Stolen time

The snow started to fall in earnest at about 7, but by that point we already knew that it would be a special day. Hopkins had announced that it would be closed, and MICA soon followed suit. Cleo's school would open at 10 - but, come on. This day had snow day written all over it.

Last night, as the snowstorm coasted over the low Appalachian mountains to our west, I read Russell Schriefer's recent essay on a day spent with his aging father. Business happened to take Schriefer to Florida, and he realized that he was only a few hours' drive from his dad, who was in poor health. So he drove to his dad's, and they spent a day together: a relatively ordinary day, in Schriefer's telling (a brief conversation about children and plans for a burial lot; some e-mailing; a dinner out), until suddenly his father's health took a serious turn for the worse. And soon enough, paramedics had crowded into his father's home, trying to restore his health - and then declaring him, all of sudden, dead. On one plane, then, the story is one of loss, of being robbed. But Schriefer cast it in a second sense: realizing that he hadn't even originally planned to spend the day with his father, he felt in retrospect that he had cheated Time, and stolen a day with his father.

That's how I feel tonight. I don't mean to be ominous - indeed, right now Cleo and L. are watching the first minutes of Pocahantas - but in a very basic sense it feels as though I stole a day with my daughter. At a time when I thought I would be teaching an essay by Alois Riegl, I was wrestling and cooking with her. At noon, when I likely would have been eating alone, I built a snowman with her, and took her sledding. And at 4, when I might have been about to pick her up from her nursery school, I was teaching her a song by Twisted Sister and then suspending her from the bed, as we pretended that she was a deep-sea diver searching for pearls.

Time passes. The snow outside is already largely melted. On Thursday, she'll be back in school, as usual (tomorrow is her day off, and we plan to spend it in part looking at the mummies currently at the Science Center). But for now, I feel as though I stole the better part of a day with my daughter.

Thanksgiving

As the snow falls outside and wrapping paper carpets our play room, Thanksgiving can already feel remote, long gone. But wait a minute: it was less than two weeks ago, and a few of the guest place cards that Cleo prepared still stand, ready for duty, on our dining room table. And, to be simple about it, we're still just as thankful today for the things that we appreciated then: family, and home and hearth; a beautiful world that is large enough to evince a consistent wonder. So let's pause, on this December 10, and return at least briefly to the song that Cleo and her Redbird friends sang at their Thanksgiving pageant (and which she performed again, and again, to cornered relatives over the long weekend):

The earth is good to me. And I must thank the earth, for giving me the things I need: the sun and the rain and the apple seed. The earth is good to me.

Earth, you're partly covered today, in a soft, bleached blanket. Our car, this morning, bears a deep scar from another that slid into it, on the snow that conceals you; its door will no longer open and its backseat, in turn, is now covered in a rich tapestry of shattered glass. An appraiser is due to visit. But we are all okay. And for that we thank you, earth.

Music and the city

Ah, faithful reader: you came back, and we love you for it. Willing, apparently, to forgive three weeks of silence, you steered your browser here, and for that, we're grateful. (Or perhaps your Google search for more information on the soundtrack of Pinocchio brought you here - in which case, we're also grateful, and apologetic). We have a vague sense, in fact, that your generosity deserves an ode, a paean, a hymn of thanks. But our research department tells us that in fact you probably don't want odes. You want - well, you want cute pictures of Cleo. And maybe a related anecdote or two. So we'll try to respect your wishes, and instead of offering airy enconia or excuses for the recent lack of original material here (elephant ivory; art and destruction), we'll get down to business.

To Cleo, that is, and to fatherhood, and music. Did I tell you that we attended, two and a half weeks ago, the world premiere of a piece of music written about Baltimore. Indeed: it was part of a program assembled by the Walters Art Museum, which had commissioned Judah Adashi, a 30-something American pianist and composer, to write a work that was somehow inspired by the Book of Fayyum, which is now on display at the museum. So Adashi got to thinking, and the result was the four-movement Inner City, an original piece that consisted largely of pensive, jazz-inflected piano and an overlaid pre-recorded landscape of industrial and urban sounds.

Cleo and I took our seats early in the balcony of the half-filled auditorium, and spent some time testing the bounciness of the folding seats. We thought about how shiny the drum kit on the stage was, and wondered if Adashi would use it (he wouldn't; it was for a later piece). And then we watched and listened, as Adashi began to play: deliberately but emotionally, and imparting a sense that he was trying to channel some energy of the city into the sounds that drifted towards us.

Did he succeed? Well, we were both engaged - for the first two movements, at least, at which point Cleo began to squirm a bit, and we discretely headed for a door. 'What did you think?' I asked her- and learned that Cleo felt that the music 'wasn't as interesting as some music.' All right. But I will say that as we left the museum to join L. for lunch, the city that surrounded us now felt colored, in turn, by the music of the piano that seemed almost to accompany it.

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.

And I did not know

One of the many books that currently form the teetering pile on Cleo's dresser is Rembrandt Takes a Walk, a slightly off-color story of a boy who discovers that the paintings in his disheveled uncle's house can come to life. Ultimately, the boy gets some aid from Rembrandt, who emerges from a self-portrait to help in replacing the fruit in a ransacked Cezanne - but not before donning the uncle's gaudy colored tie.

Today, it was Cleo and I who took a walk, as we strolled southwest from Union Station, checked out the new black box video at the Hirshhorn, and then had a look at Leonardo's Ginevra, the Kahn and Mellon Madonnas (about which Cleo's Papa has written quite thoughtfully), works by Manet and Cassatt - and those two remarkable rooms full of Rembrandts. And while Cleo seemed open-minded about each one, responding thoughtfully to my questions, the self-portrait of Rembrandt clearly surprised her. "And I did not know," she giddily proclaimed, "that in a real museum there was a real picture of Rembrandt."

It's true: seeing something that one has only heard about, or read about, in the flesh can be overwhelming. Her reaction, in fact, reminded me of the disbelief that some early American Beatles fans felt, when they first saw the lads from Liverpool in person. A memory posted on a site devoted to Clevelanders' memories of the band might be taken as typical:

"I was 15 and won a ticket from the WKYC radio station with Jerry G. and the crazy deejays. My mom took me to Cleveland for the concert... I was in the 6th row of the balcony on the right side... practically overhanging the stage!.. It was insane! I was so overwhelmed by the whole evening. I couldn't and still can't believe I saw The Beatles..."

Didn't know; can't believe. And yet the ticket, and the photo above, offer indisputable proof. But there in the background is another sort of trace, or proof, as well. When I pointed to Rembrandt's shadowy darks in the lower left of the canvas, and suggested that we're not quite sure what is even represented there, she wasn't as uncertain as me. "I think," she volunteered, "that that's his tie." That is, the one that he had taken from an unsuspecting uncle, in a book on her dresser back home.