Hand-Dyed Yarn

Natural Colors

Blog Categories/Tags
1/2 & 1/2
120
17.4 Cochineal
36
3rd Party Certification
60
77 Dream Songs
A la recherche
A la recherche du temps perdu
Adam Gopnik
Albert King
Ansel Adams
Antibiotics
Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
Antonius Cetosus. Lions
Art
Art Criticism
Art Knowledge News
Ass's Shadow
Audible
baa
Balzac
Barthes
Basic Lamb Recipes
Baudelaire
Beauty
Becall
Beethoven Op. 130
Big Food
Big Yarn
Biking
Bill of Rights
Bittman
Black
Black & Blue
Blanket
Blue
Bolano
Botticelli
Botton
Breeding
Breeding Stock
Buddha
Bullamalita
Butler
Cage
Capital in the Twenty-First Century
Capitalism
carnivores
Carter
Catskill Merino Hat
Cecil Beaton
Cesare Pavese
Cezanne
Charles James
Christianity
Chunky Yarn
CIA
Cicero
Cineman
Citric Dyes
Clara Parkes
Cleanth Brooks
Cochineal
Coco Chanel
Colette
Colorant
Comments
Complementary Protein
Constable
Contre Sainte-Beuve
Cooking Lamb
Corn
Corriedale
Coup de Grace
Cous Cous
Coyotes
Criticism
David Foster Wallace
DaVinci
Delanceyplace
Deworming
Dialogue
Dick and Dee Dee
Discount Code
Dogs
Dominion?
Dominique
doxa
Drugs
Duck
Ducks
Dye
Dyeing
Dyeing Black
Early Lambs 2014
Eartag 36
Eating Policy
Edward Hopper
Electric Fence
Elkins
Emerson
Emma
Employment
End of Poverty
Ewe 159
Ewes
Exercise
Experimental Dyeing
Facebook
Factory Farm
FAMACHA
Famous Knitters
Farm Help
Farm Stand
Farming
FDR
Fecals
Festival
Fiction
Fish
Flaubert
Florence Fabricant
Fluxus
Flystrike
Food
Food Deserts
Food Flock
Food Politics
Food Swamps
Foodie
Forecast
Forest Fire
Frances Middendorf
Francesco Mastalia
Franck
Frank O'Hara
Fred Kaplan
Garlic
Garlic 2013-14
Garlic Cultivation
Garlic Scapes
Gary Lutz
Genesis Deflowered
George Eliot
Georgia O'Keeffe
Gertrude Stein
Gift Certificates
Gilbert-Rolfe
Goncourt Brothers
Goodreads
Gordon Lightfoot
Grazing
Grazing 2009
Great Expectations
Green Mountain Spinnery
Green turn
Greener Shades
Greenmarket
Greenmarket; Union Square
Guggenheim
Gustave Flaubert
GWB
Hahn
Hamlet
Hand Dyeing
Hand Dyeing Workshop
Hang Tag
Hang Tags
Hannah
Hats
Hats for Haiti
Hay Feeding
Headcheese
Heather
Heather Yarn
Heatwave
Hecate
Heine
Help Wanted
Hemingway
Henry James
Herbicide
Hickey
High Noon
Home
Homer
Honore Balzac
Ida
Improv
Indigo
Ink
Intelligence
Interns
Irene
Irony
Jack
James
James Joyce
James Wood

All Categories
Blog Entries by Date

News and Blog

Posted 4/18/2011 10:42pm by Eugene Wyatt.

Reading Carter's biography of Proust, I came upon this  mention  of  Saint-Saëns's Opus 75 and accessed it on iTunes as both the narrator and Swann go on expansively about "the little phrase" which finds it source here.

Despite "passionate" admiration for Saint-Saëns's work, Proust thought less highly of the composer's accomplishments than did his former pupil (the composer) Reynaldo (Hahn).  But the haunting melody of one section of the first movement of Saint-Saëns's Sonata I for Piano and Violin, Opus 75, captivated him. Marcel never tired of hearing it and asked Reynaldo (his lover) to play it for him again and again, referring to it as “the little phrase."  In the Search… Swann asks Odette (his lover) to play it  for him again and again, "the little phrase," now attributed to Proust's fictional composer Vinteuil.

Marcel Proust, A Life William C. Carter 2000

The Saint-Saëns sonata, is it in a minor key—it feels like it—I'm not sure, but after listening to it, Swann in love I'm not, and of that I'm sure. I did download piano music by Reynaldo Hahn, not being familiar with his work, to give it a listen.

But before we go, here is an excerpt of Proust speaking of the language of music  as Swann listens to the Vinteuil sonata containing the little phrase performed at the home of the Marquise de Saint-Euverte's.

At first the piano complained alone, like a bird deserted by its mate; the violin heard and answered it, as from a neighboring tree. It was as at the beginning of the world, as if there were as yet only the two of them on the earth, or rather in this world closed to all the rest, so fashioned by the logic of its creator that in it there should never be any but themselves: the world of this sonata. Was it a bird, was it the soul, as yet not fully formed, of the little phrase, was it a fairy—that being invisibly lamenting, whose plaint the piano heard and tenderly repeated? Its cries were so sudden that the violinist must snatch up his bow and race to catch them as they came. Marvelous bird! The violinist seemed to wish to charm, to tame, to capture it. Already it had passed into his soul, already the little phrase which it evoked shook like a medium's the body of the violinist, "possessed" indeed. Swann knew that the phrase was going to speak to him once again. And his personality was now so divided that the strain of waiting for the imminent moment when he would find himself face to face with it again shook him with one of those sobs which a beautiful line of poetry or a sad piece of news will wring from us, not when we are alone, but when we impart them to friends in whom we see ourselves reflected like a third person whose probable emotion affects them too. It reappeared, but this time to remain poised in the air, and to sport there for a moment only, as though immobile, and shortly to expire. And so Swann lost nothing of the precious time for which it lingered. It was still there, like an iridescent bubble that floats for a while unbroken. As a rainbow whose brightness is fading seems to subside, then soars again and, before it is extinguished, shines forth with greater splendor than it has ever shown; so to the two colours which the little phrase had hitherto allowed to appear it added others now, chords shot with every hue in the prism, and made them sing.

Swann's Way Volume I, 495ff; In Search of Lost Time by Marcel Proust, translated by Moncrief and Kilmartin, revised by Enright. The Modern Library Edition.

Posted 4/17/2011 11:11pm by Eugene Wyatt.

My reply to email  from a customer who had been waiting for more Musik garlic and to his comment about my blog entry concerning paying for digital access to the New York Times.

We did not plant any Musik this year as there was a nematode, as described by Cornell University's Diseases of Garlic Factsheet, that invaded much of the seed garlic in the Northeastern United States & Canada; the only clean seed (free of all diseases including the nematode) we could find to plant within a reasonably priced shipping distance was a German White porcelain (like a Musik) and a Ukranian Red rocambole.  The nematode problem was so pervasive that the Saugerties Garlic Festival prohibited wholesale sales last September and the SGF is a major market for seed garlic in the NE; this was the 1st sales prohibition in the 17 years of the festival's existence.

As far as the New York Times is concerned, it is not an either/or situation as you describe: the Times will cease to exist as we know it and readers paying for it will not make up for revenues lost in advertising.  As you know, there is a redefinition of  news media going on brought on by the Internet: no longer is media a one-to-many activity (
NYT > public, as in a traditional print newspaper), it is a many-to-many activity (public > public, like The Huffington Post and other blogging websites).  This redefinition will only accelerate leaving the Gray Lady sick and getting sicker. 

But the Times will be free again (I've read estimates of  within 10 months) as it attempts to recapture readership lost by charging for digital subscriptions; but the death throes will howl on longer than if the Times, that venerable broadsheet, were a publicly managed company, rather than being family managed as it is now, because blood (tradition) is thicker and stickier and blinder than red or black ink.

Other than that, what are you reading in French?

Eugene

Posted 4/17/2011 7:36pm by Eugene Wyatt.

This morning's reading:

"Adjectival styles often succeed in nonfiction descriptions of first­hand experience. A cellist calls on adjectives…to answer the question, "How do the members of a string quartet play together and tour together year in and year out, without killing each other?" Below, the adjectives are italicized...

Conversely, there is a danger that individual criticisms can become destructively hurtful and bitter. If they are voiced too harshly and personally, no one ends up in a fit state to play. After all, the deep feelings conjured up when we play great music already make us feel vulnerable. In addition, nearly all playing requires maximum self-confidence and complete physi­cal ease and relaxation, even (or especially) in music of great intensity and ardour, or that is rapturous or celebratory

David Waterman, "Four's a Crowd"

From Artful Sentences: Syntax as Style Virginia Tufte 2006

Posted 4/17/2011 9:14am by Eugene Wyatt.
Eugene Wyatt
The old Mark Bittman as we still love him: How to Carve Leg of Lamb in Three Cuts -

The good with the bad: Now we have to pay for the New York Times online: $0.99 + tax for a week for the first 4 weeks, then $8.75 + tax a week thereafter...and I wonder why Judith Miller & Jayson Blair come to mind?  I suppose that as they got around the news (by falsifying it) while on the NYT's payroll, I'd like to get around paying the cost of a digital subscription (by fair means, not foul) as a reader.

The good again: Bittman says that a properly done leg of lamb will have both rare and well-done portions to please all your guests.

Posted 4/8/2011 1:45pm by Eugene Wyatt.

Even when it's not raining upstate one must wear a coat outdoors for all but a few hours in the early afternoon—it's still that chilly and  it feels colder when wet. This is the time of year of mud.  The  Spring rain makes a boot sucking mud of the recently thawed soil,

April is the cruellest month, breeding    
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing    
Memory and desire, stirring    
Dull roots with spring rain.

The Wasteland T. S. Eliot, 1922

It was Saturday. New Yorkers do not know mud; the city is paved and there are cement sidewalks to stroll upon. Before driving to Manhattan, I put on my Blundstones and looked down to see semi-dried mud caked on them. It was 5:30 AM, it was too late to wash my boots: my feet would be wet during the cold morning hours.  Instead I would take the farm with me to the city on the soles of my boots.  I was going there to sell, to see and not to be seen, I told myself.

And I should do something other than hang out  at the stand in Union Square as I usually do.  I have competent sales help at market; they really don't need me there.  Maybe I should take in a Chelsea gallery or two, see an exposition at one of the uptown museums or even go to a downtown movie, one that will never play upstate...I brought The New Yorker along to see with what kind of city idyll "Goings On About Town" could tempt me. 

Posted 4/7/2011 8:56pm by Eugene Wyatt.

If one had to read but a sampling of À la Recherche du temps perdu it would be Noms De Pays: Le Nom, the last section of volume I, Du côté de chez Swann.  The tone is lovely; the account is self contained and it has a wistful yet mature view of time past and has no need of the madelaine gimmickry that Proust uses to conjure 'involuntary memory'.

Tags: Proust
Posted 4/4/2011 9:10am by Eugene Wyatt.

Robert de Montesquiou, the aesthete who was the model for Proust's Baron de Charlus (perhaps the most intriguing and certainly the most  amusing character of the 2000 personages, real or fictional, in À la recherche du temps perdu), had his first love affair

"with a female ventriloquist who, while Montesquiou was straining to achieve his climax, would imitate the drunken voice of a pimp, threatening the aristocratic client."

Pages from the Goncourt Journals, (1851-1896) the Goncourt Brothers, Edmund & Jules, translator Robert Baldick, 2006.

Posted 3/31/2011 3:03pm by Eugene Wyatt.

Colette has given us a portrait of Marcel that is all but forgotten, yet which is shocking in its disdain:

“At ‘mother Barmann's’ [that is to say Mme Arman] I was hounded, politely, by a pretty, young literary-minded boy. The young fellow had fine eyes, with a hint of blepharism...He compared me—my short hair again!—to Myrtocleia, to a young Hermes, to a love of Prud'hon's...My little flatterer, thrilled by his own evocations, never left me...He contemplated me with his caressing eyes, with their long eyelashes...”

Colette did not much care for

“his over-weaning politeness, the excessive attention he paid to those he was talking to,”

she once again described

"the large, brownish, melancholy eyes, a skin that was sometimes pink and sometimes pale, an anxious look in the eyes, a mouth which, when it shut, was pursed tightly as if for a kiss...”

Marcel Proust, A Life by Jean-Yves Tadié, 1996 p. 211.

Posted 3/30/2011 7:50pm by Eugene Wyatt.

Sarah of Hawthorne Valley, a biodynamic farm in the Union Sq. Greenmarket and our neighbor there on Saturday, had a baby that she and father Ben (Hawthorne Valley too) call Hannah;  Sarah knit the hats pictured here from our wool, and a Catskill Merino sheepskin helps keep them warm.

Hannah and Sarah

Tags: Hannah