Eye Of The Beholder: Johannes Vermeer, Antoni Van Leeuwenhoek And The Reinvention Of Seeing

Laura J. Snyder’s book Eye of the Beholder is a work on early modern history but can just as easily be read as an adventure story.  Imagine being the first person to peer into a previously unknown world. Moreover, suppose that this never before seen realm is only touching distance away. It is a thought that when fully grasped and allowed to marinate in juices of possibilities sets the heart beating quicker. Just imagine being surrounded by family, friends and colleagues and not one of them has seen or experienced what you have. I think anyone faced with a similar situation would burn with a chemical hot desire to communicate what had been found. This is what two seventeenth century Dutch luminaries experienced: Vermeer and Leeuwenhoek, the former a painter the latter a natural philosopher. Both men were born in the same year (1632) in an era when science was just beginning to flex its muscles. Each made a discovery and each wanted to communicate this new vision, Vermeer with paintings and Van Leeuwenhoek with letters and reports to fellow natural philosophers.

Eye of the Beholder is set in golden age Netherlands in the 1600s. Vermeer is dabbling with mirrors and lenses and with a contraption called the camera obscura all in an effort to expand the boundaries of his art. These gadgets aided him in seeing the play of light, colour and shadow in new ways. In one painting, Woman in Blue Reading a Letter, Vermeer used many different colours to convey in scrupulous detail shadows cast by the various objects in the room, map, chairs and the like. The actual colour blue is used sparingly on the woman’s outfit. The shadows in the folds of her dress are conveyed with browns and blacks. Our minds supply the blue necessary to complete the dress to see, in other words, what is not there. The woman herself casts no shadow. Leeuwenhoek used the recently invented microscope to make startling discoveries of objects too small for the human eye to observe. Without knowing it he stumbled onto the world of microscopic bacteria. Leeuwenhoek became so enamoured with what he saw, all those strange swirling, floating microbes, that he came to think of them as pets. He mentions in letters to friends missing the tiny creatures living in his vials when he went off on vacation. What is common to Vermeer and Leeuwenhoek is their appropriation of the power of perspective. Each in his own way came to understand the power of learning to see. Snyder does a great job conveying the fascination and joy both men felt about their respective discoveries.

Leeuwenhoek’s story (Vermeer’s also) should be understood against the backdrop of the growing influence of science. There was stern reaction against authority in the seventeen and subsequent centuries. The enlightenment, which had not yet hit its full stride, was taking hold of hearts and minds. The phrase bandied about was “See for yourself,” meaning, don’t rely on others—the so called experts or people in positions of authority—to tell you what is really there, make your own independent determination of the facts of the matter. Leeuwenhoek, a religious man, did not see himself as battling against an established order but as describing something new. It is that near childlike innocence and delight that makes his story so compelling. 

I would recommend this book to someone who is interested in the history of science, art and golden age Netherlands. I would also recommend it to anyone who wants to experience what it would be like to be the first to discover something that no one else has seen. The Eye of the Beholder offers readers an opportunity to experience a leap into the unknown.

Find this book in the Mississauga Library System's online catalogue. 

Zeitoun

It's almost impossible to write about Zeitoun without spoiling it, and the way in which the story unfolds gives it tremendous power. This book is another of our Library's "Raves and Faves," and I highly recommend it.

Zeitoun is the story of one man's, and one family's, ordeal during and after Hurricane Katrina. It is a story that sits at the intersection of two American nightmares: Katrina and the post-9/11 police state.

It is an answer to every person who feels "police state" and "fascism" are hyperbole when applied to the United States. In truth, that depends on your zip code, your skin colour, and your last name.

Considering I last visited New Orleans in 1992, I have a strangely personal relationship with Hurricane Katrina. August 30, 2005, the day Katrina hit New Orleans, was one of the most momentous days of my life: the day my partner and I moved to Canada. As with any move of this magnitude, we were unplugged from the world - no TV, no internet - for a couple of days before, and at least two days after. When we were back online, I struggled to take in the magnitude of what had happened. No matter how much we read, I felt like I never caught up.

In the 10 years since, in any story about the Katrina disaster, the dates jump out at me. I can picture us clearly, driving The World's Fullest Minivan with our beloved dogs, starting our new life. Right at those moments, tens of thousands of lives were shattered, ruined, or ended.

The Zeitouns' story is compelling, heroic, and deeply frightening. If you've ever been inclined to think, "That wouldn't happen here," or "But they would never do that", know that it did, and they already have.

As with What Is The What, Dave Eggers is using proceeds from this book to fund many very important and worthwhile causes. I highly recommend picking up a copy. [A version of this review was originally published at wmtc.]

Find this book in the Mississauga Library System's online catalogue.

Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail

I didn't expect to like Wild. Something about the phrase "best-selling memoir" just turns me off. But when the book was chosen as one of the Mississauga Library System's "Raves and Faves," I was intrigued. Those are always excellent books. (I'm quite proud that all five of my Raves and Faves suggestions made the list!) Wild turned out to be nonfiction that reads like fiction - page-turning suspense, told in a clean, clear writing style.

Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Coast Trail is a story of perseverance and redemption. Her life unhinged, battered by loss and confusion, the author decides to undertake a wilderness backpacking expedition. This is no casual walk in the woods; she's chosen a trail for which experienced backpackers may spend a year in training and research. Strayed is completely inexperienced and almost comically unprepared - comic, that is, if the consequences of failure weren't potentially life-threatening. At several points in the book, I thought, "Well, she must survive, because she wrote this book...".

Wild is suspenseful, moving, sad, uplifting, heartrending, and joyous. I was filled with wonder at this woman's strength, tenacity, and resilience. I was left contemplating that potential in all of us. [A version of this review was originally published on wmtc.]

Find this book in the Mississauga Library System's online catalogue.

The Middle Ages

The Middle Ages by Johannes Fried, former professor of medieval history at the University of Frankfurt, was originally published in German and has recently been translated into English by Peter Lewis. The medieval period is a perennially fascinating subject. The mystique of a bygone “Dark Age” accounts for some of the fun in learning about this time in western history. We know, however, that the Middle Ages were not strictly a dark time in Europe. There was a great deal of diligent and intensive scholarly work on a variety of topics including logic and ecclesiastical topics. Tremendous efforts were expended to preserve and carry forward some of the spirit of the Greco-Roman heritage. This effort continued on for a thousand years throughout the early, high and late middle ages. Sure the collapse of the Roman Empire came with its accompaniment of destruction, tears and wailing but the situation ameliorated due in large part to the growth of two stabilising forces: church and crown.

Fried begins his narrative quiet early with the “barbarian” Ostrogoth King Theodoric and the death of Boethius. For those unfamiliar with the story, Boethius was a member of a rich and powerful Roman patrician family. He was considered a highly intelligent man in his day—but the sentiment doesn’t do the man justice. The fact that Boethius was sensitive to the failing standards of excellence in every facet of the disappearing Roman world, and that he tried desperately to fix the situation by translating Greek masterpieces of learning into Latin for future generations makes him extraordinary. Unfortunately, Boethius had only started on this grand and noble project when Theodoric, suspicious of this well connected Roman, had Boethius imprisoned and killed.

From the death of Boethius the story continues on to the relationship between the growing influence of the Papacy and the rising, centralizing power of the Franks. The church and crown dynamic will run through the rest of the Middle Ages and does a lot to define the era.  This great political tango to forge a mutually beneficial relationship between Pope and Emperor (and later, the various monarchs of Europe) is one of those endlessly debated topics in western political-cultural history. Sometimes the relationship was cordial other times it was hostile. For better and for worse the Papacy and the Monarchies needed each other. The political splintering of the Holy Roman Empire and, eventually, the religious splintering ended the uniformity of culture and belief that some have called Christendom.   

Fried has organized the book into major chapter headings, not necessarily by date but rather by larger historical currents. For example, in the chapter titled The End of Days Draws Menacingly Close, Fried looks at the idea popular at the time of the imminent end of days. Though the anxieties are discussed the chapter delves much more into cultural transitions in the church, and the growth in ideas of nobility. In another chapter, The True Emperor Is the Pope, Fried discusses the ongoing battle for the hearts and minds of Europeans fought between the papacy and monarchs to determine who would have ultimate power on the continent.  The Epilogue may be the best part of the book in the way it dismantles the whole notion of the Middle Ages as a time of uninterrupted ignorance and superstition.

Fried’s narrative style has flashes of eloquence but not enough of them. What I want from a book on Medieval history, metaphorically speaking, is to walk through a cathedral and witness the play of light on carved stone. Reading Fried’s Middle Ages sometimes felt like I was climbing up a flight of grey, concrete stairs. Not that the language is overly technical or strained, but that it is too conventional: this happened, and then this happened, and the result was that this happened. I don’t want to give the impression that the book is poorly written, it is not, but the experience was not all it could be. The pace and presentation was done with learnedness as the dominant guiding principle rather than the communication of a fascinating period in history. When these two elements coalesce, scholarship and narrative flare, then you get that time-travel magic. If you are looking from a comprehensive and erudite intellectual history of the Middle Ages this is a good one.

Find this book in the Mississauga Library System's on-line catalogue 

The Innovators: How a Group of Hackers, Geniuses, and Geeks Created the Digital Revolution

by Walter Isaacson

Isaacson, author or the best-seller, Steve Jobs, continues to explore the computer industry in his latest book, The Innovators. This time he traces its history – and tells the colourful saga of those first inventors and they who followed.

Did you know that Lady Ada Lovelace, daughter of Lord Byron, applied her imagination to mathematics as her father did to poetry, and envisioned a “general-purpose machine” about 100 years or more before it was technologically possible to create one? Yes, in fact, Isaacson repeatedly refers to her creative spirit as a source of inspiration to many of her successors.

From the creation of the first digital machines, to the advent of computer programming, the invention of the microchip, the video game, the personal computer, the Internet, and the myriad of computer software applications, Isaacson captivates the reader by revealing the colourful personalities – men and women – at the heart of “the computer revolution”. The chapters on Lady Lovelace and her business partner, Charles Babbage; the Harvard undergrad/drop-out Bill Gates; Alan Turing; and the development of the Internet, may especially engage readers.

Isaacson’s chronological progression, fascinating insights into the innovators’ personalities, and his own personable narrative style, make this “a good read” – and a long one, at 488 pages excluding the endnotes, photo credits, and index. 

Perhaps this is a book to enjoy while on summer vacation?

Find this book in the Mississauga Library System on-line catalogue.

Fallingwater Rising: Frank Lloyd Wright, E. J. Kaufmann, and America's Most Extraordinary House

In the prologue to Fallingwater Rising: Frank Lloyd Wright, E. J. Kaufmann, and America's Most Extraordinary House, author Franklin Toker writes, "Put this book down now if you can't live without the old myths about Fallingwater. But take comfort in the fact that a Fallingwater history shorn of miracles can still be thrilling."

Toker examines those old myths, and one by one, he uses his extensive and impeccable research to dismantle them. The truth, for me, was far more interesting.

I visited Fallingwater in 1999, and although I have a great interest in architecture and am captivated by that house, I thought a biography of a single building might be too detailed for my level of interest. I was wrong. The book does contain quite a lot of detail. But through that detail, and through his nearly palpable passion for his material, the author reveals the magnificence of Fallingwater and explicates the full depth of its meaning.

Toker weaves a social and cultural history of Fallingwater, placing it in context of Wright's career, Kaufmann's aspirations, the Depression, and the conflicting forces of architecture that were raging at the time. He shows how Fallingwater was sold to the American public, and how that hype permanently changed the country's perception of art and architecture. He analyzes what Fallingwater means in the context of art history and American identity. As Janet Maslin wrote in her review for The New York Times, "Nothing about the way Fallingwater was built, conceived, influenced or manipulated escapes the author's attention."

Some of Toker's claims border on the speculative, but he meticulously presents his evidence and makes his case, leaving the reader to decide if he's made too great a leap. Given that he spent nearly 20 years researching this book, the evidence is always substantial.

I was fascinated to learn that on the eve of Fallingwater's conception, the architecture community considered Wright washed up, a has-been. He had not completed a building in 13 years, and his work was thought to have become repetitive and - the worst insult possible - regressive. At almost 70 years old, Wright was living in relative isolation, both his personal life and his professional life mired in depression. Yet his two most famous, recognizable buildings - Fallingwater and the Guggenheim Museum - were still ahead of him. By the time he died in 1959 at age 91, Wright would be, without exaggeration, the most famous architect in the world, leaving behind an unrivaled body of work. How Wright transformed his career, his image, and the face of architecture through this one building is an amazing tale, and Toker tells it with sparkling writing and wit.

Incidentally, this book is a great eye-opener for those who reject certain art based on the politics or personal life of the artist. Wright, it appears, was staunchly anti-Semitic, although his two most famous buildings were created for Jewish clients. He admired the Nazis and the Third Reich, and disliked that "the Jews" were leading the U.S. into war. (Anti-Semitism and fascist tendencies are one of the threads running through this book, and very relevant to Fallingwater's context.) Wright was also a raging egotist who abandoned his wife and six children to have an affair with a client's wife. Wright the man was not exactly an admirable character. Wright the architect was a visionary and a genius.

Another note: I highly recommend keeping some internet-enabled device on hand while you read Fallingwater Rising. Toker references dozens of buildings, and few readers will be able to conjure mental images of each one. I kept my tablet handy, and did an image search for every building mentioned. This provided me with a context I wouldn't have found in the book alone, plus I ended up with a new short-list of buildings I'd like to see on my travels. [This review was originally published on wmtc.]

Find this book in the Mississauga Library System's online catalogue.

Krakatoa: The Day the World Exploded: August 27, 1883

I thoroughly enjoy the work of Simon Winchester. For two of his other books, The Professor and the Madman: A Tale of Murder, Insanity, and the Making of the Oxford English Dictionary and Outposts: Journeys to the Surviving Relics of the British Empire I gave the top five-star rating at Amazon and I extend the same top rating to Krakatoa: The Day the World Exploded: August 27, 1883. This is typical Winchester: nonfiction that I cannot put down, full of interesting trivial footnotes and long sentences loaded with parenthetical asides and clauses separated by commas which did not require rereading in order to fully understand. I tend to reread such lengthy sentences if I have to pause and take in a non sequitur parenthetical aside, yet Winchester makes everything flow in a rapid stream. It is a quite readable oral style that makes me laugh, even if the subject matter is the volcano Krakatoa, which was responsible for the deaths of over 36.000 people. 

The explosion of Krakatoa in 1883 has been called the worst volcanic eruption in modern history. Superlatives abound: it was the deadliest, loudest and expelled the most voluminous and wide-spreading spray of debris ever known. Winchester did not make the story prior to the eruption read like a boring airplane disaster movie, where you don't care about anything except the plane crash (or earthquake, or shipwreck) that was about to happen. Before he described the eruption and its aftereffects, Winchester needed to paint a backstory about the region. He presented both lengthy, yet at all times engrossing and wholly fascinating histories of Dutch colonialism in Indonesia, the dawn of international telegraphic communications as well as the progressive evolution of the science of plate tectonics. I am sure other authors would have driven me to sleep with such a patient breakdown of that particularly new scientific discovery. Plate tectonics and all the crusty goings-on beneath the ocean floor were crafted into a page-turning read. Diagrams, photos and paintings enhanced the text. Winchester explained the science behind the eruption, and how the (former) volcanic island got that way.

What would you do if smoke started seeping through your floor? Prior to the eruption, the population on nearby islands reported the ground under their homes starting to smoke. I can recall reading about the volcanic eruption on Tristan da Cunha in 1961, when islanders reported seeing the ground crack and split open. The Tristanians did not have dirt floors, but these Indonesians did, and the tremors and smoking ground foretold the devastation to come. Here is one observation from a nineteenth century "met station":

"He walked across to the observatory, noticing immediately that the needles and pens suspended by their cocoon-threads on his magnetic declinometer were ticking and trembling violently--not in the usual side-to-side sweeps that one might expect from an earthquake, but in a series of buzzing up-and-down motions that did not register properly on the paper rolling from the drum. The more he thought about it, the more he realized something odd: The vibrations were not so much being felt through his feet, as if they had emanated from somewhere deep in the earth; they were in fact being felt in the air. True, there were ground tremors, and buildings were shaking--this was self-evident. But most of the shaking was coming through the very atmosphere itself. And vibration of this kind was the very particular hallmark of an erupting volcano, not of the subterranean shaking of an earthquake." 

One aftereffect of a volcanic eruption on an island is a tsunami. In fact, several tsunamis. Abnormal wave movements were seen as far away as France; imagine the height and force of the waves at the epicentre. What I found haunting were Winchester's descriptions of pumice with lava-encrusted human skeletons washing up onto the shores of east Africa. While colossal in its destruction not only of structures, animals and human life, the eruption also cost Krakatoa its own life: the explosion was so strong that it blew the island off the map.

The volcanic ash painted the sky and gave the world the most extraordinary sunsets. Winchester wrote about the universal rush for canvas and paints as backyard art studios sprung up, with their artists recording the posteruptive skies in colour, which photography at that time could not yet capture. I now am more than interested in finding these paintings to get a glimpse of what the night sky looked like. 

In Krakatoa and the two other titles I have read so far, Winchester writes with an enthusiasm that tells the reader he had a great pleasure in researching and writing. I am most keen on reading other books in the Winchester oeuvre.

 Find this book in the Mississauga Library System's on-line catalogue