LOVE LOST

“Love is never lost. If not reciprocated, it will flow back and soften and purify the heart.” -Washington Irving

A Greek song for Song Saturday, music by George Hadjinassios, lyrics by Michael Bourboulis, sung by Michael Hadjiyannis.



The Body that you Miss

The body that you miss
Was taken by the North wind,
Who turned it into the breeze
Of a dark day;
And the ash of a fire.

You hold in your hands
A crystal sphere, asking,
While you look deep in the glass,
What circles the compass draws
On the map of the heart.

I know it hurts you,
But you must try to forget,
While learning to live alone.
You thirst for love,
But he whom you love left you too soon.

The body that you miss
Was taken by the North wind,
Who turned it into the breeze
Of a dark day;
And the ash of a fire.

I know it hurts you,
But you must try to forget,
While learning to live alone.
You thirst for love,
But he whom you love left you too soon.

Το Σώμα που Ζητάς

Το σώμα που ζητάς
Το πήρε ο βοριάς,
Και έγινε αγέρας
Της σκοτεινής ημέρας
Και στάχτη μιας φωτιάς.

Στα χέρια σου κρατάς
Μια σφαίρα και ρωτάς.
Κοιτάς μες στο γυαλί της
Τι γράφει ο διαβήτης
Στο χάρτη της καρδιάς.

Πονάς το ξέρω πως πονάς
Μα πρέπει να ξεχνάς
Και μόνη σου να ζεις
Διψάς, για έρωτα διψάς
Μα κείνος π΄αγαπάς, σου έφυγε νωρίς.

Το σώμα που ζητάς
Το πήρε ο βοριάς,
Και έγινε αγέρας
Της σκοτεινής ημέρας
Και στάχτη μιας φωτιάς.

Πονάς το ξέρω πως πονάς
Μα πρέπει να ξεχνάς
Και μόνη σου να ζεις
Διψάς, για έρωτα διψάς
Μα κείνος π΄αγαπάς, σου έφυγε νωρίς.

OF VIOLETS, ROSSINI & TOURNEDOS

Gourmandism is an act of judgment, by which we prefer things which have a pleasant taste to those which lack this quality.”
- Jean-Anthelme Brillat-Savarin

Leap year day!

The yellow violet, Viola biflora, is today’s birthday flower. It symbolises rarity, worth and rural happiness. Astrologically, the violet is under the dominion of Venus and the sign of Aries. In the Middle Ages, together with the wallflower, the violet was considered a symbol of constancy. A golden violet was the prize awarded to the best versifier in competitions where the troubadours sang their ballads.

The intercalary day of February 29th is added every four years except in those century years that cannot be divided evenly by 400 (e.g. 1700, 1800, 1900). In those years February has 28 days. In the Roman calendar the intercalary day was added after February 23rd (i.e. VII Kalends March) and the leap day was called VI Kalends of March, the same as the day that followed it. In a leap Roman year therefore there were two days that were called VI Kalends of March and the year was known as a bissextile year (i.e. sixth twice year).

The Leap Year’s Day was regarded as an unlucky day and many ill omens were associated with it. This arises from the belief that it was the birthday of Biblical Job, which he blighted when he cursed the day he was born. The Lord, in His mercy only allowed it to occur once every four years. No new tasks were begun on this day and often candles were lit in churches so that the blight of the day would not influence the fate of the faithful.

The field forget-me-not, Myosotis arvensis, is a flower that was traditionally exchanged between friends on this day. If one began to travel on February 29th, it was customary to give them this bloom. It symbolises remembrance and true love.

Traditionally, in some countries, February 29th was the time when “ladies have full and absolute licence to propose marriage to single gentlemen. If the gentleman be so rude as to refuse, he is infallibly bound to give the spurned lady a present, which is usually a pair of new gloves on Easter Day.” In 1228 a law was passed in Scotland allowing women to propose marriage only in a leap year.

Gioacchino Antonio Rossini (1792–1868) was an Italian operatic composer. Of his many lively operas, The Barber of Seville (1816) is his comic masterpiece. After composing the opera William Tell (1829), he wrote only songs, piano pieces, and the Stabat Mater (1842). Some early works of his worth listening to are the String Sonatas 1-6 written at the age of twelve and anticipating the wit and lively nature of his mature music. My very first exposure to live Classical music played by a real orchestra was in my childhood and the fine piece that made me love the genre forever was a wonderful Rossini piece, “La Gazza Ladra” (Thieving Magpie) Overture. Here is Claudio Abbado with the Wiener Philharmoniker in the 1991 New Year’s Concert. Although the march that starts it is brash and showy, wait for the lovely and gentle lacework about two-and-a-half minutes into the work!



St Cassianus, whose feast day it is today, is considered by Greek heortology to be the patron saint of the lazy as his feast day falls only once every four years! He is often depicted holding keys, which the Greek people interpret as the “keys of laziness”.

And this being food Friday, let’s stay with birthday boy Rossini and talk about Tournedos Rossini!

By the time Rossini retired (at the grand old age of… 37!), he had made a fortune out of his very successful operas. He spent the next 40 years of his life enjoying himself, amusing friends with his short witty pieces for the piano (“Sins of Old Age”) and wining and dingin. Once, in a letter to a friend, he wrote that "I travel not so much for the sake of my music as for that of my stomach". He spent most his retirement in Aris and h became a well known habitué of such fine Parisian restaurants as the Tour d'Argent, Bonfinger, the Cafe des Anglais, Maison Dorée, Lucas and Marguery, where he would meet with his friends and mistresses.

In each of these restaurants he had a table that was reserved for his exclusive use. When he went into the restaurant, he used to shake the hands of the maitre d’ hotel, the wine steward and each of the waiters. He then went into the kitchen to personally greet the chef and only then would he take his place and order dinner.

Casimir Moisson, the greatest chef at Maison Dorée created and dedicated these two renowned dishes to Rossini.

Eggs à la Rossini
Ingredients
For the Brown Sauce:
1 and 1/2 tbsp. Madeira wine
3/4 tbsp. cornflour
1 and 1/4 cups veal stock
salt and pepper to taste
For the Eggs:
1/4 cup butter
250 gram foie gras (goose liver pâté), sliced
3 - 4 tinned truffles, drained and sliced
8 eggs
salt and pepper

Method
To make the brown sauce, mix in a small bowl the Madeira and cornflour to make a paste. Bring the stock to a boil and gradually whisk the paste into the hot stock. Return to the boil, whisking constantly, and then simmer until thick enough to coat the back of a spoon. Season to taste with salt and pepper and then strain through a fine cloth.
Makes about 1 and1/4 cups.

In a skillet melt 3 tbsp. of the butter and in this, sauté the foie gras. In a separate skillet, melt the remaining butter and toss the truffles in the hot butter. Poach the eggs and season lightly with salt and pepper. Place each egg on a slice of the foie gras, top with truffle slices and cover with the brown sauce. Serve at once.
(Serves 4 or 8).

Tournedos Rossini
Ingredients
6 tbsp. butter
4 slices foie gras (goose liver pâté)
4 slices white bread, without crusts and trimmed to the size of the tournedos
4 tournedos (fine bon fillets of beef, about 3 cm thick)
salt and pepper to taste
2 tbsp. olive oil
3 cloves garlic, sliced thinly
about 1/2 cup brown sauce (see instructions in previous recipe)
2 truffles, sliced (optional)

Method
In a small skillet melt 2 tbsp. of the butter and in this gently sauté the foie gras slices. In a separate small skillet melt 2 tbsp. of butter and in this fry the white bread slices until nicely browned on both sides.
Season the tournedos with salt and pepper. In a skillet heat together 2 tbsp. of the butter and the olive oil and in this sauté the garlic just until it beings to brown. With a slotted spoon remove and discard the garlic. Place the tournedos in the skillet and cook over a high flame so that the meat is nicely browned on the exterior and pink on the inside. Place each tournedo on a toasted bread crouton.
In the skillet in which the meat was fried, briefly sauté the truffles. On each tournedo lay a slice of the foie gras and over these distribute the truffles. Heat the pan juices and then add the brown sauce, stirring together well. Pour a small amount of the sauce over the meat and serve immediately. Serve the remaining sauce separately. (Serves 4).

MONTAIGNE'S ESSAYS

“I quote others in order to better express myself.” Michel Eyquem de Montaigne

Today’s birthday flower is the tuberose, Polyanthes tuberosa. Its name is derived from the tubers it sprouts from and the generic name is from the Greek, polys = “much, many” and anthes = “flowering”. It was first introduced into Western Europe in the 16th century from the East. A Dutch florist, La Cour, became obsessed with the sweetly scented flower and he succeeded in developing the now familiar double flowering varieties. Tuberoses quickly became the rage and were much sought after in aristocratic circles. The plant symbolises passionate and voluptuous love. Exchanged between lovers it indicated a strong mutual sexual attraction. In Malaysia, the tuberose is known as “mistress of the night”.

Michel Eyquem de Montaigne, essayist was born on this day in 1533. His birthplace was Château de Montaigne, Périgord, SW France and he spoke no language other than Latin until he was six. He received his early education at Bordeaux, then studied law, making him a natural for a post in connection with the Parlement of Bordeaux. For 13 years he was a city counsellor, later becoming mayor. A translation (1569) of the Natural History of a 15th century professor at Toulouse was his first attempt at literature, and supplied the text for his “Apologie de Raymon Sebond”. In 1571 he succeeded to the family estate at Montaigne, and lived the life of a country gentleman, varied by visits to Paris and a tour in Germany, Switzerland, and Italy. He is remembered for his “Essais” (1572–80, 1588) on the new ideas and personalities of the time, which introduced a new literary genre – the essay – what Matthew Arnold was later to call ‘the dialogue of the mind with itself’. Quoted by Shakespeare, imitated by Bacon, and incorporated into the discourse of the novel, Montaigne's essays have provided a major contribution to literary history and provided for intellectual stimulation and food for thought down the ages.

Here is a link to the online text edition of the essays of 1575, translated by Charles Cotton.

These essays are delightful works, learned and wise; amusing and deeply thought-provoking, erudite and discursive; philosophical and engaging; curios and fanciful…

essay noun |ˈesā|
1 a short piece of writing on a particular subject.
2 formal an attempt or effort : a misjudged essay.
• a trial design of a postage stamp yet to be accepted.
verb |eˈsā| |ɛˈseɪ| |ɛˈseɪ| [ trans. ] formal
attempt or try : essay a smile.
ORIGIN late 15th cent. (as a verb in the sense [test the quality of] ): alteration of assay , by association with Old French essayer, based on late Latin exagium ‘weighing,’ from the base of exigere ‘ascertain, weigh’ ; the noun (late 16th cent.) is from Old French essai ‘trial.’

A DARK POEM

“The dream reveals the reality which conception lags behind. That is the horror of life.” - Franz Kafka

A poem that I wrote when I was a young University student, in my first year at University and inspired by a night out at the theatre. A walk in the darkened streets and a quiet reflection alone in my room that very night. It’s long and it’s dark. Just like that remembered night.

Masterpiece

Tall, blonde, beautiful, haughty in her perfection,
She holds on to him possessively -
A most suitable match.
The silk feels like a caress on her flawless skin
While he wears Parisian ties
To match his film star physique.
The restaurant.
The bar.
The hotel.
The Members’ Lounge.

The columns of the Town Hall
In spotlit splendour,
Befitting Gala Night.
Corinthian columns,
Smooth stone, polished marble,
Peach, apricot, soft pastel pink...

“We are on a hunger strike”
“This is what living on the dole is like”:
Amidst the carefully pruned greenery,
(A quasi-horticultural display)
Of multicoloured tributes to the florist’s art,
At the base of the rosaceous columns,
Blending with the dirty sidewalk flagstones,
Three demonstrators camp
Outside the Town Hall.

She can walk by,
Safely hovering on another plane
Perched high above them on her stiletto heels,
Silk stockings, brand new, to match her once-worn outfits,
And not two paces down
She smirks and laughs,
Her eyes dismissing them
Her mind brushing aside their presence
As one would brush away an annoying gnat.

Unshaven faces, matted hair,
Makeshift sleeping arrangements
On the cold, dirty pavement.
Big signs.
Glaring letters:
“$90 a week”

Down the city street he hobbles
Carrying his weight on two crutches
Flesh and bone like dead ballast,
Walking alone.
Deformed and bent and stunted
He moves quickly
As though he is trying to escape from
The blasphemy of his body.
He shakes, trembles, totters...
His spindly legs unsteady
Making obscene efforts at a rapid walk,
His big head set crookedly,
Only his eyes beautiful,
Large, liquid, soft and brown.
Innocent, blameless,
Like the eyes of the puppy sitting by the demonstrators’ side.

The perfect couple pass by the cripple
Their eyes oblivious to his pain,
Their eyes only full of each other.
Ignoring him they share a joke,
Laughter…
He walks on, or rather,
Hobbles, drags himself, staggers past them,
His eyes pinned on them
Their every perfection
A million diamond pins
Impaling their hard, relentless points
In every part of his misshapen hulk.



Champagne and toasts.
And multicoloured lights;
What fun! How entertaining!
Our life’s a movie,
And yes, all the world’s a stage.
The theatre full of cruelly gazing spectators
Each eager to catch a glimpse of his own secret vice
Each eager to denounce it when in other players is seen.

The lights,
The night air - how cold it is tonight!
The policemen,
The youths, drunk, packed in their converted Holdens,
The tattoos on their arms
Leering profanely,
Revelling in their indelibility.

Masterpiece!
Our life moves in pre-ordained,
Dictated steps as outlined by Your divine wisdom!
Oh yes, I have forgotten,
All moving to the beat of a rock rhythm.
The world: The most beautiful.
This world of beauty, peace, contentment,
This most perfect place!

The billboards scream in lurid fonts:
“You too will be like me!
Use...”
“Desirable, lovable, irresistible!
Use...”
Blank faces, lonely, haunted eyes,
Clutched hands, writhing fingers,
Empty bodies stacked in the rattling trams.
“Why won’t he hold my hand?”
“Oh, Mum, why can’t I ask you,
Why won’t he hold my hand?”

The trees still make a show
Of their young, green, new leaves
Even under the harsh glow of artificial light.
The University spotlit, deserted,
Still looks respectable,
And secure,
And permanent,
Just as it ought to!
Its hallowed halls ringing by day
To laughter of tall blondes
And their perfectly matched consorts.

You only live once,
So live in silk,
And drink champagne.
Amuse yourself,
Go to the theatre,
Laugh
As you watch the world
Perverted through its prism.

Masterpiece!
“A masque, we must have a masque!
Prepare the costumes,
Lay on the paint, don the wigs!”
Titters run through the audience
As on stage a man dared to kiss another.
Even you must laugh sitting next to your wife,
Although you want to cry.

The cripple outside hobbles, stumbles, tries to run.
The unemployed demonstrators shiver,
Make ready for the coldest part of the night ahead.
An old derelict rummages through the rubbish.
A policeman waves him on.
A drunk lies in stupor under a flashing neon sign:
“BAR” - “BAR” - “BAR”.

The colleges loom dark on the right up ahead,
Three students are returning there.
They laugh deliriously
Immersed in shallow, selfish joys,
What fun they’ve had tonight,
As much as they will have tomorrow,
Twice as much as last night!
And everything moves in pre-ordained,
Dictated steps as outlined by Your divine wisdom!
Oh yes, I have forgotten,
All moves to the beat of a rock rhythm.
Why should I want to cry?

The exclusive restaurant lit discreetly
Shines forth in the darkened avenue
Just like a precious topaz sunlit
In the bottom of a dark pool.
The perfect couple dine within.
The wine is chilled to the precise temperature
(A wine thermometer is used to check this).
“New season’s colours:
Dusty pink, sage, lemon, lilac...”
Black leather profiles, flawlessness.
Sex, perfection, lust, flesh.
The body beautiful.

The advertisements howl:
“Be like me,
Use...”
The glasses touch, the crystal rings
Smiles show gleaming white teeth,
Smiles part ruby lips,
Smiles thin the sensuous mouths.

Dark streets,
Wind-buffeted empty cigarette packets,
Yesterday’s paper announcing new wars,
Jangling empty tin cans,
The same brand as those on the poster up above...
The leaves rustle and the boughs bend.
A stray dog roams the streets
Sniffing at the overturned garbage cans.
A retarded child sleeps oblivious to all that the night hides,
His dreams featureless, his unconsciousness
Clouded by the cocoon of the Institution walls around him.

The perfect couple exchange coy glances
Painted eyes and thickened lashes
Transmit messages and mete out covert promises.
The glint of an engagement diamond.
The drunk stirs in his saturated slumber,
A smile plays upon his lips
As faded childhood images torture his dreams.

Why does it all hurt me so?
Why must everything be more acutely felt
When one is alone?
Why is it all so nightmarishly unreal?
Why should my soul feel dead inside
After I had seen the cripple’s eyes outside the Town Hall?
Why does the music hurt me so tonight?
Why does each note become a dagger
Stabbing me through and through?
Why must I be asked when I get home:
“Why do you look as though you want to cry?
What happened, why are you sad?
Tell me tomorrow, now it’s late,
Go to bed!”

The radio blares its rock drivel,
The record whines its classical perfection.
The trite and the deep,
Philosophy, pop culture.
The newspaper whispers:
The psychology of advertising,
Self-sufficiency,
Macro-economic reform,
New fears of famine in Africa,
Sustainable economic growth,

The advertisements continue to scream:
Consume, consume, consume,
More, more, more!

Leisure studies, boredom, Long Weekends,
The masses.
The theatre goers.
Lady X wearing her tiara.
The cripple meeting the perfect couple;
He sees them in all their perfection,
His imperfection making him invisible,
Non-existent to them.
The demonstrators sleeping under the rosy columns,
The little retarded boy smiling even in his sleep,
The drunk kicking nightmarish pursuers as he rolls into the gutter.
Why does the music hurt?

Masterpiece!
Everything in wisdom was created,
Our life moves in pre-ordained,
Dictated steps as outlined by Your divine wisdom!
Oh yes, I have forgotten,
All moves to the beat of a rock rhythm.

Locked up churches,
Darkened spires, lit motorways,
Garish discotheques,
Painted whores peddling caresses,
One night stands,
Nice girls who do
Good girls who don’t.

The organ peals,
Here comes the bride,
The groom awaits in spotless splendour.
The bride in white lace, pure, virginal. Ha!
The best man, striped grey flannel,
Happy relatives,
“I always cry at weddings...”
The reception;
“Was it at the charity function I saw you last,
Or was it at Uncle Norman’s funeral?”

The Prince plays polo.
Some Ethiopian is dying of hunger.
Some bomb is being dropped somewhere tonight.
The demonstrators sleep outside the Town Hall.
The cripple sleeps alone and dreams in technicolour.
The drunk is shifting in his stupor and mumbles incoherencies.
The perfect couple are entwined and moan in ecstasy.
The billboards howl more loudly than the wind.
The newspaper susurrates half-truths.
The youths kick the drunk till he passes out, bleeding.
The rosy columns are so beautiful, but cold.
The church is tall, solid, permanent but locked.
The family is sleeping quietly unawares.
I cannot sleep.
Why am I crying?

WORK TRAVEL

“The true way to render ourselves happy is to love our work and find in it our pleasure.” – Françoise de Motteville

Part of my new job involves travelling (mainly interstate, but occasionally internationally also). Today I had a day trip to Sydney – you could say that I commuted to Sydney for the day. The mind boggles how nowadays we can wake up, make our way to the airport and an hour later be in another city, 800 km away, put in a day’s work and then take the plane back to our home town and sleep in our own comfortable bed. It is a rather hectic day, but it achieves much because even in these days of high technology and instant communication of a number of different kinds, the face-to-face contact and interaction that meeting someone across a table entails is not possible with the technology. Also of course, one can have a very nice lunch with one’s colleagues. I must say that very often, it is these informal social interactions over lunch, over a cup of coffee, while talking about a variety of topics, that allow one to achieve quite a lot of the business at hand also.

The weather in Sydney today was very pleasant, sunny and warm, just to spite the weather bureau who had predicted storms and a downpour (although the sky did look ominous as we were flying out of Sydney airport). The pleasant weather allowed to go and have a very nice lunch in a delightful restaurant in Crows Nest, called “Garfish”. As the name suggests, it specialises in seafood, which is very fresh and exquisitely cooked. Although the conversation at lunch was agreed not to be worked related, we didn’t honour our agreement and work was discussed…

Overall, an enjoyable day that achieved a lot. There is a lot of satisfaction associated with having done a day’s work that has been enjoyable but which has also achieved much. I like my new job as it has a lot of variety (and routine is something that I do not like). Now I’m off to write my report for the day’s work!

Do you enjoy your job? Why or why not?

LA STRADA

“There is no end. There is no beginning. There is only the passion of life.”- Federico Fellini

Movies are amazing not only because they entertain and amuse us, not only because they make us think and soul search, not only because they are art, but because they are also important social documents. I am sure that in the future many films will be used as an integral part of educational programs, in sociology, history, politics, anthropology and many other subjects at school and University. This function of film as a document of certain people at a certain time and place, behaving in a certain way, and interacting with each other in peculiar ways is an amazing function of film that is being underused even today. I am sure that many school subjects would be enhanced if they were accompanied by viewing of films from not only the early decades of the 20th century, but even of films from the 40s, 50s, 60s and 70s!

We watched a classic Italian film from the 50s last Sunday and this was the third time I had watched it and enjoyed it as much as the first time that I ever did. It is Fellini’s “La Strada” of 1954. The film is a masterpiece of understatement and of the grim realism of the 50s of Italian cinema. Forget your tourist brochure, picture card and holiday snapshot views of Italy, this version of Italy is of a country that has almost bled to death in World War II, and which is trying desperately to survive. The desolate black and white wintry landscapes and the bare trees of the countryside compete with the miserable common people depicted in the film, in an effort to live and bloom again.

Fellini has constructed a fine drama, but also a social document and a takes a hard, critical view of the conditions that the populace has been forced to live in. The film is superficially simple and the story is not embellished with a subplot. Gelsomina a simple young woman from a poor family (played to perfection by Giulietta Masina) is sold by her mother to the itinerant strongman Zampanó (a young Anthony Quinn) who requires an assistant in his busking act. Gelsomina and Zampanó cannot stand one another, but also are bonded together in their struggle to survive and in their search for happiness. Their lot falls together with a travelling circus and a tightrope walker, “Il Matto” (the Madman, played by Richard Basehart) helps Gelsomina discover her purpose in life and where her happiness lies.

The film ends in tragedy, but the beautiful moments that embellish it, make of it a poetic and glorious document of optimism and beauty. Gelsomina does not have much to say, but she has to act with her eyes, her face, her hands, her body. Quinn plays the tough guy convincingly and he has his much needed epiphany later rather than sooner. Richard Basehart is young and plays with much gusto, while all supporting players are very good. The film score is perfect and the elegiac theme so suited to Gelsomina is quite beautiful.

The film won best Foreign Language film Oscar for 1954, and well-deserved it was! Watch it if you get hold of it, it shouldn’t be very hard to find.

ART SUNDAY - ULTRAMARINE 4

The Romans used lapis as an aphrodisiac. The ground powder was mixed with milk and used as a compress to relieve ulcers and boils and, during the Middle Ages, lapis lazuli was believed to maintain the skeleton in healthy condition while keeping the spirit free from the negative emotions of fear and jealousy.

The euphonious name of the stone is derived from 'lapis', the Latin word for stone, and lāzaward, which comes from the Arabic and means blue (compare our word “azure”), but which ultimately is derived from the Persian word Lajward, the place where the rock was mined. The worth of this stone to the world of art is immeasurable, for the ultramarine of the Old Masters is nothing other than genuine lapis lazuli. Ground up into a powder and stirred up together with binding-agents, the marble-like gemstone can be used to manufacture radiant blue watercolours, tempera or oil-paints. Before the year 1834, when it became possible to produce this colour synthetically, the only ultramarine available was that valuable substance made from genuine lapis lazuli that shines out at us from many works of art today. Unlike all other blue pigments, which tend to fade in the light, it has lost none of its radiance to this very day. Nowadays, the blue pigment obtained from lapis lazuli is mainly used in restoration work.

Here is an Illuminated Manuscript Bible in Latin, from. Northern Italy, completed around 1273 AD. The brilliant blue of ultramarine is as splendid as the day it was painted on the parchment.

ART SUNDAY - ULTRAMARINE 3

During ancient times lapis was ground up and used for medicinal purposes as well as a cosmetic. The Egyptians used Lapis for seals, ground it for an eyelid cosmetic and often carved it into vases and figurines. Dark blue, also called "Egyptian" blue, was the color of the heavens, water, and the primeval flood, and it represented creation or rebirth. The favorite blue stone was lapis lazuli, or khesbed, which also meant joy or delight. It is thought that blue may have had solar symbolism because of some objects made from blue faience that carry a solar theme. There is also a theory that blue may have been symbolic of the Nile and represented fertility, because of the fertile soils along the Nile that produced crops. Because the god Amen (also spelled Amon or Amun) played a part in the creation of the world, he was sometimes depicted with a blue face; therefore, pharaohs associated with Amen were shown with blue faces also. In general, it was said that the gods had hair made of lapis lazuli. In a tomb painting of the Opening of the Mouth ceremony, depictions of both the mummy and Anubis are shown with blue hair.

A golden Horus head from the Temple of Horus at NekhenBeads made from lapis lazuli have been found dating back to the Predynastic Period. Since lapis lazuli was imported from the Euphrates area because it was not native to Egypt, these early specimens show that extremely ancient civilizations had already formed trade routes. Here are two Egyptian scarabs carved from this precious rock.

ART SUNDAY - ULTRAMARINE 2

In Europe, this blue rocky material was valued as precious from ancient times when it was used in making jewellery, but also ground up as a pigment. Top quality lapis lazuli was sourced in the ancient world from the Badakhshan province of Afghanistan where is has been mined for more than 6500 years, but other sources now also include Siberia, Chile, the U.S., Pakistan, and Canada. If one was painting with such a precious material as lapis lazuli (from which the finest ultramarine blue was made), the expanses of blue that one would plan for in one’s paintings depended on the size of one’s purse. The noble and the rich could afford to paint their ceilings with ultramarine and the extravagance of their paintings could be gauged by the amount of blue they instructed the artist to use when painting.

Lapis is considered a rock, not a mineral. This is because it combines various minerals in a complex and intimate mixture. It is composed mainly of lazurite, but also contains calcite (white), sodalite (blue) and pyrite (fools' gold, a metallic yellow) and to be considered a mineral it would have only one component. A strong blue, sometimes with a hint of violet characterises gem quality lapis lazuli, but its value decreases with the presence of white patches (calcite). In some uses, small veins of pyrite are often prized.

ART SUNDAY - ULTRAMARINE 1

“Time is the most valuable thing a man can spend.” - Diogenes Laertius

No single artist, no single painting, no analysis of style, genre or composition today for Art Sunday. Rather I’d like to focus on the resplendent blue that you see adorning the ceiling of this room, a view of the interior of the Capella degli Scrovegni, looking towards the apse, painted in fresco by Giotto, between 1304-1306 AD. It is one of the most glorious sights that you can see in Padua, Italy. Giotto, like many of his contemporary artists had been commissioned to adorn this chapel and as was custom, allowance had been made for the materials he was to use. Ultramarine blue is what gives the Scrovegni Chapel ceiling its gem-like clarity and this was the most expensive and opulent of pigments that an artist could use.

DEUX CHANSONS DE SANSON

“Nostalgia is a seductive liar.” - George Wildman Ball

For Song Saturday today, I give you a song by French Singer/Songwriter, Veronique Sanson. She was born on April 24, 1949, in Boulogne. She has an avid following in her native country, but also in Canada. She was one of my favourite singers when I was in High School in the 70s. This song, "Comme je l'imagine" (1972) is one that brings back memories of my high school years to me…



She began performing in a trio, the “Roche-Martin”, with François Bernheim and her sister Violaine Sanson. Her singing is strong and melodic, with distinctive harmonies and a very strong vibrato, which often makes her lyrics difficult to understand. She often plays the piano while she is singing, but also plays the guitar.

From 1973 to 1976 Sanson was married to American rock musician Stephen Stills. Their son, Chris Stills, is also a musician. One of Veronique Sanson’s songs, "Amoureuse", was a hit in the United Kingdom for singer Kiki Dee in English translation (1973). The steamy video (caution, mature audiences only!) can be seen here.

SOUP

"Only the pure of heart can make good soup" 
- Ludwig van Beethoven

We had some rain today and the weather started to cool a little. Autumn is peeking from around the corner at us, making faces. The wheel of the year is rotating yet again and as the cooler weather starts to make its presence felt, the need for soup begins to surface. Soups are very homely, comfortable, no-nonsense foods. The type of food that you can really revel in while enjoying in front of an open fire, while munching on crusty, freshly baked bread – its delightful fragrance melding with the appetising aromas of the herbs and spices the soup is seasoned with, the tang of cheese and freshness of a well scrubbed wooden kitchen table.

Soups can be labour intensive in their preparation and sometimes their ingredients can be so varied that one will need to plan ahead and shop for. Other soups materialise out of what is in the pantry or the fridge at the time. Like this soup that was thrown together after raiding the kitchen and throwing together whatever was found. I always make a note of exactly what was thrown together if the experiment succeeds. I forget quickly what didn’t work!

CELERY, LEEK AND MUSHROOM SOUP

Ingredients
• 1/4 cup butter
• 1 1/2 cup of thinly sliced mushrooms
• 1 leek (white portion only)
• 1 can of cream of celery soup
• 1 1/2 cups of milk
• 1/2 cup chopped parsley
• Turmeric, nutmeg, thyme, pepper
• 1/2 cup of grated Parmesan cheese.

Method
Sauté the chopped leek in the butter until tender. Add the mushrooms and cook thoroughly until golden, stirring all the while. Add the soup and heat through, stirring while adding the milk and parsley. Simmer for about 15 minutes, adding a little more milk to maintain the volume constant. Add the spices and cook for another 10 minutes, stirring occasionally. Mix in the grated cheese and serve immediately, garnished with a sprig of parsley.

Bon Appétit!

ON THE MOTHER TONGUE

“He who does not know foreign languages does not know anything about his own.” - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

February 21st is celebrated as International Mother Tongue Day. One’s mother tongue is one's native language; the language that is learned by children from their parents and passed from one generation to the next. Worldwide, there are about 45,000 different languages and dialects spoken. The top ten list of languages spoken around the world in terms of numbers of speakers is:

1. Chinese (Mandarin): 1,075,000,000
2. English: 514,000,000
3. Hindustani 496,000,000
4. Spanish: 425,000,000
5. Russian: 275,000,000
6. Arabic: 256,000,000
7. Bengali: 215,000,000
8. Portuguese: 194,000,000
9. Malay-Indonesian: 176,000,000
10. French: 129,000,000

This list is a little deceptive as it includes both native speakers as well as groups that use the language habitually as a second language. For example, while English doesn't have the most speakers, it is the official language of more countries than any other language. Its speakers hail from all around the world, including the U.S.A, Australia, England, Zimbabwe, the Caribbean, Hong Kong, South Africa, and Canada. Increasingly it is being used as the international language in fields as diverse as industry, business, diplomacy, sport, politics, aviation, shipping, the arts, etc.

It is expected that the number of languages in the world will be cut by half, in a century. This is largely to be blamed on increasing use of some languages worldwide as preferred means of international communication, increased coverage of the world by mass media and broadcasting in a small number of the top 10 languages, because of cultural imperialism and because of status and potential advantages socially and economically of being able to use one of the major languages of the world. Minority languages and dialects in several countries around the world may be battling racial and ethnic prejudices and their use may be minimised as they may be seen to be socially disadvantageous.

Most countries have one main language. For example, in Bangladesh the official language is Bengali. Some countries have two or three main languages. In Switzerland, for example, the official languages are German, French and Italian. Many Swiss speak all three, as well as English! South Africa, has 11 official languages: English, Afrikaans, Ndebele, Sepedi, Sesotho, Swati, Tsonga, Tswana, Venda, Xhosa and Zulu.

Although Australia has only one official language, English, it also has about 400 language groups living in it. It has about 250 Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander language groups, plus about 150 languages brought by migrants since 1788.

One’s mother tongue is a wonderful and culturally significant heritage. A country (especially one rich in a diverse linguistic heritage) should be consciously trying to combat stereotypes, prejudices and misconceptions about language, so as to contribute to the richness of human civilisation and culture. The more languages one speaks the broader one’s mind becomes, the more expansive one’s thinking, and generally the more culturally sensitive one’s attitude.

My mother tongue is Modern Greek, which I speak fluently, but I also speak English as a native speaker. I speak Italian and French conversationally and I can also understand the gist of what is said in another couple of languages. I have studied Classical Greek and Latin and I regret not having had the time to sit and learn a few more languages – perhaps a suitable occupation in my retirement…

And as a final tribute to the mother tongue, here is an extract from Greek Nobel Laureate poet Odysseus Elytis, translated from Greek into English for you:

I was given the Hellenic tongue
my house a humble one on the sandy shores of Homer.
My only care my language on the sandy shores of Homer.
The sea-bream and perch
windbeaten verbs
green currents with the caerulean
all that I saw blazing in my entrails
sponges, medusae
with the first words of the Sirens
pink shells with their first dark tremors."

(from Axion Esti, 1959)

A DREAM OF CHILDHOOD LOST

“It is never too late to have a happy childhood.” - Tom Robbins

At what point do we stop being children and enter that curious phase of adolescence that melds imperceptibly into adulthood? Hard to say, we all are so different and children nowadays are so much in a hurry to rush headlong into adolescence and adulthood. Do some of us bypass this adolescent phase? Circumstances can throw us into the adult world rudely, suddenly, with no warning.

Some of us may choose to linger in the playground well into adulthood and our adolescence is indeed a long one, overlapping imperceptibly over childhood games and adult amusements. But some of us have no choice: We sleep tight one night in our pastel-tinted childhood bedroom to the sound of fairy tales being read aloud to us, and awaken alone the next morning in a bleak bedsitter full of gray obligations and black and white responsibilities of the adult world.

Lucky are those amongst us who can preserve the child that plays within our soul and in whose hearts the child’s song resounds. Woe unto those who have been thrust into adulthood and the only remnant of childhood is the evanescent sweet taste of a pleasant dream, forgotten in the morning.

The Child

In the backyard of my soul
A child runs, plays, laughs,
Wastes his time heedlessly
While the tall walls hide their secrets.

In the courtyard of my heart
A child sings, loudly, happily;
Not caring about anything
Drowning in oceans of joy.

In the backyard of my soul
The child grows up, stands still.
The walls crumble and reveal much;
And the tears begin to flow…

In the courtyard of my heart
There is no child any more.
Only a still, empty, echoing space
A deserted melancholy.

Sans Souci hosts poetry Wednesday. Visit her blog for the tour!

FREEDOM, OR SOMETHING LIKE IT

"God means us to be free. With divine daring, He gave us the power of choice." - Cecil B. DeMille

Reality check: Am alive, yes just barely, I think… Am leading a remarkably hectic existence at the moment with several things happening in my life that impinge on my time and concentration (in no particular order):
a) I have started a new job.
b) I am continuing a huge medical dictionary project, where I am one of the three editors-in-chief.
c) I have just finished proof-reading my Greek novel and sent it back to the publishers for printing.
d) I am finalising a consulting project.
e) I have several (snail) letters to answer.
f) I am halfway through another gardening project at home.
g) I have promised to send a friend a chamber piece of music I have started to write and I am almost finished with.
h) I have to clean my desk in my study at home.
i) I have to clean my study at home.
j) I have a couple of social obligations that I can’t postpone any more.
k) I have to see a friend or two that I have neglected for a little while.
l) I have to spend time with my family.

Still, it seems that I can’t help myself and as soon as one task is finished (hmmmm, perhaps even before it’s finished!) I start another. It is a form of self-imposed enslavement, is it not? Yet, oddly I don’t feel imprisoned or constrained. I see these tasks as challenges, as enjoyable occupations, as demanding – yet fulfilling distractions.

We all yearn to be free, to be able to do whatever we wish to do, but if you think about it, what would you really do if tomorrow morning you had absolutely no compelling reason to do anything that you had done the previous day? No work, no family or friends to worry about, no household chores, no social obligations, no study, no other constricting or demanding impositions on your time. I don’t know about you, but I’d hate it. It would be rather like being a vegetable marrow or a sloth.

We all get the feeling sometimes of “Ughhhhh! I want to be free!” But what exactly is freedom? Is it merely the option of nominating one’s own form enslavement? Having the freedom of choice of one’s own fetters? And even if the opportunity for that kind of freedom appears magically, why do so many of us choose not to follow our whim and choose what we want to do? Strong attachment to routine, maintenance of the well worn rut of the status quo, a lack of courage, a strong sense of responsibility, financial considerations, family ties?

I am a middle-aged man who has decided to cut the chains of habit, who has done something different, who has overturned his life in order to be free to choose his own form of confinement. I have been in my new job for a few weeks now and so far I am enjoying it. There are new people, new tasks, new responsibilities, the new routine of the workplace, that is still tantalisingly strange so as to be interesting. There is that lightness of spirit that accompanies the cutting of a tether, the wonderful feeling of having a new space in which to prove oneself, new skies to soar in.

Artists will often choose freedom of action, freedom of expression, exploration of new horizons, trying out of new experiences over the security of well-tested routine. Most of us prefer the cosy arrangements that a well-regulated life brings. An existence that has no nasty surprises (but maybe no pleasant ones, either). Besides, there is the matter of the mortgage, the weekly shopping bills, gas and electricity…

I am fortunate to have made the choice that allows this relative freedom. As far as my busy schedule goes, that has not changed much. I always take on a lot and usually manage to deliver the goods when the crunch comes. A life should be filled with experiences, a life should be full of constant stimulations of the mind, constant challenges and goals to be attained.

PS: I have to add item (m) to the list above:
m) Visit my friends’ blogs on yahoo 360 (and multiply!)

RED LIGHTS

“No good movie is too long and no bad movie is short enough." - Roger Ebert

We watched an interesting French movie yesterday and in some ways it was reminiscent of the classic film noir genre, but also there were elements of modern expressionism and psychological thriller overtones in it. The film is “Feux Rouges” (Red Lights) by Cédric Kahn, based on a book by Georges Simenon (of Inspector Maigret whodunit fame). The film is based on some amazing performances by the three leads, Jean-Pierre Daroussin (the husband), Carole Bouquet (the wife) and Vincent Deniard (the hitchhiker).

Antoine and Hélène seem to be a typical married couple in the opening frames of the film and they begin their summertime drive to South France to pick up their kids from a holiday camp. The road traffic is heavy and the atmosphere becomes tense. Antoine stops at almost every bar they meet and becomes increasingly drunk the further they progress. After a fierce argument Hélène leaves Antoine at a bar and decides to take the train to Bordeaux. They each have an experience that changes their life forever.

The film is a wry study of the middle-aged male psyche and all of the attendant misfortunes that the prospect of incipient old age brings with it. Here is the dissection of the life of a man who has reached a crisis point and finds himself doubting his worth, his virility, his position in society and his diminishing sense of innate worth. He believes his professionally successful wife has a lover, he sees his children become distant as his job absorbs his energy and time and he believes that alcohol is his only solace. A dangerous situation that ticks away like a time bomb set to explode that very night.

There are similarities in this film to some of Hitchcock and Kubrick. The director plays with the audience like a cat with a mouse and we squirm as we witness Antoine’s descent into the depths of night, a dark night of the soul in which his alcohol-steeped nightmares seem to become a mind shattering reality. We are left to doubt what we see through Antoine’s eyes as his world is one that is full of horrific fantasies, weird illusions and almost demented and cruel actions of impotent wish-fulfillment.

The cinematography is very good and the opening sequences with the quasi geometric shots of modern city architecture from a great height set the scene wonderfully by dwarfing the people and making the concrete shapes alienate the flesh and blood in a way that is prophetic for the film’s heroes. The music score is by Frenchman Debussy, whose “Nuages” provide an interestingly serene and dispassionate counterfoil to the raw emotions of the characters.

Red Lights is a good film, brought to life by the magnificent acting of Daroussin, who gives his all in a brilliant character study that is disguised as a thriller. Antoine is both hero and anti-hero and although he is not at all likable, he still manages to make us feel for him, and we empathise with his predicament. As Alfred Hitchcock says: “Always make the audience suffer as much as possible.” And then your film is successful…

ART SUNDAY - ROUAULT 5

In 1939 Vollard was killed in an accident and the artist was thus released from his contract. It left behind it an important question: what was to happen to the great mass of unfinished work which was now in the possession of Vollard's heirs? In 1947 Rouault brought a suit against them to recover this material. Rouault had always been very concerned with the artist's rights over his own creation.

He succeeded perhaps better than he had hoped. He asked the courts for the return of 800 unfinished and unsigned paintings which had remained in Vollard's possession at the time of his death, and his right to them was eventually conceded. He only failed to recover those which had already been sold. In November 1948, to make his point quite clear, he ceremonially burned before witnesses 315 of the canvases he had recovered…

This is another religious painting of Rouault, this genre of painting being a favourite of his. “Christ and Five Apostles” of 1939.

ART SUNDAY - ROUAULT 4

Rouault produced several illustrations for books under the influence of Ambroise Vollard (the famous art dealer with whom Rouault signed a contract in 1917 and which was to provide him with freedom to work for many years. Rouault agreed to give Vollard everything he produced in return for a salary). Here is such an illustration, “Madame Louison” of 1935.

ART SUNDAY - ROUAULT 3

“Crucifixion” (1937-1939).

Many great artists have painted crucifixions and each manages to convey a depth of meaning that his or her art enables them to. Rouault’s crucifixion is formally symmetrical, simplified as a ruse stone carving, flat as a cutout, as confronting as a two-dimensional vitrail of a very old country church. The sober colours of the painting seem to foreshadow the fate of France in the second world war. A crucifixion seems the only apt theme in these dark and doom-laden days of approaching war…

ART SUNDAY - ROUAULT 2

“Legendary Landscape” (1936).

This is a great favourite of mine. The paint has been applied to the canvas with abandon and one can become immersed in its swirling creamy depths. The colours are dark and brooding, yet luminous and the sky is portentously red and yellow, with great swathes of green clouds, through which a sick yellow sun shines. The figures stand in the street like actors in a Greek tragedy and the houses look curiously homely and incongruous. This is a disquieting painting, one that stirs dark emotions and primeval passions.