Category Archives: museums

Carolus Linnaeus

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Seen at the Chicago Botanic Garden.

More than six years ago, before the world tilted on its axis, I had found the adult equivalent of concert band — a group that meets twice weekly, includes a sectional, and chooses music that is fun but not too challenging. For so many reasons, I was unable to return until now, so I am currently “test-driving” the program, using the shorter summer session to see if I’d like to make a long-term commitment. So far, so good.

The Botanic Garden is not far from where we practice, so on one of the last cool days in the forecast, I grabbed an overpriced coffee and walked a couple of miles. Just lovely.

Currently reading: Septology (Jon Fosse; 2019-2021) with a dear friend; Moby-Dick (Herman Melville; 1851), The New York Trilogy (Paul Auster; 1985-86), and An Episode in the Life of a Landscape Painter (César Aira; 2000) for Roundtable courses; The Iliad (Homer, translated by by Emily Wilson; 2023) for a seminar; and Hole in the Sky (Daniel H. Wilson; 2025).

“Queequeg, my fine friend, does this sort of thing often happen?”

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“Queequeg” by Heidi Whitman (2025); seen at the New Bedford Whaling Museum.

From Chapter V. Breakfast:

But as for Queequeg—why, Queequeg sat there among them—at the head of the table, too, it so chanced; as cool as an icicle. To be sure I cannot say much for his breeding. His greatest admirer could not have cordially justified his bringing his harpoon into breakfast with him, and using it there without ceremony; reaching over the table with it, to the imminent jeopardy of many heads, and grappling the beefsteaks towards him. But that was certainly very coolly done by him, and everyone knows that in most people’s estimation, to do anything coolly is to do it genteelly.

And, yes, I will have reread Moby-Dick twice before the first quarter of the new year is behind us.

Rare encounters, ordinary birds

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Above is my image of Leonora Carrington’s “The Giantess (The Guardian of the Egg),” seen at the Art Institute of Chicago on my most recent visit. Isn’t this something? Given the frantic activity at her feet, I suspect we should worry about her, but she seems calm in the face of the potential danger, almost maternal. I aspire to the tranquility of her averted gaze. This oversized protector of birds and eggs reminded me that I had not yet posted about my bird of the year.

As I’ve shared in years past, our family first encountered the idea in Rare Encounters with Ordinary Birds. Lyanda Lynn Haupt writes:

There is a game birders play on New Year’s Day called “Bird of the Year.” The very first bird you see on the first day of the new year is your theme bird for the next 365 days. It might seem a curious custom, but people who watch birds regularly are always contriving ways to keep themselves interested. This is one of those ways. You are given the possibility of creating something extraordinary — a Year of the Osprey, Year of the Pileated Woodpecker, Year of the Trumpeter Swan. This game is an inspiration to place yourself in natural circumstances that will yield a heavenly bird, blessing your year, your perspective, your imagination, your spirit. New year, new bird.

We have been playing this game for so long that we now rework the rules a bit to avoid getting the same birds again and again. And again. This year, because my younger daughter and I knew we would be in New Bedford, we determined that our birds would be the first we espied on our walk to dinner after settling in our hotel. Naturally, we encountered gulls, but because we are not quite as quick with our water bird identification, we landed on the peregrine falcon that soared into view, disrupting a previously unseen flock of nearby pigeons.

The Year of the Peregrine Falcon it is.