Everything I Know I Learned from Botticelli

This week, May 17th, is the 502nd anniversary of the death of painter Sandro Botticelli.

I can only imagine what it was like to walk the narrow streets of Florence during the late 15th and early 14th century. The cradle of the Renaissance and home turf to such immortal artists as Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and Sandro Botticelli, Florence was a place passionate about beauty. In fact its passion for beauty in art, in clothing, in personal adornment led the extremist monk Savonarola to declare that the church was being threatened. He called for the destruction of many of those fine things in his Bonfire of the Vanities. It makes me shudder.

I fell in love with Renaissance art and with Botticelli's work when I took an art history class in college. I was not an art history major, and frankly didn't know a lot about art, but it fulfilled a requirement. I'm not sure what I was expecting but suddenly I was spending hours a week among the most beautiful works of art in history. Botticelli's BIRTH OF VENUS, and my favorite VENUS AND MARS simply took my breath away. By the time the class was over I had an A, a deeper appreciation for art, and a burning desire to visit Florence.

It took me nearly thirty years, but I did just that. By then my tastes had changed and become maybe more mature, maybe just more masculine--I'm not sure what. This time I had a burning desire to see Michelangelo's DAVID. And there I found my own passion. I was so blown away by the story I saw in that face that I had to write about him. The resulting picture book, STONE GIANT, will be out next year.

But to my surprise, I also found Botticelli again in this story. You see, when the DAVID was completed, everyone who saw it saw immediately that it was a masterpiece and that it would be the piece that would come to define Florence. But where do you put a masterpiece? The city officials could not agree. So, as politicians do, they formed a committee. But being Florence, it was not a committee of politicians, or even of the rich and powerful citizens of the time. It was a committee of lovers of beauty. There were musicians, sculptors, architects, embroiderers, and painters--lots of painters. Among them was Sandro Botticelli.

Botticelli and the other artists chose where DAVID would stand. They understood the power of beauty and of this beautiful symbol of Florence itself.

Everything I Know I Learned from Maurice Sendak (part 2)

I've never done this before, but this week I feel it's right. This is a repeat of a blog post I did in 2010 on the occasion of Maurice Sendak's birthday. This week, as we mourn his loss, it still seems appropriate. And there is still so much to learn from his work.

Everything I Know I Learned from Maurice Sendak

Quick, when I say "Maurice Sendak," what's the first thing you think of? I'm betting it's WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE. Mr. Sendak wrote and/or illustrated a great many children's books, among them IN THE NIGHT KITCHEN, CHICKEN SOUP WITH RICE, and the LITTLE BEAR books by Else Holmelund Minarik. But he will forever be remembered as the creator of Max and those great furry wild things.

Now, I could stop this blog right here. As a writer and presenter at schools, I am often asked what it's like to be famous. My standard answer is that I'm not, nor do I ever want to be. I do, however, want my books to be famous, well-loved, and read often. To have one of my books achieve the kind of immortality that WILD THINGS has done, and to have my name forever associated with it--well, that's a dream as wild as anything Max dreamed up, and I don't expect there's a hot meal waiting for me at the end of it either.

But I always wondered just where those wild things came from. Why do they connect with us so well? Mr. Sendak admitted he based them somewhat on his much-dreaded Brooklyn relatives. As a child, he was frightened by these large aunts and uncles who pinched his cheeks and said stupid-adult things like, "Oh, you're so cute I could eat you up," though he knew they never would. He tapped into that frightening/loving persona for his wild things. And thereby tapped into a classic childhood fear. Because don't all children have some kind of wild thing in their lives?

Good-bye, Mr. Sendak. The wild rumpus has ended.

Everything I Know I Learned from Mordecai Booth

I've been spending the past year with my head stuck in 1814. As I explained before, it's a system that works for me when I'm working on a new book, even if it's a little OCD. And besides, you meet the most interesting people when you focus in on a new place and time.

Take Mordecai Booth. Booth was a senior clerk at the Washington Navy Yard in August 1814, a working man with a house and a family. Washington itself was still in its infancy, having become the seat of the federal government of the United States only fourteen years earlier, and it still showed. Its roads were famous for being dusty in hot weather, muddy in wet weather, and almost impassibly rutted all year round. It was still as much swamp as city.

But swampy or not, Washington was still the capital, and as such, a target of the British during the War of 1812. British Admiral George Cockburn knew that a blow against the capital would be far more demoralizing than an attack against even so valuable a port city as Baltimore. And so, in August 1814, 4500 British troops were landed in Benedict, Maryland and began the march toward Washington.

Booth and Thomas Tingey, commandant of the Navy Yard, knew that the yard would be a primary target. Secretary of the Navy William Jones had ordered that, no matter what, the yard must not fall into the hands of the British. As the invasion began at dusk on August 24th, 1814, Booth and Tingey faced a horrible task. They had to set fire to the yard, the pride of the US Navy and of Washington. At great risk, Booth volunteered to scout the city first to see if all really was lost. Only when he knocked on the White House door and realized that even the president had fled did he realize how awful the situation was. Shortly afterward he spied, in the dimming light of dusk, the British enter the city. He returned to tell Tingey that there was indeed no option. They would have to fire the yard.

The men apparently said little to each other. They had a duty to do and they did it. That night the British torched the White House and the Capitol, as well as other public buildings. But the first fires set during the burning of Washington were set by Booth and Tingey.

Booth later gave his account of the burning of the capital. As he left for safety, he looked back at a city in flames. He was so transfixed that he could not move from the spot for three hours. His words as he described the sight were raw with grief and horror.

It was a night nearly two hundred years ago, and yet his words painted a vivid living picture of one of the most tragic events in American history. I feel so honored to have met him and been able to write about his story.

Everything I Know I Learned from Miss D

In honor of "Poem in your Pocket Day" I wanted to write about one of my first experiences with poetry. And for me, that meant Miss D.

Miss D was not my first exposure to poetry. I guess that would be nursery rhymes, and my Dad, who taught me "Gooey Looey." Don't know that one? It has something to do with a worm on the railroad tracks. (Eeeew! Gooey Looey!)

Nor was Miss D the best English teacher I ever had. That would be Mrs. Kaplan, who taught me about the value of a good ending--and I think of her every time I write one. (Hmmm. Maybe another post there?)In fact, Miss D was a little eccentric and short-tempered. She lived alone and it was not unusual for her to come in with her dress unzipped and ask someone in her homeroom to zip her up first thing in the morning. She was a little hard of hearing and I think her vision was going, too. This made it really easy to cheat on her tests. Boldly. I mean like turning around and asking, "Hey what's the answer to number ten?" That boldly.

But, God love her, she loved poetry. She taught the sophomore unit on poetry. This was my first exposure to real literary poetry, and her enthusiasm could be contagious. More than once she would recite a poem with tears in her eyes. That didn't go over well with a bunch of cynical teenagers, but we all remembered. I saw first-hand the power of the written word and, for me at least, the message took root.

Once she asked us to choose a favorite poem to share with the class. For some, this was an onerous task, and I could hear the groans and grumbles, even if Miss D couldn't. I found Robert Bly's deliciously quiet Driving to Town Late to Mail a Letter. According to the Library of Congress, this is about "the joy of being alone." Yep, that was me.

This poem spoke to me. About cool silence and the privilege of being alone long enough to hear one's own thoughts. Its brevity was appealing, and taught me how to paint a scene and a mood in just a few brushstokes, something I'm still learning to do. I'm not sure I would have found it if it hadn't been for Miss D's prompting.

Today, that poem will be in my pocket.

Everything I Know I Learned from Will Parker

In the interest of full disclosure I have to say I'd really rather write about Ado Annie, you know, the girl who "cain't say no" in Rogers and Hammerstein's Oklahoma. You just know a girl like that is going to be fun and complex and interesting. But apparently I'm nothing like her. I'm more like her loyal beau, Will Parker.

I'm not even talking about love and marriage here. I'm talking about writing. You may have noticed that for the past few months this blog has been MIA. I haven't posted since before Christmas, and I expect that posts will still be spotty for the next couple of months. That's because I've been working on a middle grade nonfiction book about the burning of the White House in 1814, titled The White House is Burning. It's due out from Charlesbridge in 2014 in time for the bicentennial anniversary of the event. It's my first middle-grade book, and it's like running a marathon when you're used to sprinting. Every chapter is about the same length as one of my previous biographies, and it's a new experience for me.

Now don't get me wrong. I LOVE doing this book. Connecting with so many great subjects who lived two hundred years ago has been fantastic, and I love the privilege of making their voices heard again. But balancing the work--both researching and writing--with the rest of my writing, working, and personal life is a challenge. I've had to come up with a stategy. And what I've discovered is that, like Will Parker, with me it's "All Er Nuthin." And "nuthin" is not an option.

To keep my head in the game, I've had to whittle away everything that isn't TWHIB or otherwise essential, and put a lot of things on hold. I've put Facebook, Twitter, and blogging on a back burner and concentrated pretty much all the time on August 24, 1814. I think 8.24.1814 when I wake up, while I drive to work, while I eat or shower or wash dishes, while I'm falling asleep at night. It's a little OCD but it works for me. I just don't think I'd be able to do justice to the subject if I were pulled in too many directions. With me it's all er nuthin.

I have to say, though, that I really have missed you all. I've particularly missed blogging, and I'd forgotten how much until I started this today. But I hope that it will all be worth it. I hope the single-minded passion will show in the work, and that The White House is Burning will be good. It worked out for Will and Annie after all.

Everything I Know I Learned from Snow White

This week (December 21st) marks the 74th anniversary of the debut of the Walt Disney classic, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.

Ugh, I've said it. I've used the word "classic." That's a barnacle of a term, isn't it? It sticks like cement and once it's there it's nearly impossible to pry off. Worst of all, it keeps you from getting a really clear view of what you've got. Hard to see a "classic" with a fresh eye. Unless you're four, it's hard to watch Snow White as if you were seeing it for the first time. Hard to turn back the clock and see what audiences saw on December 21st, 1937, when Snow White first hit the screens, not as a creaky classic, but as a grand experiment in animated movie-making.

It wasn't a sure thing, you know. No one had ever seen a full-length animated movie before and the idea seemed preposterous to many. Cartoons were for kids. They were short. Heck, they were even called "shorts." They were filler, an appetizer for the real movie, not the main course movie itself. No one would sit through a full-length cartoon, critics said. Dwarfs or no dwarfs.

Besides, cartoons were supposed to be full of gags. Funny, slapstick-style easily digestible humor. They weren't dark and shadowy like the fairy tale on which Walt's movie would be based. What was he thinking?

Walt put himself and his company on the line to make his dream movie. He spent three years, committing his entire staff and a good deal of his own money. It is customary with classics to call their creators visionaries. Walt was that, but he had a vision in more than the metaphorical sense. He saw Snow White--literally saw it, frame by frame, as if it played already in his head. He dictated what he wanted to his animators, acting out scenes for them. He knew how each character should look and act, right down to the expressions on their faces. He even knew which kinds of mushrooms should be growing in the woods in the background.

On December 21, 1937, Walt's determination paid off. People lined up for blocks for a chance to see the movie. Animation now hardly seems worth a second glance. But Snow White was as cutting edge for its time as Star Wars and Avatar were for theirs. The movie broke records for ticket sales and won an Academy Award. And had Walt listened to the nay-sayers, he would have been the only one to see it. So glad he shared.

Everything I Know I Learned from Milton Hershey

This week (September 13) we celebrate the 154th birthday of chocolate king, entrepreneur, and philanthropist Milton Hershey.

I once gave a school visit talk about my then-latest book at which a second grader asked, wide-eyed, "You mean Walt Disney was a real person?" I guess some names just come to mean more than the people who own them: Disney, John Deere, and J. C. Penney, for example.

Milton Hershey is that kind of name. The word "Hershey" evokes, not images of the man, but of a brown-wrappered bar, a rich dark aroma, and the luscious feeling of smooth milk chocolate melting on one's tongue. Have I made your mouth water?

But like Disney, Milton Hershey was a very real person. Few would have predicted when he began his candy business that it would be the fabulous success it became, or that his name would become synonomous with milk chocolate. In fact, in the beginning, he was a rather spectacular failure. His businesses failed, he ran out of money, and he begged family members for a loan so often that they pretty much stopped talking to him. Maybe he was just the kind of person who was determined to succeed. Maybe it was a matter of confidence, faith, and bold perseverance. Or maybe he just didn't know how to do anything else besides make candy. Whatever the reason, he did eventually succeed. Magnificently.

Good story so far, right? Ah, but--to channel Ron Popeil--wait, there's more! The nickel Hershey bar was such a success that it made Milton Hershey a very wealthy man. And for a while he did live a champagne lifestyle: a grand mansion, exotic trips. He was even booked to travel first class on the maiden voyage of the Titanic. (He didn't go.)

But the death of his beloved wife Kitty at a young age sharpened his sense of perspective. He wanted to do something meaningful in her honor. They had already started a school for orphan boys. Now he donated all that chocolate money to the Milton Hershey School--all of it. He transferred his entire fortune, valued at about sixty million dollars, to the Hershey Trust for the use of his school. He did it quietly, with no fanfare, no press conference. It wasn't until some years after that the press got wind of the donation and disclosed it to the world. Eventually Milton even donated his mansion for the use of the town he'd founded.

It is the chocolate that we think of when we hear Milton Hershey's name. But it is the school that became his true legacy. Because he gave it everything he had.