UD’s father in law spent four years in Corbu’s atelier just after WW2 – and I mean just after, as in he pretty much traveled directly from Murnau POW camp (where he spent the whole war, having been captured by the Germans early in the conflict) to the Paris studio. UD worked with Jerzy, who wrote the original manuscript in English, on his written English (English was his third or fourth language) in the main essay, which you can find here. (You can find a mistake-free version of the essay in this book.)

One of my happiest memories is sitting on the porch overlooking a pond at Wojciech Fangor’s house one summer, going back and forth with Jerzy, paragraph by paragraph. He had a big broad excitable style with major use of dashes, dot-dot-dots, and exclamation marks; he took all of my editing suggestions in good humor.

Here’s Jerzy’s acknowledgement of our work together.

And here’s his just-released writing about Corbu, translated into Polish:

Actually, it is spring, and UD‘s gone missing from University Diaries for a few days because she’s just standing around gawking. And gardening. She’ll be back to blogging later today.

He still can’t really see it; he’s been squinting at an enlarged image of it for some time.

So as Mr UD grapples with the concept of camouflage, eats the egg and sour dough slices I fried in olive oil, and packs for the beach, UD lets you know that she will be blogging from the president’s summer home for the next week.

… is actually in sunny Arlington, Virginia, at Ambar, for brunch with a buddy.

UPDATE: I keep gazing at this insanely well-composed photograph.

It’s like Munch’s The Scream for happy people.

Is La Kid carrying a bar of radium in her pocket, like Marie Sklodowska Curie?

Part of a regular UD series, introducing you to her Bethesda world.

Here’s a house with a twelve-car garage.

Price has just been lowered by $170K, so power up your motorcade and go for it.

Now that things have quieted down, she’s back in her city apartment.

Because of the work of her hands (clearing a path through the woods), UD discovered, this time last year, a deer skull. She washed it a bit and placed it in a large white outdoor plant container. Now and then she glanced at its morbid beauty.

It didn’t mean much to her; it was one of several (less aesthetic) deer skulls she had discovered while working in the woods.

Nuno, her Portuguese landscaper, noticed the skull this morning and said to UD: “What kind of animal is that? Where did you find it? How did you get it?” He seemed rather excited.

Nuno explained that he collected animal skulls. “I put colored beads in their eye sockets and feathers on their heads.”

*****************

Nuno proposed to pay UD for the skull, and she agreed. He gave her cash, and she gave him the skull.

“I earned money for the household by the work of my hands!” UD exulted to Mr UD and La Kid (staying in ‘thesda because UD is creeped out by the armed camp DC has become – she goes back to the city today). UD liked this phrase and repeated it. “It’s Biblical! The work of my hands!”

I asked him to order for me on Instacart this combination:

Like a lot of traumatized people, I’m reverting to the foundational securities of childhood – a childhood in which my mother basically cooked one dinner – spaghetti – and set out one lunch – a lukewarm Hebrew National hotdog, with French’s Classic Yellow mustard, inside a tasteless white bun.

Under normal circumstances, I would never ask Mr UD to order this for me, to have it in the house, to watch me eat it.

I mean, he would refuse to order it; and if I smuggled it in and he saw me eating it, he’d flee the room.

But when, out of a deep well of need, I – seemingly casual, but trembling inside – asked him to add these things to our grocery list, he unhesitatingly, with a profound and humane expression on his face, did so.