MISSING SUNLIGHT

When it’s this gloomy all day, –when there is no sense that there has ever been a sun, –ever will be a sun, I miss places where the sun was guaranteed:  Provence      Hawaii

Turns out that memories of the American West for me are also light-filled.  My own images from early trips there did not involve electronic cameras.  However, at the Princeton University Art Museum just now, there is a splendid array of The Moderns from the Phillips (Gallery, of Washington, D.C.)  My favorite museum in the capital, Mr. and Mrs. Phillips’ own home, — this haven proves a gateway to the paintings of Bonnard.  No one, –not even Matisse–, equaled this artist, who had lived one hill over from me in my life in Cannes.  Especially, no one seemingly has even attempted light in mimosa, such as he so magnificently evoked in canvas after canvas.

To my delight, amongst European moderns, such as Picasso and Braque, there is a high proportion of American art.  Even a Georgia O’Keeffe I do not know — with a torn red leaf asserting its power despite having been altered…  One of my all-time favorite of our artists is ‘our Turner’, Thomas Moran.  His views in Yellowstone National Park involve all the senses, so that we can nearly hear his waterfalls.

The-Grand-Canyon-Of-The-Yellowstone-2

The West was never easy for me — whether sightseeing or skiing.  Coming from the storied East, where most mountains and rivers involved our War of Independence, and even the tragedy mis-named Civil War – I often felt as dwarfed as the figures in this scene of the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone.

Moran dared another favorite site, Venice.  I remember light there, also, dazzling, more than doubled by all those wrinkling canals.  Especially the Easter morning when I stood alone in St. Mark’s Square, in absolute silence, even to the pigeons.  I hadn’t realized that all the bells of Venice had been silenced on Good Friday, when we’d arrived.  At the moment of dawn, all the bells began their clamor.  The birds rose as one, swirled like sandpipers, in grey clouds, imitating the DNA spiral.  Church bells and wings and the light of a Venice dawn…

AMP280592075  01

Master of Venice, indeed.  But Moran was most at home in the American West.

And I learned, anew, that one place where one can count on light is inside any art museum, no matter what is going on outdoors in any season.
1936.12.4_1a

Thomas Moran Country

This man can find light even in the most formidable mountain passes.

16am274

 

0126.2339_MORAN_SHOSHONE FALLS_SHARPENED 2_o6

 

200px-Brooklyn_Museum_-_Sunset_at_Sea_-_Thomas_Moran_-_overall

Moran’s Dawn at Sea — favorite experience, whether crossing on the France, the Mary, or the QEII.

 

Advertisements

“The Nation that Forgets History is Condemned to Repeat It”

Patriots' Flag Chestnut Neck Revolutionary War Monument Winter 2017

On Facebook, my friend, superb artist Joy Kreves, ‘shares’ this sign, significant in the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C.   These are described in that display as “early warning signs.”  I’ve decided to take this poster to the blog ‘airwaves.”

Sign now in Washington, former capital of the land of the free…

“Now we are engaged in…” a new Holocaust, with many races, and also poor, and most immigrants, as today’s victims.

Victimization has become our ruling force.

“Bring me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses straining to be free” (adorning our Statue of Liberty –    o, remember true liberty?   –  has been amended to, “And I will render you more tired, more poor, and may well send you back to your country of origin.”

If I had an American flag today, it would have to be the one with thirteen stars!

Where is my country?  Where is “this land is your land, this land is my land?”

“Where have all the flowers gone?”

What’s missing from this list of so-called ‘early warnings’ — but there were no early warnings in our situation, is the prevalence of rants and vindictiveness.

No automatic alt text available.

WINTER POEM

Sending a poem a day to a recuperating friend, I have been baffled lately.  It feels as though I must send poems timely to this challenging season.  Yet, I write few winter poems.

Here is one, from the year 2000 — that pivotal year we thought we had to dread for technological reasons.  I had nightmares about the coming century, having no idea what it was that I so feared.  Since November 2016, I see why my dreams portrayed a furious steam locomotive hurtling toward me, blinding me with smoke and bright lights, and no escape.

Nature, as you know, is my refuge.  Come, stroll with me:

NEAR ZERO

 

it’s too cold!

and the wind!

now snow with

the rattle of sleet

 

I can’t go

on my walk

but I must

pull on layers

of everything but

courage which is

in short supply

 

winter’s pathways belong but to pairs —

cross-country skiers

cardinals shaking whiteness from a shrub

beside the iced canal

man&dog/girl&dog

even the Towpath

–half thawed/half-glazed–

made for two

 

the one of me

takes the thawing way

 

February 2000

This weekend, I’ll be at Island Beach, with Jeanette Hooban, Bill Rawlyk, Fine Art Photographers Ray Yeager and Angela Previte, and Antela’s equally avid birder husband, Bob.  If anyone knows where the snowy owls are hiding, Ray and Angela do.  Here’s a poem written when I first came to know Ray:

WINGED GIFTS

 

there is a man who sends me bluebirds

foxes, with snow on their noses

intense raptors arrowing through

otherwise void skies

and snowy owls beyond counting

 

some sleepy

some coy

one descends like the Holy Ghost

one laughts, and the inside

of that fierce beak

is pink

 

snowies from the front, the back

at first light

and last

and one rising relentlessly

for the hunt

 

many go in search of snowies

in irruption years

 

few have seen them move

 

CAROLYN FOOTE EDELMANN

Winter, 2015

Advantage of Taking a Wrong Turn — Poem on Cape May and Wildwoods

Willet (Tringa semipalmata) Bird, Morro Strand State Beach, MorrWhat about the rest of you, NJWILDBEAUTY readers???  I am really feeling a horse-in-a spring-barn restlessness, day after gelid day

it’s intriguing going back over poems of other years when I cannot really go anywhere.  Tomorrow’s beach walk at Bay Head has been indefinitely postponed.  Here’s a Cape May situation where lemonade gradually emerged out of the lemon of taking a wrong turn

HEADING OUT

 

if you make the wrong turn

leaving Cape May, as I

have, you may find yourself

 

on a series

of delicate bridges

arching high over clam boats

 

alongside fish factories

where sinuous cormorants

stretch and preen upon dark pilings

 

the pewter-hued roadway

stitches hillocks to tussocks

carrying you through new marshlands

where shorebirds strut

and willets cry their own sharp name

 

road like a rainbow

heads you now toward

the Wildwoods

where all the woods

are gone, of course

 

but there remain other

definitions of Wild

and Stone Harbor rookeries

beckon

 

you may find in your lostness

that radiant marshes

are where you’d really

been heading out

all the while

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Let there be light…”  

 

 

George Bernard Shaw — my “marching orders’ for this life

A natural autumn glow, at Prallsville Mills, on the D&R Canal – to remind us of George Bernard Shaw’s ‘brief candle’…

Autumn Canal near Prallsville Mills

Long ago, I read everything I could find, by and about Shaw.  Yes, his misogyny bothered me; and yet, and yet — I know no better life paradigm:

“I am of the opinion that my life belongs to the community, and as long as I live, it is my privilege to do for it whatever I can.

I want to be thoroughly used up when I die, for the harder I work, the more I live.

Life is no ‘brief candle’ to me. It ia a sort of splendid torch which I have got hold of for a moment, and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to the future generations.”

George Bernard Shaw

WHEN YOUR EASTER OUTFIT IS BIRDING GEAR…

Hold on to your Hat Jeanette Hooban at Cape May Hawk Watch Platform Easter 2017

“HOLD ONTO YOUR HAT!” – Intrepid Jeanette Hooban on Easter

Hawk Watch Platform, Cape May, New Jersey

Over the weekend, yours truly set off for New Jersey’s two birding meccas, –Cape May and ‘The Brig’/Forsythe Wildlife Refuge.  As usual, she was running away from Holidays that used to be magical, in quest of winged rarities.  This memorable journey unfolded after Intrepid Jeanette Hooban declared [some months ago], “Carolyn, Easter is YOURS!”

Cape May Hawk Watch Platform aster 2017

HAWK WATCH PLATFORM:  Support these courageous and generous donors, without whose work and words, people could still be slaughtering rare birds by the thousands, all along Sunset Boulevard.

The Climate Change that ‘doesn’t exist’ had other ideas.  Gale-winds had flags snapping almost to the tearing point.  Out of the SOUTH — the direction in which migrants need to be flying.  They may as well have faced a wall.

Wild Wind & Flags Cape May Easter 2017

NOTE THOSE WIND-WHIPPED FLAGS

Jeanette and I learned that only swans, osprey and a smattering of gulls were strong enough either day to surmount the mistral-like onslaught.

Mute Swan in Territorializing Posture Cape May Easter 2017

MUTE SWAN INSTITUTES TERRITORIALIZING POSTURE

We were given three oystercatchers at the Meadows at Cape May — walking around, seeking the ideal spot for the scrape they consider a nest.  Territorialzing was inevitable and amazingly raucous.  Get that verb though, “walking.”  At the Brig, –on the side of the renovated road, opposite Atlantic City–,  a pair of oystercatchers walked around on the pale gravelly substrate, nesting on their minds.  These could have been the pair I watched feeding one young a summer ago, in that same place, where Sandy had devoured the road.

There were a few great egrets in stunning breeding plumage.  They, also, were walking.  Terns wheeled and plunged.  A yellowlegs (I can’t tell greater from lesser unless they’re side-by-side) and some willets also tried to feed in low water, –feed on foot, not on wings.

So, right now, your NJ WILDBEAUTY Cape May activity report is being replaced this time by this poem.  It was written when the Dodge Poetry Festival was still held at Waterloo Village.  Joy Harjo, a feisty, eloquent Native American, magnificently conveyed her splendid multi-level poem, “She Had Some Horses.”

 

“SHE SAW SOME BIRDS”

                                                           (Hearing Joy Harjo at the  Dodge Poetry Festival)

 

she saw some birds who

were little and magical

and easily mistaken

— one for the other —

warbling in underbrush

and sporting, at the last moment

a red kiss

or a brassy crown or a

gold coin on a dark

rump, — and tiny, so tiny

really almost

invisible

 

she saw some birds who

were too high on a tree-

limb or a thermal

or above slate seas

and twisting — this

way and that –, hiding

their field marks

 

they could have been

peregrine or immature golden

against the noon sun but

no one can quite

make this call

 

she saw some birds

with distinctive bellies

plastered flat against

dark trunks which they were

excavating high and deep

where no one can climb

or raid or even — at the very

least — identify

 

she heard some birds

in the wide marsh

as the sun slipped

away from her and even

worse, from her birds

 

who had concealed

themselves among sere rushes

which they exactly matched

so she could not see but only

hear their rattle or click or whine

and wonder if this was her

rail, her shy bittern

 

the ones who so skillfully lose

themselves in the sedges as

she so longs to do in such

a setting,… everywhere

 

CAROLYN FOOTE EDELMANN

 

THE FOUR SEASONS RESTAURANT — HAVEN OF EXCELLENCE — R.I.P.

4 Seasons Motif Restaurant Manhattan

The Four Seasons Motif outside the restaurant

Once there was a bastion of excellence, in Manhattan, called The Four Seasons.

Pool Room Four Seasons Restaurant

The Pool Room, The Four Seasons Restaurant

People think it was all about the food.  And, to a high degree, it was.  In that faraway year of 1959, when I moved to Manhattan, here was regionality and seasonality, and therefore savor and freshness and beauty such that no other cuisine could equal.  Not even Caravelle and Cote Basque.  Nowhere.

Metal Rain by Day 4 Seasons

Metal Rain Inside the Four Seasons, by day

Now, The Four Seasons is no more.  Several farewell nights took place, and many articles have appeared.  Nothing conveys the exquisite uniqueness that was our constant experience in every family meal at the hands of Four Seasons staff, from owners, through maitre d’, through waiters, and those invisible magnificent chefs.  All hands created that museum masquerading as restaurant, appropriately the jewel in the crown of the Seagram Building.

Palm Room Four Seasons Restaurant Manhattan

Palms and Tranquility, The Four Seasons Restaurant

The farewell articles go on and on about power lunches and billionaires and of course the movers and shakers of Manhattan.  The focus on guests splashing in what, –to us–, had always been, that sacred reflecting pool.  Seeing that pool room in vivid memory, I realize that its astounding simplicity and tranquility generated the air of haven in the middle of Manhattan’s notorious bustle.  Entering, it was as though a shawl of silence lightly descended upon our shoulders.

4 Seasons Modern Bench Manhattan Restaurant

Four Seasons Art

It cannot be true that all the superb art was reflected in that barely rippling water — yet that is how its multiplied beauty appears in retrospect.  Seeking images on the internet, nothing satisfies.   I am SURE there were Picasso tapestries hanging on stairway walls.  They appear nowhere today.  As Four Seasons appears nowhere today.  Progress and mercantilism dominate this century.  So are we deprived of this sanctuary whose aura to echoes the interiors of Chartres, Ste. Chapelle, the mosic-rich glittering basilicas in Ravenna on sunny days.

Night Scene Four Seasons Restaurant, Manhattan

Night Scene, The Pool Room, Four Seasons Restaurant

A major aspect of family meals at Four Seasons was the silken warmth of everyone’s welcome.  Come with Diane and Catherine, Werner and me, on a scintillating early autumn Saturday.  Settle in at a capacious table, carefully far enough from others so that privacy is maintained.  Hear the girls gently order their beverages; as Werner, their Swiss father, discussed wines with the sommelier.  Watch the girls’ tall gleaming glasses arrive with one waiter, as towering menus are settled silently into our hands.  See Catherine, –the younger but taller, with her long blonde Swiss hair–, open that menu and knock over her Coke.  Empathize with the horror on that young girl’s face..

4 Seasons Final Menu

Four Seasons Menu

See a brigade of waiters and busboys dash to our table.  Watch as though each had been Blackstone, the Magician.  Whisk!  off with the stained cloth and whatever had been so artfully arranged upon it.  Whoosh, floated the impeccable new one, like linens for an altar.

Hear the empathy in the voice of the headwaiter as he soothed our chagrined daughter:  “That’s nothing!,” he’s exclaiming.  “At night, we have grown-ups who catch their menus on fire!”

4 Seasons Plate with specialties Manhattan

Four Seasons Sampling

Laugh with all of us, and see Catherine’s shame erased.  Understand that this gentility was the hallmark of that restaurant.  We were not movers and shakers.  We were suburbanites, –upon whom I knew, as twice-former Manhattan resident–, that town looks askance.  We even dared to bring young girls, who happened to adore rituals and would eat anything (well, except petite friture in Villefranche, Provence, because, “Daddy, they have eyes!”

4 Seasons China

Four Seasons China

Werner knew, and we would come to know, that the poliltesse that suffused The Four Seasons was in the best European traditions, –as in Claridge’s of London, the Plaza Athenee and the Ritz of Paris.  But we weren’t in Europe — we were in America.  And for those few savory scintillating Four Seasons hours, we were experiencing the best of our country.  As with those legendary hotels and their sublime restaurants, what we took place at table rivaled beauty and majesty and tradition we had spent all morning absorbing in the world’s most important museums.

Metal Rain Four Seasons Restaurant Manhattan

Metal Rain by Night, Four Seasons Restaurant

The Four Seasons was not a museum.  It was alive, and its excellence could be counted on, time after time after time, no matter the origins of our guests

WAS alive.

IS no more.

So I must mourn this loss.

America is the less for this finale.

My words are so feeble.  I need Will to give me lines such as “Take and cut [it] out in little stars, and all the world shall be in love with night!”