Friday, August 26, 2016


the end?

The blog habit is a hard one to break.  I have tried and failed a few times and apparently here we are once more.  Are blogs over?  It seems so, but it feels akin another question I hear sometimes, namely, Is painting dead?  I answer, if only to myself:  painting never; blogs perhaps, but writing never.  August is nearly done and I have painted and read and written less than I'd hoped to, all month long.  I have, however, read two books that I cannot contain myself about any longer and so here I am to mention them somewhere other than merely in my diary.  Which I do write in, regularly, but which doesn't offer much in the way of reciprocity in the realms of empathy or community.  Instead it just shows me more of myself, which frankly I am sick of at the moment.  Anyway.  The books in question.  Both are from the library sale haul I wrote about a few months ago.  I finally picked them up in turn and thought Read this now

The first is Pat Conroy's collection of bookish essays, My Reading Life (Nan A. Talese 2010).  I had never read anything of his before, none of his sagas, no fiction whatsoever, none of his memoirs.  But a good book about books I am always up for and this one sure does shine brightly.  All the essays therein are about books, reading, his family and education, and his writing life, but one of the best deals with a bookshop (p.110):

" accident, I had discovered the nerve center of my deliverance in a nondescript bookstore in Atlanta.... Thousands of books roared out my name in joyous welcome when I entered that shop for the first time."

He elaborates (p.111):

"Books are living things and their task lies in their vows of silence.  You touch them as they quiver with a divine pleasure.  You read them and they fall asleep to happy dreams for the next ten years.  If you do them the favor or understanding them, of taking in their portions of grief and wisdom, then they settle down in contented residence in your heart."

My Reading Life is a delight and almost convinces me to read War and Peace, so fervent is his chapter on repeatedly doing just that.  A sample (p.271):

"On the third reading, I found that spending time between the pages of War and Peace was one of the most compensatory pursuits I had ever discovered."

Another (p.274):

"...this novel will make you dizzy with joyous affection for the people you will meet on these pages."

And again, as if we remain in any doubt (p.281):

"Over the years, many critics have said that War and Peace is not even a novel, and they may be right.  Whatever it is, there has never been anything close to touching it.  It stands alone.  A star in the east.  Magnificent.  One of a kind.... I envy the young man or woman picking up this book for the first time more than any reader in the world."

Okay, okay, I'll get to it!  He out-effuses every other book reviewer or critic I have ever come across.  A noble feat.  I have a recent translation of War and Peace, should I read it this winter?  I want to, and I wonder if I actually will.  I did read another Pat Conroy book, after finishing My Reading Life.  His memoir about teaching black children at a tiny school on an island off South Carolina, The Water is Wide (originally published in 1972, still in print, I read a recent softcover edition).  Pretty rough, pretty fantastic.  Not like anything else I've ever read, it left me wanting much more.    

The second book I feel compelled to mention is Untold Stories by Alan Bennett (Picador 2005) - over 650 pages, the middle section of which is made up of his diaries from 1996-2004.  The next installment (diaries 2005-2015) will be published in the U.K. in late fall and in the usual way of things I cannot wait but will have to, unless I want to read bits online, since his diary entries have been published annually by the London Review of Books.  Apparently it's no good having set aside my reading of James Lees-Milne's diaries, since here he is in Alan Bennett's diaries.  Not James Lees-Milne himself, but his diaries, since Alan Bennett is re-reading them himself and mentions the fact in his own diary.  I am lost in diary-heaven!  The volume of Lees-Milne I left off with is still sitting on my bedside table, by the way, and has been all summer.  Even though it's on the bottom of the pile I won't forsake it much longer, I know.  Meanwhile Alan Bennett unknowingly provides me with the impetus to continue my blog, even if only sporadically, when he writes (p.179):

"Diaries lengthen the days.  To read back over a year when nothing much seems to have happened is often to be nicely surprised.... A diary is undoubtedly a comfort.  I feel better for having it written down, however hard the experience."  (p.179)

I look back in my own diaries and again here in this edited online version, and I must say I cringe sometimes, but at the same time I regret nothing!  A funny paradox.  Perhaps I have reached the stage of life where I'm no longer embarrassed by myself and my literary and artistic attempts and aspirations.  Not certain about that point yet, but there are glimmerings at least.  I don't know if I can bear to leave good books un-talked about, or diary entries unwritten, or paintings unpainted.  By me, I mean - tons of people are doing all that stuff, all over the place.  But I am talking about mustering up the bravery to make my own particular contributions, slowly, over time.  So I muddle along, and my work piles up as it usually does.  The older I get the more I think that these small day-to-day attempts are all that there is - they accumulate and may become something bigger or may not, but all start with the small choice, on any given day:  This happened; I have feelings about it and here they are.  You know?

Back to Alan Bennett, whose voice is so different from Pat Conroy's - reticence versus boldness perhaps, or even more simplistically, British versus American.  The essays in Untold Stories are terrific, and his diaries are compulsively good reading.  I want them to go on forever and dread that they won't.  Here is an example, perfect in my eyes - one entry from 1997 in its entirety.  Perfect purely for itself and also for that early-fall feeling, much in evidence around here, not to mention blackberrying, which I have been doing myself, along the roadsides of our small Maine town.  I'll leave you with this passage, which has everything I love most in prose - the decidedly rural, in contrast with the urban, where Bennett also lives; painterly colors and evocative repetitions of imagery; outward circumstances echoing inward feeling (p.217):

"15 September, Yorkshire.  Blackberrying up Black Bank, taking with me one of Miss Shepherd's old walking sticks.  Huge clusters of berries so that one can gather them almost by the handful.  Never so utterly at peace as when picking blackberries or looking for mushrooms, the spread of Ingleborough and Pennyghent still sunny while black clouds gather over Morecambe.  A flock of sheep comes up the road and won't pass me until I stand in the ditch.  The pretty farm girl who is bringing up the rear seems almost as reluctant to pass as the sheep, just giving me a shy 'Hello' and running on.  A mountain ash tree, weighed down with huge swags of crimson berries, catches the last of the sun.  It's like something by Samuel Palmer; paint it as bright and glowing as it is and it would seem like a vision."

Thursday, July 14, 2016



Gorgeous summer is in full bloom around here.  I am working and working and working some more, at painting mostly, and various other projects.  For one, I've been putting together a small book of my watercolors, with some text, and I hope to finish it later this year.   Because of all this busyness, many other things and experiences have fallen by the wayside, at least temporarily.  I cannot, I find, do it all, much less do it all well.  So I am saying no to many things, in real life and virtually.  Especially virtually - screen time of any kind has become less and less pleasurable for me in recent months.  So I am letting myself off the hook and taking an extended break, here, for the foreseeable future.  Besides, my reading life is languishing - right now I read art books and look at the pictures, mostly, and have made no more headway in the diaries of James Lees-Milne.  Much less in any other books.  And my bookselling life, well, that has slowed to a veritable crawl.  Thus with no book news to report, I feel as if this so-called book blog has become as a field of chirping crickets.  Pleasant, distracting - to myself if not to anyone else.  Gentle noise.  When I am in need of quiet.  After more than ten years of sharing my life in books, I am content to call it a day.  Rest assured that I will return if and when I have anything of note to discuss.  Because it has been a great joy to write and communicate openly with other readers and book lovers, in this way, and the fact of that will never change.  Thanks for reading what I have written.  Thanks for talking with me about those wonderful papery-magic objects-that-are-more-than-objects that we all love.  Doing so has lifted my heart during many dark days and brought further illumination to many already sunny days.  I appreciate it more than you will ever know.  Please keep seeking out and reading wonderful books.  I promise to do the same. ♥ 

Wednesday, June 15, 2016


read it and weep

Summer is underway here in Maine, at long last.  I am getting my self and my stuff organized for my annual island painting time, and will be away for a few weeks (or rather, going away and then coming back and then going away again) and wanted to wish everyone well for the time being.  And also have a say, before I go.  Since it's been another dark week in this country, with another terrible mass shooting, and I don't know about you but my heart is in my throat much of the time.  However, fear and anger and anxiety and outrage are not places or states I can live in for long.  I can visit them, and take some necessary action (such as voicing my concerns to the nearest elected officials, which I have done), then I need to gather myself and my courage and return to where I usually live - places of peace, quietude, respect, empathy, compassion, and love.  When I act from those places, I am effective and functioning at the highest levels I am capable of.  When I act from the other places, only more of the same is generated, and that is not what I wish to add to the world, in any way or form.  I speak only for myself - I know that anger and even rage can and does propel necessary change in the world, like rocket fuel.  I recognize the darkness that all of us carry within us, and the brokenness, it is part of being human and being whole.  It shows up in my paintings and in other ways, from time to time, and I will never deny its existence, or shun it.  But it is a shadow self compared to the one standing in full sunlight.  During this summer solstice week, when the light is at its longest, I'll be out working to add to the good in the world.

Speaking of empathy, I'd like to relate a tale from the bookshop.  This happened many years ago.  A regular customer of mine asked if I had read a particular book that he found in the literature section.  He showed it to me.  It was My Name is Asher Lev by Chaim Potok (Knopf 1972).  Yes, I told him, I'd read it and loved it and thought it was one of the best books ever about what the inner call to be an artist really feels like.  And the difficulty and beauty involved in answering that call, when circumstances seem to be against you, if not insurmountable.  Fantastic book.  He liked the recommendation, I guess, and bought the book.  Then returned some days later, after reading it.  He said to me, I paraphrase but you will get the idea, "How could you possibly have liked this book?  How could you get anything out of it, since you're not Jewish, you're not a Hasidic Jew?"  (Asher Lev is a young Hasidic Jew, and the novel is set in 1950s New York, and deals with Jewish history and themes, as well as art.  And, full disclosure, the customer in question was himself Jewish.)  I distinctly remember being at a loss for words, being in near-disbelief, actually.  I think I just looked at him, across the desk from me, there in the bookshop.  It sounds extreme, but I wondered for a moment if I was looking into the eyes of a sociopath.  Someone with zero or little empathy.  It was a long time ago but I think I said something along the lines of, "I don't need to belong to a particular culture or race to empathize with that culture or race, or want to learn about them.  We are all human beings.  And I'm interested in the world, in all kinds of people.  The book fascinated me."  I either said all or some of that, or later, in my head, it was what I wished I had said.  I don't remember what he replied, but I do remember a look of something like scorn on his face.  It felt like being told I shouldn't read James Baldwin or Maya Angelou, since I happen to be Caucasian.  Seriously.  It may have been a simple case of what is now (horribly) termed mansplaining but I was still shocked.  Isn't this life - and this reading life - all about empathy?  Reading takes us places that we may never go "in real life," but gives us something even more precious, the soul of the author, the world of the author.  Which becomes then our shared world.

This episode came to mind this week because I took a break from the James Lees-Milne diaries to re-read an old favorite - a short novel called Franny, the Queen of Provincetown by John Preston.  It was originally published in 1983, and I have a great reprint from Arsenal Pulp Press.  Which is still in print, and contains extra material about Preston and his life and work, as well as Preston's unfinished sequel.  This novel is a little gem.  Built up slowly in small paragraphs of first-person accounts, starting in the 1950s and ending in the 1980s, it follows the lives and fortunes of a gay man named Franny and his circle of friends, in Boston, Chicago, and then Provincetown.  There is one scene early on in the novel which centers around a gay bar in Chicago, and every time I read it I have tears in my eyes.  I couldn't help but think of it again this week.  It has been a long time since I myself went dancing in (what we called in the late 1980s and early 1990s) a gay bar, but during a particularly difficult year in my life I spent significant time with a dear friend, dancing the night away, in a nightclub that everyone who went there simply called "the bar."  LGBTQ people and some heterosexual people were there together - sometimes not many of us - dancing and generally feeling blissed out, usually without alcohol - we just wanted to dance and be together, and besides, drinks were too expensive for my minimum-wage bookstore clerk salary.  Those nights were fantastic.  I remember acceptance, euphoria, joy - people being themselves, ourselves.  And, the music was so great, and we all looked so good!  Or thought we did, which also counts!  I remember everyone smiling, relaxed, happy.  It was a good place made great by the people and I feel so lucky to have had that experience.  And yet "the bar" was located a brief walk away from the site of a terrible hate crime - the murder of a young gay man, Charlie Howard.  He was killed the year after the first edition of Franny, the Queen of Provincetown was published.

And here we are today.  Obviously I am not a gay man, but oh how I love Franny, the Queen of Provincetown.  I wholeheartedly recommend it.  Preston is quoted in the introduction - he wept over his typewriter as he wrote the pages - tears streamed - because it was his own life, his history, and his future life, that he was writing about, and the lives of people he loved, and their fates, and their terrible struggles, and the evolution of love.  Acceptance.  Empathy.  Read it and weep, alongside him, there at the typewriter.  There at the bar.  One street away from hate.  That's right where my bookshop was too, come to think of it.  And now?  The nightclub in Florida... all the tears and pain, I can't even imagine.  But I've read the news, and seen pictures, and have feelings, so I can come pretty close. 

I keep thinking I will stop writing, but I keep finding words in my way.  Here are a few more.  We live next door to a school.  One morning some years ago, when we weren't home (we were out of state), there was a man with a gun at this school, in a classroom full of kids.  Holding them hostage.  No one died and I think that's one of the many good things that can be said about that day.  I tried to write about it, here, when it happened, and then again after the Sandy Hook school shooting, and I couldn't do it.  I still can't, I find.  But the gist of it is, here we are, all of us, right next door to violence, all the time.  Hoping and working for peaceful change.  Choosing empathy, choosing love.  Much love!  Back in a few weeks.                 

Tuesday, May 24, 2016


of houses and humans

The spring weeks fly by.  This past weekend held our first truly summery days - hot sun, shorts, flip-flops, a remote empty beach, desultory watercolors, the full picnic basket, a sense of delicious idleness.  Long days filled with what feels like all the time in the world.  Most welcome around here, after a month of anxiety about house repairs (chimneys rebuilt and roof re-shingled), all finished now.  Except for, of course, the paying of the bills. 

But let's not dwell on that.  Instead, books!  I make progress in the diaries of James Lees-Milne.  Am nearing the end of volume six - Ancient as the Hills: Diaries 1973-1974 (John Murray 1997).  Many thoughts regarding this and all the previous volumes too, mostly involving people and places.

People:  Lees-Milne encounters a fascinating cast of characters, and writes about them at length.  Some of my favorite passages and turns of phrase in the diaries are his descriptions of people:

"Mrs. Stirling was bedecked in jewels and gems.  When she walks across the room it is like a chandelier which has been let down from the ceiling and, without collapsing, mysteriously manages to move."  (Diaries 1942-1945 p.83)

"Grandy Jersey lunched but when alone with me is apt to fall asleep like a large and beautiful dormouse."  (Diaries 1946-1949 p.7)

"Mary is as majestic as ever, tall, robust, windswept, exceedingly untidy.  Her tweed coat and skirt are stained and torn, and the pockets have holes in them.  Her breeding and dignity are impeccable; her views are uncompromising, proud and right.  Her humour is unimpaired.  She is a splendid creature with a massive soul."  (ibid p.93)

"She is still quick as lightning, sharp as a packet of needles and capable of seducing God.  She is going to invite me to stay at Donnington, which I rather dread and much look forward to.  (Daisy Fellowes; ibid p.253)

"Lunched with that fiend Charles Fry at the Ritz.... He is unchanged - detestable.  I really dislike him unreservedly.  He is utterly untrustworthy, without conscience, moral scruple, or decency."  (ibid p.277)

I could go on, Lees-Milne certainly does.  His diaries come across as remarkably even-handed in the praise and blame departments, which I honor him for.  Clear-eyed descriptions, as far as I can tell, especially of those he knew well.  Speaking of whom, I would recommend these diaries for anyone even remotely interested in the doings of the Mitford family.  Lees-Milne went to school with Tom Mitford, who died during the war (hence during the course of these diaries), brother of the famous Mitford sisters.  Nancy and Debo make many appearances throughout, along with all the rest.  Early on Lees-Milne says, "What a catching disease Mitfordism is!"  (Diaries 1942-1945 p.66)  He considers Tom his oldest friend and loves the whole family.  And yet mentions several times their unkind and often cruel wit, especially Nancy's.  As a sidelight on the lives and times of the Mitfords, these diaries are invaluable.  Ditto the Nicolsons/Sackville-Wests. 

Places: Lees-Milne's work for the National Trust has him visiting houses and their owners all over the countryside, all the time.  He says of his preservation work, "... my loyalties are first to the houses, second to the donors, and third to the National Trust.  I put the Trust last because it is neither a work of art nor a human being but an abstract thing, a convenience."  (ibid p.153)  Another reason to honor him - his love for art, in the forms of architecture and its details, houses and their contents, especially in the face of war, destruction, and societal change on a massive scale.  He and his cohorts saved what they could, when they could.  Lees-Milne also says, about the National Trust at that time, "...we are not a bureaucratic team of experts, but a dedicated group of happy-go-lucky enthusiasts, who ought not to be bossed about."  (Diaries 1946-1949 p.49) 

As I read along in the diaries I find myself taking notes about both houses and owners.  They often share names, or not, and sometimes I can't tell which is which until their context becomes apparent.  Viz.:

Felbrigg = house
Wyndham Ketton-Cremer = human
Ockwells = house
Compton Beauchamp = house
Monk Hopton = house
Upton Cresset = house
Stafford Cripps = human
Polesden Lacey = house
Lydiard Tregoze = house
Wentworth Woodhouse = house
the Medlycotts = humans
the Grazebrooks = humans
Shardeloes = house
Worplesdon = house
Clumber = house
Swanton Morley = house
Gwynne Ramsey = human
Riette Lamington = human
Mindy Bacon = human
Burnett Pavitt = human
Lytes Cary = house
the Stavordales at Evershot = humans, house

How varied and wonderful the English language is!  Lees-Milne's writing certainly highlights the oddities and beauties of it.  He is usually straightforward as a writer, in his style, but is also wide awake to poetry and beauty:  

"Set off this morning for Norfolk.  Lunched at Saffron Walden - a poetic, medieval tapestry, wild-flower name..." (Diaries 1946-1949 p.131)

Enough for today, I've got to catch up in my own diaries - I still haven't copied notes from Lees-Milne's volumes five and six.  I did finally find a copy of volume ten (see last post) - it was just a little over forty dollars, and is on approach from a bookseller in the U.K. as we speak.  Phew.  Glad to have the complete set.  My summer reading is taken care of!  I say that even as other books encroach, more or less all the time!  Well, there are worse problems to have, I know.  If anyone feels like chiming in, I would love to know your summer reading plans.  Meanwhile, enjoy lilac-time.  Which is so fleeting it must be savored as it happens.

Monday, May 02, 2016


unscrupulous, nasty, and frivolous?

A rainy day.  Here we are.  Um, so.  Yeah.  James Lees-Milne.  Have I mentioned him before?  ;O)

After several weeks of reading his diaries (the John Murray hardcover reprints) I feel like I am beginning to know him and learn his language.  I'm in the thick of it.  In volume four, today, it is late April, 1948.  I don't want to get ahead of myself, though, and so will begin at the beginning, by saying yet again how much I enjoy reading other people's diaries.  Lees-Milne is a conscientious diary-keeper and writes every day, or nearly every day.  Most of his entries are not long, just notes with the details of "I did this, I did that, so-and-so was there, and said such-and-such."  He does have decided opinions about everything and everyone, and states them often, with long strings of adjectives attached like kite tails.  Even so, his diaries are so much less snarky and scandalous than I set out thinking they were going to be.  In fact they seem neither snarky nor scandalous at all, really, and not just by today's standards (do we have standards...?).  Yet another lesson in abandoning all preconceived notions about anything.  So far his diaries are just diaries - observations, notations, records of the day-to-day.  But his day-to-day is quite different from ours, and so I read on, fascinated.  Through many lunches at many clubs.  And many visits to many historic houses for work and for pleasure.  Days of action and days of boredom.  Books he's reading and writing.  Views on politics and religion.  Friends wandering in and out (and what friends they are: the Mitfords, Emerald Cunard, Ivy Compton-Burnett, various Sackville-Wests, Harold Nicolson, the Pope-Hennessy family - a veritable waterfall of names).  And as an impossible-to-ignore backdrop to everything, in the first two volumes and beyond, the war.  Bombs dropping in London, for months on end.  Uncertainty and death.  

He originally means to write his diaries only during the years of the war, and in fact he quits writing them after peace is declared.  But soon starts again:

"Sunday, 6th January.... An explanation is now called for. Why do I resume this diary which three months ago I brought to an end?  There is no explanation.  I merely missed it like an old friend."  (Diaries 1946-1949 p.3)

But I'm getting ahead of myself, jumping right in to volume three like that!  How about the earlier ones?  Well, the first two alternate in tone between Siegfried Sassoon's memoirs and Edward Gorey screenplays, if he had ever written such things.  As I read along, I kept thinking of Gorey's mock-Edwardian-roaring-twenties country house folk, languishing on settees and going mysteriously missing during thunderstorms, etc.  Like this, Lees-Milne at a country house for the weekend:

"Sunday, 9th August.  The others sail spasmodically on the lake in their beastly boats, but the weather bores me and I don't go near it.  When we all meet the fun is not furious and the conversation not sparkling.  I feel discontented and unwell.  Indeed I wonder why on earth I ever came." (Diaries 1942-1945 p.78)

Most of his writing, however, isn't so self-indulgent.  Instead it's a long look at one person's experience during an extraordinary time.  He writes about everything, including diary-keeping itself:

"I said that more people ought to keep diaries, but the trouble was that the most unscrupulous diarists were too scrupulous when it came to putting personal truths on paper.  James (Pope-Hennessy) said that Cecil (Beaton's) diary would be the chronicle of our age, that we would only live through it.  I said Eddy Sackville West kept one.  James said, 'We could not be hoisted to posterity on two spikier spikes.'" (ibid p.196)

And he worries about what posterity (us) might think of him, because of the self-portrait he writes:

"I fear that in this diary I disclose the nastier, the more frivolous side of myself.  I sincerely believe and fervently hope that I am not as nasty as I may appear.  It is difficult to be entirely honest about oneself, because one does not necessarily know oneself.  One thinks one knows.  The consequence of being as honest as I try to be, must surely be that readers of these lines would pronounce me worse than many of my contemporaries who do not keep frank records of themselves.  Frank?  Not entirely, because I withhold things."  (ibid p.384)

But isn't this why we read other people's diaries?  To encounter the whole person, whether he or she would like us to or not?  The writer of diaries always discloses more than originally intended, it seems to me, allowing us to read between the lines, as well as reading the lines themselves.  And besides, no one can be nasty and frivolous all the time.  Lees-Milne certainly isn't, if he is at all.  I think about this when I write in my own diary.  Sometimes I even write:  this is how I am feeling, even when I wish I wasn't feeling this way, and am not in the least proud to be feeling what I am most certainly feeling.  Ugh.  It can entail painful self-revelation.  But cathartic, too.  I truly believe that keeping a diary is an excellent way to get otherwise haunting things off your mind and on to paper, where they belong, so you can get on with your day.  I'll have more details about his diaries, not mine, soon.  I'm enjoying them mightily, on so many levels - as personal disclosure, as a new language about art and architecture, as literary history, and especially as a record of all those small events which slowly add up to the whole of life.  Even with everything happening here, regarding my own life and art, I'm happy that I still managed to read through three volumes of Lees-Milne and begin the fourth.  And I only have one errant volume left to buy, out of the twelve-volume set.  The hardcover copies I see online for sale are beyond my comfort zone, price-wise, even though there are many copies available (oh how I dislike online used book pricing algorithms and the havoc they engender).  So I wait, and hope that someone will list a slightly less expensive hardcover, with a dust jacket, and describe both accurately.  Is that too much to ask?  Possibly.  Beneath a Waning Moon, volume ten, is what I seek, in case anyone reading this knows of a copy for under, say, forty bucks.  I have some time before the situation becomes desperate - at least as long as it takes for me to read volumes four through nine.  I'm ordinarily a fast reader, but life events of late have me reading at the proverbial snail's pace, so I'm not worried.  Yet.   

Friday, April 22, 2016


change of season

Holy crackers it's a busy time.  My reading life occurs in fits and starts right now, around long days of painting and evenings of collapsing from tiredness after working outside all day.  A friend recently said to me, "Oh, I thought painting was just kind of..." and he made some relaxed, eyes-half-closed, slow-motion, arm-wavy movements.  I just looked at him.  And laughed a bit.  There is some of that, to be sure, but much more of it is like anything else.  You know, work.  Hard work!  Sometimes involving power tools (framing) and exercise (stretching canvases, lugging painting supplies to remote locations) and bookkeeping (self-employment tax, sales tax, paperwork about shows).  Even standing at an easel in my studio is sometimes difficult.  I mean, I painted a large painting recently, which took me three days - seven or eight hours each of the first two days and maybe five hours the third day.  Sustaining that level of close attention feels like doing yoga for that long might feel, or running a very slow marathon.  It's intense.  Sometimes I have to remind myself to breathe.

Does this sound like complaining?  I hope not.  Because painting is like food and water to me - I love it, it is so necessary to my well-being!  Kind of like reading, but not.  I think I'm trying to justify not having written here in a few weeks, even though I've wanted to.  Because I have read some splendid books, but my rate-of-reading has dwindled since spring truly arrived.  Wild horses couldn't keep me from painting outside on these first warm days of the year.  It has been both rocky and wonderful.  I am also getting ready for my upcoming solo painting show and that has been consuming.  I framed over seventy paintings.  And put together, with the help of a photographer and a designer, a small catalogue for my show.  My first venture into mass printing:  a small staple-bound booklet illustrating twenty-three paintings from my show, Postcards from Home.  500 copies.  They arrived this week from the printer, in two very heavy boxes.  I opened the boxes and there they were.  With my name on the front cover, and everything.  Like this:

Eeeek!  Most of these are destined for the gallery, to be sold during my show, and for some wonderful art lovers who have already purchased paintings from me, and also for friends and family and various other Persons of Interest.  During the past few days I've been mailing copies out, to all of the above (speaking of which, if anyone here would like to buy a copy, please email me for details - it's inexpensive and, being quite thin, won't take up much valuable bookshelf space, always a consideration).  More joyful work.  And more good news:  the painting on the cover has already sold, along with a few other paintings shown within.  And my show won't even open until June 3rd!  I just about cried, about all of that, to tell you the truth. 

I should be writing about this on my painting website blog, and I will soon, I'm sure, but I started writing here first because I really want to talk about books!  I meant to talk about books today, in fact, because I am reading the diaries of James Lees-Milne, I'm already well into volume three, and they are tremendous, and I do want to write about them at great length!  Not to mention a few other remarkable books that have come my way recently.  But the season beckons me, and spring is so fleeting, and so very sweet.  It's not a time for reading or writing the days away, tempting though those prospects always are.  Well, all I can say is that if we have a few rainy days in a row, I'll make the most of them, and meet you back here to talk books.  Until then...    

Saturday, April 02, 2016


all in a day's work

Lately I find myself with a welcome, renewed sense of optimism about the book business.  Not that optimism ever left me completely, I am too much of a romantic for that, but I will admit to wondering if, well, you know.  The book business - new and used both - doomed?  Over?  Obsolete...?  How I've hoped it wasn't so!  And, you know, it isn't - books have always been, are, and will continue to be simply awesome!  A perfect portable spiritual interface between like minds, or unlike minds, whatever your reading preferences happen to be.  I was reminded of this again yesterday - I spent time working in my booth in the antiques mall where my books await (and often find) new owners.  It was the first of the month so I was also there to receive a paycheck and a printout of books sold last month.  At this quiet time of year I was pleasantly surprised by both pieces of paper.  People are still buying interesting, useful, entertaining, meaningful books of all kinds. 

Me, too!  Optimism intact, I ventured forth this morning to a local friends-of-the-library sale.  I thought the sale started at 10 a.m.  It started at 9 a.m.  Ruh-roh.  However the friends were restocking the shelves when I ambled in at 9:59, so I still found some books to buy - general stock, nothing fancy or rare.  I don't think I've ever described in detail what I come home with from book sales, other than to say "good books" - so, today's the day.  Pictured below is my complete take-away from this morning's sale.  I spent $83 on 56 books, a mix of hardcover and softcover, new and old  Even after all these years of book hunting, sales like this still feel like outrageously good deals to me.  Will anyone ever buy them from me, in turn?  Not always, but often, yes.  Most heartening. 
House and garden first.  Some cookery - John Thorne! - and gardening, and a few art books:

Then five - five! - Alan Bennett books, and some literature and history:

Short stories, and the unclassifiable - Maira Kalman! Joseph Mitchell! - and poetry - Frost, Blake!

More fiction, literary biographies, nonfiction - Doris Grumbach!  Patrick O'Brian!

Some Penguin paperbacks - how I love them in orange, blue, black, and pale green.  More fiction, and essays, travel, and poetry - Frank O'Hara!  Patrick Leigh Fermor!

And the last two, because I like the covers - Pat Conroy's memoir, My Reading Life (Nan A. Talese 2010), which I myself am planning to read, whenever I can tear myself away from James Lees-Milne's diaries for any amount of time, and a Maine art book, Eric Hopkins: Waypoints (Farnsworth Art Museum 2003), which I love and already own a copy of, but not a signed copy, which this is.  It was my big purchase of the day, at $8.  I will keep the signed one and sell the unsigned.

There are a few other books I'll be keeping out of this long row - either to read and sell, or read and keep indefinitely.  The big Alan Bennett collection Untold Stories (Picador 2005) is a doorstop, the first 350-ish pages of which are entries from his diaries.  Cannot.  Wait.  (Will have to.  Already over-committed re Lees-Milne.)  Also looking forward to 33 Artists in 3 Acts by Sarah Thornton (Norton 2014; read her previous book Seven Days in the Art World, loved it), and Miss Jekyll: Portrait of a Great Gardener by Betty Massingham (David & Charles 1973) about the inimitable garden designer Gertrude Jekyll.  There are a few others I may hang on to for the next to-be-read pile - possibly All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr (Scribner 2014; so many people have raved about this novel, and I do think his memoir Four Seasons in Rome is splendid, so I'll give it a look-see), but the rest of these books are about to be priced and put into my book booth.  By me.  Work I truly love. 

What a good week - I spent three days at the easel in my painting studio, and two days messing about with books.  We paid our income taxes a few weeks ago and the happy news is that both of my business ventures are going concerns.  I made money in the book business, which remains slow and steady, and made twice as much from the sales of my paintings as from the sales of my books.  A delightful trend.  May it continue into the coming year and beyond.  Optimism, again - I'm all for it.

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?