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Monday, December 30, 2019

Konstantin Yuon, Spring Sunny Day, 1910

K. Yuon, Весенний солнечный день
oil on canvas, 1910
Russian Museum, St Petersburg
(image source: wiki)
no copyright infringement intended and it


Mir Isskustva features at their best: each personage comes here perfectly individualized, and it is more, each detail has its own individuality and becomes an active personage in this joyous rural universe. Bruegel à la russe?




(Konstantin Yuon)

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Sunday, December 29, 2019

Kalatozov, Soy Cuba, 1964

poster of Soy Cuba
(image source: wiki)
no copyright infringement intended


You should read on Wikipedia the amazing story of Soy Cuba, the movie directed by Michail Kalatozov, with Sergey Urusevsky as cinematographer:


I will come back to this movie later. Right now, just a tiny bit of details from this film, and then wandering around.

Here is the opening sequence: a one shot of five minutes:





Another sequence: a song from the movie, can be viewed on youTube:




A 12 minutes documentary about Soy Cuba, discussing its importance in the history of cinematography, also to be viewed on youTube:




Inspired by this movie, Mikhail Evstafiev (artist photographer and writer) came to Cuba four decades later, trying to capture with his camera the spirit of the people there, an intimate portrait of the vibrant yet fragile Cuban soul (ArtObraz).






Again to the movie, two excerpts:











And two other videos not related to the movie, yet roaming on the same space:









Another video that can be seen on youTube:





(Russian and Soviet Cinema)

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Saturday, December 28, 2019

Konstantin Yuon, Tverskoy Boulevard, 1909

K. Yuon, Ночь. Тверской бульвар
watercolor on paper, 1909
Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow
(image source: wiki)
no copyright infringement intended


Many Russian writers described Tverskoy Boulevard in their books: Tolstoy and Chekhov, Bunin and Pushkin, and also BulgakovEsenin and Majakovsky gave readings in the Herzen's House there (info source: wiki).


(Konstantin Yuon)

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Friday, December 27, 2019

Kavafis, Η διορία του Νέρωνος (Nero's Term)

(source: Ziarul Financiar)
no copyright infringement intended



"Ich bin Grieche, nicht Grieche", sagte Konstantinos P. Kavafis, der den größten Teil seines Lebens in Alexandria, Ägypten, verbracht hat. Sein Werk, das durch das Studium alter Texte und seine Vielsprachigkeit gekennzeichnet ist, besteht aus einem Hauptteil von 154 Gedichten, die in einem speziellen Dimotiki geschrieben sind und in das er ein fügt sehr persönlicher Ton und eine dramatische Dimension (Quelle: Freie Universität Berlin)

Ich ging von einer spanischen Übersetzung aus, das ich in Descontexto gefunden habe. Dann habe ich nach Äquivalenzen gesucht.



Η διορία του Νέρωνος

Δεν ανησύχησεν ο Νέρων όταν άκουσε
του Δελφικού Μαντείου τον χρησμό.
«Τα εβδομήντα τρία χρόνια να φοβάται.»
Είχε καιρόν ακόμη να χαρεί.
Τριάντα χρονώ είναι. Πολύ αρκετή
είν' η διορία που ο θεός τον δίδει
για να φροντίσει για τους μέλλοντας κινδύνους.

Τώρα στην Ρώμη θα επιστρέψει κουρασμένος λίγο,
αλλά εξαίσια κουρασμένος από το ταξίδι αυτό,
που ήταν όλο μέρες απολαύσεως --
στα θέατρα, στους κήπους, στα γυμνάσια...
Των πόλεων της Αχαΐας εσπέρες...
Α των γυμνών σωμάτων η ηδονή προ πάντων...

Αυτά ο Νέρων. Και στην Ισπανία ο Γάλβας
κρυφά το στράτευμά του συναθροίζει και το ασκεί,
ο γέροντας ο εβδομήντα τριώ χρονώ.
(source: All Poetry)

Secret chamber with Roman frescos
found at Nero's palace
(source: The Local It)
no copyright infringement intended


Nero's Term

Nero was not worried when he heard
the prophecy of the Delphic Oracle.
"Let him fear the seventy three years."
He still had ample time to enjoy himself.
He is thirty. More than sufficient
is the term the god allots him
to prepare for future perils.

Now he will return to Rome slightly tired,
but delightfully  tired from this journey,
full of days of enjoyment —
at the theaters, the gardens, the gymnasia…
evenings at cities of Achaia…
Ah the delight of nude bodies, above all…

Thus fared Nero. And in Spain Galba
secretly assembles and drills his army,
the old man of seventy three.
(source: All Poetry)



Suetonius, The Twelve Caesars
(source: youTube)
no copyright infringement intended

Nero - Termen limită

Nero nu era deloc îngrijorat când a auzit
ceea ce Oracolul Delphic trebuia să spună:
- Ai grijă de vârsta de șaptezeci și trei de ani.
O mulțime de timp pentru a se bucura de el însuși.
Are treizeci. Termenul limită
pe care zeul la dat este suficient
pentru a face față pericolelor viitoare.

Acum, un pic obosit, se va întoarce la Roma -
dar obosit din această călătorie
dedicată în întregime plăcerii:
teatre, petreceri de grădină, stadioane ...
seara în orașele Achaia ...
și, mai presus de toate, încântarea trupurilor goale ...

Atât de mult pentru Nero. Și în Spania Galba
ascunde în secret și formează armata –
Galba, acum în al șaptezeci și treilea an.
(source: Poeții Noștri)



Tacitus tells us why the story of Nero's arson is false
(source: Thought)
no copyright infringement intended



El plazo de Nerón

No se inquietó Nerón cuando escuchó
El vaticinio del Oráculo de Delfos.
«Los setenta y tres años que tema».
Tenía tiempo aún para gozar.
Tiene treinta años. Muy suficiente
es el plazo que el dios le da
para preocuparse de los peligros futuros.

Ahora va a regresar a Roma un poco cansado,
pero cansado exquisitamente por este viaje,
que fue todo días de placer
-en los teatros, en los jardines, en los gimnasios…

Atardeceres de las ciudades de Acaya...
Ah la voluptuosidad de los cuerpos desnudos sobre todo…

Esto con Nerón. Y en España, Galba
secretamente su ejército reúne y lo ejercita,
el anciano de setenta y tres años.
(source: descontexto)


Henryk Siemiradzki, Nero's Torches
oil on canvas, 1882
(source: wiki)
no copyright infringement intended


O 'prazo de Nero

Nero não se deixou perturbar, quando ouviu
do Oráculo Délfico o mântico augúrio:
“Tem pavor do ano septuagenário terceiro.”
Tinha, para desfrutar, fartura de tempo,
aos trinta anos! Como era longo a duração
do prazo que, benévolo, o deus concedia-lhe!
Por que se preocupar com os perigos vindouros?

Agora torna a Roma, já um tanto cansado,
mas do cansaço esplêndido de torna-viagem
– de viagem consagrada, toda ela, ao prazer,
nos teatros, nos jardins, nos parques, nos ginásios.
As cidades acaias… As tardes… Corpos nus…
Ah! o prazer dos corpos nus antes de tudo!

Assim, Nero. Mas Galba, o estrago, na Espanha,
as tropas, secretamente, reúne e exercita;
o velho Galba – Galba, setenta e três anos…


Etruscans Influence On Rome Nero's golden house
(source: pinterest)
no copyright infringement intended


Neros Frist

Nero war nicht beunruhigt, als er den Spruch
des Orakels von Delphi vernahm.
“Das dreiundsiebzigste Jahr soll er fürchten.”
Ihm blieb noch Zeit, sich Freuden hinzugeben.
Dreißig Jahre ist er alt. Reichlich
ist die Frist, die ihm der Gott gewährt,
sich um die künftigen Gefahren zu besorgen.

Jetzt kehrt er nach Rom zurück, ein wenig müde,
doch wunderbar müde von dieser Reise,
deren Tage nur aus Vergnügung bestanden –
in den Theatern, den Parks, den Gymnasien …
Die Nächte in Achaias Städten …
Ah, die Lust der nackten Körper vor allem …

So also Nero. Und in Spanien sammelt
Galba heimlich sein Heer und übt es,
dieser Greis von dreiundsiebzig Jahren.
(source: neograezistik)




(Kavafis)

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Wednesday, December 25, 2019

Goethe, Mignon (Kennst du das Land, wo die Zitronen blühn)

Zitronenbaum
(Bildquelle: Deutschland Lese)
no copyright infringement intended


Gestern war Weihnachten und ich besuchte meine zwei guten alten Freunde, ein wundervolles Paar in den Neunzigern, das ich seit vierzig oder fünfzig Jahren kenne. Sie haben eine besondere Vorliebe für gute Musik und gute Poesie, daher ist es kein Wunder, dass unsere Diskussion mit Rilke und seinem Herbsttag begann und dann zu anderen und anderen Dichtern aus anderen und anderen Regionen führte. Hölderlin, Esenin, Kavafis, Ungaretti. Und plötzlich kam einer von uns mit einer Linie von Goethe, Kennst du das Land, wo die Zitronen blühn?




Kennst du das Land, wo die Zitronen blühn,
Im dunklen Laub die Goldorangen glühn,
Ein sanfter Wind vom blauen Himmel weht,
Die Myrte still und hoch der Lorbeer steht?
Kennst du es wohl?
Dahin, dahin
Möcht ich mit dir, o mein Geliebter, ziehn!

Kennst du das Haus? Auf Säulen ruht sein Dach.
Es glänzt der Saal, es schimmert das Gemach,
Und Marmorbilder stehn und sehn mich an:
Was hat man dir, du armes Kind, getan?-
Kennst du es wohl?
Dahin, dahin
Möcht ich mit dir, o mein Beschützer, ziehn! 

Kennst du den Berg und seinen Wolkensteg?
Das Maultier sucht im Nebel seinen Weg.
In Höhlen wohnt der Drachen alte Brut.
Es stürzt der Fels und über ihn die Flut.
Kennst du ihn wohl?
Dahin, dahin
Geht unser Weg.
O Vater, laß uns ziehn!
(Quelle: mtholyoke)






Knowest thou the land where citron-apples bloom,
And oranges like gold in leafy gloom,
A gentle wind from deep blue heaven blows,
The myrtle thick, and high the laurel grows?
Knowest thou it then?
⁠⁠⁠'Tis there! 'Tis there!
O my true loved one, thou with me must go!

"Knowest thou the house, its porch with pillars tall,
The rooms do glitter, glitters bright the hall,
And marble statues stand, and look each one:
What's this, poor child, to thee they've done?
Knowest thou it then?
⁠⁠⁠'Tis there! 'Tis there!
O my protector, thou with me must go!

"Knowest thou the hill, the bridge that hangs on clouds,
The mules in mist grope o'er the torrent loud,
In caves lay coiled the dragon's ancient hood,
The crag leaps down, and over it the flood:
Knowest thou it then?
⁠⁠⁠'Tis there! 'Tis there!
Our way runs; O my father, wilt thou go?
(source: Wiki)






Ştii tu de țara cu lămâi  în floare,
Cu portocale-aprinse-ntre frunzare?
Un vânt uşor din ceru-albastru bate.
Tăcut e mirtul, laurul înalt e
Ştii țara, tu?
La ea, la ea,
Iubitul meu, cu tine aş pleca.

Ştii casa, tu? Se-nalță pe coloane.
Străluce sala, licăresc cotloane,
Şi marmuri stau şi mă privesc cu milă:
Ce ți-au făcut, sărmana mea copilă?
Ştii casa, tu?
La ea, la ea,
Cu tine-ocrotitorule-aş pleca.

Poteca ştii, prin nouri, sus, la munte?
Catâru-şi cată drumu-n ceți cărunte;
În peşteri stă un neam străvechi de zmei;
Puhoaie cad, se prăvăleşte stei,
Poteca ştii?
La ea, la ea,
Ne duce drumul! Tată, de-am pleca!
(source: Poeții Noştri)






Connais-tu la contrée où les citronniers fleurissent ? 
Dans le sombre feuillage brillent les pommes d’or ; 
un doux vent souffle du ciel bleu ; 
le myrte discret s’élève auprès du superbe laurier…. 
La connais-tu ?
C’est là, c’est là, ô mon bien-aimé, 
que je voudrais aller avec toi.

Connais-tu la maison? 
Son toit repose sur des colonnes ; la salle brille, les chambres resplendissent, 
et les figures de marbre se dressent et me regardent. 
Que vous a-t-on fait, pauvre enfant ?
 La connais-tu ?
C’est là, c’est là, ô mon protecteur, 
que je voudrais aller avec toi.

Connais-tu la montagne et son sentier dans les nuages? 
La mule cherche sa route dans le brouillard ; 
dans les cavernes habite l’antique race des dragons ; 
le rocher se précipite et, après lui, le torrent. 
La connais-tu ?
C’est là, c’est là que passe notre chemin : 
ô mon père, partons !


William Bouguereau: Fille portant des citrons
oil on canvas, 1899, Israel Museum
(source: wiki)
no copyright infringement intended



¿Conoces el país donde florece el limonero,
centellean las naranjas doradas entre el follaje oscuro,
una suave brisa sopla bajo el cielo azul,
y hallar se puede al silencioso mirto y al alto laurel?
¿Lo conoces acaso?
¡Hacia allí, hacia allí 
quisiera yo ponerme en camino junto a ti, amado mío!

¿Conoces la casa? Sobre columnas descansa su techo,
la sala resplandece, el aposento brilla
y las estatuas de mármol se alzan ante mí contemplándome:
¿Qué te han hecho, pobre criatura?
¿La conoces acaso?
¡Hacia allí, hacía allí
quisiera yo ponerme en camino junto a ti, mi protector!

¿Conoces la montaña y su puente alzado entre las nubes?
La mula busca su camino a través de la niebla;
en cavernas habita la antigua raza de los dragones;
¡al abismo se arroja la roca y sobre ella el torrente!
¿La conoces acaso?
¡Hacia allí, hacia allí
se dirige nuestra senda! ¡Oh, padre, pongámonos en camino!
(source: kareol)



(source: flickr)
no copyright infringement intended




Знаешь, где лимонов жёлтых край, 
Где спелых апельсинов урожай? 
Где в лавр высокий ветерок влюблён,
Под ним в тиши лелея мирта сон?
Ты знаешь где?
Туда, туда,
Хотела бы с тобой, любимый, навсегда!

Колонны дома видел? высь их, мощь
Под крышею среди зелёных рощ,
Где статуи как будто бы твердят:
Что сталось с тобой, бедное дитя?
Ты знаешь где?
Туда, туда,
О, мой защитник, нам бы навсегда!

Тропу в тумане видел ты в горах?
Спотыкавшегося мула на камнях?
Гнездо на круче, где пищу клювом рвал 
Орёл птенцу над пропастью средь скал? 
Ты знаешь где?
Туда, туда,
Уйдём, отец, с тобою навсегда!
(source: стихи)




(Goethe und Schiller)

(Aimez-vous Brahms?)

(Schubert)

Labels: , ,

Tuesday, December 24, 2019

Konstantin Yuon, Blue Bush, 1908

K.Yuon, Голубой куст
oil on canvas, 1908
Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow
(image source:wiki)
no copyright infringement intended



It is the end of December, and this canvas moves us in the middle of summer, Now is Christmas Eve, which tells us that the day begins to grow, and the night begins to fall, that winter will not be endless, and that we must prepare for the days when nature will wear the color of heaven.


(Konstantin Yuon)

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Wednesday, December 18, 2019

Nikolai Ekk, Road to Life, 1931

Matvei Pogrebinsky
(Матвeй Самoйлович Погребинский)
1895-1937
(image source: wiki)
no copyright infringement intended

Road to Life (made by Nikolai Ekk in 1931) is the first Soviet sound movie. The impression is of technology in transition: it keeps the characteristics of a mute film (like use of intertitles, or lasting the image on certain moments, to make it more emphatic). The voice comes over - a mute featuring sound. The mix is pretty well balanced and has a good dynamic. I enjoyed the intertitles very much, they're looking great, like a Constructivist manifesto, and add visual energy to the ensemble. And speaking about Constructivists, the movie generic is literally fantastic, suggesting (for me) the idea of a Tatlin Tower.







Nikolai Batalov plays in the leading role. When it comes to the history of Soviet cinematography, everybody today would mention another Batalov, Aleksey, with his long and fruitful career covering the second half of the twentieth century. But we should bring justice to his cognomen Nikolai (the two were unrelated), an eminent film actor of the 1920's. He covered a much shorter span, dying in 1937, due to a progressive form of tuberculosis. By then he was less than forty. Maybe here in Road to Life it was his greatest accomplishment. An unbelievably perfect match: a role like created for this actor, an actor like born for this role.

There is another actor in this movie who also needs to be mentioned, as he creates with Nikolai Batalov a formidable pair, with a replica at the same high level. It's Yvan (or Yuvan) Kyrlya. Born into a Mari peasant family, beginning his life as a farm laborer and herdsman, now and then begging to find ends meet, later becoming an actor and a poet, having the chance to be discovered by director Nikolai Ekk and receiving the role of Dandy Mustafa in Road to Life ... and then everything about him gets blurred. He published two or three books of poetry (in Mari language); in 1936 he played in a movie made by director Yevgeni Ivanov-Barkov ( I hardly found info about this movie, Наместник Будды - it seems that its release was forbidden by the Soviet censorship); in 1937 he started to play at the Mari State Drama Theater in Yoshkar-Ola; and finally he was sent to a prison camp, for "counter-revolutionary activity". He died in prison: a victim of Stalinist repression, like so many others in those years.

The personal story of this actor, Yvan Kyrlya, parallels the larger story told by the movie, and his tragic end is mirroring all that ultimately happened to the personages portrayed in the movie. It is the story of the myriad of orphans left by the Russian Civil War and the famine, wandering here and there without any status, the vagabonds of the streets, living from begging, theft, petty crime or prostitution. Massive raids were organized to get the street children and to place them in orphanages. The most determined were escaping to go back on the streets. For these recidivists large reeducation colonies have been built and the people interned there became the subject of a huge pedagogical experiment. The colonies were up to a point self-governing - communes of productive labor. Their organization was based on two mutual principles: the responsibility of each individual in front of the collective, and the authority of the collective over each individual. This meant that any inmate in the colony was to be controlled, judged, punished if necessary, by the collective. Ultimately this meant  reeducation through peer pressure and communalism, to the detriment of the natural right of the individual to remain just himself and to understand and decide on his own terms.

Much has been written, for better or worse, about these reeducation colonies. The first name that comes to mind is Makarenko, the author of the Pedagogical Poem, However he was not the unique responsible for this endeavor, there was a much larger structure under the authority of NKVD (which should say something about the whole thing).

I was expecting the movie to be based on the Pedagogical Poem and to be about the colony organized by Makarenko. And this was true for the remake, made in 1955 (and the subsequent TV series from 1969). As for the film of Ekk, it was based on another book (Фабрика людей), published in 1929 (prior to Makarenko's Pedagogical Poem) and authored by Matvei Pogrebinsky (impersonated in the 1931 film by Nikolai Batalov). This had been the organizer of the first educational communities (Makarenko having in fact lower resposibilities in the system).




Фабрика людей
source: sarpust
no copyright infringement intended



Pogrebinsky was higly appreciated by Yagoda, the NKVD boss of that time. When Yagoda was demoted, declared ennemy of the party and killed, Pogrebinsky realized that he would have the same fate and committed suicide. Then his name was erased from the official Soviet history of education (and replaced with Makarenko). So it goes with the official histories.

As for the educational system created by them for the street children, it would be later used as a sinister tool against political prisoners (for instance by the Communist regime installed in the 40s in Romania): a heinous machine of destroying human dignity - the Road to Life ultimately becoming the Road to Communist Hell.





(Nikolai Ekk)

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Sunday, December 15, 2019

Six Bars in Search of a Story Teller

París es teatro divertido y terrible
(Rubén Darío, El pájaro azul)
image source: Abduzeedo
no copyright infringement intended

There are some days when you feel a terrible need to be alone, just with your thoughts, nothing else. To enter a hole and vanish. A big city with overcrowded streets, a small café or bistro in some corner of that city (not too pretentious, definitely not whimsy, more toward the dive bar kind). Maybe some jazz band of unknowns without any hype, in the background. Maybe an antiquated phone booth in the room, or a pool table that nobody uses any more. Surrounded by anonymous faces like yours, other people in search of loneliness. A bartender mastering the art of being discreet. A cup of coffee, or a glass of wine, beer, whatever. You and your thoughts, alone. And the big city around.

Hopper has given the definitive picture of the place: his Nighthawks, somewhere in the Greenwich Village, a spot like any spot there, and like no other spot, that Village of the thirties or forties, with guys the kind of Bogart or James Dean among the regulars.

I'm writing these lines seated in a small Bucharest café. It's the Falon, on Decebal Boulevard, close to what in bygone times was Bariera Vergului. I'm coming here almost any Sunday, for an hour or two, enjoying the atmosphere. Sometimes an old friend of mine is joining, to ruminate old memories together. But now I'm alone and the memories of other places like this one are coming to my mind.

I remember my first day in Manhattan, wandering through SoHo. A small restaurant appeared suddenly in front of my eyes. It was on the corner of Prince and Thompson streets, and its name was Milady's. From outside it looked like the entrance to some place of no return. Was it inside the same universe that I knew, based on those carbon atoms combining and recombining through all the chemical reactions that I had learned in school? Well,  it was my very first day, so everything around looked alien. I pushed on the doorknob and stepped in, very humbly. Actually it was a very nice place (with a pool table and all that stuff), and I would come back there several times in the following years. You could have there a  huge sandwich and fries, or some Eggs Benedict, you could drink beer at your liking, or anything you liked. I wrote once about the place, the lady serving at the bar was from Reykjavik, and she seemingly kind of enchanted me.  A sorceress? Only I was too scared, that happens when you are for the first day in Manhattan. That place is no more, as I heard. It went out of business, replaced by some stupid fancy thing.

Soon after discovering Milady's I found another pub in SoHo, this time on Spring Street between Greenwich and Washington streets, pretty close to the Hudson. It was the Ear Inn, a bar with a fabulous history spanned throughout more than 150 years, with the upstairs apartment being over the times a brothel, a smuggler's den, a doctor's office, a speakeasy during the Prohibition, and so on and so forth. Of course, I was totally unaware of all this when I entered for the first time. I advanced to the counter and ordered a glass of vodka (now I realize that I was by that time quite a regular vodka drinker, and I'm wondering whether I should be ashamed of that, or rather ashamed of giving up this noble habit; good question, with no easy answer). I came then several evenings in a row, and the bartender asked me where I was from. I said Romania, at which he mentioned immediately Budapest, the confusion that is generalized all over the place there. When it comes to Romania, all those people know only two names, Budapest and Dracula. But a very nice spot, I came once during the day, the saloon was empty, and I took the time to admire the setting. It had definitely some style.

The Campbell Apartment, well hidden inside the Grand Central Station building, that's a bar that deserves a visit, if you enjoy classy settings that seem to shelter also some skeletons, remained from old strange stories, à la Agatha Christie, à la Edgar Poe. Well, I visited it only once, I was with one of my sisters and she mentioned the possiblity of skeletons, laying in some huge timber closets standing along the walls. Actually a waiter came up and, very casually, opened one of those closests: it was full of Scotch and Bourbon bottles.

Maybe it's better to look for the places described by Joseph Mitchell in his New Yorker profiles. I did that and I discovered some. Sloppy Louie's is no more, but McSorley's is still there on the Seventh Street, behind the Cooper Union, You enter inside and get a bit of a feeling of the good old days. Good Beer, Raw Onion and No Ladies, that was the standard back in the nineteeth century: supposedly men couldn't drink in tranquilitty in the presence of the other sex. Those were the times. Now, of course, women are allowed, but it was necessary a court order for that, and it came only in 1970.

I succeeded to find also Minetta, the tavern that had provided shelter, back in the 1930s and 1940s, to Joe Gould, the famous eccentric pretending to know the seagull language and claimimg to have written no more no less than The Oral History of Our Time (an encyclopedia existing actually only in his troubled mind). But, I must say, I was deceived with this Minetta Tavern: too much hype, and nothing to remind of what had been before, of that spirit.

Well, New York City has many bars of all kind, for all kind of appetites and all kind of purses. One that I love is in Chelsea, on the Seventh Avenue cornering the Nineteenth Street. It's the Peter McManus Café. I discovered it by chance and I was immediately hooked, Everything there brought in my mind the atmosphere of The Time of Your Life, the play of Saroyan. I started to look around, to find Joe, the loafer with a good heart, and Kitty Duval, the streetwalker longing for a better life, and the Arab, that Eastern philosopher and harmonica player, and all the other guys.  Actually they were there, only with other names and other faces, talking casually and drinking lazily. I ordered a beer, a lady of indefinite age observed immediately that a beer is tasteless without a sip of something strong, I accepted the challenge and poured some Scotch. A guy of about forty or so, carrying a tag of Jews for Jesus, asked me if I was from Eastern Europe. I said yes, and he started a story about his ancestry. His grandma had come from Bessarabia and married a Bulgarian. His father was a Greek. It was quite complicated, but the guy liked to tell stories...

Well, I will stop here, not that I don't like stories, only this McManus deserves a tale of its own. I promise to come with one, pretty soon.

And here I am now, at Falon in Bucharest, thinking of all this, and of other places I visited, in Philly and in Baltimore for instance, thinking also at some imaginary bars, invented by some authors and movie directors that I love, and placed by them in Paris and in Istanbul, in Tokyo and in Hong Kong. Which is definetely another story. All in good time. For now what I'd recommend you would be this text by Andrew O'Hagan: A Love Letter to Drinking in Bars


(Andrew O'Hagan)

(New York, New York)

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Saturday, December 14, 2019

Konstantin Yuon, Soft Goods, 1905

K. Yuon, Красный товар. Ростов Великий
watercolor, 1905
Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow
(image source: wiki)
no copyright infringement intended


A watercolor carrying very well, I think, some features of Mir Isskustva, the group of artists having Yuon among its regulars: rejection of modernity  and refuge in the rural universe, joy of playing there with colors and sizes, down to making fun of these colors and sizes, a very healthy senzation of feeling good among these personages, of wishing to get out of your urbanite stupid code of do's and don'ts and enter the painting, to become one of them, to sell, to buy, to offer, to cheat, to tell stories, true or fake, to make jokes, naive or frust, to speak your mind,  to live in the open.




(Konstantin Yuon)

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Friday, December 13, 2019

Konstantin Yuon

Konstantin Yuon (1875-1958)
self-portrait, 1912
oil on canvas
Russian Museum, St Petersburg
(image source: wiki)
no copyright infringement intended

His first works walked the way between Impressionism and Symbolism, and he was associated by that time with the group of Mir Iskustva; like all those miriskusniki he was against modernism, and for reviving the old artistic spirit; you'd say kind of Pre-Raphaelites; only these Russians (Yuon included), knew how to balance that with some self-humorous touch. The 1917 Revolution and all that followed overturned his style, and he became an artist of the Avangarde (still with a subtle self-humourus note); his mastercraft assured him a good place in the arts' official elite and by the end he became a strict Socialist Realist. No wonder, he was not the only one. Those were the times. Now his oils and watercolors hang on the walls of the Russian Museum and at Tretyakov. I will try to put here some images of his works, only give me some time.






(Avangarda 20)

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Friday, December 06, 2019

La classe operaia va in paradiso, 1971


Humans and chimps: the difference is crystal-clear. Or is it not? Is it possible to imagine a way of educating a chimpanzee to get from him human behavior? One of the personages from La classe operaia va in paradiso mentions an article about the topic, from a magazine of popular science. It is true that the personage is an inmate of a mental health institution. But, on the other hand (at least as the movie seems to suggest), one reaches full wisdom only when put in such an asylum: far from our daily agitation, it is time to contemplate the great questions raised by humankind. By the way, one of Kafka's stories (Ein Bericht für eine Akademie) tackles just this subject: the transformation of a monkey into a human.

La classe operaia va in paradiso takes the universe of Kafka's story and turns it upside down: it is about the transformation of humans into chimpanzees, as the ultimate paradigm of Capitalist society. Behind all blah-blahs this is the only truth: higher and higher productivity demands chimp-like humans. Consequently the whole business process is organized to achieve this goal. Creativity and initiative are strongly discouraged as being just too human, so against productivity logic - that requires tasks as repetitive and simply stupid as possible. The production line is the answer.

To make this succeed you need to enforce in these humans-chimps the illusion of happiness: small apartments in  new projects, color tv, second hand cars, and huge megaphones on their route to the production line, repeating ad nauseam that this is the real happiness. Plus, as they still have their unions, you need to develop a give and take strategy with the union bosses.

Now, speaking about these unions and their bosses, there are two categories: on one side the mainstream, following a pragmatic approach, and becoming this way part of the system; on the other side the radicals, dreaming big, inflaming people and getting the things worse. Here the movie we are talking about (directed by Elio Petri, starring Gian Maria Volontè) takes clearly its sides: the pragmatic, day-to-day, approach (as prone to unacceptable compromises and unavoidable corruption as it is) appears to be the only responsible way.











(Italian Movies)

Is Worth Reading the First Volume of the Capital?

(image source: wiki)
no copyright infringement intended








(A Life in Books)

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Thursday, December 05, 2019

Un bèl raconte (Une belle histoire)

(source: Page Quora de Xavier Fiorido)
no copyright infringement intended


Parlez-vous l'occitan ?

(repond Xavier Fiorido)

Plutôt que de répondre simplement "Oui" je préfère vous raconter comment j'en suis arrivé là, voire un peu plus…

Je suis né en Occitanie près de Toulouse et passais toutes les vacances d'été chez mes grands-parents.

C'était une ferme sur une mer de collines avec les Pyrénées en toile de fond, je n'oublierais jamais les blés dansant au soleil couchant.

Mes grands-parents vivaient avec mon arrière-grand mère maternelle et parlaient occitan entre eux.

Étant petit je ne comprenais pas quel était ce langage que j'ai même pris pour de l'anglais (!) au grand rire de tous.

Toujours est-il que sa chaude musique déclenchait en moi un profond et indescriptible bien-être.

En dehors du cercle des gens de leur âge mes grand-parents ne parlaient pas la Lenga.

Pourquoi ?

Ils en avaient honte - la vergogna - comme on dit.

Car en leur enfance "l'école de la République" les a soigneusement punis quand ils parlaient leur langue maternelle, en l’occurrence l'occitan languedocien.

Toutes les langues dites régionales ont subi le même linguicide méthodique et institutionnalisé.

Dès lors ils ne l'ont pas enseigné à la génération de mes parents qui de fait ne la parlaient pas du tout.

Que dire de ma génération ? (je suis né en 1984)

Res !

Nada.

Rien.

Triste sentiment d'une belle culture étouffée.

Chaleureux souvenirs d'Anciens parlant et remuant de leur accent rocailleux des siècles d'Histoire.

Pour certaines raisons je n'ai quasiment plus eu de contacts avec ma famille dès l'âge de 18 ans.

Inutile dès lors d'envisager une éventuelle transmission de la part de mes grands-parents.

J'avais ma vie a construire, le temps est passé mais j'avais toujours en moi cette amertume, celle de ne pas connaître et transmettre la langue que j'aimais.

Je me suis donc dit que peu importe, j'allais faire mon possible pour m'en rapprocher.

J'ai donc commencé par écouter de la musique contemporaine occitane : quelles heureuses retrouvailles que ces sonorités de mon enfance et de mes aïeux !

Je me suis appliqué à déchiffrer, comprendre et apprendre chaque jour un peu plus.

Bizarrement je n'osais pas "sortir du bois" et gardais cela secret, comme si cette triste vergogna m'avais été transmise…

Puis j'ai franchi le pas, j'ai suivi des cours durant quelques mois à l'Institut d'Estudis Occitana de Toulouse puis ayant dû déménager j'ai poursuivi avec l'excellente appli Assimil Occitan.

(Je n'ai aucun intérêt à en faire la promotion si ce n'est que je l'ai trouvé efficace et souhaite partager cela. Je retirerais cette mention si elle apparaît inappropriée)

Peu à peu je me suis surpris à penser en Occitan, sentiment étrange car j'avais la sensation de me connecter à tous les locuteurs m'ayant précédés, et Dieu sait s'il y en a eu !

A l'enterrement de mon grand-père j'ai préparé puis lu une homélie en occitan et français devant toute l'assemblée, autant dire qu'on était nombreux à en avoir les larmes aux yeux.

Puis au mois d'avril alors que j'étais à Clermont-Ferrand je vois une pub pour une soirée "Café-occitan".

L'Auvergnat est légèrement différent du Languedocien mais qu'importe, la base est la même.

Et là surprise… j'ai débité tout naturellement durant près de 2 heures !

Si bien qu'à la fin on m'a demandé depuis quand je parlais.

"Et si je te dis que c'est la première fois que je parle aussi longtemps ?"

Je suis tellement heureux, humblement fier et satisfait de pouvoir faire vivre et transmettre cette langue millénaire.

Donc pour répondre à ta question…

Oc, parli Occitan !

Oui, je parle Occitan !

Allez…

Adieu-siatz brave monde !

Que Dieu vous garde, braves gens !





(Le Parnasse des Lettres)