Tuesday, September 30, 2025
Art,
Art,
By Herman Melville
In placid hours well-pleased we dream
Of many a brave unbodied scheme.
But form to lend, pulsed life create,
What unlike things must meet and mate:
A flame to melt—a wind to freeze;
Sad patience—joyous energies;
Humility—yet pride and scorn;
Instinct and study; love and hate;
Audacity—reverence. These must mate,
And fuse with Jacob’s mystic heart,
To wrestle with the angel—Art.
About the Poem
Herman Melville’s short but powerful poem Art distills into a few compact lines the contradictory forces at the heart of creation. It opens with a scene of calm:
“In placid hours well-pleased we dream
Of many a brave unbodied scheme.”
Here, Melville acknowledges what many of us know too well—ideas come easily in quiet moments. Our minds are full of “unbodied schemes,” bold plans and visions that exist only in imagination. But dreaming alone is not art. The difficulty lies in giving those dreams form, in pulling them out of the ether and shaping them into something tangible.
Melville describes this process as a marriage of opposites:
“A flame to melt—a wind to freeze;Sad patience—joyous energies;
Humility—yet pride and scorn;
Instinct and study; love and hate;
Audacity—reverence.”
Each pair of opposites illustrates the tension of creation. Art requires both the fire of inspiration and the cooling restraint of discipline. It requires patience to endure long labor, and bursts of joy to keep the work alive. An artist must balance humility before the task with pride in their own vision, instinct with study, raw emotion with critical judgment.
These contradictions are not obstacles—they are the materials. To create something of value, the artist must bring them together, “fuse with Jacob’s mystic heart, / To wrestle with the angel—Art.”
That final biblical allusion is striking. In Genesis, Jacob wrestles through the night with an angel, demanding a blessing and emerging wounded but transformed. Melville suggests that to make art is a similar struggle: a contest with forces larger than oneself, leaving the artist changed, exhausted, and blessed with creation.
For Melville—better known for his sprawling novels like Moby-Dick—this poem is a confession of the artist’s burden. Creation is not a smooth act but a wrestling match, a fusion of contradictions, a labor of both agony and ecstasy.
I find this poem resonates deeply with the creative process in any form—whether writing, painting, composing, or even living an honest life. We all carry “brave unbodied schemes,” but only by engaging in the struggle, by wrestling with the angel, do we bring them into the world.
About the Poet
Herman Melville (1819–1891) is best remembered today as the author of Moby-Dick (1851), one of the towering works of American literature. Yet his career was far from smooth. His early sea novels brought him popularity, but his later, more ambitious works—Moby-Dick included—were commercial failures in his lifetime. Melville turned to poetry in his later years, publishing several volumes, including Battle-Pieces and Aspects of the War (1866) and Timoleon (1891). His poetry often reveals the same themes as his prose: the struggle of humanity against vast forces, whether nature, fate, or, as in this poem, the act of creation itself.
Monday, September 29, 2025
Turning the Page on September
It’s Monday again—the start of another week. Hard to believe we’re already at the end of September and about to turn the calendar over to October. Here in Vermont, the seasons are shifting quickly, but with the drought this year, the leaves have already reached their peak. Before long, the trees will be bare, and autumn will give way to the starkness of early winter.
Today will be a busy one for me. I have tours scheduled through much of the day, including one I’ll be giving for some visiting family from Alabama. Later on, I’ll also be leading a special tour for a class, which should be a nice change of pace. Beyond that, it looks like a fairly regular week ahead—but of course, saying that and it actually being so are two very different things. Life has a way of throwing in surprises just when we least expect them.
As the last days of September slip away, I’m reminded of how quickly the seasons turn. One moment the trees are aflame with color, and the next, their branches are bare against the sky. Time seems to move the same way—quietly, steadily, and all too fast. Here’s to making the most of these fleeting days as we step into October. I’ll do my best to take this week as it comes, and I hope each of you has a good week ahead as well.
Sunday, September 28, 2025
Train Up a Child
“Train up the a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it.”
— Proverbs 22:6
When I look back on my upbringing, I can see how deeply this verse shaped me. My parents raised me to be good, moral, and honest. They taught me to love my neighbor and to respect those who deserved respect. They weren’t always strong on Galatians 3:28—“There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.” They believed, as many of us are taught, that we were somehow better than others. Yet they never taught me hate. On my own, I came to embrace Galatians 3:28 fully, and in doing so I saw how God’s love is meant to break down every wall we build between ourselves.
They did, however, instill in me the message of 1 Corinthians 13:13: “And now these three remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love.” That teaching runs like a thread through my life and faith.
It saddens me now to see them support political leaders who represent the opposite of everything they once taught me. I have told them this many times, but it only makes them angry. Since I came out, they have become increasingly conservative, moving further away from the love and compassion they once instilled in me.
Yet in the paradox of that pain, I have found myself drawn deeper into faith. I cling to Psalm 143:10: “Teach me to do your will, for you are my God; may your good Spirit lead me on level ground.” When those I love seem to turn against what they once believed, I turn back to God, asking Him to steady my steps and to keep me walking in love. And I remember Colossians 1:28: “He is the one we proclaim, admonishing and teaching everyone with all wisdom, so that we may present everyone fully mature in Christ.”
The Bible clearly teaches us equality, but it also reminds us that equality in Christ does not mean we won’t be separated on Judgment Day. In Matthew 25:31–46, sometimes called the Parable of the Sheep and the Goats or “The Son of Man Will Judge the Nations,” Jesus tells us that when He returns, He will divide the righteous from the unrighteous—those who lived out His commands from those who did not. Just before this, in the Parable of the Talents (Matthew 25:14–30), the master praises the faithful servants who used what they were given wisely, saying, “Well done, good and faithful servant.” That is what I hope to hear on Judgment Day.
Matthew 25:31–46 shows us what a righteous nation looks like: one that feeds the hungry, welcomes the stranger, clothes the naked, cares for the sick, and visits the imprisoned. It also shows us what a wicked nation looks like: one that ignores the needs of the most vulnerable. Tragically, the United States today more closely resembles the wicked nation than the righteous one. Jesus’s words in Matthew 25:40 are a clear warning: “And the King will answer and say to them, ‘Assuredly, I say to you, inasmuch as you did it to one of the least of these My brethren, you did it to Me.’”
My parents raised me to value honesty, respect, and love, and though they may have drifted from those lessons, I still hold to them. Scripture affirms that love is the greatest calling, that equality is God’s design, and that true righteousness is measured by how we treat “the least of these.” Nations and people alike will be judged by this standard. I choose to live the faith I was taught at its best, praying that my life reflects Christ’s command to love, so that in the end I might hear, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”
Saturday, September 27, 2025
Friday, September 26, 2025
Timeless Fragments: The Male Torso in Art
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| One of the few times you’ll see pictures of women on my blog, but I felt it was appropriate to use this ad from Equinox Gym in which the nun on the right is drawing the model’s torso. |
You can go on Etsy.com and search “male torso” and you’ll come up with hundreds, if not thousands, of works of the male torso. Sculptures, paintings, photographs, and even decorative candles in the shape of a chest all testify to the enduring fascination with this particular part of the human form. The torso has long been a central subject in art because it distills the human body to its essence: strength, sensuality, vulnerability, and ideal proportion. Artists across time and cultures have used the male torso not only to study anatomy but also to express ideals of beauty, divinity, and desire.
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| Red Jasper Torso |
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| Male Torso from Mora, Mathura |
One of the oldest surviving examples is the Red Jasper Torso from Harappa, an Indus Valley civilization sculpture dating back over 4,000 years. Despite its small size, it displays a careful attention to musculature and balance. A similar focus on proportion appears in the Male torso from Mora, Mathura (2nd century CE), which reflects the Indian tradition of combining sensual form with spiritual resonance. Even in antiquity, the torso stood as a shorthand for the power and beauty of the whole body.
From Study to Modernism
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| Male Torso (Mercury?) |
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| Roman Marble Male Torso |
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| Fragmentary statue of Diomedes from the Great Baths of Aquileia, National Archaeological Museum of Aquileia |
The Classical Legacy
The Greco-Roman world perfected the torso as an independent art object. A striking example is the Male torso (Mercury?) in the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, or the Roman Marble Male Torso (1st century BCE–1st century CE) once auctioned at Christie’s. Both works emphasize muscular structure and the heroic stance, capturing divine strength in a fragment. Most famous of all is the Belvedere Torso (Vatican Museums), a mutilated but monumental fragment that became a touchstone for Renaissance artists. Michelangelo studied it obsessively, and its twisting form influenced the dynamic poses of his Sistine Chapel figures.
Other classical examples show how the torso could embody narrative as well as anatomy. The Statue of Meleager (Harvard Art Museums) presents the hunter hero in a poised yet relaxed stance, the carefully modeled chest and abdomen conveying both strength and elegance. The Fragmentary statue of Diomedes from the Great Baths of Aquileia (National Archaeological Museum of Aquileia) reduces the heroic figure to its torso, yet the carving retains a sense of vitality and forward motion, reminding viewers of the power and drama embodied in the classical male form.
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| Studies of a Male Torso and Left Leg |
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| Academic Study of a Male Torso |
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| Male Torso by Constantin Brancusi |
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| Male Torso by Fernando Botero |
Renaissance and Neoclassical artists often drew the torso as a central exercise in mastering anatomy. Michelangelo’s Studies of a Male Torso and Left Leg (1519–21, Teylers Museum) demonstrate his fascination with musculature and motion, while Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres’s Academic Study of a Male Torso (1801, National Museum, Warsaw) shows the continuation of this tradition into the academies of Europe. By the 20th century, Constantin Brancusi abstracted the form into pure shape in his Male Torso (1917, Cleveland Museum of Art), reducing muscles and bones to flowing simplicity. Later, Fernando Botero reimagined the body on monumental, exaggerated terms with his Male Torso statue in Buenos Aires—rotund, playful, and commanding.
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| Male Abs by Mark Ashkennazi |
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| Fire Island Pines, Polaroids:1975-1983 |
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| Derrick Cross by Robert Maplethorpe (National Galleries Scotland) |
Torso in Photography
With the advent of photography, the torso remained central to the visual exploration of masculinity. Mark Ashkenazi’s Male Abs turns the torso into an icon of modern fitness culture, a sleek and stylized emblem of desire. In contrast, Tom Bianchi’s Fire Island Pines, Polaroids: 1975–1983 (published 2013) presents torsos in intimate, personal settings. One image in particular, where Bianchi himself appears on the right, captures not just form but community, sensuality, and queer joy. Robert Mapplethorpe’s photograph of Derrick Cross isolates the male torso with sculptural precision, transforming flesh and muscle into a study of form, texture, and shadow that blurs the line between portrait and classical sculpture.
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| The Shirt by James Casey Lane |
What makes the male torso so timeless? Perhaps it is because the torso is both part and whole. As a fragment, it invites us to imagine what is missing; as a complete subject, it embodies strength, beauty, and vulnerability in one. Sculptors, painters, draftsmen, and photographers alike have returned to it again and again, finding in the lines of shoulders, the arch of ribs, and the rhythm of abdominal muscles a visual poetry that speaks across centuries. Contemporary works such as James Casey Lane’s The Shirt continue this dialogue, blending classical form with modern gesture to remind us that the torso is as much about movement and emotion as it is about anatomy.
From Harappa to Fire Island, the male torso remains an enduring symbol of the human form and its many meanings—divine, erotic, heroic, and profoundly human.
Thursday, September 25, 2025
A Quiet Day (Hopefully 🙏🏻)
I had planned an art history post for today, but honestly, I just haven’t been up to writing it. I’m working from home today, so maybe I’ll have some time to pull it together later. For now, though, I don’t have a lot to say.
Yesterday was rough—not only was I very busy at work, but my back gave me trouble all day. One of the issues with the bulging disk between my L4 and L5 is that it presses on the sciatic nerve on both sides, which is why I’ve had pain in my left leg for the past few weeks. Yesterday, however, it was my left leg and the lower left of my back that gave me the most grief. Add a migraine on top of that, and I was pretty miserable. It took me forever to fall asleep last night.
At least Isabella was kind enough to let me sleep until 5 a.m. Speaking of sleep, here’s one of my favorite photos of her napping—for the Isabella Pic of the Week.
Even when the pain flares up and the days feel long, I’m grateful for the little comforts: working from home, a quiet morning, and the steady presence of Isabella. Sometimes those small mercies make all the difference.
Wednesday, September 24, 2025
Poème du 24 septembre (Poem of September 24)
Here is a bonus poem for the week. It was today's Poem-a-Day from Poets.org.
Poem of September 24
By Samira Negrouche
translated from the French by the author
Who crosses into you when you cross
Who crosses when you don’t cross
Who doesn’t cross when you cross
Who crosses when you can’t cross
Who doesn’t cross when you don’t cross
Who doesn’t want to cross
Who thinks they’re crossing
Who doesn’t look at you while crossing
Who might take the time to look at you.
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Poème du 24 septembre
Qui traverse en toi quand tu traverses
Qui traverse quand tu ne traverses pas
Qui ne traverse pas quand tu traverses
Qui traverse quand tu ne peux pas traverser
Qui ne traverse pas quand tu ne traverses pas
Qui ne veut pas traverser
Qui croit traverser
Qui ne te regarde pas en traversant
Qui prendra peut-être le temps de te regarder.
About This Poem
“Written with eight other [poems], forming nine poems of nine lines, this poem is part of a public installation called Signs/Promises. It can be read as a geopolitical statement or as an intimate whisper to yourself or to someone else. It is an invitation to question and envision all the layers of displacement that are required to be able to cross a border—real or symbolic—to meet another. It reminds us how fragile the understanding of another reality can be and why we should keep remembering it, especially when we think we are aware.”—Samira Negrouche
About the Poet
Samira Negrouche is a writer, poet, and translator whose work has been translated into more than twenty languages. She is the author of several collections of poetry, including Pente Raide [Steep Slope] (Actes Sud, 2025), cowritten with Marin Fouqué. Negrouche’s book Le Jazz de oliviers [The Olive Trees’ Jazz] (Pleiades Press, 2020), translated by Marilyn Hacker, was short-listed for the 2021 National Translation Award, as well as the Derek Walcott Prize that same year. A translator from Arabic and English to French, as well as a medical doctor, Negrouche lives in Algiers.
Lows, Highs, and Hope
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My progress isn’t this good, but one can dream. |
I saw my doctor yesterday for my annual physical. I know I’ve said this before, but he’s the first doctor I’ve ever felt completely comfortable with—and one I actually look forward to seeing. For the most part, all is well. My weight loss continues to progress, my blood pressure has improved enough that he lowered my medication, and my A1C (the test that measures average glucose levels over the past 90 days) came in at 4.3. That’s not bad for a non-diabetic, though he’d prefer mine be closer to 4.7. He also suggested I contact the sleep clinic because I may no longer need my CPAP. When I was in the hospital back in the spring and couldn’t wear a mask, I didn’t snore and my oxygen levels never dropped below 90%.
I’d talk about where I was versus where I am now, but I’ll admit I’m embarrassed about how bad things once were. The truth is, I was very depressed during those first few years after moving to Vermont. Just six weeks after arriving here, a close friend who had always encouraged me died suddenly, and it felt like my whole world collapsed. I was 1,200 miles (or more) away from everyone I’d ever known. I missed my family. I missed the food I’d grown up with. I’d broken up with the only boyfriend I’d ever had because I couldn’t face a long-distance relationship. My health worsened as I turned to food for comfort. Susan helped me through those years, but there were still nights I cried myself to sleep.
Over time, though, I began to find my footing. I eventually made some wonderful friends in Vermont, and I leaned on the recipes my mama and grandmama had taught me, cooking the foods I’d grown up with—sometimes with a healthier twist. Little by little, life started to feel more like home again.
My doctor was one of the first people in Vermont to really help me turn things around. He diagnosed me as diabetic and worked with me until I became a diet-controlled diabetic who no longer needed medication. He kept at me until I finally gave in and went to the sleep clinic to deal with my sleep apnea. He worked with me on my depression, adjusted my diabetic medications until we found one that helped me lose weight, and sent me to the headache clinic at Dartmouth where I finally got relief from the migraines that had controlled my life for so long. They haven’t gone away, but they’re nowhere near as intense as they once were.
It’s been a ten-year journey, and I still have health issues to manage—my liver, my back, my migraines—but my overall health is so much better than it used to be. I owe that progress to the patience, persistence, and genuine care of my doctor. Sometimes, that care goes far beyond prescriptions or test results. They might even cry with you when you break down in their office because your mother has been diagnosed with dementia. My doctor’s mother was facing a similar decline, and in that moment, he truly understood the pain and worry I was carrying.
Through the lows and the highs, what I’ve found most of all is hope—hope that healing is possible, hope that progress continues, and hope that life can feel good again when you have the right care beside you.
Tuesday, September 23, 2025
Nothing Gold Can Stay
Nothing Gold Can Stay
by Robert Frost
Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
About the Poem
Robert Frost is one of those poets who can take just eight short lines and capture the weight of beauty, loss, and the passing of time. “Nothing Gold Can Stay” is deceptively simple—something you might read once and think you’ve understood—but the more you sit with it, the more layers it reveals.
At its heart, the poem reminds us that nothing beautiful lasts forever. The first flush of spring, the gold of new leaves, the brilliance of dawn—all are fleeting. Frost connects this natural cycle to the story of Eden, suggesting that even the purest moments of perfection can’t be held onto. Time moves forward, and everything inevitably changes.
I think this poem resonates so strongly because we’ve all had moments we wish we could freeze. Whether it’s the joy of youth, the fire of first love, or even a golden autumn day in Vermont, those moments are precious precisely because they’re fleeting. Frost doesn’t just mourn that loss—he honors it. By recognizing impermanence, we’re reminded to hold on a little tighter, to notice the beauty while it’s here.
It’s no wonder that this poem has found its way into popular culture too—most famously in S. E. Hinton’s The Outsiders, where it becomes a message about innocence and holding on to what makes us shine before the world tries to wear it away.
For me, “Nothing Gold Can Stay” isn’t just about nature, or even about youth. It’s about the reminder that life itself is made of fleeting golden moments. We can’t keep them, but we can cherish them, and maybe that’s enough.
About the Poet
Robert Frost (1874–1963) is often remembered as one of America’s quintessential poets, though he spent nearly a decade in England before his work was first published. He returned to the U.S. just as his career was beginning to take off, and over the course of his life he became one of the most widely read and beloved poets of the 20th century.
Frost’s poetry is rooted in the landscapes and rhythms of rural New England. He wrote in plainspoken language, but beneath the simplicity lies a deep philosophical and emotional complexity. His poems often explore the tension between humanity and nature, the fleetingness of beauty, and the choices that shape our lives.
He won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry four times, more than any other poet, and in 1961 he read at President John F. Kennedy’s inauguration. Despite his public persona as the homespun New England sage, Frost’s poetry frequently wrestles with darkness, loss, and impermanence—making “Nothing Gold Can Stay” a perfect example of his gift for distilling profound truth into the smallest of spaces.
For those of us in Vermont, Frost feels like a neighbor as well as a poet. He spent the last decades of his life here, teaching at Middlebury’s Bread Loaf School of English and writing in the Green Mountains he loved so well. He is buried in Bennington, Vermont, not far from where visitors can still walk the landscapes that inspired so much of his verse.
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