Naming Rights: A Proposal

YOU NAME IT, YOU TAKE OWNERSHIP, RIGHT? RIGHT.

Photo by Andy Feliciotti on Unsplash

(This article may or may not appear on my new Substack page, where I’ve started posting mildly political observations every Friday. You are invited to subscribe (for free) to The Optimistic Eye and join the fun.)

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From time to time I pause to visit my name, etched in brass on the entry wall of my favorite museum, San Francisco’s de Young — part of the Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco (which also include my second favorite, the Legion of Honor Museum.)

Actually, I have too many favorite museums to fit into one blog space: the Musée d’Orsay in Paris, New York’s Whitney, Atlanta’s High . . . but my name is on permanent display only at the de Young.

This is because, in the long years after salt air ate into the aging facade of a former building and the Loma Prieta earthquake of 1989 pretty much settled the issue, it became necessary to build an entirely new structure where several previous structures had held an ever-increasing collection of wonderful fine art. A lot of fund-raising went on.

And how better to raise the last chunk of necessary funds than a naming project? I don’t remember the exact amount — this was in the late 1990s during the long campaign to preserve and restructure and rebuild — but it was enough for mid-list donors to stop and think. Probably $5,000 or $10,000. My husband and I stopped and thought and opted in.

As you can see, there were several others.

I bring this up today, having had one more of such occasional photos taken on one of my frequent visits to the de Young, because of the sense of ownership one gets from naming rights. I mean, aside from the fact that I love its collections and its visiting exhibitions and its gift shop and the Andy Goldsworthy sculpture I was lucky enough to watch him create just before the opening of the new building in 2005 — I have a proprietary interest in the institution which I ferociously defend. You drop an orange peel within my sight at your peril, unless you immediately pick it up.

So.

Why don’t we find a stretch of space on the U.S. Capitol grounds for naming rights? For a $1 fee you simply sign a pledge to defend the three co-equal branches of government against all autocrats — and while you’re at it you might defend the free press against tyrants and bullies and spreaders of misinformation intent on desecrating this place you now own.

Think about that. I already regularly take selfies on Black Lives Matter Plaza in Washington (which I will resist posting here) because, among other things, that indelibly named space declares a truth. Truth is getting to be iffy; a free press ferrets it out.

Think how many millions of Americans of all patriotic stripes would sign such a monument. Take selfies every time they visit our nation’s capitol, reflect on this imperfect union they now own and defend. I’ll bet I could find a few artists willing to donate their time and skills to etch names into something.

Meanwhile, we could pay off the national debt.

Richard Mayhew, Beloved Centenarian

HE AND HIS ART MADE THE WORLD, ESPECIALLY MY WORLD, BETTER

Richard Mayhew’s “Spiritual Transitions”, book cover courtesy of the artist and ACA Galleries, NYC (Author photo)

Richard Mayhew cast a benevolent smile my way when my husband introduced me, then his new bride, at a San Francisco gallery show in the early 1990s. Before the evening ended Mayhew had accepted a dinner invitation for the next night, and within another 24 hours I became a confirmed fan.

Reading of his death, at 100, in the New York Times, saddens me — but brings back a flood of shiny memories.

Mayhew loved to talk jazz, or art, or about his work with Romare Bearden and fellow Black artists from many disciplines in the tumultuous 1960s. Or about his heritage, which included Black and Native American ancestry. I loved hearing it all, but I loved his gorgeous paintings the most.

The Times (which twice erroneously refers to the Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco as the “San Francisco Museum of Art,” but we try to be forgiving) quotes Mayhew in an earlier interview as saying his landscapes “internalize my emotional interpretations of desire, hope, fear and love. So instead of a landscape, it’s a mindscape.” They are stunningly lovely, colorful, mystical works you can find in many great museums.

All of which made this personal encounter rather magical in itself:

My book Dying Unafraid, the first I’d ever published that was straight from my heart, was in its final pre-publication stages when an invitation arrived at our house for a 1998 Mayhew show at ACA Galleries in New York. A reproduction of one of the paintings in the show, “Spiritual Transitions,” was featured on the invitation cover. 

“That’s it!” said my husband. “That’s the cover for your book.” 

(Author photo)

Well, good luck with that, I remember thinking. Mayhew had been to dinner one time a half-dozen years earlier, but that hardly qualified us as great friends. We had not crossed paths or corresponded since then, and weren’t going to make it to New York for the show. The painting — minor detail — was listed for sale at $40,000.

My husband, not one to let minor details interrupt a good idea, picked up the phone and called Mayhew at his studio. 

“Oh, sure,” he said. “I’ll have the gallery send a slide to the designer today.” Whereupon, Debra Turner Design created one of what I consider the two great book covers of all time (the other being remarkable artist Ward Schumaker’s cover design for my Perilous Times.) 

A few years later, when I was invited to participate in the 2001 Hospice Mask Project, I decided to collage my mask with torn bits of the beautiful Dying Unafraid book jacket. But would this be disrespectful? A misuse of something which, in my humble opinion, bordered on the sacred?

Not brave enough to pick up the phone, I sent Mayhew a note, mentioning my plan. On receipt, he picked up the phone himself and called my husband — the traditional intermediary, more broadly known among our friends as The Great Encourager.

“Tell Fran that’s an excellent idea,” he said. “It’s all about inspiration.”

Richard Mayhew was an inspiration for the ages. May he rest in gratitude and well-earned peace.

(The mask – Author photo)

_______________ . . . _______________

Share a thought! While I always love to write, and hope you enjoy the read, it’s often the conversation that’s the best. I hope you’ll scroll down a ways and leave a comment. 

World Weary? Try a Dose of Art

PEACE & TRANQUILITY BROUGHT TO YOU BY THE LATE RUTH ASAWA

(Author Photo)

Stressed? Weary with anxiety? Perhaps it’s time for a dose of Art.

Ruth Asawa believed “art can heal, inspire, and bring joy to our lives.” Committed to things like advancing peace and understanding at home and abroad, the beloved artist (1926–2013) did both wherever she went.

I was privileged — and it was a giant privilege — to know Asawa in the decades before her death. Whenever she visited her hands were busy, usually leaving a small pile of origami doves on the table.

In the recent “Bouquets to Art” show at San Francisco’s de Young Museum, Ikebana artist Yoko Tahara, assisted by Nora Dowley and Beth Ross, designed the above tribute to Asawa’s wire sculptures.

(And another, by Soho Ikebana Art Studio, Soho Sakai, Riji; Neuza Lake, Veronica Leung & Dorcas Walton, assistants. Author photo)

Today’s news is an overdose of wars and politics, protests and suffering that can color the heart gray. But I have these photos on my bulletin board.

May soft colors bloom.

Shadows on the City Sidewalks

A MEDITATION ON URBAN ART-BY-SUNLIGHT

Occasionally, when not looking at interesting architecture on city walks  — college classes taught me to look above ground level — or admiring the clouds, I like to look down in search of urban art underfoot. To take time, sometimes, studying what the sun is doing. The sun is often busy making art. Renaissance. Abstract. Art Deco. With the help of street trees, leafy designs splash across sidewalks and stretch upward to green shrubbery. The result is an invitation to slow down, wonder and appreciate.

The opening invitation might come in the form of a mixed-media design, such as this assemblage of line, texture, color and imagery — despite the green being only overhead and out of the frame. Random chalk-mark additions are not infrequent. Including advice messages:

When meditating on urban art, one has to practice dismissal of interruptions along the way.

But back to the sunlight and shadow. The light plays on sidewalk shrubbery, creating green-leaf foreground for an artwork of patterned shadow background. In hindsight, the work could have done without the intrusion of that cellphone image at the bottom edge, but we try not to overthink things. 

Even when confronted with the challenge of downtown business districts the sun often finds a way. These are the times when walking meditation goes in different directions: skyscraper dreams. Are any of my fellow humans noticing the sidewalk shadow-painting at their feet? Can the introduction of steel and concrete have something artistic to say for itself? Urban architects hope so. 

Welcome to Urban Art Appreciation 101. We’re all in this together. 



The Incredible Joy of Art

INTRODUCING AN 8-YEAR-OLD TO A MUSEUM, AND A FAVORITE ARTIST FRIEND

Olympia and her mom studying a Ruth Asawa wire sculpture (Author photo)

I was lucky enough to have known the artist Ruth Asawa. And now I’m lucky to know one of her newest fans.

Born in California in 1926 to Japanese immigrant farmers who were not allowed to become American citizens or own land, Asawa endured family separation and hardships after the eruption of World War II that would have embittered the most generous of souls. She and her siblings lived for five months in horse stalls still reeking of dung, going from there to an overcrowded internment camp that was surrounded by barbed wire and watch towers.

But Asawa harbored no resentment and cast no blame, saying decades later “I would not be who I am today had it not been for the Internment.” Because in those years she first discovered her love for painting and drawing and began what would be an amazing lifetime of art: creating, teaching, drawing everyone around her into the beauty she saw and knew. (Among the several fine books about Asawa my favorite is Everything She Touched by Marilyn Chase. Worth a read. Great Christmas gift.)

Asawa wire sculpture in Whitney show (Author photo)

The first major show of Asawa’s drawings is at the Whitney Museum until January 15, Ruth Asawa Through Line, and it is balm for the soul.

My visit was extra special thanks to my new friend Olympia. She arrived, with her mom, a writer friend, all dressed up and appropriately excited. If I were more knowledgable myself it would have been helpful for Olympia’s art education, but I absolutely loved being the gateway — and being able to tell tales of knowing Asawa in San Francisco.

The author with Ruth Asawa, early 2000s

In the Whitney gallery, we met another woman who had been a neighbor, and it quickly became the Old Hometown Asawa Admiration Society. Ruth and her husband, architect Al Lanier whom she met at Black Mountain College, raised their children in a charming but unpretentious house around the corner from the school where she was a constant presence.

Asawa’s hands were never still. When she came to tea at my house she would pull a batch of papers from her bag and, while we talked, turn them into origami doves or other shapes. I remember saying, as she left the table scattered with beautiful little origami pieces, “Ruth! Are these mine?!?” (They were.)

The visit to the Whitney show was the best of Art: introducing a young newcomer and honoring a down-to-earth yet extraordinary woman who spent her life bringing others into her world. It was a world of beauty and essential humanity.

You can see it until January 15. Take an 8-year-old with you if you can.

Art

Artist

New York

Museums

Music into Art —Art into Music

AN OLD IDEA MEETS 21ST CENTURY IMAGINATION

Photo by Tengyart on Unsplash

They were called the “Mighty Five.” A handful of Russian composers wanted to create a national style nearly two centuries ago. This reporter is singularly unqualified to discuss, at length, their movement or its success.

But I have forever loved Mussorgsky’s “Pictures at an Exhibition.” Mussorgsky was, despite his alcoholism, erratic behaviors, and early death, one of the mightiest of the Five. Surely one of the most imaginative.

When their artist/architect friend Viktor Hartman died, at 39, the musicians arranged an exhibition of his drawings that inspired Mussorgsky’s orchestral responses. Collected into “Pictures at an Exhibition” the music evokes Hartman’s drawings of gardens, catacombs, marketplaces, and — one of my favorites — the ‘Ballet of Chicks in Their Shells.

Fernando Escartiz “Ballet of the Chicks in Their Shells — Mixed Media. In “The Pictures” exhibit at San Francisco Symphony (Author Photo)

The same week that this reporter enjoyed the San Francisco Symphony’s performance of “Pictures at an Exhibition” I was lucky enough to attend an Event — ‘concert’ does not quite cut it — featuring the SFJazz Collective, an all-star ensemble and composers workshop that performs newly commissioned pieces by members plus fresh arrangements of works by modern masters.

Before the Collective came on, SFJazz Founder and Executive Director Randall Kline brought onstage two remarkable young men, Dan Tepfer (b 1982) and Joshue Ott (b 1977) who are — among other things — turning music into art in ways Mussorgsky couldn’t possibly have imagined.

A seat in Row H offered a view of musical notes turning into linear strips of color with the striking of a piano key. Or mushrooming orange shapes evoked by a mellow saxophone. Before our eyes — projected onto the walls of the SFJazz auditorium, which was designed for just such a purpose — the music became art.

Pre-concert view from Row H (Author Photo)

Dan Tepfer, who grew up in a musical and scientific family in Paris, has degrees in astrophysics and jazz piano performance. He is, by contemporary definition, a pianist/composer/coder. Joshue Ott, according to his website, “is a visualist and software designer who creates cinematic visual improvisations that are performed live and projected in large scale.” He does this by using something called superDraw, a software instrument he designed.

Back in the 20th century — 1940s, to be precise — my sister Mimi and I began piano lessons as kindergarteners. Within a few years, Mimi was playing Bach’s Goldberg Variations and I was playing Brown Eyed Susans Nod Their Heads. She went on to a distinguished college music degree. In my own defense, I eventually earned a BA in Art.

And in addition to “Pictures at an Exhibition,” I have never not loved the Goldberg Variations.

I could not, though, have ever imagined them “chromatically inverted” to become #BachUpsideDown — but Tepfer did. It was a way of keeping himself sane during the pandemic, he writes on his website. Tepfer thinks Bach was a badass, with which Bach would probably agree. Tepfer wrote the necessary computer program, then created a video of himself playing the Variations with the program playing it backward. Think G Major translating into G Minor. You can access videos on his website but be prepared to spend the next day or two unable to get anything else done.

The icing on this musical cake is the appearance, is in the video of notes as color and light. It is as if a modern-day Mondrian were hiding somewhere in the piano strings, threading the aural into the visual.

Imagine.

People-Watching at the Museum

VIEWERS CAN SOMETIMES BE AS INTERESTING AS THE ART ON VIEW

(View of the water, and Holocaust Memorial, from in front of the Legion of Honor Museum)

People-watching at its best: looking at strangers looking at art!

I visited San Francisco’s beautiful Legion of Honor Museum recently just before the opening of the next big show — The Tudors: Art and Majesty in Renaissance England opens June 24 to great fanfare. Between shows is a fine time to avoid the crowds, enjoy the rest of the art — and people-watch.

At this more leisurely time you can find a fascinating mix of the casual and the hard core viewer.

(Close examination of Mary Cassatt pastels)

The hard cores are easy to spot. They include members of the Close Examination school who push the boundaries of musuem-advised social distancing by studying selected works up close and personal. 

Also among the hard cores are the Group Discussion clumps. They are inclined to hang out in front of a particularly intricate work and discuss every possible tiny detail until you wonder if they might have rooted themselves to the floor.

(Intense group discussion underway)

Group discussion clumps are frowned upon (and generally impossible unless they are with a docent) in the major shows. But when the galleries are sparsely populated you’ll find these groups standing, pointing, arguing, laughing and enjoying the art, which is, after all, what museums should be about.

Somewhere within a hard core/casual mix are the families — who particularly enjoy a museum in between major shows because they have the place pretty much to themselves. If nobody’s around to bother you, it’s open season on shouting about displays and putting your nose to the glass.

(Introducing baby sister (barely visible) to ancient art)

But often the casual art watchers are the most fun of all to watch:

(Casual viewer taking an art break during a bike trip)

This one was biking to meet some friends but took a detour to see the small show of recent works-on-paper acquisitions. “It’s the best part of my day,” he said in a museum-quiet voice; “any time I can stop by the Legion.”

(Lone looker in the Porcelain Gallery)

Also having a lovely day was this solitary visitor to the Porcelain Gallery, studying the Worcester teapots. Having the whole place to oneself is a secret treat not common to museum-goers.

But for this people-watcher, here was the prize:

(A little art, a little fashion)

Carolyn Hadley, spotted in the museum cafe with her mom, had chosen a place mat to take home so she could continue art-watching at her leisure. It was hard to switch the eye from one artwork to the other. But Carolyn, in her museum-quality dress, holds the promise of a bright future for art and people-watching alike.

Parting Words from a Too-Short Life

Ronald Lockett, “Fever Within” (1995) — Author Photo

Artist Ronald Lockett died at the age of 33. I’d never heard of him, or seen any of his work, before happening upon this piece at San Francisco’s de Young Museum. It’s made of found tin, colored pencils and nails on wood, and according to the accompanying text probably depicts a female partner from whom, sadly, he is likely to have contracted AIDS. It’s an arresting piece. “The cross-like composition,” reads the text, “suggests both a window frame — and the sensation of being trapped inside or outside — and the potential of spiritual salvation.”

What caught this viewer even more were some thoughts that Lockett expressed about his own mortality, shortly before he died.

“If it would end today or tomorrow,” he said, “I just try to do the best I can do, keeping my art honest and coming from my heart. It’s like the last few minutes of a basketball game when the clock is ticking and you’ve got to shoot, you just want to nail it like. It means so much to show ’em you can do it.”

Thanks for nailing it, literally, figuratively and emotionally, Ronald Lockett.