My own private Idaho eclipse

20170821_113351I was fortunate enough to have a chance to see the solar eclipse last week from the zone of totality. Specifically, I saw it on a field of volcanic rock and sagebrush in central Idaho. My family, which was in Southwestern Montana, drove almost to the Saint Anthony Sand Dunes. When we found the perfect spot and stopped the car, the eclipse was underway, the sun was a third covered. We watched all the way through to the full emergeance and the complete view of the sun. Through eclipse filtered glasses of course.

I had not planned to write a blog about the eclipse. If I were still working at The New York Public Library, I probably would have participated in the staff recommendations. Most eclipse fiction is imperialist. Knowledge of an upcoming solar or lunar eclipse privileges colonialism and lets the visitor claim magic, kingly, or god-like power over the sun or moon.  The Smithsonian Institution’s Center for Folklife and Cultural Heritage sent out a listing of actual folklore narratives about eclipses. The column by James Deutsch can be found in the weekly newsletter, Talkstory, for the week after the eclipse (

One rare fictional exception to the imperialist trend, but only because it is so cynical, is in Mark Twain’s A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court (originally published in 1889). Hank Morgan, the Yankee who goes back in time, doesn’t claim god-like status. He uses his knowledge of an eclipse scheduled for June 528 to outmaneuver Merlin, who he considers as much of a charlatan as himself. He has a convenient memory:

“It came into my mind, in the nick of time, how Columbus or Cortez or one of those people played an eclipse as a saving trump once, on some savages, and I saw my chance.  I could play it myself, now; and it wouldn’t be any plagiarism, either, because I should get it in nearly a thousand years ahead of those parties.”   Read the book in as close as possible to the original version – sometimes, the social satire and economics lesson sections are edited down, but they are definitely worth reading.

Morgan’s memory was accurate. Columbus used a lunar eclipse when stranded on Jamaica on his 4th voyage, on February 29 or March 1, 1504.  Columbus’ source for the predicted date was Regiomontanus, an astrologer and mathematician, whose Almanack for 1475-1506 was a standard for mariners.  The indigenous culture in Jamaica at that time was Arawak and, according to, Columbus did not claim god status – he just wanted food and supplies to help his crew survive until a rescue ship arrived.

Last week’s eclipse lived up to its press. It was majestic even in mid-day on land so flat and wide that there was no sense of scale. And the eclipse glasses that I brought at the American Museum of Natural History did their job very well. But, I have convergence issues with my eyes – distance vision crosses in one direction and close vision works in the opposite way. I have prisms in my glasses that solve the problem. But, the eclipse glasses countered (contradicted?) the prisms, so I had a unique experience – I saw two suns having two eclipses. It was magical, terrifying, and it made me deeply thankful to live in a time when 21st century ophthalmology met up with 17th century lens grinding.

I usually try to ignore science fiction when I have an experience with actual science. But, my eclipse experience reminded me of one of my favorite sci-fi stories. Nightfall was first published in September 1941 by Isaac Asimov in Astounding Science Fiction.  It was expanded into a novel by Robert Silverberg, (published 1990), but my memory is of the original version, which is considered one of the great examples both of science fiction and short fiction. It is a favorite of archivists and scientists since it concerns scholars trying to protect their civilization from the fearful response of a people to what seems to be a predicted eclipse.  Why my eclipse view reminded me of this Asimov story gets a Spoiler Alert.

I recommend both books and the Talkstory article.


Out of Vogue?

When I first began blogging, a dozen yeas ago, it was my antidote to the curatorial curse – having more to say about an artifact than would fit in a caption.  Many related the research process behind my exhibition texts – captions, intro panels, brochures, etc. Those were NYPL staff blogs and can still be found on the Staff Voices section of

My blogging this month relate to my on-going (but soon getting finished) research on the photographer Florence Vandamm, but also relates to past blogs. She was a pioneer of women in photography, having opened her first studio in London in 1908, using her own name (not initials or, in the practice of the time, the street name). My current task relates to an extremely important question – why she moved her successful studio to New York in 1923.  May 1, 1923 to be specific.  I am pleased that she did, of course, since she became Broadway’s premiere photographer and her huge collection of images ended up at The New York Public Library for the Performing Arts.

There are interviews with her over the decades, but they deal primarily with her New York career. In one of the few articles that mention her London studio, she linked the decision to re-locate to the bad economic times in England, citing theater and magazines. When I first read it, we had not found many published images from the early 1920s and I was ready to accept the statement.  Since then, however, after vast amounts of reading digitized periodicals (thank you Hathi Trust and Gale Research Company!) and the wonderful generosity of the National Portrait Gallery curators who shared Xeroxes of 1920-1922 British Vogues, we discovered that 1919-1920 had been very successful for her indeed. So, why this discrepancy? Was it British Vogue’s change of editor? Was it her American husband wanting to go back?  Somewhere in the back of my mind was the description of the early 1920s as Britain’s golden age of popular magazines. Golden for whom? Were they not using photographers or not using her? The answer is probably yes and no to all of the above.

British Vogue did change editors in 1922, turning from Elsbeth Champcommunal to Dorothy Todd. In addition, the ratio of social portraits to performer portraits changed as well  Vandamm could relate well to the young women who were war widows (as she was) or who had been active in suffrage movement or war efforts who were featured un the 1920 issues.  But, as a Jewish woman, she did not have access to society and aristocracy available to rival photographers Lallie Charles, Dorothy Wilding and Cecil Beaton.

England in the period between the Wars was a split society. The image in popular culture is of the “Bright Young Things,” the British equivalent of Flapper Society but with legal alcohol. British Vogue and many of its rival magazines featured them and reported on  their activities.   But there were also the “demobbed” (de-mobilized), the returned veterans who could not find work – the British equivalent of the Bonus Army.

1919-1922 were also the years that Agatha Christie published her first mystery novels and short stories.  Having re-read Christie’s 1922 The Secret Adversary for an earlier blog, I could turn to its opening chapter, when Tommy and Tuppence compare unsuccessful post-war job search notes before turning to their adventures.   I  re-read the excellent introduction to the 2015 William Morrow Paperback edition by John Curran (who edited the Christie notebooks) and found an important clue/clarification that could be the solution.  When it was called the golden age, it was for fiction magazines and short stories were the featured content.  I remembered from all that digitized magazine reading that most of the stories ran with an engraved illustration.  More stories with engraved illustrations had crowded out the photographs.

So, Christie and her generation of mystery writers got published and Vandamm moved her studio and family to NYC.  Conde Nast’s Vanity Fair was still using her author portraits and within 2 years, Vandamm’s photographs became the staple of New York Vogue’s monthly “Seen on Stage” section.   Now, I have to turn all of this into a clear paragraph that links the London and New York sections of the professional biography.

Dystopia — The New Ordinary

I really expected that the popularity of dystopian adult fiction would wane by the 100th day of the Trump era. But fear and loathing do not fade that quickly. Or, possibly, at all.

The most recent re-discovery of the literature connects to dramatizations. A British production of 1984 is coming to Broadway and a serial based on The Handmaid’s Tale is streaming. Margaret Atwood’s vision of Gilead, an American theocracy that subjugates women, was lacking from the original lists, partly because it does not deal with political messaging like 1984 and It Can’t Happen Here. But there were many references to the book in the Women’s Marches around the World. Keep The Handmaid’s Tale Fiction and Don’t Make America Gilead showed up among the posters carried here in New York. One of the terrors for Atwood’s characters results from the Aunts’ insistence that the changes to America will become ordinary. This phrase linked to protesters’ insistence that we should not normalize the Trump presidency. Nasty women know their books and we’re not afraid to use them.

Atwood’s impetus for the establishment of Gilead is an epidemic of mutations and sterility. These themes also show up in two British novels. P. D. James’ best-selling thriller Children of Men was set in a civilization very close to her contemporary real-life. Children are not being born and the last new generation is self-destructing. In keeping with James’ prowess in detective fiction, the characters search for solutions to their immediate issue, maintaining the safety of a pregnant woman, balances solving the greater mystery.

A post-Apocalyptic society’s obsession with mutations is the theme of a lesser-known British novel, John Wyndham’s The Chrysalids.  It was published in 1955, and is now available in a 2008 NY Review Books re-print. The society, Waknut, rejects and destroys all babies that are not perfect. Wyndham also dealt with this theme in his better-known novel The Midwich Cuckoos (aka Children of the Dammed), as the fate of many of the children outside England.   In The Chrysalids, David, and his younger sister, are telepathic, but their invisible mutation has not been discovered. He befriends Sophie, whose extra toe has been hidden by her parents and discovers a secret community of people with mutations who hide in the forest.  I find the novel disturbing since it doesn’t end with escape to a society that accepts all differences. It ends as David and his sister reach a society in which everyone is telepathic.  It is presented as a happy ending. Suitable for England in 1955, but disturbing.

All three books are available at NYPL, which currently lists 2812 entries under End of the World — Fiction.


Icons in peril in World War I posters

This is the centennial of the United States’ entry into World War I. Many museums chose to commemorate World War I on the 100th anniversary of the European onset of the War, as early as 2014. But, for others, the 2017 date seemed more mission-appropriate.

Since I seem to be obsessed with public protest this year, I will join in the current commemorations. The Museum of the City of New York just opened its Spring temporary exhibition on Posters and Patriotism: Selling World War I in New York. It is well worth a visit. Most of the artifacts on display are spectacularly well-preserved posters from the period, augmented by additional graphics, such as flyers and my personal favorite, sheet music covers. The sub-title is highly appropriate for this exhibit since the works are from a time when all of the commercial art industries were located in New York. Advertising, publicity, magazines, and publishing all came from here. This was a period in which commercial artists and graphics designers were known to the public. Charles Dana Gibson led the way, of course, but Coles Philips, Nell Brinkley, and James Montgomery Flagg were also recognizable from their magazine covers and advertisements. Most of the mad men (plus the Peggys and Joans) contributed to the war effort without sacrificing their personal, recognizable styles.

The common usage of the word “iconic” gets on my nerves, but this exhibit really is about icons.   One of the most noticeable things in the exhibit is that, apart from Flagg’s famous Uncle Sam Needs You, most of the figures in the posters are female. I’m choosing to say female, not women. Since the 1890s, an icon (in the true sense of the word) had taken possession of American graphics – a woman in a Grecian garment and laurel wreath. She represented the future, invention and the new American century.  She had a personal life as an active Suffrage icon as well, of course.  But she shows up draped in an American flag on posters for enlistment and, especially, for the many versions of Treasury notes, bonds and loans with which the general public was expected to fund the war effort.

The alternative iconic woman was the mother figure. She had been integral in the debates about entrance into the war – there were even Tin Pan Alley songs “I Didn’t Raise My Boy to be a Soldier” and “I’m Proud to Raise My Boy to be a Solder.” As the War began, however, the American mother figures were uniformly seen as supportive and tragic.  The exhibit deserves praise for including the sheet music cover of “He Draws No Color Line,” illustrated with the African American mother and World War I soldier. The lyrics refer to soldiers in the Civil and Spanish-American War, but, like so many popular songs, it was updated for the current war.   Some of the posters showed the mothers of Europe as well.  They are depicted as refugees in images that look horribly contemporary.

The exhibition, however, features images of active women as well. The women of the Wartime home front were not just pining. They appear in the posters farming with the Land Army, as well as doing factory work as earlier versions of Rosie the Riveter.   They are also drawn in their overseas volunteer activities – Red Cross, nurse, ambulance driver, and YMCA. The latter poster appears next to an actual YMCA uniform, from MCNY’s costume and textile collection.

There will be public programs and curatorial tours throughout the run of the exhibition. Visit for more information.

Trio A with flags, photos and exhibitions

The bad news is that we are in a Nixon revival, re-living the 1970s with continuous protests against a bad president leading us in the wrong direction. The good news is that New York is celebrating the 1970s art forms — minimalist music and post-modern dance. If you follow this blog, you know that The New York Public Library for the Performing Arts has been working with David Gordon, acquiring his archives as a dancer, choreographer and director with public programs and an exhibition, Archivography – under construction, which will be on view through April 6, 2017.  I strongly recommend a visit or two since it is a dense (in the best sense), media-packed exhibition.   The “under construction” means that elements come and go — the chair, for one thing,

David Gordon has also shown up recently in a key image by Peter Moore used to publicize Stephen Petronio’s season at the Joyce Theater, on through Sunday. In recent seasons, Petronio has added revivals of works by major postmodern choreographers in what he calls the Bloodlines Project. This season, it included works by Yvonne Rainer and Steve Paxton, founding members of the Judson Dance Theater and Grand Union, and California-based Anna Halprin. Rainer, Halprin and Simone Forti are the subjects of Radical Bodies, an exhibition and project of the University of California at Santa Barbara and The New York Public Library for the Performing Arts. It can be seen there now and in New York from May 24 to September 16, 2017.

The Rainer works are the task dance Diagonals (1963), Chair-Pillow (1969), and the 1970 version of Trio A, named Trio A With Flags.   Gordon was also a founding member of Judson and Grand Union, and can be seen in the 1970 Moore photograph of Rainer’s Trio A with Flags. Trio A The Mind is a Muscle has become the best known work from the Judson era due to reconstructions and films.  It can be performed by any number of dancers and requires balance, good timing and an excellent memory for seemingly unrelated movements.   Most versions of Trio A, in fact, most post-modern repertory, were performed in the current version of t-shirts and loose leggings. Sally Banes’ masterful book on the Judson Group is appropriately titled Terpsichore with Sneakers. Trio A with Flags is performed nude with American flags tied like halter bathing suits, hanging vertically. The Petronio dancers, in fact, went on stage, tied their flags and un-dressed under them.   It is less of a political statement now, since laws and an electronic culture have de-fetishized the fabric flag.  Without the cultural commitment that a flag permanently equals faithful patriotism, the gesture becomes less about challenge to the establishment and more about how movement changes compared to the vertical lines (from the stripes).

The Peter Moore photograph from 1970 is all context. You can see it in The New Yorker with Joan Acocella’s preview article in the March 27 issue.  Moore saw a lot of dance and knew how to photograph it. He also really knew and understood the space. Judson was the center of post-modern dance and a working church, but it was also the center for anti-war and social activism for NY.  So, there are posters and banners manipulating American flag images all over the back wall.  Moore shows David Gordon in mid-jump with arms extended so that the flag becomes a flying bib.  The extraordinary photo shows a lot of floor and is cropped so that the jump looks close to the ground – a rejection of dance photography’s usual practice.  You can see legs and an arm behind Gordon’s flag and Yvonne Rainer and her flag can be seen faintly at the back.

The photographs by Sarah Silver in the Joyce program and by Andrea Mohin in today’s New York Times (March 30, 1917, on page C1) are tightly focused on the dancers and clearly show the verticality of the flags and the control and beauty of the dancing bodies.  De-contextualized dancers with beautifully trained and articulated bodies are how we see dance these days, especially post-modern dance.  Exhibitions provide context, so please try to attend the David Gordon show before April 6 and Radical Bodies in California this Spring or in New York this summer.

A video installation of SlowDancing/Trio A by David Michalek and Yvonne Rainer will be on view at Danspace in late June.  Go to for the schedule.

Not showing art

Museums around the country are showing their disagreement with the immigration policies of the Trump administration by not showing art. NYC’s Museum of Modern Art has replaced all of the art in one of its chronological survey galleries with works by artists from the 7 countries covered by the original ban.   The impact comes with the interruption of the art movements.    Other museums are emphasizing the administration’s holistic antipathy to immigration by shrouding painting and sculpture by artists who immigrated to the United States.   This protest has some shock value, especially for those did not remember that most Colonial and Federal-era painters were immigrants. Visitors in many communities were shocked when so many portraits of the founding fathers were shrouded.

For me, the shrouding of art evokes Day Without Art, an international art world protest for December 1, World AIDS Day. The New York Public Library for the Performing Arts, where I worked until my very recent retirement, started recognizing the day with lists of names – printed on corridor galleries or in small booklets, hand-bound with red ribbon.  We lost a number of staff members and frequent visitors and the mourning/protest of individual names seemed most appropriate.   As the pandemic continued, we chose to collaborate  with Visual AIDS and the performing arts community. We participated in the shrouding, closed galleries completely or hung banners on gallery glass walls. The participation varied depending on the subjects of the Fall exhibitions. Anything in the mid- to late-20th century performing arts, especially, exhibitions on large numbers of individuals, such as photo shows, became shrines to the identified and sorely missed. I rejected the alternative practice of removing the art or reversing it, to avoid reference to the 19th century practice of “turning a frame to the wall.”That meant not a death in the family, but the rejection of a family member.

My e-mail signature, like so many museum staff, promotes current exhibitions. This Spring, it promotes a exhibitions that celebrate an immigrant. Currently, my signature guides e-mail receivers to the Lincoln Center Boro-linc presentation of our The Genius of Geoffrey Holder, which is spending the Spring at the Jamaica (Queens) Center for Arts and Learning.    That Queens institution is the part of the borough that has a large West Indian community. You may not recognize the name, but apart from all of the other credits, he directed and designed The Wiz. The artist/actor/choreographer/painter and costume designer is also featured in 40 Years of Firsts, our exhibition/collaboration with the Dance Theatre of Harlem and California African American Museum – currently on view at the Northwest African American Museum in Seattle.


Pink hats and Rosie references

The Victoria & Albert Museum, London’s wonderful compendium of art and artifacts has acquired a pink pussy hat for its collection. For the official announcement, please see:   The knitted hat has come to represent the international Women’s Marches, which were held throughout the world on January 21, the day after the Trump inauguration. Originally designed by Jayna Zweiman and Krista Suh as a response to Trump’s iniquitous statement of how he abused professional women. It was a downloadable pattern, popularized on social media and Ravelry ( knitting community’s social media), and knit by the thousands for the Winter March.   Women decided to reclaim pink as a symbol of strength and pink yarn ran scarce at knitting stores and sites through January. The pattern went viral and, within hours of the March kick-off, so did images of the thousands of women and men wearing their versions of the hat.   [Full disclosure – as a crowd control monitor, I had to stay at Dag Hammerskjold Plaza and decided to protect my eyes by wearing a hat with a wide brim.]   My sister came up with her own varieties of the pattern (a 3-needle bind-off instead of mattress stitch seams; decreases and increases to make the ears stand out), added purple variants, and is now trading the hats for donations to Planned Parenthood (which has also re-claimed pink for its own political ends).

A pink hat also showed up on The New Yorker cover of February 6, 2017. It was worn by Abigail Gray Swartz’ up-dated Rosie the Riveter – a beautiful African American woman with the traditional blue shirt and rolled up sleeves.   Rosie has represented   working women, especially women who work for general good, since World War II. Most people’s visual “Rosie” icon is based on the poster designed by J. Howard Miller in 1942, proclaiming, “We can do it” against a yellow background. The Norman Rockwell work actually named “Rosie the Riveter” is a different, lesser-known image. Miller’s version has become an all-purpose activist symbol, with special meaning for women.  Many political campaigns have adopted the iconography onto posters, buttons and t-shirts for Rock the Vote, (with Michelle Obama), and both Clintons.

I almost expected the Democratic Women’s Caucus to wear the pink hats for Trump’s address to Congress, but instead, they went for an earlier historic color reference. They wore white to honor the on-going centennial celebration of America’s adoption of Women’s Suffrage. Hillary Clinton had also worn the American suffrage whites, purples and greens during her campaign.

The Victoria & Albert’s announcement stated that they used their “Rapid Response” initiative to locate and acquire ”an immediately recognizable expression of female solidarity and symbol of the power of collective action.”   Allow me also to add an “insidethe mseum” reference here — my tribute to Edith Mayo, curator for the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History in the activist 1970s – 1990s. She was the promulgator of her own variation of the “Rapid Response” Initiative – she attended civil rights and peace marches, stayed late and picked up all of the left-over posters, buttons and t-shirts for the collection.   I first heard her speak at a NYSCA seminar in 1990 and think of her every time that I am working voter registration tables, handing flyers out on a corner, or marching for a cause.   I wish that she could have picked up a pink pussy hat to go with the collection that she developed over the years for Rosie the Riveter and “We Can Do It.”  But I am sure that some of the many staff that she inspired and trained are documenting the current activism for their institutions.