Canto V

The above is my image of “The Bewitched” (1932) by Mina Loy.

Over the weekend, we headed into Chicago to celebrate my older daughter’s birthday. Our plans were upended when the Museum Campus shut down in anticipation of the cold.

When we relocated to Chicago from Southern California in the early 1990s, my husband and I, both born and raised in the Northeast, were not at all surprised by the number of adults who darted through the city in shorts and flimsy footwear in the most cutting cold and wind, nor by students who walked to class in zippered hoodies (sometimes dragging a coat). It sorted with a type we knew well from childhood — like my father, who could never abide a winter hat, or the president of the Class of 1982, who remained sockless even in six inches of uncleared snow, or the scout leader who would only wear sandals, even in January. So, Chicago, I hardly knew you when I learned that the Shedd, Field, and Adler would not open on Friday — especially in light of the many school closings.

The Art Institute remained open, though, so we spent several hours there. Particular highlights this visit included Bruce Goff: Material Worlds, Raqib Shaw: Paradise Lost, and old favorites, like the Thorne Miniature Rooms.

In the Modern Wing, “The Bewitched” put me in mind of Francesca and Paolo, perhaps because I am rereading the Inferno, this time with Samantha Rose Hill and Elias Crim. Among other pursuits this semester, I am also reading The Canterbury Tales with Marion Turner. In Friday’s meeting, she reminded us that the juxtaposition of the stories and, by extension, storytellers — for example, the Miller’s interruption when the Knight has concluded — is part of Chaucer’s rather subversive genius. Wait. A similar rubric undergirds the Inferno, right? (After all, wasn’t it one of Chaucer’s chief influences?) Doesn’t Dante describe the weaknesses of societies through the stories of characters’ sin and limitations, building toward a sort of political treatise or philosophy?

As always, I love the intersections — the serendipity, synchronicity, and synthesis.

Ahab’s Head

My image of Heidi Whitman’s work at the New Bedford Whaling Museum.

From Chapter 36 of Moby-Dick; or, The Whale (Herman Melville; 1851):

While the mate was getting the hammer, Ahab, without speaking, was slowly rubbing the gold piece against the skirts of his jacket, as if to heighten its lustre, and without using any words was meanwhile lowly humming to himself, producing a sound so strangely muffled and inarticulate that it seemed the mechanical humming of the wheels of his vitality in him.

The focal point of Whitman’s installation put me in mind of this passage, which, as it turns out, occurs in the chapter from which I read at this year’s marathon.

“Hast seen the White Whale?”

The above is my image of detail from Heidi Whitman’s work at the New Bedford Whaling Museum. My younger daughter and I were there this weekend for the thirtieth anniversary of the Moby-Dick Marathon, for which we were both readers. This year’s event commemorated Melville’s 1841 departure aboard the whaleship Acushnet: It has been 185 years since the adventure that yielded Moby-Dick and 175 years since the publication of the novel.

Detroit Institute of Arts

The above are my images of details from the following works of art: Le Jardine (1959-60) by Herbert Gentry; Floral Still Life (1880-90) by Charles Ethan Porter; The Piper (1953) by Hughie Lee-Smith; Four Days and Four Nites (2019-2020) by Jim Denomie; and The Suicide of Mr. H. (1961) by Asger Jorn.