Wisteria Lane

Each year this huge wisteria (on 10th St. between Fifth and Sixth avenues) provides an incredible spring show of blossoms. I'm not sure I'd want one quite this large climbing on my multi-million-dollar, 19th century townhouse, but it's certainly lovely for the rest of us!

General Electric Building, Part 2

The General Electric Building Lexington Avenue at 51st St.) was completed in 1931 and represents one of Manhattan's Art Deco gems. Given landmark status in 1985, the 51-story building served as GE's headquarters until operations moved to Fairfield, CT, in 1974. In 1993 General Electric gave the building, by then roughly two-thirds empty, to Columbia University. I'm not sure about its current status, but I do know that Columbia was partnering with several firms to redevelop and restore the building to attract new tenants. I love the Deco details, especially the clock, with its thrusting hands symbolically harnessing the power of electricity.

General Electric Building, Part 1

Alarm Clock

Continuing the "time" theme, here's a closely cropped image of a vintage electric alarm clock. Although only 5" x 7", this proved time consuming because of the numbers, which I painted using a Japanese brush pen.

Nightmare

Lord, how many times have I had this dream - even recently! And I'm always back at VMI, with the situation complicated by the realization that I'm missing some part of my uniform. The funny part of this is that I can talk to guys who graduated 10 or 20 years before me, and learn that they have the exact same dreams! Weird!

UFO - Unfinished Object

Alas, in painting sometimes a good idea doesn't always translate smoothly to paper or canvas. When I start a drawing and then begin painting, I nearly always have a pretty clear understanding of how I'm going to reach the finished concept that resides in my imagination. I can "see" the finished painting. Occasionally, however, the execution doesn't proceed as planned: I dislike my color selections, fail to paint as realistically as I'd like, or misjudge the contrast between light and shadow. Under those circumstances I'll let a painting sit for a week or so and if I can't resolve the problem, I rip it off the work board and tear it up. Naturally that's always a bittersweet experience because I understand that I'm throwing away many hours of work. But with that break, I can allow myself to move on to the next project.

In conception, this image was supposed to be a cropped view of the main clock in the main hall of Grand Central Terminal. The very large flag, rendered in slight shadow, hangs on the wall behind the clock. Although happy with the backlit clock faces - numerals and hands painted with a Japanese ink and brush - I just wasn't satisfied with the brass sphere and its myriad shadows.

The painting has been on my board for weeks and I just haven't been able to move forward. Rather than tear it up, however, I carefully removed it and have set it aside for the future. Perhaps I'll come back to it and solve the dilemma. For now it will remain an unfinished object, a "UFO" in the terminology used by my wife and her knitting circle.

Anna Ternheim - You mean nothing to me anymore

Just discovered her thanks to Misty Mawn's blog. She has several other videos on YouTube. Lovely voice!

Weekend Flowers, Part 2

 

 

 

 

Weekend Flowers, Part 1

The weather hasn't been consistently warm, but the flowers are starting to open and a few trees are showing green. It's supposed to be 80 this weekend, so perhaps we've turned the corner. The bottom two photos are of camelias, which I don't often see in the city. One usually sees them farther south. My parents, for example, have grown camelias for ages, and they always provide an early spring show of rose-like blooms.

Signs of Spring around the neighborhood . . .

Opening Day

Saturday was "Opening Day" for Little League, and both boys were suited up and ready to go. Ben, a pitcher and catcher, spent two days battling on the field, catching a six-inning game and pitching for three innings in the second game. Sam, pictured here, made is his pitching and catching debut, striking out four batters in two innings of work. He also hit a double, triple, and a home run in his team's 13-1 opening victory. These photos of Sam were taken by my wife. I was at Ben's game, which was unfortunately scheduled at the same time. As you can tell from the coats, it was a blustery and cold Saturday - not ideal weather for baseball.

H. L. Mencken on William Jennings Bryan

I've always enjoyed H.L. Mencken, having first encountered him as a sharp critic of the "New South" and America's rising middle class, which he called the "Booboisie." Today we rarely encounter writing of this quality in our newspapers. Moreover, the demagogues of talk radio and television could learn a thing or two from Mencken.

I just encountered Mencken's obituary of William Jennings Bryan, who died shortly after participating in the famous "Scopes Monkey Trial" in Dayton, Tennessee. For me, much of Mencken's judgment could be applied to some of the more conservative, evangelical Christian leaders in this country who peddle hatred and anti-intellectualism like desperate salesmen. Pat Robertson and the late Jerry Falwell come to mind. (The photograph shows Clarence Darrow, left, and William Jennings Bryan, right, in Dayton during the trial.)


The Baltimore Evening Sun, July 27, 1925

William Jennings Bryan

It was plain to everyone, when Bryan came to Dayton, that his great days were behind him -- that he was now definitely an old man, and headed at last for silence. There was a vague, unpleasant manginess about his appearance; he somehow seemed dirty, though a close glance showed him carefully shaved, and clad in immaculate linen. All the hair was gone from the dome of his head, and it had begun to fall out, too, behind his ears, like that of the late Samuel Gompers. The old resonance had departed from his voice: what was once a bugle blast had become reedy and quavering. Who knows that, like Demosthenes, he had a lisp? In his prime, under the magic of his eloquence, no one noticed it. But when he spoke at Dayton it was always audible.


When I first encountered him, on the sidewalk in front of the Hicks brothers law office, the trial was yet to begin, and so he was still expansive and amiable. I had printed in the Nation, a week or so before, an article arguing that the anti-evolution law, whatever its unwisdom, was at least constitutional -- that policing school teachers was certainly not putting down free speech. The old boy professed to be delighted with the argument, and gave the gaping bystanders to understand that I was a talented publicist. In turn I admired the curious shirt he wore -- sleeveless and with the neck cut very low. We parted in the manner of two Spanish ambassadors.

But that was the last touch of affability that I was destined to see in Bryan. The next day the battle joined and his face became hard. By the end of the first week he was simply a walking malignancy. Hour by hour he grew more bitter. What the Christian Scientists call malicious animal magnetism seemed to radiate from him like heat from a stove. From my place in the court-room, standing upon a table, I looked directly down upon him, sweating horribly and pumping his palm-leaf fan. His eyes fascinated me: I watched them all day long. They were blazing points of hatred. They glittered like occult and sinister gems. Now and then they wandered to me, and I got my share. It was like coming under fire.


II

What was behind that consuming hatred? At first I thought that it was mere evangelical passion. Evangelical Christianity, as everyone knows, is founded upon hate, as the Christianity of Christ was founded upon love. But even evangelical Christians occasionally loose their belts and belch amicably; I have known some who, off duty, were very benignant. In that very courtroom, indeed, were some of them -- for example, old Ben McKenzie, Nestor of the Dayton bar, who sat beside Bryan. Ben was full of good humor. He made jokes with Darrow. But Bryan only glared.

One day it dawned on me that Bryan, after all, was an evangelical Christian only by sort of afterthought -- that his career in this world, and the glories thereof, had actually come to an end before he ever began whooping for Genesis. So I came to this conclusion: that what really moved him was a lust for revenge. The men of the cities had destroyed him and made a mock of him; now he would lead the yokels against them. Various facts clicked into the theory, and I hold it still. The hatred in the old man's burning eyes was not for the enemies of God; it was for the enemies of Bryan.

Thus he fought his last fight, eager only for blood. It quickly became frenzied and preposterous, and after that pathetic. All sense departed from him. He bit right and left, like a dog with rabies. He descended to demagogy so dreadful that his very associates blushed. His one yearning was to keep his yokels heated up -- to lead his forlorn mob against the foe. That foe, alas, refused to be alarmed. It insisted upon seeing the battle as a comedy. Even Darrow, who knew better, occasionally yielded to the prevailing spirit. Finally, he lured poor Bryan into a folly almost incredible.

I allude to his astounding argument against the notion that man is a mammal. I am glad I heard it, for otherwise I'd never believe it. There stood the man who had been thrice a candidate for the Presidency of the Republic -- and once, I believe, elected -- there he stood in the glare of the world, uttering stuff that a boy of eight would laugh at! The artful Darrow led him on: he repeated it, ranted for it, bellowed it in his cracked voice. A tragedy, indeed! He came into life a hero, a Galahad, in bright and shining armor. Now he was passing out a pathetic fool.


III

Worse, I believe that he somehow sensed the fact -- that he realized his personal failure, whatever the success of the grotesque cause he spoke for. I had left Dayton before Darrow's cross-examination brought him to his final absurdity, but I heard his long speech against the admission of expert testimony, and I saw how it fell flat and how Bryan himself was conscious of the fact. When he sat down he was done for, and he knew it. The old magic had failed to work; there was applause but there was no exultant shouts. When, half an hour later, Dudley Field Malone delivered his terrific philippic, the very yokels gave him five times the clapper-clawing that they had given to Bryan.

This combat was the old leader's last, and it symbolized in more than one way his passing. Two women sat through it, the one old and crippled, the other young and in the full flush of beauty. The first was Mrs. Bryan; the second was Mrs. Malone. When Malone finished his speech the crowd stormed his wife with felicitations, and she glowed as only a woman can who has seen her man fight a hard fight and win gloriously. But no one congratulated Mrs. Bryan. She sat hunched in her chair near the judge, apparently very uneasy. I thought then that she was ill -- she has been making the round of sanitariums for years, and was lately in the hands of a faith-healer -- but now I think that some appalling prescience was upon her, and that she saw in Bryan's eyes a hint of the collapse that was so near.

He sank into his seat a wreck, and was presently forgotten in the blast of Malone's titanic rhetoric. His speech had been maundering feeble and often downright idiotic. Presumably, he was speaking to a point of law, but it was quickly apparent that he knew no more law than the bailiff at the door. So he launched into mere violet garrulity. He dragged in snatches of ancient chautauqua addresses; he wandered up hill and down dale. Finally, Darrow lured him into that fabulous imbecility about man as a mammal. He sat down one of the most tragic asses in American history.


IV

It is the national custom to sentimentalize the dead, as it is to sentimentalize men about to be hanged. Perhaps I fall into that weakness here. The Bryan I shall remember is the Bryan of his last weeks on earth -- broken, furious, and infinitely pathetic. It was impossible to meet his hatred with hatred to match it. He was winning a battle that would make him forever infamous wherever enlightened men remembered it and him. Even his old enemy, Darrow, was gentle with him at the end. That cross-examination might have been ten times as devastating. It was plain to everyone that the old Berserker Bryan was gone -- that all that remained of him was a pair of glaring and horrible eyes.

But what of his life? Did he accomplish any useful thing? Was he, in his day, of any dignity as a man, and of any value to his fellow-men? I doubt it. Bryan, at his best, was simply a magnificent job-seeker. The issues that he bawled about usually meant nothing to him. He was ready to abandon them whenever he could make votes by doing so, and to take up new ones at a moment's notice. For years he evaded Prohibition as dangerous; then he embraced it as profitable. At the Democratic National Convention last year he was on both sides, and distrusted by both. In his last great battle there was only a baleful and ridiculous malignancy. If he was pathetic, he was also disgusting.

Bryan was a vulgar and common man, a cad undiluted. He was ignorant, bigoted, self-seeking, blatant and dishonest. His career brought him into contact with the first men of his time; he preferred the company of rustic ignoramuses. It was hard to believe, watching him at Dayton, that he had traveled, that he had been received in civilized societies, that he had been a high officer of state. He seemed only a poor clod like those around him, deluded by a childish theology, full of an almost pathological hatred of all learning, all human dignity, all beauty, all fine and noble things. He was a peasant come home to the dung-pile. Imagine a gentleman, and you have imagined everything that he was not.

The job before democracy is to get rid of such canaille. If it fails, they will devour it.