The House of Unexpected Sisters

Although Alexander McCall Smith is "only a man"—and a Scotsman at that—he tries to create a story world that is dominated by women and women's values in his latest novel The House of Unexpected Sisters. The values he expresses in his heroine are sympathy and understanding, compassion and cooperation, toleration and forgiveness.

The context for this fantasy is an idealized country in Africa, called Botswana. While Botswana is a real place, and all the place names and geographical features described in the book are real, the country in the book is an ideal place, a sort of Heaven on Earth, where people act with respect for themselves, for other people, for tradition, and for the land.

The House of Unexpected Sisters is the 18th novel in Alexander McCall Smith's The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency series, which features Precious Ramotswe, who has created herself as the first lady detective in Botswane. The name 'Precious' is traditional in her country, but it also symbolizes her character, like the name of her assistant, 'Grace.' Precious is exquisitely sensitive to the feelings of others and couches every utterance as tactfully as she can. Her investigations are slow and polite; no violence, no speed, no threats, no danger. Just complexity—overlapping motivations, misunderstandings. Some problems seem to be solved by the mere process of investigation.

Her clients don't bring her the big scary problems, like murder and gang activity. That stuff naturally goes to the police. They come with vexatious problems, like a rash of petty thefts in one of the stories; the culprit in that one turned out to be a mischievous wild monkey. There might be a question of suspected impersonation, or suspected adultery. In this book the problem is wrongful termination; a client says she was fired for no good reason. Investigation of that issue reveals various other shenanigans by the people involved. And, very realistically, Precious has some problems of her own to work out. I think it won't be too much of a spoiler if I tell you that everything comes right in the end, and everyone gets justice.

The book's theme is indicated in the title, and it is a basic tenet of feminism: women stick together, women support and encourage each other, women are sisters by nature. All of the women in the story, except for the villainous Violet, cooperate to bring about equitable solutions.

And what sort of roles do men play in this feminine universe? Precious' husband isn't nearly as smart or useful as her friends, but he loves and supports Precious as well as he can. One of her part-time assistants is a mousy male, retired and feeling useless, who has a good heart and occasionally a good idea. Her first husband, Note, has been a villain throughout the series—having battered Precious during their marriage, and returning now and then to cause her trouble. Her late father was the epitome of wisdom and virtue. The employer who is accused of wrongful termination is a philanderer. In general, men make a mess of things, and women set things straight again.

This novel is not what you would call great literature. It's so easy you can read it while waiting in line at Starbucks, as I have. In fact, the series makes great reading for jet travel; I discovered my first one at an airport bookstore. You could say that McCall Smith churns this stuff out exactly for that purpose, especially for women passengers. However, that doesn't mean it is without charm. The culture of Botswana, both real and imagined, is very colorful and exotic. The characters are irresistibly nice; it is soothing to hear the way they reason. And it seems clear to me that the author genuinely cares about the values he depicts, and he is genuinely fond of the way women do things.

Theodore Wores, 1859-1939

A delightful remnant of the past has been rescued from oblivion by the Triton Museum of Art in Santa Clara, with the help of the Farrington Historical Foundation, and is presently being featured in a special exhibit at the museum, called "Theodore Wores: Under the California Sun."

Twenty-three lovely Impressionist landscapes by pioneering California painter Thomas Wores, including scenes from the Santa Clara Valley, the San Francisco coast, and the dramatic valley of Yosemite, were discovered in storage at the museum by its Deputy Director, Preston Metcalf.

These paintings date from 1912, when San Francisco was still surrounded by sand dunes covered in blue lupine, from the 1920s when Saratoga was synonymous with orchards, from the 1930s when Yosemite was still a rare sight. Metcalf, who grew up in Santa Clara in the 1960s when some of these scenes still looked much the same, recognized the historic and nostalgic significance of these works now that so much has been paved over and polluted, so he determined to secure funding to have them restored and exhibited. From the Triton, the show will move to other venues around the state.

1910-1920

The Sand Dunes of San Francisco, Ca, 1912

Blue Lupines of the Sand Dunes of San Francisco, c. 1912

Entrance to Golden Gate, c. 1914

1920s

Tree Blossoms, 1920

Peach Orchard, Saratoga, California, c. 1925

Road with a Blossoming Orchard, 1925

A Garden in Saratoga, California, 1927

My Studio Garden in Saratoga, Ca, 1926

My Summer House, Saratoga, Ca, 1928

1930s

Yosemite Valley, California, 1931

Yosemite Valley, California, 1931

From the point of view of art history, Theodore Wores is significant because he was one of the earliest California-born artists to achieve international fame in his own time. Wores was born in San Francisco—to parents who had fled the war between Austria and Hungary—and at the age of 16, he became one of the first students at the San Francisco School of Design, the first art academy on the West Coast.  The following year he moved to Munich, where he studied for six years. After several years of building his career in different locations, Wores settled in San Francisco. Now a well-established painter, he became a Dean at the San Francisco Institute of Art, which was the current name of the academy where he first studied art.

The Iris Flowers of Hori Kiri, Tokio, c. 1893
Crocker Museum / Jan's photo, 2010

Wores' best work depicted "exotic" scenes—in Chinatown, Japan, Hawaii, Samoa—in a style that was heavily influenced by his academic training. 

The landscapes in this exhibit, done in a softer, brushier style, are minor works, but they have a special appeal for folks in the Bay Area, and the longer you look at them the more you appreciate their high quality.

In 1924, when Wores was in his mid-sixties, he acquired a second home and studio in Saratoga, and painted many Impressionist depictions of the orchards surrounding it. The paintings in this show were donated by his widow, Carolyn Bauer Wores.

In Cold Blood

The big question in the non-fiction novel In Cold Blood by Truman Capote is why murder a family of four people, why invade their home in the middle of the night, tie the up, gag them, and shoot them in the face with a shotgun? The answer is fairly simple, actually; the murderers were psychopaths, meaning they had no conscience and no attachment to life, to other humans, or even to their own life. But it doesn't seem obvious to the neighbors of the victims, to the investigators, or even to the reader. It seems senseless and horrific, and you have to wonder how anyone's personality could become so warped that they would commit mass murder.

Capote developed several innovations in order to consider this problem. In the first place, there's is no suspense in the usual sense: Capote used a famous murder case in which the perpetrators had already been convicted and hanged by the time the book was published. But for the detectives there is plenty of suspense; they have a real "who done it" with very few clues. Capote develops the characters of a few of the detectives, and follows them in their investigations, so that the reader feels their suspense. There is also plenty of suspense for the people who knew the murder victims—the prosperous Clutter family—as they all begin to suspect each other, and to be fearful about the future. The characters of a few of these people are sketched in as well, so the reader absorbs their suspense.

The innovation that set the literary world abuzz was that the novel occupies a new space in between factual reporting and fiction. Capote conscientiously reports every scrap of evidence, even false leads, what would be 'blue herrings' in a British mystery show. He reports every interview. He quotes from the detectives' notes. It's a wonder that he can keep the reader interested in all this minutia. But he escapes the bounds of journalism by using the facts to conjure scenes, complete with atmospheric details and dialog that the author could not have heard. Of course, some people object with his taking this much license, but that's what makes it a novel; otherwise, it would just be journalism, and nothing new in terms of form. Also, it would not have become a major hit in the publishing world. People were already familiar with the basic facts of the case; it is the imagined part that holds your attention.

A third quality of the novel is harder to describe. Usually the narrator of a novel has a consistent voice, a sort of attitude, a point of view. In Cold Blood is presented in the form of reports from the participants, so the point of view is constantly shifting. Part of the story—part of the evidence—is told from one character's point of view, part from another, following several characters. The reader hardly notices any general narration pulling all these "factual" reports together.

Instead of a voice, the novel has style, a truly exemplary style of using the English language. Capote's sentences are remarkably clear and graceful—just the right choice of words, the perfect word order, no clutter or self-consciousness. Each sentence calmly, sensibly, sympathetically leads to the next.

The reader experiences the magnitude of the crime—we meet the victims and hear their dying words as they are slaughtered methodically. We experience the gnawing hunger for answers that motivates the lead detectives in the case. But most importantly, we get an intimate look at the childhood and development of psychopaths, not just the two murderers in this case, but of other mass murderers as well, plus the text-book description of this pathology. And the result is the reader feels some empathy with them; you can see how a neglected and abused little kid could become angry at the world; you can feel how much they needed a little love and guidance when they were vulnerable. People aren't born psychopaths; it's a result of the way they are treated in those early years; maltreatment warps their personalities. Which is not to say you sympathize with them. No, hanging seems the right punishment in the situation. They seem irredeemable. They don't even care. They place no value on their own lives, never did.

Wayne Thiebaud, from 1958 to 1968

Born in 1920, Wayne Thiebaud, now 98, is the grand old man of California painting. Since the 1960s, he has consistently produced cutting-edge paintings that everyone could understand and appreciate, not an easy combination to achieve.

Because Thiebaud spent several years working as a designer and a cartoonist right after high school, and he served a hitch in the Army Air Force during World War II as well, he didn't get started on his career in the fine arts until the 1950's. At the age of 30 he enrolled in Sacramento State College (now California State University, Sacramento), and by the age of 40, in 1960, he was an assistant professor at the University of California in Davis. Thiebaud remained at Davis until 1991, 31 years. This career stability gave him the freedom to pursue the art values that interested him. Thiebaud's career went through a half-dozen phases, taking up one subject after another, and adapting his technique to make his ordinary subject matter look exceptional.

Thiebaud first attracted wide-scale attention between 1958 and 1968 when his simple renderings of common food items available in diners and bakeries, cafeterias and delis fit right in with Pop art and the fad for elevating commerce in art. A special exhibit of Thiebaud's work during this period was presented as its inaugural show by the new museum at UC Davis, the Manetti-Shrem Museum.

Beach Boys, 1959
Special exhibit, Manetti-Shrem Museum / Jan's photo, 2018

Before Thiebaud developed his signature style, he experimented with one of the styles that was popular in the Bay Area, figurative painting with heavy impasto, or thick application of paint with expressionistic brushstrokes. 

Pancakes, 1961
Special exhibit, Manetti-Shrem Museum / Jan's photo, 2018

His rediscovery of the still life was a major breakthrough. The tradition of painting food and tableware dates back to the Dutch Golden Age of the 1600s, but in the 1960s still life was considered too tame. Thiebaud reinterpreted the still life for his era, while also turning from the sumptuous repast of tradition to the lowliest, and loneliest, meal in a diner. As a work of art, this composition is interesting for the way the artist conveyed three-dimensions on a flat structure; also, the brushstrokes are flatter and more controlled, and distinct outlines define the objects.

Delicatessen Counter - Bologna and Cheese, 1961
Special exhibit, Manetti-Shrem Museum / Jan's photo, 2018

As a subject, a deli counter is even more detached than a meal for one, removing any emotional connotations. The emphasis is on the geometry and the colors; the image is close to abstract, barely tied to reality. The brushstroke has been carefully controlled in order to define shapes as well as to suggest the texture of the deli items.

Delicatessen Counter, 1961
Special exhibit, Manetti-Shrem Museum / Jan's photo, 2018

This painting shows amazing control of the brushstroke to define shapes and especially to mimic the textures of the food items. The artist was very interested in the way paint compares to the textures of the subjects he is depicting. The composition is based on a strong and stable geometry. 

Drink Syrups, 1961
Special exhibit, Manetti-Shrem Museum / Jan's photo, 2018

At the level of subject matter, Thiebaud documented certain objects and customs that no long appear in the same form; this row of drink syrups must have been intended for snow cones, but I believe they usually come in bottles nowadays. The dispensers have been simplified to their basic geometry, removing all associations and connotations, making them merely containers for the primary colors, with blue added in the triangular base, making this sort of an art joke. Thiebaud enlivened his dull subject with colorful and vibrant outlines.

Sucker Tree, 1961
Special exhibit, Manetti-Shrem Museum / Jan's photo, 2018

Have you ever seen a cone, perhaps styrofoam, with branches formed by lollipops? It looks like a relic of the past. The subject gave the artist the chance to play around with angles of placement for circular shapes on a flat plane as well as with types of patterns within a circle, requiring very precise brushstrokes.

Refrigerator Pies, 1962
Special exhibit, Manetti-Shrem Museum / Jan's photo, 2018

Thiebaud is most associated with paintings of cakes and pies, not the homemade type, but products available in bakeries. His goal here is to make the paint mimic the textures of the food; the chocolate cream pie looks luscious. He simplified the shapes to their basic geometries and arranged them uniformly, cropping out any context of the bakery.

Cream Soups, 1963
Special exhibit, Manetti-Shrem Museum / Jan's photo, 2018

Again the artist strides the border between realism and geometric abstractionism. Oil paint has been mixed to the creaminess of soup, but the shapes have been simplified to basic circles, and modified in size and shape to indicate depth. Vibrant outlines in arbitrary colors make the shapes lift off the canvas.

Football Player, 1963
Special exhibit, Manetti-Shrem Museum / Jan's photo, 2018

In his next phase, Thiebaud turned to the figure, however, as with his still lifes, he treats the figure more as an object than as a person, simplifying the component shapes, eliminating personal detail, and reducing the figure to a bold icon; he barely gave the figure a place to sit, though he placed it in a seated position. The helmet and mask are perfect because the artist is not interested in the football player as an individual, or even as an athlete; he is interested in the figure as object, and about playing with modeling and dimensionality.

Man Sitting - Back View, 1964
Special exhibit, Manetti-Shrem Museum / Jan's photo, 2018

It is quite surprising to see the rear view of a lone figure in a painting. Is it a statement about alienation and isolation? Is this the poor guy about to slurp up cream soup? Or is it an exercise in treating a figure as an object, creating convincing roundness and depth of shape without any supporting context, just perfect horizontal brushstrokes. The figure doesn't even get colorful contours except in the difficult area where the bottom meets the seat.

Standing Man, 1964
Special exhibit, Manetti-Shrem Museum / Jan's photo, 2018

This figure is all suit and no personality. Brushstrokes are virtually invisible and details have been eliminated. The question is how does light fall on a standing subject? The objective is to convey modeling through light and shadow; to make the figure look like it is really there, though there is no definition of any particular space, except for a single horizontal line to represent the floor.

Woman in Tub, 1965
Special exhibit, Manetti-Shrem Museum / Jan's photo, 2018

Isolation, alienation, and sterility are conveyed in this image; there's no denying its emotional content. The tub is indicated by a few colorful horizontal lines on a ground of flat whites and grays. The head is photographically real but dehumanized by its position. If there is a person in that tub, she is lost in revery, her personality withdrawn and at rest.

Five Seated Figures, 1965
Special exhibit, Manetti-Shrem Museum / Jan's photo, 2018

Like still life, the group portrait dates back to the Dutch Golden Age, but Thiebaud reinterpreted the subject to leave out the "groupiness" of the group. By their positions ignoring each other, you see these people are not in the same room at the same time. The artist probably painted a separate portrait of each person, then combined them arbitrarily into a design. He treated the figures not as people but as objects. Perhaps the artist is saying "This is the way the world is; no one pays attention to anyone else; each is a self-absorbed unit." Or it could be a study of how the light falls on faces looking 5 different directions, how light and shadow models legs and shoulders, how to create enough space for 5 chairs and get all the legs to overlap convincingly.

Girl with Mirror, 1965
Special exhibit, Manetti-Shrem Museum / Jan's photo, 2018

Here is a girl with great breasts and a solemn expression. If the face were smiling or looking up, the image would be erotic, but the girl herself is absent from this figure. This beautiful torso is treated as an object, like one of Monet's haystacks, for studying light on organic shapes and the amazing range of shades and tints included in "skin tone." Brushwork is very refined and smooth.

Wayne Thiebaud is a traditional realist with a contemporary twist. He hides systematic variation of abstract aesthetic values in the form of ordinary objects and detached figures. During the first decade of his career, covered by the special exhibit at the Manetti-Shrem, his work grew increasingly complex and subtle, while he examined the traditions of still life and figure painting. This was only the beginning of a long and beautiful career.

Breakfast of Champions

I didn't like Kurt Vonnegut's novel Breakfast of Champions. I should have liked it—Vonnegut is an extremely important 20th century writer. I expected to like it—I liked several of his other novels. I tried to like it—and there are brilliant passages in it. But it the end, I was just glad it was over with.

At the largest level, the problem is that Vonnegut interweaves fantasy with reality, and fantasy with fantasy. One of the characters is supposed to be the author, and he interacts with the characters he has created; he gets badly mauled by a dog of his own creation. He creates and uncreates characters, moves them to different times and places, and offers commentaries on his reasons.

At the stylistic level, Vonnegut's prose is choppy, partly because he keeps darting around in overlapping universes. The other reason is that he throws in so much minutiae of verisimilitude that there is a long distance between subject and action.

Thematically, the problem is nihilism. The author and his surrogates are at pains to point out and illustrate the banality and inanity of modern life, presumably for comical effect. This is a dystopian novel, no holds barred.

None of the characters is developed in a sympathetic way; they are basically place-holders in a game of 3-D chess.

Existentially, Vonnegut wanted to show the interconnectedness of everyone's stories, the absurdity and tragedy in everyone's lives, and the futility of the whole flawed human enterprise.

You have to be the right age to appreciate this type of bitter humor and this casual way of mixing fantasies like cards in a deck.

So, if I disliked it for all these reasons, why did I keep reading it? Because some of Vonnegut's ravings express his insights in a unique and impactful manner.

Here's a paragraph that aptly describes his intentions:

"I resolved to shun storytelling. I would write about life. Every person would be exactly as important as any other. All facts would also be given equal weightiness. Nothing would be left out. Let others bring order to chaos. I would bring chaos to order, instead, which I think I have done (my italics). If all writers would do that, then perhaps citizens not in the literary trades will understand that there is no order in the world around us, that we must adapt ourselves to the requirements of chaos instead. It is hard to adapt to chaos, but it can be done. I am living proof of that: It can be done."

Here's a funny line that is still apt:

"Much of the conversation in the country consisted of lines from television shows, both past and present."

Here's a good description of women's defense mechanisms:

"The women all had big minds because they were big animals, but they didn't use them for this reason: unusual ideas could make enemies and the women, if they were going to achieve any sort of comfort and safety, needed all the friends they could get. So, in the interest of survival they trained themselves to be agreeing machines. All their minds had to do was to discover what other people were thinking and then they thought it too."

For a major fan of Art History, the most interesting part was a commentary on the Minimalist paintings by Barnett Newman, who puzzled art-lovers with canvases bearing only one or two stripes on a uniform background. Here's an example of Newman's simplest composition, grandly called Onement:

Onement, 1953 by Barnett Newman
Internet 

To carry his interpretation, Vonnegut creates a character called Karabekian who has painted a work called The Temptation of Saint Anthony. He then places the painter in a bar scene where the patrons scorn his work, saying a child could do better. This quote is his response:

The painting did not exist until I made it…Now that it does exist, nothing would make me happier than to have it reproduced again and again, and vastly improved upon, by all the five-year-olds in town. I would love for your children to find pleasantly and playfully what it took me many angry years to find…

It is a picture of the awareness of every animal. It is the immaterial core of every animal–the ‘I am’ to which all messages are sent. It is all that is alive in any of us–in a mouse, in a deer, in a cocktail waitress. It is unwavering and pure, no matter what preposterous adventure may befall us."

Just because I didn't like the novel doesn't mean I didn't appreciate it. But I'm eager to get onto something richer and more satisfying.