John Singer Sargent Watercolors Dazzle with the Light of a Man at Ease

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John Singer Sargent Watercolors

Boston Museum of Fine Arts

Through January 20, 2014

Corfu Cottage

This review was originally published on the UMass History Department blog.

I know someone who teaches at a private school because it supports his folk music career, a yoga teacher who used to pay the bills through editing, and a landscape painter whose paychecks come from illustration work. As songwriter Charlie King once put it, “Our lives are more than our work/And our work is more than our jobs.” Keep that in mind when you venture to Boston to see John Singer Sargent’s watercolors.

And venture forth you should–there are nearly 100 works he produced between 1902-11 and there’s not a dud in the lot. These images are John Singer Sargent as few of us think of him. Sargent (1856-1925) was renowned as the portrait artist of choice for the Gilded Age elite, and small wonder–few artists of his day matched his eye or technique in oil and few in all of art history had his mastery of painting white on white or black on black. So good was Sargent that our mental images of late 19^th century upper crust Boston are largely conjured from paintings hung upon the walls of the city’s Museum of Fine Arts (MFA).

As sublime as the oils are, the MFA’s watercolor show is a breath of fresh air. Several forces collided that led Sargent away from formal portraiture and freed him to produce the bold gouaches, washes, and watercolors on display. First, as in our time, he who is in fashion one season is bound to be out the next. As Gilded Age society waned at the fin de siècle, so too did demand for Sargent’s services. He was, in short, yesterday’s painter. But a painter he remained–one who mastered the craft of the past and was vitally interested in the new. His oils occasionally showed familiarity with Impressionism, but his watercolors embody his love of the form. With fewer commissions that he had to paint, Sargent produced things that were personally meaningful.

Second, and more importantly, Sargent was as bored with society as it had become with him. He moved easily among American elites, but he was trained in Europe and was, in many ways, more continental than Back Bay Boston. The official story is that he was a bachelor, but he was probably gay. He certainly spent a lot of time abroad and was rumored to let his hair down considerably when outside of Victorian parlors. We see only echoes of Sargent’s audacious side in America–notably his scandalous Madame X  (1889), but most of the offerings in the MFA come from his overseas sojourns: the watery blues of Venice, the stark contrasts of Palestine, the blinding sunlight of Corfu, muscled quarry workers in Italy, the lush mountains of Switzerland….

Portuguese Boats

Call it reverse Madame X in that what he produced in Europe is only occasionally controlled. In a superb video at the end of the exhibition, painter Monika de Vries seeks to reproduce Sargent’s Portuguese Boats and argues that he worked quickly and impressionistically, as if he were a man freeing his hand and his soul. Forget the dignified drawing rooms of his oils; here we see louche gondoliers lounging in their boats, bold Bedouins glaring full-face frontward, carefree males plopped lazily outside a government building, and stone cutters smoking and enjoying their lunch. We get the idea that Sargent was probably more comfortable with this lot than the business class of Beacon Hill.

Above all there is the riot of color. Forget white dresses against a white background. In his watercolors Sargent gives us white laundry drying above a green lawn–except that lawn is splashed with pinks, yellows, browns, blues, purples, and mauves. There is a magnificent sun-dappled whitewashed cottage from Corfu in which the spidery shadows are just about every color except white.

Toward the end of his life Sargent had a last Boston hurrah–the stunning murals painted for the Boston Public Library. These too are better known than his watercolors, but once you see those, you’re likely to conclude that the happiest period of Sargent’s life was the one in which he was out of the public limelight and free to follow his muses rather than his commissions.

Rob Weir

Mist Covered Mountains Showcases New England Celtic Talent

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MIST COVERED MOUNTAINS

This Distant Shore

* * * 1/2 

Mist Covered Mountains is Québecois/Celtic fiddler Donna Hébert; her daughter, vocalist Molly Hébert-Wilson; and peripatetic guitarist/vocalist Max Cohen. Western Massachusetts locals will recall that Molly had an amazing voice when she was a tween; as a mature young woman, there’s added depth, luster, and sparkle. The Distant Shore features a few well-traveled Celtic songs, including “Fear án Bháta” and “The Parting Glance,” each very well done. Especially noteworthy is “Katie Cruel” in which Hébert-Wilson’s voice punches through a muscular arrangement in which Cohen channels Bert Jansch, and Hébert’s fiddle sizzles. Even better is Hébert-Wilson’s gorgeous and sensitive cover of Richard Berman’s “The Gifts.” Cohen takes the lead vocal on three tracks, including the hilarious hidden track “Hamster Heaven.” Make sure you don’t remove the CD until that one plays! Pioneer Valley residents can catch a CD release party at the Montague Community Hall on November 30.

Rob Weir

Magic from the Shetlands by FULLSCEILIDH

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FULLSCEILIDH SPELEMANNSLAG

500 Sessions

Spreefix 002

Fullsceilidh Spelemannslag is a mouthful for an ensemble name, but then again, it’s a pretty big group: seven fiddlers plus four additional musicians. Based in the Shetland Islands, Fullsceilidh features regional tunes, which means a blend of islands, Scottish mainland, and Scandinavian traditions. Think a more robust version of Fiddlers’ Bid, the seven-piece lineup of which Fullsceilidh’s Maurice Henderson is also a member. Unlike Da’ Bid–as Shetlanders like to call it–Fullsceilidh, has in the past, cleaved closer to home, though this release finds them venturing off islands to capture tunes from Liz Carroll, Martin Tourish (Altan), English dance tunes, and even some American old-time fiddle tunes. There are also selections that briefly feature instruments other than the fiddle, but whether it’s a local tune, an import, or a bit of guitar picking, Fullsceilidh renders them according to custom. This generally means giving tunes an orchestral treatment in which the musicians play in synch with each other rather than engaging in layering, harmonizing, or counterpoint. The tunes on the new recording are at once robust and full, yet communal in feel to the sessions playing invoked in the title. Solos are short and serve mainly as bridges back to the whole. There’s nothing simple about any of this, but Fullsceilidh makes everything sound effortless. Don’t worry about the pronunciation; it’s time for the world to discover these folks.   Rob Weir

PS: If you want to try pronouncing it, here is an approximation: Full-scale-é  Spelem-man-slog

And here they are in (considerable) action.

Luch Wainwright Roche: Glorious New Release

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LUCY WAINRIGHT ROCHE

There’s a Last Time for Everything

lucywainwright.com

* * * *

When you’re descended from as much folk royalty as Lucy Wainwright Roche, you’d better be able to deliver. With this, her second full-length CD, Roche obliterates all doubt and firmly stamps her own identity. Her voice is faintly reminiscent of Patti Griffin’s, but Roche is a singer of many moods–an ethereal and dramatic waif singing across the echoes (“The Year Will End Again”), a melancholy piano-backed torch singer (“Look Busy”), a queen of mystery (“Seven Sundays”), and the leader of a sunny folk/pop parade. Two of the latter are duets, “Seek and Hide” with Colin Meloy of The Decemberists, and “A Quiet Line” with Mary Chapin Carpenter. Ten originals and a stunning cover–Roche appropriates Robyn’s heart-thumping club hit “Call Your Girlfriend” and slows it down to create something as sensitive and fragile as a bruised rose petal. Roche brings her triumphant release tour to Northampton’s Parlor Room on November 15.

Rob Weir 

Newpoli Brings Italian Music to Life

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NEWPOLI

Tempo Antico

Beartones

* * * *

What is it Joni Mitchell sang? “You don’t know what you’ve got/till it’s gone.” Translate that into Italian and it could be the official motto for the octet Newpoli. Ten years ago a group of Italians left their homeland for Boston’s Berklee College of Music. A few lineup shifts and a couple of albums later and we get Tempo Antico, the ensemble’s third album. As the handle Newpoli suggests, the ensemble specializes in songs and tunes from Napoli and points south. For those unfamiliar with Italian music, place it in the live-large/live joyously niche occupied by Quebecois, Klezmer, and Cajun music. Italy is a land prone to drama, and you’ll hear that on this record–soaring operatic voices, wild tarantella dance cadences, lyrical canzones…. The 13 tracks on Tempo Antico are often madrigal-like in presentation, as befits material largely drawn from the late Middle Ages and Renaissance. It is not, however, “ancient music” as that term is used in classical music. The musicians of Newpoli might have fancy education and impeccable credentials, but they are also keenly aware of the fact that Neapolitans were/are not known for slavish devotion to decorum, that the tarantella is an up-tempo (6/8 and 18/8) folk dance, and that peasants sang these songs as well as opera singers. Nor are they interested in preserving music in amber–you will hear Arabic and Greek influences in arrangements in which piccolo shares musical space with violins, accordions are as dignified (or not) as flutes, and tambourines give contrabass a run for its percussive money. Best of all, Newpoli made sure the music would unfold with unstuffy freshness by recording it live in an acoustically balanced church (in Swampscott, MA). This is a zesty album of unbridled joy. This reviewer accepts no responsibility for anyone who sheds shoes, suits, and inhibitions while partaking of it.

Rob Weir

Time for the NL to Adopt DH Rule

He made contact, which is more than most pitchers do!

The World Series is over–a feel-good story for Bostonians recovering from last year’s last-place finish under Bobby Valentine and the city’s even deeper anguish after the Marathon bombing in April. St. Louis fans are, of course, disappointed. Winners and losers aside, objectively speaking it wasn’t one of the better Fall Classics–too much sloppy play, a relatively non-competitive Cardinals’ team, and a woeful lack of hitting by either side. The Cardinals actually out-hit the Red Sox, though their just .224 to .211 margin isn’t exactly Paul Bunyan territory.

So let’s talk hitting. With then possible exception of watching Cardinals shortstop Pete Kozma swing the lumber, is there anything more boring that watching pitchers flail away like a 4-year-old T-ball player? Pitchers went a combined 0-15 during the three games in Busch Stadium and it’s not that they were unlucky–they were as clueless as Ted Cruz when confronted by facts. The number one thing MLB could do to enhance its brand is tell the National League to get on board and adopt the Designated Hitter rule.

I can hear the self-styled “purists” screaming about tradition, strategy, and respect for the game. Poppycock! The DH isn’t exactly the flavor of the month–the American League has used it since 1973. Isn’t 40 years of “history” enough to prove that fans like it and that it’s good for the game? MLB attendance went up the first year the DH went into effect, but let’s look at the overall picture. In the 40 years the DH has been in effect total MLB attendance per decade has soared from 329 million in the 1970s to over 808 million in the first decade of the 21^st century. Sure there are other factors: expansion, new ballparks, TV hype… but maybe the purists might wish to consider that the game itself has gotten more exciting. Maybe it’s like the 1996 Nike commercial after all, and most chicks (and guys) dig the long ball way more than they do a 2-1 game.

Hold the true-athletes-can-do-it-all appeals. The truth of the matter is that pitchers never could hit worth a damn. By average the only recent pitchers with plate success are Micah Owens (.316) and Rick Ankiel (.266). The problem is that Owens also happens to be a lousy pitcher and Ankiel long ago converted to being an outfielder–just like the best-hitting pitcher in MLB history, one George Herman “Babe” Ruth (.342). I guess you could argue that Carlos Zombrano (.238) is also a better hitter than Kozma, but the Big Z isn’t putting up enough K’s these days. Nor should you listen to the hype about all those great hitting pitchers from baseball's Golden Age. Bob Gibson? Are you impressed by his .206 lifetime average? Or Don Drysdale’s .186? I remember some of these Golden Age players and I have to tell you that the only thing scarier than a Sandy Koufax fastball was Koufax trying to hit a thrown pitch by someone else. It didn’t need to be fast. Or close to the plate for that matter.

When we get right down to it, none of the evocations of tradition make any sense. The game changes, end of story. Can we really compare Ty Cobb to Willie Mays to Mike Trout? Not really. Not unless we standardize the equipment, the angle of the mound, the size of the ballparks, etc. Ever wonder if Joe DiMaggio would have hit in 56 straight games or if Ted Williams would have averaged .406 in 1941 if fielders of their day wielded today’s gloves? (When I was a kid, the word “glove” was more descriptive than today’s mitts, which look more a jai alai cesta!) Would Bob Feller have pitched as well off a flat mound? Would Mickey Mantle have prolonged his career if he could have been a DH?

That last line is the crux of the matter. Who do you want to see hit, someone like Mantle or the Astros’ Brian Mohler, a pitcher with a .045 lifetime average? As great as he is on the mound, the Dodgers’ Clayton Kershaw is a sissy with a stick at the plate (.078). Does it really make the game more strategic when everyone in the ballpark knows the outcome of a pitcher’s at bat? The NL needs to wise up and adopt the DH. It allows fans to see guys hit who might not otherwise be on the roster. Don’t believe me? In 2002 the Minnesota Twins released a player because a glove on his hand was uglier than a mule with a shaved butt. That’s right, I’m talking about 2013 World Series MVP David Ortiz. Would purists really rather see Clay Buchholtz swing for the fences?