(via 5000 Years of Gems and Jewelry) Frances Rogers and Alice Beard writes:
2. Ornaments And Magic
Long before man had either the implements or the skill to shape and engrave hard stones he had the desire to use them for adornment and apparently some obscure ideas concerning their occult powers.
‘The first spiritual want of a barbarous man is decoration,’ says Carlyle; and archeology confirms that statement. The ‘jewelry’ of primitive man might be made of almost any small objects that could easily be strung together. Necklaces of perishable things such as bright berries, seeds, and feathers have, of course, left no trace; but sea-shells, bits of bone, the teeth and claws of animals, all pierced for stringing, bear mute and permanent witness to the fact that jewelry, such as it was, became fashionable at a date so remote as to baffle any exact reckoning of centuries.
When archaeological research uncovered the early Neolithic strata of the cavern of Mas ď Azil, many pierced stagś teeth were found. Of the length of sinew or bit of vine which once strung them together no trace remained, but the arrangement of the teeth in the form of a necklace clearly told their story.
Many of the shells and the claws and teeth of animals found in ancient graves are ornamented with thin decorative lines suggestive of magic symbols, which leads us to surmise that the people of the Stone Age, even as the people who lived thousands of years later, wore their necklaces and pendants for the double purpose of ornament and amulet endowed with magic powers.
Magic, to the modern mind, is ‘the art (or pretended art) of producing by occult means effects contrary to the known order of nature.’
To primitive peoples, however, nature was not subject to undeviating laws. Sun, moon, clouds, rain, trees, and rocks, all were endowed with life and personality. They could think, feel and act in accordance with some unpredictable mood or whim; they could bring good or evil to mankind. Naturally everyone wished to attract and cajole the friendly elemental beings who brought good fortune, and to render powerless all harmful beings. The gods must be propitiated: the demons must be bribed or driven off by some compelling force. But how were these things to be done? Obviously the matter was beyond the knowledge of the common man. Here and there, however, various men became known for their ability to find out what pleased the gods and inclined them to bestow favors, and also how best to handle beings of mischievous intent. These men became the first priests.
In Egypt there had gradually been evolved a complicated mythology wherein religion, magic, and the power to heal the sick were closely interwoven; therefore priest, magician and physician were one and the same. All of which has direct bearing on our subject, because precious stones held an important place in the rites and ceremonies which made the connecting link between mankind and the supernatural powers.
For example, if a man’s body was full of aches and pains, doubtless he was possessed by a demon. So the man betook himself to the house of a priest who knew how to deal with the idiosyncrasies of these evil creatures. Now it would seem that from earliest times, even down to the voodoo ceremonies still practised today, one of the strongest powers of magic lay in the principle that like has relation to like—or, as the saying is, ‘A hair of the dog that bit you’ will cure you. Accordingly the priest, recognizing by the nature of the pain which particular demon was tormenting the patient, selected an amulet made of the proper precious stone, whereon was engraved the image of that particular demon. Then he pressed it against that part of the man’s body most affected, and with due ceremony repeated certain incantations addressed to the gods. Presumably, this was more than a demon could endure, and thereupon it was supposed to flee headlong, leaving the man restored to health.
And so it came about that a large part of the work of the jeweler of early times was the making of amulets and talismans. Rings, necklaces, pendants—especially pendants—beads, and bracelets, when properly inscribed with a magic symbol, were in constant demand, for the custom of wearing them was universal. In our times, a rabbit’s foot or a four leaf clover is rather jocosely regarded as a form of talisman. The ancients, however, since the wearing of a charm had relation to their religion, treated the whole subject with a respect due to the supernatural beings whom they sought to influence one way or another.
Everybody owned beads—men, women and children, whether of royal blood or humble workers—for the materials ranged from pearls to pot clay and therefore even the poor could possess a string of beads. The Egyptian word for beads was sha-sha, and the syllable sha was the word for luck.
A magic inscription on any kind of bead gave it amuletic significance, no matter what substance the bead was made of. But gemstones in themselves, even without any inscription, had supernatural powers according to their colors, characteristics, and such mystic legends as were associated with them. Agate was a recognized protection against spider bites and thunderstorms. Green jasper could bring rain. And he who wore lapis lazuli would be free from the attacks of serpents. A gem that could be cut so that its various markings or strata of color would resemble an eye was very desirable, and ‘eyes’ of banded agate—with three bands of color to represent the pupil, iris, and white of an eye as in nature—were especially potent.
The Goldsmith – Jeweler Of Egypt (continued)
Monday, January 07, 2008
How Art Rose With The Dutch Republic
(via The Outline of Art) William Orpen writes:
2
There is this initial difference between Hals and Rembrandt, that whereas Hals passed the greater part of his working life during a time of war, Rembrandt attained his maturity and executed most of his greatest works after the conclusion of peace. Hals lived in and depicted a life of action, when men must be up and doing and there was no time to think; Rembrandt’s middle years and old age were spent in an age of comparative peace and quite, when Holland had the leisure to think and to meditate not only on the greatness of her political achievements but on the problems of life. Hals expressed the gallantry of Holland in action; Rembrandt, the profundity of her thought.
One ought not to lay too much stress on a mere coincidence, yet when we remember the philosophical temper of his art it seems peculiarly appropriate that Rembrandt should have been born in the university town of Leyden, the headquarters of Dutch philosophy and learning. He came into the world on July 15, 1607, being the fifth and youngest son of Hermon Gerritzoon van Rijn, a prosperous miller who possessed a mill, several fields, and other property. The parents were ambitious for their youngest son and sent him to school ‘to learn the Latin tongue to prepare himself for the Academy of Leyden, so that in the fullness of time he might serve the city and the Republic with his knowledge.’
The boy, however, did not take kindly to book learning, but was for ever drawing and designing. At school Rembrandt is said to have been one of the idle pupils who ‘during their writing lessons, when they ought to be writing, scrawl figures of vessels and animals all over the margins of their books.’ He was at the University in 1620, but it soon became clear to his father that it was unprofitable for Rembrandt to continue his studies there. His aptitude for art was unmistakable, and accordingly he was apprenticed first to Jacob can Swanenburch, and afterwards to Pieter Lastman, of Amsterdam, a fashionable portrait painter of the day.
Six months were enough to satiate this earnest young student with the smooth and flattering trivialities of a fashionable merchant of likeness, and in 1624 he returned to Leyden to study and practise painting by himself. One of the earliest of his known and dated pictures is ‘St Paul in Prison’, painted in 1627, and now at Stuttgart. This picture shows the precise rendering of detail characteristic of his early style, but also anticipates the light effect of his later work by the way in which the light is concentrated on the head of the apostle. That the painter had already attracted some attention is clear from the fact that in the following year Gerard Dou, a promising boy of fifteen, was placed with him as a pupil.
About 1631 Rembrandt removed from Leyden to Amsterdam, an important step taken no doubt owing to the increasing number of portrait commissions he received from the rich merchants of this flourishing city. He had also made some reputation for himself as an etcher, and in 1632 Hendrik van Uylenburg, who had previously published some of his etchings, commissioned Rembrandt to paint a portrait of Saskia van Uylenburg, a young cousin of the print seller. The acquaintance thus begun soon ripened into love, and the form and face of this dainty little patrician, an orphan who had lost both her parents, suddenly becomes the prevailing theme both in the painted and etched work of Rembrandt. The attraction was mutual, and though her relatives disapproved of the attachment, considering the painter not good enough for a well-dowered young lady of quality, yet love won the day, and Rembrandt and Saskia were married in 1634. The veiled hostility shown by his bride’s relations led the painter to relieve his feelings by painting a series of pictures illustrating the life of Samson, in which Saskia is the Delilah, the artist Samson, and the Philistines, of course, are his wife’s relatives. These paintings not only express the artist’s defiance of family pride, but also his attitude towards the world at large, and his recurring amazement at his having won for himself so sweet a maid. The joyous picture of himself with Saskia on his knee, shows Rembrandt at the zenith of his happiness. Still popular as a painter, his portraits were sought after, he had a crowd of pupils, and a charming wife who brought him a moderate fortune. The young couple felt that the world was their own, and behaved like children in their utter disregard of the value of money. Rembrandt kept on buying new jewels and fine stuffs with which to deck his beloved and paint her in a new guise: he bought the works of other artists and beautiful objects of all kinds, wishing to create a fairy world around a fairy wife. But soon all this luxurious beauty was overshadowed by sorrow. Two children died one after the other, and in 1642 Saskia herself died after giving birth to the boy Titus.
How Art Rose With The Dutch Republic (continued)
2
There is this initial difference between Hals and Rembrandt, that whereas Hals passed the greater part of his working life during a time of war, Rembrandt attained his maturity and executed most of his greatest works after the conclusion of peace. Hals lived in and depicted a life of action, when men must be up and doing and there was no time to think; Rembrandt’s middle years and old age were spent in an age of comparative peace and quite, when Holland had the leisure to think and to meditate not only on the greatness of her political achievements but on the problems of life. Hals expressed the gallantry of Holland in action; Rembrandt, the profundity of her thought.
One ought not to lay too much stress on a mere coincidence, yet when we remember the philosophical temper of his art it seems peculiarly appropriate that Rembrandt should have been born in the university town of Leyden, the headquarters of Dutch philosophy and learning. He came into the world on July 15, 1607, being the fifth and youngest son of Hermon Gerritzoon van Rijn, a prosperous miller who possessed a mill, several fields, and other property. The parents were ambitious for their youngest son and sent him to school ‘to learn the Latin tongue to prepare himself for the Academy of Leyden, so that in the fullness of time he might serve the city and the Republic with his knowledge.’
The boy, however, did not take kindly to book learning, but was for ever drawing and designing. At school Rembrandt is said to have been one of the idle pupils who ‘during their writing lessons, when they ought to be writing, scrawl figures of vessels and animals all over the margins of their books.’ He was at the University in 1620, but it soon became clear to his father that it was unprofitable for Rembrandt to continue his studies there. His aptitude for art was unmistakable, and accordingly he was apprenticed first to Jacob can Swanenburch, and afterwards to Pieter Lastman, of Amsterdam, a fashionable portrait painter of the day.
Six months were enough to satiate this earnest young student with the smooth and flattering trivialities of a fashionable merchant of likeness, and in 1624 he returned to Leyden to study and practise painting by himself. One of the earliest of his known and dated pictures is ‘St Paul in Prison’, painted in 1627, and now at Stuttgart. This picture shows the precise rendering of detail characteristic of his early style, but also anticipates the light effect of his later work by the way in which the light is concentrated on the head of the apostle. That the painter had already attracted some attention is clear from the fact that in the following year Gerard Dou, a promising boy of fifteen, was placed with him as a pupil.
About 1631 Rembrandt removed from Leyden to Amsterdam, an important step taken no doubt owing to the increasing number of portrait commissions he received from the rich merchants of this flourishing city. He had also made some reputation for himself as an etcher, and in 1632 Hendrik van Uylenburg, who had previously published some of his etchings, commissioned Rembrandt to paint a portrait of Saskia van Uylenburg, a young cousin of the print seller. The acquaintance thus begun soon ripened into love, and the form and face of this dainty little patrician, an orphan who had lost both her parents, suddenly becomes the prevailing theme both in the painted and etched work of Rembrandt. The attraction was mutual, and though her relatives disapproved of the attachment, considering the painter not good enough for a well-dowered young lady of quality, yet love won the day, and Rembrandt and Saskia were married in 1634. The veiled hostility shown by his bride’s relations led the painter to relieve his feelings by painting a series of pictures illustrating the life of Samson, in which Saskia is the Delilah, the artist Samson, and the Philistines, of course, are his wife’s relatives. These paintings not only express the artist’s defiance of family pride, but also his attitude towards the world at large, and his recurring amazement at his having won for himself so sweet a maid. The joyous picture of himself with Saskia on his knee, shows Rembrandt at the zenith of his happiness. Still popular as a painter, his portraits were sought after, he had a crowd of pupils, and a charming wife who brought him a moderate fortune. The young couple felt that the world was their own, and behaved like children in their utter disregard of the value of money. Rembrandt kept on buying new jewels and fine stuffs with which to deck his beloved and paint her in a new guise: he bought the works of other artists and beautiful objects of all kinds, wishing to create a fairy world around a fairy wife. But soon all this luxurious beauty was overshadowed by sorrow. Two children died one after the other, and in 1642 Saskia herself died after giving birth to the boy Titus.
How Art Rose With The Dutch Republic (continued)
Saturday, January 05, 2008
Heard On The Street
The greatest wealth is created during the bad times + economic contraction is creating opportunities for each of us to create real wealth for ourselves.
Viewpoints Of A Commodity Trader
Viewpoints of a Commodity Trader by Roy W. Longstreet is a great book. There are lessons for everyone, especially gem traders and art dealers.
(via Amazon) Here is what the description of Viewpoints of a Commodity Trader says:
The psychological aspect of trading is considered by many to be the most important. In this classic, veteran trader Roy Longstreet explores many areas that are of psychological significance to the futures trader and offers guidance on how to deal with each effectively.
This is a behind the scenes book in the strictest sense of the phrase. When Roy Longstreet was first confronted with the question: If you know so much about commodity trading, then why aren't you rich? He determined that the best answer would be a conspicuous measure of financial success in the trading of commodities futures. That he achieved his objective is evident, because now he is the head of the largest brokerage firm in the country dealing exclusively in commodities.
The techniques and the methods he employed over the years to achieve financial success is what is important to the reader and in this book we have those methods ably described by Mr. Longstreet. His approach to commodity trading is more fundamental than technical. He believes that psychology plays a basic role in the movement of commodity prices. As a matter of fact, he has often expressed the desire to hire a psychologist to apply specialized knowledge and find out what people who trade commodities think and why they make the mistakes they do.
Roy Longstreet's views will prove to be invaluable for those who want to increase their financial standing along intelligent, crystal-clear and forthright lines. As publishers of many books in the financial field, we recommend Roy Longstreet's book to you.
Here is an excerpt:
The great philosopher Emerson stated that a man is as a tree and his wealth is as a vine. The vine can grow no higher than the tree.
The evidence is conclusive that commodity trading is an art. To be successful at it one must be an artist. Such a trader can scale the heights of accomplishment, realizing achievements comparable to those of a renowned concert pianist, or a painter whose works merit a place in the great galleries of the world.
What, then, are the attributes needed by one who would be a true artist in the world of commodities? There are many. A few are vital. Such men will be wise, be mighty, be already rich.
He who is wise learns from every man. He who is mighty has achieved control over his most formidable adversary, himself. He who is rich is satisfied with his lot. 'He who seeks silver only will never be satisfied with silver.'
(via Amazon) Here is what the description of Viewpoints of a Commodity Trader says:
The psychological aspect of trading is considered by many to be the most important. In this classic, veteran trader Roy Longstreet explores many areas that are of psychological significance to the futures trader and offers guidance on how to deal with each effectively.
This is a behind the scenes book in the strictest sense of the phrase. When Roy Longstreet was first confronted with the question: If you know so much about commodity trading, then why aren't you rich? He determined that the best answer would be a conspicuous measure of financial success in the trading of commodities futures. That he achieved his objective is evident, because now he is the head of the largest brokerage firm in the country dealing exclusively in commodities.
The techniques and the methods he employed over the years to achieve financial success is what is important to the reader and in this book we have those methods ably described by Mr. Longstreet. His approach to commodity trading is more fundamental than technical. He believes that psychology plays a basic role in the movement of commodity prices. As a matter of fact, he has often expressed the desire to hire a psychologist to apply specialized knowledge and find out what people who trade commodities think and why they make the mistakes they do.
Roy Longstreet's views will prove to be invaluable for those who want to increase their financial standing along intelligent, crystal-clear and forthright lines. As publishers of many books in the financial field, we recommend Roy Longstreet's book to you.
Here is an excerpt:
The great philosopher Emerson stated that a man is as a tree and his wealth is as a vine. The vine can grow no higher than the tree.
The evidence is conclusive that commodity trading is an art. To be successful at it one must be an artist. Such a trader can scale the heights of accomplishment, realizing achievements comparable to those of a renowned concert pianist, or a painter whose works merit a place in the great galleries of the world.
What, then, are the attributes needed by one who would be a true artist in the world of commodities? There are many. A few are vital. Such men will be wise, be mighty, be already rich.
He who is wise learns from every man. He who is mighty has achieved control over his most formidable adversary, himself. He who is rich is satisfied with his lot. 'He who seeks silver only will never be satisfied with silver.'
Bankable Contemporary Artists: India
The contemporary artists are catching up with the masters. You will hear more about them in 2008.
- N S Harsha
- Atul Dodiya
- Chintan Upadhyay
- Subodh Gupta
- T V Santhosh
- Thukral & Tagra
- G Ravinder Reddy
- Anju Dodiya
- Baiju Parthan
- Herman Linde
- N S Harsha
- Atul Dodiya
- Chintan Upadhyay
- Subodh Gupta
- T V Santhosh
- Thukral & Tagra
- G Ravinder Reddy
- Anju Dodiya
- Baiju Parthan
- Herman Linde
Upstream Mining Risks: Security Of Tenure
Chaim Even-Zohar writes about diamond merchants investing in mining properties + mineral rights issues/risks and rewards, especially in Africa + other viewpoints @ http://www.idexonline.com/portal_FullEditorial.asp
The Goldsmith – Jeweler Of Egypt
(via 5000 Years of Gems and Jewelry) Frances Rogers and Alice Beard writes:
1. The Goldsmith’s Shop
Prefaced by the first groping efforts of primitive man toward personal adornment, comes the story of gems and jewelry as developed by civilization. This story begins in Egypt, because it is there that we find the oldest of all records concerning the making of jewelry. That record is to be found on the stone wall of an oblong room, the chapel chamber of an ancient tomb.
The chapel chamber is but one of many flat, oblong structures which surround the pyramids of Gizeh. It was the custom in ancient Egypt to provide the dead of high estate with a room to which the departed spirit might return each day to find the necessities, amusements and various interests which concerned him during life. For those things which could not be supplied in concrete form, pictures were substituted. From floor to ceiling, the inside walls of a chapel chamber were covered with rich murals, carved in low relief and painted in colors—which have in many cases remained unfaded through nearly fifty centuries.
These pictures are like some moment of arrested time: they convey to us, far better than history written in words, the manner of life and the industries which occupied the Egyptians of that period.
Most pertinent to our subject is a certain panel which shows the interior of a jeweler’s shop where work is in full swing, master and apprentices all earnestly engaged in making jewelry. The master weighs out precious stones on scales amazingly like those in use today. Near him stands the scribe who keeps the accounts. Six workers kneel before a small clay furnace and keep the fire glowing with their long blowpipes. Four apprentices beat gold into thin leaves, while still others hammer and solder gold, forming it into fine jewelry. One man, seated on a low bench, fashions an elaborate collar, and another grinds and polishes bits of sky blue turquoise for inlay work.
Perhaps the pictured jewelry shop was intended to provide a fresh supply of ornaments of gold and precious stones whenever needed by the spirit of the nobleman whose tomb it decorated. For, according to Egyptian belief, pictures and symbols took on the properties of real things by virtue of magical formulae recited over them as part of the funeral rites.
Fortunately for us, however, the jewelry that decorated a mummy was real and tangible; and it is due to the ancient custom of adorning the dead with jewels that many beautiful specimens have come down to us.
Among modern jewels there is an equivalent for most of the ancient jewelry. We have rings, bracelets, brooches, girdles, earrings, crowns, coronets; but the Egyptians had certain characteristic forms of jeweled ornament for which we have no equivalent. For example, the pectoral, which is found on nearly all mummies. It was a breast ornament, worn suspended from the neck by a ribbon or chain. Its design represented various deities, a kind of portable shrine for the gods. Many pectorals were made of bronze and covered over with thin gold leaf, but the finest were of pure gold, sometimes inlaid with lapis, carnelian and turquoise. And the beauty of Egyptian princesses and ladies of high degree was enhanced by a particularly becoming head-dress, nothing even, remotely approaching which is to be found in the jeweler’s shop of today. Often worn over a wig, which was arranged in a multitude of small braids, the head-dress itself might be said to take the form of an outer wig, fitting closely to the crown of the head and falling loosely in long flexible strings of gold beads or jeweled medallions over the shoulders. A gold head-band held it in place.
Very regal the princess must have looked when she donned this gorgeous wig-covering, and considering the tropical climate of Egypt, it must have taken Spartan courage to wear first the opulent wig and then all that weight of metal on top of it. But judging from the stunning effect of these curious head-dresses, even as displayed on artificial heads at the Metropolitan Museum, the game was worth the candle, which is not always the case when discomfort is the price of fashion.
By way of contrast Queen Nefertiti (of somewhat later date), as represented by her portrait head, is wigless. Her high crown is blue, and around it is a band of gold inset with precious stones. About her throat is the rich usekh collar—a wide collar-shaped necklace especially typical of Egyptian jewelry. It is found on nearly all mummies and painted on all mummy cases.
In early days of a jeweler was not only a highly skilled craftsman who made ornaments for personal adornment, he was also a goldsmith and an engraver of metals for any purpose. In fact, his craft was so inclusive as to cover all branches of decoration calling for the use of metals and gems. For the king, the Egyptian jeweler made such ornaments as magnificent bracelets composed of alternate plaques as hammered gold and engraved turquoise, or spiral bracelets of twisted bands of gold; but he also made emblems of royal authority—wonderful scepters of gold and sard. Even the king’s chariot had to be overlaid with sheets of gold and adorned with stone inlay. All these things were tasks for the goldsmith-jeweler.
For the adornment of the queen he made jewels richly engraved and delicately wrought, and he also made the jewel-cases to contain them. Her vanity box of filigree gold, shaped like a shell, her perfume caskets, and whatever receptacles she required for the unguents and paints employed in her elaborate art of make-up were fashioned by the versatile goldsmith.
The use of precious metals and gemstones was not as limited as it is today, but often spread itself lavishly wherever ornament was desired. Vases were shaped from gold and inlaid with turquoise; and furniture shone gorgeous with gold and lapis lazuli, which is a beautiful ultramarine stone frequently flecked with metallic specks ‘like to the serene blue heavens fretted with fire’.
Now to us, the rich and elaborate Egyptian jewelry, apart from its archaeological interest, is simply beautiful ornament. But to those who made and to those who wore that ancient jewelry much of it carried another value, one with which we must reckon if we are fully to understand and appreciate the work of the goldsmith of that day. His designs, for the most part, were not merely arbitrary—they were symbolic; and the symbols, according to popular belief, exercised a magic power in behalf of the wearer. Over and over again we find the lotus flower, the falcon, the scarab, or some Egyptian deity wrought in gold and precious stones, each one of which was an emblem held to exert some particular influence over daily life. The Egyptians, however, were not the first to wear gems as ornaments, nor were they the first to invest their ornaments with powers of magic.
The Goldsmith – Jeweler Of Egypt (continued)
1. The Goldsmith’s Shop
Prefaced by the first groping efforts of primitive man toward personal adornment, comes the story of gems and jewelry as developed by civilization. This story begins in Egypt, because it is there that we find the oldest of all records concerning the making of jewelry. That record is to be found on the stone wall of an oblong room, the chapel chamber of an ancient tomb.
The chapel chamber is but one of many flat, oblong structures which surround the pyramids of Gizeh. It was the custom in ancient Egypt to provide the dead of high estate with a room to which the departed spirit might return each day to find the necessities, amusements and various interests which concerned him during life. For those things which could not be supplied in concrete form, pictures were substituted. From floor to ceiling, the inside walls of a chapel chamber were covered with rich murals, carved in low relief and painted in colors—which have in many cases remained unfaded through nearly fifty centuries.
These pictures are like some moment of arrested time: they convey to us, far better than history written in words, the manner of life and the industries which occupied the Egyptians of that period.
Most pertinent to our subject is a certain panel which shows the interior of a jeweler’s shop where work is in full swing, master and apprentices all earnestly engaged in making jewelry. The master weighs out precious stones on scales amazingly like those in use today. Near him stands the scribe who keeps the accounts. Six workers kneel before a small clay furnace and keep the fire glowing with their long blowpipes. Four apprentices beat gold into thin leaves, while still others hammer and solder gold, forming it into fine jewelry. One man, seated on a low bench, fashions an elaborate collar, and another grinds and polishes bits of sky blue turquoise for inlay work.
Perhaps the pictured jewelry shop was intended to provide a fresh supply of ornaments of gold and precious stones whenever needed by the spirit of the nobleman whose tomb it decorated. For, according to Egyptian belief, pictures and symbols took on the properties of real things by virtue of magical formulae recited over them as part of the funeral rites.
Fortunately for us, however, the jewelry that decorated a mummy was real and tangible; and it is due to the ancient custom of adorning the dead with jewels that many beautiful specimens have come down to us.
Among modern jewels there is an equivalent for most of the ancient jewelry. We have rings, bracelets, brooches, girdles, earrings, crowns, coronets; but the Egyptians had certain characteristic forms of jeweled ornament for which we have no equivalent. For example, the pectoral, which is found on nearly all mummies. It was a breast ornament, worn suspended from the neck by a ribbon or chain. Its design represented various deities, a kind of portable shrine for the gods. Many pectorals were made of bronze and covered over with thin gold leaf, but the finest were of pure gold, sometimes inlaid with lapis, carnelian and turquoise. And the beauty of Egyptian princesses and ladies of high degree was enhanced by a particularly becoming head-dress, nothing even, remotely approaching which is to be found in the jeweler’s shop of today. Often worn over a wig, which was arranged in a multitude of small braids, the head-dress itself might be said to take the form of an outer wig, fitting closely to the crown of the head and falling loosely in long flexible strings of gold beads or jeweled medallions over the shoulders. A gold head-band held it in place.
Very regal the princess must have looked when she donned this gorgeous wig-covering, and considering the tropical climate of Egypt, it must have taken Spartan courage to wear first the opulent wig and then all that weight of metal on top of it. But judging from the stunning effect of these curious head-dresses, even as displayed on artificial heads at the Metropolitan Museum, the game was worth the candle, which is not always the case when discomfort is the price of fashion.
By way of contrast Queen Nefertiti (of somewhat later date), as represented by her portrait head, is wigless. Her high crown is blue, and around it is a band of gold inset with precious stones. About her throat is the rich usekh collar—a wide collar-shaped necklace especially typical of Egyptian jewelry. It is found on nearly all mummies and painted on all mummy cases.
In early days of a jeweler was not only a highly skilled craftsman who made ornaments for personal adornment, he was also a goldsmith and an engraver of metals for any purpose. In fact, his craft was so inclusive as to cover all branches of decoration calling for the use of metals and gems. For the king, the Egyptian jeweler made such ornaments as magnificent bracelets composed of alternate plaques as hammered gold and engraved turquoise, or spiral bracelets of twisted bands of gold; but he also made emblems of royal authority—wonderful scepters of gold and sard. Even the king’s chariot had to be overlaid with sheets of gold and adorned with stone inlay. All these things were tasks for the goldsmith-jeweler.
For the adornment of the queen he made jewels richly engraved and delicately wrought, and he also made the jewel-cases to contain them. Her vanity box of filigree gold, shaped like a shell, her perfume caskets, and whatever receptacles she required for the unguents and paints employed in her elaborate art of make-up were fashioned by the versatile goldsmith.
The use of precious metals and gemstones was not as limited as it is today, but often spread itself lavishly wherever ornament was desired. Vases were shaped from gold and inlaid with turquoise; and furniture shone gorgeous with gold and lapis lazuli, which is a beautiful ultramarine stone frequently flecked with metallic specks ‘like to the serene blue heavens fretted with fire’.
Now to us, the rich and elaborate Egyptian jewelry, apart from its archaeological interest, is simply beautiful ornament. But to those who made and to those who wore that ancient jewelry much of it carried another value, one with which we must reckon if we are fully to understand and appreciate the work of the goldsmith of that day. His designs, for the most part, were not merely arbitrary—they were symbolic; and the symbols, according to popular belief, exercised a magic power in behalf of the wearer. Over and over again we find the lotus flower, the falcon, the scarab, or some Egyptian deity wrought in gold and precious stones, each one of which was an emblem held to exert some particular influence over daily life. The Egyptians, however, were not the first to wear gems as ornaments, nor were they the first to invest their ornaments with powers of magic.
The Goldsmith – Jeweler Of Egypt (continued)
The Hogback
(via Diamond Cuts in Historic Jewelry:1381-1910) Herbert Tillander writes:
In the mid-sixteenth century only three types of diamond cut were actually given names: the Point Cut, the Table Cut, the Hogback, and the Dos ďâne. This last was the term used in the Renaissance to describe long, narrow diamonds which had two main sloping facets in the crown meeting at an acute angle in a horizontal ridge, and two similar facets in the pavilion. All four facets terminated at either end in smaller facets. In regular Hogbacks the girdle was rectangular.
The rough crystal was usually a distorted, elongated octahedron with two pairs of long faces, one pair above and one pair below. The shape could have emerged simply through unequal face development, or it may have been the result of a natural cleavage, or the cutter may have cleaved off segments from a normal octahedron, or split it twice.
Hogbacks served many purposes: as ‘petals’ of Rosettes, as arms of crosses, as strokes of letters in ‘IHS’ pendants, and so on. The pavilion was often given four facets and a culet, as in a Table Cut, and the ridge of the crown could also be flattened into a narrow Table facet. In fact, the Hogback eventually developed into a long narrower Table Cut.
In the mid-sixteenth century only three types of diamond cut were actually given names: the Point Cut, the Table Cut, the Hogback, and the Dos ďâne. This last was the term used in the Renaissance to describe long, narrow diamonds which had two main sloping facets in the crown meeting at an acute angle in a horizontal ridge, and two similar facets in the pavilion. All four facets terminated at either end in smaller facets. In regular Hogbacks the girdle was rectangular.
The rough crystal was usually a distorted, elongated octahedron with two pairs of long faces, one pair above and one pair below. The shape could have emerged simply through unequal face development, or it may have been the result of a natural cleavage, or the cutter may have cleaved off segments from a normal octahedron, or split it twice.
Hogbacks served many purposes: as ‘petals’ of Rosettes, as arms of crosses, as strokes of letters in ‘IHS’ pendants, and so on. The pavilion was often given four facets and a culet, as in a Table Cut, and the ridge of the crown could also be flattened into a narrow Table facet. In fact, the Hogback eventually developed into a long narrower Table Cut.
Sunshine And Shadow In Spain
(via The Outline of Art) William Orpen writes:
3
Contemporary with Velazquez, but influenced in his style of painting not so much by him as by Caravaggio, was the monastic painter Francisco Zurbaran (1598-1662), who, though born in the province of Estremadura, came to Seville when he was only sixteen and is generally regarded as a member of the School of Seville. He is chiefly famous for his religious pictures, and particularly for his monastic visions, among which ‘The Apotheosis of St Thomas’ in the Museum of Seville ranks as his masterpiece. His monks in white sheets often appear to be carved owing to the effect of high relief obtained by strong contrasts of light and shade, and the feeling of austerity and grandeur they display makes the paintings of Zurbaran illuminating documents of monastic life in Spain during the seventeenth century.
Among the immediate pupils of Velazquez were Juan Battista del Mazo (1600-67), who (in 1634) became his son-in-law and imitated his portraiture so cleverly that some of his paintings were at one time confounded with those by his master; and one who became still more famous, Bartolome Esteban Murillo (1617-82). Also born at Seville, Murillo passed through a whole gamut of influences before he developed a distinct style of his own. When he was twenty four he came to Madrid for a couple of years and when he returned he did not forget the lessons of Velazquez. From this period date those popular pictures of beggar boys and low life subjects which were the first to bring him fame. ‘The Melon Eaters’ is a fine example of this side of Murillo’s art. It charms the layman by its warm and graceful sympathy with life; it delights the artist by the skill and taste shown in the painting of the accessories. The rind of the melon, the bloom of the grapes, the wicker of the woven baskets, all are depicted not only with great beauty of color but with rare fidelity to the textures of the different objects.
Later in life Murillo altered his methods and employed a softer and more suave style, in which outlines are lost in the delicate fusion of graduated colors. The mysterious vaporous effect thus obtained was a variant of Correggio’s famous ‘smoky’ style but has been distinguished from his by being technically described as vaporoso. Among the multitude of Murillo’s religious paintings in this style the most famous is ‘The Immaculate Conception’, now in Louvre, which the French Government acquired in 1852 for the sum of £23440. The change in the type of religious presentation is market if we compare this painting with the frenzy of El Greco or the dramatic action displayed in a Titian or a Tintoretto. The storm and strife of the Reformation and counter-Reformation is passing away, and the enervation of the once combative Spain finds expression in a soft serenity that dreams of an ideal world. Not tragedy nor power, but innocence and sweetness characterize this vision of Mary, whose eyes, as a modern critic has pointed out, are not filled with inspiration and longing, but ‘astonished as those of a child gazing upon the splendor of the candles of a Christmas tree.’
Murillo was very famous in his lifetime, and the sweet sentimentality of his paintings appealed so strongly to the eighteenth and nineteenth century that for nearly two hundred years after his death he was considered the foremost of Spanish painters. Today at least three Spanish painters, Velazquez, Goya, and El Greco are rated more highly. Senhor A. de Beruete y Moret, the learned director of the Prado Museum at Madrid, has stated that:
The art of Murillo is of less interest than formerly, owing to present day preferences, which seek spirituality in art, a force, and even a restlessness which we do not find in the work of this artist....His conceptions are beautiful, but superficial. There is in them no more skillful groundwork, dramatic impulse, nor exaltation than appears at first sight. To comprehend and enjoy them it is not necessary to think; their contemplation leaves the beholder tranquil, they do not possess the power to distract, they have no warmth, nor that distinction which makes a work unique.
Historically the art of Murillo must be regarded as a sign of the decadence of Spain, and it was not till a century later that the country gave birth to another great artist; then the agony of the Wars of Succession found expression through the grim, satirical powers of Goya, whose work will be considered when we come to the art of the Napoleonic period.
The political power and prosperity of Spain rose to its zenith between the reigns of Philip II and Philip IV, and flowered in the paintings of El Greco and Velazquez. But as the power of Spain weakened and her prosperity dwindled, so also did the glory of her art begin to wane. It is not without significance that all the great painters of Spain, Murillo included, were born before 1648, the year in which the humbled Spanish empire was compelled to recognize the independence of the Netherlands by the Peace of Munster. Immediately after Velazquez we must look for the great masters of the seventeenth century, not in decaying Spain, but in Holland, victorious and independent, the country of Hals and Rembrandt.
3
Contemporary with Velazquez, but influenced in his style of painting not so much by him as by Caravaggio, was the monastic painter Francisco Zurbaran (1598-1662), who, though born in the province of Estremadura, came to Seville when he was only sixteen and is generally regarded as a member of the School of Seville. He is chiefly famous for his religious pictures, and particularly for his monastic visions, among which ‘The Apotheosis of St Thomas’ in the Museum of Seville ranks as his masterpiece. His monks in white sheets often appear to be carved owing to the effect of high relief obtained by strong contrasts of light and shade, and the feeling of austerity and grandeur they display makes the paintings of Zurbaran illuminating documents of monastic life in Spain during the seventeenth century.
Among the immediate pupils of Velazquez were Juan Battista del Mazo (1600-67), who (in 1634) became his son-in-law and imitated his portraiture so cleverly that some of his paintings were at one time confounded with those by his master; and one who became still more famous, Bartolome Esteban Murillo (1617-82). Also born at Seville, Murillo passed through a whole gamut of influences before he developed a distinct style of his own. When he was twenty four he came to Madrid for a couple of years and when he returned he did not forget the lessons of Velazquez. From this period date those popular pictures of beggar boys and low life subjects which were the first to bring him fame. ‘The Melon Eaters’ is a fine example of this side of Murillo’s art. It charms the layman by its warm and graceful sympathy with life; it delights the artist by the skill and taste shown in the painting of the accessories. The rind of the melon, the bloom of the grapes, the wicker of the woven baskets, all are depicted not only with great beauty of color but with rare fidelity to the textures of the different objects.
Later in life Murillo altered his methods and employed a softer and more suave style, in which outlines are lost in the delicate fusion of graduated colors. The mysterious vaporous effect thus obtained was a variant of Correggio’s famous ‘smoky’ style but has been distinguished from his by being technically described as vaporoso. Among the multitude of Murillo’s religious paintings in this style the most famous is ‘The Immaculate Conception’, now in Louvre, which the French Government acquired in 1852 for the sum of £23440. The change in the type of religious presentation is market if we compare this painting with the frenzy of El Greco or the dramatic action displayed in a Titian or a Tintoretto. The storm and strife of the Reformation and counter-Reformation is passing away, and the enervation of the once combative Spain finds expression in a soft serenity that dreams of an ideal world. Not tragedy nor power, but innocence and sweetness characterize this vision of Mary, whose eyes, as a modern critic has pointed out, are not filled with inspiration and longing, but ‘astonished as those of a child gazing upon the splendor of the candles of a Christmas tree.’
Murillo was very famous in his lifetime, and the sweet sentimentality of his paintings appealed so strongly to the eighteenth and nineteenth century that for nearly two hundred years after his death he was considered the foremost of Spanish painters. Today at least three Spanish painters, Velazquez, Goya, and El Greco are rated more highly. Senhor A. de Beruete y Moret, the learned director of the Prado Museum at Madrid, has stated that:
The art of Murillo is of less interest than formerly, owing to present day preferences, which seek spirituality in art, a force, and even a restlessness which we do not find in the work of this artist....His conceptions are beautiful, but superficial. There is in them no more skillful groundwork, dramatic impulse, nor exaltation than appears at first sight. To comprehend and enjoy them it is not necessary to think; their contemplation leaves the beholder tranquil, they do not possess the power to distract, they have no warmth, nor that distinction which makes a work unique.
Historically the art of Murillo must be regarded as a sign of the decadence of Spain, and it was not till a century later that the country gave birth to another great artist; then the agony of the Wars of Succession found expression through the grim, satirical powers of Goya, whose work will be considered when we come to the art of the Napoleonic period.
The political power and prosperity of Spain rose to its zenith between the reigns of Philip II and Philip IV, and flowered in the paintings of El Greco and Velazquez. But as the power of Spain weakened and her prosperity dwindled, so also did the glory of her art begin to wane. It is not without significance that all the great painters of Spain, Murillo included, were born before 1648, the year in which the humbled Spanish empire was compelled to recognize the independence of the Netherlands by the Peace of Munster. Immediately after Velazquez we must look for the great masters of the seventeenth century, not in decaying Spain, but in Holland, victorious and independent, the country of Hals and Rembrandt.
Friday, January 04, 2008
Consumer Confidence
According to recent data from the Conference Board Consumer Research Center consumer confidence continues to slide due to rising fuel prices + volatility in the financial markets.
I think political uncertainities may also add to global concerns as events unfold in developed + developing countries in the coming months.
Useful link:
www.conference-board.org
I think political uncertainities may also add to global concerns as events unfold in developed + developing countries in the coming months.
Useful link:
www.conference-board.org
Chinese Jade For Olympic Medals
According to the Organizing Committee of the Beijing Olympic Games jade from China’s plateau province of Quinghai will be used for make Beijing Olympic Games medals + gold medal will include a light, fine jade set in its back, the silver medal in white greenish jade, while a greenish jade will be used for the bronze medal. In Chinese culture jade represents honor and virtue + the medal designs will combine Olympic spirit and Chinese culture. The Beijing Olympic Games will open on Aug. 8, 2008.
Useful links:
http://en.beijing2008.cn
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Qinghai
www.chinaview.cn
Useful links:
http://en.beijing2008.cn
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Qinghai
www.chinaview.cn
The Mysterious Attraction Of Gems
(via 5000 Years of Gems and Jewelry) Frances Rogers and Alice Beard writes:
2. The First Collector of Gemstones
As far we know, the ape, our nearest relative among beasts, possesses no appreciation of beauty. There is no loadstone in his makeup that draws him inexorably toward symmetry of form or glory of color. The naturalists tells us that no creature in the animal kingdom except ourselves seeks to adorn its own person. That fact would appear to lead to the conclusion that the trait is purely human and perhaps one of the factors in the evolution of the human spirit.
Shades of our Purtian ancestry! Such an idea merits the stocks! Nevertheless, the instinctive pleasure felt by the man or woman who first cherished the beauty of a colorful pebble has gripped us fast ever since and become a part of our heritage, stocks or no stocks.
Of course all we can be certain of about that pleasurable moment when man first found a gemstone is that it actually did happen. For details we can only inquire of the archaeologist and then turn the spotlight of imagination on his findings.
Suppose we construct the situation: There has been a prolonged drought, and the river—only source of the man’s water supply—has gone dry, so that rocks and pebbles in its bed are exposed to view. The man walks along the river bed looking for some pool that has yet withstood the glaring heat of the sun.
The man is stoop-shouldered, for it is not so many ages since some ancestor of his first learned to walk on two feet instead of four. And he is shaggy. Indeed he needs a good deal of hair for protection against weather, because he is quite innocent of clothing. Seen at a distance you might believe he was not a man at all, but if you continue to watch he will prove the point for you.
In his search for water in the dry river bed he has discovered a pebble unlike the other pebbles. It is frosted red like a berry. With the infantile desire to taste anything that attracts the eye, he pops the pretty stone into his mouth. No. It is too hard, not good to eat. So he takes it out and sees that being wet the color has deepened and increased in beauty. His pleasure is so great that he must share it....So with much shouting and various other inarticulate noises he makes for the home cave, there to show the treasure to dame wife, who immediately claims it, gets it, and eventually wears it too.
No ape ever felt impelled to do things like that. By recognition of beauty and is fitness for personal adornment these creatures prove themselves human beings. In some fashion man first discovered a gemstone. From our point of view it all happened very long ago; but reckoning time in relation to the birth of the gemstone, it was only yesterday.
2. The First Collector of Gemstones
As far we know, the ape, our nearest relative among beasts, possesses no appreciation of beauty. There is no loadstone in his makeup that draws him inexorably toward symmetry of form or glory of color. The naturalists tells us that no creature in the animal kingdom except ourselves seeks to adorn its own person. That fact would appear to lead to the conclusion that the trait is purely human and perhaps one of the factors in the evolution of the human spirit.
Shades of our Purtian ancestry! Such an idea merits the stocks! Nevertheless, the instinctive pleasure felt by the man or woman who first cherished the beauty of a colorful pebble has gripped us fast ever since and become a part of our heritage, stocks or no stocks.
Of course all we can be certain of about that pleasurable moment when man first found a gemstone is that it actually did happen. For details we can only inquire of the archaeologist and then turn the spotlight of imagination on his findings.
Suppose we construct the situation: There has been a prolonged drought, and the river—only source of the man’s water supply—has gone dry, so that rocks and pebbles in its bed are exposed to view. The man walks along the river bed looking for some pool that has yet withstood the glaring heat of the sun.
The man is stoop-shouldered, for it is not so many ages since some ancestor of his first learned to walk on two feet instead of four. And he is shaggy. Indeed he needs a good deal of hair for protection against weather, because he is quite innocent of clothing. Seen at a distance you might believe he was not a man at all, but if you continue to watch he will prove the point for you.
In his search for water in the dry river bed he has discovered a pebble unlike the other pebbles. It is frosted red like a berry. With the infantile desire to taste anything that attracts the eye, he pops the pretty stone into his mouth. No. It is too hard, not good to eat. So he takes it out and sees that being wet the color has deepened and increased in beauty. His pleasure is so great that he must share it....So with much shouting and various other inarticulate noises he makes for the home cave, there to show the treasure to dame wife, who immediately claims it, gets it, and eventually wears it too.
No ape ever felt impelled to do things like that. By recognition of beauty and is fitness for personal adornment these creatures prove themselves human beings. In some fashion man first discovered a gemstone. From our point of view it all happened very long ago; but reckoning time in relation to the birth of the gemstone, it was only yesterday.
The Knob Cut
(via Diamond Cuts in Historic Jewelry:1381-1910) Herbert Tillander writes:
The Knob Cut (also known as the Nail Cut, Duke Cut and occasionally Prince or Prinz Cut) was a development of the standard Pyramidal Cut, in that the original, possibly damaged, apex was ground away to make a tiny table facet. A cubic formation modifying the points of an octahedron is quite often found in nature. This no doubt inspired both the Knob Cut and the blunt corners in some pyramidal cuts, as well as various types of tables. This particular modification of the point cut seems to have been popular from the second half of the fourteenth century to the beginning of the sixteenth, and can be seen in a number of contemporary paintings. It is described in some inventories as Nail Cut, the term referring to the crown, which is shaped like the head of an antique nail.
An octahedral rough with broken apexes can be improved by ‘lowering’—that is, by grinding its large faces until the desired sharp apex is obtained. However, this is a delicate and laborious operation and it is easier to fashion the damaged, missing or misshapen point into a small table. Additional facets may be applied, for instance on broken edges. The Knob Cuts were fashioned in this manner, and it is clear that they were precursors of the Table Cuts.
Very early Knobs can be seen in German engravings of royal crowns dating from the beginning of the twelfth century. In a number of inventories tiny Knob Cut diamonds are described as representing the nails that pierced Christ’s hands and feet on the cross. In the Kleinodienbuch der Herzogin Anna (c.1550) there are several illustrations by Mielich of jewels belonging to Anna, Duchess of Bavaria. One of these is a natural Point reproduced with a clear, full-sized reflection, but symmetrized just sufficiently to give a tiny Knob facet at the top. A crown sketched for Christian IV of Denmark by Corvinianus Sauer (1594) also features Knob Cuts. In a portrait by Rubens, dating from about 1620, the French Queen, Anna of Austria, wears a large necklace which displays several Knob Cut diamonds, all fashioned from Hogbacks—that is, long rectangular stones.
Only a very few Knob Cuts have survived; apparently most of them were recut into Tables. One important exception, a 10 ct yellow diamond called the Jonquil (on display at the Musée ďHistoire Naturelle, Paris), has been part of the Royal French Treasury since at least the seventeenth century. The Jonquil is richly faceted and has the same arrangement of twenty four facets in both the crown and the pavilion. Both the table facet and the culet are octagonal and the same size as each other. This disposition of facets is very like that of the relatively modern Split Brilliant Cut. Even the octagonal angles have to some extent been retained.
The Knob Cut (also known as the Nail Cut, Duke Cut and occasionally Prince or Prinz Cut) was a development of the standard Pyramidal Cut, in that the original, possibly damaged, apex was ground away to make a tiny table facet. A cubic formation modifying the points of an octahedron is quite often found in nature. This no doubt inspired both the Knob Cut and the blunt corners in some pyramidal cuts, as well as various types of tables. This particular modification of the point cut seems to have been popular from the second half of the fourteenth century to the beginning of the sixteenth, and can be seen in a number of contemporary paintings. It is described in some inventories as Nail Cut, the term referring to the crown, which is shaped like the head of an antique nail.
An octahedral rough with broken apexes can be improved by ‘lowering’—that is, by grinding its large faces until the desired sharp apex is obtained. However, this is a delicate and laborious operation and it is easier to fashion the damaged, missing or misshapen point into a small table. Additional facets may be applied, for instance on broken edges. The Knob Cuts were fashioned in this manner, and it is clear that they were precursors of the Table Cuts.
Very early Knobs can be seen in German engravings of royal crowns dating from the beginning of the twelfth century. In a number of inventories tiny Knob Cut diamonds are described as representing the nails that pierced Christ’s hands and feet on the cross. In the Kleinodienbuch der Herzogin Anna (c.1550) there are several illustrations by Mielich of jewels belonging to Anna, Duchess of Bavaria. One of these is a natural Point reproduced with a clear, full-sized reflection, but symmetrized just sufficiently to give a tiny Knob facet at the top. A crown sketched for Christian IV of Denmark by Corvinianus Sauer (1594) also features Knob Cuts. In a portrait by Rubens, dating from about 1620, the French Queen, Anna of Austria, wears a large necklace which displays several Knob Cut diamonds, all fashioned from Hogbacks—that is, long rectangular stones.
Only a very few Knob Cuts have survived; apparently most of them were recut into Tables. One important exception, a 10 ct yellow diamond called the Jonquil (on display at the Musée ďHistoire Naturelle, Paris), has been part of the Royal French Treasury since at least the seventeenth century. The Jonquil is richly faceted and has the same arrangement of twenty four facets in both the crown and the pavilion. Both the table facet and the culet are octagonal and the same size as each other. This disposition of facets is very like that of the relatively modern Split Brilliant Cut. Even the octagonal angles have to some extent been retained.
How Art Rose With The Dutch Republic
(via The Outline of Art) William Orpen writes:
If in the intoxication of victory, coming and assured, some of the soldier-patriots of Holland became boisterous in their exuberance, who will blame them? And who will blame Hals if in this great and exhilarating period his art also becomes boisterous and exuberant?
It was nearly a quarter of a century before the final victory and the Spanish acknowledgment of Holland’s independence, when Frans Hals about 1624 painted that portrait of an officer known all over the world as ‘The Laughing Cavalier’. The treatment and the subject are in complete unity, for the swagger of the brushwork is in harmony with the swaggering pose of the officer. Mr Davies, the Master of Charterhouse, has commented on the extraordinary mobility of feature in the expression of this portrait—how at one moment the face of the cavalier seems provocatively disdainful, at another full of amused good humor. Another brilliant example of the unrivalled power of Hals to catch a fleeting expression will be found in his later painting, ‘Nurse and Child’, a work which with its wonderfully elaborate and intricate detail no alcoholic hand could possibly have painted. Look well at this babe with its odd little old face, and you will see it ‘just beginning to ripple all over with the laughter that will come in a minute.’ Mr Davies thinks Hals must have learnt the knack of this from watching his own children in his own home, and surely we may say with conviction that the man who could paint babies with so penetrating an eye was a good father.
Splendid as these two paintings are, good as the portraits by Hals in the National Gallery, London, yet to know Hals to the uttermost it is necessary to visit his hometown of Haarlem and to see there the series of great portrait groups he painted of the Guilds, the ‘Archers of St George’ (Joris) and the ‘Archers of Saint Adriaen.’ These shooting guilds may be roughly described as equivalent to our own Honorable Artillery Company when it was first instituted.
It is in these paintings of the citizen soldiers of his own city that Hals displays his highest gifts both as a decorator and as a painter of actuality. The figures are so real that we look at them seem to be one of the company; but though the arrangement appears so natural our eyes are always gladdened by a beauty of pattern, a flow of line, and a balancing of masses which testify to the painter’s science of design. There is nothing with which we can compare them save ‘The Surrender of Breda,’ and in making this comparison we must not forget that if Velazquez was his contemporary he was also by nearly twenty years the junior of Hals. It is easy to count up the qualities lacking in the art of Frans Hals, who had neither the grave dignity and mastery of light that Velazquez possessed nor the scenic splendor of Rubens, nor the thought of his contemporary Rembrandt; but a painter, like a man, must be judged by what he is—not what what he is not—and Hals keeps his place among the great masters by his own peculiar gifts as an exuberant, and indeed an inspired, portrayer of the bravery of Holland in her greatest hour.
How Art Rose With The Dutch Republic (continued)
If in the intoxication of victory, coming and assured, some of the soldier-patriots of Holland became boisterous in their exuberance, who will blame them? And who will blame Hals if in this great and exhilarating period his art also becomes boisterous and exuberant?
It was nearly a quarter of a century before the final victory and the Spanish acknowledgment of Holland’s independence, when Frans Hals about 1624 painted that portrait of an officer known all over the world as ‘The Laughing Cavalier’. The treatment and the subject are in complete unity, for the swagger of the brushwork is in harmony with the swaggering pose of the officer. Mr Davies, the Master of Charterhouse, has commented on the extraordinary mobility of feature in the expression of this portrait—how at one moment the face of the cavalier seems provocatively disdainful, at another full of amused good humor. Another brilliant example of the unrivalled power of Hals to catch a fleeting expression will be found in his later painting, ‘Nurse and Child’, a work which with its wonderfully elaborate and intricate detail no alcoholic hand could possibly have painted. Look well at this babe with its odd little old face, and you will see it ‘just beginning to ripple all over with the laughter that will come in a minute.’ Mr Davies thinks Hals must have learnt the knack of this from watching his own children in his own home, and surely we may say with conviction that the man who could paint babies with so penetrating an eye was a good father.
Splendid as these two paintings are, good as the portraits by Hals in the National Gallery, London, yet to know Hals to the uttermost it is necessary to visit his hometown of Haarlem and to see there the series of great portrait groups he painted of the Guilds, the ‘Archers of St George’ (Joris) and the ‘Archers of Saint Adriaen.’ These shooting guilds may be roughly described as equivalent to our own Honorable Artillery Company when it was first instituted.
It is in these paintings of the citizen soldiers of his own city that Hals displays his highest gifts both as a decorator and as a painter of actuality. The figures are so real that we look at them seem to be one of the company; but though the arrangement appears so natural our eyes are always gladdened by a beauty of pattern, a flow of line, and a balancing of masses which testify to the painter’s science of design. There is nothing with which we can compare them save ‘The Surrender of Breda,’ and in making this comparison we must not forget that if Velazquez was his contemporary he was also by nearly twenty years the junior of Hals. It is easy to count up the qualities lacking in the art of Frans Hals, who had neither the grave dignity and mastery of light that Velazquez possessed nor the scenic splendor of Rubens, nor the thought of his contemporary Rembrandt; but a painter, like a man, must be judged by what he is—not what what he is not—and Hals keeps his place among the great masters by his own peculiar gifts as an exuberant, and indeed an inspired, portrayer of the bravery of Holland in her greatest hour.
How Art Rose With The Dutch Republic (continued)
Diamond Certification In China
According to The National Standard Commission there are about 80 laboratories and institutions in China issuing diamond certificates. The National Gemstone Testing Center (NGTC) is perceived as the most prominent lab in China and is authorized to inspect and check certificates issued by other labs. The National Standard on Diamond Grading is the only standard used in disputes or disagreements about appraisal results. Most retailers send their diamond (s) that are certified by foreign labs to the NGTC/its local affiliated labs to get it recertified in order to avoid disputes in the local market.
Useful links:
www.ngtc.gov.cn
www.cnsde.com
Useful links:
www.ngtc.gov.cn
www.cnsde.com
Jewelry Trends
According to British research company Report Buyer, global luxury brand spending will rise considerably in the coming years + jewelry and watches are expected to become the next 'must have' luxury items as wealth increases worldwide due to emerging economies + mature markets + new marketing channels + the internet.
Useful link:
www.reportbuyer.com
Useful link:
www.reportbuyer.com
Candala Chrysoprase
Candala chrysoprase from Marlborough Mine in Queensland, Australia is perceived to be of the highest quality. Top quality chrysoprase may be confused for jade because of its color, but chrysoprase is not as tough as jade; its hard, durable, translucent, and takes a good polish.
Useful link:
www.candalachrysoprase.com
Useful link:
www.candalachrysoprase.com
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Diamond Industry News: India
With the introduction of amendments in law governing the diamond mining industry, the South African government is planning to restrict 100% export of rough diamonds + they want more polishing units to process diamonds in the country to generate more employment.
The Indian gem and jewelry sector is worried with the new developments + the appreciating Indian rupee against the dollar + competition from China + revoking of DTC Sightholder status of eight Indian diamond firms may lead to massive unemployment in the sector and affect small and medium manufacturers. There may be more surprises as events unfold.
The Indian gem and jewelry sector is worried with the new developments + the appreciating Indian rupee against the dollar + competition from China + revoking of DTC Sightholder status of eight Indian diamond firms may lead to massive unemployment in the sector and affect small and medium manufacturers. There may be more surprises as events unfold.
Fake Artwork Rises In Value
(via CNN/Jim Boulden) http://edition.cnn.com/video/#/video/living/2008/01/01/boulden.uk.genuine.fakes.cnn
It's amazing!
It's amazing!
Highest Priced Modern Indian Artists
- Tyeb Mehta
- Amrita Sher Gill
- F N Souza
- V S Gaitonde
- S H Raza
- Rameshwar Broota
- M F Husain
- J Swaminathan
- Akbar Padamsee
- Ram Kumar
- Amrita Sher Gill
- F N Souza
- V S Gaitonde
- S H Raza
- Rameshwar Broota
- M F Husain
- J Swaminathan
- Akbar Padamsee
- Ram Kumar
The Orloff
(via Diamond Cuts in Historic Jewelry:1381-1910) Herbert Tillander writes:
Descriptions of the Orloff diamond (The Diamond Fund, Moscow, about 190 ct) were published by the Academician A E von Fersmann in Moscow in 1925. The diamond is still in the sceptre of Catherine the Great, in the Kremlin Treasury. I have not been permitted to analyze this gem myself, but an analysis is promised by the authorities.
Descriptions of the Orloff diamond (The Diamond Fund, Moscow, about 190 ct) were published by the Academician A E von Fersmann in Moscow in 1925. The diamond is still in the sceptre of Catherine the Great, in the Kremlin Treasury. I have not been permitted to analyze this gem myself, but an analysis is promised by the authorities.
Underrated/Overrated
Total internal reflections of Robert Rigney and Penelope Rowlands on international artists + other viewpoints @
http://www.artnewsonline.com/issues/article.asp?art_id=828
http://www.artnewsonline.com/issues/article.asp?art_id=828
How Art Rose With The Dutch Republic
(via The Outline of Art) William Orpen writes:
The Work Of Frans Hals And Rembrandt
Shortly before the Spanish army began its seven months siege of Haarlem in the winter of 1572-3, a burgher of that city named Pieter Hals made his escape with his wife and family, and found shelter in Antwerp. Well for the world that he did so, for had he taken part in the heroic defence of his native city he might have been killed in the general butchery that followed when the Spaniards at last took the town; and then one of the world’s greatest painters would never have been born.
Of the life of his son comparatively little is known, but it tolerably certain that Frans Hals was born at Antwerp in 1580, that is to say, about five years after El Greco’s arrival in Spain. Exactly when the Hals family returned to Haarlem is not known, but since the younger son, Dirk Hals (1591-1656), is reputed to have been born in Haarlem, it may be conjectured that the Hals family returned some time between 1590 and 1600. By the latter date Frans Hals was certainly working in Haarlem, and there he remained all his life.
The police records of Haarlem show that on February 20, 1616, Frans Hals was summoned for maltreating his wife (Anneke Hermans), was severely reprimanded, and dismissed on the undertaking that he would eschew drunken company and reform. On this one fact, which is indisputable, gossip has built up a legend that Hals was a man of imperfect morals and a continuous and habitual drunkard. But, as Mr Gerald S Davies has pointed out, drunkenness is not only a moral but a physical matter, and it is physically impossible that a confirmed inebriate should have had a hand steady enough to paint the pictures Hals painted when he was sixty and older.
We must admit an ugly passage in the painter’s life—though, as a Scottish critic once observed, we do not know what provocation Hal’s wife gave him—and we must conclude that his first marriage was miserable. The poor woman died soon after the police court case—though not, it would seem, as the result of her husband’s misconduct—and a year later Hals married again. His second wife became the mother of many children, surviving her husband after fifty years of married life, and since she never had occasion to take him to the police court, we may reasonably conclude that Hals was not an habitual wife beater.
He appears to have been a jovial and very human beings, fond of a glass in good company, and now and then, perhaps taking one too many; a real Bohemian, as his paintings of gypsies and strolling players attest; but he was not a social outcast, or he would not have been constantly employed by respectable citizens and important corporations, nor would he at the age of sixty four have been appointed a director of the Guild of St Lucas, which protected the interests of the artists and craftsmen of Haarlem.
Yet towards the end of his life, when his honorable position cannot be assailed, he was in sad financial difficulties. At one time he supplemented his income by teaching, and Adriaen Brouwer (1605-38) and A J van Ostade (1610-85) were among his pupils; but this connection did not last, and in 1652 he was distrained upon for debt by his baker, Jan Ykess. Ten years later his distress was such that he had to apply to the Municipal Council for aid, and was given the sum of 100 florins; two years later he had to apply again, and this time (1664) the Council voted the old man a yearly pension of 200 gulden. That year Hals, now eighty four years of age, painted his last two pictures, portraits of the ‘Managers of the Almshouses at Haarlem,’ and in 1666 he died, and was buried on September 7 in the choir of the Church of St Bavon.
Properly to appreciate the art of Frans Hals, there is one thing we must never forget, namely, that all the work of his maturity was done during the excitement of war. It was a war which must have thrilled every Dutchman through and through, for it was waged to defend hearth and home and to deliver the fatherland from a foreign yoke; it was a war in which one of the smallest nations in Europe had the hardihood to challenge the mightiest empire of the time. It began in 1568, about twelve years before Hals was born, and as he grew up the apparent hopelessness of the conflict disappeared, and the gaiety and elation of victory in sight began to sparkle in his paintings. When Hals first painted the officers of the St Joris’ Shooting Guild in 1616 the issue was still doubtful; when he painted the last of his great series of military groups in 1639, again of the ‘Officers of St Joris’ Shooting Guild,’ the ultimate triumph of Holland was a foregone conclusion. In the earliest group many of the faces appear anxious and worried, but see how happy they all are even in the ‘Reunion of the Officers of the Guild of Archers of St Adriaen’, a picture painted in 1633. These stout fellows bear their fortune with varying demeanors; some are smiling and jovial, some are grave and stern, one or two are evidently elated, one of two are thoughtful, but all are confident. In no countenance can a trace of doubt be felt, and their freedom from anxiety finds its parallel in the flowing brush of the painter, equally confident and unerring.
How Art Rose With The Dutch Republic (continued)
The Work Of Frans Hals And Rembrandt
Shortly before the Spanish army began its seven months siege of Haarlem in the winter of 1572-3, a burgher of that city named Pieter Hals made his escape with his wife and family, and found shelter in Antwerp. Well for the world that he did so, for had he taken part in the heroic defence of his native city he might have been killed in the general butchery that followed when the Spaniards at last took the town; and then one of the world’s greatest painters would never have been born.
Of the life of his son comparatively little is known, but it tolerably certain that Frans Hals was born at Antwerp in 1580, that is to say, about five years after El Greco’s arrival in Spain. Exactly when the Hals family returned to Haarlem is not known, but since the younger son, Dirk Hals (1591-1656), is reputed to have been born in Haarlem, it may be conjectured that the Hals family returned some time between 1590 and 1600. By the latter date Frans Hals was certainly working in Haarlem, and there he remained all his life.
The police records of Haarlem show that on February 20, 1616, Frans Hals was summoned for maltreating his wife (Anneke Hermans), was severely reprimanded, and dismissed on the undertaking that he would eschew drunken company and reform. On this one fact, which is indisputable, gossip has built up a legend that Hals was a man of imperfect morals and a continuous and habitual drunkard. But, as Mr Gerald S Davies has pointed out, drunkenness is not only a moral but a physical matter, and it is physically impossible that a confirmed inebriate should have had a hand steady enough to paint the pictures Hals painted when he was sixty and older.
We must admit an ugly passage in the painter’s life—though, as a Scottish critic once observed, we do not know what provocation Hal’s wife gave him—and we must conclude that his first marriage was miserable. The poor woman died soon after the police court case—though not, it would seem, as the result of her husband’s misconduct—and a year later Hals married again. His second wife became the mother of many children, surviving her husband after fifty years of married life, and since she never had occasion to take him to the police court, we may reasonably conclude that Hals was not an habitual wife beater.
He appears to have been a jovial and very human beings, fond of a glass in good company, and now and then, perhaps taking one too many; a real Bohemian, as his paintings of gypsies and strolling players attest; but he was not a social outcast, or he would not have been constantly employed by respectable citizens and important corporations, nor would he at the age of sixty four have been appointed a director of the Guild of St Lucas, which protected the interests of the artists and craftsmen of Haarlem.
Yet towards the end of his life, when his honorable position cannot be assailed, he was in sad financial difficulties. At one time he supplemented his income by teaching, and Adriaen Brouwer (1605-38) and A J van Ostade (1610-85) were among his pupils; but this connection did not last, and in 1652 he was distrained upon for debt by his baker, Jan Ykess. Ten years later his distress was such that he had to apply to the Municipal Council for aid, and was given the sum of 100 florins; two years later he had to apply again, and this time (1664) the Council voted the old man a yearly pension of 200 gulden. That year Hals, now eighty four years of age, painted his last two pictures, portraits of the ‘Managers of the Almshouses at Haarlem,’ and in 1666 he died, and was buried on September 7 in the choir of the Church of St Bavon.
Properly to appreciate the art of Frans Hals, there is one thing we must never forget, namely, that all the work of his maturity was done during the excitement of war. It was a war which must have thrilled every Dutchman through and through, for it was waged to defend hearth and home and to deliver the fatherland from a foreign yoke; it was a war in which one of the smallest nations in Europe had the hardihood to challenge the mightiest empire of the time. It began in 1568, about twelve years before Hals was born, and as he grew up the apparent hopelessness of the conflict disappeared, and the gaiety and elation of victory in sight began to sparkle in his paintings. When Hals first painted the officers of the St Joris’ Shooting Guild in 1616 the issue was still doubtful; when he painted the last of his great series of military groups in 1639, again of the ‘Officers of St Joris’ Shooting Guild,’ the ultimate triumph of Holland was a foregone conclusion. In the earliest group many of the faces appear anxious and worried, but see how happy they all are even in the ‘Reunion of the Officers of the Guild of Archers of St Adriaen’, a picture painted in 1633. These stout fellows bear their fortune with varying demeanors; some are smiling and jovial, some are grave and stern, one or two are evidently elated, one of two are thoughtful, but all are confident. In no countenance can a trace of doubt be felt, and their freedom from anxiety finds its parallel in the flowing brush of the painter, equally confident and unerring.
How Art Rose With The Dutch Republic (continued)
The Mysterious Attraction Of Gems
(via 5000 Years of Gems and Jewelry) Frances Rogers and Alice Beard writes:
There is a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, so runs the ancient legend. More likely it is a pot of gems.
Those resplendent fragments of pure color—rubies, emeralds, sapphires, opals, diamonds—might well be bits of the rainbow itself, pure color, no longer ethereal and out of reach but color frozen into tangible and everlasting beauty for the delight (or downfall) of mortal man.
‘A pot of gold’ means wealth, but jewels—the very word is a storm-center for romance, adventure and superstition. Science, history and religion have at various times been deeply preoccupied with little colored stones. Why?
From the standpoint of practical usefulness these stones do, to be sure, serve a few special purposes: they are used in certain drills, in instruments of precision, and as bearings in watch works. But such uses were not factors considered by man when he first stooped to pick up a pretty pebble that glowed dully like imprisoned fire. From a time far beyond the backward reach of history man has loved jewels. They seem to have possessed for him a glamor deeper than cold reason can account for. Even the desire for riches does not fully explain the mysterious attraction these tiny crystals have always had for the human race. In fact, we cannot find any one supreme and central reason why we should have given them such varied and leading roles as they have played in our lives.
If now, at this very moment, all the famous and magnificent gems on earth were suddenly to dissolve into thin air, most of us would go about our affairs and find nothing at all different from usual. But if jewels had never existed...then indeed there would be confusion. Many pages from recorded history would have to be scrapped and rewritten according to different pattern. More than one war has been waged and won because the king’s gems could so readily be converted into funds, could be pawned and later redeemed.
Jewels not only have played an important part in the temporal affairs of nations but, because of the supernatural powers ascribed to them, they have also been closely linked with religions and superstitions. No doubt jewelry was always used for ornament, but so deep-rooted has been the belief that a precious stone could affect the fortunes of its wearer, that for centuries jewelry was made in accordance with that conviction. Unless this fact is borne in mind it is impossible to gain any true understanding of the history of precious stones and jewelry.
Taken all in all, the tiny gemstone, silent as the Sphinx, has made a great noise in the affairs of men.
1. How old is a diamond?
Countless ages before there were any human beings, or even so much as a soft, shell-less form of living matter destined in time to develop into a creature that moved at will over the face of the earth, certain precious stones were already ancient. Possibly the very diamond in the ring on your finger came into being with the first rocks.
In the beginning the world was a place without soil or sea, a molten mass that cooled and solidified only to remelt and recrystallize again and again, until finally the fiery earth stuff was allowed to cool enough to form its first rocks. And from the inconceivably distant period to the present restless one, Time, like a master-chemist working in a mighty laboratory, has been breaking up and rearranging the mineral matter of which the world and its rocks are composed. Water, heat, pressure, and atmospheric weathering are his tools. In the Middle Ages these world forces were known as the Four Elements: Water, Fire, Air and Earth.
The ‘first’ rocks—those which were formed under terrific heat and pressure—are called igneous rocks; and diamonds, the most interesting of all precious stones, originated, says the scientist, as constituents of igneous rocks, formed in the midst of the molten mass under terrific pressure.
Sometimes a gemstone—a diamond, emerald, ruby or sapphire—is found still imbedded in this primary rock mass, or mother rock; or on the other hand it may be discovered at a great distance from the place where it first took form, in what are called gem gravels or gem sands.
When rock, perhaps torn by violent volcanic disturbances, is forced upward through layers of sediment toward the surface of the earth and there exposed to the action of rain and frost, it breaks down and its hidden treasure is released. If the weathered fragments of gem bearing rock are not carried far afield by flowing water the gemstones continue to retain the sharp edges and original form into which they crystallized. But the majority of stones do not escape the wear and tear of travel in flowing water. The diamond, when forced to roll about in some river bed, rubbed and crowded by other stones, even the diamond—hardest of all known substances, natural or artificial—does not emerge free from scars, transparent and glittering like a drop of dew in the sun. On the contrary, under such conditions the stone becomes as dull and cloudy in appearance as a lump of frosted ice. And not until it has passed through the skilled hands of the gem cutter does the diamond shine with a dazzling blaze of rainbow colors.
Although in a few cases the organic world does supply gem materials, a true gemstone is a mineral. And a mineral is a definite combination of certain chemical elements. At one time it was believed that since gemstones were themselves remarkable specimens of the mineral family, they must likewise be examples of rare and precious minerals. But the chemist does not arrive at his conclusions by deduction, as did the alchemist, and modern investigations have proved that, with few exceptions, the minerals of which gemstones are composed are quite common.
For instance, carbon exists in large quantities. And the diamond is crystallized carbon and nothing more. Two elements combine to give us the ruby. One of them is as common as air, since it is oxygen; while the other—aluminum—is so lavishly distributed over the earth that it provides material for kitchen utensils.
More than a thousand different minerals are now known to science and the list is constantly being lengthened, but comparatively few minerals produce flawless specimens we call gemstones.
The word ‘precious’ is more or less elastic, depending on the manner and also the period in which it is used. The precious stones of ancient history are, more often than not, stones which are now classified as semi-precious stones; and today it is customary to list, without reservation, only four precious stones: diamond, the ruby, the emerald, and the blue sapphire. A discussion of the characteristics by which gems are judged will be found in part two.
Among the treasures of the Pharaohs, jasper, turquoise, lapis lazuli, carnelian, and rock crystal were far more likely to be found than were emeralds, rubies and sapphires. And as for the diamond, it was quite unknown in the earliest days of history. Certain gemstones, however, were known to man long before any day recorded by history.
There is a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, so runs the ancient legend. More likely it is a pot of gems.
Those resplendent fragments of pure color—rubies, emeralds, sapphires, opals, diamonds—might well be bits of the rainbow itself, pure color, no longer ethereal and out of reach but color frozen into tangible and everlasting beauty for the delight (or downfall) of mortal man.
‘A pot of gold’ means wealth, but jewels—the very word is a storm-center for romance, adventure and superstition. Science, history and religion have at various times been deeply preoccupied with little colored stones. Why?
From the standpoint of practical usefulness these stones do, to be sure, serve a few special purposes: they are used in certain drills, in instruments of precision, and as bearings in watch works. But such uses were not factors considered by man when he first stooped to pick up a pretty pebble that glowed dully like imprisoned fire. From a time far beyond the backward reach of history man has loved jewels. They seem to have possessed for him a glamor deeper than cold reason can account for. Even the desire for riches does not fully explain the mysterious attraction these tiny crystals have always had for the human race. In fact, we cannot find any one supreme and central reason why we should have given them such varied and leading roles as they have played in our lives.
If now, at this very moment, all the famous and magnificent gems on earth were suddenly to dissolve into thin air, most of us would go about our affairs and find nothing at all different from usual. But if jewels had never existed...then indeed there would be confusion. Many pages from recorded history would have to be scrapped and rewritten according to different pattern. More than one war has been waged and won because the king’s gems could so readily be converted into funds, could be pawned and later redeemed.
Jewels not only have played an important part in the temporal affairs of nations but, because of the supernatural powers ascribed to them, they have also been closely linked with religions and superstitions. No doubt jewelry was always used for ornament, but so deep-rooted has been the belief that a precious stone could affect the fortunes of its wearer, that for centuries jewelry was made in accordance with that conviction. Unless this fact is borne in mind it is impossible to gain any true understanding of the history of precious stones and jewelry.
Taken all in all, the tiny gemstone, silent as the Sphinx, has made a great noise in the affairs of men.
1. How old is a diamond?
Countless ages before there were any human beings, or even so much as a soft, shell-less form of living matter destined in time to develop into a creature that moved at will over the face of the earth, certain precious stones were already ancient. Possibly the very diamond in the ring on your finger came into being with the first rocks.
In the beginning the world was a place without soil or sea, a molten mass that cooled and solidified only to remelt and recrystallize again and again, until finally the fiery earth stuff was allowed to cool enough to form its first rocks. And from the inconceivably distant period to the present restless one, Time, like a master-chemist working in a mighty laboratory, has been breaking up and rearranging the mineral matter of which the world and its rocks are composed. Water, heat, pressure, and atmospheric weathering are his tools. In the Middle Ages these world forces were known as the Four Elements: Water, Fire, Air and Earth.
The ‘first’ rocks—those which were formed under terrific heat and pressure—are called igneous rocks; and diamonds, the most interesting of all precious stones, originated, says the scientist, as constituents of igneous rocks, formed in the midst of the molten mass under terrific pressure.
Sometimes a gemstone—a diamond, emerald, ruby or sapphire—is found still imbedded in this primary rock mass, or mother rock; or on the other hand it may be discovered at a great distance from the place where it first took form, in what are called gem gravels or gem sands.
When rock, perhaps torn by violent volcanic disturbances, is forced upward through layers of sediment toward the surface of the earth and there exposed to the action of rain and frost, it breaks down and its hidden treasure is released. If the weathered fragments of gem bearing rock are not carried far afield by flowing water the gemstones continue to retain the sharp edges and original form into which they crystallized. But the majority of stones do not escape the wear and tear of travel in flowing water. The diamond, when forced to roll about in some river bed, rubbed and crowded by other stones, even the diamond—hardest of all known substances, natural or artificial—does not emerge free from scars, transparent and glittering like a drop of dew in the sun. On the contrary, under such conditions the stone becomes as dull and cloudy in appearance as a lump of frosted ice. And not until it has passed through the skilled hands of the gem cutter does the diamond shine with a dazzling blaze of rainbow colors.
Although in a few cases the organic world does supply gem materials, a true gemstone is a mineral. And a mineral is a definite combination of certain chemical elements. At one time it was believed that since gemstones were themselves remarkable specimens of the mineral family, they must likewise be examples of rare and precious minerals. But the chemist does not arrive at his conclusions by deduction, as did the alchemist, and modern investigations have proved that, with few exceptions, the minerals of which gemstones are composed are quite common.
For instance, carbon exists in large quantities. And the diamond is crystallized carbon and nothing more. Two elements combine to give us the ruby. One of them is as common as air, since it is oxygen; while the other—aluminum—is so lavishly distributed over the earth that it provides material for kitchen utensils.
More than a thousand different minerals are now known to science and the list is constantly being lengthened, but comparatively few minerals produce flawless specimens we call gemstones.
The word ‘precious’ is more or less elastic, depending on the manner and also the period in which it is used. The precious stones of ancient history are, more often than not, stones which are now classified as semi-precious stones; and today it is customary to list, without reservation, only four precious stones: diamond, the ruby, the emerald, and the blue sapphire. A discussion of the characteristics by which gems are judged will be found in part two.
Among the treasures of the Pharaohs, jasper, turquoise, lapis lazuli, carnelian, and rock crystal were far more likely to be found than were emeralds, rubies and sapphires. And as for the diamond, it was quite unknown in the earliest days of history. Certain gemstones, however, were known to man long before any day recorded by history.
The Mughal Cut
(via Diamond Cuts in Historic Jewelry:1381-1910) Herbert Tillander writes:
I have never had the chance to see and analyze a diamond of this historical Indian cut but reliable information is supplied by Griffin Grant Waite, who is also responsible for suggesting the name. There is also a spectacular report by V B Meen and A D Tushingham. Grant Waite writes that ‘the Moghul cut can perhaps best be defined as a form into which diamonds were fashioned in early times by the native cutters of India, characterized by a large flat back (normally known as the ‘base’ or ‘bottom’), a large table, and many strip facets descending from the table towards the back (there are no fewer than fifteen in the Orloff). Infrequently the table is replaced by a small number of facets at a low angle—usually four. The outline is quite variable, and usually asymmetrical. In most cases the thickness is substantial, giving the stone a lumpy appearance’.
In private correspondence with the three authors, I proposed that the term should be universally recognized, and suggested the following definition, which was incorporated in the 1977 Diamond Dictionary of the Gemological Institute of America: ‘An older style of cutting which is a rather lumpy form with a broad, often asymmetrical base, an upper termination consisting of a set of usually four shallow facets or a table, and two or more zones of strip facets parallel to the base and oriented vertically. It is derived from cleavage pieces.’
Even modern authors such as Basil Watermeyer accept the commonly held view that the modern Baroque Rose Cut was inspired by the Mughal Cut, and by an updated version developed by cutters in the Netherlands. Perhaps the explanation is that one can detect, in those Mughal Cuts which have several rows of triangular facets, a hexagonal symmetry very like that of the crown of a Full-Cut Rose. My own feeling is that the rapidly growing tendency in the late sixteenth century to achieve, by means of numerous small, correctly inclined facets, not only symmetry but also pleasing light effects, led cutters automatically to the modern Full Rose.
I have never had the chance to see and analyze a diamond of this historical Indian cut but reliable information is supplied by Griffin Grant Waite, who is also responsible for suggesting the name. There is also a spectacular report by V B Meen and A D Tushingham. Grant Waite writes that ‘the Moghul cut can perhaps best be defined as a form into which diamonds were fashioned in early times by the native cutters of India, characterized by a large flat back (normally known as the ‘base’ or ‘bottom’), a large table, and many strip facets descending from the table towards the back (there are no fewer than fifteen in the Orloff). Infrequently the table is replaced by a small number of facets at a low angle—usually four. The outline is quite variable, and usually asymmetrical. In most cases the thickness is substantial, giving the stone a lumpy appearance’.
In private correspondence with the three authors, I proposed that the term should be universally recognized, and suggested the following definition, which was incorporated in the 1977 Diamond Dictionary of the Gemological Institute of America: ‘An older style of cutting which is a rather lumpy form with a broad, often asymmetrical base, an upper termination consisting of a set of usually four shallow facets or a table, and two or more zones of strip facets parallel to the base and oriented vertically. It is derived from cleavage pieces.’
Even modern authors such as Basil Watermeyer accept the commonly held view that the modern Baroque Rose Cut was inspired by the Mughal Cut, and by an updated version developed by cutters in the Netherlands. Perhaps the explanation is that one can detect, in those Mughal Cuts which have several rows of triangular facets, a hexagonal symmetry very like that of the crown of a Full-Cut Rose. My own feeling is that the rapidly growing tendency in the late sixteenth century to achieve, by means of numerous small, correctly inclined facets, not only symmetry but also pleasing light effects, led cutters automatically to the modern Full Rose.
Picasso's Party Line
Hugh Eakin writes about Picasso's political activism + the impact + other viewpoints @ http://www.artnewsonline.com/issues/article.asp?art_id=809
Sunshine And Shadow In Spain
(via The Outline of Art) William Orpen writes:
3
Contemporary with Velazquez, but influenced in his style of painting not so much by him as by Caravaggio, was the monastic painter Francisco Zurbaran (1598-1662), who, though born in the province of Estremadura, came to Seville when he was only sixteen and is generally regarded as a member of the School of Seville. He is chiefly famous for his religious pictures, and particularly for his monastic visions, among which ‘The Apotheosis of St Thomas’ in the Museum of Seville ranks as his masterpiece. His monks in white sheets often appear to be carved owing to the effect of high relief obtained by strong contrasts of light and shade, and the feeling of austerity and grandeur they display makes the paintings of Zurbaran illuminating documents of monastic life in Spain during the seventeenth century.
Among the immediate pupils of Velazquez were Juan Battista del Mazo (1600-67), who (in 1634) became his son-in-law and imitated his portraiture so cleverly that some of his paintings were at one time confounded with those by his master; and one who became still more famous, Bartolome Esteban Murillo (1617-82). Also born at Seville, Murillo passed through a whole gamut of influences before he developed a distinct style of his own. When he was twenty four he came to Madrid for a couple of years and when he returned he did not forget the lessons of Velazquez. From this period date those popular pictures of beggar boys and low life subjects which were the first to bring him fame. ‘The Melon Eaters’ is a fine example of this side of Murillo’s art. It charms the layman by its warm and graceful sympathy with life; it delights the artist by the skill and taste shown in the painting of the accessories. The rind of the melon, the bloom of the grapes, the wicker of the woven baskets, all are depicted not only with great beauty of color but with rare fidelity to the textures of the different objects.
Later in life Murillo altered his methods and employed a softer and more suave style, in which outlines are lost in the delicate fusion of graduated colors. The mysterious vaporous effect thus obtained was a variant of Correggio’s famous ‘smoky’ style but has been distinguished from his by being technically described as vaporoso. Among the multitude of Murillo’s religious paintings in this style the most famous is ‘The Immaculate Conception’, now in Louvre, which the French Government acquired in 1852 for the sum of £23440. The change in the type of religious presentation is market if we compare this painting with the frenzy of El Greco or the dramatic action displayed in a Titian or a Tintoretto. The storm and strife of the Reformation and counter-Reformation is passing away, and the enervation of the once combative Spain finds expression in a soft serenity that dreams of an ideal world. Not tragedy nor power, but innocence and sweetness characterize this vision of Mary, whose eyes, as a modern critic has pointed out, are not filled with inspiration and longing, but ‘astonished as those of a child gazing upon the splendor of the candles of a Christmas tree.’
Murillo was very famous in his lifetime, and the sweet sentimentality of his paintings appealed so strongly to the eighteenth and nineteenth century that for nearly two hundred years after his death he was considered the foremost of Spanish painters. Today at least three Spanish painters, Velazquez, Goya, and El Greco are rated more highly. Senhor A. de Beruete y Moret, the learned director of the Prado Museum at Madrid, has stated that:
The art of Murillo is of less interest than formerly, owing to present day preferences, which seek spirituality in art, a force, and even a restlessness which we do not find in the work of this artist....His conceptions are beautiful, but superficial. There is in them no more skillful groundwork, dramatic impulse, nor exaltation than appears at first sight. To comprehend and enjoy them it is not necessary to think; their contemplation leaves the beholder tranquil, they do not possess the power to distract, they have no warmth, nor that distinction which makes a work unique.
Historically the art of Murillo must be regarded as a sign of the decadence of Spain, and it was not till a century later that the country gave birth to another great artist; then the agony of the Wars of Succession found expression through the grim, satirical powers of Goya, whose work will be considered when we come to the art of the Napoleonic period.
The political power and prosperity of Spain rose to its zenith between the reigns of Philip II and Philip IV, and flowered in the paintings of El Greco and Velazquez. But as the power of Spain weakened and her prosperity dwindled, so also did the glory of her art begin to wane. It is not without significance that all the great painters of Spain, Murillo included, were born before 1648, the year in which the humbled Spanish empire was compelled to recognize the independence of the Netherlands by the Peace of Munster. Immediately after Velazquez we must look for the great masters of the seventeenth century, not in decaying Spain, but in Holland, victorious and independent, the country of Hals and Rembrandt.
3
Contemporary with Velazquez, but influenced in his style of painting not so much by him as by Caravaggio, was the monastic painter Francisco Zurbaran (1598-1662), who, though born in the province of Estremadura, came to Seville when he was only sixteen and is generally regarded as a member of the School of Seville. He is chiefly famous for his religious pictures, and particularly for his monastic visions, among which ‘The Apotheosis of St Thomas’ in the Museum of Seville ranks as his masterpiece. His monks in white sheets often appear to be carved owing to the effect of high relief obtained by strong contrasts of light and shade, and the feeling of austerity and grandeur they display makes the paintings of Zurbaran illuminating documents of monastic life in Spain during the seventeenth century.
Among the immediate pupils of Velazquez were Juan Battista del Mazo (1600-67), who (in 1634) became his son-in-law and imitated his portraiture so cleverly that some of his paintings were at one time confounded with those by his master; and one who became still more famous, Bartolome Esteban Murillo (1617-82). Also born at Seville, Murillo passed through a whole gamut of influences before he developed a distinct style of his own. When he was twenty four he came to Madrid for a couple of years and when he returned he did not forget the lessons of Velazquez. From this period date those popular pictures of beggar boys and low life subjects which were the first to bring him fame. ‘The Melon Eaters’ is a fine example of this side of Murillo’s art. It charms the layman by its warm and graceful sympathy with life; it delights the artist by the skill and taste shown in the painting of the accessories. The rind of the melon, the bloom of the grapes, the wicker of the woven baskets, all are depicted not only with great beauty of color but with rare fidelity to the textures of the different objects.
Later in life Murillo altered his methods and employed a softer and more suave style, in which outlines are lost in the delicate fusion of graduated colors. The mysterious vaporous effect thus obtained was a variant of Correggio’s famous ‘smoky’ style but has been distinguished from his by being technically described as vaporoso. Among the multitude of Murillo’s religious paintings in this style the most famous is ‘The Immaculate Conception’, now in Louvre, which the French Government acquired in 1852 for the sum of £23440. The change in the type of religious presentation is market if we compare this painting with the frenzy of El Greco or the dramatic action displayed in a Titian or a Tintoretto. The storm and strife of the Reformation and counter-Reformation is passing away, and the enervation of the once combative Spain finds expression in a soft serenity that dreams of an ideal world. Not tragedy nor power, but innocence and sweetness characterize this vision of Mary, whose eyes, as a modern critic has pointed out, are not filled with inspiration and longing, but ‘astonished as those of a child gazing upon the splendor of the candles of a Christmas tree.’
Murillo was very famous in his lifetime, and the sweet sentimentality of his paintings appealed so strongly to the eighteenth and nineteenth century that for nearly two hundred years after his death he was considered the foremost of Spanish painters. Today at least three Spanish painters, Velazquez, Goya, and El Greco are rated more highly. Senhor A. de Beruete y Moret, the learned director of the Prado Museum at Madrid, has stated that:
The art of Murillo is of less interest than formerly, owing to present day preferences, which seek spirituality in art, a force, and even a restlessness which we do not find in the work of this artist....His conceptions are beautiful, but superficial. There is in them no more skillful groundwork, dramatic impulse, nor exaltation than appears at first sight. To comprehend and enjoy them it is not necessary to think; their contemplation leaves the beholder tranquil, they do not possess the power to distract, they have no warmth, nor that distinction which makes a work unique.
Historically the art of Murillo must be regarded as a sign of the decadence of Spain, and it was not till a century later that the country gave birth to another great artist; then the agony of the Wars of Succession found expression through the grim, satirical powers of Goya, whose work will be considered when we come to the art of the Napoleonic period.
The political power and prosperity of Spain rose to its zenith between the reigns of Philip II and Philip IV, and flowered in the paintings of El Greco and Velazquez. But as the power of Spain weakened and her prosperity dwindled, so also did the glory of her art begin to wane. It is not without significance that all the great painters of Spain, Murillo included, were born before 1648, the year in which the humbled Spanish empire was compelled to recognize the independence of the Netherlands by the Peace of Munster. Immediately after Velazquez we must look for the great masters of the seventeenth century, not in decaying Spain, but in Holland, victorious and independent, the country of Hals and Rembrandt.
I Go A – Pearling
Louis Kornitzer's book, Gem Trader, is partly autobiographical and partly woven round the lore of pearls. It's educational + explains the distribution chain of gems, as they pass from hand to hand, from miner to cutter, from merchant to millionaire, from courtesan to receiver of stolen goods, shaping human lives as they go + the unique characters in the gem industry.
(via Gem Trader) Louis Kornitzer writes:
He told me the story (obviously there was one). It was in the days of his grandfather, when a great pestilence had followed a war with the Sultan and killed off the people. Even the fish had perished in that plague and had floated on the sea in their thousands.
‘Now the people became stupid because they thought that soon they would all be dead. The rice paddies were neglected, the caraboas were allowed to run wild, the fishing nets were in holes, the sails of the boats stayed unmended and the fishermen did not put to sea. My grandfather was very sad. He had taught them all they knew, a better way of planting, a better way of making their sails. He judged them and led them in battle. When the prayers of the Imam and the fastings he ordered availed nothing, then my grandfather knew that a strong magic was working against them all.
‘One day he went down to the seashore along. As he was walking along, looking at the ground, he saw in the middle of a heap of dying seaweed a single green eye. Then he saw it was not an eye, but a coconut pearl, so he picked it up. He knew that the pearl did not want to be picked up, for it fought against him, but he wrapped it up in his headcloth and took it home. After that the pestilence stopped. And so my father kept the coconut pearl as a hostage, and it gave him good counsel. It will be an evil day for us when it is lost to us.’
That was my memory of Palawan as I read the letter of a man from Brooklyn. Had he in truth obtained the lucky pearl of Palawan? And what had happened to Panglima Hassan and his people since its loss? I have not found out.
I had a sort of second-hand interest in the historic Hapsburg pearls—a far cry, these, from the humble mascot of a savage tribe. They were a magnificent collection. The Empress Maria Theresa and the other ladies who wore them had to swathe them in many loops around their necks and bosoms. But no longer are they in the possession of the fallen Hapsburgs. They are now owned by a multimillionaire who lives in the South of France.
These gems passed through the hands of an old partner of mine, a Paris dealer, the most sporting and enterprising of his kind, who deserved the profit that he made. It was at the the time the ex-Emperor Charles, last of the Austrian emperors, needed funds urgently for the purchase of the aeroplane and the provision of many other items necessary to his plan, that spectacular re-entry into Hungary to regain his throne. He sold the pearls for what he could get for them, and yet in the end the sacrifice got him nowhere. The Hapsburg star had set.
Speaking of royal pearls, there are the famous Hanoverian pearls. They are long ropes of magnificent gems, ‘cascading to the knees’, as one writer has put it. They belonged originally to Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia, and a very unhappy lady, despite the fact that her pearls went treble-stranded round her waist and bosom. Other royal wearers after her were Queen Victoria and then Queen Alexandra.
One day when the latter queen was stepping into the state coach which was to take her to the opening of Parliament this rope of pearls broke on the woodwork of the coach. Some of the pearls were scattered and rolled everywhere. Whether they were all counted over on the spot as they were found it not recorded; presumably, in spite of the urgent need of royalty to be punctual, and particularly on such occasion, they were, for not a pearl (it is said) was missing when the state coach moved on.
This is not a book of elegant literary quotations, but I read a great deal and whenever I see anything on the subject of pearls it sticks. As often as not the author is misinformed—after all, no expert thinks much of the layman’s knowledge—though I think few who ought to know better knew as little as Benvenuto Cellini, the Florentine goldsmith, who in an amusing anecdote referred to pearls as ‘fishes’ bones’.
They have, of course, nothing to do with fishes, but are the product of successive coats of nacre on some irritating object inside an oyster’s shell. The core of a pearl may be a grain of sand, a tiny shell or a minute marine animal which was penetrated inside the oyster. If many coats are deposited evenly over a long space of time, the result may be a perfectly round fine pearl. Usually it is nothing of the sort, and round pearls are the rarest of all. There are also oval, drop-shaped, button-shaped and common baroque (irregular) pearls. Their color and luster tell the expert exactly what part of the world they come from. The true Oriental pearl comes from the Persian Gulf, where it has been fished by Arabs since early times in primitive fashion. It is only quite recently that the Australian pearling grounds were discovered, perhaps fifty of sixty years ago, but the pearls found there, though often very fine, are quite different from the Oriental pearls, and the oysters out of which they come are of another kind. The Japanese pearl oyster is different again, and not a producer of good pearls or good shell. But the Japanese pearl oyster has the distinction of being the stepmother of the cultured pearl.
Nowadays, almost the first question a pearl merchant is asked is: ‘What is a cultured pearl?’ and next: ‘Can you tell the difference?’ A cultured pearl is made by introducing, in a special way, a foreign body into a living oyster’s shell. If the foreign body is very minute, it stands the same chance of being covered evenly and well with nacre so as to produce a fine pearl just as any other foreign body, accidentally introduced. That is, perhaps a ten thousand to one chance. In such a case it would be as a ‘real pearl’, indistinguishable from any natural pearl, although tending to be second class, as most Japanese pearls are. In any case, its sheen and luster would show where it had come from. But cultured pearls started on very tiny cores are not a commercial proposition, and it is the rule to insert a core of some size and spherical in shape so that a largish round pearl can be produced in a reasonable time, for it takes years for the oyster obligingly to deposit the thin layers of nacre on the pearl. Thus the expert can always tell the cultured pearl from others because it usually consists of a small bead coated more or less lavishly with mother of pearl. This gives it a different look from pearls which are pearly right through.
Nevertheless, the cult of the cultured pearl has given many a lady what she longs for—a real pearl necklace of handsome appearance. For cultured pearls, even if they are not true aristocrats, are at least not imitations, and thus are fitted to give satisfaction to the feminine heart. A doctor in one of Anatole France’s novels deals satirically with that longing. ‘I often see children with strawberry marks,’ he says, ‘whose mothers say that they desired strawberries before their birth. I am waiting to see a baby marked with a pearl necklace.’
(via Gem Trader) Louis Kornitzer writes:
He told me the story (obviously there was one). It was in the days of his grandfather, when a great pestilence had followed a war with the Sultan and killed off the people. Even the fish had perished in that plague and had floated on the sea in their thousands.
‘Now the people became stupid because they thought that soon they would all be dead. The rice paddies were neglected, the caraboas were allowed to run wild, the fishing nets were in holes, the sails of the boats stayed unmended and the fishermen did not put to sea. My grandfather was very sad. He had taught them all they knew, a better way of planting, a better way of making their sails. He judged them and led them in battle. When the prayers of the Imam and the fastings he ordered availed nothing, then my grandfather knew that a strong magic was working against them all.
‘One day he went down to the seashore along. As he was walking along, looking at the ground, he saw in the middle of a heap of dying seaweed a single green eye. Then he saw it was not an eye, but a coconut pearl, so he picked it up. He knew that the pearl did not want to be picked up, for it fought against him, but he wrapped it up in his headcloth and took it home. After that the pestilence stopped. And so my father kept the coconut pearl as a hostage, and it gave him good counsel. It will be an evil day for us when it is lost to us.’
That was my memory of Palawan as I read the letter of a man from Brooklyn. Had he in truth obtained the lucky pearl of Palawan? And what had happened to Panglima Hassan and his people since its loss? I have not found out.
I had a sort of second-hand interest in the historic Hapsburg pearls—a far cry, these, from the humble mascot of a savage tribe. They were a magnificent collection. The Empress Maria Theresa and the other ladies who wore them had to swathe them in many loops around their necks and bosoms. But no longer are they in the possession of the fallen Hapsburgs. They are now owned by a multimillionaire who lives in the South of France.
These gems passed through the hands of an old partner of mine, a Paris dealer, the most sporting and enterprising of his kind, who deserved the profit that he made. It was at the the time the ex-Emperor Charles, last of the Austrian emperors, needed funds urgently for the purchase of the aeroplane and the provision of many other items necessary to his plan, that spectacular re-entry into Hungary to regain his throne. He sold the pearls for what he could get for them, and yet in the end the sacrifice got him nowhere. The Hapsburg star had set.
Speaking of royal pearls, there are the famous Hanoverian pearls. They are long ropes of magnificent gems, ‘cascading to the knees’, as one writer has put it. They belonged originally to Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia, and a very unhappy lady, despite the fact that her pearls went treble-stranded round her waist and bosom. Other royal wearers after her were Queen Victoria and then Queen Alexandra.
One day when the latter queen was stepping into the state coach which was to take her to the opening of Parliament this rope of pearls broke on the woodwork of the coach. Some of the pearls were scattered and rolled everywhere. Whether they were all counted over on the spot as they were found it not recorded; presumably, in spite of the urgent need of royalty to be punctual, and particularly on such occasion, they were, for not a pearl (it is said) was missing when the state coach moved on.
This is not a book of elegant literary quotations, but I read a great deal and whenever I see anything on the subject of pearls it sticks. As often as not the author is misinformed—after all, no expert thinks much of the layman’s knowledge—though I think few who ought to know better knew as little as Benvenuto Cellini, the Florentine goldsmith, who in an amusing anecdote referred to pearls as ‘fishes’ bones’.
They have, of course, nothing to do with fishes, but are the product of successive coats of nacre on some irritating object inside an oyster’s shell. The core of a pearl may be a grain of sand, a tiny shell or a minute marine animal which was penetrated inside the oyster. If many coats are deposited evenly over a long space of time, the result may be a perfectly round fine pearl. Usually it is nothing of the sort, and round pearls are the rarest of all. There are also oval, drop-shaped, button-shaped and common baroque (irregular) pearls. Their color and luster tell the expert exactly what part of the world they come from. The true Oriental pearl comes from the Persian Gulf, where it has been fished by Arabs since early times in primitive fashion. It is only quite recently that the Australian pearling grounds were discovered, perhaps fifty of sixty years ago, but the pearls found there, though often very fine, are quite different from the Oriental pearls, and the oysters out of which they come are of another kind. The Japanese pearl oyster is different again, and not a producer of good pearls or good shell. But the Japanese pearl oyster has the distinction of being the stepmother of the cultured pearl.
Nowadays, almost the first question a pearl merchant is asked is: ‘What is a cultured pearl?’ and next: ‘Can you tell the difference?’ A cultured pearl is made by introducing, in a special way, a foreign body into a living oyster’s shell. If the foreign body is very minute, it stands the same chance of being covered evenly and well with nacre so as to produce a fine pearl just as any other foreign body, accidentally introduced. That is, perhaps a ten thousand to one chance. In such a case it would be as a ‘real pearl’, indistinguishable from any natural pearl, although tending to be second class, as most Japanese pearls are. In any case, its sheen and luster would show where it had come from. But cultured pearls started on very tiny cores are not a commercial proposition, and it is the rule to insert a core of some size and spherical in shape so that a largish round pearl can be produced in a reasonable time, for it takes years for the oyster obligingly to deposit the thin layers of nacre on the pearl. Thus the expert can always tell the cultured pearl from others because it usually consists of a small bead coated more or less lavishly with mother of pearl. This gives it a different look from pearls which are pearly right through.
Nevertheless, the cult of the cultured pearl has given many a lady what she longs for—a real pearl necklace of handsome appearance. For cultured pearls, even if they are not true aristocrats, are at least not imitations, and thus are fitted to give satisfaction to the feminine heart. A doctor in one of Anatole France’s novels deals satirically with that longing. ‘I often see children with strawberry marks,’ he says, ‘whose mothers say that they desired strawberries before their birth. I am waiting to see a baby marked with a pearl necklace.’
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Happy New Year 2008
Wish You All A Happy + Prosperous New Year!
(via YouTube): Happy New Year (ABBA)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dcLMH8pwusw&feature=related
(via YouTube): Happy New Year (ABBA)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dcLMH8pwusw&feature=related
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
The Naville Cut
(via Diamond Cuts in Historic Jewelry:1381-1910) Herbert Tillander writes:
This cut existed as early as the end of the sixteenth century, when it was applied above all to drop-shaped diamonds. With its sixfold symmetry and its pavilion, it resembles both the Rose Cut and the Taille en Seize and must therefore be considered a hybrid. In a Swiss nomenclature published by H Stranner (1953), drop-shaped Roses are termed Navilles, from the Latin navalis, meaning boat-shaped. This seems a reasonable description so I, too, have adopted it, although only for the hybrid cuts.
This cut existed as early as the end of the sixteenth century, when it was applied above all to drop-shaped diamonds. With its sixfold symmetry and its pavilion, it resembles both the Rose Cut and the Taille en Seize and must therefore be considered a hybrid. In a Swiss nomenclature published by H Stranner (1953), drop-shaped Roses are termed Navilles, from the Latin navalis, meaning boat-shaped. This seems a reasonable description so I, too, have adopted it, although only for the hybrid cuts.
Pinocchio
Pinocchio (1940)
Directed by: Hamilton Luske, Ben Sharpsteen
Screenplay: Aurelius Battaglia (story); Carlo Collodi (novel) William Cottrell, Otto Englander, Erdman Penner, Joseph Sabo, Ted Sears, Webb Smith (story adaptation)
Cast: Mel Blanc, Christian Rub, Dickie Jones
(via YouTube): The Making Of' Pinocchio (1940) Disney Classic
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VEZgW-uurBs
When You Wish Upon A Star - Pinocchio (1940)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=miBJLIFO0ds
I think Pinocchio tops for its unique blending of the animator's craft and a theme. I enjoyed it.
Directed by: Hamilton Luske, Ben Sharpsteen
Screenplay: Aurelius Battaglia (story); Carlo Collodi (novel) William Cottrell, Otto Englander, Erdman Penner, Joseph Sabo, Ted Sears, Webb Smith (story adaptation)
Cast: Mel Blanc, Christian Rub, Dickie Jones
(via YouTube): The Making Of' Pinocchio (1940) Disney Classic
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VEZgW-uurBs
When You Wish Upon A Star - Pinocchio (1940)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=miBJLIFO0ds
I think Pinocchio tops for its unique blending of the animator's craft and a theme. I enjoyed it.
George & Ira Gershwin
Ira Gershwin was an American lyricist who collaborated with his younger brother, composer George Gershwin, to create some of the most memorable songs of the 20th century + I think they made a positive effect on the world’s culture + I like the tone and luster of their traditional orchestral blend with jazz + their musical stylings will remain a precious gem forever.
Useful links:
http://www.gershwin.com
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ira_Gershwin
Useful links:
http://www.gershwin.com
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ira_Gershwin
Lighting
Michelle Falkenstein writes about proper steps to protect the art works from harmful lighting + the challenge for museums and collectors + other viewpoints @ http://www.artnewsonline.com/issues/article.asp?art_id=806
Useful links:
www.chubb.com
www.nyu.edu/gsas/dept/fineart
www.hunterdouglas.com
Useful links:
www.chubb.com
www.nyu.edu/gsas/dept/fineart
www.hunterdouglas.com
Sunshine And Shadow In Spain
(via The Outline of Art) William Orpen writes:
Here, indeed, we have ‘the complete expression of the Velazquez eyesight,’ and great and glorious as ‘The Surrender of Breda’ is, we are bound to confess that R A M Stevenson was right in maintaining that his historical picture is not—like ‘The Maids of Honor’—‘an absolutely unique thing in the history of art.’ Like so many of the great pictures in the world, ‘The Maids of Honor’ originated in a spontaneous and unpremeditated flash of intense vision. The story generally accepted is that Velazquez was painting the king, who sat in the spot from which the spectator is supposed to see the picture of ‘Las Meninas’. During a moment’s rest the ‘Infanta’ came in with her attendants, and the king was struck with the group which fell together before his eyes. Near him he saw the princess, her maids of honor Maria Sarmiento and Isabel de Velasco (who is offering her water), her dog, and her dwarfs Mari Barbola and Nicolasito Pertusato; a little farther on the left, Velazquez, who had stepped back to look at his picture; farther back on the right, a duenna and courtier talking; while at the distant end of the gallery the king saw his queen and himself reflected in a mirror, and through the open door, Don Joseph Nieto drawing back a curtain. The canvas shown in the picture would naturally be, as Stevenson maintains, the one on which Velazquez was painting the king’s portrait. Some, however, will have it to be the very canvas of ‘Las Meninas,’ which Velazquez was painting from a reflection in a mirror placed near to where the king had been sitting. R A M Stevenson has justly pointed out that the perspective in the picture hardly seems to agree with this view, but rather makes Velazquez to have been working on the king’s right hand. It is not a matter of importance, and the story of the conception of the picture may easily have got mixed in the telling. It is just possible that Velazquez was painting, or was about to paint, a portrait of the Infanta only, when the idea of the large picture suddenly occurred to him or to the king. The canvas of ‘Las Meninas’ is made of separate pieces sewn together, and one of these just contains the Infanta, with room for accessories or a subordinate figure. However it originated, the picture was immediately recognized as a brilliant triumph, and tradition says the Red Cross of Santiago on the painter’s breast was painted there by the king’s own hand, as a promise of the honor that was to be conferred on him afterwards.
It is hard to conceive of a more beautiful piece of painting than this—so free and yet firm and so revealing. When one stands before this canvas one is not concerned with any consideration of who it was painted by; it fills the mind and suffices. Like all of the great artists, Velazquez takes something out of life and sets it free. The men and women in his finest pictures are released from what some one has called ‘mankind’s little daily cage’; and we are startled at the representation. In this portrait group we have life stated so intensely that the ordinary life around us seems almost unreal.
The same intense and startling impression of life is given us by the paintings of single figures executed by Velazquez during his last years. If we compare the shabby but dignified philosopher ‘Aesop—a fine example of his late style—with ‘Philip IV as a Sportsman’, which is admittedly one of the best full lengths of his middle period, we shall begin to realize how far Velazquez traveled during the intervening years, not merely in the rendering of form but in the painting of light and air.
In 1659 Cardinal Mazarin sealed the reconciliation between France and Spain by arranging a marriage between the young Louis XIV and Maria Teresa of Spain. The meeting of the two courts on the frontier and the organizing of the imposing ceremonies required, burdened the Marshal of the Palace with a multiplicity of work and anxiety. The wedding took place on June 7, but it was the last function Velazquez was able to perform. At sixty years of age the strain was too much for him, and a few weeks after he had returned to Madrid he collapsed and died on August 6, 1660.
In a sense if may be said that the most surprising adventures of Velazquez occurred after his death. By birth a hidalgo (i.e a member if the lesser nobility), Velazquez was buried like a grandee. The entire court attended his funeral, and knights of all orders took part in the ceremonies. But after the generation that knew the man had passed away, the glory of the painter was strangely an unaccountably forgotten. For two hundred years, during which picture lovers flocked to Italy and Italian artists became daily more famous, the name of Velazquez was seldom mentioned. Then, about fifty years ago, the sympathy of two or three great artists, notably Whistler in England and Manet in France, broke the spell of silence, and supported by a galaxy of writers, among whom was R A M Stevenson—from whose great book The Art of Velazquez we have freely quoted—these enthusiasts made the light of Velazquez to shine before all men, so that today he is and evermore will be a star of the first magnitude in the firmament of Art.
Sunshine And Shadow In Spain (continued)
Here, indeed, we have ‘the complete expression of the Velazquez eyesight,’ and great and glorious as ‘The Surrender of Breda’ is, we are bound to confess that R A M Stevenson was right in maintaining that his historical picture is not—like ‘The Maids of Honor’—‘an absolutely unique thing in the history of art.’ Like so many of the great pictures in the world, ‘The Maids of Honor’ originated in a spontaneous and unpremeditated flash of intense vision. The story generally accepted is that Velazquez was painting the king, who sat in the spot from which the spectator is supposed to see the picture of ‘Las Meninas’. During a moment’s rest the ‘Infanta’ came in with her attendants, and the king was struck with the group which fell together before his eyes. Near him he saw the princess, her maids of honor Maria Sarmiento and Isabel de Velasco (who is offering her water), her dog, and her dwarfs Mari Barbola and Nicolasito Pertusato; a little farther on the left, Velazquez, who had stepped back to look at his picture; farther back on the right, a duenna and courtier talking; while at the distant end of the gallery the king saw his queen and himself reflected in a mirror, and through the open door, Don Joseph Nieto drawing back a curtain. The canvas shown in the picture would naturally be, as Stevenson maintains, the one on which Velazquez was painting the king’s portrait. Some, however, will have it to be the very canvas of ‘Las Meninas,’ which Velazquez was painting from a reflection in a mirror placed near to where the king had been sitting. R A M Stevenson has justly pointed out that the perspective in the picture hardly seems to agree with this view, but rather makes Velazquez to have been working on the king’s right hand. It is not a matter of importance, and the story of the conception of the picture may easily have got mixed in the telling. It is just possible that Velazquez was painting, or was about to paint, a portrait of the Infanta only, when the idea of the large picture suddenly occurred to him or to the king. The canvas of ‘Las Meninas’ is made of separate pieces sewn together, and one of these just contains the Infanta, with room for accessories or a subordinate figure. However it originated, the picture was immediately recognized as a brilliant triumph, and tradition says the Red Cross of Santiago on the painter’s breast was painted there by the king’s own hand, as a promise of the honor that was to be conferred on him afterwards.
It is hard to conceive of a more beautiful piece of painting than this—so free and yet firm and so revealing. When one stands before this canvas one is not concerned with any consideration of who it was painted by; it fills the mind and suffices. Like all of the great artists, Velazquez takes something out of life and sets it free. The men and women in his finest pictures are released from what some one has called ‘mankind’s little daily cage’; and we are startled at the representation. In this portrait group we have life stated so intensely that the ordinary life around us seems almost unreal.
The same intense and startling impression of life is given us by the paintings of single figures executed by Velazquez during his last years. If we compare the shabby but dignified philosopher ‘Aesop—a fine example of his late style—with ‘Philip IV as a Sportsman’, which is admittedly one of the best full lengths of his middle period, we shall begin to realize how far Velazquez traveled during the intervening years, not merely in the rendering of form but in the painting of light and air.
In 1659 Cardinal Mazarin sealed the reconciliation between France and Spain by arranging a marriage between the young Louis XIV and Maria Teresa of Spain. The meeting of the two courts on the frontier and the organizing of the imposing ceremonies required, burdened the Marshal of the Palace with a multiplicity of work and anxiety. The wedding took place on June 7, but it was the last function Velazquez was able to perform. At sixty years of age the strain was too much for him, and a few weeks after he had returned to Madrid he collapsed and died on August 6, 1660.
In a sense if may be said that the most surprising adventures of Velazquez occurred after his death. By birth a hidalgo (i.e a member if the lesser nobility), Velazquez was buried like a grandee. The entire court attended his funeral, and knights of all orders took part in the ceremonies. But after the generation that knew the man had passed away, the glory of the painter was strangely an unaccountably forgotten. For two hundred years, during which picture lovers flocked to Italy and Italian artists became daily more famous, the name of Velazquez was seldom mentioned. Then, about fifty years ago, the sympathy of two or three great artists, notably Whistler in England and Manet in France, broke the spell of silence, and supported by a galaxy of writers, among whom was R A M Stevenson—from whose great book The Art of Velazquez we have freely quoted—these enthusiasts made the light of Velazquez to shine before all men, so that today he is and evermore will be a star of the first magnitude in the firmament of Art.
Sunshine And Shadow In Spain (continued)
I Go A – Pearling
Louis Kornitzer's book, Gem Trader, is partly autobiographical and partly woven round the lore of pearls. It's educational + explains the distribution chain of gems, as they pass from hand to hand, from miner to cutter, from merchant to millionaire, from courtesan to receiver of stolen goods, shaping human lives as they go + the unique characters in the gem industry.
(via Gem Trader) Louis Kornitzer writes:
Earlier in the day he had been talking to Yakoob, the Malay cook. Now, coming up close behind him, Yakoob said, loudly enough for all to hear: ‘Angkau takot-kah? (Are you afraid?)’
Without raising his eyes Ohtami said to the boss: ‘Let the master give orders to head the vessel straight for the Tuli Bataba Bank.’
‘And get the bottom ripped out of the Idmu? Are you crazy?’
‘The hand of Toyo pointed there,’ muttered Ohtami.
‘And last night he spoke to me as I slept. The shell is there in plenty.’
The master was tough and superstitious. He cursed Ohtami up and down. Then he upped anchor, hoisted sail and made for the narrow channel by the banks. Once through, taking soundings all the way, the master let the sails drop and put out the stern anchor.
‘If there is shell here, you scoundrel,’ he swore, ‘you shall have a third of all comes up this trip. But if you find no shell, then you shall work for me for the rest of the voyage for nothing.’ For that was the bargain the crafty skipper had made before venturing on the diver’s advice.
Twenty minutes after he had gone down Ohtami came up with a bag full of shell. It was well matured, sound shell, silver lipped, wonderfully free from worm-holes. For three days they worked below (it was an easy ground, no more than five fathoms deep). It was a wonderful spot. The oysters grew as close together as bundles of bills in a banker’s strongroom. The lugger cleaned up for a month. Ohtami’s share of the haul was more than seven thousand dollars, an enormous fortune for him.
Now he grew ambitious. He would have a lugger of his own. Two Moro shipwrights built it for him on the Tulai beach, with the help of half a score of Samals and within sight of Jolo marketplace. By that time I had appeared on the scene and saw her launched. I saw, too, the whole run of Ohtami’s luck. It lasted six years.
It is a strange thing that whereas the Chinese coolie who becomes rich rarely is overbearing, the newly prosperous Japanese often grows insolent. Ohtami had no use for white men in the days of his prosperity. On principle he would never go to see a white pearl buyer. The buyer had to come to him as a petitioner for goods on which the owner would fix no price. ‘How much you give this?’ he would say, and whatever price was offered he would refuse ti with a sneer.
His distrust of the white man became a mania. It was impossible to deal with him. Finally one trader began to go into his office, look over Ohtami’s collection, select the best piece and put a tip-top price on it—a price he knew would not be accepted, because Ohtami would certainly expect it to be bettered elsewhere. His conviction that all the white dealers were rogues was confirmed when, naturally, no other dealer would offer him anything like the first dealer’s price. Pearl after pearl, parcel after parcel, did he put by, hoping in vain for better prices than the best. In the end he had to sell in order to pay his Chino creditors. He consigned his whole collection to London for sale. Then did his belief in white creation suffer final damage. He received less for his whole consignment than once, if he had been quick to close, he could have got for two or three of his best pearls.
The last I saw of Ohtami was when he was deckhand on my own pearling lugger, the Betty Pickle. ‘Ohtami,’ I said to him once in jest, ‘you for one know that I pay bigger prices for pearls than any dealer in the world, even in London!’
‘Sudah, Tuan,’ he acquiesced with an expressionless face. For I was the trader who had offered him the extravagant prices on which he had gambled his pride and hate in luckier days.
The other day I had a letter from a correspondent who had ready my earlier books. He wanted to sell me a coconut pearl. Now coconut pearls do not come from coconuts, but from conch shells, and some are handsome in their way, though lusterless, and unlike the real pearl. The best of them are large and well-shaped and of a fine pink color, and have a certain value. But they are not interesting to the pearl dealer, even if, as in this case, they have an interesting history, have belonged for generations to an East Indian chieftain and are supposed to bring good luck. But in the course of his letter my correspondent mentioned the island of Palawan, and that name sent my mind wandering back over the years until it came to rest on a certain island in the South Seas at a time when I was still rash and young. For on Palawan I, too, had held a coconut pearl of supernatural fame and great size.
It was Sayid, my number one pearl tout, who inveigled me to Palawan, where the vegetation is as lush as anywhere on earth. There the ferocious natives, the deadly anopheles mosquito, the crocodiles in the creeks and the fever-hung swamps offer a warm welcome to the white man who ventures thither. Sayid, son of Abu Bakur by a first wife, had his own reasons for making me want to go to Palawan. He wanted to take a wife and badly needed money. Any time is a bad time for needing money, but things were particularly bad at that time, for the pearling fleets had been having bad weather and Sayid’s livelihood depended on the business he brought me. Moreover, as he naïvely told me, he was afraid for the future, too, for he thought I would soon get disgruntled and leave the islands forever.
‘Never mind,’ I rallied him. ‘There are other white men.’
‘But I shall never have a better master,’ he said diplomatically.
‘How so?’ I demanded. ‘I pay no more than other masters.’
He reflected a moment. ‘Lord,’ he said, ‘you have never yet called me a son of a bitch.’
When I laughed he seized the propitious moment. For he was full of guile. With great suavity he recommended his expedition to Palawan.
‘Are you mad?’ said I. ‘Why, it is three days sail in an open vinta!’
‘There are many wonderful pearls in Palawan,’ said Sayid, ‘and the natives will sell cheaply, because the white men do not go there.’
‘How do you know all these?’ I demanded.
He averted his eyes and said negligently: ‘Some fishermen told me!’
I demanded to be shown these Samal fishermen. But the tale had been told to him at third hand. Nevertheless, I went to Palawan. Perhaps I was hypnotised, perhaps crazy. And so, because Sayid wanted to take a second wife, presently I found myself tossing in a frail-bottomed craft on sharky waters. I was seasick and wanted to die.
But one moonlit night we came quietly into San Antonio Bay and I stepped ashore amidst the exotic tropical beauty of Palawan, looking for bargains.
Well, I got what I went for. In an hour at Panglima Hassan’s bamboo shack I exchanged a large bundle of dirty notes for pearls which were enough to compensate me for four days of seasickness. After which the Panglima entertained me as well as he knew how, and there was a great gathering in my honor in the cool of the evening. Finally he showed me his greatest treasure. In my palm I found a coconut pearl, walnut size and perfectly spherical, like a big ball of camphor. I turned it in my hand, trying to think of a compliment, and there came uppermost a large circular spot of green, and in the midst of the green a large black dot, the whole looking like an eyeball in my hand. In a sudden nausea I thought I saw the ‘pupil’ dilate and contract. Shuddering, I handed the object back with a polite murmur.
I Go A – Pearling (continued)
(via Gem Trader) Louis Kornitzer writes:
Earlier in the day he had been talking to Yakoob, the Malay cook. Now, coming up close behind him, Yakoob said, loudly enough for all to hear: ‘Angkau takot-kah? (Are you afraid?)’
Without raising his eyes Ohtami said to the boss: ‘Let the master give orders to head the vessel straight for the Tuli Bataba Bank.’
‘And get the bottom ripped out of the Idmu? Are you crazy?’
‘The hand of Toyo pointed there,’ muttered Ohtami.
‘And last night he spoke to me as I slept. The shell is there in plenty.’
The master was tough and superstitious. He cursed Ohtami up and down. Then he upped anchor, hoisted sail and made for the narrow channel by the banks. Once through, taking soundings all the way, the master let the sails drop and put out the stern anchor.
‘If there is shell here, you scoundrel,’ he swore, ‘you shall have a third of all comes up this trip. But if you find no shell, then you shall work for me for the rest of the voyage for nothing.’ For that was the bargain the crafty skipper had made before venturing on the diver’s advice.
Twenty minutes after he had gone down Ohtami came up with a bag full of shell. It was well matured, sound shell, silver lipped, wonderfully free from worm-holes. For three days they worked below (it was an easy ground, no more than five fathoms deep). It was a wonderful spot. The oysters grew as close together as bundles of bills in a banker’s strongroom. The lugger cleaned up for a month. Ohtami’s share of the haul was more than seven thousand dollars, an enormous fortune for him.
Now he grew ambitious. He would have a lugger of his own. Two Moro shipwrights built it for him on the Tulai beach, with the help of half a score of Samals and within sight of Jolo marketplace. By that time I had appeared on the scene and saw her launched. I saw, too, the whole run of Ohtami’s luck. It lasted six years.
It is a strange thing that whereas the Chinese coolie who becomes rich rarely is overbearing, the newly prosperous Japanese often grows insolent. Ohtami had no use for white men in the days of his prosperity. On principle he would never go to see a white pearl buyer. The buyer had to come to him as a petitioner for goods on which the owner would fix no price. ‘How much you give this?’ he would say, and whatever price was offered he would refuse ti with a sneer.
His distrust of the white man became a mania. It was impossible to deal with him. Finally one trader began to go into his office, look over Ohtami’s collection, select the best piece and put a tip-top price on it—a price he knew would not be accepted, because Ohtami would certainly expect it to be bettered elsewhere. His conviction that all the white dealers were rogues was confirmed when, naturally, no other dealer would offer him anything like the first dealer’s price. Pearl after pearl, parcel after parcel, did he put by, hoping in vain for better prices than the best. In the end he had to sell in order to pay his Chino creditors. He consigned his whole collection to London for sale. Then did his belief in white creation suffer final damage. He received less for his whole consignment than once, if he had been quick to close, he could have got for two or three of his best pearls.
The last I saw of Ohtami was when he was deckhand on my own pearling lugger, the Betty Pickle. ‘Ohtami,’ I said to him once in jest, ‘you for one know that I pay bigger prices for pearls than any dealer in the world, even in London!’
‘Sudah, Tuan,’ he acquiesced with an expressionless face. For I was the trader who had offered him the extravagant prices on which he had gambled his pride and hate in luckier days.
The other day I had a letter from a correspondent who had ready my earlier books. He wanted to sell me a coconut pearl. Now coconut pearls do not come from coconuts, but from conch shells, and some are handsome in their way, though lusterless, and unlike the real pearl. The best of them are large and well-shaped and of a fine pink color, and have a certain value. But they are not interesting to the pearl dealer, even if, as in this case, they have an interesting history, have belonged for generations to an East Indian chieftain and are supposed to bring good luck. But in the course of his letter my correspondent mentioned the island of Palawan, and that name sent my mind wandering back over the years until it came to rest on a certain island in the South Seas at a time when I was still rash and young. For on Palawan I, too, had held a coconut pearl of supernatural fame and great size.
It was Sayid, my number one pearl tout, who inveigled me to Palawan, where the vegetation is as lush as anywhere on earth. There the ferocious natives, the deadly anopheles mosquito, the crocodiles in the creeks and the fever-hung swamps offer a warm welcome to the white man who ventures thither. Sayid, son of Abu Bakur by a first wife, had his own reasons for making me want to go to Palawan. He wanted to take a wife and badly needed money. Any time is a bad time for needing money, but things were particularly bad at that time, for the pearling fleets had been having bad weather and Sayid’s livelihood depended on the business he brought me. Moreover, as he naïvely told me, he was afraid for the future, too, for he thought I would soon get disgruntled and leave the islands forever.
‘Never mind,’ I rallied him. ‘There are other white men.’
‘But I shall never have a better master,’ he said diplomatically.
‘How so?’ I demanded. ‘I pay no more than other masters.’
He reflected a moment. ‘Lord,’ he said, ‘you have never yet called me a son of a bitch.’
When I laughed he seized the propitious moment. For he was full of guile. With great suavity he recommended his expedition to Palawan.
‘Are you mad?’ said I. ‘Why, it is three days sail in an open vinta!’
‘There are many wonderful pearls in Palawan,’ said Sayid, ‘and the natives will sell cheaply, because the white men do not go there.’
‘How do you know all these?’ I demanded.
He averted his eyes and said negligently: ‘Some fishermen told me!’
I demanded to be shown these Samal fishermen. But the tale had been told to him at third hand. Nevertheless, I went to Palawan. Perhaps I was hypnotised, perhaps crazy. And so, because Sayid wanted to take a second wife, presently I found myself tossing in a frail-bottomed craft on sharky waters. I was seasick and wanted to die.
But one moonlit night we came quietly into San Antonio Bay and I stepped ashore amidst the exotic tropical beauty of Palawan, looking for bargains.
Well, I got what I went for. In an hour at Panglima Hassan’s bamboo shack I exchanged a large bundle of dirty notes for pearls which were enough to compensate me for four days of seasickness. After which the Panglima entertained me as well as he knew how, and there was a great gathering in my honor in the cool of the evening. Finally he showed me his greatest treasure. In my palm I found a coconut pearl, walnut size and perfectly spherical, like a big ball of camphor. I turned it in my hand, trying to think of a compliment, and there came uppermost a large circular spot of green, and in the midst of the green a large black dot, the whole looking like an eyeball in my hand. In a sudden nausea I thought I saw the ‘pupil’ dilate and contract. Shuddering, I handed the object back with a polite murmur.
I Go A – Pearling (continued)
Monday, December 31, 2007
Heard On The Street
There are many types of intelligence: academic + creative + practical intelligence. Practical intelligence is the best + a dose of good manners, honesty, integrity, and social skills are good inclusions of a sure winner.
Leonard Bernstein
Leonard Bernstein was an American conductor, composer, author, music lecturer and pianist + he energized the Philharmonic and American classical music in a way no other director had done + he brought classical music to thousands of people from diverse backgrounds + I love his music.
Useful links:
www.leonardbernstein.com
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leonard_Bernstein
Useful links:
www.leonardbernstein.com
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leonard_Bernstein
Notorious
Notorious (1946)
Directed by: Alfred Hitchcock
Screenplay: John Taintor Foote (story The Song of the Dragon); Ben Hecht (written by), Alfred Hitchcock (screenplay contributor); Clifford Odets
Cast: Cary Grant, Ingrid Bergman, Claude Rains
(via YouTube): Notorious Full Film PT 1/12
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JKexssiWVw8&feature=related
A Alfred Hitchcock masterpiece + dark romance/comedy. I enjoyed it.
Directed by: Alfred Hitchcock
Screenplay: John Taintor Foote (story The Song of the Dragon); Ben Hecht (written by), Alfred Hitchcock (screenplay contributor); Clifford Odets
Cast: Cary Grant, Ingrid Bergman, Claude Rains
(via YouTube): Notorious Full Film PT 1/12
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JKexssiWVw8&feature=related
A Alfred Hitchcock masterpiece + dark romance/comedy. I enjoyed it.
Framing
Michelle Falkenstein writes about the importance of archival–quality framing + enhancing the look of a piece + its longevity + other viewpoints @ http://www.artnewsonline.com/issues/article.asp?art_id=805
Useful links:
www.barkframeworks.com
www.larsonjuhl.com
www.lowyonline.com
Useful links:
www.barkframeworks.com
www.larsonjuhl.com
www.lowyonline.com
Sunshine And Shadow In Spain
(via The Outline of Art) William Orpen writes:
While admitting that ‘The Surrender of Breda’ challenges the greatest masters on their own ground, rivalling the highest achievements of Titian, Tintoretto, and Veronese both in its dignity as illustration and in its beauty as decoration, yet Mr Stevenson has affirmed that ‘it is not the complete expression of the Velazquez eyesight.’ In a sense it is not; it has not the amazing actuality of some of the painter’s later works, but it may be questioned whether it is desirable that it should have this quality. This painting, we must remember, was first and foremost a decoration painted to adorn a certain wall in a given apartment, and the experience of centuries has shown that ultra-realism does not produce the most effective forms of decoration, which need a certain deliberate convention to emphasize their beauty as patterns. In ‘The Surrender of Breda’ Velazquez gives us the greatest amount of realism compatible with the success of the picture as a decoration: it fulfills its purpose to perfection, and than this no higher praise can be given.
Just about the time of this painting, Velazquez was introduced to a new sitter, the king’s little son Balthasar Carlos. Of the many portraits he made of this prince none is more delightful than the one which shows him on horseback. This quaint and rather pathetic little figure on his prancing steed, with the whole of Spain seemingly summed up and expressed in the landscape behind him, is the most adorable picture ever painted of a small boy. For all his pomp and importance (emphasized by the marshal’s baton in his hand), the stern, set face—so like his father’s—makes us feel sorry for him. He is very human; we feel that he is a lonely child, and somehow the painter with prophetic insight seems to suggest that he has not long to live. Poor little Balthasar Carlos, born in 1629, did not live to be twenty. In 1646 he caught a cold at Saragossa and died. Thereafter Velazquez had no royal prince to paint, and Philip IV had to lavish all his domestic affection on a little princess, the Infanta Maria Teresa, who had been born in 1638. Soon after her arrival troubles came thick upon Spain. Olivarez mismanaged matters badly and was disgraced in 1643; and the same year those lances of Spain, hitherto invincible, which we see in ‘The Surrender of Breda,’ themselves suffered the agony of defeat and were utterly crumpled up and crushed at Rocroi by the great French commander Condé. Domestic griefs accompanied these public misfortunes, for two years before he lost his son, Philip lost his wife, the Queen Isabella.
In 1649 Velazquez again visited Italy, no longer the follower of an all conquering army but the agent of a monarch whose power was waning. He landed at Genoa on January 2, and passing through Milan made for Venice, where he purchased several pictures for the King. This indeed, was the principal object of his journey. From Venice he went to Rome, where he painted the splendid portrait of Innocent X which now hangs in the Doria Palace, Rome, and met several artists of note—among them being Salvator Rosa (1615-73), the Neapolitan painter of brigands and wild scenery, and Nicolas Poussin (1594-1665), the polished Frenchman, who in his classical subjects carried on the tradition of the great Renaissance and in his landscapes was a real pioneer.
In the summer of 1651 Velazquez returned to Madrid, where still further honors awaited him. He was made Marshal of the Palace, and as Philip IV had married again during his absence—married his own niece Mariana of Austria, a girl of fourteen—the new Marshal was kept busy organizing festivities and tournaments for the amusement of the young Queen. By this second wife Philip had the Princess Margaret, born 1651, who is the central figure in the world famous ‘Las Meninas’. This picture in English ‘The Maids of Honor,’ marks the culmination of the third period of Velazquez and is the supreme achievement of his life.
Sunshine And Shadow In Spain (continued)
While admitting that ‘The Surrender of Breda’ challenges the greatest masters on their own ground, rivalling the highest achievements of Titian, Tintoretto, and Veronese both in its dignity as illustration and in its beauty as decoration, yet Mr Stevenson has affirmed that ‘it is not the complete expression of the Velazquez eyesight.’ In a sense it is not; it has not the amazing actuality of some of the painter’s later works, but it may be questioned whether it is desirable that it should have this quality. This painting, we must remember, was first and foremost a decoration painted to adorn a certain wall in a given apartment, and the experience of centuries has shown that ultra-realism does not produce the most effective forms of decoration, which need a certain deliberate convention to emphasize their beauty as patterns. In ‘The Surrender of Breda’ Velazquez gives us the greatest amount of realism compatible with the success of the picture as a decoration: it fulfills its purpose to perfection, and than this no higher praise can be given.
Just about the time of this painting, Velazquez was introduced to a new sitter, the king’s little son Balthasar Carlos. Of the many portraits he made of this prince none is more delightful than the one which shows him on horseback. This quaint and rather pathetic little figure on his prancing steed, with the whole of Spain seemingly summed up and expressed in the landscape behind him, is the most adorable picture ever painted of a small boy. For all his pomp and importance (emphasized by the marshal’s baton in his hand), the stern, set face—so like his father’s—makes us feel sorry for him. He is very human; we feel that he is a lonely child, and somehow the painter with prophetic insight seems to suggest that he has not long to live. Poor little Balthasar Carlos, born in 1629, did not live to be twenty. In 1646 he caught a cold at Saragossa and died. Thereafter Velazquez had no royal prince to paint, and Philip IV had to lavish all his domestic affection on a little princess, the Infanta Maria Teresa, who had been born in 1638. Soon after her arrival troubles came thick upon Spain. Olivarez mismanaged matters badly and was disgraced in 1643; and the same year those lances of Spain, hitherto invincible, which we see in ‘The Surrender of Breda,’ themselves suffered the agony of defeat and were utterly crumpled up and crushed at Rocroi by the great French commander Condé. Domestic griefs accompanied these public misfortunes, for two years before he lost his son, Philip lost his wife, the Queen Isabella.
In 1649 Velazquez again visited Italy, no longer the follower of an all conquering army but the agent of a monarch whose power was waning. He landed at Genoa on January 2, and passing through Milan made for Venice, where he purchased several pictures for the King. This indeed, was the principal object of his journey. From Venice he went to Rome, where he painted the splendid portrait of Innocent X which now hangs in the Doria Palace, Rome, and met several artists of note—among them being Salvator Rosa (1615-73), the Neapolitan painter of brigands and wild scenery, and Nicolas Poussin (1594-1665), the polished Frenchman, who in his classical subjects carried on the tradition of the great Renaissance and in his landscapes was a real pioneer.
In the summer of 1651 Velazquez returned to Madrid, where still further honors awaited him. He was made Marshal of the Palace, and as Philip IV had married again during his absence—married his own niece Mariana of Austria, a girl of fourteen—the new Marshal was kept busy organizing festivities and tournaments for the amusement of the young Queen. By this second wife Philip had the Princess Margaret, born 1651, who is the central figure in the world famous ‘Las Meninas’. This picture in English ‘The Maids of Honor,’ marks the culmination of the third period of Velazquez and is the supreme achievement of his life.
Sunshine And Shadow In Spain (continued)
I Go A – Pearling
Louis Kornitzer's book, Gem Trader, is partly autobiographical and partly woven round the lore of pearls. It's educational + explains the distribution chain of gems, as they pass from hand to hand, from miner to cutter, from merchant to millionaire, from courtesan to receiver of stolen goods, shaping human lives as they go + the unique characters in the gem industry.
(via Gem Trader) Louis Kornitzer writes:
Now, I have already written two books about pearls and the men who live on the rare fruits of the oyster. And yet no book of gems, and certainly no book of mine, should leave out all mention of the pearl. Luckily for me, pearl-lore would fill half a dozen books and not then be exhausted, so I need not repeat myself.
It was a humble young dealer in Hatton Garden that the urge to adventure came to me, that strong, compelling urge like a kick in the pants, which is produced by the fact that one’s family is hungry and growing. I had a chance to go pearl-hunting in the tough pearling grounds in North-Western Australia, and I took it. From Australia the chase for pearls led me in half a lifetime all around the world, but I was a stone that rolled slowly enough to gather a minute quantity of moss. At any rate, I have never regretted it. One looks back with a strange satisfaction on the lonely and risky periods of one’s life.
As I was the first white trader ever to penetrate into the pearl fisheries of the Sulu Seas, I still have a proprietary feeling about that part of the world. An irrational feeling, for after all, the Chinese, the Arabs and the Japanese had discovered Jolo—as it was then called—long before I had ever heard of that interesting neighbor of Borneo. The crews of pearling luggers are usually mixed crews from half the colored races of the world; and whatever the rest may be, black men, Arabs, Indians, Malayans, Chinese, half-castes, the divers are pretty sure to be sons of Nippon.
Like Ohtami, a diver I knew, these men are from the hardy fisher stock of Northern Japan, which wrests a miserable existence from the storm-ridden Pacific. The diver’s job, better paid, is no less precarious. Ohtami, for instance, stepped into the lead-weighted boots of his predecessor, who had been swimming off the beach and had met a shark. The Idmu was two day’s sail from port at the time, and as there was nothing left of Toyo to commit to the deep, the only formality that remained was to choose a new diver. The choice fell on Ohtami, which meant he was to work in alternate shifts with principal diver at a rate of pay plus cumsha (rake-off) better than anything he had ever seen before.
Ohtami looked as though he had been cut with a clasp-knife out of a block of wood. He was short and very thick, with enormous lung development and extraordinarily long and mobile arms. With the assistance of his tender, who would look after the air pump and the end of his lifeline while he was below, he got into the thick woollens that the diver wears beneath his rubber cuirass, into the felt front-piece and back and shoulder pads, into the suit itself. The boss ran an eye over him. The things fitted. Ohtami took them off again, and squatted to chow with the others, for it was sundown.
Each man helped himself from a bowl full of rice, broke the rice paper seal around a pair of chopsticks, rinsed his mouth with tepid water and spewed a libation to the jealous demons of the deep. Around them on platters stood the delicacies of their diet, boiled purple seaweed, cubes of pickled cabbage, chopped onions, pearl oyster mince. Sea and air were still. A thin blue haze hung over the water. The fifteen-ton lugger, under bare poles, drifted quietly round its stern anchor chain. The men were silent, for the death of their shipmate had depressed them. Who could say what Ohtami felt? Toyo had come from the same storm-swept village and they had been friends.
In those latitudes there is no sunset, and the sun plunges into the sea. At the precise moment of its departing Ohtami thought he saw something. He thought he saw a great arm sticking up out of the sea, pointing with one finger at a couple of islands not more than a mile away. Ohtami was greatly excited, but no one else would believe he had seen anything, and they laughed all the more because they were so relived to have something to laugh about that night. Ohtami relapsed into sullen silence.
The next day he went down to the seabed after the shell. But it was an unlucky trial trip, for he found nothing. When the number one diver went down he had no better fortune, and so it went on the whole day. It was a prospecting trip after new grounds, and the pearling master was glum. He made up his mind to hoist anchor and make for a place he knew that would give him at least his three or four piculs of shell night and morning. Then Ohtami, whose voice was hardly ever heard, opened his mouth—and close it again.
I Go A – Pearling (continued)
(via Gem Trader) Louis Kornitzer writes:
Now, I have already written two books about pearls and the men who live on the rare fruits of the oyster. And yet no book of gems, and certainly no book of mine, should leave out all mention of the pearl. Luckily for me, pearl-lore would fill half a dozen books and not then be exhausted, so I need not repeat myself.
It was a humble young dealer in Hatton Garden that the urge to adventure came to me, that strong, compelling urge like a kick in the pants, which is produced by the fact that one’s family is hungry and growing. I had a chance to go pearl-hunting in the tough pearling grounds in North-Western Australia, and I took it. From Australia the chase for pearls led me in half a lifetime all around the world, but I was a stone that rolled slowly enough to gather a minute quantity of moss. At any rate, I have never regretted it. One looks back with a strange satisfaction on the lonely and risky periods of one’s life.
As I was the first white trader ever to penetrate into the pearl fisheries of the Sulu Seas, I still have a proprietary feeling about that part of the world. An irrational feeling, for after all, the Chinese, the Arabs and the Japanese had discovered Jolo—as it was then called—long before I had ever heard of that interesting neighbor of Borneo. The crews of pearling luggers are usually mixed crews from half the colored races of the world; and whatever the rest may be, black men, Arabs, Indians, Malayans, Chinese, half-castes, the divers are pretty sure to be sons of Nippon.
Like Ohtami, a diver I knew, these men are from the hardy fisher stock of Northern Japan, which wrests a miserable existence from the storm-ridden Pacific. The diver’s job, better paid, is no less precarious. Ohtami, for instance, stepped into the lead-weighted boots of his predecessor, who had been swimming off the beach and had met a shark. The Idmu was two day’s sail from port at the time, and as there was nothing left of Toyo to commit to the deep, the only formality that remained was to choose a new diver. The choice fell on Ohtami, which meant he was to work in alternate shifts with principal diver at a rate of pay plus cumsha (rake-off) better than anything he had ever seen before.
Ohtami looked as though he had been cut with a clasp-knife out of a block of wood. He was short and very thick, with enormous lung development and extraordinarily long and mobile arms. With the assistance of his tender, who would look after the air pump and the end of his lifeline while he was below, he got into the thick woollens that the diver wears beneath his rubber cuirass, into the felt front-piece and back and shoulder pads, into the suit itself. The boss ran an eye over him. The things fitted. Ohtami took them off again, and squatted to chow with the others, for it was sundown.
Each man helped himself from a bowl full of rice, broke the rice paper seal around a pair of chopsticks, rinsed his mouth with tepid water and spewed a libation to the jealous demons of the deep. Around them on platters stood the delicacies of their diet, boiled purple seaweed, cubes of pickled cabbage, chopped onions, pearl oyster mince. Sea and air were still. A thin blue haze hung over the water. The fifteen-ton lugger, under bare poles, drifted quietly round its stern anchor chain. The men were silent, for the death of their shipmate had depressed them. Who could say what Ohtami felt? Toyo had come from the same storm-swept village and they had been friends.
In those latitudes there is no sunset, and the sun plunges into the sea. At the precise moment of its departing Ohtami thought he saw something. He thought he saw a great arm sticking up out of the sea, pointing with one finger at a couple of islands not more than a mile away. Ohtami was greatly excited, but no one else would believe he had seen anything, and they laughed all the more because they were so relived to have something to laugh about that night. Ohtami relapsed into sullen silence.
The next day he went down to the seabed after the shell. But it was an unlucky trial trip, for he found nothing. When the number one diver went down he had no better fortune, and so it went on the whole day. It was a prospecting trip after new grounds, and the pearling master was glum. He made up his mind to hoist anchor and make for a place he knew that would give him at least his three or four piculs of shell night and morning. Then Ohtami, whose voice was hardly ever heard, opened his mouth—and close it again.
I Go A – Pearling (continued)
Sunday, December 30, 2007
The Manhattan Transfer
The Manhattan Transfer’s name comes from John Dos Passos' 1925 novel Manhattan Transfer and reflects their New York origins + it is famous for mixing jazz, big band, and popular music styles + I love the music.
Useful links:
www.manhattantransfer.org
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Manhattan_Transfer
Useful links:
www.manhattantransfer.org
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Manhattan_Transfer
Heard On The Street
Identifying certain losers is a skill in itself and takes time to develop. Work hard at identifying new, inexperienced gem/art dealers who will be certain losers, and fade. We take a lifetime to unlearn easy mistakes. Past performance is no assurance of future success.
Out Of The Past
Out Of The Past (1947)
Directed by: Jacques Tourneur
Screenplay: Daniel Mainwaring (novel Build My Gallows High) (as Geoffrey Homes); Daniel Mainwaring (as Geoffrey Homes), Frank Fenton (uncredited), James M. Cain (uncredited)
Cast: Robert Mitchum, Jane Greer, Kirk Douglas
(via YouTube): Out of the Past
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZNuORUFx81g
Robert Mitchum + Jane Greer were great. I enjoyed it.
Directed by: Jacques Tourneur
Screenplay: Daniel Mainwaring (novel Build My Gallows High) (as Geoffrey Homes); Daniel Mainwaring (as Geoffrey Homes), Frank Fenton (uncredited), James M. Cain (uncredited)
Cast: Robert Mitchum, Jane Greer, Kirk Douglas
(via YouTube): Out of the Past
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZNuORUFx81g
Robert Mitchum + Jane Greer were great. I enjoyed it.
The Match King
Economist writes about Ivar Kreuger, the world's greatest swindler + his operating system (s) + other viewpoints @ http://www.economist.com/finance/displaystory.cfm?story_id=10278667
A lesson for all (rootless world).
A lesson for all (rootless world).
Insurance
Michelle Falkenstein writes about issues related to insurance, lighting, and framing of fine art + periodic evaluation and reappraisal of art + inventory management softwares for serious collectors + other viewpoints @ http://www.artnewsonline.com/issues/article.asp?art_id=804
Useful links:
www.chubb.com
www.aig.com
www.worldartantiques.com
www.artsystems.com
www.artloss.com
www.firemansfund.com
www.museumsusa.org
www.lloyds.com
www.ace-ina.com
www.axa-art.com
www.cunninghamlindsey.com
www.mmc.com
Useful links:
www.chubb.com
www.aig.com
www.worldartantiques.com
www.artsystems.com
www.artloss.com
www.firemansfund.com
www.museumsusa.org
www.lloyds.com
www.ace-ina.com
www.axa-art.com
www.cunninghamlindsey.com
www.mmc.com
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