Cats and Jammers Studio

The series conclusion: Fancy Nancy YA Book cover.

Just could not resist this. Guess there is nothing new under the sun, especially nick names.

Or as Fancy Nancy might say, "This is a super, wondrous, sensual example of of how I am gonna look after some enhancement surgery to make my body "Fancy."

When a Good Girl Goes Bad.....on Pinterest

I tried. I really really tried. But..but I didn't try THAT hard.

Of course, my reputation is still intact. I am talking about my obsession with finding imagery and posting it on Pinterest. And lately, my biggest pleasure has been finding old paperback pulp fiction covers and then adding my own captions. 

You don't know about Pinterest? That might be a good thing, because it is already an addiction for me when I need a few minutes of down time from work. It's like keeping scrapbooks of your favorite imagery, and getting to share it with EVERYONE. And the site is growing. Here is a piece on it from Mashable.

My Flag is Down is actually from my own paperback collection. As my friend Liz said, "I bet it won't be down for long."

And I just discoverd the newer, less "upright" cover for this novel. By the look on his face, I'm not so sure this Taxi driver will know what to do to get that flag up again.

Pop over to my Pinterest Board and have a look see for yourself. But be warned--Pinterest is great fun!

(Incidentally, I happened to catch Tarrentino's Pulp Fiction on TV last night. I do love that movie!)

Finally I have this to say: I am going to try to figure out a way to use the word "SWELL" on a daily basis. And it will have nothing to do with sprains.

A little tribute to Simms Tabak

Simms Tabak was one of very favorite illustrators, if not THE favorite. He very recently passed away and since I find that this blog seems more and more to be about losing artists who have touched me, it would be terribly remiss to not talk about Simms.

Although I got to know his books through reading them to my youngest son, Ben, I actually got to know his art when I first used one of his designs to wallpaper the room of my middle son, Mike. That was more than 22 years ago. Sadly, I cannot find a single image to post to show that lovely wallpaper. And it has been long papered over. It do remember that it was leaping kids, a boy and a girl, doing jumping jacks or something to that effect. If anyone has any left or knows where I can get some, PLEASE contact me!

I just discovered a wonderful video created based on his Old Lady WHo Swallowed a Fly book. It is narrated and the music sung by Cindy Lauper. I think this may be the best video adaptation of a kids' book I have ever seen. It seems that I cannot embed it. But go to Youtube and watch. It is totally worth the time.

I think my very favrotie book was the Caldecott wining, Joseph Had a Little Overcoat.

I think that this book is everything one can want in a children's book. It is has a page turning quality, with a lovely repetitive rhythm. It is fun. It is also beautifully illustrated, without being tight and self important and self congratulatory, not to mention pretentious, which is what so many kids' book art is. Not this book. The art has a wonderful mock-primitive feel that is actually extremely sophisticated and extraordinarily satisfying, from an artist's point of view. Any artist, even in the absence of liking kids' books, would love and appreciate this artwork. The art stands completely on its own. To be honest, a lot of art for kids' books may hold up in the children's book market, but would fall flat as art for art's sake. Tabak's art soars way above that crowd.

By the way. if you go to his web site, you can buy a signed poster. The proceeds are going to a college fund for his grandchildren. Satisfy your need to have his wonderful art, and also help out. I bought a few, this wonderful fish poster among them.

 

 

Now I know what my problem is!

My ethnic heritage is half Norwegian/Swedish and half Italian. The way I figure it, that is my the source of my weight problem, because when it comes to food, my appetite is the offspring of a marriage between a conquering Viking who invented the Smorgasbord and a loving Mama Mia, chanting, "Mangia, Mangia!" In other words, I love good food and drink and enjoy a great meal with close friends, or even friends not that close for that matter, as much as anything in the world. And that love is simply deadly for the waistline.

After reading Jeff Gordinier's delightful interview in today's New York Times with Simon Doonan, discussing Donnan's new book, Gay Men Don't Get Fat, I think I might develop another theory: I eat like a straight, macho guy, or, at best, a healthy Lesbian who likes to climb mountains and hunt. The solution is pretty straightforward, if not "straight": I need to eat like a Gay Guy: sushi, salad, berries, light, light, light.

Don't get me wrong. I love all that stuff, like whole grains, salads, and fish filets and legumes. The problem is that I love them to excess, like  hungry Nordic lord or a zoftig  Italian Grandma. I also love Meat. Almost any meat. Burn the hair off and serve it up. Not good, even in small amounts.

I have to say that I found the interview totally entertaining and that Simon Doonan came across as a person I would love to get to know better--probably over a hearty meal with lots of red wine, instead of a light lunch. The dry humor and quick wittedness apparent in the article have only whet my appetite for more, so I think I will have to read some of his other books,  like Wacky Chicks and Eccentric Glamour, to consume some more of his entertaining repartee.

Meals. Appetite. Consume. Sigh. It's all about food in the end, isn't it? Oh, well. Pass the champagne. I'll toast to that.

Now off to get the books. Check back for a review at some point.

Just can't get enough of this time travel: Sherman, turn the way-back machine to 1920.

 

Just when I thought there was absolutely no reason to watch television anymore, along comes the best thing since, well, the other best reason to watch television--the Sopranos. And the new best thing? BOARDWALK EMPIRE. If you haven't heard already, this new series on HBO, is set in Atlantic City in 1920--at the beginning of Prohibition and what would become the roaring twenties. Leading the show is the charcter of Nucky Thompson (based on real-life boss Nucky Johnson, see below), City Treasurer and the boss of everything that goes on in and around life on the Boardwalk. 

I have to admit I was already pretty eager to watch this show after catching the preliminary hype. What's not to anticipate with glee when you see names like Martin Scorcese and Steve Buscemi and Terrence Winter? Still, I wondered, will it really be so good? Nothing will ever come close to the Sopranos....

Well, I have just found appointment TV again. Last night I caught the first episode, directed by Scorcese, and it was everything I had hoped for, plus much, much more: the dialogue was rich in the way that classic Sopranos dialogue used to be (touched with the hand of authenticity and believability of character, gilded with surprising black humor in the perfect places); the attention to visual details was near perfect; the scenes were shot with the sense of true cinema, complete with near brain-scan close-ups and vivid costumes and makeup;  the period music sent you back in time; and the actors were absolutely perfectly cast. If I have to make one complaint, I would say that I caught a touch of mis-matched dialogue/film synching, that distracted me somewhat early on, but I got over it.

Prior to seeing the first, I had read that it would take seeing a number of episodes to buy into Steve Bsucemi as the infamous Nucky Thompson. Not so. Within minutes I was sold on his portrayal, and even though the name of James Gandolfini as the lead was bantered around in the pre-show hype, I cannot imagine anyone better in this part than Buscemi.

Michael Pitt practically has steam escaping from his pores, as he plays the part of Jimmy Darmody, Princeton drop-out who comes home from his service as a dough boy in WWI to embrace his darker side (discovered, or, perhaps, uncovered "over there") as Nucky's right hand man. Let's just say he simmers with the need to satisfy those urges.

Especially suited for the role of Margaret Shroeder, a battered Irish immigrant wife, is Kelly Macdonald. Her face looks as though it were plucked right out of the historical photo blog I read daily, SHORPY  (blogged about it here) . Never have I seen a face so evocative of the 1920s. Her performance and face feel so authentic, that I think she actually rode some sort of time machine to get from 1920 to 2010, just for this part.

I could go on and on about the other actors in their roles--Shea Whigham as Nucky's sheriff brother; Michael Stuhlbarg as Arnold Rothstein; Vincent Piazza as Lucky Luciano; Stephen Graham as Al Capone, and Michael Shannon as Fed Agent Van Alden (who seems particularly sinister)--  all perfectly matched to the parts they are playing. Furthermore, the performances are incredibly enriched by the attention to set, costume, and make-up detail, which I hope will continue to  play as much as a part of the series as the action and story itself. Personally, it is in that kind of attention to the small things that make for superb filming. My guess is that Martin Scorses was the driving force behind those kinds of period-specific touches; Goodfellas and Casino are both movies that demonstrate just how much details can elevate a film to a category that marks it as "superb," as opposed to just "very good."

 

What makes this series even better, is that the character of Nucky Thompson is based on a real person, Nucky Johnson, who actually did run the Boardwalk show, so to speak, and make Atlantic City what it was between 1911 and 1941. For more information I intend to read the book by Nelson Johnson. I would love to have gotten the first edition before the cover became HBOed, but I'll settle for the TV tie in if I have to.

In the meantime, hop over to this blog, Press of Atlantic City, and watch this wonderful documentary about the real Nucky. Totally fascinating.

Having grown up in the 50s and 60s--a good deal of it spent in New Jersey, and also at the Jersey Shore, including Atlantic City-- I am very happy to have a vivid memory of what AC was like pre-Casinos and all the totally lacking-in-character feel it has now. The Boardwalk then still had some evidence of a bit of the old heyday, with the rolling carriages, the Steel Pier complete with diving horses, small shops, salt water taffy, Mr Peanut with his big Planters Nuts, and grand hotels over looking the ocean, along with cheap boarding hotels on the side streets. The trashy glitz buildings of today remind me of a phrase an old friend once used--"Piss Elegance." They are a sad testament to the Atlantic City of yesteryear. 

Fortunately, I have this series to time travel with. I'm hooked. And I am thrilled that HBO has already put in an order for Season 2!  How about we run the show from 1920--when it starts--to 1941--when the real Nucky goes to jail. I figure that's 21 years of great TV.

Thank Goodness: Discovering Charlie Chan and it happens in Buffalo!

Somewhere in the 80s, I was out with three friends of mine, all Asian. I can't remember exactly how or why, but the discussion turned to Charlie Chan. "Oh, I loved Charlie Chan," I said, sincerely and innocently. "Those were my favorite old movies!" And they were. My husband and I used to watch them religiously back in Buffalo in the 70s, where one of the local stations would broadcast one every week at around 11 o'clock. It was my first experience with appointment television since counting the minutes until five o'clock waiting for the Mickey Mouse Club twenty years earlier. 

 

"Ugh. You can't be serious," was the collective reply of my friends. "He is one of the worst stereotypes for Asians."

I felt like someone hit me in the chest. First, to think that I would willingly subscribe to that kind of thinking about people was an embarrassment. But, more important, I did not even see the reason for their disgust with the character (and hopefully, not me). My husband and I loved him and loved son number one (played by Warner Oland and Keye Luke respectively). In my mind, Charllie made everyone else around him look positively stupid, goofy, awkward, and incapable of seeing the details. He, on the other hand, was brilliant, had a fantastic gift for dry humor, and was all-knowing and all-seeing without being obnoxious. What's not to love? What better kind of stereotype can one ask for?

Reading the August 9th edition of the New Yorker yesterday I came upon a wonderful review by Jill Lepore of a brand new book by Yunte Huang: Charlie Chan: The Untold Story of the Honorable Detective and His Rendezvous With American History. Ms. Lepore offers some enjoyable information about Earl Derr Biggers, the author who first brought to character of Chan to book form and  the  movies themselves. But, even better, is reading about Huang's book which reveals that Charlie Chan was based on an actual Chinese detective with the Honolulu police force, by the name of Chang Apana, who was a legend in his own time for solving crimes. There are more wonderful facts to glean from the book, so get a hold of it and dig in. It is available now for pre-order (I made sure to order mine, you betcha).

 Just as intriguing to me, is the story about the author, Yunte Huang. Mr. Huang was born and brought up in China, and may well have not been around to write this book had his parents not sent him a deceptive telegram some years earlier saying that his mother was gravely ill and that he needed to return home immediately. He came home and she was actually fine. But the place we was lured from was Tiananmen Square, where he would have been  the next day when the massacre took place. Ultimately, Huang ends up in the US to study, needing to leave China,a country that is no longer a place he wants to be. At some point he ends up in, of all places, Buffalo, getting a P.H.D. in English ("going through the alphabet" as he puts it in his interview with Charles McGrath for the New York Times). Up in Buffalo, he happens upon a garage sale where he buys a couple of Biggers novels and becomes hooked on the character of Charlie Chan, especially after renting some videos. The rest is history.

So what it is about Buffalo that people who live there end up discovering their passions? I have to say that I love the fact that Buffalo is some sort of epicenter for Charlie Chan appreciation. Maybe there is something in the Lake Erie air. For me, I not only fell in love with Charlie Chan in Buffalo, but that is the place I discovered my true life's direction in art. Another story altogether....

In the meantime, take a moment and read both Jill Lepore's piece in the New Yorker as well as Charles McGarth's piece in today's Times. And then REALLY do yourself a favor and buy the book and rent or buy every Chan movie you can get your hands on. The films are great. Even though I think Warner Oland was the best Chan, I did come to eventually appreciate Sidney Toler, as well, and son number two, played by Victor Sen Yung, who was as charming as Keye Luke.

 

Incidentally, Warner Oland was a half-Russian Swede who actually did have Slavic/Asian features. He also played a Jewish character in The Jazz Singer.  And, for the record, the Chan movies were very popular in China as well as with Chang Apana, who was, after all,  the inspiration for the famous detective character. Keye Luke, who passed away in 1991, loved them. When told how politically incorrect they had become he responded, "We were making the best damn murder mysteries in Hollywood." Nuff said.

The one thing we can count on in this world is that attitudes change when it comes to popular culture and what is politically correct or not. It's a good thing. And the honorable detective would be very pleased, I am sure.

  

The Oxford Project: I could spend years reading and looking at this kind of material

In past posts I have confessed to an obsession with the passing of time. I have had this obsession all my life. I am not sure why, but I have. On New Year's Eve, 1958, I wanted my grandparents to get me a jar with a lid.

"Why?" they asked.
"Because I want to save some some 1958 air," I told them. "Then I will have a little bit of 1958 forever."

When I look back on this memory, it makes me smile and shake my head at the way a kid's mind works--or at least the way MY mind worked. But I also still feel more or less the same way: very aware of the passing of time and wanting to preserve the present moment for future reference and for experiencing it once more. I guess you could say my little jar of air was my child's version of a time machine. But even though I am not filling jars with the air of time anymore, I still feel pretty much the same now as I did then. It's why I love antiques. It's why I play jukeboxes. It's why I will watch anything produced by Ken Burns. It is also why I read the obituary from my on line, home town newspaper every day: The Journal News, Rockland County section.

Yeah, I know. That sounds like something your grandmother would enjoy doing. Still, I do it. Everyday. Sometimes I see the names of parents of high school friends. Every now and then, I see the names of the high school friends themselves. Believe me, that is sobering. The strange part is that when I see no names that are familiar to me, I have a macabre sense of disappointment: no news, nothing of interest. And then, when I do, I wish I hadn't, because I would really have enjoyed seeing that person again at some point in the imaginary future, even though I have not spoken to him or her for that past 35 years.

One of the nice parts about reading obits is that I also check up on who else died, as reported by the Associated Press. In their little sidebar I learned that Killer Kowalski died even before I saw it in the Times. I learned that silent film star Anita Page passed away at 98. I read about famous Peanuts animator Bill Melendez. And I learned about the death of Jim Hoyt.

Who is Jim Hoyt? Jim Hoyt was the last surviving veteran of a group of four soldiers who liberated Buchenwald concentration camp. Jim Hoyt was a an extraordinary guy and an ordinary guy at the same time, because Jim Hoyt was part of a generation of countless soldiers who fought bravely and namelessly in a war unlike any other, where there was a clearly defined evil of great magnitude that needed defeating. Jim Hoyt lived a quiet life, was not a person of renown, and we would most likely never know about him except that he participated in The Oxford Project.

The Oxford Project, from an editorial quote on Amazon:

In 1984, photographer Peter Feldstein set out to photograph every single resident of his town, Oxford, Iowa (pop. 676). He converted an abandoned storefront on Main Street into a makeshift studio and posted fliers inviting people to stop by. At first they trickled in slowly, but in the end, nearly all of Oxford stood before Feldstein's lens. Twenty years later, Feldstein decided to do it again. Only this time he invited writer Stephen G. Bloom to join him, and together they went in search of the same Oxford residents Feldstein had originally shot two decades earlier. Some had moved. Most had stayed. Others had passed away. All were marked by the passage of time.

In a place like Oxford, not only does everyone know everyone else, but also everyone else's brothers, sisters, parents, grandparents, lovers, secrets, failures, dreams, and favorite pot luck recipes. This intricate web of human connections between neighbors friends, and family, is the mainstay of small town American life, a disappearing culture that is unforgettably captured in Feldstein's candid black-and-white portraiture and Bloom's astonishing rural storytelling.

You can visit the Oxford Project website and read some of the stories and see some of the pictures. That is where I went on to read about Jim Hoyt, who's obituary via AP I just happened to catch one day while checking the daily obits at the Journal News. I had never heard of Jim Hoyt, and I had never heard of The Oxford Project, but I am so glad to have discovered both of them. It is incredibly fascinating to see a picture of a person and a picture of the same person 20 years later. That kind of thing has always been my favorite part of the Ken Burns documentaries, and here is an entire book of aging faces, and what makes it even better is that these are ordinary citizens, living ordinary lives that are as meaningful and interesting as any celebrity or historical figure.

This book will be available on the 16th of this month. You can read more on the Amazon link. Needless to say, I have already ordered a copy. If I had thought about it, I would have created this book myself. It is, as they say, "right up my alley."

I do have one question for Stephen Bloom and Peter Feldstein: did you save any 1984 air?

EDITED TO ADD: Please take a moment to read the comment left by photographer and Oxford Project creator, Peter Feldstein. He shares a touching bit of information and an update on Jim Hoyt.

Bad Attitudes: Let Me at 'Em

There is a great essay by Margo Rabb in today's NY Times Book Review, called "I'm Y.A. and I'm O.K."

Essentially, Rabb writes about the need for publishers to pigeonhole writing as either adult or Y.A (Young Adult), the need for writers to pigeonhole other writers defined by the market they primarily write for, and the overwhelming desire on the part of many both in and out of the literary world to look down on those who choose to write for young people, period, as though it were something of lesser value. Since I am someone who is only interested in writing for young people, this is such a bizarre thought--that someone actually thinks that writing for the younger set is somehow not as great an endeavor.

I think I can get it with regard to the publishers. I understand the need to categorize something in order to figure out how best to sell it. We see that kind of thinking going on all the time in all walks of life. One need only take a walk through any department store to see how merchandise is presented. Never mind that you might find the identical merchandise in several different departments. Some years back one would say, "I bought this Mr. Tres Chic pocketbook in Filene's Designer section upstairs in the main store." Usually I was the person saying, "I bought this Mr. Tres Chic pocketbook downstairs in Filene's Basement, with 3 mark downs, even." Same bag. Just different audiences.

So, yeah, I’ll yield when it comes to selling the books. Money talks, and nobody walks from one floor to the other, so to speak. And, yeah, yeah, tons of people in my crowd will gladly read YA books as much as they enjoy reading books for adults, but I know damn well that there are people who would rather have root canal work done, than sit and read a book classified as YA. Of course, that group is made up of readers who are victims of their own narrow thinking. They are going to miss out on some wonderful books.

So, I get the ignorance. What I do not get is the bad attitude and need to condescend. That is borne out of stupidity and arrogance.

I don’t get it, but I deal with it and have dealt with it for years. It is the same song and dance I am familiar with after more than 25 years of being an illustrator. Want hear my “stories?” No? Too bad. I am telling them anyway.

1) Years ago, when my husband was a summer clerk at a Philadelphia law firm, we attended a party for the summer associates. One of the partner’s wives asked me what I do. I replied that I was a free lance illustrator. She then turned to a young attorney and said with "a certain tone" in her voice, “And what are you? A free lance lawyer?”

2) I was sitting at a large table at a firm affair and some asked me what I do. I replied that I was an illustrator. Her comment, “But you do you do any creative art?” My “by then seasoned bad attitude” reply was, “NO. I am completely mercenary. Like an attorney.”

3) Finally, here is one that was the worst of them all. Why? Because this was a bad attitude on the part of other artists, like the “averted gazes and unabashed disinterest” that Margo Rabb observed among other writers when they learned she wrote a book classified as “Y.A.”

Not so many years ago, I was at a party. Hey—social event. See a pattern here? Only difference was that this was not a bunch of lawyers, who really don’t know better much of the time, so I tend to forgive them. THIS was a bunch of “creative types.” This was an assortment of people who should have known better.

Anyway, someone introduced me to a couple.
“Barbara, meet so-and-so. They are artists, like you.”
“Hello,” I said. When I asked them about their work I found out that they were husband and wife landscape painters from nearby Cambridge, MA.
“And what do you paint?” they asked.
“I am an illustrator,” I replied. And before I could get a single other word out of my mouth about my work, they QUITE LITERALLY TURNED THEIR BACKS TO ME without a word, and walked away. Just like that. Forget that I was very successful at what I do. Forget that the kind of landscapes they paint would probably have me finding it more exciting to sit in my backyard and watch my suburban lawn grow. At the sound of the word “illustrator” they immediately deemed me unworthy. At a lower level.

Like writers who poo poo writing books for young people.

Like readers who poo poo writing and reading books for young people.

The older I get, the less I can tolerate bad attitudes. Too bad these things happened to me when I was much younger and, therefore, still polite. Not now. I am at the age where I will not suffer fools. Pity the poor jerks now. I like to think that I would eat them for breakfast.

I am very glad Margo Rabb wrote the essay. But I am totally pissed off at what she had to experience to make her want to write it. Makes me spittin’ mad. Furthermore, now that I think about it, what I would really like to know is: where are those self-important, jackass landscape painters, anyway? I have a few words for them….

Back to Business. Blogging Business.

Been a while since I blogged. That is because I was tied up. Tied up with family and work. The family part made me get behind in the work part. And the work part was a very detailed illustration job--the latest Bones book by David Adler. Don't get me wrong. I LOVED doing this book. I love doing all his books. But THIS one was very detailed and full of lots of things and people.

One thing I have managed to sneak in is my reading, so I thought I would share some of my thoughts about the wonderful books I have read lately. Click on the thumbnails for easier reading of the book covers.

To start with, the last book I mentioned was American Eve: Evelyn Nesbit, Stanford White: The Birth of the "It" Girl and the Crime of the Century by Paula Uruburu. This was a wonderfully told story of Evelyn Nesbit, her life and times, and her affair with Stanford White. Get it and read it. Not sure? To whet your appetite, check out book related postings over at YouTube. First there is a great podcast of an interview of the author by Bob Edwards, in three parts. Here is the first part. Then there are some nice book trailers to music that will entice you even more, like this one, this one, this one, and this one, my favorite. All of them are a little different with with reagrd to the music chosen. but they will all make you want to read the book. Make sure to watch the videos in high quality.

Here is also another nice interview with Paula Uruburu on the Leonard Lopate Show on WNYC.

For me, the story has also started a bit of an obsession, in that I now search for Evelyn Nesbit ephemera on eBay, and if it's one thing I do NOT need, it is yet another obsession to hunt obsessively for on Ebay.

It also made me want to rewatch the movie Ragtime, based on E.L. Doctorow's novel which I read in the 80's. That movie is an extremely pleasurable experience not only for it's success as a film, but for it's music, which was wonderfully written by Randy Newman. I just bought the soundtrack and it has inspired my husband to learn to play several of the numbers from the film on the piano. Now that wonderfully evocative Randy Newman music is being played over and over again by my other half, Phil Newman. The spirit of Evelyn and the era is taking over the house and our summer in many ways, and the notes are on my mind when I wake up in the morning and the postcards and images of Evelyn from all my eBay purchases arrive regularly in the mail. Here is a link to the movie trailer. And here is a link to some of the wonderful music by Randy Newman, although it is linked with a video about Edward Hopper.

In addition, a good part of that movie is shot in our old home town, Haverstraw, NY, with the back of my husband's family's old 19th century house and garage in plain view throughout most of the Willy Conklin scenes. So what am I buying on eBay now? Yup, you betcha. Old postcards of Haverstraw, NY.

But back to books. Of course, reading one book was not enough. I then turned to The Architect of Desire: Beauty and Danger in the Stanford White Family by Suzannah Lessard, who happens to be the great Granddaughter of Stanford White. It was a haunting memoir and it gave me an added perspective to the Nesbit/White saga. And so I lost myself in that.

But for some reason I next turned to a book about contemporaries of Evelyn Nesbit, but unrelated. And that was the story of Sara nnd Gerald Murphy. Everybody Was So Young: Gerald and Sara Murphy: A Lost Generation Love Story by Amanda Vaill, is the story oft two people who happened to find themselves in France at the center of the artistic universe in the 1920's. Surrounded by people like F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway and his wives, Pablo Picasso, Fernand Leger, Dorthy Parker, and Archibald MacLeish, just to mention a few.

And that led to even more books about the Murphys and their crowd, that I have gotten my hands on but not yet read.

In reading about the Murphy's and their wonderful years in France surrounded by creative people of all sorts, I found myself thinking about the fleeting nature of the moment, or the era. For Evelyn Nesbit it must have been standing at the top of the tower of Madison Square Garden, under the statue of Diana, holding the hand of Stanford White looking over the rooftops of the wonderfully exciting city of New York during a golden time. For the Murphy's it was the south of France in the 20's, before life turned tragic for them.

This is not the first time this has happened to me--where I have been obsessed with a period of time and the people who lived it. Thirty years ago I first became obsessed with the turn of the last century when I read Charmed Circle: Gertrude Stein and Company by James R. Mellow, followed by several biographies of Collette--the most recent not too long ago, Secrets of the Flesh: A Life of Colette by Judith Thurman.

I don't obsess about that period of time--1900-1930--in England. Nor any other countries or even cities. Just New York and France. And I like to read almost anything I can get my hands on about the time.

Now here is something. I just now discovered that an image of none other than Ms. Evelyn Nesbit was used on the cover of a collection of stories by Colette. Which is a fitting discovery to end this post. Now there is a connection between two people who have fascinated me and who lived the time, albeit a connection made today, quite by accident. Maybe. Or maybe not by accident. I could get a little flakey about this and say it has some cosmic meaning. A sign. A sign of what, I have no idea. I have had this obsession for close to 35 years. I like to look for things like that--signs, cosmic coincidences, connections.

Gee. Maybe I need to make an appointment with Dr. Brian Weiss, to revisit my stored memories of past lives.

Well, more about his books on my next installment.....

Before Miley, there was Evelyn...

Let me first admit to this:

I was one of the old fart parents who was so saddened to see the provocative photo of Miley Cyrus in Vanity Fair recently. To me, the picture was clearly sensuous in a way that it should not have been for a 15 year old. It's especially bothersome since I think that she is a quite talented and charismatic little performer, who has great comic timing and the chance to mature in into a comedienne of the first order in films and TV shows. As far as I am concerned she does not need to sell herself as sexy. Funny is sexy in a better way.

So, with that in mind, I found it ironic (or was it some sort of cosmos putting me in my place?) that my pre-ordered copy this book by Paula Uruburu arrived:

AMERCIAN EVE
EVELYN NESBIT, STANFORD WHITE
The Birth of the "It" Girl"
and the
CRIME OF THE CENTURY

For those of you unfamiliar with the story of Evelyn Nesbit, she was the first real American superstar and the first "media created" celebrity. The very abbreviated story goes like this:

The mother--Evelyn Florence Mackenzie Nesbit-- found herself impoverished in Pennsylvania when her lawyer husband died very suddenly, leaving his family penniless. During the next several years the mother and her two children shuffled around the state from relative to boarding house and back again until Florence Evelyn, the younger, who was always a strikingly beautiful little girl , is "discovered" by an elderly female artist in Philadelphia. Before very long, she is posing for painters in the area and is the sole support of her family.

They move to New York City, where she continues to pose for well respected artists such as Beckwith and Church and for those studying in such places as The Art Students' League. In addition, she is photographed. And that face becomes "the face" of the turn of the century on everything you can think of: magazines, newspapers, postcards, chocolates, calendars, soaps, and so forth. She is the inspiration behind the "Gibson girl." To say she epitomized a look of the times, is an understatement. She WAS the look and the face of the times.

Enter Stanford White, 48, renowned architect and lover of all things beautiful, including very young girls. He is also a New York celebrity in his own right and the creator of many buildings, including Madison Square Garden with its famous roof top theater and apartment.

Evelyn is seduced by Mr. White, at the age of 16 and they become lovers, while the undercurrent of the righteous right moralists do battle with what they perceive to be the debauchery of the era, which is really the pending end of the Victorian age. One member of this so-called group is millionaire playboy (it is assumed the term was actually coined for him) Harry. K. Thaw of Pittsburgh who is fascinated by Evelyn and sets out to win her affections, as much as he also sets out to destroy the likes of White, whom he perceives as his opponent in more ways than the mere vying for the attentions of Evelyn. After all, they don’t call him "Mad Harry" for nothing.

The rest of the story is that Evelyn does become Mrs. Thaw, and not too long afterward in 1906, Harry murders White in a very public setting because " he ruined my wife and my life." Thaw is eventually acquitted by reason of insanity. This affair preoccupied the public for several years, since the first trial ended in a hung jury. This entire affair was riveting for the public and was even more a part of the collective consciousness than the OJ trial.

The book and the story of Evelyn captivated me. I love that turn of the last century era. It also reminded me that girls are not really turned into sex objects any younger nowadays than they were more than a hundred years ago. Miley was 15 when that photo was shot for Vanity Fair by Annie Leibowitz. Evelyn’s pictures in very provocative poses (even more because of the times?) emerged at 14, 15, and 16. I’ve posted some here.

The book was a great read. I think it would be a very good older YA non-fiction read. The narrative of Uruburu marches the story along in a way that makes it feel so very relevant to present times and issues. I loved the way the author incorporated some of the slang of the era; it effectively put me in the 1900 mindset to hear certain phrases--many of which we still use today. She also successfully tells the tale in a manner that had me, the reader, standing right there, viewing the sad plot up close as it unfolds.

I guess I’ve come to realize that no matter how much in 2008 we think of ourselves as progressive, things are not really so different than they were a century ago. What I can’t decide, however, is if that thought makes me resigned, saddened, or relieved. Or none of those things. But it does fascinate me, that’s for sure.