Summer in Britain, the seventh in a row for me. Rain again but what can one do? Euro helps, but it will be over soon (good luck Spain!). Other than that, laziness is all around, the streets are flooded with tourists that never seize to annoy me. They seem to be following me anywhere I go and they are many, loud and aesthetically unpleasing. I wonder sometimes, is this the way other people perceive me when I travel somewhere? I guess not since I am not a French or Italian teenager with a loud voice that moves as part of a procession of 300 of other loud French or Italian teenagers. People will surely have something to say about my loudness but I don't care.
Summer for me is sea and heat. It is tanned skin, sweat and water-melons. It is sand and books full of it, in the beach amidst sleepiness and laziness. It is beautiful afternoons, with a bit of a breeze and the promise of a cool evening. I love the Greek summers so much, it is the only time of year that I am truly homesick. So what am I doing here then, what am I doing here, in the rain and grayness?
Friday, 27 June 2008
Monday, 23 June 2008
Can we? or: read Lady V post below
According to this interesting site (a bit outdated, but less disregard that for a bit), while most Europeans tend to trust the police, the army and the media, their confidence in national Parliaments, national Governments and political parties is frighteningly low (as low as 16% in the case of the latter). I say frighteningly because, after all, we can’t vote for the police nor the media, but we can vote for our Parliament and our Government, and apparently we cannot find anyone amongst our panoply of politicians in whom we trust. Why? 'They're all shit' seems to be the most realistic answer, but it is also the easiest one to provide and it is clearly not enough.
Until recently, I was a very firm believer in political institutions. They are the symbols of our sovereignty. Without them we’re lost. Even if we made a mistake when voting, or if the party we wanted to win didn’t, our duty as citizens was to make sure the law and the Constitution were respected, and if that was the case, nothing could go wrong. I took particular pride in the Constitution of my country - written after the Revolution of 1974, it was a monument of civil rights and liberties. Reading it was a joy, studying it for any exam I took when I did Law was a renewal of my trust in democracy and in politics (and as you can see, because it is painfully obvious, I was only 18).
But alas, politicians have the power to change the Constitution and for that they don’t need your vote (strictly speaking, they do via a referendum, but they find clever ways around it). And alas, you grow up; you realize that people in political parties are just as bad (rarely just as good) as everybody else, very often so mediocre and brainwashed it makes you want to slap them; you realize that what is written on paper is abysmally different from what reality allows; and you’re left alone. Your ideals crash. You don’t believe in most things anymore, and certainly not in some more or less cheesy, more or less polished ‘yes we can’.
So, I read what Lady V wrote below and I’m also left wondering – what can we do? Can anything be done, even? My opinion is that not much can be done. I’ve written a comment preaching about the right/duty to vote, but sometimes I am convinced that voting is just an illusion that Coca-Cola allows us to have to keep us quietly collecting the dole without going any further in our protests. But then I think about the suffragettes, about the civil right movements in Europe and in the United States, and I compare all this with what the statistics tell me today, of people not voting, of people not trusting, and all I have left is sadness. So, and to conclude (my students would love this), I don’t have any answer to give Lady V, I don’t believe in any kind of activism, I don’t think anything can make a difference. But somehow, I still think that voting can help. And somehow, I still think that being polite to people and trying to be less mean can help. It’s all I have left, and I guess it’s better than nothing, so I’ll keep this till I find something better.
Until recently, I was a very firm believer in political institutions. They are the symbols of our sovereignty. Without them we’re lost. Even if we made a mistake when voting, or if the party we wanted to win didn’t, our duty as citizens was to make sure the law and the Constitution were respected, and if that was the case, nothing could go wrong. I took particular pride in the Constitution of my country - written after the Revolution of 1974, it was a monument of civil rights and liberties. Reading it was a joy, studying it for any exam I took when I did Law was a renewal of my trust in democracy and in politics (and as you can see, because it is painfully obvious, I was only 18).
But alas, politicians have the power to change the Constitution and for that they don’t need your vote (strictly speaking, they do via a referendum, but they find clever ways around it). And alas, you grow up; you realize that people in political parties are just as bad (rarely just as good) as everybody else, very often so mediocre and brainwashed it makes you want to slap them; you realize that what is written on paper is abysmally different from what reality allows; and you’re left alone. Your ideals crash. You don’t believe in most things anymore, and certainly not in some more or less cheesy, more or less polished ‘yes we can’.
So, I read what Lady V wrote below and I’m also left wondering – what can we do? Can anything be done, even? My opinion is that not much can be done. I’ve written a comment preaching about the right/duty to vote, but sometimes I am convinced that voting is just an illusion that Coca-Cola allows us to have to keep us quietly collecting the dole without going any further in our protests. But then I think about the suffragettes, about the civil right movements in Europe and in the United States, and I compare all this with what the statistics tell me today, of people not voting, of people not trusting, and all I have left is sadness. So, and to conclude (my students would love this), I don’t have any answer to give Lady V, I don’t believe in any kind of activism, I don’t think anything can make a difference. But somehow, I still think that voting can help. And somehow, I still think that being polite to people and trying to be less mean can help. It’s all I have left, and I guess it’s better than nothing, so I’ll keep this till I find something better.
Freedom fighters
The partisan (Leonard Cohen)
When they poured across the boarder
I was cautioned to surrender
This, I could not do
I took my gun and vanished
I have changed my name so often
I have lost my wife and children
But I have many friends
And some of them are with me
And one woman gave us shelter
Kept us hidden in the garret
Then the soldiers came
She died without a whisper
There were three of us this morning
I am the only one this evening
But I must go on
The frontiers are my prison
Oh the wind, the wind is blowing
Through the graves the wind is blowing
Freedom soon will come
Then will come from the shadows
What does it mean to be revolutionary in our time and age? I know, this is another cliché question, but it torments me as I listen to this old Leonard Cohen song, redone by Noir Désir. What does it mean for someone of my age (roughly) to say ‘freedom soon will come’? What kind of freedom do we strive for? We are all so wise and disillusioned, nothing will ever change, everything is predetermined (by the powerful of this world, alas not by God). Rappers might believe in Barack Obama, and turn his ‘yes, we can’ speech into a song, but can we afford to believe? Can we afford to believe in him, when the first thing he did when he became the presumptive nominee is to address the Jewish-American association claiming that Jerusalem will be the eternal capital of Israel and claiming that Iran indeed is a threat? I mean, who are you, man, to vouch for the eternal anything?
Again, the Germans give an interesting take to all these questions, in the film ‘the edukators’. In that film, the young gang of modern communists, broke into houses of the rich and rearranged furniture in obscene manner, writing on the walls ‘your days of plenty are numbered’. A nice oxymoron, you must agree. It makes me think that activism is not dead. Perhaps, new ways of expressing our disagreement with the way things are at the moment should be attempted. Perhaps, we should stop thinking that our short-lived stint in a communist party when we were young can suffice. As Churchill noted ‘if you are 20 and you’re not a communist, you don’t have a heart, if you’re 40 and still a communist, you don’t have a brain’, it tells me nothing that we were all leftists, when we were young. What happens now though? Can voting for an obscure left party be enough to keep our conscience clear? Is it enough to make me sleep well at night? I don’t think so…
I haven’t decided what I need to do, in order to be happy with myself, but there must be something out there, some form of activism that will make me sing ‘the partisan’ in a loud and proud voice and not like now, feeling like a phoney: ‘I was cautioned to surrender, this, I couldn’t do. I took my gun and vanished’…
Oh my god, the horror, it makes me cringe…
When they poured across the boarder
I was cautioned to surrender
This, I could not do
I took my gun and vanished
I have changed my name so often
I have lost my wife and children
But I have many friends
And some of them are with me
And one woman gave us shelter
Kept us hidden in the garret
Then the soldiers came
She died without a whisper
There were three of us this morning
I am the only one this evening
But I must go on
The frontiers are my prison
Oh the wind, the wind is blowing
Through the graves the wind is blowing
Freedom soon will come
Then will come from the shadows
What does it mean to be revolutionary in our time and age? I know, this is another cliché question, but it torments me as I listen to this old Leonard Cohen song, redone by Noir Désir. What does it mean for someone of my age (roughly) to say ‘freedom soon will come’? What kind of freedom do we strive for? We are all so wise and disillusioned, nothing will ever change, everything is predetermined (by the powerful of this world, alas not by God). Rappers might believe in Barack Obama, and turn his ‘yes, we can’ speech into a song, but can we afford to believe? Can we afford to believe in him, when the first thing he did when he became the presumptive nominee is to address the Jewish-American association claiming that Jerusalem will be the eternal capital of Israel and claiming that Iran indeed is a threat? I mean, who are you, man, to vouch for the eternal anything?
Again, the Germans give an interesting take to all these questions, in the film ‘the edukators’. In that film, the young gang of modern communists, broke into houses of the rich and rearranged furniture in obscene manner, writing on the walls ‘your days of plenty are numbered’. A nice oxymoron, you must agree. It makes me think that activism is not dead. Perhaps, new ways of expressing our disagreement with the way things are at the moment should be attempted. Perhaps, we should stop thinking that our short-lived stint in a communist party when we were young can suffice. As Churchill noted ‘if you are 20 and you’re not a communist, you don’t have a heart, if you’re 40 and still a communist, you don’t have a brain’, it tells me nothing that we were all leftists, when we were young. What happens now though? Can voting for an obscure left party be enough to keep our conscience clear? Is it enough to make me sleep well at night? I don’t think so…
I haven’t decided what I need to do, in order to be happy with myself, but there must be something out there, some form of activism that will make me sing ‘the partisan’ in a loud and proud voice and not like now, feeling like a phoney: ‘I was cautioned to surrender, this, I couldn’t do. I took my gun and vanished’…
Oh my god, the horror, it makes me cringe…
Wednesday, 18 June 2008
One against all
Alcibiades is my favourite Greek of all times. He was an extraordinarily arrogant and ambitious man. He was born in Athens, adopted by Pericles and adored by Socrates. He was young, handsome and drank too much. Athens was in the middle of the Peloponnesian war against Sparta and the two sides were about to take their conflict to another level, in Greek colonies in Italy, supposedly protecting an Athenian colony against a Spartan one. People in Athens were not very convinced this was the right thing to do, but Alcibiades was sure of it. He was put in charge of the campaign and they all went off. Half way through their journey, the Athenians started having serious doubts, and they sent a fast boat to catch up with them and bring Alcibiades back, accusing him of some disrespectful conduct against the gods. It was at that particular moment that Alcibiades knew that he was too good for these people. He had no loyalty to a place that could disgrace him so and believe so little in him. He pretended to be going back with them, but instead he fled to Sparta. There, he fought against the Athenians until Spartans became too skeptical towards his as well. Then he went to Samos, then back to Athens (where he was welcomed back like a God only to be forced to leave shortly after). Then it was Persia's turn, he went from one satrap to the other, selling his 'loyalty' along with secrets against the Greeks. In the end, he ended up alone, hiding in a shed with his companion, an aging hooker from Athens. People were sent to kill him, I think historians can't agree by whom, perhaps the Spartan king, perhaps the Athenians, perhaps a satrap he crossed. They were many but the myth of this man was so much bigger than them. Although they knew he was there by himself, they didn't dare get in. Instead they fired arrows on fire at the shed, in order to force him to come out. The shed is on fire and the cowards are awaiting outside. Alcibiades at some point exits, with a sword in his hands. And at this sight, the sight of a lone man with sword, all the cowards in the world trembled. The myth says that they were too scared to approach him, despite outnumbering him. Instead they stayed afar and fired the arrows at him. Alcibiades died at the centre of a circle, alone against so many. This image has always haunted my thoughts, as I've always wondered how it must feel to die alone, being feared so much.
Last night, I saw the movie 'a bittersweet life'. Always trust the Koreans on a rainy day... The story is simplistic (as it always should be in tragedies) and evolved around a hitman who disobeys his boss and is forced to go after him, alone against all of his old gang. I didn't like the movie so much but it struck me because it was again this story of a man, alone against many, and it made me think of the story of Alcibiades again. Is it the fate of extraordinary people to be alone against the world? Is this the most natural feeling in the world? Brett Anderson once said in an interview that his definition of love is to find someone to team up against the world with. In a book that I love, it said on the breaking of a relationship: they looked at each other and realized that the world had beaten them.
Perhaps all the clichés are indeed true: we're born alone and we die alone and our biggest hope should be to find someone to share this loneliness with.
Last night, I saw the movie 'a bittersweet life'. Always trust the Koreans on a rainy day... The story is simplistic (as it always should be in tragedies) and evolved around a hitman who disobeys his boss and is forced to go after him, alone against all of his old gang. I didn't like the movie so much but it struck me because it was again this story of a man, alone against many, and it made me think of the story of Alcibiades again. Is it the fate of extraordinary people to be alone against the world? Is this the most natural feeling in the world? Brett Anderson once said in an interview that his definition of love is to find someone to team up against the world with. In a book that I love, it said on the breaking of a relationship: they looked at each other and realized that the world had beaten them.
Perhaps all the clichés are indeed true: we're born alone and we die alone and our biggest hope should be to find someone to share this loneliness with.
Tuesday, 17 June 2008
Birthday
In the days when my birthday was celebrated
I was happy and nobody was dead.
In the old house, even my birthday was a tradition of centuries
And everybody’s joy, and mine, was as certain as any religion.
In the days when my birthday was celebrated
I had the great health of not understanding anything
Of being intelligent amongst the family
And of not having the hopes that others had for me
When I came to have hope, I did not know how to have hope any longer
When I came to face life, I had lost the meaning of life.
Yes, what I supposedly was to myself
What I was of heart and relatives
What I was of evenings in the province
What I was of being loved and being a small boy
What I was – my God!, what I only know today that I was
So long ago!...
(I cannot even find it)
In the days when my birthday was celebrated.
What I am today is like humidity in the corridor at the end of the house
Causing mould on the walls…
What I am today (and the house of those who loved me trembles through my tears),
What I am today is selling the house,
Is everybody dead,
Is me surviving myself, like a cold match…
I see everything again with a clarity that blinds me to what is in front of me
The table set with extra seats, with better porcelain, with more glasses,
The sideboard with many things – sweets, fruit, all the rest in the shade, under the porch
The old aunts, the different cousins, and everything because of me,
In the days when my birthday was celebrated.
My heart, stop.
Do not think. Let the head think.
Oh my God, my God, my God
Today is not my birthday any more.
I last.
Days are added to my life.
I will become old when I become old.
Nothing else.
The anger of not having brought the past stolen in my pocket!
In the days when my birthday was celebrated.
I was happy and nobody was dead.
In the old house, even my birthday was a tradition of centuries
And everybody’s joy, and mine, was as certain as any religion.
In the days when my birthday was celebrated
I had the great health of not understanding anything
Of being intelligent amongst the family
And of not having the hopes that others had for me
When I came to have hope, I did not know how to have hope any longer
When I came to face life, I had lost the meaning of life.
Yes, what I supposedly was to myself
What I was of heart and relatives
What I was of evenings in the province
What I was of being loved and being a small boy
What I was – my God!, what I only know today that I was
So long ago!...
(I cannot even find it)
In the days when my birthday was celebrated.
What I am today is like humidity in the corridor at the end of the house
Causing mould on the walls…
What I am today (and the house of those who loved me trembles through my tears),
What I am today is selling the house,
Is everybody dead,
Is me surviving myself, like a cold match…
I see everything again with a clarity that blinds me to what is in front of me
The table set with extra seats, with better porcelain, with more glasses,
The sideboard with many things – sweets, fruit, all the rest in the shade, under the porch
The old aunts, the different cousins, and everything because of me,
In the days when my birthday was celebrated.
My heart, stop.
Do not think. Let the head think.
Oh my God, my God, my God
Today is not my birthday any more.
I last.
Days are added to my life.
I will become old when I become old.
Nothing else.
The anger of not having brought the past stolen in my pocket!
In the days when my birthday was celebrated.
Fernando Pessoa, 1888 - 1935
I'm so sorry I cannot provide an extraordinary English rendition of this poem. This is the best I could do. I felt I had to have this poem here. The only thing I can say when I read it is "sometimes there's so much beauty in the world I feel like I can't take it, like my heart's going to cave in. " I wonder if Pessoa felt the same every time he finished writing one of his poems. Did he know that what he wrote would one day mean so much to so many? Does any poet know that? I hope they do, at some level.
Happy 120th birthday, Pessoa.
Happy 120th birthday, Pessoa.
People with issues
My favourite blogger has been brought into a very ridiculous story. To cut a long story short, he wrote a post on an issue (that is not important) and people commented on it in various ways. At some point, some commentators insulted another commentator. The blog administrator reprimanded them on the comments, but the insulted commentator regarded the reprimand as inadequate and requested for the posts to be deleted because they were defaming him. The blog administrator responded in saying that he does not want to delete comments and the insulted commentator requested a comment moderator to be put in place in that blog. He threatened the blog administrator with legal action and he responded giving him his private details. As it turns out, this was just an 'experiment' in order to test the freedom of speech of the greek blog-o-sphere. Discussion ensues at this moment with comments to the original post reaching 106!!!
The situation might look ridiculous and it probably is, but the issue behind it is very important. It is the fundamental issue of freedom of speech, only now it has been transferred to the net. The analogy could be the following: I have a gathering at my place (blog) where people come and we have a chat. At some point one of my guests insults another one: what should my role be? Do I reprimand the guest and consider the matter closed? Do I kick the guest out? Do I hire bouncers to patrol all my parties from that point onwards? Whose is it to say what counts as an insult? One guest might be picky and consider anything an insult, while other people have thicker skin. More importantly though, can my insulted guest DEMAND that I hire a bouncer, otherwise he will sue me?
The answer the blogger in question gave, was that it is his blog and he wants to hold on to his right to deal with these issues the way he chooses to. A moderator is compromising freedom of speech and should in principle be avoided. The default should be that people should be free to say whatever they want, in a public place like a blog. Is the blog a public place though?
The situation might look ridiculous and it probably is, but the issue behind it is very important. It is the fundamental issue of freedom of speech, only now it has been transferred to the net. The analogy could be the following: I have a gathering at my place (blog) where people come and we have a chat. At some point one of my guests insults another one: what should my role be? Do I reprimand the guest and consider the matter closed? Do I kick the guest out? Do I hire bouncers to patrol all my parties from that point onwards? Whose is it to say what counts as an insult? One guest might be picky and consider anything an insult, while other people have thicker skin. More importantly though, can my insulted guest DEMAND that I hire a bouncer, otherwise he will sue me?
The answer the blogger in question gave, was that it is his blog and he wants to hold on to his right to deal with these issues the way he chooses to. A moderator is compromising freedom of speech and should in principle be avoided. The default should be that people should be free to say whatever they want, in a public place like a blog. Is the blog a public place though?
Monday, 16 June 2008
Why do I care?
Euro 2008 is on these days and even me, who never cared about football, is suddenly becoming intrigued by this analogy for life. This is the only way I can explain why I bother about who wins and who loses, who is disqualified and who goes through. My latest obsession (after group C and the fate of Italy and France) is the great comeback of Turkey in their match against the Czech Republic. I didn't even see the game but I then saw the replays and I was so touched by the force with which the Turks came back. I mean, they were losing 2-0 15 minutes before the end and they managed to turn it around, even with their goalie disqualified in the last minutes if the game (for a Zidane-style out of the blue push to a Czech player).
It seems to me that it is weird that I care about this. I have no particular feelings for Turkey, although they are the 'enemies' of my country ;-) and I definitely have no feelings whatsoever about the Czech Republic. I guess it is always fascinating to see an underdog story being unfolded in front of your eyes. Maybe that's why the win of Greece in Euro 2004 was so cool, because nobody believed in them. And that is exactly why football could be seen as an analogy to life: you could always have a safe bet on a person or on a situation and most of times you'll get it right, but underdogs do fight back and they do get their win once in a blue moon and make people believe in miracles.
It seems to me that it is weird that I care about this. I have no particular feelings for Turkey, although they are the 'enemies' of my country ;-) and I definitely have no feelings whatsoever about the Czech Republic. I guess it is always fascinating to see an underdog story being unfolded in front of your eyes. Maybe that's why the win of Greece in Euro 2004 was so cool, because nobody believed in them. And that is exactly why football could be seen as an analogy to life: you could always have a safe bet on a person or on a situation and most of times you'll get it right, but underdogs do fight back and they do get their win once in a blue moon and make people believe in miracles.
Friday, 13 June 2008
The two faces of German cinema
Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck: the poet
As I have written before in this blog, 'the lives of others' was one one of my favourite movies of 2007. It is only recently however, that I bought the DVD and saw the director's interview that I finally understood how poetic this movie truly was. FHvD's idea for the film came apparently from a quote by Lenin that if he had to listen to Beethoven's Appassionata, he wouldn't be able to finish the revolution. This line features in the film but I had then misunderstood it: I thought then that it meant that if Lenin let himself be consumed by art, he would no longer be able to leave enough time in his life for politics. Apparently, this is not what he meant, apparently he meant that this music would humanize him so, that he wouldn't be able to do all the inhuman things that you are expected to do, if you want to make a revolution succeed. FHvD then said that his initial idea for the film was this image of this man with headphones, listening to the Appassionata and not being able to do his job, merely because art subconsciously turns him into a better person. This has been a criticism towards the movie, as a friend saw it: how does it happen, this change in Wiesler's mind? Does he read Brecht and everything changes inside him? Well, maybe music has a much more subconscious, powerful and lasting way to change you, because it is so abstract. Brecht can change you, sure, but perhaps only after you've listen to the Appassionata.
This, to me, is the essence of FHvD's lyricism: music can change the world, and perhaps it has to. And relating this to the previous post, and Youkali's comment, realism does have a place in our lives, but lyricism, abstract expressionism can lead us more directly to where we have to go.
Fatih Akin: the immigrant
Hallow Kitty adored this movie, compared Fatih Akin to Marcel Proust when writing about it here so I went to see it. I loved the movie so much myself, because it was so unpretentious and poignant. One thing I absolutely hate is pretension: movies that pretend to be important, intellectual and artistic and in the end they end up just slow and annoying. Fatih Akin's masterpiece, that is added to the long line of multi-character films that accentuate the role of fate in life, spanning from 'short-cuts' and 'amores perros' to 'talk to her' and 'crash', is beautiful and important yet it looks so normal, so simple.
But most of all Fatih Akin succeeds in being a director that depicts so well the loneliness of the immigrant with the nomadic soul. This is an idea that I hold too dearly, perhaps due to my narcissistic desire to be dramatic and deep. But there is some truth in the idea that these people, immigrants are in between two worlds, strangers in both. It is so difficult for these people to feel at home and when they do (like in the end of the film) they truly reach the edge of heaven.
As I have written before in this blog, 'the lives of others' was one one of my favourite movies of 2007. It is only recently however, that I bought the DVD and saw the director's interview that I finally understood how poetic this movie truly was. FHvD's idea for the film came apparently from a quote by Lenin that if he had to listen to Beethoven's Appassionata, he wouldn't be able to finish the revolution. This line features in the film but I had then misunderstood it: I thought then that it meant that if Lenin let himself be consumed by art, he would no longer be able to leave enough time in his life for politics. Apparently, this is not what he meant, apparently he meant that this music would humanize him so, that he wouldn't be able to do all the inhuman things that you are expected to do, if you want to make a revolution succeed. FHvD then said that his initial idea for the film was this image of this man with headphones, listening to the Appassionata and not being able to do his job, merely because art subconsciously turns him into a better person. This has been a criticism towards the movie, as a friend saw it: how does it happen, this change in Wiesler's mind? Does he read Brecht and everything changes inside him? Well, maybe music has a much more subconscious, powerful and lasting way to change you, because it is so abstract. Brecht can change you, sure, but perhaps only after you've listen to the Appassionata.
This, to me, is the essence of FHvD's lyricism: music can change the world, and perhaps it has to. And relating this to the previous post, and Youkali's comment, realism does have a place in our lives, but lyricism, abstract expressionism can lead us more directly to where we have to go.
Fatih Akin: the immigrant
Hallow Kitty adored this movie, compared Fatih Akin to Marcel Proust when writing about it here so I went to see it. I loved the movie so much myself, because it was so unpretentious and poignant. One thing I absolutely hate is pretension: movies that pretend to be important, intellectual and artistic and in the end they end up just slow and annoying. Fatih Akin's masterpiece, that is added to the long line of multi-character films that accentuate the role of fate in life, spanning from 'short-cuts' and 'amores perros' to 'talk to her' and 'crash', is beautiful and important yet it looks so normal, so simple.
But most of all Fatih Akin succeeds in being a director that depicts so well the loneliness of the immigrant with the nomadic soul. This is an idea that I hold too dearly, perhaps due to my narcissistic desire to be dramatic and deep. But there is some truth in the idea that these people, immigrants are in between two worlds, strangers in both. It is so difficult for these people to feel at home and when they do (like in the end of the film) they truly reach the edge of heaven.
Thursday, 12 June 2008
Ο ρεαλισμός, όμως στην τέχνη σήμερα περιττεύει*
The writer of my favourite Greek book informs me that art does not need realism anymore. I never understood the intensity of intellectual disagreement between realists and surrealists or magic realists (whatever Matesis is). Are they simply two different artistic movements or are they truly two different ways of perceiving the world? I guess the question boils down to the role of art, and whether art is really a lens through which we have to see our world, whether it ultimately reflects our deepest convictions.
Realism for me is like an understated, clean suit. If you want to make an entrance to a party, you wouldn't necessarily choose it, but it is good when the statement you want to make is all about subtlety. Magic realism on the other hand, can be compared to an extravagant hat: your whole ensemble is grey and understated and your hat makes a statement by itself. It is good but somewhat predictable and forced. I think well-educated and intellectually competent people can see the point in a work of art, even when it is not exaggerated. Perhaps this is too harsh of a criticism to a movement I once adored, and perhaps the analogy is unsuccessful. Perhaps art cannot be compared to a fashion statement. Perhaps magic realism just gives the artist the freedom to express him/herself more clearly, without the boundaries of realism. Perhaps realism and by extension reality itself is extremely constraining and the only way to break free is to write about millions of ants that eat up a poor soul.
*Today though, realism in art, is superfluous. (Pavlos Matesis)
Realism for me is like an understated, clean suit. If you want to make an entrance to a party, you wouldn't necessarily choose it, but it is good when the statement you want to make is all about subtlety. Magic realism on the other hand, can be compared to an extravagant hat: your whole ensemble is grey and understated and your hat makes a statement by itself. It is good but somewhat predictable and forced. I think well-educated and intellectually competent people can see the point in a work of art, even when it is not exaggerated. Perhaps this is too harsh of a criticism to a movement I once adored, and perhaps the analogy is unsuccessful. Perhaps art cannot be compared to a fashion statement. Perhaps magic realism just gives the artist the freedom to express him/herself more clearly, without the boundaries of realism. Perhaps realism and by extension reality itself is extremely constraining and the only way to break free is to write about millions of ants that eat up a poor soul.
*Today though, realism in art, is superfluous. (Pavlos Matesis)
Tuesday, 10 June 2008
Insane in the brain
'The true story of a 17th century Hungarian Countess who bathed in the blood of girls... Descended from one of the most ancient aristocratic families of Europe, Erzsébet Báthory bore the psychotic aberrations of centuries of intermarriage. From adolescence she indulged in sadistic lesbian fantasies, where only the spilling of a woman's blood could satisfy her urges. By middle age, she had regressed to a mirror-fixated state of pathalogical necro-sadism involving witchcraft, torture, blood-drinking, cannibalism and, inevitably wholescale slaughter. (...) The Bloody Countess is Valentine Penrose's disturbing case history of a female psychopath which has an unequalled power to evoke the decadent melancholy of doomed, delinquent aristocracy in a dark age of superstition.' - from Amazon.co.uk
My reading for the next weeks is this book, nicely purchased in Lisbon's annual Book Fair, under an annual scorching sun. The most awful crimes of humanity happen in the brain, Oscar Wilde wrote, and if you're a healthy person, that's where they'll stay. If you're mentally ill, as this countess probably was, you practice what you preach and go around being a criminal. It'll be interesting to know how one is a female criminal in 17th century Hungary. There are so many interesting things to learn in this world indeed!
Anyway, I'm reading this book and I'm wondering why normal, balanced human beings have the tendency to stop and look every time there's an accident on the road. We hate evil but it attracts us as well.
As for me, I just take an interest in mental illness and crime. If I can learn about it while reading a well written, well researched book about something that is not very discussed as it is, which is female crime, then it's even better. This so-called bloody Countess is also described as having been a female Dracula, which is a character that has provided excuses for all sorts of psychiatric or psychological theories and diseases anyway (homossexuality, sifilis, incest, repressed sexual desire, you name it, Dracula embodies it). I don't know why these things interest me, but they just do. I guess it's because of the Oscar Wilde sentence, and also because, in reality and in all probability, mental health doesn't actually exist.
Sunday, 8 June 2008
The past and the reiteration
As Youkali wrote in a previous post, April is the cruelest month. Spring in general, "sometimes, the renovation of life is an awful spectacle to watch. "
For me the most difficult thing is reiteration: remembering what I did this time last year, which clothes I liked to wear, which roads I took when coming back home, which TV shows I watched. It seems that my life, is in an endless loop: I still laugh when watching Friends, I am still trying to diet, I am still applying for jobs, I still don't know where I will be in a couple of months.
It is scary, and it is liberating, uncertainty. Reiteration though is plain scary. You feel still, you feel that you have not moved one inch from last year, you feel trapped in this awful circle of life, of season-changing, of sameness. It looks like a vicious circle, although common belief maintains that it is rejuvenating. After winter comes spring, they say, and is this supposed to make me feel better, that it is like that all the time? Maybe that's why autumn is better, because autumn is death, plain and simple, leaves are falling from the trees, leaves that will never be reborn, at least not the same ones. Maybe that's the way to think about it, that this is fake reiteration. Nothing comes back to life really, it just looks like it does. It is just things that look awfully like the previous ones, so you get confused.
Wednesday, 4 June 2008
Nietzsche was right all along. How the hell did it take me so long to figure it out?!
Nietzsche said that the Superman, who the Nazis so viciously twisted to their own purposes, is the one who proves his loyalty to Earth. He accepts life just as it is, no Heaven above us - only sky, like another nice man said. Even for atheists, this has to be tough. Loyalty to Earth?! You mean no consolation prizes in the end? No happiness guaranteed? The possibility of it all going wrong and still have to accept that this is all we have? Yes, actually. That's exactly it.
Like I wrote before, an interesting thing about people being so hung up on football is that their dreams of glory seem to have a realistic chance during the match only to be confronted with the harsh reality after the game is over. The realization that shit does, indeed and royally, happen is awful. And the realization that there is nothing beyond that is even worse. But, at some point or, that's what you have to do. Accept it. Try for happiness in the cold world we live in and relish in the glimpses of bliss you ocasionally have.
Of course this is hard. In the words of Brad Pitt in the great Fight Club, 'our Great Depression is our lives. We've all been raised on television to believe that one day we'd all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won't. And we're slowly learning that fact. And we're very, very pissed off. '
Indeed we are. For example, right now I'm so pissed off that I could join a terrorist association. I'm so pissed off that I would like to tell Nietzsche and his Superman to piss off themselves. But the man (Nietzsche) is right. Accept your life as it is, acknowledge that it is all you have and make the most of it. Don't look for excuses. We can't all be Brangelina and we just have to find a way to deal with that and be happy about that fact. But it is tought. And it does piss one off. And it makes you ask someone, anyone, possibly God, 'what do you mean I don't get my cake and eat it after all this work?'. Well, you don't. But perhaps you can have a slice of the cake, and perhaps the cake is really, really good. I'm still waiting, I hope I get my slice, I hope my slice is less bitter than it is now and I hope I'll love it. Trying to be a Superwoman by remaining optimistic.
And with this piece of poor wisdom I shall depart.
So, goodnight. And good luck.
The modernization of China
My friend MS sent this to me and it is great. As he says, it gets better by the second.
I know I have better things to write about (the first gay marriages in Greece amidst chaos from the conservative, family-preserving right wing idiots) but I couldn't resist posting this. On the topic of gay marriages in Greece, the Ellinofreneia guys said the best thing ever:
Η Μύκονος πέθανε, ζήτω η Τήλος!!!
Monday, 2 June 2008
Portugal olé, Portugal olé, Portugal olé
I know I shouldn't pollute this intellectual, beautiful blog with football, but this little boy here is my pride and joy. People in this country have the perpetual problem of complaining when everything is wrong and complaining even more when something is right. If we didn't have good football players, we would moan about the fact that we're a bunch of losers ; when we do have good players, like the little boy above, we complain about the fact that he makes too much money and that he can't speak properly. I would like to say the following about these attacks:
1) yes, he makes too much money. He should give some to charity. No disagreement here
2) he's a football player. He's not an academic. He's a poor boy from Madeira who is truly tallented at playing football. That's how we made his way in the world. We should be worrying instead about academics (and yes, journalists) who make grammar mistakes. These days, all you have to do is buy any Portuguese newspaper to encounter that sad reality. And, while we're at it, we should worry about all the other poor boys from Madeira (and they are a lot for such a small, holier-than-thou, bourgeois little island) who need proper help and cannot play excellent football.
Football can say a lot about a country, I truly believe so. My people wave flags during world cups and Euros and sing the national anthem and worship footballers like gods during matches only to go right back to hate their country when the match is over. Invisibility is a hard load to carry and when confronted with it, after the Euro is over or after losing the game, you have no other choice but to look life in the face, with no hymns of glory to crown it or embellish it. Sometimes it is not a pretty picture. But not accepting it does most definitely make you a loser.
My final thought: you go, Cristiano.
Sunday, 1 June 2008
L' Orient
All my recent intellectual stimulation seems to come from "the East": I am reading Naguib Mahfouz's Cairo trilogy, my friend is from Tunisia, I saw Persepolis, I listen to Souad Massi, I am going to Istanbul and I really want to go to Morocco. I am often going through phases where I am obsessed with a certain geographical region and read a lot on that and in general get inspired. Some time ago I was reading only Latin American writers (Marquez, Sepuldeva, Sabato, Fuentes and later Borges) and was listening to bossa nova (Bebel Gilberto, Adriana Calcanhotto, Elis Regina and Tom Jobim) all the time. Now it's the time of the East and it's proving to be a very interesting time. The best thing about it is that I feel I am getting a glimpse of their culture and their oh-so-hated religion. Islam, I think, is so badly portrayed these days. People all over the world think that Muslims are all fundamentalists, crazy fanatics and uncultured people. From what I know and read, I strongly disagree.
Persepolis deserves a specific mention. It's not as great as I expected but it was very good nonetheless. I had read the books beforehand so I really knew what to expect. The way Marjane Satrapi's graphic novels have been adapted for the screen is visually stunning, such surrealism, such wit. The first part is really moving, and deep down I got affected not because I understand living under an oppressive regime so well, but because I know what it feels to have this love/hate relationship with your home-country.
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