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Have you no Shame?

One of my favorite outbursts in my ongoing battle with the deer in my garden is: “Have you no shame?” Preferably yelling it loudly, as much as my grumpy lungs allow, or my consideration for my lovely neighbors who don’t need more of my screeching. Not that the deer react – they go on munching on my rose buds, my pink wild-geranium flowers, my columbines, their business – you name it.

Even in the wild, well, in the wilds of Tualatin, where they should be less accustomed to human/deer interaction they do not budge. Photographs from Monday’s walk are evidence that I could approach them to up to 2 meters with my small point&shoot camera. Then again, I did not yell, because I was happy to see them anywhere but in my stripped-down flowerbeds.

 

Much to know about deer, including the fact, among others, proclaimed by a science site: “The Chinese water deer is the only species that doesn’t shed its antlers, because it doesn’t have any.” Glad that could be added to the canon of irrelevant but funny bits in my brain.

Levantine Cave Painting Art, dated from the end of the Mesolithic Age and during the Neolithic Age at Valltorta-Gassulla Cultural Park in Spain near Valencia.

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I’m actually more interested in talking about shame rather than deer today, since the absence of the former, whether among those cloven-hoofed ungulates or certain members of the political sphere, has significant consequences for our well-being. Thoughts about shame were triggered by a book review of a book by Ute Frevert, managing director of the Max Planck Institute for Human Development in Berlin, and director of its Center for the History of Emotions.

Lucas Cranach the Elder (1472-1553), Adam and Eve, (1526)

The Politics of Humiliation: A Modern History, now translated from the German by Adam Bresnahan, concerns the relationship between power and shame, shaming, or humiliation. Three areas of interest are used to explain the psychological mechanisms: shaming as punishment for individual transgression in the political, public sphere, humiliation online and in school, and foreign policy between countries. I look forward to reading about the history of how shaming developed across the centuries. “It is the story of the democratisation of the right to dignity and honor, which at different times were regarded as belonging only to the aristocracy and not to commoners, to adults and not to children, to men more than women, to a sovereign and not to a people. ” It is certainly interesting to think that not only the display rules of emotions differ between cultures, or genders, but that there were differences, across time, in who had a right to a particular feeling, or the power to induce it.

Attributed to JOHN FERNELEY JR. (British 1781-1860) The Stag Hunt

 

The ever looming memory of Nazi public shaming of women married to Jews, (or Norwegian public shaming of women in love with German soldiers) also raises questions about gendered approaches to shame: women often had their hair cut forcibly and in public, humiliation always directed at their bodies, in war (ancient and recent) often through the ultimate humiliation of rape.

Frida Kahlo The Wounded Deer (1946)

Found this stag on a hike on Mt. Hood near Paradise Meadow two years ago

As a cognitive psychologist I am of course most interested in how an emotion can be utilized to enact power or manipulate people, mechanisms spelled out in a 2018 interview with the author here. The distinction between shaming and humiliation is important. Shaming was always used as punishment for a norm-defying person to get them to repent and then back into the fold. Humiliation, on the other hand, has the goal to stigmatize the person and set them apart from the group. The state or political actors historically used these mechanisms, but nowadays on-line platforms have joined in, with body/fat-shaming just one example (which reminds me: I did NOT find Speaker Pelosi’s fat shaming of a certain monster appropriate, in fact it irritated me to no end. You can’t join the gutter.)

Here is the contradictory part: on the one hand we, as a society, value honor and respect (and rightfully decry its absence), but on the other hand we show increasing appetite for public humiliation, just look at all those reality shows. The psychological mechanisms seem to point to a gain in self esteem or sense of group membership when we berate and belittle others, openly and in front of everyone. If we are part of the group that is humiliating rather than humiliated, it gives us a sense of security and belonging, as well as power. And if we create specific out-groups through acts of humiliation we can utilize their status for our political purposes, directing and displacing anger at those victims. (Although seemingly, if we are paid enough, we are also willingly complying with a potential state of humiliation – just look at the lines of the casting show. Honor has a price, after all, as Frevert puts it.)

 

Franz Marc Crouching Deer (1911)

I think, well, I hope that knowing about the mechanisms of how humiliation works enables us to inoculate ourselves against related attempts to employ it as a tool, attempts surely to increase in the context of the election campaign. If humiliation thrives on having a public participate, it is up to us, the public, to refuse to be participants in the spectacle. We can turn away.

Now all I wish is for the deer to do the same.

Today you have a choice between Mozart’s The Hunt and Haydn’s (The Hunt) and Cesar Franck’s Accursed Hunter – maybe the latter felt some shame….

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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They are Hell on Salad

I had to laugh out loud when I read that sentence embedded in an erudite prose poem on snails. They are hell on salad, indeed – and bring up a fond memory of a long ago trip with my then 13 year-old to France. There we were, having lunch in an outdoor café, when what I thought to be a black olive began to move…. the waiter, resenting that I called him over, just shrugged, did not even take the plate away, much less took it off the bill or compensated with a free dessert. “What did you assume,” a bystander at the next table declared, “after all, it’s Marseille.” My son’s aversion to French waiters, who regularly scolded him for not finishing the food on his plate, a move long given up by his mother, went up a notch.

Here is another passage from the poem (it is too long to print here, therefor the link above,) revealing Francis Ponge‘s artistry with words as much as observations:

There is more to be said about snails. First of all their immaculate clamminess. Their sangfroid. Their stretchiness.

One might add: their pace…..

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Ponge (1899-1988) was an interesting character and marvelous wordsmith. He was keen on creating a “visual equivalence” between language and subject matter by emphasizing word associations and by manipulating the sound, rhythm, and typography of the words to mimic the essential characteristics of the object described.” Seems more like an auditory equivalence to me, but what do I know.

Trained as a lawyer and philosopher, he was loosely connected to the Surrealist movement in the 1920s, and affiliated with the French Communist Party in 1937, and was active during the war in organizing the Resistance movement among journalists. He left the Party in 1947 decrying its embrace of Stalinism. In 1952 he became a professor at the Alliance Française and started to concentrate on writing. His politics remained progressive, though, and his choice of subjects – the everyday, common use, down-to-earth objects of the material world around us in some way echo his commitment to make the world a better place. Being mindful about the things around us and respectful of nature were frequent themes in his work. He was made Commander of the Legion of Honour in 1959 and received the French Academy’s grand prize for poetry in 1972 and the National Poetry Prize in 1981.

His early work had a focus on small things. Soap, shells, cigarettes, plants, – and, of course, snails. There is something to be learned from looking at the minute, then extrapolating from it to the larger world around us. I find myself doing that as a photographer as well and maybe his astute observations crafted into detailed descriptions of the visual qualities of things explains why I am drawn to his early writings.

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And so it was some days ago, when the rains had once again made the woods into a muddy, moist, verdant, dripping landscape where fungi unfolded in full curves and snails and slugs slimed their way across the glistening surfaces.

My camera depicted, as did Ponge’s poetic words, but stuck to the observable, in contrast to his musings. For one so interested in a materialistic aesthetic it is surely weird to anthropomorphize the feelings of snails.

“It must be a pain to have to haul that trailer around with them everywhere, but they never complain and in the end they are happy about it. How valuable, after all, to be able to go home any time, no matter where you may find yourself, eluding all intruders. It must be worth it.

They are a little vain about this convenient ability: “Look at me, a vulnerable and sensitive being, who is nevertheless protected from unwanted guests, and so always in possession of happiness and peace of mind!” It’s not surprising the snail holds his head so high.

“At the same time I am glued to the earth, always touching it, always progressing, though slowly, and always capable of pulling loose from the soil into myself. Après moi le déluge, I don’t care, the slightest kick may roll me anywhere. I can always get up again onto my single foot and reglue myself to the dirt where fate has planted me, and that’s my pantry: the earth, the most common of foods.”

Oh well, to each their own. I certainly appreciate that there are people other than me who indulge in the beauty of these creatures, even though I regularly smite them when they decide to eat my garden. Hell on salad and hell on hostas, too. Aesthetic appreciation only goes so far.

Here is a strange snail ballet from 2019, part of Cryptic’s Sonica Festival.

From the announcement: “176 snails will travel to Kings Place to take centre stage in a live sonic installation like no other. French artists Elizabeth Saint-Jalmes and Cyril Leclerc conduct an immersive sensorial experiment as they harness each snail with a small diode. Slow Pixel highlights Kings Place’s theme of ‘time’ and invites the audience to slow down as the snails draw their individual trajectories through this sensory environment.”

If Leclerc’s music is too jarring (certainly for my Monday brain), here is something classical, lilting albeit at a snail’s pace, the Adagio from Mahler’s 9th.

And here is a shorter prose poem about the substance that makes snails (presumably) happy, particularly on this rainy Monday morning:

Rain

BY FRANCIS PONGE

TRANSLATED BY JOSHUA COREY AND JEAN-LUC GARNEAU

The rain, in the backyard where I watch it fall, comes down at different rates. In the center a fine discontinuous curtain — or network — falls implacably and yet gently in drops that are probably quite light; a strengthless sempiternal precipitation, an intense fraction of the atmosphere at its purest. A little distance from the walls to the right and left plunk heavier drops, one by one. Here they seem about the size of grains of wheat, the size of a pea, while elsewhere they are big as marbles. Along gutters and window frames the rain runs horizontally, while depending from the same obstacles it hangs like individually wrapped candies. Along the entire surface of a little zinc roof under my eyes it trickles in a very thin sheet, a moiré pattern formed by the varying currents created by the imperceptible bumps and undulations of the surface. From the gutter it flows with the restraint of a shallow creek until it tumbles out into a perfectly vertical net, rather imperfectly braided, all the way to the ground where it breaks and sparkles into brilliant needles.

Each of its forms has its particular allure and corresponds to a particular patter. Together they share the intensity of a complex mechanism as precise as it is dangerous, like a steam-powered clock whose spring is wound by the force of the precipitation.

The ringing on the ground of the vertical trickles, the glug-glug of the gutters, the miniscule strikes of the gong multiply and resonate all at once in a concert without monotony, and not without a certain delicacy.

Once the spring unwinds itself certain wheels go on turning for a while, more and more slowly, until the whole mechanism comes to a stop. It all vanishes with the sun: when it finally reappears, the brilliant apparatus evaporates. It has rained.
Translated from the French

Iris

In 1489 Albrecht Dürer painted an iris (Schwertlilie, as they are also called in German, literally translated as sword lily.) He was not the first (da Vinci had drawn them in great detail) nor the last painter to depict this plant – it is probably the most frequently offered flower in visual art right after the rose. In fact one of the earliest known artwork of an iris is a fresco in King Minos’ palace on the island of Crete from 2100 BC.

It was probably not just their beauty that attracted artists, but their symbolism, handed down from Greek mythology where she personified the rainbow and served (in Homer’s Iliad, for example) as a messenger of the gods. According to the Greek poet Hesiod, she was the daughter of Thaumas and the ocean nymph Electra. As the books tell me, in Hesiod’s works, at least, she had the additional duty of carrying water from the River Styx in a ewer whenever the gods had to take a solemn oath. The water would render unconscious for one year any god or goddess who lied. Can’t we have that here and now – for self-declared deities as well, given that it is only half a year until November and a long slumber would protect the nation? But I digress. You should be used to that now, though.

Here are a few samples from the 17ty century on. I will skip most of the golden period of Dutch flower paintings, since we would never get to the end, so much beauty there.

Maria Sybille Merian Late 17th century – she of the German Wanderlust – one of my heroines. Packed everything up late in life to travel to Surinam, lusting after its flora and fauna….
Iris xiphium, variety, engraved by Langlois, from ‘Choix des Plus Belles Fleurs’, 1827 (coloured engraving) by Pierre Joseph Redoute

And here are some of the most famous of them all, from van Gogh in his declining years (who saw none of the proceeds this painting fetched not long ago, some 53 million dollars,) from Monet of the garden that was central to his artistic career and finally to O’Keefe, who we have probably seen as poster art for so long that we have ceased to appreciate the inherent power of her floral painting.

Claude Monet Irises 1914 – 1917

I have always been fascinated by irises, because they undergo visible transformation from the very tightly wrapped, spindle-like blossoms promising wonder, to the unfolding of decadent beauty in shape, color and velvety or silken texture, not coincidentally tempting sexual interpretation, to the metamorphosis into something slimy, curly, shriveled, an ugly death – they do not elegantly drop their petals, or droop the entire blossom like a fainting Victorian lady, they just stand there and decay into mush. Beauty carrying within it visible destruction.

When I was young I went for the showy specimens, trying to make watercolors of them to my eternal irritation, ripping up expensive paper, never finding them satisfactory. These days I like the wild irises better, dainty swaths of color in the landscape, often just glimpsed through large bushes of those sword-like leaves. The yellow flag iris, in particular, seems to be so beautiful against the backdrop of its favorite habitat – the edges of water.

Wouldn’t you know it: they are an invasive pest, even though they purify water by removing heavy metals and nutrients in agricultural runoff with their roots. “This fast-growing and fast-spreading invasive plant can outcompete other riparian (water loving) plants, forming almost impenetrable thickets.” — Okanagan and Similkameen Invasive Species Society.

In Oregon we have the most beautiful iris show garden and horticulturist exposition an hour’s drive South of Portland. Schreiner’s Iris Garden has been one of my favorite outings in May for some years, but it is closed now due to Covid-19. Some photographs from the past, then, mixed with some from this week from my walks, linking to the present just like Iris used the rainbow as a conduit to connect one world above to the other below.

Music today by Robert Paterson. Iris first, then Freya’s Tears, then Sekhmet.

Willows

“The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,

(Sing all a green willow, willow willow willow,)
With his hand in his bosom and his head upon his knee.
(Oh willow, willow, willow
Shall be my garland.)

He sighed in his singing and made a great moan…
I am dead to all pleasure, my true love she is gone…

The mute bird sat by him was made tame by his moans…
The true tears fell from him, would have melted the stones…

Come all you forsaken and mourn you with me…
Who speaks of a false love, mine’s falser than she…

Let love no more boast her in palace nor bower…
It buds, but it blasteth ere it be a flower…

Though fair and more false, I die with thy wound…
Thou hast lost the truest lover that goes upon the ground, sing…

Let nobody chide her, her scorns I approve…
She was born to be false, and I to die for her love…

Take this for my farewell and latest adieu…
Write this on my tomb, that in love I was true…”

Othello, 4.3

You’d probably figured out there would be no happy ending after you listened to Desdemona and later her maid sing this song, even if you never heard of Othello before. Shakespeare really knew how to punish with willow: In Hamlet, Ophelia falls to her watery death when the willow branch she had been sitting on, gives up its ghost. In 12th Night Viola moans about unrequited love with reference to willows.

Willows have been prominent in mythology – Hecate was the goddess of the willow and the moon, Apollo’s harp was made of willow wood, Orpheus carried willow branches during his travels in the underworld. They also played an important role in literature, both in Western Europe, Russia and China where they were seen as a symbol of immortality and renewal.

They were adored by individuals for whatever reason – Napoleon, for example, sat forever under his beloved willow tree in exile on St. Helena and eventually was buried under it. (It is claimed that a clone of this very tree now lives next to I-5 in Seattle, in fact has done so for 135 years, which is weird in itself given that willows don’t live long, 30 years on average. Here is the full story of how a tree migrated from France via San Francisco to Washington state.)

Most people think of willows as weeping willows, those gracious, voluminous trees that you don’t want to be near when they crack and fall over, which they do with regularity….

I am more fascinated by the regular straight or bushy ones, who grow faster than most plants on earth (some up to 30 meters high!), don’t mind having wet feet, and act as a local pharmacy to deer who make use of the painkiller in their bark, and people who have used their bark as medicines since Etruscan times. (I’m too lazy to get up right now and photograph it, but a self seeded willow in my yard needed a protective wrap recently, because the deer rubbed their itchy antlers to get to the aspirin-like compound in it, completely destroying the trunk’s bark.)

Yes, aspirin. Well, salicin (named after Salix, the genus name of the willow tree), which formed the basis of the discovery of aspirin. To this day there are conflicting opinions who actually deserves the honor of having invented it in 1890, but it made a fortune for Bayer, the German pharmaceutical company and is now the most sold drug in the world. Was it the head of the pharmaceutical division, which was responsible for developing new drugs, the chemist working for that division (who invented heroin use a few months later), or the head of the pharmacology section, which was responsible for clinical trials? Here is a fun read about the history. 

In addition to its medicinal value – Native Americans called willows the toothache tree – it has many practical functions: great for weaving baskets, perfect for making charcoal for drawing, paper pulp, and daub-and wattle structures.

And in the conflict department: in many countries, particularly England, they now use new adaptations of traditional methods. Willow cuttings are rooted and woven into a living fence on the riverbank, provide highly effective erosion control at a low cost, using a renewable and biodegradable material. Scientists also work on finding ways to use willows in biofiltration systems to purify water.

In Australia, on the other hand, most willow species are termed weeds of national significance. Their invasive nature, causing flood and erosion along stream beds, reducing water quality and amounts of available oxygen to aquatic plants, their water uptake being humongous, all threaten stream health. Much legislation is planned or enacted to control spread and eradicate the “infestation.”

It’s never easy, is it? In ecology they are seen as good and bad actors. In literature they signify death and renewal. Their medicinal properties, known for 3500 years, are exploited by patents. And in my garden they attract these bucks soothing their antlers by rubbing the bark only to go on and eat every flower in sight. I am so done with the deer….

It is, however, easy to revel in the willow trees’ beauty. Stark shadow play in the wintry season, bright, earliest green in the spring, lightening up the groves. Dotted with the most delicate signs that renewal is upon us. Makes my head ache less simply by looking at them, rather than chewing their bark!

Lupins

In 1917 a ‘Lupin’ banquet was given in Hamburg at a botanical gathering, at which a German Professor, Dr. Thoms, described the multifarious uses to which the Lupin might be put. At a table covered with a tablecloth of Lupin fibre, Lupin soup was served; after the soup came Lupin beefsteak, roasted in Lupin oil and seasoned with Lupin extract, then bread containing 20 per cent of Lupin, Lupin margarine and cheese of Lupin albumen, and finally Lupin liqueur and Lupin coffee. Lupin soap served for washing the hands, while Lupin-fibre paper and envelopes with Lupin adhesive were available for writing. (Ref.)

I guess, the guy liked lupins. Turns out, he was not the only one. In 1949, Connie Scott (later know as the Lupin Lady), of Godley Peaks Station in New Zealnd, “scattered lupin seeds along the roadside. She bought about £100 worth from the local stock and station agent, hiding the bill from her husband for many months, hoping simply to make the world more beautiful.” It started an ecological disaster, as well as becoming a source for economic gain both from tourist trade – travelers arrive in flocks to marvel at the beauty – and sheep farming in otherwise barren regions.

What is it with lupins? On the one hand, they (particularly the white and yellow varieties) are a high-protein plant source, a real alternative to soy beans. Given that the global demand for meat, dairy and fish products for human consumption is recognized as unsustainable due the high environmental impact of animal production and given our knowledge about the rise in diseases associated with excessive consumption of animal products, plant-based protein really looks promising. Lupin use as a protein crop is widely spread in Australia and now recommended for European farmers, once some advanced breeding techniques are developed to provide new lupin varieties for socio-economically and environmentally sustainable cultivation.

Ironically, the protein these plants provide is also widely used in sheep farming, so we all can enjoy one more rack of lamb….

This is where the conflict between conservationists and farmers arises, at least in New Zealand. Lupins clog braided river beds, providing shade for many invasive species of weeds to move in and they are disturbing nesting sites for endangered birds – Black stilts and certain terns need to nest on gravel beds in these rivers, which are now grown over. The environmental agencies are bowing to the sheep farmers’ needs, with scant efforts to control the spread of the plant that gets carried far in the sheep’s fleeces, with landowners not taking any responsibility. Ecologists see them as uncontrollable weeds like scotch broom, their spreading soon to be unstoppable across the entire land

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In Oregon we have, strangely, the opposite problem. Kincaid’s lupine or Oregon lupine is regionally endemic from Douglas County, Oregon north to Lewis County, Washington. They are now threatened due to the loss of prairie lands where they once flourished. The smaller the prairies – a result of urbanization and use for agriculture – the larger the distance between them, which means seeds have a harder time being spread into suitable environments to grow. We finally got a critical habitat designation in 2006, after the plant had been declared threatened in 2000. The was essential because they are the primary larvae food plant for the endangered Fender blue butterfly (Icaricia icarioides fenderi), which is found only in Oregon. The plant is also used by the Puget blue butterfly ((Icaricia icarioides blackmorei) in Washington State.

It’s never simple, is it? What’s good for ecology in our region might be bad in other countries. What’s good for economic development, including alternate protein sources for poor, developing-world nations whose populations face hunger and malnourishment, might mean the end of certain species whose habitats get destroyed by the plant. Even within industrialized economies there might be conflict. What serves the sheep farmers well for their livestock might undermine the success of brands like Icebreaker who buy up all the wool but run under a certified sustainable flag, now debatable – surely brought to consumers’ attention by ecologist who try to save habitats.

What is simple is to enjoy the beauty of the plants, once you manage to stop thinking: so it was on my Saturday walk up at the protected area on Powell Butte, on an unseasonably hot, windy day with the waves of grass rolling, the lupines shining in blue, the daisies pointing their faces to the sun and the mountains glowing in the distance. My heart sang.

And here is a piece inspired by endless prairies, from 1948, with the composer Lukas Foss playing the piano.

Here is a short piece about the composer and here is an excerpt from The Prairie a composition that is probably more fun to sing than to listen to.

The risen cream of all the milkiness of maytime…

That’s what H.E.Bates called hawthorn. Hmmm. Must have known only the white ones, so prevalent in english hedgerows and pastures. They do come in red and pink as well, although admittedly less often.

Lots of lore attached to the bush which, once it grows into a tree, can become 400 years old. Or so they say. It held significant place in Greek mythology, as a symbol of love and marriage, believed to be able to ward off dark spirits, and rumored to have provided the crown of thorns for Christ.

Lore also has it that it is a portent of disaster if you bring the hawthorne blossoms inside. There might be some scientific explanation for that: the early blossoming tree is essential for bees and other pollinating insects – if they are deprived and starving, they will not be available for later necessary crops.

Hawthorn was the badge of the house of Tudor, because Henry VII lost his crown and it was found in a thorn bush. Maybe it is indeed a plant that brings misfortune…

Hawthorns belong to the rose family of plants and are in the genus Crataegus, a large group widely distributed throughout the north temperate zone and in the tablelands of Mexico and the Andes. The small, red berries covering the tree in autumn are called “haws”; they contain bioflavinoids, cardiotonic amines, polyphenols, vitamin C, the B vitamins and other nutrients. Squirrels and birds love them.

The scent of flowers includes trimethylamine, also released during sex and by dead bodies. Just what you needed to know, right? But, taken together with the symbolism of the ancient Greek goddess Hymen, protector of love and marriage, who carried a torch made out of Hawthorne, we might have immediate clues helping to understand the poem below. It is said to be among Willa Cather’s favorites, even though she was unhappy about how the poetry volume, April Twilights, in which it first appeared, was received.

THE HAWTHORN TREE 

by Willa Cather

ACROSS the shimmering meadows– 
Ah, when he came to me! 
In the spring-time, 
In the night-time, 
In the starlight, 
Beneath the hawthorn tree. 

Up from the misty marsh-land– 
Ah, when he climbed to me! 
To my white bower, 
To my sweet rest, 
To my warm breast, 
Beneath the hawthorn tree. 

Ask of me what the birds sang, 
High in the hawthorn tree; 
What the breeze tells, 
What the rose smells, 
What the stars shine– 
Not what he said to me! 

Risen cream, shimmering meadows, rose smells, secretive murmurs of lovers – all points to May arriving soon! With our warm spring, the hawthorns got a head start. Photographed yesterday. Music is an ode to the English Country side by Finzi Eclogue in F major.

And that brought to mind another Eclogue, only to be enjoyed by adventurous readers, who appreciate naked bodies in a sunlit dale, approached by cows…. it’s actually quite an astounding piece by May Swenson.

Swallows

I have always liked swallows. They were constant companions from late spring through fall in our village, nesting in corners under the barn roofs, often in large numbers. Barn swallows are quite social, attack in groups, if they feel their mud abodes are threatened, and they sing their heart out to attract a mate. They swoop and fly fast, doing all kinds of acrobatic maneuvers to catch the insects that they feed on while in the air, with unending chirpy commentary. Mating up there as well, must be a fleeting pleasure.

The old lore of “when swallows fly high, the weather will be dry,” lost its magical prediction power when my scientist father explained to me, early on, that of course swallows change the level at which they fly depending on weather, if you think where their food source will be: when it’s warm, outside thermal activity carries bubbles of air up and with it the insects that swallows hunt. Convection is even stronger near heated surfaces of sunlit buildings. If it rains or colder weather brings winds, the insects seek shelter under trees and bushes, with the swallows following in lower swoops.

Well, magic could still be had elsewhere. One of my favorite fairy tale books of Hans Christian Andersen tales had color plates depicting an old fashioned Thumbelina flying South to a warm, sunny, fairy tale land on the back of her rescuer, a neon-blue swallow, only to meet a prince her size and live happily ever after. Things had seemed pretty hopeless after having been abducted and given in service or forced marriage to all kinds of threatening creatures, but hey, swallow to the rescue. I longed more for the trip than the prince, all of age what, 6 or 7?

The tales containing swallows changed over time, becoming much darker when reading turned from fairy tales to Greek mythology. Remember the myth of two sisters, Philomela and Procne? Procne was married to King Tereus, a political alliance forced by her father, an Athenian king. Tereus coveted her sister, raped her and cut her tongue out so she could not tell. She managed to put the story into her weavings which were sent to her sister. The two sought revenge, unwilling to let the crime and the silencing of female voices stand – something that impressed me tremendously as a teenager, even though it included infanticide of the king’s son with Procne, and feeding Tereus the child, unbeknownst to him. The glimpse of justice served by two strong women refusing to be victims almost made up for having to read Ovid’s Metamorphoses.

When Tereus tries to persecute the sisters, they ask the Gods for help and are changed into a nightingale (Philomela) and a swallow (Procne) respectively, voices forever heard in beautiful song. (Never mind that female nightingales in real life are mute, and it is the males who sing.) The sisters avenge the assault and regain their honor and freedom, much in contrast to so many others in Greek mythology who share the female fate and get punished on top of it (just think Medusa!) Then again, it is ravaging Gods in most other cases, who get away with it, while Tereus was a mere mortal – maybe those will be punished after all. Or will they?

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In North America you mostly see tree swallows, migratory birds that come back every spring. They are amazing aerialists and they are some of the migratory birds most affected by climate change. Shifts in temperature and amount of rainfall since the 1970s have led to breeding patterns that have been catastrophic. Due to warmer winters, eggs are laid earlier, but then the critical period for babies’ weight gain falls into time windows where there are not enough insects to go around to feed them because of excessive spring rains. Not only has the insect population itself steadily declined, but insects hide when it is wet and cool, and the swallow parents stop going to the nesting sites for days on end since they can’t find food. Often it is too late for the fledglings who die of starvation and hypothermia before better weather resumes.

One way to combat that is, of course, to increase insect availability. That means creating more wetlands, no spraying with pesticides, and allowing weeds to grow that really attract insect populations. Dandelions are among the ones that really help fight the insect decline and yet they’ve become scarcer and scarcer due to overeager gardeners and farmers waging war on them (yours truly included before I learned this.) Let them bloom!

In any case, when I see and hear swallows it makes me happy, it makes me think back to the fascination they have obviously held for many across centuries, to the fact how they were integrated into the literary arts. It makes me want to document their beauty to get us all more engaged in trying to do what’s right for the environment.

You can have the chattering of swallows by Janacek.

the song of the nightingale by Stravinsky

or some very sad birds by Ravel, if we don’t get our act together.

Shared Fields

Do you know that feeling when you have completely conflicting reactions to a person or an event? When a lot strikes you as admirable or interesting or unusual, but other things bug you, and you can’t quite find a resolution to that emotional tension? So it is with me and Helen Frankenthaler (1928 – 2011), today’s painter of choice, since large blocks of landscape colors reminded me of her color fields.

Helen Frankenthaler (American, 1928–2011). Hint from Bassano, 1973. 

She was born into an upper-class, wealthy and cultured New York family and early on given a sense of superiority by her father, New York state supreme court judge Alfred Frankenthaler. Her life was defined by remaining within that class and its perks, with multiple residences, staff, the works. Her education was privileged from the beginning, from ultra-conservative prep-schools to progressive institutions like Bennington College. Affairs and then marriage to arrived art critics and artists opened the door to the intensely creative world of the 1950s, including exposure to Jackson Pollock who stimulated her thinking about painting method. A short stint of being mentored by Hans Hofman, one of my own favorites (I wrote about him here) set her on her path, never looking back after that.

Helen Frankenthaler, Provincetown Window, 1963-64.

Yet she paved her own way, and despite all her socially somewhat conservative inclinations she was nothing less than revolutionary when it came to her art. And she came to it on her own – after a bitter break-up after 5 years with Clement Greenberg, the art critic du jour, and before her 1958 marriage to Robert Motherwell, another unusually wealthy artist, she managed to achieve recognition as one of the few women in the mid-century art world by pushing away from expressionism into true abstraction. (The marriage ended in 1971, she later wed an investment banker.)

Helen Frankenthaler, Untitled (Cover of a book, not dated.)

She was 23 years old when she started to paint in ways that would be known as the color field movement, influencing other artists later associated with that school. Pouring thinned oil paint on unprepared canvasses which absorbed it while flat on the ground (rather than using a brush), she created luminous, evanescent paintings that hinted at landscape but were as ambiguous as only good abstract art can be. British art critic Nigel Gosling reviewed her in 1964: “If any artist can give us aid and comfort,” he wrote, “Helen Frankenthaler can with her great splashes of soft colour on huge square canvases. They are big but not bold, abstract but not empty or clinical, free but orderly, lively but intensely relaxed and peaceful … They are vaguely feminine in the way water is feminine – dissolving and instinctive, and on an enveloping scale.”

Helen Frankenthaler, For E.M, 1982

I have always thought that she had the courage to create beauty (for women in general a treacherous undertaking, in my view,) but sometimes it was almost too beautiful. I was gratified when I found this review by Deborah Solomon which expresses my reservations in better ways than I could. Written in 1989 for the New York Times, she teases apart the contradictions between the artist’s bourgeois, anti-feminist, controlling nature and her lyrical work that depends to a large extent on accidents and improvisation.

Helen Frankenthaler, Tantric, 1977

It was, above all, beauty she was after, managing to translate ephemeral watercolor-like paintings onto a truly large scale. In later years sponges, squeegees and mops were added to the mix, now spreading diluted acrylics onto raw canvas, but the style pretty much remained the same, yet nowhere seeming boring. She did not seem to mind that the art world had moved on and the younger set deemed her caught in the past – that I admire too: to stick to your ways of expression independent of vogue.

Helen Frankenthaler, Canal, 1963

In her own words:”What concerns me when I work is not whether the picture is a landscape, or whether it’s pastoral, or whether somebody will see a sunset in it. What concerns me is – did I make a beautiful picture?”

Below are two videos describing her life and recording her musings during a visit here at Portland State University some 50 years ago.

And here is a local artist, recently discussed, who continues a tradition of luminosity.

And here is music that reminds me of Frankenthaler’s soothing effects on my mind – an unapologetic melodic approach with hints of romanticism.

Shared Colors

Here are some skies. The painted ones reflect the landscape of Northern Germany, up at the North Sea. The photographed ones were all taken while looking at the Pacific, a century later. I loved the painter, Emil Nolde (1867 – 1956), for much of my early life, being drawn to the color work, his expressionism, an unmatched intensity in his paintings – and the myth that he was the courageously resisting victim of Nazi terror, re-told in a famous novel by Siegfried Lenz, The German Lesson.

Emil Nolde, Meer (hoher Himmel, dunkel-grünes Wasser, qualmender Dampfer)
  1946–1947

I am still fascinated by the evocativeness of his colorization, the way it makes me ask is this really how the maritime sky looks? Indeed, it does! But everything else has collapsed, the beliefs that were so carefully instilled in post-war Germany, and the admiration that had been based on false premises.

Emil Nolde, Dampfer unter rot gelbem Himmel, circa 1935

Nolde was a man who was energetically and successfully building legends around his status as an artist, from day one. He was the misunderstood genius, the martyr at the hands (depending on the era in question) of the Jewish cabal dominating the art market who would not allow a true, pure nordic German to be successful, or at the hands of the Nazis who suppressed his art.

Emil Nolde, Dampfer unter gelbem Himmel, circa 1946

As it turns out, he was an ardent National Socialist himself (as was his wife Ada), a virulent anti-Semite, who even after the war did not change autobiographical writings depicting his loathing for Jews, and who stopped painting religious motifs because he could no longer stand painting “Jews.” Letters from him to Goering and Hitler contained suggestions as to how to rid Germany of “that race.” His subject matter shifted over to painting Vikings and other nordic mythology in the belief he could this way participate in forming the national-socialist art canon.

Emil Nolde, Rote Wolke, circa 1930

In 1933 he admired the writings of fascist Julius Langbehn (Rembrandt as Educator) who claimed that “a pure German art was needed to counteract modernist malaise. He deplored internationalism, mass culture, big city life, argued against specialization, knowledge, a culture of enlightenment, and called for a return to an education of the heart, based on character and individualism, the root of all German art.” Nolde loved this image of a national redeemer, the artist as a German quasi-religious idol. His unmet craving for recognition morphed into a sense of mission that he saw matched by the Führer’s plans. Alas, the admiration was not mutual. Hitler was rejecting the modernism exhibited by Nolde and assigned some of his work to the degenerate art exhibitions (soon to be removed from them by some high-up Nolde admirers in the 3rd Reich administration.) He was, however, sanctioned not with a prohibition to paint (as his later legend has it) but by restrictions on his possibility to freely seek and/or exhibit his art.

Emil Nolde, Herbsthimmel am Meer circa 1940

After the war Nolde carefully crafted the story of himself as a secret resister, having painted 1000s of small works (the unpainted pictures) while being checked on by the Gestapo (a lie.) The paintings date back to almost a decade before he was told to desist sales, and include topics that expressed alliance to the Nazi cause. Here is the interesting thing: much of German society was all too eager to join into this myth building, desperately needing a collective moral saga that matched each person’s need to absolve themselves from accusations of conformity if not collaboration, showing a way out: they had all gone into some kind of inner emigration. The Foundation archiving his work refused all access to incriminating written materials, benefitting from the myth making themselves. Nolde became a figure of cultural identification in post-war Germany, where clean heroes were desperately needed to regain a sense of identity and self-esteem. He was deemed the modern martyr who relentlessly served his art, regardless of defamation and persecution, helping people to redefine their own roles during the 3rd Reich.

Emil Nolde, Landschaft mit hohem Himmel und roten Wolken
circa 1930-1935

Last year saw the first comprehensive revision of the legend around this painter at a retrospective exhibition in Berlin, with a catalogue exploring the true history. The Nolde foundation is now under new leadership and fully participant in the research efforts.

Here is a fabulous review that offers more detail.

Music today from another Northern-born German, Johannes Brahms. No conflict between self presentation and content here, or between his art and his identity. Sigh of relief.

Shared Forms

Last year the Centre Pompidou did a retrospective of Victor Vasarely’s life works, titled Le Partage Des Formes, Shared Forms. I only read about it, but the title stuck in my head. It probably referred to the repetitive, grouped forms in his paintings. I, on the other hand, often see forms in nature which remind me of abstract art, and I always wonder what unconscious influence is extended by having been exposed to these patterns across a life time. Art offering its share of nature.

As a little exercise, then, I tried to come up with photographs I took on my walks and match them up with art works that they reminded me of. I’ve added a short description of the painter’s life, keeping us as far away from discussion of politics as possible. I think it helps to look at something beautiful, just to keep our spirits up.

Georges Braque, Still Life with Metronome, 1909

Vasarely’s work might, in individual instances, fit the bill for today’s nature photographs, but overall his op-art paintings are just too regular and bent towards creating visual illusions. Someone else, however, hits the jack pot: Georges Braque.

Georges Braque, Bottle and Fishes, 1910-1912

Born in 1882 in France, he was a trained as a house painter, but interested enough in fine art that he pursued an education. Originally influenced by Fauvism, he soon struck up a friendship with Picasso. (In his own words, they were tied together for some time like mountain climbers on a rope.) The two revolutionized painting by developing Cubism in parallel. The first, Analytical phase of Cubism was dominated by slab volumes, somber colouring, and warped perspective.

 “The colours are brown, gray, and green, the pictorial space is almost flat, viewpoints and light sources are multiplied, contours are broken, volumes are often transparent, and facets are turned into apparently illogical simultaneous views.”

Exactly the kind of view of sandstone and basalt cliffs when you inspect them closely.

Georges Braque, Piano and Mandolin, 1909

Braque became famous and well-to-do during his life time. He served in WW I with distinction, incurring a serious head wound that required multiple surgeries and months of recuperation. He had but one wife, and eventually separated from Picasso who chose a very different path. He died in 1963, with the last years of his life devoted to more figurative painting and subjects of Greek mythology.

Georges Braque, Le Sacre Coeur, 1910

Of particular interest to me is his development of collage work; he was one of the first to add paper and other substances to his paintings in his later career. He wrote much about the fact that paintings should no just be the representation of an anecdote, but an independent object. That is the inherent joy for me, of course, when I make montages: creating something that is in itself new and non-existent in reality from something as reality-based as possible: photographs. A representational illusion.

Here, however, is the representation of the real thing!

And here is the website of contemporary Oregon artist Lee Musgrave, who has a penchant for echoing nature in his abstract art or find abstraction in nature, depending on where and when the muse strikes him.

Music today is a 1917 ballet with cubist influence, Parade, composed by Eric Satie for a one-act scenario by Jean Cocteau, original costume design by Picasso. For the overlapping fragments, Satie uses jazz elements, a whistle, siren, and typewriter in his score.

For something a little bit more melodious: Here are the piano works.