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It would be nice if an author were somehow able to pick up Domenichino’s St. John the Evangelist (c. 1627) when it comes up for auction at Christie’s in London this December. The picture seems, as much as anything, a celebration of the act of writing and the ecstasy of the written word. True, the writing process sometimes feels more like torture than pleasure, but this is a picture about visions, so we can allow for artistic license. Here, Domenichino’s rather effeminate and disheveled St. John composes the book of Revelation on the Greek island of Patmos (not a bad writer’s retreat) and looks as if he’s barely made it out of bed (typical writerly behavior). If this were painted today, his trusted eagle and putti would be replaced by an open laptop with a live Twitter feed, a half-eaten bagel, and a large mug of fair-trade coffee. As it is, the painting is likely to draw upward of $10 million, a bit stiff for any scribe, even one named Brown or Rowling.

I’m happy and honored to report that Master of Shadows has been named an Indie Next Notable Book for November by IndieBound, the organization of America’s independent booksellers. But let me take a break from pimping my own work to mention Roberto Calasso’s latest, Tiepolo Pink. Giambattista Tiepolo isn’t a painter with whom Americans are too familiar, which is unfortunate. Here Calasso argues the Venetian has long had an unfair reputation as a lightweight, a painter of pretty, decorative pictures, and an exemplar of the Italian notion of sprezzatura, a kind of easy, effortless grace. He had that in spades, but Calasso makes a good case that there was an intellectual depth to his work that has eluded generations of flummoxed art historians. Calasso, a Milanese publisher, has written a very Italian book: It is florid, elliptical, dense, digressive, and almost preposterously erudite. You are not likely to find another study of Italian mannerism that references Sydney Greenstreet, which is probably a good thing. American art historical writing, by way of contrast, tends to be dry and straightforward, jargon-rich and politicized. Calasso, however, writes with the easy elegance of his subject (you can understand the attraction). Reading him is like unpacking a suitcase of ideas. Also, a dictionary will probably be required. The production department at Knopf ought to be especially commended for the elegant package; they have clearly lavished great care on this book. Illustrations, in color and black and white, are run through the text on thick, cream paper. Best of all is the jacket, designed by Peter Mendelsund, a lovely, spare, and clever presentation. It’s not even pink.

The big story on East 7th Street these days is the opening of Thom Mayne’s new student center for Cooper Union, on Third Avenue. It’s a pretty wacky extravagance, and it replaces a deadly dull building beloved by nobody. A block away, on the corner of Second, this story is reversed. Love Saves the Day, the iconic kitsch storefront that’s been a local landmark for decades, has given way to a humorless brown excrescence. New York is losing its history one shop at a time, a sad attrition that is the subject of my new essay in Print magazine, which doubles as a review of the new book Store Front: The Disappearing Face of New York, by James and Karla Murray. One of its many lessons: You wanna survive in this town? Buy the building.

My review of the Ron Arad: No Discipline exhibition now up at MoMA appears in the latest issue of ID. I’m not sold on Arad as an architect, but his material experimentation is certainly admirable and many of his chairs—and this show is mostly about chairs—are undeniably attractive, if not always functional. Though maybe just being beautiful is a function sometimes? The best thing about the show might just be the catalog, with a characteristically straightforward design by karlssonwilker and an equally sharp cover by Beverly Joel.

I’ll be participating in my first event to celebrate the publication of Master of Shadows on October 6th, here in NYC. It’s a group discussion with some other terrific writers—AJ Jacobs, David Sax, and Charles London—to be moderated by Alana Newhouse, the very fabulous editor of Tablet magazine. The event is sponsored by Reboot, hence the Jewish theme. All are welcome, even goyim. RSVP to Ja****@re*******.net.

“Who’s your favorite architect?” I get that question a lot, but don’t enjoy answering it. I admire many architects and for different reasons, so choosing seems reductive. A quick response, which is usually the expectation, sounds potted and inadequate, and now that everyone on the planet has an opinion about architecture—which is not altogether bad—you often end up with an argument you’d rather not have. Name anyone too obscure and you’re in danger of coming off like a pompous snob. Well, whatever—I’m guilty of that. When asked I generally respond with two names unfamiliar to the uninitiated (though I wish they were not): Sasha Brodsky and Lebbeus Woods. Together they’re responsible for only a handful of standing buildings–though the catalog is growing. Their reputations, instead, rest on paper projects that catalog the traumas imposed on the individual and the urban landscape. Brodsky’s work is wry and wistful; Woods’s is more dystopic.

Over on his website, Woods has released a film treatment, “Underground Berlin,” that seems a distillation of his design philosophy into narrative form. [The image above is taken from it.] Imagine Chris Marker’s “La Jetee” crossed with “Dr. Strangelove” and “Metropolis.” Do yourself a favor and check it out. Also, you might be interested in a short bio of Woods I wrote a few years ago; It follows after the jump.

Continue reading Underground Architects

An electrical fire has done severe damage to the interior of Antwerp’s St. Charles Borromeo. Rubens designed the resplendent facade of the church, a masterpiece of baroque form, and some of its other architectural elements. A cycle of 32-paintings for the church, one of his great early commissions, was destroyed in an earlier fire, in the 18th century. Reports indicate that the many remaining art works in the church were not badly harmed, but news video shows the church filled with smoke. A major disaster.

In the history of strange maps, this image of Belgium as a lion, printed in 1611 by cartographer Jodicus Hondius of Amsterdam, is surely a classic. There are many interesting things about it, besides its animal form, the first being that there really was no such entity as Belgium at that time. The Latin term Belgica described the Low Countries in their entirety; that is, the 7 northern provinces that constituted the nascent Dutch Republic (Holland), and the 10 southern provinces (greater Flanders), that were dependencies of the Spanish crown. North and South were bitter rivals then at war with each other over Dutch claims to independence. The so-called Eighty Years War would drag on until 1648; this map was made during a period of relative quietude between the two sides; in 1609, they had signed a truce that guaranteed peace for 12 years. Amsterdam profited greatly by that agreement, and by the war in general, displacing Antwerp as the leading economic center of northern Europe. (Terms of the truce favored Amsterdam.) The pride with which that young city—it was really just inventing itself at the time—is advertised by Hondius is evident in the city shield with the stacked Xs at top right. It’s also worth noting the unusual orientation of the map, at least for a modern reader. Here, north is actually to the right, with west at the top of the page. This may seem strange, but from the perspective of someone living in the Low Countries it’s actually quite logical, as it places the north sea at top, and so it was common for the time. Amsterdam, however, is rather unfortunately positioned by the lion’s hind quarters. Antwerp is more centrally located. If you look closely, you’ll also notice many of the cities have little castle icons, indicating they are fortified. Dangerous times.

I’m not a big yoga fan, and always looked at the Kripalu Yoga Center, in Lenox, with a fair degree of skepticism. Its main building, a kind of overgrown quasi-colonial motel, certainly doesn’t conjure any great visions of inner peace, though it is set on a bucolic bluff with privileged views. (If you’re on the Stockbridge Bowl, you can’t miss it.) Kripalu’s new dorm, however, just might have me converted. It’s beautiful. Designed by Peter Rose of Rose + Guggenheimer, it’s everything that its overbearing institutional neighbor is not: a calming, handsome structure of wooden slats and louvers set comfortably in the landscape. The aesthetic is similar to Bill Rawn’s Ozawa Hall, at Tanglewood, another wonderful project just down the road. A few more images.

Continue reading The Om in Home: Kripalu’s New Dorm