To finish out February

a couple of notes:

1. The last two Tuesday concerts at Epiphany Church were quite dissimilar. Today, Mardi Gras, was the time for Mike Flaherty's Dixieland Direct, a piano-clarinet-percussion trio, whose music perhaps reverberated a little too much off the church walls. But their skills as musicians are not in question, and there was a lot of toe tapping and clapping. Their best songs were 'It Don't Mean a Thing if it Ain't Got That Swing", Louisiana Fair Tail and 'After You've Gone'. The best solo was pianist Bob Boguslaw (the official White House pianist) who played two contrasting rythms in his right and left hands during 'Bill Bailey'. They play for brunch every Sunday at the Market Inn in SW. It might be worth a try.

On the other hand, last week's had no instruments, and only voices, the Chantry Singers, and "Renaissance Music for English Castles and Cathedrals", 14 voices singing a half religious/half secular concert. Not my type of music, although the voices were very professional, and their opening song, Thomas Weelkes' "Hosanna to the son of David" was extraordinary. Each of the other pieces, to me, sounded like each of the other pieces. I must admit that when director David Taylor said: "when you think of madrigal, what is the first thing that comes to your mind?", I drew a total blank. (He was thinking of "fa la la la la" apparently). So maybe I am not a good judge.

2. Picking a book I never thought I would read, I read the Memoirs of Benvenuto Cellini, written in the 15th century by the extraordinarily gifted gold and silversmith and sculptor (if you don't believe that he was gifted, look him up) and memoirist. Florentine by birth, spending his life in one or another part of what is now Italy and in France (working in part for the Pope, the King of France and Cosimo Medici), he was also somewhat of a ruffian, who got into scrape after scrape, many of which were the result, so he says, of professional jealousy. His memoirs are very boastful, and no one takes everything he says literally, but the combination of artistic and religious sensitivity, and utter brutality make for fascinating reading.

3. On Monday, I went to see mystery writer Martha Grimes speak at Politics and Prose. I have a couple of books by her, but have not read them. I did not know what to expect. I thought she was English, since her books are all set in England, but no, she is American and lives in Washington, to boot. I learned she has written, among other things, about 25 Richard Jury mysteries, that she writes every day about 4 hours, and that she doesn't know what is going to happen next until she writes. She is, I would guess, 65 or older, and she has a unique demeanor, talking in a husky voice, slowly, and with dramatic emphasis; she has a very good sense of humor, and is clearly a story teller. I would go and hear her speak again.

Tonight, I took one of her books, this one called Jerusalem Inn (not Jamaica Inn, as I accidently called it, as Michelle pointed out), and decided to read it. I read 75 pages, and then I stopped. It did not capture me. I will put it back on the shelf.

The Da Vinci Code Trial

Background: two of the three authors of "Holy Blood, Holy Grail" are suing Dan Brown, author of "The Da Vinci Code" for stealing their ideas, in an English court. I don't presume to know the English law on the subject.

Opinion: "Holy Blood, Holy Grail" is a GREAT book, and the product of a large amount of research, developed into a thesis through the use of imaginative leaps of creativity, and (perhaps) more or less true. It purports to be history; nothing in it says, "don't believe a word of this". It is very well written.

Brown reads the book (actually, he cites it) and several other similar books, and writes a mediocre suspense novel, showing no imaginative leaps of creativity. It is not particularly well written. But the thesis of his book is basically the same as the thesis of "Holy Blood" (with snatches from other sources thrown in). It has sold millions and millions of copies.

When I read "The Da Vinci Code", I said to myself: "It's a crime that this guy is making so much money of others' work. There is nothing value added here, except that it sells."

So, how do I come out on the trial? I think that intellectually, I have to come out on Brown's side, although emotionally, I am with "Holy Blood". If "Holy Blood" were portrayed as fiction, I would change my position, but as long as it is portrayed as history, I don't know why a fiction writer can't write a historical novel. Historians may own their words, but I don't think they own their history.

Dan Brown may be a parasite when it comes to writing, but there is no crime in that, is there?

The Savvy Shopper (1 cent)

OK, what is worse?

$42 for a new watchband.

$26.50 for a new light bulb in my car.

Obviously, I cannot be trusted with money.

Weekend Shorts

1. Tried a new restaurant, Hank's Oyster Bar, on Q at 17th. It is very small, and packs in an extraordinary number of people (fire marshall, not allowed?), so if you want intimacy, this is not the place. But because it is so jam packed, and you feel like everyone in the restaurant is in some way sitting at your very table, the feeling is very relaxed and friendly, and you don't mind the lack of space (ventilation is good - there is no lack of air).

The food is good, heavy on the seafood and the drinks but with several meat, fish and vegetarian dishes, although our appetizers were better than the main courses. But it is very, very pricey. The Appetizers go as high as $15 and the entrees are $15 to $20, with sides (nothing on the plate except the entree) at $4 each, and drinks in the $10 range.

Will we return? Probably not, but if we woke up and found ourselves there, that would be OK, too.

2. Joel Peters, professor of politics at the Ben Gurion University of the Negev, who is spending this year at George Mason, was the Adas Israel scholar in residence this weekend. We heard him twice on Saturday, speaking about the Israeli political system and upcoming elections. It was interesting, and he speaks well, but it was not profound.

His point was that, in spite of everything going on, the elections are dull, because, within a few swing seats, everyone pretty well knows how they will turn out. That Kadima will have the most seats, followed by Labor and then Likud and then the fringe parties, and that it won't be until after the election when Kadima, with no more than 40 seats will have to put together a coalition with at least 61 seats, that the fun (and interest) will really begin.

He bemoaned the lack of leadership in Kadima (Olmert being non-charismatic), in Labor (Peretz being untested), and in Likud (Netanyahu being too tested). He agreed of course that this was a crucial time for Israel and the middle east, but said that the normal election excitement in Israel just is not there this time.

3. The Dybbuk and Ori Soltes. I haven't mentioned the Dybbuk, at Theater J, which was co-adapted and assistant directed by daughter Hannah, but it was an extraordinary accomplishment of hers that deserves more than a brief comment in this blog. We saw it for the second time Saturday night and thought it improved from the strong performance we saw on opening night. It runs through March 19.

At this Sunday's talkback, Ori Soltes, Georgetown faculty member and lecturer about town, gave a one hour presentation that could not have been better or more carefully connected to the performance. He has spent a lot of time studying the Jewish community of the Republic of Georgia (oops - that is where Hannah and co-adapter Paata Tsurkeshvili set the play), and edited a book on the history of Georgian Jews.

His presentation was in three parts: Jewish mysticism, particularly in the 15th and 16th centuries and how it dealt with the transmigration of souls after death; the history of the Georgian Jewish community, which by artifact goes back almost 2000 years, and by tradition goes back another 500 years, to the Assyrian and Babylonian victories over Israel and Judah; and the particular Georgian practices and traditions that found their ways into the performance.

Soltes is a first class lecturer, and it was a first class talkback, attended by, I would say, 3/4 of the audience who had come for the matinee.

4. I was rooting for Finland, but the 3-2 Swedish victory in Olympic Hockey made for very good watching. The entire hockey program at the Olympics was fascinating for anyone who follows the NHL as it gives you a chance to the many of the same players in very different configurations, playing on a larger rink with somewhat different rules. I think Olympic rules are better than NHL rules, but no one is going to rebuild the American and Canadian arenas to accommodate.

5. Last point on Olympics. Extraordinary closing show. Not usually the kind of thing I watch or like, but I thought this was spectacular.

Tonight at Noon

is the name of the memoirs of jazz bassist Charlie Mingus' widow. I read the first 2/3 of the book, and the last two, short chapters. I did not like the book.

Putting aside his musical talent, Mingus was clearly (from this book) a kook. And Sue Graham Mingus, his second wife, who was with him, more or less, from 1964 until his death from ALS in 1979, was - proven by the fact that she stuck around - an enabler to his kookiness, and a masochist.

She had been married before to an Italian in what appeared to be an equally bizarre marriage and had two children. She met Mingus in 1964 and loved/was fascinated by/and disliked him (usually all at the same time) from the beginning.

He was about as bipolar as you can get (again from her description), extremely paranoid at times, and unable to hold back from making his presence known, or saying whatever was on his mind (or whatever he made up at the moment). He was cantankerous, prone to getting into fights, and flung insults from the stage as often as Don Rickles.

He died of Lou Gherig's disease. You had to feel sorry for him as he wasted away, and to wonder what would the end have been like were it not for her care and loyalty.

Once again (touching on a theme I have touched on before), I am interested in how well-known (and generally creative) people, know each other, often accidentally. Was it a coincidence that Mingus' analyst had been Timothy Leary's roommate in medical school? Or that Mingus' son lived with Tom Stoppard? Or that they rented (it sounded coincidental) an apartment from Diane Arbus? Or that his son's girlfried was a close friend of Andre Gide? Or that they ran into Allen Ginsberg at a party?

These connections (not the specifics, just their existence) fascinate me, as if there are parallel societies existing, and depending on which one you live in, you either do, or do not, continually run into your fellow inhabitants.

Pompeii and Herculaneum

There is a large exhibit of over 500 artifacts from Pompeii at the Field Museum in Chicago. It is apparently one of the largest (if not the largest) Pompeii exhibit ever. It was the cover story on last month's Smithsonian Magazine. I read the article carefully, and then read the first half of a book I had read years ago on Herculaneum, the other Roman town destroyed when Mt. Vesuvius erupted in 79 C.E.

I have never been to Herculaneum, but have been to Pompeii three times, first in 1962, then in the early 1970s, and finally, about ten years ago. I would go back tomorrow if I could.

In fact, not only would I want to go back to Pompeii, and go to Herculaneum for the first time, I would like to spend some time in Naples, where I have been twice, but which I have never given a fair shake. When I spent an evening in Napes about 35 years ago, I discovered a crowded, extremely noisy city, where the traffic never moved. I remember the car driving the semi-highway that skirts the Bay of Naples that aimed right at me as I tried to cross the street, changing lanes three times in order to drive me back on the sidewalk. I remember the wasted American teenagers lounging at a bar near the bay, whose fathers were in the American navy and who told me that this is what they did every night -- "this is Naples, man....." I remember the delicious seafood dinner at the neighborhood restaurant. I remember a late night (don't remember why) at one end of town, and a cab ride back at about 3 a.m., where the driver quoted us a price that was more than exhorbitant, and when I protested, told me he would stop the cab and let us out free where we were, no problem (except that we were in a neighborhood from which it looked like no one had ever escaped alive).

But I never have gone to the wonderful museums, or the opera house, and I want to.

It was not really known at the time, apparently, that Vesuvius was even a volcano, certainly no one thought it would erupt. Volcanologists say that he had not erupted for 3000 years!! But when it blew, it blew, the wind carrying the hot volcanic ash in one direction, where it buried Pompeii, and the lava-mud flowing down the stream beds in the other direction, where it buried Herculaneum.

Both were homes of the Roman elite, although Pompeii was more a full-scale town, and Herculaneum more a place for only the rich and famous, and of course the ruins (many of which perfectly preserved and today still with much more to be excavated) reflect this.

One of the points brought out by the Herculaneum book is that how little was written about the eruption of Vesuvius by contemporaries, even though Roman society did have a strong intellectual culture. Also, that this tragedy of Pompeii and Herculaneum came just 9 years after the Romans had celebrated the destruction of the temple in Jerusalem and the capture of the temple gold which was brought to, and displayed in, Rome under the newly built Arch of Titus on the forum. Finally, that at the same time the mountain was exploring, Saul of Tarsus was writing his epistles and the Christian gospels were being drafted.

Baseball in DC? (3 cents)

An editorial in the Post this morning says that, because of the ongoing dispute between Comcast and Peter Angeles, the owner of the Orioles, there will again be no Nats games telecast on Comcast, and only about 40 on non-cable tv stations.

So here we are, a major league city, with a team finally, but only 25% of the games televised, no owner, no settled arrangement on a new stadium and only two more years to go at RFK, and - believe it or not - a claim by a mid-west company that it owns the name Washington Nationals and that our team can no longer sell any merchandise identifying the team by name.

Is there something wrong with this picture?

The result will be diminished support for the team, failure on the field, continuing arguing with MLB about the sale of the team, with political repercussions for DC government, and a diminution of value for the franchise. Then, it will be said that Washington is not a major league team after all, the team will move elsewhere, and Peter Angelos will get is way.

You Can't Judge a Book by its Cover (27 cents)

But how about a car?

I am driving to work, and this car shoots out of a driveway to my right, making a left turn into my lane. Why the driver did not see me is a mystery. I almost hit her. Then, I see that exactly where I would have hit her, her car has a big dent.

Ten minutes later, I am driving down Connecticut Avenue, and a car in the lane left of me accelerates suddenly, and moves into my lane. There was no way for this car to have succeeded in this move, had I not put on my brakes. Otherwise, I would have hit the car. Then, I see that exactly where I would have hit the car, the car has a big dent.

I think you can judge a car by its cover.

More on Malamud

So, here I am a junior high school student. I had a fairly large number of friends, and I knew all of their parents. All of them had fathers who worked and mothers who didn't. Even mothers who were trained to work, like my mother the lawyer, did not work when their children were in school.

So, imagine my surprise, when my friend told me that his mother was going to open a book store, in Clayton MO, and that it was going to be called The Magic Barrel.

The mother/bookseller was unique in a number of ways, to my experience. In the first place, she was not American. She was born in Russia (or in what I thought was Russia; maybe it was Poland or Romania, who knows?) and spoke with a heavy accent. She was very small, and very, very tough. A tough, tough cookie. Even I knew that.

She was clearly an intellectual (also a rarity among parents of my friends) and looked down on American pop culture of the 1950s. Rock and roll music was not allowed in her house.

So she opened this book store (I think it stayed in business about 5 years). The name The Magic Barrel meant nothing to me, and I was told it was named after Bernard Malamud's book. The name Bernard Malamud meant nothing to me. When the store opened, I bought (rare in those non-monied days) a paperback copy of The Magic Barrel, and although I can't tell you what any of the stories were about today, I remember that I thought they were all right. A little later, I read The Fixer, which I thought was phenomenal; this one I sorta remember: it took place in Russia and was based on the Beilas ritual murder trial. This was all new to me and unbelievably exciting.

I never read The Natural, his Robert Redford book, nor, to my memory, anything else. Perhaps, I should, but......with everything else, I don't think I will. I'd be happy to post your thoughts.

Current Events

Mini-reports of recent happenings:

1. Saw Brokeback Mountain (yawn). Found it rather dull, and cannot at all understand how it is sweeping the rewards. I did not think that the relationship between the guys was either very believable or interesting, and thought the physical scenes a bit embarrassing. I thought that Michelle Williams (is that her name?), who played Ennis Delmar's wife, was fantastic.

2. Ate at Nora's (sort of a sad salad, followed by a terrific filet mignon, with obsequious and not very attentive service), Shanghai Garden (always good), Logan Tavern (should rare tuna be brown? no.) and Mt. Everst in Adams Morgan (best Nepalise food on 18th Street).

3. Sorry that the Czechs (boo, Jagr) beat the Slovaks (yea, Bondra)

4. Went to the Nextbook evening on Bernard Malamud (who? Bernard Malamud?), which was a passable but not exciting three way conversation between three author/intellectuals that for the most part left the audience out. The main question was why Malamud, who won a Pulitzer and National Book Award, is read less now than in the 50s and 60s, and whether is changing or should change. More about Malamud on my next posting.

The Middle East Today

Sunni: There is nothing worse than a Jew, except for a Shiite.

Shiite: There is nothing worse than a Jew, except for a Sunni.

What a sad state the world has come to.

Leprosy and Constipation

Two of my favorite subjects.

Leprosy is the subject of a fine, short first novel by Jeff Talarigo, published in 2004. A young woman living on an isolated Japanese island in 1948, where she lives with her very traditional parents and works as a pearl diver, is diagnosed with leprosy, noted on the public records as dead, and moved into quarantine at a leprosarium on another island, only a short distance a way. She spends the rest of her life there, which seems to be at least 50 years (she is still alive at the end of the book).

The disease often proceeds very slowly, but there is no cure. The patients at this very spare facility all have jobs which help organize and support this communal facility. They get to know each other well, but only up to a point: they take new names and new identities.

The isolation is not complete, as mobile patients are allowed off the island for short excursions, and there is even a chance for dismissal into the community as medical assistance becomes more available, but Ms. Fuji (for that is the name she takes) decides against leaving. Why? Probably, because she would be too isolated. Her life as a pearl diver was isolated. Her life as a leper is isolated. In her few excursions back into society, she feels isolated. And the isolation of the leper colony, with all of its limitations and problems, perhaps seems the safest.

A very good book about a female Japanese leprosy patient in an isolated part of Japan starting in the 1940s by an American male who was probably not even alive when the book starts. How is it possible to set the stage, when the stage is so foreign to the writer?

Constipation was, I believe, the undercurrent of an 80 minute French silent movie (from 1923) which we saw this weekend. The apparently well known film, Coeur Fidele, by Polish/French avantgarde director Jean Epstein, is set in depressing Marseilles, on and around the docks, and centers on a poor orphan, who has two suitors, one of whom is handsome Jean and the other Little Paul, a gangster who nobody likes.

Paul and Jean get in a fight, and Jean goes to jail, leaving Little Paul without competition. Little Paul and our heroine get married, have a baby, live in poverty (because of his gambling and drinking), befriended by a poor, crippled girl in the apartment next door (played by Epstein's sister). Jean gets out of jail, finds his old flame, sees her at first secretly and then in the open, when another fight begins between Little Paul and himself. But Paul's gun falls on the floor, the neighbor picks it up and with shaking hands, shoots and kills Little Paul, whose head falls on the crib of his young son.

There are apparently some innovations here: kaleidescope designs, close ups, etc., which were apparently part of the maintstream counterculture of France between the wars.

But the most irritating thing to me (of which there were many), were the continual (i.e., without a single variation or break) scowls on the faces of all of the characters. I can only conclude that all of their problems were the result of their constipation.

Cezanne at the National Gallery

The 100+ Cezanne paintings will be on display until early May. Combined with the major Dada exhibit opening today, the NGA is a must-see.

It was a well organized exhibit, concentrating on Cezanne's relationship to his native Provence. Multiple landscapes centered around his family house, around various familiar mountain and fishing port scenes, show how Cezanne painted the same scenes with subtle changes. His familiar portraits and self-portraits (including "The Card Players") show his technique.

The exhibit smartly combines subject division with chronological changes. So you see, how Cezanne's early technique was refined, and how he began using the wide variety of beautiful blues and greens, which I like the best. But then you see age catching up, with his paintings becoming darker as time goes on.

The sources of this exhibit are varied: several from the NGA itself, and from other American musuems (Met, Moma, Kimball, Philadelphia, Art Institute, etc.) and from Europe (Hermitage, Tate, Musee d'Orsay, and several German and Swiss museums). Two of the landscapes come from the White House collection (it makes you wonder what the White House collection consists of, and whether it itself could be the subject of an exhibit).

Interesting tid-bit from the show: Cezanne, growing up in a fairly well to do family near Aix, was a boyhood friend of Zola. Never would have put the two of them together.

Olympic Hockey (3 cents)

I just saw Slovakia beat Kazakhstan 2-1. It was quite a good game, and it was nice seeing Peter Bondra scoring the winning goal in Slovakia's second straight game.

I am mixed on what I want to see out of this competition, particularly since so many of the players on all the times are NHL players. And with Bondra and Zednik (both ex-Caps) and Majeski (current Cap) on the team, it is easy to root for Slovakia. But Ovechkin is on Russia's team, Kolzig is Germany's goalie, all the Canadian players are well know, and the U.S. is the U.S.

So, I think I would like to have seen Kazakhstan win (as unlikely as that ever was). Because as a country with a significant Moslem population, and one which is primarily moderate in its religious practice, an Olympic medal would bring a Moslem country into the world-wide mainstream. Thus, a Kazakhstan victory may be exactly what is required in order to save Western civiilization.

No Danish Pastries in Iran

I told you it was coming. Apparently, Danish pastries in Iran are now Roses of Mohammed.

Can I have a prune Rose of Mohammed please?

Mongolia and the Northern Islands of Hawaii

seem to have absolutely nothing in common, other than they are each on exhibit at the National Geographic.

The Mongolian exhibit focuses on two things:

First, some very nice journalistic-type photographs of rural Mongolian families engaged in their daily life activities, and particularly in their annual seasonal migrations. The colors are particularly good. The photographs are by Gordon Wiltsie.

Second, on an appealing Mongolian Buddhist ceremony called Tsam. I can't begin to explain it, except to say it features a number of gods and near gods in variegated stylized costumes and terrific animal like masks (they all look like NHL goalies) who participate in a comic/drama whose goal is to drive evil out of the community. You can't argue with that. The exhibit includes four life size masked models in historic clothes (led by the blue bullhead god Dandinchoijou) and twenty or so 18" models.

The Northern Hawaii exhibit is only photographic, and involves portraits birds, fish and other forms of sea life taken from a chain of environmentally protected islands northwest of the inhabited Hawaiian Is. They are so protected that not only does no one live on them (although they are the stated ancestral homes of native islanders), but you cannot visit them without a reason to go, and then you are in virtual quarantine (and even not allowed to wear clothes you have worn anywhere before, for fear that there might by some seeds or pollen that could pollute the area). The photos are large and very artistically done, generally isolating the subject against a large single color (often white) background. Most appealing are four portraits of a winter tern leaving the egg; a baby albatross and a brown booby. The crustacea are just as interesting but not as appealing. And the photos of the coral and other attached sea life are fascinating, but for me more difficult to appreciate.

I Don't Care About Marjorie Merriweather Post (11 cents)

I just read Nancy Rubin's biography of this overly rich, haughty, very boring individual. I just don't care about her.

The most interesting parts of the book where the stories about her father (the Post of Post Toasties) and the growth of the health food/cereal empires of Battle Creek Michigan, and about her third husband, Joseph Davies, who was ambassador to the USSR (and to Belgium and Luxembourg) right before WWII. Davies believed in befriending the Soviets as a counterweight to the Nazis, and was very anti-isolationist.

The dullest parts of the book were about Marjorie, her first husband (who through his second marriage was Glenn Close's grandfather), her second husband E.F. Hutton, and her fourth husband Herb May. I was interested in reading about Hillwood, and less interested in the goings on in Palm Beach before it was Palm Beach when Marlago was first being built.

At any rate, I found her shallow and uninteresting. I also don't think that Nancy Rubin did much to make her more appealing to her readers.

Dull, Dull, Dull, Dull, Dull (1 cent)

The Levine Woodwind Quintet Concert at Epiphany Episcopal Church today was dull, dull, dull, dull, dull.

Why? Is it that woodwind quintent music is all dull? Is it that this particular selection of 5 pieces was dull? Is it that the Levine Woodwind Quintet is itself dull? Is it just me?

Don't know. Don't care. Dull, dull, dull, dull, dull.

Just When You Think You Have It All Figured Out (4 cents)

So, I was watching the women's Olympic hockey match between the United States and Germany. It was being broadcast live from Turin. It was the just before the start of the second period. The US was leading 2-0. The phone rang.

It was my daughter asking me a question. I told her I was watching this game and that it was very good, and on the USA network (an NBC affiliate). She turned it on.

We were still talking when the second period started, and my daughter said: "well, we got another one." I didn't know what she was talking about, but decided that maybe I did not hear correctly and would let it pass. Then, about 10 seconds later, I saw the U.S. score its third goal.

This means that my daughter, watching the same USA channel, but on Montgomery County Comcast Cable, saw the game about 10 or 20 seconds before I saw the same game, watching on District of Columbia Comcast Cable.

I thought I had it all figured out.

Now, I am back to ground zero.

David and Carmen Kreeger (6 cents)

David Kreeger was the founder and long time head of GEICO, an almost-professional violinist, and a patron of the arts in Washington. He and his wife built their Foxhall Road home, designed by Philip Johnson, with the idea of creating a museum after their deaths. The museum has now been opened about 15 years.

It has always been open by appointment only, but now can be visited without a reservation on Saturdays.

The house is architectually unique and hard to explain. You enter a see through vestibule. There are stairs and a living room on your left. There are other rooms to your right, perhaps the dining and kitchen areas. And the garages. All the rooms are oversized. All have marble walls and floors with a canvas-like material on the walls which is designed for the hanging of art work. The ceilings are high, particularly in the center section which is two stories high. There is a full basement (or lower level) and a second floor which is off-limits to the public. There is a large deck behind, and a large swimming pool.

But the highlight is the artwork. The selection is large for a private collection (it is not being added to), and the quality is almost completely top rate.

Picasso (5 or 6), Monet (even more), Degas, Renoir, Sisley, Cezanne, Pissaro, Braque, Van Gogh, Mondrian, Beckmann, Stella, Rosenquist, Avery, Gorky, Chagall, Man Ray, Malliol, Henry Moore, Lipschutz, Noguchi, Kandinsky, and a host of others. All well hung in comfortable, and uncrowded conditions. There is also an impressive collection of African masks.

Many favorites. Perhaps I like best a particular Picasso; my wife likes a Van Gogh vase with flowers. Hard to dislike anything.