompetence. But most of those aren’t the sort I would be interested in in the first place.) Once it gets going, The Goldfinch is a combination of thoughtful literary fiction, and fast-paced adventure. Enjoy the action, but savor the lovely and evocative writing, and the thoughtful deeper ideas.

We discussed a lot more than this at book club, but that is a bit beyond the scope of this review. While long, this book did spark a very interesting series of discussions, and it was fun to see what everyone brought to the table.

From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankenweiler by E. L. Konigsburg

Source of book: Audiobook from the library

This is another book that my second daughter had already read and recommended. Oddly, I wasn’t particularly familiar with either the book or the author, even though this book dates from 1967. Apparently, it was even made into a movie starring Ingrid Bergman. I had no idea.

 The author illustrated the book as well. 

A few puritan sorts complain about the depiction of naked kids (and water sprites) in the fountain...

Elaine Lobl Konigsburg passed on a few years back, but wrote well into her 70s. This is her second book, submitted for publication along with her first. She previously was a teacher, took a hiatus to get her children old enough to go to school, then returned to teaching, art, and writing.  

This particular book takes an interesting approach to the “how to get rid of the parents” problem that is common in books for children. After all, if the parents were around, they would (presumably) be of some help in resolving problems, and definitely would put the kibosh on many an exciting adventure. Historically, this was often done by orphaning the protagonists. (The “dead parents” solution.) Although it is definitely still used, it is of less use for stories in a modern setting, where, in contrast to even 100 years ago, parents are highly likely to survive until the kids - and grandkids - are grown. Newer books, therefore, have to opt for other solutions to free up their heroes and heroines. Catherynne Valente and Madeleine L’Engle, among others, transport the children to another dimension, as it were. Gary Paulsen strands his hero in an accident. Others have the parents themselves removed - where they may need rescue. Polly Horvath makes the parents the children, incompetent hippies, who are part of the problem the child must overcome.

Konigsburg, however, puts a fun twist on another venerable device: the child who runs away from home. This, of course, has its genesis in tales as old as time, including many a fairy tale. Konigsburg, however, does not include magic, fairies, or anything really that would not qualify as “realistic.” Other than, of course, the ability of two children to run away and not be discovered.

Twelve year old Claudia is the only girl and oldest child in her family. She feels unappreciated and ordinary, and chafes at looking after the baby of the family and doing housework. Thus, she plots to run away, taking her brother Jamie, mostly because he has saved up more money than she has. The two of them find an unused train pass in the trash, and head for New York City and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. (Where else, right?)

The first part of the book is all about how they get settled in, avoid the guards, and make plans to survive long term. However, a mystery arises. The museum makes a mysterious purchase of a statue for far below market value. It is rumored to be by Michelangelo himself, but its provenance is obscure. The debate rages, and Claudia decides to investigate herself, and try to solve the mystery. Alas, she is far too naive to actually succeed, and eventually decides to go talk to the seller, the titular Mrs. Frankenweiler herself.

The story itself is charming, but I think the stronger part of the book is the way the characters are handled. Konigsburg respects her young protagonists even as she portrays them as possessing average, ordinary traits for their ages. They know and understand a lot about their world, other people, and themselves - something I think adults underestimate in children. (My own parents, I think, understood this better than average.) It is the adults that think children are somehow stupid that cannot see what is really going on. Instead, those few adults who treat the children like full human beings are the ones who actually connect. The anonymous correspondent from the Met who responds to Claudia’s anonymous letter is delightfully non-condescending, particularly under the circumstances. It is this letter which prompts Claudia to seek out Mrs. Frankenweiler, who also refuses to underestimate the children, even as she is able to use her own greater experience and knowledge to outwit them.

The story is largely from Claudia’s point of view (except for the framing story, which is from Mrs. Frankenweiler’s perspective), and it is her inner struggle which is most interesting. She, like all of us, wants to fit in, but also stand out. She doesn’t want to be “just another girl” that her parents take for granted. She wants to feel special in some way, and do something extraordinary. The frustration she feels at being stuck as a kid in an ordinary life is quite recognizable. The grand scheme to run away to a great art museum, and spend the days systematically exploring and learning sounds a bit like heaven to me too, I must admit.

The story went over well with the kids, and I found it enjoyable as well. It deserved its Newbery Medal for the well written characters and psychological perceptiveness. We will have to check out a few more of her books.

***

This audiobook was read by Jan Miner, who did a fine job.

Uppity Women of Medieval Times by Vicki León

Source of book: I own this.

This isn’t so much a book as a collection of one or two page vignettes, with the stories of various female figures worldwide told in short, pithy, and slightly snarky style.

The scope is pretty broad, with representatives from kingdoms around the world: Japan, China, Africa, India, South America, North America, and so on. Likewise, the timeframe is broad, from about the time of the fall of the Roman Empire through the era of Queen Elizabeth (who naturally makes a featured appearance.)

The women are likewise from a variety of classes and occupations, from queens to commoners, religious mystics to brewers, merchants to courtesans, medics to mercenaries. In order to qualify, a woman need only have left a record and have risen in some way above the station typically allotted to women at the time.

Here is what a typical vignette looks like:

A few observations after reading this.

First, although I pretty much knew this from reading and research, but it was a good reminder that “witch” burning was deliberately targeted at women who got “out of line.” One particular instance where this was common was unmarried women who worked on their own - often as midwives or healers. Even those who got off with their lives were often fined and hounded as they were competition for male doctors.

Still, though, a competing thread that runs through this book is that the idea of a rigid division of labor between men and women, with women primarily staying at home and lacking economic power is a modern myth. For centuries, women dominated trades such as beer brewing, and often had to keep whole communities running while the menfolk were off fighting each other. (Dorothy Sayers discusses this in her excellent Are Women Human?) Just one thing that burns me about the Cult of Domesticity which has been adopted as all-but-official Evangelical doctrine these days. Just last week, I had to keep myself from commenting on yet another ridiculous article claiming that motherhood and career are mutually exclusive, something we never tell fathers. In fact, that crap wasn’t true even in the Middle Ages…) Quite a number of these women raised more children than I have - sometimes alone, sometimes with a husband - while managing businesses, pursuing professions, and other supposedly “male” pursuits.

Others, of course, chose singlehood. A few, though, came to mutually agreeable arrangements quite out of the usual character. Lavinia Fontana of Renaissance Italy, for example, was a talented painter. Her husband also painted, but he was less talented and he realized it. Thus, they agreed that he would assist her in her own works (filling backgrounds and so on) and raise their children, while she supported the family. Yep, he was primary caretaker for their eleven children. By the way, Lavinia is regarded as the first European artist to work in a male-dominated field on equal terms - not in a convent or as a hobby.

Judith with the head of Holfernes

Lavinia Fontana is believed to have used herself as the model, which is pretty badass.

I couldn’t resist including another great female painter, Sofonisba Anguissola in here as well, both because of her reputation with other artists and because I like this picture of her and her sisters playing chess. Also something women weren’t supposed to do.

Another one that stood out was Louise Labé. Born lower-middle class, she still managed to get an education largely on her own. She wrote poetry, rode horses like a man, shot the bow, and even competed in jousting. One of her letters is superlative enough to quote:

Since a time has come, Mademoiselle, when the severe laws of me no longer prevent women from applying themselves to the sciences and other disciplines, it seems to me that those of us who can, should use this long-craved freedom to study and let men see how greatly they wronged us when depriving us of its honor and advantages. And if any woman becomes so proficient as to be able to write down her thoughts, let her do so and not despise the hour but rather flaunt it instead of fine clothes, necklaces, and rings. For these may be considered ours only by use, whereas the honor of being educated is ours entirely.

Or how about music? Hildegard of Bingen was dedicated as a nun as a child (I guess a bit better than being sold into slavery…), but apparently had some extraordinary gifts. She managed to free herself from the intended life in a small single cell, and got promoted to a less restrictive order. Eventually, she ended up running the convent, writing extensively, and a whole bunch of other stuff. She wrote plays, opera, a medical book, a theological treatise, and more. One of the more notable bits in her writing is a description - the first known written one in fact - of a female orgasm. (Not explained is exactly how she gained this knowledge. She did, however, theorize that it helped the semen get where it was going…) She also earned the ire of the male religious authorities of the time with her message of a god who delights in creation and in mankind. And for condemning the corrupt practice of simony.

But anyway, her music has endured. Not bad for a women of the 12th Century. Here is the ethereal beauty of Spiritus Sanctus. There are many more which have survived, great examples of the pinnacle of early Medieval chant.

Sadly, not all men seemed to appreciate these women. One particularly pathetic example was the Marquis of Mantua, married to Isabella d’Este. She was quite the polymath, and is best known to history for using her considerable wealth (and that of her husband) to commission great works of art from pantheon sorts like Raphael. Michelangelo designed her palace - um, yeah. That’s pretty dang cool. So anyway, the hubby had a love for going out and playing soldier, which resulted in his being taken prisoner. She lacked sufficient political pull to spring him, but she did keep a tight rein on the household, and repelled a planned invasion by her political and intellectual machinations. He wasn’t impressed when he got out of captivity, saying one of the most obnoxious things ever said to wife:

“We’re ashamed that it is our fate to have as wife a woman who is always ruled by her head.”

Isabella was not amused, retorting, “Your Excellency is indebted to me as never husband was to wife. Even if you loved and honored me more than anyone in the world, you could not repay my good faith.”

Burn.

She left, and never returned.

One final thought I want to end with. There are a number of Moslem women in this book, two of whom were related to Mohammed himself: his first wife, Khadija; and his cousin by marriage, Sukayna.

The story of Khadija is fascinating. She was a wealthy widow when she met the penniless Mohammed. She proposed. He hesitated, but eventually came around. During her lifetime, he was monogamous, compared with his later polygyny after her death. His youngest wife Aisha apparently was jealous of Mohammed’s continued love for Khadija long after her death. She was also the first convert to the new religion of Islam, and she supported his efforts.

The story gets interesting in this way: according to records outside the Koran, which was written after Mohammed’s death, he instituted a number of rather feminist reforms. Women could choose their partners, and they, not their families, would receive the bride price. There is every reason to believe that this was a strikingly egalitarian marriage, particularly for the time.

Likewise, Sukayna didn’t fit the mold of the subservient woman. In a later era, she would have been the central figure at a salon, with the literati of the age coming to her for intellectual discussion and fantastic dinner parties.

The sad thing is, within a century, all this was gone. The Koran itself would contain a great many passages that would be interpreted to make women subservient and silent. There would be very few Muslim women who were permitted to make a name for themselves in later centuries. By our own time, Islam would unfortunately become best known for its combination of violence and oppression of women. (While not universal, obviously, there is a good bit of truth to the idea that modern Islam tends to use the writings of the past to oppress and control women.)

The thing is, this sad tale isn’t at all unique to Islam.

The early Christian church was full of women in prominent roles. From Christ’s use of women as the first witnesses to the resurrection to his commendation of a woman who wished to “learn at his feet” as a rabbi in training, Christ’s life too shows a strong egalitarian streak. Later, women would lead home churches, found ministries, train men like Saint Paul, and even be listed as “foremost” among the apostles. (When is the last time your Evangelical church acknowledged that there was a female apostle. Can you name her?)

Sadly, just like Islam, in the subsequent centuries, when the religion went from a freewheeling and unpopular religion to an organization, women were systematically denied leadership, and the priesthood became for men only.

It is both sad and frustrating that two religions with such auspicious starts, that had the potential to overturn patriarchy have now become justifiably known as the primary perpetuators of sexism and misogyny in our world today. Think about it. Where are women most consistently told that they have no chance at equality in leadership? Where are most likely to be told to obey men, even when abused? Where are they taught that they are inherently more emotional and poorer in judgment than men? Where is the voice in our culture that condemns women who seek education and careers? (No points for a correct guess here…)

It’s an interesting little book. It’s breezy, and doesn’t go into depth, but it is simple enough in our internet age to follow up on the more interesting characters if you want more detail, as I did. It is a good reminder that things in the past were not necessarily how you were taught by those who have an agenda to erase the economic and intellectual contributions of women past. Women have always - although often under daunting odds and outright hostility - succeeded in the world of men.

Reading With My Kids: The Tale of Despereaux by Kate DiCamillo

Source of book: We own this, but we listened to it as an audiobook on our vacation.

My second daughter loves all things rodent. Her first favorite stuffed animal was a mouse, and she now has an extensive collection of mice and rats, all individually named. Many are, naturally, named after varieties of cheese. (She is extraordinarily fond of cheese - just like her father.) When the kids were picking out audiobooks to take with us on our vacation, she picked The Tale of Despereaux by Kate DiCamillo, as it was one of her favorites - but one I had never read, so she was eager to introduce me to it.

(As another example of her rodent love, she - and my elder daughter - chose to bring the stuffed kangaroo rats they got during our trip to Death Valley National Park back in January on this trip…)

Despereaux was published in 2003, which would explain why I never read it as a child.

Like most good children’s books, this one is filled with ideas and themes that are universal to all ages. I probably should give my older daughters (ages 11 and 9) credit for understanding most of them, but I found that they were equally interesting to an adult. As in many great stories, there is the triumph of the misunderstood underdog, a chance at redemption for several villains, a quest inspired by high ideals and love, and much wit in between. Also, a bit of commentary on the politics of despotism and the glories of soup. In the right hands, this is a recipe for a charming tale.

I won’t spoil the plot, because that is part of the fun. Rather, I will note that Despereaux, a young mouse with a shocking love for reading, rather than scurrying, falls in love with the princess. He is sent to the dungeon for sure death after he breaks the mouse code by talking with humans, but manages to survive by wit and the friendship of the jailor. In the meantime, we hear the stories of Miggery Sow, a peasant girl sold into slavery by her father, and Chiaroscuro (aka, Roscuro), a rat with a love for light and beauty who has sworn revenge on the Princess.

These three (with Despereaux himself) form the three main characters of the book. All three desire to transcend their station in life. Despereaux wishes to find himself in a fairy tale, with high ideals of love and honor and courage. Mig wishes to be a princess, rather than an abused scullery maid. Roscuro wishes to live in the light and beauty, not the darkness sought by both rats.

None of the three ultimately achieve their goals in the way they anticipated, but all are able to find transcendence in a different, partial form, and can be said to live “happily ever after,” as the author interprets the fairy tale ending.

There are a few great lines that I want to mention. After disaster befalls the kingdom as a result of Roscuro’s attempt to join a grand banquet (rats and banquets do not go together well), the king outlaws soup and all of its implements: spoons, bowls, and kettles. He also attempts to outlaw rats, which is silly because nobody likes rats anyway - they are already outlaws. As the author puts it, though, “When you are king, you may make as many ridiculous laws as you like. That is what being a king is all about.” I might add that this also applies to legislators and bureaucrats too…

The whole naming of Chiaroscuro was fun too. For those not familiar with the art term, it is the treatment of light and shade, specifically, an effect of contrasted light and shadow created by light falling unevenly or from a particular direction on something. Roscuro is fascinated by light, even though, as a rat, he is part of the realm of the shadow. He can never live comfortably in either realm, but he aspires to light and beauty.

Chiaroscuro was particularly popular during the Renaissance. Rembrandt used it in many of his paintings, but probably Caravaggio was the most notable for his use and perfection of the technique. 

 There are so many outstanding Rembrandts to choose from.

I’ll go with An Old Man In Red just because I love the characterization - Rembrandt’s outstanding ability.

Likewise, Caravaggio painted so many masterpieces of chiaroscuro, but I will go with The Supper at Emmaus.

Another fun thing about the way that this book uses outside references is the fact that the mice - particularly Despereaux’s family - tend to have French or English names, (Despereaux’s mother is French) while the rats are all Italian. Not just Italian, but Renaissance art related Italian. The other notable rat is Botticelli, named after the Renaissance painter most famous for The Birth of Venus.

The Birth of Venus by Botticelli.

 

Botticelli the rat is notable for his philosophical views on the meaning of life.

“The meaning of life,” said Botticelli, “is suffering. Specifically, the suffering of others.” Botticelli believes that his life becomes meaningful through his ability to make the prisoners suffer. It is the purpose of a rat, after all. “Evil. Prisoners. Rats. Suffering. It all fits together so neatly, so sweetly. Oh it is a lovely world, a lovely dark world.”

It is a deliciously awful idea, of course, and deliciously awful stuff is the bread and butter of a good story. Too much light by itself is no fun at all, as there is no conflict, and thus no growth. It is that very chiaroscuro, that contrast of light and darkness, which makes for a great tale of a certain type. (Other stories gain their interest from the subtleties of human nature, the inseparable mixture of light and dark within the human soul.) In this case, both occur. There is the pure dark of Botticelli and the pure light, if you will, of the princess or Despereaux; but there is also the mixed light and dark of Roscuro and Mig, who eventually must choose which side of their nature to follow.

Overall, I must say that my daughter has good taste in books, because we all enjoyed this one very much.

I also need to mention that, while not present in the audiobook for obvious reasons, the illustrations by Timothy Basil Ering are greatly beloved by my daughter. She mentioned at the key points in the story how hilarious and delightful a particular illustration was in the physical book.

To that end, I will include here one of her favorites: Roscuro, with his stolen soup spoon. 

Really a delightful children’s book, and one I can recommend as fun for adults as well.