100 Years of the Winter Olympics

The activity of traditionally winter sports is one of crisp pine air, biting mountain wind, and features athletes who voluntarily travel down ice chutes at 90 miles per hour. While many sports traditions are centuries old, the history of the Winter Olympics transformed backyard winter pastimes into a global obsession during the 20th century.

In the early 1900s, people in colder climates—especially in Scandinavia—felt that the world was missing out on the true beauty of sport. They had their own regional events but they wanted a grander platform to showcase what they could do on skates and skis. There was a growing realization that winter sports were not just local hobbies but disciplines that required courage and skill. The hope was to create a dedicated stage where the mastery of cold weather sports could be celebrated on a larger scale.

Property of the IOC

In 1924, a "Winter Sports Week" was held in Chamonix, France. At the time, it was an experimental gathering nestled beneath the peaks of the Alps. It was such a hit—with 16 nations competing in things like bobsled and down-hill skiing — that it was in retrospect recognized as the very first Winter Olympic Games. The first ever gold medal was won by an American speed skater, who probably didn't realize he was kicking off a century of tradition in that Alpine town.

As the decades passed, the Winter Games established a rhythm and the world began to take notice. In the 1960s, television turned skiers like Jean-Claude Killy into household names, bringing the thrill of the slopes into living rooms across the globe. The Summer and Winter games were typically held in the same year. Eventually, the games reached a level of popularity that demanded their own unique slot on the calendar. In 1994, the schedule shifted to ensure the Winter Games had their own dedicated spotlight. The 1994 Lillehammer Games in Norway became a landmark event, remembered as some of the most beautiful games ever held.

Italian athletes at the 1956 Games in Cortina. Property of Getty Images

It isn’t just the sports; it’s the sheer scale. We have seen a massive evolution in technology, moving from wooden skis and leather boots to carbon-fiber bobsleds and aerodynamic suits developed in wind tunnels. Whether it’s a legendary hockey game or the grace of a well-executed downhill run, the games offer a unique brand of tension and beauty that only ice and snow can provide.

Property of the IOC

Outling a New Writing Project.

It is the time of year for extreme cold weather and snow fall for much of the country. And with it, thoughts of The Overlook Hotel and “what the old-timers called cabin fever.”

To step into Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining is to enter a world where the architecture itself is as evil as the ghosts within. While the film is a staple of the horror genre, it carries the weight of a classic novel, trading in the cheap thrills of slasher films for a slow-burn descent into a family’s psychological winter. Kubrick didn't just adapt Stephen King’s story; he rebuilt it into a haunting meditation on memory, isolation, and the cyclical nature of human violence.

Property of Stanley Kubrick and Warner Bros. Studios

The film begins with the hotel, a place that feels grand yet suffocating. Most directors use darkness to hide their monsters, but Kubrick bathed his corridors in a cold, artificial light. He famously used "impossible architecture" to unsettle the viewer—hallways that lead where they shouldn't and windows that overlook landscapes they shouldn't be able to see. This wasn't a mistake; it was a deliberate choice to make the audience feel as though the ground were shifting beneath their feet, much like the sanity of Jack Torrance.

Much of the film’s eerie nature comes from its movement. Kubrick’s use of the Steadicam allowed the camera to follow young Danny Torrance on his tricycle with a frightening smoothness. As the wheels transition from the hollow rattle of hardwood to the muffled silence of the hotel's signature patterned carpets, the viewer isn't just watching a scene—they are being pulled deeper into the hotel’s appetite for blood. It is a visual prose that speaks of an inevitable doom, suggesting that the characters are merely figures in a story that has already been written.

“Going-to-the-Sun Road” the location of the Torrance family’s drive from the film’s opening credits.

In a literary sense, the film acts as a manuscript, where the present-day breakdown of a father is layered over the bloody history of the American West. While King’s novel focused on the internal struggle of an alcoholic trying to do better, Kubrick’s Jack Torrance is a man who seems to have been waiting for the hotel to give him an excuse to unmask his true self. The "shining" ability itself becomes less about psychic powers and more about the burden of seeing the world’s ugly truths—a gift that Danny carries like a heavy inheritance.

The film’s final, wordless moments remain its most debated chapter. That slow, lingering crawl toward a photograph from 1921 challenges everything we think we know about time and identity. By refusing to offer a tidy explanation, Kubrick ensured that The Shining would never end. Like the hedge maze outside the hotel, the film is designed to keep us wandering, searching for a way out of a mystery that is as beautiful as it is terrifying.

Property of Stanley Kubrick and Warner Bros. Studios

The Birds of America

Audubon’s The Birds of America remains one of the most significant achievements in both natural history and the world of art.  Produced between 1827 and 1838, the collection consists of 435 hand-colored, life-sized prints that captured the avian diversity of a young United States with unprecedented detail.

The scale of the project was massive scope. Audubon insisted on painting every bird life-sized, which led to the creation of his Double Elephant Folio. The format used paper measuring 26 x 39 inches.   To fit larger species, like the American Flamingo or the Great Blue Heron—onto the page, Audubon frequently depicted them in dynamic, contorted poses, bending their necks or tucking their wings to maintain a 1:1 scale.

Before Audubon, most ornithological illustrations were stiff and clinical, drawn from stuffed specimens in museums. He spent years in the American wilderness of the early to mid 1800’s observing the behavior, habitats, and movements of his subjects.

Audubon's work has survived nearly two centuries of market fluctuations because of its unique blend of scientific importance and aesthetic drama. In current day, collectors are increasingly focused on quality over quantity, gravitating toward works with impeccable provenance and vivid color preservation.

The market generally breaks down into two categories: museum-grade investment (the large-scale folios) and Accessible Heritage (the smaller Octavo editions).

Edition and Folio Hierarchy -

1. The Havell Edition (Double Elephant Folio): This edition is considered to be the holy grail and the gold standard. Only about 200 complete sets were produced. Because many of these sets were broken up over the decades to sell individual plates, finding a "fresh to market" Havell print is a major event in the art world. Prices for prints from this original edition can range from several thousand to over $200,000 for a single sheet.

2. The Bien Edition: This was a rare, mid-19th-century attempt to recreate the work using chromolithography. Fewer than 75 sets were completed, making them technically rarer than the Havell edition, though they often sell for less because they lack the hand-colored watercolor touch.

3. The First Royal Octavo Edition: These were smaller, more affordable prints meant for the 19th-century middle class. Today, they are the entry point for serious collectors, offering a way to own an original "Audubon-supervised" work for a few hundred to a few thousand dollars.

Holiday Week Dispatch from Bedford Falls

If anyone needs me I will be here until further notice.

Fair warning, bartender has a short fuse.

The Life and Times of Ian Fleming

Ian Fleming, the British author and creator of the James Bond character and subsequent series of novels, lived an incredible but short life. Born in 1908, to a well-to-do family, Fleming bounced around for much of his youth. Pulled in a variety of directions as a result of work and romantic pursuits, he landed at the British Naval Intelligence Division. It was here that he became exposed to the elements and environment that birthed Bond.

Property of Getty Images

Fleming’s Cold War era work in intelligence put him in the occasional dangerous place, and inspired his first Bond novel, Casino Royale. Fleming and Bond shared a love for similar pleasures and stylistic sensibilities. This helped create a character whose fictional lifestyle became the envy of men everywhere. Bond among many things, was a character who kept a steady hand and one who wouldn’t spill his martini when confronted by danger and / or a beautiful woman.

Casino Royale found Bond locked in a gambling battle with an enemy who was a French diplomat and member of the Russian Secret Service. A rather unique combination of employers if we agree. Mr. Bond was tasked with the assignment of attempting to bankrupt him, in order to neutralize his financial resources. To do this, Bond was bankrolled by the British Government via MI6 or “Military 'Intelligence, Section 6”.

Property of Getty Images

Imaging a NATO member country using a casino game to attempt to thwart an enemy operative is an example of the exciting plot lines that were exposing readers to a fantastic and exotic world. In contrast to the post-war 1950s. Bond was nothing if not comfortable in his own skin. I believe this to be at the core to his appeal up to present day. Fleming envisioned Bond as a “rather boring personality” who would frequently find himself in unthinkable and terrifying scenarios on a regular basis. Bond was a dull individual to whom rather UN-dull things would occur. In sequence. I hadn’t thought of it that way but it does cut it to the bone.

The success of the series skyrocketed when US President John F. Kennedy gave an interview during which he listed Fleming’s From Russia with Love as one of his “ten favorite books.”

Property of Getty Images

Fleming found dealing with that, and the subsequent success, to be the challenge of his life. He died young at age 56, having lost many years to drinking, smoking and living not unlike certain aspects of his universally known character’s life.

Golden Age of Hollywood Halloween

Maybe more so than other holidays (if you consider it one), Halloween memories are often crystal clear. Something about wearing something uncommon and meaningful can make a memory vivid even decades later. Don’t let the memories fade. Happy end of October to all.

Janet Leigh, all rights to the owner. Getty Images

The Brooklyn Trolley Dodgers of Flatbush

The opening sentences of a piece like this inevitably always begin with something like: “with the crisp fall air…” There is a reason for this, as baseball is a game of hope, repetition and reconciliation. Over the course of a six-month season, baseball fans go from hope springs eternal to there’s always next year.

Few teams experienced more “there’s always next year(s) than the Brooklyn Dodgers during the middle of the 20th century. Having lost four in a row during the late 1940’s and well into the 1950s, proved to be agonizing for the residents and fans of Brooklyn borough. This futility would also spawn a secondary nickname that was rather unflattering, The Bums.

The aesthetic of the time was defined by its permanence and utility. The heavy wool flannels, the iconic script across the jerseys, and the narrow, irregular dimensions of the ballpark itself reflected a neighborhood built on grit and repetition. It was a decade characterized by the agonizing "next year" cycle of losing to the Yankees, finally broken by the historic 1955 World Series win. That victory transformed the team from perennial underdogs into a symbol of vindication, proving that something timeless could be achieved within the aging walls on Sullivan Street.

In spite of an extended track record of losing, Brooklyn fans stuck by the Dodgers year-after-year and showed up in droves to the stadium in Flatbush. The Dodgers took their name, which eluded to pedestrians “Dodging” the many streetcars of Brooklyn in 1911. Owner Charles Ebbets began buying up lots along Sullivan St. in 1908 with plans to build a stadium on the site with construction beginning in 1912. The park at its largest iteration held only 35,000 fans, small by today’s standard.

We will no doubt revisit Ebbets Field and the Brooklyn Dodgers in future posts.

THE LIFE AND TIMES OF GEORGE PLIMPTON

To understand George Plimpton is to understand the art of the participatory amateur. He was a man of high-born lineage and Ivy League polish who spent his life deliberately walking into situations where he was spectacularly outmatched. Whether he was stepping into the ring with Archie Moore or taking snaps for the Detroit Lions, Plimpton’s brilliance lay in his willingness to fail on our behalf.

Plimpton’s most enduring contribution to the American archive was his role as the "Professional Amateur." In an era of increasing specialization, he remained a generalist. He founded The Paris Review, a literary journal that prioritized the craft of the interview, yet he is perhaps most famous for Paper Lion, his account of training as a backup quarterback.

His prose was characterized by a specific, mid-century elegance—an approach to storytelling that stripped away the ego of the athlete and replaced it with the vulnerability of the observer. He didn't just report on the game; he felt the weight of the grass and the terrifying velocity of a professional blitz.

Plimpton’s mind operated like a curated library. At The Paris Review, he sought to create a space where the giants of literature—Hemingway, Capote, Eliot—could speak candidly about their failures and their process. He treated the interview as a historical record, a way to capture the "thoughtful design" of a writer’s life before it vanished into the noise of the modern market.

His personal style was an extension of this philosophy. Whether he was hosting a legendary party in his East Side apartment or appearing in a film, he carried a sense of preppy permanence. He was a man of blazers and elbow patches, a living bridge between the world of letters and the world of sport.

Image property of Larry Fink Estate

George Plimpton reminds us that the mind is an archive that should never be closed. He was a man who refused to be defined by a single lane, moving between the boxing ring, the orchestra pit, and the editorial desk with a restless, brilliant energy.

George Plimpton passed away in 2003.

The Life and Times of F. Scott Fitzgerald (Part 1)

Francis “Scott” Fitzgerald was born in St. Paul Minnesota in September of 1896. In a few weeks I will be older than he was when he died. I also share the same birth week as he did. I wonder if he celebrated his birthdays. Although he seemed like the type to celebrate all occasions both large and small.

The years before the light turned green on the Buchanan dock were a restless sequence of cold train platforms and the smell of wet wool in midwestern winters. Before the jazz grew loud and the invitations became ubiquitous, F. Scott Fitzgerald was a young man haunted by the suspicion that he was standing on the wrong side of a very high, very gilded fence.

Photo property of Fitzgerald estate.

In the vaulted halls of Princeton, the boy from St. Paul discovered that the world was partitioned by more than just intellect. It was here that the "calculus of class" first began to gnaw at him. He was a creature of kinetic ambition, spending more time composing lyrics for the Triangle Club than studying the classics he was meant to master. He was learning, instead, the posture of the elite—the specific way a tie should hang, the casual cadence of a voice that had never known the indignity of a budget. But the grades slipped, and the war loomed, and the ivory towers eventually receded in the rearview mirror of a troop train.

At Princeton, Fitzgerald didn’t just study history; he tried to wear it. Entering the gates in 1913, he found himself in a Gothic landscape that seemed designed to remind a middle-class boy from Minnesota exactly where he stood. It was a world of "eating clubs" and social pedigrees, where the air was thick with the scent of old money and woodsmoke.

It was during these years that the foundational chip on his shoulder was carved. He was surrounded by the "leisure class," young men who moved with a casual, inherited grace that he had to meticulously rehearse. He later described himself during this time as a terrible bridge-player and a mediocre athlete, constantly overcompensating for a lack of blue-blooded lineage with a surplus of charm and prose.

Photo property of Princeton University 1917

The romanticism eventually hit the hard wall of reality. By 1917, the combination of poor health and failing marks forced him to withdraw. He didn't graduate with his class; instead, he traded the cap and gown for the olive drab of an Army uniform. He left Princeton with a trunk full of rejection slips and the early drafts of what would become This Side of Paradise, having learned the most expensive lesson the Ivy League could offer: that the most beautiful things in the world are often the most exclusive. having done well in school, despite attending and subsequently dropping out of Princeton University, some 85 years after his death, he remains an enigma. We can never fully understand his genius nor his inner torment.

Fitzgerald’s exploits have been well documented, but it is not as well-known that he was named after Francis Scott Key, who was a distant cousin. Fitzgerald is also credited with the first use of the word “t-shirt”, used in the novel “This Side of Paradise”.

8 1/2 - Fellini (1963)

By 1963, Federico Fellini was a man under immense pressure. Having achieved global acclaim with La Dolce Vita, the world was waiting for his next move. The problem was that Fellini didn't have one. He famously sat in his office at with a blank piece of paper, having forgotten what kind of film he wanted to make. Instead of retreating, he decided to film the forgetting itself.

The protagonist, Guido Anselmi played with a weary, cool detachment by Marcello Mastroianni, is a director trapped in a vacuum. He is surrounded by producers demanding a script, actresses demanding a role, and a wife demanding the truth. Guido’s solution is to retreat into the architecture of his own memory.

Property of Janus Films.

What makes 8 ½ so enduring is its refusal to signal when it is moving from the present day into a dream. One moment Guido is at a sterile health spa, and the next he is a child being bathed in wine at an Italian farmhouse, or facing a "harem" of all the women from his past.

The film's title itself is an insider reference: Fellini had previously directed six features and two "half" features (collaborations). This was his Eighth and 1/2. It is a work of radical honesty, suggesting that our lives are not a linear sequence of events, but a cluttered archive of fantasies, guilts, and half-remembered faces.

Property of Janus Films.

To understand Fellini’s 8 ½ is to understand the terrifying moment when the fountain of ideas simply stops. It is less a movie about cinema and more a study of the creative block elevated to the level of a grand, operatic circus.

The film functions like a memory palace with no doors. It moves without warning from the stark, clinical reality of a 1960s hotel into the warm, dusty corners of an Italian childhood. There is no distinction made between a conversation with a mistress and a hallucination of a long-dead father.

This is the brilliance of the Felliniesque style: the recognition that our internal lives are a cluttered archive. We are constantly negotiating with our past selves, our failures, and our fantasies. The film captures the specific weight of mid-century Italian life—the heavy influence of the Church, the allure of the cinema, and the impossible standards of the "Latin Lover" archetype—and tosses them all into a blender.

While I can’t pinpoint exactly when in my 20’s I discovered the films of Federico Fellini, I can recall that it was via the landmark Criterion Collection library. 8 1/2 was the second of Fellini’s films that I watched, and it amazed me.

From its style and portrayal of Italy to the haunting, surreal and dreamlike quality of Fellini’s directing, 8 1/2 is a treasure. From the first scene, which puts you in the final moments of a literal dream, it is relentless in its hold on viewers many decades later.