Notebooks - Los Cuadernos de Julia

Shoes in the Sky

2009-07-12T21:38:00.001+01:00

Shoes in the Sky, originally uploaded by loscuadernosdejulia.

There are many strange things you come across as you stroll down the streets of your town. I saw this scene about a month ago, near Affleck's Palace in Manchester's Northern Quarter - and I have no idea who and why would hang their sneakers to swing in the air. But it was a sight to behold.

Callas Forever Returns as Prima Donna

2009-07-11T10:04:00.001+01:00

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In August 2003, just a few weeks I came over to the UK, I went to the screening of a film I thought I wanted to see. I've long loved the genius of Franco Zeffirelli, and I also loved classical music, opera in particular. Zeffirelli's then latest feature, Callas Forever, was screened as a part of the programme of the annual Moscow International Film Festival.

As can be deducted from the title, the film was about Maria Callas. Or better, it was a fictional account of her final years. Zeffirelli, renowned for his work on opera productions, was very close with Callas, so he naturally tasked himself with commemorating her on screen. The story saw Callas (Fanny Ardant), living a recluse in a Parisian flat, her voice and Onassis lost, when she is reunited with her former manager, Larry Kelly (Jeremy Irons), who is determined to bring Callas out of her seclusion and to restore her legacy. With this in mind, he sets out to produce a lavish screen adaptation of Carmen, with Callas starring in it and lip-syncing to her own glorious recording.

As the film develops, so do innumerable relationships. Aside of Callas's film, Larry Kelly is managing his love affair with a young artist. Callas is managing more than just the loss of her voice: Onassis left her for Jackie Kennedy, so a woman's tragedy adds to the tragedy of the artist. Despite the pain it causes her, Callas stores the newspapers clips about her ex-husband and his new wife. While she is working on the film, she develops a certain passion for a co-actor, a young handsome man who is keen to use his relationship with Callas to advance his own career.

The feature itself is a film in a film, or better, an opera in opera. Towards the middle of the film the highly charged human relationships begin to be interspersed with extracts from a would-be adaptation of Carmen. This is where Zeffirelli's long experience of working on opera productions shines through most brightly: one of the opening scenes of this "inner" film bedazzles the viewer with pure gold that downpours from the screen and spills over onto the audience. But Carmen will never be: in the end, Callas asks Kelly to destroy it, and he cannot say "no"...

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It's July 2009, and I go to the Palace Theatre in Manchester to listen to Rufus Wainwright's first opera. It is called Prima Donna, and I have no expectations whatsoever. And in the middle of the first half I realise that, almost six years later, I am watching the musical version of Callas Forever. I didn't buy a programme upon arrival but when we learnt that the protagonist was due to sing her renowned Aliénor, a beautiful recording of which existed, my realisation was complete. And if Rufus is surprised to read this, then so was I surprised to arrive to such conclusion. The rest of the work only convinced me.

In Prima Donna, the protagonist is a fading opera singer, Régine Saint Laurent (Janis Kelly), living a recluse in Paris in 1970. She has problems with her voice; she has been out of the public eye for six years; and her butler, Philippe (Jonathan Summers), is determined to get her back out on stage. He's even arranged for a journalist, André (William Joyner), to do an interview. The journalist, however, used to be an opera student, with the aspiration for a tenor career. Quick passion ignites; and then we find out exactly what caused Regine to withdraw from stage and to lose her voice. Philippe is arranging for her to sing a part from the opera Aliénor (of which a great recording exists), in which she starred six years ago. Back then Régine was in love with her stage partner - not realising that she was a part of a love triangle, and eventually being violently confronted by the truth. It is this truth that caused both withdrawal from stage and the loss of the voice. Her possible hope - the journalist André - pays another visit, but this time brings his fiancee (called Sophie and dressed like Madame Butterfly). Following Philippe's leave and André's revelation, the singer finally decides to leave the stage. The final act of an artist that Regine performs is the signing of her albums, one for André, another for her faithful maid, Marie. Another faithful servant, François, gets the signature on his chest. Having sent everyone away, Régine watches the fireworks on the occasion of the Bastille Day, contemplating the shortness of the life's festival.

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As with Zeffirelli's film, I am hugely impressed with scenography, costumes, and lighting design of Prima Donna. The work of everyone who worked on this production, starting with Alan Poots who commissioned it, cannot be faulted. This is a modern opera, and thus classical overtures fare along with the occasional bar-style mannerism. Janis Kelly who often has to perform as if her voice breaks, is astounding, as is Rebecca Bottone (Marie). I really wouldn't want to go into any other connotations Rufus would bring with him - for, if this is music (or opera for that matter), it must transcend all personal experiences, if it is to be understood by, and most importantly if it is to influence, people. At the same time, it is his first opera, and I would certainly not want it to be the last, although I'd like him to put a different subject to music.

My only "problem" is therefore this striking similarity between the stories of Prima Donna and Callas Forever. Maybe I wouldn't find it too striking if the story told by Zeffirelli was, well, a novel written, published, and read by many. But as it seems, Zeffirelli's story was as original as it was fictional, a film script, so to see it making the storyline to Prima Donna is strange, to say the least. In the interviews with Rufus that I was able to watch, he mentions Callas but says no word about Zeffirelli. And in my view, the similarities are too obvious to be a coincidence.

And this is not to deny that Rufus wanted to concenrate on other "sides" to this story. E.g. when should a performer resolve that enough is enough, and to exit gracefully? Or to what extent Love rules not only the world but talent, too? But was the latter not the question that can be asked of Callas's life? Did Onassis leave her because she lost her voice? Or did she never regain the voice because her love was betrayed?

I am asking myself what my impression of Prima Donna would be, had I not had the "baggage" of six years ago that forced itself upon? Taking everything together, the impression would be good, although I wish some lines wouldn't be so simple or repetitive. But the baggage is there, and it's just too obvious for me to ignore it.

Having thus broken the ground, Rufus, I'd expect, may compose a rock opera and/or a musical: looking at the examples of Quadrophenia, Jesus Christ Superstar, The Phantom of the Opera, Notre Dame de Paris, and Cats, these genres will surely fit everything he seems to want to bring on stage. But if he chooses to work on classical opera, I'd like to see him try something less lavish, more restrained as in his score for one of Shakerspeare's sonnets. (And do some research or ask someone to do it for him, as to the subject or storyline).

P.S. It feels extraordinarily weird to say this, but I couldn't help hearing a hint to Michel Legrand's (or Barbra Streisand's) theme from Yentl, Papa Can You Hear Me?, in the overture to Prima Donna. It isn't a copy, but again the similarity is strong. As mankind's becoming older, it becomes harder to be totally original... but musically, as stylistically, this may indicate some curious influences.

If you're based in the UK and haven't seen Alan Yentob's Imagine series about Rufus Wainwright, you can watch it on the BBC iPlayer. If you're not in the UK, you may be able to download the file.

Other posts in Manchester International Festival.

Vasari and Ingres: The Death of Leonardo

2009-07-10T08:01:00.001+01:00

It took me a little while to get up to my own promise... but here's finally The Inspirations for the 19th Century.

Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres, The Death of Leonardo, 1818

At last, having become old, he lay ill for many months, and seeing himself near death, he set himself to study the holy Christian religion, and though he could not stand, desired to leave his bed with the help of his friends and servants to receive the Holy Sacrament. Then the king, who used often and lovingly to visit him, came in, and he, raising himself respectfully to sit up in bed, spoke of his sickness, and how he had offended God and man by not working at his art as he ought. Then there came a paroxysm, a forerunner of death, and the king raised him and lifted his head to help him and lessen the pain, whereupon his spirit, knowing it could have no greater honour, passed away in the king's arms in the seventyfifth year of his age.

The loss of Lionardo was mourned out of measure by all who had known him, for there was none who had done such honour to painting. The splendour of his great beauty could calm the saddest soul, and his words could move the most obdurate mind. His great strength could restrain the most violent fury, and he could bend an iron knocker or a horseshoe as if it were lead. He was liberal to his friends, rich and poor, if they had talent and worth; and indeed as Florence had the greatest of gifts in his birth, so she suffered an infinite loss in his death.

This passage from Giorgio Vasari's The Lives of the Artists inspired Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres (J.-A.-D. Ingres (French painter)) to paint his 1818 work, titled The Death of Leonardo da Vinci. Leonardo is depicted wearing a long beard, as on the Uffizi portrait.

Following Leonardo's death, Francesco Melzi wrote to the painter's brothers:

I understand that you have been informed of the death of Master Leonardo, your brother, who was like an excellent father to me. It is impossible to express the grief that I feel at his death, and as long as my bodily parts sustain me I will feel perpetual unhappiness, which is justified by the consuming and passionate love he bore daily towards me. Everyone is grieved by the loss of such a man whose like nature no longer has it in her power to produce...

View the excellent cover of 1568 edition of Vasari's work; and read extracts at Fordham University's website.

Other posts in 19th Century Inspirations.
Other posts about Leonardo da Vinci.
Other posts in Painting and Art.

My Footballer's Life

2009-07-07T17:40:00.000+01:00

Last year I was given a brief, to write a short story. There was a possibility of me working on a larger project, but recession struck, so the project apparently didn't move forward. There are a few things I'd leave unchanged about the story when I rewrite it, but I decided to share it in the form it was first written.

My Footballer's Life

Frankly, I don’t like summer holidays. Being a female writer, I compare myself to the Premier League. Different teams compete in me all year round: a “Woman”, a “Wife”, a “Lover”, a “Friend”, a “Mother”, and a “Writer”. And I feel particularly vulnerable in August when the “Mother” team soars at the top of the League table, while the “Writer” is on the verge of a total relegation, and the “Lover” is having serious problems with management!

The truth is that I feel less confident having kids at home all day. It’s like my entire League is taken for a World Cup where it has to compete against the teams “Tommy”, “Jenny”, “Neighbour’s Kids”, and a few more, who know no rules of the game. I lack the order, the planning because, once August has come, we all suddenly realise just how tired we are after a school year, and the Lord of Misrule appears out of the blue. Or, in case with the team “Tommy”, the Lord of Misrule appears every morning in the doorway, half-asleep – even if this is well after 10 o’clock. And even then he’s too tired to eat the full breakfast.

We always try to take children to the events, but we do it throughout the year, so August is no different. “Friend” and “Mother” teams usually clash on these occasions, and usually draw.

The only thing that I truly enjoy about this month is family cooking. I think it’s when my “Woman” team shines modestly. During the school year cooking tends to be seasonal (like, we cook all together for Easter and Christmas, as well as birthdays and anniversaries). Then there are Sunday roasts. But during the week it’s either me or Richard who cook. The kids do the table, they help to dry the dishes, but we spare them from cooking.

Not in August. One of the biggest problems for me was that my parents allowed me to study more than to learn the “female” stuff, like cooking. I taught myself to cook when I went to the uni, but now this late blossoming probably affects my Premier League competition. Anyway, I’m adamant the kids learn this earlier than I did.

Today for tea we had salmon with pasta, and this awesome dish: broccoli with chilli peppers and garlic. You can serve broccoli on bread, but it can be a side dish, too. For this, you need one broccoli, 2 chillies, 3 garlic teeth, some olive oil, a herring fillet, and black ground pepper. You first dissect broccoli into florets, and put them in the salted boiling water. Once the water is boiling again, you turn the fire off. In the meantime, you heat 4 tablespoons of olive oil in the big frying pan (or wok, which is even better), and throw the thinly cut garlic in it.

I remember frying garlic for the first time many years ago, and I let it burn. At the time I was renting a room in an old couple’s house, and the husband had an extremely sensitive nose. He claimed he suffered from a severe migraine following my garlic escapade. I must admit the smell of the burning garlic is enough to fight off the Dracula. In my case, it was enough to make the old man become extremely irritating. Luckily for everyone, this happened in October when I was already dating Richard, and in early December I moved out from the old couple’s house and moved in with him. I made sure I never burned garlic in our house.

So, after the garlic turned gold, you add thinly cut chillies and the herring fillet. Keep the fire under the pan very low. The recipe suggested adding anchovies OR herring, so through experimenting I chose herring. Once herring dissolves in oil, add broccoli florets, some black pepper, and half a ladle of the water in which broccoli was boiled. You don’t need to get rid of this water – you can still cook pasta in it. Broccoli then needs to be cooked in the frying pan for about 5-10 min: just enough to get your pasta ready.

The first time we made this dish, Tommy cut one chilli and then scratched his nose before he washed his hands. Good job you didn’t touch your eyes, I said to him. For the rest of the evening he’d do short voyages to the kitchen, to apply some cold water to his burning nose tip.

Jenny was cutting peppers today, so Tommy told her to wash her hands before touching her face. “Well, I’m not that stupid”, she replied, and I could feel Tommy shutting up.

- Jenny, don’t call your brother stupid, it’s not nice.

- But mum, he touched his face last week...

- Well, yes, and that’s why he tells you now. He doesn’t want you to suffer. I’d thank him if I were you.

Jenny doesn’t like being told off (who does?!) but I heard her whispering “thank you” to Tommy. He shrugged his shoulders and didn’t reply.

After tea “Mother” vs. “Wife” match begins. We sit outside, if the weather is good, or inside if it’s raining, but invariably I am torn between Richard and kids. I don’t count “Richard” as a competing team: the poor guy is the crowd, and he’s got to please too many players with his cheers. So, as the “Mother”, I have to learn new manoeuvres all the time, while the “Wife” is anxious to win and to get her crowd’s attention. It usually happens anyway, when the World Cup teams retreat to bed, and Richard and I stay downstairs. I know he understands that I am doing more job than any of the footballers out there, although no-one will ever pay me as much money. Thankfully, we both realise there are things money can’t buy – like the butterflies in your stomach when your man gently buries his nose in your neck...

Copyright © Julie Delvaux 2008.

The image is courtesy of Nicky Reynolds.

The Boxing Club, Mayakovsky, and Manchester

2009-07-07T15:01:00.007+01:00

When coincidences like this occur, you've got make a point of them. So here goes...

I was reading Mayakovski's My Discovery of America
, and in the very beginning he narrates his journey to Cuba on an ocean liner. He is a Soviet citizen, travels first class, but makes insightful observations of the three classes of travellers.

So, this is the quote from the book:

On the day before our arrival in Havana the ship came to life. A tombola was held - a nautical charitable event in aid of maritime orphans. [...]

The highlight was the boxing. Obviously, this was for the fans of this sport, the English and the Americans. None of them knew how to box. It's repulsive - belting each other in the mug in the heat. In the first pairing was the ship's cook - a disrobed, puny, hairy Frenchman with black sock full of holes over his bare legs.

The cook was battered for some while. For about five minutes he held his own through skill and for another twenty minutes through pride, but then gave in, lowered his hands and went off, spitting out blood and teeth.

In the second bout, some fool of a Bulgarian, who arrogantly left his chest wide open, was scrapping with an American detective. This detective, a boxer of professional standard, was seized with fits of laughter. He flailed around but, through hilarity and surprise, was wide of the mark and broke his own hand, which had mended badly after a war-wound.

And just as I was reading this, the doorbell rang. I answered it; a man in glasses wanted to leave some leaflets. He left them in the doorway, so I collected and brought them in the building. But try and imagine my face when I saw what the leaflet read:

So, on top of all sorts of things to be found in Manchester, there is now a Mancunian Boxing Club. Maybe it'll see Rocky
or The Wrestler ; or maybe it spurs the underground Fight Club. Whatever happens, this was an occasion to remember.

P.S. - As it happens, I remembered everything I knew about Mickey Rourke and his latest film, except the film's name. So I had to google "Mickey Rourke", and found out that Rourke has a very official website. Also, The Wrestler can be viewed on Amazon as the video on demand. Unfortunately, it is available for U.S. viewers only.

What Would Jean Cocteau Say About the Web?

2009-07-07T13:30:00.004+01:00

Jean Cocteau (French poet and artist) died in 1963. We therefore don't know what he'd say about the web; whether he'd be passionate about it or critical. But he said something else in an interview when he was explaining the design of a postal stamp with the portrait of Marianne, France's national symbol. Turns out, Marianne was a bureaucrat's wife, and so on Cocteau's stamp there was this female head, not really heroic or even beautiful. The journalist asked if Marianne on the stamp was perhaps too typical.

-Yes, maybe, - Cocteau replied, - but I think it's good. When one is licked by so many it doesn't pay to be too singular, lest one is licked with disgust.

I remembered this when I read Chris Brogan's recent post - Is Your Web Presence Multi-use - and the commentary to it. Put simply, Brogan's idea in the post is to encourage website owners to bear in mind that they are read by hundreds, if not thousands, different people. In addition to all the different things about those people, they may also speak a different language. The latter fact alone puts a whole new spin on the story.

Some commentators, though, were at odds with such suggestion. "It's not possible to be all things to all people" and "isn't the web is all about finding the niche and catering for it?" sum up the criticism amply.

I often find that we lock ourselves in a niche, either as producers or consumers. We think that we found the proverbial purple cow, but what few people remind us of is that the colour fades in the sun. The day will come when your cow is lilac or even white - and that's not the same as purple. So you at least need to paint your cow once in a while, to freshen it up - which, in terms of a website, may mean changing its design, or putting a new spin on your niche subject.

I'd argue that it's impossible to cater for a niche. On the one hand, there's always a bigger picture, and if it's possible to have your niche border on several supportive subjects, then why not? A blogger's block often happens in a competitive niche. On the other hand, exactly how niche can you be? So, you may be making a website about scrap cars, but so are a few dozen of other people. What makes you different? How sustainable is your business? Imagine the worst case scenario: the day came when no-one wants to scrap their cars. What will you do? What will make your site - and your name - continue appearing in search results?

You therefore cannot be too niche, and at the same time you have to attract different people if you're working on the web. Some will come for information; others will come to spend money. I'm one of the kind who believes in the possibility of blending humanism and business. And although it's not possible to be all things to all people, there's nothing wrong with making an impact on lives of many people - pretty much like what we're seeing for over a week now since Michael Jackson is no more.

To round up - a quote from the magnificent Peter Blake, about what makes a person an icon: "You've got to have your own style. But not so that in a short while you're out of fashion. It's not about being fashionable; it's just a look, a feel". Perhaps, we can think of our web presence as if we're Vivienne Westwood, and, should it be our vision, blend punk with tartan, even if this goes against what the savvy folks teach us. Or think of our web presence as if it's Kate Moss. She can sniff crack; she can wear a dress in royal blue colour at the Queen's dinner. But when a fashion journo asks people in the street "who is your fashion icon?", we all know what the answer will often be.

The image is courtesy of Charles Blomefield, the leading specialist in French stamps.

SteveJohn - iPhone artwork 212

2009-07-06T10:01:00.003+01:00

iPhone artwork 212., originally uploaded by SteveJohn.

When I told a friend of mine that David Hockney was making paintings on his iPhone, he asked: "Can he give you one?"

I was stunned by this question. My response was: "I don't know what I need to do for Hockney to give me his painting".

A couple of days later, it turned out that all I needed to do was to actually own an iPhone (which I don't): Hockney was giving away three of his iPhone paintings for 48 hours only.

And now this is Halos Series by SteveJohn - a visual artist, painter, and iPhone creative, as he describes himself on Twitter. Better yet, Steve shares his creations on his Twitter and Flickr, and these include not only abstract works of the kind I chose to blog, but also photographs, and psychedelic paintings.

I chose a few of his works, and I was particularly impressed with the brushed photo of a lone house on the edge of the cliff.

St Paul's Cathedral - London 2004

2009-07-03T13:21:00.001+01:00

St Paul's Cathedral, originally uploaded by loscuadernosdejulia.

I look at my own photos of London, taken between 2004 and 2008... and I can't help feeling that the 2004 pictures have got a different air about them. I'm not sure what to attribute this to. It was my first ever time in London, it was April 2004, and every street, every building promised an adventure. I was also relieved to get back to my "real" self: a girl who grew up in a capital city and who loved exploring the endless twists and turns of streets and alleys of a highly urbanised city.

More than anything, the 2004 photos were made with a "soapbox" Kodak, so looking at these pictures now is interesting from a technical perspective. This is not digital photography, and the biggest difference consists in the fact that on my present camera I can view and review the result instantly. If I don't like it, I can erase it and make a new picture. With a soapbox cam, using a film, I essentially follow the path blindly, relying on my eye to tell me if the image looks right.

But maybe - maybe - this is precisely what I find different in all these pictures of the UK's capital city? Watching an image instantly on the screen is different from literally capturing it with the eye. Maybe I like the 2004 London photos exactly because taking them arguably involved more hard graft on my part?

But if it is so, then there must be a different reason for me liking those 2004 photos. And I reckon it is that I was really in love - not with London as such, but with the sheer sense of freedom, space, and liberation. Yes, spending 7 months in Manchester's suburb after 22 years in Moscow was tough! Understanding this led me to explore Manchester more, so that now, I suppose, I could see the same feeling in the photos I take in Manchester. But on the human scale, the 2004 London photos capture my infatuation, the one of a kind that often takes place at the beginning of a romance.

Of course, what this means is that I must go to London some time soon. I miss it.

Other posts in Visiting London

Manchester International Festival Is Back!

2009-07-02T22:59:00.002+01:00

Manchester International Festival 2009 - Albert Square, originally uploaded by loscuadernosdejulia.

It's still July 2 in the UK, and therefore there's still time to make a announcement of the launch of Manchester's very own arts biennale - Manchester International Festival 2009.

This means that Manchester International Festival label is back and will be updated with reviews of whatever events I get to attend. One of them is Rufus Wainwright's Prima Donna, and I am very much looking forward to it. Here's a video from MIF's website of Rufus introducing his tour de force.

You can check the festival's programme here, and if you want to download a calendar, there's a .pdf version to your service.

And I will also be updating the MIF09 Flickr set, as well as posting other photos of events and venues that I find elsewhere. Again, you may want to check a few photos from the first festival, MIF07.

Something I keep forgetting to mention... yes, the abbreviation of the festival is MIF, and if you read it as one word, it'll sound as the Russian for "myth". I don't know how this phonetic similarity plays out in this year's festival, but perhaps this is something that the festival organisers decide to explore in 2011.

As to why I chose this photo... everyone who walked or sat in Albert Square this afternoon knows that the Festival Pavilion wasn't yet open. The photo thus reflects the "nascence" of the festival... or to play on the above mentioned linguistic peculiarity, "the emergence of the myth". So, let's welcome the second biannual artistic phantasmagoria to our busy hive.

Other posts in Manchester International Festival

Making a Day

2009-07-02T13:25:00.001+01:00

Heaton Park 14, originally uploaded by loscuadernosdejulia.

Just when many of us are gently roasting in the dazzling sun in Manchester, the memories of shady walks in Heaton Park bring the nice breeze, and the plump flowers remind of spring freshness.

Victorian Art in the Walker Art Gallery

2009-06-29T10:14:00.002+01:00

Liverpool - Walker Art Gallery, Victorian Art, originally uploaded by loscuadernosdejulia.

Although I didn't get the chance last year to attend any events during Liverpool's residency as a European capital of culture of 2008, I travelled to Liverpool just a week before Christmas for a meeting. And there I finally got to visit Walker Art Gallery, just in time to catch a retrospective exhibition dedicated to John Moores Prize winners of the past years, as well as the John Moores 25 Contemporary Painting Prize.

Before then, in September-October 2008 I was researching into Art and Poverty when I had to deeply delve once again into the 19th c. European painting, and particularly, the works of Pre-Raphaelites. Earlier in December 2008 I visited the Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery that had the stunning Holy Grail Tapestries on display, as well as an exhibition of work of Ford Madox Brown. And between November 2008 and January 2009 I went to the exhibition of work of William Holman Hunt at Manchester Art Gallery. Not exactly because I loved it too much, but because twice I went with friends.

(I didn't have to fill any photography permission forms at the Walker, but this was a requirement in Birmingham. On my Flickr, you can view the Walker set and the BMAG set).

I am posting this photo from one of the Victorian halls at the Walker also with the view to introduce a great blog about Pre-Raphaelites that I found recently: Pre Raphaelite Art. The blog is updated very, very often (something I'd love to do here and elsewhere) and is a wonderful treat to all who love Pre-Raphaelite painting. If you haven't found it yet, I hope you do now. As for me, I'm grateful to the blog's author for using a LinkWithin widget; I didn't know about it.

And to round it off, a cast of William Holman Hunt's hand from the Walker:

Can You Feel It? We Were Hit By Michael Jackson

2009-06-26T11:00:00.003+01:00

I only heard the news this morning. I felt very tired last night, I had a headache, slept through the night, and when I turned my phone on, there was an sms from my friend:

"Michael Jackson has died".

There will be a lot of talk about whether the phrase "music has died" is justified; how Google and Bing are catching up on the real-time reporting; and many more things. It could be the day of remembering a Charlie's Angels star, Farrah Fawcett, who passed away on June 25, after a long battle with cancer. Instead, it will be a long string of rememberances of the King of Pop who suffered a cardiac arrest and couldn't be saved.

Back in Moscow, I've got one of his albums/tours in a video cassette. When I watched "Thriller" first few times, I was quite scared (although all horror films scared me back in the day). I was amused by the feminists who accused HIStory of mysogyny or at the very least of sexism. There was this controversial obsession with Elizabeth Taylor that saw Jackson doing plastic surgery time after time. There were marriages, kids, and then a widely publicised court affair over alleged child molestation. Robin Gibb has reportedly compared Jackson's treatment to that of Oscar Wilde's, and many already find it ridiculous, and are unforgivable of Jackson.

Well, you know me... I almost always know too much to stand firmly on one side of the fence - which is why it's hard for me to belong to a group: a group is always on the side on some fence. It was in about 2005 when I had to research for one paper about juvenile delinquency that I noted that according to the UK laws a child could receive a sentence at the age of 8. Consider now that children cannot work until they are 14, and a legal age for sex is 16. Isn't it strange that you can be classed as a young criminal even before you get to earn your first dosh and have sex?

But let's look back in time. Today we are horrified by the custom of arranged marriages in the East - but we have forgotten completely about our own, European and English, arranged marriages that were sometimes concluded even before the future man and wife were born. We probably don't realise that when Romeo and Juliet conducted their affair they were not of "legal" age for sex. As with boy-kings, when we focus on "boy" and forget that he was of the royal stock and hence was well-educated, so do we forget that it was 19th and 20th centuries that imposed on our conscience a concept of a "child", as we use it today. Underneath those lofty ideas runs the "long duree", and in this "long time" children are still no different from adults. So, when we try and "save"or "protect" children, we're doing so against the logic of time, against the deeply embedded pattern that still has the power.

I don't think that Jackson knew this or thought the same. To quote Chesterton, the beauty of an open mind is that you can close it on something. With the child molestation case, I choose to close my mind on jury's verdict. But I would hope the above would be a sound proof of the ambiguity of our attitudes, particularly to children. And if anything else, those quick points certainly prove that Nabokov's Lolita, for all its "indecency", is not the fruit of a perverted mind.

Below are two videos: Smooth Criminal has been playing in my head since this morning; and Can You Feel It is Jacksons 5's song I really love.

The Mobile Art of David Hockney

2009-06-25T00:08:00.001+01:00

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It is always interesting to observe how the media presents the "news". When independent artists, especially not well-known, turn to Social Media and mobile technologies, journalists and pundits use them for case-studies. They profile the use of social networks, various online or mobile tools that enable artists to make, publish and broadcast their art to a wide audience, at a potentially low cost. At certain point this even stops being "unthinkable" and becomes something that we almost expect an artist to do: to have a website and some online "profiles".

Then David Hockney takes to draw a painting on his i Phone and emails it to friends - and this instantly becomes the case of one of the celebrated British artists still being "at the cutting edge of art".

To think about it, Hockney is not the only "old master" who explores the new media. Already three years ago I briefly mentioned that both Peter Greenaway and David Lynch proclaimed the decline of "traditional" cinema and turned to the new technology. In this regard Hockney isn't doing anything remotely novel - but it is the conclusion he draws that counts:

One morning recently, I made a drawing on my iPhone while I was still in bed, of flowers through the window, and the sunrise, which I could then [email] to 12 people, without it ever having been photographed or printed, and that's very new.

We are very aware of the instantaneous quality of online publishing, yet what seems hard to register with us is that it's still very new in comparison to centuries of traditions based first on handwriting and then on printing press. And yet it is new, and what this means for the artist like Hockney is that his work could be projected straight on the gallery screen or posted to the website immediately as it was finished. For a writer who posts straight to the blog online publishing also creates the precedent of making the work available for a larger or smaller circle of readers immediately as it was composed. Musicians, actors, dancers, even sculptors can use live streaming to show their work in process and in progress. Arguably, the more this is done in the way that Wollheim and Hockney appeared to do it, the better we understand "how art is made".

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The article in The Daily Telegraph introducing Bruno Wollheim's documentary about David Hockney is thought-provoking. Like Henri Cartier-Bresson earlier, Hockney turns away from photography to painting. But he does this with a twist, the reaction to which I find amusing:

He’s still obsessed by Secret Knowledge, to which he devoted two years of his life in the aftermath of his mother’s death in 1999. The book and film were controversial, arguing that, for the past 500 years, artists in the West had used lenses and mirrors to aid their work, so presenting the world in photographic terms. Most art historians poured scorn on his researches, but fellow artists tended to agree with him.

I've just written about how oblivious the historians can be to their own faults, and it seems that art historians follow in their footsteps. I never studied painting, and I cannot draw, but I will argue in Hockney's favour, which will certainly prove that he is more right than wrong. This is the story of Filippo Brunelleschi introducing the perspec tive as early as 1425:

...Brunelleschi secretly painted a small, highly realistic image of the Baptistery of San Giovanni as it would have appeared in a mirror-reversed perspective when seen from a single point of view located just inside the portal of Santa Maria del Fiore. [...] For purposes of his demonstration, Brunelleschi also drilled a small hole in the painting of the Baptistery at the point that would have been exactly opposite the point within the portal of the Duomo from which the perspective of the Baptistery had been constructed. [...] Brunelleschi then set up his painting between the Baptistery and the entry to Santa Maria del Fiore, and called for volunteers to look through the peephole from behind the surface of the painting with one eye, while holding a mirror at a mathematically correct distance in front of the painting. [...] The effect of the mirror was to minimize the viewer’s awareness of the presence of the painted surface and to intensify the sense of depth of the painting. [...] By thus demonstrating to the public the breathtaking realism of his newly discovered system of linear geometric perspective, it seemed to Brunelleschi’s contemporaries that he had discovered how to re-create the world through the power of an art that precisely reflected physical reality as it is seen by the detached observer.

To carry on, why not remember the Renaissance admiration for anamorphic images? Their popularity had to do with the advances in the optical research, apart from the sheer amusement they provided. This famous portrait of King Edward VI Tudor (left) even has a special slot on one side for a narrow tube through which the painting could be seen "properly". Hans Holbein the Younger didn't resist the call of fashion in the famous Ambassadors. Anamorphosis made its way into Michelangelo's The Last Judgement; and in the whimsical arrangements of Arcimboldo's works it probably played a moralistic, as well as entertaining, role.

There are many examples of mirrors appearing in paintings. The more "traditional" approach would ascribe their presence to some ethical argument on the part of the artist, but what if in truth those artists who included mirrors in compositions simply gave away their "trade secret", while also indicating that artists and people and objects in their paintings inhabited a three-dimensional, rather than two-dimensional, space? Here is Parmigianino's self-portrait that he made while looking at himself in a convex mirror. But what if mirrors were introduced to revert, or elucidate, but either way to "personalise" the story in the painting? We may start with the famous Arnolfini portrait where the mirror in the background reveals the "other side" of the story we are watching. And then, to skip through several generations of painters, we could cite Velazquez's Las Meninas, or better what Kenneth Clark wrote about this painting:

With these speculations in mind I return to the Meninas and it occurs to me what an extraordinarily personal selection of the facts Velasquez has made. That he has chosen to present this selection as a normal optical impression may have misled his contemporaries, but should not mislead us. [...] It is true that the Infanta dominates the scene, both by her dignity_for she has already the air of one who is habitually obeyed_and by the exquisite beauty of her pale gold hair. But after looking at her, one's eye passes immediately to the square, sullen countenance of her dwarf, Maribarbola, and to her dog, brooding and detached, like some saturnine philosopher. These are in the first plane of reality. And who are in the last? The King and Queen, reduced to reflections in a shadowy mirror. To his royal master this may have seemed no more than the record of a scene which had taken his fancy. But must we suppose that Velasquez was unconscious of what he was doing when he so drastically reversed the accepted scale of values?

Here the celebrated photographer Manuel Alvarez Bravo - who took much of his inspiration from paintings - would most likely remind us that "this phenomenon of instantaneous choosing is exactly the same thing that happens when I am taking photographs". Isn't Las Meninas a potent enough example of making a selection for a painting, akin to capturing the Bressonian "decisive moment" on camera?

Lastly, there will be the artwork by Philip Scott Johnson that stunned millions of viewers around the globe with a precocious arrangement of female portraits from the last 500 years. But I noted specifically that the video (which is a morphic art, as a matter of fact) somehow revealed that artists were painting their models from the more or less same angles for 500 years. Not only did this quality of female portraiture made Johnson's own work possible - it also potently questioned the originality of form in Western art.

I am not aware of examples Hockney cited; neither do I know exactly why art historians found it hard to agree with the idea that the world was indeed presented in photographic terms throughout the last 500 years. It is quite clear even from the given examples that lenses and mirrors not only were an important part of a creative process (i.e. in the case of a self-portrait) but also affected the techniques, compositions, and "stories". This may explain perhaps why already Turner's contemporaries found it hard to "understand" his paintings: because they represented the world as a mixture of elements, untouched by an optical, geometrical arrangement. And the same elementary chaos is what apparently attracts Hockney today:

He is radically re-working his methods, going for speed and directness, using Rembrandt drawings and Van Gogh as his guides. This is his way to make painting escape the stranglehold of the camera.

While his painting may be escaping the stranglehold of the camera, his life in art has finally been caught with the very medium Hockney has abandoned. Whether this is paradoxical or ironic, time will tell; and in the meantime David Hockney: A Bigger Picture is to be broadcast on BBC1 on 30 June.

Illustrations:

William Scrots, The Anamorphic Portrait of Edward VI, 1546
Hans Holbein the Younger, The Ambassadors, 1533
Michelangelo, The Last Judgement, 1534-1541
Guiseppe Arcimboldo, The Cook, 1570
Jan van Eyck, The Arnolfini Portrait, 1434
Parmigianino, A Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror, 1524
Diego Velazquez, Las Meninas, 1656

I am very grateful to a reader in Australia who introduced me to the figure of Adi Da Samraj in 2008 and shared several articles, one of which, by Gary J. Coates, I used in this post.

Pairing Journalism with Occult

2009-06-24T20:35:00.001+01:00

What a Coincidence..., originally uploaded by loscuadernosdejulia.

The photo you see was taken in May 2008 during my visit to Manchester Central Library. It so happened that I didn't visit that very part of library where this photo was taken, so for all we know things may have changed. But a year ago the bookshelves in the main reading room on the first floor saw this precise pair of catalogue subjects: Journalism and Occult. I am tempted to recall how the storm shifted the signboards in Andersen's time, for this should surely be the way to explain such a peculiar coincidence.

Russian Summer

2009-06-21T00:01:00.002+01:00

In September it will have been six years since I came to Britain. In all this time the majority of people I met never thought I came from Russia. When we spoke, they appeared to be very knowledgeable, especially as far as the weather was concerned. They thought Russia was cold and snowy. But as you can see below this couldn't be further from the truth. I took these photos in September 2001 with a "soapbox" camera, at the place called Dubrovsky. It could be reached by bus from where I lived, it would only take 20 minutes to get there. At the destination there were a few houses, a horticultural institute, a village, and a sanatorium for pneumonia patients, all scattered across a vast territory.

My mother and I went there often when I was a child, and one day when I was 11 or 12 I went there with a friend of mine, a girl we went to school together. I knew that my family wouldn't be keen, so I planned everything in secret. My ideal plan would see me going "for a walk", which my parents allowed me to do on my own. My grandma intercepted the plan at the last minute, but she couldn't stop me, and I don't remember now, why. My friend and I went to Dubrovsky and spent a day by the river in the sun, eating tomatoes and boiled eggs, watching other people sunbathing and swimming.

Living Under the Radiance of the Snows

2009-06-20T14:04:00.000+01:00

The imperial road to Italy goes from Munich across the Tyrol, through Innsbruck and Bozen to Verona, over the mountains. Here the great processions passed as the emperors went South, or came home again from rosy Italy to their own Germany.

And how much has that old imperial vanity clung to the German soul? Did not the German kings inherit the empire of bygone Rome? It was not a very real empire, perhaps, but the sound was high and splendid.

Maybe a certain Groessenwahn is inherent in the German nature. If only nations would realise that they have certain natural characteristics, if only they could understand and agree to each other's particular nature, how much simpler it would all be.

The imperial procession no longer crosses the mountains, going South. That is almost forgotten, the road has almost passed out of mind. But still it is there, and its signs are standing.

The crucifixes are there, not mere attributes of the road, yet still having something to do with it. The imperial processions, blessed by the Pope and accompanied by the great bishops, must have planted the holy idol like a new plant among the mountains, there where it multiplied and grew according to the soil, and the race that received it.

As one goes among the Bavarian uplands and foothills, soon one realises here is another land, a strange religion. It is a strange country, remote, out of contact. Perhaps it belongs to the forgotten, imperial processions.

Coming along the clear, open roads that lead to the mountains, one scarcely notices the crucifixes and the shrines. Perhaps, one's interest is dead. The crucifix itself is nothing, a factory-made piece of sentimentalism. The soul ignores it.

[...] It is this, this endless heat and rousedness of physical sensation which keeps the body full and potent, and flushes the mind with a blood heat, a blood sleep. And this sleep, this heat of physical experience becomes at length a bondage, at last a crucifixion. It is the life and the fulfilment of the peasant, this flow of sensuous experience. But at last it drives him almost mad, because he cannot escape.

For overhead there is always the strange radiance of the mountains, there is the mystery of the icy river rushing through its pinky shoals into the darkness of the pine-woods, there is always the faint tang of ice on the air, and the rush of hoarse-sounding water.

And the ice and the upper radiance of the snow is brilliant with timeless immunity from the flux and the warmth of life. Overhead they transcend all life, all the soft, moist fire of the blood. So that a man must needs live under the radiance of his own negation.

There is a strange, clear beauty of form about the men of the Bavarian highlands, about both men and women. They are large and clear and handsome in form, with blue eyes very keen, the pupil small, tightened, the iris keen, like sharp lights shining on blue ice. Their large, full-moulded limbs and erect bodies are distinct, separate, as if they were perfectly chiselled out of the stuff of life, static, cut off. Where they are everything is set back, as in a clear frosty air.

Their beauty is almost this, this strange, clean-cut isolation, as if each one of them would isolate himself still further and for ever from the rest of his fellows.

Yet they are convivial, they are almost the only race with the souls of artists. Still they act the mystery plays with instinctive fulness of interpretation, they sing strangely in the mountain fields, they love make-belief and mummery, their processions and religious festivals are profoundly impressive, solemn, and rapt.

It is a race that moves on the poles of mystic sensual delight. Every gesture is a gesture from the blood, every expression is a symbolic utterance.

For learning there is sensuous experience, for thought there is myth and drama and dancing and singing. Everything is of the blood, of the senses. There is no mind. The mind is a suffusion of physical heat, it is not separated, it is kept submerged.

D. H. Lawrence, Twilight in Italy

Keeping a Smile on Your Face

2009-06-18T21:13:00.001+01:00

Stockport 6, originally uploaded by loscuadernosdejulia.

When economic crisis struck at the end of 2008, in Russia people were collecting jokes and comic sketches in the attempt to laugh off the looming doom. I wrote about it in November.

And then at the end of January I went to Stockport where I had a nice walk and took some photos - including the one you're looking at now. The sign was adorning a closed eatery, but the owners did their best to keep up the good spirits.

Dons and Students: Examination Practices

2009-06-17T23:40:00.000+01:00

I was reading The Times, the article by Mary Beard on examining the Cambridge essays. I am aware of this fundamental difference between the Russian and British education systems (although the Russian one is currently evolving): in Russia, exams are oral; in Britain, they are written. I have rather fond memories of my student life in Moscow, so I thought I would narrate them here.

What do students do?

When I was a History student at the Lomonosov Moscow State University between 1997 and 2002, doing my BA and MA there, we had the following structure: during the year, we'd have lectures in certain subjects, some of which were accompanied by seminars. In a seminar, we discussed different topics, and wrote an essay. There were usually two-three "main" essays per year, on the topics of a seminar, marked. At the end of each semester we had ORAL exams, either with a "pass"/"no pass" mark, or "excellent/good/satisfactory/fail" mark.

My History programme at the MSU saw me attending courses in Archaeology, Ethnography, Palaeography, Latin, Modern Languages, Prehistoric Societies, World and Russian History (Ancient to Contemporary), Philosophy, Art History, Methodology of History, Source Criticism, Quantitative Methods in History, and Computing. Once I started specialising in Medieval and Early Modern History, I had to read not only in my "specialisation proper" (i.e. Tudor History), but also in Source Criticism, Methodology, Heraldry and Numismatics, Onomastics (Onomatology), and Historical (i.e. Medieval and Early Modern) European Geography. On top of that there were "special courses" of my choice: The Bible in the Medieval West; Irish Folklore; Reformation in Germany; The English Reformation.

Just to give you an example, in my 2nd year exam in Early Modern History I had to come to the oral examination with the knowledge of: a textbook (405 pages); lectures (about 50 pages of my A4 notepad); a selection of primary sources (printed in various books and collections, amounting to another 100-150 pages); and a selection of literary works (think of volumes by Rabelais and Servantes). Add to this the compulsory knowledge of Art History for the period, as well as maps...

... and the fact that each of us had to choose an exam ticket with two questions, one usually fairly generic, another more focused. We'd have about 40 minutes to prepare. The exam itself could last anything between 40 minutes and 1 hour, including questions. The duration would depend on both examiner and student. Additional questions could focus on discussing a literary work.

A wonderful writer or a terrible speaker - what to choose?

The oral exams demand that you possess the full knowledge of a subject and can "swim" in it freely. What I personally like about oral exams is that they allow the examiner and student to look each other in the eye - precisely the lack of which Mary Beard as a don seems to be struggling with, when assessing written papers. I also think that oral exams, as well as the focus on developing conversation on a topic, make the very "school of life" that the high education institutions supposedly represent. Why? Consider the following.

When I came to do an MA at the University of Manchester in 2003, in the first semester we sat through the Presentation Skills module, secretly deemed by many students as useless. We were taught "team skills" by predicting how long a paperchain we could make as a team in 10 minutes, and then trying to execute the plan. A lot of groups in that exercise actually cheated. But what stayed with me was the phrase uttered by one of the course leaders in a lecture. She said: "Our academics are known for writing wonderful texts, but when they start talking they are appalling".

When I was asked for feedback at my department, with my usual honesty I responded that there was no opportunity for students to get involved in oral presentations and debates, other than seminars. Why not organise a student conference? Funnily enough, the conference was indeed organised, and I even took part. But, unlike at the Moscow State Uni, here it was open to MA and PhD students only, who were already involved in research to some degree.

Presentation Skills module was designed in a hope to give us, Humanities folks, the chance to survive in the business world, should we come to realise that it was too hard to get a job at the academy and that an art clerk position in a local archive didn't pay well. I'm uttering things, but the module in question tried to teach 20-something (and older) students the skill that I was developing "naturally" in the course of seminars, conference papers and oral exams since I was 16.

It's not just about skills...

Many fond memories of "strange" answers visit me when I think of my life as a student in Moscow. In a short preliminary exam in Archaeology in the first year I was asked why Upper and Lower Paleolithic Period (anthropology) were called so. It was the very last additional question and wouldn't have any bearing on the mark, and yet... Before then I, a person who never camped in her entire life (this still stands true), managed to explain how to best choose a place to lay out a camp: close to the water stream, not too windy, etc. But "Upper Paleolithic" vs. "Lower Paleolithic" was so simple that it got me stuck. My examiner, himself an MA student, came to the rescue: "Well, think about how archaeologists dig..?"

Another example was with the history of the World War One in which Italy was "a defeated one among the victors". I managed to change that into "a victor among the defeated". This came out naturally because my actual question was about social and economic history of Italy in between the Wars, and I wanted to skip to it quickly, but the remark about Italy's status at the end of the WWI was important. Strangely enough, as you may see yourself, my mistake wasn't altogether wrong: Italy swapped sides shortly before the end of WWI, and thus Italy became indeed a victor among the defeated by virtue of defecting from the German alliance.

Yet it wouldn't be wrong to say that the best exam stories happened to other people rather than me. I told you the story of Discobolus that was reportedly sculpted by Homer; and when I was once an examiner I was told that the German Reformation was begun by Martin Luther King. Oh, and I was told that some students called the Habsburg dynasty "the Hamburgers".

Another story, exactly on Mary Beard's subject of Ancient History, says that the Professor of Ancient Greek History asked a girl whose exam performance was far from good or satisfactory to tell him the difference between a prostitute and a hetaira (ancient Greek courtesan) in Ancient Greece. As a matter of fact, he made a point about this during his lecture on Greek culture. The girl mumbled helplessly. Eventually, Professor interrupted her and quickly recapped on the difference, concluding: "With hetaira, it was a high-cultured sex".

And yet another story saw a student explaining the examiner how Monsieur Convent was fighting for the progress of the French Revolution... with his faithful spouse, Mme Convent, of course.

...but, actually, it is about skills

These experiences, however, only look non-sensical or funny. In hindsight, they teach many a valuable lesson. They teach resilience: OK, so I misworded something - what do I do? They teach "working under pressure": imagine reading through all the hundreds of pages I mentioned above - and that is only for one (!) exam, there could be another three or four. They make your reaction sharp and quick: an enviable skill to make one able to work in different routines, professions, and environments. They teach you to structure your answer by making a plan, and to speak coherently. They teach you to come back to where you were interrupted without making a mess of your presentation. An oral exam can develop a wide array of qualities, provided you take your studies seriously.

And the last thing I like about oral exams is that the student stands the chance of proving the examiner that she or he knows the subject they are discussing. Likewise, the examiner stands the chance of seeing how well the student "swims" in the subject's "sea".

Who was the "real" Cicero?

And now I looked again at Mary Beard's article, and I see exam questions like "Why did some Roman emperors punish Christians?" The question sounds almost school-like to me, especially because of "punish". I would rather have it reworded altogether, so that it pointed to the "problem". And the problem, of course, is that Christianity was a new religion that challenged the Old Order - among other things.

The question "do Cicero letters help us understand his "real" feelings and motivations?" runs strongly against Barthes's essay. But I doubt that the examiner would take in nicely a remark from the student that, since Cicero had long been dead, we cannot use his works to "understand" the "real" Cicero.

Most importantly, though, I'm asking: why would a British examiner compare answers to questions one by one, and then student by student? The way I see it, an examiner has already read all Platos, Ciceros and Senecas, to understand their "real" feelings and motivations. They already know why emperors punished Christians. Surely, when they read an answer to the question, they can quickly spot logical flops and the lack of knowledge. Why would they compare the answer of a student A to the answer of a student B? Do they themselves have no clue about what they are marking?

Image is courtesy of CPD Test.

Time to Think - Story of Mennard

2009-06-17T19:38:00.004+01:00

A lawyer who blogs over at The Story of Mennard and regularly recommends me at Twitter's #followfriday has written a poignant post - No Time to Think. You can tell from the flow of his text that it came out naturally, and it is the sincerity of it that makes the text very touching.

There is never too much time to think. Apparently even those who teach Philosophy today has to dedicate more time to filling out various bureaucratic papers than to thinking. And of course, there is a fear of thinking. The same kind of fear that Hamlet pondered on in his famous soliloquy. He stated that people are afraid of ending their lives because they didn't know what dreams they'd see in their mortal slumber. Those who live are afraid of thinking because all too often we realise that we have never fulfilled any dreams, or will never fulfil them.

I was reading Mennard's story, and various thoughts were flashing in my head. How the doctors saved my life when I was seven months old - it wasn't either of my parents' birthday, but they, too, spent sleepless nights by my side. How my relative in the UK died through a remarkarble negligence on the part of a host of local GPs. He died in his sleep, and I was late to get home from work. Committed to running the charity and driving his son and wife (and occasionally a daughter-in-law) everywhere, he, too, had no time to think. How I made a decision many people don't make, and decided to be happy alone rather than unhappy together. Many other dreams that I rarely share with anyone - you can put it on my unusual superstition, if you like.

The reason why Mennard's post resonates in many of us isn't just because it is personal or because it is well written, literary. The reason is that because it becomes a human mind to reflect on the surrounding world, and the less time the mind has for it, the more frustrated it becomes. It's not necessarily becoming frustrated over something bad or sad - but even the inability to focus on the beautiful intimate moments starts gradually weighing you down. Perhaps there is a way to get around it, to not worry much, to adjust your mind frame in such way that you only think of good things all the time. For sure, this is possible, and I am one of the those who tries to do this. But once in a while a flood of memories comes out of the blue and engulfs you, and you realise that the walk between "positive thinking" and "not thinking" is probably too narrow...

The Importance of Making a Bunny of Yourself

2009-06-17T10:33:00.000+01:00

I don't remember when I realised that one cannot take all things seriously. I think it downed on me soon after I realised that, while I or someone were grieving over something, those who caused the grief couldn't care less. It was then that I resolved to dedicate my energy to something more worthwhile.

But even when nobody is causing you any trouble, it is important to have a laugh at yourself. Not a self-deprecating kind of laugh, of course. As for me, I've always been known for giggling heartily every time I fell on ice in Moscow. Part of the reason was because I saw other people falling on ice, so when I used to fall it wasn't "me" who fell - it was one of those able-bodied people who look funny when they kick the air on a busy street in the centre of the capital city. What not to laugh at?

And this post is really to say a huge thankyou to my friend who deftly and wittingly - I'm not ironic - reminded me of my lighter side, familiar to those who know me personally. I love having a good laugh - and what could be better to laugh at than me wearing bunny ears and making a funny face? The picture pleasantly surprised me this morning, and, as per my friend's suggestion, I am presenting to you my official Bunny face. Besides, after all posts about some very serious things I thought we all - particularly the readers - deserved some light-heartedness on this blog.

With many heartfelt special thanks to my friend, musician and videographer, M. C-ski ;-)

Blackpool - The Walk of Faith

2009-06-16T17:48:00.001+01:00

Blackpool - The Walk of Faith, originally uploaded by loscuadernosdejulia.

One of my Flickr contacts asked me if I felt dizzy, when making this photo. I didn't in 2009, and neither did I in 2002 when I stood on it for the first time ever. To this day it is an interesting experience, especially because there are always a few people (usually ladies) who are mortified by the thought of taking to the Walk of Faith.

What they do not know, of course, is that this 2-inch glass is capable of withstanding the weights of 5 baby elephants. Therefore, I had no fear standing on the glass, and one of the visitors to the Tower this May has actuallty lied down on the glass.

In fact, do visit this page, to experience the Hitchcock-style, Vertigo-like, Flash version of the view down the glass when you "click if you dare". But if you do come to Blackpool and climb to the very top of the tower, this is one of the views you are likely to see:

1000 Things to Do Before You Pop Your Clogs

2009-06-15T08:36:00.000+01:00

I'm sitting in the living room with a laptop on my knees, listening to Rachmaninov's Adagio Sostenuto from the Piano Concerto no. 2. There is a bookcase in front of me (which I assembled myself, incidentally), and on one of the shelves there is this volume: 1001 Movies You Must See Before You Die (general editor - Steven Jay Schneider). I bought it for a friend, but in the end gave a different book as a present.

Back in January 2009, The Guardian initiated a project in the realm of Literature: 1000 Novels You Must Read.

TimeOut published two guides - 1000 Things to Do in London and 1000 Things to Do in Britain.

And of course there is a site which name speaks for itself: 1000 Things to Do Before You Die.

All the above evidently dwell on the following:

Life is too short; the name is a legion to the things/places/people; you cannot possibly do it all; so what MUST you do?

Evidently, the answer is to follow any of the lists. Or to draw up your own, as Listology author Luke tried to do. He was wise enough, though, to start his 1000 things to do before he departs from this profane life with the following:

1. Come up with (at least) 1000 items for this list.

By the look of things, this will be his most challenging of 1000 things.

There is a saying in Russian when they explain in jest why you should do something: "so that you are not painfully ashamed of the wasted years". By extension, the reason for a "1000 things..." lists is to help us, ordinary mortals, to not waste our time. So, in the ideal world we would probably watch one of 1000 films and read one of 1000 novels in between visiting one of 1000 places in London and one of 1000 places in Britain - which will be a fitting entry for a list of 1000 things to do before we pop the clogs.

The only thought cripples in my mind as I write this: there are 365 days in a year. I figure that we can spend 2.5 years going through one 1000-entry list. So, there are already 5 years to spend in order to see and read all films and books on a list. I'm sure there is a similar list of musicians/bands/performers (if not, it must be), so add another 2.5 years. On top of those 7.5 years, there'll be another 2.5 doing all the essential "things": by the look at some lists, these things include making love in all imaginable places.

In total, 10 years of one's lifetime could be confidently dedicated to doing things off the lists of books/films/music/things. And just as I could forget about it, there are 1000 Places to See, and to do that you may put aside at least another 5 years. All in all, the lists could conveniently help to "plan" your life for some 15 years.

Most of us would still go about doing/watching/reading whatever takes our fancy - only to discover that we can tick off the item from one of the lists, or that we experienced something life-changing that the list didn't include. But seriously, have you ever tried to plan your life or education ahead? Say, resolving with yourself that in two years' time you will have read James Joyce's Ulysses twice: first time to just nail it, second time to actually understand it? Did it work?

Some links to 1000 "things" books:

A bit of history

1. The Boy Mechanic Volume II: 1000 Things for Boys to Do
- this book was published in 1915. Just in case we thought that these "1000 lists" have just been invented.

'Geotargeted' "to-dos"

2. Time Out 1000 Things to Do in London (Time Out Guides) - if you are lost for choice in London.

3. Time Out 1000 Things To Do In London for Under 10 (Time Out Guides) - a budget version of the above.

4. Time Out 1000 Things to Do in Britain (Time Out Guides) - if you can see Britain for London.

5. Time Out 1000 Things to Do in New York (Time Out Guides) - if you're eyeing the Big Apple.

6. 1,000 Places to See in the U.S.A. & Canada Before You Die - if New York is not the limit...

7. 1,000 Places to See Before You Die: A Traveler's Life List - if Britain, U.S., and Canada are not the limit...

Age-specific

8. Time Out 1000 Things for Kids to Do in the Holidays (Time Out Guides) - if you're a kid or parent.

9. 1000 Things to Do Before You're 30 - if you don't want to be painfully ashamed of the wasted years when you hit 30. Currently out of print.

Things and Actions

10. Time Out 1000 Books to Change Your Life (Time Out Guides) - if you believe in the catharctic power of Literature.

11. 1001 Things To Do If You Dare - as the title suggests...

12. 1001 Incredible Things to Do on the Internet - if you're tired of Social Media and code-hacking.

Limited availability

13. 1000 Things God Can's Do: a Positive Message to Build Positive Faith - if your glass is half-full...

Currently unavailable

14. 1000 Romantic Things to Say and Do - "we don't know when or if this item will be back in stock".

Publishing Photos of Dead People

2009-06-15T00:46:00.000+01:00

When I write a "blog" here, it is about Arts and Culture, and the case of the late David Carradine fits both categories. I have seen him in a few of his B-movies before I watched his performance in Kill Bill One and Two, although I've never seen the Kung Fu series. He also produced and starred in Richard III (2008), so the aficionados of Shakespeare adaptations should certainly check out the film.

This is about Art. Culture comes in when we consider his death. It is widely accepted today that when someone dies we are in for a long reading of multiple stories of their lives and exits. The amount of stories depends on various factors, from their age (e.g. Rhys Jones) through their status (David Carradine, e.g.) to the circumstances of their deaths. The more details surface, the more stories published. Add to this blogs, and now Twitter, to get the idea of how much information is spitted out in no time.

And now something very different happens: a Thai tabloid publishes what is alleged to be a photo of Carradine as he was found in his hotel room. I read the following three posts -

Carradine Death Photo Published in Thai Tabloid

Sick But True: Thai Newspaper Publishes David Carradine Death Scene Forensic Photo, Family Beyond Outraged

David Carradine's Death Photo -

and I am now wondering about the question posited in the post's title:

Publishing photos of dead people - is it OK or not?

The first thing we must do, which will serve justice to the argument and all parties involved, is to determine why the photo needs to be published at all. As you know, I originally came from the country that was invaded during the World War Two. The Nazi atrocities across the invaded territories of the Soviet Union were commemorated in both photographs and documentaries. While Soviet photographers were taking photos of the killed citizens, Lee Miller, Vogue's correspondent during the war, was snapping the killed Nazis and taking a bath in Hitler's tub.

My tone above is not very serious but reflects well my attitude to those images until 2003. I sympathised with the victims, but as I said elsewhere, this past was already quite distant. Then the Iraqi war had started. Suddenly I felt very deeply about the citizens who were inevitably going to perish. And then I saw the photographs of casualties on the Al-Jazeera website, and for the first time, looking at the picture of a dead young boy, realised that, physically, we are nothing but tissue that can be violently torn into pieces.

I wholeheartedly believe that photos of war atrocities must be published. The photos of victims of terror attacks must be published. There may be certain considerations and some sort of guidance - but the pictures of humans killed by other humans for whatever lofty goal must not be hidden behind some cowardly assumptions of appropriateness. There is nothing appropriate about mass murder.

And, of course, there may be political victims, like John Lennon, and publishing or distributing their photos at death will depend on the impact the parties involved want to achieve.

But then, sadly for today, people can simply be killed - as was the case of Rhys Jones. Or, as with Carradine, they can be found dead, chained in their closet in a hotel in a foreign land. Speculations abound, but now that the Thai tabloid has released the forensic photo, the question rises: why? Even if Carradine's death wasn't accidental, what does publishing the photo serve to illustrate?

I will never tire of citing the concerns BBC Manchester Blog raised amidst the Virginia Tech tragedy in 2007: how appropriate is it to encroach on one's private life? And in case with Carradine we, after all, are talking about a private individual, however famous, who evidently had his secrets. But, by the look of things, secrets they are no more: if the published photo is authentic, then the dead actor is likely to be denied every bit of posthumous privacy. This makes sense in our gossip-driven, link-baiting world. But does it really make any sense?

The Professional Fallacy of Historians

2009-06-14T10:17:00.001+01:00

Back in 2006, when I wrote Tudors, Me, and an Elusive Ghost, I explained why I chose to specialise in 16th c. history, or even more narrowly, in Tudor history:

I chose to specialise in Tudor history because I loved England, the English language and culture, and because I adored Medieval and Early Modern History, but wanted to be closer to the modern times, thus I opted to research into the 16th c. It was an absolutely amazing period of time, as far as I'm concerned. The geographical and scientific discoveries, Renaissance and Baroque, the beginnings of cartography and research into the Solar system, on the one hand, - and Reformation, the Wars of Religion, the Inquisition, and slavery, on the other. The co-existence of the opposites has made the 16th c. irresistibly attractive. I don't think I would want to study any other time, had I been given the choice once again.

In 2009 I am to admit that there are some corrections to be made. For example, I've always loved France and French language, and with my interest in 18th c. and the Enlightenment I could well go and study 18th c. French history. Arguably, as far as using the Russian archives goes, this would be a better period to study. But, looking back and around, I think I am the kind of person who never (or rarely) follows the beaten track. Sometimes it makes life harder, but usually yields good results in the long run.

I remember about the English Quinquecento - I purposely use the Italian term as it better denotes the exact date - each time I look at my watch and see "15:47". 1547 was the year when Edward VI Tudor ascended the throne at the age of 9, upon Henry VIII's death. From what I remember, it was my supervisor in Russia who offered me "The Privy Council under Edward VI" as a possible topic. The volumes of the Privy Council papers that I needed were not available either in Moscow or in St. Petersburg. But there were other sources, and my research turned into a "personal" history of the Privy Councillors. It surveyed their background, education, and cultural activities.

Little did I know, though, that I would find myself in the midst of the debate that is, frankly, somewhat ahistorical. To put it succintly, to this day there is bickering among historians regarding the degree of political skill and involvement on the part of Edward VI. He ascended the throne when he was 9, and died at the age of 15. It is difficult for our contemporary's mind to ascertain a degree of intellect to this age, let alone any veritable raison d'etat.

Taken in the context of studies, this is a reverse of the situation when we explain things in the narrative by the almighty Author's intent or life. Edward VI has long been hailed "the boy-king", so in this scenario things are explained by the influence of his tutors and uncles. The paradox is that, as with the Author, if he or she is long dead, there is no way whatsoever to "know" anything exactly about the text, be it the meaning or composition. To state that whatever Edward wrote was influenced by his uncles means to be oblivious to the fact that people of all ages can be influenced by someone. Historical studies are influenced by other studies, as a matter of fact. But there is little doubt that Edward's manuscripts were written with his own hand, and there must be the point when this begins to matter more than his age.

What an historian must also understand is that, although a boy, Edward VI was no ordinary kid, and not only because he was the only son of a father who had seven wives of which two were beheaded. He was an heir to the throne and a king in the making, and, comparing him to other young or less capable royal heirs, Edward VI's life at court was rather fortunate. To understand how much worse it could be, we only need to consider the fate of Edward V in 1483.

And once again, Nietzsche's phrase comes to mind: "Lack of historical sense is the family failure of all philosophers" because they "had the common failing of starting out from man as he is now". Looks like, as far as Edward VI studies are concerned, the lack of historical sense happened to be the family failure of historians themselves. It will never cease to amaze me how many academics were oblivious to this, as they were trying to wriggle past Edward's works, and indeed Edward himself, because they didn't see the forest for the trees - or the king for the boy. And so they turned a blind eye to the fact that this royal youngster was miles better versed in languages and history than the Royal Highnesses of today.

It's not all that bad, of course: there is a posthumously published study by Jennifer Loach; a mammoth book on Edward's involvement in the Reformation by Diarmaid MacCulloch; a provocative study by Stephen Alford that was laughed off by one established scholar. Thankfully, Prof John Guy did Alford's study the justice:

It is bold, even radical, in its determination not to be distracted by conventional narratives of politics, and it explains extremely well how previous narratives have been constructed and why they don't work. At the same time the book is sensitive to its competitors, and is skilfully positioned in the space between Diarmaid MacCulloch's Tudor Church Militant and Jennifer Loach's Edward VI (quoted from Copac).

However, the attitude seems to continue following the statement from an official review at Library Journal: "The subject, however, is not one of universal interest, recommending this book for academic libraries with collections in the area of English history and the Reformation" (about MacCulloch's book - JD).

Of course, there's more to Tudor Studies than Edward VI - likewise, there's more than Elizabeth or Reformation to Tudor Studies. But somehow mid-Tudor scholars have to keep reminding their colleagues that without Edward and Mary the English Quinquecento would perhaps be too grand - and too dull. And so, not unlike their subject, those who study Edward's reign are sandwiched between their genuine interest in the topic and the duty of explaining why they are fascinated by something that is not of "universal interest".

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Note:
On Amazon, there is an error in publication date: Alford's book was published by Cambridge University Press in 2002, not 2007 - check the bibliographical record at Copac.

The Lonely Shepherd (James Last and Gheorghe Zamfir)

2009-06-13T16:56:00.001+01:00

Update:

There is a wonderful arrangement of The Lonely Shepherd by Zamfir and Nana Mouskouri that I wanted to share with you. Also this is one of the top posts on the blog, and I think it will be interesting to many new readers. Unfortunately, the way YouTube works these days, not only the embedded video may become unavailable, it may not be showing in your country due to copyright restrictions. But let's hope most of you will be able to watch this beautiful performance and once again listen to the enchanting melody.

Most importantly, as you know (or will know) from the post, this melody has accompanied me throughout my life, so it is touching in its way to hear your comments and to realise that we all share something so dear. Thank you all very much for this.

In hindsight... could Mother Nature's Son be the Lonely Shepherd?

I've had this thought for a while, but never took it very seriously... The answer is, of course, that he could well be. Either the protagonist of Beatles song could be the Lonely Shepherd; or the Lonely Shepherd could be Mother Nature's son. Paul McCartney wrote another of his solo songs when the band was in India, and reportedly it was inspired by a lecture by the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. As a matter of fact, it was 40th anniversary of this song release in 2008.

Having said that, the vision McCartney conveys in this song is that of a dreamy, poor but fairly happy child. I dare say the image I've always had in my head when listening to The Lonely Shepherd was that of a young man. I've never contemplated much the meaning of "loneliness", neither did I consider The Lonely Shepherd to be primarily a love song. But, of course, as boys grow older, Mother Nature's Son could very well develop into a romantic young man...

Original post - 09 December, 2006

I remember loving this melody since I was three or four, but my mother told me recently that I was humming it to myself when still in a pram, and that was long before I was even three years old. In all these years it has always been my favourite piece of instrumental music. It's kind of shame to think that on YouTube and elsewhere it is often defined as a soundtrack to Kill Bill, considering for how long even I have known it. I love the melancholy and grace of this melody, and it was nice to see it performed by the James Last Orchestra (which I adore) and Gheorghe Zamfir. Unfortunately, I used to have two YouTube videos embedded here previously, first one, then another, and both are no longer available (see the explanation below), so I decided to take the picture down, as well.

You can still, however, scour YouTube, and, judging by some of the comments, this amazing music and a fantastic inspiring performance don't leave anybody unmoved. Myself and everyone who visits this page are, I am sure, very thankful to all of you who have already shared their appreciation of this wonderful composition. As before, if you have any special notes or memories about this music and don't mind sharing them, leave a comment! :-)

Links:

Official site of Gheorghe Zamfir (English, French and German versions)
Wikipedia entry for James Last Orchestra
James Last and His Orchestra - fansite created by Last's German fan, Günter Krüger (English and German version).
An excerpt from The Lonely Shepherd on Last.fm.

Update:

This is a poem by Johann Wolfgang Goethe, called The Shepherd's Lament (1803). I think there may certainly be a connection between this poem and the melody that we all love.

THE SHEPHERD'S LAMENT.

On yonder lofty mountain
A thousand times I stand,
And on my staff reclining,
Look down on the smiling land.

My grazing flocks then I follow,
My dog protecting them well;
I find myself in the valley,
But how, I scarcely can tell.

The whole of the meadow is cover'd
With flowers of beauty rare;
I pluck them, but pluck them unknowing
To whom the offering to bear.

In rain and storm and tempest,
I tarry beneath the tree,
But closed remaineth yon portal;
'Tis all but a vision to me.

High over yonder dwelling,
There rises a rainbow gay;
But she from home hath departed
And wander'd far, far away.

Yes, far away bath she wander'd,
Perchance e'en over the sea;
Move onward, ye sheep, then, move onward!
Full sad the shepherd must be.

And one more update:

Unfortunately, I noticed lately that many of the videos I've blogged about, including this (now former) performance of The Lonely Shepherd, have been removed from YouTube. I have no clue as to what the reason is, especially because many more videos have been suspended that I used to watch a lot (I don't have a YouTube account myself). I doubt the issue is in the copyright, since some versions of those video clips still exist in other users' folders, but of a much poorer quality. Whether or not it may have to do with YouTube and Google merge, I don't know, if you are familiar with the problem and know what happened, please do leave a comment and put my angry mind to rest.

In the meantime, there is a different version on my blog; if one day it stops working, we'll know, why. I do hope this won't happen - The Lonely Shepherd is a popular melody in every sense of the word: many people like it, and it's very well-known. And because this is a televised version of the performance anyway, I cannot see the reason why the fans of Zamfir and James Last should not enjoy the chance of watching it - it is quite obvious that sitting in a concert hall listening to a live performance would be a once-in-a-lifetime experience, incomparable to any video recording.