Take the kids to the museum

RPH #12

take your kids to see the pictures

“Oh, don’t take the baby (2 year old, 5 year old etc. etc.) to the big painting show. They will just cry and bother everyone else.” This, my dear cousins, is a lie. On Tuesday I walked by a dancing 2 1/2 year old standing in a line with her parents. She was letting off some of that endless steam and keeping the people around her entertained. When I saw her again, about an hour later, she had a tiny meltlet (that’s not a real meltdown, just a couple of little squeaks) because she was tired but her daddy held her and she fell asleep on his shoulder. She didn’t bother anyone, she didn’t stand in the way of any painting and she didn’t complain at the size of the crowd. She did manifest one of the important truths of my childhood: take your kid to the museum.

The De Young and the Legion of Honor were cheap days out in the late 1950’s. My father was a cub art teacher at Roosevelt Jr. High, and my mother was at home with two little girls starting elementary school. They had no money; thank God both of them loved to camp, or there wouldn’t have been any vacations. But they had two pretty fine museums and we went. First we went in strollers and then we toddled along with our parents, and we remembered. The first artist I remember liking is Henri Fantin-Latour, because he painted beautiful flowers. This is my point, take your children, grandchildren, cousins and young friends to the museum, they will remember.

This wild imperative is because of the current show at the De Young Museum in Golden Gate Park and that little girl. The Birth of Impressionism: Masterpieces from the Musée D’Orsay is one of the best shows I’ve ever seen and cousins, I’ve seen a lot. Tuesday at noon, our little party walked into the first room, with perfect examples of what the French Academy wanted in the middle of the 19th century. There was the luscious and perfectly composed “Birth of Venus.”— a large canvas (7’ x 3 1/2’?) on a classical (Greek or Roman) subject, perfectly rendered and very cool. (No matter how beautiful the nudes, male or female, they are removed from the observer.) These are the paintings that the Academy accepted. They honored, they celebrated but they did not move, not even the perfectly proportioned “Madonna of Solace” which shows a distraught mother draped over the lap of the Virgin and the baby, dead, at the feet of the Mother of God. The infant’s grayish, porcelain body is perfect in death and the mother’s aspect is genteel grief. This picture is what I don’t like about the French Academy of the middle 19th century.

The genius of this show is the time it takes to tell its story. We don’t leap from the cold perfection of the Academics to Cezane. The tale unfolds from Corot and Breton to James McNeill Whistler. You think you know “Arrangement #1 in Grey and Black: portrait of the artist’s mother” but it is a revelation. On the cusp between the formalism of the Academy and looking forward to what will come, Whistler’s “Mother” is totally involving and worth the whole price of admission.

take the kids to the museum

The “New”, as critic Robert Hughes calls it, comes in stages and each painter comes in his or her own way. Manet and Caillebotte are the true Januses, who look forward and back. “The Floor Scrapers” of Gustave Caillebotte and the “The Fife Player” by Édouard Manet are perfect examples of what happens when formalists look at real life.

But back to the question of small children looking at paintings. All of the images that we’ve reviewed are comprehensible to even the youngest viewers, if they aren’t asleep. They can appreciate the straight backed lady in the rocking chair and the boy in the baggy uniform playing a little flute. I’m not so foolish as to suggest that the Horrors of War by Goya is suitable for anyone under the age of 10. (It will give 10-year-olds nightmares, just like the rest of us.) But the minds of young children are fed by wonderful paintings. They will tell themselves stories for the pictures and so remember.

There were also middle and high school folks in this treasure trove. They were listening, almost to a person, to the gallery walk. Try as they might, they couldn’t keep up the bored, adolescent facade. They looked and could not stop looking—I do wish I could talk to them. Just as there is nothing like live theatre to open and fire the imagination, there is nothing like real paintings to do the same.

Now we enter into the first real flower of Impressionism and all bets are off. Alfred Sisley has three paintings, in three different styles, painted within 2 years of each other and that, my dears, is why a show of this size is so exciting. To watch a painter experiment and change is such a thrill. In the middle rooms we come to the man who brought me to Impressionism long before I knew the word, August Renoir. Yes, he could paint junk, but when he was good, he was so good. The little girl got tired in the room with a very large portrait of a very grand lady by our own August. I think it frightened our small art lover because it was so big. Very large (6’6” X 3’?) it represents a handsome, full figured lady whose hair is up in lustrous braids and she stands in a ruffled satin afternoon gown. Any fairy lover will love this picture.

But look, over on the right hand wall, there is a small perfection by the same guy. Sketched with a very fast hand is the image of a little gully in springtime in Algeria. It might not interest the child but will feed the soul of the parent. For here is light and shadow and grass and heat and all in little space. Breathe deep, and look, it will give you strength for the journey.

Manet and Caillebotte have another thing in common: they both supported other painters. Gustave Caillebotte (1848-1894) had a lot of private money from textiles, and he spent a little of it on his friend’s paintings. When he died, far too young, he left his collection of over 500 pieces to the nation of France. They didn’t want them all. Don’t get me started! Édouard Manet is the patron saint of this entire show. In fact there is an apotheosis painting by Fantin-Latour of Manet and his circle. There is the saintly Manet (he really was a good guy, who supported his friends) with Zola and Renoir (very young) and a whole bunch of other luminaries. I could go on and on about Pissaro and Monet and Morisot and I can’t truly describe what I saw.

This particular show is short lived, as all the great ones are. Because the D’Orsay is doing a full refit, we luxuriate in their treasures. But, cousins, our own collections are like Ali Baba’s cave, filled with unknown jewels. The De Young, the Legion of Honor, the SF MOMA, the Asian Art and our own Oakland Museum of Art, all polished up and pretty. Take those babies and children and sullen teenagers to museums and show them the pictures. You will have a good afternoon and they will remember.

why go to Provence?

RPH #13

Why Go to Provence?

Why do folks go to Provence if they haven’t been to Murphys, or Paso Robles or Sonoma or Lodi? I sell travel books about France all the time and the travelers gush about the scenery and wine and little old towns. Well, cousins, this golden state, your home, has scenery and wine and little old towns that you don’t need to go thru TSA and 13 hours on a plane to get to. Just point your car in any direction but true west and drive. At the risk of sounding like Dorothy Gale, there is no place like home. California is the most beautiful place on earth and any one who says different is just itching for a fight.

What do you do for your anniversary? Do you go out to dinner, does your sweetie send flowers to the office? Or, do you make your hardworking spouse pack up a bag and choose traveling music and take you away? We weren’t low on good wine but both of us needed a ride in the car. Our destination was the Gold Country and our desire was a good time. After taking our time getting up, packing and getting out, we joined the throng on the 580 headed for the Altamont Pass. For those lucky enough never to have taken this road, it is God’s own bottleneck. There is rarely a reason and always frustrated drivers but it is the only direct way to Manteca, the 120 and across the great Valley. Highway 120 is the southern route to the Gold Country and the straight route to Groveland and the front door of Yosemite. Take that right turn and you could be on the Valley Floor in an hour. But cooler heads prevailed and we headed toward Tuolumne County.

To get to the old towns and gorgeous scenery of Calaveras and Amador counties, take the 120 to the 49, the mother road of the Gold Country. Murphys, our normal haunt, was booked solid because the Doobie Brothers and Chicago were playing Ironstone Winery. Thus I found the tiny, perfect hamlet of Jamestown. Our digs were at the Royal Carriage on Main street, a very old hotel with small, spotless rooms, great wifi and firm beds. Nice restaurants in original buildings, a pretty little park with band stand and friendly cat—Jamestown is the perfect base of operations. It even offers a local tasting room for Gianelli vineyards, who specialize in Italian varietals. They named a complex and clear blend after their papa Nino. After a tasting there and then dinner at the highly recommended National Hotel, we fell into bed to dream of wine and World Cup football.

Part of the nature of a real vacation doing what you want and one of us wanted to watch some football. Having suffered many years as the wife of a Cubs fan, football, whether Mexican League, English Premier League or World Cup, is much more fun. It’s fast, the sleek young men are so beautiful and it’s under 2 hours per game. On Saturday morning we lazed, watched a game and still got to Murphys before anyone was open. We took the long way, along Parrots Ferry Road, through the narrow gullys and rolling pastures between Sonora and Columbia. These old gold towns have taken a real hit during this Great Recession; we saw plenty of empty store fronts in all the neat little towns we passed. For most of them, construction and tourism were the biggest employers and both have dried up. Even Murphys has some places for rent on Main St. but somehow that fair city found its source of steady work, wine. There are at least 14 tasting rooms in and around “the Queen of the Sierra.”

After a walk around the neighborhood we were the first customers at one of our favorite wineries in the world, Milliaire. The wines of Calaveras County are singular, the beautiful and varied children of copper infused dirt, months of dry heat, complete sunshine and even a little snow. Zinfandel, Tempranillo, Granache and all the other heat loving grapes are very happy in the land of the Skull.

why go to Provence?

Some of you cousins might feel a little intimidated by tasting rooms. Perhaps you don’t know what you like and don’t want to sound foolish. Don’t worry, just walk right into that old yellow filling station and talk to the beautiful blue eyed lady behind the bar at Milliaire. She will walk you gently through their wines and remember you when you come back. From their Simply Red to the old vine Zins and finishing with the Clockspring port, Milliaire makes wonderful wines. Now, Twisted Oak is different. In the largest and best looking property on the block, the old tasting room is a low ceilinged room, the girls behind the bar know their stuff and have a certain amount of attitude. They have too many piercings and the music is too loud but I don’t care. They make the biggest Spanish wines anywhere in the country. We had their Grenache last night with enchiladas verdes and ranch beans, viva Calaveras. The Twisted Ones call this wine Torcido which means “twisted.” They love names like this. Their greatest wine is called “the Spaniard”, as in “my name is Iñigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die.” This wine is huge, structured and balanced, it dyes my teeth purple and it’s made by authentic smart asses. Just go to Murphys, park your car, get a room and taste wine.

Having busted our budget to high heaven, we went back to Jamestown and retired to the back porch of the hotel. With its wooden swings and chairs, it is perfect for late afternoon relaxation. One thing about our hotel, there were folks who weren’t speaking English. Whether it was Dutch or Danish or even Afrikaans, I never got to ask them where they came from and why they came to the Gold Country. Dinner was at the Willows, another old place recommended by three separate locals in Murphys. High ceilings, wooden booths and good food made the wandering winos very happy.

Amador County is different from Calaveras. We climbed slowly out of Angels Camp, heading up and a little west through the glacial valleys and rolling hills of gold and black green. This is the scenery I’m talking about, horse and cattle country dotted with big old live oaks. Winter stayed late in these hills and the purple and yellow wild flowers were still shimmering on the roadsides. I was sorry to see the condition of Mokulumne Hill, a sweet little cow town that deserves more attention than it is getting. We pulled into the great metropolitan center of Plymouth, searched for “Main St.” and found the Plymouth Hotel and its bar, a beautiful big old high ceiling room that has been recently redone. The bar itself is straight out of the Old West and fully restored. The rest of the room is airy and family friendly with a pizza oven in one corner. Our aim was a midday respite of football and lunch. We found good food (especially the brisket), a nice wine list (most by the glass) and a big screen t.v. filled with World Cup.

Nosey Parker, that’s me and chatting people up while on vacation is my game. Like the lovely couple who teach kindergarten in Sacramento. He played football in his home of Brazil as a youth and she is being kicked up to 1st/2nd grade. I have to email them! After Brazil cleaned Cote D’Ivoire’s clock, we were headed for the Shenandoah Valley and the Zinfandels made by an old Croatian brigand at Dobra Zemlja (good land). To my mouth the wines of the Amador are smoother with more berry than those of Calaveras—different dirt makes different wine. In this place of hot weather grapes we searched in vain for a Cabernet Franc. Our newlyweds (see RPH #10) requested a Cab Franc for a present and we need to find a good one. The search goes on.

Slowly, the arc of vacation bends towards home. We left early Monday morning hoping to be home and in front of the t.v., for the Argentina vs. Mexico game at 11 am. After stopping at one of the numerous local veggie stalls (dirt to plate) on the 120, we got back to Adams Point, Oakland, with half an hour to spare.

The glories of the Loire Valley cannot be overstated, neither the beauty of Chenanceaux and the other chateaus. France is wonderful as are Spain and Italy and all the rest of this beautiful globe. But, cousins, see California. She is the glowing jewel above rubies, from the young power of the Sierras to the misty ocean forests of Big Sur. Our deserts and valleys and vineyards are equal to any in the world. We grow the food and make the wine. Get out there and eat.

why go to Provence?

Royal Carriage Inn www.abvijamestown.com

Milliaire www.milliairewinery.com

Twisted Oak www.twistedoak.com

the Willows www.yelp.com/biz/willow-steakhouse-and-saloon-jamestown

the Plymouth Hotel & Restaurant

9356 Main St. ~ P.O. Box 699 ~ Plymouth, CA 95669
tel: 209.245.5131
fax: 209.245.3339

Dobra Zemlja 12505 Steiner Road, Plymouth, CA 95669
(209)245-3183
Fax: (209) 245-5022
Email info@dobraz.com

haste to the Wedding #1

RPH #10

“haste to the Wedding”

The family referred to is mine, though I am, in law, a step.

This is the loving truth for which I am eternally grateful.

“When one is getting married, one should not be clear eyed and organized. That’s what mothers and sisters are for.” This a law of the Medes and the Persians.

A year and a half ago, I met, all too briefly, Megan, the fiancée of Gregory. I found her smart, funny and well able to deal with our family’s answer to Josh Lyman. In February, Philip and I received a “save the date” card for their wedding and responded in an adult and calm manner: Oh, Yes, Please!” The actual wedding invitation was, although very pretty, pure gravy. Travel planning is one of the joys of my black heart and I went right to work. Finding flights and buying leg room kept me happy for a couple of hours but then, that’s all I had to do. I didn’t need to find a room or even rent a car, because the bride and groom had done it all! This is against the law of the Medes and the the Persians.

(We need, very briefly to talk about the difference between a Boeing and an Airbus. The rational Philip claims that it ain’t the plane but the configuration inside the plane. I, on the opposite side, don’t care. Last summer, when we went to the UK, we rode both planes and I’ll take the Airbus. On our flight to the wedding, we luxuriated in livable space, especially the 6’2” Philip.)

Our flight left at 7am so after a 3:30 wake up and the dither of packing, we got to Oakland International too early. The flight was as good (see above) and all we needed to do was figure out how to get from Dulles to Arlington. Ah, Dulles International Airport, way the hell out in Sterling VA and hard to get from or to. We asked Traveler’s Aid the way to Arlington and they, very nicely, told us about Super Shuttle but sent us in the wrong direction. All was forgiven once we were in the shuttle and on the road. I learned to drive in L. A. and I never, ever, want to drive in, or even around, the Beltway.

The nuptials were held in Arlington, VA where the smarty pants couple reserved rooms at a lovely Sheraton not a full mile from the church. They got a really good group rate and threw the reception at the same hotel. (Greg and Megan ignore the Medes and Persians whenever possible.) After checking in and dropping luggage in the room, we elevated back down to the lobby in search of dinner. As the doors opened, a wonder materialized before my eyes: Michael, the father of the groom. He was in a hurry to the bachelor party because, as the best man, he needed to be there. But, there, across the lobby was Emilia, sister in law extraordinaire and in need of supper. Having her to ourselves, for even a little time, was just wonderful. After making the first stab at catching up, we toddled, almost comatose, to bed. Our room had a spectacular view from the Air Force Memorial, across the wide Potomac, to the Capitol Dome. The Washington Monument was obscured by a lovely tree, thus I didn’t have to contemplate that overblown eyesore every time I looked out the window.

haste to the Wedding #2

As both clans collected on Friday, some of us became tourists. The siren song of the Hirshhorn & the National Gallery enticed us to the Mall and the free hotel shuttle to the Metro made it easy. We popped up on the Mall like the White Rabbit, right next to the Castle and a short walk from the front door of the Hirshhorn. Now, I can talk about paintings forever, and have to be restrained. But, trying to describe the plastic arts, especially sculpture, is beyond me. Suffice to say that the Hirshhorn Museum is the most important collection of modern and contemporary sculpture (large and small) in the whole wide world. If you don’t care about sculpture, come and see this collection. If you already love sculpture, you already know. After communing with the plastic arts of the 20th century, we meandered to the National Gallery.

The house of pictures, in fact, the family album of the United States of America, this is the National Gallery. A huge edifice, built in 1937 by the W. P. A. during the Great Depression, the one that made our grandparents so tight with money. I limited myself to the American Gallery, where I could commune with some of my favorites, Winslow Homer, John Sloan and, especially, John Singleton Copley. I love Copley, his art is great and fragile at the same time. His portraits of our founding generation are evocative and telling. There is John Adams, the old Congregationalist, who never really understood the separation of church and state. And his great friend and nemesis, Thomas Jefferson, looking all abstemious and mild. Copley was a great portraitist from the shoulders up, but, bless his noble brow, he couldn’t paint the human body. There on the wall is his whole family, with legs that are too long and arms that come out of nowhere. Stick with the close-ups John, ’cause anatomy ain’t your thing.

Part of the fun of huge collections is seeing stuff you didn’t know was there. The fine People of Boston MA have loaned to our nation the final iteration of the Robert Gould Shaw Memorial by August Saint-Gaudens. It is not only the finest piece of plaster casting I’ve ever seen, it is the largest. This stunning bas relief represents Shaw and his Massachusetts 54th Regiment, marching toward certain destruction. The 54th, of honored memory, was an all black volunteer unit, led by the bluest blooded Boston Brahmin. This piece is both heroic and heartbreaking. Fighting for abolition and liberty, these men were sent on a suicide mission, and went. Freedom is a cruel master.

We had very specific instructions to be back at the hotel and ready to dine by 6:30. Since the whole wedding party and many guests were staying at the hotel, it made sense to get all of the folks invited to the rehearsal dinner together in one rented transport. It really did make sense. You may think that herding kittens or Unitarians is hard, but you don’t know. Somebody is still in their room, somebody isn’t answering their cell and one grandma is still in transit. Finally, all the Unitarian kittens were on the little bus and off we went, into the warm night, headed toward barbeque.

That which is called rehearsal dinner has long since ceased having anything to do with the wedding rehearsal. It is party thrown by the groom’s family the evening before the wedding, and ours was a hell of a party.