My dear Ernest, what are you laughing at?

So now it's a bit colder out, and the playgrounds are more sparsely populated and the  free boat rides about the Harbor suddenly less appealing. In other words, it's time to seek out other pursuits. Exhibit 1, above: the generous sculptures of Franz West, at the BMA. A guard tells me that they are generally instructed to ask viewers not to walk atop their upper ridges. But a 4-year-old who simply wants to sit on them, and giggle? no problem.

But sometimes it takes a little more in the way of creativity. On Monday, I spent much of the day reading Oscar Wilde's 'The Critic as Artist.' In that lengthy dialogue, Gilbert, a witty, iconoclastic dandy of the sort in which Wilde specialized, hopes that he can return to his keyboard, after a lengthy discourse on aesthetics with his friend Ernest. 'And now,' entreats Gilbert, 'let me play Chopin to you, or Dvorak? Shall I play you a fantasy by Dvorak? He writes passionate, curiously-coloured things.'

Curiously colored things? Later, Gilbert also tries to describe how certain pieces of music make him feel. And - well, why not? When we got home, I pulled three CDs, and asked Cleo if she would characterize brief segments of music in terms of colors, and describe how the made her feel. Yes, said my willing subject. So now I offer the results of our first attempt at emulating Gilbert.

1. The opening of Count Basie's One O'Clock Boogie? Orange, fire. And: 'It makes me feel... I don't know what it makes me feel like.' All right, then. So let's try...

2. Renato Carosone's Tu Vuo' Fa l'Americano. Purple. And happy.

3. Ornette Coleman's Broad Way Blues. Brown. Like I'm shouting.

And then, soon enough, she was virtually shouting, playing loudly in the next room after having decided that three excerpts was enough. Meanwhile, I sat in the empty dining room for a few moments, writing down her reactions, wondering about the gulfs between Cleo and Gilbert, and thinking, for the first time, about the way in which Carosone's ballad contains a note or two of purple.

Mental sets

I think I've mentioned it before in this blog, but it's a subject worth returning to: I'm thinking of Sir Ernst Gombrich's terrific Art and Illusion, in which he advances the notion of mental sets. Essentially, he argues that naturalism in art has traditionally always involved a degree of abstraction: the artist, that is, employs codes that are then understood by the reader, or viewer. Marble is not flesh, but we understand that it can represent flesh; the glazed blacks on a Greek vase denote forms and figures simply because they are not unglazed terra cotta. Thus, from such a perspective, an understanding of art depends upon a familiarity with the conventions in play - or, as Gombrich puts it, with the mental set of the culture in which they were developed. And, by extension, the more we see, the more we will be able to understand. A map of the London underground may not make any sense to us at first, but once we realize that circles can stand for stations, and that lines represent rails, we can plot our course from King's Crossing with relative ease.

I don't have a motto, but Gombrich's thesis serves me about as well as any other principle. The more you see, the more you understand. It's one of the reasons I love to travel, and it explains the basic excitement that can still grip me when I have an hour or two free in a bookstore, or library. And, happily, I can see traces of this basic openness to new forms in Cleo, too. L. (who is at least as open to new codes as I am) recently ordered another entry in the terrific Classical Kids series; this one deals with Tchaikovsky's 1891 trip to the New World, where he was to conduct in the glamorous new Music Hall. The story is rooted in fact: indeed, the composer apparently kept a small notebook, in which he jotted down questions and observations about the United States (a sample: 'Things to ask: Is it safe to drink the water in America? What kind of cigarettes do men smoke in New York City? What kind of hats do they wear?'). But it's also partly fictional, and lively; after all, it's aimed at kids.

Or, I might add, at adults who don't know his music all that well. Indeed, I've been delighted with some of the selections, from pieces that I don't think I've ever heard before. The other day, as Cleo and I drove home, I mentioned that I didn't know much of the music on the CD. 'All of us didn't,' came the reply, from the back seat. And then, a moment later: 'If you don't hear it, you don't know it.'

That's right, Cleo. But wonderfully, by the same principle, once you do, you do.

If you could see it

With L. scheduled to present a poster at the annual APHA meeting, we all set out for Boston on a sunny Saturday morning. On the flight up, I sat next to Cleo and told her that she might hear some novel accents. 'In Boston,' I explained, 'they sometimes don't say their r's very clearly.' And, falling back on an especially trite example, I added, 'They might say cah, or pahk.'

Two hours later, we were enjoying some drinks and conversation with our very gracious hosts, Perry and Susie, when Cleo walked directly up to Perry, and asked, 'Do you say the r in car?' Well, yes, it turned out - for he was raised in New Mexico, and never fostered a heavy New England accent. Or that's what he said, at least. An hour after that, as he took us on a driving tour of Cambridge, he happened to mention that the Charles had recently hosted its annual regatta. And Cleo, who had apparently been listening closely, turned to me in the back seat and smiled. 'Regatta,' she giggled, despite not even knowing the word's meaning. 'He doesn't say regatter.'

Well, that's right. But, regardless of accent, we had a happy little trip. In the heated hotel pool, Cleo learned how to use a kickboard, and tossed off about 30 laps, churning her little legs. In Cambridge, we had terrific hot chocolate, and in Somerville, caught up with old friends as Cleo got to try on a Belle-inspired dress. And this morning, with L. at the conference most of the day, Cleo and I tried out the strong Children's Museum, blowing large, drooping bubbles and trying our hand at a mock airplane control kit.

And then three hours later, as the two of us were boarding our plane home (L.'s in Boston for one more day), Cleo began to work the aisle. As travelers settled into their seats, to left and right, she turned to me, and smiled, and said, Cah. Pahk. Soft smiles began to form, on either side of her. Gahden.

By 5:15, we were in our car and on the road home, and as the city gave way to dark, I looked for a CD to play, to close out our short trip. My hand came up with an album by Coldplay, a best-seller that I've never played for Cleo. I told her a little bit about the band, and then skipped ahead to track 7, 'Speed of Sound.' The simple descending chords surrounded us, the stadium drums kicked in, and Chris Martin sang: 'If you could see it, you would understand.'

I think you would. The strangers in seats 7 c and d did, at least. The little girl can kindle warmth, and I'm so deeply happy that I get to spend time with her.