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Archive for the ‘Favorite Things’ Category

I’ve mentioned before that I enjoy doing genealogical research, digging back through layers of history, trying to put together a sometimes very complicated puzzle to reveal certain connections.  One of the great pleasures I take in doing this is coming across the life stories of ancestors that are just plain good tales.

One such is from my wife’s family, the story of the lady they called the Flying Angel.  Her maiden name was Magdalena Dircksen Volckertsen and she was born in New Amsterdam (now Manhattan) in the 1630’s, her father a builder of the earliest homes there for the Dutch West Indies Company.

Her first husband ( not in my wife’s family line) was a privateer for the Dutch West Indies Company.  That is to say, he was a pirate hired by the company to attack foreign ships and competitors in the area.  Called “Captain Caper” for his daring, he was killed in an Indian attack that was the beginning of the Indian Wars of 1655.  Magadalena was left a young widow with an infant child.

Two years later she married Herman Hendricksen Rosenkrance, called “Herman the Portuguese.”  The name came not from his nationality ( he was from Norway) but from his service as a mercenary for the Dutch company in Brazil where they forced their way into sugar growing areas controlled by the Portuguese.  Finally repelled from Brazil, Herman and his cohorts were sent to New Amsterdam to engage the Indians there.  Herman stayed on as a settler, supposedly running a tavern of low repute called the Flying Angel, the origin of Magdalena’s nickname.

Magdalena had quite the temper.  On her wedding day to Herman, after downing some beers, she was walking with her sister just above what is now Wall Street in NYC when she passed and insulted the fire warden.  What was termed a street riot broke out and several weeks later  she was yellow-carded by Peter Stuyvesant, meaning she was expelled from the settlement, sent back to Holland where she and Herman bided their time for two years until they were finally allowed to come back, provided they did not open a tavern or sell spirits.

The following years were a series of adventures involving Indian Wars  (one that had Herman being captured and staked out in the sun before he was able to escape), various  legal troubles, some involving Magadalena throwing beer in the faces of a number of  men, stabbings and accusations of selling liquor to the native Indian population.  They ended up living up the Hudson, near Kingston, where Magdalena lived into her 90’s.

It’s rumored that in her later years, she would chase Indians from her property by running out at them, yelling and shaking a large growth on her neck at them.  How could she not live to 90?

It’s just an interesting footnote in our history and the early settlement of NY, one that you don’t hear much about.  I’m always excited when I come across such stories, especially when there is a small personal connection.  Magadalena and Herman would be my wive’s 8th generation grandparents.

I’m not sure how proud she is…

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Now that we’re in the Christmas season, I’ve been thinking about some of my favorite gifts I’ve received over my life.  There have been many that have had special meaning such as the typewriter, that I wrote of earlier, that was a gift from my parents in order to foster my writing ambitions as a teen.  Most are gone now but some still live with me.  This is one that does.

My sister, Linda, gave this to me many, many moons ago when I was 12 or 13 years old.  It’s a simple carving of  what is probably meant to be Don Quixote.  It doesn’t matter- it’s always been Don Quixote to me.

It’s not finely carved, probably made by a guy in some tropical foreign land where he knocks out 20 of these a day to earn a meager living.  Doesn’t matter.  To me, it’s a Rodin.  I’ve carried it with me through ups and downs and the wear shows on it.  A nick from his hat and a scratch here and there.  It broke in two at his ankles and needed mending just to continue standing.

And he does.

I view him as an inspirational icon, a constant reminder to dream beyond what is in front of you, to believe that you can exceed what others think is possible for you.  That you can be whatever you dream yourself to be.

To tilt at your own windmills.

And to remember that others believe in you.

Simple things and small gestures can have great effect.

Many belated thanks, Linda…

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We’re into the Christmas season and the airwaves are filled with Christmas specials.  There are the venerable classics such as A Charlie Brown Christmas, How the Grinch Stole Christmas and Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer alongside newer offerings featuring Shrek and other contemporary animated figures.  Some come and go, shown only for a short time.  Perhaps not timeless enough or just victims to ratings.

The specials you never see today are the variety show Christmas specials from the past featuring stars like Andy Williams, Sonny and Cher, the Osmonds and of course, Bing Crosby.  They were goofy contrivances with lots of fake snow and blazing fireplaces on studio sets with terrible jokes and a lot of forced, saccharine  sentimentality.

But I always liked the Bing Crosby Christmas shows.  They weren’t quite as schlocky as the others and you had Bing’s beautiful voice on several holiday classics throughout.  One classic moment came when a young David Bowie appeared on Bing’s last special in 1977, filmed a month before his death.  The show’s producers wanted him to sing The Little Drummer Boy with Bing but Bowie was not a fan of the song and refused.  With the cameras waiting, a new song, Peace on Earth, was written and woven into the other song.  The finished product was done with less than an hour of rehearsal and remains a perennial holiday favorite on radio playlists everywhere.

It’s a great duet and stands up well.  It’s moments like this that make me miss those old specials…

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Sometimes when you think about what you might write down on a list of your favorite movies there are some that evade your memory until you see it again and, like a desert flower, blooms again in your mind.

Such is the case with 84 Charing Cross Road.

It was on TCM last night and we flipped it on just to glimpse a few moments and ended up watching the whole thing.  I was immediately reminded of how much I like the film.

From 1987, it’s a movie about books and the written letter.  Hardly an action-filled two hours.  It’s the true story of writer Helene Hanff and her 20 year correspondence with a London bookshop, Marks and Co., located at 84 Charing Cross Road.  In 1949, Hanff an aspiring and struggling NY playwright responded a small classified ad from the bookseller.  She was seeking obscure British literature and was unable to locate her desired works in shops.  The movie follows the correspondence between Hanff over the next 20 years with the staff of the shop and how they effected each other’s lives with small acts of kindness and humor.  Hanff never made the trip to London until after the manager she primarily corresponded with had died and the shop had closed.

It’s a small quiet film that celebrates two things that are racing to obscurity- books and the posted letter.  Just a lovely and charming film.

The great Anne Bancroft stars in the film as Hanff and as usual, is wonderful.  I have had a longtime crush on Anne Bancroft to the point that when I think of Mel Brooks I don’t think of his great movies but instead find myself thinking what a lucky bastard he was to have married Anne Bancroft.   It also stars Anthony Hopkins as Frank Doel, the main man at the bookshop and Judi Dench as his wife.

If you love the feel of an old book and still get excited when you receive a hand-written note,  you most likely will enjoy this film.  It remains one of my sometimes forgotten favorites.

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This painting, And Into The World  There Came a Soul Called Ida, is the work of the late Ivan Albright.  Not a household name by any means, but if you’ve seen his work you’ll definitely remember it.

I saw a large  retrospective of his work a number of years ago at the Met and was fascinated ( and a little creeped out) by his subjects and the darkness and tone of the work .  But it was the incredible textures of the paintings that I found amazing.  They were very sculptural on the surface, with deep moonscapes of color, layer after layer of paint that seemed to be shoved and mashed on to the surface.  It was unlike anything I had ever seen.  It was obviously the product of a huge amount of labor but it wasn’t labored.  There was something very beautiful there that transcended the unflattering depictions of the paintings.

Albright was best known for the painting he produced that was used in The Picture of Dorian Gray, the 1945  film version of Oscar Wilde’s famous novel of a corrupt young man who defies the ravages of time while his portrait reflects the true result of his debauched life.  It was the horrifying image at the end of the film.

I’m still fascinated by his work even though I have to admit I get a queasy feeling when I really take in the whole of his characters, like seeing a car wreck and not being to turn away. They are horrible and beautiful at once.  I now also really appreciate the epic efforts that must’ve went into creating these pieces, the hundreds of hours that must have been spent.  The patience of maintaining vision.

So check out the work of Ivan Albright.  He had great titles, as well.  You don’t have to like his work  but you should be aware of it…

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I’ve been writing lately about browsing the newspapers of the early part of the last century. That era has always held a particular attraction for me because of the energy of the wide sweeping change that was taking place across all aspects of our world.  The transition from a horse-drawn world to the automobile.  The beginning of man in flight.  The beginning of true mass communication in the form of the recording and radio and film, a move away from live entertainment.  Everything was speeded up, changing faster and faster.  It was the birth of the Modern.

In art it was no different.  It was a transitional period away from the traditional, from the studied, academy-trained artist to the more expressive, individualized artist.  Modernism.

One of my favorites from that time is Marsden Hartley, a Maine-born painter.  I’ve always been attracted to a series of collage-like paintings he executed that are painted on a black ground, such as the one above, Portrait of a German Officer.  I love the way he puts his forms and colors together in these pieces, giving them a real visual impact.  His landscapes, such as Storm Clouds shown here, have that organic feel that I really like and look for in my own work.  By that, I mean that his shapes have a natural, human-like roll and feel.  I can’t really describe this well.

But it’s there.

There are stories behind many of his collage-like pieces. for instance, Portrait of a German Officer, was an homage to a German officer of WW I, the cousin of a close friend with which Hartley had been enamored ( he was gay) before being killed in the war. Knowing this gives the piece new meaning, added depth.

I know this is not a great lesson on Hartley or his work but there is more info out there, if you’re interested enough to look. He’s not the best known artist of his time but his influence continues…

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It’s Thanksgiving 2009, the last one of this first decade of the new century.  It has been a decade that many would like to put well behind us.  A decade of terrorism, non-stop war and unabated greed.

But there are still reasons for giving thanks.  Friends and family and the love that is there.   The moments of joy that brighten many dark days.  A kind word from a stranger.   The sunshine and the rain that nourish us.  The food we eat.

It’s simple.  It’s anything and everything.

In a universe that is seemingly infinite, we are riding the tiniest clod of  soil and water.  We have consciousness,  aware of the world around us.

We are alive.

So, on this last Thanksgiving of this decade, look around and be thankful but remember that Thanksgiving is a word of action.  It is not static.  Be active and express your thanks to those around you.  If you have the ability, show your thanks to the world by helping those who have not been quite so fortunate in worldly terms.  Or by extending a hand in some way to those who sacrifice on our behalf, such as the soldiers who are spending their day away from those they love.

Volunteer at your favorite charity.  Write a check to your local food bank.  Just do something to help someone besides yourself.

It’s a word of action, after all.

Have a Happy Thanksgiving…

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I’ve written about how much I like reading old newspapers, if only to get a kick from the claims of the advertisements of the time.  One of my favorites that ran in our local papers was from Duffys Malt Whiskey, which was promoted as a tonic of sorts which built strength and fought disease.  Bronchitis, pneumonia , malaria and the maladies of old age were helpless before the smooth taste of Duffys. The wrestler in this ad claims to have risen from his sick bed with just the aid of Duffys.

And a massage.

There were also ads with doctors endorsing Pabst Blue Ribbon as a strength builder and protection against wasting diseases.

Ah, it was a grand time to be sick!

Now, I know guys who believe that they are bigger and stronger as a result of drinking whiskey, usually after 10 or 12 shots, but I have to laugh at the idea of it as medication.  Makes me wonder what future generations will look at when they examine our current world and say, What the hell were they thinking? Kind of like the scene from Woody Allen’s comic classic Sleeper when the scientists of the future who marvel that we, here in the present, thought of hot fudge as being unhealthy.

We always think we’re the end point of progress and for a brief moment that is true.  But in the big picture we’re just points along the continuum and things will continue to change.  What is thought of as solid thinking today may be challenged tomorrow .  On and on into infinity…

Just thinking of this makes me tired.  I could use a shot of Duffys right about now…


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In Our Nature

Another Sunday morning.  Hunting season here, so I listen for the inevitable gunshots that ring through the forests around my place.  Not too many.  Certainly not like it was a number of years back when it sounded like a shooting gallery on the first days of the season.  I’m not a hunter, never really have been , but I have no problem with responsible hunters in the woods.  The hunters who have a level of reverence for their prey and selectively hunt.  It’s the cretins with no respect for the creatures they’re hunting, who are only out there for a thrill kill, that bother me.

There’s an element of selfish cruelty in these guys that pisses me off because it’s the same element of selfishness and cruelty that is present in so many of the horrible deeds that make one want to turn off the evening news in disgust.  I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.  It’s nothing new, just a part of who we are as a species.  How can one expect something to do other than what is in its nature?

That brings me to my song for today from Neko Case, who is a real favorite of mine.  It’s People Got a Lot of Nerve and its message  is pretty close to what I said above.  Why be surprised when any creature, including man, does what is in its nature?

Have a great Sunday…

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This week, after having made deliveries of new work to the galleries that represent me over the last week,  I’ve been catching up on some maintenance around the studio, getting things ready for the upcoming winter.   It’s a break from thinking about painting and a chance to recharge the batteries.  Sometimes much needed recharging.

As I mentioned in a post a few days ago, I’ve also been spending a little time looking at old newspapers as I do a little research into a few ancestors.  It’s also really interesting to see an article concerning a relative next to an ad of that time, such as the one shown here, with Annie Oakley endorsing a dandruff shampoo.  It makes you realize what a transitionary period those early years of the 1900’s were, with so many aspects of rapid progress taking place in a world that had changed much slower for centuries before.

For instance, in the article that was near this ad, there was an account of a wrestling match here in Elmira.  Wrestling was a big deal around here back then with matches held several times a week in various locations such as men’s clubs, hotels and the gyms of local athletic clubs.  The story here told of the night opening with a vaudeville-type tumbling exhibition from a touring wrestling family complete with selections sung in rich baritones.  There was a short boxing match followed by someone performing ragtime, which was new to that time.  The headline event, usually a match between heated local rivals or a local favorite facing a touring pro, finished up the night.

I had heard stories that my grandfather, Frank “Shank” Myers, had lived and participated in this rough and tumble world but had never seen any evidence until I started reading these old papers.  But there he was, a 17 year old kid described as an Eastside mat ruffler, rolling around in smoky halls with strangleholds and body throws.  In one little notice, he was advertised as the preliminary match for a match headlined by Americus, shown here, who was touring pro who would come into town and take on the  best of the locals.  It was to be held at a hall in a local hotel that had been remodeled for the event.

I was able to find several articles with his exploits but only in a short period of time due to the lack of continuity in the newspaper availability from that time.  I did find a few pieces from a few years later, in a match from Binghamton, a slightly larger city about 60 miles away, between a Binghamton man and a well-known champ from NYC, where he was mentioned.  He was introduced to the crowd as the lightweight champ from Elmira and he issued a challenge to the Binghamton grappler, for a match to be held there, in Binghamton , or Elmira.

I may never know if this match ever took place but it ‘s great to finally fill in little details of a world that only existed in a cloud of familial myth. An interesting time…

 

 

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