My Published Articles for ViewsHound: The Palace of Fine Arts, San Francisco

Thursday, September 26, 2024

The Palace of Fine Arts, San Francisco

During our recent excursion in San Francisco SalesForce Rooftop Park, we detoured on our way home via the Golden Gate Bridge and pass by the Palace of Fine Arts. Its is an iconic landmark in the cityscape of San Francisco.

The architecture was stunningly beautiful and it aroused my curiosity of this beautiful building, surrounded by a small lake. I took a photo from our van. My photo was not as fantastic as the photos in the website, but I am posting it on this blog anyway.

‍In 1915 when the Panama Pacific International Exposition (PPIE) opened, it was a time of turmoil for the world and for the City of San Francisco. The City was just recovering from the terrible earthquake and fire of 1906. The nations of Europe were engaged in economic and political troubles that would lead to the start of World War I. The civic leaders of San Francisco envisioned a bold plan to bring the world together to encourage trade and to show the future of the world as it could be, and to demonstrate that a rebuilt San Francisco would be truly an international city. It was conceived to evoke a decaying ruin of ancient Rome, the Palace of Fine Arts became one of San Francisco's most recognizable landmarks. Early 2009 marked the completion of a renovation of the lagoons and walkways and a seismic retrofit.

AD FROM WESITE: ORIGINALLY BUILT FOR THE 1915 PANAMA-PACIFIC EXHIBITION, THE VENUE AT PALACE OF FINE ARTS IS NOW AVAILABLE FOR CORPORATE EVENTS, PRIVATE GALAS, TRADE SHOWS, WEDDINGS, AND OTHER EVENTS IN NEED OF A LARGE SPACE. OPERATED BY NON PLUS ULTRA, SAN FRANCISCO’S MOST CELEBRATED VENUE MANAGEMENT COMPANY, THE VENUE AT PALACE OF FINE ARTS IS OPEN TUESDAY – SUNDAY FROM 10:00 AM – 5:00 PM (CLOSED ON MONDAYS AND FOR SPECIAL EVENTS). COME INSIDE AND GRAB TASTY FOOD AND BEVERAGES AT THE NEWLY OPENED CAFE PLUS!

Bernard R. Maybeck was chosen as architect for the Palace of Fine Arts. A student of the École des Beaux-Arts, his design reflects the impression of a Roman ruin. The inspiration for the Palace, with its soaring colonnade, grand rotunda, and carefully constructed pond, was meant to evoke quiet sadness and solemnity. This is most evident as one observes the “weeping ladies” facing into the tops of the columns throughout the park. While visiting a museum in Munich, Maybeck was struck by the Hungarian artist István Csók’s depiction of a scene where the notorious Polish princess Elizabeth Bathory is seen throwing freezing water on her naked servants.

Maybeck was also influenced by Arnold Böcklin’s Isle of the Dead. This popular work depicts a small island with towering rocks surrounded by water, with trees at the core of the island, and a boatman with mysterious passenger approaching a dark inlet. Maybeck’s choice of inspiration from classical painters was interesting, given that the purpose of the Palace of Fine Arts was to showcase artists at a period of time when modern art was beginning to emerge.

Rebuilding

‍After the fair, most of the buildings at the PPIE, which were never meant to be permanent, were torn down. The exception of the Palace of Fine Arts; the citizens of San Francisco felt it was just too beautiful to destroy. Consistent with his design concept, Maybeck had intended that the Palace should just fall into ruin, and so it did for a long time. In the ensuing years the building was used for a variety of purposes. After World War II it was a military storage depot, a warehouse for the Parks Department, a telephone book distribution center, and even temporary Fire Department headquarters.

However, the Palace of Fine Arts was never destined to have the same fate as the other buildings of the PPIE. In 1959 Assemblyman Caspar Weinberger led the effort to completely restore the Palace. Public and private funding efforts were underway, but it seemed the goal was just beyond reach. It was then that businessman and philanthropist Walter S. Johnson stepped up and contributed the additional $2MM needed to completely restore the Palace into a permanent structure.

The Palace of Fine Arts League, a 501(c)3 non-profit, was established in 1962 to provide the means to restore the Palace of Fine Arts. Walter Johnson’s efforts, along with many others, contributed to the creation of the Palace of Fine Arts Theatre, which opened in 1970. The Palace of Fine Arts League continues to operate the theater today, honoring the legacy of Maybeck, Johnson, and the many others that have contributed to the rich cultural fabric of San Francisco made possible by the success of the Panama Pacific International Exposition.

Meanwhile, enjoy these two photos of the antique table in the Conference Room of THD, just across the Activity Room and Lobby.

From the Leaf Design Would you say it has Middle East or Indian Origin?

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Guest Article from Susan Creamer Joy

In The Silence, by Susan Creamer Joy.

Today's guest article is from Susan Creamer Joy. Susan is one of my favorite authors in the ViewsHound community. Susan writes, draws, paints and cobbles together art from found objects making a variety of creations from jewelry to religious shrines. She frequently sports burns on her fingers from her soldering iron, paint on her palms and ink under her fingernails, but her hair is usually combed. When she is not losing time in the creative vortex of her studio, she is likely to be putting her knowledge of metaphysics and esoteric principles including Tarot, numerology, astrology and graphology to good use in consultations. Her children are grown, her husband still works and her four dogs believe she needs serious help. The title of her article is "A Matter Of Love And Death". Thank you Susan.

By the time they reached my bedroom door, I was already sitting up – my stomach ratcheted in the tense grip of an unnamed anxiety; my pillow, unburdened of my drowsy head.

To this day I cannot explain how I heard them coming up those stairs in their bare feet or how I knew that my father struggled to hold his composure as my mother unnaturally clutched at the folds of her dressing gown and followed him through the dark just a little too closely.

As the wooden groan of those old stairs tore into my bones that morning like a hacksaw, all I could see between the predawn shadows was the letter I’d written just hours earlier to my boyfriend, Chris, propped against the lamp on my desk across the room awaiting an envelope.

I had not slept well. It was late November and there had been so many changes since the middle of August when he left for the Air Force in Texas to begin basic training and I began my third new school in as many years.

The conspiracy between fate and the last surge of the Vietnam draft had broken apart the every-waking-minutes of our two-year union with unceremonious indifference. All that night my sleep had been infested by difficult dreams and by the illogical fear that truth and reality were merging into a darkness only a martyr could grasp; and at sixteen, martyrdom seemed reasonable only for the nuns among the poor in Bangladesh

I tried to remind myself that he would be home on leave for Thanksgiving in another few days. It was the only tether to calm I could find, but reviewing the facts offered little relief from my baseless fears.

Chris had been girding his pacifist sensibilities preparing to fight in an unpopular war that had not yet slaughtered its last innocent. I was hovering just over the line of inclusion at an exclusive girl’s school – missing him – and finding myself at odds with these young women and their attachment to propriety and with the prep-school veneer that blinded them to the fact that they were no better than anyone else.

Neither one of us was coping well with the worlds into which we were respectively summoned, and although we both knew that the best hope for any future together depended upon our individual successes apart, it was far from comforting most days.

But in spite of our discomfort, we each did our best; and, of course, there were the letters: Thin, plain-paper sheets with row after row after row of inky blue words penned with the intensity and awkward locutions of a love learned too soon. It had come down to just that little, but without them, I would have had nothing.

Chris was learning to fly. I was learning to drive, and both of us were aching to transport our souls to an earlier time through the hallowed intercourse of memories and dreams. Of course, as with all progress, there was the positive element: We were both clean and drug-free for the first time in years.

Now, without pretense, both healthy cognition and sincere motivation surfaced regularly in my psychology and prompted me to care about myself and to arbitrate against all temptation for a better standing in the world, in school and in my own eyes. I even did my homework.

No longer was I escaping today but, instead, living for my day of escape. Lying still in the dark of my room, I listened to the slow, padded footfall of my parents approaching and looked to the floor and to my history book half hidden beneath the nightstand where I’d tossed it the night before. Even in this early morning dark I could make out the swirls and stars in colored marker and the bubble-formed letters that spelled C H R I S in soft, juvenile curves on the torn book cover I’d fashioned out of a brown paper grocery bag.

I vaguely remembered throwing it there somewhat hastily. I had been doing my homework when a sense of urgency struck and I realized I had not written him as I promised I would and glancing at the clock, I noted it was nine-twenty-three. Why that mattered I had no way of knowing in that strange moment, but within hours, it would be one I would never forget; and although I was becoming drowsy and still needed to finish my work, I felt beyond reason that my letter to him could not wait.

So, I wrote. I would always write. I would always be there. He would always be there.“Suzi."It was my name spoken in the smooth and familiar voice of my mother, although weighted and slow, her head bowed to her chest almost as though she were speaking only to herself.

"Suzi.” She said it again, this time with sharp gravity, like a chisel against stone.

As if on cue, I leaned forward, flanked now by my parents who were sitting on either side of my bed.

I had been waiting for them. I don’t know how. I didn’t know why. The lights in my room remained off, but it seemed that the darkness clung more to them than to me, as though they were holding it there – away from me to give me enough light to see through the next moment. They were crying. My father was crying. My father. “Suzi. We have something very, very bad to tell you." Chris has been in a car accident." And he was killed."

If the world moved forward from that moment, I could not know it. f there were air around me worth breathing, I could not take it in. And if there were another sound beyond the leaden bellow of my own raw grief, I could not hear it.

"Who am I going to talk to? Who am I going to love?” I wailed. Who will love me? In that sodden moment violated by the intrusion of a predawn light that had no business rising, everything I ever believed about happiness, hoped for in life, trusted in or held as my own was annihilated.

After that – there was no after that. After that came months of hollow redundancies that would inform my way of being in the world for years to come. A serial commitment to waking up each morning, remembering he was gone and dedicating the remaining hours to forgetting. To that end I would try anything, drink anything, ingest anything, inject anything. It was a slow and arbitrary suicide by indifference.

Many years later, at 25 years-old and in the midst of a pharmaceutical free-fall leaning dangerously close to terminal, I discovered that I was expecting a child, and after a decade of forgetting, I remembered. I named him Griffin after the legendary winged lion, a symbol of the divine because what he inspired and the miracle that he was, were nothing less. I remembered and I loved again, and I went on to marry and to the gift of two beautiful daughters.

Today my son is struggling not to drown in the same well of drug abuse and apathy that almost swallowed me – his great, divine wings clipped by his own hand; and while it is up to him to restore his place in the sky, I will do my best to help provide an open runway.

In the meantime, I will continue soaring for both of us; bequeathed as I have been, with a determination to fly from a boy whose ragged fate precluded that dream.

Death took one young man from me once upon a dark time. If it has any intention of coming for this one, it will have to go through me. And trust me, it will be in for one hell of a fight.

Note: If you enjoy this article, please let me know.

Thursday, September 26, 2024

The Palace of Fine Arts, San Francisco

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