Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer's Day?

Shall I? Hmm. I don't think that Shakespeare visited Texas in July. If I was comparing someone to a summer's day, it probably wouldn't be a compliment. Summer is my least favorite season. Nothing has really been inspiring me that much lately, and I know that a factor is the weather. A cold, grey day in winter will make me happy, whereas a hot, sunny day in summer is liable to do the opposite. 

Texas summers are not sweet and gentle summers, no, they are scorching, dull, relentless summers. The heat reflects off of the massive amounts of concrete in the cities and it seems as if everything, the light, the sky, and the sun above, is a dull beige. I welcome the back-to-school ads in August and the Indian corn and pumpkins arriving in the supermarkets after Labor Day. It gives me a thrill to think that fall is coming…it still is, isn’t it?

Here’s the opposite of an ode to summer. 

“Summer Afternoon”
by Joy Curry

A wasp flies by

Through the solemn shadows
Stretching over close-set, lonely houses,
Their faces stoic against the lingering sun.

The sidewalk burns memories into the bare feet
Of children walking past needle-like grass. 

Cicadas raise their voices.

The shadows stretch longer, plodding their way
Down the suburban street
Stopping only to glower in my direction. 

Mystery Girl

I can’t imagine my younger years without trips to the library with my mom. We each had our designated cloth book bags which would be full by the end of our trip; I would stuff mine with Eyewitness books on ancient civilizations, gems, and art, manuals on how to arrange flowers and decorate cakes, tomes on the Titanic, American Girl books, Garfield comic strips, classics such as the Little House series, and of course, Nancy Drew books, their sunny yellow spines lined up one after the other, a bright splash of color on the metal shelves. After school I would read book after book, on my bed, sometimes with a bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream. Even today it is hard to think of a better way to spend an afternoon. 

I could go on and on about each and every book and book series mentioned above, and unmentioned others, too, and I very well may in the future. But in this entry I’ll be focusing on the Nancy Drew series (that is, the 56 classic Nancy Drews, not later iterations of her character in print and media.) Even the author, Carolyn Keene, is mysterious: “Carolyn Keene” was a pseudonym for several authors who wrote, revised, and contributed to the series. 

So what is it about Nancy Drew that is so appealing? Perhaps it is the same reason why James Bond was and is so popular from the 1950s to today. You can count on good to conquer evil, the safety of the protagonist no matter what scary situation occurs—overall, a knowledge that everything, and everyone, will be all right. In a sense, we know how each story will end before we start reading it, but that diminishes none of its appeal, it only adds to it. Real life is filled with uncertainties. The fictional River Heights is not.

Another reason for its popularity is obviously the character of Nancy herself. She is courageous, humble, wholesome, and kind. She is talented at a wide range of skills and subjects. She is stylish, attractive, and well-to-do without being snooty. She is prepared for almost any situation that comes her way. In short, she exhibits qualities that are desirable to readers across generations. We know we can’t be exactly like her (she’s a fictional character!), but we can certainly try to succeed at some things. Maybe it is good that she is fictional; that way, she will never change.

Even today, what keeps me going back to the classic Nancy Drew series is the slice of mid-century Americana it offers. Nancy doesn’t “call,” she “phones,” and she’ll even send a telegram. For several years I have been jotting down descriptions of clothing, food, and beverages in the books. The brief descriptions are surprisingly detailed and offer a tantalizing window into a period of American culture that continues to intrigue us (see: Mad Men.) Here are some sartorial highlights: a yellow sunback dress with a jacket and gloves, a pink sports dress, a forest green cotton dress worn with “flat-heeled brown play shoes.” I don’t know what those are, but I want them. I also don’t know where she is living in order to wear a “blue summer sweater suit,” but wherever it is, that’s where I want to be.

And the food! It’s straight out of your mother’s or grandmother’s vintage cookbooks. The Hidden Staircase has some of the best: “luncheons” of chicken salad, biscuits, and fruit gelatin, dinners of steak and French fried potatoes, peas, and floating island, spring lamb and chocolate angel cake. Nancy even goes to a counter in a drugstore and orders split-pea soup and custard pie. Chicken casseroles, bread and butter, milk, hot cocoa, large slices of cinnamon cake with applesauce—these are the foods of period cookbooks that actually include instructions on how to GAIN weight. In The Clue of the Tapping Heels, when Hannah Gruen packs up a “cold supper” of chicken sandwiches, sliced tomatoes, and apple pie with ice cream, it’s all I can do not to climb inside the book, shut the cover on myself, and pray for time travel. 

The covers are just wonderful, brightly colored, entertaining to study (the first 34 books have more than one version of the cover art.) On the inside, there are black and white line drawings—a frontispiece and then about five illustrations scattered throughout, always a treat to come across. They themselves are great little time capsules of social history and material culture. In addition, I have learned many vocabulary words and received verifiable knowledge from the books. It may sound incongruous, but it’s very true, I’ve learned a lot from Nancy Drew. 

In this design, I wanted to include the two flowers that are mentioned in Nancy Drew titles: lilacs (The Mystery at Lilac Inn) and larkspur (The Password to Larkspur Lane.) Several illustrated covers also include open and lighted windows, such as the earlier covers for The Clue of the Tapping Heels and The Clue of the Velvet Mask, and also The Clue of the Dancing Puppet. For images of these covers, please see below. 

Click the arrow on the right of the image to scroll.

A Story Without Words

Being partially of Bohemian (Czech) heritage and also alive, I had heard Bedřich Smetana’s Vltava (The Moldau) before, but it was a Music Appreciation class in college that made me LISTEN as opposed to HEAR the Czech composer’s popular symphonic poem, one of six extolling Bohemia in Má vlast (My Homeland) (1874-79). 

František Dvořák, Bedřich Smetana and His Friends in 1865 (1923)

The composition follows a river, the Vltava, as it begins in the forest from two springs, one warm and one cold. The springs join to form the river, which passes by a farmer’s wedding and entertains ethereal legends in the moonlight. Along the way it meets the crashing rapids before flowing through Prague and past the Vyšehrad castle into the majestic distance.

This piece came on the radio not too long ago, and I was pleasantly ambushed by it. I was in the middle of doing something, but I stopped. I listened. Without images or words, Smetana deftly tells the story of the great river through beautiful music. I was swept along with the current and saw the farmer’s wedding, felt the mysteriousness of the moonlight, was tossed by the rapids, and floated by the castle in Prague. 

The design above is also influenced by another Czech, Alphonse Mucha, a master of the Art Nouveau style. His paintings and decorative art feature flowing, long lines and elegant compositions filled with nature and idealized beauty. In The Arts: Poetry, irises are used as a decorative element, which I also employed.

 Alphonse Mucha, The Arts: Poetry (1898)

Lost Lilies

by Joy Curry

The day was as bright as Paris can be—not the harsh brilliance of the Italian sun, or the languid rays in London, but a sparkling, glittering showcase of finery and vigor that all the jewel-box of a city contained. Arthur Hamilton felt it to the tips of his fingers and in the shuddering leaves of the chestnuts above him.

He had left the office earlier that evening and was now greeted by the jovial voices of his friends in the teeming dining room of the Agamemnon. 

“Hamilton! There you are. I just ordered us dinner, all six of us. There’s four of us now, counting you, thank God, and Miss Barge and her horrible companion are somewhere getting flowers to put in their hair—”

“Miss Barge is here?”

“Here? I think not! They’re probably gawking at some lily like a lotus-eater.”

Arthur smiled accordingly and sat down next to one of the empty chairs. Mr. Cecil Worth continued on with his tirade, as Hugh said to Arthur—

“Your Miss B is looking quite lovely this evening.”

Mrs. Worth caught a portion of the stage whisper.

“Why, Arthur, don’t tell me that little vamp has caught you in her web. I tell you, she has as many men caught up by her as a spider has flies. Just last season she jilted at least twenty men from here to New York—and that’s twenty in each city, mind you. And probably some on the seas as well—speaking of, when do you sail?”

Before Arthur had time to answer she was scolding Cecil for scolding the two women who had just arrived with feathers, not flowers, in their hair. Arthur got up immediately and just as Evelyn Barge scanned the table for the empty seats, he caught her eyes. She held his for a moment and discarded his gaze just as she discarded her beaded bag with a clink next to him. 

“The music tonight is hideous, is it not?” She turned her eyes on Hamilton with an exasperated expression on her lovely face.

“Dreadful.” —it was his favorite waltz.

“Evelyn!” Her trilling acquaintance gasped. “Mrs. Worth does not know Gloria Hadley!”

“Oh, but for certain you know Gloria!” Evelyn effusively declared to the table and half the inhabitants of the Agamemnon. She had acquired from a few years of being in society the habit of calling all her acquaintances by their first names, known or unknown by her listeners. Leaning forward eagerly on the tips of her elbows, she said merrily, “A group of us had the very best time in Nice together. Why, she knows nearly every fun place in the city. I remember one night she discovered an enchanting little spot right near the water—what was the name of it? the Euthalia? That's correct! (She nodded triumphantly.) —yes, the view was lovely, but the heat! The heat was dreadful! Can you imagine—”

Her vivid reenactment of the whole evening gradually blended with the palms and the orchestra as the glasses clinked and the silverware shined and suddenly Arthur realized that the most beautiful things were often times the most unattainable.

. . .

I wrote “Lost Lilies” a few years ago. For the accompanying design I chose to use lily-of-the-valley, such a charming, delicate plant that refuses to grow in hot climates. The flowers produce a bright red, berry-like fruit. In the right state, one will often find them grouped near stairs and doorways in the cool shade. I wanted this design to look a bit like a book cover blended with a movie projector. The geometric shapes and sunbursts are inspired by classic Art Deco design motifs. 

A note on the title: I took it from Ernest Dowson’s 1894 poem “Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae” (“I am not what I was under the reign of the good Cynara” —a quote from Horace.) The reason I discovered Dowson’s poem was due to my wholehearted love for Gone with the Wind (1936) by Margaret Mitchell. Mitchell took the title of her epic novel from Dowson’s poem because it had the “far away, faintly sad sound” she wanted. Here are the last two stanzas.

I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind,
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
    Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,
    Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

A Dash of Blue Paint

This is a continuation of my last post on F. Scott Fitzgerald and The Great Gatsby. 

In the following design I wanted to combine Gatsby’s garden flowers with other elements in the novel, some found in the same chapter, and another found at the very end of the book. 

In Chapter 5, Nick buys lemons and flowers in preparation for the reunion of Daisy and Gatsby, but Gatsby had already sent a “greenhouse” to adorn Nick’s humble bungalow. Daisy’s highly anticipated arrival is described below.

“Under the dripping bare lilac-trees a large open car was coming up the drive. It stopped. Daisy’s face, tipped sideways beneath a three-cornered lavender hat, looked out at me with a bright ecstatic smile. […] A damp streak of hair lay like a dash of blue paint across her cheek, and her hand was wet with glistening drops as I took it to help her from the car.”

Fitzgerald’s descriptive words—dripping, lavender, damp, blue, wet—come together to evoke a feeling of grey coolness. The swirl of soft, muted tones is broken only by Daisy’s bright smile.

The final few paragraphs of the book are stunningly beautiful. Here, Nick is envisioning New York as it appeared to 17th century explorers: “And as the moon rose higher the inessential houses began to melt away until gradually I became aware of the old island here that flowered once for Dutch sailors’ eyes—a fresh, green breast of the new world.” 

The fruit, various flowers, and blue paint, coupled with the mention of the Dutch, made me think of grouping all together in a classic still life style. So, you will find a plum branch, a sprig of hawthorn, sparkling yellow jonquils, vines of kiss-me-at-the-gate, bunches of purple lilacs, citrus, and finally, some blue paint dripping on a daisy.

Below is an example of a Dutch still life. 

Jan van Huysum, Still Life with Flowers and Fruit (c. 1721)

The Great Fitzgerald

“Yet high over the city our line of yellow windows must have contributed their share of human secrecy to the casual watcher in the darkening streets, and I was him too, looking up and wondering. I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.”

F. Scott Fitzgerald is one of my favorite writers, and The Great Gatsby is one of my favorite books. Unfortunately it can be associated with “required reading”—some “classic” that one is forced to digest, respect, and like. I guess that is the fate of greatness. 

I was fortunate enough to read it without any previous associations. For me it was not required reading, nor did it become attractive after the latest film version came out. What makes Fitzgerald stand out is his ability to flash upon the reader the essence of feeling in carefully chosen groupings of words. The Great Gatsby is not a long book, yet in those nine chapters Fitzgerald weaves a nuanced story full of sobering truths. Like Nick Carraway, the book’s narrator, Fitzgerald seemed to live within and without the Jazz Age, both reveling in and realizing its emptiness.

There are so many passages in this book that I have read over and over again, they seem to live like moving pictures in my mind. In particular, the final pages stun me with their brilliance and utter lack of pretension. They are what I’d like to write, if I could write.

Flowers are often mentioned in The Great Gatsby; in fact, the female protagonist’s name is Daisy. When Daisy, Gatsby, and Nick are entering Gatsby’s mansion, Fitzgerald describes the flora beautifully: “With enchanting murmurs Daisy admired this aspect or that of the feudal silhouette against the sky, admired the gardens, the sparkling odor of jonquils and the frothy odor of hawthorn and plum blossoms and the pale gold odor of kiss-me-at-the-gate. It was strange to reach the marble steps and find no stir of bright dresses in and out the door, and hear no sound but bird voices in the trees.” 

You’ll find those flowers and steps in the design below.

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You may also see another Fitzgerald-inspired post in the future. By this point you know I like him.

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In front of the F. Scott Fitzgerald House, St. Paul, Minnesota

Minnesota Dreaming, Pt. 2

As I mentioned in the last post, in June 2015 we took a road trip to Minnesota.

In Minneapolis we visited the University of Minnesota, where my mom went to college. I had heard her talk of her time there my whole life, so it was like visiting a place I had read of in a book. We went inside Coffman Memorial Union and Walter Library, which had a beautiful ceiling of blue and gold. Maple trees flew their little helicopter seeds next to the campus.

Walter Library Ceiling at the University of Minnesota

Across town, we visited Ingebretsen’s, where one could buy brightly painted Dala horses, interesting toys, trivets made of sliced birch, and lefse-making materials. Later that evening we went to The Bachelor Farmer for dinner. It is a Nordic-inspired restaurant in food and decor; the wallpaper inside was printed with rosemaling-style hearts. The dishes included local ingredients such as wild rice, rhubarb, and honeyberries. Several items were most likely harvested from their rooftop garden above. We also visited the speakeasy-inspired Marvel Bar for cocktails, which is right downstairs. It was dark and woody with bits of candlelight, and the wallpaper reminded me of clouds on an Asian screen. Marvel Bar, The Bachelor Farmer, and also the store Askov Finlayson are owned by the Dayton brothers. When we visited Minneapolis we did not know that the store, restaurant, and bar were in the same family. All three are great places to visit! 

Toast at The Bachelor Farmer

In St. Paul, Selby Avenue resembled a European street crowned with a cathedral in the distance. Many old homes lined the avenue along with its shops and restaurants, and fuchsia peonies poked their heavy, wet heads through wood fences. Selby runs right into Summit Avenue, and the James J. Hill House crowns that particular location—the 19th-century railroad magnate’s house sits on a peony-packed bluff that provides it with great views of St. Paul and its surroundings. The entrance hall looked like a level on the Titanic with its detailed light fixtures, potted palms, and dark woodwork. The intricate woodwork was done by a German craftsman who left his “self-portrait” right by the large hidden door. I appreciated that the house did not contain “period” pieces: anything inside the structure was endemic, down to the books in the library, which had a parquet floor resembling railroad tracks on the perimeter. In the basement we saw the large kitchen with grocery lists and menus from a century ago.

Pink Peonies at the James J. Hill House

We drove down Summit Avenue in the light rain with wonderful houses on either side. They were so interesting! So many different styles! So imaginative! You just knew that each was filled with all sorts of history tucked in its nooks and crannies. Gingerbread Victorians were popular; also Tudors; some were sturdy; others delicate. Towards the end of the avenue was the F. Scott Fitzgerald House. It was exciting to see someplace familiar to him, to see the windows he looked out of, to see the birthplace of some of his work.

The final day of our trip we decided to have breakfast by one of the lakes. We sat on a bench with our coffee and huge Bogart’s doughnuts—flaky, sticky, soft. We could see downtown Minneapolis across the water, glittering in the wind and sunlight. A man with a metal detector stood in the shallow water while men with paddles surfed in the distance. 

Our last stop was Northfield, Minnesota, where my dad attended college at St. Olaf. Strains of a pipe organ spilled out of the chapel, and the campus was full of green vines and spires. Outside we sat on Adirondack chairs under a stave-like pavilion of wind chimes making unique harmonies in the breeze. The trees shaded us and made dappled shadows all around—it was secure, peaceful. Nature and tradition held the world at bay. 

I'm really looking forward to going back to Minnesota. 

A Dala horse with rhubarb legs, a harness of peonies, and a decoration of honeyberries is inspired by the produce and flowers blooming in June in Minnesota. I used my own red Dala horse that my grandmother gave me as a guide for its shape. 

Minnesota Dreaming, Pt. 1

Minnesota has always had a special place in my heart; even though I have never lived there, I feel familiar with it because of hearing so much about it from my mom. I love that Scandinavian culture can still be felt through the descendants of 19th and 20th century immigrants. My grandfather was a Norwegian immigrant who arrived in Minnesota in 1903 with his parents and siblings. The special times when I have rutabaga or lefse, buttered and sprinkled with sugar, I like to think of those relatives, long ago, enjoying the same things in a new country. It makes me feel connected to people whom I’ve never met, yet are a part of who I am. 

As a small child, one of my first memories of Minnesota was looking way, way down at Rochester from the window of my grandmother’s apartment building. A few years ago, while visiting my brother in Fargo, we took a day trip to Itasca State Park to see the headwaters of the Mississippi River. Most recently, in June 2015, my husband and I took a road trip to visit Minneapolis/St. Paul. 

On the way, we stopped in my mom’s hometown of Rochester at an evergreen-shaded house she used to live in. It was so peaceful. We also stopped by my dad’s old house, which was just a few blocks away.

This design is inspired by the plants and flowers that grew around my mom’s house mentioned above. She described peonies, bridal wreath, jack-in-the-pulpit, plum blossoms, and currants, all included below.

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Old Summer Twilights

Not too long ago I scribbled some things down about my childhood backyard, a quiet place where my mom and I would plant trees and spread wildflower seeds.

The world was banished. Honeysuckle spilled over the fence, a tangle of brown and green, covered in small tongues of white and gold. It licked at the heels of the grey cat that slept in it and left a fragrance in her fur. A corn plant glistened and squeaked, its hot silk glittering in the sun. In the wetter areas evening primroses blushed, bright homes for spittle bugs in the dusk, as well as wild onions, pungent and smooth, growing thick among the longer grasses. At the very edge the althaea stood, its throaty blooms dusted with white pollen like powdered geishas in pink silk robes. Silver fruit and music live in its soil, old summer twilights haunt its shady corners, in this, my enclosed garden.

Below is a picture I drew that was partially inspired by the backyard.

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During my study of art history, I came across the term hortus conclusus - Latin for "enclosed garden." In Medieval and Renaissance times, images of detailed, walled gardens (see image below) were prolific; enclosed gardens existed in reality, as well. The term had a romanticizing influence on me and I began to think of my old backyard as my own hortus conclusus, now only a retreat in memory, but a vivid one nonetheless. 

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Upper Rhenish Master, Paradiesgärtlein (Garden of Paradise) (c. 1410)

Hello!

I created this site to display my little designs and also write about what I find inspiring.

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