Showing posts with label Norman Rockwell. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Norman Rockwell. Show all posts

Sunday, August 17, 2014

Lunacy: Norman Rockwell's views and questions about the space program





"Grissom and Young" by Norman Rockwell, 1965. Oil on canvas.

Norman Rockwell was a member of the Monday Evening Club from 1961 until his death in 1978. This paper is transcribed from a typescript with handwritten marginal notes in the collection of the Norman Rockwell Museum in Stockbridge, Mass. The title "Lunacy" is written on the envelope in which the paper was originally stored, along with the notation, "Monday Evening Discussion Group paper delivered Monday, March 24, 1969." This dates the paper about four months before the first landing on the moon, which was on July 20, 1969.


The original typescript may be viewed here at the Norman Rockwell Museum's digitized archives. Also in the collection of the museum is a manuscript, in outline form, of Rockwell's notes that evolved into this paper.



The Club is grateful for the assistance of Corry Kanzenburg and Jessika Drmacich of the collections staff at the museum for providing access to the manuscript of this and other papers Rockwell presented to the Club, to the museum's director, Laurie Norton Moffatt, for alerting us to their existence (via a Facebook comment!) and to the Norman Rockwell Licensing Company for permission to publish the papers. Licensed by Norman Rockwell Licensing, Niles, IL.



According to an account of Rockwell's involvement with the space program by Anne Collins Goodyear ("On the Threshold of Space: Norman Rockwell's Longest Step"), "Rockwell's desire to represent accurately the new Gemini G3C suit led to an unprecedented con­cession from the space agency: in response to his repeated requests, NASA permitted the top-secret suit to be brought to Rockwell's Stockbridge, Massachusetts, studio under the protection of [Joe W.] Schmitt, the elder of the two suit technicians portrayed in the painting."*



The Club's late secretary, Rabbi Harold Salzmann, recalled that in late 1964 or early 1965, at another meeting a few years before the delivery of "Lunacy," Rockwell also spoke about the space program. This meeting took place at Salzmann's house, and Rockwell had arranged for Salzmann's son Josh to enter the gathering at some point during the reading, fully attired in an actual NASA space suit — presumably the one lent to him for the Grissom and Young painting. Rockwell sometimes brought his own paintings to Club meetings, as well, and may also have brought the Grissom-Young painting along with the space suit to that meeting.



The NASA technician, Schmidt, was no doubt diligent in his duty, but would not have been able to watch the suit 24 hours a day. So perhaps, after they locked up the studio at the end of a work day and Schmidt went to his lodgings, Rockwell snuck back into the studio and hauled the space suit up to the Club meeting at the Salzmann home.



The Salzmann family recalls that while Josh was supposed to wear the suit, it turnout out be be too big for him, so his sister Ariel, about 11 years old at the time, modeled it for the Club. It's quite likely this made her the first child ever wear a NASA space suit. 



*Published in 2001: Architecture and Design for Space, Vision and Reality, exhibition catalog, 102-7, Chicago: Art Institute of Chicago, 2001: New York: Harry N. Abrams, 2001.





Topic is space program. [sic]



My wife Molly, after hearing my fumbling start on this paper, suggested the title, "Lunacy."  I thought that was fine but went to the dictionary to look up the definition of the word.  Webster says it is “The condition of being a lunatic, or intermittent insanity as formerly attributed to the changes of the moon”. This was perfect but should I add a question mark to it [?]



I am sure you all know the debatable question I am bringing up — is the space program a lunatic idea now, when we in America are confronted with the problems of poverty, racial unrest, national security and the Vietnam War?



I am not at all sure of the answer and look forward to the ideas and comments of you men.



I hope you will pardon my telling you of some of my experiences of, and reaction to, visits to Cape Kennedy and Houston.



Well, here goes.



[marginal note: Show Grissom and Young Print]  Back in 1964 Look Magazine (God bless them) asked me to go to Cape Kennedy to paint Grissom and Young as they prepared for their space flight.



Let me interpolate here, that all pictures about space exploration are very difficult because they, of necessity, have to have a most inartistic but terrific amount of technical machinery that has to be painted in accurate painstaking detail.  No artistically inspired glorious generalities!  Maybe some later day, some greater artist than I, will be able to transcend these artistic difficulties.  To me, scientific detail diminishes artistic results.



Then again in 1966 Look sent me to Houston to paint a prophetic picture of the hoped for landing on the moon.  Believe me, it was a real challenge.  Look sent along with Molly and me, and my photographer, their science editor and Pierre Mion, the science artist.






Man on the Moon (United States

 Space Ship on the Moon),

1967, oil on canvas

[marginal note: Show Prints of Prophetic Moon Landing] When we arrived we had a number of talks with the space scientists who spoke a language I did not know.  They even went so far as to attempt to get through my thick skull the effect of the sun lighting the earth when seen from the moon’s surface.



They finally strung up an apple as the moon and a small balloon as the earth in the correct positions and used a lighted electric bulb to impersonate the sun.  Still I cannot understand what they call lunar light performance, but I painted it as they told me.  Look received a lot of letters from self-styled experts that my version is wrong, but the science editor says they were all wrong and the scientists were right.



Well!!! I only paint what I’m told.



In Houston NASA had constructed a large simulated surface of the moon with a life size landing module.



[marginal note: Show Modul Model][sic]



We went out  there and photographed the module on the moon surface and they sent along a technical worker who wore the astronaut’s space suit as they then believed it would be.  Of course the outfit is greatly changed but essentially it has the same basic elements.  That is a complete system of scientific apparatus that will create livable atmosphere within the suit, excluding all foreign penetration from without.



Even so, they told me the two astronauts who will land on the moon surface will be isolated completely from everything and everyone when they return to earth until the doctors and scientists can be positive the astronauts will bring no contamination from the moon.  This isolation will last 2 months.



This seems awfully cruel but necessary.



I can hardly believe it, but my moon landing picture of 1966 is in the broader sense quite accurate as it will appear in the 1969 July Project, except there is one great unpaintable change.



The surface of the landing module will be completely covered with a strange material that will make its details almost unrecognizable.  It will look like an object covered with strange Christmas-like tinsel which will protect it from the intense heat and cold on the moon.



About two months ago Look told me they wanted me to paint yet another series of pictures to celebrate this proposed actual landing on the moon.



They told me they would give these pictures more pages and more color than the other space exploration subjects.



After all, they said, this is the culmination of all the effort and expense so far.  The great event!!!!



What should I paint? I had no definite idea when we arrived at the Cape Kennedy Space Center.  I say “we”, because we were now a team of five:



Will Hopkins, new art editor of Look.

Pierre Mion, a very fine science artist from National Geographic Magazine.

Brad Herzog, my friend and fine photographer.

And Molly, who is a darn good photographer herself and brings back a lot of color shots that are a wonderful help.



We were met by Gatha Cottee, the Cape Kennedy public relations man who had guided us before, on the Grissom-Young project.



[marginal note: Show pictures Saturn Building] Cape Kennedy was now even more impressive.  The most striking new development was the massive, and I do mean massive, vehicle assembly building.  It is the largest building in the world and taller than any other building in the world not on an island.



The main door would allow passage of 1 ½ U. N. buildings.



The high bay of the building has vertical cells for preparation of four great Saturn rockets at a time.



Each operation in the building includes the combined rocket and missile: a three-hundred-and-eighty-foot all red steel tower also called the umbilical tower with seventeen platforms, nine swing arms and a crane on top! And a four-hundred-and-two foot steel service structure with bays that swing around and enfold the missile so that workers can reach it at any level. This thrust service structure, itself, weighs nine million eight hundred thousand pounds and has three hundred and sixty degree access.



[marginal note: show pictures Door + Tower] When the complex is ready, a mammoth mobile transporter carries it out the giant door and over a specially built road bed at the rate of a mile an hour, being always kept absolutely vertical even when going up the slight hill to the pad from which the rocket is to be launched.



[show picture: This shows the rocket in place with the umbilical tower]



After receiving all this information and listening to endless statistics, talking to workers, scientists and astronauts, I decided to try to paint a picture that would somehow express the complexity and the terrific effort, intellectual, physical and financial, involved in this great historic event of human history.



[TYPED NOTE:

SHOW PICTURES.

TALK.]



The Look editor agreed. I am sorry to say I am laboring but I am bringing forth a mouse.  This is a job for Michelangelo.



[final pictures]



Now we come back to my original question.  Is all this lunacy or is it not?



Here are some facts to take into consideration.



The total program is run by a government-industry team.



The man-power involved in the total space program is three hundred thousand men.



I do not know the total cost in money but the following figures will give you some idea.



At Cape Kennedy alone the total budget for the fiscal year of 1969 is four hundred and eighty-five million dollars.



The expense of the development and completion of the landing module alone is about two billion dollars, and please remember that all parts of all the landing modules will be jettisoned in space..



Those are some of the facts and these some of the questions I hope you will discuss.



First, why do we do it?

Is it to keep up with Russia, or to find new worlds?

Is it because of humanity’s instinct to aspire?



Second, would it be better to put all this thought, energy and money into improving conditions here on earth?



[handwritten: large question mark and:]



What happens if we lose moon [illeg] kids and Public Relations

Astros all to Mars

Tax payer

Right or wrong what subject





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Monday, June 30, 2014

Norman Rockwell and the Monday Evening Club

The Club's secretary, Rabbi Harold Salzmann, has been a faithful member since 1955, missing only one or two meetings during that time. His friend Norman Rockwell joined the Club in 1961 and remained a member until his death in 1978. Here are a few items of Rockwelliana from Harold's collection:



A note confirming a 1969 date to deliver a paper:









A meeting notice announcing a meeting of the Club in 1969, at which Rockwell delivered his paper "Lunacy," about the U.S. space program.










A note confirming attendance at the January 5, 1970 meeting of the Club. Salzmann is an avid philatelist; hence the reference to a "postal-card."









Rockwell's regrets at not having been able to attend a Club meeting in 1974:









Rockwell's acceptance of honorary membership in the Club in 1977, about 18 months before his death:









Rockwell's check for $5 membership dues in 1976. Rabbi Salzmann put $5 of his own in the Club treasury and held on to the check!









The cover of Rockwell's autobiography...









... and the inscription in Salzmann's copy, with a cartoon of Rockwell's son Tom.












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Sunday, November 25, 2012

Two sets of notes for papers by Norman Rockwell






Norman Rockwell was a member of the Monday Evening Club from 1961 until his death in 1978. Previously, we have posted two papers for which standard manuscript drafts survive: "The bed of Procrustes" and "Which way?" The recollection of members who were Rockwell's contemporaries in the Club is, however, that normally Rockwell spoke extemporaneously about a painting or drawing he would bring to the meeting, with at most a few scribbled notes. We reproduce here transcriptions of two such sets of notes, taken from undated manuscripts in the collection of the Norman Rockwell Museum in Stockbridge, Mass. In these transcriptions,  spelling and punctuation is generally left as it is in the original. While we can not gather the full impact of Rockwell's storytelling from these notes, there is enough to get the gist of the talk and perhaps to glean a few of the opinions he expressed.



The Club is grateful for the assistance of Corry Kanzenburg and Jessika Drmacich of the collections staff at the Norman Rockwell Museum in Stockbridge, Mass. for providing access to the manuscript of this and other papers Rockwell presented to the Club, to the museum's director, Laurie Norton Moffatt, for alerting us to their existence (via a Facebook comment!) and to the Norman Rockwell Licensing Company for permission to publish the papers. Licensed by Norman Rockwell Licensing, Niles, IL.



The first paper is entitled "Extra Ordinary Men," in which Rockwell recalls his experiences creating portraits of some of the leading political figures of his time. Rockwell appears to have incorporated bits from another speech about these subjects into this presentation.




[Addendum:] According to a Club invitation card in the collection of the Norman Rockwell Museum, this paper was delivered on Monday evening, January 18, 1971 at the home of Harry E. Judson on Tor Court in Pittsfield.  





[Envelope:] Monday Evening Club

To Albert Silverman

Silverman [a Berkshire County attorney; not a club member]



[handwritten notes]

After Roger’s wonderful paper two weeks ago [Roger Linscott], which was so well done and thorough.  I feel this may be quite trivial, disjointed and perhaps even frivolous and overpersonal.



The title, you know, is “Extra Ordinary Men?”



First all all [sic] I must explain my contact with each man was for less than an hour.



I[n] every case I made a very rough color sketch and then I posed them for my photographer.



I posed them against a neutral color blanket, s most of them posed in their offices.  I took along what I called a blanket man, to cut out the convusion of the locations.  I call him my “Blan[k]et Man.”



I repeat I was never with them more than an hour.



That was all the time they could give me out of their busy days.



What I would like to have you discuss is whether these little incidents that occur[r]ed could be considered indicative of their true charcter or completely unimportant.



May I pause now to quote from a book by G? W. Gardner



He is distinguished thinker.



Quote



“No one who has received the sweep of American history will believe that our leaders are any more deficient in in quality than they were a decade or a century ago.  That they seem so is due partly to the breakdown in authority and partly to our increased skill in stripping them of dignity.  Men in power have never been fully protected by the mantle of respect surrounding high office but today they are naked as bluejays.”

End quote



I shall now relate these incidents more or less as they occurred.



Nehru

Nasser

Tito

Eisenhower

John F. Kennedy

Bob Kennedy

Adlai Stevenson

Goldwater

Johnson

Hubert Humphrey

McCormick

Nelson Rockefeller

Reagan

Niebuhr

Erik Erikson



Notes from other talks about some of these:



[Envelope:] Brief notes only

Speech about trip with Bob Sherrod [American journalist]



Thank you.

5 minutes for Europe

This is no travel talk

It’s about 3 Individuals I met



I only saw them 1 hour each

Post

 Change of policy

Task Force

Bob Sherrod

Ellie Atkins

 Wife



Molly [Rockwell] studied their live[s]

I did not



First trip India

Mr. Nehru

China Invading

Nehru and Gandhi

Peace and None Resistance

—

Nehru in Parlement

Calm and soft spoken

“I mislaid my brain”

Lunch at prime minister’s

Daughter

White Coat

Next Moscow

Called off

More about this later

Home



March 7th

Off to Mr. Nasser

Arrive 5 minutes to see Nasser

His home

I pose him

Mr. Haekel and Nasser in Saudi Arabia

Jimmy and the Sphinx



Next to Tito

Belgrade grim

New Constitution

Start 7 a.m.

Tito arrive 4:30 p.m.

Blond Hair

Cold after Egypt

To Dubrovic [sic]

Sneak picture to Holland

Home



3 individuals

Nehru 

Quiet

Man of peace

Educated



Nasser

Young

Uneducated

Energetic



Tito

Man of power holding 5 nations together.

All loved by their people

Reverenced



The second set of notes pertains to a paper about the autobiography Rockwell wrote and published in 1960, My Adventures as an Illustrator. This paper must have been presented to the Club about 1961. The numbering of pages begins with 2 and is not consecutive throughout.



2.

Not an Art Lecture

Profound and erudite



3.

About the Autobiography published last year

I will try [to] tell how Autobiography came about.



4. 

Start as book of color plates with commentary 

Doubleday

Ghost writer

No humor

Success story



5

Sent Ghostwrites

6 weeks

Success Story?



9

I am desperate

Doubleday editor gone to Europe

I call Ken Stuart



10

Ken Stuart fires Ghost

I suggest Tom



11

We took 1 year

Kitchen

Arguments

No longer commentary

1400 Words



12

We show it to Doubleday

They show it to Post



13

Ben, Ken + Bob

Invite me to lunch

BOOM!!



14.

Produced in Post

Cleaned up



15.

Now comes

IMPORTANT

checking

For instance



16.

Dumb Waiter Story and Texas Wyman [?]

Checking

Old newspapers

city records

Police



18

Opera

Emmy Destinn

“Change Eonds [?], You darn fool”



19

Corset Story



20

Then the lawyers Libel

Dead Men

Tom [Rockwell, Norman's son, who collaborated on the book] did fine job



21

Publicity

6 radio

2 TV

arranged by Post



22

Jack Paar

Godfrey

Martha Dean

Senator Dirksen

Barry Gray





23

Press Notices

Atlantic Monthly 

Favorable

But one phrase

“His prose descriptions are very effective, cold and almost savage with controlled fury.”



24

unfavorable

A.P.

Ends with

“It [is] a nice story of a nice man who knows a lot of nice people and leads a very nice life.”



Possible?

I paint the leader speech




[end of notes]












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Sunday, October 3, 2010

The bed of Procrustes: Norman Rockwell on education in the Soviet Union, circa 1965



Presented to the Club in 1965 by Norman Rockwell.


Norman Rockwell was a member of the Monday Evening Club from 1961 until his death in 1978.  In this paper, delivered about 1965 following Rockwell's visit to the Soviet Union in December 1963, Rockwell concludes by saying that he "never did paint" the picture he intended to do, juxtaposing U.S. and Soviet country classrooms. However, in 1967 he completed for Look magazine a picture called "Russian Schoolroom," (above) which later was stolen from a gallery in Missouri in 1973. In 1989, it turned up in the collection of film director Steven Spielberg (a noted Rockwell collector and longtime supporter of the Norman Rockwell Museum), and eventually became the subject of a complex legal tangle with possible connections to the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King. The case was resolved in 2010 with the painting being awarded to Newport R.I. art dealer Judith Goffman Cutler. 






This paper is transcribed from an undated manuscript in the collection of the Norman Rockwell Museum in Stockbridge, Mass. The title "Bed of Procrustes" is written on the envelope in which it was originally contained, along with the words "ad lib."  In this transcription,  spelling and punctuation is generally left as it is in the original.


 

The Club is grateful for the assistance of Corry Kanzenburg and Jessika Drmacich of the collections staff at the Norman Rockwell Museum in Stockbridge, Mass. for providing access to the manuscript of this and other papers Rockwell presented to the Club, to the museum's director, Laurie Norton Moffatt, for alerting us to their existence (via a Facebook comment!) and to the Norman Rockwell Licensing Company for permission to publish the papers. 



Licensed by Norman Rockwell Licensing, Niles, IL.



A year ago last December my wife and I journeyed to Moscow.  I was going as a specialist for the United States Information Service [sic — actually the U.S. Information Agency].  My job was to work with our half of an exchange exhibit of graphic art.



I had a project.  This of course, was in addition to my work with the graphic show.



My project was to illustrate with a picture, or pictures, the elementary schools of Russia.  Look magazine was definitely interested so I made my inquiries among our personnel at the exhibit and also at the American embassy.  They, in turn, put in a request that I meet the minister of education in Moscow.



Things move slowly in Moscow — at least for an American with a project.  Not only is there a vast bureaucracy, but there is an amazingly devious procedure that just can not be cut short.  Then, too, there’s an atmosphere of mutual distrust.



After some weeks I was given an interview with the assistant minister and stated what I wanted to do.  I told him I wanted to paint a small country school, and its students, that would be comparable to just such a school in America, and that I wanted to do it honestly and fairly, as a way toward mutual understanding.  His associates were most smiling and amiable, and said that there were no small country schools near Moscow, but that they would arrange that I should visit an  elementary school.  I was very happy, we all bowed, and I left the massive building which was just off “Red Square.”  Two or three weeks later I hadn’t heard.  Then I talked to my embassy and exhibition friends and they laughed and said, “You’ll never hear from them.” But I was sure they were wrong because the officials had been so amiable and cooperative. Then another week went by and I began to get a bit restless.



By accident, at the Metropole Hotel, I met an American television director and his crew, who, after two years of intense negotiations, were going to make pictures in a school the next day. When I told Mr. Powers my predicament, he told me to meet him the next morning at eight o’clock and he would take me to the school as one of his assistant camera men – well, really not a camera man, I was to be disguised as the man who carried the cameras for the assistant camera man.  Next morning we piled into the television bus and arrived at the school as it opened.  It was a school that emphasized the teaching of English.  Once I was inside, there were no restraints whatsoever.  I listened and watched and sketched and measured everything.  Nobody questioned or interfered with me.



When I got back to the hotel that night I had a notice that the assistant minister of education had arranged that I could go with my wife, an interpreter, and a photographer to a very fine Moscow school (somehow or other he knew I had been to a school that day) — and it was a very find school. In fact, it was their showpiece.  The Russians have a sort of inferiority complex and want you to see only the best.



Physically, it could have been a large American city school, except for the inevitable giant statue of Lenin out in front.  Externally, it was of white concrete block construction.  Inside, it was light and spacious, with many plants and bulletin boards.  I was fascinated by the children's clothing: every child wore a uniform.  The girls wore identical brown dresses under identical brown pinafores.  The boys wore ill-fitting gray jackets and long gray trousers.  Almost without exception, everyone wore the red handkerchief of the “Young Pioneers,” who are, of course, the boy and girl scouts of Russia.  The only variation, which was amusing, was the shoes. They were of every type, color and condition.



The majority of the children wore their good conduct medal, which was a “Baby Lenin” button—a good-sized button, gold colored with a bas-relief of a curly-haired baby Lenin.  It was only to be worn when their conduct was ideologically and otherwise perfect.



Another thing that struck me was that every room had its Lenin corner with a white marble statue of Lenin, and behind it the red flag with hammer and sickle and fresh flowers laid on the base of the statue.  Also repeated everywhere were Lenin’s favorite words to students: “Study, study and study in order to become a good communist.”



We were very fortunate that at our all-Russian hotel there was a group of four American doctors.  Naturally we got acquainted, and we found that they were not doctors of medicine but Ph.D.’s in the field of education and were making a third trip to Russia for the American comparative education society, as guests of the Russian trade union of education, culture and science.  The outstanding member of the group was a Dr. Rudman of the University of Michigan [sic — this was Herbert C. Rudman, actually a professor at Michigan State University].  He spoke Russian and is one of the three greatest experts in America on Russian education, and is the author of a number of books and articles on the subject.  He was most affable, and most of this paper is based on what we learned from him directly and from books and papers he has forwarded to us.



To begin with, the Russian system of education is monolithic.  Every official is answerable to the central power, every act must fit itself to a master plan.  Decrees which establish the plan come directly from the presidium and central committee of the Communist Party, and become operative when consented to by the Supreme Soviet of the U.S.S.R., and the council of ministers of the U.S.S.R.



Now I come to the title of this paper:



The Bed of Procrustes



As you doubtless remember, “Procrustes,” in Greek legend, was a robber of Attica, who placed all who fell into his hands upon an iron bed.  If they were longer than the bed he cut off the redundant part: if shorter, he stretched them till they fitted it.  Hence any attempt to reduce men to one standard, one way of thinking, or one way of acting, is called “placing them on Procrustes’ bed.”



As Procrustes fitted every victim to his bed, so is every child molded to fit the Russian educational system, which is designed for one end: to give each child those qualities which will best serve the state.  The students are channeled through a common course of study in such a way as not to lose sight of individual occupational talent, and the system provides for increasing specialization in the senior year.  However, once the choice of specialization is made, the curriculum is rigid.  There is no opportunity for choosing elective subjects, and practically no one ever changes from one special course to another.



Since the revolution there have been four master educational plans, though all have been founded on the same three purposes: politically, to teach the principles of communism and to establish preference for it above all other systems; economically, to make the U.S.S.R. most productive of all nations; and culturally to give everyone access to all the glories of the Russian tradition and to educate them in the materialism of Karl Marx, which says that man owes everything to his control of material forces which are always in motion, and has no need of a universal spirit.  In 1931, there was a strong reaction against the system that had first been adopted.  It had been influenced by so-called progressive ideas and particularly by John Dewey.  The Russians were completely disillusioned and threw it out lock, stock and barrel, in favor of a traditional academic plan.  In 1958, Khrushchev announced that production was not increasing satisfactorily, that intellectual snobbery was gaining ground, and that labor was losing respect.  He drew up a new system, it was approved in 1958, and the change-over was supposed to be complete in 1965.  It is this plan that I will tell you about.



It provides for optional pre-school, with a small tuition fee, and for eight years of free compulsory elementary school, from ages 7 to 15, with increased emphasis on vocational work.  It envisaged two years to follow this of occupational work, primarily in factories and on collective farms, but apparently this has been only partially enforced.  Various ways are designed for students to return to senior elementary work.  On-the-job training is provided in factories and on collective farms, and night schools and correspondence schools are available.  Those who wish, return to full-time general education or vocational school, or to schools preparatory for professions and sciences.  In addition, there are special schools, some of which reach back into earlier years.  These are provided for the handicapped or for special training in ballet or art, or they emphasize military training.  Much has been heard about Russian boarding schools.  In practice, however, they seem to be chiefly for those without adequate supervision at home, or for problem children.  Even in special schools, however, a hard core of prescribed curriculum common to all schools is required.



Each republic of the U.S.S.R. has its own ministry of education.  There are some local variations, chiefly with respect to local languages or dialects.  As education becomes more vocational in character, local, economic and occupational conditions affect the schools more closely.  In actual practice, the ministries of all the Russian republics model themselves on the ministry in Moscow.



The purpose of all ministries is to assure results as designed by the central directive.  The Russians are very firm in the presupposition that all children have equal ability, though they recognize that tastes and special talents may vary.  Therefore, any failure to succeed is due o one of three causes: the students are lazy or bad, the teachers are inadequate, or the parents fail to give proper supervision.



Through a system of inspectors, directors, principals, class monitors and class meetings every effort is made to have all students succeed.  I’d like to mention briefly two further institutions that differ rather sharply from anything we know.



The first is the parents’ committee.  It differs from our parent-teachers association in that its purpose is wholly to assist in work that the school deems important.  Of the various sub-committees, that of teaching and upbringing is least like ours.  It provides supervision for those who do not have enough supervision at home.  The following passage from Dr. Rudman’s book [possibly Structure and Decision-making in Soviet Education] shows how it is involved in the discipline of the students:




If a child receives more than two marks of “2” in a week, the teacher or the director may give the parents’ group his name.  This subcommittee may then call the child to the school—to take him to task and warm him to study better.  Parents are also warned that their child is not doing as well as he should.  If this does not produce the desired result, the parents’ subcommittee may inform the trade union or party committee at the place of work of the parents.  The party or trade union then may call a meeting, where the parent of the pupil is publicly shamed for his failure as a parent and where advice is volunteered by his comrades as to how to make his child succeed in school.

In some cases, there are councils of aid on a district wide basis.  They are responsible for registration of all students.  Each member has a case load of five to seven students and arranges, if necessary, for supervision of their homework and special tutoring.  It also arranges meetings where students and parents become acquainted with one another’s work.  On bulletin boards in the schools, and also in the factories or collective farms, the pictures of parents and children are posted if all have done work of special merit.  If any member of the family fails to keep up his record, all pictures of that family are removed.  Further pressure is brought to bear on parents through newspapers, meetings of trade unions, occupational superiors, and even dismissal.



All that has been said heretofore is true, but I can’t help wondering does the title, “The bed of Procrustes” quite fits.  He tortured and amputated his visitors.  So, too, have Russian children been molded and disciplined to fit the design of the Russian state.  In my five weeks there in Moscow, I naturally saw many children on the streets, and then those two days in the schools I saw them being molded.  But, if I am completely honest, they seemed like normal children, maybe more stolid in their expressions, but certainly healthy, and what seemed to be normally happy.  This is what puzzles me.  Realizing the disciplines and regimentation they nave been under, compared with our system which allows for so much more freedom of the individual in choice and behavior, why is there so little difference in the appearance of the children?



May I add a short postscript?



My original theme was to promote mutual understanding by picturing the similarity of the American and Russian schools, but this theme was destroyed by what I had learned about the narrowness and repressions of the Russian system.  On the other hand, the narrowness and repressions were belied, from a picture standpoint, by the apparent normal and happy appearance of these Moscow children.



So I never did paint the picture.



[Note: see introductory section above regarding "Russian Schoolroom" later painted by Rockwell in 1967.]
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Tuesday, May 11, 2010

Which way: Norman Rockwell on the state of light-hearted humor






Norman Rockwell was a member of the Monday Evening Club from 1961 until his death in 1978. He presented the following paper to the Club about 1967. It is transcribed from an undated manuscript in the collection of the Norman Rockwell Museum in Stockbridge, Mass. The manuscript is typed in all capital letters, with some handwritten notes; the orthography is revised in this transcription to standard capitalization, but spelling and punctuation is generally left as it is in the original. The transcript was originally contained in an envelope on which was written “Monday Evening Club / Is light heart humor.” Throughout the paper, the word is spelled “humour,” which may have been the habit of Rockwell’s wife Mary L. (Molly) Rockwell, the likely typist. ADDENDUM: The original can now be viewed at the Norman Rockwell Museum's online digital archives.



The Club is grateful for the assistance of Corry Kanzenburg and Jessika Drmacich of the collections staff at the Norman Rockwell Museum in Stockbridge, Mass. for providing access to the manuscript of this and other papers Rockwell presented to the Club, to the museum's director, Laurie Norton Moffatt, for alerting us to their existence (via a Facebook comment!) and to the Norman Rockwell Licensing Company for permission to publish the papers.



Licensed by Norman Rockwell Licensing, Niles, IL.





First of all, I want to apologize for the title of this paper – “Which Way.”



When Joe [Joseph C. Nugent, then Club secretary] called me to get the title I had two subjects that interested me. But Joe needed a title right away to I told him my predicament and suggested the title “Which Way.” He said that was all right but now it does not describe the theme. I apologize.



The subject of this paper is “What Has Happened to Light-Hearted Humour in America?”



[handwritten:] First and foremost I want to say, I am, personally, convinced we are making a better America for all Americans to live in. But we live in an age of change and change is painful and it just ain’t funny. Now to the paper. [marginal note: Nuclear]



I do not know the exact date of what I feel is the demise of our good-natured humour, but I suspect it was about 5 or 6 years ago.



It did not die suddenly but I believe suffered a long and slow decline.



We do know that our brand of humour was born with the birth of our country. Ben Franklin was certainly at the birthday party and contributed many wise and funny comments.



America was a strong and lusty youngster and from the writings and records of those early days we find loads of stories and jests that attest to the fact that a good sense of humour was one of our happy birthrights.



Of course most of the jests were poked at our former British rule[r]s. These were good-natured jokes, after all we had won our freedom and could afford to be jocose.



Then came our expansion westward, from which came the robust earthy humour of our frontiersmen.



They created that marvelous legendary figure of Paul Bunyan, the mighty lumberjack, with his superhuman pranks.



Then there was John Chapman, born right here in Massachusetts in 1774. We know him as Johnny Appleseed. He was very serious about his mission in life, but his comic costume and comic manners have placed him in our history as a light-hearted legendary figure.



There is a whole long list of fabulous humourous folklore characters that our ancestors invented to help our nation to grow bigger and stronger.



There was Mike Fink the last of the keelboatmen,

Sam Toolman, the Yankee Pedlar

Big Moose, the super-fireman

John Henry, the famous Negro railroad spike driver

Blue Johnny, the Mississippi River pilot

Sam Bass, the Texas Robin Hood

and Steve Masorac, massive steel worker

and many others



These were all fabulous giant figures conceived out of the imagination of the common people of America, to help them with the overwhelming task of building a new and mighty nation. They are the folklore giants of our nation’s history.



Then came a great change in the source of our humour. The writers of light-hearted humour appeared. These men were not legends but gifted individual human beings who captured and fun-loving hearts of Americans and, in fact, of readers all over the world.



The two earliest such writers were Josh Billings and Artemus Ward.



It is recorded that Abraham Lincoln, bowed down by the stresses and responsibilities, often had his secretary read him excerpts from the fun of Artemus Ward. Often, too, he would ease the tension and worries of his associates in regaling them with some joke by Artemus Ward or Josh Billings.



That light playful humour hurt no one but helped a whole nation at war with itself.



It seems to me that right now we could use some of that light touch to help us over the rough spots.



—



But to get back to the subject at hand.



Next came our greatest humourist, and maybe even our greatest writer, Mark Twain.



May I, here, insert a personal note —



About 30 years ago I was commissioned to illustrate Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn.



I had, of course, read both these books when I was at school but I felt, now that I was to illustrate them I must read them again and more intently. I was in California, I bought the two books and boarded a plane (not a jet) for the east. I thought reading them again would be something of a bore, but a necessary bore. On the plane I sat next to a stout, sour-looking, elderly gentleman and began reading.



I suddenly became absorbed and amused. I couldn’t help giggling a bit and finally laughing out-loud. Much to the surprise and disgust of my fellow passenger. Finally he asked me what amused me so much. I gave him Huckleberry Finn to read while I went on with Tom Sawyer. He was really a fine old gentleman and we had a wonderfully jolly plane ride all the way back to New York.



Mark Twain was a real genius and his natural and compelling humour captured America and the whole world.



We all know that later in life he became disenchanted and bitter, writing some of the most frightening books ever written, but they will never extinguish the good-natured humour of those early Mark Twain writings.



Even as I am writing this paper I smile, thinking of that masterpiece of crazy fun “Jim Smily and his Jumping Frog” [sic].



Then came minor geniuses of humour such as Ring Lardner and his “You Know Me Al” series, full of America’s special type of fun.



Irvin Cobb with his quiet humourous stories, and many others. Irvin Cobb wrote a wonderfully amusing series about a Southern judge. But Southern judges are no longer a source of humour.



James Thurber was another.



Again a personal note —



Mr. Thurber wrote a story for the Saturday Evening Post called “You Can Read it in the Newspapers.” The editors sent it to me to illustrate. It was about a very unhappy big league baseball manager, whose team was hopelessly in the league’s cellar. He was drinking at a bar and trying to forget his woes when in walked an awful show-off of a midget. The manager, in his cups, got a brilliant idea and put the midget in a baseball uniform. At the next game, the midget got to first base every time he came to bat because the opposing pitcher could not pitch to the midget’s diminutive strike zone. But unfortunately in the last inning the conceited little bastard, instead of letting the pitcher throw him four balls, tried to knock out a home run. Of course he missed. The infuriated manager charged out of the dug-out and, picking up the midget, threw him up into the bleachers. Badly as I tell it, it was a hilariously funny story and I’ll never forget trying to get a midget in Arlington, Vermont to pose. I finally had to go to a theatrical agency in New York City to get my midget.



Thurber was fine but not a Mark Twain. Nevertheless, he was good medicine for America.



Where are our humourous writers today?



—



Years ago there were three outstanding humourous weekly magazines. Life magazine was one, now it is a news picture publication. Judge was another, it died as did Puck magazine.



The New Yorker is a fine magazine and publishes many funny ironical drawings and sometimes a Perleman [sic] story, but it can not be classified as a humourous publication.



The college campus magazines used to be gay and light-hearted but now they seem to be always protesting something or other.



Of course there is Mad comics and Playboy!!!!!!!



—



We all know there are millions of honest, happy, decent Americans and their families, but why then do the most popular big circulation magazines publish almost exclusively articles about sex, homosexuality, race relationship, drug addiction, crime, political corruption, life in the ghettos, sin in the suburbs and war, sandwiched between page after page of glamourous advertising?



This sounds like a pretty grim list and, after a little research, I find it isn’t completely true. These big circulation magazines also print articles on space exploration, advances in medicine, food and fashion, so they are not all bad. But I still contend, and I think they will admit, that what they sell on is the exposé type of thing.



It must be what we want to read and think about, or believe me, the magazines would not print these articles.



[handwritten:] That’s the paper



[handwritten:] Now I am interested to hear whether you gentlemen see the situation as I do?



For 47 years I painted 300 covers for the Post, mostly trying (but not with my tongue in my cheek) to paint the humorous foibles of our friends and neighbors.



No magazine wants them anymore and, to be honest, I could not and do not want to paint them anymore.



I just finished a picture for Look of two colored kids who had just moved into an all white neighborhood*. This type of picture is what I am interested in.



Why?

________



*This painting was “Negro in the Suburbs,” (sometimes referred to today as "New Kids in the Neighborhood") which appeared in Look magazine in 1967.
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Friday, February 5, 2010

Old Stuff: Bob Newman's 1992 recollections of 46 years of Club membership



Presented to the Club by Robert G. Newman, Monday evening, April 13, 1992





It is a habit of the elder, when they have an opportunity, to summon up remembrance of things past in pretty heavy doses. Over-burdened with ballast after long voyages, an ancient mariner finds it comfortable to transfer some of his excess cargo to such bearers as chance to pass by.  His suffering associates learn there is no effective way, except perhaps by shouting "fire" in a crowded hall, to stay the flow of antique memories. Such a predicament is that in which you find yourselves as I reminisce on 46 years in this unique organization that we call the Monday Evening Club. I recognize that some present are very familiar with events I recall that are also part of their recollections. For this I beg indulgence.  Maybe they can correct my errors.



First, how I got there, by a flexible interpretation of the hallowed Rules of the Monday Evening Club. In disregard of the apparent intent of Rule 10, I was never among the gentlemen invited to attend a session by the member who is host for the evening. (Perhaps I shouldn't even be here.) At any rate, without prior warning or looking over, I was visited one day in 1946 by two dignified citizens functioning as a committee. James Rosenthal, attorney and [Berkshire] Athenaeum trustee, and Elmer Brigham, principal of Pomeroy School, had known me ever since I was a small boy.  They recited the history and procedures of the Club, concluding by inviting me to join. Although not sure I wanted to sign on for what looked like a long course of solemn-sounding evenings, I decided the correct response for a new librarian was "I do." Thus began my Monday Evening Club experiences.



I suppose that some time before the visitation by James and Elmer, who were probably executive committeemen, I had survived the esoteric ceremony of (here I quote) "balls and cubes" as set forth in Rule 2. This matter of the secret ballot as observed in successive forms has always fascinated me. Its phases have been as follows:



Phase 1. The Chairman of the evening announced: "Voting on Mr. So-and-So. Balls elect, cubes reject." Elmer, the perennial secretary, then produced a neatly fashioned mahogany-stained box made by him, about a foot in length, with a small lidded chamber at one end and a longer lidded chamber at the opposite end. This receptacle he gravely bore around the circle of attentive members, pausing box in hand before each man. The voters extracted a die (singular of dice) or a marble from a supply in the large chamber and slipped it into a hole in the small chamber. When all had exercised their franchise, the first man to vote opened the tally end and proclaimed either "all clear" of, in the case of one or more negatives, the number thereof. If all was clear or there was only a single cube, the candidate was in. If there were two or more cubes, he wasn't. After six months, another try could be made by his sponsor.



Phase 2. The marbles/cubes having disappeared, white and black poker chips replaced them.



Phase 3.  Having mislaid the poker  chips, we began using slips of paper for ballots, awarding membership, in the case of multiple candidates, to those amassing the higher or lowest number of points, depending on the scoring method.



Phase 4.  What next?  Our resourcefulness over the years gives confidence that we shall contend successfully with any new electoral problems that may arise.



One of the most intriguing provisions in the regulations is set forth by Rule 10, reading as follows:  "Five gentlemen, not members, may be invited to attend any session, by the member who is host for the evening." While a guest appears at our revels from time to time, never I think have a I seen five at once, nor do I expect ever to see them. The more one ponders about it, the more bizarre does this appear.  In olden days, when houses were larger and servants plentiful, even with a membership up to thirty, it was probably possible to squeeze in another five. But the chairs, the table settings, the food preparation! All must have presented complications that hosts and spouses would prefer not to encounter. And I doubt that many meetings were held in place of public accommodations, which might have offered the requisite facilities.



Musing on the implications of Rule 10, a ghostly vision, as in a recurrent dream, sometimes haunts my mind. It is a snowy, blowing, freezing Pittsfield twilight.  Shadowy figures converge on a stately home not far from Park Square. A couple of fellows, well-bundled again the cold, have walked up together from South Street and East Housatonic. Driving a spanking new pung (a sleigh with a boxlike body on runners) over snow-packed roads, a youngish chap arrives from the new lots around Jubilee Hill. Soon comes a stout man in a buggy, and finally another from his Pomeroy Avenue residence. Stomping their feet and blowing on near-frozen fingers, they approach a door. One nervously raises the brass knocker which falls with a startling report in the chill air. A starchy maid answers. A voice calls from the huddled group: "We are five gentlemen, not members." "Please wait here," stammers the flustered door-woman, evidently not briefed on how many to expect. Then in a moment appears the genial host, with a hearty "Come in, gentlemen. You're very welcome. The boy will take the horses. Come in, come in. We're waiting supper."



Here my dream fades. I'll never know whether a good time was had, whether the five were eventually elected and lived happily ever after or (horrors!) only a few of the called were chosen, a dangerous consequence of inviting five gentlemen at the same time.



Oh well. Best not to dwell on it. Better to remember them as figments of my imagination, insubstantial as the Two Gentlemen of Verona, the Three Musketeers, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse or Ten Lords a-Leaping. Such stuff as dreams are made on.



Forty-six years. That's a long time being a member. Having attended 460 meetings (at an average of ten a year), I must have consumed 460 good dinners, polished off a few cases of spirits, and heard some 460 papers, an estimated total of 230 hours, or over nine days of listening. The papers (I wrote 23 of them), by and large, covered much the same variety of subjects, but in the matter of titles there is definitely a change.



At first, if a man authored a paper on the geology of Berkshire County, he would probably entitle it "The Geology of Berkshire County" and let it go at that. Such a forthright practice must have sent the members scurrying to whatever works of reference they could find containing information on the subject, in order to prepare themselves for discussion. So gradually the expedient developed of using opaque instead of transparent titles, today's normal method. Thus "The Geology of Berkshire County" transmuted into "Rocks in My Head" or some such cryptic label to discourage last-minute cramming.



But like so many best-laid plans, it led to a new difficulty. This was the technique of ramblification or shooting beside the mark, whereby a member innocent of knowledge on the topic grasps at some straw suggested by the paper and speaks at length on a subject extraneous to the business at hand. Some there have been who became so adept that they could be nudged awake, when their names were called, to deliver a neatly expressed commentary based only on a covert glance at the meeting notices announcing the reader's title. One long-time colleague, by all odds the most expert at this stratagem, would even discourse at length on the literary style of the reader, with no intention of the topic or title whatsoever. This practice was not attempted by any but (the most) gifted orators.



Footnote: Let's not be too hard on ramblification. There's at least a little of the rambler in all of us, and tangential commentary can be live-saving in emergency.



As we all know, conceiving, composing and reading papers is only part of our obligation. Like the hounds of spring on winter's traces comes the following year and the ritual of hosting one's fellows. Here conferences with spouses or restaurateurs on the myriad details of accommodation, food and drink engage energies for days in advance. There is one decision, however, formerly not to be omitted, that is required no longer. The selection of a suitable brand of cigars needed careful consideration in the era of the smoke-filled room. At least we had a wise counselor in the person of Harry Rich, the ever-obliging proprietor of the Berkshire News at 15 North Street. In addition to suggesting the right label, Harry lightened the investment by allowing a host to carry an entire cigar box to the meeting, in the capacity of custodian, being charged only for cheroots actually burned and returning those unconsumed. In addition, several packs of cigarettes were purchased to be strewn about the dinner table. Also a few of the brethren were pipe smokers. The haze through which we glimpsed each other grew blue indeed toward the close of the evening.



Although the weed is absent in our current health-conscious gatherings, the beneficent stimulation of alcohol flourishes. Probably this was a welcome part of Monday sessions from early times, though perhaps represented by wines at dinner more generally than stronger waters at a happy hour. Be that as it may, there was a long dry spell, at least during the first days of my membership.  The presence of several estimable persons, who happened to be teetotalers, put a crimp in what is normally an accompaniment of gentlemanly social assembly.



Perhaps there is a connection between this drought and the solemn rite of glasses which came into vogue during the time of austerity I witnessed from 1946 to the mid-50s, when it vanished without formal notice. The ceremony to which I refer happened thus between the reading of the paper and discussion thereof, the host or waitress would appear from the pantry bearing either a very large tray, or two of average size, on which were arranged a number of glasses corresponding to the number of diners, and one or more pitchers. The pitchers, it hurts me to say, contained tap water, sometimes iced. Gravely, without pipes and timbrels and surely with no wide ecstasy, the bearers of Pittsfield aqua pura set their burden down.  Those members who desired to partake, wet their whistles, I suppose, to lubricate vocal cords for the ensuing discussion. The water was generally drunk in reflective silence. The scene would have delighted Carrie Nation.



But things are not always what they seem. One evening at the venerable Crane Inn in Dalton, I arrived a bit early and decided to make a quick visit to the bar, located in the basement. What was my consternation to find snugly ensconced at the place of refreshment a half dozen Monday Evening Club cronies enjoying a preprandial snifter. "Sit down and have a drink," said they. "I will," said I. Thus, one by one, a young man's illusions perish as he descends the primrose path.



Nostalgia Department:  The Crane Inn, built in 1889 and known originally as the Irving House, occupied the present Main Street location of the Aggie Bank's Dalton Branch. [The First Agricultural National Bank was based in Pittsfield.] It was a convenient spot for meetings not held at home, with a comfortable lounge suitable for reading and dissecting papers following dinner. Dubbed the Eagle Room, when opened in 1953, this salon was named to match its decor. Eagles to the right of you, eagles to the left of you, the birds of prey were everywhere, welded to andirons, woven into carpets, printed on draperies, portrayed in pictures, carved on chair backs — a veritable ............. [sic] of the magnificent wild fowl that are now an endangered species. Habitues of the Eagle Room mourned its loss when the old hostelry was razed in 1966, following a major fire.



When not entertained in the family warmth of members' homes, I recall that we dined, imbibed, read papers and talked in at least a dozen other establishments. Those, in addition to the Crane Inn, have been the former Wendell Hotel and its successors, the Berkshire Restaurant, the Stanley Club, the White Tree Inn, the Yellow Aster, the Red Lion Inn across from Norman Rockwell's studio, the Lenox House, the Lenox Club, the Springs, Blantyre, the Federal House and The Berkshire Hilton. I've probably forgotten others. Had there been one named The World Turned Upside Down, I'm sure we would have tried it.



Meeting and dining together tends to develop a nearly family intimacy that is diminished when a member dies. It used to be that as many of the Club as possible attended the funeral in a group rather than as individuals. This good old custom, no longer always observed, spontaneously reappeared at the service for Norman Rockwell on November 11, 1978. Through the kind offices of Harold Salzmann, himself unable to be present because of an accident, Molly Rockwell's desire for old friends as pall-bearers was fulfilled by the Club. The Berkshire Eagle reported that the "active bearers, besides Jarvis Rockwell (one of Norman's sons) were all member so the old and enduring Monday Evening Club of Berkshire County, of which Rockwell had been a member." For the record, Harold rounded up [Robert D.] Bardwell, [George W.] Low, [Thomas F.] Plunkett [Jr.], [Robert M.] Henderson and [Robert G.] Newman for active duty.  Honorary bearers were [William A.] Selke (who, as I recall, gave up his post so that Jarvis might serve), [Rev. Arthur L.] Teikmanis and [Stuart C.] Henry. That evening we could see ourselves on nationwide television, all but Norman.



The tribute was appropriate because he (Norman R.) had truly delighted in the Club's fellowship.  From his induction in 1957 he rarely missed a session. With advancing years, his friends and fellow members, Doug MacGregor and Bill Selke of Stockbridge, made it possible for Norman to continue by driving him to meetings, maintaining his admirable attendance record.



The funeral, beginning at St. Paul's Church in Stockbridge, was vintage Rockwell Americana, complete with an honor guard of Cub and Boy Scouts (uneasily quiet), Berkshire County Deputy Sheriffs, State Troopers and Stockbridge Police. At the cemetery there were ticklish moments while hoisting the casket above a hedge planted years earlier and grown to an unexpected height. And for the perfect final touch, a well-mannered horse from a neighboring pasture ambled up and respectfully gazed over the fence to watch.



The funeral was memorable, but I think all of us who knew Norman remember best our gatherings at his home. He was a fine host. None who enjoyed his hospitality will forget him, genially presiding at a dinner table laden with hearty fare transported in steamers from the Red Lion across the road, then welcoming us to his memento-packed studio to hear the paper of the evening.



When one looks back on a segment of the history of an organization, questions usually asked are how did it differ from today? And what do you imagine will be its future?



My feeling about the Club in its 122nd year is that it has basically changed little since its creation in 1869. Certainly it remains essentially the same as in 1946, the starting point of the 46 year span about which this paper speaks. Officially established as "a club for the discussion of literary, scientific and other subjects of general interest," humanized as we know by good fellowship, the description is still broadly accurate. There have been minor changes of emphasis as the world turns, but as Dick Nunley comments in a column for November 29, 1989 "...in the tradition of Franklin's Junto and 19th Century Boston's Saturday Club, they still find something worthwhile in hearing together considered thought on well-informed topics, in good cheer of lively conversation and, of course, dining well."



It is rather remarkable that for all these years successive groups of a dozen to thirty men could be found able and willing to entertain each other by writing papers that in most cases would be heard only once (of course an exception is legitimate recycling by people who are professionally obliged to give a talk, lecture or sermon or write an article or thesis that could sprout from a carefully preserved Monday Evening paper). But for most of us, our discourse is "a flower (with apologies to Thomas Gray wandering in his country churchyard) "born to blush unseen, and waste its sweetness on the desert air." Our occasional pieces are no royal fireworks to sparkle long after the occasion is over. Yet that detracts not at all from the enjoyment. I believe we have remained true to our origin and have a solid understanding on which to continue. That patron of clubs in our tradition, the one and only Dr. Samuel Johnson, gave the definition that fits us well:  "Club — An assembly of good fellows, meeting under certain conditions." We cherish the conditions. So may it be.



Photo of Norman Rockwell's studio by yourFAVORITEmartian, used under Creative Commons License
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