The Fairies, a Sort of Castle, Some Very Unusual Gowns , A Small Calamity

Did you know that the fairies live in a (very) small castle and must sleep in their fancy gowns?

The castle, though magical, is somewhat makeshift, constructed  of colored, magnetic tiles, the entire edifice 
occasionally given to collapsing. These shiny, clicky "building blocks"- in attractive, primary hues for kids- can all fall in on each other if you're not careful about how you touch and maintain the structure. In truth, it all seems for show. The whole house can dissolve in the night even if you are careful. The tiles are pretty but will not hold, especially if you use them to create anything more ambitious or permanent than say a small tower. This can be quite disconcerting to a just about four year old who is counting on these shiny blocks to house her fairy collection.

The fairies who inhabit this little palace have their issues too. Only five or six inches high- if that- their diaphanous, resplendent costumes actually are painted right onto their little plastic forms (in bright though matte shades)! This necessitates sleeping in the outfits of course, since anyone can see that such apparel simply cannot be removed, ever; in fact, it quite defines them. 

As always there is lots of pink among the colors, even in their hair! I never realized (prior to meeting the fairies) that it was possible to sleep in a formal gown each night, no less one permanently attached. But now I know- this can happen.

The thoughts, observations and questions of a just about four year old who collects and nurtures tiny fairy dolls- regarding the many complexities of life- are truly amazing. As a member of that indomitable band of small, inquisitive persons not yet half a decade old, she seeks to find answers to a host of metaphysical and scientific perplexities; and in this  process of discovery there's a kind of valuable metaphor.

A fairy tale for the ages? Do not build a house to last by using colorful, smooth, and fragile magnetic tiles of undetermined composition; they may be pleasing to look at, clicky sounding and fun, but they're really not all that practical. Never glue your wardrobe to your own self for any reason whatsoever if you intend to change clothes, and finally,  demand a solid dwelling with a strong foundation! Who wants to live in a shiny albeit fragile home liable to descend into structural chaos at any moment? If you find yourself in this situation, just rebuild.

The Nootch pondered this complicated situation aloud one recent day- the collapsed castle, the fairies sleeping in their party dresses. Was she trying to reason it out, inside that adorably furrowed, just about four year old (and always thinking) brow, as she related the calamity of the magnetic fairy castle and the little figurines catching some zzzzzs, in their gowns? Didja ever?!? She just had to tell the story. It's the telling that makes it into a kind of sense.

This being the 21st century however, the Nootch utilizes the shiny, magnetic tiles not only to build sheltering homes for the fairies, but also to construct rockets, based on a recent fascination she has with "Lottie" the astronaut doll. 

So much to learn, so little time. . . . It seems like just yesterday she learned that some stories in books are only make believe.

What will the days, weeks and months ahead bring as she heads boldly and inquisitively towards her fifth year? 

It's mind boggling. Impossible even to try to imagine. 

But however things change or reshape themselves, there will be many more thoughts, puzzles to solve, much curiosity, probable and improbable solutions, fascinating mysteries. . .  all occurring everyday, no doubt!

Of this you can be certain.

What We Read Part Three: Choices

What we read is chosen for us.
In ancient Rome, money talked, self advertising helped, the term captive audience took on new meaning, from the story's "listeners" to its scribes. 

It was the custom of the time for writers to read their books to a select audience of friends before they were published, and it was fashionable to be seen attending such occasions, said H.V. Morton in "A Traveler in Rome;" these listening events also could become quite tedious,  equated once with the "terrors of Rome" like "the collapse of badly built houses" and "fires."

Following the long winded reading came the hard copy. After having read his new work in public, the writer would take it to a publisher, who employed a number of copyists. While a reader dictated a book, scribes wrote it down in black ink on sheets of papyrus, which afterwards were pasted together into a roll. Twenty scribes working several hours a day could no doubt produce a thousand copies which was considered a fair edition.

In the much nearer "old days"  of a century or two ago, getting published no longer involved papyrus (really a hassle to stick in your bag or unroll on a bus!), but it did entail having some talent and/or knowing someone and/or or using your luck and ingenuity. Stories abound about writers whose manuscripts were "discovered" and immortalized on the merits of the narrative.

In these times however, often it looks as if you just have to know someone. 

At least that's what it seems from the volume of crappy selections on store bookshelves, online libraries and even small, individually owned, slightly snotty, ol' time book shops, who after all just want to remain in business like everyone else. Readers get so frustrated with all these (un)literary and often boring "choices" they revert to the classics; soon they're devouring texts that once came with homework questions in high school, finding new meaning in them!

How many current titles on display will make it through the next fifty years? 

So many books, to choose from, but publishing is still a business with grand marketing schemes that not only reflect the reader's taste but create it. Like any fashion, some stories sell, others fall through the cracks- like those funny shirts with the big, silly holes in the shoulders they kept trying to peddle as elegant. The plethora of "choices"  (clever, fun "must reads" notwithstanding) still proves classics modern and old emerge only once in a blue moon.

Keeping all this in mind discerning readers, we've already bandied around the idea of a personal "Top Ten" (or three, or seven) of incredible, artful, life changing books that really did inspire; you heeded the call by contributing a bunch of important, beloved titles! Now let's get down & dirty & find some memorable lines to share- initially I had the notion of  readers choosing from three works to show why these reads wowed you.

I soon realized this was a bout of temporary insanity- who would want to deal with three excerpts, even short ones, for what feels like an "assignment?" But on the other hand, might not many readers involved with this blog very likely agree to doing one? These amazing first, last or in-between lines you submit will lead us to stories we should be tackling immediately (or again!), to say nothing of the bookish, cathartic value of thinking back.

Perhaps you choose to go "ancient Roman" on us & make a short video of yourself reading anything; I would post that too. Realistically though, you may just want to select an especially resonant line or two  from one of your favorite reads and email it in for blog readers to consider and enjoy.

It's food for thoughfulness, will help us through the winter, and the solitary pleasure of reading will not be diminished one jot by these simple though significant offerings.

To kick off this life affirming exercise not requiring any challenging yoga poses, here are two for starters (a compromise between one and three): the first about being young, carefree, and rich in New York's original gilded Age, the second telling of more modest circumstances and fewer opportunities during that same period-

The day was delectable. The bare vaulting of trees along the mall was ceiled with lapus lazuli, and arched above the snow that shone like splintered crystals. It was the weather to call out May's radiance and she burned like a young maple in the frost. Archer was proud of the glances turned on her. . . . (Edith Wharton, Age of Innocence)
                                               vs.
When Caroline Meeber boarded the afternoon train for Chicago, her total outfit consisted of a small trunk, a cheap imitation alligator-skinned satched, a small lunch in a paper box, and a yellow leather snap purse containing her ticket, a scrap of paper with her sister's address. . . and four dollars . . . . It was in August, 1889. She was eighteen years of age, bright, timid, and full of the illusions of ignorance and youth. (Theordore Dreiser, Sister Carrie).

Oh, those marvelous "splintered crystals" under a blue sky that shone on May Welland; ah, that scrappy "yellow leather snap purse" and the absence of prospects it intimated for Carrie Meeber! 

Remember, old or new,  "classic" or not, so many really good reads and fantastic lines, so little time. . . .  What wowed you? 

Some readers have had trouble posting comments. You can always email them to me (nystoryweaver@yahoo.com) and I will post them for you.

                                     

Part Two, What We Read: The Plots thicken 

"The wise ones brought us here from far far away. . . ."
 -an alien in the Star Trek episode "The Paradise Syndrome"

We read so many things, all sorts of stuff. But as Emily Dickinson observed in that much (over) quoted ship metaphor about the power of books to transport, they often do take us Lands away- sometimes to new or exotic locales, but always far from the daily cares. When we read for pleasure we also translate, articulate and order our thoughts and feelings with the help of some invisible, writerly hand. 

The act of reading a good book speaks to our world views, ideas and  knowledge, likes, dislikes, hopes, dreams, fears, experiences, curiosity, and the sheer need for escape from the everyday. Literary or just literate meditation, it relaxes and soothes, and may even enlighten.

From facebook and yahoo to emails and digital newspapers, we read those things too, but it's the books that remain with us: from the fraught and funny 1950's not-so-always- social teas, trifles and interesting conglomeration of Barbara Pym's Excellent Women, to Toni Morrison's brutally honest and moving The Bluest Eye of an American, racial badland, the many layered immigrant stories of Jhumpa Lahiri, an episodic, sharply satirical Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and the disordered, brilliant stream of Proust's much too highly detailed consciousness, we read on. 

The choices seem infinite, despite our occasional whining about having "nothing to read. " In truth there are not enough hours in a lifetime to read it all, read it well, and read it twice.

The great American novels, the realism of Henry James, Edith Wharton and Theodore Dreiser vs. the minimal prose of Hemingway, Fitzgerald or Raymond Carver; the mid or late Victorians- Dickens, George Eliot or Hardy, anyone? The sci-fiers or alienated existentialists, the meta fiction of a post modern acrobat like Italo Calvino or lunacy of a Pynchon; the sharp, contemporary smartness of Zadie Smith; or a juicy and rich epic classic like Anna Karenina from the ineffable Count Tolstoi, any of the other unforgettable stories from around the world. There's an endless stream of "new fiction" and trendy bestsellers. Maybe you want to dig into an old fashioned mystery, be it Arthur Conan Doyle, Agatha Christie or J. K. Rowling. Others swear by non-fiction.

And then there are your all time favorites. Can you name your top ten?? As for great, classic novels, there are too many to mention- all vying for a place on a much too restricted list.  On a spur of the moment however, and from other genres as well, I choose Amos Oz's A Tale of Love and Darkness (non-fiction!), Jack Finny's Time and Again (creative, luscious historical sci-fi), and A Crown of Feathers by I.B. Singer (evocative, powerful short stories), just to cite a random few that popped into mind from waaaay back; apparently these stories sit cozily and quietly in the back of memory somewhere, refusing to be forgotten for this or any other list! 

The choices of what to read often appear never ending, and life seems good. An almost infinite stream to which most likely one can never do justice- what more could you ask for? In addition, we read not only books, but everything- (a different topic to be sure, but to mention a few- images, art,  screens of all sorts, movies, situations and people). Here though, I write only of printed words, pages, really good stories, devoted readers. 

The desire to read is ubiquitous and universal. The fact that you are taking the time to peruse these very letters, words and sentences- paltry though they seem in light of the mention of great books-  proves you are a bona fide reader! Who else but a dedicated reader would even want to read about reading?!? 

We all differ in our tastes, speak and read a variety of languages, settle and live in diverse places across the globe, but the desire to savor all those words and stories connects us, and in a sense keeps us going; it comprises a record of who we are out there in the vastness, it imbues purpose!

"I've always wondered why there are so many humanoids scattered through the galaxy"-  Dr. Leonard McKoy, aka "Bones," in "The Paradise Syndrome"

So whaddya reading these days??? (I'm willingly being hypnotized by Giorgio Bassani's newly translated Novel of Ferrara- a poetic journey in prose wherein a northern Italian town and its narrator serve as the microcosm for world changing events in the twentieth century; it's also kinda' huge, very stylistically detailed and would ease me through the rest of winter (if I took it slow, which I am not). 

What are your "top ten" (or five, or three, or dozen, because there are two more you just cannot leave out)? Or perhaps there is a particular volume that currently has you in or out of its thrall this very winter too? C'mon readers, share!
                                            . . . . . . . . . .
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What We Read (A Galactic Journey), Part One

Wintertime more than any other season is when we gobble up books This is not to suggest you cannot binge read during any season of the year. It's just that all that tempting text so alluringly in your face, in the bookstores, on a nearby shelf or even somewhere in a bin is usually a hare's breath away, as you hunt for something to read. When the big chill sets in, it's a warm, indoor elixir against the freezing, cold outside.

An earlier post of Feb. 26, 2016 talked about why we read- (click 2016 left, February, find "It's All Leigh Hunt's . . ."). However, what is the what of all this reading?

Previously I described a personal, lifelong reading addiction that had me grappling with the habit since early childhood. Weekly trips to the library a mile or so down the road. Balancing a small though quite heavy tower of kiddie lit in my little arms by having taken full advantage of the library's six-book checkout rule; lugging it all back to our modest, third floor walk  up.

The childhood booty always included more than just a few fairy tales and myths, addictive reads more often than not comprising the whole lot! I also mentioned in that post how as a pre-adolescent I moved on to Hollywood style romantic "adventures"-  the pirates of Robert Louis Stevenson, and eventually the swashbuckling, sexy heroes of Rafael Sabatini (can you say that name aloud and not love it?!?). 

Eventually, I was able to complete the entire ruination of a young life by majoring in stories, wallowing in the gorgeousness of Coleridge, Keats, Shelley, Byron, Leigh Hunt, the ramblings of Rousseau and eventually our own transcendental storytellers from right here in the colony. You want a cozy evening? Try Hawthorne's The House of Seven Gables. Got the travel bug but don't wanna or perhaps can't leave your home and hearth at the moment? The Marble Faun will do the trick!

Along the way I especially admired the poetry of an earlier, "pre-Romantic" from  the mother country, Thomas Gray, who warned so lyrically in his famous "Elegy in a Country Churchyard: The paths of glory lead but to the grave. . . a  lilting if dire admonition about values which led me to think, why not major in books? Given that dim if metaphorical scenario, what did I have to lose???

Most of us know, or think we know, why we read. Feel free to reread- or not-  the earlier post about why we read   (Feb. 26, 2016 "It Was All Leigh Hunt's Fault. . ." ). But reread or not, as they are fond of saying  on the west coast (& usually for some totally inexplicable reason), "it's all good. . . ."  For now though, it's all about what we read.

(Part Two Next Week: The Plots. . . .)
                                  . . . . . . 
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Pymland Fantasy Revisited- A New Year's Card

 My post for the new year 2019 contains additions to a previous one, "Pymland and the Great Escape." Part re-print, part re-stated fantasy,  part plea for a quieter, kinder, more civilized world, minus all the bad stuff that always existed at the edges of such an imagined "simpler time." This is an updated version of that post.

Previously I posted about having dived in twice-  wholeheartedly and shamelessly- to the novels of Barbara Pym, despite already having read the whole lot down to the last Pymful word the first time. It was the perfect escape from our media maddened, crazed planet. Quietly and happily I re-wallowed in the ironic coziness of village life in the mother country a la Pym- the bucolic settings a mere bus ride from the bustle of London tea shops.

Barbara Pym, revered in the 1950’s, rejected as stodgy in the swingin’ sixties, rediscovered and restored to literary Valhalla in the seventies, and from then on anointed the undisputed queen of quaint English country life-  with an early feminist, decidedly wicked twist. Her work is an elixir against the crap of modern living. Her locales are devoid of yahoo news but brimming with sharp, hilarious observations-  places short on suitable men, amply supplied with unmarried ladies, and long on irony. The subdued mayhem happens amid a nice cup of tea, the occasional attendance at evensong and some truly splendid floral arrangements

It went on for the better part of a year, this second time around Pym obsession, in part to honor the memory of a lost friend and Pym aficionado whom I still miss. Will I be tempted to try a third reread at some point? What would provoke such a reactionary move? Well, specifically the giant, pixel flickering, 24/7, bellowing spectacles we see and hear each day hogging up hours of crowd manipulation and our attention, selling things and ideologies; the complicity of being online and/or voluntarily streaming the stuff into our homes at all hours. . . .

As it turns out, Orwell had it wrong- it really does not take only two minutes a day to control the populace, but requires ongoing, repetitive exposure, such as now we practice; then again, to be fair, we are long past that iconic date and there was no internet in ’84. We still read then. And talked.

The people of Pym's mid twentieth century stories are cyber free but convention bound, up to a point. They are women no longer young, yet tied contentedly and a tad philosophically to their routines and friendships. Often single, they live in flats, neat little houses or drafty rectories and attend church often, sometimes or never- but we always know to which category of church going (or not) they subscribe; their work is in libraries or offices or they don't work at all and have small but adequate private incomes.

Alongside are the men, some attractive and some not, a few pompous clerical types, elderly bachelors, younger, eligible bachelors, cute and flirty C of E priests, middle aged gay men, youngish academics, the occasional designing, though usually well attired woman who arrives in town to upset the mix. . . a small suburban contingent adept at shaking up cocktails. . . a species known as "gentlewomen," some of whom have fallen down a peg or two in their standard of living as shown by the quality of their hats.

There is a minimum of intrigue, much sharp satire and all is revealed through drily hilarious character observation, mostly tongue in cheek. Yet the entire tempest in a teapot seems quite orderly and downright pastoral amid overtones of subtle social mischief and Pym's deft style. Even the seasons are improved by the Queen Pym's writerly touch. In Pymland you know summer is giving way to autumn for example not simply because the evenings are starting to darken sooner, but because “the days inexorably are drawing in.”

Do autumn days still draw in?? Of course they do! But who says or even thinks that anymore? And when is the last time you used the word "inexorably??" Drawing in is redolent of some velvet encased Edwardian parlor with mild social suspense and lord knows what shocking social faux pas in the offing. . . .

Sensibly, almost shabbily dressed and sensibly, seriously shod, but quite comfortable in their eccentricities, the women sometimes prefer making bramble jelly of an evening to enduring a boring cocktail party with the town’s eligible bachelors. There are abundant allusions to Austen with a modern, clever take as Pym slices and serves with the shiniest of cake knives. 

The Emmas and Daphnes, Mildreds and Dulcies, the splendid dahlias and bursting chrysanthemums, a soothing bouquet tinged with all sorts of sly snorts and knowing smiles. Friday evening meetings of the history society. . . eligible vicars and doting, unmarried sisters,  anthropologists, seductive waiters and the occasional, irresistible military cad or cunning vixen, mischievous subtexts looming. . .  contrived solutions to catastrophic social gaffs, over tea.

Legendary British bland cooking is on full display as her hostesses limp heroically toward one of many, many casserole recipes. Or a solitary dinner may be “tinned” or even a meal so sparse tha a boiled egg and some leftover wine suffices. . . conversely she may present us with a richly trifled chocolate, perhaps a sweet plate of creamed biscuits to be presented and consumed at an equally pungent and unusually spicy jumble sale at the local vicarage.

This paean to Pym may seem overstated, superfluous, the average, informed anglophile reader already having long ago succumbed to her siren song (or not) of tea cozies and a nice chicken dinner when guests are expected and one is really not sure what to serve. . . . and in the service of full disclosure, when needing a respite from stark reality, or the quick & easy Brit fix, I have alternated her sharp, though gentlewoman irony with the wickedly wickedly clever, dark humor of another witty lady of letters from the sceptered isle, the ineffable Muriel Spark.

But aaah, to live- even for a short while-  as a character in one of those marvelous tales of angsty, muted guffaws, in a mythical village of shepherd’s pie and equally savory, gentle intrigue. No ubiquitous screens or facebook, no upsetting politics or bad vibes, only authentic, cute birdies providing the background twitter. In such a charming if imperfect world of small troubles, smart quips and clever character revelations will you find me, tending quite contentedly to my field of summer roses and chatting amiably if a bit cautiously with the neighbors. 

Several years down the road  I'm still in admiration of Pymland, tuning in now and again to those imaginary sensibilities, suspense laden garden parties, silly intrigues, at least in my escapist, bookish, dream world. Just to be clear though, I have in no way abandoned the more complex delights of Brit (or any other) lit. Henry James still is the master, along with the other great word magicians of all time and languages. It's just that occasionally I need a break from life's hard themes. So no New Year's resolutions for me, now or ever, just cake! Preferably with a sweet and light though subtly delicate icing, perhaps just a hint of lemon for tartness. Bon apetit!

Tableau 2, The Holidays, and The Real Thing

Speaking of fancy shmancy, outdated albeit charming customs from another century, and writers of a certain rarified,  la-dee-dah circle who so perfectly and meticulously chronicled their own, special realities. . . . 

We're talkin gorgeous, intricate, fin de siecle settings, complex, cossetted, sometimes tragic and always a little larger than life characters from the Gilded Age (often with not such beautiful back stories, so as to move the plot along!); see those pert horses and cozy carriages gently cantering through the city.

There are yet more intimations of elegant merriment as winter approaches. Brightly colored street lights, sparkly decorations, perhaps images of of rich, velvet opera cloaks and other mythical artifacts of long ago fashion. Such acts of nostalgia and sympathetic magic help us endure the months of cold ahead.

The mini story I am about to relate is provoked in part by the change in weather so soon upon us, and a time of year that can evoke glimpses of seasons and whole eras passed; snatches of large, ornately decorated Christmas trees as viewed through the tall windows of old, Greenwich Village-y type town houses, or movies that depict such lovely sights; a stroll on a softly lit, lightly snow covered avenue in twilight. 

Ironically though, what the start of the wintry festivities here often evokes for me is, well, breakfast. A hot brew, a warm nosh, a New York bagel.

You see, when I started boiling water for the first decaf one late fall morning the other a.m. (recent snow storm and below freezing temperatures notwithstanding, still technically autumn!), as I conjured up images of Victorian Christmases, I was reminded of a clever and well written story by Henry James, even though it was not specifically about the holiday; the tale just had that feel. It's an insightful little gem about human nature entitled "The Real Thing," that  like most of James' work (which often reminds me a tad of nineteenth century lush Christmases anyway for some reason), leaves its timeless imprint on our consciousness. 

The narrative revolves around an aspiring artist and hopeful painter (more shades of tableau vivant!) who seeks models of suitable bearing for his portraits. A couple, man and woman, two aristocrats fallen on hard times, approach the painter with an offer of their services; he chooses them, in no small part because of his empathy for their reduced circumstances.  But alas, these two are not the real thing, at least not portrait worthy-wise, and as a consequence, his work is not received as kindly or as well as he would have liked or expected (you will have to read the story to find out what happens; it's short, just do it).

Painting was an important means of visual entertainment, artistry, and historical record in those days around the turn of the century before last, a time which if truth be told was not so very long ago. We no longer engage in the exact practice of tableau vivant as described in the previous post  (yes, do read that too , if you already haven't) but have modified it to our present, technological needs; and even if we did try to replicate that particular amusement in some form, it most probably would not (even in our own, more relaxed  era) center around so prosaic a painted image as for example someone munching a bagel for breakfast with his or her first cup of pressed or poured over  java. 

But let's consider this: in the unlikely event that there ever did happen to exist a famous painting or iconic photo of a simple bagel eater, and some party goer wished to dress up as said nosher just for some old fashioned, tableau vivant fun, the subject of the painting in question might very well be seen wolfing down some goddawful tofu spread with their iconic, circular bread of shiny crust and a hole in the middle. And this choice of a tasteless soy gop in the a.m. as opposed to something genuinely creamy and good would be one of the many, many unfortunate results of our obsession with supposedly healthy foods.

To speak plainly, I forgot how good cream cheese was! Whipped cream cheese and real half & half, not that fat free, watery, thin white chemical swill that people overly concerned with their own mortality choose to pour into their organic, morally sustainable decaf.

So one day in a previous holiday season not too long ago I had some guests over, and in preparation I bought the stuff that was not tofu, just for the heck of it; when I finally sampled this delicacy, suddenly I remembered!!! It all came flooding back, the taste, the texture, the calories that no one cared about because it just added to the deliciousness. The rest is history too, as I decided once and for all it was high time to live a bit dangerously again, and have been stocking up ever since- mainly on the type with chives 'cause I love the saltiness. I may even graduate to heavy cream with my extra strong decaf one of these days. Just saying. 

It's the holidays people! Good wishes and general merriment to everyone, cheers all around and live it up! Get yourself some goodies, and maybe some whipped cream too for that scoop or two of chocolate, high fat, exceptionally smooth, ultra creamy, very chocolatey ice cream, the real old fashioned kind that comes in an oversized cardboard container at the supermarket!!!

Just a thought.

A Photograph, Tableau Vivant, The Passage of Time, and an Accidental Book Review

I've spoken about the fluidity of time because it moves past our consciousness with such alarming velocity. The impossibility of stopping time to capture the moment, the sheer irony of trying to do this in an image obsessed culture that is continually in motion.

By the time the particular sliver of an instance of a movement through space- i.e. what we call "now"- is downloaded (much less read, seen and printed) it's gone forever.

There's an image of my granddaughter age 31/2, standing with her arms bent at the elbow and hands placed on hips, fearlessly and innocently facing the camera, the world, and all the future to come.

She's barefoot and wearing a periwinkle blue dress remindful of a pinafore, with little vines of red and yellow and orange daisy-like flowers trailing up and down along the sides; it gives a happy smock effect and is at least a size too big, and so it reaches almost to her ankles and resembles the kind of outfit a child might have worn a very long time ago. The little wearer of this apparel is standing on the wood floor of a front room that could pass for a parlor. On the wall in back of her is a small, cozy little fireplace of painted white brick with some lit candles placed inside its hearth for illumination.

The scene could be a portrait from a hundred or more years ago evoking a simpler time, and the house is almost that old too. But in the mere seconds it takes to view this latter day tableau vivant on a monitor or hand held screen, taking into account as well the minutes passed before the "send" and the moments in which it all was captured and snapped so confidently into the photographer's hugely intelligent though quite tiny phone, that exact reality and everything contained in it has changed inexorably; now it's just a fleeting scene from the a receding past, never to be repeated in precisely the same way.

This among other reasons- such as not having access to instant moment-capturing, hand held computers or even primitive, personal cameras- no doubt is why the practice of tableau vivant was so popular among a certain, hoity toity, self-obsessed class from the famed Gilded Age, the ruthless though exceedingly well dressed old and newer monied robber barons and their blue-stockinged consorts of a century or so ago.

At the turn of the nineteenth century, at a gathering or party of the old money gods, tableau vivant or "living scene" served as a form of amusement, like home movies or stills projected onto a screen. Participants would dress up and pose as a character from a painting by one of the old masters. The live imitator of the still portrait  would start this party game presentation behind a curtain, which then would be lifted in the manner of revealing a famous portrait into which the party guest had inserted or substituted her or himself, in the full dress of the original artists' model, and voila!

This practice was historically encoded to great effect in Wharton's House of Mirth, when the heroine Lily Bart participates in such an early image-copying bit of fanciful fun.The delicate and naturally ravishing Lily is an aspiring flower whose family unluckily has suffered financial downgrading in an upmarket society; thus is she forced to barter her inherited facility of being ornamentally pleasing and socially accommodating, in order to retain a tenuous place in the realms of in gold.  It's a tricky balance however, and won't keep her in everyone's good stead forever unless she marries eventually and marries well, which means in her case (the declining social status being a major element) most probably to a suitor whom either she does not love or who is part of the clan but like her not really that well provided for. One example of the latter situation would be hooking up with someone who actually must work for a living, even if it's just hi falutin' selective lawyering or part time doctoring (we're not talking ditch diggers here in this set). The novel is part Victorian, part modern, and a wonderful read (barring Wharton's genteel anti-semitism in the character of one of the more socially unacceptable suitors with an income, Sam Rosedale, described as of the "blonde Jewish" type, but still a Yid; just ascribe it to the times and the authorial pedigree, and read it anyway- it's worth it). 

Meanwhile, back at one of those fancy soirees that will feature tableau vivants as part of the evening's self aggrandizing amusement, Lily chooses a magnificent though somewhat suggestive pose from a Reynolds, and when the curtain is drawn back, she reveals more about herself than just a two dimensional image of some rich dame hanging in a museum. The diaphanous, subtly sensual pose of a blue blood's pretty wife in which Lily chooses to cloak herself for this fantasy reveals her classic beauty in all its allure, and has people gasping.

In Wharton's cautionary tale of the pitfalls of vanity however, this particular scene in the novel also has a special, foreshadowing meaning; Lily, a flower whose bloom like all living blooms will not last forever, still has refused to compromise, to assume a more acceptable, usual place in the standing social order, and just marry someone already. 

The 3 1/2 year old in the present portrait, facing down the viewers in front of a simple, candle lit fireplace, is wearing the periwinkle pinafore with many colored flowers that also hints of something from another, more distant era. And although she may indeed grow up as lovely as the former Lily, even now she has that slightly knowing and subtly mischievous expression that signifies girls have come a long, long way since then, if still not totally the whole route. Sometimes she acts like a black belt, takes a firmly defensive, keep-your-distance bodily stance and screams lollypop power! It can be quite unnerving and effective, taking her young age into account. In addition, she even may choose to become an astronaut if she wants.

And that's good. Or as my granddaughter might say, reaaaallly good. And so we keep encoding history and the swift passage of time with our little cameras, whether internally or externally; and at the very least all these nano seconds of experience form memories and create abstract guideposts as we travel through our allotted spaces. The yesterdays comprise an ever fleeting present, and they live on in stories and images remembered from an eternal past.