Millet and Words By Heart

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Fine Art Friday – Millet


The Shepherdess, 1864
Jean-François Millet

“The human side of art is what touches me the most.”  Jean-François Millet

Here is yet another piece of art with a girl absorbed in knitting.  Notice the stance of the dog on the right.   Yep, that’s a watchdawg!

~      ~      ~      ~      ~      ~

Ouida Sebestyen’s book Words By Heart will go on my bookshelf next to Black Boy, Roll of Thunder Hear My Cry,  and Black Like Me.  Or should I have a Scripture Memory section which includes Tom Sawyer, Right Ho, Jeeves and this book? 

Lena knows her Bible verses.  Lots of  ’em.  Her participation and eventual success in the local verse quoting contest is reason enough to read this book.  Sebestyen’s humor in Lena’s choices will fly right over the young reader’s head.  Lena begins with “God hath chosen the foolish things of this world to confound the wise…”; after a momentary panic late in the contest she resorts to quoting verses from Song of Solomon usually left unspoken in public “I am black, but comely.” 

Lena, who has to this point been sheltered from racial conflict, discovers the resentment and hostility of the community from her public triumph over a white boy.  Her Papa begins teaching her how to to respond to different neighbors, all of whom are white. Some are to be avoided, some are to be ignored, some are to be obeyed, and some are to be bargained with.  Lena trusts and adores her Papa, but struggles with the injustice of their living situation. 

This would be a great book to read and discuss together with pre-teens.  Caveat:  Lena’s Papa dies from violence at the end of the book.  There are no graphic descriptions, but you need to know what your reader can handle emotionally before you embark.

Old English Poetry

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       The Voyage of Life

Now is it most like     as if on ocean
Across cold water     we sail in our keels,
Over the wide sea     in our ocean-steeds,
Faring on in our flood-wood.     Fearful the stream,
The tumult of waters,     whereon we toss
In this feeble world.     Fierce are the surges
On the ocean-lanes.     Hard was our life
Before we made harbor     over the foaming seas.
Then help was vouchsafed     when God’s Spirit-Son
Guided us to the harbor of salvation     and granted us grace
That we may understand     over the ship’s side
Where to moor our sea-steeds,     our ocean-stallions,
Fast at anchor.    Let us fix our hope
Upon that haven     which the Lord of heaven,
In holiness on high,     has opened by His Ascension.
                             
                                                ~    Cynewulf

Isn’t that bit of ninth century poetry lovely?

It’s from An Anthology of Old English Poetry translated by Charles W. Kennedy. 
Used copies begin at $0.60 with $3.49 shipping and handling.  Such a deal.

Mostly Martha

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HT: Sweetbriar Patch

Mostly Martha is a German film about a chef who is obsessed with her art to a point that precludes personal relationships.  She hides behind her precise measurements and particular flavors.  Her sessions with a therapist devolve into Martha’s rambling descriptions of dishes.   Food is her focus; but it is food without fellowship, food  to be admired and analyzed in a scientific sense, calories without communion. 

Two events change Martha: becoming the caregiver for her young niece Lina and the entrance of a robust, hearty, jovial sous chef into Martha’s restaurant kitchen.  Mario’s zest for life is reckoned insanity by Martha; his laughter infuriates her.

The interplay between food and relationship dominates this film.  Before Mario appears, food is strictly clinical.  Even the patrons of the restaurant prefer a particular texture or flavor over a shared experience.  Martha is seldom seen eating and when she does eat it is at a stark table, alone.  Mario understands fine food and appreciates a discerning palate, but he insists on keeping meals within the context of community. The culmination of the film is a feast, a full-orbed celebration that marries friendship with food.

Mostly Martha is the opposite of the downward arc of the 1990 film Avalon.  At the advent of  Avalon we see multi-generational dinners – loud, boisterous gatherings of brothers’ families.  After a television joins the furniture, the empty dining room table is silent and folks eat gathered around the tube.  Eventually a solitary old man is in a care facility sitting in a trance before a tray of untouched food.

Jewels

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This
weekend was one filled with precious jewels.  We were part of a
missions conference and the speakers were the jewels I speak of.  Their
faces and words were shards of light which glinted and gleamed as they
spoke.
                
They were beautiful.  I don’t have space to describe each one; I will highlight two couples.

Gordon and Elizabeth, both
MKs themselves, have invested their lives in children affected by
leprosy in India.  Gordon (born the week before my father in 1922) met
Ghandi before Ghandi was assassinated. 

Elizabeth has the
dignity and poise of Elisabeth Elliot.  A sari is her dress where ever
she goes.  Humility, contentment, and joy radiate from their
countenances.  She puts on her wedding dress each anniversary to celebrate!! 
All those days that they loved each other, served together, sacrificed
and gave of themselves — all those days form a glorious patina of
grace.  Just being in their presence is a gift.

Ed and Maxine
were a special treat.  Ed is the man who led our pastor to the Lord
when Terry was 20.  For years our church family has heard repeated
stories about this great man.  To meet him and hear his side of those
same stories, to witness the reunion of this Paul and Timothy bound us
all together. 

Isn’t that how love works?  You incorporate the memories
of your loved one into your own chapters and verses; you own the stuff that is part of them. Ed challenged us and exposed
us to growing churches in many parts of the world.                     
                                  

Singing together again

Several of us have been getting to know Maxine through her blog Roseteacup.
 It was my first experience of meeting an online friend in real life
(IRL).  She is a precious jewel.  It took an effort not to hog her for
myself.

  
All xanga bloggers Sisters and good friends

When He cometh, when He cometh
To take up His jewels,
All His jewels, precious jewels,
His loved and His own.

Like a star in the morning,
His bright crown adorning,
They shall shine in their beauty,
Bright gems for His crown.

Fine Art Friday – Millet

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The Knitting Lesson (c.1860)
by Jean-François Millet

This Fine Art Friday is a hat-tip to two friends. 

Millet is my friend Bonnie’s favorite artist.  When she talked about Millet’s art with our beloved Latin teacher, I loved just being a witness to the conversation. You know what I mean?  Great ideas flowing both ways, splashing around, and  I just want to catch some of the spray.

Knitting is my friend Donna’s favorite recreation. She has already highlighted several lovely pieces of art related to knitting. I hope you enjoy this lovely piece, Donna.

I’ve decided to highlight an artist for a month of Fridays.  Loving alliteration as I do, it will be Millet in March.  I know it’s still February.  Work with me.

Framley Parsonage

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~ Have you ever made a foolish financial transaction and hid it from your spouse?
~ Have you loved your son, but disliked his choice of wife?
~ If you loved a man, but knew that his mother didn’t like you, what would you say to a marriage proposal?
~ Do you sometimes yearn to be an accepted member of the inner circle?
~ Should a pastor have nice things?
~ Has a formerly close friendship changed because your friend was promoted and you couldn’t deal with the differences in your situations?

Anthony Trollope’s Framley Parsonage, the fourth book in the Barsetshire novels, leaves the theme of class divisions and explores the complete orbit of ambition.

Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina takes the reader through every stage of an affair, from the stolen glances across the room to the clandestine meetings to the pleasure of consumation.   Tolstoy accurately narrates the zest and tingly shivers that accompany illicit love. Then he carries the story to its logical conclusion; the eventual boredom of the relationship, estrangement from family, the problem of the children, the loss of respectability, the loneliness of self-imposed banishment and despair that ends in tragedy.  

I thought of Anna K as I read Framley Parsonage.  Mark Robarts is a nice guy: a young, well-established vicar with a growing family and a generous patroness.  He is invited to a party of the upper crust, unscrupulous high rollers, and also asked to preach a sermon at their church.  The invitation to preach legitimizes whatever questions may be raised by the company he would keep.  Robarts is naive; he is manipulated; he is outrageously foolish. 

It is no doubt very wrong to long after a naughty thing. But nevertheless we all do so.  One may say that hankering after naughty things is the very essence of the evil  into which we have been precipitated by Adam’s fall. When we confess that we are all sinners, we confess that we all long after naughty things. … Clergymen are subject to the same passions as other men; and, as far as I can see, give way to them, in one line or another, almost as frequently. Every clergyman should, by canonical rule, feel a personal disinclination to a bishopric; but yet we do not believe that such personal disinclination is generally very strong. (p.66)

Mark thought he could touch pitch and not be defiled.  After he is entrapped, he muddles around, scrambling to cover and hide his situation. When his courage builds to the point of facing his wife, confessing his foibles, and enduring public embarrassment, we admire and enjoy this country vicar and adore his wife Fanny.

Is not that sharing of the mind’s burdens one of the chief purposes for which man wants a wife? For there is no folly so great as keeping one’s sorrows hidden. And this wife cheerfully, gladly, thankfully took her share. To endure with her lord all her lord’s troubles was easy to her; it was the work to which she had pledged herself.  But to have thought that her lord had troubles not communicated to her; – that would have been to her the one thing not to be bourne.  (p.400)

Trollope always writes with humor, clarity, and a supreme understanding of human nature. His tone is warm, not preachy; he is funny! Yet in his humor, he is serious.  He likes women who are “ready-witted, prompt in action, and gifted with a certain fire” not “missish, and spoony, and sentimental”.  He unveils many forms of pride: the refusal of poor Mr. Crawley to accept needed help; the idolatrous pride of mothers in their children; the haughty statue of a girl whose only desire is to sit and be admired; the difficulty of a stubborn aristocratic mother to admit her judgment was wrong. 

The entertaining subplots add interest without distracting from the main storyline.  The wealthy heiress, Miss Dunstable, is adroit at batting off marriage proposals with her “I am much obliged to you”s until she receives a most unusual love letter from a hero of a previous book.  Young Lucy Robarts is a genius in dealing with a potential mother-in-law problem.  If you’d like to know her solution, email me and I’ll tell you without spoiling it for the others.  TBOI (tasty bit of information): Mr. Spurgeon makes a brief entrance.

It is only mid-February, but I suspect that this book will be my favorite 2007 read.  Elizabeth Gaskell, a contemporary of Trollope, wrote, “I wish Mr. Trollope would go on writing Framley Parsonage for ever.”
 

Guys Holding Babies

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“He’s just like his dad,” she said. “He loves to hold babies.”

 

She was describing my grandson, but a memory of my own dad flashed into my mind. He would stand at the back of the chapel, a baby cradled in his arm as he shook hands with folks leaving.  Even though he had carried around seven babies of his own, if there was a baby in the room, he delighted in holding it. 

I’m thankful to have grown up in a culture, in a community, in a family that valued, cherished and loved on babies.  I’m thankful now to be part of a community of friends who teach both their sons and daughters to hold their little siblings, to comfort them when they are distressed, to give of themselves to these little ones.  In fact, around our parts it is such a common blessing that it almost goes without notice.  

But I look. And I see. 

I see the Matthews and the Lukes and the Adams and the Dannys and the Steves and the Gabriels and the Michaels and the Nathans and the Jesses and the Micahs – all those older brothers who comfortably and naturally tote the little tots who are their sisters and brothers.

Because, you see, I was once the little baby who was held and cherished and protected.  I had my own Dave and Johnny and Jimmy and Danny who found joy in carrying me from the car to the house, who picked me up when I was too tired to trudge forward, whose arms went prickly dead while cradling my sleeping form through a church service. 

We often think of the nurturing of children as a strictly female occupation.  But there is a particular security in being noticed and graciously treated by a father, a grandpa, an uncle, a big brother. 

If I were evaluating a potential husband I would watch closely when he was around children.  Certainly there are different levels of ease depending on how much experience and time he has been around little ones.  But there is a general disposition which will come out.  And a friendly exchange, a playful banter between a three year old and that potential husband would melt my heart faster than a dozen roses or a box of chocolates any day of the year.


 
My beloved holding our second son after he cut the cord, etc.

It is such a joy to watch my son as a daddy; he’s one of the best!

My dad holding his firstborn.   JWH, October 3, 1922 – February 14, 1987

Tarradiddle

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Wah Wah!  I’ve got a nasty head cold and a wicked sore throat.  My son’s school is on autopilot and I’m tucked into the recliner sucking Vitamin C drops, sipping water, solving Sudokus and savoring Anthony Trollope.  But the day cannot be listed among the liabilities if we have learned a new word, can it?  Tarradiddle ranks up there with canoodling and tchah!  Here is the context:

O Lady Lufton!  Lady Lufton! did it not occur to you, when you wrote those last words, intending that they should have so strong an affect on the mind of your correspondent, that you were telling a — tarradiddle?

[…]

In these days we are becoming very strict about truth with our children: terribly strict occasionally, when we consider the natural weakness of the moral courage at the ages of ten, twelve, and fourteen.  But I do not know that we are at all increasing the measure of strictness with which we, grown-up people, regulate our own truth and falsehood.  Heaven forbid that I should be thought to advocate falsehood in children; but an untruth is more pardonable in them than in their parents.  Lady Lufton’s tarradiddle was of a nature that is usually considered excusable — at least with grown people; but, nevertheless, she would have been nearer to perfection could she have confined herself to the truth.    ~ Anthony Trollope in Framley Parsonage

Music in the Morning

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For the virtuoso, musical works are in fact nothing but tragic and moving materializations of his emotions: he is called upon to make them speak, weep, sing and sigh; to recreate them in accordance with his own consciousness.  In this way he, like the composer, is a creator, for he must have within himself those passions that he wishes to bring so intensely to life.               ~ Franz Liszt

You see, playing the piano is a combination of Brain, Heart and Means.  And all three should be even.  If one falls short of the others, the music suffers.  Without Brains, you are a fiasco.  Without Means, you are an amateur.  Without Heart, you are a machine.  It has its dangers, this occupation.    ~Vladimir Horowitz

After we have completed our morning routine of Psalm, prayer, poetry, and catechism, we listen to music that can accompany our educational pursuits. Music with lyrics competes with the studies, so it is not part of our morning repertoire.  My son leans towards Lord of the Ring and Pirates of the Caribbean soundtracks and often pops one in the CD player.  However, we both enjoy Bach, George Winston, Phil Coulter, Yo-Yo Ma, Celtic anything, etc.  The Adagio series are also lovely soundtracks for study.

The Great Synthesis:  After reading My Life with the Great Pianists by Franz Mohr, I began collecting music by some of the great pianists referenced in the book.  Saturday, this peaceful, contemplative Horowitz CD arrived in the mail.  As I type this I’m listening to Robert Schumann’s Träumerei, the piece that Noah Adams wrote about playing in his book Piano Lessons, a journal of his year of piano lessons begun at age 51.  Horowitz plays to perfection Beethoven’s “Pathetique” Sonata, a lovely adagio one of my piano students is beginning.

There you have it – music for both my vocation and avocation.  Vita é bella!