the cassandra pages

Book List 2012

First of all, a look at the statistics:

2012 showed a drop in the number of titles read. There are two reasons for that. First, this year my husband and I bought a large screen for our bedroom and have been watching movies and (mostly) BBC TV shows and documentaries, and that's definitely cut into my reading time. Having said for years how much I hate TV (and this isn't a TV, but still!) I've enjoyed what we've been watching tremendously. A lot of it is pretty damned literary, too, plus it's made me think a lot about screenplays, and the art of writing and adapting for the screen, as well as the incredible talent of certain actors and directors. (But I defensively digress!)

Reason two is that many of the books I read this year were mammoth ones. There are only so many pages that anyone can get through in a year!

Of these 30 titles, 14 were by women, 16 by men. Eight of them are by people I consider to be friends. Slightly less than half were in digital form: 9 were e-books and 2 audio books. I don't have a dedicated e-reader - I use my Android smartphone, and while the screen is small, I really like the portability -- as well as the ability to download free copies of many classics. I can't quite believe I read Ulysses on my phone, but I did!

Finally, I've been more active on Goodreads, and have posted some reviews over there that haven't appeared here. All the links shown in the list below go to my reviews.

David Copperfield and his friend Mr. Micawber

The year was definitely dominated by those "big books:" Ulysses, David Copperfield, Emily Carr's journals, the Icelandic sagas. I've written about them both here and at Goodreads, so follow the links for more details.

Particular standouts written by friends included Marly Youmans' evocative and poignant novel of an orphan boy-turned-hobo in the depression-era South, A Death at the White Camellia Orphanage; Dorothee Lang and Smitha Murthy's Worlds Apart, a book of letters between two women, one in China, and one in Germany, who've never met but begin a correspondence about travel that deepens into true friendship; and Khadija Anderson's first full-length poem collection, History of Butoh, which taught me about this astonishing artform and gave me more of Khadija's strong, uncompromising, and beautiful writing that I had first come to appreciate on qarrtsiluni.

The novel that I may have simply enjoyed the most, as a page-turner, was Tèa Obreht's The Tiger's Wife: highly recommended, extremely enjoyable.

I was disappointed with Amitav Ghosh's River of Smoke, underwhelmed by Cees Nooteboom's Roads to Santiago, and with many of the essays in Derek Wolcott's What the Twilight Says, though I did like his essays about certain poets. That latter volume was completely eclipsed, for me, by the studies of writers, known and less-known, in Virginia Woolf's The Common Reader, First Series, which I found captivating and brilliantly written. Ghosh's second volume in his ambitious, long trilogy contains page after page of descriptive prose that simply failed to capture me.

When I turned to Charles Dickens I immediately saw why: Dickens loved his characters, and makes us love them too, not through techniques or exotic locations or extensive research, but by observing the small human details that make each of us unique. His books may be long, but in many ways they are simple, moving and memorable. Like A.S. Byatt, I feel that Ghosh tends to over-write, and that the books end up being more about the author than about the creation of a world that the reader inhabits, populated by literary friends that will remain for a lifetime. I don't know about either of the other authors I just mentioned, but I do know that Dickens himself was humble, and it comes through in the books.

If finishing Ulysses, on my third attempt, was my biggest reading accomplishment of 2012, my biggest surprise was rediscovering Charles Dickens, 45 years after being forced to read Great Expectations and hating every minute of it.

For art reading, I learned a lot from the essays in the excellent, exensive catalog for the Van Gogh Up Close exhibition in Ottawa.

I always read a few spiritual books, and this year was no exception. However, the books I read by Thich Naht Hahn and Adyashanti didn't affect or inspire me nearly as much as The Journals of Emily Carr, the Canadian artist, who might be appalled to hear her writing described as "spiritual," since that was certainly not her expressed intent even though she often wrote about her sense of the holy as she found it in nature. Her journals, which an astute friend gave to me early in the year, are mainly about the creative process, and moved me deeply. They were a companion as I myself wrote, throughout the year, about Iceland and Montreal, and my own re-emerging sense of myself as a visual artist through the drawings I was doing, and I think her largely solitary journey, so plainly and directly described, gave me a great deal of encouragement and support. What more can we possibly ask of a book than to have it become a friend and companion on our own journey?

So, without further ado, here's the list. Previous years' book lists can be found here (scroll down.) Happy New Year, and happy reading in 2013. I've already got my first few months lined up!

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2012 READING LIST  (links go to my reviews or commentaries)

Gilead, Marilynne Robinson (in progress)

Bleak House, Charles Dickens (in progress)*

Out of Africa, Isak Dinesen (in progress, audiobook)

Richard II, William Shakespeare (reread)

David Copperfield, Charles Dickens*

The Great Animal Orchestra: Finding the Origins of Music in the World's Wild Places, Bernie Krause

Chorister at the Abbey, Lis Howell (audiobook)

River of Smoke, Amitav Ghosh

Aim High, Achieve More: How to Transform Urban Schools through Fearless Leadership, Yvette Jackson and Veronica McDermott

Van Gogh Up Close, Cornelia Homburg, editor

Ulysses, James Joyce*

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, James Joyce*

History of Butoh, Khadija Anderson (full-length poetry collection)

Worlds Apart, Dorothee Lang and Smith Murthy

I Stand Here Shredding Documents, Kristin Berkey Abbott (poetry chapbook)

Balance, Robbi Nestor (poetry chapbook)

Saga of the People of Laxardal (from Sagas of Icelanders)

What the Twilight Says (essays), Derek Walcott

A Death at the White Camellia Orphanage, Marly Youmans *

Living Buddha, Living Christ, Thich Naht Hahn

Emptiness Dancing, Adyashanti *

Sacre Blues: An Unsentimental journey Through Quebec, Taras Grescoe

Roads to Santiago, Cees Nooteboom

The Common Reader, First Series, Virginia Woolf *

The Most Beautiful Thing, Fiona Robyn *

The Tiger's Wife, Tea Obreht *

Nobility of Spirit: A Forgotten Ideal,  Rob Rieman

That Woman, Tom Montag (poetry chapbook)

Hundreds and Thousands, The Journals of Emily Carr

Destiny Disrupted: A History of the World Through Islamic Eyes, Tamim Ansary

End of the year haiku

Chattering sparrows

adorning the bare branches,

my meditation.

The NYT favorite book cover designs of 2012

I'm preparing by own book list post for the year, but in the meantime, here is a slideshow of some terrific cover designs. My own favorite is the one shown here - and yes, as the Times caption-writer wrote, I do wish I'd thought of it myself!

Flock

I've given more crumbs

to the huddled snowy birds

than coins to beggars.

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Snow day. Almost a blizzard - what's the definition of a blizzard, anyway? if it's blowing and drifting snow and very low visibility, we have that. I've been watching the sparrows on the terrace, the way they flock when startled by a human shadow behind the curtains, or a monstrous yellow plow going by; the way they settle back down, hunched up, fluffy, on the terracotta pot rims and copper planter, on the trellis; the way they've left their dance-steps in the snow above the golden crumbs.

I've needed a quiet day like this. In the morning, before it was fully light, I did my meditation, and then listened to Radio Bartok: a string of classical recordings punctuated by the murmur of voices in Hungarian, undecipherable and therefore relegated gratefully to the background of my mind. All the while, the snow billowed in white veils between me and the trees, while the sparrows hopped and fed and hung in the bare branches of the hedge, moving like the music across a scene rendered in white and sepia.

Most of all, I realize I need a break from the computer. I want things to move more slowly for a few days, and to pay attention to the world in front of my eyes, the real world: the icy crystals that shiver and shrink under my warm hand, the prick of the evergreen needles, the heft of a book, the voices of the little birds reassuring each other, and the howl of the wind.

Indulgences

I hope you've had a happy Christmas, if you celebrate it, and that this week leading up to New Year's is restful and a break from your normal routine...

Last night's conversation over a multi-course, cooperative Christmas dinner at a friend's house included (not surprisingly) a brief mention of the word "indulgence," but in its plural, historical, Catholic context. "I think it is a French word originally**," said one of the French guests, raising an expressive eyebrow. "Borrowed by the English."

"Well, indulgence is a rather French concept, wouldn't you say?"

Eyebrow up again, slight smile, no comment.

A bit later, as we pushed our chairs away from the table after the main course of roast goose, groaning a little, this same guest -- who had come to the party straight from the airport -- pulled out a bottle of Calvados (apple brandy) he had brought back from France as a gift for the host. "You are feeling perhaps too full?" he said. "In Normandy we like to have a small cup of apple sorbet with a shot of Calvados on it between courses. It calms the digestion and then you can eat again." There was mango rather than apple sorbet in the house, but we tried it anyway, and then went on to dispatch three more courses -- a large beautiful salad; a platter of clementines, grapes, and Quebec cheeses; and dessert (a Gâteau Reine Elisabeth) -- before tumbling out into the cold at 1:00 am.

Tomorrow: reform!

 

** the etymology and gradual change in meaning of indulgence are, in fact, fascinating:

mid-14c., "freeing from temporal punishment for sin," from O.Fr. indulgence or directly from L. indulgentia "complaisance, fondness, remission," from indulgentem (nom. indulgens) "indulgent, kind, tender, fond," prp. of indulgere "be kind, yield," of unknown origin; perhaps from in- "in" + derivative of PIE root *dlegh- "to engage oneself."

Sense of "gratification of another's desire or humor" is attested from late 14c. That of "yielding to one's inclinations" (technically self-indulgence) is from 1640s. In British history, Indulgence also refers to grants of certain liberties to Nonconformists under Charles II and James II, as special favors rather than legal rights; specifically the Declarations of Indulgence of 1672, 1687, and 1688 in England and 1669, 1672, and 1687 in Scotland.

Crèche

This relic, drawn when I was 5, was unearthed recently in an old scrapbook. I'm not sure little Cassandra showed too much artistic promise at that age, but she did have some quirky ways of looking at things. Animals seem to have figured heavily in her cosmology. I like the startled shepherd at far left, with his pet sheep, and the miniature camel (see the hump with fancy saddle?) at far right. I recognize bluebirds in the rafters, but what is that behind the crib -- a giant fox? A squirrel? It's probably meant to be a donkey. Whatever!

Looking closer, I think this picture shows the influence of Amahl and the Night Visitors, which was first televised around that time: the predominance of the three kings and their gifts, and the star in the sky. I loved Amahl, and sang all the songs, often hobbling around the house with a cane and bursting in on my parents to exclaim "I can walk! I can walk!" In fact, I wonder if that small white figure inside the manger, next to the tall king, is Amahl himself.

Now, more than half a century later, I'm still heading out for midnight mass in a few hours. Montreal is beautifully white with fresh snow, and lot of Christmas lights everywhere. May the peace of this night find its way into all of our hearts, and may you too find what you are searching for.

Reflections on a Visit

The weather was strange for central New York in mid-December, but that strangeness, that off-balance quality, is becoming normal. The geese circled overhead, honking incessantly, and even when they had settled down on the river, beyond the fields, you could still hear them calling to one another, like social media gone wild. I wandered along the shore of the lake one morning after the geese had left, looking into the stones beneath the clear water as if each of them represented a day of my childhood, idly tossed at the time but now accumulated and innumerable. There were dandelions still blooming in the grass, and next to them, thin sheets of ice, frozen overnight and broken in the morning. I knelt down and pushed aside dry oak leaves, looking for acorn caps, but the ones I found were already decomposing into the rich humus beneath the layers of leaves -- all exept for a few, carefully placed on the tops of the stone wall by chipmunks or squirrels for me to pick up and put in my pocket.

Alpha and Omega

Alpha and Omega, mixed media on paper, 14"x 18", (c) Elizabeth Adams

Natalie asked me to publish a larger photo of the image shown in the post about my former workspaces, so here is one, plus a couple of details.

I did this piece a long time ago, when I had first seen and loved the calligraphic work of Thomas Ingmire and some of his colleagues. The background texture is completely built up of layers of lettering, in ink, gouache, and perhaps diluted acrylics - I can't remember - on a background of layered washes in various media that were then distressed by sponges or even by running the paper under the tap. Linocut stamps of the alpha and omega characters were also applied randomly all over the background. The technique relies on the water-solubility of certain pigments and the resistance of others.

The text, of course, is "I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end." The large characters were done with a very large brush in sumi ink, and there are additional stamps over them in white. Some of the small lettering was done with metal-nib pens, and some (the white "I AM"s) with a semi-sharpened twig dipped in white pigment. The center of the large Omega was worked to create a luminous white glow that's more effective in real life than it is here.

This was an experiment that got more serious as I went along; unfortunately I ended up slicing two piece of paper together and the line between the two mars the appearance of the finished piece. As a digital image it could now be completely corrected - but I don't think I had that capacity at the time the piece was done.

The Shades of Cherry Valley

Wind-pollarded trees

Line the Cherry Valley ridge

Silent sentinels

Or splayed-fingered settlers

Frozen at the first war-whoop.*

 

Micro-thin shards of ice, piled by the waves on the shore of the lake.

I'm just back from a quick trip to central New York to celebrate my Dad's 88th birthday (he's doing great.) While there, I went for a ride with him in our newly-restored 1952 Willys jeep, he and I played a few games of ping-pong (he's as impossible to beat as ever) and later went with my father and his girlfriend to a show at the Arts Council in Norwich, NY:  "A Blue Suede Christmas" by Scot Bruce, a well-known Elvis impersonator who plays a lot at Disneyland. He was so much like Elvis it was quite disconcerting!

Natural music was of a different kind. There were thousands of Canada geese in the area, and on Saturday morning when I got up, there were huge flocks wheeling overhead, calling to each other in a wave of sound that was almost deafening. On the way home, we passed a field that was white with snow geese, with thousands more circling up from the field in a continual pattern that reminded me of an insect swarm, or the living balls made by small fish as they try to evade predators. It was the sort of sight we had hoped to see when we visited the snow goose migratory staging grounds at Cap Tourmente in Quebec, but that day we only saw a handful of them.

Central New York has always been fairly wild country, home to large herds of deer and other smaller animals, and a stopping point on the flyway for many migratory birds; it's one of the things I always liked about living there. Now it seems to be even more this way. We saw large flocks of turkeys as well as deer, and my cousin told me that she regularly sees and hears coyote. Dad saw a black bear last year, but bear and moose are only occasional visitors south of the Thruway and Adirondack Park, so far as I know. I'm curious about sightings of bobcat, fishers, and lynx - do any of my readers have any information on those species in that area?

 

*I can never drive past Cherry Valley without remembering the Cherry Valley massacre, which took place on November 11, 1778 -- a group of British and Loyalist soldiers, Seneca and Mohawk Indians attacked a fort and the village of Cherry Valley, and massacred 30 people, mostly women and children. It was one of the most horrific massacres of the entire Revolutionary War, and to some respect still haunts that part of central New York State.

Former Workspaces

Today I was going through old picture archives, looking for something else, when I came across a set of photographs I took of my studio spaces back in Vermont, six years ago. I must have taken them because we were starting to think about moving from that house, where we had lived for 30 years. I haven't looked at pictures of our old house very much since we moved; maybe I didn't want to, maybe I knew I needed time to replace old familiar images with new ones. Now, though, looking at these spaces again, I was surprised by my reactions.

I worked in several different rooms in that old house. The picture at the top is of a wall in what J. always called my "anti-room." It was indeed an anteroom that had been added onto the main house, over a crawl space - the pipes froze here regularly - but the pun J. was making had to do with the fact that it was a very analog space, devoid of the computers in the rest of our work area -- in this one a lot of handwork took place! This was a wall of formal calligraphy practice sheets and several experimental calligraphy pieces, created in mixed-media with multi-layered lettering, and printing, in acrylic, Chinese inks, and gouache.

This is the same room, further to the right, showing the book press and some early linocuts, and a general mess; looking at the pictures now, all I can remember is how impossible it was for me to work in such a small space with so little table space and completely inadequate storage. The calligraphic inscription on the wall is a quote from St. Francis: "Preach the Gospel always -- if necessary use words."

Below is another corner of the room, moving clockwise to the right. The sketches on the wall eventually became a large pastel that I gave to my parents. I still like that red Conté sketch, though, now that I see it here; it must be in my flat file still.

On the fourth wall I had a revolving gallery of drawings - the large portrait of my mother is on the wall of my present studio, too.

We had another building -- a garage with a large open space above that J. used for photography. On the ground floor were two other small rooms, one a woodworking shop, and the other, my painting studio and meditation room, shown below. When I saw this photograph today, I felt again the peacefulness I always enjoyed in that room. It was very much my own, and the desk looked out over the garden. The bookcase is right in front of me as I write this, and the easel and desk are here in my present studio as well. The rocking chair, which was my mother-in-law's, was sold; the Japanese cloth is folded up somewhere, as is that pretty lace curtain. The antique lamps and brackets are in a box; I haven't had a good place to put them. The Cezanne poster, faded and rolled up now, is from an extraordinary retrospective at MOMA that I saw way back in 1978 or so and still remember vividly.

I don't feel nostalgic -- our workspaces now are so much more functional, with wonderful light and much more space -- I simply remember the many hours I spent in this particular room, above, pondering life and trying to grow, feeling supported by objects that reminded me of the best parts of life, and people who were and still are dear to me. It all comes back very swiftly when I look at these photographs.