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.
As forecast, full-throated winter came barreling into northern Illinois last night as erratic gusts. The edge of same system that spawned tornadoes in the South? Our wind was brisk but, I’m glad to say, not deadly, unless you passed out naked and drunk outside in some hard-to-spot location, as visiting Florida Man might.
At least it will be a dry cold for the next week or more, weather scientists predict. Any winter day without ice underfoot isn’t half bad.
Late November dusk in these climes.
RIP, Christine McVie. I was much surprised to learn that her maiden name was actually Perfect. I heard years ago that that was her name before marrying John McVie but, in as much as I gave it any thought, believed it was a stage name. Dropping a stage name upon marriage might be a little unusual, but not inconceivable.
Who’s named Perfect? Christine’s father, Cyril Percy Absell Perfect, a concert violinist and music lecturer from near Birmingham, UK, for one. And I assume some generations of his paternal ancestors before him.
“This… name is an example of the common medieval practice of creating a surname from a nickname, in this instance one that originally denoted an apprentice who had completed his period of training,” notes the Internet Surname Database.
“The derivation is from the Middle English ‘parfit,’ meaning ‘fully trained’ or ‘well versed’, from the Old French ‘parfit(e),’ meaning ‘completed,’ ‘perfect,’ ultimately from the Latin ‘perfectus,’ a derivative of ‘perficere’ to finish, accomplish.”
Almost warm today, nearly 60° F. Then winds came through, followed by rain after dark, then cold air. Tomorrow the high will be around 30° F. There’s no denying winter.
Fact for the day: the Dehesa de Extremadura Protected Designation of Origin in Spain produced 3,860 tons of peppers in 2020. I’m assuming that’s metric tons. Also, a dehesa is, according to Wiki at least, a “multifunctional, agrosylvopastoral system” specific to Spain and Portugal, though it’s called a montado in the latter country.
I had to look all that up, including a source or two beyond Wiki. Why did I look it up? Curiosity sparked by a can of Spanish paprika that recently appeared in our kitchen.
Isn’t that a fine design? A bit of everyday aesthetics, holding 70 grams of that pimentón production, though possibly from a crop more recent than 2020, since the packing date on the can is September 5 of this year — or May 9, since I’m not sure whether it’s month/day/year or day/month/year in Spain. Sometime this year, anyway.
La Dalia brand (the flower is Dahlia in English, notoriously as in Black) and from the La Vera district in Extremadura, as verified by whatever EU bureaucracy is in charge of such things. It doesn’t add materially to my life to know all that, but I’m glad I do all the same.
The day after Thanksgiving — Stay Out of the Stores Day, let’s call it, though I also avoided e-commerce — I decided to burn some of the wooden debris left by the flying trampoline incident. Not to grill anything, just for the pleasure of it. Daytime temps were relatively mild, much warmer than early in the week, and while there was some wind, not enough to pose a hazard.
Pretty soon I got it going nicely.
That might look like I added some accelerant, but no. I put paper and about a half load of charcoal in the chimney starter and fired it up. Later, after pouring the red charcoal out of the chimney, I added sticks. That was all it took.
What’s the fascination with a robust fire?
I kept the fire going through dusk, having started it just before sunset. Eventually, the fire consumed most of the debris wood, though there are some other small piles out in the yard that I can burn if the urge strikes again.
When did humanity finally master the art of making fire? A long damn time ago, but the exact sequence of events, like much else about our remote past, is vague indeed. Still, the fascination remains, right down to the present day, in my back yard.
At Ann’s request, and our agreement, turkey was the meat for Thanksgiving dinner this year. I can’t remember the last time it was. More recently than this bird, however. Maybe this one? If so, it’s been quite a while.
How it looked on the table.
Not an overly large bird, since there were only three of us. Also, it came already smoked, so all I had to do was unwrap it and heat it for a couple of hours at a fairly low heat. Pretty tasty. Even at its size, much leftover meat remains in the refrigerator.
How it looked on the plate.
My plate, illustrating my longstanding preference for dark meat, with rolls, stuffing, olives and some mac & cheese artfully created by Ann. It’s now a Thanksgiving and Christmas specialty of hers.
Back to posting around November 27. We’ll be home for Thanksgiving, as will Ann. Except for food preparation (and cleanup, which is mostly mine), best not to do too much next week, though I will work the three-day week. A good Thanksgiving to all.
I never get tired of taking back yard pictures, especially when some kind of weather event is visible.
Just a few moments of heavy snow this afternoon that didn’t stick for long. There will be a warming trend next week. Not warm, just warmer than now. A more seasonable chill.
While in the online thickets today, I came across a bill introduced to the U.S. House of Representatives earlier this year.
H.R. 6869 – To authorize the President of the United States to issue letters of marque and reprisal for the purpose of seizing the assets of certain Russian citizens, and for other purposes.
Rep. Lance Gooden (R.-Texas) introduced it, presumably as a novel way to help seize oligarch megayachts. I guess that would count as Congress delegating that function, since if I understand correctly, Article I, Section 8 of the Constitution specifically gives that power to the national Congress. Section 10 bans states from issuing letters of marque and reprisal.
Mr. Gooden’s bill has gone nowhere. Of course, he’s a backbencher (first elected in 2018) in the minority, so Nowheresville is going to be the destination of his proposals, especially ones considered eccentric. Come next year, he’ll be in the majority, but still a backbencher, so I’m not expecting any further action on the matter.
Still, can you imagine? Who would apply to be a privateer against Russian vessels? Maybe Somali pirates, who have been in something of a slump in recent years and who’d like the color of law for a change.
