Foreign Language Gaffe # 39

After today, something tells me I'm never going to forget the name of one of Italy's most-read broadsheets!

This afternoon I was wandering through Testaccio (sort of clubbing district) and on an impulse decided to buy a newspaper. I saw a sign that said 'Il Messaggero', or 'The Messenger', evidently one of Italy's main newspapers.

So I walked up to the newspaper stand, but under pressure couldn't quite remember the exact name of the newspaper. 'Ah, un mass...agio per favore', I asked. In hindsight, the look on the guy's face was priceless; though at the time, I was only vaguely aware I'd made some kind of mistake. When I saw his response, I said, 'il giornale?' ('The newspaper?').

'Ah, Il Messaggero,' he said, with almost an audible sigh of relief.

It was only when I was walking down the street, trying to figure out what went wrong, repeating the word over and over to myself, that I realised (remembering having seen the word in the dictionary; and confirming it as soon as I got home): instead of asking for 'The Messenger', I'd actually asked for a massage!

In a way, it's kind of fun to be able to provide yourself with the best comic moments of the week... albeit unwittingly.

Fresco Battle: Raphael vs Testaccio Tags

For a bit of fun, I thought I'd set up a Fresco Battle between Grand Master Raph (see post below), and a random crew from Testaccio.

Villa Farnesina (pt. 2)

(Detail from the Loggia of Cupid & Psyche)

Yesterday I returned to the Villa Farnesina in Janiculum to check out the frescoes inside, particularly the Raphaels. Wow. A gorgeous villa, all the more breathtaking because every wall sports scores of visual interpretations of classical mythology. It's amazing to think that so many of the best painters were inspired by the best poets! Interesting too that the theme running through so many of these works seems to be that 'untamed desire really does transform the bearer' - ie. the central theme of Ovid's Metamorphoses, the main source for these Greek & Roman myths of transformation.

The Loggia of Cupid and Psyche (detail above) - depictions of which fill an entire room in the villa - is based not on Ovid, but on the three-part account of these lovers in Apulius' The Golden Ass. As soon as I got home, I read these tales in the English translation, and it's amazing how much more you can get from the work, even in hindsight, with a knowledge of the myth, which is summed up rather crudely as follows:

1. gorgeous girl, youngest of three sisters, is so famed for her beauty that Venus becomes jealous;

2. said jealous godess instructs her son Cupid to ruin the young woman, Psyche, by making her fall in love with some hideous beast;

3. directly contradicting his mother's wishes, naughty Cupid falls in love with Psyche himself; her own sisters also get jealous and try to ruin her (scene above), but get their just desserts;

4. Venus tries everything to 'get rid' of Psyche, but can't, as the innocent mortal is aided at every turn by some god or other;

5. in the end, Jupiter declares that the mischievous Cupid and a now-pregnant Psyche are to marry, and the story ends in a wonderful wedding feast.

Of course, the joy is in the poetry - and in this case, the paintings. The room is covered top to bottom with different scenes from this story.

*

Dear Raphael,

Please don't begrudge me taking the following furtive video of your wonderful fresco, The Triumph of Galatea, in the Villa Farnesina. I know I wasn't supposed to, but I dearly wanted to share it with my friends and family back home - even if the resolution quality on good old youtube doesn't come close to capturing the experience of standing before it. I want you to know I'm writing a poem in response to your masterpiece, though I realise this isn't a fair bargain, as the poem will no doubt pale in comparison. However, I do hope you understand my dilemma,

Yours sincerely,

JS

Roman Sunset

From the balcony...

of the B.R.Whiting Studio...

in winter....

...after my first day at the Forum.

Forum

I didn’t know quite what to expect from my first trip to the Forum, but I decided that if I couldn’t take it all in the first time, I wanted to see one thing: the Rostra - ie. the place where the great Roman orators such as Cicero addressed the populace all those years ago, where Brutus and Antony delivered their speeches after the assassination of Julius Caesar – indeed, where Shakespeare has Marc Antony deliver his famous speech… I’m sure you know the one.

From the tram terminus at the Largo di Argentina it’s only a five minute walk to the heart of Ancient Rome, the Capitoline Hill, the Forum and beyond, the Palatine and the Colosseum.

I made my way toward the Capitoline Hill, turned right down a side-street and beheld my first destination, the Cordonata, a massive marble staircase designed by Michelangelo, flanked by a pair of two-storey high statues, the horse-bound twin sons of Jupiter, Castor and Pollux. This leads to the Piazza del Campidoglio, also designed by said Michelangelo, which is a paragon of open urban design, surrounded by three impressive palaces, now great museums.

I was feeling perky, and was about up to race up the stairs, but decided first to get some smokes. I pulled into the nearest Tabacchi and tried to ask if I could pay for my cigarettes with credit card (I hadn’t found a ‘bancomat’ on my way), but unfortunately my voice came, as per usual here, a bit more like a mouse's than a Roman's. The woman at the counter, who clearly didn’t suffer bumbling tourists (ie. fools) gladly, threw a slab of words back at me that I realized afterwards must’ve meant, ‘What’s that? Come on, speak up a bit!’ – well, I lost any composure I had and asked my question again, but in English this time. Anyway, the answer was no, and I went away feeling like my positive vibes had been dashed. After reminding myself, however, that those are the breaks, I got back on the proverbial horse and pushed that feeling of humiliation back down to the place it sprung from; found a bancomat and returned, to again bumble my way through asking whether they had rollies etc. (I know this might sound a bit soft, but you’d be surprised how difficult it can be when you can’t alleviate feelings of uselessness by sharing them with another person.)

So it was with mixed feelings that I ascended the staircase and into the piazza. I’d bought a gelati (pistachio and something else) to cheer me up, and ate it as I sat on a slab of very cold marble, wondering why the hell I was eating gelati on a slab of cold marble in winter. Then I remembered: when in Rome...

As you leave the piazza, you come around a corner and the Forum is laid out before you. I had an idea that Monday might be the best day for the trip, assuming I wouldn’t have to contend with a throng of fellow trekkers. But if today was a quiet day, I’d hate to see it on a weekend.

It turns out the Rostra is one of the first things you come across when entering from the Campidoglio, though you might miss it if you aren't keeping your eye out. For me, though, this was the highlight. I stood on the Via Sacra (The Sacred Way) staring at it for ten minutes or more, though my imagination spanned two millenia, imagining all the speeches delivered from that marble ledge, Marc Antony offering Caesar the diadem, and Caesar refusing it; and later, Antony's wife, Fulvia, holding up Cicero's decapitated head in a rage and stabbing the dead orator's tongue with her hairpin.

If you keep your head down, it isn't too hard to mistake the sounds of hundreds of tourists' footsteps for those of ancient times.

Monastery of Sant'Ornofrio

Here are a couple of videos taken in the courtyard of the Monastery of Sant'Ornorio during my walk up the Janiculum hill (earlier post).

(Sant'Ornofrio pt. 1)

(Sant'Ornofrio pt. 2)

Janiculum Hill

After lunch on Friday I went for a stroll up the Janiculum hill, along the Via Garibaldi, following in the footsteps of the eighteenth century writer John Ruskin, who, according to my literary companion to Italy, came this very way. It was on this hill that Garibaldi held off a major attack by French troops in 1849.

Walking up the hill, the first stop is the San Pietro in Montorio (‘St. Peter on the Golden Hill’); next door is the Tempietto, apparently the first true Renaissance building in Rome, a 'mini-temple' reportedly built on the very spot St. Peter was crucified (his grave is under the Papal Altar at the Vatican).

(Il Tempietto)

From here it’s about a hundred meters to the Fontana dell’Acqua Paola, one of the best fountains in Rome, with a spectacular view overlooking the entire city below – and virtually unknown compared to the Trevi. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote in 1835: “as often as once a week we pass the day there, amid the odor of its flowers, the rushing sound of its waters and the enchantments of poetry and music”.

Further along the way is the giant Garibaldi Monument; the walk-way is lined with the busts of the generals who held off a vastly superior French army for a month; ‘Roma o Morte’ reads the plaque on the monument: “Rome, or Death!” There were quite a few lovers, too, in this place of fighters, canoodling by the edge of the hill, the whole of the city spread out like a banquet below.

The next stop was something I’d been looking forward to: La Quercia del Tasso, or ‘Tasso’s Oak’. The great Italian poet, Torquanto Tasso, liked to sit here in the days before his death in 1595. It is a strange sight though: not much at all is left of the tree, which sprouts up through a plinth of memorial bricks, its trunk and remaining few branches supported by rather ugly iron corseting; add to this a lightning strike from 1843, and there’s nothing much really to speak of. It really is in a sorry state; I might add that I found an empty Foster’s bottle catching the sunlight by the base of the tree, which was a nice detail for the small poem I’m writing on the experience.

Nearby, further along the hill, was probably the highlight of the walk for me, as I didn’t even plan on visiting the Sant’Onofrio. Thankfully I ducked into this little monastery courtyard, emerging from the rush of nearby Vatican traffic and into a sanctuary of silence. The church was founded in 1419, bears some wonderful frescoes, and was the death place of Tasso. The serene courtyard overlooks the city; I sat on the bench, and wrote a few lines. After then finding some inconspicuous plaques on the side of the church, one written in German with the word ‘Goethe’ and the other in French with the word ‘Chateaubriand’, I looked in my literary guide, and found it confirmed that many great writers had made the pilgrimage to this very courtyard, including Goethe, Herman Melville, Henry James, Longfellow, Chateaubriand and John Cheever.

On the way home, along the Tiber, I visited the Villa Farnesina, former abode of a wealthy Sienese banker, which is famous for its frescoes, particularly the Triumph of Galatea and Loggia of Cupid and Psyche, both by Raphael, and others by Baldassarre Peruzzi. Unfortunately, it was too late in the day, and the place was closed… so instead I wandered around the gorgeous gardens, hedgerows, orange trees, fountains etc, with not another soul in the entire place. I sat and wrote a few more lines, thinking on how Raphael and his model cum mistresses might’ve frolicked in this very spot; then decided to leave just as the sun was setting behind the Janiculum hill.

(Villa Farnesina)

Pinacoteca

Thursday night I was invited by my contact at the embassy to an Art Gallery opening, an exhibition by a Sydney-based artist, so I could meet the Australian ambassador and his wife. Because it was nearby, I thought I’d go via the Trevi fountain, which, like almost everything I’ve found so far, I sort of stumbled across by accident, when I actually thought it was a few more streets away. It was dusk, and the blue lit water looked quite magical; I threw a few cents in but forgot to make a wish; in fact, I thought it was just for general good fortune, until I saw a Japanese man close his eyes and concentrate extremely hard before he threw his coins in.

I then got lost, which is not fun when on one’s own in Rome. All of this teething stuff is starting to get to me… but pain means gain, I suppose. I really do feel like a virgin, wandering everywhere for he first time with no real understanding of where I’m going. I can see how one could get very low when not versed in the tongue of the country they’re in; it’s like studying all the time, with no respite. You simply can’t keep trying to understand a language you know about one or two percent of, without it taking its toll. But it’s a matter of simply (or not so simply) riding it out, seeing off whatever darkness threatens, knowing somewhere deep down that it will pass, and that all is well.

I finally found the street, by the Piazza Barberini, and eventually, the gallery, or pinacoteca. I’d dressed up, and was terribly nervous, but the Ambassador was relaxed, and I’d worked myself up over nothing really. He told me that he is now president of the ‘non-Catholic’ cemetery across the river from me, which I didn’t know about. He told me that both Keats and Shelley, and many others are buried there – I’ve since done some research, and will make a day of it sometime soon.

The paintings were of Australian landscapes, and the clouds were particularly good, stained with a murky, khaki-grey indicating imminent thunderstorms. Those recognizable, wide open spaces, foreboding yet rife with possibility, together with suitably Raymond Carver-esque titles were like a little piece of home. I met some people about my age, all visual artists, mainly locals and one guy from New York who’d come here four years ago on a scholarship and decided to stay. The artist Jason Benjamin was also relaxed, though he said he was feeling severely jetlagged.

As the evening wound down, I took my leave. I ventured a different way to the way I came, and managed to wander straight into the Piazza di Spagna from a side street, without intending to. Keats died in the house right on the corner, by the Spanish Steps, but the museum was closed as it was late. Another time. I left via the Via Condotti, which, for those fashionistas out there, must be the street for shopping, with all of the famous designer stores here one after the other, Gucci, Dolce & Gabana, Armani… you get the idea.

This was really just a lazy stroll back to the Largo Argentina, where you get the tram to Trastevere. I strolled down the Via del Corso, but didn’t get to Goethe’s former abode, which I think is down the far end. I went past the Palazzo Venezia (from which Mussolini addressed the people below), took some photos at Il Vittoriano (“The Typewriter”) then headed back to the tram stop.

Pantheon Writing

Buona sera! Over the flu and out and about... Having been quite frugal so far, I thought I'd treat myself to un bicchiere di vina bianca, which was €4.50, at this cosy little ristorante / cafe. Very worth it. Then I had some gelati (baci & orange chocolate) on my way back to the tram... to top off a fabulous winter Sunday.

Starting to get into the swing of things, though in truth I'm still terrified every time I open my mouth to try to speak the language - and 'timid' is one word that certainly isn't associated with communication here! You have to put your whole body into your speech, even if only subtly... made a few friends in Trastevere (see post below) who are giving me some tips.

The Pantheon (background!) is wonderful - formerly the place you'd go to worship all the Roman gods at once, and so the best preserved of all the ancient monuments in Rome.

This cafe certainly ranks right up there with two others I've been to recently in New Zealand with Emma over Christmas (one at the top of the sky gondola in Queenstown, overlooking Lake Wakatipu, the other at the Hermitage at the base of Aoraki / Mt. Cook). Em, that seat across from me has your name on it ;-D Va bene!

Kevid Rudd's Anaphora

Well, as an addendum to the previous post regarding Obama vs Howard, I thought I'd mention that my ears pricked up at a curious sound today. If I'm not mistaken, it was the sound of a modicum of rhetorical flair rearing its head in Australian politics.

Fancy my surprise when, listening to the news on the ABC website, I heard the following from Kevin Rudd (verbatim, my transcript):

"To accuse the Democratic Party of the United States, as being Al Qaeda’s party of choice; to accuse the Democratic Party as being the terrorist’s party of choice - this is a most serious charge. To accuse the party of Roosevelt; to accuse the party of Truman; to accuse the party of Kennedy and Johnson, of being the terrorist’s party of choice.

I cannot understand how any responsible leader of this country can say to the nation that it is his serious view that the Democratic Party of the United States is the terrorist’s party of choice, but these are your words Prime Minister. "
____________

Clearly, the speechwriter knows what he/she is doing, employing two of the oldest tricks in the book: anaphora, the repetition of a phrase ('to accuse') at the commencement of successive clauses; and anadiplosis, the repetition of a phrase ('terorist's party of choice') at the end of successive clauses.

Many great speeches use such classical techniques, not least of all MLK's 'I have a dream' and JFK's Civil Rights address. The winds of change...?

& in the Red Corner...

(Warning: the following post may contain traces of bile.)

Well, now I've heard it all. Embarrassing. Nauseating. If JWH wasn't the Prime Minister of a sovereign nation, Senator Obama wouldn't even have to bend down to wipe that shit off his shoe. Alas...

The central fact is pure and simple: surely, those responsible for a catastrophe should not lecture others on how to avert one.

Mr. Obama is of a completely different political species to John Howard; he is of the breed that is, in fact, the only thing that prevents me from harbouring all-out anti-Americanism.

I am well aware the US has both the best and the worst. At the very top end of the spectrum, the US produces the type of politician that is found nowhere else... enterprising, deeply ethical yet not sententious, courageous but without the bravado, understanding, firm but not heavy-handed, intelligent, purposeful, tolerant, eloquent. Obama is all these and more, of the highest order of human being, in my estimation, the type of person who should be the leader of the free world.

(If you haven't already watched his DNC speech from 04, click here. (My favourite part is from 7:00 - 7:50). And when you've finished, watch part 2.)

Howard is, of course, pretty much the opposite. Obstreperous, recalcitrant, arrogant, narrowminded, intolerant.

So Obama can calmly, but firmly brush away the flies. He's well-prepared specifically for this type of rubbish. When I first saw the video linked above, mid-way through last year, I unfortunately thought, 'that's the way you talk if you want to get shot in the US'.

After teaching Julius Caesar last year, I got to thinking that, of all the bullets fired in the twentieth century, the sound of the one that got JFK echoes the loudest - a case of the US knocking off it's own brightest star, the very epitome of its greatness, the embodiment of its core principles found in its Declaration of Independence.

I pray that my generation doesn't ever hear that particular sound.

(Thought I'd add this photo, for good measure)

E tu Brute? / Area Sacra dell'Argentina

One of only two trams in Rome stops pretty much right outside the studio here in Trastevere, and heads straight into Rome’s ‘historical centre’, near the Campo del Fiori, at the Largo di Argentina.

Once off the tram you virtually trip over the Area Sacra dell’Argentina, a wonderful set of ruins the size of a small city block – four Republican temples, fluted columns, non-descript blocks of marble, dating back to 300BC, and so some of the oldest in Rome – sunk about ten meters below the pavement, so that you lean over a set of railings and peer right into it.

This was the site of the original Senate, and, according to a guide book, of Julius Caesar’s assassination. Imagine it occurring on the steps in the photos below.

I’ve been here before, but there are a number of things of particular interest about the place.

Firstly: as I mentioned, Julius Caesar was stabbed in the back here by his buddy Brutus for getting too big for his boots. Having re-read the play last year, I distinctly remember the assassins (Brutus, Cassius et al) rushing to intercept him before he made it to the Forum, and I can now imagine the scene unfolding in this very place, about five minutes walk from said Forum.

Secondly: the excavation of this site was overseen by Mussolini; he actually rejected requests by developers to build over the site, opting instead to restore it. Apparently, at the opening of the newly excavated site, he remarked in typical fashion: “I should like to have brought to me here those who opposed this work, to have them shot on the spot.” Now I’m not one for Fascism, but there’s something admirable in this fierce riposte to over-zealous developers. (The source I’m taking this from suggests he didn’t mean this literally; but who knows.)

Finally, and more obviously, the ruins have in recent years become a kind of refuge for the city’s enormous stray cat population. In the late sixties there were apparently 784,000 of the furballs, though their population has drastically declined. Anyway, it’s quite a sight to see cats of all different colours, shapes and sizes cruising about, reclining, playing, fighting, play-fighting, pouncing, stalking etc through the ruins. Lovers mill along the rails, cooing, picking out favourites and wiling away entire hours.

Trastevere & West End, Brisbane.

I can now confirm that the suburb the studio is in is pretty much the equivalent of my former abode, West End in Brisbane, in a number of ways, chief among which is its proximity to the city centre.

The suburb is across the Tiber (hence, Trans-Tiber... Trastevere) from the CBD, somewhat toward the lower end of the market (though as those at home know, West End in Brisbane is now nearly completely gentrified) and very, very funky. In an ancient kind of way. A maze of charming winding streets and alleys packed with restaurants and bars.

After shaking the cold (am now dragging around a cough, but everyone in Rome at the moment it seems is getting over a cold), I thought it was time to do a little exploring. I'd planned originally to visit an Aussie pub called Ned Kelly, but fortunately fate intervened in the form of an alternative impulse and kicked my unadventurous backside off the tram in Trastevere proper.

I'd looked in the trusty Lonely Planet for a straniero-friendly, and picked one, Mr. Brown's; but I soon realised I had buckley's of finding one pub in the maze of alleyways and sidestreets... so I thought I'd wing it, and after about fifteen minutes I pulled into a bar with no signage, from which an ambient blue light (and some English words!) emanated. Also, it was still happy hour.

After about five minutes at the bar, I noticed, up on the wall, a display cabinet, and in the cabinet, something remarkable: an old cricket bat, three stumps and a ball! A warmth spread slowly throughout my body; I'd come to the right place. Then I saw the actual sign: 'Mr. Brown's'! The one pub I'd stumbled into completely at random, having wandered blindly from laneway to laneway, turned out to be the very one I was looking for in the first place!

Anyway, I spent most of the night propping up the bar with a couple of guys, one from New Zealand, the other from Belgium. The bartenders were locals, but originally from Ethiopia and Bangladesh. We then formed a table, at which no two people were from the same country! Going round the table, we had a Welsh, a Scot, a French, an American, a Portugese, a Belgian, an Italian, a Kiwi and an Aussie!

My heart sank a bit when I realised most everyone has much, much more Italian than I do, though they all understood I was fresh off the boat - it's particularly depressing when you try out your very best 'una Heiniken per favore' and the waitress justs laughs at you, before addressing you in English! But by the end of the night I was doing much better, and seemed to have a small reservoir of words that I could draw from to make conversation with the locals (plus of course many of them have a fair bit of English).

'Grande Fratello'... 'Big Brother': Italian Style

A few days of constant rain combined with being sick gave me a chance to check out some Italian television. Now I first thought - wouldn't it be great if I didn't watch TV the entire time I'm here. But after switching it on on the weekend, I've realised how helpful it can be. Now I have it on while I'm studying Italian in the mornings.

One of the most helpful things are the children's shows! Think playschool, where they pronounce each word slowly, and use very basic sentence structures. Fantastic. Game shows can be hilarious (I still haven't figured out what you have to do in most of them) but you can hear common expressions all the time. Apparently there's an Italian version of 'Deal or No Deal' that is as supercharged with emotion as any opera (tears, the lot!)!

'Grande Fratello' ('Big Brother') is not that helpful with the learning, but it is mildly intriguing nevertheless. Whereas the Aussie version is replete with tracksuit pants, scratching arses, and general bogan behaviour, the Italian version is, unsurprisingly, the complete opposite. Even the most casual dresser in the house still looks as though they've just 'casually' stepped off a catwalk somewhere... oh, and the host is much more attractive than Gretel Killeen. The similarities, on the other hand, are just as intriguing as the differences - the underlying constant, raw human behaviour and emotion etc. But let's not go too far. I've only caught this show once, and I think that is enough.

The Not So Quiet American

The rumours appear to be true. Today I heard a frustrated American customer at the internet cafe I'm using actually BEGIN SHOUTING (IN ENGLISH) WHEN HE REALISED THE ATTENDANT COULDN'T UNDERSTAND HIM (IN ENGLISH). (The request was a rather complex one, involving the transfer of money).

I've got not idea how this guy thought he could get his point across any clearer by raising the roof. When the attendant kindly asked him, in Italian, to cease shouting, even I could understand him - though I didn't know the words he was using; any non-Italian speaker could've. Except for the gentleman in question, it seemed.

Needless to say, the Italian gentleman then developed a sudden air of the well-then-you-can-go-fuck-yourself-if-you're-going-to-keep-shouting-at-me-after-I've-asked-you-nicely-not-to variety, and the American left in a state of exasperation - much to the relief of all in the internet cafe. (I suppose I should add that I realise this may not be restricted to, nor representative of American people per se...)

Roma: il primo 72

Well, I've arrived safe and sound in Rome, though I now have the flu - a combination of a reasonably large week in London, and the air around the Colosseum. (The eponymous hero in the Henry James novella, Daisy Miller, actually dies after taking in the miasma around the Colosseum... fortunately malaria is no longer endemic here, as it was in the 19th century!)

Below are some rather hasty videos from my first 72hrs in Rome... I hope it gives anyone who's interested a good idea of where I'm staying. Please note, these videos aren't the greatest, but they will get better with experience etc. (As with all youtube vids, unless you have very quick bband, perhaps best to press pause until they've fully loaded, then watch them etc...)

(Disclaimer: the audio on some of these videos is out of sync; I've since converted others into a format that allows for synchronised audio, but the trade-off is a poorer image. Also, inexperience in posting videos is a factor. The videos also come with a severe AAW: Australian Accent Warning - no doubt something I'm noticing even more so in Rome than in London!)

1. Gardening at the B.R. Whiting Studio on a sunny Roman winter's day; a fairly uneventful vid, but shows the view from the studio. I'd originally had an introduction to this one, explaining that I'm obliged to water the plants etc, but had to cut it due to file size restrictions...



2. Colosseo with gladiator! (Again, this one is brief and not so good... will post a better one in the coming days/weeks). Notice how the gladiator says 'Kangaroo' when I tell him I'm from Australia!



It's a shame the batteries ran out on this one - he let me kill him twice, rather gruesomely. And then he asked me for 5 euros! I gave him 1. [The person holding the camera for me in this one is Maria Hyland, former resident and shortlistee for the Man Booker Prize in 2006 for Carry Me Down - and, generously, tour guide for my first trip into the city centre.]

3. Jaya's new jacket... my cold got a lot worse after this! (Audio definitely out of sync on this one.)

I Shot the Sheriff / Last Beer in Brixton

Here's a video of Liam and I having one last pint (or two) in Brixton before I left for Rome the next morning. On at least two occasions between the tube station and the pub we were offerred 'wicked skunk, wicked skunk mun!' - the Jamaican guys here were clearly not the 'trustafarians' we saw in Notting Hill (see earlier post, 'Flogged in Notting Hill')!

Stepping out of the KFC (where you can buy a bite-sized burger for 99p) we plunged into a haze of gunja smoke. Liam then pointed nonchalantly across the road at the McDonalds and said, "Someone got shot there".



The first half of this video is very shaky, but the second half is still. It is is fairly uneventful, just us at the bar; and the whole thing seems slightly warped, as I took it while the camera was on it's side, and had to alter it afterwards. Still, fun for a bit of a laugh...

5 Signs you migh be Getting Over Impressionism (& Postimpressionism!)

1. You find yourself intellectualising Van Gogh’s Sunflowers.
2. Cezanne’s large Bathers (Les Grandes Baigneuses) fails to actually move you.
3. The time you spend looking at Monet’s The Water Lily Pond can only be measured on a digital stop-watch.
4. The pleasure you take from Renoir’s The Umbrellas is entirely due to the fact that it reminds you of a poem. (In this case the poem is by Luke Beesley… I don’t remember the title, but I know it ends with umbrellas opening at once all over the city.)
5. You are compelled to write a somewhat (but not altogether) facetious list such as this, and post it on a blog.

(Cezanne, Les Grandes Baigneuses 1894-1905)

Since seeing my first major da Vinci, Raphael, Caravaggio, so on and so forth, my respect for those artists loosely known as the ‘Impressionists’ has started to wane (and for the sake of this discussion, I’m including Manet and Cezanne in this group).

The controversial nature of their exhibitions around the fin di siecle was of course due mostly to their apparent disregard for mimetic fidelity, in favour of some other insight into the nature of human perception; whereas many of the figures in mimetic art, from the Renaissance (particularly da Vinci, Michaelangelo's and Bernini's scultures etc) onward, are so lifelike it wouldn’t be a surprise to see one start breathing right there on the canvas.

My gripe is not solely based on this unfortunate comparison between Impressionism and Renaissance painting and sculpture, in terms of ‘realism’ or mimetic fidelity. But the fact is I now seem to be able to only take an intellectual pleasure from most of the so-called 'Impressionists'; how Cezanne flattens the canvas for others to follow, how Van Gogh’s sunflowers are strangely tormented. In short, whereas once they meant something in and of themselves, they have been reduced, for me, to little more than a stepping stone, ie. to Cubism and Abstract Expressionism etc.

In short, give me a good Pollock, Frank Stella, Rothko or whomever else over a good Monet, Renoir, Degas, Toulouse-Lautrec etc any day. For the record, my two favourites from this exhibition of Impressionist paintings in the Sainsbury Wing of the National Gallery, were Monet’s The Houses of Parliament (partly because I’d only just seen these in London myself and because I like sunsets) and Camille Pissarro’s The Boulevard Montmarte at Night (because I haven’t yet seen Paris, and it looks pretty at night on this canvas).

(Pissarro, Le Boulevard Montmartre, effet de nuit 1897)

Maxwell's Silver Hammer

Ext. Abbey Road Studios - My final day in London before heading off to Rome was a relaxing one. I didn't leave Liam's place until after lunch, but even so, failed to make it to Lords (aka the home of cricket - forgive me guys) though it was only 400 yards down the road. I had to hurry off to meet Liam at the National Gallery after he'd finished work.

There was a handful of fellow pilgrims around, stopping the peak-hour traffic, which kept tooting. Wasn't able to get the exact angle from which the Abbey Road album covershot was taken, as I'd gone on my own.

I still, however, managed to get a rather dorky video of me crossing the road (see below). (The tripod I bought on the advice of both Emma and Katie has probably turned out to be the best 5 quid I've spent so far).

Soho

This pub is called The White Horse.

Evensong / Marriage of Heaven & Hell

After visiting the Tate Britain (see earlier post) I caught the tube to Westminster to work on the poem I'm writing for Pete Minter for the SWF this year (which Pete has organised to appear on postcards during the festival) - and found my way to The Red Lion, a pub about two minutes walk from Downing street, a stone's throw from Big Ben.

At 5 o'clock, after two pints, I headed for the Westminster Abbey to partake in the evensong. No, I'm not suddenly bjorn again, but neither do I really want to admit that I went just to get free entry to see the place, particularly the famous Poets' Corner.

I walked in late (ie. after the Lord's Prayer) and took a seat on the right, in the very back row. Recalling my Catholic boarding school education - though the abbey is Anglican - I pulled out my pious face and sang along to the hymns. If the truth be known, it is a very moving experience, listening to the wonderful choir singing along to Bach arrangements, enough almost to convert a fairly godless soul such as myself.

It turned out that I'd stumbled on a particularly special event - the consummation of a 25 year-long dialogue between the Greek Orthodox Church and the Anglican... with the Archbishop of Constantinople and the Archbishop of Canterbury addressing the congregation in their appeal for harmony (which seemed fairly heavily politicised).

Now the funny thing is, when mum decided it was finally time to splash some water on my head at the age of about twelve, it happens that it was in the name of the Orthodox church, so I found some personal significance in the event.

Anyway, throughout the whole thing, a bust of William Blake happened to be staring me down at about five paces (certainly ironically). It wasn't until the end of the service that I got up, took two steps to my right, and realised I'd been virtually sitting on Shakespeare's bones. I was the closest person in the entire place to Poets' Corner.

I scribbled down a list of all the writers apparently buried there, but it turns out some of the memorials were simply that, memorials, and not the peeps' final resting place - though some of the following are, apparently, actually buried there:

Jimmy Dryden, Dylan Thommo, Wazza Auden, Al Tennyson, Davo Lawrence, Tommo S Eliot, Will Owen, Bill Wordsworth, Chuck Dickens, Sammy Johnson, Matty Arnold, Geoff Chaucer, Bobbie Browning, Jim Keats, the Bronte babes, and Peebs Shelley. And of course, Bill Shakers.

Waterloo to Tate Modern / 5 Favourite Headfucks at the Tate Modern

(Disclaimer: this list is somewhat predictable and may be boring for aficionados... Nick, Dave ;-D).

1. ‘The Rothko Room’ by Marc Rothko. Of course, any Rothko is moody – think the look on a Shapelle Corby’s face when convicted, expressed as variegated colour. But in this room, moody is an understatement.

(The Rothko Room)

The four walls are like a migraine just as the valium’s kicking in: the throb with the receptiveness, the thump with the rush. There’s a guilty pleasure to be had here also in the subtle figurations; gaping squares like mental yawns, straight lines like lazy sneezes. (Come on, it is abstract art after all). To me the room seemed to express the whole gamut of consciousness.

2. Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion (1944) by Francis Bacon. Long before an otherwise unknown actor begged of Sigourney Weaver, “Kill me!” in the Aliens franchise, there was Francis Bacon. If you ever hear anyone complain about being treated like a piece of meat, refer them to the plight of Bacon’s sitters. These ghastly abominations sum up your worst imagined idea of suffering (probably a bit like being nailed through the wrists, having your legs broken etc) physical and mental. For some reason, the deep arterial-blood-red background always comes up as orange in the prints.

3. The Uncertainty of the Poet (1913) by Giorgio de Chirico. I'd never really understood this iconic painting before, but standing before it I felt something slip out from under my feet like, well, a banana-skin.

(The Uncertainty of the Poet (1913) by Giorgio di Chirico)

The comparatively pliant feminine torso turning to face us is juxtaposed with the bunch of bananas, which is much like the feminine torso as if it were lying down. The bananas are, of course, individuated, but as a group, they constitute a body.

The key, perhaps - and also to the title - is the single banana that is detached from the bunch. How can a bunch of individuated objects respresent something else - without there being something left over? How does a poet assemble a bunch of individuated words to imitate life? How can a bunch of words be a body, and why is there always a word that doesn't fit, a remainder - something that can't be said? These and many more imponderables saw this de Chirico make my top 5 headfucks at the Tate Modern.

4. The Metamorphosis of the Narcissus by Salvador Dali. Well, does having a print on one’s wall back when one was still listening to The Doors mean it too is to be grown out of? That’s for you to decide. But for me, seeing this up close and personal was like, well… like Ovid cumming all over my retinas. (Okay, so that one’s a bridge too far... oh no! I'm sounding like Kevin Rudd.)*

5. Piet Mondrian. This one’s lengthy but worth it. Now normally Mondrian wouldn’t make such a list, but this is an exception. Though I don’t recall the exact name of the painting, it was one of his famous ‘red, yellow and blue’ compositions. The headfuck begins like this: in such a Mondrian the red, yellow and blue is usually snug within the vertical and horizontal black axes, so that from front-on, all is clearly contained; but peering around to the edge of the canvas, I noticed one tiny moment ie. about 1 cm sq where the red ‘bleeds’ out, into where the black line should be – clearly intentional. This is not done with any other square of colour. Now I thought this was perceptive of me, and I believe I mumbled ‘smartarse’ aloud. But that’s not the headfuck. About an hour later, I recalled that around seven years ago at uni, my sometime art history lecturer Rex Butler had described this very detail to us once in class (HA105). Later that night (ie. a few nights ago now) – and this is the screw – guess who appeared in my dream – and actually shook my hand. The one and only Rex Butler. It wasn’t until a few hours after I woke up that I realized the significance (at first I wondered, why the hell did I see Rex Butler in my dream?). So I’d noticed Mondrian’s smartarse detail; then remembered Rex Butler describing it to my class seven years ago; then that night dreamt that I shook Rex Butler’s hand, and didn’t figure it out until lunch the next day.

And to top it all off, two days later, I came across another Mondrian in the Tate Britain, same vintage, in which he’d done exactly the same thing – only this time with the yellow square, rather than the red.

Tate Britain

Int. Chelsea. Today I hoped to see Van Gogh's Portrait with Bandaged Ear at Somerset House, but changed my mind at the last minute and headed for the Tate Britain (which was free, whereas Somerset House is about £5) in the hope of seeing some more Francis Bacons (which were promised). In effect I was swapping one tortured soul for another...

Of course the sandwiches at the gallery cafe were around five quid each, so I ducked despondently across the road and fortuitously noticed a doorway into the Chelsea School of Art and Design, through which I spied a good old uni refectory. This made me feel at home, particularly with a sandwhich and coffee for two quid fifty.

As it turned out, the Bacons weren't on display - this is something you have to learn to deal with when visiting galleries: sometimes the works that are your entire reason for going aren't displayed - but this gives you a chance to see something you otherwise wouldn't.

The surprise highlight for me was the Turner Wing. I'd never really been a fan of Turner's, but this is overwhelming. Massive canvasses, perhaps forty or more, depicting some of the most dramatic scenes of the ancient world (the rise and fall of Carthage, the coupling of Echo and Narcissus, Hannibal crossing the Alps etc), amid heaving oceans, treacherous mountains and shitscary storms. They are usually dazzling with light and the style is, to this amateur, proto-impressionist; or, as Liam put it, it's as if at times he out-Monets Monet.

(Turner, Hannibal Crossing the Alps 1812)

Then there was Ophelia (1851-52) by Sir John Everett Millais. Being a bit of a bardolator, there was a definite thrill in seeing this one up close.


Hey there Emily Tomlins! This post is dedicated to you! (Let me explain for others who might not be aware, that Ms Tomlins is to play Ophelia in the joint QTC/SATC production of Hamlet in '07). I do believe I first saw this on her's and Mars's wall in Herston, circa 2001. (Yes, I was a latecomer!).

The detailed foliage (top left) into which, or rather through which the drowning Ophelia gazes, was considered during its day to be the most precise representation of nature ever achieved. This is, obviously, more evident on close inspection.

All in all, though, the National Gallery is probably more exhilirating if you like the older stuff; if it's now you're interested in, see my post below on my 5 Favourite Headfucks at the TATE MODERN...