I saw my first opera of the season on Tuesday, New York City Opera’s revival of Mark Morris’ production of Rameau’s Plat
TT: Almanac
“It is a terrible thing for a man to find out suddenly that all his life he has been speaking nothing but the truth.”
Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest
TT: And one to grow on
I just finished my P.G. Wodehouse review, signed off on my Washington Post column, and read proof on my Johnny Mercer essay and A.J. Liebling review. One more piece to go and I’m out of the barrel and ready to head for Chicago. OGIC has been sending me hourly messages describing all the cool stuff we’re going to do when I get there. Needless to say, one or both of us will tell you all about it as it happens.
I may write some postings tonight, or I might get a head start on tomorrow’s piece. In addition, I’m reliably informed that Our Girl is on the verge of reappearing. At any rate, you’ll be hearing more from us shortly, or at worst mediumly.
TT: Manifesto in a nutshell
You will find in the flap copy for my new Balanchine book this sentence:
He blogs about the arts at www.terryteachout.com.
I wonder if that’s a dust-jacket first? It is for me, anyway: I locked up the flap copy for A Terry Teachout Reader too soon to mention “About Last Night.” At any rate, I think being a blogger is something to brag about (I also mention it on my business card). In for a penny….
TT: Almanac
Lights are bright,
Pianos making music all the night,
And they pour champagne
Just like it was rain.
It’s a sight to see,
But I wonder what became of me.
Crowds go by,
That merry-making laughter in their eye,
And the laughter’s fine,
But I wonder what became of mine.
Life’s sweet as honey,
And yet it’s funny,
I get a feeling that I can’t analyze.
It’s like, well, maybe
Like when a baby
Sees a bubble burst before its eyes.
Oh, I’ve had my fling,
I’ve been around and seen most ev’rything,
But I can’t be gay
For along the way
Something went astray,
And I can’t explain,
It’s the same champagne,
It’s a sight to see,
But I wonder what became of me.
Johnny Mercer, “I Wonder What Became of Me”
TT: Let ’em eat acrylics
From the New York Daily News, by way of our invaluable host, artsjournal.com:
Mayor Bloomberg had little sympathy yesterday for New Yorkers who find the new $20 admission to the Museum of Modern Art a bit steep.
“Some things people can afford, some things people can’t,” said Bloomberg, whose estimated personal fortune is $4.9 billion.
“MoMA is a private institution. It’s not a city institution. And they have a right to set their own pricing policies.”
Over the past five years, the city funneled $65 million in taxpayer money to help fund MoMA’s expansion.
Despite the taxpayers’ contribution, Bloomberg – who was in last week’s Forbes 400 list of richest Americans – said the city should not be involved in “pressuring” private groups about fees. Besides, he said, there are plenty to choose from. “If you can’t afford [admissions] at any one, you can go to another one,” he said.
Ed Skyler, Bloomberg’s press secretary, later offered a tamer response. “MoMA is a great institution, and it would be incredibly disappointing if this increase prevented people from enjoying it,” he said.
MoMA will reopen Nov. 20. The price of an adult ticket, which was $12, will now be $20. Ruth Kaplan, a spokeswoman for MoMA, noted that admission is free from 4 p.m. to 8 p.m. Fridays.
MoMA’s price hike, and its potential effects on the culture of museumgoing in America, will be discussed endlessly in the art world in the weeks and months to come, and rightly so. But I think we can all agree on one thing: Mayor Bloomberg just earned himself a swift kick in the crotch for his personal contribution to the ongoing debate. (Not in the head–that wouldn’t hurt him one bit.)
P.S. From the Floor has a thoughtful discussion of what the MoMA price hike might mean over the long haul. It’s definitely worth a look.
TT: Report from mid-air
I’m still hacking away at those pre-Chicago deadlines (two down, three to go), but I’m also out and about. On Saturday I saw Paula Vogel’s The Oldest Profession, about which I’ll be writing in this Friday’s Wall Street Journal. Last night Supermaud and I finally caught up with Bright Young Things, Stephen Fry’s screen version of Evelyn Waugh’s Vile Bodies, which filled me full of half-formed notions I don’t have time to think through just yet (though I will, I will–be patient). Tonight I’ll be at New York City Opera for the opening of the company’s revival of Mark Morris’ wonderful staging of Rameau’s Plat
TT: Sinking in
I’ve had the whole weekend to get used to looking at All in the Dances: A Brief Life of George Balanchine. I’m still not used to it yet.
When you first get your hands on a copy of your newest book, the initial rush of excitement quickly gives way to anxiety. Is everything right? Strange and inexplicable things can go wrong with a book between the time you sign off on the second-pass proofs and the time it rolls off the presses. It’s been said that the very first thing an author invariably sees when he opens his latest book is a typographical error. In my case, this has yet to happen, but something did go wrong with the first printing of The Skeptic: A Life of H.L. Mencken, a comparatively small production glitch that nobody noticed but the managing editor and me, and though it was insignificant, it took me an hour or so to get over the shock. So I flipped quickly through All in the Dances to see if anything similar had happened, and once I established that the first printing was gremlin-free, I relaxed and reveled.
I’ve shown All in the Dances to everyone I’ve seen since it arrived via messenger last Friday afternoon, and their reactions have been identical to mine. It’s a beautiful piece of work, perfectly designed, invitingly small and slender, with dust-jacket photos that make you want to sit down, open it up, and start reading at once. Alas, I haven’t been able to oblige anybody yet, but Harcourt assures me that a box of author copies is headed my way.
Which reminds me: I dedicated All in the Dances to the thirty people I’ve taken to see their first Balanchine ballets in the seventeen years since I saw my first Balanchine ballet. One of them, Nancy LaMott, whom I took to A Midsummer Night’s Dream not long after we met, is no longer with us, but the others (including Our Girl in Chicago, who is making her second appearance to date on the dedication page of one of my books) are all alive, well, and in for a little surprise come November 1. Alas, it’s a double-edged surprise, for they’re going to have to buy their own copies. I know that’s kind of crass, but there’s nothing I can do about it: I only get twenty free copies, and I can’t very well give them away to some dedicatees and not others! I’m hoping that the thrill of seeing their names on the dedication page will make up for having to purchase a copy (which the proud author will happily sign, of course). And yes, I live in fear that I inadvertently left somebody out….
I should mention that Harcourt is already starting to arrange promotional appearances for All in the Dances. If you live in or near New York City, pencil me in for November 16, when I’ll be speaking at the Barnes & Noble on Union Square at 7:30 (the address is 33 E. 17th St.). I’m appearing jointly with Bob Gottlieb, whose Balanchine book
comes out the same week as mine, and Robert Greskovic, dance critic of The Wall Street Journal, will serve as moderator-interlocutor-referee. Do come–I think it’ll be fun.
Now I really have to get down to work. I wrote a 4,000-word essay for Commentary about Johnny Mercer over the weekend, and I have four more pieces due between now and Friday morning, when I fly to Chicago to visit Our Girl and see three plays and an opera. Blogging is likely to be sporadic as a result, though I don’t plan to vanish altogether–there’s too much stuff on my mind.
For the moment, though, I must attend to my drama column for this Friday’s Journal, so I’ll see you all later.