To gaze at water in any form—seaside… lakeside… steady trickles from a watering can—is a blessing on these appallingly hot days. Here’s an option: the Japanese garden at the Hillwood Museum. (The stepping-stones across the stream below make it an enticing destination for children.)
Washington National Cathedral is about halfway through repairs to the damage from the 2011 earthquake. You can see before and after photos on their website (and, if you wish, make a donation toward the project).
Today is the birthday (at least on the Gregorian calendar) of Ukrainian artist Taras Shevchenko, 1814-1861. If you walk southward on 22nd Street toward P Street in Washington, DC, you will pass a monument to Shevchenko, across from the Church of the Pilgrims. Since the statue is erected on a concrete island in the middle of two-way traffic, to examine it further you can’t just stroll by idly but will need to make it your pedestrian destination.
Taras Shevchenko was born in 1814 in the village of Moryntsi in what is now Ukraine (then part of the Russian Empire), into a family of serfs, his father a merchant whom Taras assisted. When he was 11 he was orphaned and spent the next several years working at a variety of jobs for the local cleric, herding sheep, driving a delivery wagon, supplying fire and water for the cleric’s school and simultaneously taking grammar classes and discovering Ukrainian literature. At a young age, Schevchenko displayed gifts not only for language and writing poetry but also for painting and drawing, sketching self-portraits and local figures and landscapes. At 14 he obtained work as a serving boy at the Engelgardt court in Vilshana. At first Shevchenko’s master had him punished for his artistic pursuits; later, he apparently relented, and when the court moved to St. Petersburg and, perhaps for the status implied in having a court artist, sent Shevchenko to study painting. His work increasingly received recognition and won awards. At 24 his freedom from serfdom was obtained by auctioning a portrait.
It was Shevchenko’s poetry, however, that led eventually to his persecution. Having been divided and ruled by multiple empires (Polish-Lithuanian, Ottoman, Russian) for centuries, Ukraine was experiencing by the 19th century a burgeoning nationalist movement. Shevchenko’s own growing nationalism increasingly inspired his work. His art depicted Ukrainian cultural figures and monuments and historical and archeological sites. His writings expressed not only traditions and folklore of the Ukrainian people but also described the conditions under which Ukraine was suffering under foreign rule. Combining intimate lyricism with biting political sarcasm, he aimed to spark the desire for liberty in his fellow Ukrainians. He wrote in Ukrainian (as well as Russian), which since the 17th century had been periodically banned. Shevchenko also joined the clandestine Ukrainian-Slavic Society which promoted national autonomy and a Ukrainian language revival.
Shevchenko was arrested, convicted for “writing in the Ukrainian language, promoting the independence of Ukraine and ridiculing the members of the Russian Imperial House,” exiled to a Russian military garrison, and forbidden to write or paint. Curiously, he was first sent to accompany a naval expedition to document the coastline, after which he was confined for seven difficult years in a remote penal colony. When he was finally released, he was forbidden to return to Ukraine. He spent the next four years of his life writing and painting, but his harsh imprisonment had affected his health and he died in 1861, shortly before the emancipation of the serfs.
In his importance to Ukrainian culture, Shevchenko has been compared by historians at the Library of Congress to Walt Whitman in the USA and Rainer Maria Rilke in Germany; yet neither was also a painter, illustrator, and political revolutionary. As Ukraine struggles courageously to maintain its freedom as a sovereign nation in the face of an invasion led by a ruthless and possibly psychopathic neighbor, Shevchenko’s own history is inspirational. You can learn more about him, his poetry, and his paintings on the Shevchenko Museum website.
Hymn Of Exile
The sun goes down beyond the hill,
The shadows darken, birds are still;
From fields no more come toilers’ voices
In blissful rest the world rejoices.
With lifted heart I, gazing stand,
Seek shady grove in Ukraine’s land.
Uplifted thus, ‘mid memories fond
My heart finds rest, o’er the hills beyond.
On fields and woods the darkness falls
From heaven blue a bright star calls,
The tears fall down. Oh, evening star!
Hast thou appeared in Ukraine far?
In that fair land do sweet eyes seek thee
Dear eyes that once were wont to greet me?
Have eyes forgotten their tryst to keep?
Oh then, in slumber let them sleep
No longer o’er my fate to weep.
1847, Orsk Fortress, translated by A. J. Hunter
Thanks to a neighbor’s recommendation, I discovered the period chamber orchestra Relic and attended their concert, “Enchanted Forest,” which included pieces by Corelli, Purcell, Couperin, and other 17th/18th century composers, each work introduced by a brief relevant poetic reading. The concert was aptly named: on a cold wintry night, the audience was transported by Relic’s gorgeous and haunting music to a place of enchantment. Relic’s mission is to make the music they love easily available to a wide and diverse audience. This particular venue was, appropriately, St. Margaret’s Episcopal Church, which has a parallel mission and long history of welcome and inclusiveness. But you can experience Relic in many other locations as they travel the country in 2024. Eventually they hope to reach all fifty states.
(There were actually nine musicians performing, but I only managed to sketch five and a half of them during the concert)
To read aloud each year on this day. Wishing a joyful season to you and to all your dear ones. Thank you, Susan Cooper.
So the Shortest Day came and the year died
And everywhere down the centuries of the snow‐white world Came people singing, dancing,
To drive the dark away.
They lighted candles in the winter trees; They hung their homes with evergreen; They burned beseeching fires all night long To keep the year alive.
And when the new year’s sunshine blazed awake They shouted, reveling.
Through all the frosty ages you can hear them Echoing behind us ‐ listen!
All the long echoes, sing the same delight, This Shortest Day,
As promise wakens in the sleeping land: They carol, feast, give thanks,
And dearly love their friends, And hope for peace.
And so do we, here, now, This year, and every year.
Welcome Yule!
—Susan Cooper
We spent an uncrowded Tuesday morning slowly wandering awestruck through this NGA exhibit which features not only completed works in marble but SKETCH MODELS IN CLAY that preceded them—with visible marks of tools, quick changes, fingerprints—giving the viewer a glimpse of Canova’s thinking and process. (I was sketching on a page begun earlier; sorry to confuse.)
The steady parade of friendly dogs was a fitting reward. Plus the breakfast at A Baked Joint is excellent.
Snow and daffodils: the turning of the year.
What a joy to see longtime friends in person, after months of deprivation. It feels reasonably safe to gather outdoors, and what prettier setting than Kenilworth Park & Aquatic Gardens, at the peak of bloom.
A day in Alexandria donating art supplies, recycling electronics, delivering a cat cushion—during a pandemic, we get our dates however we can. A more romantic conclusion, though: together we admired the river from a bench in Founders Park, with coffee from Dolci Gelati.
