MFA, Day Two, Part Two

PART TWO
After lunch, I threw myself into the arms of W. M. Chase. The first room was multiple views of his studio, filled with luxury textiles, object d’art, the various exotica he used for props, and the women he liked to paint. His self-portrait – with rumpled hair, and a truly luxuriant mustache – has a glowing saffron background and a nonchalant dash of red.

Whistler befriended Chase, but their association ended after Chase’s’s portrait of him. Like Velasquez’s of Innocent X , it was apparently troppo vero.

[easy-image-collage id=2396]

Chase’s wife, daughters and female students often posed for him. The painting of his daughters playing ringtoss compares unfavorably to Sargents’s brooding The Daughters of Edward Darley Boit, but hey, the Indian yellows and phthalo blues in Chase’s portrait of Dora Wheeler are the definition of lush, and his nudes are as tempting as Bourgereau’s.This exhibition has many paintings of his studio, his students and his family, and his focus on the pleasures of daily life endeared him to me.

Around 4pm it was time to sit and pulled out my sketchbook. I plonked myself on the comfortable couch in front of Washington and sketched the answer to one of the first jokes I ever heard (What color was George Washington’s white horse?). Fell into drawing for, it turned out, over an hour. When a voice spoke over my shoulder I jumped. It was the guard going off his shift, wanting to see what I’d been doing. He approved. I was not so happy.Upstairs to cruise the Sargents. I fervently hope his life gave him as much happiness as his work has given me. Paused in front of a oil study of a model he used for multiple works in Boston. Stood and sketched quickly. This time, I was happier.

Now it was 6pm and I was hungry. Thought I’d have dinner in the atrium. Walked through the doors and into music blasting at ear bleed levels – Mustang Sally, Lady Marmelade, 24K Magic. What the what? It was first Friday and a dance party for patrons, mostly middle-aged and older, was in full swing. Booty’s were primly shaking and uncoordinated white people awkwardly danced. I fled. I was going to take my chances on the mean streets when a docent assured me the museum’s upscale restaurant was out of earshot.

All righty. Seated by the elegant hostess who wore discreet black sequins, wide leg velvet cargo pants, and a marvelous slouch chapeau. I ordered the seared duck, only later aware of the irony of this choice in a museum that was featuring a retrospective of the illustrator of Make Way For Duckings. It was…chewy, but so is jerky and I was hungry.

No difficulty summoning an Uber. Back in the hotel, I watched the weather channel and fell asleep wondering whether a blizzard in Boston is anything like what Laura Ingalls Wilder described.

MFA - Boston, Day Two

Boston was frosted with snow while I slept.

Breakfast at the hotel; oatmeal, much improved with cinnamon, and a decent latte even though served in a glass. Mournful emo music, which I muted with my earbuds and my playlist for Prague, chiefly Mozart.
Off to the Museum of Fine Art. Waved my member card and swanned right on in. The Nubian gold exhibit was located right across from coat check, so after a brief orientation moment in the rotunda I examined what this exhibit had to offer. Onward to undertake my methodical survey of the museum’s holdings, after a brief consult with a volunteer about my interest in reliquaries and metal boxes, and a moment to swoon over sketches by Sargent like this one.The docent recommended the Kunstcamera, a room for small treasures. Paydirt! This marvel of a 17C miniature portrait on copper reminded me why I’m doing oil paintings for my metal boxes on copper. Proven longevity.

Elaborate spoons, including this one with an enamel bowl with the image of a sly fox preaching to a flock of credulous geese. Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose, eh?

Along with multiple amber boxes and the adventures of Hercules carved in a wooden frame, there’s a pair of elaborately decorated Sicilian cabinets with sides paved with cabochons.I’ll be back to soak in more of this room.

Onward. This striking portrait deliberately evokes  17C portrait gestures.
The Americana wing includes recreations of period rooms. This couple cracked me up.

Trying to decide whether to hit Costco or take a nap

I watched a series of short videos on carving and gilding that made me itch to try both. Trying to find my way back to the atrium for lunch, I came across a room of objects from an Egyptian tomb It was half an hour before I could move on. Excellent wall photos with accompanying text told the compelling story of a couple who were confidently prepared for their afterlife. Photos of the pre-restoration heap of detritus left by grave robbers contrasted with the carefully pieced together figures. The name was the kicker. “A middle Kingdom official named Djehutynakht (pronounced Ja-hooty-knocked )”. Loved this feisty trio of ladies. 
It took me until nearly 2pm to tear myself away, but I finally sat down to a decent lunch of cod cakes because—Boston. A brief respite, then I forged on to see more. Yeah, I’m talking about you, George Washington.

 

To be continued…

Isabella - Boston, Day One

Easy breezy ride to the airport. Booked an aisle seat on a three seat row, ended up the only one on my row. Urbered into the city and given a complimentary upgrade to a suite upon check in.

It’s got bags of charm, a feeling of intimacy and those quirks I prize about boutique hotels, worth putting up with minimal outlets, no place to put your toiletries in the bathroom, and folding crane bedside lamps with enough lumens to perform surgery.

Ubered straight to the ISG. On impulse turned left into the artist in residence gig. Visitors were encouraged to draw on a large board, reminding me of Emily’s Collabadoodle days. The artist, Maurizio Cannavacciulo, handed me a print ‘for inspiration’ that resembled a cross between Gauguin islander children and a Japanese woodblock. Adored the pencil he gave me, which made a gorgeous black; not having an eraser, not so much. The artist was a skinny, bald gnome of an elderly Italian. “Do what you like, decapitate them,” he chortled. Oh, artists. Urk. No. Still, had an unexpected deeply pleasurable quarter of an hour, focused on hand/eye.

Walked into the heart of Fenway Court, just as the dusk deepened to violet.

Such a gorgeous, haunting time of day.
The lingering impressions were still in the details. Found my gilt-over-iron pair of bears, just as marvelous as I remembered.

A unicorn battling a dragon carved into a stone mantle.

This pair of Isabella’s purple silk shoes, narrow as blade, small enough for a grammar school child.

Given my pleasure in romance novels, this book cover.

This little sketch below the glorious Europa.

Like music that makes you want to dance, this makes me want to draw and etch.

Loved watching the light shift, examining the architectural fragments and speculating on the why of their juxtaposition. Fell in love all over again with the panels of drawings and the surprises of scale. And all those virgins holding their doomed children. I wonder if she found consolation in their sacrifice that echoed her own loss.

Fenway court itself breathes, still alive. Some of the groupings, especially the cases of yellowed, faded letters under glass, feel moldering and static. Without a readable text to consult, like the pressed rose from Browning’s funeral bier they are brittle memento mori.

Went room by room and up floor by floor until 5pm, then my eyes and energy gave out.

Collapsed into a chair in Café G and ripped through the tasting menu – tiny albeit delicious morsels. By then my feet ached even sitting down and my eyes felt boiled. Long day. Urbered back crawled into bed, typed this up and conked out.

 

Boston Bound

A few days ago, when the wrapping paper and ribbons finally stopped swirling overhead, I opened my Boston travel folder. I depart on January 5th. Never have I ever been so glad I have my plan in place, my luggage listed, my day-to-day schedule filled out.
I spent that evening split between reading The Memory Palace of Isabella Steward Garner and Googling up images of the artworks she referenced.  The Memory Palace of Isabella Stewart Gardner is really about trying to write a biography of someone who burned her private letters and diaries. One review aptly called it ‘a meditation on art and personality’ and does tie ISG’s life and the author’s ideas about her to individual pieces in the museum. One of the unanswered mysteries is why ISG placed certain objects in proximity to others. I personally like the eccentricity of her choices, but I wish I had a detailed audio guide or podcast to download on that topic. The book is more speculation than anything, but it got my imagination fired up.
I did the math, and I will save a little bit of money and time if I join the MFA rather than purchase tickets, so that got done. I may not have joined in time for the card to reach me in the mail, but my membership started from the moment I clicked the Pay Now button. My confirmation email should get me a temporary card for each day, like a temporary driver’s license. I can’t wait to see Auomedon in action again.

Pondering whether to make reservations at the museum dining rooms or just show up on the day and do it first thing.  Keeping my fingers crossed there are no snowstorms of the century during my brief visit.

Boston Uncommon

Blame it on the  Museum of Fine Art, Boston.

This is the second time they’ve hooked me with one of their bewitching lures – an exhibit of works by William Merritt Chase, prolific painter and teacher.

Of course I know and admire his work. Of course the show opens in October and closes in January.

I teetered on the brink for a few days. It’s a tight window and bad timing – we’re already traveling and gone for a week in November, the family’s here for Christmas, and with setting off for Rome scheduled for February, how can I possibly go?

Boston’s winter weather is frigid. The hotels are frighteningly expensive.

But at the same time as this show, there’s an illuminated manuscripts exhibit at the Isabella Stewart Gardner museum. Not to mention, but I must, an exhibit of 100 pieces of Nubian gold work at the MFA.

The deciding vote was cast by intense yearning. Also, tick-tock, it makes no sense to put anything off. I should go while I still can, while my knees still bend and my eyes, however blearily, still see. Who knows what challenges tomorrow may bring? Seriously, what am I waiting for?

Yesterday and today I’ve been playing with the pieces, juggling exhibition dates, prior plans, Robert’s schedule, flight cost and room expense/availability.

Mid-October, every place I’d like to stay is booked, November ditto, plus dizzying prices. I played around with some early December dates, but the B&Bs were still booked up and the hotels are, well, too costly for me. AirB&Bs were surprisingly thin on the ground and seemed sketchy.

No surprise, $300-400 rooms plummet to $108- $195 after New Years. I figure it’s not going to get any colder in January – or not that much colder – and boy, is it ever cheaper. The sweet spot for me is Jan. 4-11th.

I’m looking at a big hotel across the street from Boston’s main public library (murals by Sargent),  a compact boutique hotel known for helpful service, and three B&Bs. No matter where I stay, I’ll be Ubering through the snowflakes, thank you very much. When I am done being ravished by art, I want a soft, warm place to land.

I found a thrifty Delta flight, but I’m making myself wait until Tuesday to pull the trigger since so many sources claim that’s the best day to get the best deal.

There was a happy moment when realized my Russian gear – those impervious snow boots and mountain-climber-grade warm coat – will be perfect for Boston in January. Another good reason to go! It’s a return on my initial investment, right?

Two Weeks In Trastevere

I’ve wanted to stay in Trastevere since my first visit to Rome. We followed my niece through the cobbled streets along twisting alleyways, listening to the rats dive into the river Tiber,  until we found the restaurant, da Luce (now Hosteria Luce).

I’ve since eaten there three times and painted one of the meals.  Although bloggers and TripAdvisor all lament that Trastevere is no longer what it once was (and who among us is?), that it has become a tourist-infested, rowdy students, all-night party zone, I was hoping to find something that would work for me. I looked up Hosteria Luce online, and they’ve tarted the joint up with chandeliers and schmancy cuisine, but maybe they still make spaghetti cacio & pepe. Here’s hoping.

After prowling various apartment vacation rental sites, and getting some interesting feedback on TripAdvisor, I found several promising apartments. I  exchanged emails with a Trastevere couple.  One poster warned to stay away from two ‘party’ piazzas and the busy main highway, and with the magic of Google maps I could determine the flat I liked wasn’t on those piazzas or near that road. After not sleeping in Madrid, I’ve learned to read reviews carefully and do my due diligence. I even I PM’d one of their last guests (formerly from our neighborhood in Atlanta – small world) who assured me noise was not an issue.

I rolled the dice and booked it for the first two weeks of my trip, when Robert is joining me. I hope I have chosen wisely – an apartment not on a square or piazza, tucked away on a pedestrian street, with a small balcony and a fair amount of space. It’s one block and an alley away from Hosteria Luce.

Trastevere Espresso Finito, oil on canvas

The Eternal City

Next spring I’m traveling to Rome, and taking six weeks to wash the dust of the world from my soul. My primary goal is to thoroughly explore the Vatican Museums. It’s a challenging prospect; this bastion of papal privilege is filled to the brim with the best art that power and wealth could accumulate, but housed in a venue conceived and built for the delectation of a very limited audience. As a building, it was neither planned for nor concerned with the priorities and comfort of multitudes tourists.
As I see it, the three most daunting obstacles are

1. The one way system. There are set routes through the museum and no backtracking is permitted.
2. The paucity of bathrooms. I’ve read there are four. Holy cow.
3. The surge of tourists, art lovers and pilgrims alike, that can transform the experience of viewing art into something resembling an overcrowded TSA line.

I am going to have to bring my A-game in terms of strategy. I hope I am equal to the task.

“Troppo vero!”

The beauty part is Rome is covered up in amazing venues. Not only is every church door is worth opening, there are private museums I plan to visit and revisit. Caravaggio’s The Repentant Magdalene and Rest on the Flight into Egypt would be more than enough to bring me back to the Palazzo Doria Pamphilj, but they also have Velázquez’s portrait of Innocent X.