The National Gallery of Art

The old copy editor within me is always looking for mistakes in news stories. CNN published an article this morning called "Luxury, horror lurk in Gadhafi family compound," the gist of which is the shocking (shocking, I say) revelation that families of tyrants tend to live in gaudy palaces and abuse whomever is handy whenever the urge strikes, which is often. Anyway, the vanguard of the current Libyan regime change reached one of these palaces, and CNN was there to film it. "We filmed them quixotically studying the labels of Cristal champagne and fine St. Emilion Bordeaux, apparently not realizing each bottle is worth hundreds of dollars," the author wrote, referring to rebels ransacking the palace.

Quixotically studying? In the manner of Don Quixote? Waving the bottles at windmills, maybe? I think "quizzically" is what the writer needed here. I won't be too hard on the writer, because I do this kind of thing often enough -- think of one word and then write a similar one that's completely at odds with the meaning I wanted. But I will be hard on CNN because it's supposed to have someone to catch that kind of mistake. Then again, I checked the same story a few minutes ago, and an editor had removed "quixotically" all together, so someone caught it.

The National Gallery of Art in Washington, DC, isn't part of the Smithsonian. Yet it's housed in two large buildings on the National Mall and doesn't charge admission, so for tourist purposes, it might as well be. The museum also has a feature that many other large institutions of its kind should have more of: places to sit in the galleries with backs. Maybe it's a mark of my increasing age, or just that we walked a lot in DC and appreciated the National Gallery's seating more than backless benches, which seem more common in museums. Of course, the benches can be too comfortable. In one room I noticed a well-dressed middle-aged woman sitting on a bench, fast asleep. A few minutes later, a guard wandered in and gently woke her up.

Comfy benches or not, we didn't spend quite as much time at the National Gallery as we wanted (a persistent theme on this trip), but managed to take note of some noteworthy works, including items I remember seeing before, such as David's "The Emperor Napoleon in His Study at the Tuileries," and others I must missed before, such as "Ginevra de' Benci," which has the distinction of being the only Leonardo da Vinci painting in the Americas. No albino dwarfs in the service of Opus Dei attacked me while I was looking at the painting.

"Gallery of the Louvre" by Samuel F.B. Morse is also currently on loan to the National Gallery, and I spent a while looking that. Morse's backstory is just as interesting as the canvas. Not long ago I read "Henry, Morse and the Telegraph," a chapter in The Heroic Age of American Invention by L. Sprague de Camp (1961), which mentioned Morse's career as an artist, which was notable but not tremendously successful. So he made a career change. As an inventor, de Camp wrote, "Morse was not so much an outstanding inventor as a promoter of an invention and a manager of inventions." There's something to be said for that. It's Morse code, after all.

Done in the 1830s and newly restored, " 'Gallery of the Louvre' depicts masterpieces from the Louvre's collection that Morse 'reinstalled' in one of that museum's grandest galleries, the Salon Carré," says the museum web site. That is, he painted the salon like he wanted it to be, not like it was, and stacked it with paintings he admired.

It's an odd subject to modern eyes. Why paint a painting of paintings? But we're awash in instantly copied and transmitted images. They were not. Paintings of galleries weren't so unusual then, a time of greater scarcity of manmade images, and neither was the hanging of paintings floor-to-ceiling in a gallery, or for that matter, in private homes that could afford them. That was a detail that made me smile, the cluttered museum wall. We imagine that our way of doing things -- such as the spare, uncluttered formality of an art museum -- are timeless practices, but it isn't so.

Also temporarily on display at the museum, in its spacious West Building rotunda, is "The Capitoline Venus," on loan to the United States for the first time. I was glad to see her. She had her own guard, looking a little bored there in the rotunda because mostly people were wandering past the statue and not showing any interest, much less an urge to deface it.

For a statue 1,800-plus years old, the Venus in fine shape. Usually on display at the Capitoline Museums (Musei Capitalolini) in Rome, the work made me ponder certain questions, such as why the hell didn't I visit the Capitoline Museums? Just look at the "Gallery" section at the Wiki page. I've seen most of those works used to illustrate histories or other works about Antiquity, but not with my own eyes. I was right there in the Piazza del Campidoglio, surrounded by the Capitoline Museums, although that was during the evening and I guess they were closed. I did notice that the equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius wasn't in piazza; air pollution had been eating at him, I think, and he had been taken inside the museums.

Just another reason to go back to Rome, though I suspect the clock might run out on me before I can make it. But if I do go back to the shores of the Mediterranean, maybe Leptis Magna will be easier to visit too, provided things have settled down in Libya. Mrs. Quarles, my Latin teacher in high school, told us of visiting the site in the days before Gadhafi came to power, and somewhere in my head ever since has been a synaptic-based index card reading LEPTIS MAGNA: GO THERE IF YOU CAN.

Once a Decade

The same event dramatized, one based on Shakespeare and the other not, but mainly showing the difference between the sensibilities of 1953 and 2005. (Also, I never knew that Humbert Humbert delivered the final blow to Caesar; I don't watch enough old movies.)

Our census form showed up in the mail today. It seems puny compared to the Long Form I got 10 years ago. But I read recently that the Long Form is a thing of the past, replaced by the more frequent American Community Survey. There were probably logistical reasons for this, or maybe the bureau was simply tired of people whining about it, like this fellow.

I filled out my Long Form back in 2000. I'd do it again, too. I doubt that any losses of privacy or civil liberties I might happen to suffer in the future will be laid at the door of the U.S. Census Bureau. As for the notion that the current census overreaches because it's only supposed to be a literal head count, it's worth noting that the 2010 Census form's ten questions are short by historical standards, and that asking for more than a head count goes back well into the 19th century. Almost from the beginning, in other words.

Moreover, the historical record is clearly a lot better for it. According to a timeline published by the Washington Post:

1840: Congress requests new information on social matters such as "idiocy" and mental illness. Many questions on commerce and industry are added, lengthening the form to 80 questions.

1850: Significant census reforms are made. Federal government marshals scientific and financial resources to to discuss what should be asked, how the information should be collected and how it should be reported. First time detailed information about all members of a household is collected.

1860: Data from the 1860 Census is used during the Civil War to measure relative military strengths and manufacturing abilities of the Union and Confederacy.

I've got an eye toward posterity. In 2072, assuming the records are still intact, the law doesn't change and the Tea Party doesn't overthrow the federal government, my answers in 2000 will be public record, just as those of 1930 are now. I'm pretty sure I will have no more privacy concerns by then. In exchange for about an hour of my time in 2000, I get to be part of the historical record, sending a message across the decades to anyone who wants to read it, including any descendants of mine who take an interest.

SPQR 2.0

Finally got around to watching the first episodes of the second season of the sometimes meretricious, always interesting Rome this weekend. It picked up right where the first season left off, right after the assassination of Caesar. It bothered me a little that the first season had that event in the Senate, rather than the Theater of Pompey, as history tells us. But the actual staging of the deed was spot-on. Rather than having Caesar say "Et tu, Brute?" or "You too you sonofabitch?!?" or some such, that exact sentiment was conveyed by his look at Brutus.

Caesar must have thirsted for immortal glory. One can only wonder what he would have made of the fact that people are still telling the story of his death, etching it in light even, more than 2,000 years later. Of course, he had help. But for the consolidation of his legacy by Augustus, his story would probably be no better known than that of Marius or Sulla.

As with the first season, I'm so taken with the series' verisimilitude that I can overlook its worst aspects, especially its gratuitously prurient nature (but hey, it's HBO). Besides the extraordinary look and feel of the production, I like its more-or-less historic accuracy, which is certainly better than you usually get with dramatized Romans; and the well-drawn fictional characters, especially the two soldiers. I also like the way that the story doesn't bother to explain everything the characters do, either in historic or cultural terms.

Another a good point: the show allows the characters to take their religion seriously, or not. Roman paganism is not treated, even implicitly, as a mere warm-up for Christianity.

It's made me pull my Cary and Scullard A History of Rome, Third Edition, off the shelf again. I open it up and written on the inside front cover is "Dees Stribling, Jan 14, 1981." Bought it for Roman history class that semester, taught tediously by a young classics professor.

Luckily that wasn't my introduction to the subject. My brothers were, sort of, at least with their commentary on the sword & sandal movies we'd see on TV; and then there was Mrs. Quarles, high school Latin teacher, henna-haired and eccentric, who had actually been places and seen things, such as former parts of the Roman Empire. I was also a member of the Texas State Junior Classical League for a few years, and went to TSJCL conventions primarily as a reason to get out of town (the same goal as with National Forensic League meets). One year I went all the way with the Latin Club to Amarillo. Exotic Amarillo. A vigorous dust storm buffeted the bus en route to the Panhandle.

My VU Latin professor, the late Dr. Ned Nabors, also referred to C&S from time to time. "If it isn't in Cary and Scullard, it didn't happen," he said, overstating the case, but he was fond of overstating things. Anyway, it's a worn old hardback, and if I want to know where Rome is fudging or conflating things, I look there. Just me being old-fashioned, since I could look on-line just as easily.

The Mask of Maxentius

Still a frozen white outside my window, except for the various paths cleared off for cars to drive and people to walk. Some meltage is predicted for the weekend, but I’m not betting on it.

Got a message from Kevin D. the other day, who has a nose for news that would make the basis of a screenplay of yore.

[To Dees]: Thought you might find this story interesting.

Emperor Maxentius insignia found in Rome

By MARTA FALCONI, Associated Press Writer Sun Dec 3, 2:24 PM ET

Archaeologists have unearthed what they say are the only existing imperial insignia belonging to Emperor Maxentius -- precious objects that were buried to preserve them and keep them from enemies when he was defeated by his rival Constantine… [it goes on for a number of graphs, including a mention of Maxentius’ scepter].

[To Kevin]: That is interesting, and like the beginning of a Fu Manchu movie. The scepter, you see, has magical powers, and it's thought that whoever possesses it can achieve world dominion. Soon after it was put on display in Rome, it was stolen under mysterious circumstances...

[To Dees]: Didn’t know about the magical powers. Since Fu is now politically incorrect, it might be a case for Indiana Jones.

[To Kevin]: Well, I was thinking like any pulp writer, attributing magic to anything old and royal enough. If the insignia had powers, fat lot of good it did Maxentius. He is known to history as a loser.

Instead of Fu, maybe agents of Kim Jong-Il. Who needs Fu when you have him?

[To Dees]: Yep, in The Mask of Fu Manchu he is looking for the treasure of Genghis Khan and, if memory serves, a particular sword that will lead to world domination.

We Like Sundays

The visit by the Jehovah’s Witnesses this week reminded me of the time that a husband-and-wife team, or at least a man-and-woman team of Korean sectarians buttonholed us during a visit to the Woodfield Mall earlier this year. I don’t recall the name of their group, though I suspect it was a homegrown Korean Protestant church. All I wanted to do was sit one of the mall’s benches and eat the pastries we’d just bought, but they wanted to talk about a particular religious bee in their bonnet, and it wasn’t evolution.

No, they were sabbatarians, out to persuade us of the error of reserving Sunday for Christian worship. Sunday as the Lord’s Day, they said, was a grievous mistake, a day invented by (variously as the conversation continued) men, Romans or pagans, or at least borrowed from pagans. That line of disparagement doesn’t go very far with someone like me, who holds ancient Rome in such high esteem.

So I asked him: Wasn’t Sunday as the Lord’s Day well established by the time of the Council of Nicaea in 325? If it were wrong why didn’t they change it then? He went on some more about the Lord’s Day being a human, as opposed to divine creation, but I think the mention of the Council of Nicaea there in the mall threw him off a little. At one point I added, “If Sunday’s good enough for Constantine, it’s good enough for me.” He looked at me funny for a moment, but didn’t really acknowledge that idea.

Later, they left us with some sabbatarian tracts, and at his insistence I left him with my phone number. Oops, I got a few digits wrong.

Born in Arizona, Moved to Babylonia

A good Memorial Day weekend to all. I’ll pick up posting again on Tuesday.

In the meantime, various notes on current things, which I usually don’t bother with.

Note to Messrs. Skilling and Lay: Buck up, gents. There’s always seppuku. Not strictly speaking, of course, since you’re of the merchant, not warrior, class. Still, there’s something to be said for captains of industry who go down with their ships. Especially those who sank their own ships.

I read that about 35 million people watched the season finale of American Idol. This would be a little less than 12% of the population of the United States, which certainly is a lot of people, but it makes me think that roughly 265 million Americans didn’t watch it. Even disregarding very small children or the infirm, that might be 250 million or so who ignored it. My headline (worthy of the Onion): “Vast Majority of Americans Ignore Worthless American Idol.” I’m in the majority for once.

The latest King Tut megashow has come to the Field Museum. I’d see that before American Idol any day, and pay some money too, but ancient Egypt just isn’t compelling enough to justify $25 per adult, especially when the whole family can go to the Oriental Institute in Hyde Park for less than that, and not have to put up with a dozen other people crowded around each exhibit all the time.

The closest the original Tut megashow got to San Antonio in 1978 was New Orleans, and I knew a few kids whose parents took them to see it. But I’m not sorry I missed it, because the very next year I got to see a big Pompeii show in Dallas, traveling there with the Latin Club (I was a member of the Texas State Junior Classical League, I was). Rome or Egypt? Not a hard choice for me. SPQR!