"Barny, I'm trying to write"
"I help" he said
Morse-Libby House, Portland ME
Italianate Style, 1860
Architect Henry Austin
To have license, as an individual member of a group at a reception, to roam around an historic house without benefit of docents is a real privilege, believe me, for not to have to listen to the irrelevant and worthless tales of the lives of original and subsequent homeowners is a blessing. Some like to listen to that, I find it a waste of time – give me a caption, a QR code or the like, dump the docents and I'd be happy as a pig in muck, as it were.
The Turkish smoking room has been fully restored and like all restorations cannot avoid a feeling of inaction – it is as if it awaits a layer of nicotine (many layers of which were removed in the restoration), an echo of male laughter, a glint of polished leather on a footstool, the glow of a cigar and the blue smoke layer swirling around the gasolier. So brightly lit was the electrified gasolier that evening it seemed someone really was trying to keep a ghost or two at bay. Romance aside, I was reminded that with gas lighting, the fire of diamonds was dulled and only returned with candlelight and, eventually, with electricity. I was glad I left mine in the vault.
Museum managers need to attract visitors to places and buildings so much in need of upkeep and repair that, inevitably, a decision has been made to attract income from anyone who will pay the entrance fee (I know I'm being simplistic but for the sake of argument, etc) but for those of us who know something of the interiors, furnishings and styles, and do not wish to listen to the kind of populist crap soliciting "oohs" and "ahas" from the gum-masticating congregation with which one finds oneself, the problem is avoiding it. I do tend to wander off and risk being taken to task for stepping out of line (always infuriating to someone) rather than not visiting the places.
The small dark rectangle towards the top of the left-hand panted panel is not a shadow but a remainder of the original scheme darkened by nicotine, dirt and time
The Pompeiian bathroom (restored) with its rebuilt "thunderbox" water closet and beautiful oilcloth (?) floor
I remarked to some people that much of what I saw in the house – the smoking room and the Pompeiian bathroom especially – brought to mind an English decorator called Geoffrey Bennison and was shocked to find no-one had heard of him. Tail between my legs, I went in search of Rory, found a discussion about religion instead, downed half a glass of white whine and was out of the door, husband on my arm, texting the dog-sitter, and headed to dinner. Over a glass of bourbon I nattered on, eventually reaching the conclusion that we all have our specialties and … faced with a plate of lobster and gnocchi none of it mattered anyway.
An effect of light I find so attractive and which the camera lens always resolves more clearly than my eyes allow
On my Instagram I remark that it took two World Wars and a Modernist coup in schools of architecture to almost wipe out this type of decoration – a gross oversimplification, I know, but Instagram is not a place for essays, blogs are.
A lovely trompe-l'œil cartouche, one of many, which I hope will be left in its faded, unrestored state
I prefer to take the silent tour before the talkie tour. I don't like reading the artist statement before seeing the art. Kind of like a music video, it fixes an impression.
ReplyDeleteTerry, artist's statements are usually gobbledygook of the worst kind and I gave up reading them a long time ago.
DeleteHello Blue. I love your rants. So glad you are there to do it!
ReplyDeleteI took a picture of a painting the other day with my iphone and the very subtle, barely there human form in it came out shouting. It wasn't an acurate representation that time and maybe that was the case for you with the lovely stained glass lit panel. Still I do appreciate the amazing iphone software that is so good and trusty in low light conditions.
As for beautiful Barney, teenagers need lots of sleep!
gésbi, hello. It's been a long time – my fault, I know. I cannot wait for my new phone though this old steam-driven model does work wonders at times. Barny is the most amazing thing to happen to me since I met and married Rory and I adore them both. I'll let you guess which is the most demanding of my time. I look at Barny in amazement sometimes and just sit and wonder
DeleteYou make me long for a whippet!
DeleteAs for guides, it's such a gamble. I do know just what you mean. especially in private properties they can be very vague and wrong about things yet think they are great authorities. But I've had utterly fascinating very informed guides who don't suppose that everyone one listening is a cultural neophyte.
(No fault, you know. I'm the most inconstant blogger here. I found it pretty bleak the last time I tried to come back to blogging and you weren't there!)
Did we have crankypoo meltdown in Maine? Don't blame you! I, too, prefer to guide myself. The lobster and gnocchi sounds absolutely restorative. Did Barny go ballistic when he saw you two back home?
ReplyDeletehome before dark, I did have a meltdown. If you can explain how a man my age can pine for a pup I'd be grateful and as fares the tour was concerned it was riddled with docents – riddled with 'em! One of whom was on a power trip and thought she was dealing with a gaga old man! I cannot bear the whole tribe.
ReplyDeleteBTW, yes Barny was glad to see us then went into sulks because we'd left (I think) yet wouldn't leave my side which is normal. He's the second light of my life!
DeleteBarny has an unusual way of sleeping (on his back), which is mesmerising! At least, I'm assuming that's what he's doing, but maybe he's just rolling with joy?!
Deletecolumnist, he can sleep on his back but normally he curls, then stretches out over me if we are on the sofa together. The pose above was just to say good morning and that he was ready for a belly-rub now that I was finally awake.
DeleteThe Victoria Mansion does a lovely job decorating the house at Christmas time, but oh, the crowds!
ReplyDeleteIf you are ever again in Maine, a bit farther south than Portland in the Berwicks is Hamilton House, a good example of what people with taste and money did with 18th century mansions in the roaring twenties. Just up the road is the Sarah Orne Jewett house and both are open to the public.
I do practically everything I can to avoid docent led tours, and equally (and I admit this is not attractive of me), the fellow travelers who take the tours, but sometimes I yield to the inevitable. I visited the house in question last fall for the first time in years, and found myself the prisoner of a docent who in each and every room would point at some bit of trompe l'oeil and ask us to guess what it really was (ever quick, I always knew the answer: The ceiling was trompe l'oeil walnut, the fabric in the panels was trompe l'oeil brocade, and on it went, til I truly thought I'd go mad.) As in this case I "know people", I have only myself to blame.
ReplyDeleteDilettante, I only now have checked to see if you are blogging again and you are – at least, in May you were. I've put you back on my blog roll so ramp it up!
DeleteThe worst docent I've ever met was in the Joshua L Chamberlain Museum - clearly used to dealing with five-year-olds.