The Burden of Beauty

The Chronicle of Higher Education features a piece on the unique challenges facing beautiful people in academia.

I'll Read What She's Reading

Alas, in our summer busyness of seeking after the perfect salad and attempting to befriend homeless cats, K'barbic and Keastland missed out on a truly golden opportunity: seeking the wisdom of the Biblioracle. When we learned of his existence from this piece at Salon it was already too late, for his page had been closed to comments. According to the page, the way Biblioracle works (or worked when the comments page was open) is that you "simply list the last five books you’ve read. Based on that list, the Biblioracle will tell you what to read next." Seems simple enough to pair your apparent taste in recent reading to a new recommendation. Of course, if you have not enjoyed those five most recent books, there may be a problem. I suppose, regardless of Biblioracle, we will still find an ample supply of books on food history and Greek mythology to satisfy our tastes here at TBATC.

Also, in the spirit of our never-ending literary quest, we would gladly welcome the return of the Penguincubator, a treasure indeed.

Watchwords We've Been Avoiding

There are many journeys for people to take these days. Life is a journey after all. Even the word journey itself has journeyed a bit, veering off path from the traditional travel sense of the word to take on more spiritual and emotional meanings. Vague, yet profound, use of the word has journeyers sounding like they are reciting a proverb from a fortune cookie: "Life is about the journey you take to get there." Confusing, yes, but unraveling the meaning is part of your journey, depending on the path you choose.

I reached the end of my journey in tolerating the term this summer. I found myself following a reality TV star's journey as chronicled by a major network. Although the viewing experience is part of my personal life's journey I would gladly take back, I comfort myself with the reminder that there is no real wasted time in the self-discovery land of reality TV. At every plot turn, dramatic voice-over, or emotional interview, contestants would discuss the progress and importance of their journey. Each week, as I would listen to vague descriptions of these all-important journeys, I couldn't help but wish that the "stars" would start referring to themselves as "journeyers" or better yet work in the verb form of journey to their dialogue. Something akin to: "It means so much to see how far we have journeyed." Still vague, yes, but shifting from nouns to verbs can demonstrate growth on one's linguistic journey.

Referring to "life growth" as a journey is technically an acceptable use, but the word is not so powerful that it can withstand the exhaustion of overuse. At summer's (near) end, journey is looking run-down. Tattered and worse for wear, journey belongs to another side now, the side where it's harder to put things into words.

So, let us move on to other words and consider synonyms for getting from here to there. Journey is, after all, not the only travel word in the dictionary. In our travels, we can relish the variety of verbs at our disposal: pilgrimage, voyage, trek, etc. At TBATC, many sights and sounds have fascinated us as we have traversed our summer paths, yet we have managed to avoid the bland possibilities that the journey affords--even journeying out of our way, when need be, to avoid them.

What We've Been Missing

The summer is mostly a blank here at TBATC (as the sad gap in our postings indicates); thus Keastland and K'barbic, in an effort to restore good faith with our loyal TBATC readers, shall spend the month of August endeavoring to catch up--lest you were beginning to despair that we had abandoned our corner, or worse that we were expecting our followers to re-read the favored words of David Foster Wallace indefinitely. We look forward to sharing some of our favorite summer stories with you in our special recurring feature this month: "Things We Didn't Blog About." So join us here at our corner as we look back at all the quirky and whimsical items we've missed.

No Apostrophe Left Behind

Just when I thought we had heard the last of TEAL, I find the grammar vigilantes' new book was released this week. Actually I had not given much thought to the former "Typo Eradication Advancement League" since reading about their exploits the summer of 2008. The League made news after going a little too far with their grammar zeal by defacing a historic national park sign at the Grand Canyon. TEAL disappeared from the public for the year that followed their misadventure, but now they are back and, according to their website, planning another "adventure." Far be it from TBATC to stand against proper grammar and its adamant supporters, but we will miss the entertainment that comes from quirky and ironic misspellings if TEAL fully accomplishes their goal.

The Online Word-Hoard of David Foster Wallace

The Harry Ransom Center at the University of Texas-Austin has listed all the words David Foster Wallace circled—apparently, he did not underline—in his American Heritage Dictionary. Slate published the long list yesterday. Since I have not read a lick by DFW, I won't comment on his writing—nor will I make fun of him for wearing bandanas (look to the left) or having hipsterish author photos taken of him in the middle of cornfields.

But back to the list. While I was thrilled that the first word he circled is an alliterative grammatical term—ablative absolute—I was surprised to see that he circled words as basic as "bisque" and "citronella" and "sateen." (That he, a man not fluent in women's shoe speak, circled "espadrille" is not so odd.) His list has some great words, such as "coxcomb"—a fop or dandy; and "lucubrate"—literally, to study by lamplight. Fun fact: Lucubrare, the Latin verb from which "lucubrate" derives, was Cicero's favorite verb.

And how can one forget the splendid word for the small scraps we leave after a meal, our "orts"? The next time my dogs beg and stomp their tiny feet for food from my plate, I'll say, "Be patient, animals, and you shall have a portion of these orts."

Not So High Tea

Since fashion houses sell us not just style but "lifestyle," it makes sense that even one's tea can now be designer.

As reported at the Editor's Blog at W, Prada sent packages of tea based on its two new scents—Infusion de Tuberose and Infusion de Vetiver—to various beauty editors. The tea boxes are nearly identical to the perfume boxes, and the tea itself is not looseleaf. It is in a bag the size and shape of a ketchup packet (note image to the left). I found this most strange. Should not designer tea be beautiful and exciting and clever? And shouldn't it be looseleaf? What saddened me most is that the folks at W put the tea in ... paper cups. But perhaps they realized this tea was not special enough to put in a porcelain cup.

I do not think the tea can be purchased by the masses/myself, at least for now. The French designer and "perfume icon" Lolita Lempicka, however, has crafted a few teas, which can be purchased at Cambria Cove, at 25 sachets for $68. You might as well buy a tea by Mariage Frères, the oldest tea company in France whose impeccable leaves are far better in quality and cost and come in a lasting, truly iconic container.)

In the meantime, I think I'll order these excellent German tea people. There's nothing like having Angela Merkel, Putin, and Obama—or Humphrey Bogart!—in your cuppa.

Here Comes Peter Cottontail

And all his family and friends.

It's a Boo Bou

Caribou has a new design, and a live-out-loud cup to go along with it. As Caribou Coffee seeks to "leap" toward the future with their new design, they illustrate the common trend in coffeehouse culture to sell more than just coffee.

Perhaps I'm too traditional in approaching my coffee, but I already miss the old Caribou. There was something whimsical about a coffee shop not only named after a large mammal but unafraid to stamp the leaping mascot all over their packaging, but now our old northern friend looks more like a cross between a coffee bean and an Olympic logo.

To top off the new transition, the new coffee cups "talk" as well. The design is cliche cluttered. With advice like "pour yourself a cup of karma" and "plant lots of trees." Caribou is right about one thing, however: "life is short." So we shouldn't have to waste it reading our coffee cups.

The good news is Caribou still makes a good cup of coffee, and if you adopt one their cliches, you can close your eyes, "savor every sip" and pretend that nothing has changed.

Super-Size My Eucharist

Food is fleeting, so it's no wonder that here at TBATC we have not thought to ask, "What were portion sizes in Western Europe like 1,000 years ago?"

Maybe it's not a silver-dollar question, but two creative sibling scientists, Brian and Craig Wansink, did ask it, and they came up with an answer by looking at 52 paintings of the most documented meal in history, the Last Supper. Their report is just in time for Passover and Easter. With the help of computers, they compared the size of the food dishes—entrées of eel, fish, pork, and lamb—and the size of the plates those items were on with the head sizes of Jesus and the apostles. Human head size, it is fair to say, has not changed for thousands of years.

The Wansinks' report was published this Tuesday in the International Journal of Obesity, whose apt logo is of an ever-widening oval. The size of the plates, they found, increased by 66%. The size of the plates grew in tandem with the size of the entrees, which also bloomed to 66%. But the size of the loaves increased only by 23%. (Michelle Obama, crusading against obesity while tilling her vegetable garden in designer sneakers, is yet to comment.)

I humbly suggest the next question for the Wansinks to explore: Should an artist looking to shed a few pounds buy himself smaller plates? For, if the artists of the 52 Last Supper paintings put smaller portions on smaller plates and larger portions on larger plates, wouldn't they do the same in life? After all, proportion and beauty must be maintained, and a plate's decorations must be on display. All this, for an artist, it could be sensibly argued, is part of enjoying the meal.

Double Feature!

Good news, readers: a TBATC first!

In this week's issue of The Weekly Standard, K'Barbic and I each have an article published. K'Barbic dismantles the grande illusion of Starbucks, and I review Seamus Heaney's latest book, The Testament of Cresseid and Seven Fables.

We hope you enjoy them!

He Who Would Have Friends

Groundbreaking new research seems to indicate that happy people like to talk and be around other people. Conclusion: happy people "are social and conversationally deep, rather than solitary and superficial." This is particularly shocking since people who keep to themselves sulking in dark corners, avoiding contact and meaningful conversation, give the appearance of real joy.

To the introverted reader out there, do not start panicking and questioning your inner happiness just yet: this research does not declare you unhappy. The happiness correlation was to substantive conversations, not just any idle chitchat; therefore, it is possible to talk "less" and still be happy. But if you do choose to talk less, make your conversation count.

... and just in case you haven't had a meaningful conversation yet today, here's something else to make you smile.

Read Before Eating

Perhaps, if Alice had had the help of a kind regulatory agency when she was in Wonderland, she would have known the recommended serving and effects of the "Drink Me" elixir. Without the Wonderland FDA's help, however, poor Alice is left to experimentation and its dramatic results.

Does healthy eating begin with active label reading? The FDA thinks so. After all, we can't have foolish customers picking up an ice cream dessert at their local grocery store all the time believing that ice cream is low in fat and therefore good for them. On the other hand, our government wouldn't want us believing a healthy product (like POM Wonderful, as the WSJ report notes) is too good to be true.

Since I was eating my microwaveable lunch while reading the FDA's latest concerns, I turned to the label on my soup. This particular soup is one that claims to be a healthier option, so its packaging was happy to share its many benefits. I found ample explanation of the vegetable content in my soup. Lest I be deceived into thinking that 3/4 of a cup of vegetables is all that I'll need for the day (although it's likely all I'll consume today), I am reminded by the soup company that my lunch only has 30% of the FDA's recommended serving of vegetables (which by the way, no need to do the math since the soup company already did, is 2 and 1/2 cups). The fat content of this veggie-rich lunch? One and a half grams per serving. But wait. This little cup of soup has not one but "about" two servings, so if I indulge and consume all 14 ounces, then I'll be taking in a grand total of about 3 grams (that math I did without the healthy soup company's help).

Of course. this is not my first time reading a food label. I am an avid reader of the labels on my food, partly out of food consciousness and partly out of curiosity. I appreciate the basic nutritional information provided which helps me avoid excessive amounts of fat, sodium, sugar, etc. Additional asterisks and tiny exception clauses placed on packaging to placate the FDA, however, have yet to change my eating or reading habits. Despite clear nutritional labels, there must be a point of consumer commonsense and awareness. Otherwise, consume at your own risk.

Now That's Classy

Hosting a classy dinner and ashamed to bring out the Tabasco because it lacks elegance? Well, your problems are now solved thanks to the "gift of the day" at the Law Gallery: a hand crafted Tabasco holder. Here at TBATC we're waiting until they start selling the complete Classy Condiment set before we invest our hard-earned cash on this work of art. We also might be persuaded if there were optional engravings of pastoral scenes.

A Movie in the Corner: 'The Edge of the World'

Slowly, I've been making my way through the films of Michael Powell & Emeric Pressburger, aka The Archers. They are probably most famous for The Red Shoes (1948), which I watched years ago without knowing who the Archers were and sought out simply because I'd seen this beautiful clip, at 00:19, of a Moira Shearer's feet racing down blue spiral stairs. (P.S. New Yorkers, make sure to catch a screening of The Red Shoes at Film Forum starting February 19!)

I'd recommend several of their others—especially A Matter of Life and Death (AMOLAD), The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, A Canterbury Tale, and the fantastically titled I Know Where I'm Going! (IKWIG), but tonight I watched Powell's first major film, made before he paired up with Pressburger: The Edge of the World (1937). This one features hands-down the best sheep ever on film. Sheep running, sheep being shorn, a lost sheep being hoisted up a Scottish cliff away from the breakers—and even sheeps' wool being knitted into bonny sweaters. There are lambs, too. Of course.

But the movie, in truth, isn't about sheep. If you don't take my word for, watch this TCM clip of Thelma Schoonmaker talking about her late husband Michael Powell's movie, from its genesis in a news item to its filming on the remote island of Foula.

There's also a great joke about long sermons (i.e. those exceeding an hour) and another about John Knox (which is not said tongue-in-cheek!). Also, it's kind of terrific to see leading lady Ruth look down a crag to the distant water below, pine for her departed lover, and wish to jump—much like, to my surprise, Bella Swan in New Moon, except Ruth is in black and white, composed, and her emotions are expressed in far simpler, but stranger and more memorable and more natural, special effects. And, there are no glittering, wan-faced vampires!

Franz Kafka, Occasional Belletrist

Quick, now. I say Franz Kafka, and the first thing you think of is probably ... a cockroach—and one with a funny name like Gregor. But for a little while perish the thought of creepy, if sensitive, crawlers and consider this: that, as today's Writer's Almanac points out in its first installment of love letters to welcome Valentine's Day, Kafka "wrote a great many love letters—many of the anguished, helpless variety—to a Berlin woman [Felice Bauer] to whom he was engaged for five years. Their relationship was carried out almost entirely by letters." (He was engaged to Ms. Bauer twice, and separated from her twice.)

A few of the rosier stretches in his missives are featured in the WA link above. But there are also more familiar Kafka-esque stretches to recall, such as this:

The life that awaits you is not that of the happy couples you see strolling along before you in Westerland ... no lighthearted chatter arm in arm, but a monastic life at the side of a man who is peevish, miserable, silent, discontented, and sickly; a man who, and this will seem to you akin to madness, is chained to invisible literature by invisible chains and screams when approached because, so he claims, someone is touching those chains.

In his mind, too, Felice has become wrapped up in his writing:

Lately I have found to my amazement how intimately you have now become associated with my writing, although until recently I believe that the only time I did not think about you at all was while I was writing.

At the same time Felice was to him the suggestion of a life he might lead beyond work, of a life inching toward something like normalcy—"happy couples" and "their light-hearted chatter" and so on. But as a NYT review of a 1988 reissue of Kafka's love letters, which you can purchase here, remarked,

[Kafka] returned to the solitude he felt so necessary for his work. He apparently believed Yeats's dictum that ''the intellect of man is forced to choose/ Perfection of the life, or of the work'' and in the end, he embraced the latter.

While we are on the subject of letters, make sure to buy a copy of Yours Ever: People and Their Letters, the latest scrumptious book from the pen of journo-turned-novelist Thomas Mallon.

Happy Birthday, Dubliner: James Joyce (and 'Ulysses') are another year older

Yes, that is Marilyn Monroe reading Ulysses. And no, she is not going to sing "Happy Birthday, Mr. Novelist" in a smoky voice on that playground. She's going to sit there and read her meandering book quietly, and we are going to pause to admire her book playing the part of "edifying accessory." The type on that tome—blue and red—nicely complements her tank top of brightly colored stripes. Formidable, Ms. Monroe.

But enough of celebrities reading. On to Joyce. On this day in 1922, at age 40—he considered his birthday a lucky day—Joyce published Ulysses, which he pronounced "Oolissays." (He also considered blue and white to be most auspicious hues. Furthermore, they're in line with the Greek theme he started in naming his book after Homer's wily and sea-buffeted king, whom he first encountered as a schoolboy by way of Charles Lamb's adaptation of the Odyssey.)

At the Barnes & Noble website—home to sound book reviews, short and long, and its Daybook—I learned the genesis of the repeated, breathless use of that already breathy word "yes" in the "famous 45-page, 8-sentence Molly Bloom monologue" that ends Ulysses. Apparently, Joyce had simply heard a friend, an American named Lillian Wallace, saying "yes" repeatedly in conversation. Seven months later, when Ulysses was published, she was in attendance at a special dinner Joyce held to celebrate the birth of his book into print. (And at this dinner he unveiled a copy of Ulysses, with blue covers and white type, a rare copy, as the first run of the novel was quite small.)

Should you crave to read a tad more about Joyce and his quirks, which were legion, even by writers' standards, check out today's Writer's Almanac. A sample here:

Joyce was afraid of thunder and lightning—during electrical storms, he would hide under bedcovers—and he was also afraid of dogs, and walked around town with rocks in his pockets in case he encountered any roaming mutts. He didn't care for the arts other than music and literature, and he especially had no patience for art like painting. Over his desk he kept a photograph of a statue of Penelope (from Greek mythology, the wife of Odysseus/Ulysses) and a photograph of a man from Trieste, whom Joyce wouldn't name but said was the model for Leopold Bloom. On his desk he had a tiny bronze statue of a woman lying back in a chair with a cat draped over her shoulders. All of his friends told him it was ugly, but he kept it on his desk anyway. One of his Parisian friends remarked, "He had not taste, only genius."

Although Joyce might have had scant appreciation for the visual arts, Henri Matisse later illustrated Ulysses with 26 images, which don't illustrate the book proper, but rather key moments from the Odyssey that have been abstracted into faceless, struggling forms. The titles of the six etchings, for instance, include "Calypso," "Cyclops," "Nausicaa," "Circe," and "Ithaca." For starters, here's his take of drunken Polyphemos losing his eye.

SarcMark, Take 2

Now that we are able to access the SarcMark homepage, oh what joys there are to be found...

A Well-Marked Wit

Wit has truth in it; wisecracking is simply calisthenics with words.
--Dorothy Parker

A new punctuation mark is being offered to the world. While I am a firm believer in the purpose and power of punctuation, I greet this news with a shrug. The SarcMark, which was "temporarily" unavailable at the time of this post, seeks to save the world from misunderstanding, much like applause and laugh signs saved the live sitcom and game show from silence.

The SarcMark, which closely resembles a curly fry, is intended to be used at the end of a sarcastic statement in text, IM, email, etc. Thus, you can let your reader know that you were not, of course, being serious but snarky. Now if your reader never appreciates sarcasm even when there is a large signal to commemorate its passing, then you are without luck.

In my non-sarcastic opinion, ironic wit is weakened when you add an elaborate punctuation mark: like a punctuated wink. There is a satisfaction in a successfully conveyed witty remark, and conceding your joke by giving your audience the nudge to "get it" lessens the triumph of irony. Granted having your sarcastic comment met with confusion-induced silence can be socially awkward, yet even in those awkward scenes there is a humor that can be appreciated.

If, however, your sarcasm places you in more socially awkward situations than your sense of humor can tolerate, or if fear of causing offense has kept you from exercising verbal "calisthenics," then the SarcMark should be a welcome sign to you. For the low low price of $1.99, you too can be as ironic as you desire without the worry of confusing or offending your less sarcastically-inclined friends. If only they'd throw in a comma and bonus exclamation point, I might just be sold.

Eighty Candles for Derek Walcott

Today marks the 80th birthday of the Caribbean poet, playwright, and sometimes watercolorist Derek Walcott. To celebrate his work and years, I'll post a small poem-gift for you this weekend. (And yes, this is from a man who is, as you might have heard during last year's hullabaloo over the Oxford professorship of poetry, not only a man of verse but quite the fanny-pincher.)

The poem below is the first in Midsummer (1984), a copy of which I purchased in the basement of a tiny English-language bookshop in Athens three years ago. As you will notice from the opening line, this is a fine poem to take with you when traveling. Sometimes you can arrange the timing of the poem and of the plane just so, and read the last lines as the rubber wheels meet the landing strip. Without further ado, the promised poem:

The jet bores like a silverfish through volumes of cloud—

clouds that will keep no record of where we have passed,

nor the sea's mirror, nor the coral busy with its own

culture; they aren't doors of dissolving stone,

but pages in a damp culture that come aprt.

So a hole in their parchment opens, and suddenly, in a vast

dereliction of sunlight, there's that island known

to the traveller Trollope, and the fellow traveller Froude

for making nothing. Not even a people. The jet's shadow

ripples over green jungles as steadily as a minnow

through seaweed. Our sunlight is shared by Rome

and your white paper, Joseph. Here, as everywhere else,

it is the same age. In cities, in settlements of mud,

light has never had epochs. Near the rusty harbor

around Port of Spain bright suburbs fade into words—

Maraval, Diego Martin—the highways long as regrets,

and steeples so tiny you couldn't hear the bells,

not the sharp exclamations of whitewashed minarets

from green villages. The lowering window resounds

over pages of earth, the canefields set in stanzas.

Skimming over an ocher swamp like a fast cloud of egrets

are nouns that find their branches as simply as birds.

It comes too fast—this shelving sense of home—

canes rushing the wing, a fence; a world that still stands as

the trundling tires keep shaking and shaking the heart.

Rainy Days and Mondays

Can you really put a number on a bad day? According to a study cited at the Mental Floss blog, yes, you can. We are all to be congratulated on surviving the "most depressing day of the year": last Monday, January 18. If Monday, really was not that bad on your depression scale, you can always look at the formula yourself and make your own calculations. Who knows, maybe your worst day is yet to come.

Picture Book: André Kertész's 'On Reading'

Tonight I've picked up my small white edition of André Kertész's sparsely titled On Reading, first published, lushly, in 1971 and reprinted, not so lushly, in 2008. With photographs as beautiful and intimate as his, it seems only proper to share a few of them with you in our corner.

Perhaps you are already familiar with his work, such as this one of a perfectly poised fork or this one, of a patch of street at the Eiffel Tower's feet; either way, his is a pleasant ouevre to view and view again. I have also enjoyed his pictures of bodies distorted in mirrors, such as this one from 1933, Distortion, making limbs look like statuesque taffy or Henri Moore sculptures or, at times, black-and-white snip-its of Dali paintings. As is the case with ruins, there is an unexpected comfort in seeing the human form warped, disfigured—and still harmonious. In fact, of the Parthenon, Moore wrote the following upon his visit to it in 1951: "In fact I would say that the Parthenon now is probably much more impressive than when it was first made. You feel the spaces much more, and the openings, and the fact that it’s not solid throughout and that the light comes in, makes it into a piece of sculpture and not, as it was before, a building with four external sides. It’s completely spatial now—a different object altogether.” Can you imagine a more hopeful way of considering things in ruin? His sentences make one think the Parthenon's time spent as a temple, cathedral, mosque, and then as an ammunition storehouse was not in vain.

But back to the book. It's exclusively of people of all sorts—gondoliers at rest, girls dressed backstage as fairies, boys dressed as men in overcoats, sunbathers, Trappist monks, Japanese metro-riders—found reading. The pictures were taken between 1915 and 1970 in several locales, among them his native Hungary, Paris, and New York. Reading was one of his lifelong subjects, perhaps in part because his father was a bookseller. Collected here are 23 of these pictures.

One of the curious things I noticed this time going through the book is that at no point am I encouraged to wonder which books are being read. The photographs aren't about the books themselves but about reading. When looking at his pictures, you seem to already know the book being read because the photograph echoes the sensation of reading, when you forget the book because you are so caught up in its sentences—or, in the case of a picture, its forms.

Yet it is natural to be inquisitive about books, to be on the metro ride home and peer over to see what Mr. So-and-so is turned to today. I think Kertész, if he means to say this, is correct: that we should take care to relish and appreciate our neightbor's quiet act of reading (which we would not want to disturb, whether with a too curious hello or nosy sidelong glance). In each frame, the book, and the person holding it, forms a sort of island; and the book seems an extension of the body.

With the advent of Kindle and other such reading devices, perhaps it will be easier to look at the act of reading itself as Kertész did instead of the book—or e-book—and, perhaps, to be less of a Book Snob. For in the world of Kindle, there is only one cover, Amazon's, cloaking every book in plain white plastic.

Tome Clothes

I suppose it is best to have an Augustinian stance about book design and say that at any point in the history of tomes there always have been ugly ones and beautiful ones. I would rather not wail about the loss of a "golden age" of publishing, or think we are progressing toward such a "golden age." It is more level-headed to suppose that gold was, is, and will be mixed in with lesser metals. And yet I keep finding the books made in the pre-Photoshop days to be more charming and attractive than most of today's.

I see a good number of books, partly because I work in a magazine's books & arts section, but also because I have a few prodigiously read friends who tell me about scrumptious tomes that I should, as the angel said to Augustine, "take up and read," and which I probably would not have found without their faithful counsel. The books they recommend tend to be the loveliest ones. Today, the latest—The Spanish Journey by Julius Meier-Grafe (1926)—arrived: a British racing green cloth-bound copy with a wee lion roaring on its hind legs on the center of the front cover.

But another book came today, too. And it is, I am afraid to say, a particularly unlovely tome. It parrots the color-block prints of Warhol, but in miniature and with more black that Warhol liked to use. At least this sort of ugliness stems from laziness and is not (I think) the product of careful planning from the folks at Continuum press.

But what is most discomfiting about this book is that its contents are first rate! This is the book! It is a Roger Scruton reader! Scruton's face has been Warholified 16 times and this means that his intellectual gaze is staring me down 16 times! Perhaps this is a joke? Either way, I am simultaneously intimidated by his gaze and appalled by the design. I think it is time to take off the dust jacket and take comfort in the oatmeal-colored boards.

For those yet unfamiliar with Scruton, you might want to consider taking a look at his new book I Drink Therefore I Am and this article, published in last week's Times Literary Supplement. The article is reviewing this book. Here's a teaser:

For Linzey, followers of foxhounds are “animal abusers”, comparable to those who torture cats and dogs for their amusement and who – according to research that he cites without question – are predisposed to become violent criminals when they turn their attention to their fellow humans. I conclude from this that Linzey may be a humane observer of animals, but he is no charitable observer of people. Maybe he cannot bring himself to attend a meet of foxhounds; but he could at least have consulted the literature, from Plato and Xenophon to Turgenev, Sassoon, Masefield and Ortega y Gasset, devoted to the place of hunting in a virtuous life.

Can you tell he enjoys a good hunt?

All Lined Up for Spring

In the midst of January and all its dreariness, I find myself longing for brighter seasons. Spring is an easy season to love with its warmer days and vibrant colors, and spring 2010's fashion season is bringing yet another reason to smile; a classic favorite is back in full force. In WSJ's On Style, Christina Binkley recently wrote about the return of nautical stripes, which sent me to both reminiscing classic Hollywood fashion of days past and looking ahead to my favorite spring catalogs.

Stripes, worn in moderation, provide a simple way to achieve the ever-popular Audrey Hepburn look. She was, of course, not the only star to rock stripes, but she is, for good reason, the one we quickly reference when seeking a "classic," stylish look.

So other than attempting to look like Audrey, what is the appeal of the nautical stripe? It's certainly a style you must be careful to wear correctly since stripes tend to accentuate. In spite of their potential for fashion hazard, stripes are a worthy addition for spring. Bright and crisp, they set things evenly and in order. And even if you have never been on a yacht, they can make you feel as though you would be quite comfortable there.

Spring's abundance of stripes will allow you to dress them up for work or brunch, like this new arrival from BCBG Max Azria. Or you can go with the casual and more affordable classic tee look to pair with jeans or shorts. If you're self conscious about stripes on your figure, try accenting your look with a striped accessory such as a scarf, or if you're really feeling bold, we love these rain boots from Urban Outfitters.

To Catch a Princess

A new biography of Grace Kelly is out; but, as Anthony Lane notes in this week's New Yorker, when it comes to capturing Her Serene Highness's mystery and manners, all that we can be sure of, in the end, is the cup of tea.

The image below is of Hepburn and Kelly backstage at the 28th Annual Academy Awards on March 21, 1956. Don't they look like twin lillies?

Strokes Writ Small: Remembering Nicholas Hilliard

These days the art of miniature thrives especially in the realm of technology, where cell phones, music players, and computers get increasingly smaller, faster, and (we hope) better. Granted, this is a pretty loose way to think about the “art of miniature”—even when there are exhibitions devoted solely to art made on the iPhone’s paint applications. One show, opening tomorrow, is unsubtly named “iPhone, Therefore I Am.”

That these small gadgets are the products of smaller, myriad connections and bits reminds me of the various other miniatures, including those in art history, such as illuminated letters (from where “miniature” gets its name) and even painted miniature portraits, such as this one by the most famous of English miniaturists, or limnists, Nicholas Hilliard. While yesterday was for welcoming the Nexus One Google phone into the pantheon of tiny technological wonders, today we might remember Hilliard, who died on this day in 1619 after an illustrious career as the goldsmith, limnist, and occasional full-size portraitist of Elizabeth I and James I. He described his craft in The Art of Limning as gentlemanly and civil, and as “a thing apart …which excelleth all other painting.”

Of course, in the pre-Photoshop age, people’s images were still doctored to make them look lovelier. Good Queen Bess, for instance, insisted that when Hilliard rendered her face he should make it shadowless and therefore perpetually youthful like this or this; her countenance would be all pale light instead, with her eyes and lips standing out severely. And around her face he would place various rich, intricate details: the iconic fox-red hair, ruff, long pearls, and mutton-shaped sleeves. It's a delight to behold so much fine work in so small a space.

You can read more about the man and his work here and here, at the website of the Victoria and Albert Museum, which in 1910 acquired what is arguably his best known miniature, “Young Man among Roses" (pictured left), perhaps a portrait of Robert Deveraux, second Earl of Essex. And just three years ago the same museum re-opened its extensive British miniatures collection, which had been in storage.

The art of miniature portrait painting faded with the advent of photography in the 1850s, but today we can summon up a photograph of a Hilliard painting on a Blackberry or iPhone or any other smart phone and see it, the old miniature, glittering in the pixels of the new (albeit mass-produced) miniature. Who would have guessed?