Museum Idyll

I recently took in the new "Cult of Beauty" exhibit at San Francisco's Legion of Honor Art Museum. Spanning 1860-1900, the exhibit highlighted works of Edward Burne-Jones (at left is his sultry Laus Veneris--note the eager knights in the background heading toward the languid ladies), William Morris, Aubrey Beardsley, and many others of the Aesthetic Movement in England, a mirror to the French Fin de Siecle. Gorgeous tapestries, paintings, women's dresses, furniture and ceramics! Sadly, no photography allowed, you'll have to check out the exhibit in person!

I Need to Get Out More

Last night, a Friday, I did something very unusual for me (these days): I got on Muni and went downtown for a special fund-raiser for the Meridian Gallery on Powell Street (near Union Square in San Francisco), which involved several readings from members of the SF Writers Workshop. I arrived at the Powell Street station at about 6:30 and on reaching the surface, was delighted to see all the variety of interesting folks walking around by the cable car stop, singing, dancing, playing instruments, just taking in the mild February night. As I walked slowly up Powell Street, I heard the lightly amplified strains of an acoustic guitar, traced it to the source of the music, and captured this video of an excellent street musician--with a quirky San Francisco twist. Enjoy!

Reading Mrs. Dalloway -- A Wandering Commentary

“Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.”

You read the first sentence, and you’re in. In the midst of things; in medias res. A classic, and classical, element of literature. Recall The Iliad, which begins so famously in medias res: “Sing, O Muse, the wrath of Achilles.” And you are thrown onto the battlefield, the Greeks and Trojans weary, heartbroken, nearing the fate that will send Odysseus on his arduous journey and Agamemnon home to horror and doom. How different from the opening lines of that other ancient book, “At the beginning of God’s creating the heavens and the earth, when the earth was wild and waste…” which declares forthrightly that it will start you “here” and take you on a journey to “there.” The origin and the endpoint, causality and teleology are paramount for religion and science; the messiness and unpredictability of daily living, the “middle part” between beginning and end, and what we humans do with it, belong to philosophy and literature. Medieval classical literature’s meta-example of in medias res, the opening lines that will bring us back to modern Mrs. Dalloway, are from Dante’s Inferno: “Midway in the journey of our life I found myself in a dark wood, for the straight way was lost.”

Clarissa Dalloway has just begun her fifty-first year of life, although we don’t learn this until some time later in the day, that slow-motion day that begins, for her and for us, with her rapture as she sets forth into the town. Her story has a beginning, at the start of her day, but the first line tells us we are in the middle of something. A decision has been made—to buy the flowers herself—which decision has a precedent—she had previously, perhaps, told someone else to go buy them? And now she has changed her mind. There is a future intimated in that first line as well—why are the flowers being bought? One generally buys flowers for a person or an occasion, certainly in this case for something specific that has required this determining to do it one’s self. Finally, the sentence states, she “says” this—presumably aloud, possibly to someone, there are more people than just Mrs. Dalloway involved—and the matter is settled.

[Excerpt from forthcoming essay/book "Reading Mrs. Dalloway" by Mary F. Burns (c) 2012]

Russian Icons -- Windows to Eternity

On our recent vacation on the East Coast, my husband and I stopped in Clinton, Mass. to visit the recently built Museum of Russian Icons (http://www.museumofrussianicons.org), established by one Gordon Lankton in 2006 in a 150-year-old former mill in the picturesque town. It was truly inspiring (I've been thinking for some years now of writing an historical novel with icons as the main subject...) and the museum is beautifully arranged. Our docent was a young Russian woman who was very well informed and engaging.  The icon to the left is called "The Image Not Made by Hands" and is the Russian Orthodox "version" of the legend of Veronica's Veil, and also akin to the Shroud of Turin. The story relates that a Persian King had leprosy and hearing tales of the miracles wrought by Jesus, sent an icon artist to him to paint his icon and bring it back to the king so he could pray before it and be healed. Instead of 'posing' for the icon painter, Jesus took a cloth, dipped it in water, and pressed it to his face, leaving the imprint as it shows on the icon. When the king saw it, he was healed (of course). 

Here are some other icons we took photos of -- be sure to visit the website to see more!

Emily Dickinson -- Poetry in Small Things and Large

I've never paid much attention to Emily Dickinson until recently, when I read a fascinating historical novel based on her odd, eccentric and remarkable life. (The Secret Life of Emily Dickinson by Jerome Charyn). And then, just three days ago as my husband and I were visiting friends along the East Coast, we found ourselves within 10 miles of Amherst, Massachusetts, where Emily lived and died. At right is the only known image of her, a daguerrotype taken when she was about 16 -- neither she nor any of her family thought it did her justice, and it was hidden away in a drawer, and she never had another photograph taken.

The day we visited her home was a mildly rainy morning, quiet, soft and gray. We walked around the grounds, a large property which included her brother's house, The Evergreens, also a museum. We were the only two in line for a  late morning tour, and our docent, an older man with a white beard and a cheerful manner, recited Emily's poems as we wandered from room to room. Upstairs in her bedroom where she wrote and slept and died, he movingly spoke aloud a poem she wrote about her many sleepless nights:

Will there really be a "Morning"?
Is there such a thing as "Day"?
Could I see it from the mountains
If I were as tall as they?

Has it feet like Water lilies?
Has it feathers like a Bird?
Is it brought from famous countries
Of which I have never heard?

Oh some Scholar! Oh some Sailor!
Oh some Wise Men from the skies!
Please to tell a little Pilgrim
Where the place called "Morning" lies!

Old Western Cemetery, Bird Song and Silence

On a driving trip back to San Francisco from visiting family in Portland, Oregon, my husband and I stopped at Jacksonville, Oregon, about six miles west of the farm town of Medford. The Main Street is about four blocks long, with buildings dating from the 1850s. It was hot the day we were there -- 85 degrees or so -- that is, hot for San Franciscans used to the Summer Fog, but just delightful for the local folk used to temperatures in the low 100's during the summer. One of the main attractions of Jacksonville is the cemetery, which we walked up a winding road to get to at the top of a ragged hill with lovely views of the larger hills and valleys all around. Huge old orange-barked manzanitas shaded the peaceful resting places of pioneers to Oregon. The cemetery was divided into various sections:  City, Masonic, Jewish -- and the time-honored Potter's Field, where the poor and the unknown were buried, usually without any markers. It was a peaceful place, as you can see in the video -- if you listen carefully, you can hear the birds trilling in the late afternoon sun.

Amos Lee and that old Violin

I have fallen in love with a "new" singer--new to me at least--Amos Lee. His latest CD, "Mission Bell" has an incredibly beautiful, heartfelt song called "Violin" that just breaks my heart when I hear it. He has other CDs which I'll start tracking down, but this one I have already purchased and have been playing for days. There's really something fun about finding a "new" creative thing (for lack of a better word at the moment) -- musician, author, singer, artist -- and of course, he or she could have been around for a long time, just happens to be your new discovery. Finding that voice or painting or style that speaks to you, resonates with you and your life--it's such a gracious gift, and one I hope I never get used to or take for granted.

I'm about to head down to San Diego for a long weekend at the Historical Novel Society conference, and I'm really looking forward to reveling in meeting new people, reading new books, finding new authors, different styles, alternative perspectives--I'm mentally preparing to keep my ears and eyes and spirit wide open to receive all the impressions I can. It's the kind of thing that feeds one's own creativity with hope and facts and friendship. I'll be back with my impressions!