 Hey Kwonki Lee! If you missed last week's edition – the best psychology and philosophy books of the year, our fraught relationship with time in clever minimalist illustrations, how to discern your purpose and define your own success, Lynda Barry's visual field guide to creative observation, and more – you can catch up right here. And if you're enjoying this, please consider supporting with a modestdonation – every little bit helps, and comes hugely appreciated.
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After the year's most intelligent and imaginative children's books, best science books, and most stimulating reads on psychology and philosophy, here are my favorite art, design, and photography books, many of which traverse multiple of these disciplines. (And since the best art is timeless, revisit the selections 2013, 2012, and 2011.)
1. THE OLDEST LIVING THINGS IN THE WORLD
 "Our overblown intellectual faculties seem to be telling us both that we are eternal and that we are not,"philosopher Stephen Cave observed in his poignant meditation on our mortality paradoxAnd yet we continue to long for the secrets of that ever-elusive eternity.
For nearly a decade, Brooklyn-based artist, photographer, and Guggenheim FellowRachel Sussman has been traveling the globe to discover and document its oldest organisms – living things over 2,000 years of age. Her breathtaking photographs and illuminating essays are now collected in The Oldest Living Things in the World (public library | IndieBound) – beautiful and powerful work at the intersection of fine art, science, and philosophy, spanning seven continents and exploring issues of deep time, permanence and impermanence, and the interconnectedness of life.
Llareta | 3,000 years | Atacama Desert, Chile
Baby llareta
With an artist's gift for "aesthetic force" and a scientist's rigorous respect for truth, Sussman straddles a multitude of worlds as she travels across space and time to unearth Earth's greatest stories of resilience, stories of tragedy and triumph, past and future, but above all stories that humble our human lives, which seem like the blink of a cosmic eye against the timescales of these ancient organisms – organisms that have unflinchingly witnessed all of our own tragedies and triumphs, our wars and our revolutions, our holocausts and our renaissances, and have remained anchored to existence more firmly than we can ever hope to be. And yet a great many of these species are on the verge of extinction, in no small part due to human activity, raising the question of how our seemingly ephemeral presence in the ecosystem can have such deep and long-term impact on organisms far older and far more naturally resilient than us.
Pando (quick aspen) | 80,000 years | Fish Lake, Utah, USA
Alerce (Patagonian cypress) | 2,200 years | Patagonia, Chile
Above all, however, the project raises questions that aren't so much scientific or artistic as profoundly human: What is the meaning of human life if it comes and goes before a patch of moss has reached the end of infancy? How do our petty daily stresses measure up against a struggle for survival stretching back millennia? Who would we be if we relinquished our arrogant conviction that we are Earth's biological crown jewel?
Dead Huon pine | 10,500 years | Mount Read, Tasmania; Royal Tasmanian Botanical Garden, Hobart
Sussman offers no answers but invites us, instead, to contemplate, consider, and explore on our own – not as creatures hopelessly different from and dwarfed by the organisms she profiles, but as fellow beings in an intricately entwined mesh of life. What emerges is a beautiful breakage of our illusion of separateness and a deep appreciation for the binds that pull us and these remarkable organisms in an eternal dance – our only real gateway to immortality.
Bristlecone pine | 5,068 years | White Mountains, California, US
Welwitschia Mirabilis | 2,000 years| Namib-Naukluft Desert, Namibia
Stromatolites | 2,000-3,000 years | Carbla Station, Western Australia
Interwoven with Sussman's photographs and essays, brimming with equal parts passion and precision, are the stories of her adventures – and misadventures – as she trekked the world in search of her ancient subjects. From a broken arm in remote Sri Lanka to a heart-wrenching breakup to a well-timed sip of whisky at polar explorer Shackleton's grave, her personal stories imbue the universality of the deeper issues she explores with an inviting dose of humanity – a gentle reminder that life, for us as much as for those ancient organisms, is often about withstanding the uncontrollable, unpredictable, and unwelcome curveballs the universe throws our way, and that resilience comes from the dignity and humility of that withstanding.
Antarctic moss | 5,500 years | Elephant Island, South Georgia
See more, including Sussman's TED talk,here, then see my conversation with the artistabout the deeper conceptual and philosophical ideas behind her project.
2. MY FAVORITE THINGS
 Four decades after Barthes listed his favorite things, which prompted Susan Sontag to list hers,Maira Kalman – one of the most enchanting, influential, and unusualcreative voices today, and a woman of piercing insight – does something very similar and very different in her magnificent book My Favorite Things (public library | IndieBound).
Kalman not only lives her one human life with remarkable open-heartedness, but also draws from its private humanity warm and witty wisdom on our shared human experience. There is a spartan sincerity to her work, an elegantly choreographed spontaneity – words meticulously chosen to be as simple as possible, yet impossibly expressive; drawings that invoke childhood yet brim with the complex awarenesses of a life lived long and wide. She looks at the same world we all look at but sees what no one else sees – that magical stuff of "the moments inside the moments inside the moments." Here, her many-petaled mind blossoms in its full idiosyncratic whimsy as she catalogs the"personal micro-culture" of her inner life – her personal set of the objects and people and fragments of experience that constitute the ever-shifting assemblage we call a Self.
The book began as a companion to an exhibition Kalman curated to celebrate the anticipated reopening of the Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum. But it is also a kind of visual catalog sandwiched between a memoir, reminding us that our experience of art is laced with the minute details and monumental moments of our personal histories and is invariably shaped by them. Between Kalman's original paintings and photographs based on her selections from the museum's sweeping collection – the buttons and bathtubs, dogs and dandies, first editions of Winnie the Pooh and Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Proust's letters – are also her childhood memories, her quirky personal collections, and her beautiful meditations on life.
Kalman writes in the introduction:
 The pieces that I chose were based on one thing only – a gasp of DELIGHT.
Isn't that the only way to curate a life? TO live among things that make you gasp with delight?
And gasp one does, over and over. As Kalman makes her way through the vast Cooper Hewitt collection, her immeasurably lyrical interweavings of private and public expose that special way in which museums not only serve as temples to collective memory but also invite us to reopen the Proustian jars of our own memories with interest and aliveness and a capacity to gasp.
Emanating from the entire project is Kalman's ability to witness life with equal parts humor and humility, and to always find the lyrical – as in her exquisite pairing of this early nineteenth-century European mount and a Lydia Davis poem:
The objects Kalman selects ultimately become a springboard for leaping into the things that move her most – like her great love of books, woven with such gentleness and subtlety into a French lamp shade from 1935:
See more of this calming object here, then revisit Kalman's young readers counterpart to the book, one of the best children's books this year.
3. THE RIVER
 "Love the earth and sun and the animals….read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life," Walt Whitman wrote in the preface to Leaves of Grass. In The River (public library | IndieBound) fromEnchanted Lion – a dominant presence among the best children's books each year – Italian illustratorAlessandro Sanna exposes with remarkable sensitivity that gossamer connection between the physicality of the land and our transcendent experience of the passage of time, the inner seasonality of being human. Through his soft watercolors shines the immutable light of existence.
In each of the four chapters, a new season unfolds, beginning with autumn and ending with summer, and out of it spring to life vignettes of different experiences along the banks of a shared river, waves of permanence and impermanence washing together. A subtle recurring motif of opposing forces – subjugation and release, celebration and solitude, fear and freedom – reverberates throughout the nearly wordless visual narrative, at once stretching it sideways and pulling it together into a vortex of coherent emotion.
For Sanna, who lives on the banks of the Po River in Northern Italy, this deeply personal project, years in the making, is in many ways a meta-meditation on the passage of time and the unfolding of life, in constant flux even at a seemingly static locale.
Glowing with quiet optimism, Sanna's vibrant, expressive illustrations whisper to us that, despite its occasional cruelties, life is mostly joyful, radiant, and, above all, ever-flowing. As his river flows, one can almost see adrift in itthe words of Henry Miller:
It is almost banal to say so yet it needs to be stressed continually: all is creation, all is change, all is flux, all is metamorphosis.
See more here.
4. PEN & INK
 We wear the stories of our lives – sometimes through our clothes, sometimes even more deeply, through the innermost physical membrane that separates self from world. More than mere acts of creative self-mutilation, tattoos have long served a number of unusual purposes, from celebrating science toasserting the power structures of Russia's prison system to offering a lens on the psychology of regret.
In Pen & Ink: Tattoos and the Stories Behind Them (public library | IndieBound), based on their popular Tumblr of the same title, illustrator and visual storyteller Wendy MacNaughton – she of extraordinary sensitivity to the human experience – and editor Isaac Fitzgerald catalog the wild, wicked, wonderfully human stories behind people's tattoos.
From a librarian’s Sendak-like depiction of a Norwegian folktale her grandfather used to tell her, to a writer who gets a tattoo for each novel he writes, to a journalist who immortalized the first tenet of the Karen revolution for Burma's independence, the stories – sometimes poetic, sometimes political, always deeply personal – brim with the uncontainable, layered humanity that is MacNaughton’s true medium.
The people’s titles are as interesting as the stories themselves – amalgamations of the many selves we each contain and spend our lives trying to reconcile, the stuff of Whitman’s multitudes – from a “pedicab operator and journalist” to an “actress / director / BDSM educator” to “cartoonist and bouncer.”
The inimitable Cheryl Strayed – who knows a great deal about the tiny beautiful things of which life is made and whose own inked piece of personal history is among the stories – writes in the introduction:
As long as I live I'll never tire of people-watching. On city buses and park benches. In small-town cafes and crowded elevators. At concerts and swimming pools. To people-watch is to glimpse the mysterious and the banal, the public face and the private gesture, the strangest other and the most familiar self. It's to wonder how and why and what and who and hardly ever find out.
This book is the answer to those questions. It's an intimate collection of portraits and stories behind the images we carry on our flesh in the form of tattoos... Each of the stories is like being let in on sixty-three secrets by sixty-three strangers who passed you on the street or sat across from you on the train. They're raw and real and funny and sweet. They speak of lives you'll never live and experiences you know precisely. Together, they do the work of great literature – gathering a force so true they ultimately tell a story that includes all.
Chris Colin, writer
For writer Chris Colin, the tattoo serves as a sort of personal cartography of time, as well as a reminder of how transient our selves are:
I got this tattoo because I suspected one day I would think it would be stupid. I wanted to mark time, or mark the me that thought it was a good idea. Seventeen years later. I hardly remember it's there. But when I do, it reminds me that whatever I think now I probably won't think later.
Yuri Allison, student
For student Yuri Allison, it's a symbolic reminder of her own inability to remember, a meta-monument to memory, that vital yetenormously flawed human faculty:
I have an episodic memory disorder. I don't have any long-term memory. My childhood is completely blank, as is my schooling until high school. Technically I can't recall anything that's beyond three years in the past. I find it very difficult to talk about, simply because I still can't wrap my head around the idea myself, so when someone talks to me about a memory we are supposed to share I simply smile and say that I don't remember. Just like my memories, lip tattoos are known to fade with time.
Roxane Gay, writer and professor
For writer, educator, and "bad feminist"Roxane Gay, it is a deliberate editing of what Paul Valéry called "the three-body problem":
I hardly remember not hating my body. I got most of my seven arm tattoos when I was nineteen. I wanted to be able to look at my body and see something I didn't loathe, that was part of my body by choosing entirely. Really, that's all I ever wanted.
Morgan English, research director
For research director Morgan English, the tattoo is a depiction of "a series of childhood moments" strung together to capture her grandmother's singular spirit in an abstract way:
My grandma died in a freak accident in May of last year. She was healthy as an ox – traveling the world with her boyfriend well into her 80s – then she broke her foot, which created a blood clot that traveled to her brain. Three days later, she was gone.
The respect and admiration I have for her is difficult to articulate. here was a woman who endured two depressions (post-WWI Weimar Germany, from which she escaped to the U.S. in 1929, just before our stock market crashed) followed by a series of traumatic events (incestuous rape, a violent husband, the suicide of her only son). You'd think these things would break a person, or at least harden them, but she only grew more focused. She once told me, "Fix your eyes on the solution, it's the only way things get solved! Just keep moving and you'll become the woman you've always wanted to be."
See more here.
5. FICTITIOUS DISHES
 Food and literature have a long and arduous relationship, from theArtists' and Writers' Cookbook to Jane Austen reimagined in recipes to Alice B. Toklas's literary memoir disguised as a cookbook to those delicious dishes inspired by Alice in Wonderland. But nowhere does that relationship come alive more vividly and enchantingly than in Fictitious Dishes: An Album of Literature's Most Memorable Meals (public library | IndieBound) – an ingenious project by designer and writerDinah Fried, who cooks, art-directs, and photographs meals from nearly two centuries of famous fiction. Each photograph is accompanied by the particular passage in which the recipe appeared, as well as a few quick and curious factlets about the respective author, novel, or food.
Moby-Dick by Herman Melville, 1851 | 'Our appetites being sharpened by the frosty voyage, and in particular, Queequeg seeing his favorite fishing food before him, and the chowder being surpassingly excellent, we despatched it with great expedition…'
The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, 1963 | 'Then I tackled the avocado and crabmeat salad...Every Sunday my grandfather used to bring me an avocado pear hidden at the bottom of his briefcase under six soiled shirts and the Sunday comic.'
The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger, 1951 | 'When I’m out somewhere, I generally just eat a Swiss cheese sandwich and a malted milk. It isn’t much, but you get quite a lot of vitamins in the malted milk. H. V. Caulfield. Holden Vitamin Caulfield.'
The project began as a modest design exercise while Fried was attending the Rhode Island School of Design a couple of years ago, but the concept quickly gripped her with greater allure that transcended her original short-term deadline. As she continued to read and cook, a different sort of self-transcendence took place (after all, isn't thatthe greatest gift of literature?): A near-vegetarian, she found herself wrestling with pig kidney for Ulysses and cooking bananas eleven ways for Gravity's Rainbow.
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll, 1865 | 'Have some wine,’ the March Hare said in an encouraging tone. Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea.'
On the Road by Jack Kerouac, 1957 | 'But I had to get going and stop moaning, so I picked up my bag, said so long to the old hotelkeeper sitting by his spittoon, and went to eat. I ate apple pie and ice cream — it was getting better as I got deeper into Iowa, the pie bigger, the ice cream richer.'
The book begins with a beautiful quote from Ray Bradbury's 1953 classic Fahrenheit 451:
I ate them like salad, books were my sandwich for lunch, my tiffin and dinner and midnight munch. I tore out the pages, ate them with salt, doused them with relish, gnawed on the bindings, turned the chapters with my tongue! Books by the dozen, the score and the billion. I carried so many home I was hunchbacked for years. Philosophy, art history, politics, social science, the poem, the essay, the grandiose play, you name ’em, I ate ’em.
The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, 1925 | 'On buffet tables, garnished with glistening hors-d’oeuvre, spiced baked hams crowded against salads of harlequin designs and pastry pigs and turkeys bewitched to a dark gold.'
The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka, 1915 | 'There were old, half-rotten vegetables; bones from the evening meal, covered in white sauce that had gone hard; a few raisins and almonds; some cheese that Gregor had declared inedible two days before; a dry roll and some bread spread with butter and salt….'
See more here.
:: SEE FULL LIST 1–19 ::
 Few people have stood at the gates of hope – through world wars and environmental crises and personal loss – with more dignity, wisdom, and optimism than Joanna Macyduring her six decades as a Buddhist scholar, environmental activist, and pioneering philosopher of ecology. Macy is also the world's greatest translator-enchantress ofRainer Maria Rilke, in whose poetry she found refuge upon the sudden and devastating death of the love of her life after fifty-six years of marriage.
Indeed, our mortality, as well as ourquintessential resistance to it, is a subject Rilke unravels frequently and with deeply comforting insight in Macy's A Year with Rilke: Daily Readings from the Best of Rainer Maria Rilke (public library |IndieBound) – a sublime collection spanning from Rilke's early poems to the last sonnet he wrote days before his death from leukemia, alongside fragments of his letters, diaries, and prose. The project is reminiscent of Tolstoy'sCalendar of Wisdom, but instead of an elevating thought for each day of the year culled from a different thinker, every day features a short Rilke reading.
Macy and her collaborator, Anita Barrows, explore Rilke's singular consolations in the preface:
Rilke’s grasp of the transient nature of all things is critical to his capacity to praise and to cherish... In the face of impermanence and death, it takes courage to love the things of this world and to believe that praising them is our noblest calling. Rilke’s is not a conditional courage, dependent on an afterlife. Nor is it a stoic courage, keeping a stiff upper lip when shattered by loss. It is courage born of the ever-unexpected discovery that acceptance of mortality yields an expansion of being. In naming what is doomed to disappear, naming the way it keeps streaming through our hands, we can hear the song that streaming makes.
[...]
His capacity to embrace the dark and to acknowledge loss brings comfort to the reader because nothing of life is left out. There is nothing that cannot be redeemed. No degree of hopelessness, such as that of prisoners, beggars, abandoned animals, or inmates of asylums, is outside the scope of the poet’s respectful attention. He allows us to see that the bestowal of such pure attention is in itself a triumph of the spirit.
[...]
Rilke would teach us to accept death as well as life, and in so doing to recognize that they belong together as two halves of the same circle.
In the book, Macy highlights one particularly poignant 1923 letter to the Countess Margot Sizzo-Noris-Crouy, in which 48-year-old Rilke writes:
The great secret of death, and perhaps its deepest connection with us, is this: that, in taking from us a being we have loved and venerated, death does not wound us without, at the same time, lifting us toward a more perfect understanding of this being and of ourselves.
He adds:
I am not saying that we should love death, but rather that we should love life so generously, without picking and choosing, that we automatically include it (life’s other half) in our love. This is what actually happens in the great expansiveness of love, which cannot be stopped or constricted. It is only because we exclude it that death becomes more and more foreign to us and, ultimately, our enemy.
It is conceivable that death is infinitely closer to us than life itself… What do we know of it?
In the same letter, he admonishes against our crippling compulsion to deny death, which only impoverishes life:
Our effort, I suggest, can be dedicated to this: to assume the unity of Life and Death and let it be progressively demonstrated to us. So long as we stand in opposition to Death we will disfigure it. Believe me, my dear Countess, Death is our friend, our closest friend, perhaps the only friend who can never be misled by our ploys and vacillations. And I do not mean that in the sentimental, romantic sense of distrusting or renouncing life. Death is our friend precisely because it brings us into absolute and passionate presence with all that is here, that is natural, that is love... Life always says Yes and No simultaneously. Death (I implore you to believe) is the true Yea-sayer. It stands before eternity and says only: Yes.
Rilke captures this even more beautifully, at once with astonishing intellectual precision and astonishing spiritual expansiveness, in his poetry. In a recent conversation with Krista Tippett on the always soul-stretching On Being, Macy discusses Rilke's emboldening views on mortality and reads some of his poems on death and consciousness. Here is Macy reading Rilke's "The Swan" – coincidentally, the poem that appears as the day's reading in A Year with Rilke on the date of this recording, July 13:
THE SWAN
This laboring of ours with all that remains undone,
as if still bound to it,
is like the lumbering gait of the swan.
And then our dying — releasing ourselves
from the very ground on which we stood —
is like the way he hesitantly lowers himself
into the water. It gently receives him,
and, gladly yielding, flows back beneath him,
as wave follows wave,
while he, now wholly serene and sure,
with regal composure,
allows himself to glide.
In her book In Praise of Mortality, Macy writes:
Rilke invites us to experience what mortality makes possible. It links us with life and all time. Ours is the suffering and ours is the harvest.
(Perhaps no text of Rilke's captures this essential osmosis between Life and Death, light and darkness, better than his famous line, "Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.")
In another poem from Rilke's "Sonnets to Orpheus," found in Macy's Rilke's Book of Hours: Love Poems to God, the poet casts his luminous gaze not directly at death but at the larger world of dark emotions and suffering, which he believed were essential to the creative spirit:
But the most emboldening wisdom of all – the most sorely needed consolation amid the daily darknesses we encounter both as individuals and, increasingly, as a society – comes from Macy herself. She affirms the idea that spiritual survival isn't a matter of sheepish optimism or of eradicating our dark emotionsbut of simply showing up. Macy, at 81, tells Tippett:
I'm not insisting that we be brimming with hope – it's OK not to be optimistic. Buddhist teachings say, you know, feeling that you have to maintain hope can wear you out, so just be present... The biggest gift you can give is to be absolutely present, and when you're worrying about whether you're hopeful or hopeless or pessimistic or optimistic, who cares? The main thing is that you're showing up, that you're here, and that you're finding ever more capacity to love this world – because it will not be healed without that. That [is] what is going to unleash our intelligence and our ingenuity and our solidarity for the healing of our world.
[...]
How is the story going to end? And that seems almost orchestrated to bring forth from us the biggest moral strength, courage, and creativity. I feel because when things are this unstable, a person's determination, how they choose to invest their energy and their heart and mind can have much more effect on the larger picture than we're accustomed to think. So I find it a very exciting time to be alive, if somewhat wearing emotionally.
Macy goes on to discuss what Rilke's poignant 1923 letter taught her, in the wake of her husband's death, about our shared tussle with mortality. Her words and the spirit from which they spring are nothing short of breathtaking:
I'm everlastingly grateful that we were in love and stayed in love. Particularly, it was like falling in love all over again in our later years, so there was a lot of cherishing. But I found that that quote that I just read you – and it's really engraved in the inside of my head – is true. It's true and that's why we're changing all the time. He's part of my world now. You become what you love. Orpheus became the world that Rilke sang to, and my husband, Fran, is spread out in this world that he loved.
So ... you're always asked to sort of stretch a little bit more -- but actually we're made for that. There's a song that wants to sing itself through us. We just got to be available. Maybe the song that is to be sung through us is the most beautiful requiem for an irreplaceable planet or maybe it's a song of joyous rebirth as we create a new culture that doesn't destroy its world. But in any case, there's absolutely no excuse for our making our passionate love for our world dependent on what we think of its degree of health, whether we think it's going to go on forever. Those are just thoughts anyway. But this moment you're alive, so you can just dial up the magic of that at any time.
A Year with Rilke is a sublime read in its entirety, as is Macy's In Praise of Mortality. Complement Macy and Rilke's shared wisdom on death with John Updike's memorable insight and an unusual children's book that embodies Rilke's inclusion of death into life's embrace, then listen to the full On Beingepisode and subscribe here for a steady stream of soul-expansion.
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 "One never notices what has been done,"Marie Curie wrote in a letter to her brother upon receiving her second graduate degree, "one can only see what remains to be done." She could have easily been talking about the endless world of discovery that is children's literature. Here comes a woefully belated, wonderfully apt addition to this year's best children's books: The Farmer and the Clown (public library | IndieBound) – a sweet, immeasurably warm wordless story by author and illustratorMarla Frazee.
Reminiscent of The Lion and the Bird – still my favorite picture-book this side of the millennium – the tale follows the accidental, unlikely friendship that develops between a kindly old farmer and a child-clown after the little boy falls out of the circus train amid the farmer's patch of the prairie.
The farmer makes an endearing effort to include this wholly alien new friend into daily life, while trying to address the little boy's wholly alien needs as best as he can imagine them. From the generosity of his intention springs a celebration of the mutual elevation made possible by dropping our assumptions about ourselves, others, and who is welcome in our world.
By choosing such a gentle and innocent embodiment of the clown character – the frightening clown is, after all, a common trope in horror that feeds on a common fear many people share – Frazee also reminds us, just as gently, that the strangenesses we fear can become our most deeply rewarding experiences, if we bring to them a warm curiosity and a generous quality of presence.
It could be, too, that by amplifying the strangeness of the child to the point of clownish caricature, Frazee is poking gentle fun at the hallmark of mediocrity in children's literature – the idea that the child is somehow a different species to be addressed in some inauthentic other language, which C.S. Lewisso spiritedly rebuked.
The story's ending emanates an assuring reminder that even though life is ever-flowingand we live in a universe of constant change – that, as Henry Miller observed, "all is change, all is flux, all is metamorphosis" – even brief encounters can imprint us with their affectionate grace, the warmth of which burns in the hearth of the soul forever.
The Farmer and the Clown is absolutely luminous in its entirety – the kind of deeply, universally human story Tolkien must have had in mind when he insisted that there is no such thing as writing for children. Complement it with Winston and George, a very different but no less delightful tale of another unlikely friendship.
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In 2014, I poured thousands of hours and heaps of love into Brain Pickings, but also incurred some hefty practical expenses along the way that can't be loved away. If you found any joy and stimulation here this year, please consider helping me keep it going with a small donation. |
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