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As of today, the prestigious European network ARTE  is broadcasting a short exposé on the extraordinary work of the Piccirilli Brothers  in America. The piece, produced in New York by Jennifer and Edward Luby , was inspired by the documentary "The Piccirilli Factor"  and  John Freeman Gill’s  feature article in The New York Times . European Newspapers The mini-documentary features interviews with Thayer Tolles  of the Metropolitan Museum of Art  and Eduardo Montes-Bradley, offering context on the Piccirilli’s lasting contribution to American sculpture. It’s fascinating to see The Piccirillis’ Warm Reception in France and Germany, and how the legacy of these legendary artisans continues to gain recognition across the Atlantic—proof that their artistry still resonates deeply, more than a century later.

Looking Forward and in Good Spirits - As we move closer to the completion of The Other Madisons , yet another great American story, we celebrate what otherwise could have been a difficult year for the Heritage Film Project. However, we have reasons to be thankful in spite of it all, COVID, political turmoil, civil unrest, climate change, millions of fellow citizens around the world without work, or even a roof over their heads. At HFP we have been lucky, and in many ways privileged. We remain in good health by following the guidelines and production protocols, and thus able to carry on achieving more than what we had initially projected by the end of last year. On February 23, we had the privilege of presenting J.J.Lankes: Yankee Printmaker in Virginia at the University of Richmond. On October 8 we participated alongside Melodious Accord in the world premiere of Alice: At Home with Alice Parker by Chorus America , and also enjoyed seeing our film being included in the Official Selection at the Virginia Film Festival . The film is now available through Kanopy Streaming and Films for Change for everyone to see and celebrate the life and works of Alice Parker . Ricardo Aronovich Furthermore, on November 26th we celebrated the critically acclaimed Latin American premier on television of Buscando a Tabernero (Searching for Tabernero), film about legendary German cinematographer Peter Paul Weinschenk . Buscando a Tabernero , was in the making for three years, and has been one of HFP’s most ambitions and expensive productions. We started filming in Berlin on September 2017, and continued filming for two years in Mainz, Barcelona, Buenos Aires, Mendoza and New York. Next year will find us even stronger and more productive with the release of The Other Madisons, the extraordinary saga of the black descendants of the 4th President of the United States, and the yet to be announce 2021 production lineup which so far includes two HFP worth projects.

It's been two decades since I last worked La Croisette—twenty years spent building a documentary library that now culminates with The Piccirilli Factor making its play on the French Riviera. Cannes: Côte d'Azur Cannes remains Cannes. While the world morphs around it, this annual convergence of producers and programmers holds steady—a peculiar ecosystem where global reach is negotiated over espresso and the occasional glass of champagne. From Caffé Roma across from the Palais des Festivals, I'm watching the familiar choreography: the program hunters, the producers, the eternal cat-and-mouse. The first question is always: which am I? The answer determines everything. What I'm offering starts with six Italian brothers who carved the American Dream into stone—the seated Lincoln, the NYPL lions, hundreds of monuments that became part of our collective visual vocabulary. The Piccirilli Factor has found its audience at The Met and in academic circles, but can it translate across Europe and the Middle East? That's what I'm here to test. Wednesday, Arte—Europe's heavyweight for cultural programming—airs a 15-minute special on the Piccirilli, produced by Jennifer Luby and built on our research. From Berlin to Paris, the broadcast reaches Cannes: Côte d'Azur at precisely the right moment. It's a validation made possible by donors and sponsors who believed in the work, and being here is how I honor that trust: by pushing toward new horizons. The brothers are looking for friends. So am I.

I'm working on a documentary film about George Frederick Bristow , the nineteenth-century American composer who has been largely forgotten despite being one of the most important musical figures of his era. The film is funded, the research is deepening, and I find myself in conversation with scholars like Katherine Preston and Kyle Gann —people who know Bristow's music and biography better than anyone. They occupy themselves with the notes and the life story, the essential work of musical and historical scholarship. I'm trying to contribute something else: an understanding of the socioeconomic and cultural contexts that made Bristow's work possible and necessary. Meeting with Kyle Gann in Hudson Valley On a sunny afternoon last Sunday in the Hudson Valley—not far from the landscapes that inspired Washington Irving to write "Rip Van Winkle"—I met with Kyle Gann to discuss his work on Bristow's Third and Fifth Symphonies. To get there, I crossed the Rip Van Winkle Bridge over the Hudson, a detail that would resonate more deeply as our conversation unfolded. Gann has worked from the original manuscripts, pulling "Arcadia" and "Niagara" out of more than a century of obscurity. These aren't just forgotten works being dusted off for antiquarian interest. On January 30th, Leon Botstein will conduct "Niagara" at Carnegie Hall—a premiere that arrives like thunder, announcing that Bristow's strategic gambit in American cultural history deserves to be heard again. Because that's what these symphonies were: a gambit. A calculated move in a transatlantic dialogue about cultural legitimacy that Bristow and his contemporaries understood they were losing. Europe had Beethoven , Mozart, centuries of cathedrals, libraries thick with history. America had—what, exactly? Upstart cities, thin cultural institutions, composers dismissed as provincial imitators. The question wasn't just aesthetic. It was existential: Could America produce art that mattered? Could it speak in forms Europe would recognize as legitimate while saying something Europe couldn't? Bristow's answer was ingenious, and it's been hiding in plain sight for 170 years. He took the pastoral symphony—Beethoven's Sixth, the jewel of European Romanticism—and weaponized it. He used Europe's own language to describe what Europe had lost and what America possessed in embarrassing abundance: wilderness, raw power, nature at a scale that could humble you. "Arcadia" and "Niagara" aren't just patriotic program music. They're arguments, carefully constructed in symphonic form, that America's lack of history was actually its greatest asset. Let me attempt to explain what now seems evident. The Problem Bristow Faced George Frederick Bristow was born in Brooklyn in 1825 and spent most of his life within a few miles of where he started. He played violin in the New York Philharmonic from its founding in 1842 and composed steadily—symphonies, cantatas, an opera, chamber works, liturgical music. By any measure, he was one of the most important American composers of the nineteenth century. He was also angry. In 1854, Bristow resigned from the Philharmonic in protest. The orchestra's programming was overwhelmingly European, particularly German. American composers—Bristow included—were systematically ignored. In an exchange of letters with the Philharmonic's conductor, Bristow wrote with barely contained fury about the organization's refusal to take American music seriously. The conductor's response was dismissive: European music was simply better, more developed, more worthy of the public's attention. American composers should be grateful for any crumbs they received. This wasn't just one man's grievance. It was the condition of American cultural life at mid-century. The United States had won political independence, but cultural independence was another matter entirely. American painters went to Europe to study. American writers obsessed over European opinion. American orchestras played European repertoire to European-trained audiences who measured everything against European standards. The anxiety ran deep: Were Americans capable of producing real art, or were they destined to remain provincial imitators on the periphery of civilization? The problem was structural. Europe could point to centuries of accumulated cultural capital—Renaissance painting, Baroque architecture, Classical and Romantic music that had been refined over generations. What could America offer in response? A republic less than a century old, cities that looked raw and unfinished compared to Paris or Vienna, and a musical establishment that was essentially a colonial outpost of European taste. Bristow understood this. He also understood that meeting Europe on its own terms—trying to out-German the Germans, out-Italian the Italians—was a losing strategy. America needed a different argument, one that reframed the terms of legitimacy entirely. And he found it in an unlikely place: the pastoral symphony. Bristow's Pastoral Gambit: Beethoven and the Transatlantic Dialogue Beethoven's Symphony No. 6 in F major, the "Pastoral," premiered in 1808 and became one of the most beloved works in the orchestral repertoire. It was programmatic music at its finest—five movements depicting countryside life with specificity and emotional depth. "Awakening of cheerful feelings on arrival in the countryside." "Scene by the brook." "Merry gathering of country folk." "Thunder and storm." "Shepherd's song; cheerful and thankful feelings after the storm." The Pastoral was revolutionary in its naturalism, but the nature it depicted was entirely European: cultivated, humanized, domesticated. Beethoven's countryside was a place of gentle brooks and shepherd songs, of thunderstorms that cleared quickly and left peasants singing in gratitude. It was nature that had been tamed by centuries of agriculture, carved into estates and villages, made safe and picturesque. It was the countryside of pastoral poetry going back to Virgil—idealized, orderly, fundamentally peaceful. This was the European pastoral tradition: nature as retreat, as respite from urban life, as a place where humans and landscape existed in harmonious balance. It was beautiful, but it was also finished. There was nothing wild left in it, nothing unknown, nothing that could surprise or overwhelm you. Bristow saw an opening. In the 1850s, he composed his Symphony No. 3, which he titled "Arcadia" (Op. 50). The timing is significant: less than half a century had passed since the Louisiana Purchase of 1803—the massive land acquisition that opened the western territories and made westward expansion a lived reality rather than a distant dream. The frontier was still raw, still being mapped and claimed. "Arcadia" arrives in this moment of national transformation, when the scale of American landscape was becoming legible in ways it hadn't been before. An East View of the Great Cataract of Niagara , Watercolor by Thomas Davies, 1762. A few years later came Symphony No. 5, "Niagara" (Op. 62). The titles alone signal his strategy. "Arcadia" evokes the classical pastoral ideal, but it's also charged with American meanings—the westward expansion, the frontier, the myth of virgin land waiting to be claimed. "Niagara" is even more pointed: the most famous natural wonder in North America, a site of such overwhelming power that European visitors routinely struggled to describe it. Niagara had become an obsession for European artists and writers. Frances Trollope visited and wrote about it. Charles Dickens attempted to capture its power and admitted the inadequacy of words. J.M.W. Turner painted it (though without visiting, working from sketches by others). Frederic Church, the American landscape painter, made it the subject of some of his most famous works, paintings that toured Europe and drew enormous crowds. At least three other American composers of Bristow's generation wrote symphonies called "Niagara." The falls had become a kind of sonic and visual symbol, a way of asserting American distinctiveness through the one natural feature that every European visitor agreed was beyond anything their continent could offer. Bristow was working in the pastoral form that Beethoven had perfected. He was writing symphonies—the most prestigious genre in European music—with programmatic content drawn from nature. He was speaking Europe's language. But he was describing something Europe no longer had and could never reclaim: wilderness. The Sublime vs. The Beautiful: What Europe Had Lost To understand what Bristow was doing, we need to understand what had happened to Europe's landscape by the mid-nineteenth century. European forests had been disappearing for centuries. The construction of the Spanish Armada in 1588 required massive deforestation—oak trees by the thousands, entire forests cleared to build the fleet that would attempt to invade England. England's own forests were nearly gone by the Industrial Revolution, consumed by shipbuilding, charcoal production, and the expansion of agriculture. France, Germany, Italy—every major European nation had transformed its landscape through millennia of human activity. What forests remained were managed, harvested, replanted. There was no wilderness left, not in any meaningful sense. This wasn't a secret. Europeans knew it and, increasingly, they felt it as a loss. Romanticism's obsession with nature was partly a response to nature's disappearance. The more urbanized and industrialized Europe became, the more its artists and intellectuals longed for wild places that no longer existed in their own backyards. When Europeans encountered American nature—the scale of it, the density of the forests, the sheer abundance of rivers and mountains and wildlife—it shook them. This was nature as they had only read about in ancient texts or imagined in myth. And nowhere was this more dramatic than at Niagara Falls. Niagara became an obsession. European painters crossed the Atlantic specifically to paint the falls. Writers attempted to capture its power in prose and failed, admitted the failure, and tried again. The falls were sublime in the technical, eighteenth-century sense—an encounter with power so overwhelming that it produced a mixture of terror and exaltation. Niagara wasn't beautiful the way a pastoral landscape was beautiful. It was something else: raw, dangerous, indifferent to human presence. This distinction—between the beautiful and the sublime—was crucial to nineteenth-century aesthetics, and it became the fault line in the cultural dialogue between America and Europe. Europe had the beautiful: cultivated landscapes, historic cities, art that had been refined over centuries. America claimed the sublime: Niagara, the frontier, wilderness that still had the power to kill you. And this is where Bristow's strategy becomes clear. By writing pastoral symphonies about American landscapes, he was doing several things at once: American Progress  (1872) by John Gast First, he was legitimizing his work through form. The symphony was Europe's form, the pastoral was Beethoven's innovation. By working in these genres, Bristow was demonstrating that American composers could handle the most sophisticated European musical structures. Second, he was subverting the pastoral tradition from within. Beethoven's Sixth depicted humanized nature—brooks and shepherds and grateful peasants. Bristow's "Niagara" depicted something that could not be humanized, that exceeded human scale entirely. He was using the pastoral form to describe its opposite: not cultivation but wilderness, not order but power, not the beautiful but the sublime. Third, he was making an argument that Europe literally could not counter. You have history? We have nature at a scale you've lost and can never recover. You have Beethoven's gentle brooks? We have Niagara, and it will flatten your brooks and your shepherds and your entire pastoral tradition if it wants to. The pastoral symphony became a weapon because it allowed Bristow to speak a language Europe would respect while saying something Europe could not say about itself. The Montaigne Line: America as Nature's Extreme This argument had deep roots—deeper than Bristow probably realized. In the 1580s, Michel de Montaigne wrote his essay "Of Cannibals," one of the first European intellectual engagements with the Americas. Montaigne's essay is famous for inverting the terms of "civilization" and "barbarism," suggesting that Europeans might have more to learn from indigenous Americans than vice versa. But what's often overlooked is his description of American nature itself. Montaigne depicted the New World as a place of almost absurd natural abundance—gigantic forests, animals unknown to European taxonomy, a landscape that seemed to exist in a state of primordial excess. For Montaigne, this wasn't necessarily a compliment. It was strange, unnerving, outside the bounds of proper proportion. But it was also undeniably powerful—a reminder that Europe's carefully ordered world was a local achievement, not a universal condition. This idea—America as nature to an extreme and absurd degree—became a persistent theme in European thought about the New World. Sometimes it was expressed with wonder, sometimes with condescension, sometimes with anxiety. But it was always there: the sense that America represented something Europe had either never possessed or had long since domesticated out of existence. By the nineteenth century, this theme had evolved into a kind of primitivist fascination. European Romantics who had exhausted their own landscapes began to project their fantasies onto America. The American wilderness became, in the European imagination, a place where one could still encounter nature as it had existed before civilization—nature as raw material, as unrealized potential, as sublime power. Bristow and his contemporaries inherited this discourse and turned it to their advantage. If Europeans wanted to see America as excessively natural, fine. Americans would turn that perceived deficit into an asset. Just as Americans today seek out Costa Rica for the biodiversity and pristine nature they've lost at home, nineteenth-century Europeans were increasingly drawn to America for wilderness that had vanished from their own continent. "Arcadia" and "Niagara" participate in this inversion. Bristow isn't apologizing for American excess or trying to moderate it into European proportions. He's celebrating it, insisting on it, making it the foundation of a rival aesthetic. The symphonies say: This is what we have that you don't. This is what makes us different, and why that difference might actually be superiority. Bristow's version was part of this broader movement—a collective effort to claim the sublime as America's cultural inheritance. Rip Van Winkle's Awakening: The Call to Consciousness But there's another layer to Bristow's project, and it's encoded in his most famous work: the opera Rip Van Winkle , which premiered in 1855. Remember that to reach Kyle Gann last Sunday, I had to cross the Rip Van Winkle Bridge over the Hudson—a detail that felt increasingly significant as we talked about Bristow's effort to wake America to its own potential. Washington Irving's story, published in 1819, is often read as a charming folk tale about a man who sleeps through the American Revolution and wakes up confused in a new world. But Irving's story is also about failure—specifically, the failure to participate in the defining moment of American nationhood. Rip sleeps through the revolution. He misses it entirely. When he wakes, his village has been transformed, his friends are gone or dead, and he's a relic of the colonial past in a republic he doesn't understand. Bristow turned this story into the second publicly performed opera by a native-born American composer. The timing is significant: 1855, right in the middle of his symphonic work on "Arcadia" and "Niagara." And the thematic connection is hard to miss. Rip Van Winkle  is about an American who slept through his own awakening. The opera, and the symphonies that surround it chronologically, can be read as Bristow's attempt to wake America up again—this time to its cultural potential. America had won political independence in 1776, but in the 1850s it was still culturally asleep, still deferring to Europe, still treating its own artists as provincial imitators. Bristow was trying to shake the country awake. Look at what you have, he was saying. Look at Niagara, look at the frontier, look at landscapes that Europe cannot match. You have assets—natural, aesthetic, symbolic—that give you the right to stand as equals in the cultural conversation. Stop apologizing. Stop imitating. Wake up. The pastoral symphonies and the Rip Van Winkle opera form a coherent argument: America has been asleep to its own advantages, and it's time to recognize what makes it distinct and valuable. The revolution Bristow wanted wasn't political—that had already happened. It was cultural. He wanted Americans to stop measuring themselves by European standards and start asserting their own. This is why the pastoral form was so perfect for his purposes. It was sophisticated enough to demand Europe's respect, but flexible enough to contain something Europe's pastoral tradition couldn't accommodate: the sublime, the excessive, the wild. Bristow was using Beethoven's language to say what Beethoven never could have said. Why This Matters Now The more I dig into "Arcadia" and "Niagara" for the documentary, the more I realize these symphonies aren't just music. They're arguments in an ongoing negotiation about American identity, about what it means to be a culture without deep history but with resources Europe had exhausted. Bristow was working in the shadow of enormous European prestige, trying to carve out space for American music to be taken seriously. His solution—turning the pastoral symphony into a vehicle for the sublime—was brilliant because it was both respectful and subversive. He wasn't rejecting European forms. He was colonizing them, filling them with content that transformed their meaning. That meeting with Kyle Gann in the Hudson Valley stays with me. We were sitting in the very landscape that inspired Washington Irving to write "Rip Van Winkle"—the story that Bristow turned into an opera about American awakening. Gann was describing his work transcribing "Arcadia" and "Niagara" from manuscripts that had been sitting in archives for more than a century, unperformed, almost forgotten. And in a few months, Leon Botstein will conduct "Niagara" at Carnegie Hall, bringing Bristow's vision of the falls—his sonic argument for American cultural legitimacy—back to life. There's a historical irony here that Bristow would have appreciated. The work he created to prove that American music deserved a place in the repertoire got buried by the very European-dominated musical establishment he was fighting against. His symphonies disappeared. His name faded. The New York Philharmonic continued playing Beethoven and Brahms, and Bristow became a footnote—a minor figure in the pre-history of American music, interesting mainly to specialists. But now we're waking up—again. Scholars are recovering his scores, performers are programming his works, and we're starting to understand that Bristow wasn't just a competent composer working in a provincial market. He was a strategic thinker who understood the cultural politics of his moment and developed a sophisticated response to them. "Arcadia" and "Niagara" are being heard again because we're finally ready to understand what they were trying to say. America doesn't need to apologize for lacking Europe's history. It has something else—something Europe lost and can never fully recover. Bristow knew this in the 1850s. He tried to tell us in symphonic form. We're only now beginning to listen. Coda: The Pastoral as Strategy Let me return to where we started: the idea that Bristow weaponized the pastoral form. This wasn't metaphorical. In the mid-nineteenth century, cultural legitimacy had real consequences. It determined who got performed, who got published, who got remembered. It shaped how Americans saw themselves and how Europeans saw America. The question of whether American culture was inferior wasn't just an academic debate—it was tied to economic power, political prestige, and national identity. Bristow understood that he was fighting on unfavorable terrain. He couldn't simply reject European standards—the American musical establishment was too dependent on European validation, and American audiences had been trained to prefer European music. But he could work within European forms while smuggling in content that challenged European superiority. The pastoral symphony was the perfect Trojan horse. It was respectable, prestigious, associated with Beethoven's genius. No one could dismiss a composer who wrote pastoral symphonies as unsophisticated or provincial. But Bristow filled this respectable form with American wilderness, American sublimity, American excess. He made the pastoral symphony do something it had never done before: overwhelm rather than soothe, terrify rather than comfort, assert power rather than celebrate harmony. In "Niagara," Bristow wasn't depicting a gentle brook like Beethoven's. He was depicting a force of nature that could kill you, that exceeded human scale, that reminded you of your insignificance. And he was saying: This is ours. This is what makes us different. This is why you should take us seriously. The weapon worked, for a while. Bristow's music was performed, his opera ran for multiple weeks, his symphonies were programmed by major orchestras. He proved that American composers could work at the highest level of sophistication while creating something distinctly American. But the weapon's effectiveness was also its vulnerability. Once the novelty wore off, once the cultural dialogue shifted, Bristow's strategic use of the pastoral form became less legible. Later generations of American composers took different approaches—Ives's radical modernism, Copland's populist simplicity, the whole mid-century project of creating a distinctly American sound through folk sources and jazz influences. Bristow's careful negotiation with European forms started to look conservative, even timid. We lost sight of how radical his project actually was. I'm hoping the documentary can recover some of that radicalism—can show audiences that Bristow wasn't just imitating Beethoven with American subject matter, but fundamentally transforming what the pastoral symphony could mean and do. That transformation required working within European constraints while subverting them from the inside. It required patience, sophistication, and strategic thinking. Most of all, it required believing that America had something worth defending, something that could stand alongside European cultural achievements without apology. Bristow believed this when most of his contemporaries didn't. He built that belief into symphonies that encoded a complex argument about nature, culture, history, and national identity. Those symphonies are about to be heard again. And maybe, finally, we'll understand what Bristow was trying to tell us: that American culture was never inferior to Europe's, just different. That wilderness was an asset, not a deficit. That the sublime could be as valuable as the beautiful. That America, like Rip Van Winkle, needed to wake up and recognize what it had been sleeping on all along.

Fourteen years ago, I produced Rita Dove: An American Poet , a biographical film that captured something essential about one of America's most important voices. You can watch the documentary below. Now , as Rita and I prepare to embark on a new cinematic journey exploring her epic poem Sonata Mulattica , I find myself revisiting that first collaboration—not out of nostalgia, but to understand who we were then, what we captured, and how far we've traveled since. The film traced Rita's life from Akron, Ohio to Germany, from the intimacy of a cello's embrace to the vastness of her father's telescope pointing toward distant stars. In those hours of conversation, she spoke about geography and belonging, music and memory, what she called "telescoping distance and telescoping time." She told me about discovering small towns in Germany, villages where people still lived where their ancestors had lived since the 16th century. This awakened in her a fascination with her own Akron, the rubber capital of the world, nestled between river valleys. "I need to feel why I'm standing right where we are at that moment," she said. "I need to feel why or how I fit on the earth." Watch the entire film here. This sense of place—physical, emotional, historical—became the foundation of Thomas and Beulah , her Pulitzer Prize-winning collection. She described Thomas arriving north during the Great Migration, working in the Zeppelin factory, carrying the guilt of survival, haunted by his friend Lem who drowned in the Mississippi. Every Zeppelin reminded him of being someone who managed to float away from the morass, like Jonah in the belly of the whale, like Noah in the Ark—both the one who gets away and the one who carries the guilt of those who didn't make it. Then came the Zeppelin disaster, the Akron, with men holding it down as it tried to take off, one man hanging on and then dropping, falling and falling to his death. An American nightmare. Thomas survives intact while others cannot hang on to that American dream. Exploring Thomas and Beulah with Rita served as my entry point into Jacob Lawrence's world, which has since become the language with which I think about the Great Migration when I do. At ten years old, Rita chose the cello because it "sounded luscious—like something you could just eat." She had no idea what a cello was, and when she saw how big it was, her heart sank. But she thought, this is what you chose, this is what you take. She grew to love it, the way you could wrap yourself around it, enveloping the sound. By college, she faced an impossible choice: musician or poet? She was playing in New York City, taking lessons, loving the way her individual part flowed into the whole. But stage fright made her knee shake during performances, and the cello requires stillness. Music would always be with her, she decided, a vocation but not her profession. Those loves were equal then. They remain equal still. She was eleven in 1963 when her family drove to Washington for the March on August 28th, her birthday. Her period had started. Her childhood was ending. Martin Luther King Jr. spoke of dreams. Weeks later, four girls died in a Birmingham church bombing. She told me about feeling ripped out of her student self, beginning to realize that her very personal existence was tied up with a social consciousness, a world she had to negotiate. The personal and political collapsed into one another that year, never to separate again. Then there was Mexico, driving down from Akron with her family, stopping at relatives in Georgia and Florida where she first experienced the deep South, segregated beaches, her cousins laughing as they ran across the line between "ours" and "theirs" while she felt terrified. But in Mexico everything changed. For the first time in her life, she felt like she wasn't beleaguered. She hadn't realized she was being beleaguered until that moment of freedom, of people welcoming them, curious about Ohio and their license plates more than the color of their skin. She discovered Diego Rivera there, those enormous murals that assumed the world was his platform, a fearlessness and connection to a larger humanity that blasted through the sense of being under siege. Watching the 8mm film shot by her father in Mexico, where she appears visiting Diego and Frida's home, reminded me of my own experience, of my own father at the same place recording the silhouettes of my brother and me walking around the legendary house. That coincidence brought me closer to Rita, as if we were siblings traveling in parallel universes and our fathers masters of the universe. Germany came later, on a Fulbright in 1974. She went to places her family couldn't imagine a Black person would live. She met Germans as individual human beings, not as the monsters of World War II or the great masters of literature she'd studied. She experienced the incredible load of guilt every German felt they had to work through, the reflexive defiance of young Germans looking for another victim to point fingers at so people would stop pointing at them. As a young Black American woman, many assumed she was on the side of the right, that she knew what it meant to be oppressed by her government. They were actually right, she told me. She did feel from a very young age that there was one law for most of America and another that could be applied to her race, that she needed to tread carefully. But stepping into Germany was almost schizophrenic—she was against the war, yes, but she also felt that Germans were perhaps the last people to be pointing fingers. She spoke about standing in front of a painting in Berlin in the 1980s, Augusta, the Winged Man and Rajah, the Black Dove , painted by someone who couldn't have known her, yet she felt he was painting her predicament—pairing a man who was difficult, deformed, someone people would stare at, with a completely normal woman except that she was Black. The young woman in that first film already understood what it means to stand at intersections: Black and American, woman and scholar, personal and historical, intimate and vast. She already knew that "outer space is inconceivably intimate," that distance telescopes both up and in, that time collapses when you're simultaneously a child and an adult understanding how your father's telescope was his way of speaking to you, of being close. Returning to Rita Dove Now we prepare to explore Sonata Mulattica , the story of George Bridgetower , the mixed-race violin virtuoso who inspired then was erased by Beethoven. It feels like the inevitable next chapter—another story of someone standing at impossible intersections, another exploration of how art transcends and is trapped by the circumstances of its creation, another meditation on who gets remembered and why. Fourteen years later, we return—not to repeat ourselves, but to discover what new territory we can map together. The journey continues.

Rethinking Photographic Evidence: Color, Truth, and the Accessibility of the Past The debate over colorizing historical photographs has largely been framed as a binary choice between preservation and manipulation, between archival purity and popular accessibility. This framing is intellectually lazy. It presumes that the monochrome photograph represents an unmediated historical truth, while colorization constitutes a form of historical tampering. Both premises are false. I will argue that colorization, properly understood, does not compromise photographic evidence but rather restores dimensions of historical reality that monochrome photography necessarily excludes. Further, I contend that the resistance to colorization reveals more about contemporary anxieties regarding technological mediation than about any genuine commitment to historical accuracy. By examining the intersection of color photography's technical development with the career of Louis Comfort Tiffany—an artist whose life's work centered on color and light—I demonstrate that colorization can function as historical interpretation rather than historical distortion. The Myth of Photographic Objectivity Historians who clutch their pearls at the prospect of colorization operate under a persistent fiction: that the original photograph captures unmediated truth. This position ignores over a century of scholarship on photography's constructed nature, from Walter Benjamin's observations on mechanical reproduction to more recent work in visual culture studies on the photograph as ideological apparatus.[1] Every photograph is already a manipulation. The choice of exposure, the chemical processes of development, the degradation of paper stock, the translation through halftone printing—each step introduces alterations. A badly printed newspaper portrait of Tiffany, where halftone dots have consumed facial features and contrast has collapsed into murky gray, preserves almost nothing of evidentiary value. What remains is not "truth" but rather the accumulated failures of reproductive technology. To insist on the sanctity of such an image is to fetishize decay itself. What We Lose, What We Gain: A Material Analysis Consider the practical reality. When working with a severely degraded newspaper reproduction—the kind where facial features have merged into shadow and texture has vanished into grain—what precisely do we risk losing through careful colorization? The answer is: virtually nothing of evidentiary significance, because almost everything was already lost in the original reproduction process. What we gain, however, is substantial. We restore dimensional information that allows contemporary viewers to apprehend the subject as a human being rather than as an artifact. This is not sentimentalism; it is phenomenology. The addition of skin tone, eye color, and the warmth of textiles reestablishes the perceptual conditions under which the subject actually existed in the world. For Tiffany specifically, this restoration carries particular historical resonance. His entire artistic practice centered on the manipulation of colored light through glass. To present him solely through the monochrome lens is to strip away the very element that defined his aesthetic vision and material production. The Autochrome Moment: Color, Glass, and Historical Irony The historical irony becomes more acute when we consider the timeline. The Lumière brothers patented the Autochrome color photography process in 1903 and released it commercially in 1907—precisely during Tiffany's most productive period.[2] The Autochrome utilized microscopic grains of potato starch, dyed red, green, and blue, and distributed across glass plates to capture color images. Glass. Color. Light filtered through a medium to capture reality. An example of early 1900s Autochrome process. This was not merely analogous to Tiffany's work with art glass—it was structurally identical in its fundamental concerns. Both practices grappled with how to capture and preserve the chromatic dimensions of visual experience through glass-based media. As I have discussed with Eric Taubman at Penumbra Foundation, which houses an extraordinary collection of these early Autochrome plates, the material connection between Tiffany's artistic experiments and contemporary color photography experiments was not coincidental but constitutive of a broader cultural moment's preoccupation with color fidelity.[3] It is inconceivable that Tiffany, obsessed as he was with chromatic innovation, remained unaware of or uninterested in the Autochrome. His peers and contemporaries were actively experimenting with this technology, wrestling with the same question that animated his art: how do we preserve color as we experience it? Yet here we are, over a century later, with scholars insisting that maintaining Tiffany's image in monochrome somehow preserves historical integrity. The position is not merely conservative—it is historically incoherent. The Politics of Technological Change Resistance to colorization echoes earlier moral panics over technological innovation in visual media. When synchronized sound came to cinema, critics declared it vulgar, insisting that "true" cinema was silent—despite the obvious fact that actors had always spoken and that silence was merely a technological limitation, not an aesthetic choice.[4] Similarly, early color film faced fierce resistance from purists who had convinced themselves that black-and-white cinematography represented cinema's essential nature. In each case, what was presented as a defense of authenticity was actually a defense of technological limitation masquerading as aesthetic principle. The world has always been in color. The world has always had sound. Our inability to capture these dimensions did not make their absence more "true"—it simply made our technologies inadequate to the task of representation. The same logic applies to historical photography. Monochrome is not more authentic; it is simply less complete. The Human Dimension: Race, Identity, and Chromatic Erasure The stakes of this debate extend beyond aesthetics into the realm of human representation and identity. Black-and-white photography does not simply remove color—it systematically erases crucial markers of human diversity and individuality. Human beings exist in millions of color variations. A person of European descent might possess ruddy, pinkish skin and green eyes. A person of African descent might have deep brown skin with warm amber undertones and rich brown eyes. In monochrome photography, this extraordinary chromatic diversity collapses into a narrow tonal range, flattening human difference into gradations of gray. The political dimensions of this flattening deserve more attention than they have received. For subjects with darker complexions, monochrome photography can cause facial features to merge with shadows, diminishing the directness of their gaze and their visual presence in the frame. The eyes—those proverbial windows to the soul—recede into the overall tonality of the image. Colorization restores what should never have been taken away. The warmth of skin becomes visible. The whites of the eyes regain their subtle variations—cream, ivory, the slight pink that makes the iris distinct. Brown eyes acquire depth and catch light with specificity. The person in the photograph becomes present rather than past, immediate rather than distant. This is not artifice. This is restoration of human dimension. Pedagogy and the Instagram Generation We must also confront the pedagogical implications of our choices about how we present the past. In an era of rapid digital scrolling, younger viewers—adolescents with no lived memory of analog photography—do not pause for faded, degraded monochrome images. They lack the interpretive frameworks that trained historians bring to archival materials. They have not been taught to "see past" deterioration. I have witnessed this firsthand in the classroom. Students encountering badly degraded historical photographs have asked, with genuine confusion: "How did they create that effect?" They perceived the damage as intentional aesthetic filtering rather than as the unintentional result of time and poor reproduction. To them, degradation reads as artifice. The "authentic" past looks fake. Louis Comfort Tiffany Mindful reconstruction with use of color Present those same students with a carefully colorized version that restores dimensional information and human presence, and they stop scrolling. They look. They ask questions. They connect with the subject as a person rather than as a historical abstraction. This is not pandering to short attention spans—it is recognizing that engagement is the precondition for education. A photograph that no one examines preserves nothing. A photograph that arrests attention and provokes inquiry has accomplished something meaningful. The Instability of “Original" There is a final point worth considering: the concept of the "original" photograph is itself far less stable than archival discourse typically acknowledges. Juan Montes, one of my photographic forebears, documented Indigenous peoples in northwestern Argentina in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Every print made from his negatives was different. Chemistry varied. Paper quality differed. Exposure times fluctuated. Development processes were inconsistent. So which print represents the "original"? The first one struck from the negative? The best preserved example? The one that happened to survive into our archives? The notion that there exists a single, authoritative version of any historical photograph is a convenient fiction that serves institutional needs for classification and control. But it does not reflect the material reality of photographic production. Conclusion: Toward a More Honest Historicism I am not advocating for the indiscriminate colorization of all historical photographs. The European black-and-white tradition—the work of photographers like August Sander, the Bechers, and others—retains profound aesthetic and documentary power. Monochrome photography, when deliberately chosen rather than technologically imposed, can reveal truths that color might obscure. But we must distinguish between limitation and choice, between technological inadequacy and aesthetic intention. And we must be honest about what we are doing when we insist on presenting the past exclusively through degraded monochrome reproductions. We are not preserving truth. We are preserving a particular relationship to the past—one that maintains distance, that emphasizes pastness itself, that keeps historical subjects safely contained within their moment rather than allowing them to become present to us. Colorization, done thoughtfully and with historical rigor, offers an alternative. It does not erase the original; rather, it adds a layer of interpretation, much as translation adds interpretive layers to a text. It makes the past more accessible without making it less complex. It honors subjects like Tiffany by representing them in the chromatic dimensions that mattered to them. The real manipulation is not colorization. The real manipulation is pretending there is only one right way to see the past—and that this way happens to coincide precisely with the limitations of century-old technology. Perhaps we should be more suspicious of our own investments in those limitations. Notes [1] Walter Benjamin, "The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction" (1935); Geoffrey Batchen, Burning with Desire: The Conception of Photography (MIT Press, 1997); Martha Rosler, "In, Around, and Afterthoughts (on Documentary Photography)," in Decoys and Disruptions (MIT Press, 2004). [2] For technical details on the Autochrome process, see Alison Nordström, "Truth, Beauty, and the Autochrome," in Photography: Theoretical Snapshots, ed. J.J. Long, Andrea Noble, and Edward Welch (Routledge, 2009). [3] Personal conversation, Penumbra Foundation, 2024. The Foundation's collection includes approximately 200 Autochrome plates from 1907-1935. [4] See Donald Crafton, The Talkies: American Cinema's Transition to Sound, 1926-1931 (University of California Press, 1997).

By Tracey O’Shaughnessy September 28, 2025 Connecticut Post - The sculptures of Kent artist Joy Brown — round, serene, and ethereal — carry a paradox. Though massive and weighty, they appear to float with pacific grace. This captivating duality drew filmmaker Eduardo Montes-Bradley to her work. Known for his documentaries on artists, he arranged to meet Brown and eventually followed her for two years while she created a monumental 50-foot ceramic mural titled One World. Installed in 2023 at a private museum on the Japanese island of Amami Oshima, the mural became the centerpiece of Montes-Bradley’s new documentary, One World: The Art of Joy Brown, which screens October 4 at the Mystic Film Festival (October 2–5). A Journey from Kent to Japan The film traces Brown’s process from her studio in Kent, Connecticut, to Japan and China, and back again to her home kiln. Since 1987, Brown has fired her work in a traditional Anagama kiln — a 30-foot-long, tunnel-style, wood-fired kiln of ancient Korean and Japanese design. Built with 28 tons of salvaged firebrick, it requires a week of continuous stoking with eight tons of hardwood while the kiln climbs to 2,150°F. The unpredictable firing produces surfaces dusted with ash and glaze that are, in Brown’s words, “always surprising.” Montes-Bradley at work in Kent William Montes-Liendo, Amano Japan Commissioned by her high school friend Shinichiro Watari , chairman of Cornes & Company, the mural reflects the diverse and close-knit spirit of their international school days in Kobe during the 1960s. Its theme, One World , celebrates harmony and love. The final work — 500 ceramic panels, each 4-by-12 feet — depicts a reclining female figure beneath a mango tree, embraced by a dog-like companion, surrounded by sea life, vegetation, and butterflies native to Amami Oshima. “I think of it as Mother Earth dreaming of this world of harmony and peace,” Brown explains. Faith, Craft, and Mission For Montes-Bradley, Brown’s art reflects her family legacy as Christian missionaries in Asia, infused with Zen-like meditative qualities. “She has inherited the missionary bug,” he says. “It’s just that she’s saving the world with different tools.” Musician Dave Matthews , a collector of Brown’s work, appears in the film, affirming the kindness and creative discipline at the heart of her art. Brown herself sees her rounded, bronzed figures as projections of an ideal self: “They’re like how I’d like to be — open and aware, calm. Wouldn’t we all like to be like that?” A Force to Be Reckoned With Brown’s sculptures once lined Broadway with nine towering bronzes, but she has remained committed to a personal vision rather than fame. Montes-Bradley describes her as “one of the best ceramicists I’ve ever known… a force to be reckoned with.” One World: The Art of Joy Brown will be presented at the 8th Annual Mystic Film Festival , with a screening on October 4 at 11:30 a.m. at Mystic Luxury Cinemas. 🎟️ For tickets and more information: mysticfilmfestival.com

Bridgetower final resting place Last night, over dinner at our home, the poet Rita Dove spoke of descending into darkness to honor a forgotten genius. She and her husband, Fred Viebahn , had joined my wife and producer, Soledad Liendo, and me for an evening that began with seafood paella and ended with the kind of conversation that redirects the course of one's work. Rita was recounting her pilgrimage to the catacombs beneath a London church, where George Bridgetower —the prodigiously gifted violinist who once collaborated with Beethoven—lies in relative obscurity. For Rita, whose extraordinary collection Sonata Mulattica resurrects Bridgetower's voice and restores him to the historical record he deserves, this visit was an act of communion with her subject. She described the cool stone corridors, the hushed atmosphere of that subterranean space, and the quiet weight of standing before the resting place of a man whose brilliance had been largely erased from collective memory. Her journey to Bridgetower had begun, she told us, with a moment of serendipity: watching Bernard Rose's 1994 film Immortal Beloved , in which Gary Oldman's tempestuous Beethoven moves through a world populated by figures like Giulietta Guicciardi (Isabella Rossellini) and Anton Schindler (Jeroen Krabbé). Somewhere in that cinematic rendering of Beethoven's life, Rita glimpsed the shadow of another story—one that had been relegated to footnotes and scholarly asides. What began as curiosity evolved into excavation, and Sonata Mulattica emerged as both historical recovery and imaginative reconstruction. Before the paella. An evening of poetry and camaradery Now her recollection has begun to shape my own project: a documentary that will trace Bridgetower's arc from celebrated virtuoso to historical footnote, and attempt to understand what was lost in that erasure. Rita's image of the catacombs has lodged itself in my imagination, and I find myself drawn to the idea of opening the film there—in that liminal space between remembrance and forgetting, where Bridgetower waits beneath the city that once lionized him. In Search of George Bridgetower: A Journey Begins Below Ground Soon I will travel to London myself, following the trail of his life through the streets where he performed, the concert halls that once rang with his artistry, and the networks of patronage and prejudice that ultimately circumscribed his legacy. London in Bridgetower's era was also the city of George Frederick Bristow and Joseph Haydn, whose own migrations and musical innovations enriched its cultural landscape. To study Bridgetower is to study the currents that brought these figures together and the forces that determined whose names would endure. What draws me most powerfully to this story is not merely its neglect, but what that neglect reveals about the mechanisms of historical memory—about who gets remembered, who gets forgotten, and how music both transcends and is constrained by questions of race, nationality, and belonging. Bridgetower's story, emerging now from the shadows where it has rested too long, offers an entry point into these larger questions. It asks us to reconsider not just one man's life, but the entire architecture of commemoration that has shaped our understanding of musical history. The documentary begins, then, where Rita's pilgrimage led her: below ground, in the quiet company of the dead, where the work of resurrection must always start.

A Waking Dream I find myself trapped in 1898, not by choice but by some strange force, as if the year itself were a lucid dream from which I cannot—or perhaps do not wish to—wake. Every path of research leads back to this temporal crossroads, this pivot point where centuries collide in the most unlikely symphony of events. Perhaps this temporal magnetism draws me here because 1898 marks the precise moment when cinema evolves from mechanical novelty into the art of visual storytelling. Here, Georges Méliès conducts his revolutionary experiments with "Illusions fantasmagoriques," discovering the stop trick that would fundamentally transform how images could be assembled and meaning created through editing. Simultaneously, Edwin S. Porter's work "as a projectionist at the Eden Musée theater in 1898" becomes an education in the primitive art of continuity—learning to arrange discrete one-shot films into coherent programs that tell larger stories. This is, in great measure, the essence of what we do as documentary filmmakers: we are visual essayists, crafting narratives on celluloid and pixels rather than paper. The kinship runs deeper than technique—it's philosophical. Just as Méliès realized that film could conjure impossible worlds through temporal manipulation, we discover that documentary can reveal hidden truths about the real world through the same fundamental alchemy of selection, sequence, and juxtaposition. The Architecture of a Dream Year Picture Vienna in winter: Freud hunched over his desk wrestling with The Interpretation of Dreams . He is mapping the unconscious while across the Atlantic, another kind of explosion is brewing—America's imperial awakening. The USS Maine will detonate in Havana Harbor, transforming the United States from continental power into global empire through what John Hay will call "a splendid little war." Against this backdrop of imperial emergence, George Frederick Bristow—America's first symphonic voice—conducts the premiere of his Fifth Symphony "Niagara" at Carnegie Hall. Sigmund Freud The irony cuts deeper than geography: as Freud discovers that individual consciousness conceals vast hidden territories of repressed desire and traumatic memory, America discovers its own unconscious imperial appetite, previously repressed beneath continental expansion and isolationist rhetoric. Freud explores the inner cataracts of the mind just as Bristow celebrates the thundering waters that mark boundaries between nations—boundaries that America is about to cross with unprecedented force. The Dreamer's Dilemma Being trapped in 1898 means witnessing the birth pangs of modernity while still breathing the air of the 19th century. It's January 1st, and New York City suddenly swallows Brooklyn, Queens, The Bronx, and Staten Island, becoming the world's second-largest metropolis overnight—a municipal transformation that creates the stage for America's imperial century. On January 13th, Émile Zola's pen strikes against the Dreyfus affair with "J'Accuse...!" The collision between old institutional power and new moral courage captures everything 1898 embodies. Seven months later, in Basel, Theodor Herzl convenes the Second Zionist Congress on August 28th. Here, the movement transitions from aspiration to institution, establishing the Jewish Colonial Trust—the financial mechanism that would fund systematic resettlement in Palestine. While America discovers its imperial appetite across oceans, Herzl institutionalizes a different form of territorial reclamation, one based on historical memory rather than military conquest, but equally transformative in its consequences. The decisions made in that Basel congress hall continue to reshape political realities today, creating a future that extends far beyond 1898's immediate horizons. The Aleph of American Art This is where the dream becomes most vivid, most strange—where I discover the Borgesian convergence that anchors me here. Three figures emerge like points in an aleph: Louis Comfort Tiffany begins experimenting with enamels in 1898, becoming one of the first designers to utilize electricity in his lamp designs, bringing Art Nouveau's organic sensibility into American homes; Commissioner Attilio Piccirilli receives his commission for the USS Maine memorial; and Bristow composes his final symphony. Each represents a different artistic response to the pressures of modernity: Tiffany's orientalist-influenced Art Nouveau marking "the birth of a modern aesthetic for the emerging 20th century", Piccirilli's late Renaissance approach to public mourning, Bristow's European symphonic tradition serving American nationalist themes. Three distinct vocabularies for processing the same historical moment—the old world's forms stretched to contain new world realities. The Year as Palimpsest and Celluloid The temporal connections spiral outward from 1898: Tolstoy's "The Kreutzer Sonata," published in 1889 and "promptly censored by the Russian authorities," reached American shores where it was banned by the U.S. Post Office Department in 1890. His moral treatise against sexual passion took its title from Beethoven's 1803 composition—originally dedicated to George Augustus Bridgetower, a mixed-race violinist whose story would later inspire Rita Dove's "Sonata Mulattica." What Beethoven conceived as a musical tribute to a Black virtuoso became, through Tolstoy's appropriation, a Russian Orthodox meditation on temptation, which then became American moral panic—exactly the kind of censorship cycle that would define the coming century. «The Kreutzer Sonata», by Leo Tolstoy, Geneve, 1901 But 1898 adds another layer to this palimpsest: celluloid. "The shift in consciousness away from films as animated photographs to films as stories, or narratives, began to take place about the turn of the century and is most evident in the work of the French filmmaker Georges Méliès." While Freud maps the unconscious and Bristow conducts symphonies, Méliès is discovering that film can tell stories, can create what he calls "artificially arranged scenes." The same year that sees the USS Maine explode in Havana Harbor, cinema learns to explode narrative time itself. The Previous Generation's Future But here's the temporal paradox that holds me: the 1870s and 1880s generation that would witness my 1898 was actively dreaming it into existence. Edward Bellamy's "Looking Backward: 2000-1887," published in 1888, became one of the most popular novels of its day, selling more than a million copies and creating a political movement imagining 1898's immediate future as a technological utopia. Bellamy made "daring predictions" including "the existence of radio, television, motion pictures, and credit cards," even envisioning something resembling Amazon with centralized distribution systems and on-demand music services "piped directly to homes via telephone wires". In the same year, H.G. Wells publishes "The War of the Worlds," imagining a future that never comes—Martian invasion, the collapse of civilization under alien heat rays, humanity's technological inadequacy against superior beings. Looking Backwards, Edward - Bellamy The 1870s-80s generation envisioning 1898 imagined it simultaneously as their socialist paradise and their science fiction apocalypse, while the actual 1898 I'm trapped in was busy birthing American imperialism and Freudian psychology—neither Bellamy's cooperative commonwealth nor Wells' interplanetary war, but something entirely different. Wells writes about Martians destroying English civilization just as America is about to destroy Spanish civilization. The future holds world wars and atomic weapons, not heat rays from Mars—but the terror Wells imagines of technological superiority and civilizational collapse proves remarkably prescient, just misdirected skyward instead of inward. The ultimate irony? Wells' Martians never invaded Earth, but we became the Martians. By the 21st century, humans would be the ones launching artificial cylinders toward the red planet, the colonizers rather than the colonized. The heat rays and tripods remained fiction, but the imperial impulse Wells projected onto aliens became our own interplanetary reality. In 1898, as Spain's empire crumbles and America's begins, Wells imagines invasion from above while the real expansion was already reaching toward the stars. The 1876 Philadelphia Centennial Exhibition had shown off "the products of the early Industrial Revolution," and by 1898, the Trans-Mississippi Exposition in Omaha was showcasing "the development of the entire West, stretching from the Mississippi River to the Pacific Coast"—not Bellamy's vision, but American empire stretching toward the Pacific. Carnegie Hall, April 11th: The Future Applauds Its Past On April 11th George Frederick Bristow conducts the premiere of his Fifth Symphony "Niagara." The elite audience at Carnegie Hall experiences what will be America's last great Romantic symphony before the modernist ruptures of the coming century. The audience hears the thundering of Niagara Falls translated into orchestral language—nature's power channeled through European symphonic tradition in service of American nationalist sentiment. George Bristow As Bristow's baton cuts through the gaslit air, each member of the audience carries their own temporal displacement. They are the embodiment of the 1870s' future dreams, yet they themselves are dreaming forward to a 20th century they cannot imagine. We can only imagine who might have been there—perhaps Tiffany dreaming of expanding his decorative empire to Cuba's Presidential Palace, perhaps Piccirilli or Daniel Chester French, who would later collaborate with architect Henry Bacon to create the Lincoln Memorial, one of the last great monuments of the American Renaissance—but we cannot know. What we do know is that the entire cast of characters from my recent films could have been there, except for Tolstoy, who was exploring celibacy in Russia. And somewhere in this temporal convergence, the former enslaved and freemen fiddlers whose stories I would later chase in my documentary "Black Fiddlers" were creating their own musical traditions. The temporal loop closes when Joe Thomson, the last in a long line of Black fiddlers, reveals on camera that he and his cousin Odell will be honored at Carnegie Hall—the same hall where Bristow's audience applauds in 1898, finally welcoming the musical voices it once excluded. 1898: Back to the Present The music swells, and the audience hears Niagara Falls translated into orchestral language—nature's power channeled through European symphonic tradition in service of American nationalist sentiment, just as their nation is about to erase boundaries across oceans. When the final note fades and the applause begins, they are applauding more than Bristow's composition. They are applauding the strange temporal convergence that brought them here—refugees from the 1870s' dreams, pioneers of the 1900s' nightmares, momentarily suspended in the perfect acoustic of historical transition. 1898 won't let me go because it contains so many beginnings disguised as endings, so many futures emerging from what seemed like the settled past. To be trapped in 1898 is to be caught between worlds—sitting in that Carnegie Hall audience, applauding the moment when one century's dreams became another century's raw material for entirely different dreams.

NOTES FOR A DOCUMENTARY FILM A conversation with architectural historian Richard Guy Wilson recently illuminated the complex web of cultural influences that shaped Louis Comfort Tiffany 's celebrated fascination with the Orient. Wilson, author of "Mysticism, Alchemy, and Architecture: Designing Laurelton Hall," offered insights that extend far beyond the individual artist to reveal a broader intellectual cosmology of 19th-century America. Welcome to Richard Guy Wilson's Home Beyond Individual Influence My initial approach to understanding Tiffany's Oriental fascination had been personal—filtered through my own encounters with writers like Lev Nussimbaum (who wrote under the pen names Essad Bey and Kurban Said) and later Edward Said, as well as my childhood reading of Washington Irving's "Tales of the Alhambra" in a beautiful early edition by Editorial Araluce when I was eight. But as Wilson reminded me, understanding what drew me to Middle Eastern visual culture would not necessarily illuminate what captivated Tiffany a century earlier. The influences that shaped the great glass artist belonged to an entirely different cultural moment. The Silver Connection Wilson pointed to a more immediate and tangible influence: Edward C. Moore, the silver artist who worked for Tiffany's father in the family's silver company. Many scholars believe Moore's work exposed the young Louis Comfort to Oriental design principles and visual sensibilities that would later inspire his own travels to experience these influences firsthand. This connection becomes visible in Tiffany's work—not just in his famous stained glass windows for churches, but perhaps most dramatically in the chapel he created for the 1893 Chicago World's Fair. That chapel, later moved to his Laurelton estate and now housed at the Morse Museum in Florida, bears the unmistakable marks of Byzantine and Middle Eastern influence. The Byzantine Current The Oriental Fascination: Tracing the Cultural Currents That Shaped Louis Comfort Tiffany Our conversation took an unexpected turn toward ecclesiastical history and the profound impact of the Byzantine tradition on Western culture. This influence gained particular momentum with Napoleon's Egyptian campaign, which occurred well before Tiffany's time but set in motion a fascination with Oriental aesthetics that would ripple through the 19th century. We agreed that understanding these cultural evolutions requires thinking of taste not as a series of discrete moments but as a continuous process—one that defies precise beginnings and endings. Cultural influence flows like a river, carrying aesthetic ideas across centuries and continents. The Bridgetower Connection The Oriental Fascination in Western culture became even clearer when I shared the remarkable story of Frederick Bridgetower and his prodigy son, who toured Europe at the turn of the 1800s dressed as an Ottoman oriental—despite likely being the grandson of an enslaved African from Barbados. That this young violinist inspired Beethoven's Violin Sonata No. 9, Op. 47 (later known as the Kreutzer Sonata) suggests how deeply Oriental imagery had penetrated European cultural consciousness by the late 18th century. The American Oriental Tradition Wilson reminded me that Tiffany existed within a larger community of American intellectuals drawn to Oriental themes. This tradition stretches back to Washington Irving and his enduring fascination with all things Oriental. Irving's "Tales of the Alhambra" continues to inspire admiration for the presence and culture of the Moors in Spain, representing an American literary engagement with Oriental imagery that preceded and helped prepare the ground for Tiffany's own explorations. A Planetary System of Minds By the end of our conversation, a clearer picture had emerged—not just of Tiffany as an individual artist, but of the cultural cosmology in which he operated. Tiffany was one celestial body in a vast planetary system of minds that included figures as diverse as Walt Whitman, Oscar Wilde, and John Keats. Each was shaped by and contributed to a broader cultural fascination with the Orient that transcended individual biography. This perspective transforms our understanding of Tiffany's achievement. Rather than seeing his Oriental-inspired work as the product of personal taste or individual genius, we can appreciate it as part of a larger cultural movement—one that connected American artists and intellectuals to design traditions that spanned continents and centuries. The beauty of Tiffany's stained glass and decorative objects thus becomes not just a testament to his individual vision, but a crystallization of cultural currents that had been flowing through Western imagination for generations. In his windows and lamps, we see not just colored glass, but the refracted light of a civilization's encounter with the visual wisdom of the East. Suscribe to the Blog as we continue looking into The Oriental Fascination: tracing the cultural currents that shaped Louis Comfort Tiffany.