Our snowdrops have emerged, and the crocuses are shoosting (to quote Lisa Douglas) upwards. Spring is springing. Love is in the air, and the birds begin to sing differently now. Reading poetry suddenly seems like a great idea. Sunday waffles taste even better today, though a crappy movie is still a crappy movie. More on that later.
We've had six clear nights so far this astronomy session. I managed to observe during three of them; the others were unusable due to wind speed. However, my last outing was on the chilly side of things. When I arrived to set up, the temp was 18 F. Much warmer at home, near the river and in towns, but out in the middle of a damp farmer's field, well... No wind, but it was still mighty cold air entering my lungs. When I left, it was 16 F. The main problem in those kinds of temps is fingers; how to write with three pairs of gloves on, for example. Of course I use hand warmers, too, but I need some flexibility in changing eyepieces and scribbling notes. My notes from that Friday night are a tad difficult to read. Anyway, I lasted nearly 3 hours in the arctic chilliness, but I had an amazing time with winter star clusters and nebulae, and many colourful binary and triple star systems. My usual threshold is 25 F; below that I stay home. But spring madness drove me forth on that night.
Our upcoming road trip (still quite a while away) will not include New Mexico. At first I was puzzled by this; why was I not yearning to get back to the desert? Usually when March is approaching I begin to smell the dust and cacti, and feel the spring winds blowing the hair right off my head. But not this year. Why not? The desert is a place for us to run to when things are confusing and getting too wild and out of control. Like in our previous life as teachers. Or when we were heavy duty travelers, as before the pandemic. Or even when we made weekly trips to Detroit, and sometimes more often than that. When we are surrounded by lots of people for long periods of time, then we feel the need to escape to the solitude and silence of the NM desert and mountains. We rarely encounter other people when we are out in the landscape there, and we return filled with a new kind of resilience; we feel a buffer between us and the world for a time. But since we are living a rather spartan and hermetic existence these days, there is no great need to escape anything. We are still loving our mostly stay-at-home lifestyle, and don't even feel strong urges to cross over to Detroit. However, I do feel it is time for the node to expand, and so a week or so of driving around (not too far from home) and exploring new places is in order. Some new and/or seldom visited art museums and new archeological sites await us. When the urge to visit NM arises, it will be swiftly followed up.
Next topic is a landscape painting from the DIA, an absolute favourite of ours. Hercules Seghers' paintings are rarer than Bruegel's, and Detroit's painting is only attributed to the master (there are not enough figures in the painting, so some do not accept it as being by him). It's as close to a Bruegel landscape painting as you can get, and reminds me a bit of the one in San Diego. The Detroit painting releases its full charm when the gallery is very empty and quiet. The picture is like a scene from the background of a Bruegel painting, a small detail made large.
Detail of left side.
Detail of right side.
River Landscape, 17th C, attrib. to Hercules Seghers (1589-1640). Dutch. Oil on canvas; 16" x 25" unframed. Collection Detroit Institute of Arts.
Turning now to film viewing news, there are several to report. I ended up choosing two shorter films as my main weekly selection. The first one was La Ricotta, a 35 minute film from 1963 directed by Pasolini. In it, Orson Welles is directing a film about the crucifixion. A very unique look at a director's job, with some very funny moments, with just as many head shaking ones. Of course Pasolini was charged with offending religion, and had to pay a fine to avoid jail. I followed up with A Well Spent Life, a 44 minute film from 1971 directed by Les Blank. Mance Lipscomb was an aging blues singer and guitarist in the deep south of Texas, and this documentary film listens to his words of wisdom and his music, and explores his surroundings. In the old style doc, it is still fun to watch. The deep south does not get any deeper than this. Mance died in 1976.
A Scene from "La Ricotta." Leaving Mubi soon.
Now showing on Criterion.
My leaving Criterion choice for last week was another film by French director Claude Sautet. Max and the Junkmen is from 1971, and tells the story of an unusual police inspector trying to trap a gang of petty thieves in a bank heist. He is frustrated because he cannot catch a professional gang, so he thinks that by setting up some amateurs for failure he can frighten the pros. What is unusual about this cop is that he has a private income from his parents, who own a vineyard. And apparently no other case load. In the end, he traps himself as much as he traps the criminals. Sautet's films seem to be very unusual ways to tell traditional stories, and are quite watchable. Both recently viewed films have had surprise endings, too. Romy Schneider plays an unusual prostitute, looking gorgeous in every scene.
Leaving Criterion Feb. 28th.
Deb's main film pic for the weekend is called Impromtu, from 1991. It stars some big names, and purports to be about Georges Sand, Frans Liszt, Chopin, and Delacroix. Judy Davis plays a very self possessed Georges, and Hugh Grant is wonderful as a sickly and effeminate Chopin. There is very little about Sand or her novels, but she wears some great suits, and her haircut is perfect, too. There is much great music, mostly by Chopin, incredible sets and costumes all around, and lots of bustling about and quick repartee. But all in all the film is quite empty, more like what an aristocrat might think it was like to be such artists. Lovely to look at and at times to listen to, it is not something that music, literature, or art students must see.
Now showing on the Roku Channel.
Mapman Mike
