Midmod Musings

Eva Zeisel: 1906-2011

When my grandmother died a few years ago, my grief was deep and stubborn. It held on tight, like a parasite, to my beating heart which gave it life. I could not get past my sorrow until Janet Wheelock, the first priest with whom I ever sat down to pray, coaxed the grief out of me. Amid cathartic tears, I had a vision. And when I say that, I don't mean an apparition that floated above me like an angel in some Medieval triptych. But I had a clear image in my head of my grandmother, my Oma, in white robes, looking like she did in my earliest memories of her. She gazed at me silently with such peace and  contentment that my sorrow melted like the dirty, crusty pack of snow that finally, in May, becomes water and washes down the gutters. I felt certain that Oma was happy, and I felt whole again.

I bring this up because I am trying to grapple with the grief that is absent upon designer Eva Zeisel's passing. To be sure, when I read the news on my phone last Friday after leaving the chiropractor's office, I uttered a wail of "Oh, no!" that came from the bottommost well of my emotions. Paul (who was driving) worried that my back had flared up again. I told him no, "Eva Zeisel died this morning." In a strange, egotistical way, I wondered to myself if her passing had occured the moment my back went out. Because I could believe that. I could believe that Eva's departure from this plane would rupture not just my physical body, but the bodies of all my collector friends. We speak of her by using her first name. We use her objects, and feel like we have her in the room with us. Her spirit occupies our homes and our hearts. Why shouldn't her death crumple some of us in pain?

But a moment later, the deep pang left me. I had this thought: If Eva could create the designs we love on earth, constrained by the laws of physics and the infirmities and frailties of her human self, what resplendent ideas had suddenly been unleashed in heaven? What inconceivable beauty was suddenly unspooling from her spirit on another plane?

I'm not typically spiritual in that way, but that's where my head went. I imagined all the souls in heaven with fantastic dinnerware.

I thought I would take a moment to cite a few favorite designs here on this plane, photographed above. Starting with the gravy boat in front and going counter clockwise:

9. The underdog of Eva's oeuvre, Meito Norleans is an underappreciated line largely due to the floral decorations applied to her shapes. But if you consider the exquisite quality of the china (manufactured in Occupied Japan) and the fine gilding prominent in most of the patterns, you can understand the line's popularity in postwar homes, prior to the height of minimalist modernism in the 50s. The fact that the indentations on several items (like the underplate pictured) were intended to evoke a baby's bottom drives some collectors batty (I'm talking to you, Scott Lindberg), but I find this uniquely feminine. I don't think a male designer would ever have thought of that. And clearly, it resonated with American housewives, at least on a subliminal level. The gravy boat is a precursor to the multifarious forms of the Hall Century line -- squat from some angles, slender from others, it surprises the beholder at every turn.

8. The crystal candleholder designed for the Orange Chicken in the 1990s is a heavy, gorgeous piece of glass that refracts and reflects light like no other object I have seen. And though it may seem like an heir to Eva's earlier buttocks-inspired shapes, I encourage you to imagine it with a candle in place and see what other anatomical reference comes to mind.

7. The Riverside goblet ranks among my favorite designs of all time. The delicate, almost translucent china gives it a ghostly presence, and its bulbous, ergonomic form begs you to hold it. As your fingers clasp the neck, they feel comfortable, at home. This object was meant to be touched.

6. The cruet for Tomorrow's Classic by Hall is my favorite form in the line. True, I haven't figured out how you get oil into the cruet's slender opening without spilling, but who cares? It has grace and proportion and presence. The example pictured features the "Buckingham" pattern, which Eva helped design, and was based on the wrought iron gates in the park near her New York apartment.

5 and 4. Eva's late-career, short-lived collaboration with Nambe yielded several exceptional designs that made you scratch your head and ask, "How old is she? And she designed this just now?" Her stemware features unique, trumpet-shaped stems that flare at the bottom. Her metal alloy vases exploit the reflective surfaces and create a funhouse mirror effect for the onlooker. Genius.

3. Castleton's Museum ware, comissioned by the Museum of Modern Art, earned Eva the first one-woman show at the museum. A lot of people (rightly) point to the teapot and coffeepot in Museum White as enduring icons of modern design. I happen to collect the line in the Mandalay pattern by Chinese artist Ching Chih Yee. The red and gray Asian botanical design seems very 1950s to me. And as sublime as the other Museum pouring pieces are, the water pitcher is perfection. It reminds me of a stately male bird, puffed up to woo a mate. I don't know how Eva did it, but with that pitcher, she created the perfect, dripless spout.

2. Silhouette, by Bryce Brothers, is a rare line of glass that came in luscious, jewel-like hues. The thick glass at the base is a rich repository of color, and the thinness of the bowl allows to color to dissipate and almost vanish. It's like the color of the glass is evaporating, and you are witnessing its evansecence.

1. It's hard to select a favorite shape from Red Wing's Town & Country line. Even non-collectors love the "Schmoos," the salt and pepper shakers that nestle together like mother and child (another feminine motif). The gaping mouths of the pitchers, the tilt of the plates, the ergonomic handle of the casserole, the grace of the syrup pitcher. Really, how do you choose? Simple. You look at the teapot. You look at it from every angle and try to understand how it works. How does that squat, off-kilter blob of a teapot achieve mystery and majesty? How can that handle so perfectly counterbalance the weight of the full pot? How can that slender spout pour so effortlessly? How in God's name does the lid stay on? The first time I encountered one of these teapots, it was like I was having a conversation with it. It was a character, a presence, a lively sprite, teasing me with questions, longing for interaction. The fact that it was made in my home state only makes it more wonderful.

I could easily have cited a dozen more "favorite" designs, but I stop here. I was lucky enough to meet Eva once, briefly, and thank her for the joy she had brought to my life through her work. One rarely has the chance to tell that directly to one's heroes. It was a blessing. And I say thank you, again, Eva, for a long and creative life that inspired so many others.

Rest in peace.

Before He Was Modern

When I look at the early work of my favorite designers, it's usually easy to see that they had the modern impulse from the get-go. Russel Wright's aluminum designs, Eva Zeisel's ceramics for Schramberg Majolica Factory -- they are trend-forward, exploring materials, shapes, and ideas with a distinctly cutting-edge aesthetic.

In 1940, Red Wing Potteries hired Charles Murphy to set up hand-decorated dinnerware production. His first foray was Provincial Luncheon Ware, designed to evoke French provincial styles. The teapot above is in the Brittany pattern, which he also designed. In form and decoration, the Brittany teapot is decidedly, deliberately, not modern. The bright floral pattern feels quaint and, well, provincial, and the rosebud that serves as the knob on the lid, while charming, is rather twee. No one looking at this teapot in 1940 would feel the shock of the new.

And yet, knowing where Murphy's designs would go allows one to see glimmers of his soon-to-be modern spirit. That spout balances the handle gracefully, and that selfsame knob I called twee two sentences ago has a playfulness that urges you to pick it up. In fact, if anything, Murphy's designs for me always have a compelling, tactile presence -- they invite touch and handling. Compare the Provincial shape teapot with his later designs for Red Wing, such as True China and Cylinder (shown below in the Vintage and Pepe patterns), and there is some continuity. You can see they sprang from the same mind. But if you're like me, you're glad that Murphy's aesthetic evolved.

Sincere Flattery?

As a dinnerware collector, I try to love all my dishes. But, entre nous, I have my favorites. It was a slide in an art history class taught by Susan "Easy A" Fillin-Yeh that first sparked my passion for midcentury design. That slide depicted three objects by Russel Wright: an American Modern pitcher, gravy boat, and celery tray. That image was seared in my memory, perhaps on a part of my soul. Something inside me awakened when I saw it. Until that time, I had only ever collected comic books, other than a rather pathetic attempt at numismatics. (Four highly worn Walking Liberty dollars and some buffalo nickels do not a coin collection make.) But that day, in art history class, I knew I would one day own an American Modern celery tray. It was the seed of my obsession.

I love that celery trays were de rigeur in mid-century households. It is hard to live in an era where the phrase "celery tray" doesn't conjure a mental picture in most people's minds. Slender dishes designed to present, well, celery. Russel Wright's dish, though, was revolutionary. The simple way it folded in on itself made it a more versatile vehicle for serving your guests. Celery looked great in it, sure, but a row of crackers or cookies undulated gracefully along the length of the dish. Those rolled edges made the dish spectacular.

Wright designed American Modern in 1937, and it was produced and released in 1939. In 1941, Red Wing Potteries in Red Wing, MN, released its Party Ware line. Designed by Charles Murphy, this eccentric service included bowls, cups, plates, and serving dishes in four patterns (apples, grapes, pears, and cherries) with three solid glazes on the reverse (bronze, chartreuse, and grey). The fruit decoration is quintessentially early Murphy - it has the same feel as patterns like Picardy, Brittany, Orleans and Fruit Set. This casual dishware featured incongruent, curvy forms with rolled lips.The collector of Party Ware is blessed with myriad combinations to sustain his hunt (7 shapes x 4 patterns x 3 backing glazes = 84 possible combinations); he is cursed, however, because none of the amoebic shapes stack. He needs a LOT of cupboard space.

The celery tray in the Party Ware line clearly shows the influence of Wright's dish. (Given the near-instant popularity of American Modern, Murphy surely had an awareness of the Wright form by 1941). But instead of pure imitation, Murphy gives the dish his own flair. He allows the long sides of the tray to curve in and out. The rolled edge - so pronounced in Wright's design - is more subtle in Murphy's. Murphy succeeds in giving his shape a life of its own, despite being virtually the same size as Wright's. And as much as I admire Wright's solid glazes -- so astonishing in the way they complement the foods presented on them -- Murphy's festive fruits and leaves are an exuberant and appealing flourish, giving the tray life even when it's not in use.

Wright's shape may be my first love, but I do let my eye wander to Murphy's from time to time. What do you think?

Home

We moved into our new house on August 22. It is now October 8. These are ways I could mark the time:

- One season at Dallas Theater Center ended and a new one began.

- The dogs have had 2 monthly doses of heartworm/flea medication.

- I have made six visits to The Container Store, and four to Bed, Bath & Beyond.

Despite the amount of hours elapsed, of midnights come and gone, of cycles of the moon waxing and waning, the house has only recently started to feel like home. It helped when we discovered Dallas Design District Auction, and I could buy some midcentury case goods to house the sprawling collection that remained largely in big ugly boxes on the hearth until last weekend. For instance, this sideboard (a G Plan design from England) now houses my American Modern glassware, Casual Living serveware, assorted liquor, mugs, and vases.  (Oh, and my one new pottery acquisition over the past few months: a Mary & Russel Wright gravy boat for Sovereign Potteries. It's the blue thing with the arched handle on top.) This effectively reduced the number of boxes by about six. We can now see the fireplace. We'd almost forgotten we had one, let alone that it was one of the selling points of the house. A smaller bookcase houses some pouring vessels behind glass. Another box gone. I'm down to one lone box haunting the hearth, which I fully intend to do away with this weekend.

But as Dionne Warwick might tell you, a house is not a home when the dinnerware's not in use, and vases feel like an old recluse. (OK, she might not really, but work with me.) So last weekend Paul and I had some neighbors over for dinner. This was cause for celebration in the land of neglected ceramics. A Belle Kogan gladiolus vase emerged from bubble wrap to spruce up the dining room, and I brought out the long-dormant American Modern dinnerware to set a fall table and cook Russel Wright's Irish lamb stew. 

And let me tell you, cooking a meal and setting a table -- these are the tools by which to feel at home!

For me, these acts transformed the idea of home into the reality of home. And as fellow collectors might understand, sharing one's collection with new friends gives you a whole new excuse to blather on about the designs, their history, and their philosophical underpinnings while your partner more or less patiently pours a third glass of wine and mouths along.

And after all was said and done, even Murphy -- crazy, kinetic Murphy -- was able to settle down and feel comfortable lounging in the living room. Even if he did have to stare at the one remaining box.

In Praise of Pattern

For many, "modernism" and "minimalism" are synonyms. The mid-century aesthetic of simplicity bears with it an overwhelming predisposition for unadorned surfaces. This is particularly true in the dinnerware world. Eva Zeisel's "Museum White" is the paragon: sculptural forms in a glossy, creamy white, revealing the sculptural forms of the dinnerware in a pure, sublime way. It's hard to argue with Eva at her finest.

Pattern, when applied, only rarely meets with approval from modern-day modernists. Pattern is seen as a concession to mass-market tastes, a cheap gimmick to catch the eye of  unsophisticated homemakers who really didn't deserve such well-designed china in the first place. Perhaps that is because only rarely did the dinnerware designer design the pattern. None of the patterns that Castleton China used to adorn the Museum shape were Eva's, though they did have the good sense to contract notable artists of the day. Hall China issued more than a dozen patterns for Zeisel's "Tomorrow's Classic," but only two ("Buckingham" and "Dawn") had input from Zeisel.

In our never-ending move to our new house, I have been packing and unpacking more dinnerware than I remembered having. When, I ask you, did I ever acquire three sets of Russel Wright's "Home Decorators" melmac (in three different patterns, of course)? I have a vivid memory of finding the huge set of "Gay Time" (aka "Bow Knot"), which was my first encounter with Wright's plastics. But the other two sets? I only have a dim recollection of thinking, "this would be fun for outdoor barbeques" and "how charming for a breakfast set."

But in handwashing vast quantities of melamine, I paid considerable attention to the way Wright applied pattern to these shapes. Each shape has a different treatment. Look at the example I have photographed above - the set with a turquoise ground and white and blue leaves and branches. The dinner plate has a bold branch across the middle; the salad plate, smaller swooping branches on the top and bottom; the saucer, the flourish of a single leaf. It makes each piece in a setting a little bit surprising. The tabletop becomes a visual playground.

Wright was quite elaborate in all of his patterns. From his first use of incised pattern with "White Clover" for Harker, through his applied pattern to the late run of Casual China for Iroquois, he distinguished each piece in the line with a distinctive variation on a theme. His meticulous designs reached their zenith with "Esquire" for Knowles, adding subtle gilding to several of the patterns. Of course, he achieved something truly unique with the "Ming Lace" pattern for the "Flair" line of melamine - embedding real, tinted leaves into the plastic. No two pieces are the same.

As I fastidiously towel-dried the melmac and tucked it away in the new house, I had a new appreciation for Wright's imaginative use of pattern. Would I rather have a complete set of "Residential" in the solid "Copper Penny" color (which has actual copper flakes in it)?

Hmm.

I'm not sure I understand the either/or proposition.

As Paul and I move, in stages, to our new home six doors down from our rental house, I am overwhelmed by the volume of my collection. Finally opening boxes that have been lying untouched since our move to Texas, my emotional journey is something like this with every new package:

1) Holy crap. I never want to see bubble wrap again.
2) My collection is out of control. I am a bad person. I have spent too much money on pottery. I need therapy.
3) Oh my God. When did I get this? I didn't know I had this.
4) Repeat #2.
5) Oh, this. THIS. I love this piece. I've missed this piece! I can't wait to display this. I love my collection.

Murphy's Third Birthday

Today is the third birthday of my goofball dog Murphy. (Technically, it is the second anniversary of his adoption, at the time of which he was considered to be a year old.) The Beast has become a part of me. His personality -- sometimes exuberant, sometimes comic, sometimes frustratingly stubborn -- enlivens my spirit. In honor of his third birthday, here are my three favorite things about Murphy.

1) He plays a mean game of fetch. Even in the 106-degree heat of a Texas summer evening, nothing pleases Murphy more than a trip to the dog park, where he will retrieve balls with vim and vigor. He finally understands the commend "drop." In fact, after chasing down a tennis ball, he will bound toward me and drop the ball about five feet away, so that the forward momentum of the ball will roll it, with pinpoint accuracy, to my toes. When the heat finally overwhelms Murphy, he brings the ball toward me, and instead of dropping the ball, he will sit on my right foot and survey the goings-on in the park, ball in mouth, drooling.

2) His persistent pursuit of The Evil Cat amuses me. Our across-the alley neighbor, Mary Charles, has a cat. Every eighth time we walk past her front door, The Evil Cat is on her stoop. Murphy goes ballistic when he sees her. Then, for the next seven times we pass Mary Charles' house, Murphy sneaks up on the imagined feline, erupting in an insane display of barking and hyperactivity on the front lawn, even when she fails to appear.

3) His expertise at identifying his toys by name is improving. Paul and I saw a TV show in which a very clever Australian shepherd could pick out any single toy by name from among hundreds of toys. We showed this segment to Murphy. We tried to get him to understand the challenge. He now has about a 75% success rate in picking out the correct toy when given a choice. Where's Mr. Bill? Where's Red Dog? Which one's Lambie? If only he could distinguish Monkey from Funky Chicken, I'd be so proud. They're not even the same species.

Homecoming

Stepping outside in Texas, in summer, approximates the sensation I imagine a lobster feels when it lands in the pot. The heat encompasses you. It permeates you. It triggers action from sweat glands you didn't know you had. So even if the annual Red Wing Collectors' Society Convention didn't take place from July 7 - 9, Paul and I probably would have had to head north anyway. One can only endure so much.

Weather got cooler and grayer as we drove up through Missouri. The testy, edgy start to our journey (which reached a cranky peak near Bugtussle, Oklahoma) yielded to a mellower, gentler attitude. By the time we got to the first rest stop in southern Iowa, where it was in the 60s and drizzling, we were delirious. We frolicked with our dogs in the damp grass, giggling like children, catching raindrops on our tongues, while other motorists shivered and huddled under black umbrellas, shaking their heads at us and shielding their young children's eyes. "Those men are not well."

Refreshing weather aside, the convention this year was a bit of a disappointment. We did have tremendous fun at the parking lot sale outside Pottery Place, where all our collector and dealer friends promptly advised us to check out Larry's Jugs. Apparently, Larry had taken over the Icehouse Antiques space and had broadened his inventory to include art pottery and dinnerware. "Don't turn around and walk out when you step inside," warned Monica. "The first floor is still all crocks. Your stuff will be upstairs." Indeed, we coveted much of his second-story stock, from rare Mur-sen polo player and Bobo the Clown clocks, to pumpkin and King of Tarts cookie jars, a white Katrina cookie jar, a complete set of Kermis, and more. Unfortunately, the prices were a bit high, and we wanted to save ourselves for Saturday's sale. But the eye candy whetted our appetite.

A quick trip to the RWCS auction preview proved most disappointing. Of the 300 or so lots, only a handful were art pottery. Several complete dinnerware sets were available, but none floated my boat. Paul and I had no trouble passing up the auction.

As we approached fellow collectors Matt and Todd in the line for Saturday's show and sale, we were definitely in a buying mood. In what always feels to me like the start of a race, the opening of the doors to the sale sent the four of us dashing through the gymnasium. The first booth I always go to once again had terrific rarities (including a 1940s Charles Murphy vase in the unusual hyacinth glaze). I snapped up a long-sought Murphy Chinese lady figurine/candle holder in crackle blue with a bronze base. She looks great on our shelf next to Pan (or terrorized, depending on your opinion of the Murphy satyr figurine.) Unbenknownst to me, Paul also bought a pair of these candlesticks, in a lovely minty-blue matte glaze. We are simply crawling with Chinese ladies.

Also found a Belle Kogan Emperor to accompany my Empress, who was on the verge of becoming a spinster. He is in a light green glaze which provides a nice counterpoint to the Empress' matte white. It's interesting to me that I had such a hard time marrying my Empress. There are far more single ladies out there than single men. Just ask my Belle Kogan Cowgirl. She's been having an on-again, off-again thing with the Charles Murphy "Gentleman Caller," but you can tell it's only a relationship of convenience. GC is way too pampered and proper. She needs to rope herself a Cowboy, and fast.

But beyond these figural pieces, I had a hard time getting excited. It appeared like several dealers didn't show up -- a sad reflection on the economy and the price of gas. And speaking of the economy, some dealers apparently hadn't heard about the recession -- or they were trying to replace their 401(k)s with their pricing. Rare  pieces -- which once were "aspirationally priced" (i.e., if I really wanted them, I could find a way to afford them) -- were now well out of my league, perhaps in a different sport altogether. I did find a nice duplicate for my collection, though. This amoebic modern vase by Murphy in a fleck yellow glaze remains one of my favorite Red Wing shapes. It's playful, suprising, and it shows flowers beautifully. The cutout is a delight; it echoes the shape of the mouth of the vase and serves as a grip. It will look great in an arrangement of fleck yellow pieces once Paul and I move into our new house.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Modern Mary

Having collected modernist dinnerware for almost two decades now, it's rare that an item comes along to stir my soul and thrill me, like the old days. I just acquired a "Country Gardens" platter designed by Mary Wright in 1946 that did just that. At first blush, it's hard to grasp that something as simple as a platter could produce such a rush. Here, though, is a piece that shows Mary's great skill as both a homemaking guru and as a sculptor.

This is a practical piece. At each end of the 13" platter, the rim rolls into an ergonomic grip for the hostess. It is comfortable to hold in front of you as you carry it to the table. Moreover, the depth of the well guarantees that juices won't overflow and peas won't roll onto the table. Your presentation will be flawless.

Beyond these utilitarian concerns, though, the platter is a functional piece of art. Let's start with the glaze, a gorgeous, two-toned beige/brown. The darker hue peeks out in the ridges of the rim and the grips, and the lighter tone has a subtle mottling to it that doesn't show well in photographs. "Country Gardens" was legendarily a flop -- never making it out of sample production -- and it's probably because these glaze effects were both difficult to produce and under-appreciated by department store buyers at the time.

The form itself is brazenly sculptural for a houseware. Its undulating, organic shape reminds me of Mary's husband Russel's "Oceana" wooden ware. In profile, the platter has surprising peaks and valleys, reminiscent of undersea topography. It also has a surrealist flavor, like the molten clocks in a Dali dreamscape. Each view is different than the next. In many ways, this shape reminds me of the art pottery designs that Charles Murphy created for Red Wing nearly a decade later. Mary's dinnerware line may have been one of the Wrights' great commercial disappointments, but I adore it for its advanced and adventurous beauty.

Murphy Modern

Despite last night's restless sleep (thanks to spring storms rolling across North Texas), I find myself unable to nod off tonight. An Eva Zeisel "Lo-Ball" glass full of Crown Royal Black has done little to help matters. Now I'm sleepless and worrying about empty calories.

I stare across the room and think about Murphy. Not my darling, gonzo dog, but his namesake, Red Wing designer Charles E. Murphy.

Every once in a while, a collector feels a need to justify his passions to the uninitiated. It's easy to talk about Russel Wright and Eva Zeisel. Major exhibitions have been organized and books have been published celebrating their work. Noncollectors understand museum retrospectives. Murphy remains, to my mind, underappreciated, largely unknown outside of Red Wing Pottery circles. His work both responded to and influenced design trends of the day. What I like most about his designs is the way they pushed the limits of production pottery, playing with glaze color and the elasticity of clay in fanciful and unexpected ways.

Take the two Decorator Line pieces above, from 1959. Murphy had already explored a host of 1950s concepts by this time. He had developed shapes we might today call "Sputnik modern" or "Jetsons chic" -- shapes inspired by atomic energy, science fiction, and biomorphic abstraction. Think of his "Smart Set" dinnerware, with its metal-wire stands and elongated ceramic handles, his tripod-footed vases, bowls and candle holders, or his "spiky" bowls. It's hard not to think of trips to the moon or alien life forms. And the glazes Red Wing applied during this time -- especially the then-popular fleck glazes -- don't seem like they could have emerged from any other decade. Their hues reflect a sunny, Donna Reed optimism, except with a slight edge. The randomness of those flecks represents for me (and remember, I am sleepless and drinking) cultural anxiety about nuclear fallout, Communism, Beatnik poetry, and foreign cinema. The irregularity of the glaze contradicts the conformity of mass production, and the tension makes the objects come alive.

But back to those two pieces. Murphy's Crystalline Burnt Orange glaze is not a 50s shade. It presages the ochres, avocado greens, and harvest golds of the 60s and 70s. The iridescence and surprising textures in the glaze suggest both sunshine and magma, sky and earth. When combined with Murphy's lithe and, frankly, impractical forms (the compote is top-heavy; the bottle vase's narrow aperture defies use), the result is aethetic surprise. What are these things? What do I do with them? This looks nothing like my mother's fruit bowl! The viewer questions the object, challenges the authority that created it. In these two vessels I see a glimmer of the decade to come -- the era of change and confusion so brilliantly captured in Mad Men (the next season of which, by the way, I can't believe has been postponed). This is Murphy modernism at its apex.

And now, my Crown Royal kicking in, I look over at the other Murphy, the gonzo dog I mentioned. He sleeps on the couch, blissfully unconcerned about the meaning his insomniac dad could find in the shelves of pottery a few feet away. He sleeps, not worried about how he will reflect the Zeitgeist. Instead, he dreams of how he will once and for all get even with Mary Charles' evil cat, the striped devil who mewls outside the dining room window, reminding him that she is free to roam the neighborhood while he is stuck inside with a bunch of ugly orange pots which he doesn't even know are orange because dogs are color blind as well as stupid. Murphy hates that damn cat. I can't say that I blame him.