A Coincidence On A Big Arts Birthday

Today, September 29, marks the birthday of two renowned American artists, the painter Walter Inglis Anderson, and the composer, George Gershwin. Both were filled with creative genius. Both lives featured tragic loss. Anderson died (1965) in his early sixties recognized as a local artist and obscure introvert wracked by schizophrenia. National appreciation of his contribution to American art would come slowly and long after his death. Even today he's not well known among general populations beyond the South. On the other hand, Gershwin would die of a brain tumor at the age of 38 at the height of his career and known throughout the world.

I discovered Anderson on my own in the 1970s during the dedication of a National Park Service visitor center in Ocean Springs, Mississippi. The award-winning center featured architectural elements incorporating his motifs as well as interior displays of his nature paintings. Unfortunately, the center was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. In regard to George Gershwin, I had an ear for him very early in life as my mom and dad enjoyed listening to his work on the radio, records, and television.

Walter "Bob" Anderson, self-portrait, 1941

Walter Inglis Anderson, was born on September 29, 1903 in New Orleans. After training at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts in the mid-1920s, he spent most of his career associated with Shearwater Pottery, a family enterprise founded in Ocean Springs, Mississippi. Though deeply troubled with mental illness for much of his life, he produced thousands of vivid works of art - often called "abstract realism" - seeking to celebrate the unity of human existence with nature. I often describe his work as decorated illustrations that play freely with figure and ground and the positives and negatives of visual perception. His realizations of nature explode in the mind's eye. Observing Anderson is a meditative experience. Visit the Walter Inglis Anderson Museum of Art site to learn more about the life and work of this regional artist who only recently has taken on national significance.

Frog, Bug, Flowers                     Walter Anderson, ca. 1945

George Gershwin was born in New York in 1898. He went on to become perhaps the most beloved American composer of the last century through his many compositions for the musical stage, the concert hall, and what has become known as the Great American Songbook. Gershwin's appeal comes in part from his colorful and lively incorporation of jazz motifs in all his music. He died in 1937 with what could only be called a spectacular career ahead of him. I often imagine what he could have brought to American music had he lived another forty years.

Gershwin in 1937

Studying these artists came much later in my life. In the last ten years, that study led to a startling revelation: George, Walter and I were born on September 29. It's a coincidence from somewhere in the stars beyond time. I don't want to attempt an explanation. And there's no delusion here, my friends, I will never approach their genius. Not sure I'd want to. I'll simply leave it at that and enjoy their greatness knowing that we share a quiet and inconsequential commonality.

In closing, here is one of Gershwin's most beloved songs - with lyrics by his brother, Ira - performed by jazz great, Ella Fitzgerald. The 1959 recording is one of 57 Gershwin brothers songs she recorded as part of her famous songbook series. The series of studio albums has been an annual best-seller among jazz recording for sixty years.

Sources
Photos and Illustrations:
Walter "Bob" Anderson, Self-portrait, 1941. Walter Anderson Museum of Art, Ocean Springs, Mississippi;
Frogs, Bugs, and Flowers, Walter Anderson, ca 1945. Repository: Roger H. Ogden Collection. Copyright: Roger H. Ogden;
George Gershwin 1937. Carl Van Vechten Collection, Library of Congress

Autumn 2019

One of the things I most enjoy about living in north Georgia - albeit metro Atlanta - is the seasonal transitions. Granted this is a four season climate even in the southern Appalachian region; however, one is hard pressed to determine exactly what season embraces you if your sole factor is temperature. 

Today is the first day of autumn but our high temperature reached 90 degrees and the humidity was more like a measure reserved for the Rockies and the central Continental Divide rather than the rolling Appalachian Piedmont a half hour east of the Atlanta Perimeter. In other words it was a stunningly beautiful summer day unless you looked at the calendar. Our drought may have yellowed the tulip poplars in late August, but those leaves are long gone. Another week of drought will likely mean a weak color season for the region. Looking in our woods today you'd see nothing but a rich green. It doesn't mean change is far away. The clouds are a give away that cooler fronts are closing in on our woods. Autumn waits.

To Autumn

O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stain'd

With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit

Beneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest,

And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,

And all the daughters of the year shall dance!

Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.

'The narrow bud opens her beauties to

The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins;

Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and

Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve,

Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing,

And feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head.

'The spirits of the air live in the smells

Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round

The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.'

Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat,

Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak

Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.

William Blake (1757-1827)

To set the mood this evening as Autumn drifts into our lives here is Autumn (1982) composed and performed by George Winston.  He has been very generous with his musical talent over many years. 

And then there is the great harvest Autumn brings us. Thanks to the revolutionary spirit of the Romantic movement we are left with no better way to express Nature's bounty than in the Napoleonic Calendar.  Its ten day weeks, twelve months of thirty days, and assorted extra days to add up to the essential number, 365/6, made it confusing as a time piece. On the other hand, using seasonal events, plant and animal names, and farming implements to label the days and months made the calendar a work of art. And so we have on this day  not only the autumnal equinox but also the anniversary of the proclamation of the Republic (1792), the first day of the new Napoleonic Year, and "Grape," the first day of the month of 
Vendemiaire.

Here in the next 29 days is a vivid picture of the season:

Safran (Saffron)

Chataignes (Chestnut)

Colchique (Autumn Crocus)

Cheval (Horse)

Balsamine (Yellow Balsam)

Carrotes (Carrots)

Amaranthe (Amaranth)

Panais (Parsnip)

Cuve (Tub)

Pommes de terre (Potatoes)

Immortelle (Strawflower)

Potiron (Giant Pumpkin)

Reseda (Mignonette)

Ane (Donkey)

Belle de nuit (Marvel of Peru)

Citroville (Summer Pumpkin)

Sarrazin (Buckwheat)

Touresol (Sunflower)

Pressoir (Wine-Press)

Chanvre (Hemp)

Peches (Peaches)

Navets (Turnip)

Amarillis (Amaryllis)

Boeuf (Cattle)

Aubegine (Eggplant)

Piment (Chile Pepper)

Tomate (Tomato)

Orge (Barley)

Tonneau (Barrel)

I think Vendemiaire provides us a comforting association with a different time and place, a pre-industrial existence where we can easily recognize ourselves as part of nature and not separate from it. That's as it should be. This is the season to be close to the earth and its harvest that sustains us through the cold and dark months to come. Welcome to Fall and the grape harvest. Let us enjoy it whether it be early or late.

Sources:

Illustration:Wikipedia entry: Vendemiaire, author unknown, National Library and Bureau of Measures,

Text:

Blake poem, Poetical Sketches, 1783
Fondation Napoleon, www.napoleon.org

H.L. Mencken: The Brilliant Debunker From Baltimore

After all these years, the Sage of Baltimore - Henry Louis Mencken - still has so much to tell us about the American experience. In his day he invented the term "booboisie" to refer to the masses who didn't read much, know much or even care much about their lives as citizens of a democratic republic. Today we could easily apply his term to the masses who are well-schooled but not well-educated, who apply emotion rather than reason and logic to their decision making, and who align themselves with coalitions of self-interests wrapped in collectivist totalitarianism. Another term for the modern-day "booboisie" is "moonbat". I think Mencken would have a even more colorful term for them if were still with us. And oh would he have a time with our political and social landscape today especially with an iconoclast occupying the White House.

  

Democracy is a pathetic belief in the collective wisdom of individual ignorance. No one in this world, so far as I know - and I have researched the records for years, and employed agents to help me - has ever lost money by underestimating the intelligence of the great masses of the plain people. Nor has anyone ever lost office thereby.

Henry Louis Mencken, the "Sage of Baltimore," was born on September 12 in 1880. He was a leading journalist and author on the American scene, humorist, and a student of the American language. Mencken's stature seems to be on the rise over the last few decades. I'd guess it's because we experienced a concurrent rise in many nation-wide opportunities to watch logic, practicality, and skepticism destroy a multitude of political pretenders and their policies regardless of political persuasion.

Puritanism is the haunting fear that someone, somewhere is having a good time.

As much as I enjoy reading all of Mencken's work, the autobiographical books remain my favorites. His three-part "Days" series, Happy Days (1940), Newspaper Days (19441), and Heathen Days (1943) should be essential reading. They cover his life and times from birth through 1936, including the most productive and positive time in his career. Mencken also wrote a fascinating  investigation of spoken English in the United States.  The American Language: An Inquiry into the Development of English in the United States  was published in 1919. Two large supplements followed in 1946 and 1948. 

After the mid-1930's, Mencken fell a bit out of fashion as his curmudgeonly persistence began to grind on the American psyche. His perceived sympathy with German nationalism helped undermine his reputation into the 40's. In one of the great ironies in American literature, a stroke in 1948 rendered him unable to read, speak or write beyond simple phrases or sentences. Although he regained some communications skills over time, he spent the next seven years enjoying music, listening to readings, and conversing with friends until his death in 1956.

If, after I depart this vale, you ever remember me and have thought to please my ghost, forgive some sinner and wink your eye at some homely girl.

Those who want the full Mencken story should read Terry Teachout's, The Skeptic: A Life of H.L. Mencken (2003). Teachout is a superb writer who treats his subject with objectivity and warmth. I also enjoyed a biography, Mencken: The American Iconoclast (2005), by the eminent Mencken scholar, Marion Elizabeth Rodgers.

If reading isn't to your liking but you still want some immersion into the man and his times, C-SPAN's American Writers Project produced a fine two-hour program on Mencken that should not be missed. It is a thorough multimedia exploration.

I'm the third generation in my family to consider Mencken a favorite writer. Though the author as skeptic likely played a role in his popularity over the years, I think his humor sold him to the family - certainly did in my case. That said, I hope readers can find some time to enjoy the "Sage of Baltimore," a writer who was also and often described as the "Mark Twain of the Twentieth century."




Sources

Quotations:
Democracy is.... "Notes on Journalism," Chicago Tribune, September 19, 1926;
Puritanism is.... " Sententae," The Citizen and the State, p.624;
If, after I.... "Epitaph," from Smart Set (December 1921);
No one ever.... paraphrase of the "Democracy" quote as noted in The Yale Book of Quotations (2006)

Harvest Moon 2019

The moon, like a flower in heaven's bower, with silent delight sits and smiles on the night.

                                                                                                       William Blake

The full Harvest Moon casts its shadow across the planet tonight. As the moon emerges from the sea, coastal residents can experience the sublime event precisely as it has been viewed by humans for thousands of years. It is no wonder a star-filled dome over land's end and the timeless sound of surf capture and command our consciousness so easily. Add a moon rise and all reason flees.

Lowcountry moonrise over McQueens Island east of Savannah, Ga, ca. 1950

“...Her eyes, he says, are stars at dusk,

Her mouth as sweet as red-rose-musk;

And when she dances his young heart swells

With flutes and viols and silver bells;

His brain is dizzy, his senses swim,

When she slants her ragtime eyes at him...

Moonlight shadows, he bids her see,

Move no more silently than she.

It was this way, he says, she came,

Into his cold heart, bearing flame.

And now that his heart is all on fire

Will she refuse his heart's desire?―...”

                                                                                         Conrad Aiken

The harvest moon is climbing high. Go outside. Get lost in it. Smile back.

Sources

Photos and Illustrations:
National Park Service, Fort Pulaski National Monument handbook, 1954

Text:
intro quotation, William Blake, Songs of Innocence and Experience, originally published in 1789.

poem excerpt, Conrad Aiken

Mel Torme: The Velvet Fog

Scott Johnson, my kindred spirit when it comes to music history, posted a belated birthday tribute to Mel Torme in 2012. He rightfully described Torme as "one of the great all-time American artists, too little known and vastly under-appreciated." Many readers may not know the artist - he passed away in 1999 - but they would certainly recognize one of his most famous compositions, The Christmas Song, from its opening line, "Chestnuts roasting on an open fire...." That song is one of around 300 Torme wrote, but he also contributed to the world of entertainment as a composer, arranger, musician, actor and writer over his 65 year career.

Although I've had a life-long interest in popular music and jazz I never much listened to Torme until his death. After hearing so much praise for him in remembrances from the industry, I began listening more carefully to his performances and soon developed an appreciation of his crisp timing, perfect pitch, impeccable diction, and playfulness.  Here's a fine example of the master at work.

And just in case you want to associate "The Velvet Fog" with his signature song - he called it his "annuity" - here is Torme performing it late in his career.

What memories we have!

An Early Surrender To Fall

For the past five days Atlanta's weather, remarkably clear, hot, and exceptionally dry, sang of the high country.  It should persist for another week. Such perfection is normally reserved for later in the endless Fall that is so characteristic of the Atlanta region. It reminds me of times in Montana and Colorado and many months spent living in and traveling the sacred high deserts of the Southwest. The days to come may bring some haze or even a brief thundershower, but today is a harbinger of that spectacular season that is but a few weeks away.

On such days  in the past I usually made a special effort to be outside but for now I am content to enjoy the outside through the large picture window by my desk. Lots of reading and research today as well as football all interspersed with long pipe dreams provoked by my window on the world.   I am left to sink into a welcomed rest, cradled by the music of Eric Whitacre and lyrics from the pen of Charles Silvestri. 

Sleep

The evening hangs beneath the moon

A silver thread on darkened dune
With closing eyes and resting head
I know that sleep is coming soon

Upon my pillow safe in bed
A thousand pictures fill my head
I cannot sleep my minds aflight
And yet my limbs seem made of lead.

If there are noises in the night
A frightening shadow, fleeting light
Then I surrender unto sleep.

Where clouds of dreams give second sight

What dreams may come both dark and deep

Of flying wings and soaring leap

As I surrender unto sleep
As I surrender unto sleep

A Mill Town Boy Remembers Labor Day

It was a spectacular holiday weekend in north Georgia. Refreshing northwest winds bathed the state in dry, warm air and filled the sky with puffy cumulus clouds one usually sees rolling in off the Atlantic. 

For about thirty of the 55 years of our dual career my wife and I were accustomed to working on weekends and most holidays. We worked so that others could enjoy their day experiencing some of the most significant natural and cultural resources in the nation. We consider it an honor to have done so but at the same time have come to appreciate the opportunity to share and celebrate these special days with others. In sharing them with my children, in the quiet of the evening I'm often left with memories of Labor Day picnics.

Those picnics were day-long affairs held in Burlington, West Virginia, by the West Virginia Pulp and Paper Company to honor their employees and families on the workers' holiday. The company had been the major employer in my hometown for over three generations. By 1960 the community and company were indeed a family and this day was their reunion. With four to five thousand people in attendance it was a big event featuring plenty of food and beverages in addition to carnival rides, dancing, bingo and board games, swimming, model train rides, pony rides, softball, foot races and similar activities, real airplane rides at $2 a ride, and a playground filled with wonderfully dangerous equipment including the greasy pig, flying boats, two merry-go-rounds - one a center-pivot - and a very tall and fast sliding board. None of that equipment could approach today's safety standards. The big day ended with a free movie under the stars at the drive-in theater next door.

The Old Tybee Ranger was three when this photo was taken at the Burlington campground 

Although many of the kids I played with on those days ended up working at the mill many of them went on to college, military service or other opportunities and adventures that took them away from small town life. In the long run I think those who left made the right decision. Earlier this summer the mill closed abruptly putting over 600 workers out of jobs that had supplied their families with good union wages and benefits to match. Today, the mill sits idle after several changes in ownership and a slow, decades-long decline in both the talented workforce and demand for the coated paper it produced. It is a story heard before as one industry after another left the region. 

The mill's Labor Day picnics at Burlington ended in the 1960's and it's been almost fifty years since I spent that holiday weekend there. Still, I feel a strong affinity for the place, the big event, and those - including lots of extended family  -  living among the magnificent ridges and valleys in the shadow of the Allegheny Front.  Although they are surely challenged by the mill closing their work ethic and sense of community will insure their survival through this hard time.  We know the notable labor history of these valleys in the last century helped bring the nation through two world wars and into the limelight as the greatest economic engine on the planet. We may be left only with the memories of the holiday at Burlington and elsewhere but we cannot forget the labor, ambitions, and achievements that made the celebration possible. That's why we wish all workers, especially those in the valleys of Georges Creek, New Creek, Patterson Creek and the Potomac River, a happy Labor Day. I think the American Dream has a good future in store for all of them. There will be bumps in the road to better employment but they simply make the good times more enjoyable.  After all, it's widely known that mountains cannot stand without valleys.