If one walks through the Egyptian collection at Met, he or she can easily get lost. There are too many terms from timeline (three major periods with three intermediate periods) to gods (names, relations, shapes, symbolism) to texts. There seems to be endless items to go through in one afternoon. On the other hand, he or she can also get confused. The block statues, to laymen’s eyes, look almost the same for 4000 years spans. The paintings, in a similar way, vary little in techniques or subjects. Who are these Egyptians behind all these civilization remains? Are they technically superior but religiously stupid? All these questions remain unanswered from those museum visit unless there is a comprehensive guide about the Egyptians themselves.

Barbara Mertz’s book “Red Land, Black Land – Daily Life in Ancient Egypt”, if not authoritative with certain existing collection (luckily it is not), brings readers vivid and complete pictures of the people that create all these wonders. It is riveting and humorous sometimes. But most importantly, it is not a book written in a rigid scholarly way that most readers fail to pass page 10 or would not bother until a certain interesting object is related to some sections. In fact, I have found it so charming that it is hard to put it down without completing reading it.

That reflects what most of the Egyptian collections books fail to please a general public. Narration of objects without elaborating the creators behind is seldom intriguing. In modern and contemporary fields, artists shine in front of their artworks. Even back to Renaissance period, those big names are well studied and understood. But in ancient Egypt, artists, architects or scribes were commoners who left no personal trace. Thus it is easy to forget to recognize them as a whole. But Barbara brings us a clear picture of a society in hierarchical steps: pharaohs, priests, officials, soldiers, artists, peasants and even prisoners. The objects created by or for these individuals thus can be explained within a richer social context.

Some passages are well written and may deal with the fundamental human feelings, needs and pleasure. Female readers may find the beginning part about the songs for the dead children or childbirth is touching. Male readers may envy the fact that beer was abundant in ancient Egypt even for the kids and they may even try to google “King Tut’s” beer that is supposedly produced by ancient technique and ingredients. (Did I say fundamental needs there?)

While the book starts from descriptions of daily life of an ordinary family, it ends in climax chapters about gods, mummies and death topics that are more related to the kings and nobles. These chapters are great introduction for further study of any particular period or object because Barbara not only tells us how the styles changed, but also clear pictures of how certain objects are made (what material, what procedure, how long, etc). The making of mummies will definitely interest a reader, but then the same reader may be disappointed by what a real “book of the dead” is. (The twisted definitions in Hollywood movies may cause Barbara to write another book!) Overall, the reading will demystify Egyptian arts and make readers clearly understand what they see in the museums are solely created by needs, desires or responsibilities.

No Egyptologist would not be stubborn about what they believe, but Barbara, who has seen controversies over most of the subjects, at least brings the readers aware of what she believes and what other interpretative possibilities. But the strength of the book can also be a little overdone when several contradictory options are presented in great length. At certain areas such as the fights between Re and Orisis, readers are left with no clear pictures of what the scenarios should be.

Do I want to experience the ancient Egyptian life? I asked myself in the end. Probably not, even if I were an Egyptologist. It is much more enjoyable to experience their life from Barbara’s book than reality.

On the third night that Michael Tilson Thomas and his San Francisco Symphony Orchestra took the stage of Carnegie Hall, the program fell back into conventional: a compact symphony by Knussen preludes Beethoven 9.

Knussen’s symphony has extremely crafted texture and colors: strings either contributed ghostly tremolos or chopped abruptly with percussion-wise sound. It is dichotomic madness, hysteria contrasting with ominous despair.

With the same sensibility, MTT brought a full house of a meticulous or even a little bit fastidious performance of Beethoven Sym. No 9. San Francisco was such a refined orchestra, nevertheless they didn’t let the leash loose. The impulse that propels the first movement contained more calculation than necessary that the main themes built up its affirmative voice convincingly yet not spontaneously. The second movement was played with delicate balance and clarity. At the end of the balcony, I could hear the interplay between different sections. Still it feels laborious rather than a natural burst of unstopping music flow.

MTT with his orchestra was at his best in the meditative orchestra. The lyrical slow movements of late Beethoven are always miracles. There is no violent harmony yet the melody has lasting yearnings that stirs deep in the heart and disquiet the serenity on the surface. Giving up the traditional structure that emphasized the theatrical divergence, Beethoven mapped a series of variation that channeled the profound of moods from one to another with nuance and surprise that words fail to describe. MTT elaborated the variations with seamless transitions and progressed into the point that the inner anxiety confronts with a longing for heroism. The first violin brought me the same extreme experience as I had before when hearing late Beethoven: an almost forlorn cry under the tremendous open space of tranquility.

The last movement is almost fail-proof with massive orchestra tutti and grand chorale. But New York Chorus Artists gave a strong performance of the finale. I only wish that I had never heard it before and could enjoy such stunning music with fresh ears and mind.

A recent Wall Street Journal article suggests it has, and I've personally seen evidence of it. One recent example is a 19th-Century slant-front desk at a New York auction house. It had minimal damage, I'm guessing a Connecticut piece that I'd expect to see at a show for more than $5,000. At an auction I would have expected $3,000 or so. Yet it went for around $700. I sent the article to a friend who says he too thinks there has been some pullback from the "no-price to great" period, though he hadn't seen the kind of deals mentioned in the article. He also suggested it was a good time to buy if you can. I couldn't agree more. Even if 18th and 19th Century furniture did stay at its current lows, it does still have resale value, something new items doesn't.
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Some of the Period Rooms, which had been temporarily closed, are open again at the Brooklyn Museum. The rooms had been off limits pending the installation of "Exhibitions: 21: Selections of Contemporary Art from the Brooklyn Museum." If you go, don't miss "Exhibitions: Jesper Just: Romantic Delusions." I walked in out of simple curiosity, an unexpected and satisfying turn.

Luck had it the two Schenck houses were saved by Brooklyn Museum. The Schencks were not dignitaries or high ranked officials, the fact that they were rescued from demolition is a pure timely coincidence of historical preservation, availability of funding and space, and devoted curatorial efforts.

But Brooklyn was largely a Dutch town for more than two centuries. From Brooklyn Museum's blog, I found this wonderful map containing information of on-site dutch houses in Brooklyn. My weekend task list is now expanded thereafter.

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It is as hard to imagine music without late Beethoven as to understand why they were so cherished when I was younger. My tastes in fine art appreciation, in retrospective, seem to follow a similar route. Late Beethoven has forlorn the grandeur discourse and exceptional prowess, instead he expressed a sense of instability that roots deep in everyone’s heart and a yearning for something so tangible that words fail to describe yet so indisputable that no one will fail to associate it with his own memory. The music itself migrates from dramatic, theatrical and developmental to relational, parallel and digressive, thus there is a greater sense of freedom in both forms and material that liberates minds from rules and convention.

In the second movement of his 12th string quartet, Op 127 in E-flat major, the variations of two different themes - one thoroughly sober and earnest, the other with a touch of folksong lightness – eventually bring the two seemingly irreconcilable melodies together. It has never failed to touch me, but strangely each listening seems to recall some remote memory and emotion totally differently. To me it encompasses such tremendous human feelings that by flowing through one to another the music triggers the most profound responses from listeners.

Beethoven was especially fond of variation in his late period. Through variations, he has found a limitless ways of exploring music elements and personal moods aesthetically and intellectually. The way regular sonatas work, by emphasizing contrasts between fast and slow, heroic and serene, although effective in immediately captivating and familiarizing audiences, fails to provide an infinite degrees of subtleties in human feelings.

These, by far, can also reflect how I view the advancement from Hudson River School to Tonalism in the second half of 19th century in America. The tonalism school painters abandoned the ideas that paintings as a another medium for moral rhetoric or intellectual prowess. The landscape should not be idealized for the sake of grandeur; similarly the technique should not be polished to eliminate traces of human labor. Above all, they focused on expressing the utmost deep emotions for themselves. They accepted the brush strokes as a way of earnest yearning for something unattainable by just imaging or portraying the likeness. If Frederic Church, in his magnificent canvas, showed what god sees America, tonalism painters humbly yet non-hesitatingly told how they felt of the surroundings themselves.

It is said Beethoven composed his middle period string quartets with the ideal listeners in his mind; but his late quartets, with extreme forms, sonority and harmony, were written for his own silent world. Upon the manuscript of his Missa Solemnis in D major, he wrote the following words: From the heart! May it go back to the heart!

Thus, I feel a kind of intimacy in front of small paintings by those Barbizon and Tonalism painters even though they may be dark toned, even toned or indistinct, for I know these are the treasured memories from the hearts. After all, no matter how splendid the landscape may be, it only lasts emotionally in one’s heart.

There are three types of historic homes. The first is a historic home without historic furnishings, or without furnishings original to the house. The second is a historic home filled with the furnishings that were there when the original or notable owner lived there. The third is perhaps the most rare, historic furnishings that relate to the original family, but a recreated house.

The third is what I found today at the Theodore Roosevelt Birthplace near Union Square in Manhattan.

The strange thing about the house is no plans or photographs were available to recreate the house in 1916, but a brothers house built at the same time did remain. What was built was basically a mirror image of the brothers house with simulated moldings, mantles, etc. The why of it all is that they then demolished the brothers house. It's hard to second guess what someone did nearly a century ago, however, but keeping the house that really existed and that Roosevelt would have known would seem the smarter (and less costly) move.

The recreation may be the only example of a "19th Century" brownstone built in the 20th Century, however, and if it does prove anything, it's that you can build them like they used to.

The Theodore Roosevelt Birthplace is operated by the National Park Service. It usually costs $3 to get in, but in celebration of Teddy's 150th birthday, October 26th and 27th will be free and include many activities. For more information call 212-260-1616. Oh, and one of the interesting tidbits you may learn on a tour is that Teddy went out west with a monogramed sterling silver knife from Tiffany's.

With Judy Kim, curator in Exhibition Division of the Brooklyn Museum, I had the opportunity of looking at the installation of the upcoming Gilbert and George exhibition opening on Oct 3, 2008. The exhibition installation is quite fa way from being ready, in fact all I saw is a model of the special exhibition space with miniature photos representing the real ones that had been carefully selected by the artists to suit the architecture design of the museum and would be hung within two weeks.

I have not been an avid fan of modern arts; nevertheless it always strikes and intrigues me to learn about the abundant and colorful personal lives of modern artists. In a recent talk at Met about J. M. W. Turner, audiences gave laughs when they heard the anecdote that the first American collector of Turner called his works “a bit indistinct”. Such incomplete or even inaccurate stories just enrich the public’s view of artists and brought viewers closer to the canvas from a different dimension.

Gustave Courbet, in my mind, is the first painter that extensively and intentionally commercialized his privacy and made his personal life accessible to public critics as much as his works. In a recent book “The Most Arrogant Man in France: Gustave Courbet and the Nineteenth-Century Media Culture” by Chu, it was said that Gustave certainly knew being covered by the media was definitely an advantage compared to stay behind the canvas void of characters, even though the media spotlights may be focusing on controversy or scandals.

By the time of Andy Warhol, artists had raised their own personal life to such important career access that it not only entangled with their works, but also was the framework under which each individual work sprouts out bearing the birth mark of their lives.

Just as any works of art should not be cheaply copied to tarnish its freshness and originality, Gilbert and George have been carefully fending and preening their personal images so that they are enough covered with eccentricity or modernity but not to a degree to pierce through the mystery veil of their living as an art work. After all, great works of art rely on their inexplicability and multifaceted perspectives; a nailed definition means a loss in another possible angles. Gilbert and George call themselves living sculptures, yet although the sculptures have been greatly observed, no biographical material has come mature for such a long period of partnered career: Even more, the elimination of their surnames means their names have been modernized as an integral part of their works and such elimination actually carries additional interpretative potential for those who like to pry.

And like their personal lives which blur the difference between unostentatious reality and staged performance, Gilbert and George’s works as a whole are a striking contrast between ever-changing artistic probing and stylish consistency. Their techniques have changed constantly from black and white blocked projection photo making in the 1970’s to bold colored collages in 1980’s to nowadays digitalization from 2003 onward. And their topics reflect what were current in Britain such as urbanization, race issues or terrorism. On the other hand, they stick to their style for more than four decades. Being able to speak in the same language grammatically with possibly additional vocabulary for a variety of subjects may sound easy in life, but sticking to artistic principles in the flood of new styles/trends and even faster-paced changes in critics tones is admirable.

In some sense, the way they call their life a work of art is legitimate in that their photos contain their own portraiture in abstract or sensual settings. In B&W, they were young and avant-garde experimenters. In the eighties, they opted for vibrancy, somewhat tacky colors and acted godlike to look down at young, beautiful teens. And now they have become gloomier, darker, angrier, or in the most recently series alien to the new century. The upcoming show will not display their works chronically, but the sensual and psychological changes in how they present themselves into the large photos would touch those who can separate the most personal self projection and examination from the over-saturated stained-glassed surroundings.

Looking at the slides, it is hard for me to reconcile their works with detail-oriented photos. Even though they are largely made from techniques of photo making, they are graphic, collage in nature and chromatically distorted in colors, a meditative dichotomy between flattening in 2D and deepening in meanings. The monstrous scale and devoid of minutia of reality settings calls for attention and interpretation of every viewer.

When asked about how progressive and revolutionary they are in the history of modern art, Judy urged us to think what were popular and main-stream and what were not in the 1970's . In the era of art market still being dominated by paintings, their probing into capturing their momentary life art into life size photos stripped off anything unnecessary must be explorative. Then I was stunned one of their images made in 1980's: Twenty Eight Streets is a photo collaged with street signs from London, almost with a machine-like coolness. In the middle, however, there was a wall, captured with naturalism in B&W, but presented abstractly since it can only be seen through two human-shaped holes among all the street signs. It is as if someone has burned the machinery conformity to show the empty wall, though nothing special, radiating a sense of humanity, partly from the human shape holes, partly from the same warmth due to the organic yet accidental arrangement of film grains that was epitomized from Bresson and his contemporary. This is the only work that among all in the slideshow does not have their clear portraits. In the age of digitalization, they were late technique adopters. One thing for sure, they would probably never grasp the master level of photoshopping which is so rampantly taught in most of the design schools. But Gilbert and George, by presenting them in a film-styled hollow grayness, show their homage and root in traditional photograph art or art in general: In front of art, they are serious and thought-provoking, as they have been through their lifelong living performance; thus why would they be washed away by the advent of the new technology?

The other day, I put the new bought Glenn Gould CD into the player and was ready for challenges from his intellectual and aesthetic aptitude.

But to my surprise, it was the least contrapuntal sound from the eccentric pianist. Instead of speaking multiple voices with puncture, emphasis, tension and release, Glenn Gould was conversing amicably. If he revolutionized Bach with irresistible romanticism, he was conventional and at home when it comes to Late Brahms.

Not accidentally, the other performance that I greatly appreciate is from Kempff, who played with equal clarity and simplicity. Kempff inserted more space into the brooding music, and those moments of silence are as magic and effective as music notes. His rare capability of articulation and succinctness matches the sober melancholy of meditative Brahms. At his best, the playing, even at the highest point of crispy clear and crystal pure, sounds just pianissimo.  

Gould provided me a slightly more abstract interpretation. The syncopation from both hands, a little bit odd at the very beginning, came natural and harmonious. It is as if Gould was conversing with Brahms at ease, both soft spoken and both humble and reserved; but soon the voices merge into one. Whether it is Gould is submerged in Brahms thoughts or Brahms finds his soul mate for his final discourse, I didin't know. I only knew, thought it was still warm, the mood had changed into autumnal.

The visit to the Newark Museum was really a delight and surprise. I was amazed by the extensive American Art collection, and decorative arts in particular the Ballantine House. I would definitely visit it again, probably very soon in the near future since it will feature a special exhibition of American Impressionism this month.

The current exhibition: The Small but Sublime: Intimate Views by Durand, Bierdstadt and Inness features a two-room of small or medium sized American landscape paintings. Grouping paintings by their sizes is not a common curatorial perspective for exhibitions.

American landscape paintings were not born with intimate scale. Like the new nation’s ambition and its abundant wildness, six or eight feet canvases are a trademark of Hudson River School paintings. From the past auction observation, Bierdstadt or Cropsey quite often used small canvases for sketches. (One example can be seen from Shuptrine Fine Art.)

In the Brooklyn Museum, A Storm in the Rocky Mountain by Bierdstadt is the center piece in the landscape room. It does have the jaw-dropping "wow" effect, but as Barbara Novak has written in her book “Nature and Culture: American Landscape and Painting 1825-1875”, it creates the simultaneous intimacy and distancing at the same time. My experience tends to be more on the distancing side. The grand panorama with balance, beauty and vibrancy are taken from a God point of view. The painters behind the canvases, thus become the messengers of the God or to some extent God himself, that remove the possible immediacy of communication with humble visitors.

But when Hudson River School painters came to sketches, they were looser and more painterly-minded. In Bierdstadt’s medium sized forest painting in the exhibition, the brush strokes and the application of paints are visible. (One would seldom notice execution-wise techniques when in front of a six-foot painting because there are so much excitement to explore!) Bierdstadt’s forest scene is humanized with a couple (barely entering the scene) and an almost unrecognizable deer. The trees are painted with such extraordinary efficiency that they are shown both suggestively in the sense of volume and minute green-scale and in needed detail to differentiate the front layer from the back.

After the Civil War, canvases scaled down, partly because paintings had become integrated with home decoration and partly because the taste began to favor a more intimate and romantic style. George Inness’ sunset painting reminds me of Fuji Velva film, a special color pallet with muted orange, green and red, which is more a nostalgia recalling of rare gold moments of nature in one’s mind than a candid capture of strong colors subdued by northeast mist.

My surprise came from two paintings in the exhibition. One is from DeWitt Clinton Boutelle. His meticulous rendering of a water fall is filled with mystery and wonder, probably nothing is more appropriately descriptive than J. R. R. Tolkein’s poems about Lothlórien, a dream elfland from Lord of the Rings. Though it is only a little bit bigger than a regular 8x11 paper, it is so inviting that my eyes were drawn into the water that owns both wetness and coolness in such a retreat.

The other surprise came from the only female painter presented in this exhibition – Mary Moran. The small painting on board does not capture natural New Jersey; instead it focuses on the urbanization. The city skyline, with the bright white building under the sun and black soot and smoke from the chimneys is placed in the center of the plein air painting. The foreground is still marshy and untainted by human nature except probably serving Mary as her stand point. But the light effect was very much like her husband Thomas Moran, a dramatic sky mixed with cloud phenomenon, sharp edges of definite light gradually transitions into soft fading that unifies different colors. The remote city, though brightly lit, loses its detail in the misty white.

Was that what Mary saw or what she romanticized? Different viewers may have different opinions about what it meant for a landscape painting that speaks about the city. But I found it intriguing. Along the NJ transit railroad, the marsh wetland of New Jersey is still like what was depicted in the painting, except now the iconic mid and lower Manhattan skylines cast a strong contrast in between sky and lowland. The charms of city living approach the greatest when the mystery around it has not fully resolved; but the completeness of such a living depends on the experienced contrast that would not be fulfilled without living on modestly quiet countryside.

It wasn't "two for Tuesday," but none-the-less the Met offered back-to-back lectures on Turner this afternoon. Turner and the Romance of Britain given by Simon Schama, University Professor, Department of Art History and Archaeology, Columbia University was the first, followed by Turner and America by Franklin Kelly, Senior Curator of American and British Paintings, National Gallery of Art.

If there's one thing I haven't learned about New York yet, and especially about the Met, it's get there plenty early or you may not even be able to find standing room. Indeed the theater was too crowded for the first lecture, so we headed to the American Galleries and returned for the second. By then a few sould had given up their seats and we secured some for Kelly's talk.

I am sorry I missed Schama's talk, seeing the end of it I could tell he was very animated, often hitting the microphone with his moving hands while speaking. (this is another thing about Met lectures, I recall a gallery talk by Ronald Freyberger after which folks were grabbing for a lecture schedule like signatures from a celebrity).

On to Turner and America... While England learned of Turner from his paintings, Americans learned of him from black-and-white prints, in which his work might not look so different than say Constable. The American painter Thomas Cole went to Britain to learn history painting, and seems to have picked up some cloud techniques from Turner, although Kelly said he was shocked by the man himself and referred to his work as "lacking solidity."

While Turner belongs to England, it may be American painter Frederick Edwin Church and Thomas Moran (born in Britain, moved to America) who picked up where he left off. As Kelly demonstrated, several of Moran's paintings are strikingly similar to works by Turner. The effect is intentional, and on occasion it's difficult to discern the work by Turner from Moran.

This is the third time I have seen this exhibition, the first being in Washington, DC. Mich of it goes back to Merry old England in a few weeks, so head to the Met soon to see the painter Queen Elizabeth called "Mad." "J. M. W. Turner

Rarely has home ever been treated as merely a functional place. Form may follow function in design, yet once we are moved in, it's the "form" that takes over and gives the place personality. From the beginning we've been personalizing our spaces whether they be a studio apartment ot a bedroom to an office cubicle. We're also perpetually interested in how to make our homes better, and in finding out what our fellows homes look like on the inside. This interior infatuation has been expressed in house tours, real estate ad browsing, in commercial mediums and in art. One example is this stereoview card showing a "house beautiful" in Brooklyn. The back of the card reads, in part, "Making a home attractive is one of the finest of arts. Nothing so makes life worth while and full of richness as a well appointed place to live. We are too often satisfied with cheap prints in place of pictures, gaudy wallpaper, any kind of cheap rugs, and furniture of all sorts." It continues... "Taste is not a natural gift. Like other virtues, it must be cultivated. To teach girls how to furnish their homes properly is the purpose of Domestic Art." (the Pratt School in Brooklyn is mentioned).

All too rare are these glimpses into more common homes, at least in terms of income if not taste, yet there's historically been more interest in how the rich and famous decorate. For a glimpse therein, visit the Cooper-Hewitt for "House Proud: Nineteenth-century Watercolor Interiors from the Thaw Collection." through January 25, 2009.