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
Monday, December 31, 2007
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
Sunshine And Shadow In Spain
(via The Outline of Art) William Orpen writes:
The time between his return to Madrid and his departure in 1649 for a second visit to Italy was the happiest period in the life both of Velazquez and of Philip. Daily the artist advanced in the mastery of his art and in the esteem of his sovereign. R A M Stevenson has pointed out that:
Like Rembrandt, who never ceased to paint his own portrait, Velazquez studied one model, from youth to age, with unalterable patience and and ever-fresh inspiration. He could look at the king’s well-known head with a renewed interest, as he went deeper into the mystery of eyesight, and became better informed as to the effects of real light.
Owing to fires and other accidents many of these portraits of Philip have been lost, but twenty six exist to this day: and they are all different. If we follow the development of the painter’s art in these portraits of Philip IV—and nearly a dozen are in England—we shall see the slow transformation of a face, through a hard realism of feature and detail, to the soft, atmospheric impressionism of the final portraits. The bust portrait of ‘Philip IV: Old’ in the National Gallery, London, is a superb example of the painter’s last manner and of the way in which he could steep a whole canvas equally in a soft envelope of light.
What this continual painting of the same model did for Velazquez we can see from the portraits: it helped him to realize what every painter in the end must realize if he intends to excel, that is not the subject but the treatment that makes the masterpiece. Velazquez found his fundamental inspiration, not in the novelty of a new subject, but in the ceaseless pursuit of seeing better and painting better something he had already seen. It is by the ultimate perfection of his rendering of the normal vision of man that Velazquez holds his supreme place among the very greatest masters of art. Other painters have expressed character, ideas, and beauty more poignantly, but nobody before or since has expressed vision so splendidly.
What this constant intercourse with a great artist did for Philip IV we can only imagine, but R A M Stevenson again comes to our rescue by picturing in words how lonely is the lot of a king, and particularly in this period of a king of Spain:
To be a king of Spain, to preside at religious execution, to have a wife whom no man, even to save her life, might touch on pain of death, was to be a creature sorely in need of private liberty, and the solace of confidential intercourse. Philip IV seems to have been naturally kind, genial, and affable, and to have divided his leisure between the hunting-field and Velazquez’s studio. The two, artist and king, grew old together, with like interests in horses, dogs, and paintings; thawing when alone into that easy familiarity between master and old servant, freezing instantly in public into the stiff positions that their parts in life required. Painter to the king, when he was scarce twenty five years old, Velazquez escaped most of the dangers and humiliations of professional portrait-painting, without losing its useful discipline of the eye, its rigorous test of the ever-present and exacting model.
It was when Velazquez was about forty that he was called upon to execute what proved to be one of the two supreme achievements of his art. Olivarez had presented the King with a new palace, Buen Retiro, on the heights above the Prado, and the Court Painters, with Velazquez at their head, were commanded to set about its decoration. For the decoration of this palace Velazquez produced his great historical picture ‘The Surrender of Breda’ which is not only superb as a decoration but as moving in its sentiment as any picture artist ever painted.
The surrender of Breda, a fortified town twenty miles south-east of Dordrecht, was an incident in the memorable, and at first apparently hopeless, struggle which, beginning in 1568, lasted for eighty years and ended in the haughty Spaniards being compelled to recognize the independence of the Dutch Republic. The capture of Breda was one of the last triumph of Spanish arms before the tide turned against them. This was the subject Velazquez chose for his contribution towards the decoration of Buen Retiro. Notwithstanding the armed crowd and multitude of uniforms, the noble bearing of the principal figures is the first thing that arrests attention. The gestures of Spinola, the Spanish Commander, and of Justin, chief representative of the defeated Dutchmen and bearer of the key to the city, are poignant in expression, and what moves us most of all is the incomparable humanity of the scene. There is no arrogance in the Spanish conqueror, who lays his hand consolingly, almost affectionately, on the shoulder of Justin; in the Dutchman there is all the tragedy of defeat, but he is still dignified and does not cringe to the victor. It is an ennobling presentment of a historic scene.
Sunshine And Shadow In Spain (continued)
The time between his return to Madrid and his departure in 1649 for a second visit to Italy was the happiest period in the life both of Velazquez and of Philip. Daily the artist advanced in the mastery of his art and in the esteem of his sovereign. R A M Stevenson has pointed out that:
Like Rembrandt, who never ceased to paint his own portrait, Velazquez studied one model, from youth to age, with unalterable patience and and ever-fresh inspiration. He could look at the king’s well-known head with a renewed interest, as he went deeper into the mystery of eyesight, and became better informed as to the effects of real light.
Owing to fires and other accidents many of these portraits of Philip have been lost, but twenty six exist to this day: and they are all different. If we follow the development of the painter’s art in these portraits of Philip IV—and nearly a dozen are in England—we shall see the slow transformation of a face, through a hard realism of feature and detail, to the soft, atmospheric impressionism of the final portraits. The bust portrait of ‘Philip IV: Old’ in the National Gallery, London, is a superb example of the painter’s last manner and of the way in which he could steep a whole canvas equally in a soft envelope of light.
What this continual painting of the same model did for Velazquez we can see from the portraits: it helped him to realize what every painter in the end must realize if he intends to excel, that is not the subject but the treatment that makes the masterpiece. Velazquez found his fundamental inspiration, not in the novelty of a new subject, but in the ceaseless pursuit of seeing better and painting better something he had already seen. It is by the ultimate perfection of his rendering of the normal vision of man that Velazquez holds his supreme place among the very greatest masters of art. Other painters have expressed character, ideas, and beauty more poignantly, but nobody before or since has expressed vision so splendidly.
What this constant intercourse with a great artist did for Philip IV we can only imagine, but R A M Stevenson again comes to our rescue by picturing in words how lonely is the lot of a king, and particularly in this period of a king of Spain:
To be a king of Spain, to preside at religious execution, to have a wife whom no man, even to save her life, might touch on pain of death, was to be a creature sorely in need of private liberty, and the solace of confidential intercourse. Philip IV seems to have been naturally kind, genial, and affable, and to have divided his leisure between the hunting-field and Velazquez’s studio. The two, artist and king, grew old together, with like interests in horses, dogs, and paintings; thawing when alone into that easy familiarity between master and old servant, freezing instantly in public into the stiff positions that their parts in life required. Painter to the king, when he was scarce twenty five years old, Velazquez escaped most of the dangers and humiliations of professional portrait-painting, without losing its useful discipline of the eye, its rigorous test of the ever-present and exacting model.
It was when Velazquez was about forty that he was called upon to execute what proved to be one of the two supreme achievements of his art. Olivarez had presented the King with a new palace, Buen Retiro, on the heights above the Prado, and the Court Painters, with Velazquez at their head, were commanded to set about its decoration. For the decoration of this palace Velazquez produced his great historical picture ‘The Surrender of Breda’ which is not only superb as a decoration but as moving in its sentiment as any picture artist ever painted.
The surrender of Breda, a fortified town twenty miles south-east of Dordrecht, was an incident in the memorable, and at first apparently hopeless, struggle which, beginning in 1568, lasted for eighty years and ended in the haughty Spaniards being compelled to recognize the independence of the Dutch Republic. The capture of Breda was one of the last triumph of Spanish arms before the tide turned against them. This was the subject Velazquez chose for his contribution towards the decoration of Buen Retiro. Notwithstanding the armed crowd and multitude of uniforms, the noble bearing of the principal figures is the first thing that arrests attention. The gestures of Spinola, the Spanish Commander, and of Justin, chief representative of the defeated Dutchmen and bearer of the key to the city, are poignant in expression, and what moves us most of all is the incomparable humanity of the scene. There is no arrogance in the Spanish conqueror, who lays his hand consolingly, almost affectionately, on the shoulder of Justin; in the Dutchman there is all the tragedy of defeat, but he is still dignified and does not cringe to the victor. It is an ennobling presentment of a historic scene.
Sunshine And Shadow In Spain (continued)
The Chequer-Cut, Or V-Cut, Citty Diamond
(via Diamond Cuts in Historic Jewelry:1381-1910) Herbert Tillander writes:
The oval, flat-bottomed Citty was a well-known diamond in its time. According to Cletscher, it had a richly faceted crown, was of beautiful water, weighed 24 ct and cost die van Londen (the Londoners) £12000 when it was purchased and offered to King Charles I. It is generally assumed that the diamond was named after the City of London, which presented it to the King.
The Citty is mentioned in the Correspondance Politique as one of the jewels which Queen Henrietta Maria pawned and finally sold in order to finance the Cavaliers who fought for her husband against Oliver Cromwell’s Roundheads. It was eventually purchased by the French queen, Anne of Austria, who left it and twenty one other large diamonds to her son, the Duke of Orleans, brother to Louis XIV. In the duke’s inventory (1701) it is described as ‘un autre diamant de forme ovalle brilliant long taillé par dessus en petits lozenges de trés belle eau et nette appélé Le Cité, prise la somme de cent vingt mil livreś.
Here, the word brilliant obviously does not mean the type of cut, but merely indicates sparkling light effects. Taillé par dessus means simply that the crown was faceted. With its weight of 24 ct and dimensions of 26 x 21 mm (gauged from the size of the Briolette which was attached to it and which is now reproduced in Louis XV’s crown), the Citty Rose Cut diamond was fairly flat.
One of the earliest V-Cut diamonds is to be found in Munich, on a statuette of St George. The stone, a reasonably large one, is fixed to the horse’s head, behind the plume. The statuette is thought to date from somewhere between 1586 and 1597.
The oval, flat-bottomed Citty was a well-known diamond in its time. According to Cletscher, it had a richly faceted crown, was of beautiful water, weighed 24 ct and cost die van Londen (the Londoners) £12000 when it was purchased and offered to King Charles I. It is generally assumed that the diamond was named after the City of London, which presented it to the King.
The Citty is mentioned in the Correspondance Politique as one of the jewels which Queen Henrietta Maria pawned and finally sold in order to finance the Cavaliers who fought for her husband against Oliver Cromwell’s Roundheads. It was eventually purchased by the French queen, Anne of Austria, who left it and twenty one other large diamonds to her son, the Duke of Orleans, brother to Louis XIV. In the duke’s inventory (1701) it is described as ‘un autre diamant de forme ovalle brilliant long taillé par dessus en petits lozenges de trés belle eau et nette appélé Le Cité, prise la somme de cent vingt mil livreś.
Here, the word brilliant obviously does not mean the type of cut, but merely indicates sparkling light effects. Taillé par dessus means simply that the crown was faceted. With its weight of 24 ct and dimensions of 26 x 21 mm (gauged from the size of the Briolette which was attached to it and which is now reproduced in Louis XV’s crown), the Citty Rose Cut diamond was fairly flat.
One of the earliest V-Cut diamonds is to be found in Munich, on a statuette of St George. The stone, a reasonably large one, is fixed to the horse’s head, behind the plume. The statuette is thought to date from somewhere between 1586 and 1597.
London, And So On: Low Company!
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:
To have been actively engaged over a period of years in the gem trade and yet never to have met with tourmalines is something not to be proud of. It was in this period of my life that I dealt for once in tourmalines, jargoons, marcasite and the other lesser fry of the gem world. Perhaps if I had stuck to them I should have made more money out of them than I ever did out of pearls and that noble three, emeralds, rubies and sapphires.
Tourmalines, a composition of silica with varying quantities of oxides of magnesium and aluminum, present such a variety of beautiful colors and shades that they come as a revelation to the tyro. The crystals are translucent, take on a good polish and are often of surprising luster. The colorless variety is known as achroite and the green as andalusite, from its occurrence in Andalusian Spain.
Tourmalines remind me of a little hunchbacked German, a working jeweler in the West End, who had been persuaded by a patron to start trading in gems on his own. Despite all the credit this patron gave him, the little man was soon in deep water, for the pitfalls in the game are many and various. Instead of telling his benefactor (who was his biggest creditor) of his troubles, for the man really had intended to befriend him, he finally ran away to Paris. It was there and not in London that I met him again.
Handicapped by his fear of the police (unfounded, as it happened), he asked me to market his goods for him, but I had no clients for tourmalines in Paris, although I was able to recommend him to a broker who in the end did help him to part with his stones at a ruinous discount. For he was in a hurry to realize; the man in a hurry always bargains to sell. So far he was on the right side of the fence. But he now took it into his head to justify himself in the eyes of his benefactor, to which end he bought a large number of beautifully engraved but worthless mining shares from a bucket-shop keeper on the run, and sent them back to London under cover of a piteous note to say that he had been speculating not wisely but too well.
The big man in London, unfortunately for him, saw through the trick at once and was justly incensed. He put Scotland Yard on the track and that was the end of another little man.
There is a semi-precious stone, attractive in its own right, much fancied by those who value its resemblance to diamonds. This is the jargoon, or more properly the zircon. The zircon occurs in a greater variety of colors than any other gem. Besides the white kind, it is found brown, yellow, blue, pink, red and green. The red variety is called jacinth or hyacinth. There is a much esteemed peacock-blue zircon which is very rare indeed. Examples of it are called ‘specimen stones’ and command a good price in the market.
As for the white zircons, the jargoons, they have a very fair resemblance to diamonds, for this is a hard stone and often of a good brilliance. Very often it is called the Matura diamond, after the district in Ceylon where it is obtained. But one peculiarity of the stone is that when exposed to heat, or even to strong sunlight, it is apt to deteriorate in color, and may indeed fade badly.
To simulate diamonds, jargoons have been cut ‘full cut’ like diamonds; that is, with fifty-eight facets. Another mineral which ‘more in the past than today’ has been used in jewelry of the cheaper sort to obtain the diamond effect is that called marcasite (pyrites). Like the rose-cut diamonds they were intended to represent, they also were cut rose fashion; that is, with triangular facets. For there is an absolute system and logic in the way stones are faceted. Types and individuals demand special cutting, whether it be in the number of facets, the shape of the facets or their arrangement.
In my journeyings to and fro from Scotland I saw many jeweler’s shop windows crammed with trinkets in which were set stones of even lower status than those name above, by some considered so common that they should not be mentioned in the same breath as the distinguished company of gems. But they suited my state and status at that time of my life, and this is the place if anywhere for them in my private cavalcade of gems.
One, the cairngorm, however, does make most attractive settings and can look very effective. It is one of the several crystalline forms of silica. Other prominent members of the family of crystalline silicas are the rock crystal and the citrine. You will remember that the non-crystalline members of the family of silica are the opal and the chalcedony, which shows that very minute differences in the molecular structure of a substance make all the difference to its appearance and its value in the market. Of course, if the eyes of Cleopatra had been just the merest trifle crossed, that would have made all the difference in the world, too.
Cairngorms are found plentifully in Scotland and Cornwall. They are therefore, unlike many gems, native gems of Britain. They occur much to the benefit of local lapidaries and the delight of tourists, who are ever on the lookout for something that can be picked up ‘cheap’. Many a lady wears a cairngorm proudly because it reminds her of her honeymoon or some other sentimental occasion. It is quite pretty enough, too, to sustain an affection of that kind.
(via Gem Trader) Louis Kornitzer writes:
To have been actively engaged over a period of years in the gem trade and yet never to have met with tourmalines is something not to be proud of. It was in this period of my life that I dealt for once in tourmalines, jargoons, marcasite and the other lesser fry of the gem world. Perhaps if I had stuck to them I should have made more money out of them than I ever did out of pearls and that noble three, emeralds, rubies and sapphires.
Tourmalines, a composition of silica with varying quantities of oxides of magnesium and aluminum, present such a variety of beautiful colors and shades that they come as a revelation to the tyro. The crystals are translucent, take on a good polish and are often of surprising luster. The colorless variety is known as achroite and the green as andalusite, from its occurrence in Andalusian Spain.
Tourmalines remind me of a little hunchbacked German, a working jeweler in the West End, who had been persuaded by a patron to start trading in gems on his own. Despite all the credit this patron gave him, the little man was soon in deep water, for the pitfalls in the game are many and various. Instead of telling his benefactor (who was his biggest creditor) of his troubles, for the man really had intended to befriend him, he finally ran away to Paris. It was there and not in London that I met him again.
Handicapped by his fear of the police (unfounded, as it happened), he asked me to market his goods for him, but I had no clients for tourmalines in Paris, although I was able to recommend him to a broker who in the end did help him to part with his stones at a ruinous discount. For he was in a hurry to realize; the man in a hurry always bargains to sell. So far he was on the right side of the fence. But he now took it into his head to justify himself in the eyes of his benefactor, to which end he bought a large number of beautifully engraved but worthless mining shares from a bucket-shop keeper on the run, and sent them back to London under cover of a piteous note to say that he had been speculating not wisely but too well.
The big man in London, unfortunately for him, saw through the trick at once and was justly incensed. He put Scotland Yard on the track and that was the end of another little man.
There is a semi-precious stone, attractive in its own right, much fancied by those who value its resemblance to diamonds. This is the jargoon, or more properly the zircon. The zircon occurs in a greater variety of colors than any other gem. Besides the white kind, it is found brown, yellow, blue, pink, red and green. The red variety is called jacinth or hyacinth. There is a much esteemed peacock-blue zircon which is very rare indeed. Examples of it are called ‘specimen stones’ and command a good price in the market.
As for the white zircons, the jargoons, they have a very fair resemblance to diamonds, for this is a hard stone and often of a good brilliance. Very often it is called the Matura diamond, after the district in Ceylon where it is obtained. But one peculiarity of the stone is that when exposed to heat, or even to strong sunlight, it is apt to deteriorate in color, and may indeed fade badly.
To simulate diamonds, jargoons have been cut ‘full cut’ like diamonds; that is, with fifty-eight facets. Another mineral which ‘more in the past than today’ has been used in jewelry of the cheaper sort to obtain the diamond effect is that called marcasite (pyrites). Like the rose-cut diamonds they were intended to represent, they also were cut rose fashion; that is, with triangular facets. For there is an absolute system and logic in the way stones are faceted. Types and individuals demand special cutting, whether it be in the number of facets, the shape of the facets or their arrangement.
In my journeyings to and fro from Scotland I saw many jeweler’s shop windows crammed with trinkets in which were set stones of even lower status than those name above, by some considered so common that they should not be mentioned in the same breath as the distinguished company of gems. But they suited my state and status at that time of my life, and this is the place if anywhere for them in my private cavalcade of gems.
One, the cairngorm, however, does make most attractive settings and can look very effective. It is one of the several crystalline forms of silica. Other prominent members of the family of crystalline silicas are the rock crystal and the citrine. You will remember that the non-crystalline members of the family of silica are the opal and the chalcedony, which shows that very minute differences in the molecular structure of a substance make all the difference to its appearance and its value in the market. Of course, if the eyes of Cleopatra had been just the merest trifle crossed, that would have made all the difference in the world, too.
Cairngorms are found plentifully in Scotland and Cornwall. They are therefore, unlike many gems, native gems of Britain. They occur much to the benefit of local lapidaries and the delight of tourists, who are ever on the lookout for something that can be picked up ‘cheap’. Many a lady wears a cairngorm proudly because it reminds her of her honeymoon or some other sentimental occasion. It is quite pretty enough, too, to sustain an affection of that kind.
Heard On The Street
Nervous Market: Gem/Art analysts call it contagion + spillover + volatility + controlled confusion. The fear level rises with each dose of bad news, while at the same time market participants keep looking for reassurance (s). The experts say keep the turmoil in perspective and move on. The market needs a correction. Why should 2007 be any different?
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Birth, Death And Shopping
Economist writes about the shopping mall's story + the gradual decline of the concept in the country (America) that pioneered them + changing suburbs + ethnic drift + the new amateur shopping-mall history + the mix-and-match appearance of the 'lifestyle centres' + other viewpoints @ http://www.economist.com/world/na/displaystory.cfm?story_id=10278717
There is a lesson for all. I wonder what may happen to the gem and jewelry stores in the shopping malls + the impact. If you look at the emerging markets in Asia, Middle-East, South America, and Africa today shopping malls continue to multiply in amazing numbers + they want to follow the American business model. I don't think the concept is going work in all regions. I hope business leaders will learn from their mistakes.
Useful links:
www.icsc.org
http://deadmalls.com
http://labelscar.com
www.lakehurstmall.net
www.carusoaffiliated.com
There is a lesson for all. I wonder what may happen to the gem and jewelry stores in the shopping malls + the impact. If you look at the emerging markets in Asia, Middle-East, South America, and Africa today shopping malls continue to multiply in amazing numbers + they want to follow the American business model. I don't think the concept is going work in all regions. I hope business leaders will learn from their mistakes.
Useful links:
www.icsc.org
http://deadmalls.com
http://labelscar.com
www.lakehurstmall.net
www.carusoaffiliated.com
Sunshine And Shadow In Spain
(via The Outline of Art) William Orpen writes:
2
These, then, were the principal influences alive in Spanish art when Diego de Silva y Velazquez was born at Seville in 1599. His family was not of Sevillian or even of Spanish origin, for his grandfather Diego Rodriguez de Silva came from Oporto, the home of the Silva family. The name which he made world famous he took from his mother, Gernima Velazquez, who belonged to an old Seville family. His father Juan de Silva raised no objections when his son desired to study art, and when he was thirteen or fourteen Velazquez was placed in the studio of Francisco de Herrera (1576-1654), who showed something of the fanaticism of El Greco in the flashing eyes and majestic gestures of the saints in his religious pictures. Herrera is said to have been bad-tempered, and after enduring his roughness for about a year Velazquez changed masters and entered the studio of Francisco Pacheco (1571-1654). There he remained five years, and though his master had no great originality or power, he was probably a good teacher, for he was himself a careful draughtsman, a scholar, and the author of a book on painting. Presumably there was also another attraction, for on April 23, 1618, Velazquez married Pacheco’s daughter Juana de Miranda. Henceforward Pacheco did everything he could to advance the interests of his son-in-law.
Within three years occurred the opportunity of a lifetime. Philip III died on March 31, 1621, and the young king Philip IV dismissed the Duke of Lerma and made Count Olivarez his prime minister. Now Olivarez, a son of the Governor of Seville, had lived in that city till 1615 and had made himself popular there as a patron of painters and poets. Several of his protégés at Seville united to praise to the new minister the extraordinary talent of their young fellow townsman. Velazquez went to Madrid and, after some vexations delays, in 1623 Olivarez persuaded the young king to give Velazquez a sitting. He conquered at his first brush stroke. The equestrian portrait he painted is now lost, but it pleased Philip so much that forthwith the painter of twenty four was appointed Court Painter to a king of eighteen.
From the beginning Philip treated Velazquez in the most friendly manner. The king is said by a contemporary to have come to his studio ‘almost every day,’ by ‘those secret passages, hung with pictures, which led from the king’s rooms to every part of the old Alcazar.’ The monotony of the stiff routine of the Court was broken in the autumn of 1628 by the arrival of Rubens, who, as stated in the last chapter, came to Madrid on a diplomatic mission, and for nine months was constantly with the king and Velazquez. According to Pacheco and others, Rubens thought highly of Velazquez, and delighted in his society, while his views of the king appears in a letter Rubens wrote to a friend:
He evidently takes quite a special pleasure in painting, and, in my opinion, this prince is endowed with the finest qualities. I already know him from personal intercourse, as I have a room in the palace, so that he almost daily visits me.
Philip IV appears to have been genuinely interested in painting, a result probably of his intimacy with Velazquez, and after Ruben’s visit, and undoubtedly on his advice, the King permitted Velazquez to go to Italy with the great soldier and statesman Spinola, who was to be the Spanish governor of Milan and commander-in-chief in Italy. Velazquez arrived at Milan in the early autumn of 1629 and soon went to Venice, where he made a special study of the work of Tintoretto, who died, it will be remembered, five years before Velazquez was born. From Venice he went to Rome—missing Florence—and after some months there passed on to Naples, where he met Ribera, and returned to Madrid early in 1631. At Naples he painted Philip’s sister, Mary of Hungary, and this portrait he brought back with him together with his painting ‘The Forge of Vulcan.’
It is customary to divide the art of Velazquez into three periods, of which the first ends with this visit to Italy. Most critics agree that the finest and most typical painting of his first period is the bacchanalian scene known as ‘The Topers’. In the strongly laid shadows of this painting we see the influence of Caravaggio, and while we admire the virile rendering of form and the well-balanced grouping of the figures, yet we feel that the scene, as R A M Stevenson, the cousin of ‘R.L.S’ wrote in his classic book on Velazquez, ‘was never beheld as a whole vision in the mind’s eye.’ The painter’s complete mastery of his art was yet to come.
Sunshine And Shadow In Spain (continued)
2
These, then, were the principal influences alive in Spanish art when Diego de Silva y Velazquez was born at Seville in 1599. His family was not of Sevillian or even of Spanish origin, for his grandfather Diego Rodriguez de Silva came from Oporto, the home of the Silva family. The name which he made world famous he took from his mother, Gernima Velazquez, who belonged to an old Seville family. His father Juan de Silva raised no objections when his son desired to study art, and when he was thirteen or fourteen Velazquez was placed in the studio of Francisco de Herrera (1576-1654), who showed something of the fanaticism of El Greco in the flashing eyes and majestic gestures of the saints in his religious pictures. Herrera is said to have been bad-tempered, and after enduring his roughness for about a year Velazquez changed masters and entered the studio of Francisco Pacheco (1571-1654). There he remained five years, and though his master had no great originality or power, he was probably a good teacher, for he was himself a careful draughtsman, a scholar, and the author of a book on painting. Presumably there was also another attraction, for on April 23, 1618, Velazquez married Pacheco’s daughter Juana de Miranda. Henceforward Pacheco did everything he could to advance the interests of his son-in-law.
Within three years occurred the opportunity of a lifetime. Philip III died on March 31, 1621, and the young king Philip IV dismissed the Duke of Lerma and made Count Olivarez his prime minister. Now Olivarez, a son of the Governor of Seville, had lived in that city till 1615 and had made himself popular there as a patron of painters and poets. Several of his protégés at Seville united to praise to the new minister the extraordinary talent of their young fellow townsman. Velazquez went to Madrid and, after some vexations delays, in 1623 Olivarez persuaded the young king to give Velazquez a sitting. He conquered at his first brush stroke. The equestrian portrait he painted is now lost, but it pleased Philip so much that forthwith the painter of twenty four was appointed Court Painter to a king of eighteen.
From the beginning Philip treated Velazquez in the most friendly manner. The king is said by a contemporary to have come to his studio ‘almost every day,’ by ‘those secret passages, hung with pictures, which led from the king’s rooms to every part of the old Alcazar.’ The monotony of the stiff routine of the Court was broken in the autumn of 1628 by the arrival of Rubens, who, as stated in the last chapter, came to Madrid on a diplomatic mission, and for nine months was constantly with the king and Velazquez. According to Pacheco and others, Rubens thought highly of Velazquez, and delighted in his society, while his views of the king appears in a letter Rubens wrote to a friend:
He evidently takes quite a special pleasure in painting, and, in my opinion, this prince is endowed with the finest qualities. I already know him from personal intercourse, as I have a room in the palace, so that he almost daily visits me.
Philip IV appears to have been genuinely interested in painting, a result probably of his intimacy with Velazquez, and after Ruben’s visit, and undoubtedly on his advice, the King permitted Velazquez to go to Italy with the great soldier and statesman Spinola, who was to be the Spanish governor of Milan and commander-in-chief in Italy. Velazquez arrived at Milan in the early autumn of 1629 and soon went to Venice, where he made a special study of the work of Tintoretto, who died, it will be remembered, five years before Velazquez was born. From Venice he went to Rome—missing Florence—and after some months there passed on to Naples, where he met Ribera, and returned to Madrid early in 1631. At Naples he painted Philip’s sister, Mary of Hungary, and this portrait he brought back with him together with his painting ‘The Forge of Vulcan.’
It is customary to divide the art of Velazquez into three periods, of which the first ends with this visit to Italy. Most critics agree that the finest and most typical painting of his first period is the bacchanalian scene known as ‘The Topers’. In the strongly laid shadows of this painting we see the influence of Caravaggio, and while we admire the virile rendering of form and the well-balanced grouping of the figures, yet we feel that the scene, as R A M Stevenson, the cousin of ‘R.L.S’ wrote in his classic book on Velazquez, ‘was never beheld as a whole vision in the mind’s eye.’ The painter’s complete mastery of his art was yet to come.
Sunshine And Shadow In Spain (continued)
London, And So On: Low Company!
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:
I always think it is a pity that whereas men of such lax morals frequently prove as sympathetic and generous as H F when appealed to on behalf of their distressed fellows, many upright men in affluent circumstances show themselves as hard as flint whenever an attempt is made to lay them under contribution in a case of genuine hard luck. Not long ago one who considers himself an ornament to the trade to which I have been privileged to belong for at least twenty years longer than he, reproached me for speaking to a one-time respected dealer who a few days before had come out of gaol after serving a short sentence for having brought stolen jewelry.
‘If I had been younger man,’ I said, ‘with an unformed character and the need to proclaim my business virtue, perhaps I should have hesitated to go near him. But at my age and enjoying the reputation I do, I felt that I could risk my morals if, by talking to a man for a few minutes, I could help to re-establish him in his self-respect. Besides, wasn’t it John Wesley who said, when he saw some malefactor led to executions: ‘There but for the grace of God goes John Wesley? That was how I felt today.’
But to return to my beginnings.
I soon found my money getting low. Then came the old story, new to me, looking for a job. Numberless calls, scores of unanswered letters posted at the expense of many square meals, clean shirt and collar and a pressed suit at all costs. I gave up my boarding-house and found a room under the roof in Great Russell Street at five shillings a week. What qualifications must a man have, I asked myself in bewilderment, that would give him a living wage in this strange and mighty city of London? I was master of three languages, a fluent correspondent, a good bookkeeper, a graduate of the University of Vienna, an expert in metals, and knew as much about gems as any ordinary dealer did. And yet nobody could use my services.
Luckily, however, I had kept in with Mrs Francis my first landlady. She was a motherly person and a lady who had come down in the world. One day I called in to see her and she said: ‘I have good news for you. Father Reilly has lost his job with Pitman’s.’
Father Reilly was the unfrocked Catholic priest who was one of her boarders. His job had been teaching English to foreigners. Mrs Francis, who knew that I was a foreigner who could speak English, thought I would fit the bill. In point of fact, I got the job at a salary of two pounds fifteen shillings a week.
Most of my pupils were older than I was. I remember one, Herr Meltner, mainly because I got him into a continental new service, my intuition having enabled him to qualify as a translator of news items translated from the London dailies. He showed his appreciation by making me free of the bachelor establishment of his new boss. There his chief lived in perfect amity with his paste-and-scissors men in a kind of Bohemian communism which knew no boundary between meum and tuum. Neckties, hats, coats, umbrellas and handkerchiefs were interchangeable property in that queer house of bachelors, but you could always be sure of a good meal there if your tastes included an unvarying passion for herrings doused, herrings fried, herrings marinated, pickled herrings, or herrings stewed with potatoes boiled in their jackets. When funds were ample one feasted on jellied eels, oyster patties, liver sausages, Pomeranian goose breast and iced Munich lager fetched by the pail from a nearby German hotel. It was no uncommon thing for Herr Meltner, long after he had ceased to be my student, to send me a scribbled message by hand saying: ‘Come tonight, great eats.’
Another of my pupils was a German doctor with a liquil ozone treatment as a cure for cancer. I used to translate his lectures and pamphlets for him and on several occasions stood on a platform for him translating his message word for word before the assembled medicos. One of these doctors had a father who ran a scholastic agency in the West End, and this old gentleman was the cause of my leaving London. He got me a job as manager of a language school in Newcastle-on-Tyne.
I spent five years on Tyneside as a professional man, and they were happy years. I made friends, I studied, I met and married the mother of my children (who made an honest Britisher of me) and I discovered as few aliens discover that London is not England. To this day my English has a touch of North Country burr about it, so that I am sometimes flattered to be thought a Scot.
But gems were calling me back. I sold my language schools and was cheated of my money. Now I was a married man and had to start life all over again. Well, back to London and into the trade to which I belonged by early training and natural taste. A hundred pounds was not much money, but it furnished me an office and bought me a safe. It so happened that I made, this time, an extremely lucky start and within a matter of weeks had found my bearings.
London, And So On: Low Company! (continued)
(via Gem Trader) Louis Kornitzer writes:
I always think it is a pity that whereas men of such lax morals frequently prove as sympathetic and generous as H F when appealed to on behalf of their distressed fellows, many upright men in affluent circumstances show themselves as hard as flint whenever an attempt is made to lay them under contribution in a case of genuine hard luck. Not long ago one who considers himself an ornament to the trade to which I have been privileged to belong for at least twenty years longer than he, reproached me for speaking to a one-time respected dealer who a few days before had come out of gaol after serving a short sentence for having brought stolen jewelry.
‘If I had been younger man,’ I said, ‘with an unformed character and the need to proclaim my business virtue, perhaps I should have hesitated to go near him. But at my age and enjoying the reputation I do, I felt that I could risk my morals if, by talking to a man for a few minutes, I could help to re-establish him in his self-respect. Besides, wasn’t it John Wesley who said, when he saw some malefactor led to executions: ‘There but for the grace of God goes John Wesley? That was how I felt today.’
But to return to my beginnings.
I soon found my money getting low. Then came the old story, new to me, looking for a job. Numberless calls, scores of unanswered letters posted at the expense of many square meals, clean shirt and collar and a pressed suit at all costs. I gave up my boarding-house and found a room under the roof in Great Russell Street at five shillings a week. What qualifications must a man have, I asked myself in bewilderment, that would give him a living wage in this strange and mighty city of London? I was master of three languages, a fluent correspondent, a good bookkeeper, a graduate of the University of Vienna, an expert in metals, and knew as much about gems as any ordinary dealer did. And yet nobody could use my services.
Luckily, however, I had kept in with Mrs Francis my first landlady. She was a motherly person and a lady who had come down in the world. One day I called in to see her and she said: ‘I have good news for you. Father Reilly has lost his job with Pitman’s.’
Father Reilly was the unfrocked Catholic priest who was one of her boarders. His job had been teaching English to foreigners. Mrs Francis, who knew that I was a foreigner who could speak English, thought I would fit the bill. In point of fact, I got the job at a salary of two pounds fifteen shillings a week.
Most of my pupils were older than I was. I remember one, Herr Meltner, mainly because I got him into a continental new service, my intuition having enabled him to qualify as a translator of news items translated from the London dailies. He showed his appreciation by making me free of the bachelor establishment of his new boss. There his chief lived in perfect amity with his paste-and-scissors men in a kind of Bohemian communism which knew no boundary between meum and tuum. Neckties, hats, coats, umbrellas and handkerchiefs were interchangeable property in that queer house of bachelors, but you could always be sure of a good meal there if your tastes included an unvarying passion for herrings doused, herrings fried, herrings marinated, pickled herrings, or herrings stewed with potatoes boiled in their jackets. When funds were ample one feasted on jellied eels, oyster patties, liver sausages, Pomeranian goose breast and iced Munich lager fetched by the pail from a nearby German hotel. It was no uncommon thing for Herr Meltner, long after he had ceased to be my student, to send me a scribbled message by hand saying: ‘Come tonight, great eats.’
Another of my pupils was a German doctor with a liquil ozone treatment as a cure for cancer. I used to translate his lectures and pamphlets for him and on several occasions stood on a platform for him translating his message word for word before the assembled medicos. One of these doctors had a father who ran a scholastic agency in the West End, and this old gentleman was the cause of my leaving London. He got me a job as manager of a language school in Newcastle-on-Tyne.
I spent five years on Tyneside as a professional man, and they were happy years. I made friends, I studied, I met and married the mother of my children (who made an honest Britisher of me) and I discovered as few aliens discover that London is not England. To this day my English has a touch of North Country burr about it, so that I am sometimes flattered to be thought a Scot.
But gems were calling me back. I sold my language schools and was cheated of my money. Now I was a married man and had to start life all over again. Well, back to London and into the trade to which I belonged by early training and natural taste. A hundred pounds was not much money, but it furnished me an office and bought me a safe. It so happened that I made, this time, an extremely lucky start and within a matter of weeks had found my bearings.
London, And So On: Low Company! (continued)
On The Waterfront
On The Waterfront (1954)
Directed by: Elia Kazan
Screenplay: Malcolm Johnson (suggested by articles); Budd Schulberg
Cast: Marlon Brando, Karl Malden, Lee J. Cobb, Eva Marie Saint
(via YouTube): On the Waterfront
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BflTajAbf6M
Marlon Brando's Famous ‘On the Waterfront’ Speech
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=prXXOxCPNek
On The Waterfront
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i0aNo5IqF4U
I think it was a powerfully realistic film + Marlon Brando gave one of his best performances. I enjoyed it.
Directed by: Elia Kazan
Screenplay: Malcolm Johnson (suggested by articles); Budd Schulberg
Cast: Marlon Brando, Karl Malden, Lee J. Cobb, Eva Marie Saint
(via YouTube): On the Waterfront
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BflTajAbf6M
Marlon Brando's Famous ‘On the Waterfront’ Speech
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=prXXOxCPNek
On The Waterfront
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i0aNo5IqF4U
I think it was a powerfully realistic film + Marlon Brando gave one of his best performances. I enjoyed it.
Marilynmania
David Kirby writes about Marilyn Monroe's personal property (approximately 1,000 items) + the investment concept along with the Beatles and Babe Ruth + her historical significance + other viewpoints @ http://www.artnewsonline.com/issues/article.asp?art_id=787
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