"Time was with most of us, when Christmas Day, encircling all our limited world like a magic ring, left nothing out for us to miss or seek; bound together all our home enjoyments, affections, and hopes; grouped everything and everyone round the Christmas fire, and make the little picture shining in our bright young eyes, complete."

Charles Dickens

the sounds of travis

Taxi Driver was just on regular old-fashioned network television here...an odd thing to be watching on a Saturday afternoon while making out gift shopping lists with all kinds of Christmas commercials interspersed. My college boyfriend owned the soundtrack to Taxi Driver and we used to listen to it often, and since Robert DeNiro's voiceover is included, I now have the freakish ability to talk along with the movie while Travis is making all his vigilante plans. And not just everybody's favorite Are you talking to ME? but things like The days move along with regularity, then suddenly there is change and From now on it'll be total organization...every muscle must be tight.

Bernard Herrmann, the genius who came up with the music for Psycho and Vertigo and so many other film classics, scored Taxi Driver and apparently died right after it was recorded. It has the well-known plaintive saxophone, but there are also these great menacing horns and weird waves of harp rippling through the background. All together it has a prowling, unsettled sound, which is perfect. (Click here for excerpts.) Once you listen to the soundtrack separately from the movie, you tend to get a better appreciation for the whole mood and message behind it, because what could have been just a cheesy 1970s backdrop is instead as integral as the action on camera itself.

olga and rufino

I'm always interested in the muse behind the artist, so I was curious about Olga Tamayo, longtime wife of Rufino. This picture shows her literally behind him and almost blurred into an outline, but the following from the Santa Barbara Museum fills in what the photo obscures:

In 1933, Tamayo completed his first successful mural commission, a series of wall paintings in the entry stairwell of the Escuela Nacional de Musíca (National School of Music). It was while painting this mural that he met Olga Flores Rivas, a piano student at the school. Shortly thereafter...he pursued a whirlwind romance with Olga. After a three-month courtship and upon Olga’s proposal, the couple married on February 3, 1934. Although a talented musician with a budding performing career, Olga abandoned her musical pursuits to devote her efforts to promoting Tamayo’s career and managing their finances. For Tamayo, Olga became a lifelong muse—over his seven-decade career, he drew and painted many portraits of her.

The couple moved from Mexico to New York to Paris then back to Mexico, creating artwork, collecting artwork, and no doubt enjoying a very interesting life. Rufino Tamayo died in 1991, while Olga--still a few steps behind--followed him two years later.

happiness is a state of uno chiyo

Whenever I read Uno Chiyo's story "Happiness" I think of the pictured Ukiyo-e tarot card -- and if you like tarot decks, the Ukiyo-e is a really beautiful one that connects with Japanese legend and symbolism as well as elements of nature. The opening of "Happiness" is:

Every time Kazue gets out of the bath, she stands in front of the mirror and examines her naked body for a moment...She thus notes her resemblance to Botticelli's Venus. There is the similarity in the way that she is standing although no sea shell supports her. She also has the same feet and slightly rounded stomach.

As you read on, though, you learn that Kazue is seventy and really not insistent that she resembles Venus at her age -- but she also doesn't seem to care. Kazue's detached, fairly oblivious optimism has served her well through many difficult years. She allows the possibility of still being Venus because of her failing eyesight and because the steam from the bath pleasantly blurs her mirrored view, and she otherwise "collects fragments of happiness one after another, and so lives, spreading them throughout her environment. Even what seems odd to other people, she considers happiness."

Uno Chiyo would have been 110 this week; she almost lived a full century, dying in 1996 at the age of 98. Married many times and fond of falling in love, she certainly did live fully and most likely thought of herself as resembling Venus after her bath even at the age of ninety.

georgia and eugene

This is a portrait of a young Georgia O'Keeffe, done when she was enrolled at New York's Art Student's League, circa 1908. The painter and Georgia's fellow student was Eugene Speicher, who had asked Georgia repeatedly to pose for him; when she kept refusing he noted that she might as well let him do her portrait since he'd probably become famous while she would just end up teaching art to girls someplace. Georgia took that insult quietly and sat for the picture; she looks really cute at that age and her hair is short and curly because she had recently gotten over a case of typhoid so severe that it caused her normally long straight locks to fall out.

So what became of Eugene Speicher? He was a success, particularly as a portrait artist, but I don't think he was honored with a U.S. postage stamp or made it to the White House to be honored by good old Ronnie Reagan. I wonder how he felt even back in the 1920s when O'Keeffe's floral paintings were fetching huge sums of money. Or whether she made sure to send him invitations to her exhibits, and whether he cared to receive them or not.

But you know, to this day there's always a lot of joking around in college and/or art school betweeen the sexes and maybe Speicher was just teasing Georgia. I like his portrait of her, and apparently he painted it rather fast--maybe because he was already quick and skilled with a brush, or maybe because he sensed Georgia really didn't feel like loitering around playing muse to his artistic presence.

united cocktail artists

In the early days of Hollywoodland, Mary Pickford, her swashbuckling husband Douglas Fairbanks Sr., and Charlie Chaplin were among the first movie superstars. They drew in crowds, they made big money, and they decided to form United Artists in order to have more creative and financial control over their careers. They also apparently all had cocktails named after them. This post from Cocktailnerd's blog describes his liquid homage to all three, and he rates the results. I also noticed some post dialogue on epicurious.com about absolutely never substituting maraschino cherry juice for maraschino liqueur in your Mary Pickford. Clearly they are not the same. Instead mix, shake and pour out:

· 2 oz light rum
· 1 oz unsweetened pineapple juice
· 1/4 oz maraschino liqueur
· 1 dash of grenadine

I think I'm going to start ordering Mary Pickfords in various places and see if bartenders can handle it -- without consulting a manual.

the ball turret gunner

(WWII veteran John Gillard next to a B-24 with a ball turrett gunner. Click for link to original webpage.)

When I was in the 10th grade, we encountered a poem called The Death of The Ball Turret Gunner. It was in a heavy paperback anthology with very thin tissue paper pages that were always tearing, and there was a brief paragraph about World War II pilots and the American poet Randall Jarrell who had served in the War and how it had given him a great deal of writing material. We all read it, didn't understand it, then moved on. World War II was at that time something vague and past that our grandparents or older relatives talked about, and the men who'd fought never really confided what they'd been through unless it was privately to other men.

If you've been watching Ken Burns' The War on PBS and you saw the segment on the pilots who dropped bombs over France and Germany and fought in the air, The Death of The Ball Turret Gunner will make perfectly horrible sense. I don't know if they mentioned the poem during the show because I missed some of it and I am not living in the modern DVR world, but one of the veterans even noted how the ball turret area forced a soldier to be packed in with his knees up around his ears, in the belly of the plane, almost in a fetal position.

This same veteran interviewed said that they'd been fired on and the plane's pilot was killed, and he was in this strange ball turret section below bleeding for hours. His own blood froze because the temperature was minus 30 at such high altitude, and he wondered while floating in limbo like that whether he'd ever survive. His name was Earl Burke and as he was talking I remembered The Death of The Ball Turret Gunner from years ago and finally understood it. And maybe that's the function of a lot of poetry taught in high school -- to create a consciousness of something that you're not going to be able to fathom when you're 15, but it might just stay in your mental archives for however long it takes for someone else's words and your reality to intersect.

From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

The Death of The Ball Turret Gunner, Randall Jarrell

Every time I paint a portrait I lose a friend.

So said John Singer Sargent, one of the great portrait artists and artists in general of the late 19th and early 20th century. He reportedly often considered painting portraits of the wealthy or prominent to be tiresome, since you always had to make the subject look appealing in order to keep a decent reputation. Though I doubt he lost this gentleman as a friend, since he made him look quite regal. This is the Portrait of Dr. Pozzi At Home (Hammer Museum), done in 1881. Beautiful red robe and skin tones there.

I read that mega-developer Steve Wynn purchased Sargent's Portrait of Robert Louis Stevenson and His Wife (might have been nice to use her actual name beyond her wifedom, but whatever) and is going to hang it in his new and lavish casino. Vegas seems like a bizarre place for Robert Louis Stevenson, Wife, and John Singer Sargent to end up, but life is bizarre sometimes.

** Blogger has The Sixty Minute Artist listed in their noteworthy blogs this week, and it a) is indeed worthy of note, and b) seems great for both artists and/or the art-inclined. I personally loved the Cherry Pop Tart painting.

giant james

Today was the day in 1955 that James Dean took his final road trip, leaving us with a few great movies and much speculation as to what his acting career would have been like had he lived to grow old. Or at least older. My favorite James Dean role is Jett Rink from Giant, particularly the scene where he has tea with Elizabeth Taylor in his little shack house. Click here to read an interview with Ivan Moffat, one of the writers who adapted Edna Ferber's novel for the screenplay -- he makes some interesting comments about James Dean and the film production itself.

I wrote a suite101 article on Edna Ferber because I was always intrigued by this feisty little woman from Wisconsin tackling such diverse subjects in her fiction. Apparently Edna thought Dean was an excellent choice to play Jett Rink, though I'm not sure if they ever met. And while Edna's portrayal of the Lone Star State angered some of the Texans she'd gotten to know while researching her novel, it seems that James Dean charmed many locals in Marfa, Texas where Giant was filmed. He hung around with them and asked all kinds of questions, as always immersing himself in his ranchhand role in classic Method actor fashion. But then again he'd been raised on an Indiana farm and despite his growing fame at the time, he still seemed to live along the emotional outskirts of life; I can't say Jett Rink came easily because I don't know that anything came easily to such a complex person, but he probably had something to draw on from within.

(image from www.dvdbeaver.com)

the great fitzgerald

Today's birthday belongs to F. Scott Fitzgerald (click for another post on FSF), distinctly American author. The first half of Fitzgerald's career and life was spectacular, following the upward trajectory of the 1920s, yet then post-1920s right along with the economy, Fitzgerald's path became rocky. He died far too young at the age of 44, and he once professed that there were no second acts in American lives. Now we know this isn't true, otherwise we would never have witnessed the return of John Travolta...but nonetheless, in Fitzgerald's case he did have that second act and achieved lasting fame, but unfortunately by that time he had already left the stage.

Click here to read a nice article by Garrison Keillor about Fitzgerald's early days and connection to St. Paul, Minnesota. In the 1990s Fitzgerald became a literary postage icon and received his own stamp, and one of his best known novels The Great Gatsby also inspired another stamp -- part of the Roaring Twenties series and pictured above. I was going to include the Fitzgerald portrait stamp instead, but it's how he looked when he was younger and I kind of prefer the more wise and worldly Fitzgerald's face.

I am not a great man, but sometimes I think the impersonal and objective equality of my talent and the sacrifices of it, in pieces, to preserve its essential value has some sort of epic grandeur.

F. Scott Fitzgerald, 1896-1944

wcw

Today would have been the birthday of the great William Carlos Williams (WCW) -- slight amount of bias there but I do love him. I also like how the first line of WCW's Brittanica entry reads:

U.S. poet who succeeded in making the ordinary appear extraordinary....

WCW was a doctor in the small city of Rutherford, New Jersey. His medical practice influenced his poetry and gave him a keener sense of humanity, and while Rutherford was close enough to Brooklyn and Manhattan to allow WCW to visit frequently and be part of the city's artistic energy, it was also still fairly rural at that time. This gave WCW some mental and physical breathing room, so that he could truly look at a patch of Queen Anne's lace or white chickens and red wheelbarrows and immortalize them in his own unique way. And even though if you note how WCW's place of birth and death are both Rutherford, New Jersey, he clearly traveled to many other places beyond through his work. And what he told us about his own small world was fascinating as well.

The rose is obsolete

but each petal ends in

an edge,

the double facet cementing the grooved

columns of air--

William Carlos Williams - b. September 17, 1883

d. March 4, 1963

Rutherford, New Jersey

days and moments

Poet, novelist, short story writer, critic and translator Cesare Pavese was born today in 1908 in Turin, Italy. Cesare's life was troubled due to romantic disappointments and he ultimately committed suicide, but his writings show a great love of life and nature beyond the pain and a wry sense of humor.

This is Cesare lighting his pipe--quite a lean, intriguing-looking fellow. The photo is from the official City of Turin website, which has more information on Cesare Pavese and clearly is very proud of him being one of Turin's native sons. I always think that not many people in the U.S. know about Pavese, but then I just noticed a picture of a little boy making his way through a hay bale maze in this month's issue of Country Living magazine with the quote:

We don't remember days,

we remember moments.

Cesare Pavese

mañana plus one

On September 5, 1957, Gilbert Millstein reviewed the new novel On the Road and declared author Jack Kerouac the "principal avatar" of The Beat Generation, and that this cross-country quest for adventure and meaning was a major work. Apparently he was right.

Gilbert Millstein wrote for the New York Times, and a positive or negative Times review in 1957 could make or break a book. There weren't as many public forums of opinion back then, nor did we have the freedom of speech via the internet to protest an overly subjective review. So naturally Kerouac was overwhelmed by the praise. Kerouac was then involved with a young writer named Joyce Johnson, and her memoir Minor Characters describes how she and Jack went out after midnight to a newstand at 66th and Broadway in Manhattan and bought a copy of the Times:

We saw the papers come off the truck. The old man at the stand cut the brown cord with a knife and we bought the one on top of the pile and stood under a streetlamp turning pages until we found "Books of the Times." I felt dizzy reading Millstein's first paragraph--like going up on a Ferris wheel too quickly and dangling out over space, laughing and gasping at the same time. Jack was silent. After he'd read the whole thing, he said, "It's good, isn't it?" "Yes," I said. "It's very, very good."

The Viking 40th anniversary edition of On the Road (1997) includes the full Gilbert Millstein review as it was originally printed, noting even the then $3.95 price of the book. This post title is mañana plus one because it's two days from the 50th anniversary of the publication and review, and also because of Kerouac's love of the word mañana in On the Road.

Guitars tinkled. Terry and I gazed at the stars together and kissed. "Mañana," she said. "Everything'll be all right tomorrow, don't you think, Sal-honey, man?"

...It was always mañana. For the next week that was all I heard--mañana, a lovely word and one that probably means heaven.

Well, we know it doesn't really mean heaven but we can understand why it might.

Today would have been the birthday of Argentinian writer Julio Cortazar (b. 1914), known for his innovative style and jazz-like pacing. Cortazar's novel Hopscotch is often cited as an example of great modern Latin American writing, and his story "Las Babas del Diablo" ("The Devil's Drool") was the basis for Antonioni's 1960s film Blow-Up. Which was later remade by Brian DePalma (Blow-Out) and starred John Travolta, Nancy Allen, the City of Philadelphia, and John Lithgow as a really mean man.

In my Latin American Writers course in college, I had an anthology with a picture of Julio Cortazar in it and always thought he was pretty intriguing-looking. I also loved his "Letter to A Young Lady in Paris," about staying at the apartment of a woman while she's out of town. The writing is initially so beautiful in that story as he describes the essence of Andrea, the young lady presently in Paris, and the items that make up her home and decor:

the crystal ashtray that looks like a soap-bubble that’s been cut open on this exact spot on the little table, and always a perfume, a sound, a sprouting of plants, a photograph of the dead friend, the ritual of tea trays and sugar tongs…

And then things take a turn toward the surreal and the narrator begins to tell us about his strange issues with rabbits and how he's even vomiting bunnies, but we're in the hands of Cortazar so it will all be handled well.

Julio Cortazar died in Paris on February 12, 1984.

Russian author and critic Nina Berberova (1901-1993) is not particularly famous, but those who do know and read her are great fans of her beautiful prose and stories full of irony and character. This picture is of Nina in 1928 and she was clearly quite the looker.

I had a chance to meet Nina Berberova in Philadelphia right before she died but I opted to do something else that afternoon. It was one of those missed encounters that could have changed my life and I could have been like the granddaughter she'd never had and run errands for her, made sure she had enough tea and lemon, listened to her tales about traveling around the world and escaping Russia after the Revolution. Or she might have just told me to please leave her alone because I was giving her a headache with all my stupid questions, but at least I would have known otherwise.

It is painful. Sometimes we are just really scattered-brained and stupid. We meaning me.

Night passed, and the moon like an hour hand moved along, rising and falling on the celestial dial strewn with stars....

Nina Berberova, The Italics Are Mine

(Till Eulenspiegel image from answers.com)

Recently, a man died unexpectedly while running a tractor in a small Illinois town. The man was a skilled farmer and loved his land, and he was using the tractor to clear the road for his neighbors, who were having an anniversary party. He had offered to make their grounds look nice for the party, because that was the type of person he was--generous and giving of his time. Curiously enough, the man was also a lawyer who'd been raised in the city of Chicago, but he easily moved back and forth between his rural and urban identities.

Over recent years, he had managed to survive a heart attack and cancer and almost be back to his normal high energy level, but unfortunately he was not able to survive this accident. And about the only positive thing is that if there was any choice in the way to go, this man would not have wanted to have things end while wasting away in a hospital; he probably would have preferred to have it happen as it happened, while he was outdoors and active and otherwise enjoying a beautiful day. And while doing someone a favor.

The rabbi who presided over the memorial compared this man to the German folk hero Till Eulenspiegel, because he was known for his wit and many jokes. I looked up Till Eulenspiegel and found this entry in Wikipedia referring to the Richard Strauss musical piece inspired by the original stories:

The clarinet theme is heard next, suggesting Till's laughter as he plots his next prank. The music follows Till throughout the countryside, as he rides a horse through a market, upsetting the goods and wares, pokes fun at the strict Teutonic clergy, flirts and chases girls (the love theme is given to a solo violin), and mocks the serious academics. The music suggesting a horse ride returns again, with the first theme restated all over the orchestra, when the climax abruptly changes to a funeral march. Till has been captured by the authorities, and is sentenced to hang...The funeral march of the hangman begins a dialogue with the desperate Till, who tries to wheedle and joke his way out of this predicament. Unfortunately, he has no effect on the stony executioner, who pulls the lever...After a moment of silence, the 'once upon a time' theme heard at the beginning returns, suggesting that something like Till can never be destroyed, and the work ends with one last musical joke.

**********************

Yeah, sure sounds a lot like Stephen R. Chesler to me.

My mother used to be an English teacher and generally put Theodore Dreiser's An American Tragedy on her syllabus, so that big fat paperback was always around the house. Eventually I picked it up and read it myself, and more recently I wrote a suite101 article on the crime that inspired Dreiser's novel, just because it's kind of haunting. The novel later became the basis for the 1950s movie A Place in the Sun, although I think A Place in the Sun was too romanticized and essentially a vehicle for Elizabeth Taylor and Montgomery Clift. The real film version seems yet to be done--something that makes Roberta Alden/Grace Brown less of a harpy and captures more of the 1906 era and upstate New York backdrop.

Another book based on the Grace Brown murder is Jennifer Donnelly's A Northern Light, and she does a very nice job of portraying that particular time and place through the eyes of a girl working at the resort hotel where the death occurred. A Northern Light is put into the category of young adult fiction, but as one reviewer pointed out, it's definitely recommended reading for anyone interested in the case of an ambitious young man and a naive young woman, an unwanted pregnancy and a fateful boat ride....

Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald, celebrated wife of F. Scott and definite entity in her own right, was born today in Montgomery, Alabama in 1900.

The life of the Fitzgeralds is well-known for its parallel to the 1920s, a decade of wild times and success followed by depression, loss, financial uncertainty. Both glorified and overshadowed by her famously talented husband, Zelda found the passing of youth--which had been so integral to her high spirits and charm--extremely difficult. Things did not end well for her, but that can be read about in an article that I wrote for suite101 or many other fine websites and features devoted to Zelda. I just wanted to show an example of her artwork here and quote her words, and let Zelda be Zelda today. And I was going to include her painting Mad Tea Party, which seems to illustrate her breakdown and failure at a professional ballet career all surrounded by the beautiful but eerie forest and buildings of an asylum, but that's going back to the madness and sadness again.

This Zelda painting is of the Great Smoky Mountains and seems to reflect a quieter time in her mind. More of her paintings, including Mad Tea Party, can be seen at this excellent site.

...she refused to be bored chiefly because she wasn't boring.

Women sometimes seem to share a quiet, unalterable dogma of persecution that endows even the most sophisticated of them with the inarticulate poignancy of the peasant.

Zelda Fitzgerald

(photo courtesy of the Ernest Hemingway Foundation of Oak Park website)

Ernest Hemingway was born today, July 21, in 1899 in Oak Park, Illinois. It's something to think about, Hemingway's having a birthday so close to Hunter S. Thompson, both men being writers who broke through to new forms of prose expressions, who were focused on the male experience, and unfortunately who both committed suicide by gunshot in their sixties most likely due to depression and health problems. Maybe it's the shared Cancer zodiac sign, although Hemingway was between Cancer and Leo. Still, I've read that Cancers are often tough on the outside like the crab that represents them, but the hard shell covers a watery and tender sensitivity. (Hemingway of course would say that was a bunch of total b.s., especially the word tender! And crab! Crabs are for catching, killing, eating and dipping in melted butter, lady.)

If you're ever in Oak Park, Hemingway's birthplace is now a museum -- click here to make an on-line visit -- and maintained in the same turn of the century condition and style that Ernest himself would have found it as a child. Later, the family moved to a different home in Oak Park, which Hemingway complained was a place of "wide lawns and narrow minds" yet which he also seemed to enjoy growing up in, particularly during his high school years.

The hardest thing in the world to do is to write straight honest prose on human beings. First you have to know the subject; then you have to know how to write. Both take a lifetime to learn.…

Ernest Hemingway

day of the hunter

Today would have been the birthday of writer and general iconoclast Hunter Stockton Thompson. Click here for a suite101 link about H.S.T. and his writings and legacy. Otherwise the basic facts are:

Born: July 18, 1937, Louisville, Kentucky

Died: February 20, 2005, Woody Creek, Colorado

Ashes Shot Out of a Cannon Into Eternity: August 20, 2005

A few web sites list him as being born in 1939, but I'm pretty sure 1937 is correct as he noted that he was 67 in his suicide note. He would have been 70 today, but he did not want to be 70 today, so therefore he took himself out of the game.

*********************************************

When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.

Some may never live, but the crazy never die.

Hunter S. Thompson

$13.13

Unhappy fact for Friday the 13th: F. Scott Fitzgerald's total royalties for all his works in the last year of his life came to $13.13. However....

In the 1950s, Fitzgerald's work experienced a whole new wave of interest and of course he's been listed among the top ten American writers ever since.

There was music from my neighbor’s house through the summer nights. In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars. At high tide in the afternoon I watched his guests diving from the tower of his raft, or taking the sun on the hot sand of his beach while his two motor-boats slit the waters of the Sound, drawing aquaplanes over cataracts of foam. On week-ends his Rolls-Royce became an omnibus, bearing parties to and from the city between nine in the morning and long past midnight, while his station wagon scampered like a brisk yellow bug to meet all trains. And on Mondays eight servants, including an extra gardener, toiled all day with mops and scrubbing-brushes and hammers and garden-shears, repairing the ravages of the night before.

(From The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald)

according to sherwood

From Malcolm Cowley's introduction to the 1960 edition of Winesburg, Ohio (Viking Press), about Sherwood Anderson's personal breakthrough:

Then came another of his incandescent moments, one that he called "the most absorbingly interesting and exciting moment in any writer's life...the moment when he, for the first time, knows that he is a real writer." Twenty years later he described the experience in a letter, probably changing the facts, as he had a weakness for doing, but remembering how he felt:

...I walked along a city street in the snow. I was working at work I hated. Already I had written several long novels. They were not really mine. I was ill, discouraged, broke. I was living in a cheap rooming house...It was very shabby. I had no relatives in the city and few enough friends. I remember how cold the room was. On that afternoon I had heard that I was to lose my job.

...I turned on a light and began to write. I wrote, without looking up--I never changed a word of it afterward--a story called "Hands." It was and is a very beautiful story.

**********************

The story of Wing Biddlebaum is a story of hands. Their restless activity, like unto the beating of the wings of an imprisoned bird, had given him his name. Some obscure poet of the town had thought of it. The hands alarmed their owner. He wanted to keep them hidden away and looked with amazement at the quiet inexpressive hands of other men who worked beside him in the fields, or passed, driving sleepy teams on country roads.

(From "Hands," one of the stories that makes up Sherwood Anderson's Winesburg, Ohio collection -- click here to buy the $2.50 Dover Thrift Edition.)

born today

Marcel Proust - 10 July 1871

"The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes."

I first came across Foujita when I bought a postcard at the Philadelphia Museum of Art that was a self-portrait of him and one of his many cat muses. I always liked the gold earrings that he wore and would have loved to have seen him and all those other Montparnasse crazies running around in their heyday.

Phyllis Birnbaum's biography, Glory in a Line: A Life of Foujita--the Artist Caught Between East and West, is nicely done and she's also translated and written about many other Japanese subjects, particularly women. Click here to read an excerpt from the Foujita book.

I was interested in seeing Louise Brooks in an American movie...I'd already seen Pandora's Box and Prix de Beaute, but they were foreign and had very different themes and tones than anything Hollywood would have produced back then. Netflix offers a double feature of 1925/1926 silents The Show-Off and The Plastic Age, starring Louise Brooks and Clara Bow respectively, and it's really interesting to see those two actresses on a double-bill. Brooks and Bow were definitely hot socks as the phrase went back then and known for their sex appeal, but Louise is cool and cat-like while Clara is wild and all over the place. She's running and pouting and rolling her big eyes, flinging her arms around men and practically pulsing with excitement. Louise Brooks, on the other hand, is more watchful and sly, very graceful--even just walking back and forth from one rowhouse to another in the Philadelphia setting of The Show-Off, she climbs each step with a dancer's poise. She has beautiful posture and wears her clothes like a model, while Clara seems to always want to throw her clothes off and run wild. They're each fascinating and you could still steal either one's look and look fine today, some eighty years later, but they're quite distinct. It's like Clara = vixen, Louise = temptress.