a strangely transnational day

The morning view - before it clouded over - from the rooftop terrace opposite my room: very fine Virginia Creeper.

I then Zoomed in to the memorial service for John Carey - I'd have been there in person if this trip wasn't already very planned by the time the date was announced.  It was beautiful, and I trust he'd have appreciated its combination of beauty and straightforwardness.  But so poignant not to be there; to see and hear dear friends speaking and reading; and to catch tantalizing little glimpses of others.  And it was very English.

 

Then off for a two mile walk to the Museo de las Bellas Artes (I like getting to know cities through walking, even when it's drizzling).  I hadn't realized it had such a stunning collection of Impressionist, Post-Impressionist and some other French nineteenth century art (the Museo has a very good web site, if you want to check it out).  Here, to reprise my longstanding habit of posting feet, are some by Bougereau;

and some, stepping out of water and out of the frame, by Franz von Stuck (ok, not French)

- and here's back to full Salon pomposity: Diana sorprendida by Jules Joseph Lefebre.

But the highlight for me was the late nineteenth century Argentinian paintings that were by Italian immigrants, or by those who were born to Italian immigrants and then went to study in Italy, like this crazy La vuelta del malón [how do you translate that?  "The return of the raiding party"??] by Ángel della Valle, which was send to the Chicago World's Fair and exhibited in Argentina's manufacturing and products section, amid all the agriculture (they didn't have enough paintings to make a separate show);

- the wild looking Indigenous men have captured not just a white woman but all kinds of religious objects from a church they've presumably sacked.  And then this wonderful Ernesto de la Cárcova Sin pan y sin trabajo - "Without bread and without work," which could have come straight from my MA dissertation on social realism and late nineteenth century Italian art ...

I was just seeing some more works from the early twentieth century - evidence of the influence of Boccioni! of Carrà - when That Noise that everyone in LA knows all too well of Watch Duty - that app that alerts us to fires - sounded very faintly, and my Apple Watch buzzed, and I looked and a fire had broken out in Griffith Park about three quarters of a mile behind us - so I called Alice to make sure she was aware, and had gathered the cats up somewhere, and knew where my naturalization certificate is, and and ... well, you try and have a calm conversation of this kind in the middle of early C20th Argentinian art ... Luckily, it was out very quickly, so I went off to La Recolta cemetery to calm down.  It was a very depressing cemetery - usually I love them, but this was gloomy (might have been the weather).  All the same, Eva Perón quite properly had red carnations on her family tomb,

and there were some other good sightings.

Wall art, on my walk back;

and on a chilly dank autumn evening, may I recommend a bowl of lentil stew?

Greetings from Buenos Aires!

I've long wanted to come to Buenos Aires, one of the great late nineteenth and early twentieth century cities of the world ... it was a long journey, but made bearable by the fact that there's only a 4 hour time difference from LA.  And made super-bearable by the fact that it's autumn: a clear crisp autumn day, with golden trees.  I'm staying in Palermo, an area of the city that feels a bit like a Turin suburb,

though of course the French influence is very strong - not least in this abandoned Boulangerie,

and in the iron work in the Botanical Gardens:

with a strange statue in front: why is he wearing a helmet, and nothing else?

The butterfly gardens (complete with many butterflies);

Plants being moved for winter safety into a greenhouse;

a tree with five huge Harris Hawks in it - they are the only hawks who move around in groups - family units of up to seven - to help hunting;

and trees.

Pretty exhausted, and I wasn't going to do much exploration when it came to finding somewhere to eat this evening, so I was very pleased that Santa Evita, a restaurant celebrating Eva Perón, is just down the street ... (polenta and an arugula salad was just what I wanted!).

 

 

the geometry of Miami

Every time I fly to Florida, there are always the most dramatic skies ... I am not staying here (I hope! my onward flight is delayed ...) ... just passing through ... and, yes, still dealing with DGS business.  Just when I thought it was safe to go away, with everything in hand ...

 

hooding

Truly I'll believe that it's the end of the academic year now that we've sent two new PhDs out into the world ... Elissa Watters (with Amy Ogata) and Margot Yale (with Suzanne Hudson).  Happy faces everywhere ...

 

stripes

I was so tired by mid-afternoon (a very patch night's sleep; up at the crack of dawn to go to Keck with Alice as the designated post colonoscopy-and-endoscopy driver; all went well).  These things - let alone the end of the semester - take it out of one.  So I did what I never do, and went to lie down for half an hour - and, well, evidently I was irresistible as a warm soft human surface.

 

other people's front steps

At the bottom of our street, today - but a street about which I felt very sulky, since we were told five days ago (notice tied to gate; notices on lamposts, etc) that it was going to be resurfaced with asphalt slurry, whatever cheap nastiness that might be; that we couldn't park on it, and so on.  Did that happen?  No!  Cancelled due to Unforeseen Circumstances! (a shortage of slurry).  Still, I got in an extra walk.

Yes, there have been a lot of photos of flowers recently.  For those of you skilled in translation - that means it's been Nonstop Admin.  But I have started to see a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel ...

 

a startlingly pink poppy

Not being the yellow-orange that you'd expect a poppy in these parts to be, this does rather stand out.  For all of that, it proved rather elusive to photograph, despite bringing both a camera and a cell phone to bear on its distinctiveness.  I think that when I threw out handfuls of seeds at the end of last year, some were for "California Wild Flowers," and even if the ones that make it through are habitually the Californian poppies, these are staking a claim to our Los Angeles meadow, too.