Gertrude Bell meets the painter Sargent
spending the morning in his studio in March of 1904. "He is incredibly unspoilt, simple, natural and outgoing," she wrote to a friend. "He is a great reader of oriental travel books and he loves mountains, now are not those agreeable tastes?"
Detail, John Singer Sargent. "Nonchaloir," 1911. National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C. Definitely not a portrait of Gertrude Bell.
The October 25th issue of The New York Review of Books has a number of terrific articles, including a review of books about Gertrude Bell ("The Queen of the Quagmire" by Rory Stewart) and the role this exceedingly rich and talented lady from Yorkshire played in the creation of the British Mandate, carved in 1920 out of three Ottoman provinces which the British conquered during WWI and called Iraq.
The issue also contains a review of the new book on another Gertrude (Stein) and her life with Alice B. Toklas during the years they spent in France during the War (WWII), and an in-depth article by Luc Sante on my new friend M Félix Fénéon, as well as a number of other items of interest.
Last night E and M came by to join me for the annual Octoberfest held in the public rooms here. A polka band in liederhosen played everyone's favorites in the lobby, with "bottomless" beer on tap in both fountain courtyards to go with your bratwurst and kraut, and what some of us call a "Vienese Table" set up in the Hearst Suite, to which we quickly repaired once the confetti canons went off and the accordian player dove into a speedy rendition of the "Chicken Dance" to much shouting of 'ya-wohl' and 'Ach du Liebe.' Over bon-bons and streudel beneath a ceiling mobile of rose-bud potpourri balls in the Hearst Master suite, we discussed our plans for a literary soiré to be held here on a monthly basis -- sort of a Citizen Kane Fine Arts Evening. What do you think?
Later, as our security team was breaking up a fight in the parking lot below where there used to be tennis courts and Marion Davies used to play with the Barrymores, I looked out over the cigar-smoke-scented night accompanied by strains of Sylvester (the polka band had retired, replaced by a Disco-loving d.j.), and I reflected on how a pattern had emerged here lately, of women and women in the arts and the arts in general, and I was reminded that Taylor Caldwell, about whom I wrote in these pages, had revealed under hypnosis a past life as a servant girl to the writerMarian Mary Ann Evans Cross, otherwise known as George Eliot.
And then I recalled thatMarian, Mary Ann as George Eliot, wrote that Art is the nearest thing to Life, a way of amplifying and extending our contact with our fellow-men beyond the bounds of our personal lot.
Standing at the window, high above the festivities and the fray, as it were, I thought, well that was what we're all trying to do then, isn't it, whether you want to call it Art or not -- we're trying to amplify and extend our contact with our fellow man.
Or in the case of the incident in the parking lot, to be separated from our fellow man. But that was a temporary thing. Art should last a little longer. Don't you think?
The October 25th issue of The New York Review of Books has a number of terrific articles, including a review of books about Gertrude Bell ("The Queen of the Quagmire" by Rory Stewart) and the role this exceedingly rich and talented lady from Yorkshire played in the creation of the British Mandate, carved in 1920 out of three Ottoman provinces which the British conquered during WWI and called Iraq.
The issue also contains a review of the new book on another Gertrude (Stein) and her life with Alice B. Toklas during the years they spent in France during the War (WWII), and an in-depth article by Luc Sante on my new friend M Félix Fénéon, as well as a number of other items of interest.
Last night E and M came by to join me for the annual Octoberfest held in the public rooms here. A polka band in liederhosen played everyone's favorites in the lobby, with "bottomless" beer on tap in both fountain courtyards to go with your bratwurst and kraut, and what some of us call a "Vienese Table" set up in the Hearst Suite, to which we quickly repaired once the confetti canons went off and the accordian player dove into a speedy rendition of the "Chicken Dance" to much shouting of 'ya-wohl' and 'Ach du Liebe.' Over bon-bons and streudel beneath a ceiling mobile of rose-bud potpourri balls in the Hearst Master suite, we discussed our plans for a literary soiré to be held here on a monthly basis -- sort of a Citizen Kane Fine Arts Evening. What do you think?
Later, as our security team was breaking up a fight in the parking lot below where there used to be tennis courts and Marion Davies used to play with the Barrymores, I looked out over the cigar-smoke-scented night accompanied by strains of Sylvester (the polka band had retired, replaced by a Disco-loving d.j.), and I reflected on how a pattern had emerged here lately, of women and women in the arts and the arts in general, and I was reminded that Taylor Caldwell, about whom I wrote in these pages, had revealed under hypnosis a past life as a servant girl to the writer
And then I recalled that
Standing at the window, high above the festivities and the fray, as it were, I thought, well that was what we're all trying to do then, isn't it, whether you want to call it Art or not -- we're trying to amplify and extend our contact with our fellow man.
Or in the case of the incident in the parking lot, to be separated from our fellow man. But that was a temporary thing. Art should last a little longer. Don't you think?
So nice to see some J.S.S. up there! That, in fact is one of my personal favorites. I love all those reclining shawl-swaddled women he painted. But... You know what makes it really special? It's so subtle. It's the streak of pale aquamarine that runs along the back of the sofa & that tiny smudge of ultramarine at the crown of her head. It makes her pink face just glow, doesn't it. Isn't it remarkable when someone is so good that it looks effortless?