I am not Stephen West (or, My Hiberknitalong2020 Story)

February 16, 2021 / Stephen / Leave a comment

Stephen West wearing his Woven Chevrons Shawl

If you, like me, have been knitting your way through the pandemic and scouring the knittisphere on social media for ideas day after endless day in this year(s)long weekend, then you already know: I am not Stephen West. Don’t get me wrong: I think I have above average self-esteem, have been described as “fun” and “funny,” and I’m getting better every day with the old yarn and needles, but in no way am I the gregarious, wildly prolific, color-pop of a showman superdesigner that Stephen West is.

Stephen Weber (me!), wearing his Woven Chevrons Shawl (made following Stephen West’s design)

And yet, a friend who follows my Instagram but who is not a knitter herself thought I was. She said, “Oh, I thought when you were posting about ‘Stephen West’ that was just your IG pseudonym.” I about died; for one thing, I wish I were that creative! And, for another thing, if I were going to use a pseudonym, I’d do better than to swap out the last three letters of Stephen Weber and replace them with an -st.

But I digress. She was referring to my posts during the #Hiberknitalong2020, during which time thousands of people around the world knitted one of two shawls designed by Stephen, posted about their progress throughout the month of January, admired each other’s work and congratulated each other along the way. Knitalongs (KALs) are not a Westian invention, but I first became aware of them as people I follow on IG were posting about the Mystery Knitalongs Stephen orchestrates, where he’ll release the sections of a pattern piece by piece every week, and the participants have no idea what’s coming or what the final product is meant to look like. Everyone’s posts from the fall Mystery KAL were a lot of fun, and I definitely felt that I was missing out, so I was determined to join his next event (which, fortunately, wasn’t too long after the fall Mystery KAL).

Here I should take a moment to describe for those who don’t knit what it is that’s so “fun” about knitting in general, and about knitting a Westknits project in particular. Folks who don’t knit but who have admired my own work have said, “Oh, that must be so relaxing!” and, of course, it is…..mostly. But there are definitely times when I’m working on something, especially something with a little complexity to it, and I’ll watch as the pattern develops…and I don’t want to stop! It’s exciting to watch the colors and textures unfold and blend together, and there are times when I’ll go to bed after a few hours of knitting and can’t fall asleep because my mind is still racing with the click of the needles and the image of the color and pattern development. I think the best analogy I can make is that several years ago I was a bit of a Candy Crush Saga addict, and when I’d try to go to sleep after playing too long, I’d remain wide awake still seeing the colorful screen in my head. Knitting isn’t that bad, but it must trigger some kind of stimulating chemical release in the brain, and this even more so when the work involves color changes and a variety of stitch patterns.

ALL the colors. (photo by IG: @dsmithstudio)

Westknits designs use ALL the colors and ALL the stitch patterns, and in such playful, surprising ways that so often I just did. not. want. to. stop!

But I’ve gotten ahead of myself. I’ve made it sound like I’ve knit many Westknits pieces when, in fact, the Hiberknitalong Woven Chevrons Shawl was my first and so far only (but not my last!). I’ve been an admirer of Stephen’s work since I first learned about him when I set up my knitting Instagram account a year ago, but at that point, initially, I thought his pieces were really cool and funky and beautiful and creative, but perhaps a little too “out there” for me. My preferred color palette consists almost entirely of neutrals and earth tones and has been that way for years — colors that allow me to blend in to most surroundings — and, as Westknits fans all know, one of Stephen West’s mottos is “Neon is a Neutral.” I feel comfortable saying that has never been true for me; if you’re wearing a Westknits garment, you want to be seen. So while I wanted the experience of knitting a Westknits piece and joining the #westknitsarethebestknits community, I figured I’d probably make it for someone else whose fashion sense is bolder than mine.

Well…as it happens…after a year of knitting voraciously almost every day, and of looking at hundreds of thousands of beautiful sweaters and socks and shawls and mittens and more from people around the world, I started to think, “Perhaps I would like to stand out a little…” I had decided to do the Hiberknitalong whether I liked the patterns he released or not, so when he made yarn kits available through Stephen & Penelope (the famous local yarn shop in Amsterdam of which he is part owner), and when I saw that one of them was a mix of wintry greens and blue-greens, I was all over it. Yes, the colors fit snugly in my comfort zone of hues, but the design (as I would discover) makes them vibrant, full of movement and life: definitely a more look-at-me! garment than I usually wear. Apparently I was one of the lucky few to snag one of the limited edition kits: when I went on IG to share my excitement about getting one, all I saw were upset people lamenting that they were too late and begging Stephen & Penelope to release more; such is the emotional drama of the knitting life. It didn’t feel right to gloat, so I never did share that I’d scored one of the kits (sharing it now; hopefully the pain has subsided for those unfortunate others). The yarn included in the kit was Mominoki‘s Finnwool line; so soft, super warm and perfect on these freezing cold days when I want to wrap my entire face up during my morning walk.

St. Stephen & me. I traded his stones for Mominoki Finnwool yarn. (photo by my stepdad, Don Rohman)

When he released the two shawl patterns on December 26th — St. Stephen’s Day, wouldn’tcha know… — I knew instantly that I’d be making the Woven Chevrons. The Winter Lights Shawl is also gorgeous (and I might make it another time), but the geometry of the woven chevrons, the dancing optical illusion of the thing — it blew me away. The pattern seemed complex at first, but there’s an aha! moment in every pattern where suddenly the logic of the thing makes perfect sense and you can pretty much knit the rest without looking. (Well, almost…). I’d say I internalized it just after I was finished with the first section of chevrons, so the rest of the project flowed easily as wave after wave of blue-green V’s descended from the needles. It was heavenly.

And now it’s done, which is great because I LOVE WEARING IT and I wear it everywhere (so much for being “out there”…), and I’ve already gotten many compliments around town. But it’s also a bit sad because I enjoyed working on it so much that I kind of didn’t want it to end. I suppose that’s the genius of a brilliant design.

So. While I am not Stephen West, I do now know that I enjoy knitting and wearing Stephen West garments, and I also know that by doing so I might be an even more vivacious Stephen Weber (but I’m still not Steven Weber from Wings; no amount of knitting will change that.)

If you’d like more information about Stephen West’s designs, follow him on IG @westknits and Ravelry, check out his wildly entertaining YouTube channel, and be sure to check out his store, Stephen & Penelope. Also, you can purchase the Woven Chevrons Shawl pattern on Ravelry and Gumroad.com.

Follow Mominoki Yarn at @mominokiyarn.

And if you’d like to see more of my own projects, you can follow me on IG @knitphen.

And finally, just because, here’s my favorite Westknits video. Makes me laugh every time (#BOOMyerinparis).

*All photos of Stephen West shared with his permission. Cover photo credit: Darren Smith, IG: @dsmithstudo

The Sun Also Rises, Books 2 & 3 — In Pictures

July 10, 2016July 11, 2016 / Stephen / Leave a comment

Be sure to read/look at the previous entry if you haven’t already. It explains my purpose with this post. As before, page numbers refer to the First Scribner trade paperback edition, 2003. All photos, unless they are mine, were pulled from the internet, so if one belongs to you and you would prefer that I remove it, just let me know and I will.

BOOK 2

Paris & Other Parts of France (& Europe)

[Bill] wrote that Vienna was wonderful. Then a card from Budapest: “Jake, Budapest is wonderful.” (76)

Vienna, Austria. In German it’s called Wien, and sausages (and people, and anything really…) from Wien are called Wieners — which is where we get the word. Wonderful!

Budapest, Hungary. Incidentally, the first city outside the US that I ever traveled to. Wonderful!

At the juncture of the Rue Denfert-Rochereau with the Boulevard is a statue of two men in flowing robes. (78)

One of these robed gents is an architect. Not the father of pharmacy as Bill says.

“Is she really Lady something or other?” Bill asked in the taxi on our way down to the Ile Saint Louis. (82)

There are two very important islands in the River Seine in Paris. The first is the Ile de la Cité, upon which sits Notre Dame cathedral along with the marker that is the cartographic center of Paris (ie. all distances from Paris are measured from that exact point) and many other important buildings. Behind Ile de la Cité is the Ile St. Louis, which is somewhat more residential and is, in fact, one of the most expensive neighborhoods to live in in Europe. It is in the foreground of this picture.

We walked along under the trees that grew out over the river on the Quai d’Orléans side of the island. (82)

The Quai d’Orleans side of the Ile St. Louis. (I think…this is from our school trip in April 2015)

We walked on and circled the island. The river was dark and a bateau mouche went by, all bright with lights, going fast and quiet up and out of sight under the bridge. Down the river was Notre Dame, squatting against the night sky. We crossed to the left bank of the Seine by the wooden foot-bridge from the Quai de Bethune, and stopped on the bridge and looked down the river at Notre Dame. Standing on the bridge the island looked dark, the houses were high against the sky and the trees were shadows. (83)

This is a view from a bateau mouche on the Seine. The building in the back to the right is the Musée d'Orsay, an art museum dedicated to Impressionist art (and one of my most favorite museums in the world).

This is a view from a bateau mouche on the Seine (bateau is French for boat). The building in the back to the right is the Musée d’Orsay, an art museum dedicated to Impressionist art (and one of my most favorite museums in the world).

“Say, there’s plenty of Americans on this train,” the husband said. “They’ve got seven cars of them from Dayton, Ohio. They’ve been on a pilgrimage to Rome, and now they’re going down to Biarritz and Lourdes.” (91)

Rome, Italy. “The Eternal City.” All roads lead here, and it wasn’t built in a day.

Biarritz. Swanky French beach town.

Lourdes, France. In 1858 a peasant girl had visions of the Virgin Mary here, and the place subsequently became an important site of pilgrimage, in particular for those suffering from diseases that have no cure, for Lourdes is most famous for its number of miraculous healings (thousands of them).

The train stopped for half an hour at Bordeaux and we went out through the station for a little walk. (94)

Bordeaux is a charming small city on France’s southern Atlantic coast. It’s one of the most important wine-growing regions in France, which is probably the most important wine-growing country in the world. Which would make Bordeaux the most important wine region in the world.

Bayonne is a nice town. It is like a very clean Spanish town and it is on a big river…We went out into the street and took a look at the cathedral. (96)

Bayonne, France. Note the cathedral in the background.

Spain

We past lots of Basques with oxen, or cattle, hauling carts alnog the road, and nice farmhouses, low roofs, and all white-plastered. In the Basque country the land all looks very rich and green and the houses and villages look well-off and clean. Every village had a pelota court and on some of them kids were playing in the hot sun. There were signs on the walls of the churches saying it was forbidden to play pelota against them, and the houses in the villages had red tiled roofs… (97)

The Basque people, by some estimates, are part of the oldest culture in Europe. Their language, Euskara (or Basque), is unrelated to all other languages in Europe; that is, it’s not an offshoot of Latin (like Spanish, French and Italian) or German (like English and Dutch). Some believe it goes back as far as the stone age, but its origins are unknown. it tells us that the Basque have been in the area for a very, very long time.

Then we crossed a wide plain, and there was a big river off on the right shining in the sun from between the line of trees, and away off you could see the plateau of Pamplona rising out of the plain, and the walls of the city, and the great brown cathedral, and the broken skyline of the other churches. In back of the plateau were the mountains, and every way you looked there were other mountains, and ahead the road stretched out white across the plain going toward Pamplona. (99)

Is that not gorgeous?

At the end of the street I saw the cathedral [of Pamplona] and walked up toward it. The first time I ever saw it I thought the facade was ugly but I liked it now. (102)

We sat in the Iruña [cafe] for a while and had coffee and then took a little walk out to the bull-ring… (105)

The Cafe Iruña, interior

If you have your meal or your drink at the bar of the Iruña, you can drink with Hemingway’s statue!

We’re going trout fishing in the Irati River… (108)

The Irati River. Dramatic.

As we came to the edge of the rise we saw the red roofs and white houses of Burguete ahead strong out on the plain, and away off on the shoulder of the first dark mountain was the gray metal-sheathed roof of the monastery of Roncesvalles. (114)

Burguete. Red roofs and white houses, just as Hemingway described.

Roncesvalles monastery.

This isn’t related to Hemingway, but one of the most important stories from the Middle Ages, “The Song of Roland”, tells of the Battle of Roncesvalles. In the story, Charlemagne’s army is facing the Saracens and suffers its only major loss, one that would have been worse had Roland (Orlando in Spanish/Italian) not blown his horn and warned his fellow knights. This story laid the framework for the concept of chivalry and knighthood in Europe. This picture shows Roland/Orlando’s death at Roncesvalles.

In the evenings we played three-handed bridge with an Englishman named Harris, who had walked over from Saint Jean Pied de Port and was stopping at the inn for the fishing. (130)

St. Jean Pied de Port

Most of the places mentioned in the Spanish section of the book are part of the Camino de Santiago de Compostela. This is an ancient pilgrimage route from the Pyrenees at the border of France and Spain to the Atlantic Coast. Originally those who walked the Camino did so for religious or spiritual purposes, and many still do, but many others hike or bike the roughly 500 miles because it’s a stunningly gorgeous walk! Because people have been doing this for centuries, there are many hostels and places to stay along the way for pilgrims. When Hemingway mentions that Harris walked over from St. Jean Pied de Port, he’s implying that Harris was probably walking the Camino.

They’ve never seen a desencajonada. (136)

For the following quotations, see the videos below:

At noon of Sunday, the 6th of July, the fiesta [of San Fermin] exploded. (156)

Before the waiter brought the sherry the rocket that announced the fiesta went up in the square. It burst and there was a gray ball of smoke high up above the Theatre Gayarre. (157)

People were coming into the square from all sides, and down the street we heard the pipes and the fifes and the drums coming. They were playing the riau-riau music, the pipes shrill and the drums pounding, and behind them came the men and boys dancing. (157)

The afternoon was a big religious procession. San Fermin was translated from one church to another. In the procession were all the dignitaries, civil and religious. (158-9)

[Pedro Romero, the matador] was the best-looking boy I’ve ever seen. (167)

Hemingway based the character of Pedro Romero on the young Toreador, . He was right; he wasn't bad looking.

Hemingway based the character of Pedro Romero on the young toreador, Cayetano Ordoñez. He was right; he wasn’t bad looking.

Book 3

“No. I can stay another week. I think I’ll go to San Sebastian.” (232)

San Sebastian. Looks like a good vacation spot, no?

The Lost Generation FOUND: or, How I’m Learning to Stop Kvetching and Love the Americans in Paris

July 5, 2016 / Stephen / 4 Comments

“You are all a lost generation.” ~Gertrude Stein

In October of this year, my choir — MasterVoices — will present the New York premiere of Ricky Ian Gordon‘s opera, 27, about the literary and intellectual salons held at the home of Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas in the years between the world wars. Hemingway and Fitzgerald are characters. So are Picasso and Man Ray. It should be a heady romp of an opera!

Because the opera is so literary, I decided it would be fantastic if I could bring my College Bridge Senior English class to see it, but this posed a challenge: How in the world would 12th graders ever truly appreciate the work without some knowledge of all the key players? Or, for that matter, how would I?

See, I’m somewhat poorly-versed when it comes to the Lost Generation. I know all the big names of the era that any self-respecting English major should know, but I haven’t ever spent much time with them. I read “The Old Man and the Sea” in 7th grade twenty-five years ago and remember very little of it beyond the fact that I disliked it. I tried to love Hemingway by reading The Sun Also Rises on two separate occasions but found the book to be a tiresome chore. I’ve never been gaga about Gatsby like a lit-lover is supposed to be, and I think I opened up Gertrude Stein’s Tender Buttons once while in college, read a single poem, shuddered, then promptly returned to it to its shelf in the library. Thus ended my time with the Americans in Paris in the 1920s. To me they seemed purely hedonistic and self-absorbed, and really self-important. I didn’t have much of an interest.

And I might have left them there, sitting on the shelf and continuing to accrue accolades from everyone but me, but for three things: this upcoming Ricky Ian Gordon opera, as I’ve said, and Joyce and Woolf. They’re of the era and of the ilk, more verbose than their American counterparts and a thousand times more cerebral and difficult…and yet I adore them. As an Irishman and a Brit, there might be an argument for the difference of their literary output, but, most things being the same, I ought to be able to find something worthwhile in their American peers, right? So it occurred to me that the only reason I ever came to love Joyce and Woolf in the first place was due to my professor, Richard Hood, who provided rich, detailed background to their lives and times that gave their writing a context and a point of approach. He made their writing feel vital to a young twenty-something in the late 1990s, a fact for which I’m deeply grateful and now need to replicate for my own students.

I never had that with the Americans in Paris — I’ve never read them in the context of a class — but if I’m going to enjoy performing in an opera about them, and if I’m going to provide my students with a richly satisfying educational experience, then I’d better damn well get studying and teach myself so that I can pass the knowledge on.

Which is what I’ve been doing. First, I made a third attempt at The Sun Also Rises, and this time I finished it. I won’t say it’s become my favorite book or that Hemingway’s genius dripped from the pages in any obvious way, but I really did like it — so that’s a start. I’m currently reading Everybody Behaves Badly: The True Story Behind Hemingway’s Masterpiece, The Sun Also Rises by Lesley M. M. Blume, a book that seems to have been released to coincide exactly with my interest in the subject matter; it came out at the beginning of last month, just as I was piecing together my course of study. Blume’s book has acutely sharpened my appreciation for and interest in Hemingway.

Anyway, in the days and weeks to come, I plan to post my explorations of the works I read in a way that is meant to be shared with my students, but will hopefully be of interest to any reader who stumbles across my blog. I’m coming at this with an open mind, yes, but, more importantly, with a humble mind. My previous encounters with the Lost Generation writers have left me feeling dismissive of their talents, but this time around my thought is, “You know what? They are beloved for a reason.” Rather than try to trash them, I’m going to try to see what it is that others see, and I’m going to share this experience with my students.

And with you. So if you’re reading this and you have any reading suggestions for me, please feel free to pass them on in the comment section. Otherwise, keep checking in for updates!

***Apropos of nothing, here’s a video of my aforementioned professor, Richard Hood, playing the banjo as he’s wont to do. A man of many, many talents; he not only taught modernist literature, he toured the country (world?) with his bluegrass band, led humanitarian trips to Haiti and moved me cross-country from Ohio to California. Hemingway may or may not be a genius, and Stein probably isn’t (not really…), but Hood sure as hell is!

ADDENDUM: Dr. Johnson’s Cat

August 20, 2015 / Stephen / 2 Comments

Johnson’s House

Reader Hampshirehog pointed out that I neglected to mention Samuel Johnson’s cat, Hodge, in the previous post. I confess this was out of ignorance rather than willful neglect; as I stated in the post, my knowledge of Johnson prior to my visit to his house was practically nil. I definitely wasn’t aware of the significance of his cat.

But I’ve done my homework now and learned why Hodge has a statue dedicated to him in the courtyard outside the house, and Hampshirehog is right: it’s worth mentioning. Johnson’s love for his cat further illustrates what I wrote about him being ahead of his time.

Apparently it was not common to keep cats as pets in London at the time, but Johnson had a fondness for the felines who lived in the neighborhood.

His biographer, Boswell, noted the following:

Nor would it be just, under this head, to omit the fondness which he showed for animals which he had taken under his protection. I never shall forget the indulgence with which he treated Hodge, his cat: for whom he himself used to go out and buy oysters, lest the servants having that trouble should take a dislike to the poor creature. I am, unluckily, one of those who have an antipathy to a cat, so that I am uneasy when in the room with one; and I own, I frequently suffered a good deal from the presence of this same Hodge. I recollect him one day scrambling up Dr. Johnson’s breast, apparently with much satisfaction, while my friend smiling and half-whistling, rubbed down his back, and pulled him by the tail; and when I observed he was a fine cat, saying, “Why yes, Sir, but I have had cats whom I liked better than this;” and then as if perceiving Hodge to be out of countenance, adding, “but he is a very fine cat, a very fine cat indeed.”

This reminds me of the ludicrous account which he gave Mr. Langton, of the despicable state of a young Gentleman of good family. “Sir, when I heard of him last, he was running about town shooting cats.” And then in a sort of kindly reverie, he bethought himself of his own favourite cat, and said, “But Hodge shan’t be shot; no, no, Hodge shall not be shot.”

Hodge shan’t be shot; no, no, Hodge shall not be shot.

So not only did Johnson have a modern person’s love for his kitty, he bought oysters for Hodge specifically, and because that act would strike others as odd, he didn’t make his servant – Francis Barber, a former slave – buy them because it would be beneath his station to do so. Johnson allowed the eccentricity to be his own. A charming anecdote indeed!

Today Hodge’s statue is a popular point of literary pilgrimage. He’s shown atop Johnson’s Dictionary overlooking a few oyster shells. Visitors will frequently leave coins in the shells for good luck and to pay tribute to Hodge and his quirky, fascinating master.

Every new detail I learn about Johnson makes me more intrigued.

Thanks, Hampshirehog, for bringing this to my attention.

Fun with Bill: Teaching Shakespeare Through Performance

August 13, 2015 / Stephen / Leave a comment

To be or not to be? Well, one thing is for certain: you have to just be and enjoy the moment before you can write about it. (This is one of the walls in the staircase of the Sackler Studios at the Globe.

I believe it was Byron who advised writers never to write about an experience until it was fully past; trying to capture all the beauty and detail while in the midst of it keeps you from living the moment. (How he would hate our modern impulse to document each minute as it happens!) In this spirit, I wasn’t as efficient a live-blogger of my time at the Globe as I had intended, but in the whirlwind of rehearsals, workshops and the establishment of new friendships with the many inspiring teachers who were part of the programme with me, I found myself too tired by the end of any given day to write very much.

At the moment I’m on the train from London to Paris where a whole new experience will commence, but I wanted to take some time to gather my thoughts and establish a bit of closure on the past three weeks. (UPDATE: It’s been two weeks since I originally wrote this entry and my time in France is now over, too. As in London, so in France: I was too immersed in the moment to write about it.)

It seems odd to feel the need for closure. Three weeks is not a long time. I’ve been part of classes with other people in the past for longer stretches of time and not felt more than a twinge of sadness when the inevitable end finally arrived. This was different.

For one thing, as participants in Teaching Shakespeare Through Performance, we arrived as teachers, but soon realized that we were to become actors. I suppose it should have been obvious through the name of the programme, but if you’re going to teach Shakespeare through performance, you’ll have to learn how to perform.

And so we were introduced to our tutors and guides, all of whom have either performed in Globe productions or work with the actors who do on their voices, movement, costumes, etc. We spent hours in rehearsal building an ensemble that would present abstract scenes that would tie our small group scenes together. Our small group scenes were from As You Like It, and we spent even more hours of rehearsal preparing these.

In this way, we explored Shakespeare’s text and ideas on our feet. There were brief moments of textual analysis when the words were just too dense, but for the most part we made meaning with each other in rehearsal. We figured it out as we went along, moving and laughing the entire time.

Shakespeare, my friend.
(The Chandos Portrait in the National Portrait Gallery, London. This was the first portrait in the museum’s entire collection, the one that started it all. Appropriate.)

I can’t overstate this: it was so much fun and we learned many new techniques and ideas for approaching Shakespeare. Fun and learning, hand in hand, and with Shakespeare no less — who’d a thought? We crammed a semester’s worth of study into three weeks and it hardly felt like work at all. In this brief time we spent so many hours laughing together, creating together, discovering together.

So. I can’t remember another 3-week period of my life where I’ve experienced so much personal, professional and artistic growth, all at once, and all derived from the same source, which happens to be the greatest writer in the English language and the stage for which he wrote. Which is why I need some closure to really solidify everything this experience has meant to me. The next several blog posts will aim to tackle this.

Ode on a Grecian Urn

March 11, 2015 / Stephen / Leave a comment

I’m on a Romantics kick, apparently. The other day we had a meeting of students going on the upcoming trip to Europe, including a couple of days in Rome, where I told them we had to make a pilgrimage to the Keats Shelley Museum. I’ve given Shelley his due recently; here’s some Keats for balance.

The photo is from a school trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Spring 2014, with students from my Greek Literature class. Quite possibly my favorite picture I’ve ever taken of students doin’ that learning thing.

“When old age shall this generation waste,/ Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe/ Than ours…”

Ode on a Grecian Urn
by John Keats

Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness,

Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,

Sylvan historian, who canst thus express

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:

What leaf-fring’d legend haunts about thy shape

Of deities or mortals, or of both,

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?

What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?

What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?

What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard

Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;

Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d,

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:

Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave

Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;

Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,

Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;

She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,

For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed

Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;

And, happy melodist, unwearied,

For ever piping songs for ever new;

More happy love! more happy, happy love!

For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,

For ever panting, and for ever young;

All breathing human passion far above,

That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d,

A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?

To what green altar, O mysterious priest,

Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,

And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?

What little town by river or sea shore,

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,

Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?

And, little town, thy streets for evermore

Will silent be; and not a soul to tell

Why thou art desolate, can e’er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede

Of marble men and maidens overwrought,

With forest branches and the trodden weed;

Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought

As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!

When old age shall this generation waste,

Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe

Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,

“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.”

Ozymandias

March 10, 2015March 10, 2015 / Stephen / 2 Comments

A little more Shelley…

A shot from a 2009 trip to Egypt. Ozymandias might not be the power that once he was, but I’m guessing I’ve aged more in the six years since I took this photo than the statue has.

I met a traveller from an antique land,

Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;

And on the pedestal, these words appear:

My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;

Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

The Renaissance Man and the Doomsday Prophet: Michelangelo and Savonarola

February 18, 2015February 18, 2015 / Stephen / Leave a comment

The third installment of Michelangelo musings after reading Ross King‘s Michelangelo and the Pope’s Ceiling:

“I am the hailstorm that shall break the heads of those who do not take shelter.”
Well.

3. The influence of Savonarola. Giralomo Savonarola was, strange as it may seem, ahead of his time. I say ‘strange’ because it’s hard to think of someone who is best known for igniting ‘the bonfire of the vanities’ — whereby he encouraged Florentines to toss into the flames any books or works of art they deemed indecent — as ahead of his times. And yet, his goal was to cleanse Florence (and Christendom) of corruption; and some of his rhetoric is not so different from what we hear people say about Washington D.C. today. If he’d have been born about two decades later he would have fought for reform alongside Martin Luther; three centuries later and he would have been a Jonathan Edwards igniting the “Great Awakening” in America. But, as it happened, he was born into Renaissance Florence. Though he caught the attention of a great many of the citizens who were also fed up with the clerical abuses of the Church, it was a time and place where power was absolute (and held by Pope Alexander VI, a Borgia…not a good enemy to have…) and the Zeitgeist was shifting. Poet Heinrich Heine famously wrote that “where they have burnt books, they will end in burning human beings.” In our day and age, this is quote is usually trucked out to sum up the horrors of the Nazis, but it was true long before that, and ironic in this case: Florence’s own book-burners turned out to see the execution by hanging and fire of Savonarola. It is said that the Florentine crowds shouted curses at him as he mounted the scaffold; after he died from hanging, but before the fire burned his body completely, a burst of heat caused his arm to raise up as if he were blessing the angry mob, at which point many of those yelling curses began to weep.

I’d like my Dante medium rare…with a side of Ovid, per favore. Grazie.

I’ve gone on at length because I was surprised to learn from King’s book that Michelangelo was an ardent supporter of Savonarola (as was Botticelli, who is alleged to have burned some of his own works, although this may be apocryphal). It seems puzzling at first that an art-maker should be so keen to follow an art-burner, but maybe it speaks to Michelangelo’s melancholic nature and, perhaps, his desire to make the world more beautiful. Michelangelo was devout, but not a fan of the power structures of the Church. He didn’t have a lot of love for the Pope or for Rome, and, as King points out, when given full-control over the Sistine Chapel ceiling’s design, he chose somber scenes from the Old Testament of humanity’s transgressions and pain rather than the more uplifting scenes from the New Testament (“No Wedding of Cana or multiplying of loaves in this chapel!”). Jesus’ ancestors are painted along the perimeter of the ceiling, which was strange subject matter to begin with, but stranger still was the fact that, rather than painting them as kings and queens, he depicted them as regular people who toiled at work. In fact, other than the very famous central scene of the creation of Adam, the overall motif of the ceiling is suffering. Suffering was a favorite theme of Savonarola as well, and his sermons were said to be masterpieces of charismatic oratory on the matter. Perhaps that’s why Michelangelo seemed to think of him more as a kindred spirit than an enemy.

Michelangelo v. Leonardo: Epic Art Battle

February 17, 2015 / Stephen / 2 Comments

And #2 in the series of fun facts from Ross King‘s Michelangelo and the Pope’s Ceiling:

Leo vs. Mike: Epic Art Battle

2. The rivalry between Michelangelo and Leonardo (and general rivalries amongst artists). This one shouldn’t have been surprising, and yet, for some reason, I’ve never thought of Michelangelo and Leonardo crossing paths. In my head, Da Vinci predated Buonarroti, but that wasn’t the case (although he was more than twenty years older). As King points out, the two artists had a “well-known dislike of each other.” Apparently the saucy youth, Michelangelo, taunted Leonardo for failing to properly execute the casting of “a giant bronze equestrian statue in Milan.” Da Vinci, in rebuttal, lambasted sculpting as a generally lesser art and sculptors — seeing as how they were perpetually covered in marble dust — as dirty. No wonder all of Florence was abuzz when the two greatest artists of the age were hired to fresco separate walls in a room of the Palazzo della Signoria. Sadly, for the Florentines yearning for a good fight and the rest of us throughout time who are denied the wonder of what would have surely been a masterpiece of a salon, neither artist successfully executed his fresco: Michelangelo was summoned to Rome by the Pope, and Leonardo’s experimental style didn’t work; he got fed up and went back to Milan. Still, the book is full of fireworks between Michelangelo and other artists — Bramante, most notably, but he also gets surly with a number of his assistants. Such, I suppose, is the nature of genius.

As a side note, there was a paragraph in the book that mentioned Michelangelo, Leonardo and Raphael all together. Because I’m of a certain age, I was really hoping that Donatello would make an appearance and that they would binge eat pizza and say “Cowabunga!” Sadly, I looked at the index and found that, while he does get mentioned, it isn’t at the same time as the other three. Drats.

Anti-social Artist vs. Warrior Pope: Michelangelo and Julius II

February 17, 2015 / Stephen / Leave a comment

As I mentioned a few days ago, I’m in the midst of reading Ross King‘s Michelangelo and the Pope’s Ceiling in preparation for a trip to Rome in April. I’ve been keeping a list of fascinating facts as I read, and I was planning to write a Top 5 list when I finished, but I’m halfway through and already the list is long. So I started to write the Top 5 for the first half, but I hit 1100 words after the first three and decided I’ll just do a separate post for each one to keep it brief(er).

Michelangelo and Pope Julius II on a good day.

1. Relationship with the Pope. Based on the title of the book, it should be no surprise that there was tension between the artist and the pontiff. What is surprising is the degree to which the Pope gave in to Michelangelo’s demands. I mean, Pope Julius II was not the peaceful shepherd that is Pope Francis I. When Julius wanted to bring the Papal States that had either gone rogue or been taken over by foreign rulers back into his pontifical fold, he sent out an army and rode at the head of it — armed — himself. They called him the Warrior Pope. He had a nasty temper and beat messengers who brought him bad news…and sometimes hurt those who brought good news by clapping them on the back with pleasure. He first brought Michelangelo to Rome to work on his ostentatious tomb, but then he had a change of heart and sent him packing. And then he wanted him back, but Michelangelo said no. After several pleas, the Pope finally resorted to an ultimatum, and, reluctantly, Michelangelo returned, but not to resume work on the tomb: he was brought back to to fresco the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel which had been damaged due to a shoddy foundation — despite the fact that he was a sculptor and not a frescoist. Even so, he agreed. Not long after he started work, he was forced to get a little testy with the Pope: he told Julius to butt out and stop being such a micromanager. Said he knew what to paint, and that the Pope was going to have to trust him. His reputation must have been astounding, because the Warrior Pope did back off. Later, as the months went by and he couldn’t see the ceiling due to the canvas that stretched across the chapel sixty feet below the workspace (meant to keep any drippings from interrupting a Mass or making a mess), Julius attempted on several occasions to sneak up the scaffolding to get a look at what was going on. He even donned disguises. How could such a powerful pope be kept at bay for so long? Answer: Michelangelo was, oddly, just as powerful.