Pliny

I finished reading Pliny the Younger's letters last week, but never got around to writing my reaction down. I enjoyed them! Like Montaigne's essays, a real sense of personality came through the writing, although of course, the sense of similarity evoked by something written in the 1st century CE is going to be a lot less than something written in the late 16th century on the brink of the scientific revolution. In addition, while both men published their work during their lifetime, Montaigne makes it clear that he feels free to be candid thanks to his early retirement; Pliny, on the contrary, who worked as a prominent lawyer and magistrate until his death, is certainly out to shape his own image. His personal goal, as he reiterates unashamedly throughout his letters, is to achieve immortality through his writing (though of course he meant his poetry and speeches, not his letters).

Now for some of my favorite lines (I dog-eared my copy something fierce):

"It is better to have no work to do than work at nothing." So says Pliny, the fairly wealthy landowner, to a friend working too hard in the city, telling him to devote himself to literature or lesiure. His letters feature several lengthy descriptions of his villa at Laurentum; it's never been uncovered, but his description is so detailed that scholars have been able to precisely reconstruct it, as you can see here.

"...votes are counted, their value is not weighted, and no other method is possible in a public assembly. Yet this strict equality results in something very different from equity, so long as men have the same right to judge but not the same ability to judge wisely." Pliny is dissatisfied with the results of a corruption case decided by the Senate. Roman senators weren't democratically elected, but I think the point carries. People are stupid.

After failed crops at his other properties, Pliny says of his seaside villa: "For there I do most of my writing, and instead of the land I lack, I work to cultivate myself, so that I have a harvest in my desk to show you in place of full granaries elsewhere."

On a silver-tongued opponent in court: "Scarcely anyone has the gift of eloquence...but what Candidus calls loquacity is common to many people and the special gift of every impudent rascal."

To his friend, the historian Tacitus: "There may be writers who are ranked higher than either of us, but if we are classed together our position does not matter; for me the highest position is the one nearest to you." Aww. Buddies.

Pliny does not agree with Machiavelli in this advice to a friend, headed to take up the reins in a Greek province: "Affection is more effective than fear in gaining you your ends. Fear disappears at your departure, affection remains, and, whereas fear engenders hatred, affection develops into genuine regard." OK, technically I think M. said "It is better to be feared than loved, if you cannot be both" but who has ever been both, really?

Self-assurance is not an issue. "I do think all your written works are very fine, but especially those that deal with me. For...you are at your best in writing about your friends, and I find it your best when it is about myself."

Writing to his boss, the emperor Trajan, Pliny described a new religious sect as "nothing but a degenerate sort of cult carried to extravagant lengths." It was Christianity, of course.

Three Cheers!

Sean was accepted into Yale today! Out of 130-odd applicants they made five offers, and he was one of them! I couldn't be prouder of my husband :-)

What a Week

This semester has been pretty rough from the start. I really dislike my schedule, for one thing; all of my classes are in the evening, but the classes I teach/TA are in the morning, so I feel like I'm constantly rushing to something, or just wiped from being on campus all day. It takes about five hours to do the readings for each of my classes, and I usually wind up reviewing them and my notes before each class, which takes up a lot of time. Heritage requires a good deal of prep because it's my first time teaching it, and being head TA for AWW is just a constant string of minor tasks and annoyances. I work seven days a week every week, and although this in no way compares to the physical/mental taxation of the same number of hours in an office job, it's really tiring. My shoulders feel like one solid knot of tension lately.

Recent weeks have also been stressful on other fronts. Sean (briefly) lost his job at the library due to the fact that he's no longer eligible for work-study now that he's finished with full-time coursework. Happily, his boss figured out a way to fix this and get him back, but for about a week we didn't know how he would be able to support himself until the fall, considering jobs in Charlottesville are few and far between and he's locked into his lease until August. We're also still waiting for word from graduate schools. UPenn was a negative, which Sean had predicted, but he came out of the Yale open house with positive feelings today, and he thinks his Harvard interview went really well. It's really stressing me out (and Sean too, naturally) not to know the shape of our future for the next few years.

There are some things I'm really looking forward to, on a more positive note. Our Turkey trip plans are becoming more crystallized. We're going to fly from Istanbul to Izmir, a 1-hr flight that will save us an 8-hour bus ride, and rent a car for four days to drive around to all of the ancient sites--Pergamon, Afrodisias, Ephesus, Didyma, Priene, and Miletus.

Further ahead, I'm really looking forward to next semester. No more courses (although I'll be sitting in on Dr. Cooper's seminar, and possibly an Italian class), no more semester projects, no more teaching (at least for one year). Just reading, and research, and exam prep. Who knew that could sound like heaven?

Yay!!!

Sean got his first acceptance to a PhD program today!! It's Ohio State, which is not his first choice, but they do boast one of the top guys in his field, who called Sean personally (although he had to leave a voicemail) to tell him he was accepted. That says quite a bit about Sean's qualifications, I'd say! He has a phone interview with Harvard tomorrow, and he's been invited to Yale's open house the 16-18th of this month. Things are looking quite good! I'm so proud of him :-)

Awesome Sauce

A couple of months ago Jen and I switched financial advisers from Ron (who was terrible at responding to calls, tended to blow off our concerns, and on more than one occasion simply told me a flat "no" about something to do with my own damned money) to Gene, who has been a friend of Sean's family for decades and was a guest at our wedding. It was a good move. Even though I'm Gene's client and not Sean, he considers our needs as a couple, and doesn't just act like Sean doesn't exist (like Ron).

Anyway, after discussing the issue with Gene a few weeks ago, today I paid off one third of the student loan debt that Sean and I collectively owe. Sean's debt, in particular, we were able to cut in half! Ron wouldn't even hear of addressing Sean's debt before mine was completely paid off, but Gene was more reasonable in terms of looking at which loans have higher interest and are costing you more money in the long run, etc., and it clearly made more sense to clear out a bunch of high-interest loans that Sean had, rather than focus on my low-interest loans. Granted, I'm sure that the fact that Gene's known Sean since birth (and is Sean's brother's godfather) makes him less likely to suspect him of trying to make off with my money, but still. I'm a firm believer that when you marry someone, you're pooling everything--resources and debts.

Sean quipped that he could imagine my dad somewhere saying "But I don't even know this kid!" as I used what was once his money to pay Sean's loans. True, but my mother would have shut him up immediately; she loved Sean like a son (and occasionally, yes, perhaps a little better than her own daughter...banana bread...) Ultimately, though, I think my parents had the same financial ethos about marriage. You're in together. And now, thanks to Gene, there's a little less of it to be in! Yay!!

I'm Bad With Titles

I really am; back when I was still writing poetry (ah, those halcyon days!) I always had such trouble figuring out a good title. I would have left most of them untitled if Dr. Bridgford hadn't felt so strongly that untitled poems are cop-outs. I'm marginally better with my research papers, I suppose. Actually, that thought just inspired me to do a survey of the titles of all the paper's I've written in my graduate career. In no particular order:

Invoking Arcadia: The Pastoral Mode in the Art and Theater of the Cinquecento

Caravaggio e il Seicento veneziano: echi del maestro: A Proposed Exhibition

Lost in (Christian) Thought: Leandro Bassano’s Portrait of an Unknown Gentleman Before a Landscape

The Legacy of Theoderic: Reconciliatio and Traces of Gothic Power in S. Apollinare Nuovo

In the Shadow of the Pantheon: Palladio’s Tempietto at Maser

The Ties That Bind: Depicting Family Memory in Quattrocento Florence

Patterns of Influence: Mariano Fortuny, Raimundo Madrazo, and Thomas Eakins

The Nefarious and Multifarious Turk In the Work of Albrecht Dürer and His Contemporaries

The Lincoln College Typikon: Gender, Family, and Status in a Late Byzantine Convent

Unveiling the Virgin: Playboy Mexico’s December 2008 Cover

Reason and Rationality: Reflections on the Kantian Sublime

With a Merchant’s Eye: The Mecenatismo of Paolo Cassotti

Clearly I have a preference for the SHORT AND PITHY : LONGER AND EXPLANATORY type of title. I have exactly one paper that doesn't follow that formula! Maybe I'll challenge myself to do things differently this semester, with my last three class papers ever. I'll be writing papers and articles (and books, God willing) for the rest of my career, but no more semester projects after May 6! That'll be a good day.

Anyway, I started this blog entry to comment on my first successful day of Heritage lecturing. The students were really active and there were more hands up for each question than I could actually call on. Let's hope this continues past the blush of the first week, shall we?

I also finished re-reading Fitzgerald's Beautiful and Damned this evening. Like the last time I read it, I felt like it lost steam toward the end, even as the slow, book-long course of Gloria and Anthony's financial, social and moral decline turns into a headlong plunge into the unseemly side of the Jazz Age. There's nothing sympathetic about them; they're terrible, empty, and entitled people. You can't like them, and you're not meant to. But once Fitzgerald's evocation of the effervescent culture of the wealthy in New York in the 1910s vanishes along with their socio-economic status, it's harder to want to keep reading about their slide into disrepute. The ending is a twist; after spending years, and most of the book, waiting desperately to hear the outcome of a court case for Anthony's grandfather's fortune, they win it all--only it's too late for either of them. The last scene reveals them on a ship to Italy, Anthony a physically broken drunk in a wheelchair, and Gloria, at long last clad in the expensive fur coat she desires, giving off the air of being "unclean" that, a few hundred pages before, she herself had so despised in other women. They win, but still they lose. In The Great Gatsby, in contrast, it's not the wealthy couple who suffers; in the most jarring moment of the novel, Nick realizes that Daisy and Tom Buchanan have been completely unaffected by the tragedy that they've wrought in other people's lives. They go on, as rich and self-centered as ever.

Whew

The semester is off to a running start! Dr. Bolman's seminar on the visual culture of Christian Egypt promises to be really interesting, and, as always, methodologically challenging. I'm also enjoying Dr. West's seminar on Art, Science, and Collecting in the northern Baroque, because it's not an area I know anything about--our readings for last week were about contemporary interpretations of marvels, portents, and monstrous births, for example. These included Siamese twins, giants, hairy people, and, of course, monsters like the so-called "Papal Ass," which was supposedly found in the Tiber in the 16th century and illustrated in a hugely popular print that was used as "evidence" by writes on both sides of the Reformation conflict:

I'm TA-ing AWW for the fourth and thankfully last time, and I've also started my first class as teacher of record, for the second half of the art history survey--early Renaissance to modern and contemporary. Both classes are big; I have just under 70 students total. That's a lot in addition my own classes, but this is also my last semester of coursework! The students in both groups seem pretty interested, which is a good sign.

Tomorrow is my first full lecture in Heritage, on the Proto-Renaissance--Cimabue, Giotto, Duccio, the Arena Chapel, etc. Jumping into the 14th century with kids who may or may not have any conception of the medieval period, or who the Byzantines are and how their style of image-making became dominant in Italy, is a little daunting, but you need to lay the groundwork for the status quo so that they understand why someone like Giotto is considered such an innovator.

This also means that tomorrow I get to show my favorite scene from the Arena Chapel, the Lamentation:

Tiny back-flipping angels, ahoy!

Avoiding Work

I haven't posted since Christmas, which was only two weeks ago but seems much longer. The holidays were good, but some drama and tension among Sean's family members made our escape to the milder climate of Virginia a happy thing. Yay, Charlottesville, where I can still walk to the gym in the morning in shorts in January without getting frostbite!

I was ridiculously productive last week--I cranked out slideshows and lecture notes for six weeks' worth of classes. On Saturday Anna came up from North Carolina to spend the night; she's been pretty bored and isolated in Winston-Salem and TJ had a lot of work to get done. We went bowling: Sean kicked my ass. We came home and played Scrabble: Sean kicked my ass again. Sigh.

I have plenty to get done this week, too. I started reading Anachronic Renaissance, which is the subject of the first meeting of our department's new Renaissance reading group on the 21st. It's boring and theoretical, so far. Another sigh. I also have to start working on my paper for RSA, but I've been putting it off, which means I'll get some shaming from my friends in our accountability group on Wednesday. It'll be email-based shaming, though, which is really less effective. Plus it's still vacation, so I feel less compelled to accomplish things.

Oh, an in an update to my last post, Sean was quite naturally excited to open the tickets to Turkey, though he felt the need to point out that this didn't quite count as the best-gift-ever for him, since it was also a present for me. Whatever. We had a basic itinerary sketched out within a couple of days: we'll start in Istanbul, then go to the site of ancient Troy, south to Ephesus, then fly to Cappadoccia, which is in the central region of the country, then north to Ankara, and finally take an overnight train back to Istanbul. Sean has volunteered to familiarize himself with Turkish this semester, too!

Our major disagreement now is whether we'll hit up a traditional Turkish hamam while we're in Istanbul; Sean is totally pro, but I'm not sure I want to lie on a bare floor while someone else bathes me (and apparently removes a year's worth of dead skin in the process). I can do that at home. Sean's mostly in it for the optional oil massage afterward, but so far I haven't found anywhere that lets you skip the bathing and go right for the massage. I'll keep looking.

Merry Christmas!

Sean and I went to bed around 2am last night, and I meant to set the alarm for 10 so I could get 8 hours of sleep, but instead I set it for 8am. Waaaay too early. However, the alarm is across the room, so there's not even the option of whacking it and going back to sleep. So I'm up! I'm switching between the Christmas Story and Christmas Vacation, though, so it's not a total loss.

Sean's going to get quite the Christmas surprise in a few hours. Last night I bought us tickets to Turkey. May 9-19th, Constantinople, here we come!!!

Hm

So, I just finished reading Swann's Way (which my friend Amy had dared me, last week, to do by tomorrow; I may not have finished grading even half of the students' papers like I'd planned, but I accomplished something!).

I liked the second half less than the first. The theme of obsessive love crops up again, but we've moved from the young narrator to Charles Swann of the title, and from maternal love to the more amorous kind. This part of the book tells the story of Swann's love affair with Odette, a woman of the demi-monde who has almost nothing to recommend her to Swann except the picture of her that he's created in his head, to which he stubbornly clings despite mounting evidence of her sordid background and lax morals (including bisexuality). Along the way he gives up his friends and his interests in order to join her at her lower social and intellectual level, believing that this kind of sacrifice only proves how much he loves her. His idea of "love" is disturbingly immature and delusional. He acknowledges that he gets absolutely no enjoyment out of his actual meetings with his mistress, but he's in a constant state of anxiety and passion whenever he's not with her. She treats him like crap, cheats on him, and still he supports her with money and slavish devotion, even as he recognizes her low worth and almost looks forward to the day when he'll be free of loving her. Woof.

All this takes place in dense, searching prose, that traces over and over Swann's thousand inconstancies--his brief flare-ups of independence and his desire to escape her, followed inevitably by the resurgence of his belief in her goodness and beauty (again, despite his repeated acknowledgement that she's not really very pretty, and, at one point, his astonished realization at seeing a picture of her earlier in their relationship that she's gotten worse-looking over time!). Being that deep in someone's head for that long (two hundred pages or so) gets old pretty quickly, especially when you don't like them, and I don't like Swann, just like I didn't like the narrator. I kind of wanted to slap, him, actually, and tell him to get a damned job or something--anything but mope around Paris being cuckolded! For example, when he thinks of his desire to visit the Netherlands so he can finally finish an essay he's writing on Vermeer (the only sign of occupation of any sort of this wealthy member of the French bourgeoisie), he quickly realizes that not only can he never, ever leave Paris while Odette is there, he can't even go while she's gone on one of her many trips without him (trips that he's paid for, but which she takes with other men), just in case she might come back early. Seriously. It's that level of pathetic-ness.

By the end of it (and I acknowledge, I was reading far less intently by this point), he's pretty much gotten over his love for her, but he's still obsessed with her. As you find out in the book's final section, though (something that's apparently supposed to be a big reveal but which I knew already thanks to an overview of the novel) the woman he ended up marrying, of whom the narrator's parents disapproved, turns out to be Odette herself. According to what I've read, the second volume explains that he was able to marry her once he no longer loved her. Oh, and he's still obsessed with her, even though he doesn't love her and cheats on her. Yay!

The young narrator, back again, embarks in the final pages on an obsessive crush on their daughter, Gilberte, that follows in many ways the caprices of Swann's passion for Odette--the obsessive need to see her, the belief that any moment she's going to proclaim her love, the near-stalking. Arghhh. Proust's men are so stupid! No, that's wrong, his women are stupid too, we're just not treated to their self-absorbed interior monologues for 462 pages. Any desire I had to read the remaining parts was dimmed when I read that a lot of the rest of it is about, you guessed it, the narrator's obsessive affairs with women! Apparently, in one part that is fittingly entitled "The Captive," he keeps a young woman, Albertine, prisoner in his Paris mansion. Oh, holy Jesus. I am not putting myself through that, no thank you.

Many books can be easily enjoyed on your own, without needing to talk about them with other people, but Swann's Way is one that I think is probably best read in the context of a seminar or book group, with a chance to bring out, through discussion with other people, themes and ideas that my own reading might have passed over. Looking at other people's discussions of Swann's Way online reminded me that this is not a book to be glossed easily, and is undoubtedly one that would repay a closer re-reading, but honestly? I'm just not interested enough to attempt it.

At any rate, I did like the last lines, which return again to the theme of memory and how it can neither recreate nor recapture the past:

"The places we have known do not belong only to the world of space on which we map them for our own convenience. None of them was ever more than a thin slice, held between the contiguous impressions that composed our life at that time; the memory of a particular image is but regret for a particular moment; and houses, roads, avenues are as fugitive, alas, as the years."

Adieu, Proust!

Reading Swann's Way

The first volume of Proust's epic novel has been on my "to read" list for quite a while. Sara's boyfriend Zach is a Proust aficionado, going so far as to have a quote from the author tattooed on his arm (note to self: ask what the quote actually says), and while I was visiting their apartment last weekend I looked at his bookshelf-worth of Proust and decided it was finally time to give it a try. He assured me that if I read the first one I'd want to read all of them. He also opined that it's the greatest work of fiction ever written.

I'm halfway through Swann's Way now, and while I can't say that I agree with either assessment, I don't have a terribly strong opinion about it yet; or rather, I should say that I have a bunch of small opinions, but not a generalized opinion of the whole book. I was certainly surprised to find it fairly readable, though; when a thing reaches 1.5 million words and seven volumes and yet still insists on being called a single novel, you expect that there are going to be all manner of strange, impenetrable digressions. Well, digressions there certainly are, but they're musing, melancholy, and philosophical rather than indigestible. I was expecting stream-of-consciousness writing in the manner of Joyce, I suppose, and have been pleasantly surprised on that score.

There's an incredible amount of feeling in this book, and by that I mean that the young narrator, who is a semi-autobiographical reflection of Proust himself, is incredibly sensitive to beauty in the world around him. Sometimes it made me feel like I must be a little bit of a dull block not to be able to share this absolute, over-powering sense of presence within nature, to be able to lose myself for hours, as he claims to be able to do, in contemplating the play of sunlight over the slates of a distant church steeple, or a carpet of buttercups in a meadow. I admire things like that, too, but clearly not to this depth. At other times, however, the extended, rambling passages in which the narrator goes into ecstasies over some kind of flower or another were frankly a little much, and I skipped forward.

I had a vague idea that this was a work of fiction without a real plot, a novel turned inward, on the memories and feelings of its narrator. In that sense it reminds me of Montaigne, who wrote "I myself am the subject of my essays." Proust has an incredible facility with language (and I'm reading the old translation, not the Modern Library one that Zach recommended, which wasn't available in the local library), and so even though there's nothing much happening, I'm interested to see where he's going to go next, what scene or character he's going to sketch vividly in just a few paragraphs. I dog-eared the page with the following passage, which deals with the book's prominent theme of memory--in this case, a memory of the steeple of the church in Combray, the town he knew from his childhood:

"And so even to-day if, in a large provincial town, or in a quarter of Paris which I do not know very well, a passer-by who is "putting me on the right road" shows me in the distance, as a point to aim at, some hospital belfry or convent steeple lifting the peak of its ecclesiastical cap at the corner of the street which I am to take, my memory need only find in it some dim resemblance to that dear and vanished outline, and the passer-by, should he turn round to make sure that I have not gone astray, may be amazed to see me still standing there, oblivious of the walk I had planned or take or the place where I was obliged to call, gazing at the steeple for hours on end, motionless, trying to remember, feeling deep within myself a tract of soil reclaimed from the waters of the Lethe slowly drying until the buildings rise on it again; and then no doubt, and then more anxiously than when, just now, I asked him to direct me, I seek my way again, I turn a corner...but...the goal is in my heart..."

I do have certain negative feelings toward the novel, though. I'm not sure I really like this narrator,this sort-of-Proust-child. Sensitive he may be, but he's also neurotic and self-obsessed. The first section of the novel (the individual volumes themselves even have queer internal structures) focuses around his recollections of his inability to sleep alone as a child, and his obsession with his mother coming in to give him a goodnight kiss before he faced the darkness--to the extent that he was willing to undertake an elaborate plot to lure his mother upstairs on one of the occasions she remained at the dinner table rather than come up to see him. It's difficult to describe here the level of pathological obsession that this kid seems to have with his mother kissing him goodnight; on nights when he knows she won't come up, because they have guests or for another reason, he's plunged into utter despair for hours preceding his bedtime. As in, he says that he wishes he were dead rather than go to sleep without her kissing him. What? It's not clear exactly how old the narrator is supposed to be at this point, and this is terribly gendered, but I can't help it: man the fuck up.

His twisted attitude toward women is expressed obliquely elsewhere; he notes offhand, for example, that you can never trust your mistress, even when you are inflamed with passion, the way you can trust your mother:

"...one has doubts of them even at the moment when one believes in them, and never can possess their hearts as I used to receive, in a kiss, my mother's heart, whole and entire, without qualm or reservation, without the smallest residue of an intention that was not for me alone."

Now, I know that children are selfish, but this to me smacks of a self-involvement verging on solipsism; perhaps because it echoed an earlier passage I took issue with. The narrator, wandering in a wood near Combray, is so overcome with his love of the place that he desires nothing so much as to meet a local peasant girl in order to understand, through her (and implicitly, through having sex with her) its beauty more completely:

"...to wander thus among the woods of Roussainville without a peasant-girl to embrace was to see those woods and yet know nothing of their secret treasure, their deep-hidden beauty. That girl...was to me herself a plant of local growth, and one whose structure would enable me to get closer...to the intimate savor of the country."

This really irritated me, because he sees this girl not as an actual individual with feelings but as a fantasy-object onto which he could project his own desires. She's a tool and not a person--no matter how poetically it's all phrased. Of course, it doesn't help that he goes immediately on to talk about being at:

"that period of life when one has not yet separated the fact of this sensual pleasure from the various women in whose company one has tasted it, when one has not yet reduced it to a general idea which makes one regard them thenceforward as the interchangeable instruments of a pleasure that is always the same." So women are structures and instruments, not people? Nice.

These reservations notwithstanding, I'm glad to be reading it, if only for its importance in the general literary canon. I still refuse to read Joyce, though. On principle! I'm still scarred from my high school attempts to read Portrait of the Author, also known as the only time I BSed my way through an English exam.

Finish Line!

OK, I'm not 100% done with the semester quite yet; I still have to hand in my paper to Dr. Braddock and grade AWW papers and then the exam on the 17th, but at least classes are over! This semester was more stressful than others, for some reason, and I'm grateful that it's done. I like to think I carried everything off well...except for that online archival translation class, which, let's be honest, I definitely let fall by the wayside when I got overwhelmed with my project for the Caravaggio class. Oh well. I'm not a genius at reading archives, so what?

I was in New York this past weekend, where I stayed at Sara and Zach's apartment, with their adorable new dog Oscar:

He's exactly the kind of dog I can take to immediately: totally non-aggressive, doesn't bark, doesn't enthusiastically jump on you in a manner that I always perceive as semi-threatening, loves to cuddle, soft ears...the works. I actually threw a tennis ball for him for the better part of an hour after Sara and Zach left on Sunday morning, which is saying something, because a) I find dog-drool-covered toys disgusting, and b) it freaks me out to have to get near their teeth to get the toy away from them.

Saturday night, we went with Heather to see Peter Greenaway's Last Supper project at the Park Ave Armory. I have mixed feelings about it. On the one hand, it was really cool to see a digital reproduction of Leonardo's masterpiece, projected into a space that duplicated the size and scale of the actual refectory at Santa Maria delle Grazie (which I'm not sure when I'll get around to visiting, if ever). Also awesome was the way Greenaway used digital rendering to turn the flat scene into something that seemed, briefly, three-dimensional; the entire scene would go dark, and then lights would play around the figures, making them seem almost to be moving and breathing in the dim light, or he would highlight just the feet, or the hands. I know part of his goal is to make the viewer look at a masterpiece in detail, instead of just absorbing it all at one go, and I felt that was successful. (There's a bit of video here, but it's really not the coolest parts.)

Once this little light show completed after 15 minutes or so and began to loop, though, it sort of lost its flavor. A NYTimes review complained that it lacked any kind of crescendo, although knowing even just a little bit of Greenaway's weirdness (we watched one of his films, The Draughtsman's Contract, during the Rome program) I'm not too surprised.

The odder thing was that despite the event being billed as his Last Supper project, they also threw in his work with Veronese's massive Wedding at Cana, which he projected onto the wall of the church of S. Giorgio in Venice, where it used to hang before Napoleon's soldiers cut it down and took it to France.

This project was much less successful than the Last Supper bit. One reason might be that it's just not as much of a hyper-familiar piece as Leonardo's, even if it is a beautiful spectacle. Greenaway seems to be fascinated by the sheer number of figures present (I forget the number, but maybe 150?) so repeatedly, he would show the scene with numbers superimposed over every single figure. That got old quickly. He also made up dialogue, mostly snarky, for many of the figures, but that veered from amusing to cheesy. Finally, there was an unnecessary voice-over at the beginning about theories that the Wedding at Cana was really Jesus' own wedding to Mary Magdalen, and that that's why Veronese showed him at the center and the married couple off to the left. Now, Veronese had already gotten in trouble with the Inquisition for painting a rowdy Last Supper that featured a bunch of unsavory characters (he wiggled out by re-naming it Supper in the House of Levi). If he'd really painted anything that could be interpreted as mildly heretical in a painting hanging in the biggest church in Venice, don't you think the Inquisition might have taken note? It was unnecessary and made me less interested in the rest of the project.

The Times review called this show, overall, a "dud," and I would almost be tempted to agree, if not for the experience of feeling like I really was standing in that refectory looking up at Leonardo's painting. That was definitely worth it.

On Sunday, I got to check out Heather's new apartment in Carroll Gardens. Her subway stop is elevated, so you get a beautiful view of the Manhattan skyline in one direction, and the Statue of Liberty in the other. The apartment had a lot of light, which is not something I generally associate with urban dwellings, and the neighborhood was really cool--a bunch of (expensive) vintage and antique shops, a couple of Italian markets, a brunch place with delicious, delicious bacon (There was a lot of red meat-eating this weekend. I regret nothing.) One of the vintage stores, where Heather admired a necklace that turned out to cost $275, also sold old timey candy, which we agreed was a good way to make people feel they could come in and poke around without that awkward "I'm totally not going to buy anything" feeling you sometimes get in small shops. (Of course, it can also lead to one friend saying "I can't afford anything, I'm unemployed...maybe I'll get a Sugar Daddy," and the other friend saying "Oh, do they have those?" and then realizing that her friend meant the "wealthy older man" variety and not the candy variety. But I did come out of there with a Sugar Daddy.) Heather really seemed to light up in her new surroundings, which was great. She also just got a three-month position with MacMillan, the publishing company, another sign of new beginnings.

After New York it was off to Connecticut. My wonderful mother-in-law picked me up from the train station in New Haven and whisked me off to her house for dinner, then dropped me off with Jen at a parking lot in Rocky Hill. My sister, wearing pajamas, naturally, ordered me to drive her car. Ah, sisters. We actually shared her bed that night, which was a little weird, since we haven't done that in, oh, more than a decade? Everything was fine, though, until I woke up at 6:15 to Jen yelling "Bob, do you want my cat?" I really have no idea what her damage is. When I asked her later why she thought she had to ask me that right then, when I was sleeping, when it was 6:15 in the morning, she just shrugged and said "I dunno." On the plus side, I got to cuddle with the other cat she wasn't trying to foist onto to me, Sapphire. I'd forgotten that she purrs like a freight train.

There was quite a lot of hustle and bustle, squabbling, yelling, you name it, involved in getting Jen to Hartford for the swearing in. My sister can be insane at the best of times, and she was definitely worked up that morning. More than once I wanted to choke her. It's just a natural reaction to us being in close quarters for any length of time, I'm afraid. We were joined by her boyfriend, Vinny, with whom she was celebrating a year's anniversary, together with my aunt and cousin, our nosy former neighbor Mrs. Long, one of Jen's friends, and Monica's mom, since Monica herself couldn't be there. After the swearing-in Jen dragged us to her office to meet her coworkers, and from there we went to Dom's. My mom's picture was hanging up at the waitress station, and Joanne and the other waitresses who knew us were there. I even ran into Mrs. Caruso, the secretary from St. Gabriel's. She was really friendly, but she asked me, rather presumptuously (even if I didn't think of that until later) if I was married; obviously I could say yes, but later I wondered, "How many people at 25 would be able to say yes to that? How many people would even ask that of someone they haven't seen since they were 14?") Then she asked me if I had kids! Maybe she thought I was a lot older than I am; I don't know. I am proud of what Jen and I have accomplished, though; her road has been a lot harder than mine, and I'm really impressed by how well she's done.

Success!

My presentation to my Caravaggio class yesterday went swimmingly! I still don't think it was the best work I've ever done, but my visuals, if I do say so myself, were pretty fabulous, like my poster for my fake exhibition above, and the gallery mock-ups below. Here we have a room dedicated to Carlo Saraceni (with Caravaggio's Omnia Vincit Amor on the left wall, made a lot bigger than its actual size):

And a gallery for Nicolas Regnier:

I was lucky enough to find high-resolution images of the Caravaggio show that is currently on in Rome right now, to which I simply added the paintings I wanted to use for my exhibition. It did require some fiddling and duplication of parts of the images to have enough correctly sized frames, and I'm not skilled enough with Photoshop to know how to get rid of the line that pretty clearly divides the Saraceni image down the center, but hey, not bad for a first-timer, I'd say. When I saw Dr. Cooper smiling and nodding the first few minutes, I was like, "Ok, this is not going to crash and burn, awesome sauce!" One of classmates told me after that my presentations are always a pleasure just to listen to and that this one was even more enjoyable, which was a really nice compliment. Not too shabby for a project that I started working on, oh, three weeks ago!

I ended up making two exhibition posters, actually, using the one above, Carlo Saraceni's alluring Judith with the Head of Holofernes for my first slide, and the one below, Nicolas Regnier's Carnival Scene, for the last:

Busy, Busy

The hectic end-of-semester rush is here, and I'm really feeling it this time. I sort of put off-slash-kept changing my mind on what to do for my project for Dr. Cooper's class, with the result that I finished my two other projects early and now have to throw myself into this 110% before my presentation on December 1. Naturally, with Thanksgiving coming up, I have even less time, plus there's so much else going on around this time of year, so it's been rather stressful.

Yet as much as I begrudge the time that I could be spending working on my project and feeling less like I'm going to expire from a heart attack at any moment, I had some fun this week. I covered two classes for my friend Amy on Thursday at the Ambler campus, which is 20 minutes from my house and a world away from the downtown campus--it was like a cute, miniaturized version of Fairfield (really miniaturized, really; I couldn't help but think of what these kids were missing out on versus the main campus). Her first class was an Arts of the Western World, and the kids were...mouthy, verging on disrespectful. There were like three different conversations going on during my lecture--in a small class of only 25 or so. Once or twice I asked them to be quiet, but it's hard to be authoritative when you're basically a substitute teacher. It didn't bother me much, though, for that same reason--they're not my students, and the other kids did seem interested. One girl asked me after class what else I teach, and expressed interest in my Heritage survey next semester because "you seem to actually know what you're talking about." Um, OK--that was an awkward compliment, because was she suggesting that Amy--whose lectures notes I was using, mind you--doesn't?

The second class was much more awesome--it was a class on mythology in art, and I was handling the early Renaissance, so Botticelli, Pollaiuolo, etc. The class was smaller and had many more adult students, and everyone was so eager to participate: they knew the myths in question, they had pertinent observations, questions, etc. A teacher's dream, in other words. Everyone has the most fun with this painting, Botticelli's Venus and Mars, which probably decorated a piece of furniture like a chest in early Renaissance Florence:


Mars has passed out after sex and Venus is looking at him like That's it? What the hell kind of god are you? Five hundred years later and some things haven't changed. Also, imagine how pissed Mars is going to be when that satyr blow the conch shell in his ear (Venus probably put them up to it). After class, several of the students complimented me on the lecture and told me they really enjoyed it, which hey, it's always really nice to hear, especially when these aren't even your own students and are thus clearly not sucking up (unlike the girl who came up to me after class once, pointedly complimented my green coat, and then asked for an extension on her paper. Brown-nosing fail.)

Thursday night, there was a lecture on campus that I had been grumbling about having to attend, but it turned out to be really great. The speaker was Jonathan Lopez, who wrote a book called The Man Who Made Vermeers about the Dutch forger Hans van Meegeren. He was arrested by the Dutch government in 1945 on charges of collaborating with the Nazis, since he had sold Hermann Goering, the number two man in Germany, a priceless Vermeer, Christ and the Adulteress. In order to evade that extremely serious charge, van Meegeren admitted that he hadn't sold Goering anything priceless--it was his own forgery. It later turned out that he'd been forging Vermeers for years, and they had been accepted by art historians and curators around the world, including the National Gallery of Art in DC. His forgeries even included the Supper at Emmaus that was considered, at the time, to be Vermeer's masterpiece.

But the real fascination of this story is not so much that van Meegeren was able to produce forged Vermeers that fooled everyone; it's that the Vermeers he produced look nothing like real Vermeers. For example, these two paintings are legitimate Vermeers, the Geographer and the Girl with the Red Hat:



This is van Meegeren's Supper at Emmaus:


Not for a second would anyone today think that the same artist painted that third image as the other two, and yet this fooled everyone. Lopez' most interesting argument was that fakes rely on subliminal references to contemporary culture that make the picture oddly resonant to the viewer and thus more likely to accept it; however, after a few decades (he suggested 40 years is the timeline) the power of those contemporary references has faded, leaving people surprised that anyone could have been tricked all those years ago. In the case of this painting, Lopez traced its relationship to the style of volkisch painting being promoted in Nazi Germany, of which the Dutch van Meegerem was a huge supporter (he sent Hitler a note in 1942 thanking him for doing such a good job. Seriously. It was in Lopez' slideshow), as well as the resemblance between the facial physiognomy of Christ here and Albrecht Durer's famous Self Portrait:

Durer was enthusiastically held up as the paragon of "good" German art by the Nazis, and they had specifically identified his physiognomy as the "ideal" Germanic face. Thus, by incorporating those elements into his completely fake painting, van Meegerem made it subtly more attractive to his contemporaries, who were already "used to" seeing paintings that looked like this.

This is only a small fraction of Lopez' argument, both about this painting and about van Meegeren's forgeries in general, but it was really fascinating to listen to.

Still Life

Raphaelle Peale, Blackberries, c. 1813, oil on panel

One of my classmates gave her presentation in our Caravaggio seminar on the relationship between Caravaggio and 19th century American still life painters. Typically the American still life tradition has been linked to the long history of Dutch still lifes, but my friend discovered that the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts had exhibited a still life attributed to Caravaggio in 1811, just before Raphaelle Peale and others began to paint the kind of tenebristic composition shown above.

The location of the painting itself is a mystery, but the fact that it was identified as a Caravaggio in the early 19th century, when his reputation was basically in the gutter (he wouldn't be catapulted to the megastardom through which we know him today until a historic exhibition in Milan in 1951) suggests that it was a secure attribution. Only one independent still life by Caravaggio is known today, this incredibly illusionistic work of 1599 (it's like you could reach out and stroke the wicker of that basket!):


Yet we know he painted more of them--and one of them, it seems, found its way to Philadelphia and had an impact on Peale, a member of a prominent family of Philadelphia artists.

Now, I'm not usually a big fan of still life. Caravaggio's marvelous little picture is an exception to this rule, on account of its general awesomeness, but in general, blech. Dutch still life, in particular, is probably the genre of Western art I like least.

Clara Peeters, Still Life with Flowers, 17th c.

I know they're full of hyper-specific symbolism and they constitute warnings about vanitas, but I just find them so. damn. ugly. My friend knows all this, so she was teasing me in advance about how I would probably be bored to tears by her paper, but to my surprise, I really enjoyed not only her argument, but the images as well. Don't Peale's blackberries look good enough to eat? She also showed this late 16th century drawing of irises by a Florentine naturalist named Ligozzi (not technically a still life, but it's still something I'm not usually intrigued by):

I have a fondness for irises, so this really struck me as lovely. However, I remain resolute in my hatred of Dutch still life. Gah.

Fun with Professors

A few weeks ago Jasmine, Agnes and I went to see "Never Let Me Go" at the Ritz in Old City, where tickets are $6 for students. One of our professors, Dr. Bolman, happens to live in that neighborhood. Now, Dr. Bolman has always had something of a fearsome reputation as the professor who puts the fear of God into undergraduates and graduates alike, the professor whose constant watchword is "professionalism." Not a professor who gets buddy-buddy with her students by any means. Thus, I was a little surprised to get an email from her saying that if we went to another movie at the Ritz before she left for Egypt on December 1, she'd like to invite us to her apartment beforehand.

Apparently, the recent retirement of her mentor at Bryn Mawr caused her to re-evaluate her attitude toward students (well, not all students. A few select students. Us, basically.) She told us last night that her mentor never showed any fondness for her students until they completed their PhDs, at which point she suddenly started signing her emails "Love, Dale." Dr. Bolman told us she had this epiphany where she realized she didn't have to be like that and didn't want to be. So, voila--we got to visit Dr. Bolman's fabulous apartment.

The building was old, completely modernized except for some cool features like the 20-foot ceilings, exposed wooden beams, and original dark wood floors (the nails had square heads, which was interesting). She has more books than I have ever seen in anyone's personal collection. Her office was lined with bookcases, her hallway was lined with bookcases, the living room was lined with bookcases! It was pretty incredible. It was also decorated in a really cool fashion, which I don't think I can really describe, and her furniture rocked. Like, a ridiculously comfortable leather couch that also incorporated a chaise longue--from Ikea, although I never would have thought so (apparently they do have 'higher end' furniture." There's an odd sense of intimacy in being in a professor's home and putting your coat and bag down in her bedroom, or using the bathroom and seeing all her makeup. Jasmine and I agreed on the ride home that at first it was a little bit awkward, because we weren't quite sure what to say (we wound up talking about school, naturally). Luckily there was wine to drink and cheese to nibble on.

We had invited her to join us for the movie, and she accepted, so off we went in the cold to see "Hereafter," which we were expecting to be a sad movie. Dr. Bolman announced herself as a crier and made us promise that if she cried we wouldn't tell anyone, but in the end it wasn't really a crying kind of movie. There were some sad bits, but none too heart-wrenching, and the ending was happy in a contrived sort of way. I don't think I'd really recommend it to anyone else, it was fine, but nothing special. Anyway, after that we went to a Persian restaurant near Dr. Bolman's apartment for takeout, to which she treated us, using her "voice of command," as she called it, on Jasmine when she seemed about to insist on contributing. That was pretty hilarious, especially the way Jasmine immediately obeyed and sat down. Then we went back to her apartment to eat. As we were getting plates I noticed that among the items on her fridge were two magnets of Bella and Edward from Twilight. WTF?

We did wind up having an interesting discussion about psychics and talking to the dead (Matt Damon plays one in the film). I asked if the others would consult one. Dr. Bolman told us that twenty years or so, she used to visit a psychic regularly! (I managed not to let my mouth fall open, but it was a close thing). She said that she was looking for some kind of confirmation that there was something else out there, some other dimension, and she would go to this woman who claimed to read auras and tell you vague things about your future. She could also tell you things about people in photographs if you brought them in; Dr. Bolman said she was thoroughly convinced by this woman's ability to accurately describe people she had never met and only seen in a photograph, and that the vague predictions about her future always came true, but she realized ultimately that it was drawing too much of her attention and money, so she stopped going.

Jasmine said she wasn't sure if she would consult a psychic, Agnes said probably not. I told them about how my mom consulted a psychic on her birthday once and was quite convinced--the person told her she saw a red-headed woman who wanted to know if my mom was still angry at her (she was) and a large man with a breathing problem (my dad had sleep apnea), who wanted her to know that he was OK. I said that I wasn't sure either, partially because I'm a skeptic and I don't believe in life after death, and partially because I don't feel the burning need to talk to my parents. I mean, what would I say to them? I miss you? Duh. And what would I want to hear back, that they're fine, that they're proud of me, etc? Since I don't believe in an afterlife of any variety, I'm not concerned about them being "fine," and I know they were proud of me. I think trying to communicate with them, even if it were possible, would just be more painful than it'd be worth. Jen, on the other hand, would leap at the chance, I'm sure (in fact, I'm shocked she's never done it). However, even though I don't believe in the afterlife, I'm not completely skeptical about psychics. I mean, we only use a fraction of our brain power, so who's to say what could be possible for people who can somehow access the rest? After all, we only perceive time as completely linear; maybe they do catch glimpses of the future.

We also wound up discussing our favorite works of art. I was surprised to learn that Dr. Bolman's favorite was Simone Martini's Annunciation in the Uffizi (she's a Byzantinist/Coptic specialist, so I thought it'd be something there). Agnes' favorite was a painting from the Waddi Natrun site she's worked on in Egypt. Jasmine's favorites are two Saint Cecilias: Raphael's painting, and Stefano Maderno's statue. I had serious trouble thinking of favorites; in the end I said El Greco's View of Toledo, and Canova's statue of Pauline Bonaparte in the Borghese.

Anyway, we had a really fun time last night. I heart Dr. Bolman!

Fun with Transcription

I'm participating in an online course right now on transcribing Renaissance archival documents through the Medici Archive Project in Rome. I have zero experience with archives, but archive research is a large part of the "history" part of art history, so I'll be doing it someday. I was rather unprepared for Renaissance conventions of orthograhy, spelling, punctuation, you name it. The first obstacle is the handwriting itself, which can be absolutely impenetrable, like this week's supplemental document:


I have no idea what this says. In the entire thing, I could pick out the words "della sposa," that's all. Luckily, I'm not alone, no one else in the class can figure it out either. A lot of the other participants clearly have experience reading older hands and know a lot more about Italian grammar than I do, which is a little intimidating.

The chief difficulty in transcribing these documents is the number of abbreviatons that people used--there are a lot, and while some follow fairly standard conventions, others seem just totally random. Some are easy to figure out; if you see a document start off V. S. Ecc.a, that's Vostra Signoria Eccellenza, your excellent lordship. Final vowels are routinely left off words and indicated by a little dash of superscript, so governar' is "governare," etc. More random is how they'll omit letters within a word: de'a is "detta," and dima'davano is "dimandavano." I mean, you're already writing out the whole word, what's one more letter? They will also use multiple abbreviations for long words, so gra'diss.a is "grandissima." And then sometimes I just have no idea, like last week, when the writer of the document identified herself as Caterina Picc.i, and everyone else was like "oh, Caterina Piccolomini, of course!" and I was like wait, what?

There is a little book on medieval and Renaissance document abbreviations that lists some of the most common ones, which is especially key when it's not an abbreviation but rather a symbol, or an entire word indicated by a single letter with some marks above it. Unfortunately, there were no real standards for this back then. Then you have to factor in the legibility, how educated the person was, where in Italy they were from (all the different cities in Italy marked a different day as the beginning of the New Year, so March 25 1547 in Venice is still 1546 in Naples), and, basically, whether they could put a coherent sentence together. It's pretty daunting, and I can't imagine being left on my own to look at this stuff in an archive.

That said, this week's main document was fairly easy to decipher; the writing is very legible, the abbreviations are pretty standard, and I could immediately figure out what they're talking about (that can be a real help in figuring out an otherwise ambiguous word). It's a news report from Antwerp on the current political situation in England, namely the Prayerbook Rebellion of 1549.


I've transcribed it and translated it, since now we're doing a round-robin thing where everyone contributes a line. My favorite is this line:

Che il conte di Varvich et il signor Gray quali erano destinati per capitani quali della armata contro lo scozzesi erano mandate con una parte della gente per impedire le vettovaglie, et havevano intercetti alcuni che venivano in aiuto di detto populo, et fatti morire alcuni preti.

That the count of Warwick and Mr Gray, who were intended to be captains of the armada against the Scots, were sent with a part of the army to impede their supply lines, and they have intercepted some who came to aid those people, and have killed some priests.

Those Protesants did not fuck around...

Post-Script

The vet put Lady Jane to sleep yesterday afternoon. He called me and explained that while he could keep her alive longer, he didn't think it was the humane course of action, especially since he couldn't explain why she was unable to walk and was going downhill so quickly. I was at school by this point, so I'm glad that I'd gotten all cried out in the morning. Of course, I'd told a bunch of people why I was going to be late, so my friends all asked about my new cat, and Dr. Cooper asked if I had a picture, and I had to tell them nope, sorry, false alarm, no new kitty. Sigh.

Yesterday I went to the Wissahickon around 9 for a walk and took my camera with me to finally capture some pictures of the gorgeous foliage before it all falls to the ground.


The route I take, between Kitchens Lane and Livezy Lane entrances to the park, has two trail options. The lower trail is down by the river and much more scenic, but it's incredibly rocky and takes maybe 45-50 minutes round trip. You also have to go over Fingerspan Bridge and then down the 100 feet of stone steps, which I haven't been keen on doing lately while they're covered in damp leaves. The upper trail, which is for hikers, bikers, and horses, is less picturesque but faster, probably 30 minutes round-trip, especially if you jog the flatter parts. The high trail has its challenges, though, at least for someone like me who's afraid of heights: three massive concrete pipes that lead you across ravines. In two of the cases, you can easily follow a trail that leads you up and around them, but you have to cross the third if you want to go out to Livezey Lane (actually, there is an alternate route here too, but it takes you out like a quarter-mile up the road, so I don't bother). Naturally, the third is the longest and has the steepest ravine underneath it. Naturally.


Thus, since it freaks me out to cross the pipes even when conditions are totally dry, I've been extra freaked about doing it with damp shoes. Yesterday, however, I decided I was going to take the high trail to Livezy, then walk down the road so I could take the lower trail back to Kitchens, thereby giving me time to snap photos of my favorite vistas. So I braved the third pipe, freaking out all the while, and headed down to the water to take the low trail. While I was down there I noticed a cat lying in the leaves, and went over to introduce myself because, hey, I like to do those things. She was really friendly, and when I pulled my hand away she got up to follow me--and promptly fell over. Then she tried again, and fell again. Uh-oh. I watched her for a few minutes, thinking, "Man, this cat must be dying." Thomas kept falling over right before we took him to be euthanized, so I figured this cat was in the same position.

Of course this had to happen when I was something like two miles away from my car. I decided to hike back, get the car, drive to Livezey Lane and then take the cat to Phyllis' vet in Chestnut Hill. While I was headed back--thinking of how that cat almost definitely had fleas, and how I didn't even have a blanket in my car, nor my credit card or license, and should I go home to get something and come back and run the risk she'd drag herself into the woods--it did cross my mind that I could just leave her there and let nature take its course; it costs $90 to have a cat euthanized, but nothing to let it die on its own in the woods. Then I thought of my mom, and if she would ever leave a helpless sick animal to fend for itself, especially a cat, and I knew she wouldn't, not even if she was only helping it to be killed humanely.

Anyway, I made it back to the car and sped over to Livezey. The only thing I had in the car was an inflatable air mattress in the trunk, so I wrapped the cat in that once I'd successfully manhandled her into the car. She was clearly frightened, but so gentle: she didn't hiss or try to bite me. I took her to the vet fully expecting they would just tell me she needed to be put to sleep, but instead an hour later they told me they wanted to run a whole barrage of tests on her to see if she might just be weak and dehydrated. Expected cost: $190. I said OK, and went home. The vet called later with good news: her bloodwork looked good, she didn't have FIV or leukemia, she was just weak and anemic. He said they'd give her some steroids and antibiotics, and her problem walking might clear up on its own once she was stronger. He wanted to keep her overnight but told me I could take her home in the morning.

Phyllis and I talked about it last night, and decided that since this cat had clearly 'chosen' us, we should adopt her. We decided to give her a trial run for a few weeks on the front porch, and see if her walking issues went away. Phyllis asked if I'd thought of a name, and I lied and said no, but of course I had--I remembered she had a cute little grey face, so I thought we could call her Lady Jane Grey. (As I discovered today, only her head was grey; the rest of her was "blue cream," a diluted form of the tortoiseshell gene.) Luckily we still had most of Thomas' things, but I went to the store this morning and bought wet and dry catfood as well. Then I went to the vet.

I should have known something was up by the look on the receptionist's face when I said I was there to pick up the stray. She told me the vet tech would be out shortly "to talk." That is exactly they do to you at hospitals when someone is dead or dying, but I was so confident in what the vet himself had told me that I just shrugged. Then the technician came out, and told me that the cat had gone sharply downhill overnight. She could barely eat, and couldn't stand at all. They told me they needed to keep her for observation, but that it's likely she'll need to be euthanized anyway. I went in the back to see her, and even without any medical expertise I could tell how bad she was; she couldn't even raise her head to look at me when I petted her, whereas yesterday she could move around and try to follow me. I went back out front and signed the euthanization release form: if the vet decides her condition is too bad, they'll put her to sleep today, without waiting for me. I wouldn't be able to come back till tomorrow, and there's no reason to make her suffer.

Everyone was really nice and sympathetic, especially since they agreed she's a really sweet cat. I know it's better for her to be put to sleep painlessly than to die out there in the woods, alone, but I still found myself crying all the way home. It's my own fault for getting my hopes up, I know: I named her in my head, and set up the dishes and litterbox on the porch, and bought a couple different kinds of wet food because I didn't know what she'd like. The vet just seemed to optimistic about her chances yesterday that I thought it was a done deal. I was looking forward to having a cat again, but now it doesn't look like that will happen, or if it does, it won't be Lady Jane.

Today is a nasty, rainy day. I'm glad I decided to go to the park yesterday, when I don't normally go on Tuesdays. I'm glad I decided to swing down by the water when I would normally have just turned around on the high trail. I'm glad she's somewhere warm and comfortable, and that there will be people with her when they put her down. I'm just so sad that I couldn't take her home with me. And now I'm crying again, and I have to leave for the train. Dammit!

Fun Times with the Spouse

Sean's here, yay! He got in really late on Thursday, and then came to school with me on Friday, He went to gallery talk given by Dr. Silk on communism and the arts in the 1950s while I was teaching my section, and then we went to get lunch from one of the trucks on campus. The proprietor, a very friendly old man with a Greek accent, must have seen our rings and seen us kissing, because he congratulated us on 'committing to each other for life,' and then told us about his grandchildren and showed us pictures on his cell phone before handing over our (delicious!) wraps. That was some good feta, I tell you. I think I've made a new friend.

Friday afternoon into the evening we volunteered to help Dr. Bolman set up for the reception she was hosting for the attendees of the Byzantine Studies Conference at Penn to celebrate her exhibition on the conservation of the Red and White monasteries. This is a pretty big deal, not only because the exhibition is awesome and is going to travel to museums around the world, but because it raises Temple's profile in the Byzantine studies community considerably. Many of the people who came told her they'd never been to Temple before but were quite impressed, and I know that the vast and delectable spread, catered by Whole Foods, was a crowd-pleaser. One guy actually took a photo of one of the tables before leaving. We didn't leave until 8:30, and Dr. Bolman insisted we all take a bottle of wine (with strict instructions not to tell anyone she gave it to us) as well as whatever food we could carry; Sean and I opted for an entire fruit tray, because that was some of the best-tasting fruit I've had in recent memory. She was really pleased that so many non-medieval students were there to help out, and she was doubly pleased that I managed to volunteer my husband at the same time!

Saturday morning we went to the PMA, where I had an appointment with the art librarian, and then walked around the collections for a couple of hours. We were both pretty exhausted from the night before, so we weren't at the optimal level of enthusiasm for a museum tour, but it was still nice. Generally in museums we wander around arguing about what pictures we would and wouldn't hang in our future house. Sean's always worried that I would want some "nightmarish" modern art piece. We did agree on a few select items, including Frederic Edwin Church's Pichincha, but we disagreed on a lot more! Oh, and he tried to embarrass me in the Abstract Expressionist room by making fun of the art. Sigh.

Last night we went to see Henry V at the Sedgwick Theatre, down the street from my house. It's in a beautiful Art Deco building from the 1920s, and although the interior has been really ravaged by time, there are echoes of the original mural decorations on the walls and ceiling. The actual theater portion of the building was sectioned off a long time ago, so the performance took place in a huge oval-shaped room that was once one of the lobbies (the theater group's website has a picture of the ceiling in this room, with a chandelier and the remains of the painted decoration).

The play was done pretty old-school, with bare stage, largely normal lighting, and almost no props. The costumes ranged from historical (for the foppish French nobles) to recent-historical (WWII uniforms for the soldiers) to contemporary (tuxedos for King Henry's court when they were being formal). Men also played the women's roles--and played them disturbingly well, considering the amount of movement in high heels that was required. The performance was really good, but the play itself was a little odd; immediately after the dramatic victory at Agincourt, the tone switches to comedy with Henry playing a trick on one of his soldiers. Then there's an extended courtship scene at the end between Henry and the daughter of the vanquished French king, which, while funny, made me lean over and whisper to Sean "when did this turn into a romantic comedy?" Then it ended a couple of minutes later on a totally down note, showing the king's future death and the accession of his young son, who would lose everything that his father had just won. It was kind of uneven, but overall extremely enjoyable. Oh, and student tickets were $10! Win.