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By Eduardo Montes-Bradley Charlottesville, Virginia — November 10, 2025 Preface The following open letter was delivered today to the Mayor and City Council of Charlottesville, as well as to local and regional media outlets. It concerns the absence of public records regarding the removal and disposition of Charles Keck’s Their First View of the Pacific , the Lewis and Clark Monument formerly located at Ridge–McIntire Road and West Main Street. A piece of civic heritage has been rendered orphaned , An Open Letter on the Fate of Charlottesville’s Lewis and Clark Monument In response to a formal request under the Virginia Freedom of Information Act (Va. Code § 2.2-3700 et seq.), the City of Charlottesville has confirmed that it possesses no records relating to the ownership, transfer, or disposition of the Meriwether Lewis and William Clark Monument , known as Their First View of the Pacific, sculpted by noted artist Charles Keck (1875–1951) , formerly located at Ridge–McIntire Road and West Main Street. In an email dated November 10, the City’s FOIA Officer wrote: “The City of Charlottesville has reviewed its files, and records responsive to your request could not be found or do not exist.” This official statement means that no resolutions, contracts, transfer documents, or chain-of-custody records exist to explain who authorized the monument’s removal, where it was taken, or who now owns it. By its own admission, the City has no documentary evidence governing the fate of a public artwork that stood in Charlottesville for more than a century. This absence of record-keeping raises serious concerns about transparency, stewardship, and compliance with Virginia’s public-property and records laws. If the City transferred or deaccessioned the monument, documentation of that process is legally required. If no such transfer occurred, then the City has effectively acknowledged that a public monument was removed and disposed of without authority or oversight. Public reporting has noted that the Jefferson School African American Heritage Center participated in the monument’s removal in coordination with members of City Council. That partnership was presented to the public as part of a lawful process. Yet the City’s present claim—that no records exist—leaves both the monument and the municipality in an untenable position: an important piece of civic heritage has been rendered orphaned , and the public has been denied the documentation necessary to understand how or why that occurred. This is not merely a clerical lapse; it is a matter of public trust. Citizens of Charlottesville deserve a full accounting of what happened to the Lewis and Clark Monument, who authorized its removal, and under what legal authority. I call on the City to produce any and all existing records , to explain the absence of documentation , and to initiate an independent review of its handling of this historic work. Furthermore, in light of the City’s acknowledgment that no records exist establishing lawful ownership, custody, or transfer of the Lewis and Clark Monument, I respectfully request that the City of Charlottesville, its contractors, and any associated organizations refrain from undertaking any further actions that could alter, relocate, damage, or otherwise affect the monument until ownership and accountability have been properly documented and verified. Any modification or movement of the monument at this stage—absent a clear legal record—would risk compounding the City’s exposure and further eroding public trust. Preservation of the status quo is the only responsible course until transparency is restored. Finally, while errors may have been made in haste or misunderstanding, the path to integrity remains open. The Lewis and Clark Monument—Their First View of the Pacific by Charles Keck is not merely a statue but a significant work of American public art. The City now has an opportunity to correct its course honorably: by acknowledging the absence of due process, restoring the artwork to its lawful and rightful place , and recommitting to the preservation of our shared artistic and historical heritage. Such an action would not erase the past—it would redeem it, reaffirming Charlottesville’s respect for truth, culture, and the rule of law.

A New Documentary in Development Drummond storefront on Fulton St, New York Once Upon a Time in America For nearly two centuries, the history of photography in America has been told the same way. It frequently begins with Mathew Brady and the Civil War, passes through Jacob Riis and the social reformers, and culminates in the artistic breakthroughs of Alfred Stieglitz, Edward Steichen, and the modernists who followed. But what if that story is incomplete? What if the true origins of American photography were never lost — only overlooked? Over the past year, I’ve been working closely with Eric Taubman , founder of the Penumbra Foundation , whose archival research has uncovered documentary evidence that upends the accepted narrative. His findings reveal that the earliest photographic manufacturing, distribution, and process innovation in the United States did not emerge from later 19th-century studios — but from two New York families working as early as 1839 , the very year photography was introduced to the world in Paris. Their family names were Lewis and Drummond , and their story has never been told on film. A History That Needs Restoring Eric’s research traces the story to a workshop in Chatham Square, where William and W.H. Lewis began producing photographic equipment and chemistry for a growing number of daguerreotype operators. Their business expanded north to New Windsor, New York , a town so transformed by photography that locals called it “Daguerreville.” The narrative continues with A.J. Drummond , who married into the Lewis family and carried their innovations into the next generation, linking early daguerreotype production with the later development of carbon printing and industrial photographic processes. This forgotten history reveals a network of artisans, chemists, inventors, and entrepreneurs working years before Brady — and long before photography became an art form or a journalistic tool. It was, from the beginning, an American industry. This is not a revision. It is a restoration. About "Light & The City" Light & The City will be the first documentary to bring this story to the screen — a film about photography not as an artistic afterthought to European invention, but as a homegrown act of innovation rooted in New York’s workshops, rooftops, and factories. Part detective story, part industrial archaeology, and part cultural re-awakening, the film seeks to expandoand complete the historical record and attribution, restore visibility to early innovators and their descendants, reveal newly surfaced documents, objects, and visual evidence, expand our understanding of how photography took root in America, and return New York to its rightful place as the birthplace of American photographic culture. Eric Taubman will serve as the archival and historical voice guiding the film, while on-location cinematography, rare images, and reconstructed timelines bring the forgotten story back to life. A first visit to Penumbra in October 2024 Current Phase The project is now in scripted development through the Documentary Film Fund (501c3) , with Penumbra Foundation  serving as institutional partner. I will direct the film through Heritage Film Project , with Soledad Liendo as Line Producer and Eric Taubman as Executive Producer. How It Began I first met Eric in Brooklyn almost a year ago through a mutual friend. One conversation led to another, and soon we found ourselves piecing together fragments of a story that had slipped through the cracks of history. What began as curiosity has now crystallized into a shared mission — to bring to light the true origins of American photography before they vanish again. Light & The City is the result of that collaboration. More updates — including first research footage, early interviews, and a production timeline — will follow as we move forward.

A Review of Katherine K. Preston's George Bristow Charlottesville, Virginia -- George Frederick Bristow (1825–1898) is recognized by scholars for his advocacy of American composers, most notably through his participation in a public debate in early 1854 with critics Richard Storrs Willis and John Sullivan Dwight. The exchange centered on the New York Philharmonic Society's limited support for works by native musicians. In George Frederick Bristow  (University of Illinois Press, 2020), Katherine K. Preston examines this episode while providing a broader view of Bristow's life and career, drawing on previously underexplored family materials. Katherine PReston's Book Preston, professor emerita at the College of William & Mary, makes use of the Bristow Collection at the New York Public Library, including letters, photographs, and other documents acquired from the composer's descendants. These sources help to present Bristow as a working musician in 19th-century New York: a violinist in orchestras, a church organist and choir director, a private and public school teacher, and a composer across multiple genres. The book follows a chronological structure. It begins with Bristow's early years and his emergence as a composer in the 1840s and early 1850s, including his involvement with figures like Louis Jullien. The narrative then covers the 1850s, a period that saw the premiere of his opera Rip Van Winkle  in 1855 and the completion of Symphony No. 2, known as the "Jullien" symphony. The 1860s are addressed next, with attention to the Oratorio of Daniel  from 1866 and the effects of the Civil War on Bristow's personal and professional life. The account continues into the 1870s, when Bristow was described in contemporary sources as a composer of "native independence and originality," and extends to the 1880s and 1890s, when he remained active as an educator and composer until his death in 1898. Separate interludes focus on specific aspects of his work. One examines his private teaching, another his direction of church music and composition of sacred pieces, a third his instruction in public schools, and a fourth his activities as a businessman and musical authority. Preston describes Bristow's output, which included five symphonies, overtures, chamber music, songs, piano pieces, secular choral works, and sacred compositions. She notes contemporary praise for features such as melodic clarity and effective orchestration for winds. The book also mentions lighter elements in his music, such as the polka-influenced scherzo in Symphony No. 2, which reflects the popular dance styles of the era. Contemporary accounts from letters and periodicals reveal Bristow as patient with students, devoted to family, and equipped with a dry sense of humor. Preston places his activities within the broader musical culture of New York, illustrating the range of opportunities available to professional musicians at the time. The biography, an approach to rediscovering George Bristow, has been well received. Douglas Shadle describes it as a detailed resource on 19th-century American music. E. Douglas Bomberger notes its perspective on the era through Bristow's experiences. A review in Music & Letters  calls it clear and authoritative, while Nineteenth-Century Music Review  recommends it as useful reading for understanding transatlantic musical connections. Preston's account offers a balanced look at Bristow's contributions and the environment in which he worked. It serves as a reference for those studying American music before 1900.

When History Is Rewritten Without Evidence A few years ago, the name Meriwether Lewis was removed from the elementary school in Ivy, and shortly thereafter, the sculpture honoring Lewis and Clark was taken down as well. These actions were carried out in the name of “historical correction,” but the justification used at the time was not based on verifiable fact. It was based on assumption — and assumption has now stood in for history long enough. In the public argument supporting the erasure of Lewis, it was claimed that he once owned more than 17,000 acres of land, that he “held more land than any plantation owner of his time,” and that therefore “it is fair to assume” his landholdings would have required enslaved labor, making him complicit in a profitable slave economy. “In the 18th century Lewis was granted over 17,000 acres of property along the eastern ridge. While there is no smoking gun there is a correlation between the need to increase labor as these lands become cultivated. What is also true is that he held more land than any other plantation owner of his time. Under those circumstances it is fair to assume that his holdings would lead to the cultivation of a lucrative economy of chattel slavery that would result in Albemarle County being the 4th richest area in all of Virginia.” The phrase “fair to assume” appeared in the very argument used to condemn him. That alone should have stopped the process. Instead, it became the basis for removing a name, removing a monument, and reshaping public memory. Meriwether Lewis by Charles B.J.F. Saint-Mémin, 1807. From the collection of the New-York Historical. But there is still no documented evidence that Meriwether Lewis ever owned enslaved people, operated a plantation, or profited from slavery. No deed books, no estate records, no probate inventories — nothing. Even the committee acknowledged there was “no smoking gun.” Yet the conclusion was treated as settled fact. This is not how history works. It is how political narrative works. And when narrative replaces evidence, the public is not educated — it is manipulated. The Case of Meriwether Lewis The claim that Lewis was the largest landholder of his time is false . The great slaveholding estates of Virginia belonged to families such as the Carters, Randolphs, and Byrds, not the Lewises. Much of the land associated with Meriwether Lewis was untamed frontier acreage, not plantation farmland, and most of it was never personally worked, settled, or harvested in his lifetime. Charlottesville has already paid a high price for decisions made in haste and justified by rhetoric. It is not too late to insist that the next decisions be guided by evidence instead of ideology. Equally important: the economic boom in enslaved labor that enriched Albemarle County occurred after Lewis’s death in 1809. One cannot condemn a man for an economic system that expanded decades after he was buried. Yet the school lost its name, the sculpture was removed, and a generation of students was taught to regard Lewis not as an explorer, statesman, or symbol of American curiosity, but as a villain — not because of evidence, but because of an assumption treated as fact. Names change. Monuments disappear. But when they are removed on the basis of conjecture rather than documentation, what is being erased is not just a figure from the past — it is the integrity of the historical record itself. This article is not an argument for restoring the former name or returning the monument. Reasonable people may still disagree about symbols in public space. But we should all agree that history must be based on what we can prove — not on what we “find fair to assume.”

He Brought Fireworks—and Left a Spark In the middle of the nineteenth century, an extravagant Frenchman arrived in New York with a gold-tipped baton and a sense of theater that the concert stage had never seen. His name was Louis-Antoine Jullien, and long before Liberace—or anyone who understood that art and spectacle could share the same stage—there was Jullien. Louis-Antoine Jullien He conducted as if possessed, turning orchestral performance into performance art. He wore white gloves, waved to his audience like an emperor, and surrounded himself with military bands, choral forces, and cannon fire. A critic once wrote that Jullien could “charm the public with a pirouette and a fortissimo.” What might have been dismissed as vanity was, in truth, a calculated revolution: Jullien believed music should belong to everyone, not just the drawing rooms of the elite. A Mission in the New World When he set foot in America in 1853, Jullien came not only to entertain but to inspire. He saw in the young republic an untapped creative potential, a nation ready to find its own voice. His concert tours were thunderous events, filling New York’s halls with brass, drums, and audiences eager for a taste of European brilliance spiced with showmanship. Yet behind the spectacle lay a serious purpose. Jullien urged American musicians to move beyond imitation—to compose works that could stand proudly beside those of Europe. Louis-Antoine Jullien died forgotten, his fortune gone and his reputation eclipsed by the very idea he had championed: that music should evolve, and new voices should rise. Yet each time an orchestra premieres a work by an American composer, there’s an echo of that flamboyant Frenchman who once waved a golden baton and dared a young nation to find its song. Bristow and the “Jullien Symphony” One of those who listened was George Frederick Bristow, a young violinist and composer from Brooklyn. At that time, American orchestras mostly performed imported music, and native composers were seldom taken seriously. When Jullien announced his plan to commission an original work from an American, Bristow seized the opportunity. The result was the Symphony in E-flat Major, soon known as the Jullien Symphony. Jullien premiered it in New York with his touring orchestra—a landmark moment in American music. For the first time, a European maestro of international reputation had placed his faith in an American composer and given his work a full professional presentation. Critics were divided, as critics tend to be, but the symbolism was powerful. Jullien’s endorsement told audiences that American music deserved to be heard on its own terms. Legacy of a Showman Jullien’s American adventure ended in bankruptcy and scandal, but his influence endured. He showed that artistry and flamboyance need not cancel each other out—that one could wear a jeweled baton and still advance the cause of serious music. He cracked open a door through which later visionaries—Bernstein, Stokowski, even Liberace in his own dazzling way—would walk. As for Bristow, the commission gave him confidence and standing, shaping a career devoted to proving that symphonic art could flourish on American soil. His Jullien Symphony remains a bold early step toward a national sound.

The following unsigned article appeared in The Choir Leader in December 1898—the very month of George Frederick Bristow’s death. The author could not have known that the composer would pass away only weeks later, and thus the piece stands midway between tribute and obituary. Written in the past tense yet with the expectation of further work to come, it praises Bristow’s integrity, idealism, and devotion to American musical life while lamenting the nation’s failure to recognize its own artists. The result is a striking document in which biographical sketch and elegy meet almost by accident. As originally published in   The Choir Leader , Vol. 5, No. 10 (December 1898), pp. 1–2. The Choir Leader , Vol. 5, No. 10 Some men achieve a large popular success on a very small capital of ability, because they make general reputation their goal and study how to attain it; others seek only personal culture, real results, and the realization of high ideals, but, in spite of native ability, sustained effort, and noble work, miss the more extensive popular acceptance and appreciation they deserve—either because they are too indifferent to use the necessary methods to secure it, or too ideally sensitive to accept it except as a spontaneous tribute. Sousa , with his catchy marches and opera bouffe , is an example of the former class, while the subject of our present sketch is a notable representative of the latter. Not that Mr. Bristow has not been appreciated, for the positions he has occupied and the work he has accomplished show that, locally at least, he has received considerable honor; but, after all, in a national way he has not received the recognition his magnificent talents and scholarship deserved. He was not exactly fortunate in the time of his birth. Had he been born fifteen or twenty years later, it would have been better for his reputation. In his prime he was too far ahead of his day and generation to be in touch with popular currents of feeling; and by the time musical culture had risen to the necessary standard, his classical, noble style was not acceptable to the hysterical chromatic school of critics who at present make the standards to which the American musical public bows so slavishly. “’Tis true, ’tis pity; ’tis pity, ’tis true,” that this devotion to modernity —a homeopathic dilution of Wagnerism of the millionth potency—should have robbed the grand work of this American composer of the opportunity of enriching and ennobling the American artistic consciousness. After all, it is not Mr. Bristow’s loss we deplore, but that of the American musical public, which has taken a flying leap from the negro minstrel ditty to the decadent rococo style of Liszt, Saint-Saëns, and Grieg, and accepted the attitude of a far-away province that looks over the sea for its ideals of culture and art, instead of normally developing its own type of art in an intelligent way. George Frederick Bristow was born in Brooklyn, New York, on December 19, 1825. His musical education was almost ideal, for he began his studies at the age of five. His father was his teacher in piano and harmony. For the violin he studied first with an Irish teacher bearing the German name of Meyer, and later under Macfarren, President of the Royal Academy of Music in London. He was intimately associated with Ole Bull, to whom he acknowledged many valuable hints. At eleven he entered an orchestra as a professional violinist; at thirteen he became its second leader. At sixteen he was a charter member of the Philharmonic Society, in which he still retains membership. One of the Society’s first concerts included Bristow’s First Overture . Before he was twenty, the same Society performed his Concert Overture , Op. 3, and his Symphony in E-flat . Sir Julius Benedict We have not space to follow step by step these fifty years of composition and public service, and can only note the more striking points in Mr. Bristow’s career. He was concertmaster under Sir Julius Benedict during Jenny Lind’s American tour. Jullien gave him the same position and frequently played his Symphony in D minor , for which he paid Bristow the remarkable sum of $200—an extraordinary fee in those days for an American composition. Bristow later became the efficient conductor of the Philharmonic Society, remaining there eleven years. The Mendelssohn Union was also under his direction for three years. He served as successful head of the music department of the New York public schools for many years, laying the foundation for much of the city’s present musical culture. Jenny Lind (1820–1887) In the musical history of what is now Greater New York, Bristow has written his name large and imperishably. His thoughts turned toward large enterprises, as his early compositions show. In addition to those already mentioned, he composed the Symphony in F-sharp minor and the Arcadian Symphony , also overtures titled Winter’s Tale , Columbus , and The Great Republic . His first oratorio, Praise to God , was thrice performed with increasing interest during the early 1860s. His oratorio Daniel was rendered by the Mendelssohn Union in 1867 with Parepa Rosa as prima donna and was received with great favor. We publish in The Choir Leader this month one of its choruses, hitherto unpublished. Our larger choirs will find it very strong music, as befits Mr. Bristow—a worthy American successor to the great oratorio writers. He also did notable work in opera: Rip Van Winkle , first produced in 1855, proved a great success and was to have been revived in 1865 by Max Maretzek with Clara Louise Kellogg in the leading role. All preparations were completed when the Academy of Music burned, destroying scenery, costumes, and scores. Some energetic opera director should honor American genius enough to revive it, for we believe it would now be more successful than ever. Mr. Bristow had other operas in progress, but they were never completed—probably for lack of the inspiration a waiting manager might have supplied. His Niagara was given by the Manuscript Society of New York last spring and evoked great enthusiasm for its wealth of ideas and contrapuntal resources, no less than for its beauty and sublimity. His treatment of Old Hundredth as a theme for variations displayed his scholarship at its best. The purity of form, melody, and classical thought pleased all save the little clique of “Wagner-haunted” foreign critics, who did not do it justice in the public press. They are not to be blamed, but pitied, that they cannot recognize good music unless it bears the “hallmark” of the foreign. Mr. George Frederick Bristow has written innumerable other compositions—sonatas, fantasias, nocturnes, church services, masses, cantatas, anthems—too many to enumerate. Most of his best work remains in manuscript, there being no commercial promise in the class of composition to which he gave his best strength. Like Schubert, his work will be valued more highly after his death than during his lifetime, and his manuscripts will attain the recognition their intrinsic merits deserve. George Frederick Bristow Mr. Bristow possessed varied musical gifts of a high order. His organ playing was strong and severe in style; as a conductor he was forceful and suggestive in his readings; he succeeded admirably in large choruses, securing fine results from modest materials. As a teacher he was lucid, patient, and exact; as a solo performer he excelled on piano, violin, and organ alike. To all he undertook he brought intelligence, conscientiousness, and an unselfconscious impulse toward genuine, lasting rather than showy results. He is modest and unassuming to a fault, simple in social and personal taste, and full of a sweet, genial humor that endears him to all who appreciate genuineness. It gives us great pleasure to offer this little tribute to his genius and to the good work he has done. If we can add to the wider reputation he so richly deserves, and to the patriotic impulse leading our singers to honor American composers and to throw off the partiality for foreign music—largely fostered by publishers who can cheaply reprint it—we shall be well satisfied. Editorial Note George Frederick Bristow died on December 13, 1898 , only days after this article appeared in The Choir Leader . The piece thus stands as one of the final contemporary tributes written during his lifetime, bridging admiration and elegy. This document has been transcribed and restored on the occasion of Bristow’s Bicentennial as part of the ongoing research for the film project George Frederick Bristow: American Composer , currently in production with the support of the Joseph and Robert Cornell Memorial Foundation .

Charlottesville, a city that once aspired to be a center of learning and culture, now bears the shame of this desecration. Yesterday, while biking along the banks of the Rivanna River within the city limits of Charlottesville , I came upon a sight that left me speechless — and enraged. There, discarded beside a dumpster, lay the bronze figures of Lewis and Clark , the once-proud monument that for decades stood in a place of privilege and visibility at one of the city’s main intersections. This sculpture was not just a landmark; it was a testament to artistry, craftsmanship, and historical reflection — a point of reference for residents and visitors alike. To see it tossed aside, abandoned like refuse, is nothing short of cultural vandalism. Desecration of Art Charlottesville The ignorant zeal of what I can only describe as our own local Taliban has replaced dialogue with destruction. In their rush to erase, they have failed to see what they were destroying: a work of art of extraordinary aesthetic and historic value. One can debate history — and indeed we should — but to mutilate or discard public art created in good faith and great skill is an act of collective barbarism. Charlottesville, a city that once aspired to be a center of learning and culture, now bears the shame of this desecration. I hope — perhaps against hope — that the city will come to its senses, recognize the magnitude of this error, and act before it is too late — before someone steals what remains of the monument, or before the federal government steps in to restore what local ignorance has defaced. Hopefully, the latter is what will happen.

Updated on October 20th with details on the scholarship behind the stainglass work described in the following article. The Jefferson Hotel Following the repatriation ceremony of Elizabeth Kortright Monroe Hay’s remains from Père Lachaise in Paris to Hollywood Cemetery in Richmond, I found myself drawn into a very different kind of adventure when Carolyn Holmes , suggested a stop at The Jefferson Hotel —just two blocks from the necropolis—for a refreshment. As soon as I stepped into the lobby of The Jefferson, I was struck by the magnificent stained-glass dome , a luminous skylight that bathes the grand staircase and Palm Court in soft, diffused light. The architecture around me began to unfold: marble columns, palm-frond motifs, gold-leaf ornamentation, and a subtle interplay between transparency and reflection—an atmosphere poised between opulence and serenity. Carolyn Holmes, former Executive Director of Ash Lawn -Highland The Jefferson Hotel opened in 1895 , a creation of Lewis Ginter and the New York firm Carrère & Hastings . In 1901, a devastating fire consumed much of the building, and the iconic marble statue of Thomas Jefferson , sculpted by Edward Valentine , was heroically rescued—wrapped in mattresses and carried to safety by hotel staff. That image of Jefferson swaddled and saved from the flames echoed another moment in history: the fire that struck the Rotunda at the University of Virginia in 1895 , when students likewise rescued a marble statue of Jefferson by carrying it down the steps on mattresses. These parallel gestures, separated by time and place, feel almost allegorical—reminders that we are destined to save Jefferson from the flames again and again. Perhaps that is as it should be: each generation must decide how to preserve what is worth keeping and reinterpret what the fire cannot erase. The Jefferson Hotel As I stood beneath the dome, I realized I was gazing at the same light that once fell upon Presidents Harrison, Taft, McKinley, Wilson, Coolidge, both Roosevelts, Truman, Reagan, both Bushes, Clinton, and Obama —all guests of The Jefferson. The continuity of that vision, through more than a century of American leadership, lends the place an aura of civic memory. The stained-glass skylight and windows at The Jefferson have long been attributed to Louis Comfort Tiffany, but recent research—including conversations with Tiffany scholar Kelly Conway and verification with The Valentine Museum in Richmond—suggests that these luminous works might not be by Tiffany after all. The uncertainty only deepens their intrigue, reminding us how easily artistic authorship can blur across time. As I lingered in the Palm Court, I realized how this experience paralleled my own work as a filmmaker—how architecture, light, and history merge into narrative form. The Jefferson, with its marble, glass, and echoes of the past, became for me a metaphor for the documentary itself: a space where art and memory coexist, refracting one another through time.

J.J. Lankes (1884–1960) captured the spirit of agrarian America through his woodcuts. Active between the World Wars, he collaborated with poet Robert Frost and other writers to express an American vision of rural life centered on self-sufficiency and manual labor, apart from industrialization. His prints of barns, fields, and workers stand as a quiet record of a changing era. As a documentary filmmaker, I was moved by Lankes’s vision and by his friendship with Robert Frost and Sherwood Anderson. With J.J. Lankes: Yankee Printmaker in Virginia , I aimed to explore how his art and his dialogue with Frost, Anderson and others framed an American understanding of work, place, and purpose. J.J. Lankes: Yankee Printmaker in Virginia Early Life and Artistic Awakening Born on August 31, 1884, in Buffalo, New York, to a German-American working-class family, Lankes grew up in a city energized by the Erie Canal’s promise. After graduating as a junior engineer from the Buffalo Commercial and Electromechanical Institute in 1902, he worked as a draftsman, producing technical drawings for patents. A 1,000-mile canoe trip down the Mississippi in his early 20s sparked his artistic ambitions. By 1910, he was studying at the Art Students League of Buffalo under Canadian artist Ernest Fosbery. To support himself, he engraved designs on custom rifle stocks at a Buffalo firm. In 1917, Lankes borrowed an engraving tool and carved his first woodcut on apple wood, launching a career inspired by Renaissance German engravers and a global woodcut revival. His early works explored the tension between rural traditions and encroaching industrial progress. Championing the Agrarian Ideal Lankes’s art was shaped by the radical ideas of the 1910s. Influenced by progressive voices advocating for a freer America, he briefly contributed to left-wing publications, some tied to the Communist Party, though his son later suggested this was overstated, emphasizing Lankes’s shift toward individualism. His woodcuts became a manifesto for the Agrarian Republic, celebrating rural workers and landscapes. His reinterpretation of Jean-François Millet’s Man with a Hoe  transformed the socialist icon into a dignified symbol of American agrarian resilience. The Enduring Dialogue with Robert Frost In 1923, a woodcut in The Liberator  captivated Robert Frost, sparking a lifelong friendship grounded in their shared vision of rural America. Frost saw Lankes’s prints—depicting rolling hills, rustic farms, and stoic laborers—as visual echoes of his poetry. Lankes often sketched at Frost’s South Shaftsbury, Vermont, farm while the poet spoke. Of his estimated 1,300 woodcuts, 125 were directly inspired by or created for Frost’s works, forming a seamless dialogue between text and image. Key collaborations include illustrations for Frost’s New Hampshire  (1923). J.J.Lankes: Yankee Printmaker in Virginia Throughout the 1920s, Lankes forged creative partnerships with a vibrant circle of artists and writers, each amplifying his vision of a pre-industrial America. His collaboration with painter Charles Burchfield began in 1922 and deepened when they became neighbors in Gardenville, New York, by 1925. Burchfield sketched designs that Lankes meticulously carved into woodcuts, capturing the quiet beauty of small-town life or cosmic, nature-inspired themes—works like Carolina Village  (1923) among their eleven joint creations—despite both men’s disinterest in organized religion. With writer Sherwood Anderson, Lankes found another kindred spirit. His illustrations for Anderson’s Perhaps Women  (1931) brought to life the author’s belief that women could preserve human qualities lost to mechanization, most vividly in a woodcut of a woman on horseback leading a man on a mule. Visits to Anderson’s Appalachian cottage fueled Lankes’s imagination, yielding evocative prints of the Blue Ridge Mountains, later celebrated by Anderson in a 1931 Virginia Quarterly Review  essay. In 1929, artist Rockwell Kent commissioned Lankes to carve 25 designs for an advertising campaign honoring traditional industries like logging. Sharing Lankes’s anti-industrial ethos, Kent provided sketches for the Doremus Series, now preserved at Plattsburgh State University, paying Lankes a flat fee for his skilled carving. Lankes also illustrated a novel by Rock Bradford, delving into racial tensions and the displacement of manual labor by industry—a recurring theme that resonated deeply with his agrarian ideals.   J.J. Lankes: Yankee Printmaker In 1925, Lankes journeyed to Europe—Germany, Italy, France, and the Netherlands—to sketch scenes tied to his German heritage. Returning to America, he settled in Hilton Village, Virginia, a coastal town largely untouched by heavy industrialization. This move immersed him in a pre-industrial South, inspiring woodcuts that documented rustic landscapes and laborers. His Virginia Woodcuts  (1930), a limited edition of 24 prints, crystallized this vision, capturing the region’s unspoiled essence. The Final Blows of Progress As magazines shifted away from illustration, commercial demand for woodcuts waned, dimming the revival Lankes had helped spark. His A Woodcut Manual  (1932) became the first comprehensive guide to woodcutting in North America. In 1932, Robert Frost secured him a position as an art professor at Wells College in New York’s Finger Lakes region, where he taught until 1940. Lankes found academic life uninspiring but completed works like Booklet of Woodcut Bookplate Designs  (1940). In 1943, he joined the National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics (NACA), the precursor to NASA, as head of technical illustrating in Langley, Virginia, returning to his draftsman roots until 1950. During this time, he advanced his Pennsylvania Dutch Barn  series (41 woodcuts, published in the Journal of the American Institute of Architects ), which he considered his crowning achievement—though a planned book never materialized. The Cold War’s anti-communist fervor led to Lankes’s dismissal from NACA, possibly due to his earlier left-leaning affiliations. In 1951, he retired to Durham, North Carolina. A stroke in 1959 impaired his movement and speech. In 1960, shortly before his death on April 22, Robert Frost visited him in a Chapel Hill nursing home. Their final exchange—“goddamn it all,” said Frost, echoed by Lankes—captured their shared frustration with a changing world. Legacy J.J. Lankes: Yankee Printmaker in Virginia J.J. Lankes’s woodcuts preserve the soul of the Agrarian Republic, a vision of America rooted in simplicity and resilience. His art invites us to reflect: What can these stark, timeless images teach us about balancing progress with humanity? Explore Lankes’s work in collections like the Carnegie Museum of Art, Dartmouth College, or the newly donated Welford D. Taylor Collection at the University of Maryland Libraries (2025). For a cinematic deep dive, watch the 2019 documentary J.J. Lankes: Yankee Printmaker in Virginia  by Eduardo Montes-Bradley. Share your thoughts in the comments. Key Publications and Illustrations Virginia Woodcuts (1930) – Limited edition of rural scenes. A Woodcut Manual (1932) – First North American guide to woodcutting. Illustrations for Robert Frost’s New Hampshire (1923) and other poetry collections. Perhaps Women by Sherwood Anderson (1931). Booklet of Woodcut Bookplate Designs (1940). Wag-by-Wall by Beatrix Potter (1944). Timeline of Key Events Year Event 1884 Born in Buffalo, NY (August 31). 1902 Graduates from Buffalo Commercial and Electromechanical Institute; begins as draftsman. 1910 Studies at Art Students League of Buffalo under Ernest Fosbery. 1914 Marries Edee Maria Bartlett. 1917 Creates first woodcut. 1923 Friendship with Robert Frost begins; illustrates New Hampshire . 1925 Moves to Hilton Village, Virginia; European sketching trip. 1930 Publishes Virginia Woodcuts . 1932 Publishes A Woodcut Manual ; Frost helps secure Wells College position. 1933–1940 Teaches at Wells College. 1943–1950 Head of technical illustrating at NACA (Langley, VA). 1951 Retires to Durham, NC. 1959 Suffers debilitating stroke. 1960 Dies in Durham, NC (April 22). 2019 J.J. Lankes: Yankee Printmaker in Virginia  documentary premieres. 2025 Welford D. Taylor Collection donated to University of Maryland Libraries. Further Reading:  Eduardo Montes-Bradley. J.J. Lankes: Yankee Printmaker, 30 min., 2019 Taylor, Welford Dunaway. The Woodcut Art of J.J. Lankes (1994). Osburn, Burl N. A Descriptive Checklist of the Woodcut Bookplates of J.J. Lankes (1937).

A Filmmaker's Quest In my upcoming film, based on Rita Dove's "Sonata Mulattica," a collection of poems devoted to telling the story of George Bridgetower, the author establishes the nature of the relationship between the young Black virtuoso and his mentor Joseph Haydn. Haydn, a composer at the service of Prince Nikolaus Esterházy, seems to have been a mentor to Bridgetower, one that she recognized with the affectionate label of "Papa Haydn." Esterhazy Princely Coat of Arms I wanted to know more about the type of relationship between Haydn and his employer to help me better understand the nuances of the class system within the workforce at the prince's castle—which could also serve as an introduction to understanding other connections between composers and their employers within that system of patronage that preceded the more independent labor forms that would inevitably follow after Beethoven. What I was able to learn is quite interesting and ultimately places Haydn as an equal laborer alongside the Bridgetower family. This discovery fundamentally reshapes how we should understand the world of classical music's so-called golden age. When Genius Wore Livery: Uncovering the Parallel Lives of Two Court Musicians In the gilded halls of 18th-century Austrian nobility, two musical stories intersected in the shadow of servitude. One was Joseph Haydn, now celebrated as the "Father of the Symphony," who spent nearly thirty years as a liveried servant-composer. The other was George Bridgetower, a violin virtuoso of African descent born into this same world of court servitude through his father's position, whose name has largely vanished from history's record. Their intertwined stories reveal an uncomfortable truth about classical music's foundations—it was built on the backs of indentured artists—while exposing how race created an insurmountable divide even among those who shared the world of servants' quarters and court hierarchies. The Contract That Bound Haydn Most classical music lovers know Haydn as a towering figure of Western culture, his 107 symphonies and 68 string quartets forming the bedrock of the classical repertoire. What they might not know is that for nearly thirty years, Haydn was legally a servant—a "house officer" in the court of Prince Nikolaus Esterházy in eastern Austria. The terms of Haydn's employment read more like an indenture contract than an artist's commission. He was required to wear servant's livery—a uniform—at all times when on duty, and he ate at the "officer's table," not with nobility, but with other high-ranking servants. His freedom of movement was severely restricted; he could not leave the estate without written permission from the Prince. As for his artistic output, he had to compose whatever music the Prince demanded, whenever it was demanded, and all his compositions became the Prince's property—Haydn couldn't even keep copies of his own work without permission. The contract explicitly instructed him to "conduct himself as befits an honest house officer in a princely court," leaving no doubt about his status as a servant rather than an independent artist. This wasn't a temporary arrangement or an apprenticeship. This was Haydn's life from 1761 to 1790, his most productive years as a composer. Every symphony, every quartet, every opera he wrote during this period was created under conditions of servitude. Enter the Bridgetowers In this same world of Austrian court culture, another story of servitude was unfolding. George Bridgetower's father was a servant of West Indian or African origin who worked in the estates of the Austrian nobility—possibly even in the Esterházy court system where Haydn labored. The father, known as John Frederick Bridgetower, served Prince Esterházy in Eisenstadt, occupying a position in the servant hierarchy not unlike Haydn's, but with one crucial difference: he was of African descent, described in contemporary accounts as a "Moor" or "African." It's worth noting that in the hiring practices of noble houses like Prince Nikolaus Esterházy's, there was often a deliberate pursuit of what they called the "exotic." European courts regularly employed people they viewed as curiosities—dwarfs, Black servants, Asians—to add "color" to their retinue of servants, creating a living display of worldliness and power for the amusement of guests. While we cannot know for certain, it's entirely possible that the Bridgetowers' employment was, at least in part, a response to this desire for a more eclectic and exotic assembly of servants—a troubling reality that would have shaped young George's experience from the very beginning. Young George Bridgetower, born around 1778 (when Haydn was already 46 and deep into his servitude), showed extraordinary musical talent from childhood. It's entirely possible that as a child in the Esterházy court environment, he might have encountered or even received guidance from Haydn himself—the established Kapellmeister would have been the natural mentor for any musically gifted child in that world, regardless of their background. Imagine it: the aging servant-composer, internationally famous yet still wearing livery, perhaps teaching or encouraging a young mixed-race prodigy who was also bound to the same court system through his father's servitude. George would eventually evolve far beyond these origins, becoming a violin virtuoso of extraordinary talent who performed across Europe. Beethoven was so impressed that he originally dedicated his "Kreutzer" Sonata to Bridgetower, performing it with him in Vienna in 1803. The two musicians were briefly friends, drinking and making music together—until a quarrel (allegedly over a woman) led Beethoven to re-dedicate the piece to Rodolphe Kreutzer, effectively erasing Bridgetower from one of classical music's most celebrated works. Las Meninas, Diego Velazquez: The Court's Living Ornaments   The Color Line in Livery Here's where the parallel stories diverge in heartbreaking ways. Both Haydn and Bridgetower's father were servants. Both families existed within the same restrictive court system. Yet their trajectories tell us everything about how race shaped destiny in 18th-century Europe. Consider the tragic irony: Haydn, the servant-composer who possibly mentored or at least knew young George Bridgetower in the Esterházy court, would die celebrated as one of Europe's greatest composers in 1809. By then, the 31-year-old Bridgetower, despite his virtuoso career and despite having premiered Beethoven's most challenging violin sonata just six years earlier, was already sliding toward obscurity. The Court's Living Ornaments | The practice of European courts employing people as human curiosities is immortalized in Diego Velázquez's "Las Meninas" (1656). In the lower right corner of this masterpiece stands Mari Bárbola, a German dwarf who served as a "menina" (lady-in-waiting) to the Spanish royal family. Her presence in the painting—positioned alongside the royal Infanta—reveals how normalized it was for European nobility to surround themselves with those they considered "exotic" or "different." Like the Bridgetowers a century later in Austrian courts, Mari Bárbola was simultaneously elevated by proximity to power and diminished by being treated as a curiosity. Her inclusion in Velázquez's painting, while granting her historical immortality, also forever marks her as part of the court's collection of human ornaments—a fate that would echo through European courts for generations. Haydn, despite his servitude, was able to build an international reputation while still in service, receiving commissions from other nobles and eventually from London concert promoters. His fame grew steadily, and he gained increasing freedom, especially after Prince Nikolaus died in 1790. When Haydn died in 1809, he was celebrated as one of Europe's greatest composers, with his servant status reduced to merely a biographical detail. His complete works were preserved and have been celebrated for centuries. George Bridgetower, despite transcending his father's servant status to become a renowned performer, faced a profoundly different reality. His extraordinary talent was repeatedly noted but treated as a curiosity—the "surprising" ability of an African to master European music. Despite his virtuosity and his own compositions, he never secured the kind of lasting recognition that Haydn enjoyed. His contributions to musical history were systematically erased or minimized. He died in poverty in London in 1860, largely forgotten, his story surviving mainly as a footnote while his actual music nearly vanished entirely. The Servant Composers The bitter irony is that in the Esterházy court, both Haydn and Bridgetower's father would have occupied the servant class—but even there, race created a hierarchy. When young George showed musical promise, he might have received the same training, possibly even from Haydn himself. But the outcomes were predetermined by race. Think about it: in the 1780s, Haydn was composing his Paris and London symphonies while still technically a servant. In that same decade, young George Bridgetower was likely learning his craft in the shadow of these same Austrian courts, his father a servant, his talent already evident. One servant's son with extraordinary musical gifts. One servant-composer who was among the most famous musicians in Europe. Their paths may have literally crossed in the palace halls. Yet Haydn's servitude was economic and social—barriers that fame could eventually overcome. For the Bridgetowers, servitude was compounded by race—a barrier that no amount of talent could fully transcend. Haydn's genius was eventually recognized as elevating him above his servant status. For George Bridgetower, his African heritage meant that even his evolution into a celebrated virtuoso and composer could never fully erase the racial marking that European society imposed on him. What This Means for Classical Music's Legacy Understanding that Haydn—the Franz Joseph Haydn—was essentially an indentured servant for three decades reframes our entire understanding of classical music's golden age. These weren't independent artists following their muses; they were workers producing a product for aristocratic consumption. The gorgeous symphonies we revere were composed by a man who needed written permission to leave his employer's estate. But recognizing the parallel fate of the Bridgetowers forces an even more uncomfortable reckoning. If Haydn could compose 107 symphonies while wearing servant's livery, how many symphonies were never written because their potential composers were excluded not just by class, but by race? How many George Bridgetowers disappeared entirely from the record? Between Patronage and Freedom Haydn, and later Mozart, stand as pivotal figures marking the transition between two worlds: the age of the artisan-composer bound to noble patrons and the rise of the autonomous artist. This shift was decisive in shaping what we now recognize as the modern conception of the creative individual. With Beethoven, the change becomes irreversible—he composes not for the court or the church but for a public audience. The concert hall replaces the palace, and artistic labor begins to detach itself from aristocratic command, giving birth to a new economy of creativity. This historical evolution also sets the stage for later debates about artistic independence and state patronage. The twentieth century, with its system of state commissions in the Soviet Union and its publicly subsidized orchestras, theaters, and film programs across Europe and Latin America, redefined once again the balance between artistic freedom and institutional support. These later developments deserve closer examination in a future study, tracing how the artist’s emancipation from servitude gradually became a negotiation with the state itself. The Music That Remains Today, you can easily find recordings of all 107 Haydn symphonies. His complete string quartets fill multiple box sets. His operas, though less frequently performed, are all preserved and occasionally staged. Of George Bridgetower's compositions, almost nothing survives. A few pieces exist in manuscript. His arrangements and performance practices are lost. The music he inspired—including his interpretation of the sonata Beethoven wrote for him—vanished with him. This isn't just about recovering lost history. It's about understanding that classical music's canon was shaped not just by genius, but by who was allowed to transcend servitude and who wasn't. Haydn's contract might have made him a servant, but his whiteness meant that history could eventually forget that fact. The Bridgetowers had no such luxury. Reclaiming the Narrative Rita Dove's "Sonata Mulattica" began the work of reclaiming George Bridgetower's story, imagining the life and world of this forgotten virtuoso through poetry. But there's more work to be done. We need to understand that the courts of 18th-century Austria were filled with servants making music—some in livery like Haydn, some, like the Bridgetowers, carrying the additional burden of racial otherness. When we listen to Haydn's symphonies, we should remember they were composed by a servant who couldn't leave the palace without permission. And we should ask: whose symphonies are we not hearing because their composers faced not just the chains of servitude, but the additional barriers of race? The music that survives tells only part of the story. The full story requires us to acknowledge that in those Austrian courts, genius wore livery—and that some livery was harder to remove than others. This post draws on recent scholarly analysis of Haydn's employment contracts and Rita Dove's groundbreaking work in "Sonata Mulattica" to explore the intersection of servitude, genius, and race in classical music history. This post draws on recent scholarly analysis of Haydn's employment contracts and Rita Dove's groundbreaking work in "Sonata Mulattica" to explore the intersection of servitude, genius, and race in classical music history.