Our meanders through the "Made" diplay area at the Architectural Digest Home Design Show today were rewarded with a sight for sore Vermont eyes (the sore feet persisted). Rounding a corner surrounded by handcrafted furniture and strikingly unique decor, a gleaming array hove into view. The familiar faces of Randi and Marie, from Solinglass of Brattleboro broke into smiles nearly as dazzling as their amazing handblown glass sculptural vessels. We'll be posting more in-depth coverage on the Roaming by Design blog soon!

The premise of this week’s #letsblogoff topic holds that we are creatures necessarily formed of our provenance. To quote Paul Anater, emcee du jour, “We’re the products of everywhere we’ve ever been and everyone we’ve ever known.” It’s all thrown into the mix. The words and actions of those around us become an integral part of our own ways of being. Some of these words can hinder, some can assist - the question is posed: What is the best advice you have ever received?

All of the sundry encounters and experiences that have entered our existence meld into a perception of reality that not only informs our personality, it IS our personality. Some say this may reach back farther than our own direct impressions; cultural and inherited experience are carried forward from the past and color our individual perspectives, giving a deeper basis of relevance as we move through an interpretation of the moment.

While it is a fact that our minds seek to understand what they encounter now in terms of what has happened before, it is significant to recognize that these bits of information are not our own – they are preconceived and passed along, from our parents, our friends, from everyone we have ever met. They are absorbed by our senses, then processed and filed for retrieval when the next need for reaction arises, in an attempt to make some sense out of what is transpiring at that juncture. The process is constantly refined and evolving, as the available “data” is augmented and edited, hopefully toward a better and more holistic comprehension of our individual realities. There is no one “reality”. It is a word that exists only in the collective; we create our own actuality simply by being ourselves, as does everyone else.

This brings me to the powerful statement which has affected the manner whereby I seek to understand the world around me: “Never take anything personally.” Knowing that each person, whether familiar or unknown to me, is seeing what I see through completely different eyes, by default to their own  body of experience, gives me an ability to stand on my own cognizance and validates my viewpoint. It is mine and mine only. I have no other way to see things, but that is the way it must be and it makes it “right”. The simple act of claiming one’s own sovereignty is all-encompassing. It changes everything by changing nothing at all; it’s all the same material, just a realization of relation. It’s stepping out of the swirling cloud of the past and into the sunshine of the moment.

Those four words have helped me to make my story my own: I am who I am, from whence I came, as I am right now, and where I am going, and that is enough. It’s all there is, really. And so are you; what a journey!

All photographs original, by the author

 

Absorbing a Modern view cubby-holed across the interior of Pier 92 on New York's West Side: the Armory Show is in its 13th running as the top international art fair.

#LetsBlogOff addresses "legacy". I leave you with this.

There is something within the human heart which seeks eternity. Facing the mortality of this temporal existence, and knowing there must be more to it than a string of repetitious obligations until the clock stops, we search for lasting meaning. All manner of belief systems are concocted and espoused; elaborate schemes of value and qualifications are posited; each attempting to extrapolate beyond the mundane and surficial – creating a reason to carry ourselves forward into “whatever comes after”.

The word we use in the English language - “legacy” – is derived from “legare” in Latin, which means to bequeath. It is what remains, the evidence, when the play has been acted and the stage is quiet. What is left? Some might leave the scene strewn with props – large impressive constructions; some might exit with raucous declarations or fretful protestations echoing from the proscenium;  and some might close with a singular aura hanging in the atmosphere – an impact of presence that persists.

It is this intangible bequest that lasts longest. Whereas great monuments are built, amazing masterpieces are created, vast civilizations are cultivated, and extraordinary accomplishments are planned and executed… then the cycle begins once again! After all, mass and energy are conserved; we all have to work with the same bits of dust within our allotted times.  Ironically, what lasts longest is the least tangible. I return again to one of my favorite writers, a philosopher of distillation – Thoreau – who said: “A man is rich in proportion to what he can do without.”

That legacy lasts longest which runs deepest. When the dust settles and the fire has burned, all we have left is not what we did, but how we did it. What was left lingering in the air?

All photos original except sand dunes, from travelblog.org

Franklin Simmons, Medusa

The blue light glanced from the crystalline snow heaped outside the gallery’s glass walls, and imbued the transluscent Carrara marble with an illumination that seemed to emanate from within. The exquisitely worked stone was suffused with an indigo chiaroscuro, the figure’s frozen poses masterfully fashioned by the sculptor’s hands - the endless months of labor made seemingly effortless by the grace and serenity of the tableaux.

Franklin Simmons, Jochebed, Mother of Moses

The Neoclassical sculpture of Benjamin Paul Akers and Franklin Simmons, natives of Maine who established studios in Rome along with many of their fellow artists in the mid-1800’s, is displayed in the rotunda at the entrance to the L.D.M. Sweat Gallery. The Gallery is a central feature of the Portland Museum of Art, a fascinating complex of exhibits and architecture on Congress Square in this bustling New England harbor city, the cultural capital of the state of Maine. These two men epitomized the Classical fascination that grew in this country in the 19th century, as America looked to ancient Greece and Rome for inspiration while it created its own cultural identity. They both returned to Portland after their Italian sojourns and became an integral part of the society flourishing in the prosperous port.

Benjamin Paul Akers, The Dead Pearl Diver

Themes were drawn from mythology, Biblical allegory, and romantic idealism. Simmons’ sculpted portraiture and heroic creations in the coveted pure white marble exemplify the ideals of beauty and virtue popular with a nation coming to grips with itself and its destiny. Having no heirs at his death in 1913, he left his estate and accumulated artwork to the city of Portland and the legacy anchors the monumental display.

Benjamin Paul Akers, The Dead Pearl Diver detail

The Museum’s very first acquisition was Akers’ moving piece“The Dead Pearl Diver”, a bequest of his widow Elizabeth. The romanticized depiction of  tragic death, remarkably executed in soft light and shadow and amazingly detailed nuance, is at the center of the rotunda; it is hard to tear one’s eyes away from the pathos and strength of emotion captured in this masterpiece. Akers himself died very young, at 35 years old.

The Museum is open six days a week and also Mondays in the summer. Friday evenings are free courtesy of the generosity of L.L. Bean and Patricia and Cyrus Hagge. The collections are far-reaching and beautifully housed; be sure not to miss this gem by the sea!

Once upon a time not so long ago, in a galaxy called Twitter, an idea was born. And the people saw that it was good, and embraced it twice monthly. We find ourselves once again at that pleasant juncture...

Our assigned mission today (and we are all volunteers mind you) on the caprice #letsblogoff runs thus: How do you define storytelling? Namely -

…let’s examine the art and science of storytelling and why we human beings seem to need a good story like we need food, water and air. Or take the discussion in your own direction. But above all, tell us a good story. Or a bad one even.

And veer we will! Ever so slightly….

Storytelling is half of an equation. There is the act of telling: the narrator weaving a tale, perhaps one which he has inherited, perhaps another drawn from the wellspring of his own imagination. It may be legendary, it may be off-the-cuff, it may be familiar or it may venture into strange territory. Whatever its provenance, it must ring authentic – or it will not engage the listener. And therein lies the balance of the proposition: without an audience, the story does not exist. And without a story line, the audience does not exist. It is empty breath in a vacuum. It is a conceit; it is, indeed, pointless.

The magic of a story well-told is in the humanity engaged. We are creatures that crave association – even antisocial behavior has its affinities, its habits and predilections, albeit closeted perhaps. We look for identity in the world around us and align ourselves with it. When we hear an engaging statement, our eyes widen and our antennae swing in unison toward the stimulus. We feel a resonation with the setting and characters proffered for our examination; we may empathize or sympathize, we may laugh in relief or we may cringe in self-deprecation. Our attention is caught; a spell is cast, and we the willing bewitched. The storyteller draws his strength from the energy of the entranced: without an audience truly captive, there is no soul to animate the creation; words fall on deaf, distant ears, listening to another faraway tale, with stronger reach and fascination. The lips move, but no one hears.

 There are stories all around us. It is as much an art to learn to listen closely as it is to relate clearly. The ability to be aware is the rarer of the two, I believe. Much is made of a talent to express succinctly and boldly; we hold these “Great Communicators” in high regard. They tell us the things we want and indeed, need, to hear – whether corroboration or remonstration. There are other stories being told – always more stories! – but there must be a discerning ear, an alertness and sensitivity to the authenticity of the song being sung. Is it tinny and contrived or does it run deep and strong? Is it a real story or are they making it up?

 

I recently wrote a post for the design blog Roaming By Design, an online trove of design inspirations and discoveries shared by the inimitable Saxon Henry and now, yours truly - recently anointed Creative Director. I think that means I get to wear a funny hat. Or at least, I hope so....

To get the scoop on this provocative Egyptian temple frozen in time, cast entirely of concrete and dating to 1905, click your way here.

Earlier today we hopped in the car (truth be told, we drove in the car; southern Vermont in February is a far cry from East L.A.) and travelled to the fine town of Norwich, VT, namesake of Norwich University, to visit a client for a service call. Norwich is directly across the Connecticut River from its sister Hanover, NH which claims Dartmouth College as its own. There are many fine examples of stately architecture in the area, a pet preoccupation, so there was a fair amount of unabashed rubber-necking whilst we sought our goal, a new residence tucked into the foothills lining the western bank of the river.

After a disappointing attempt to procure lunch at the Norwich Inn’s Jasper Murdock Tavern – to be fair, not the innkeeper’s fault that my timing was unerringly imperfect (they are closed for luncheon only on Mondays), we repaired to Dan & Whit’s General Store immediately adjacent and managed to score tekkamaki, a roast beef wrap, and redskin potato salad (bliss!) from the deli cooler. The portable feast did little to assuage my chagrin at missing the opportunity, after at least 15 years of expressed desire, to sample the offerings of the smallest microbrewery in the beer state of all beer states (dear little Vermont). I made lemonade, however – please excuse the cluttered metaphors – and walked out with two 22 oz. bottles of their finest, for indulgence at my leisure.

We made our way out of the village center and on to Vermont Route 5, the old north-south thoroughfare that links all the river towns with its winding two lanes of asphalt; its once-busy length now supplanted by the soul-less high-speed endeavor known as Interstate 91. We dipped under the concrete bypass, coasted along the frozen, hemlock- and spruce-lined river for a mile and then climbed back up the hillsides, snaking under the alien highway once more as we neared our destination.

The new home shone bright and solid atop the grade – this had to be it! – and so it was: the mailbox number matched my notes . Unfortunately, the owner was not in; we were early and unexpected, so I wrote a note explaining the situation as we evaluated our options and then tucked it into the front door. After a little while, we turned around and headed back down the hill to regroup; as I turned a corner, a vehicle approached and passed toward the direction from whence we had come. It seemed likely to me that it might be the homeowner (we had never met at this point; the project had been handled through a third party – NBC Solid Surfaces of Springfield, VT). We gave chase and my hunch proved correct, so we were able to meet and take care of the small repair requested: a pinhole had opened in the surface of their island countertop, which we masked and filled on the spot.

The woman of the house was kind and warm, happy to meet the creators of her new concrete surface. She remarked on its character and durability, and her preference for natural, benign materials. The top was wetcast in a natural gray portland cement color. It shows a wide variety of subtle shading and textures, movement and fine aggregate patterns. Since we hadn’t been on site previously, we were able to take a few photos of the finished installation and then we were on our way, back to the deep South (Brattleboro, in the banana belt, as we jokingly refer to it). Although this year’s crop will have a tough time pushing up through three feet of snow, I will spend my time learning to make a noise like a whistling pig, a rare and worthy accomplishment.

First photo credit by Hanover Chamber, second photo by Norwich Inn, balance by yours truly

 

The view du jour in which I am privileged to be a participant each dawn on my drive down VT Rt. 9 East, from my home in Wilmington to the studio in Brattleboro in the Connecticut River valley. Stop and smell the moments...