Thursday, July 29, 2021

Climate justice

Today on my walk I listened to a Freakonomics podcast that featured the science writer Charles C. Mann, author of The Wizard and the Prophet: Two Remarkable Scientists and Their Dueling Visions to Shape Tomorrow's World, as well as present-day exemplars of those two mindsets: Nathan Myhrvold, former chief technology officer at Microsoft and co-founder of the think tank Intellectual Ventures; and Mary Robinson, former president of Ireland, former United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights and special envoy for climate change, and author of the book Climate Justice. It was a fascinating set of discussions, and as with so many things, it underscored the complexity both of this earth and the problems we face, and of any possible paths toward solutions to those problems. Human beings are nothing if not stubborn. Why is it so hard for people to give up black-and-white thinking and admit that grays exist—and then put their heads together to come up with something better?

It all got me pondering one of the topics they discussed, climate justice—the disproportionate effects of climate change on historically marginalized and underserved communities—and wondering what organizations are trying to address this important need. Rather than come up with my own list, I'll simply link to a few lists I found online, ranging from local and grassroots to national and international. There are so many people out there doing good work. All of them can use help, if you are considering making any donations anytime soon.

At Vice, there is "12 Environmental Justice Organizations to Donate Time and Money To"—these include the Indigenous Environmental Network, 350.org, Black Millennials for Flint, and on up to the Union of Concerned Scientists

1% for the Planet (itself a worthy organization) has a great list of local, regional, and national nonprofits fighting for social and environmental justice

The Climate Alliance Mapping Project also has a list, which includes a few groups not covered in the others mentioned here 

Human Rights Careers posted a list of "20 International NGOs Defending Environmental Rights"

A few of the most pertinent individual groups I turned up include Grassroots International, the Environmental Justice Foundation, and the Climate Justice Alliance.

So many people fighting for a better future. I may adopt climate justice as my "giving theme" for the coming year. It's the least I can do....


Wednesday, July 28, 2021

Blogs about maps

I was wondering this evening what sort of map Marco Polo might have used when he made his epic journeys in the late 1200s. Turns out, there's an entire blog (no longer active) devoted to medieval mapping, including many entries on Marco Polo. It seems he might well have used a portolan chart, perhaps one something like this:

Christopher Columbus, on the other hand, is now thought to have been guided by a map made in 1491 by the German cartographer Henricus Martellus—a map laughably unuseful by today's standards, based in part on the information that Marco Polo brought back from his travels and on tales told by merchants sailing around the Cape of Good Hope.

This got me curious about blogs out there that have to do with maps—because who isn't fascinated by maps—wayfinding, spatial visualization, the very makeup of our world? Of course, there are scores of blogs, dealing with everything from Google maps (the official blog) to every map of London ever made—and counting! Here is a list of a few that look especially interesting to me (culled in part from a list of 50).

The Map Room — Created in 2003 by science fiction writer and reviewer Jonathan Crowe, and still very active, this blog covers everything from antique maps to the latest in geospatial technology.

The Bodleian's Map Room Blog — "Items of interest from the wonderful world of maps," courtesy of Oxford's Bodleian Library.

The Library of Congress, Geography and Map Division Blog — Perhaps more about geography, ethnography, anthropology etc. than about maps per se, but it's all fascinating.

The Ordnance Survey — Including a recent compendium of the top 10 (map-related) blogs of 2020.

Maps and Views Blog — From the British Library.

Wired's Map Lab — Defunct, but still worth visiting.

Geoaweseomness — About geospatial technologies.

Bloomberg CityLab's Map Lab

Modern Cartographer — "A longtime armchair traveler's take on maps, map making, and other related news and information."

There. That's good for starters.  Enjoy yourself a little mapoliciousness.

 

Tuesday, July 27, 2021

Guilloche

Here's something I learned today: a new word, though it applies to something we used to see all the time, in the days when we still handled currency—guilloche. I ran across it in a proofreading job, a reprint of Occidental Mythology by Joseph Campbell. The sentence: "A goddess follows in the role of the mystic mother of rebirth, and below is a guilloche—a labyrinthine device that in this art corresponds to the caduceus." (I had rather hoped that this job would be a bit more lively, but Campbell was a ponderous writer.)

I found two definitions for guilloche, or guilloché (etymology unknown: possibly named for a carving tool devised by a French engineer named Guillot). First: "architectural ornamentation resembling braided or interlaced ribbons." As in this example from Assyria, 9th century B.C.:


Or this, from a more recent skyscraper in Chicago:

But guilloché is familiar to anyone who has studied a dollar bill


or taken a close look at a high-end watch face 


In the latter case, it's simply decorative; in the former, it serves security purposes.

According to Wikipedia, guilloche "is a decorative technique in which a very precise, intricate and repetitive pattern is mechanically engraved into an underlying material via engine turning, which uses a machine of the same name, also called a rose engine lathe."

I found a gentleman named Ben Hodosi online who offers up contemporary guilloche designs as "security graphics."

Here are a few more examples:




 

Guilloche: the serious answer to the spirograph.


Thursday, July 22, 2021

An Outing to San Francisco

Franklin Street,
from Market
When we first moved to Monterey over thirty years ago (wait, what?), we were happy that we'd be in such close proximity to San Francisco—only two hours away. We were sure we'd be up there all the time, to go to museums or concerts or the opera or just to experience the big city. Well, needless to say, that didn't happen. It's remarkable if we get up there more than once in a year. 

Well, yesterday was the first time in a couple, few years. And we had a marvelous day out! It didn't hurt that the normal summertime fog stayed away, and the day was breezy and pleasantly cool.

What took us there was the Immersive Van Gogh show that is playing far and wide. A couple of Facebook friends mentioned going, and they seemed pretty positive, so I thought it was worth checking out. It turned out to be nothing like anything I ever dreamed of—partly, perhaps, because I never looked thoroughly enough at the venue and had it in mind that it was at SFMoMA, which would, I'm sure, have been an entirely different viewing experience. We did enjoy it, but I found it both kitschy and grandiose, not really my cuppa. (I might have benefited from drugs.) I kept wondering what Vincent himself would have thought of it. What I got the most out of was people watching. (Though all that said, yes, I am glad I went. It was different.) Here are a few photos I took.



Many people had purchased
sunflowers as a souvenir

A couple in the corner was experiencing the
show with their phone camera

The store was questionably decorated—though
then again, this was San Francisco

On our way back to the car we had to stop for a geocache, simply because it involved climbing a tree right there in downtown San Francisco. Nobody paid any attention.


We walked down Market and enjoyed the bustle of workers at work.

Installing art

Installing a tree

While studying a sidewalk plaque detailing a walking tour devoted to the days of the Barbary Coast (around the time of the gold rush), we were approached by a woman who suggested that we visit a nearby hotel, the Palace (originally established in 1875), simply for the beauty of the main public area, which had been damaged in the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake and recently has been restored to its full splendor. We figured, sure, why not—it was just a few blocks out of our way. And yes, it was worth the stop. Now I'm lusting after afternoon tea in that restaurant: the perfect setting for such.


Then we were off to Golden Gate Park to (of course) do some geocaching. We found all that we were looking for but one—and that one was the toughest one to get to. But the views were good. 

We first explored the northern reaches of the park, which included the Plant Conservatory grounds—




especially the beautiful dahlia garden. I am now convinced that I was meant to raise dahlias! And a little research has netted me one grower that has a few tubers left to sell! I am going to start right away! Here are a few of the dahlias that we got such pleasure from:

We ended the day with fabulous Japanese food—gyoza, yellowtail collar, tuna tacos, seaweed salad with maguro, and snow crab and salmon bundles—at Koo on Irving Street. 

And then, at 7:45, we were all set to head home, having evaded rush hour. But... the car said no! Or rather, the battery did. Hey! No fair! We just endured this nonsense not even a year ago. Apparently I don't have good car battery karma. But I do have good AAA karma, because our rescuer arrived—after a tense long wait on hold with AAA with my phone battery at 3% (apparently I don't have good battery karma, period)—within ten minutes. And voilà! We were charged and on our way. Only half an hour lost. Home by a little after 10. 

The whole thoroughly (minus the battery angst) enjoyable day almost makes me want to go back up there again before another year has passed...


Monday, July 12, 2021

Book Report: Zeitoun

38. Dave Eggers, Zeitoun (2009) (7/12/21)

I picked up this book because I own it, and because it's by Dave Eggers, who happens to be the husband of Vendela Vida, author of my last-reviewed book. I'm not sure I even realized it was about Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath, never mind the story of a Syrian immigrant and successful businessman—a building contractor—in New Orleans, Abdulrahman Zeitoun. Or simply Zeitoun, as he is known all over town. 

The book itself is gripping, proceeding from just a couple of days before Katrina, as that storm was spinning toward NO and people were being warned to evacuate—which the main character Zeitoun's wife, Kathy, did with their four children, but he elected to stay behind, because he "always did" whenever a hurricane blew through, and the better to watch over their many properties. Once the storm hits, in a relatively brief description—it lasted a matter of hours, from the night of August 28, 2005, into the next day—we watch as Zeitoun hunkers down, and then he gets in his aluminum canoe and starts paddling through the flooded streets, helping stranded neighbors to safety, feeding left-behind dogs: doing what he can. In this, he feels "called upon" by God. 

But the city is growing increasingly toxic, and it is ridden by looters and filling with military personnel. On Tuesday, September 6, he and three companions are roughly arrested and conveyed to a makeshift high-security prison at the downtown Greyhound station, with no recourse to a phone call or any sort of justice. Zeitoun and another Syrian are suspected of being terrorists. From there, three days later, they are removed to an established prison near Baton Rouge. 

No one knows where Zeitoun is. The story is now told from Kathy's point of view, now from Zeitoun's, as she desperately tries to track him down after receiving a hurried phone call from a missionary on September 18, almost two weeks after his arrest. Slowly, the wheels of justice begin to grind. Zeitoun is finally released on the 29th. His companions end up remaining in the prison for five, six, and eight months longer. 

The descriptions at the start, when Zeitoun is paddling about doing what he can, are almost serene:

There was the canoe. It called to him, floating and ready. It was a rare opportunity, he thought, to be able to glide over the roads. He had only this day. He bailed the water resting in the hull, and in his T-shirt and shorts and sneakers, he stepped in.
     Leaving the yard was difficult. A tree across the street had been ripped from its roots and lay across the road, branches spread over his driveway. He paddled around them and looked back to the house. No great damage to the exterior. Some shingles missing from the roof. The windows broken. A gutter that would need remounting. Nothing too bad, three days' work.
     In the neighborhood, other homes had been hit by all manner of debris. Windows had been blown out. Wet, black branches covered cars, the street. Everywhere trees had been pulled out of the earth and lay flat.
     The quiet was profound. The wind rippled the water but otherwise all was silent. No cars moved, no planes flew. A few neighbors stood on their porches or waded through their yards, assessing damage. No one knew where to start or when. He knew he would be giving many estimates in the coming weeks.

At first, the water is clean, he's still got plenty of food. He sets up a tent on a flat roof of his house and sleeps outdoors. We are told in various flashbacks about his and Kathy's pasts—his relationship to the sea back in Syria, her conversion to Islam, how they met. But then with the arrest, we learn how criminally inhumane the incarceration of so many people was in the aftermath of Katrina. All law and order seemed to have vanished..

It is what we outside the vicinity of New Orleans heard about afterward, but seeing it up close in a first-person view is that much worse. Eggers does a good job of slowing down into the horror. He finishes up several years later, describing how Zeitoun and Kathy are still rebuilding their lives, but in a way, both of them have been broken.

But here I lose my way a bit with what to say about the book—for it seems that at least some of the story that was relayed to Eggers may not have been entirely honest. A half dozen years after these events, Kathy sued Zeitoun for divorce, alleging physical violence during the whole of their marriage (there is not even a hint of that in the book) and, ultimately, attempted murder. I've seen accounts by New Orleans residents alleging that Zeitoun and his cousins were con men, that they weren't the universally beloved businessmen that Eggers suggests. These accounts, of course, are just gossip and rumors, not necessarily any more accurate than Eggers's account. Perhaps, in the end, the book is merely an elaborate fiction, spun to tell a particular story. Eggers, apparently, does not talk about these troublesome developments. Here, rather, is what he says about how he learned the story and came to "trust it to the bones."

The charges of ongoing violence from early on in the marriage aside, I am fully convinced of the details of what Zeitoun experienced with Katrina. And I would not be surprised if he was, in fact, "broken" as a result. Both he and his wife were no doubt damaged (she, for one, suffered from memory lapses and an inability to understand speech) and seriously changed by those events. And life has gone on for them nevertheless. Learning about the ugly follow-up makes me feel sad. The book itself ends on a note of hopefulness and strength. But Zeitoun is not a superhero; he's just a human. I hope both he and Kathy can find peace.


Friday, July 9, 2021

Book Report: Let the Northern Lights Erase Your Name

37. Vendela Vida, Let the Northern Lights Erase Your Name (2007) (7/9/21)

Twenty-eight-year-old Clarissa lost her father two weeks ago, fourteen years after her mother simply vanished one day. Now she learns that the man she called her father was, in fact, not—and she heads to Lapland, the homeland of the reindeer-herding Sami people (akin to Native Americans), in the middle of winter, to find out the truth. And indeed, she learns more than she bargained for, ultimately emerging from her quest with new resolve about how she wants to spend her life. 

I found this book distancing, difficult to penetrate emotionally. Sometimes supercool, sometimes overwrought. Clarissa herself isn't an especially pleasant young woman: she seems remarkably immature for someone her age. I was surprised by the glowing blurbs by the likes of Michael Cunningham ("a taut, intricately layered page-turner that looks deeply and fearlessly into matters of profound human concern") and George Saunders ("What a brilliantly constructed lightning-flash of a novel: compelling, surprising, economical, lush, beautifully written"). It is well written, yes, and there are some lovely descriptions, for example of an ice hotel far above the Arctic Circle. The landscape reflects Clarissa's own sense of isolation and loss. I enjoyed the spare language.

Perhaps what I didn't like was the secrets and lies that undergird the overarching theme of abandonment. There was too little reaching out and communicating. (Much of the conversation is done in sign language.) That said, the feeling I'm left with upon completion is a haunting one. Clarissa learns enough about her mother's past to be able to put it behind her and invent a new identity in the world. A simpler one. In the whirlwind last few pages, she does figure out how to move on.

Here is a short section (most of the sections are quite short) from midway through the book, when she is in the town she believes her biological father lives in. Pankaj is her fiancé back in New York, who doesn't know where she is; Henrik is the nephew of the woman who has taken Clarissa in. This might be considered one of the overwrought passages.

Henrik had said I could use the phone to call my family. I considered calling Pankaj. There must be someone else. I should want to call Pankaj, I told myself, but I couldn't make myself dial his number. Our number. There must be someone I'm closer to.
     A telephone book for Finnmark, its cover ripped off, sat by the phone. I began flipping through it, at first, absentmindedly; then I looked for names. I searched for any Blixes that might live in Finnmark, and found none.
     I skimmed through the listings in Masi and the nearby town of Kautokeino, where my mother had stayed. Any of the names could be my father's. I imagined my body might spasm in recognition and revolt when I saw his name. It was in my blood, I would know. But as I searched blindly, I grew more frantic. I had nothing to go on. He could be anyone. Everyone.

The reason I picked this book up is that I noticed that it had a bookmark—or not a bookmark, but a postcard was tucked in its pages. It shows a rough wooden cabin with hand-hewn wood furniture and red-checkered curtains: "The interior of the dwelling-chamber of North-Estonian fisherman's dwelling from the end of the 19th century." On the back my friend Rasa wrote, "Maybe your cabin is like this? Or the cabin in Lapland, or Norway or Finland?" I don't know to what cabin she refers—possibly the one in Minnesota I stayed in for a couple of weeks during an artist residency, perhaps my sister-in-law's cabin in central Norway. But I imagine the one in the postcard looks very much like the cabin that Clarissa eventually makes her way to near the end of the book. And although I don't remember Rasa giving me this book, she must have. So she must have liked it. And so I read it too.

The book's title, by the way, is the title of a poem by Sami poet Marry A. Somby.


Monday, July 5, 2021

Book Report: Wake

36. Rebecca Hall, with illustrations by Hugo Martínez, Wake: The Hidden History of Women-Led Slave Revolts (2021) (7/5/21)

Rebecca Hall, from New York City, educated at UC Berkeley, was a tenant's rights attorney for eight years before she decided to go back to school and get a PhD in history, specializing in race and gender. As she put it, "I could 'win' . . . cases for my clients. But I felt the need to see underneath the 'justice system'—to get at the root of what was warping the world." To do this, she "felt compelled to uncover the stories of other Black women who fought for justice. Those women warriors who fought their enslavement."

Hall did receive that PhD, and in an effort to bring her research—and the stories she uncovered, fragmentary though they might be—alive for others, she co-created this graphic (as in illustrated) history/memoir: history of a handful of slave revolts that she found records of, and memoir of her own background and her travails as a historian. It is quite the achievement.

Her research took her to New York City, London, and Liverpool. She dug through sheaves and sheaves of unindexed eighteenth-century British documents, trying to put together what pieces she could find. In the end, she uncovered a very few slave revolts that seemed to feature women—a paucity that she attributes in part to the patriarchal society, the fact that women, never mind slave women, would never have been considered (by British officials) as agents of their own fate, and so were not recorded as actors in slave revolts. Yet there clearly was female agency. Was it coincidence that more slave revolts occurred on ships that had a higher number of woman passagers? For women, as it turns out, were left unshackled on upper decks (the better to rape them)—with ready access to weapons . . .

In the account of one land-based slave revolt, four women are mentioned by name: Sarah and Abigail are found guilty and sentenced to death; Lily and Amba are found not guilty. A pregnant woman given a reprieve on hanging is mentioned—was it Sarah or Abigail? With such scanty evidence, Hall is compelled to imagine the particulars, the whys and hows, and the aftermath. These, and other, imaginings are presented in the black-and-white illustrations by Martínez.

Hall also looks back to the experience of her grandmother Harriet, born a slave in 1860 and subsequently the victim of Jim Crow.

And she outlines her own experience as a researcher, a historian seeking the truth. She is very much a player in this history. And the slave women who came before her are players in her own life, her own making-sense-of-it-all.

Here are some of the graphics from this book. I learned a lot from the words, but also from the drawings.






Saturday, July 3, 2021

Book Report: Still Life with Oysters and Lemon

35. Mark Doty, Still Life with Oysters and Lemon (2001) (7/3/21)

This is a short book, 70 pages, but it is uber-rich with thought and feeling. Doty is a wonderful poet and a meticulous observer of life, perhaps one of the most honest writers I have read. The main theme of the book is arcane: seventeenth-century Dutch still life. But Doty weaves in memories of his East Tennessee Mamaw and her purse full of bright red peppermints, or living in a ramshackle old house with his lover Wally, stuffing it full of precious objects, or visiting Amsterdam with another lover (after Wally's death) on his forty-fifth birthday and being surrounded by still lifes in the Rijksmuseum. In these and other experiences, the careful noticing that he describes in the work of the Dutch artists is reflected in his own attempts to understand how he feels, what he thinks, what is important to him, and why. This book is philosophical, but also very much grounded in lived life.

The best way for me to convey his achievement is simply to quote a few passages.

The most beautiful still lifes are never pristine, and herein lies one of their secrets. The lemon has been half-peeled, the wine tasted, the bread broken; the oysters have been shucked, part of this great wheel of cheese cut away. . . . Someone has left this knife resting on the edge of the plate, its handle jutting toward us; someone plans, in a moment, to pick it up again. These objects are in use, in dialogue, a part of, implicated. They refuse perfection, or rather they assert that this is perfection, this state of being consumed, used up, enjoyed, existing in time. 

*

[That house] is long since sold, perhaps demolished, and nothing that was in it remains now, save perhaps some things gone to my wife's brother or his children, who knows. Our marriage ended twenty years ago. And yet how strangely vivid a few things remain: the chipped white French coffeepot on Bertha's table, her beautiful mottled hand holding mine while she lay back on her single iron bed that afternoon [we met], the little pile of twigs and leaves smoldering in the yard. An elaborate spoon embossed with an antlered stag, and a quiver of arrows, emblems of the huntress Diana. The heart is a repository of vanished things: the rock of Gethsemane, jars of plum brandy, whole fruit turning in their sleep like infants in the womb, a heavenly blue morning glory [all these being details he has mentioned in the book]. When I was a kid I had a toy, a "Magic 8 Ball." It was a hard plastic sphere bigger than a baseball, with a little window at the bottom. The idea was to ask a question, then turn the ball upside down; a message would float into view, suspended in the black liquid which a little jar inside the ball contained (it was difficult to figure this out). "Yes" the ball would answer, or "Perhaps" or "Ask again later." Now I think there is a space in me that is like the dark inside that hollow sphere, and things float up into view, images that are vessels of meaning, the flotsam and detail of any particular moment. Vanished things.
     Or vanished from my life, at least. Who knows where they might be now, to what use they may have been put, what other meanings have been assigned to them.

*

It's a simple painting, really, Still Life with Oysters and Lemon, by one Jan Davidsz de Heem, painted in Antwerp some three hundred and fifty years ago. . . . [Here I omit his description of the painting.]
     Simple, and yet so firm in its assertions.
     I'll try to name them.
     That this is the matrix in which we are held, the generous light binding together the fragrant and flavorful productions of vineyard, marsh, and orchard—where has that lemon come from, the Levant?
     That the pleasures of what can be tasted and smelled are to be represented, framed, set apart; that pleasure is to be honored.
     That the world is a dialogue between degrees of transparency—globes of the grapes, the wine in the glass equally penetrated by light but ever so slightly less clear than the vessel itself, degrees of reflectivity.
     That the world of reflection implicates us, as well—there, isn't that the faintest image of the painter in the base of the glass, tilted, distorted, lost in the contemplation of his little realm? Looking through things, as well, through what he's made of them, toward us?
     That there can never be too much of reality; that the attempt to draw nearer to it—which will fail—will not fail entirely, as it will give us not the fact of lemons and oysters but this, which is its own fact, its own brave assay toward what is.
     That description is an inexact, loving art, and a reflexive one; when we describe the world we come closer to saying what we are.

But of course, like the still lifes themselves, these extracts lack the meaning of context, the flow of Doty's own remembering and relating.

I will certainly revisit this book. I have also pulled out Doty's book in Graywolf Press's "Art of" series, on—fittingly enough—description. I've read it before, but I know I will learn so much reading it again.

The more I read of Doty, whether it's a philosophical gem like this, one of his memoirs, or his poetry, the more I want to read of him. 

(See my previous blog post for a few images of still lifes he considers in this book.)


Friday, July 2, 2021

Seventeenth-century Dutch still life

I am reading a short but exquisite book by Mark Doty called Still Life with Oysters and Lemon. In it he describes and discusses (in part) various 17th-century Dutch still lifes. Words do only so much, so I decided to seek out some of the works he focuses on. 

I'll start with the one that spurred me into this brief project, because although Doty himself disparages this particular painting—or that's not the right word; he admires the skill, but he prefers more homely subject matter—I was curious as to just what a "nautilus cup" might be. So here, by Willem Kalf, Still Life with Chinese Bowl, Nautilus Cup, and Other Objects of 1662. (It is quite dark, the better to invite the eye in to settle on the items the artist wished one to contemplate most deeply.)

Jan Davidsz de Heem also painted nautilus cups—the brighter style here, I gather,  a reflection of its earlier date, dark backgrounds being a stylistic evolution:

Nautilus Cup with Silver Vessels, 1632

This imagery in turn led me to a brief disquisition on nautilus cups, which were quite the thing just then. Like this one, of South German or Flemish provenance, from 1575/1625.

Though notice the other trope in these two paintings: lemons, always with a strip of delicate peel, symbolizing wealth, power, and dominance in trade.

But back to Doty: here is the piece, also by de Heem, that he fell so in love with that he was moved to explore it and associated images, which led then to memories, feelings, and yearnings. Followed by a few other of the paintings that he mentions. (As always, click on the image to see large.)

Jan Davidsz de Heem, Still Life with a
Glass and Oysters,
c. 1640

Martimus Nellius, Still Life with Quinces,
Medlars, and a Glass,
1669/1719

Ossias Beert the Elder, Dishes with Oysters, Fruit,
and Wine,
c. 1620–25

Pieter Claesz, Herring with Bread and Beer, 1636

Adriaen Coorte, Still Life with
Asparagus,
1703

Here, I will pause to quote Doty himself, on this painting by Coorte, which he spends several pages describing and wondering about. He has just outlined the colors that observers, and painters, of asparagus mention when it comes to appreciating, and depicting, lifelike spears.

Purple, black, indigo, ultramarine—not the colors convention would associate with this vegetable, and yet in Coorte's astonishing painting one sees the fierce veracity of the results: here, in all its pronged, nuanced glory, a bundle of stalks resides in the full, fleshy resonance of its three-hundred-year-old presence. They look edible, earth-scented, alive; no matter that the lead white had reacted over time with something in the oil medium in which it is suspended, lending the stalks such a pronounced transparency that you can see, right through the stalks, the edge of the stone surface which supports them. That ghostliness only adds to their charm.
     All of which simply begs the question . . . why.
Perhaps you see now why I felt compelled to seek out some of the paintings in question. Doty's description, though provocative and resonant, goes only so far. Which is not to fault his treatment, not at all. His was a bigger project than simply describing paintings. But seeing the works in question helped add further dimension to his words. Simply that.

Doty mentions many other still lifes in passing, but I will end with this, a joke from 1670, Trompe l'oeil: The Reverse of a Framed Painting, by Cornelis Norbertus Gijsbrechts. Now, I'd call that darn modern.