While there is no denying the bright glory of mid-October foliage, I find the muted palette of November equally beautiful in its own way. After most of the leaves have fallen, our neighborhood woods wear their subtle winter tones of gray, beige and brown. The few remaining autumn dashes of orange, flame-red and green stand out like colorful stitching on a sensible tan tweed jacket. On this day, the leaves were so deep that the familiar path was hidden. Kiko, however, our sure-footed guide, knew the way by smell.
Remembering Gudmund Vigtel of the High Museum of Art
My friend and former boss Gudmund Vigtel died last month at the age of 87. For nearly thirty years, Vig, as he was generally known, was the face and guiding force of Atlanta’s High Museum of Art. He became the museum’s director in 1963, when it was a fledgling institution in a provincial backwater, housed in a nondescript building adjacent to its first home, the Peachtree Street mansion of the High family.
Vig led the High through two pivotal periods of extraordinary growth. In June of 1962, 106 of Atlanta’s most prominent arts patrons, returning from a museum-sponsored trip to Europe, were killed when their plane crashed on take-off at Orly Airport in Paris. Since Atlanta’s founding in 1836 as Terminus, the end point of a railway hub, its citizens have tended to value business over culture. But they are a resilient lot, determined not to be bested. The Orly tragedy, like General Sherman’s burning of the city during the Civil War, inspired a deeply felt resolve to regroup and rebuild, bigger and better. Gudmund Vigtel, then assistant director at the Corcoran Gallery in D.C., was hired to head up the new, expanded arts facility to be known as the Atlanta Memorial Arts Center.
Vig must have stood out as a cosmopolitan, dashing European figure in the Atlanta of the early 60s. Born in Jerusalem to Lutheran missionaries from Norway, he had lived in Vienna and Oslo before his family fled (on skis, as I’ve always heard) from Nazi-occupied Norway into Sweden. But Vig had Georgia ties as well. Having studied art in Sweden, he received a Rotary Scholarship that first took him to a small college in north Georgia. It was not a good fit. He recounted how he spent lonely afternoons sitting on a big rock, asking himself, Why am I here? Before long, he managed to transfer to the Atlanta College of Art, where the more urban environment suited him better.
I met Vig during the second pivotal period of his tenure at the High. During the 1970s he became increasingly convinced that his museum was still too small. When, in 1977, the blockbuster King Tut show bypassed Atlanta for New Orleans because the High lacked sufficient exhibition space, it was clear that Vig was right. He launched an impassioned campaign for a considerably larger and more striking building. Despite the board’s initial preference for a local architect, he managed to persuade them to choose the as yet unproven Richard Meier of New York. Meier would go on to to design the Getty Museum in Los Angeles and to win the Pritzker Prize for architecture.
I had the good fortune to work for Vig as Secretary to the Director during the High’s first two years in the new Meier facility. (There are, of course no secretaries at the museum now, or perhaps anywhere; they have been promoted to other titles, if not in salary.) Thanks to my dentist, a family friend, avid art collector and museum patron, I learned about the job opening. It was the summer of 1983, and I had just graduated from UGA with a degree in Art History. I was coming to terms with the realization that this was, as I had suspected, hardly a golden key to a lucrative or, perhaps, any career. Luckily, I could type. I applied at the High. I wasn’t hired; there was a better, faster typist. About three weeks later, I got a call from the museum. The other applicant hadn’t worked out, for various reasons. When Vig had referred, for example, to the artist Botticelli in his dictated letters, this secretary had repeatedly transcribed Buddy Chelly. Was I still interested?
The postmodern Meier building, its undulating facade clad in white enamel tile, was due to open that October when I began work in July. The offices had just moved into the new quarters, but the galleries and atrium remained unfinished. Heavy plastic sheeting kept some of the dust out but did nothing to diminish the loudness of the construction noise. The pace of construction was quick and constant, and it only added to the excitement of working at the museum. I loved my front-row seat in the living theatre that was staging the airy new building’s completion. And I soon became fond of my boss and the rest of the museum staff.
Many of us spend our lives knowing and regretting that we have not yet hit upon the perfect career fit. Vig found his, it would certainly seem. He had a broad knowledge and true devotion to art of various genres and styles. But he lacked any trace of pretense or conceit; he bore no resemblance to the stereotypical artsy intellectual. Not a single aspect of the life of the museum was beneath him, and he was apparently tireless. What’s more, Vig had a real gift for the human connection; he was thoughtful, warm, empathetic, funny and charming. He inspired the best in every staff member, and we held him in high regard.
As Vig’s dramatic vision for the new building was nearing completion, it was a heady time to be part of the HMA team. The museum opened on schedule in October, with a dizzying flurry of celebratory events held in the soaring central atrium. Vig treated his staff with the same respect and courtesy as the most generous or sought-after patrons. HMA parties were equal-opportunity events. Security guards danced with curators; art handlers and secretaries rubbed elbows with Atlanta’s civic leaders and the occasional celebrity. Vig was always there at the heart of the party, like a joyful father of the bride, surrounded, in his elegant home, by those he loved best.
Vig’s oddly spelled Norwegian name confounded most homegrown Southerners. Yet its pronounciation was straightforward: Good mund Vig tel, with the accent on each first syllable. I was amazed by the vast volume of unsolicited letters (many of them very strange, to say the least) that the museum received. The majority of these erred comically in the spelling of Vig’s name. They variously addressed him as Gudmund Viglet, Gudmund Vigtoe, Goodmood Vigel, Goodood Wigtel and even, somehow, Tubmund Eigtel. Vig never took himself too seriously, and he found these permutations as amusing as I did. He also laughed and reassured me when I realized, too late, that one of the letters I typed had gone out to Ms. Roberta Goizueta instead of Mr. Roberto Goizueta, then the Chairman of Coca-Cola.
Vig’s impact on the arts of Atlanta was profound. Like so many others whose lives he touched, I will think of him often, and with affection. In my mind I see him now, and it’s 1985. He’s coming back from checking a new painting in the galleries, crossing the wide atrium. He’s walking his characteristically jaunty walk, grey curls bouncing a bit, suit slightly rumpled. As he approaches, I hear him speak my name in the Norwegian accent he never lost, and I see the customary twinkle in his eye. Gudmund Vigtel will be greatly missed, but lovingly and gladly remembered.
On this T-shirt, made c. 1985 by the HMA staff to celebrate Vig’s birthday, he is surrounded by some of the more egregiously erroneous misspellings of his name, collected from letters. Vig’s uncharacteristically gruff expression was intended for comic purposes. I wish I hadn’t worn the shirt for painting; the splotch on Vig’s jacket is a later, accidental addition.
On This Election Day, Go Vote!
My maternal grandmother Nora was born in 1894. In 1920, when the 19th Amendment, the Susan B. Anthony Amendment, was passed, she was twenty-six. She had been married to my grandfather for five years, and they were the parents of a two-year old son, my mother’s oldest brother. Having lived through a time when women could not vote, my grandmother took that newly granted right very seriously. She never missed an election, either national or local, and she was quite vocal in encouraging other women to get out and vote. Not voting was a sure sign of laziness, ignorance, or just “being plain sorry,” according to Nora.
I wish I had thought to ask her, before her death at age 94, about the presidential election of 1920. I would like to have discussed the details, such as where she voted and how. Were there long lines, and did the women turn out enthusiastically? Like most rural Kentuckians and Southerners of her generation, my grandmother was an ardent, lifelong Democrat. I assume she cast her first vote for James M. Cox, the Democratic candidate, newspaperman and Governor of Ohio. Cox, by nearly all hindsight accounts the better man, lost to Warren G. Harding, now remembered primarily for the rampant corruption of his administration. Twelve years would pass before my grandmother chose the winning ticket, when she, no doubt, voted for Franklin Delano Roosevelt in 1932. Interestingly, a young FDR had been James Cox’s Vice Presidential running mate.
Today on election day, I’m especially grateful to the generations of determined women who fought for nearly a hundred years for the precious right to vote. Because of their efforts, my grandmother voted in 1920, I will vote today, and my daughter will vote before long. In years past, I may have supported candidates that probably would not have won my grandmother’s vote. But this year, I feel confident that she would strongly agree with my choice.
On this election day and always, may God bless the United States of America!
New This Year: Spooky Trick-or-Treaters
This fall, my daughter and I spent several amusing afternoons in production of these big-headed, bug-eyed trick-or-treaters to add to our Halloween decorations. Using a Dremel, we drilled indentations for the wooden bead eyes, which we anchored with Sobo glue. Our goal was to create a variety of strange and crazy-looking little figures, so we rather indiscriminately raided the craft closet in search of odd miscellaneous items.
For hair, we used yarn, felt, an old shade pull, and some of the stuffing that Kiko was at the time pulling out from the toy he was attacking. Hats are acorn caps, wooden craft cups, and in one case, a plastic spider ring. For bodies we used small spools or corks. Toothpicks or wooden beads form the arms. One figure received oversized white plastic hands on springs that came with a set of Halloween pencil-toppers. We made two dogs, one with ears of pecan shells, the other with wooden bead ears. Maple leaves from a craft punch adorn several of the creatures. We covered miniature Nerds boxes with orange paper to make trick-or-treat bags. Because we didn’t intend our creations to be perfect or traditionally cute, no one (and I won’t name names) flew into a rage when a slight crafting hitch or two arose.
Ready for Halloween: Papier-Mâché Jack-o’-Lantern Friends
These two jolly Jack-o’-Lantern friends were inspired by a vintage Halloween decoration my mother found in a catalogue. Several years ago, my daughter and I made the heads out of papier-mâché, using the tried-and-true Kindergarten method of newspaper strips applied to balloons with watery white glue. For the bodies, we wired together sticks from the yard, which we draped with muslin for the gowns. The black cloaks were formed from two mens’ drawstring shoe bags. The friends take their place every October on our dining room sideboard. This year we surrounded them with bittersweet branches and used two mercury-glass hurricane candle-holders for support.
Anticipating a happy Halloween!
From Little Pumpkin to Halloween Jack-‘O-Lantern
It’s an easy and logical progression from pumpkin to jack-o’-lantern. Mother/baby Halloween parties across the country are crowded with crawling, crying, babbling, drooling, toddling jack-o’- lanterns. Our first Halloween event was typical.
The three jack-o’-lanterns at our Halloween playgroup party are assembled here for a photo opp. The middle pumpkin took offense, perhaps at the indignity of being sandwiched between two other pumpkins.
She continued to protest, loudly and forcefully. The other two pumpkins seemed mildly interested, at best.
After the party, D relaxed at home by quietly ripping the flaps off a seasonal pop-up book.
We reused D’s jack-o’-lantern costume on her second Halloween. As we had expected, our not-quite-two-year-old voiced no protest at having worn that same old thing last year. On her first Halloween, she was not yet walking, and the costume proved cumbersome for a crawler. Here, at our Gymboree party, she enjoyed being a jaunty pumpkin on the move, walking, running, jumping, and bouncing.
On D’s first Halloween, we went with some of our playgroup friends to an afternoon celebration geared to young children at the local mall. We couldn’t justify trick-or-treating on behalf of a baby in a stroller. But on year 2, we hit our neighborhood. Up to this point, I had limited our daughter’s exposure to candy. She got a few sweet treats, but, as the baby books advised, not many. That Halloween, however, the jig was up. The great wealth of the candy universe opened up to her like a treasure chest unearthed, and she rejoiced. While Kit-Kats were initially her favorite chocolate, she quickly developed an eclectic, enthusiastic palette. Here, she sits in a trance-like state savoring a lollipop, the contents of her trick-or-treat pumpkin spread around her in what was then the bareness of our kitchen.
Looking Back on our Little Pumpkin
When my daughter and I were choosing our Halloween pumpkins last week at a pleasant local farm market, we were surrounded by parents photographing their little ones among the seasonal displays. Babies and pumpkins look good together; it’s a natural fit. Both tend to be round, fat, cute and firm. Facebook is understandably full of adorable pumpkin/baby duos this time of year. Our baby is no longer pumpkinesque, which is fortunate, considering she’s nearly fourteen. But I’m prompted to look back on the years when she was, very much so.
On our first trip to the pumpkin patch with our daughter, the chill of the late afternoon took us by surprise. We had dressed D in soft overalls and a Scandinavian-style fleece jacket, the first of a series that my mother would sew for her over the years. But either Mama hadn’t yet made the matching fleece hat, or we didn’t think she’d need it. Her baseball cap clearly didn’t keep her warm, and her lack of mittens didn’t help either. Her little feet must have been freezing, in lightweight cloth tennies. In these photos, it’s painfully evident that the kid, not quite ten months old, was borderline miserable but making the best of a bad situation. She looks as though she’s thinking Where are we? What are these cold round shapes? Why do they make me sit on such scratchy stuff or on a hard, icy seat? I do, however, rather enjoy being pulled around on this thing.
Here, D is wedged in on the Radio Flyer between pumpkins and the bulky camera bag we were never without during those early years. We had bought our first video camera in anticipation of our new baby, and, like so many new parents, we filmed our growing child during unremarkable moments. Look! She’s tilting her head! Look! She’s blinking her eyes! She’s lifting her hand! Amazing! Marvelous! No doubt we have extended live footage that documents her discomfort on this outing even more clearly.
The next year, we made sure to choose a warmer day for pumpkin picking. Here is our girl surrounded by pumpkins on another red wagon. Despite the more comfortable temperature, she still doesn’t appear to be very happy. But I’ve never appreciated a photographer’s insistence on BIG SMILES! I remember this day as being a fun-filled one. I’m hoping our baby, despite her conspicuous lack of a big smile, nevertheless enjoyed herself. I resolve to think she did, because in the years to come she would look forward enthusiastically to pumpkin patch visits.
Maybe now she’s really had enough!
A Fall Berry Harvest
I’ve always loved the many varieties of berries that ripen in the fall, adding to the season’s spectacular color. I’m not especially picky–I have a soft spot for weeds and climbing vines some term pesky and invasive, as long as they produce nice berries. Poke, privet, lyriope, elaeagnus–all these were readily available in and around the yard of my childhood home in Atlanta. We had a couple of holly trees, but they were not prolific berry-producers. For fall and Christmas displays, we had to turn elsewhere.
The neat, grape-like clusters of nandina were our stand-in for holly. And when we transformed the concrete wasteland behind our Virginia house into a real backyard with actual plants, I knew I wanted to include nandina, or heavenly bamboo, which spoke so clearly of home. The green, lacy foliage turns red in the fall, just like its fruit. The nandina berries, I can happily say, are ripening now along our fencerow. If the birds don’t eat them all, I’ll have some to bring in for Christmas.
About a week after the above photo, the nandina berries and foliage are brighter still.
I find bittersweet to be a particularly enchanting vine. It didn’t grow in Atlanta, but I vaguely remembered it from my younger days in Kentucky. I rediscovered it in the woodsy surroundings of our first apartment in New Jersey. I brought it in by the armful. Like wild trumpet vine, it’s one of those climbing plants that can take over if left unchecked. Here in Virginia, we typically see bittersweet growing in a pleasant tangle at the edge of the woods. Its berries pass through several different stages, all interesting and attractive. In early summer, the new berries are bright green, surrounded by abundant leaves. Gradually the berries turn yellow, as above. With cooler weather, the hulls pop open to reveal bright orange-red seed globes, segmented rather like tiny beach balls. The pliable, free-form vines are easily wound into wreaths.
Once cut, the bittersweet pods quickly open to reveal their red-orange fruit.
The bright cherry-red berries of fall honeysuckle shine with a silvery glow like bubble-shaped jewels. Each berry is perfect–perfectly red, perfectly round, perfectly sized. I learned the hard way not to bring these inside–they are very juicy and tend to stain tablecloths and rugs.
This Japanese dogwood or Kousa Tree is laden now with its characteristically lumpy, globular fruit, which are edible and said to be tasty, although I’ve never sampled them. For some reason, they strike me as vaguely futuristic, like something we might see on the Jetsons.
During the years before we renovated our backyard, one of our few touches of greenery was an immense pokeweed that sprung up every spring in a small patch of ground beside our old porch. It offered some shade and color, and the birds flocked to its berry clusters. I enjoy the plant’s evolving appearance. At the ends of young stems, tiny, pale pink blossoms appear in early spring. These are transformed first into bright green berries and, in late summer, into plump, dark-purple spheres. The stems also change color, from a lavender pink to a bold magenta. The vigorous heartiness of pokeweed, as well as its amazing rate of growth, make it a force to be respected. Long used in herbal remedies, the plant is being studied as a possible cancer-fighter due to its established antiviral properties. Children should nevertheless be warned that the luscious-looking berries can be toxic to humans.
In late summer and fall, the pink climbing roses on our garage trellis give way to these jumbo rose hips that resemble large gumballs or miniature tomatoes. A Martha Stewart disciple would laboriously harvest them for jam, but we are content to appreciate their autumn color. Kiko occasionally awakens from sleeping in the sun to munch on a rose hip if one happens to have fallen nearby. He seems to find them tastiest when they are rather shriveled and overly ripe.
Glory in the Pumpkin Patch: The Ford Farm in Churchville, NY
After our return from the railroad tracks, the predicted rain was not yet falling, so we walked past broad flat fields to the Ford Farm Market, a showcase of pumpkin glory and diversity. On this beautiful old family farm, Tom Swain, a former middle school science teacher, grows a vast variety of pumpkins and gourds. Signs proclaim the availability of pink pumpkins. Indeed, some are peachy-pink. There are pumpkins in nearly every conceivable earthy hue, including white and many shades of yellow, orange and green. There are also multi-colored varieties, some speckled, some striped, some uniquely patterened. The range of sizes is equally wide, from tiny palm-sized pumpkins to enormous giants, and everything in between. In years past, the largest Ford Farm pumpkins have topped 1,000 pounds. Tom’s wife Sharon is a pumpkin carver of great skill and imagination. Each year she creates a series of gigantic, intricately designed masterpieces. The family’s extensive and charming collection of Halloween decorations is displayed in the barn.
We made no pumpkin purchases because we would soon be flying back to Virginia, although D bought an apple for the walk back. A cold rain was falling steadily by then, but our cheery dose of Ford Farm fall spirit sustained us along the way.
In front of the old farmhouse, more pumpkins, including some of the giant ones Sharon Swain typically carves.
A colorful celebration of roadside vines and wildflowers.
A view of the fields across from the Ford Farm.
Rochester, Down by the Tracks
When I was young, I spent my summer days
Playing on the track.
The sound of the wheels rollin’ on the steel
Took me out, took me back.
Big train, from Memphis.
Big train, from Memphis.
Now it’s gone, gone, gone, gone, gone, gone.
–John Fogerty, Big Train from Memphis
For many of those who grew up hearing the whistle and roar of passing trains in the night, the sounds evoke home, family and childhood. My husband and I each became accustomed to the music of the trains, and we miss it here in Virginia. When we return to Rochester or Atlanta to visit his parents or mine, we savor the familiar, comforting sounds of the train.
H and his childhood friends really did spend their summer days playing on the tracks and beneath the adjacent highway overpasses, at least when they were not deep in the neighborhood woods. The tracks are easily accessible from his sister’s house in Rochester. If we have time, we head over to see what’s new and what’s as it always was. It’s a particular joy for H to explore the area again with his daughter by his side. She appreciates his tales of boyhood adventure as well as the desolate beauty of the landscape along the tracks.
D was delighted to find this sturdy rope well-anchored to the underside of the bridge.
The unruly landscape bordering the tracks gets a beauty treatment of fall colors.
A mingling of the seasons: touches of gold and green among the fallen brown leaves.
D negotiates the tangle of weeds as she emerges from down under and years gone by.