Nom de Plume

I have been informed that we probably won’t have one for “quite a while.”

Actually, that’s fine. I would rather have no sink and refinished floors. Of course, that’s probably not going to happen for quite a while either because it entails us moving out of the house for a few days.

But I’m inspired. There are scads of people currently blogging about their house updates, and HouseBlogs posted a google map showing where they are. I’ve wasted countless hours reading each one and looking at the pictures. With the exception of the couple who PAINTED their gorgeous, already pristine built-ins (odd, when everyone else spends hours getting the back to that state), it’s amazing what people have done.

Some of my favorites, in no particular order:

1912 Bungalow
Kenton House
Pigeon Point Project
The Little White Bungalow
The Devil Queen

Funny that I should be posting garden pics today. I just received the pictures I ordered from the city archives.

Here’s the house in 1935:

Again in 1950something:

I tried to get the same angles, but it just doesn’t work. So here it is straight on, as of five minutes ago:

Those two wood things on the concrete are actually the two parts to a platform bed someone had thrown away. We salvaged it and it’s sitting out there because I need to sand and oil it. All in all, we were feeling pretty pleased with ourselves.

Until last night.

Our neighbors wandered over and asked, “Oh, is that your worm bin?”

One of my Edward R. Hamilton finds, The Shopkeeper’s Wife was a strange and spare novel that is very loosely based on an actual murder and its subsequent trial.

Isabelle Martin is the wife of a prosperous late-nineteenth century shopkeeper in Philadelphia. Trapped in a loveless marriage, and finds solace in ideology: the women’s movement; the idea of free love; taking a water cure … More than anything, however, she dreams of true love. Her husband disappoints. he has blackened teeth and halitosis. He is a hypochondriac. Ultimately, he dies and she is put on trial for his murder.

The story is told through the eyes of her maid, Hanna Wilbur, who comes to her when Isabelle is pregnant. Hanna’s matter-of-fact tone, which evokes a simpler time, carries us through. Rich in period detail, we see Hanna’s transformation from a simple maid-of-all-work to someone who firmly grasps her own destiny. Simply put, one likes Hanna. It is a fondness for her character that makes this a good historical novel–and it even partially makes up for the inscrutable character of Isabelle.

I love John Singer Sargent. I love his portrait of Madame X and the story of how it caused a furor when it was first shown. And I love novels about art.

So it’s surprising that I hated this book. Okay, okay, I confess. I haven’t gotten past page 22. The writing isn’t that great. The voice of Virginie Gatreau is incredibly contrived. Perhaps I should give this more of a chance. But I don’t think I will.

It seems to me that some writers feel the need to attempt a work doomed for failure. One example is Pia Pera’s Lo’s Diary, which retells Lolita from her perspective. (I think the only reason it got so much press was because Nabakov’s estate sued. How can you possibly surpass the original?) To me–and granted, I haven’t given it much of a chance–I am Madame X falls into the same category. First of all, it cheapens the portrait with its amateurish efforts. Second, one of the painting’s appeals is its very mystery. Should one even attempt to demystify or is it better left alone? Well, I leave that to you.

Yesterday was great. I kept my bathing suit on all day and hopped in the water at Pritchard Beach three times. The last time, Elizabeth met me there and we paddled around in the water. Steve joined us after getting a haircut (thankfully not the mullet he’s been threatening). Then we all came back here, grilled ahi tuna steaks and drank gin and tonics. E and I played Scrabble, or Squabble as it is better known in my family. Which was a lot of fun because Steve refuses to play with me. He says I cheat.

A well-written, solidly-researched novel of 14th century England. Finn is a master illuminator working both for the Church and for the heretical scholar Jon Wycliffe. When he and his daughter lodge with Lady Kathryn, the widowed mistress of Blackingham Manor, the lives of all become intertwined.

Depressing, but great read.

The fictionalized account of a missing year in Rembrandt’s life places him in the English port city of Hull as the result of stowing away on a ship to get away from his creditors. The English captain discovers he can draw, and offers him a bargain: He will forgive the fare and return him to Holland if Rembrandt paints his portrait. While there, he is captivated by the Captain’s wife Amelia. So is the poet Marvell, who proposes a wager between the two artists to see whose medium is finer.

Fast forward to the present. Amy Dale, a wandering painter, ends up in Hull where she takes conservation work in her ancestors’ house, which surprise ends up being the same house. She and an engimatic laborer find Amelia’s journal and work out that Rembrandt spent a year of his life there. As they unravel the mystery, the story unfolds.

It’s too bad that Davenport didn’t just stick to Rembrandt. Those parts of the story were powerfully written, and successfully captured the voice of a man who is at first incredibly vain about his talents but comes to the realization that he is merely human. (In fact, the novel purports to explain why there was such a shift in Rembrandt’s self-portraits.)

The modern day, however, was not as finely wrought. Amy was an unconvincing female with unreal motivations. The modern day denouement was anticlimactic and clumsy.

Still, for those who enjoy combining art and literature, this was a pretty good read.