Not Quite "The Last Rose of Summer"

A friend and I missed the major part of the June rose display at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden through no fault of our own. Since it rained for most of the month, a lot of the blossoms were probably destroyed by heavy winds and rains. But here is one fresh beauty that survived, as it looked on June 24, 2009.

Had not been to the terrific Brooklyn Museum in many years. Finally got around to being overwhelmed by Judy Chicago's 1979 feminist assemblage, The Dinner Party, and to see a fine exhibit of Impressionist paintings by an artist I had not previously encountered, Gustave Caillebotte. He was born to great wealth; thus it's good that he used his time well as an outstanding yachtsman and important artist instead of just lounging about, as he could have done.

You can buy a ticket that combines visits to both the museum and garden. The ticket seller warned us that we couldn't get our money back for the garden part of the admission if it rained. Luckily, it didn't rain until we had just about finished our visit.

Is Cute Enough?

Free-associating again! For some reason, an old New Yorker cartoon has come to mind, although I can't find it on the Cartoon Bank Web site. It depicts a huge, looming adult male looking down at a tiny, somewhat bewildered, shamefaced tot at his feet and exclaiming, "Cute is not enough!" Was reading about the varied wildlife in Central Park, in connection with the raccoon that apparently wandered onstage during a recent Shakespeare in the Park performance of Twelfth Night. From there, I segued into a memory of chipmunks, which I do find to be among nature's cutest. Raccoons, though destructive, are cute, too.

Then, my meandering consciousness evoked the memory of driving in the Hamptons behind a car that ran over, and squashed, a chipmunk. Of course, the driver didn't stop; probably didn't even know that he had murdered the tiny rodent. Then, since it was the countryside, my thoughts turned to:

British Hedgehog Preservation Society BHPS

I've always been amused by this group, which seems to be emblematic of the most endearing side of British eccentricity. And hedgehogs are cute, too. The hedgehog preservers try to prevent just the type of disaster I witnessed with the Hamptons chipmunk. They apparently patrol roadsides and try to rescue the little critters from heedless motorists. We don't have this creature in North America. What are we missing? British kids have hedgehog squeaky toys, e.g.

Pigeon Pros and Cons

Former NYC Mayor Ed Koch, never at a loss for words, has been credited with referring to urban pigeons as "rats with wings," although he may not have originated the expression. Certainly they are a major player in city life, reviled by many and loved by little old ladies and others who feed them, whether they need to be fed or not. My experience with our avian friends has been mixed. In general I find them dirty and a nuisance, but there have been exceptions.

I was fortunate enough as a child to have a father who encouraged me to live side by side with our fellow creatures, even snakes (at least the harmless ones). In our upstate New York backyard, we were able to encounter all sorts of animals and birds, including gorgeous pheasants. One day a pigeon waddled up our driveway, and I decided to feed him/her/it a few breadcrumbs. I was only a kid; wouldn't dream of doing it now. The bird returned the next day, and for several days after that, at about the same time in the afternoon. One day I wasn't home, and my mother said that the pigeon had come again but that she hadn't fed it. It never returned. No grace period for me: "Ingratitude, more strong than traitor's arms...."

On the unpleasant side of pigeondom, I recall walking into my dormitory at Barnard College wearing a prized new Pringle cashmere cardigan. I heard a "plop!" on one shoulder, and there was pigeon poop. Ugh—even though there's an old wives' tale that it's good luck. I also see the birds ranged in rows on certain city lampposts, looking for all the world like the eponymous predators in Hitchcock's immortal The Birds. And then there's the smallish one that flew into an unscreened window of my apartment. Since, unlike Tippi Hedren in the film, I'm not afraid of birds, I was able to open the window wider and, after a short scuffle, shoo the unwelcome visitor out.

I have visited Venice a few times and have naturally enjoyed it to the hilt, not being fazed by the feathered inhabitants of Piazza San Marco. My traveling companion on my first visit there was afraid of birds and was obliged to keep to the perimeter of the plaza instead of walking straight across it. I don't see why anyone with a fear of birds (irrational, of course, despite Hitchcock) would even visit Venice in the first place. I guess the lure of this wonderful, fabled city is worth the risk.

So, the jury is still out on pigeons. Columba had just better not poop on me again.

Aha!

Eureka! A little googling has helped me to find the source of the ladies'-room mural mentioned in the post below. It did look vaguely familiar. Would Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema turn over in his grave if he knew about this use of his painting? Anyway, here's the source, straight from the horse's mouth, i.e., the Tate Gallery:

Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema 1836–1912

A Favourite Custom 1909

Oil on wood, presented by the Trustees of the Chantrey Bequest 1909

"This scene is set in the Stabian Baths of Pompeii. In the foreground one woman playfully splashes another in the 'frigidarium,' a cold bath. The artist based this work on photographs of the remains of the baths, revealed by archaeologists in 1824. He has made them more luxurious by adding a marble floor and walls which have usually been found in larger imperial baths. The Dutch-born artist Alma-Tadema achieved enormous success in Britain with carefully researched scenes like this of daily life in the ancient Roman world."

Well, I suspected as much. I wonder if anyone else is interested. Anyway, Eureka!

Gotta Dance!

If you study or have studied ballet at all seriously, you know that "class" is a daily ritual and a world unto itself. I'm fortunate to be able to study where many top professionals do, and, ability and accomplishment (and, crucially, age) aside, we're all equal when we get into that studio for the satisfying ritual beginning with pliés and tendus and ending with a lot of toweling off and swigging from water bottles. It's a bonus when we have a really good pianist: I favor one who plays a lot of the Great American Songbook. Sondheim's "Broadway Baby" really gets me going. Maybe I would dance better if he played it all the time. 

The social aspect is also important, even though the conversation tends to stay on the subjects of dance performances or one's physical problems such as sore metatarsals or shin splints. What's also enjoyable for a lot of us is the formality of a classical technique class. You really have to shut up and listen to the teacher. There is a certain order and regularity here that has disappeared from most other aspects of twenty-first-century life. And you still applaud the teacher at the end of class.

Some of us whose interests range widely beyond dance are also amused by the recently installed tile work in the ladies' dressing room. It appears to be a pre-Raphaelite type of scene with Victorian ladies decorously splashing in a Roman bath. I have always wanted to attach a cartoon balloon at the top with "Has everybody signed into class?" coming out of the mouth of the woman in the doorway.