A new study on why art matters

 

A cookbook combining writing and cooking.
Part of the ars?

When iconic Texas novelist the late Elmer Kelton told his father, a ranch foreman all his life, that he wanted to be writer, the elder Kelton gave his son a look that “could have killed Johnson grass” and said, “That’s the trouble with young people. They don’t want to work.” Elmer by his own admission never made a ranch hand, but he made a heck of an important Texas writer. Does it matter?

Almost every congressional fiscal resolution includes motions to defund the National Council for the Arts and the National Council for the Humanities, on the theory that the money could be better spent in more practical ways. In the US the arts usually play second fiddle to business and “practical” matters. Perhaps it’s our Puritan heritage, when art was suspect of being at best unorthodox, dangerous, and at a worst a tool of Satan. Perhaps it’s the more modern reality, as Elmer’s father thought, that it’s hard for a young person to make a living in the arts. Nonetheless the notion remains in too much of society that the arts are frivolous.

“The arts” is an umbrella term. What, really, does it include? When people hear the word, they usually think visual arts—painting and sculpture—with the performative arts next—theater, dance, musical performances, etc. And finally poetry. Somehow creative written works are often left out of the mix. And yet, they require as much creativity as the other arts. So I often include books in the definition and even that is too narrow, but it may be the best we have at the moment.

Writing in the “Maine Crime Writers” blog, author Dick Cass reviews the book Your Brain on Art, by Susan Magsamen and Ivy Ross, an exploration of the ways that art and science, instead of being antithetical, actually come together. Our brains need both, and art, instead of being frivolous, is essential to good physical and mental health. Here are some of the research-based findings that Cass reported from the book:

·        Music with a rhythm of 60 beats a minute can synchronize with human brains to produce alpha waves, the brain frequency associated with rest and relaxation. Take it down to 40 beats or so and the rhythm synchronizes with delta waves, associated with sleep. Music can also help rewire the brain after a stroke.

·        Colors have a biological effect on human thinking and emotion. The color red raises the galvanic reaction in humans, how much sweat glands react, more than colors like green or blue. In one study, people in a gray-painted room displayed higher heart rates than people in a more colorful room.

·        Research into architecture shows that building with elements like curves instead of straight walls can reduce the blood pressure and heart rate of the people living within.

·        Imaging studies show that poetry has neurological benefits. Reading poems lights up the part of the brain associated with restful states, and rhythm is something our brains are hardwired to respond to.

·        Coloring, drawing, even doodling stimulate the prefrontal cortex, the area of the brain that keeps us focused and interprets sensory information.

·        Research even supports the notion that people who engage in art have a lower risk of developing chronic pain as they age.  

Note that the last finding specifies people who engage in art, not passive recipients who study paintings on a wall in a museum.

Are you familiar with the concept of Tikkun olam, literally meaning “repairing the world.” It’s a Jewish concept, although echoes are found in many Christian teachings and writings, that each of us is obligated to leave the world a bit better than we found it, to contribute something to the good of the universe. I worry a lot about that, because I fear I write frivolous things—young-adult literature, light mysteries. Yes, I hope my historical fiction brings a greater understanding of history and women’s place in it, but there are all those other works. What, really, am I contributing? Cass’ article and the book have made me turn my doubt on its head. The question is not what am I contributing through my art, but what is my art enabling me to do for others? Is it because I write, a creative activity that stimulates both brain and body, that I am able to write historical fiction and even some young adult novels that may shape some pre-teen’s reading.

The creative arts are not something self-indulgent nor something to be lightly dismissed. They are part of the total development of an individual.  Kurt Vonnegut put it so well: Practice any art, music, singing, dancing, acting, drawing, painting, sculpting, poetry, fiction, essays, reportage, no matter how badly, not to get money and fame, but to experience becoming, to find out what’s inside you, to make your soul grow.

I think my avocation of cooking even falls within that category, along with writing. They are both activities that allow me to share some of me with the world at large, whether it be a book you read, a recipe in a blog, or a dinner you share at my table. And I think that is a good thing.

Go, free your spirit, do whatever brings you pleasure (well, within reason)—it will help you grow.

A personal note on our family woes: my brother thinks he’s a bit better, we are moving ahead with fixing the plumbing problem, and Sophie didn’t snap tonight for her shot (after three tries—I got a donut collar). Maybe writing about all that has helped.

Thank you for listening and sweet dreams.

 

 

What’s on your bedside table?

 

The Fussy Librarian is a subscription website with book news and reviews for readers and authors. I really like the name because I’m beginning to feel like the fussy reader. In the last couple months, I’ve started and abandoned more books than I’ve finished, and that’s totally not like me. I longed for a book that would grab my imagination and not let go, something that I rushed back to and that kept me up too late at night.

Of two books that are currently on my Kindle, half finished, one is a novel based on the life of a famous twentieth-century food journalist. I’ve read some of her writing and come away with the sense of a life boldly lived, full of almost hedonistic pleasure that was not limited to food alone. The first pages of the book swept me in, promising the same kind of fictional adventure. But, then, after one bold move, the protagonist becomes this unsure, introspective person, always questioning, always wondering what’s going to happen. Seems like her joy in life was suspended. I confess that I put it down before I was halfway through.

The other is a fictional account of the family who owned and ran a longtime restaurant in Chicago. I have just enough restaurant experience in a small family café that I thought it would ring a lot of bells for me. Instead, I was once again mired in the various characters’ introspective meanderings. One chapter rang the familiar bell of all that can go wrong and all that people complain about in restaurants. Otherwise it was all family stuff—the gay son who longs to be part of a couple, the granddaughter back from New York to pick up her share of family responsibility, the matriarch that no one can please.

I had enough of other peoples’ angst. I longed for a book that would carry me away. Usually I read contemporary fiction, mostly traditional mysteries. I’m just not interested in the Roman period or monks in old English monasteries in the fourteenth century. And I’m definitely not interested in the Regency period (early nineteenth century England), with its cultured and refined upper crust and extreme poverty in everyone else. Think Wordsworth, Lord Byron, Jane Austen, Keats, William Blake. And also think extreme rules of social behavior.

So what am I reading? Who could resist a book titled, The Benevolent Society of Ill-Mannered Ladies (by Alison Goodman)? It’s not really a mystery though there are plenty of tense moments and illegal acts, and it’s not really a romance, though there’s an unusual touch of that too. I’d call it a Regency romp. And I am really caught up by the ladies who dance the quadrille and sip champagne while gossiping far into the night.

Lady Julia Colebrook, petite and ladylike, is only half successful in reining in her fraternal twin, Lady Augusta (Gus). The twins are forty-two years old and unmarried, which makes them an anomaly in Regency society with its strict rules of etiquette. Searching for a way to lessen Julia’s grief for her fiancé, killed in a horseback accident, Gus decides they will rescue women in difficult situations in a society where men have all the power and rights. With relative ease, they repossess love letters written by their friend Lady Charlotte to an unscrupulous lover. But things get complicated when they determine to rescue a woman being slowly killed with laudanum by her husband and, along the way, are beset by a highwayman who turns out to be a disgraced nobleman—and, in Gus’ eye, devilishly attractive. Julia is aghast. One problem follows another, including the disapproval of their younger brother now in charge of them since he inherited the family title and property.

Moments of real, nail-biting tension and the threat of violence are relieved by some hilarious scenes, and the whole things is a fiercely feminist statement about a society where woman have no rights.

Who knows? I may add mor Regency titles to my TBR (to be read) stick. If I can find another heroine like Gus ….What’s on your bedside table?

The Fussy Librarian is a subscription website with book news and reviews for readers and authors. I really like the name because I’m beginning to feel like the fussy reader. In the last couple months, I’ve started and abandoned more books than I’ve finished, and that’s totally not like me. I longed for a book that would grab my imagination and not let go, something that I rushed back to and that kept me up too late at night.

Of two books that are currently on my Kindle, half finished, one is a novel based on the life of a famous twentieth-century food journalist. I’ve read some of her writing and come away with the sense of a life boldly lived, full of almost hedonistic pleasure that was not limited to food alone. The first pages of the book swept me in, promising the same kind of fictional adventure. But, then, after one bold move, the protagonist becomes this unsure, introspective person, always questioning, always wondering what’s going to happen. Seems like her joy in life was suspended. I confess that I put it down before I was halfway through.

The other is a fictional account of the family who owned and ran a longtime restaurant in Chicago. I have just enough restaurant experience in a small family café that I thought it would ring a lot of bells for me. Instead, I was once again mired in the various characters’ introspective meanderings. One chapter rang the familiar bell of all that can go wrong and all that people complain about in restaurants. Otherwise it was all family stuff—the gay son who longs to be part of a couple, the granddaughter back from New York to pick up her share of family responsibility, the matriarch that no one can please.

I had enough of other peoples’ angst. I longed for a book that would carry me away. Usually I read contemporary fiction, mostly traditional mysteries. I’m just not interested in the Roman period or monks in old English monasteries in the fourteenth century. And I’m definitely not interested in the Regency period (early nineteenth century England), with its cultured and refined upper crust and extreme poverty in everyone else. Think Wordsworth, Lord Byron, Jane Austen, Keats, William Blake. And also think extreme rules of social behavior.

So what am I reading? Who could resist a book titled, The Benevolent Society of Ill-Mannered Ladies (by Alison Goodman)? It’s not really a mystery though there are plenty of tense moments and illegal acts, and it’s not really a romance, though there’s an unusual touch of that too. I’d call it a Regency romp. And I am really caught up by the ladies who dance the quadrille and sip champagne while gossiping far into the night.

Lady Julia Colebrook, petite and ladylike, is only half successful in reining in her fraternal twin, Lady Augusta (Gus). The twins are forty-two years old and unmarried, which makes them an anomaly in Regency society with its strict rules of etiquette. Searching for a way to lessen Julia’s grief for her fiancé, killed in a horseback accident, Gus decides they will rescue women in difficult situations in a society where men have all the power and rights. With relative ease, they repossess love letters written by their friend Lady Charlotte to an unscrupulous lover. But things get complicated when they determine to rescue a woman being slowly killed with laudanum by her husband and, along the way, are beset by a highwayman who turns out to be a disgraced nobleman—and, in Gus’ eye, devilishly attractive. Julia is aghast. One problem follows another, including the disapproval of their younger brother now in charge of them since he inherited the family title and property.

Moments of real, nail-biting tension and the threat of violence are relieved by some hilarious scenes, and the whole things is a fiercely feminist statement about a society where woman have no rights.

Who knows? I may add mor Regency titles to my TBR (to be read) stick. If I can find another heroine like Gus ….

Dreaming of food

 

Boeuf Bourguignonne
The book I'm reading about France opens with a mouth-watering
description of a simmering pot of 
boeuf bourguignonne

With the newest Irene in Chicago Culinary Mystery not yet in print—almost, watch for it, please, in mid-April—my mind is already turning to the next book in the series. At least that’s what I inferred from my dream last night. I dream often and vividly, and it’s not unusual for me to remember a dream, so that part wasn’t significant. What stayed with me today was the question the dream posed about food habits. There will, of course, definitely be food in the next Irene book—after all they are culinary mysteries. But what direction will that take? I don’t know.

In my dream, I was someplace with an old friend, and she told me she didn’t drink much water because there’s bad stuff in it. I squelched my impulse to preach on the importance of drinking a lot of water. I was also reminded of Jacob when he was about six and we used to go to the Neighborhood Grill every Tuesday night for supper with a group of neighbors. The custom unfortunately phased out due to my hip surgery, pandemic, and Jacob ageing out to the point he didn’t think his elders were that interesting anymore. But one night, before all that, when I asked what he wanted, he looked at me like I was so dumb and asked for his usual: grilled cheese. When I asked if he wanted fries, he said yes. When everyone was almost through eating, I noticed he hadn’t eaten his fries. “Jacob, aren’t you going to eat your fries?” He shook his head. “They’re bad for you.” Pause. “Can I have a cupcake?”

What I did say to my waterless friend was, “You could get hit by a truck tomorrow. Enjoy the present moment.” And therein, to me, lies the description of two culinary camps: deny yourself some pleasures to be safe or indulge to enjoy life. With my passion for chocolate and wine, I surely fall in the latter category. And so do the foodies in my books.

So perhaps the next Irene mystery (tentatively titled Missing Irene) will pit Irene (and Henny, inevitably) against someone with extreme health concern regarding food—as one of my sons once said to me, “too granola.” All I know is that the next Irene begins in a French-style café in Chicago.

As background I’m reading Murder Visits a French Village by Susan Shea. It’s the story of a young Manhattan widow who decides to go to France and renovate the decrepit, abandoned chateau her husband bought as a surprise for her. So far, no murder but the story is loaded with the atmosphere of a small village and with plenty of French phrases thrown in. Shea skillfully eaves the translations into her narrative, something I try to do with the Irene books. I studied French one year in high school (Latin two years but it is long forgotten) and had to pass a fluency test in graduate school. I can now barely stumble through the basics, but it’s fun. I’m wondering if Henny will ever follow Irene to France—I think my limited knowledge will preclude that.

Switching subjects, but still thinking about food, Sophie has the most amazing internal time clock. I’ve noticed the last few days that if she wakes at say, 6:45, she’ll go out and when she comes in, I’ll reward her with a tiny snippet of cheese. Then she’ll let me nap until about 8:00. But if she sleeps until 8:00, as she did this morning, she refuses to go out no matter how wide I open the door. She’s waiting for her full breakfast.

In the afternoons, both of us nap, but promptly at four o’clock, give or take a couple of minutes, she’s at my bedside reminding me it’s time for her snack of kibble.

And by 5:30, she’s asking for dinner—that kibble doesn’t stay with her long. If I’m alone in the cottage, she’ll lie on the floor and look at me long and hard as though she can stare me into action. But if Jordan comes in, she’s sure it’s past dinner time and begins to bark and demand. Similarly, if there is happy hour company, she makes her wishes known early, like 5:00 or 5:30.

And finally, she likes to end the day outside, but at eleven o’clock, she comes in. I guess all us girls need a routine. I know I do. How about you?

Bon appetit! je te souhaite bonne nuit.

 

A Sunday miscellany

We continue to get photos from Jordan from the Hill Country which make us glad she’s enjoying but wish we were too. The latest is the sky just before sunset. Meanwhile, back at home, things remain calm.

Church this morning was a treat. The church began a series on Broadway shows and how they reflect our current values. First up this morning was the hit, “Hamilton.” The service opened with an actor, apparently a former TCU student, providing a striking rendition of the opening song. Russ’ sermon gave a lot of background on both Lin Manuel-Miranda, who wrote the musical, and the actual history of Founding Father Alexander Hamilton. Doesn’t sound like church? Well, it was, because the sermon ended by posing several questions that hit home with me. Apparently, Hamilton was obsessed with contributing something to make the world better—he did a whole lot—and with having someone to tell his story. His wife outlived him by fifty years and spent them telling his story, building his reputation, publishing his voluminous writing. So, Russ challenged us: who will tell your story? What is your story? What I have done to make the world a better place is a frequent question for me, and I was comforted that Russ confessed it is for him too.

The actor who played the lead in the opening Broadway show used to gather the cast for prayer before each performance, and his challenge to them was that they make each person in the audience grow during the performance, go away from it having learned something that changed them, made them a better person. It’s what I’ve always said about books. I’m seeing lots of links here between Broadway and literature and religion. Lots to think about, and lots of history to explore.

I watched the nine o’clock service, but then to my surprise Christian and Jacob came out to watch the eleven o’clock with me, so I’ve been to church twice today. We’ll see if it makes me a better person.

I was saddened to learn that actor Nick Cordero died today after fighting COVID-19 for ninety days. I never heard of him, not being up on such things, until he got sick, but his struggle and his wife’s determined faith have been much in the news. He underwent the amputation of a leg and was recently told he would need a double lung transplant. Perhaps had he lived he would have had no quality of life nor life expectancy, so maybe his death was God’s grace, but it is still a tragic story. Don’t even talk to me about how you don’t have to wear a mask!

I spent the day writing a review of a book about France, food, and World War II. Fascinating to immerse myself in the life of villages and the stories of what it was like to survive the war’s hardships. One woman reported they relished heated pork belly on toast, because when you have little, what you do have becomes a treat. There’s a moral there. Another slyly said, “We did not need to diet” and talked of evenings when there was one potato for a family of five. On the other hand, many French households today have really well-stocked larders, the reaction to the years they went without. The French eat a lot of seafood and a lot of rabbit—the latter a surprise to me. They are surprisingly unsentimental about eating the bunnies they raise. The book is Searching for Family and Traditions at the French Table, #Two by Carole Bumpus.

Tonight Subie and Phil came for happy hour, and we had a lively discussion—of the title business. They quizzed Christian on his work, what he did, how it affects home buyers. Educational and interesting. We managed some other conversation too, and as Subie said, it was good just to see people. Subie questioned how our patio can be so cool and comfortable when the rest of the world is sweltering, but it’s true—it really is a lovely place to be. Christian pointed out that it is tree covered and never gets sun—which is why there’s so much ground cover and no grass. But the new grass in the center of the yard is doing well, and Christian is faithfully watering. Jordan will be proud when she comes home.

Tonight, Chef Christian fixed sesame chicken, and I quick sautéed some asparagus. A good meal.

And so another week begins. I lose track as they roll one into the next, but I hope it is a good week for each of you. Stay safe and well.

A Whole Bunch of Nothing

This morning, as I do every morning, I turned on m computer and the TV. The TV flashed a warning that there was no signal—so I turned off the computer. Go figure. It was not an auspicious start to the day.

Lewis Bundock, who keeps my house and property in running order, came by to put a support in the middle of a newly installed long gutter. As we talked, I mentioned that I’d just had fried mush for breakfast—the plate of syrup on my desk was testimony. “Mush?” he asked. “What’s that?” When I said fancy people today call it polenta, he said he knew that, and he’d call what I just ate “johnny cakes.” Goes to show what I miss as a northerner even though I’ve lived here over fifty years. As a student of western history, I thought I was well-schooled in regional foods, and Lord knows I’ve heard of johnny cakes—also called hoe cakes—but I guess I never made the connection. I thought they were a pancake of some kind. But now I know. I’m going to practice telling people I had johnny cakes for breakfast. Whatever they’re called, they sure are good, but you sure feel like everything is sticky after you eat them.

And that’s kind of how the day went. I did some serious and good work on the book proposal I’m struggling with, and I did some reading—finished a novella. I’ve done more reading lately and recently finished a book called Bayou City Burning. Cast as a P.I. detective novel featuring a young girl (another go figure), it’s the little known story about the machinations behind LBJ’s 1961 efforts to secure the NASA manned space center for the Houston area and the mob efforts to prevent that. A good fast read if you’re a fan of P.I. novels or a history buff interested in twentieth century urban history. You’ll be charmed by Dizzy Lark, the twelve-year-old, and her efforts to prove that a man didn’t really die in a train wreck in Cleburne, Texas. It’s sort of a retro read but well researched and absorbing. Watch for it to be available on various platforms June 1.

Jordan cooked dinner tonight—well, she put the finishing touches on something I started. I found. a recipe for lettuce wraps using ground chicken, but it called for a lot of things I didn’t have like mint and cilantro—the latter would have been really good. So I cooked the chicken the other night and added chopped red onion and scallions, along with a healthy dose of soy. I sort of decided we could use the chicken as a base. Jordan reheated it in wine, added part of a can of green chilis, salt and pepper, diced tomatoes, chunks of avocado, and lots of feta. Trouble was I was reluctant to buy head lettuce, so I thought we could use the leaf lettuce I like so much better. Leaf lettuce doesn’t wrap, so we had sot of a salad with a ground chicken base—pretty and delicious, but not what the New York Times cooking column suggested. Still, I’ll do it again and may experiment with the sesonings.Cumin, anyone? I told Jordan the end result was sort of Mexican/Oriental/Greek.

A good day I’m off to read another novella. Happy times, y’all.

Home again, and glad of it

We got home after a drive that seemed much longer coming home than it had when we were headed toward a family Christmas celebration. In fact, I thought the high plains were endless and Post, Texas where we would turn south, was a figment of the driver’s imagination. But eventually we went through Post and then by Sweetwater and Abilene. When you hit Abilene, you think you’re almost home, but you really aren’t. It’s still a long way. After a stop to pick up the Burton dog who’d spent the week in a vet’s facility, we got home a little after five.

Twenty-four hours later, I’m still unpacking and catching up. Knowing me, no one will be surprised that catching up desk work, even though I’d had my computer with me, was priority. I’m almost there. But my children gave me complete new wardrobes, and I’m overwhelmed with the task of fitting them into my closet. So they are strewn across the coffee table, the lone chair in the bedroom, and even the high footboard on the bed, waiting until Jordan has time. She’s a great organizer.

We were greeted by a joyous dog, although she’d obviously been well cared for and loved. Still, she was happy to have “her” people back. She’s been a little outrageous since our return, demanding all the attention—no other dog is to be in a lap—and demanding treats. I know I made my bed before we left, but when we came home she had rearranged the covers and carved out a nesting spot for herself. Tonight, her most outrageous act was to grab a tomato that rolled out when I was unpacking groceries. She trotted off, tail high in triumph, toward the bedroom, the only room in the cottage with carpet. I of course feared a tomato stain on the carpet and went chasing her with a piece of cheese. She abandoned the tomato which appeared intact, so I washed it and put it up. If I offer you a tomato sandwich and you refuse, I’ll understand.

Went to the kind of party I like tonight—a gathering of maybe twelve to fifteen people for cocktail hour with heavy and delicious hors d’oevres and excellent conversation.  Warm, comfortable, low-key and so pleasant.

Highlight of my day however was a review of The Perfect Coed that was probably the best review I’ve ever received and will certainly send me back to the work-in-progress and into the new year with renewed enthusiasm and self-confidence. It’s from the San Francisco Review of Books, reprinted from the online review source Long and Short Reviews. Facebook notified me of it, but I couldn’t find it and posted such. Thanks to Mike Hinshaw and Dayle Buckley for sending me a link and the text—they’re my heroes. If you’d like to read it (oh, please do!), you can find It at

http://www.sanfranciscoreviewofbooks.com/2017/12/book-review-perfect-coed-by-judy-alter.html#more And on that note, good night to all. Stay warm—it’s cold throughout most of the country and is supposed to go well below freezing for the next few days in North Texas. My cottage is warm and cozy. I hope yours is too.

Some days are longer than others

Long day, and I'm tired. But good things have happened. The Perfect Coed got a highly positive review on Long and Short Review (http://www.longandshortreviews.com/book-reviews/perfect-coed-by-judy-alter/). Who can complain when a reviewer praises your quick snappy writing style and fast-paced storyline? Not me! Nice start to the day.
I had other good news on the writing front that I don't feel at liberty to share yet, but I will soon. Not only is it a nice accolade, it's an event that evoked surprising enthusiasm from my kids. They are always and ever my best fans and I so appreciate their loyalty, but they're going to go to Lubbock for me! Now that is above and beyond.
And I finally got my cousin's estate settled today. It's been difficult because she was in Toronto and I'm in Texas and she died without a will. She had breast cancer and was so afraid she was going to die that I never would have asked about a will--it would have freaked her out. I figured it was no problem because I knew I was the only surviving relative. It turns out there are third cousins on her father's side, but I am the closest relative and therefore executor of her estate, as the Canadian courts decided today. I've probably spent as much in lawyer's fees as I stand to gain, but it's settled and I hope Jenny can rest in peace after a life that had precious little happiness in it.
Other than that a pleasant if scattered day--breakfast with the Book Ladies, a group of I suspect at least twenty-five years endurance. Some of us originals are still there, and we do talk about books but we also talk about lots of other things (liberal politics high on the list) and there is a real bond among us.
Lunch with a dear friend of longstanding--we went to my new favorite Mexican place, and I ate both my spinach enchiladas, something I rarely do. After a lazy afternoon I picked up two energized eight-year-old boys about 5:30 and tried to corral them into doing homework. They would rather hit each other in the head--"that's what boys do" Jacob's friend explained. We got the bare minimum of homework done and then went to the Grill for dinner. Now there's a sleeping eight-year-old in my house and a sleeping dog in my office. Life is good, and tomorrow will bring another adventure.
I read an interesting piece tonight that said essentially that God does not play with our lives, he does not put roadblocks in our way to see how we'll react. He stands beside or behind us, giving us grace to deal with the roadblocks that life puts in our way. I like that thought. Peace, y'all.