Patience. Vaincra. Lichtervelde.
Bill writes: We're continuing to adjust to life back in California. What I've come to realize is that most things in the Bay Area are not only proudly modern, but often relentlessly futuristic--iPod this and cellfuel that; who has the best laptop; how's the debate on stem cell research going; if we voted the sci-fi movie actor Arnold Schwarzenegger out, could we vote the sci-fi cartoon character George Jetson in? It seems that here in Silicon Valley we grudgingly accept the fact that we're in the chronological center of a country that spans seven times zones, but that three hours is about the maximum that we're willing to look in either direction. And that's just to get an early peek at how our biogen stocks are trading this morning in the East Coast and whether we should offload them on our in-laws in Hawaii before they wake up.
I once complimented one of our friends in London that they "have so much history." His reply was, "We have too much history." They dig up a basement for the new Guild Hall building, and--oops--they've got a roman amphitheater on their hands into the bargain. It's everywhere--the sixty horses that trotted their cavalry down the street outside our flat, guards with beaver hats on their heads and swords by their sides, a 2,000 year old roman wall butting up against the patio at the hotel. Clay pipes once filled with tabacco from the Jamestown colony, medieval floor tiles, and tudor beer jugs compete with the oyster shells and shiny pebbles you can scoop up by the handful along the Thames.
As a temporary inhabitant, we of course loved it. I think for some Londoners, it's like the air they breathe, while to others, it's like the Thames itself, threatening to flood them out with the rising tide.
So where am I going with all this? European history is, if not cheap, then certainly affordable. It's the modern stuff that's going to cost you. We wanted a remembrance of our stay here, and decided we'd look for a painting. We went to various art shows in London, and soon realized that (a) most modern art is derivative; and (b) it derived from something we didn't like in the first place. We really didn't want something that was a poor copy by someone who was influenced by someone who worked in a style patterned after Mondrian. Hmm, colored circles instead of squares. How innovative.
So we ended up going the other direction. A week or two before we left England, we went to a large and well-vetted antiques and art show near Sotheby's in the Hammersmith area.
One of the sellers had a late tudor era portrait that we really liked and that was about the same price as the three generations-removed not-quite-Mondrians we'd become so unfond of. We bought it, had it held for us until we got back to California, and then had it boxed and shipped out to us, where it has since arrived. This is her:
I find myself thinking about her a lot. What kind of woman was she, with her deepset brown eyes (which, like the portraits in "The Haunted Mansion" in Disneyland, follow you as you walk around the room), sharp falcon nose, a prim mouth that I have yet to decide is either amused or "tisk tisk-ing" me, all offset by a pair of delicate and tentative hands.
Here's what I've been able to find out. The painting was done by someone in the circle of Michiel Jansz van Mierevelt (1567-1641), a very successful portrait artist born in Delft, and was completed, as the painting conveniently notes, in 1592. The text at the top reads "Patience. Vaincra. Lichtervelde." alongside a coat of arms. From a little Googling, we now know that this painting is likely associated with the Lords of Lichtervelde, a small municipality in West Flanders in Belgium with about 8,000 inhabitants. The motto "Patience. Vaincra." is old French for "Patience conquers (vanquishes)." When this painting was made, Queen Elizabeth was still on the throne and Sir Francis Drake had recently turned back the Spanish Armada. It would be seven more years until the birth of Oliver Cromwell, but only five until the tomato was introduced into England.
Too much history. But any timeline that includes in a ten-year period the defeat of the Spanish Armada and the introduction of the tomato (thereby precluding Spanish omelets but making possible the BLT) had to be some decade.
I once complimented one of our friends in London that they "have so much history." His reply was, "We have too much history." They dig up a basement for the new Guild Hall building, and--oops--they've got a roman amphitheater on their hands into the bargain. It's everywhere--the sixty horses that trotted their cavalry down the street outside our flat, guards with beaver hats on their heads and swords by their sides, a 2,000 year old roman wall butting up against the patio at the hotel. Clay pipes once filled with tabacco from the Jamestown colony, medieval floor tiles, and tudor beer jugs compete with the oyster shells and shiny pebbles you can scoop up by the handful along the Thames.
As a temporary inhabitant, we of course loved it. I think for some Londoners, it's like the air they breathe, while to others, it's like the Thames itself, threatening to flood them out with the rising tide.
So where am I going with all this? European history is, if not cheap, then certainly affordable. It's the modern stuff that's going to cost you. We wanted a remembrance of our stay here, and decided we'd look for a painting. We went to various art shows in London, and soon realized that (a) most modern art is derivative; and (b) it derived from something we didn't like in the first place. We really didn't want something that was a poor copy by someone who was influenced by someone who worked in a style patterned after Mondrian. Hmm, colored circles instead of squares. How innovative.
So we ended up going the other direction. A week or two before we left England, we went to a large and well-vetted antiques and art show near Sotheby's in the Hammersmith area.
One of the sellers had a late tudor era portrait that we really liked and that was about the same price as the three generations-removed not-quite-Mondrians we'd become so unfond of. We bought it, had it held for us until we got back to California, and then had it boxed and shipped out to us, where it has since arrived. This is her:
I find myself thinking about her a lot. What kind of woman was she, with her deepset brown eyes (which, like the portraits in "The Haunted Mansion" in Disneyland, follow you as you walk around the room), sharp falcon nose, a prim mouth that I have yet to decide is either amused or "tisk tisk-ing" me, all offset by a pair of delicate and tentative hands.
Here's what I've been able to find out. The painting was done by someone in the circle of Michiel Jansz van Mierevelt (1567-1641), a very successful portrait artist born in Delft, and was completed, as the painting conveniently notes, in 1592. The text at the top reads "Patience. Vaincra. Lichtervelde." alongside a coat of arms. From a little Googling, we now know that this painting is likely associated with the Lords of Lichtervelde, a small municipality in West Flanders in Belgium with about 8,000 inhabitants. The motto "Patience. Vaincra." is old French for "Patience conquers (vanquishes)." When this painting was made, Queen Elizabeth was still on the throne and Sir Francis Drake had recently turned back the Spanish Armada. It would be seven more years until the birth of Oliver Cromwell, but only five until the tomato was introduced into England.
Too much history. But any timeline that includes in a ten-year period the defeat of the Spanish Armada and the introduction of the tomato (thereby precluding Spanish omelets but making possible the BLT) had to be some decade.
posted by Bill | 8:21 PM
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