A treasure from the 1970s: Chagall’s America Windows at the Art Institute (1977). They’re out there, those treasures from that time.
In order from right to left.
Here’s a thought for the 2020s: Odious antisemites need to knock it off. As in, shut up. Then again, “odious” is already packed into “antisemite,” isn’t it? So that counts as a redundancy.
Details from the America Windows.
The museum was busy on Saturday, but I had the windows practically to myself.
I might be misremembering, but I believe the Uffizi Gallery had a hallway that featured busts of every Roman emperor, plus a good many of their wives, down at least to Severus Alexander (d. AD 235), in chronological order. I spent a while there, looking over them all.
The Uffizi array included famed and long-lasting rulers (e.g., Augustus) but also obscure short-timers whose biographies tend to end with “assassinated by…” (e.g., Didius Julianus (d. AD 193), the rich mope who bought the office from the highly untrustworthy Praetorian Guard and held it for all of 66 days in 193).
I thought of all those emperor busts when I took a look at Hadrian and Marcus Aurelius on Saturday. 
Second century AD, no doubt part of what would later be called propaganda: the effort to let the Roman people feel the presence of their rulers. These two busts are among the ancient Roman artworks on display at the Art Institute of Chicago, along with works by Greek, Egyptian and other peoples.
It isn’t a huge collection, though sizable enough. If you put together the ancient art found at Art Institute and the Field Museum and the Oriental Institute Museum, that might be a British Museum- or Pergamon Museum-class collection, but no matter. I always enjoy strolling around the Art Institute’s ancient gallery, which is back a fair ways from the main entrance, in four rooms surrounding a peristyle-like courtyard, though that is a story down.
Besides emperors, you’ll see emperor-adjacent figures, such as Antinous, done up as Osiris, 2nd century AD of course.
Beloved by Hadrian, Antinous took a swim in the Nile one day in AD 130 and drowned. Hadrian founded the nearby city of Antinoupolis in his honor (it’s a minor ruin these days) and proclaimed him a god — the sort of thing a grieving emperor could do in those days.
A Roman copy of a Greek statue of Sophocles, ca. AD 100.
Hercules, 1st century AD.
My cohort learned of Hercules through cartoons. Could have done worse, I guess.
A story never animated for children, as far as I know: Leda and the Swan, 1st or 2nd century AD. A story that nevertheless reverberates down the centuries.
Who doesn’t like ancient mosaics? I like to think these 2nd-century AD works were part of an ancient tavern that served food.
A sampling of Greek vases are on display as well. These black-figure works are from the sixth century BC, probably for storing wine. In vino veritas, though in this case that would be Ἐν οἴνῳ ἀλήθεια (En oinō alētheia), and I won’t pretend I didn’t have to look that up.
I always visit the coin case. Here’s a silver tetradrachm minted in the 2nd century BC in Asia Minor, depicting Apollo. Such detailed work for something struck by hand.
Then there’s this — creature.
Statue of a Young Satyr Wearing a Theater Mask of Silenus, ca. 1st century AD, the museum sign says (and he’s putting his hand through the mask). You need to watch out for those young satyrs. They’re always up to something.
On Saturday, I made my way to downtown Chicago, while Yuriko created this most delicious Christmas cake at her occasional cake class.
I rode the El part of the way. Not many people are masked these days, unlike subway riders of a year ago (at least in New York). But there are a few.
Another mark of the shifting tides of pandemic: a storefront on a downtown Chicago street.
I didn’t doctor that image. A white rectangle was painted on the sign. Note that it went from Free Covid Care — though surely they meant testing, not intensive care — to Covid Care, as federal subsidies dried up, to For Rent, as business dried up.
Before long, I came to my destination: The Art Institute of Chicago.
The Art Institute and I go back a ways, and I’m sure I’ve been there more than any other art museum, or maybe any museum at all. Remarkably, I know the date of my first visit: May 17, 1981, during my first visit to Chicago. I haven’t consistently keep a diary over the years, but I did then.
That day I mostly remember spending time at an exhibit called “The Search for Alexander.” I might or might not have known it at the time, but the exhibit had opened just the day before.
A few years earlier, the wildly popular “Treasures of Tutankhamun” exhibit had set the stage for the museum megashows of today, with their crowds, high prices and timed tickets, but most of that was still to come in ’81 (and there were other memorable legacies of Tut, too).
I don’t think the Alexander exhibit counted as a megashow, since I don’t remember paying extra, or dealing with a crowd. But I do remember being impressed by the art and artifacts from the time of Alexander of Macedon, especially a wreath of gold fashioned to look like oak leaves and acorns, held by fine gold branches that vibrated ever so gently in the mild air puffs of a climate-controlled display case.
On Saturday, I once again spent time with the museum’s ancient art, but also lingered in front of the Chagall’s America Windows and in the Chicago Stock Exchange Trading Room, which I almost always do, as well as taking a long look at the Thorne Miniatures, which was by far the most crowded gallery I visited, though this time I didn’t go into the Impressionist rooms, which always pack ’em in.
Wherever you are, Saturday’s a busy day at the Art Institute.
A scattering of people wore masks.
Many more wore beards.
Museum workers were working.
As befitting my age, I spent a good few minutes on the museum’s benches. That gave me time to fiddle with my camera.
Oops.
I sent this card to my brother Jim in December 1994, on the day that we visited Windsor Castle.
The British postmark is where it should be. The USPS thoughtlessly postmarked the image. Nice going, USPS. Just another example of disrespecting postcards.
As this account of the 1992 Windsor Castle fire says, only two of the castle’s artworks were destroyed by the fire, not including the one depicted on the card, “Judith with the Head of Holofernes” (Cristofano Allori, 1613) which was part of the Royal Collection at Windsor. It still is.
At the time, I didn’t know anything about Allori or the painting. The Royal Collection Trust notes: “According to his biographer Baldinucci, Allori painted this work in part as an autobiographical account of his love affair with Maria de Giovanni Mazzafirri, which ended badly. The figure of Judith, Baldinucci claimed, resembles ‘La Mazzafirra,’ the servant in the background her mother, and the severed head of Holofernes is a portrait of the artist himself.”
I had seen “Judith I” (Gustav Klimt, 1901) in Vienna earlier that year, and of course the story of Judith came up in my studies, but I also didn’t really know how popular Judith was in artistic depictions. This I found out later. Nothing like a story of deception, a fetching feme, a drunken fool and a beheading to inspire art, I guess.
As for the work at Windsor, most recently — as in, last week — I read how it came to be in the Royal Collection. Acquired by Charles I, probably from the Gonzaga collection, Mantua, the trust says, which lead me to read further about the Gonzaga collection. If I had heard about it before, and I might had, I’d forgotten.
The long and short of it is that the House of Gonzaga, after much effort, put together a splendid art collection, only to sell it when they needed cash — to King Charles in the late 1620s, well before that monarch’s grim fate, in a deal facilitated by one Daniel Nijs.
The lesson here? Postcards are educational.
As expected, full winter is here. Not much more to say about that till a blizzard comes. We’re overdue one, at least when it comes to my completely nonscientific feelings on the matter. Not that I want one, just that it’s been a while, and the Old Man might want to let us have it this year.
Christmas lights are up around the neighborhood and beyond. Have been, mostly since last week. So are ours, but I don’t light them. Soon. I haven’t even gotten around to replacing the white overhead front door light with a green bulb. Soon.
We visited the Elk Grove Village lights recently, which includes a glowing ball you can walk into. 
How could I not open an email with a subject line like this?
SAVE at our annual Holiday Open House! Details inside
Easy not to open, actually, and usually I wouldn’t, but since I did know the sender — a dermatologist we’ve visited — I took a look:
Don’t miss our biggest savings of 2022 on skin treatment packages and in-clinic products at our Wheaton/Naperville location. Oh, what fun!
Oh, what fun? Like riding in a one-horse open sleigh?
Ridding the house of excess paper is an ongoing task. Digital age, my foot. Today I found a form letter, undated, from the Schleswig-Holstein Park District. The head:
PARENTAL GUIDELINES
Followed by a lot of verbiage, but I didn’t need to read any more. Those days are over. Out to the blue bin with it.
Before I tossed, in the same blue bin, one of those cardboard triangles that Toblerone comes in, I noticed that the brand is owned by Mondelēz International, complete with macron. Wait, isn’t that the name of the president of France? How is it that the Fifth Republic has a diacritical mark as its supreme magistrate?
Never mind. When did the essential Swiss triangle chocolate fall under the sway of Mondelēz? Back in 1990, when predecessor Kraft bought Toblerone. Shows you what I know. Then again, that would account for Toblerone’s wider appearance in North America since about 1990. Back in the 1980s, the chocolate wasn’t just Swiss made, that’s where you found most of it.
Despite its Euro-sounding name — Iberian-sounding — Mondelēz is actually headquartered in the far-off, exotic city of Chicago.
