The Passing of Caryl Ambrose

It's never easy to lose someone who is a close family member. About ten days before we celebrated Uncle Eddy's 90th birthday, our cousin Caryl M. Ambrose passed away at the age of 74 on Thanksgiving after suffering for many months with a terminal illness. I took the picture you see here a couple of years ago, with Caryl seated on the left with her sister Marilyn and Uncle Eddy, all of us taking in the sun after having lunch on the waterfront in Dunedin, FL. We all take some comfort knowing that Caryl is no longer in pain anymore, but because she always exuded an incredible strength of character, independent spirit, zest for what is right in the world, and an unending love for her family, her passing is challenging to process. Caryl was my second cousin. While her grandfather and my grandmother (Nana) were brother and sister, they were at opposite ends of a family timeline, almost twenty years apart in age, so that in fact my Nana and Caryl's father, Uncle Tommy, were close in age. Caryl was always interested in learning more about family history and loved when I would tell her about any new discoveries I had made in the Ambrose-and-Bagge English side of our family history. She was a Bronx-born girl, like so many in our family, and lived most of her life in NYC where she ran a travel consultant firm, then retired early and went to Florida with Marilyn, and had a whole new second life there as a nurse. Here is her obituary that her sister and brother wrote:

"Caryl's final safari was to heaven on 11/22/18 at the age of 74. Her life was a tale of two cities-New York and Tampa Bay. Her company, the African Transfer, specialized in safaris to Kenya, Tanzania and Botswana. She then went on to another career as a nurse where she lovingly rescued many needy folks and furry creatures. She leaves behind her sister Marilyn, brother Dennis (Laura) and his family in Illinois – Nephews TJ & Glenn. Niece Ashley, great nephews Aiden and Anthony … and her rescue cat Chris … as well as numerous, wonderful kissing cuzzins and many lifelong friends."

Caryl never stopped wanting to know how everyone else around her was doing. She would write letters--actual handwritten letters, as recently as earlier this year to me--in which she remembered everything AA and I had going on, wanting to hear all about our travels (Marilyn would always add the funny side-bar comments and jokes in the letter!). Caryl was a caregiver, someone who instinctively wanted to help, to her own detriment in that she refused to let on about anything happening with her own health. Before she moved to Florida, I had always seen both Caryl and Marilyn as the savvy independent sisters, the first in NYC the second in Chicago. Caryl ran her own business, traveled worldwide, took care of some beautiful cats and dogs, and still managed to look after all of our great-uncles and other aging relatives. When my father and I planned a big trip to Italy and England back in 1991 (long before Internet search engines!), she coordinated our entire five-week trip, with flights and hotels and train tickets. I remember being completely amazed at how she was able to pull it all together so easily.

The one thing about Caryl that I will always cherish and keep close to my heart, though, was her encouragement and support of my writing. This is not something many people know. When I was a teenager, she heard that I was trying to write a novel, a family saga of sorts set in the 1800s (I was heavily influenced by John Jakes's Kent Family Chronicles at the time). Without any hesitation, she told me to give her a copy of the manuscript and she would "show it" to someone she knew "in the business." I was completely in awe that she "knew" someone and had connections like that, so I gave her a copy. The truth is, I have absolutely no idea if she actually showed it to anyone or not--even more truthfully, I hope she didn't because it was a horrible, early attempt at writing! The point is, she believed in me. She didn't assess my talents, she saw my drive and interest, and she was one of the first people in the family to encourage me to do this. That simple gesture on her part inspired me in ways that I still feel to this day in all of my efforts when I write something, whether it's an article, fiction, or even this blog. That gesture made me realize how a simple action can help support and encourage someone in ways no one can ever know. I will miss her energy, her laughter, her letters, and her love of family, but her spirit lives on in so many of us.

Poem #3

My guilt is "slavery's chains," too long
the clang of iron falls down the years.
This brother's sold, this sister's gone,
is bitter wax, lining my ears.
My guilt made music with the tears.

My crime is "heroes, dead and gone,"
dead Vesey, Turner, Gabriel,
dead Malcolm, Marcus, Martin King.
They fought too hard, they loved too well.
My crime is I'm alive to tell.

My sin is "hanging from a tree,"
I do not scream, it makes me proud.
I take to dying like a man.
I do it to impress the crowd.
My sin lies in not screaming loud.

-- Maya Angelou, "My Guilt," from Just Give Me a Cool Drink of Water 'fore I Diiie (1971)

These days, when we seem to be reeling over and over from the racist rhetoric of our Tyrant and his sycophantic supporters, it seems more important than ever to remember someone like Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., as well as everyone of any race, color, ethnicity, class, gender, sexual orientation, and creed, who has died in the fight for equality in this nation built on democracy, equal opportunity, and freedom.

(Here is a link to my tribute to Maya Angelou when she died in 2014.)

The Passing of Linda Nochlin

Linda Nochlin, one of the great art historians who influenced more than one generation of scholars, died this past weekend at the age of 86. I first met Linda about 12-13 years ago when I was exploring graduate programs. She kindly met with me in her tiny, book-crammed office at NYU's Institute of Fine Arts, where she worked for decades before retiring a few years ago, and we chatted about Simeon and Rebecca Solomon and my interests in Pre-Raphaelite art. I wound up not going to IFA, so I never had an opportunity to take a class with her, but my adviser at the CUNY Graduate Center, Patricia Mainardi, was one of Nochlin's students, so I feel as if she was my academic-adviser-grandmother of sorts. I saw Nochlin every once and a while afterward through the years at various events, and even though she didn't remember me she always graciously reconnected with me about the Solomons when we spoke again. She was the adviser for a few friends of mine who went to the IFA and they remained close to her through the years.

It is her art-historical scholarship, however, that will live on. Nochlin's pioneering essay "Why Have There Been No Great Women Artists?" (1971) was a watershed moment that changed art history and practically initiated women's and gender studies in the arts and humanities. This evening, Mainardi posted on Facebook that her mentor's essay "was a game-changer, a paradigm-shifter, a breath of fresh air that blew through the art world like a tornado and changed everything and everyone in it. We are all her progeny." If that essay wasn't enough, Nochlin also was a specialist in 19th-century art, particularly that of Courbet, and she wrote an incredible number of social-historical essay about art that are still relevant and worth reading. Among some of my favorites are:

• "The Imaginary Orient" in which she applied Edward Said's groundbreaking post-colonial theories about literature and history to visual art, teaching us how to really look at exotic pictures of the Middle East;
• "Manet's Masked Ball at the Opera" in which she tackled prostitution and misogyny in Second Empire France through images of fragmented female bodies and the visual representation of sexual aggression by men;
• "Degas and the Dreyfus Affair" in which she explored whether one can find evidence of the Impressionist artist's anti-Semitism in his art, and then forced us to consider whether we could look past his anti-Semitism and still appreciate Edgar Degas as a great artist (I've always called this "Michael Jackson syndrome"--can you still like his music if you are disgusted by his actions toward children?--and was inspired to think of this by her article);
• and "Morisot's Wet Nurse" in which she examined Berthe Morisot's painting of her nurse breastfeeding the painter's infant daughter, considering everything from subject to facture in an attempt to explore the challenges of women having children and careers.

I have gone back to Nochlin's scholarship time and time again because of its insightfulness, but also because of its erudition. She never had to rely on abstruse literary and cultural theory to make her point. She always returned the reader back to the work of art. Some scholars may have gone on to challenge some of her suppositions through the years (that is part of the job, anyway), but everyone who has studied art history since the 1980s has had to contend and acknowledge her contributions to the field and recognize how her work changed things.

Nochlin will be best remembered for "Why Have There Been No Great Women Artists?" Her conclusion ultimately was that because institutions and thus individuals prohibited women from studying properly as men had, it inhibited their ability to become the artistic geniuses their fellow male artists often became. At the end of her essay, Nochlin charged scholars to learn from this mistake of the past and change things for the future. Her words seem prescient for all forms of scholarship that consider minorities and otherness, although at the time she was inspiring women.

What is important is that women face up to the reality of their history and of their present situation, without making excuses or puffing mediocrity. Disadvantages may indeed be an excuse; it is not, however, an intellectual position. Rather, using as a vantage point their situation as underdogs in the realm of grandeur, and outsiders in that of ideology, women can reveal institutional and intellectual weaknesses in general, and, at the same time that they destroy false consciousness, take part in the creation of institutions in which clear thought--and true greatness--are challenges open to anyone, man or woman, courageous enough to take the necessary risk, the leap into the unknown.

You can read more about Nochlin's life and work here, here, and here.
(Photo of Linda Nochlin by Adam Husted.)

The Passing of Peter Letterese

During the night, my Uncle Peter Letterese passed away in a hospital in St. Petersburg, Florida. He has been suffering on and off for years from the effects of leukemia, but it never stopped him from enjoying a glass of wine or listening to an aria by Pavarotti. He was 93 years old, so we certainly can take comfort in knowing he had a long, fulfilling life. However, his passing is hard for the family, because he was such a vital part of our lives for decades. His granddaughter, my cousin MTB, has now lost the second half of the duo who did so much to raise and support her through the years, having lost her Nana, my Aunt Florence (my mother's older sister) in 2009. I blogged about her passing at that time. Uncle Pete was admittedly never the same after Aunt Florence died; she was the love of his life. In recent years he spoke honestly about how he wanted to be with her again. By a strange coincidence, New Year's Eve--today--was their 45th wedding anniversary. But he did the best he could all these years. The picture you see above is a shot of Aunt Florence, Uncle Peter, MTB, and her son, ten years ago at a family dinner.

Uncle Pete was a boxer. Not everyone knows that. He gave that up ages ago, though, and eventually worked as an X-ray technician in hospitals in the Bronx and St. Petersburg. A few years ago I uncovered the photo you see here in an issue of The New York Times. On June 18, 1949, he was the X-ray technician on duty who treated French boxer Marcel Cerdan for a torn shoulder muscle, and was photographed with Cerdan by an unidentified Associated Press photographer. The juxtaposition of his lives as a boxer and technician came together on that day.

When Aunt Florence and Uncle Peter finally retired for good in the late 1980s, they moved permanently back to their home in St. Petersburg, and soon joined up with the Italian-American Society of St. Petersburg, taking language lessons and tarantella dancing lessons. They were responsible for getting my parents and me involved in this too. (Yes, I admit it, I used to dance the tarantella and other dances with the group all over Florida!) Uncle Pete went to Italy once with my father, so he met the whole Italian side of family. When I was growing up I remember my aunt and uncle always coming out to our house on Saturday mornings, bringing pastry boxes with rolls and doughnuts. They always bought me a NYC classic: a black-and-white cookie. When my cousins and I were all kids, he was the Uncle who every summer picked us all up and threw us into the pool, doing it again and again, encouraged by our squeals of joy, and in spite Aunt Florence always yelling at him, "Peter, be careful!" As I grew older, it was Uncle Pete who helped educate me about wine. I went to more than one wine tasting with him over the years. He was also the person who first got me interested in opera. Once, he was given free tickets on a night that Aunt Florence couldn't go, so he asked if I wanted to go. My parents drove me into the City to meet him at Lincoln Center. That was my first live opera experience: Rigoletto at the Metropolitan Opera, in box seats, at the age of twelve. It was an amazing experience. (We even sat next to Mia Farrow and Woody Allen--long before the Soon Yi scandal.)

Uncle Pete always had a big heart for everyone and he did truly enjoy life. He simply adored his granddaughter MTB and we know he appreciated greatly all her help over the past few years as things got harder for him. If Aunt Florence taught us how to be disciplined, organized, smart, and strong, Uncle Peter taught us how to have fun, enjoy good things in life, and never to take anything too seriously, because there were always choices and options. When I think of the great phrases that the elders in my life gave me, Uncle Peter gave me two. The first was: "The hardest part of making a decision is making the decision. After that, it all rolls into place." The second was: "And what's the worst thing that could happen if you discover you made a mistake? You change it." Very wise words from our own family wine expert. Salute, Uncle Peter!

The Passing of Walter Liedtke

The horrible news of the train crash on the Metro North railroad yesterday evening was tragic unto itself. This afternoon, however, the names of some of those who died were released and, like many others active in the art and museum world, I was startled and disturbed to discover that Walter Liedtke was among the deceased. Walter (as I and many others knew him) was a curator for 35 years at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and an internationally renowned specialist in Dutch and Flemish paintings by famous artists such Rembrandt, Rubens, and Vermeer. I had the privilege of meeting Walter a number of times during the 7+ years I worked at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I actually taught him (along with my colleagues) how to use PowerPoint for his art historical presentations, and he attended a few of my instructional sessions on digital imaging. Whenever he came into the Image Library, he would ask me about how my graduate work and dissertation was coming along and encouraged my pursuit of art history as a career. I doubt he would have remembered me outside of my former role at the Met; nevertheless, the news of his death has impacted me more than I expected.

When I think back over those years when I was in graduate school and working at the Met, Walter was one of the more significant curators who inspired me. His art historical scholarship was brilliant, easy to read but always insightful. His presentations were engaging. His exhibitions were thought-provoking in the most creative ways, even when they were at the simplest. He curated, for instance, the loan of a single painting from the Rijksmuseum, Vermeer's Milkmaid, and combined with it a selection of paintings, works on paper, and decorative arts from across the Met's collections, exploring not only Vermeer's genius with this painting but the hidden symbolism behind what ordinarily would be seen otherwise as merely a genre scene. (I blogged about the show at the time.) It opened my eyes to the notion that one could successfully launch an informative show that focused on a single work of art. Similarly, his exhibition of paintings by Frans Hals from the Met's collection was fascinating because he wasn't afraid to move outside his comfort zone of the 17th century and demonstrate how Hals's brushstroke influenced modernist artists such as Manet and Sargent in the 19th and 20th centuries. His work on Rembrandt was legendary, and his Vermeer and the Delft School was always championed as a masterful exhibition and catalogue, although regretfully I never saw the show. Beyond his brilliance and creativity, there was an incredible charm and wit to him that always made one smile. Indeed, I learned from his example as a person how one could balance the international accolades of recognition for scholarship with a down-to-earth persona that could put anyone at ease. The Met has a few video segments and features in which Walter appears, but I think this one video, "Living with Vermeer," does a lot to help viewers understand not only the curator as a scholar but the curator as a man, mirroring the quotidian existence one finds in the Dutch and Flemish paintings he admired and taught so many people how to enjoy. I urge you to watch the short video by clicking here.

Lessons from Papà

Today was my father's memorial service in St. Petersburg, Florida. It was a beautiful service. Numerous people from the Italian-American Society of St. Petersburg were there, as were members of my family, all in celebration of my father's life. The minister, Tom Lentz, knew my father from the Society, so it was a joy to have someone lead the service who actually knew my father. My "right-hand person," Rose Marcelin, gave a lovely talk remembering the positive and fun parts of my father's life that touched so many people. We played the "Ave Maria" (Bach/Gounod, sung by Andrea Bocelli), as we had at my mother's service eight years ago, and we also played "Miserere" sung by Russell Watson and Zucchero, a song that my father used to sing and loved not only because of its beautiful harmony but because my mother loved the song so much. The message in that song is clear and appropriate for today: although sometimes we go through terrible things, we salute life for all the beauty it holds. We ended with a small group of dancers from the Society performing "La Molisana," a lovely slow dance that was one of my father's favorites when he performed with the group.

The DVD of images from my father's life included many touching moments, but also a few funny ones. I acknowledged the important role that the Society played in my father's life, and the Fountains of Boca Ciega Bay where they helped make his last few years so rewarding and respectful. I also tribute to his dear friend Karin Cline, who was his constant companion the past few years, and to Rose and my cousin Denise for their support and help through the years and at the very end. I've given my memorial talk the title "Lessons from Papà," and I have transcribed the text below. I wasn't sure I would be able to make it through the entire talk, but I'm glad that I did, as I wanted to convey to those present these memories and celebrate my special moments of his life.

Before the memorial service started, I’m sure many of you were watching the DVD of my father’s life. The images tell us a clear story—he truly lived a full life and he took pride in his family, his friends, and things that gave him great joy, like playing the drums and dancing. He also enjoyed himself on stage and performed in drag. I'm proud to say my father did drag! And he was good! For a number of years, my father taught Italian language classes for the Italian-American Society, and although we have no images of him teaching in that DVD, many of us know first-hand how much he enjoyed doing this. He did not have a degree to teach.  In fact, my father’s official education ended during World War II when the Americans bombed his high school in Milan. But even without an official education, his exuberance made him a natural in leading a classroom. Thinking about his role as a teacher, I realized that as my life has unfolded it is my father who was one of my great teachers. So I thought I would share with you some lessons in life I learned from Papà.

When I was 8 years old, I remember struggling to understand why the seasons changed. My father picked up a red apple, removed the stem, and reinserted it at a slight angle. He then began to rotate the apple along the stem’s angle, and moved his hand in a circle in the air. That was how I came to understand how the earth rotates on its axis and how the planet moves around the sun. It was also the first time it ever occurred to me that this man, my father, was rather clever.

When I used to practice the piano, he would teach me about rhythm and tempo, acting as my own personal metronome by clapping his hands to a consistent beat. It used to drive me crazy! But over time I realized how playing his drums wasn't just about making sounds. By playing the drums, he was the foundation of rhythm that made every song sound great.

My father taught me that history was not just facts about the past. He did this by telling stories. He would recount strange tales of growing up under Mussolini, of avoiding bombings, of eating marble dust in bread or marmalade again and again, and of watching Mussolini hung upside-down with his girlfriend after the War. He taught me that history is about an experienced life.

My father taught me about determination and working toward one’s goals. He emigrated to a new country without speaking the language and forged a better life for himself and for his family, in pursuit of the American dream. And he always encouraged me to find my own path and to live my own life, but to always know that he was there for me when I needed him.

One day my father told me about his life before my mother, Chris, and me, that he had been married before and had two daughters. I learned that day about honesty and integrity, but also about fallibility, watching in my father’s eyes a hidden awareness that even though he had tried to do the best he could for his daughters in Italy, he knew he had let them down by not being in their lives the same way he was in ours.

But he also showed me the power of true, unconditional parental love when, during my own personal identity crisis 21 years ago, a time when I even contemplated suicide rather than disappoint him, my father came to me and said, quite simply, “We love you, no matter what, and we are here for you. We will always love you.”

My father showed me through his relationship with my mother the power of passionate love, how it can be romantic, combustible, thrilling, violent, exciting, and extremely painful. But then he showed me the true essence of love when my mother’s sickness got worse and worse. He fed her, he carried her, he cleaned her, he held her. And toward the end, when he could do no more physically, he visited her every single day just to say hello and to hold her hand. After she died, he told me that he had loved her in those last few years more then all the intensely passionate years beforehand.

Everyone here will likely agree that my father was a happy man, someone who always wanted to throw another party, to play music, and to dance. He was not perfect, but he was a decent, hard-working man who wanted only the best in life for everyone. 

My father understood that life is a journey, an opportunity to contribute to the universe with all the gifts, talents, and love that we possess. It is that personal sense of enjoyment and experience, that thing that is not just life but living, that is the greatest lesson from my father that I will keep in my heart above all others. I salute you, Papà, and I say "Mille grazie!"

The Passing of Alfredo Ferrari

Although my father has been ill for quite some time, I have to confess I was unprepared for the news that he had had such a sharp decline about two weeks ago. He passed away on Friday, July 18. Fortunately, I was able to get to Florida and spend his last two days with him. Although it was a great challenge to watch him slowly fade, it was, in truth, an honor and privilege to hold his hand as he passed away. After suffering from the effects of Alzheimer's disease for more than five years, and following up on the long suffering my mother endured as well from early onset Alzheimer's disease, my father is now at rest and no longer in pain. Although my mother's death took place eight years ago, it seems strangely poetic that her death occurred on July 13, five days before my father's did. His memorial service will be held on Sunday, August 10, at Memorial Park Funeral Home in St. Petersburg, FL. I've written his obituary and you can leave comments with the online guestbook by clicking here. But at some point that will come down, so I'm reproducing what I've written here as well.

Alfredo Ferrari, 82, passed away on Friday, July 18, 2014. He was born in Milan, Italy on September 6, 1931, the third son of Giuseppe Ferrari and Adelaide Cogliati, and grew up in Fascist Italy under Mussolini during World War II. He worked for the film and photography company Agfa-Gevaert in Italy, and later emigrated to the United States, living in the Bronx, New York, and continuing to work for Agfa as a warehouse manager in New Jersey. He also was a drummer in the New York-based band Bits-n-Pieces, and later in life played with other musical groups as well. He moved to St. Petersburg, Florida upon retiring in 1989, and became very active in the Italian-American Society of St. Petersburg, performing with the Tarantella Dancers and teaching Italian language and culture. He is predeceased by his wife Kathleen Pape Ferrari, who died in 2006. He is survived by his daughters AnnaMaria Ferrari Polo and Anita Ferrari and their mother, all of Italy, his son Roberto C. Ferrari of New York City, his foster son Christopher Carattini of New Jersey, his sister Rosanna Ferrari Clementi and nieces, also of Italy, as well as grandchildren and a great-grandchild. In lieu of flowers, please consider making a donation to the Alzheimer's Association, Florida Gulf Coast Chapter,http://www.alz.org/flgulfcoast/.

Maya Angelou

It was just 8 days ago that the world received news the great African-American writer Maya Angelou had died at the age of 86, having just celebrated her last birthday on April 4th. Her death struck me cold, and it has bothered me since. It's not because we are both Aries and I think we are kindred souls (I wouldn't dare compare myself to her genius). Nor am I troubled that she had died too young, or because I thought I "knew" her in some way. I'm saddened because the world will no longer be graced with the power of her voice and the power of her words. Her last message on Twitter, dated May 23rd, was as strong a message as any she had ever written and spoken: "Listen to yourself and in that quietude you might hear the voice of God." I can still hear in my head her recitation of the inaugural poem "On the Pulse of Morning" in 1993--A Rock. A River. A Tree.--and its final stanza, resonant with hope:

Here, on the pulse of this new day

You may have the grace to look up and out

And into your sister's eyes, and into

Your brother's face, your country

And say simply

Very simply

With hope--

Good morning.

These past 8 days I have been distressed by her death. I have felt a rivulet of emotion gurgling beneath the surface of my mind and my heart. I have been in mourning, and I only just realized this fact a little while ago. I never had the honor or privilege of meeting Maya Angelou, but there was always something about her voice and her words that have struck me. I am not alone; she has impacted many people's lives. But I realize that I am mourning the loss of a generation and a past and an understanding of the power of words, how when written from the heart and the mind, and spoken from the soul, words have the power to make a difference on a level that transcends basic textuality. Maya Angelou wasn't a perfect woman. She was something better. She was a human being, just like you and me, someone who made mistakes and learned from them, someone who knew that through our creative minds and bodies, one can make a small difference in this world, a difference that can enact positive change, hope, and love. Watch this short video interview with Maya Angelou that Ann Curry did about 12 years ago. You will quickly understand what I mean.

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Random Musings 11

2012 has been a busy year so far, which is why I haven't been blogging lately. I've been working hard at my job, on my dissertation, and on my next conference presentation that is coming up in less than two weeks. So I thought I'd reconnect by posting a Random Musing about some recent things that have piqued my interest.

You know it's going to be a good day when The New York Times publishes an important news story about dogs in art here in New York City. Randy Kennedy writes about paintings and sculptures with dogs, ranging from a 5th-century ceramic coyote from Mexico to drawings of dachshunds by David Hockney. One of my favorite dog-themed pictures in NYC is the 1570s painting you see here by Veronese, Boy with a Greyhound (image: Metropolitan Museum of Art). There is something innately beautiful in the simple way the dog nuzzles the boy as he reaches back to scratch at his neck. And of course the greyhound makes me think of my canine nephew George in FL! Kennedy's article is a preview of sorts for the upcoming exhibition In the Company of Animals: Art, Literature, and Music at the Morgan, opening March 2 at The Morgan Library. 


The art world has been going a bit crazy over the recent news that the government of Qatar (i.e. their royal family) have purchased Paul Cézanne's painting The Card Players, ca. 1900, for the world record price of $250 million. Yes, you read that correctly. It is the highest price ever reported for the private sale of a painting. In comparison, Pablo Picasso's Nude, Green Leaves, and Bust holds the record price for the sale of a painting at auction for $106 million. Alexandra Peers has an exclusive story in Vanity Fair about the purchase, which took place last year but only now has gone public. NPR has an interview with Peers about the story as well. My friend PR has some interesting links about this on his blog, including a startling tidbit I hadn't realized, that 7 of the top 10 highest priced paintings sold privately all have happened just since 2004. Clearly the failing economy isn't affecting everyone in the world. At least the royal family is planning to display the work in their new national museum. I may revisit this whole story again if I have time, as there's a lot more that can be said about this, including just how important this guy Cézanne really is. (Hint: He is important, but this painting certainly isn't his best work.)

I was startled to hear today that art historian John House had passed away at the age of 66. He worked at the Courtauld Institute of Art in London, retiring in 2010. A specialist in 19th-century French art, he was one of the few art historians out there whose writing was not only intelligent but palatable. I always tell people that his book Impressionism: Paint and Politics (2004) is one of the best books I've read on Impressionist painting. Both a formalist and social historian in his methodology, his book engages lucidly with how the radical nature of the brush strokes of Monet, Renoir, and the rest of them reflected the changing socio-political and cultural environment in their daily lives. The book also utilizes digital imaging beautifully, publishing high-resolution details of Impressionist paintings that show first-hand how they handled paint, something you can never see as clearly looking at the pictures themselves. 


Speaking of books, I've been trying to keep my big budget under control these days, but I've added a few great new titles to my library over the past few months. In art history, I've been doing some research on 19th-century women sculptors and purchased Kate Culkin's Harriet Hosmer: A Cultural Biography (2010) and Kirsten Pai Buick's Child of the Fire: Mary Edmonia Lewis and the Problem of Art History's Black and Indian Subject (2010). I also had to get the Brooklyn Museum's Youth and Beauty: Art of the American Twenties (2011) since I loved the exhibition. For Christmas my cousin MB and her family gave me Robert K. Massie's biography Catherine the Great (2011), which was on my Books of 2011 list (thanks, MB!). In fiction, I picked up Barbara Pym's Jane and Prudence (1953) and F. Scott Fitzgerald's This Side of Paradise (1920), and my artist friend MT just gave me  as a thank you gift George Eliot's Middlemarch (1874) because she was horrified to discover I had not read it yet (thanks, MT!). I'm currently reading Timothy Parsons's The British Imperial Century, 1815-1914 (1999), which is surprisingly good, but it could use some pictures. Speaking of imperialism...

This month is Queen Elizabeth II's Diamond Jubilee. Having now reigned 60 years, she is just on the tail of her ancestor King George III, who has held 2nd place for the longest running British monarch (r. 1760-1820). She's still just behind Queen Victoria, who reigned 64 years (r. 1837-1901). I've always thought it was interesting how people feel comfortable referring to Victoria's reign as the "Victorian" age, but no one would ever dare think of the past 60 years as the "Elizabethan" age. The image you see here is a fantastic portrait painting done by Pietro Annigoni in 1954-55, which The Art Newspaper talks about in more detail. It's a powerfully Romantic picture, isolating her against a barren landscape that epitomizes how youthful innocence can also show great power, especially for a nation rebuilding a decade after World War II.

The Passing of Jeanne Pepe

On September 12, 2001, the photograph you see here appeared in the St. Petersburg Times accompanying an article entitled “Show of Faith Rises Amid Fear.”  The photo was taken by staff photographer James Borchuck and shows my aunt, Jeanne Marie Pepe, mourning the victims of the 9/11 attacks.  According to writer Stephen Buckley, my aunt “stood at the back of a dark empty Holy Family Catholic Church in St. Petersburg Tuesday afternoon.  The 68-year-old great-grandmother stared at electric candles.  She had spent the morning sobbing and was relieved to hear that she didn’t have to go into the clothing store where she works.  She grabbed her straw purse and went to church instead.  ‘I just don’t know what’s happening in this world, to this world,’ she said.  ‘I think God must be trying to tell us something with all this tragedy.’” Her story was but one of millions that would be published in the days following the tragedy, and it seems appropriate to share this story today, the 10th anniversary of the 9/11 attacks.  But for our family this image is also bittersweet, as my aunt died 10 days ago on 9/1/11.  This odd series of numbers and her death taking place so close to the 9/11 anniversary may be merely coincidental, but somehow it seems appropriate to her psyche.  She was, after all, born on 3/3/33.

Her name was Jeanne (pronounced with 2 syllables), but to me she was always Aunt Gigs (pronounced with 2 hard G’s).  The story goes that when I was a child I couldn’t say her name and somehow came up with Aunt Gigi (same 2 hard G’s).  This was endearing to both her and me, but by the time I was a teenager “Gigi” just seemed childish so I started to modify it.  “Gigster” and “Gigalicious” were possibilities, but somehow Aunt Gigs suited her well.  Her creative sensibility and humor were a joy to me as a child.  She wore a homemade pink bunny outfit one Halloween to complement my outfit as a panda bear.  One time she wanted to read me the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears, but I told her I knew it already.  Undeterred, she decided instead to tell me the story of Silverlocks and the Three Bears, Silverlocks being Goldie’s sister, and much more feisty young lady at that!  Then there was the time she decided to read me a “new” story, then proceeded to read a fairy tale backwards, which left me howling with laughter.

Aunt Gigs could respond to any remark with the lyrics from some appropriate song.  Bring up dancing, she’s break out with “I won’t dance, don’t ask me!”—an absolute myth of course, since she loved to dance.  Tell her it’s raining outside, she’d break out into a verse of either “Stormy Weather” or “It’s Raining Men.”  Ever the merry widow, the latter was probably her personal favorite.  Indeed, with her good friend and fellow merry widow Joanie, the duo used to go out for cocktails and dancing all the time like a couple of teenagers.  Eventually they took their partying on regular trips to Freeport and soon became known as the Bahama Mamas.  I always had admired the fact that she went back to school later in life and became a nurse, recognizing the importance of finding something to fulfill her.  But of course there was a dark side too.  Don’t mess with the Gigster, or she’d rearrange your face.  The family remembers well how she almost jumped over the counter at the fast food restaurant Gino’s because the girl gave her attitude and dumped the French fries upside down in the bag of food.  As her granddaughter pointed out in her lovely talk during the funeral services, one of her favorite phrases was “Freak you and twice on Sunday.”  But we also will never forget her other classic line, “Kiss my grits!”—spoken by a New Yorker and not a Texan though, somehow it took on a more ferocious tone that implied “Come on…I dare you.”  This explosive anger that could come out of nowhere was part of her urban Bronx upbringing.  My mother had it too.  But it was in truth a defense mechanism.  In the long run she cared about protecting her loved ones, never wanting them to be hurt or taken advantage of.

The women on my mother’s side of the family always have been a force of nature unto themselves.  Nana was the matriarch, and her daughters Florence, Jeanne, and Kathleen were a triumvirate of power.  Their influence on the family was intense (for good and bad!) and resonates through all of us to this day.  The picture you see here shows the triumvirate looking sweet and innocent ca. 1960, dressed in their Easter Sunday best.  The fact that all 3 have died within the past 5 years is absolutely shocking.  These were, after all, the women who raised us, creating our own familial village of support, and to think they are gone physically from us is like a gaping hole torn through the fabric of our lives.  (Here are the links to my posts about Aunt Florence and my mother.)  Florence was the strong one to whom everyone turned for guidance.  Jeanne was the party girl who showed you how to enjoy your life.  And Kathleen was the dreamer, always looking for the next adventure, always on the hunt for a bargain.  They were in fact the only women in the world who could enter a Salvation Army thrift shop and walk out with designer dresses they would wear to a wedding or some other function looking quite fashionable, and having spent a grand total of $10 for all 3 outfits.  Perhaps there is something to be said for being raised a working-class Bronx girl.

These past few years, Aunt Gigs had been suffering from the effects of Parkinson’s disease, and like my mother with her early onset Alzheimer's it eroded her vitality.  As sad as it is to have lost her, we can rest assured knowing that like my mother she is no longer in pain.  So as we say farewell to the last third of the triumvirate, we can take comfort in knowing that Florence has the cappuccino and shortbread ready, and that Kathleen is planning a full day of shopping.  And once that is done, Joanie is mixing up the piña coladas so they can all go dancing in Paradise.

Random Musings 5

The image you see here is William Holman Hunt's 1853 painting The Awakening Conscience, part of the collection at Tate Britain. The picture is modestly sized, about 30 x 22 in. (762 x 559 mm). The linear clarity and attention to detail in the work is extraordinary. That is one of the great charms of Pre-Raphaelite painting. Holman Hunt is probably the only one in the group who maintained all the principles of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood when they formed in 1848. Among these were the ideas of truth to nature and subjects of modern life. Dante Gabriel Rossetti eventually moved into lusch Venetian-style fantasy portraits of women, and John Everett Millais went more academic in painting Victorian genre scenes and portraits (note that their work in these styles is equally admirable). Here, Holman Hunt's picture shows a kept woman in her dressing gown. She has been at play with her lover, when suddenly she has looked out the window and sees the light, here taking on its metaphorical message of morality. She has seen the error of her ways and the epiphany on her face suggests that she will now live a more righteous life. One of my favorite parts of this picture is the way Holman Hunt used a mirror to show the open window, thus showing us what she sees. By doing this, the viewer interacts with the woman, not only seeing her epiphany but experiencing it as well by looking at the light too, pointing out the viewer's potential moral failings, showing there is still hope to change.

I've started with this picture in this latest Random Musing because the Tate recently announced that there will be a new Pre-Raphaelite exhibition in 2012. The last major British retrospective in all media of this group was in 1984, and although that was a landmark show, it was highly criticized at the time for excluding women artists and not engaging with new theoretical ideas in art history at the time. This new show promises to change all that, and the planned title--Pre-Raphaelites: Victorian Avant-Garde--tells you the intended modernist trajectory the curators will be suggesting. In some ways I had been thinking I would avoid London in much of 2012 because of the Olympics (e.g. overpriced hotel rooms and overcrowded streets), but that exhibition is making me rethink my plans. It opens September 2012.

Also on exhibit in 2012 (closing just before that show opens) at Tate Modern will be a major retrospective of the career of contemporary bad boy artist Damien Hirst. This is the shark-in-formaldehyde guy, as well as the diamond-encrusted-skull guy. He is one of the most successful British artists in history (if you measure success in monetary value and pop cultural references). I'm not a big fan of his work (the animal rights part of me gets riled up at times), but I cannot argue with the fact that his work has revolutionized sculpture by abstracting the figurative, altering our expectations of what we think we will see and, naturally, by shocking us at times with his experiments in form. It's no surprise also that the painting which earned the most money at auction last May ($106.5 million), Picasso's Nude, Green Leaves and Bust, has gone on long-term loan to the Tate Modern, since they're going to launch a Picasso and Britain show in 2012 as well. (Note to reader: museums have figured out that if they want to draw large audiences, they should do an exhibition on either Picasso or Van Gogh or anything Impressionist.)

In other art news, Leo Steinberg has died at the age of 90. This art historian's writing was always interesting to read. He made you look back at works of art not just once but over and over, seeing new things each time. You have to love anyone who had the balls to write a book entitled The Sexuality of Christ in Renaissance Art and Modern Oblivion (who knew there were so many images of Christ showing pronounced bulges!). His obituary by Ken Johnson in The New York Times is quite fascinating and definitely worth reading, giving you insights into how life experiences make an art historian.

In Queens, NY, there's a movement both to sell off and to save a public monument called The Triumph of Civic Virtue by the American sculptor Frederic MacMonnies. The non-art people find it offensive because the nude male is crushing two women. The art people recognize it as a major NYC public commission that in allegorical terms represents civic virtue crushing vice and corruption. Maybe the problem is that politicians don't like being reminded of their civic responsibility to oppose the evils of society...or they're offended by the nudity.

The polemical gay-themed art exhibition Hide/Seek: Difference and Desire in American Portraiture is apparently going to travel, including making a stop at the Brooklyn Museum later in 2011. I saw this exhibition in DC with RL just over 3 months ago, and it led to some great conversations between him and me about "gay" art and its social implications for the gay/lesbian community, not to mention basic principles in exhibition design. The Brooklyn Museum doesn't have information on its site yet about the exhibition, but the news was reported here in the NYT blog.

I'm writing this post from a hotel room in sunny St. Petersburg, Florida. I'm getting the Padre's house ready to go on the market next week. Work, work, work...but what can you do? At least there's art to think about and appease one's mind.

Remembering Momma

My mother, Kathleen Pape Ferrari, died four years ago today. Sometimes I find myself shocked at how fast the time has gone by, but other times it seems like ages ago. I gave a eulogy that focused on funny parts of her life, because to be honest my mother was a little nuts. The essay below was something I wrote shortly afterwards, expanding my thoughts from the funeral, hoping one day to share these memories with others. Today seemed like a good day. The essay is a little long, but I think you'll enjoy it and appreciate the message it conveys.

---

Remember
by
Roberto C. Ferrari

Four years ago, I had a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity: to speak at my mother’s funeral service. This may seem like an odd memory to cherish, but for me it was special because it gave me an opportunity to share with family and friends my thoughts and memories about her. My family had been so focused, consciously or unconsciously, on her impending death that it seemed appropriate at this time to focus on her life. Emotionally, we had been squeezed dry, and yet even then at her death we were all still shocked to discover how many more emotions could come forth. On that day, though, I had had enough of death. It was time to talk about her life. And as I noted to those gathered in the room, she lived a life most wacky.

Momma was the combined incarnation of three of the most outrageous television wives and mothers ever to exist: Lucy Ricardo, Hyacinth Bucket, and Peg Bundy. It probably seems impossible to imagine any one person playing these three incongruous roles at once, but somehow Momma did it. Like I Love Lucy, she was a crazy red-head married to an immigrant she would drive insane with her harebrained schemes, usually involving the purchase of something acquired at a bargain. Like Keeping Up Appearance’s Hyacinth Bucket (pronounced “bouquet”), Momma lived beyond her means and enjoyed showing off prized possessions, which were even more valuable when purchased at a bargain. Married with Children, she whined like Peg to Al about very important things, like shopping with money she never had.

Ask Momma what her hobbies were, she’d say “Shopping.” Ask her what else, she’s shrug and say, “Shopping.” The only thing she read on a regular basis was the Classified section of the newspaper. Never the Help Wanted ads, like my father would have preferred, unless of course she was looking for a job for someone else. Her favorite part of the Classifieds were undoubtedly the garage sales. She is the only person I’ve ever known who went to a garage sale and wound up buying the owner’s house, which wasn’t even for sale.

Her shopping, of course, took on different meanings depending on what she bought. For instance, she liked to go shopping for new fur coats. My father loved to give in to her whims, so through the years we watched her evolve from owning a beautiful silvery-white rabbit jacket, then a monstrously warm furry raccoon coat that weighed 50 pounds, to the ultimate…a gorgeous, soft, black mink coat with her name embroidered in gold calligraphy on the inside silk lining. It was exquisite. She received compliments from everyone. She loved it. Until the day she realized that all her furs had come from animals. I distinctly recalling her screaming aloud in horror at this realization. I have no idea where she thought they had come from beforehand, but thereafter she felt so guilty that she sold all of her coats and became a vegetarian.

For Momma, the art of shopping was like seeking out the great mystical white tiger in the African savanna. She could shop non-stop for twelve hours, moving from sale rack to sale rack, breaking only for cups of tea and cookies as little pick-me-ups, like a Victorian grande dame on the Great Hunt. (Note that tea and cookies were consumed in my house at least four times a day, while breakfast, lunch, and dinner were our in-between snacks.) It was all about the bargain. It made no difference whether she needed a new blouse, a chair for the living room, or even a new car. If there was a way for her to get something at a sale price or for a bargain, then it was worth buying.

She had no hesitation buying dresses from Macy’s for parties or important functions, wear them with the tags hidden in her arm pits, and then return the dresses the next day. Other days she would drag my father to furniture stores like Levitz for its clearance center, not because they needed furniture, but because she was looking for merchandise with broken parts so that she could demand percentages be taken off and buy them at even cheaper prices. She even once returned a chair to a department store without a receipt and got a full refund for it, even though she had owned the chair for over a year and actually had bought it at a yard sale for $5. She did try to be entrepreneurial as well. Once she came up with a plan to sell painted plaster statues at flea markets, getting stock wholesale from a dealer in the Bronx. That, however, was a losing venture because most of these painted plaster statues—from Sacred Heart of Jesus statues, to plaster dogs, giraffes, and owls—wound up in our family room and as Christmas gifts to a lot of people that year.

Undoubtedly, however, the best bargains Momma ever came upon were those she discovered in other people’s garbage. These garbage-shopping adventures usually took place in the evening hours following the owner’s garage sale. She would find some treasure (like bar stools), return home, wait until it was dark, then drive my brother and me back to the site in question. She would park the car about a block away, point us in the direction of the garbage, and make us get out and retrieve the garbage. Needless to say, my brother and I used to resent these shopping trips greatly, and often begged her not to have us be humiliated in this way. One time we were caught by the owners and chased away in defeat and embarrassment, to which Momma expressed great disappointment that we hadn’t run off with the items in question as we were chased away. We hated these trips, but her powers of persuasion were uncanny. She always used a magical phrase that forced us to her will: “Because I’m your mother and I said so!” Spoken with her Bronx accent, she could force us to succumb to every crazy scheme she could imagine.

I discovered over time that there was a point to all this bargain hunting. She usually resold all of these great buys (and garbage) at her own garage sales. And it was shocking to see how much money she could make off of other people’s items. I distinctly recall one of our neighbors commenting once that she thought she used to own the same lamp. My mother feigned shock at the coincidence of having owned the same thing, then generously sold it to her at a discount.

Undoubtedly one probably thinks that by revealing these memories, I would be completely embarrassing her. And one would be correct. In fact, I can hear her over my shoulder saying, “Oh my God, don’t tell them about that!”, or even better “You can’t think of something nice to say? I’m your mother, for Christ’s sake!” So admittedly it seems only right that I mention a few other things that I will always remember.

I will always remember how her hair color and styles changed so much through the years that we can date our family photos by what look she had. She first dyed her hair red at the age of thirteen. During the 1960s she adopted a most fabulous red beehive that was like a cylindrical crown on her queen-like head. When I was young, she wore her shimmering red hair long like a Pre-Raphaelite stunner. Then, at the age of six, I was catatonically horrified when she cut all of it off in emulation of Sandy Duncan as Peter Pan. As the years passed, she rotated from red to brunette to frosted to blond and back to red again. In her early 50s, she began swimming, lost weight, and dyed her hair a polychrome blond that she wore short. She looked amazing. And then, shortly afterwards, she started to get sick, but she always maintained her appearance.

I will always remember Momma’s abundant love and concern for animals, even the ones that were as wacky as she. She would take in stray dogs when I was a child, like the crazy gray-and-white mutt named Kuby or the beautiful Lhasa Apso she named Champagne. She once had a suicidal goldfish who used to jump out of its bowl, but somehow always survived when Momma would rush over and save him by throwing him back in his bowl. She also had a cockatiel named Gino who used to stand on her head and shit in her hair, which oddly she never seemed to mind. She desperately tried to teach Gino to speak, but after repeatedly playing a audio tape with thirty minutes of a non-stop greeting of “Hello, Gino!”, I’m convinced the bird actually had learned to speak but refused because he was so annoyed that she kept playing the damn tape over and over. Her last pet was the ever adorable Bichon Frise named Precious, her “Baby Girl” who was literally her shadow and followed her everywhere. Momma walked Precious throughout the neighborhood on her own, then with my father or uncle, until she could no longer walk on her own at all.

I will always remember her reaction to my coming out. I was engaged to be married, and Momma absolutely adored my fiance. I was going to marry, give her the grandchildren she always wanted, and live the idyllic life she always wanted for me. And then the day came when I yanked the carpet out from underneath her, and she stumbled, uncertain where to turn, unsure how to react. I never had reason to doubt that she didn’t love me, for she reassured me that she always would. But for years afterwards, even when I had a boyfriend, she would always casually mention to me about “trying women again.” These comments usually ended in arguments. She eventually backed down with my father’s intervention, but after one of those fights, I will always remember what she told me about why she had resisted my homosexuality. She was terrified for me. It preyed on her mind that people could hate me for no other reason than because I was gay. She was desperate to protect me from bigots who knew no better than to hate because I was somehow different. She was, in essence, being a mother, and it was with this realization that I look back on my coming out experience with her as being very challenging, but surrounded with unbelievable love, acceptance, and protection.

I will always remember how much she loved to dance. Her favorite song was “Shout!” by the Isley Brothers, during which she would always get a little bit softer and then a little bit louder. She always danced with my father, but also danced with anyone who wanted to dance with her. She taught me how to lindy and cha-cha. I went through my foolish phase when I was embarrassed to hang out with my mother, let alone dance with her, but as the years passed and she became sicker, dancing with her was one of the most memorable experiences I shared with her. We last danced a lindy together at her 60th birthday party, and though it was difficult she could still twirl under my arm.

Momma died on July 13, 2006 at the age of 63 after battling for more than seven years with the effects of what can be best described as early onset Alzheimer’s disease, since there is no test to diagnose for certain what form of dementia she actually developed. Dementia has become so pandemic among the elderly that our society can only cope with it by joking about their forgetfulness, and then shrug our shoulders that at least the elderly lived a long life. Momma remembered many of us for a very long time. She knew me until September 2004. After that, I slipped from her memory like others had and others soon would. The disease is evil, now only because it robs the person of their physical abilities, but it also strips away the experiences and events that gave the person their vitality and sense of purpose. It’s a disease that robbed my mother of presence, identity, and being.

So when a woman at the age of 55 tells you that she was driving home from shopping and she completely forgot how to go home, know that something isn’t right. And when at the age of 57 she starts to tell you that there’s something wrong with her muscles and she is having difficulty holding things, listen to her and exercise her limbs. At the age of 59 when she can no longer write her name or read the Classifieds, hold her hand, write with her, and read to her. And when at the age of 60 she repeats herself incessantly because she doesn’t remember that she has asked you the same question twenty times in the past hour, breathe and count to ten, then answer as if it was the first time you had heard the question. Don’t take your anger at the disease out on her, because it’s not her fault. And when at the age of 61 she can only eat finger foods, don’t scold her for spilling things, and when you realize you must feed her, just make sure she’s getting enough nutrition. And when every single time she’s aware of the horror of what is happening to her, and when she cries and says she wants to die, knowing eventually she will, fight your sense of helplessness and anger. Squeeze her hand, hug her, kiss her, cry with her, and say, “I love you, Momma,” because it’s the only thing you can do, both for her and for yourself. And when she’s in the last stages of her illness, lying in a vegetative state in a hospital bed, think about her amazingly wacky life, think about how privileged you were to know her, and then prepare yourself, for it’s time to let her go. But never ever forget.

The Passing of Lionel Lambourne

A few days ago, I received an email from PSW in London telling me she had gone to the funeral of Lionel Lambourne. His name may not be familiar unless you are a scholar or collector of Victorian art and visual culture. A search on the Internet brought up a short obituary in the Times which read: "Lionel OBE formerly Head of Paintings at the Victoria and Albert Museum, died peacefully on 12th February 2010. Very much loved and sadly missed by his wife Maureen, children Patrick and Helen and grandchildren Sky and Tom. Funeral at Mortlake Crematorium on 23rd February, 2.30 pm. Donations to the Albany Taxi Charity Fund." I knew Lambourne had been sick for some time, but of course news like this is always a surprise. PSW went on to say that although the funeral was sad there were also good moments as former colleagues shared stories about him. Those of us who work on the queer Anglo-Jewish artist Simeon Solomon (about whom I have blogged before) will forever remember Lambourne as the man who started the movement to bring Solomon back to the forefront of Pre-Raphaelite studies. Solomon’s 1863 watercolor Two Acolytes Censing seems appropriate to show in this sense, as it highlights the artist’s love of spirituality and religious ritual, and this picture exemplified for Lambourne Aesthetic-style painting (image courtesy of the Victorian Web).

Going through my files, I found a typewritten letter from Lambourne dated August 18, 1998. At that time, I had been working on an annotated bibliography on Solomon that was published in The Journal of Pre-Raphaelite Studies and subsequently became the basis for the Simeon Solomon Research Archive. Knowing he was one of the leading experts on the artist, I had written a letter asking a few questions, including whether he was still working on his biography. He kindly answered my questions and added suggestions for further research. He ended by noting, "As to my biography of S.S. well...I've just finished a big book on Victorian Painting for Phaidon and only have two projects left to complete[:] a book on Carnival and the Solomon biography. So the answer if [sic] affirmative, if unsatisfactory, and my hat's still in the ring." In 2001 I returned to London with my friend CF to see the small exhibition on Solomon held at the Jewish Museum, and we attended a talk given by Lambourne that discussed Solomon’s life and early drawings. I introduced myself and he was kind enough to introduce me to his wife, the curators, and PSW, who I was startled to discover was a descendant of the Solomon family. It was during that same talk that the idea of working on Solomon’s unpublished letters first came to light, and it was at his suggestion that I began to work on this project (I have since published 3 essays on his correspondence). I last saw Lambourne in 2005 at the opening of the Solomon exhibition in Birmingham, England, where he gave opening remarks, and I was flattered afterwards to discover that he still remembered this junior scholar.

Lambourne can be credited with jumpstarting the academic study of Solomon with his 1967 article on Solomon’s sketchbooks in the Apollo and his 1968 essay “Abraham Solomon, Painter of Fashion, and Simeon Solomon, Decadent Artist" published in the Transactions of the Jewish Historical Society of England. This latter essay in particular was a biographical overview of these brother artists, drawing on archival research and emphasizing their very different contributions to Victorian painting. Although Lambourne wasn’t the first to write about Solomon, he was most notably the first to suggest that one needed to look past Solomon’s arrest for homosexual crimes and evaluate his contribution to Victorian art without prejudice. It was at this time that he mentioned writing a biography about Solomon, and although over the next 40 years he curated an exhibition on the Solomon family and did other works, sadly that biography never was published (nor apparently was the Carnival book).

The art collector Simon Reynolds did publish a biographical study, The Vision of Simeon Solomon (1984), and one cannot help but suspect that Lambourne may have been angered by the usurpation of his work. In his review of the book, Lambourne noted that it “falls badly between two stools, that of the illustrated appreciation and biographical study” and that “the author has failed to convey the complex personality of Solomon, or correctly to evaluate his achievements as an artist” (541). Despite never having found a publisher for his own biography (he told me that was the reason why it never happened), nevertheless Lambourne’s contribution was valuable in moving things forward, eventually leading to the scholarship written by Gayle Seymour, Colin Cruise, Elizabeth Prettejohn, Carolyn Conroy, and me, making us (if I may be so bold as to include myself) the leading Solomon scholars in the field.

From early on in his art historical career, Lambourne wrote about Victorian art and culture, covering topics such as the Arts & Crafts Movement, fairy painting, and genre painting. Once he retired from the Victoria and Albert Museum, he set about writing books that were drawn from his lifetime work. The Aesthetic Movement (1996) was a survey of the painting, literature, and drama associated with this Victorian cultural movement which emphasized beauty as the goal of art production. His survey book Victorian Painting (1999) was a tome of 541 pages, arranged thematically so as to discuss everything from genre scenes to the fallen woman motif. The book was cited by Joseph Kestner as a “necessary reference work” and praised for its unequivocal mix of canonical and non-canonical pictures (157). But other reviewers had concerns. Julian Treuherz identified errors and was disappointed by his lack of in-depth critical analysis: “The writing lacks rigour—there are irrelevant digressions, anecdotes and inappropriate jokes that do nothing to help communicate the subject under discussion” (646). Alan Crawford’s review of The Aesthetic Movement is perhaps even more telling. He notes that Lambourne “does not pretend to have written a book of great intellectual reach. Like Whistler’s butterfly, he likes to flit from one subject to another, pausing long enough for an anecdote but not long enough for analysis”(738).

One’s reaction to reading these remarks might be to balk and grimace. Indeed, I myself have come across errors in these texts and have found some of the analysis rather cursory as well. But I think it’s a fair assessment to point out that, having retired from the museum world, Lambourne was much more interested with these books in reflecting on Victorian art and culture from his own personal taste and sensibility; they are more about Lambourne than the subjects themselves. His anecdotal approach to art history always was what made him engaging as a speaker, and I would argue that these books should be seen as printed versions of Lambourne. As you read through The Aesthetic Movement, you cannot help but find yourself caught up in all the high-spirited frivolity of Gilbert and Sullivan, sunflowers, and Oscar Wilde’s American tour where he tells the customs agent that he has nothing to declare but his own genius. As beautiful coffee table books that survey Victorian art and culture, Lambourne’s books are not meant to be in-depth critical analyses of individual pictures and their socio-political origins. Instead, they serve to introduce non-academic readers to a world which has been marginalized in art history since Victoria died in 1901 as fruitful topics of discussion and instruction. Besides, one must keep in mind that historiography has a generational component: it is the duty of art historians to both augment—and oppose—the work of their predecessors, but hopefully also acknowledge it for its contributions and for being of its author’s time.

Ultimately, however, I think some of us will best remember Lambourne in the context of Solomon. In a brief introductory essay to the exhibition catalog From Prodigy to Outcast, which focused on the artist’s sketchbooks from his youth, Lambourne wrote: “We cannot know what the future holds but perhaps, as a result of enjoying this exhibition, we as fond Mothers and Fathers have a real excuse for cherishing our children’s early artistic productions” (6). This remark says much about Solomon’s juvenilia and its potential influence on his later artistic career, but it also seems to convey a message to the next generation of Solomon scholars who can look back fondly and remember Lambourne as the one who started it all.

UPDATE 3/20/10: I received email from PSW word that a more detailed obituary for Lambourne was posted on the Times website. My favorite part of it has to be the discussion of his lectures as theatrical performances: "The fact that many of his memorable talks were punctuated by snatches of comic song or, on occasions when old-fashioned slide projectors jammed, with impromptu displays of shadow puppetry, merely added to the general sense of unpredictable gaiety; his method was always as much music hall as lecture hall."

Works Cited

Crawford, Alan. Review of The Aesthetic Movement by L. Lambourne. Victorian Studies 40 (Summer 1997): 737-39.
Jewish Museum, London. From Prodigy to Outcast: Simeon Solomon—Pre-Raphaelite Artist. London: Jewish Museum, 2001.
Kestner, Joseph A. “Victorian Art History: Rap 2 Unwrapped.” Victorian Literature and Culture 29, n.1 (2001): 149-58.
Lambourne, Lionel. "Abraham Solomon, Painter of Fashion, and Simeon Solomon, Decadent Artist." Transactions of the Jewish Historical Society of England 21 (1968): 274-86 + illus.
___. The Aesthetic Movement. London: Phaidon, 1996.
___. Review of The Vision of Simeon Solomon by S. Reynolds. The Burlington Magazine 127 (August 1985): 541.
___. "A Simeon Solomon Sketch-book." Apollo 85 (1967): 59-61.
___. Victorian Painting. London: Phaidon, 1999.
Reynolds, Simon. The Vision of Simeon Solomon. Stroud, England: Catalpa Press, 1984.
Treuherz, Julian. Review of Victorian Painting by L. Lambourne. The Burlington Magazine 142 (October 2000): 646.

Review: Neverwas

Sometimes it's worth watching a movie you know absolutely nothing about. I had been looking for something different to get from Netflix when I came across Neverwas (2005), a movie they had listed as a thriller. I saw that it starred Ian McKellen, which suggested to me that even if the movie was bad, his acting would make it worth my time. The plot summary from Netflix reads: "After taking a job at the mental institution that once housed his father, a famous children's author, erudite psychiatrist Zach Riley befriends a schizophrenic who unlocks a string of family secrets." Needless to say, despite a forced beginning, the movie turned out to be amazing. It's certainly not a thriller in any action-packed sense. Rather, it's an adult fairytale, one which I'm realizing now as I write this probably appealed to me much in the same way A.S. Byatt's writing does. The movie invites you to question the blurred boundaries of reality, insanity, and fantasy, and unfolds in a way that makes you want to know more, and to feel more. The movie was written and directed by Joshua Michael Stern, and for his freshman outing in moviemaking, he accomplished something of which others would be jealous. The true accomplishment in the film, however, rests with the acting of some surprising stars. In addition to McKellen, who is superb, there is Jessica Lange, Nick Nolte, Alan Cumming, William Hurt, and others who round out an amazing cast. Aaron Eckhart plays the protagonist, and while his acting often seems stiff to me, I found myself warming up to him in this movie. Even Brittany Murphy, who plays the main female role (I shan't give away details), was surprisingly good. The soundtrack by Philip Glass was as haunting and disturbing as Glass's music can be, but it worked well, especially in the forest scene (see the picture above). Watch this movie. It's a great story with an emotional tug that borders on melodrama but fortunately never tips over, and when you finally feel it, you will feel it good. Here is the trailer for the movie, but be forewarned: it makes you think it's a kids' fantasy, but in fact it's very much a story for adults.

UPDATE (12/20/09): Brittany Murphy died today at the age of 32, apparently of cardiac arrest. As I mentioned above, she never was one of my favorite actresses, but she was surprisingly good in this film and certainly showed that she had talent. Very sad. Here is a link to her obituary in The New York Times.