Diego Rivera's Dream of a Sunday Afternoon in Alameda Park

Diego Rivera, 1886- 1957:

Photographs of Moments I Wish I had Witnessed, pt. 1

These are from Retronaut:

This is a picture of a man dressed as a fly.

Evidently the Hippo was very docile and enjoyed towing the cart. 

I've always had a weakness for women who could make a letter "S" with their bodies.
This is "LaSylphe".

Courtesy LA Chamber of Congress, of course.

The Shorpy Collection: Movie Theaters of Washington, DC

These pictures made me think that maybe, one foggy night, driving home from some gig, I could take a wrong turn and there I'd be... ah, well... you know the rest.

Thanks to Shorpy. What a website!

Covarrubias

Covarrubias by Nicholas Muray

José Miguel Covarrubias Duclaud (22 November 1904- 4 February 1957) , aka Covarrubias: master of the disturbing art of caricature.

In 1924, at the age of 19, Miguel Covarrubias came to this country on a grant from the Mexican government. He immediately found favor with luminaries such as Carl Van Vechten and began his career as chief caricaturist for Vanity Fair, at the time just beginning to print color in the magazine. From there he expanded to The New Yorker and ultimately Vogue Magazine.

His caricatures were a combination of impeccable technique, whether in charcoal, pen and ink, or oils combined with a scathing take on the subject. His work was an enormous influence on the great Al Hirschfeld and changed the landscape of caricature forever.

 Covarrubias also designed sets for operas, painted "serious" canvasses, wrote and illustrated books, and authored a serious text on the island of Bali, where he and his wife, Rosa Rolando maintained a residence. He was also an important scholar of Olmec art and Balinese art.

Rosa and Miguel

However, it will be his remarkable caricatures that we will ultimately remember, a reminder that the art and practice of satire needs to be revived, probably now as much as ever before.

From Vanity Fair's series of impossible interviews: Haile Selassie and Joe Lewis, 1935. Covarrubias was fascinated by African- American culture, but as prominent a leader as W. E. B. DuBois hated his work.

This painting of Emily Post, which seemed to deliberately demean everything she stood for- good taste, manners, decorum- turned out to be a favorite of the subject.
She wrote a note to Vanity Fair thanking them for all the publicity.

Gumbo

Mark Carrington's Latest Gumbo

I love gumbo. Especially the Cajun kind prevalent in New Orleans. The best gumbo I've had so far was in New Orleans, at Commander's Palace. The second best was from a Korean lunch counter on N. Carrolton.

My friend Mark decided around six months ago to learn how to make gumbo. So far, I've attended two gumbo sessions at his house, and can attest that the second was an improvement (not a vast improvement, but an improvement still) on the first. I think the difference is the roux.

The roux. Of course, that's always the thing in gumbo. Making gumbo, at least in New Orleans, is a huge point of pride. Family recipes are guarded tightly, memorized and never written down, passed along maternal lines, etc. The most popular is the kind with sausage and shrimp, my personal favorite. But anything will do. It's a gumbo- a mixture of ingredients, the great metaphor of race and culture in life. And all good gumbo starts with a roux.

The first gumbo Mark made used the oven method to cook his roux. I saw this originally on the Food Network. Alton Brown used this as his foolproof, go- to, never fail, works great every time method. In short, you bake the oil and flour for around two hours.

And I have to say it was one smooth roux. But hey- two, maybe two and a half hours? No matter, though- the gumbo was just fine.

The next time, however, was near perfection. This time he used butter and flour and tended his stove very closely. After twenty or so minutes he was preciding over a fine sauce, into which he began ladling broth.

About an hour later we were eating Mark's Andouille sausage gumbo. No shrimp this time, but no matter- a gumbo to make a man proud. I ate three helpings.

Today I watched Chef John Besh make his signature gumbo, a combination of a family recipe with that of an early mentor d' cuisine. Chef Besh use cooking oil for his roux. And let it get a deep brown. He made it look easy, which it is, I guess. To him.

Two Christmas's ago I was in New Orleans (see: Xmas in a Primitive Land) and all the bartenders and little dive managers were making gumbo on hot plates in the back of the venue. "Taste this" they'd say. "What do you think?"

It all tasted great to me, and I told them so. What could I add to someone's great aunt's maid's recipe?

I hate the prevalence of the term "bucket list", but that's the boomer generation for you. Those of us who grew up in the era the Dymo labeller feel compelled to use it on everything. But I sure would like to master a good pot of gumbo before me+ death= no more gumbo.

And, by good, I mean, like "Hey, Bret's having gumbo tonight! Drop everything, gang!" type of good.

Of course, to do that, I'd have to actually do it. Hmmm... there's an idea.

Esquerita!!

What else is there to say?

Woody Sounding Clarinet

Is it just me, or does Woody Allen suck on clarinet?

I was watching a biography of him on TV last night and they showed him playing his regular Dixie- land gig at the Carlyle Hotel, former home of Bobby Short, the effeminate pianist and Cole Porter interpreter.

In the snippet they showed, Allen played a) off key, b) sloppily) c) with very poor embouchure and d) stiffly. I may be leaving out some letters, but that's enough.

Here's what I mean:



That's awful.

But there he is, gigging away to a full house of rapt listeners hanging on every note in a very prestigious venue. Is anyone really listening?

Clearly this is a case of the Emperor's New Clothes- people think he must be good since he's Woody Allen, But all he's really doing is masturbating. On your dime.

Nothing against Woody, mind you- he's a very entertaining filmmaker.

Just a talentless clarinetist.