The nineteenth-century Hudson River School Painters certainly understood this and strove mightily to convey it—which makes for a fascinating tour of the 45 paintings now on display (through April 1) at the Columbia Museum of Art.

It’s one thing to paint a person or flower arrangement in a studio. It’s quite another to tackle Nature on her fickle terms. Yes, you can take a photograph and work from it in the studio, but then you lose the spatial grandeur, the immediacy of the elements, the tactile quality of natural light, and the assorted play of colors. There’s also the issue of how to eloquently corral Nature on a canvas and what to focus on. Try to encompass everything and you dull the view. Dwell too much on details and you underplay Nature’s uncanny unity.

Below are just a few impressions of how these artists responded to these (and other) demands of being an American landscape artist in the nineteenth century.

William Hart (1823 -1894)
On the Esopus, Meadow Groves, ca. 1857-58, Oil on canvas
New York Historical Society, Robert L. Stuart Collection

In the picture below (a detail of which appears above), the artist emphasized the foreground by means of the cattle and the reflection of the bank and tree. These elements lead your eye back and forth, left to right. The bank especially keeps your eye from venturing beyond it to the background, which is diminished in terms of light, color, and details—to the point of being just vaguely suggested. Even though the bare trunk above the cattle leads you up and into the sky, the sweep of cloud brings you back to the tree on right and down again into the reflection in the pond. It seems evident that Mr. Hart wanted to paint a local, tranquil scene and wanted to keep us there by means of a strong horizontal foreground.

William Hart (1823 -1894) On the Esopus, Meadow Groves

Could it be, too, that he borrowed a page from the Dutch painters Aelbert Cuyp (1620-1691) and Gerard Bilders (1838-1865)? Those two were known for putting cattle in serene landscapes, almost as an anchor amidst Nature’s ever-changing sea of elements. The cluster of cattle and kids in Hart’s painting (which is almost the most interesting part to look at) certainly serves this purpose. Just imagine this composition without it.

Asher Brown Durand (1786 - 1886) Shandaken Range, Kingston, New York

Asher Brown Durand (1786 – 1886)
Shandaken Range, Kingston, New York, ca. 1854, Oil on canvas
New-York Historical Society, Museum purchase, The Louis Durr Fund

Asher Durand, who has several (and varied) works in this exhibit, possessed a poetical view of Nature and a photographer’s eye for composition.

Here he employs a variety of techniques (branches, diagonals, color, and light) to converge our view on a point in the center of the composition, thereby heightening the sense of depth into the distance and back into the foreground—giving you the sense that you are standing way back, as if in a tunnel, looking out through the trees. I was left feeling comforted and secure—almost cozy—in my own private view of the distant countryside which itself has almost no detail and no distinct interest.

Although Durand’s other paintings are larger, more open scenes, they show a similar predilection for emphasizing the foreground and highlighting the animate vitality of trees and bark. In this respect, you cannot help but think that he was strongly influenced by the preeminent Dutch landscape painter, Jacob van Ruisdael (1628/9-1682) who, more than anyone else, knew how to render intimate scenes of Nature on a magnanimous scale, typically with trees as the prominent element.

George Henry Boughton (1833 – 1905)
Winter Twilight near Albany, New York, 1858, Oil on canvas
New-York Historical Society, Robert L. Stuart Collection

In this jewel of a painting—which one writer described as “a perfect piece of winter”—the artist uses an exquisite gray-blue-brown palette that perfectly captures the shadowy light and bitter cold of a winter dusk. This combined effect conveys the loneliness of a sole figure in the middle foreground who is slowly making his way along a frozen stream that reflects the color of the background sky—a deft touch that ties the composition together from top to bottom and side to side.

George Henry Boughton (1833 - 1905) Winter Twilight near Albany, New York

The three trees serve as ballast to guide us into the canvas from the left. The slight bend of the third tree leads us into the painting to follow the horizontal movement of the figure pulling his sled. Meanwhile, the small cottage at right, with its red glow of a warm fire in one tiny window holds our interest for a moment. Our eye then drops to the broken trunk in the bottom-right corner only to be led back into the composition to further dwell on the figure and his cold, lonely task.

The ice, snow, trees, clouds, house, and figure are individually (and beautifully) textured, offering us clear, sharp contrasts—all within a seemingly effortless management of composition. And as beautiful as this painting is as a landscape scene, it is even more a depiction of atmosphere and mood—an expression of the psychology of a season. As a result, you do more than look at this painting: you get drawn into it, enveloped by it, and made to feel cold, almost depressed, by it. Extraordinary. Especially considering that this is one of the smallest, most inconspicuous canvases in the exhibit. Had there been one painting I could have taken home and lived with, this was it.

Louisa Davis Minot (1788 – 1858)
Niagara Falls, 1818, Oil on linen
New-York Historical Society, Gift of Mrs. Waldron Phoenix Belknap, Sr.

The harmonious brown, blue, green, and white palette of this scene of Niagara Falls is extremely pleasing, which tempted me at first to think that this was a really good painting. But something kept nagging me. Looking more closely, I noticed that it lacked the monumental impact of Niagara’s steep height and dramatic, fast-flowing (almost threatening) surge of water, spray, and sound.

Louisa Davis Minot (1788 - 1858) Niagara Falls

Also lacking is a sharp contrast of textures. Notice, for example, how the water, rocks, foliage, and white clouds are all painted in a similar “curly” treatment—perhaps in an attempt to bring unity to the composition, but with the result that the whole lacks interest and conviction. At the same time, the strong horizontal composition is almost too contained, thus cramping the gargantuan falls and making them look quaint rather than large and looming.

Louis Rémy Mignot (1831 – 1870)
The Harvest Moon, 1860, Oil on canvas
New-York Historical Society, Robert L. Stuart Collection

A painting cannot be fully appealing without a balanced composition. Traditionally, this means building a design that flows from top-left to bottom-right, or which revolves clockwise (the two movements that at least our western eye is most familiar and comfortable with).

Louis Rémy Mignot (1831 - 1870) The Harvest Moon

Interestingly, Mignot has reversed this by having his main diagonal move gradually from right to left, which—even though the angle is not severe—creates a strong sense of “drop” for the sun. The sun itself is appropriately placed at the bottom of the diagonal, just at a point where the composition begins to rise again slightly. The graceful curve of a tree keeps our eye from drifting off the canvas and leads us back to the sun. The tree’s curve even echoes the curve of the sun and its halo, as does the green tree at right—and all three of these “rotate” clockwise, counterbalancing the leftward-flowing diagonal.

It would be interesting to see this place (if  it actually exits) to know how much is real and how much was contrived by the artist according to his compositional intent. In fact, the more you study this piece, the more subtle diagonals you find, all of which appear natural, yet which, on closer examination, reveal the hand of man artfully manipulating Nature’s designs. The result is a delightful, relaxing painting that you don’t tire of looking at. This Charleston, S.C.-born painter, who sadly died when he was 39 (and who painted this when he was only 29), obviously had a full range of talent when it came to composition, color, tone, perspective, and atmosphere.

Frederic Edwin Church (1826 – 1900)
Cayambe, 1858, Oil on canvas
New-York Historical Society, Robert L. Stuart Collection

Frederic Church was a painter-explorer in the sense of being an adventurous traveler—in this case to the Andes Mountains—but also in the sense of testing the boundaries of composition. In this painting, he manages to create equal interest in the foreground, middle ground, and background with three distinct worlds of Nature (exotic foliage, mysterious valley, and a cosmic, above-the-clouds volcano).

Frederic Edwin Church (1826 - 1900) Cayambe

To make things easy, he leads our eye from the middle of the foreground, through the lake of the middle ground, directly to the base of the volcano, and up to the striking snow peak and sky. It is simultaneously a very human and spiritually evocative painting that appeals to different sides of our nature. Church had a masterful stroke, but he was also more than just a good painter. His landscapes silently “speak.”

Thomas Cole (1801 – 1848)
The Course of Empire: The Consummation of Empire, 1836, Oil on canvas
New-York Historical Society, Gift of the New-York Gallery of the Fine Arts

In one room of the exhibit, devoted to a series of five large paintings, Thomas Cole metaphorically “warns” young America about the inevitable cycle of growth, splendor, and eventual destruction that previous empires have gone through. It as a thought-provoking presentation where Cole takes essentially the same scene and shows it changing over time: from pure landscape, to the summit of civilization, to ultimate ruin and desolation.

Thomas Cole (1801 - 1848) The Course of Empire: The Consummation of Empire

His painting is superb in such a large undertaking, and the series does prompt you to consider where we are as a country and a world, and where we may be headed. Nevertheless, from a purely artistic point of view, I felt that the inherent beauty of landscape painting and the pure skill of this artist are both overridden by his attempt at philosophical narrative, and by his use of romantic stylization to convey the message—with this particular painting being the most extreme example.

James Fennimore Cooper, on the other hand, had this to say about the series: “Not only do I consider The Course of Empire the work of the highest genius this country has ever produced, but I esteem it one of the noblest works of art that has ever been wrought.”

So what do you think? In the end, isn’t that the question we want to answer for ourselves as honestly as possible—in the arts and in life?

Sometimes it takes an art exhibit to remind us of this, too.

“Nature and the Grand American Vision: Masterpieces of the Hudson River School Painters” is part of a traveling exhibit of works from the New-York Historical Society.

Rembrandt van Rijn, Portrait of a Girl Wearing a Gold-Trimmed Cloak, 1632, oil on panel, 23 7/8 x 17 3/4 in. (oval), Private collection, New York

THE GOOD NEWS is that it is the largest collection of Rembrandt paintings ever presented in an American exhibition. The unfortunate part is that they are on display for only another 3 weeks (through January 22) at the North Carolina Museum of Art (NCMA) in Raleigh.

Featured are 27 autograph paintings, plus another 23 works previously attributed to Rembrandt but now “downgraded” by the Rembrandt Research Project.

Rembrandt took a fastidious approach to composition which stemmed from his training in narrative painting where every prominent element serves to tell the story. Throughout his career he also employed a strategic focal point around which the entire composition revolves. With this central core, he became more and more masterful (and subtle) in unifying hands, gestures, and posture to reflect a subject’s inner character and personal plight.

Such exacting composition and unity of expression are two things typically missing from the students, followers, and peers whose works have been mistaken as “Rembrandts.” Another distinguishing trait of a true Rembrandt is its monumentality, regardless of size, subject, and medium. When you see them firsthand, his paintings exude an indescribable magic and leave a visceral impression. When I asked my 8-year-old daughter what she thought about one painting above—Portrait of a Girl Wearing a Gold-Trimmed Cloak, 1632, which some surmise is Rembrandt’s sister, Lysbeth—she replied, “It is like the person comes out of the frame to you?” I certainly agree. The moment I stepped up to this exquisite portrait, it took my breath away with its immediacy and unabashed intimacy.

Clearly, Rembrandt possessed a rarefied perceptivity about human nature that manifests in everything he did: most notably his portraits, but also in his biblical works and even his landscapes. His special ability to capture the ineffable essence of a person and situation sets his work apart from that of nearly every other painter in history—as demonstrated by this significant gathering of paintings.

Rembrandt van Rijn, St. Bartholomew, 1657, oil on canvas, The Putnam Foundation, Timken Museum of Art, San Diego

St. Bartholomew, 1657

Bartholomew, a lesser known apostle of Christ, was, according to one popular tradition, flayed alive and crucified, head downward. Having converted the king of Armenia to Christianity, he was ordered to be executed by the king’s brother (Wikipedia).

Where most works of art depicting Bartholomew’s martyrdom show the horrendous act itself, Rembrandt, in his signature style, focused instead on the inward reflection of the man to whom it happened, just before it happened. Rembrandt had a penchant for selecting the pivotal moment—not of action, but of reflection related to action—and it seems to me that in the case of St. Bartholomew he chose the highest point of tension that might test the saintly character of the victim.

What does it mean to knowingly face your own death, especially such a brutal one, with a spiritual conviction rooted in devotion, contemplation, and practice? And despite your spiritual achievements, how would your physical body, your still bestial nature, respond?

Rembrandt was a mindful student of the Bible and the Apocrypha. With unique vision and sensitivity, his works interpret many of their stories, and it is easy to suppose, in the case of Bartholomew, that Rembrandt had in mind a particular line from Ecclesiates 3:16: “Who knoweth the spirit of man that goeth upward, and the spirit of the beast that goeth downward to the earth?”

In the dark eyes, blackish-brown palette, and brutish frame we see a powerful, pugnacious man who has endured many struggles in a conflicted life. With an innate vehemence that has been resolved by faith, he appears to be looking up abruptly at his oncoming assailants. Guarded yet accepting, he holds in his gentle, open hand the knife that will be used to kill him.

It is, to say the least, a hellacious moment of anticipation and the saint is not perfect—as Rembrandt well understood from his own life, and as evidenced in the horrific flinching of Bartholomew’s right eyebrow; perhaps the most interesting eyebrow in all of painting.

Just how do you portray the reactions of someone about to be flayed alive, and in this case a presumably enlightened person? This painting—this rigorous assessment of human nature—reveals the full extent of Rembrandt’s skill, not just as a painter, but as a master of interpretation and expression.

Lucretia, 1664 oil on canvas: 47 1/4 x 39 3/4 in. Andrew W. Mellon Collection, National Gallery of Art

Lucretia, 1666

Lucretia was a legendary figure whose rape by the king’s son led her to suicide, an act that prompted a revolution to overthrew the monarchy and establish the Roman Republic (Wikipedia). The violation of rape was too much of a compromise to grant her violator, or to live with, so she literally took her fate into her own hands.

In 1664, Rembrandt depicted Lucretia about to stab herself (in the painting shown at right, which is not in this exhibit). Two years later, he took his depiction to a deeper psychological examination in the work (bottom right) whose current owner, the Minneapolis Institute of Art, describes as “arguably one of the greatest masterpieces in America.” Admittedly, the longer you stand in front of it, the more you tend to agree.

This work exhibits all the hallmarks of Rembrandt at his most profound: dramatic narrative, monumentality, unity of composition, gorgeous brushwork, expressive pathos, and, above all, poignancy of interpretation.

Rembrandt van Rijn, Lucretia, 1666, oil on canvas, 43 3/8 x 36 5/16 in., Minneapolis Institute of Arts, The William Hood Dunwoody Fund

In contrast to the St. Bartholomew and the 1664 Lucretia (both of which depict a moment right before the action), the 1666 version shows Lucretia just seconds afterwards, which strikes a different note.

The blood on her gown and the dagger in her right hand are anguishing, yet their impact is softened by the fact that Lucretia’s concern lies elsewhere. Her gaze is intently, lovingly focused on the bell chord that her left hand is ringing to call a servant who may not find her alive, and who will inform the world of her drastic deed.

It is a powerful, haunting image that brought to mind a similar painting by the Dutch master: his Bathsheba from 1654, now in the Louvre. Bathsheba is shown in her bath where she has been spied by King David who desires her. In her fallen hand is a letter calling for her to visit David’s bed chamber where she will eventually bear David a son, despite the fact that she is married to one of the king’s generals. It is an ominous moment, pregnant with the fate that will befall her, and the breadth of her realization is extremely touching in its range of grief, acceptance, and self-compassion—the same emotions depicted in the 1666 Lucretia.

As with many of Rembrandt’s most profound portraits, the 1666 Lucretia composition revolves around the focal point of her nose, with the eyes residing on either side of masterful chiaroscuro. The result is that our view moves subtly from one eye to the other, from light to dark and back again, in a way that evokes soft but not sentimental emotion—the kind of emotion you feel when you have been rendered quiet by loss or suffering or the majesty of nature. Rembrandt captured and conveyed this quality of transcendence better than any painter before or after him—no doubt because he possessed it himself and sought to express it. Indeed, it is this aspect of him that we see over and over again in his art.

Rembrandt van Rijn, Self-Portrait, 1659, oil on canvas, 33 1/4 x 26 in., National Gallery of Art, Andrew W. Mellon Collection, 1937.1.72

Self-portrait, 1659

The clearest example of this is his self-portraits, and one of the best—the 1659 self-portrait in this exhibit—hangs in the National Gallery in Washington, DC. I regard it among the most profound paintings in all of art because it brings us—as the exhibit itself says—“face to face with Rembrandt” the man.

This self-portrait reveals a piercing insight into human nature—his own in particular—that is boundless, as is the depth of empathy in those eyes. Meanwhile, his pursed lips and tightly clutched fingers betray lingering self-turmoil. It is a portrait of unadulterated honesty, and it brought to mind another well-known verse from Ecclesiastes (1:16): “For in much wisdom is much grief: and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.”

From one point of view, Rembrandt wanted us to look directly at him and into him—to such an extent, in fact, that it is unsettling to match his penetrating gaze for very long when looking at this life-size painting in person. At the same time, he was so uncompromising with himself—so eager to explore the truth of his inner being—that we can also view his self-portraits as ruthless, relentless self-examinations of character, as well as personal explorations into the ethereal atmosphere of his soul. As we look at him and become witness to these, it evokes the same—challenges and inspires the same—in ourselves.

Are we up to that task of all human tasks with the same measure of determination and devotion that he was? Suffice it to say that we can learn a lot when facing Rembrandt this directly. As Lawrence Wheeler, Director of the North Carolina Museum of Art, says in the excellent film accompanying the exhibit, “we come away with an elevated soul of our own.”

There can be no better endorsement of the crucial value of art.

Special thanks to Jennifer Warner, NCMA’s Marketing Manager, for her support in making this review possible.

Split Sides

A FEW WEEKS AGO I made a pilgrimage to the Brooklyn Academy of Music (BAM) to see the second to last performance of the Merce Cunningham Dance Company. Like me, many of you might think traveling to Brooklyn is on the same adventure level as traveling to Tasmania, but it can be easily reached by subway or a shuttle bus especially for arts lovers who can see the impressive lineup of theatre, music, dance, and film that BAM offers.

At the time of Merce Cunningham’s death in 2009, it was announced that the company would be on a 2 year “Legacy Tour” to show his wide repertoire of modern dance–which had begun in 1953 when he founded the company–and then disband, not to be seen again. This was in response to work that seemed to go on ad nausea after the choreographers were gone. For a man who led the way to the cutting edge of modern dance, it seemed only natural that, when he could no longer make new work, the work was over.

The history of the Cunningham Company is a sorted one and always divided by people who think his work is genius and those who can’t stand it. Once during a Spoleto performance nearly 20 years ago, I watched as people got up in droves and walked out of the theatre. It happened at different moments in the performance and in different numbers of people, and I began to think that Cunningham was choreographing these exits just as he had choreographed the dancers of stage. Of course, I had stayed as I loved what I saw and had been a student at his school after college, immersing myself in a technique that was always challenging, sometimes painfully so, but kept the body thinking and, by default, the heart, too.

Pond Way

The BAM performance offered three dances I had never seen live and some of them only in filmed excerpts or photographs, so it was a treasure trove for a dancer with an interest in its history. I noticed at once that the audience were enthusiasts like me, so I felt sure there would be no deserters during the performance which was comforting and exciting like a pilgrimage should be.

Pond Way was a dance from 1998 with music by Brian Eno, decor by Roy Lichtenstein, and costumes by Suzanne Gallo. In the usual Cunningham chance manner, the collaborators worked independently and did not confer on the overall effect of movement, music, decor, and costume–but  unveiled what they had created at the last serendipitous minute. This works perfectly for Ponds Way which depicts the natural world at any pond where flora and fauna exist independently, but in unison add to the overall environment. The Zen-like atmosphere replete with stillness and unpredictable rhythmic phrasing made me feel like a voyeur on a nature scene. The dancers were brilliant in their razor sharp clarity.  Even their usual austere faces hinted at joy as they danced in the delicious technique where impossibly intricate footwork was topped with  ever changing and counter-intuitive upper-body positions.

RainForest

The next piece was the famous RainForest from 1968 with silver helium filled pillows designed by Andy Warhol, an auditory-challenged composition by David Tudor, and lighting by Aaron Copp. I had always wanted to see this on stage and never had, and it was the effect of the floating obstacles that float freely through the dancer’s space which was the most interesting element. It is when the dancers encounter the silver pillows that this chance shines. This intersection of unrelated entities becomes at once relative and wether the movement smacks the pillow with power to change the floaters pathway evermore, or softly bounces off a shoulder or curved back–like thoughts which move unhindered through the mind–these become the most stunning moments.

Last was Split Sides from 2003 with two composers (Radiohead and Signor Ros), 2 set designers (Robert Heishman and Catherine Yass),  and 2 costume designs by James Hall. To introduce the piece, all artists and dancers came to the stage and each element (including choreography made in 2 parts) was chosen by a flip of a coin–which offers a myriad of probabilities in terms of what dance section would be performed to which music with which set design in what costumes! This spontaneously-generated creation was a delight to observe and the dancers were obviously charged with the constantly changing set of rules. The dance showed Cunningham’s intense playfulness and several standout solos and duets illuminated the off-centeredness and balance that requires great strength and control.

It is ironic that a man whose work was guided by chance had such a firm hold on where avante garde performance should be and what standards were expected. When the curtain comes down for a final time on the stroke of midnight at the company’s performance on the Upper East Side at The Armory it will be the end of an era, but both choreographers and dancers will forever be influenced by Merce Cunningham’s ideas about dance as art.

Artist Hilarie Lambert

WHEN SHE IS NOT GIVING workshops, or painting the Lowcountry or the streets of Paris, Hilarie Lambert spends her days tucked away in a charming second-story studio on Broad Street.

The narrow rooms, adorned with oil paintings, exude a fresh, distinct, invigorating style in a wide range of themes—all with a very human touch.

“I want a quiet moment” is how Hilarie describes her technique, as you can hear in the interview below.

A former graphic artist, she brings an organized approach and balanced structure to her paintings. The space in her works is intelligent, yet fluid. Full of natural movement, yet wonderfully motionless. Her scenes draw you in and call you to linger. Her people make you wonder about—and envy—their inner contentment.

It is always fascinating to talk with artists and hear them describe their work, their personal relationship to what they produce, and above all their experience of the creative process. Hilarie says it simply, with passion: “I love the process of painting.”

And it shows—in each of her canvasses.

Learn more at www.hlambert.com • Visit the studio at 54 Broad Street

Robert Ivey

THE LOWCOUNTRY LOST one of its brightest stars on July 15th when Robert Ivey passed away leaving behind a long lineage of actors, singers, dancers, and fans who had been inspired, mentored, and directed by the legendary man for more than 30 years.

I first met Mr. Ivey 20 years ago when I sent him my résumé as a young dancer who was moving to Charleston from New York City because I was marrying a man who was not very inclined to come to the cement jungle. Mr. Ivey assured me an interview and a promise that I would find many opportunities in Charleston, starting with my first teaching job at his studio.

When I arrived, I quickly learned two things: that Charleston was a ballet town (downtown modern dance not society’s cup of tea), and that if I had Robert Ivey on my side, I could do just about anything. We became fast friends and his continued support to me as a teacher, choreographer, and dancer never wavered. For him I am most grateful for many opportunities, but most important to me (still today) was his taking me on at the College of Charleston where I could share the growing courses that he had begun a decade before.

Mr. Ivey’s enthusiasm and professionalism were trademarks in his work as a Professor of dance at the College of Charleston who created a dance minor and whose company, The Robert Ivey Ballet, was in residence there for much of that time. Students in theatre, music, and dance responded so well to his boundless energy and his authority in the arts. His stories included people that most of us have only read about in magazines.

He was like an onion: there was always another layer to peel. He had many lives, growing up in Sweden, performing with the Royal Norwegian Ballet, working with Jerome Robbins on Broadway with West Side Story. He took the Robert Ivey Ballet abroad to Spain and South America, as well as to rural schools throughout our state, where students only knew of dance on MTV. He opened many eyes and put the love of dance into many hearts.

He was a mentor and a shining star who, when you were with him, great things were sure to happen and a lot of fun was to be had. His energy and creative talent were abundant and those close to him were awed by his tireless ability to keep so many projects going at once. To be connected to Robert Ivey was to be connected to the cultural pulse of Charleston. His love and friendship will be a great loss for many. And when I feel like I’m ready to throw in what towel there is left to throw in, I will think of the dynamic Mr. Ivey and keep things moving!

A memorial service will be held on August 13th at 2 PM at the Sottile Theatre.

You wouldn’t think the world’s oldest profession would be a likely subject of an upbeat, uproarious, successful musical comedy and film. But “The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas” is just that, and a darn near perfect version of it is currently playing at the Footlight Players Theatre on Queen Street.

With book by Texan Larry L. King (from his 1974 article in “Playboy” telling the true story of the Chicken Ranch which thrived in La Grange, TX, from 1844-1973) and Peter Masterson, music and lyrics by Carol Hall, this production comes as a welcome surprise from the Footies, the longest-running but surely no longer hide-bound performing arts group in Charleston.

The irrepressible director and dance master Robert Ivey selected this long-running hit as the Footies’ season closer, but shortly before auditions, Ivey suffered a fall and broke his neck. He nonetheless cast the show, and had started rehearsals before even he had to acknowledge the need to take time off to heal properly. Enter Robbie Thomas to save the day: Twenty-four hours between Ivey’s call for help and a scheduled rehearsal, Thomas jumped in with both feet and took over as director.

With extensive stage experience as both actor and director, including under Ivey’s tutelage, not in a million years would you believe this is Thomas’ first foray directing a musical (in addition to playing with boundless outrage the TV evangelist who campaigns loudly and effectively to close the Ranch).

While Ivey had done the groundwork and continued to serve as consultant, accolades for Thomas’ astute eye and flair for stage work in any form cannot be denied. The large company included a number of dancers with Ivey’s studio, but every single cast member performed splendidly, as dancers and singers as well as actors. Of imminent importance in a musical, thechoreography was expertly done by longtime Ivey company member and star of the men’s chorus line, Jon-Michael Perry, and Brooke McMurray. Musical Director Marsha Goldsmith, with vocal coach/conductor Jennifer Morlan, saw to it that every not-very-memorable song was well-executed, and the lively onstage (but unseen) band of six instrumentalists acquitted themselves admirably.

Karen Gaines Moskos, a stage vet, gave her leading role as Miss Mona: a warm, sympathetic, beautifully crafted turn, using “chest” tones of her big, wide-ranged soprano to belt out those bawdy lyrics (“A Li’l Bitty Pissant Country Place”) and her usual melodic, lyric tones for the bittersweet, “The Bus From Amarillo.”

Decked out in flattering finery and jewels—tasteful and thankfully understated rather than tarted up—as the Madame of the House, she provided a nice contrast to the outfits of her girls whose every costume fit exactly our idea of prostitutes’ “working clothes.”

Stealing in a New York minute every scene in which she appeared, Susie Hallatt easily outshone the Broadway and movie versions of Jewel, Miss Mona’s right-hand woman, as handy with a broom as skittering around the stage on elfin feet, ringing out with joyful abandon, “Twenty-four Hours of Lovin’.”

Out of a plethora of talent, Carolyn Boegel sings and dances like a pro as Angel, plus is credited with designing the stunning array of costumes. Katherine Koehler has her moment as Doatsy May, a touching, beautifully rendered solo turn as the waitress with a dream.

Standouts among the men were Antonio Nappo as Sheriff Ed Earl Dodd, a Chicken Ranch patron and Miss Mona’s love interest, who spouted explicitly ribald, hysterically funny “Texasisms” with particular ease. Christian Self used his outstanding signature comedic timing in several roles, especially as Edsel Mackey, and Noah Smith plays to the hilt both C.J. Scruggs and Senator Wingwoah.

If you have one image of the Broadway show or movie, it is probably the Governor’s song and dance. Lured from retirement after 30 years as the famed “Singing Chef” of Robert’s Restaurant, Robert Dickson lent his professionally trained baritone to this seminal role, delivering a graceful Texas two-step in a show-stopping performance.

I’m having a hard time figuring out why anyone would not go to this highly energetic and enjoyable production, just the thing to warm you up for Spoleto.

Footlight Players Theatre.

Portrait of a Boy, 1655–60 • Rembrandt van Rijn

THERE IS a small, prestigious museum in Pasadena, California that “doesn’t buy, or lend, or borrow any of its works—and it doesn’t put on blockbuster shows, either. But what it does is display glorious works of art with elegance and style…”

It also had a curious beginning: “There happened to be an art gallery next door to his [Norton Simon’s] barber shop in the old Ambassador Hotel. Every Saturday morning, when he went to have his hair cut, he’d see art in the window display. Over the next years, Simon bought 80 works of art.”

In her new book, Collector Without Walls, curator, Sara Campbell “tells the story of Norton Simon—the businessman behind Hunt-Wesson Foods, Canada Dry and Avis—who had an eye for great art and a knack for collecting it.”

This article at NPR (whose podcast you can also listen to) goes on to say that although Simon’s collection includes “some 8,000 works of art, collected over three decades… no more than 800 or 900 of those pieces are on display in his Pasadena museum at any one time, so visitors can’t see everything in a single visit.”

There’s also a fascinating story about the Rembrandt “that got away,” which hangs instead in the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art.

~> Go to the NPR article.

~> Visit the Norton Simon Museum site.

Rembrandt van Rijn, Dutch, 1606-1669 • Portrait of a Boy, 1655-60
Oil on canvas • 25-1/2 x 22 in. (64.8 x 55.9 cm)
The Norton Simon Foundation

Raphael Self-Portraits

WHICH ONE do you like? Are they both originals?

The one on the left is the famous and familiar self-portrait by Raphael, which hangs in the Ufizzi in Florence. The one on the right was recently rediscovered in a bank vault.

Read more about them at the i09 web site and Discovery News.

You can also see larger images (that you can zoom in on) at this site, in the beautiful online book co-authored by Alessandro Vezzosi and Claudio Strinati, general director of the Italian Ministry of Culture.

photos by Alessandro Vezzosi

Billy Collins

TO CLIMB the stairs of the Charleston Library Society’s historic building on King Street under a full moon on a cold January evening to hear Billy Collins read his poetry for members of the Poetry Society of South Carolina Society was a winter highlight.

Although this exclusive event was offered only to the Poetry Society (whose membership has hovered under 200 for the past near century) I would be remiss not to mention that it happened at all.

Poetry readings are best in an intimate setting such as the crowd of 150 who shared in the gracious presence of Mr. Collins. Laughter, sighs, and awe filtered through the air for the hour that he read in his easy and unassuming manner, warming the audience immediately to his poetry about dogs, parents, students, traveling, and the task of writing poetry. His delivery is direct with a hint of sarcasm that flirts with his listener who feels personally introduced to the poet’s world in a gentle dance of image and metaphor.

From Dharma

If only she did not shove the cat aside
every morning
and eat all his food
what a model of self-containment she
would be,
what a paragon of earthly detachment.
If only she were not so eager
for a rub behind the ears,
so acrobatic in her welcomes,
if only I were not her god.

Mr. Collins, Poet Laureate of the United States from 2001 to 2003, was dubbed the “Most Popular Poet in America” by the omnipotent New York Times. His witty charm and accessibility has endeared poetry to many. The envy of any who grapple with the craft, Mr. Collins has published 9 books and received one of the biggest advances for a book deal in the history of poetry. He a is a Distinguished Professor at Lehman College and City University of New York.

Many of the poems he read night were favorites like “Oh My God!” Which pokes fun at the teenage girl’s over usage of the phrase, “The Lanyard” which shows the self satisfaction of a young boy’s simple gift to his mother, and “Litany” which has received greater acclaim after a three-year-old recited it on YouTube.

Finally, this one which prompted a collective “aahh” at its end and proved that Billy is everyman/woman’s poet whose subject of the inevitable makes it so powerful.

Forgetfulness

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

The Charleston Library Society is celebrating its 90^th year of being the oldest of its kind in the United States.

Gregorita with the Santa Clara Bowl, by Robert Henri

SOMETIMES it is worth visiting an exhibit to see just one excellent work. In this case, however, there is more than one fine work and seeing them will definitely satisfy your artistic taste buds. I know I will be back for a second and third peek before March 27 when this exhibit closes.

Now visiting The Gibbes is an eclectic combination entitled “Art of Our Time.” It includes traditional portraits, black-and-white photographs, a video display, and a pleasant heap of old wooden shoe fillers—to name just a few of the items that comprise this broad collection from the Ulrich Museum of Art, Wichita State University.

One is the simple palette of blue, black, white, and beige—with a touch of red to set everything off. A few sharp colors usually make a strong statement. Another thing that helps is that most of the canvas (the drapery, the body, and bowl) is painted in an unfinished style, done to highlight the face which is where Henri put most of his attention. It is a technique you see in many of his portraits.

In this case, the sitter looks boldly at the viewer with a calm, confident, almost detached gaze that is beautifully accentuated—and mirrored—in the relaxed shoulders, arms, and hands. It is another thing that Henri strove for in his portraits: to have the facial expression find its complements throughout the entire figure, posture, and composition.

Notice how tactile and round the head appears. You really feel all that space behind her head and in front of the drapery. A sensual vigor resides in the plump cheeks, the instinctive nose, the thick lips, and the dramatic eyes. Who is this young beauty? What is her unique story? These are the questions that Henri’s paintings generally ask, as though he was painting a mystery as much as a person.

Notice, too, how simply he achieves depth by having a distinct foreground (the pottery jar), middle-ground (the girl), and background (drapery). The mouth of the jar and  particularly the loose collar of the girl’s dress—both very natural elements—add to the sense of space and perspective. Henri never went against Nature, was never contriving in his methods. This—along with his subtle, accurate play of light—gives his portraits so much life, so much interest, so much conviction. As with many of his portraits, this one is a pleasure to linger in front of. (You can see the Gibbes’ own Henri portrait of “The Green Fan (Girl of Toledo)” in its permanent collection.)

Portrait of a Lady by Frank Duveneck

This painting also makes for a good comparison with the Henri portrait. Like Henri’s, it has a limited palette (of green, black, beige, and rose). And it, too, appears unfinished—even the face. But here it seems not to have been intentional. Rather, the artist just did it quickly, with loose, broad strokes throughout the canvas—in a sort of Frans Hals style.

The extreme verticality of the composition—achieved by the front lapel, the high collar, and the tall hat, all painted in black—seems no accident. In fact, it seems to perfectly represent the character of this lady who herself appears staid, severe, remote.

Even her eyes are completely black. There is no sign of an iris or pupil (and yet her eyes appear intently focused). Hers is the darkest of stares and everything about her expression is cast in shadow (by a source of light from straight above and the shadows caused by the brim of the hat). At the same time, she, like Gregorita, has a mystery about her. Who is this aristocratic woman out in the cold with her blushed cheeks? Of what is her concern?

Although the depth of space in this work is not rendered to the extent that it is in Henri’s painting, the head and face are equally effective in their own right. The woman is there, in that coat, beneath that collar, with a hat firmly on her head. And whereas Gregorita emerges from her background with tremendous life force, this Lady retreats into her background with inner tension, further strengthening her mystery. (As it turns out, this is a portrait of the artist’s wife, who died of pneumonia two years after they were married.)

Both of these paintings, done in a psychological style that has pretty much gone out of style, form the core of this exhibit in terms of artistic penetration and depth. I tend to think that painting must be much more fun than looking at paintings, but as I studied these superb portraits I was not so sure.

Signes et Symbols by Joan Miro

What struck me was the stark, black-and-white simplicity and symmetry. It is intriguing how he manages to evoke disarray and yet maintain balance in the composition—all in what looks like an impulsive drawing on a blackboard.

The more I thought about the war reference, the more it started to make sense intellectually, and then emotionally—which I think is something that distinguishes Miro from many of his modern peers: that although he paints in an abstract style, he does not allow design to distract or stray from from the emotional intent.

Here, for example, the rough border could easily convey confinement, a lack of choices, no way out of the situation. The symbols seem to resemble people and something of musical instruments. The interpretation that came to mind as I looked at it was that the “music” has abruptly ended, the “band” has been sent home, and the “harmony” that was is now in discord. Yet a purity endures, as it does in the cruelest of life’s moments. What a poetic statement on the deleteriousness of war.

Clearly, Miro possessed a rare vision and powerful calligraphic style that was perfectly suited to modern art, and which others could only try to imitate.

What is unusual is that Ali is not depicted as a boxer displaying his athletic prowess. Nor is he—contrary to his popular image—very animated. Instead, he is dressed in slacks, shirt, and an elegant leather jacket leaning against the bottom railing of a staircase in a private home or hotel. He is looking out of the frame of the camera to the right, his head cocked slightly back, as though momentarily drawn by something or someone in the distance.

The powerful body and exuberant personality that we generally associate with Ali are in complete repose. He looks so utterly normal and nice. It gave me the impression that this is the real man; that marketing and managers and the prospect of dollars molded a persona into one of the world’s most famous athletes; but that he, despite appearances, and like each of us, is the owner of a genuine innocence that finds itself at the helpless mercy of circumstances foul and fair.

Here’s to you finding yourself at this exhibit under the tonic spell of some inspiring art.

Learn more about this exhibit at the Gibbes.

Robert Henri, Gregorita with the Santa Clara Bowl, 1917. Oil on canvas, 32 x 26 in. Collection of the Ulrich Museum of Art, Wichita State University, Wichita. Gift of Mr. Arthur Kincade in memory of his wife, Josephine Kincade.

Joan Miró, Signes et Symboles, 1938. Gouache and chalk on paper, 27 ½ x 40 ¾ in. Collection of the Ulrich Museum of Art, Wichita State University, Wichita, Gift of Mr. Cornell Jaray.

Frank Duveneck, Portrait of a Lady (Elizabeth Boott Duveneck), ca. 1879–1888. Oil on canvas, 24 x 20 in. Collection of the Ulrich Museum of Art, Wichita State University, Wichita, Gift of Mr. and Mrs. Ralph Spencer.