2011 June 30 - Thursday

After the third or fourth time I'd sung, "What's that on your head? / A wig!" Mark finally asked me why I was channeling the B-52's. I smiled and said, "I like to call my wig, 'Olana'." Because it was true, we were driving off to the Rip Van Winkle Bridge and the magical family mansion of Frederic Edwin Church, Olana.  We'd first discovered Olana last January, and between Mr. Church's over-the-top writing about it and all the sumptuous interior designs we knew we had to go.

As we crossed the bridge over the Hudson, we saw the square tower rising over the trees on an overlooking hill.

After a brief snack in the parking lot, we walked to the carriage house, which now serves as the museum and gift shop. The house had lots "gingerbread" on in, which made Mark wonder which came first, the houses in San Fransisco or Olana. Then we saw the main house.

I wanted to take photographs, but they weren't allowed inside. I wanted to sketch, but sketching wasn't allowed, either.

Mark and I probably won the Gay Men's Laser Eye Award for Interior Motif Recognition. The house was filled with chachkies from Egypt and Damascus. The whole house, especially the yellow Central Hall, was designed for family nights of children's plays and guests' tableaus. Everything that wasn't imported from the near East was designed or painted by Church. One picture frame that stuck with me was based on decagons and star zelige. Upstairs, there were samples of imported tile work Church had probably used for the exterior.

The funniest moment was learning that the meticulously stenciled Arabic script in Mrs. Church's office was complete gibberish. The most useful factoid -- he sandwiched black paper between clear and amber glass to create a stained glass window effect.

The servant's quarters were much more plain but still nice; even the utility stairs were wide with low risers.

After the tour I photographed the outside of the building. The day was mostly sunny, and it was just after the sun had passed through the local meridian. Olana strikes me as one of those buildings that demands being photographed ninety minutes within sunrise or sunset. There are so many rich details tiled or carved into the walls that navigating the contrasts proved to be an almost insurmountable challenge for my camera's light meter and auto-focus.

I also sketched some of the curiously shaped windows. Mr. Church had fun working out the brickwork and the geometry for the keyhole shaped casements.

More photos here: John's Olana Photos

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After Olana, we went to a Vanderbilt Mansion in Hyde Park. Mark called it a McMansion of its day. Whereas Olana had been a grand family chateau, Vanderbilt was a family hotel. Olana was welcoming like a Vegas show; Vanderbilt was welcoming like an Edward Gory Chase - I fully expected an urn to thud into the earth next to us.

Our Vanderbilt guide was a Park Ranger. She had long blond hair and used the word "costed", as in "it costed twelve million." I can't decide which part of the tour was funnier, learning that Mrs. Vanderbilt died in Paris on a shopping trip or the following exchange as the tour guide and I were speaking about Olana and I pulled out my sketchbook. TG: "Oh, are you an architect?" Me: "No, but I play one on TV." TD (Obviously missing the 70's TV commercial reference): "Oh, are you an actor?" Me: "No, I'm just a computer geek." (Note to self: jokes based on 70's culture only work with people born between 1950 and 1970).

Our Park Ranger Guild was less formal than our Olana Docent, and let us wander on the floors more. Although the French Empire chairs and tapestries and sculptures were cool, the most interesting thing to me was how the natural convection of air from sub-basement tunnels up through the skylights allowed for fairly good 1880's air conditioning.

After the mansion tour, Mark and I walked through the garden. Mark surveyed the landscaping and made a few note for how we could respond to our neighbor's recent construction with layered plantings of bamboo, lily, iris, and shrubbery.

2011 June 24 - Friday

7:25 - On the bus to the MET! I must remember the stop is at the CVS.

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We've just entered the Turnpike. Riding the Shortline Bus must be getting easier because I don't have the nagging fear I'm heading to Ithica or Buffalo.

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When I got to the New York City Port Authority Bus Terminal, I had a moment's hesitation as I tried to decide if I should walk to 4, 5 or 6 Metroline or enter the system under the Terminal and take the S line.
I wasn't completely awake, I wasn't sure which way I was heading, and a Very Friendly Person latched right onto me. He was kind of short, he was dark skinned, and he was unkempt.

"Where you going to?" he asked. He was kind of like a concierge on steroids.

It was one of those awkward moments where I was too nice to insist that I knew the way. The next thing I knew, my New Best Friend was leading me down to the subway entrance to the S line. It was then that I noticed the alcohol on his breath.

Once my guide had pointed the way, he got very still and said, "Help a brother out?" I figured, What the Heck, and gave him some money.

He thanked me, I walked through the subway gate, and I never saw him again. I did ponder, as I joined the stream of people shuffling to the S train, what kind of Greek plot I'd stumbled into. Would my drunken guide have been Mercury, or Charon?

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I exited the subway near the MET and started walking in the direction I figured would be correct. In the past, I navigated by the sun's position, but it was cloudy and gray, with what felt like a genuine Pacific-Northwest drizzle threatening.

I knew I was heading in the right direction when I saw La Maison du Chocolat. Unfortunately the shop was closed, or I would have slipped in.

I arrived a few minutes later at the steps of the MET. Before opening. O Bliss, O Rapture Unbounded. Oh... A line.

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Security has tightened at the MET, because my bag, which I've always been able to take in before, is ordered to the hat and coat check. This necessitated some awkward re-shuffling of things like my sketchbook and my contact lens case.

My first decision was choosing which wing to go first, then race to the end of that particular exhibit and work my way back toward the Great Hall. Until I win the lottery and can afford to arrange to spend the night (or a week of nights) in the MET, it's the best way to be in near-empty galleries.

For two hours I wandered the Egyptian wings. I love Egyptian art. It makes me want to twirl around with my arms flung out and sing "The Sound of Music" and then say, "Almighty Isis! (Isis Isis...)" At first I hunted for crisp examples of hieroglyphs that I have not already photographed.

I was aware of my own photography because I kept running into a young woman dressed like Lauraa Croft in tight black; she wielded a mega-zoom extra-clicky camera. Every time she paused in front of an exhibit I expected the Jay Giles band to shout "Freeze Frame!"

This time around the statue of Hatsheput compelled me. The artists communicated a sense of the Hatsheput the Monarch of one of the most powerful empires of the time constrained by her throne.



One of the objects I always seem defeated by is the black sarcophagus. Its glossy surface confuses my camera's auto-focus and the fine hieroglyphs on it come out blurry. At a carving next to the sarcophagus a man and two women stopped to look at the hieroglyphic inscriptions. The man was loud and sounded like a child dragged to culture.

"Look at those chicken scratches," he said. "They look like chicken scratches."

One of the woman said wistfully, "It's supposed to say something."

Since I was photographing right next to them anyway, I leaned over and pointed at the inscription. "This triangle shape is 'given' and this shape, ankh, means 'life' -- so together this means the phrase 'given life.' The wasp and the plant over the half circles is the title 'Lord of Upper and Lower Egypt.' This figure here is a god -- we know he's a god because he carries he rod of dominion in one hand and an ankh in the other. This man here is a king because he's wearing a crown with a snake -- the crown of Upper Egypt. This part in a cartouche is one of the king's names, but I'm afraid I can't read it."

"Wow," one of the women said. "Uh, thanks."

Later, I had more fun being amateur Egyptian docent explaining spirit doors to enthusiastic kids. There's something that strikes the storyteller in me to be able to say (while enclosed in stone passages enclosed in glass) "And this is Perneb's spirit door, where his spirit appeared to receive offerings brought by his family." I could almost smell the incense, and I'm pretty sure the kids could almost see an ancient Egyptian ghost.

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I'd made a list of objects to see, then cleverly left it in the bag. And the bag was in forced check-in. But I found the MET's mark-down clearance sale instead!

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When I'm in New York City, I always hear foreign languages. I like the ones that have guttural CH's or short, nasal E's. I heard a (presumably) father and son speaking as I went into the men's room to remove my contact lenses. I don't know if it's the humidity, or dust, or some funny museum chemical, but I only seem to be able to wear my contacts in the MET for about three hours before they start giving me problems.

As I stood in front of a sink, holding my left eye open and using one of those little plunger thingies to remove my contact, I felt the boy's stare. The scene reminded me of Laurie Anderson's spiel about being "The Ugly One with the Who Keeps Her Jewels in her Eyes."

I turned to the boy. In addition to whatever language he'd been speaking with his older relative, I'd heard them using English. So I said, "I have an astigmatism and my eyes are old. So I have to wear rigid, semi-permeable contact lenses. I can't just blink the contacts out, so I use this to take it out." I removed my contact lens and dropped it in its case. "But they're bothering me, so I'll wear my glasses instead." I removed the other one and put on my glasses.

About this time, the older relative realized that the boy had been staring at and was talking to a stranger in the men's room.

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I enjoyed the Courtyard of American Sculpture and Arts. It's the silver. And the Tiffany's tile work. And the Art Deco. And... This time around I enjoyed the sculpture "Young Artist's Hand Stayed by Death." Perhaps enjoyed is the wrong word -- it communicated a sense of motivation to me.

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I wanted to wander through the galleries of the Ancient Near East, but, alas, there was a huge queue snaking along side the displays. I kind of wished I'd stopped to take a picture of The Assyrian Bulls with the queue snaking between them, but I didn't want to photograph people's backs.

I think all the folks in line were going to see some dresses. This was too bad, because I couldn't really look at the ritual objects from the Levant and Fertile Crescent. They fascinate me -- so many of them seem to be saying something about the chariot (or cart) of the sun. While I didn't get to see examples of early Scythian art, I did get to see the Elomite Cow! Again! (I love the Cow.)

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Walking through the Greek and Roman statuary, I must have hit a sugar crash, because the artwork made me meloncholy, and I wrote bad poetry. What triggered the poetry was a sphinx with no face; I've seen it before, but this time I felt for it and wondered what it might be like to come alive in a gallery some moonlight midnight and have no face. Then I looked around at the other fragments statues missing arms, legs or heads.

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Fragments

Wandering among the dead

Within the marble halls.

Clay and stone

House the ghosts

Of long ago.

Who can call their names

When their forms crumble?

In some wing undiscovered

There must be restoration

For faceless sphinxes and

Angels' shoulders crack'd.

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7:50PM - Mark IM'ed me and ... OMG! Will you look at the time!? I had no idea it was so late. By this time I was in the bookstore and I'd become distracted hunting for bargains and gifts.

8:45 - On bus back to Suffern. I've spent almost eleven hours in the MET.

MET Pegasus Clock

This is a clock on display at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

I've seen this piece before, and have another photograph of it somewhere, but it was only with this shot that I realized that the piece is meant to be seen from this angle. Or maybe I should say this the the side of the clock that is the art and imagination side. The other (top) side has the dials and markings that allow you to tell the time and (probably) the seasons.

I like this because it's a clock, and astrolabe all rolled up into one.  I like it because it's (mostly) silver.  And I like it because Pegasus - unlike the Sisyphusian Atlases holding up other globe clocks - looks like flying with the heavens on his back isn't any trouble at all.

May 2011 Irises

A few days ago, the irises started opening.







Last year they all seemed to open at once. I might be remembering incorrectly, but this year they seem to be taking turns.





Purple irises like these are my favorites, although I like cobalt blue ones, too. When I was growing up, we had some giant bearded irises that were descendants of ones from my maternal grandmother's homestead. They were light blue or yellow. There may be a few at my folks' house, but I think a really cold winter killed most of them off.

I love irises before they are fully unfurled because their triangular symmetry is apparent.  They remind me of NASA equipment opening, or alien telescopes, or ceremonial hats, or craftily folded napkins at an erudite café.



When I see the fuzzy yellow insides, I wonder what the iris would look like with ultraviolet light.






I wonder if the stripes on the inside of the iris are a kind of landing strip for insects to follow for pollination.





In the early morning or late afternoon, shadows and light play upon the blooms.






The sphinx looks on from a short distance.

May 2011 Irises

Yesterday the first of our irises bloomed -- this time by our driveway. I expect the other bed in the backyard to have opening ones soon; right now they are reaching up with darken tips.

I love our irises because they're deep purple, somewhere between plum and eggplant. I love the spears of bloom before the tight buds unfold and reveal their bearded insides. And I love the dusky scent of freshly opened iris -- it's sweet, but with a strong base note that gives it an extra potency.

Now if the darn slugs would just lay off of them....

Finished Zelige

Yay! After a couple of nights of wiggling lines in Adobe Illustrator, I finished the design. Technically, this isn't zelige because the lines don't weave over and under each other; but interweaving lines like this in Illustrator is a pain.

I think if I ever got a tattoo, this is the sort of thing that I'd get.

(Thinks some more...)  Nah; I think it would be the Pythagorean theorem plus some other things like how to construct a golden rectangle.

Ruby, Writing, and Zellije

Lots and lots of rain today.

Lately, I've been teaching myself Ruby and Ruby on Rails. The Ruby part is fun; it's a little like PHP or perl, and the methods make coding easy to read. I'm still trying to keep everything straight in my head where all the Rails scaffolding goes, especially since I've already converted some tab-delimited text files into an SQLite database.

When I'm not trying make Ruby display tables, I've been writing, critiquing and working on a zellije tile design from Gök Medrese in the Tokat Province of Turkey. The part I'm interested in is based on pentagons. Since drafting pentagons is difficult, it's easy to get the geometry wrong, and then the lines making up the stars meet in the wrong places (see my example). Trying to reproduce the pattern has given me new respect for ceramic artisans living in an age before electricity and autoCAD.

What I like most about this design are the arc of stars around the center. I find the weaving of the lines relaxing and I enjoy how I'll see stars, or a decangle, or diamonds depending on when I look.

If I can get something reproducible, Mark is not adverse to having one or two of these on display in the house.

Grape Hyacinth

These are some of my favorite flowers. I think what I like most about them is their color, followed by how robust the blooms are. 

Mark planted some in our front flower box. 


The tiny fractal blooms are cool, too; I like how their development seems to travel up the stem of the plant.

They grow from bulbs.  I think they're too tiny for bees to pollinate, but I could be wrong.  

Water Bottle Rockets

For a while, we've been wanting to make Water Bottle Rockets at our house. I grabbed an empty plastic soda bottle and went to a local garden supply store and bought a cork. At the store, I fitted corks into the bottle's neck until I found a good fit.


Back at home, I dug around in our garage until I found the basketball inflation insert for our bicycle pump. I put it through the cork. The cork was a about a half-inch too long, so I trimmed the narrow end down with a hack saw (if I'd trimmed the wide end, it wouldn't have sealed the bottle).


The launch site was created by sticking fondue sticks into the ground to keep the bottle pointing upright instead of at our neighbors' cars. Landscape picture windows. Cats.

Next we filled up the plastic bottles with water...



...and put the bottle on the cork. The tricky part was to make sure that we didn't pull on the pump in such a way to re-aim the bottle and to be sure that we didn't place our heads over the bottle while...





...we were using the bicycle pump to inject air into the bottle.

It usually took two, sometimes three, pumps before the bottle would pop upwards into the sky.  We tried different bottle sizes and shapes.  I'd say the highest shot went about 1.5 telephone poles high.  Too much water in a bottle made it too heavy, and it would only rise about eight feet.  No water in a bottle provided little lift, and the bottle popped off the cork only about two feet high.

Our homemade rockets only changed the vehicle and foot traffic patterns a little.  The pedestrians thought rocketing soda bottles were The Coolest Things Ever.  And those other cars weren't moving anyway.

More On The Outdoor Shrine

I went through my photos and made a collage of the "temple" Mark found last weekend. It's hard to believe that we were there only last week.


I'm still trying to articulate what I like about the place.  Maybe it's the repeating geometric elements, like these pillars.  Or perhaps it's the faux-oldness of the place.  This structure can't be much older than sixty years. 


Or maybe it's the play between the natural and the cultivated; between geometric shapes like circles and pillars and fractal ones like the trees; between stone and water.


But mostly, I think it has something to do with it being an outdoor shrine.  While making photographic discoveries, I had a sense of the elemental and of enclave.  I don't want give the impression that I was frolicking with Flower Fairies, or waiting for Ents; but there was a current there -- something vast and mysterious:  like where a river meets the ocean, or where two tree trunks make a portal, or when the moon rises over a desert mesa.

Mark Finds a Temple

This weekend we got caught behind repairs to power lines when we were coming home on highway 126. We drove up and down the highway trying to out-wait the repairs or find a place to hang out.  But a windstorm had blown multiple trees down and the electricity was out along McKenzie River cooridor. Finally, Mark remembered a resort likely to have a generator, and we managed to book a room there.

The next morning Mark said, "I found a temple!" when he returned from his hike. So we visited it. I was expecting something goofy with Americanized Greek sculpture or faux-Egyptian statues or Phoney Flower Fairies. What we found instead, hidden by stone walls and bamboo, was a kind of architectural folly.

Flowing water tumbled over a circular cascade. I loved it and I wanted it in our back yard. The arrangement was a temple: a temple to water.  Afterward, I saw some pictures of it with blooming flower beds, and I'm sure it's lovely, too; but in the losened grip of winter, the play of stones and water was more apparent.  (And using the internet, I see that it gets used for weddings.)

The moss growing on the pillars reminded me of the nearby trees.

Because I was there on a Very Late Winter Monday Morning, I had the whole place to myself -- there were no wedding receptions, church retreats, or wandering campers.  The flowing water masked noises of traffic and RVs.

The fountains were enchanting.  I loved the mystery of the ruins, although I could see that the columns had a tile façade instead of real stone. The builders made clever use of walls, boulders and the existing stream to create an enclave to watery currents. Each spot had a niche or window. I would love to see the structure's geometry in snow (and the internet has provided a glimpse).

Surrounded by forest hills wreathed in mist, it was easy to imagine I was in another world.  It was the sort of place Arthurian characters might tarry for adventures in.  It was the sort of place I could bring tea and sandwiches (and chocolate) to and write (but probably not on a weekend or during wedding season).

Phosphorescent Film

Have I said how much I enjoy that green film that glows in the dark, and how much fun a room full of the stuff is? 

Mary's Peak Butterflies in July

Every now and then I go through my old photographs. One mid-July we escaped the oppressive heat of the valley and enjoyed a picnic on top of Mary's Peak, a coastal range mountain in Oregon. On a very clear day the ocean is visible, but I don't recall if we saw it or not during our visit. The reason we'd gone was not to lunch some cool place with a great view, but to see the butterflies. The peak was their oasis.

By moving with the speed of a heliotrope, I was able to create happy accidents like this photograph.

Star Cube Tiaras!

I've been playing with Blender 2.55 (beta) and making some virtual objects. It's fun, and since playing with a paper and a compass is my idea of relaxing, it's mostly relaxing, too.


I wanted to make a tiara of stars. So I fiddled around and managed to create a Python program that would calculate the angles and make stars with as many points as I wanted. Blender draws virtual objects by collecting a set of points together and then associating them into sets of object faces; the whole collection of points and faces is called a mesh. I even got to use the golden ratio, phi, to make the star's arm's lengths come out the right length to make a perfect-looking five point star.

Then I discovered that the Python function that rotates meshes, bpy.ops.transform.rotate, is on the bug list. Meaning that it doesn't work. Meaning that I can't be lazy and use a program to place perfect five-point stars in an arc around the crown of a tiara.


Bother.





After a short sulk, I decided that the functions that create cubes, spheres, and other objects still work -- and they have built-in bits for rotation and placement. So. Here we go: Tiaras. Some day the bpy.ops.transform.rotate function will be fixed....