Lente

“Julia Domna,” Roman, 193-217 CE.
Seen at the Harvard Art Museums last week.

My progress through Dr. LaFleur’s Latin tutorial has been maddeningly slow: When I submitted my work on Chapter VIII in August 2023 (yes, you read that correctly), I wrote, in part, “I recognize that I may be your slowest student ever but trust that if this represented a problem, you would advise me.” Imagine my relief when I learned that several students had, at that point, been working through the tutorial for at least two years. But eighteen months have passed, and I am now polishing my submission for Chapter XI (yes, you read that correctly). At this rate, the Ovid tutorial — my reach goal — seems impossibly far off.

And yet….

When I wander through art museums, some of my favorite moments involve recognition: I “know” an artist, or an artist’s contemporary, or the obscure subject, or whatever. Are you familiar with the feeling I’m describing? A work attracts your attention, and you realize it reminds you of other pieces… “Ah! Could this be…? It is!” My daughters and husband, who most frequently join me for museum adventures, have indulged and encouraged my barely stifled delight at one “discovery” or another (and another) for many, many years now. In fact, they know that this wash-rinse-repeat cycle in which we stitch one learning experience to another, or a book to a painting to a piece of music to a news article to a film to a — you get the idea, is a rich and rewarding way to learn, to think, to grow. This sort of (re)discovery has a reliable “stickiness.”

As have my Latin studies. It has been slow going, yes, but what I have learned so far, I own. My husband drills me on vocabulary and my study cards for at least an hour on nearly every trip into Chicago or Milwaukee, for example, and I drive the first leg of our trips into Michigan so that he can quiz me. More than six months ago, I added Duolingo to my day. Admittedly, its Latin program is short and limited, but the skill-building tools for vocabulary have merit.

And so I learn. In my way. On my schedule. However long it takes.

(Speaking of schedules, for the first semester since I enrolled in music lessons (Fall 2014), I am taking a break of sorts: I have only registered for a half-term this spring. More, I am not returning to band until Fall 2025. Travel and “required maintenance” on this aging vehicle prompted me to rethink these first few months of the new year. I am still studying, though, and will outline what is on my practice sheet in another post.)

A long marriage

Image taken on Tuesday at the Harvard Art Museums:
“Road toward the Farm Saint-Simeón, Honfleur” by Claude Monet (1867)

”Reminds me of you and me,” my husband texted after I sent this image. “Who is the artist?” That’s why I sent it, I whispered to the silent phone. “Monet,” I replied.

Seen on Monday

Images I captured at the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.

Detail from the following works:

✤ “Flower Beds at Vétheuil” by Claude Monet (1881)
✤ “Morning Sunlight on the Snow” by Camille Pissarro (1895)
✤ “Still Life with Violin” by William Michael Harnett (1885)
✤ “Troubled Queen” by Jackson Pollock (1945)
✤ “Winter Garden” by Wanda Gág (1935)
✤ “Begonias” by Charles Sheeler (1955) 

Portraits

My images of some of the people I met at the Harvard Art Museums today:

✤ “Soldier” by Robert Smullyan Sloan (1945)
✤ “Self-Portrait in Tuxedo” by Max Beckmann (1927)
✤ “Eugénie Graff (Madame Paul)” by Claude Monet (1882)
✤ “The Thief” by Jean Dubuffet (1946)
✤ “To the Convalescent Woman (Triptych)” by Erich Heckel (1912-13)
✤ “Victor Chocquet” by Pierre-August Renoir (c. 1875)
✤ “Berlin Model” by Edward Munch (1895)

Moby-Dick or, The Whale

My images of work in “Entangled in the Lines”: Figuring Moby-Dick.

In 2021, I was a reader in the 25th Annual Moby-Dick Marathon, a virtual event that year due to Covid. This weekend, I participated in the 25-hour event in person as a scheduled reader on the Third Watch. Apparently, more than two thousand people visited the New Bedford Whaling Museum this weekend, and more than eight thousand watched the livestream.

The year of the American robin

The photo above was taken at the Detroit Zoo in April 2022,
and this entry was adapted from previously published posts.

In her paean to birding, 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.

Our family has played this game for so long that we now rework the rules a bit each year rather than risk getting the same birds again and again. And again. This year, as in the last two, I chose the first bird I espied on our first walk of the new year: Yesterday, as we neared the creek where we play Pooh Cones, I beheld a tiny tree in which at least eight American robins were flitting.