The road to Toledo

I was introduced to the fine arts by accident, through my high-school Spanish textbook.

(That says a lot about the state of art education in public schools then, and now.)

The book was "El Camino Real" ("The Royal Road") and it was what we used in Señora Kersey's class at Hermitage High School in the late 1950s.

Inside the front cover was a full-page color reproduction of an oil painting, "The Burial of the Count of Orgaz." It was a dense Spanish Renaissance work by El Greco, which we knew meant "The Greek."

Leaving aside the obvious appeal of any word vaguely resembling "orgasm" to a high school kid, the painting intrigued me because I didn't understand it, because I had no clue as to who the Count of Orgaz was or why his burial was being commemorated, and because I knew next to nothing about El Greco.

I saw the picture of the painting every time I opened my Spanish textbook.

As the months progressed, I learned more. The Count of Orgaz was a pious knight who lived in the Spanish town of Toledo in the 14th century. Legend has it that Saint Stephen and Saint Augustine descended from heaven to help with his burial. One of the Count's bequests was to the town's church.

Fast-forward 200 years, to the 16th century: The church in Toledo finally got around to honoring the Count by commissioning a painting as part of a project to refurbish his burial chapel. They picked El Greco, a Greek immigrant, to execute the commission. The Spaniards called him El Greco because his real name, Doménikos Theotokópoulos, was more than a mouthful.

El Greco put himself into the painting. That's him, one of the mourners, just to the left of center, looking directly at you.

The painting, which still hangs in the church of Santo Tomé in Toledo, is considered to be one of El Greco's finest works.

Fast-forward again, this time to the 1960s. I saw the original painting.

I went to Spain with my friend Bobby Harris, who was a fellow Air Force medic when I was stationed in Germany. We spent a week in Madrid and Barcelona. Not far south of Madrid is Toledo. I decided to go see the actual painting of the Count's burial.

So Bobby and I boarded a bus on a warm, sunny morning.

Toledo which dates back to the Bronze Age, is a picturesque small city, and its winding, cobbled streets are crowded with tourists. My first sight of the city was breath-taking. It sits on a hilltop, bordered by a river below. When we slowed down on an adjacent hilltop, Toledo looked from afar as though it hadn't changed much over the centuries.

Once in the city, Bobby and I made our way to the church, Santo Tomé. And there it was, hanging on the wall: El Greco's painting of "The Burial of the Count of Orgaz." It was tucked away in a side chapel, in need of a good cleaning, and badly lit. But it was nevertheless a magnificent sight -- and far bigger than I had imagined.

I spent a good quarter hour studying it, and then Bobby and I walked back out into the brilliant sunshine.

It would be another 20 years before I went to work at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts, where I learned more than I ever expected to about art and artists during a 33-year career.

They say you never forget your first. And I have never forgotten "The Burial of the Count of Orgaz," from that first look at it in my high school Spanish textbook to the first time I saw the original in a church 10 years later in Toledo.

It was the first time I fully realized that true fine art wasn't just in books. It was real.

Random observations

I usually don't care much for the political cartoons, rants and pithy observations my friends send me via email. But one caught my eye yesterday. It featured an image of Virginia's governor with these words: Republicans want to shrink government until it can fit in your uterus.

I am about to go to the grocery store. When my cart is full, I'll no doubt be stuck once again behind one of those women who hangs her purse from her left arm while holding her keys in her left hand and then unloads her cart using only her right hand -- all while carrying on a conversation with the cashier. It used to drive me mad. Now I just use the time to daydream.

I wish I could come up with a practical reason to buy an iPad. They're so cool. They're also so expensive. I can easily afford it, but my parsimonious gene holds me back. Aside from the cool factor, what would I do with an iPad?

I've found a tattoo artist to interview for my "What's Your Story?" radio series on the Virginia Voice. That should make for an interesting half hour. My dad got tattoos on his upper arms when he was in the Navy during World War II. When he came back home, he never again wore short-sleeve shirts in public. Attitudes sure have changed.

Speaking of "What's Your Story?" I interviewed a woman the other day whose Mexican father was instrumental in rewriting the history of the Alamo. He came across a memoir written by one of Santa Anna's lieutenants who said Davy Crockett and his Tennessee compatriots did not die fighting at the Alamo. He maintained they surrendered and were later executed. Still, Texas historians aren't eager to accept the new evidence.

What with the recent disasters on board the Carnival cruise ships Costa Concordia and Costa Allegra, Carnival's marketing people are facing a mammoth task. I cruised on a Carnival ship back in the 1970s. Crew members were already calling it "the Kmart of the Caribbean."

Today, March 1, was a gorgeous day -- a taste of spring to come. If it's true that when March comes in like a lamb, it goes out like a lion, then god help us at the end of the month.

"Casablanca" is one of my favorite movies. It's beautifully directed and well acted, and the lighting is especially lovely on the Ingrid Bergman close-ups. It was made in 1942, the year I was born. It won Best Picture at the 16th Academy Awards. I watch it at least once a year. "Here's looking at you, kid."

My second favorite political line of the season: Barack Obama and Rick Santorum are both praying for the same thing -- that Rick Santorum will be the GOP nominee.

In praise of audio engineers

My "What's Your Story?" radio series on the Virginia Voice would be far different were it not for Alex Childress.

Alex is the studio manager for the station. For me, he's an audio wizard and a godsend.

"What's Your Story?" is my half-hour interview series for the Virginia Voice, which is a nonprofit organization that broadcasts readings of news and information for those with blindness, vision impairment or physical disabilities that limit reading. "What's Your Story?," which has been plugging along for almost a year now, features interviews with ordinary -- and extraordinary -- people. It's based on the premise that everybody has a story to tell; all you have to do is ask.

I conduct the interviews "on location," using a small, portable digital recorder. You have to have a special radio to receive the broadcasts, but all of the interviews are posted online, and you can listen to them by clicking here.

It's a volunteer job for me, one which keeps me engaged and lets me practice the broadcast skills I acquired over a lifetime.

Alex takes the raw recordings and turns them into polished radio broadcasts.

Most of what he has to do is a result of the on-location aspect of the program. A half hour is long for a one-on-one interview. Phones ring, people cough and clear their throats, people lose track of their thought or struggle to find the right word, dogs bark, clocks chime, doorbells ring. Alex smooths it all out, editing out technical glitches and making us sound good.

It can be hard work: It takes much longer than 30 minutes to edit a half-hour program.

Most of the time, my guests and I record our interviews straight through, just as though we were doing a live broadcast. But on some occasions, it just doesn't work that way. I remember one guest whose husband interrupted us to offer a bowl of candy -- each piece wrapped in noisy cellophane. I did one interview in front of a fireplace with a backdraft that filled the air with the smell of creosote, which clogged us both up. We did that 30 minutes in three parts, if I'm remembering correctly. We'd record for 10 minutes or so, then stop to hack up creosote. Then there was the time when the batteries died right as we got to the good part. We stopped, changed the batteries, and tried to pick up where we'd left off.

Alex takes the bits and pieces into the control room and laboriously performs his audio wizardry.

I've never had to suggest what he should do; he just knows. I've never listened to the final product and heard an edit I didn't like. He just seems to divine what was in my mind -- and in my guest's mind.

During a lifetime in broadcasting, I've run across maybe two or three audio engineers with Alex's perception and skills.

God bless them for knowing exactly what to do and how to do it. Because they know what they're doing, they make us sound like we know what we're doing.

Catching up

I blame my recent silence on having a really wicked cold. Not only did I feel bad, I was staying home, so nothing much happened to me worth writing about.

But now that I'm feeling somewhat better, there are a few brief items that deserve a paragraph or two.

You'll recall that I wrote right around Christmas about the Ghost Kitty. She was an apparent stray who was hanging out on my deck, looking for a little love and some food. You can read more about her and see a picture by clicking here.

With the help of a neighbor, we managed to get the Ghost Kitty into the hands of a volunteer with CARE, who sheltered her, loved her and readied her for adoption. I stayed in touch by email, and the reports on the Ghost Kitty's progress were all good.

Last week, I happened to run across a notice in the want ads in the daily paper. The Ghost Kitty, now renamed Daisy, is officially up for adoption. The ad featured a picture of Daisy, looking well fed and happy. I hope she finds a great home. She certainly is a great cat.

But back to my cold. The biggest problem is boredom. I've been staying home so as not to pass on the virus. I've made a few quick trips to the grocery store (and to Hunan East and Five Guys for take-out when I just didn't feel like cooking). But mostly I've been trying to find ways to entertain myself.

I like to read, so that's been one way of passing the time. Two books -- both non-fiction -- have held my attention for the past week. One was the riveting and largely unknown story of the men in uniform who helped to save Europe's cultural treasures during World War Two.

"The Monuments Men: Allied Heroes, Nazi Thieves and the Greatest Treasure Hunt in History" by Bret Witter and Robert M. Edsel isn't dry history. The authors wisely focused on the major treasures and a handful of the hundreds of American and British museum directors, curators, art historians, and others who followed the front-line troops and rescued some of the world's most important cultural objects. Among the art they saved were works by the greatest names in Western art history: Vermeer, Rembrandt, Leonardo da Vinci, Raphael, Renoir and too many more to catalogue.

I met one of the Monuments Men a few years back. He was Sherman Lee, the father of Katherine Lee, who was at the time the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts director. Sherman Lee isn't featured prominently in "The Monuments Men" (he served in Japan right after the war ended), but I had a rare chance for a day or two to read and digitize his typewritten memoir about his work.

George Clooney is working on a movie about the Monuments Men. I hope it's as good as the book.

Friends who know I read voraciously will sometimes ask how I choose books. I picked the second book I've been reading because I saw it sitting on a shelf behind Charlie Rose on the set of his new CBS TV morning news broadcast. It's "Air Time: The Inside Story of CBS News" by Gary Paul Gates," published back in 1979. So far as I could tell, it was the only book on the shelf, which was mostly filled with other decorative objects related to the network's storied past.

Why was that particular book on the set? I didn't know. I've not finished it yet, but it focuses on the CBS news operation from the years right after World War II up through most of Walter Cronkite's tenure. It's not a vanity book. In fact, there are those who were at the network who might be offended by some of it. Now I suspect I know why it's featured on the morning news set. Charlie Rose's new broadcast is, in fact, putting the "news" back into its morning news show. Rose's new show would likely make Cronkite smile at his network's return to basics.

What else have I been doing since I've been stuck at home? Well, I rearranged my Netflix queues, both the DVD queue and the streaming-video queue.

What difference does that make in my life?

Not much. But a guy's got to stay busy, even when he has a wretched cold.

Back to 1312

My friend John has picked up on my "Stench and stained glass" post from earlier this month and come up with an interesting question.

If I were to be transported magically back to 1312, what five things would I take with me?

John had some interesting ideas. I'll get to them in a bit.

I've been pondering the question for a few days. Would I adopt the "Star Trek" prime directive? Those of you who were fans of the TV series in the 1960s will remember that one of the major rules for the Enterprise crew was that they should not do anything to substantially influence alien cultures. It's an outgrowth of the Hippocratic Oath: First, do no harm.

It's a good guideline. But I'm sure I'd violate it somehow, sooner or later.

John also decided that, for the purposes of his question, the length of stay would be a year.

That sent me scurrying to Wikipedia to see when the Black Death first appeared in Europe. Well, that was a relief: The first wave peaked between 1348 and 1350. (It popped up again and again until finally disappearing from Europe in the 19th century.)

John also assumed that he'd be safest if he remained undetected and hid out in a forest glen. I'm too curious to do that. I'd want to get to know the people and how they lived.

So, by adapting John's suggestions and adding a few of my own, here's what I'd take with me to 1312.

1: A good supply of broad-spectrum antibiotics. I might not encounter the Black Death, but even a small cut can be fatal, and I suspect I'd be walking barefoot at some point through soil contaminated by heaven only knows what bacteria for which I have no natural immunity in my 21st-century body.

2: A digital device of some kind, loaded with encyclopedic software, including a few good treatises on folklore medicine, and enough long novels to last a year. I think I'd also load my digital device with music and spoken-word recordings. Being able to produce sound seemingly from thin air and to record and play back the voices of those I met would make me seem like some sort of wizard or minor god. That could have its benefits.

3: Some sort of hand-cranked power generator or solar device to recharge batteries.

4: Some seeds. This was one of John's suggestion that hadn't occurred to me. He thinks that introducing 21st-century hybrid crops could, indeed, change the course of history. Present-day standards of crop rotation and irrigation could also transform agriculture.

5: John suggested a weapon, either a firearm or a bow. I'm not keen on introducing modern weapons into 1312 Europe. A bow would be helpful, but archery was already established in 1312, so I could probably pick one up. Instead, an LED flashlight is what I'd pick. Light up the night. Amaze the natives.

This is, after all, just a frivolous exercise, but an interesting one. What would I really miss most if I were transported back 700 years? I don't know. My most valuable asset would probably be my own 21st-century mind. What I'd miss most would probably be the last thing I'd think about.

I'd hate to live in a world without TiVo and Netflix and computers. I'd definitely miss them. But perhaps what I'd really miss would be something as simple as a pencil and paper.

Bomps in the night

The Vienna State Opera House

In addition to info on cruises and cruise ships, as I wrote about in my last post, my friend Walter is also my go-to guy for all things regarding music.

All kinds of music.

Walter and I have been friends since back when dirt was clean. I first met him when I was a rock-and-roll deejay at WMBG, working my way through the University of Richmond. His regard for contemporary rock-and-roll music even then was intense.

Today, his interest and his music collection range from "Who Put the Bomp (In the Bomp, Bomp, Bomp)" to Broadway's musical masterpieces, from grand opera to Steve Reich. On a trip to Austria, he took me along to visit the Vienna State Opera House, not for a concert (it was off-season) but just to see one of the grandest performance spaces in the world.

Just this weekend, Walter spent nine hours, portal to portal from his home in Connecticut, to see a concert by Le Train Bleu at Galapagos Art Space in Brooklyn.

Walter is really into music.

Just the other night, Walter sent me a picture of a young man and asked me if I could identify him. He gave me one clue: His initials are B.M. From the picture, I judged the man to have been a pop star in the 1960s. His photo had that phony "glamour" look, with jutted chin and hair slicked back. Was it that guy who sang "Ballad of the Green Berets," or maybe the one who did "Eve of Destruction?" Both were from a time when I was a deejay and was playing their music on the air.

I didn't have a clue.

I decided to confess my ignorance and not google songs or artists.

Walter informed me that the picture was of Barry Mann, whose 1961 doo-wop hit was the aforementioned "Who Put the Bomp." Back in the day, I thought "Who Put the Bomp" was a rockin' song. Today, I wouldn't have been able to call it to mind if Walter hadn't brought it up.

Walter probably has the single and the album in his collection.

So ... what did Walter spend nine hours to see last night? Among other works, there was "a piece I consider a twentieth-century masterpiece, Steve Reich's 'Different Trains,'" complete with recorded train whistles, voices and the Kronos Quartet.

I doubt there was a "bomp" anywhere to be heard.

To be sure, Walter's musical interests are broad and eclectic. If I need to know who wrote the Chiffons' 1963 hit "He's So Fine" or maybe who sang Wotan in the Metropolitan Opera's 2010 production of Wagner's "Der Ring des Nibelungen," I can count on Walter to know.

I'm certain that he has the original Chiffons recording, and he probably has a program from that Ring Cycle at the Met tucked away in his archives.

I emailed Walter between the time I wrote this and the time I posted it. He does, in fact, have an original Chiffons 45 rpm recording of "He's So Fine." The computerized database of his music collection tells him he has the Japanese red-vinyl version. He also believes he has a program from the 2010 Ring Cycle at the Met. He says it's probably in a pile in his basement.

I rest my case.

Some thoughts on the Concordia disaster

Walter is my go-to guy on cruises and cruise ships.

Walter, who now lives in New Haven, Conn., is my oldest friend -- and I mean that both in terms of the longevity of our lives and his time on earth. (That last reference will probably stick in his craw, since I am older than he is.)

Beginning in the early 1970s, he and I took a handful of Caribbean cruises together, our first on the old Anna Maria, which later became SS Carnivale, and our last on HMS Queen Elizabeth II, which was retired in 2008. That was the end of my cruise-ship experiences, but Walter has continued to cruise and now has scores of trips under his belt. He continues to send me clippings and links about ships we have both sailed on and info about his current experiences. His most recent journey, late last year, began in Civitavecchia, the port that serves Rome, and ended in the United States.

Civitavecchia probably sounds familiar to you. That's the port from which the ill-fated MS Costa Concordia sailed before partially sinking on Jan. 13.

We have both followed the coverage of the disaster on TV, the Internet and in print. Walter's perspective is practical. His latest blog post asks a fitting question: "What would we have done had we been in the dining room and felt the collision?"

As a retired journalist, my interest has been focused more on the coverage of the story. The reporting out of Italy has ranged from dismal to merely adequate. Is the site of the sinking, the Italian island of Giglio, pronounced Jee-lee-oh or Geej-lee-oh? American TV reporters called it Jee-lee-oh for a week. This morning I heard the Geej-lee-oh pronunciation on both ABC and CBS TV.

Did the ship founder or sink or capsize? I've heard all three used, and each word paints a different picture. Reporters on the scene have wrongly used all three words interchangeably.

And what about the captain? I don't think we know the truth yet, but reports have said variously that, before all of the passengers had abandoned ship, he slipped and fell into a lifeboat, that he slipped and fell into the water, that he refused Italian Coast Guard orders to return to his ship, that he ordered dinner onboard for himself and a woman -- even insisting on dessert service -- 30 minutes after his ship crashed into a rock, and that he cried like a baby in the arms of the ship's chaplain when he reached shore. Can all of those things be true? I think not.

In addition, American reporters are using Italian newspapers and TV as their source in far too many instances for my comfort. News in Italy is generally more emotionally driven, and Italian journalists practice a tabloid style that plays fast and loose.

American networks are hamstrung by the fact that they have cut their teams of European correspondents to the bone. Do any of them have a Rome bureau now? It appears that most of the TV correspondents we now see on Giglio are home-based in London.

The most thorough coverage of the disaster I have seen on TV has come from BBC World News. On the whole, BBC's correspondents have been more reserved and precise. The BBC newscasts have devoted as much as 15 minutes at a stretch to coverage of the Concordia disaster.

And disaster is the right word. If what the newspapers and TV networks are telling us is true, a score or more people lost their lives, some because of leadership ineptitude and chaos. I mourn their loss.

I also mourn the loss of, and treasure my memories of, the way life on a cruise ship used to be. Before newer and bigger cruise ships began to carry 4,000 passengers and were overrun by "tourists." Before it became such a mass-market industry.

Am I glorifying a past that never really was?

Probably.

But I can say this: the disaster has prompted a lot of thinking lately, both about journalism and cruising. And about those halcyon days on board a ship with Walter in the 1970s.