Saturday in the Fall at the High

The High Museum of Art in Atlanta. Photo by me, November 2025.

 

The city was alive on a fall day on the first of November. There was a crispness in the air and spots of color in the trees except the ginkgos which awaited their seasonal cue to turn a brilliant yellow. People were on the sidewalk and there was traffic on the northern end of Midtown above 14^th street. I arrived at the High Museum to a large wedding taking place next door at the fine stone First Presbyterian Church of Atlanta built in 1919 with stained glass windows by Tiffany and Nicola D'Ascenzo. An event was taking place in front of the Woodruff and it was bustling in the plaza outside the doors of the High. Atlanta was its better self and not shooting itself in the foot for a change.

I have been coming to the High since I was a child in the mid 1980s only a year after the gleaming white, curving Richard Meier designed building opened in 1983. Forty-two years later, I still like to admire the building and imagine it filled with exciting treasures from around the world. It has not lived up to those dreams, but I have seen some interesting touring or special exhibitions in my lifetime. The permanent collection outside of the modern and folk art has never inspired me. The architecture of the building rises higher than the art contained within. 

Photo by me, November 2025.

The atrium and the ramps that spiral around it are my favorite part of the building. As a child it felt like something special waited at the top, but the reality is that is that it is mostly scowling, unfriendly and bored security guards. 

Photo by me, November 2025.

I do not think they want you to enjoy this art unless you bring a ladder with you.
 

Somber corner. Photo by me, November 2025.

In 2018 the galleries of the permanent collection were redesigned and that was unfortunate. The galleries went from open, airy, spacious and easy to move through to cramped, darker and more prone to bottlenecks around blind corners. Some of the placement of the art is odd too. I found a Rothko painting hanging in a small, dark corner like it was an unloved lost child while much lesser known and important artists were taking up better spaces. The curatorial choices were very curious. Do not even get me started on how the museum treats photography with its dungeon basement gallery with low ceilings and a feeling reminiscent on an eighties office park for telemarketers. 

Photo by me, November 2025.

Photo by me, November 2025.

The folk art of Georgia artist Howard Finster is the highlight of the folk art gallery. Putting his religious messaging aside, I find undeniable happiness in his work. He makes me smile.

Photo by me, November 2025.

Photo by me, November 2025.

In the modern art galleries I was disappointed to find a sculpture in front of the Alex Katz painting of the trees and the bench moved far away. I cannot remember a visit where I have not sat on that bench and gotten lost in the trees. It was a kind of ritual of mine. The sculpture is a distraction and does not relate to the trees. Also, while the ceiling is beautiful, the lighting is far too dim now.

Photo by me, November 2025.

 

Cramped and dim like a hallway at Grady Hospital. Photo by me, November 2025.

After browsing the permanent collection I came to what brought me to the High, the special exhibition Viktor&Rolf Fashion Statements. The exhibition features the avant-garde fashion designs of the Dutch duo Viktor & Rolf and runs through early February 2026.

 

Photo by me, November 2025.

 

Photo by me, November 2025.

From the No collection, Autumn/Winter 2008-2009.

Photo by me, November 2025.

Photo by me, November 2025.

From the Bedtime Story collection, Autumn/Winter 2005-2006.

Photo by me, November 2025.

I have been to a number of fashion exhibits at the SCADfash museum, also in Atlanta, but this was my first at the High Museum. The museum did a phenomenal job with the presentation and it was fun.

Photo by me, November 2025.

 

Photo by me, November 2025.

Photo by me, November 2025.

Photo by me, November 2025.

From the The Fashion Statements collection, Spring 2019. The collection was inspired by social media. 

There have been numerous fashion exhibitions of Victor & Rolf since 1994 in Paris and around the globe. This marks the first one in Atlanta. Their work makes for good entertainment.

Photo by me, November 2025.

 

Photo by me, November 2025.

Photo by me, November 2025.

Photo by me, November 2025.

As much as one admires the craftsmanship and imagination, I enjoy the sense of humor present in these pieces.

Photo by me, November 2025.

Photo by me, November 2025.

 

Photo by me, November 2025.

Photo by me, November 2025.

There is a debate, perhaps less common these days, in the art and fashion worlds about whether fashion should be considered art. Karl Lagerfeld thought they were separate worlds. I do not have a firm opinion on whether fashion should be considered art, but I do enjoy fashion exhibitions at museums. The debate reminds me of the 1970s and whether photography was art and whether it was worthy of being collected. Sam Wagstaff was an early collector of photography and was instrumental in getting photography accepted into the art world. Wagstaff was also a lover and patron to Robert Mapplethorpe, both of whom would die of AIDS; Wagstaff in 1987 and Mapplethorpe two years later.

 

Photo by me, November 2025.

Photo by me, November 2025.

Photo by me, November 2025.

Photo by me, November 2025.

There are also sketches and photographs included in the exhibition. I loved that wallpaper. If department stores put as much as effort into their displays as they once did then I could see using a wallpaper such as that.

Photo by me, November 2025.

From the Monsieur collection, Autumn/Winter 2003-2004. 

Photo by me, November 2025.

Photo by me, November 2025.

Photo by me, November 2025.

Though it looks like it would be very heavy to wear, I was taken by this design. It has a post industrial, Eastern Bloc chicness. 

Photo by me, November 2025.

 

Photo by me, November 2025.

Photo by me, November 2025.

The space was wonderfully designed and lighted. The clothes popped from the background.

Exhibitions such as this one offer the viewer fantasy. There is some snobbery too, is there not always at an art museum, as this is not an exhibition featuring Abercrombie & Fitch clothes. Though I would certainly enjoy an exhibition of the fashion photography of A&F from the 90s too.

From Green To Brown

 

Summer's death duly noted in Athens, Ga. Photo by me, August 2025.

Summer died on the backs of my knees in a cool, dry breeze this past Sunday in Athens. It was a recognition the same as the flocks of birds beginning the migration south as they speckled the sky of smeared clouds. It was a relief as if I had accomplished something more than play witness to the passing of another season. I was running errands and the surname of the protagonist of my current novel had come to me. I had been stressing over this not-so-minor detail for months. The last name had to sound right or sing when spoken aloud with the first name and I had paired numerous names in my head without success. Then in a parking lot among the first tinges of fall color in the sugar maples it came. The name was simple, solid and was a fine tonic to the more complex first name. The character was fully born.

 

Fiona Apple's album When the Pawn...

I have been listening to lots of Fiona Apple the past couple of weeks and this happens to me most every fall. I am the eternal fan. Her music reminds me of Louisville in the 1990s and a particular autumn when I thought everything in life was as perfect as life could get. I was in my twenties and foolish; what else can I say? Life is never perfect except in small increments and the good news is that it happens even long after the twenties are nostalgic memories. Perfect in a parking lot in the breeze in Athens, Georgia kind of way or perfect in the sense of appreciating happiness in victories over creative blocks.

With perfection comes the imperfection and Saturday we attended an arts festival on the square over in faraway Marietta. I can do without ever attending another arts festival for the rest of my life. I am so tired of seeing booths of the same makeshift art projects made in garages and basements with glue guns, glitter and limited inspiration.

 

The book cover of Pieces of the Frame by John McPhee.

Labor Day was about getting in the miles on the legs through the woods, reflections on a lake and feeling fresh in the crisp air. Fall is a rejuvenator not sold in a bottle at the cosmetics counter or in the energy drink aisle at the grocery store. Deer foraged in the shadows and my mind thumbed thoughts on the book I have been reading, Pieces of the Frame (1975) by John McPhee. There was a story in the essay, Travels in Georgia, about McPhee, Sam Candler (an heir to the Coca-Cola fortune) and Carol Ruckdeschel (a conservationist) canoeing down the Chattahoochee River with then-Georgia Governor Jimmy Carter with Georgia State Patrol troopers as bodyguards. Carter, a country boy, a former Navy officer and an avid outdoorsman, fit perfectly into the canoe trip, which was meant to serve as a way to convince him to protect the land along the Chattahoochee, which he did as President of the United States. After the trip, the group ate grilled cheese sandwiches at a twenty-foot table under a crystal chandelier and then played basketball in the driveway of the governor's mansion on West Paces in Buckhead, a thirty-room Greek Revival home I toured as a kid in the 1980s, either during the George Busbee or the first Joe Frank Harris administration. I thought, “Well that kind of politician no longer exists,” but politicians sure like to play up and pander to the average common person when trying to get elected. Carter, disparaged by people who have never done a decent day's work in their life, unlike the phonies, was genuine. Since 1980, if you are as old as I am, you have to wonder what people value and expect from their presidents.

 

Sunday Bloody Sunday

Monday wound down as I re-watched Sunday Bloody Sunday from 1971 starring Glenda Jackson, Peter Finch and Murray Head. The movie, nominated for four Academy Awards, is about a love triangle between a straight woman, a gay male Jewish doctor and a bisexual artist. It was the right cozy movie to start fall with the drab London weather and scenery and what I like most about that movie is the abundance of brown fashion. 

All the world is beautifully exquisite seventies brown.

Every character lives in shades of the color brown from scarves, jackets, pants, coats, vests, sweaters, ties, turtlenecks and so on. The costume design was by the late Jocelyn Rickards who also designed for Blow-Up, From Russia With Love and many other films. She was a painter too and published her autobiography in 1987. It is very 1970s, as I remember that decade. Brown is a color not worn enough anymore. It is a sophisticated color that works well in any season and people should wear it. It is also the better choice between it and another popular seventies color, ghastly orange which is best suited for pumpkins. Perhaps the reason people do not is because it is a modest choice and does not garner enough attention in our narcissistic decadent times.

Other than Fiona Apple it seemed to be an all-out seventies entertainment weekend as the season turns from green to brown.

Dispatch: A Classic Winter Evening

Photo by me, December 2024.

The evenings are the time of day I love the most in the winter. The sunset is early, by five thirty, in the first part of December and there is a cozy feeling about it. The nights are longer than the days and it is fun to count up the hours that are spent below freezing. During cold spells even this far south we can spend more hours in a day below freezing than above. During true Arctic outbreaks there are days when it never climbs above freezing even with the brightest sun. 

 

I love cold weather, I feel more alive when it slaps me in the face and I can wear a heavy wool coat and a scarf. I enjoy watching the last of the light fade into the west from my kitchen windows and feeling tucked away inside the house. I am not out much in the night anymore, my eyesight is too poor for night driving even with glasses. It makes me feel older than I am, but I like looking out on the descending darkness from inside. So many times I have had to cut an activity short or end visiting with someone to beat the darkness home.

Tuesday evening with temperatures in the thirties I listened to an old friend, George Winston's December album. It enters my mind this time of year, every year, with the blurred Christmas lights, frosty ground and chilled red noses. I feel the cold and peacefulness just from looking at the simple and sophisticated early 80s cover. The music is not all that challenging for classical music, but it need not be. It is possible to listen to music as it is to look at art or read a novel for the simple reasons of joy and pleasure. Not everything has to be a chore or be viewed with a critical filter as is all too common today as if everybody is an expert or academic or a wannabe critic.

I tried to remember when I first heard George Winston's December album. It would have been in the early 80s when it was released in 1982 as this music seems to have always been with me, but I cannot pinpoint a specific memory. Maybe it was in a gifted class or riding with my father in his Cadillac and this played on Peach FM 95 Atlanta? I would like to think that I can remember everything, but that is impossible. It seems doubly impossible that an album of pastoral piano solos would reach number fifty-four on the Billboard charts or sell three million copies, but December did. It was a different time when instrumental music had a place on the radio and perhaps the American populace was less regimented in its listening choices. I was nine years old at the time and I remember that I listened to or heard all genres of music, but maybe my family and childhood were exceptional in that regard and I cannot project that onto the country as a whole.

My favorite piece from the album would be the Variations on the Kanon which refers to Johann Pachelbel's Canon in D. It is a more jaunty arrangement than the overly sentimental Jean-Francois Paillard arrangement that was popularized in the 1980 film Ordinary People. I love that film, relate to much of it, and think Donald Sutherland, Mary Tyler Moore, Judd Hirsch and Timothy Hutton were outstanding in it - but not that version of Canon in D.

Timothy Hutton and Mary Tyler Moore in Ordinary People

That film got so much right from the again "simple and sophisticated" clothes with a neutral palette that my mother wore and which appeared briefly in the U.S. from the late seventies into the early eighties before bold colors took over, the styling, the acting and Timothy Hutton was epically adorable and I knew that at seven years old. Except the music...I have gotten far, far off the path of where I began and damn if I cannot help myself against the beauty of Hutton in that film.

 

But one more photo of Timothy Hutton stretched out on a bed and in a well made sweater back when sweaters were thick, worth the money and made in the U.S.A. Yes, sweaters are not what they used to be, just like music, and you can read about why that is here. The last high quality sweater I can remember buying in an average department store was in the early nineties.

Back to December and 2024.

I still listen to this album in the winter and not just at Christmas, but into early March when the trees are bare, nights can be cold, there is the slimmest possibility of snow and the sun sets early. Piano solos may not chart anymore on Billboard, sweaters and movies are not as good as they were, Timothy Hutton and I have both aged, I cannot see at night, but I can still enjoy the fading winter light and December. The times and tastes have changed, but there are classics around as simple as a winter evening to enjoy. Seek them out and cherish them.

George Winston died in the summer of 2023.

The Changeling - An Elegant And Understated Ghost Story

A

s a child The Changeling like The Shining terrified me. The scenes of the drowning boy under the water in the bathtub scared me enough to have me cover my eyes. I first saw the film in the early 1980s one summer evening on HBO after coming home from my brother's baseball game at the local ball field. Decades later this movie doesn't terrify me as an adult, but I do appreciate and like it more. This is a fine movie that has aged very well in today's age of fast editing gimmicks and over-used CGI cheap tricks employed to scare audiences. This stylish and interesting film has suspense, mystery and acting.  

 

The Changeling is a 1980 Canadian film about a murdered boy who haunts a Victorian Seattle mansion of a classical music composer. The composer John Russell is played by legendary actor George C. Scott. When Scott discovers the haunting he finds more than a ghost and he sets out to uncover the mystery behind the haunting. The ghostly boy gives him clues that lead to a politician. 

 

John Russell came to live in this mansion with ghosts from his own past. His wife and child were killed in front of him while on holiday on a snow covered road. John decided a change of scenery would help him move on with life. He leaves New York and moves to Seattle to teach music at a university and compose in his spare time. He settles in a rented Victorian mansion that had sat empty for twelve years. His arrival reawakens the haunting.

 

As John follows the clues from the ghost he is aided in his research by Claire Norman who leased him the house through the local historical society. Claire is played by the real life wife of George C. Scott, Trish Van Devere. Together they unravel the mystery of ghost through a seance, research in libraries and digging up an old well hidden beneath a house.

The drowning boy turned ghost in The Changeling.

The movie is your classic haunted house story involving a ghost, banging doors, and breaking glass. There are some wonderfully scary moments in the movie such as the red bouncing ball coming down the stairs, the burning staircase, the drowning boy in the bathtub and the wicked child-size wheelchair chasing after Claire. 

 

This is an imperfect haunted house movie that is very good and almost great, but not to the level of greatness of say The Shining or The Exorcist. The Changeling filmed in 1978 and 1979, but not released until 1980 looks and feels more like a 70s movie than an 80s movie. It also was released the same year as the The Shining which again looks more like the 1970s than the 1980s. 1980 was a year of some good to great films that were produced at the end of the 1970s such as The Coal Miner's Daughter, The Elephant Man, Ordinary People, Raging Bull, Fame and Brubaker.

George C. Scott in front of the mansion from The Changeling.

The Changeling has the moody locale, the drab and dark interiors, the suspense, a couple of scary surprises, an interesting story, a fantastic soundtrack and some believable acting in it. George C. Scott seemed stiff in his acting as the movie begins, but as it unfolds and the tension and drama increases his acting seemed more relaxed. A couple of times his looks of disbelief at what is happening around him are realistically funny and stellar. It is no fault of Scott, but I do wish his role was written to convey more feelings of terror and fear at the ghost. The character of John is a bit cold and manages to stay too logical and rational given all the supernatural events - the screaming was saved for the role of Claire. 

 

I do love this movie because I enjoy a good, suspenseful haunted house movie. I love movies set in old mansions that have been closed up for years and need to reclaimed and explored by humans. I can smell the old wood and the dust. Old houses have a certain smell about them and they remind me of my family's old rock house set out in the lonesome countryside of Tennessee overlooking the fields and the river. Once you smell that aged wood, dust and stale air you never forget it. 

 

The movie is based on an alleged true story by playwright Russell Hunter. Hunter lived in an old mansion in Denver in the late 1960s and claimed it was haunted by a the ghost of a young boy. The same as the movie, the ghost gave clues as to where to find a certain item buried underneath a house. I believe in ghosts, I have seen two in my life, but this story seems a little farfetched for reality, but not a movie.

The wonderful styling of Trish Van Devere in The Changeling.

Normally I do not comment on wardrobe, hair or makeup in a movie, but this time is an exception because it was so well done and stylish. The wardrobe, hair and makeup on Trish Van Devere are impeccable. She looks stunning throughout the movie. The clothes she wears in nearly every scene have her dressed to perfection and her hair looks so good whether they style it up or down. Her wardrobe is so chic and sophisticated that it was a pleasure to watch her. Also that timeless Burberry trench coat that George C. Scott wears in the film had me lusting for that too. 

 

If you are hoping for a heart racing and frantic film then the pace of The Changeling will be too slow to keep your attention. The attention span of today's audience weened on news feeds, selfies, jump cuts, explosions and fake curated lives may however be bored by this movie. So if you like the action hero Hollywood crap of today this is not the movie for you. This movie is from a time when entertainment was a helluva lot more intelligent, sophisticated and elegant than the soul crushing junk of today.