A THOUSAND WORDS - Alex Waterhouse-Hayward's blog on pictures, plants, politics and whatever else is on his mind.




 

That Package from La Biblioteca Nacional Mariano Moreno
Friday, August 19, 2016




Roberto Baschetti with Lola. He is a fan of  Club Atlético Boca Juniors fotball club


Anybody who may read some of my blogs must know that I am obsessed with some stuff and in particular with Argentine writer Jorge Luís Borges.

In this 21st century the literary output of the 20th is receding into memory and what remains is that which we have not forgotten. This is something that Borges often said.



Borges had a penchant for certain rituals. One of them was to write prologues for his books. When these books were reprinted he would write a new prologue that would be followed by the old one. One of my favourite of his books is called Prólogos con un prólogo de prólogos (or Prologues with a prologue of prologues.

I smiled when yesterday in the fiction section of Indigo on Granville and Broadway I noticed Borges’s Labyrinths in an English translation (2007) with a prologue by William Gibson.  
And of course amongst the obsession that Borges had for cats, tigers, mirrors there were those labyrinths and that wheel of time that is in all respects relativistic.

Einstein had a sense of humour and Borges seriously pursued humour in his own special way. He would appreciate my present situation with a smile.

When Juan Domingo Perón came into power Borges who was quite vocal in his opposition to dictators lost a job as a librarian in in a minor public library in Buenos Aires and was given the job of inspecting chickens and rabbits in markets. As soon as Perón fell in 1955 Borges was given the job of heading the Argentine National Library. Only today I found out that its official name is Biblioteca Nacional Mariano Moreno.

My friend Roberto Baschetti who works at the National Library is a neo-Peronist. He smiles a lot and has an obsession of putting into his web page the name and biographies of all the persons who were disappeared during the military regimes that followed President Arturo Illía deposition in 1965 (I was an unwilling participant in that coup as a conscript of the Argentine Navy).

For obvious reasons Baschetti would not see Borges too kindly but he does appreciate the man’s writing skills and has made it a point to send me every six weeks (or so) a yellow package with stuff about Borges.


That both Borges and Baschetti worked or work at the National Library I find most interesting. In William Gibson’s prologue, Gibson mentions sitting down to chat with writer Alberto Manguel in Barcelona (circa 2006) and mentions that Manguel is the only person Gibson ever met who had personally known Borges. Now Manguel is the new head of that National Library. One of his first actions in that position was to organize an exposition on Borges (I believe it was in July). And if you didn’t know I met Manguel in Vancouver, took his portrait and reviewed one of his books for the Vancouver Sun.

Borges would smile at all that but particularly at that dogged delivery of books and pamphlets about him from Buenos Aires to Vancouver.

The principal content of the latest package is the thickish Borges el mismo, otro (the title of the Biblioteca Nacional show about Borges). In it, for me the jewel is the reproduction of his handwritten manuscripts including one from one of my favourite of his stories Emma Zunz (particularly original in that is it only one of two stories that he ever wrote that featured female protagonists).

The arrival of the package for me is magic and delight. I can imagine Baschetti sealing the package very carefully and then with his neat handwriting (prolijo is an often used Argentine word for neat) addressing it to me.

At this present rate I will soon be a Borges scholar of sorts. And that I live in Kitsilano makes it all that much more remarkable. I am a happy stranger in a strange land.



The Egg Did Not Crack
Thursday, August 18, 2016




September 2014


My Rosemary dropped me of today on Burrard and Davie in Vancouver at 9:35 for my 9:45 appointment to see my urologist for a post operation chat (I had my prostate reamed in early May). I will not bore readers with any of the details except that I taught my urologist an expression in Argentine Spanish – “cero kilómetro”. This expression is used to describe a brand new (really brand new) car that has zero on its odometer.

As a 74 (just about) man who is obsolete, redundant and retired (soon to be a hit country song) I can never aspire to cero kilómetro. Like on my 2007 Malibu my warranty is long expired. The doctor and I decided that there had been a negligible improvement in my health and to expect more was not realistic.

From the doctor’s I walked (I could have taken a MacDonald bus across the street on Burrard that would have left me five blocks from home) to Granville knowing that I could take any trolley that came my way to get home except for two, the one that goes on Granville beyond West Broadway and the Arbutus that almost takes me home. I got off on Broadway and Granville.

I crossed the street and entered the last and only big box bookstore (Indigo and formerly called Chapters) left in Vancouver proper. I went upstairs to the fiction section and checked out novels, mysteries and poetry.  I almost purchased a brand new and very thick volume of Emily Dickinson. I found Jorge Luís Borges’s Labyrinths (in English, 2007) with an introduction by William Gibson. I sat down at a lovely and very large wooden table and read the introduction. As expected it was lovely.
I could not have done years ago what I did today which was to leave a bookstore without a book.
On Broadway I took the UBC fast bus that dropped me off at MacDonald and Broadway.  I went into the Kitsilano Branch of the Vancouver Public Library (just half a corner north on MacDonald from Broadway.

On the used book sale cart I almost purchased an illustrated (with photographs) Odyssey. I fell for 6 magazines at a quarter each.

In the beginning and early 60s I was an avid reader of one of the finest magazines then and I must state now,  too.

In several of those 60s magazines there was a striking ad that I could never forget. It showed an airliner with had been propped up from the tarmac by a very sophisticate hydraulic jack. One of the wheels was resting (!) on an egg. The egg was not cracked.

The magazine in question is Scientific American which has been published since 1845. I guess it must compete with another American magazine, Harper’s or is perhaps older.

I have been reading the six magazines all day and I will be up tonight reading about memcomputing, black holes and the advanced mind capabilities of Neandertals.

At the end of the magazines I found one of my favourite former sections called 50, 100, & 150 Years Ago. This one caught my eye:

January 1865
Safety Match

“A Lucifer match is now in the market that differs from anything hitherto in existence. Upon the side of each box is a chemically prepared piece of friction paper. When struck upon this, the match instantly ignites; when struck upon anything else whatever, it obstinately refuses to flame. You may lay it upon a red-hot stove, and the wood of the match will calcine before the end of it ignites. Friction upon anything else that this prepared pasteboard has no effect on it. The invention is an English one, and by special act of Parliament, the use of any other matches than these is not permitted in any public buildings. There is not a particle of sulphur in the composition of the lucifers in question.”

Alas another fave, the puzzle seems to be gone!

I am most tempted to perhaps get a year’s subscription to this fine magazine.




El vestido blanco - The White Dress
Monday, August 15, 2016






When I was taking pictures of Olena last Thursday I did so in the sly. My friend Curtis Daily, the baroque bassist from Portland was in town for a concert and I was giving him a pair of portrait photography classes when he had spare time. Since my Fuji X-E1 was not connected to the studio flash, which Daily was using with his medium format Mamiya RB-67 I took advantage to click my shutter when he was re-loading his camera or I simply intruded and took pictures from the side. Olena was using a transparent gossamer dress that was not quite white. Such was Olena's delicate beauty that I thought of a famous short story, El vestido blanco by a virtually unknown (except perhaps in Latin America) Uruguayan pianist, composer and writer Felisberto Hernández, 1902-1964, who married four times and his last wife was a Spanish agent of the KGB!

A translation of  El vestido blanco into English follows the one in Spanish.






El vestido blanco

Felisberto Hernández

I
Yo estaba del lado de afuera del balcón. Del lado de adentro, estaban abiertas las dos hojas de la ventana y coincidían muy enfrente una de otra. Marisa estaba parada con la espalda casi tocando una de las hojas. Pero quedó poco en esta posición porque la llamaron de adentro. Al poco Marisa salía, no sentí el vacío de ella en la ventana. Al contrario. Sentí como que las hojas se habían estado mirando frente a frente y que ella había estado de más. Ella había interrumpido ese espacio simétrico llena de una cosa fija que resultaba de mirarse las dos hojas.
II
Al poco tiempo yo ya había descubierto lo más primordial y casi lo único en el sentido de las dos hojas: las posiciones, el placer de las posiciones determinadas y el dolor de violarlas. Las posiciones de placer eran solamente dos: cuando las hojas estaban enfrentadas simétricamente y se miraban fijo, y cuando estaban totalmente cerradas y estaban juntas. Si algunas veces Marisa echaba las hojas para atrás y pasaban el límite de enfrentarse, yo no podía dejar de tener los músculos en tensión. En ese momento creía contribuir con mi fuerza a que se cerraran lo suficiente hasta quedar en una de las posiciones de placer: una frente a la otra. De lo contrario me parecía que con el tiempo se les sumaría un odio silencioso y fijo del cual nuestra conciencia no sospechaba el resultado.
III
Los momentos más terribles y violadores de una de las posiciones de placer, ocurrían algunas noches al despedirnos.
Ella amagaba a cerrar las ventanas y nunca terminaba de cerrarlas. Ignoraba esa violenta necesidad física que tenían las ventanas de estar juntas ya, pronto, cuanto antes.
En el espacio oscuro que aún quedaba entre las hojas, calzaba justo la cabeza de Marisa. En la cara había una cosa inconsciente e ingenua que sonreía en la demora de despedirse. Y eso no sabía nada de esa otra cosa dura y amenazantemente imprecisa que había en la demora de cerrarse.
IV
Una noche estaba contentísimo porque entré a visitar a Marisa. Ella me invitó a ir al balcón. Pero tuvimos que pasar por el espacio entre esos lacayos de ventanas. Y no sabía qué pensar de esa insistente etiqueta escuálida. Parecía que pensarían algo antes de nosotros pasar y algo después de pasar. Pasamos. Al rato de estar conversando y que se me había distraído el asunto de las ventanas, sentí que me tocaban en la espalda muy despacito y como si me quisieran hipnotizar. Y al darme vuelta me encontré con las ventanas en la cara. Sentí que nos habían sepultado entre el balcón y ellas. Pensé en saltar el bacón y sacar a Marisa de allí.
V
Una mañana estaba contentísimo porque nos habíamos casado. Pero cuando Marisa fue a abrir un roperito de dos hojas sentí el mismo problema de las ventanas, de la abertura que sobraba. Una noche Marisa estaba fuera de la casa. Fui a sacar algo del roperito y en el momento de abrirlo me sentí horriblemente actor en el asunto de las hojas. Pero lo abrí. Sin querer me quedé quieto un rato. La cabeza también se me quedó quieta igual que las cosas que habían en el ropero, y que un vestido blanco de Marisa que parecía Marisa sin cabeza, ni brazos, ni piernas.





The White Dress

Felisberto Hernández

             -- translated by Peter Robertson

This June I crossed the immense River Plate on my way to Montevideo, to meet Walter Diconca, the grandson of Uruguayan writer, Felisberto Hernández (1902-1964). I had come to another country to enlist Walter’s support in obtaining the literary rights for my translation of Hernández “The White Dress.” Months before, I had stumbled across this story, published in the 1925 collection, “Fulano de Tal”, and dedicated to María Isabel Guerra, Felisberto’s first wife. As I read “The White Dress,” I was compelled by its images, giving primacy not to the protagonist’s inner musings but his obsessive observation—shot through with sexual tension and encroaching menace—of the external world.

While Felisberto has proved to be a seminal influence on major Latin American writers, such as Gabriel García Márquez, Julio Cortázar and Carlos Fuentes, this quixotic writer defies categorization. Italo Calvino has said that Hernández was like no other writer, either European or Latin American, and Felisberto himself was at pains to distance himself from any literary affiliation. With regard to the genesis of his work, he would only say: “I don’t know how my stories come to be written—each has its own internal life.”

It is to be hoped that, in the English-speaking world, Felisberto Hernández will come to receive the recognition that he deserves—this would be a far cry from the critical neglect that dogged his career. Indeed, in terms of adversity, Felisberto's life appears to have been inspired by one of the many tangos he, in his days as a concert pianist, would have played in the music halls of Uruguay. A fitting thought as I once again crossed the River Plate on my way back to Buenos Aires.


The White Dress


I was standing outside, looking up at the balcony. From where I was, I could see that the two glass doors had been flung open and were facing each other diametrically, inside the room. Marisa was standing there too, her back almost grazing one of the glass doors. But, all of a sudden, someone called her from within and she left the scene. No sooner had she gone than I sensed that her departure had failed to evoke any intimation of absence. Indeed, I grew conscious of the fact that, all the while, the two glass doors had been looking at each other intently, that she had been a trespasser. She had encroached on the sanctity of that mute, immutable thing: the two doors staring at each other.

II

It did not take me long to discover the only thing that engaged me about the two glass doors: the pleasure I derived from their inviolate positions; and the anguish that invaded me when these were transgressed. The positions that gave me pleasure were only two: when the glass doors faced each other, in sullen collusion; and when they were shut together and therefore at one. If Marisa pulled the doors back and they passed, even by a fraction, the precise point where they faced each other, I could not stop my jaw from clenching, my body from seizing up. At moments like this I would make a preternatural physical effort, willing the doors to revert to their perfect symmetry. Were this to be prevented, I had no doubt that the two glass doors would incubate a rancorous hatred whose outcome we could not predict.

III

The most sacrilegious assaults on one of the two positions that gave me pleasure would occur in the evening, as Marisa and I wished each other goodnight.

On these occasions she would hesitate as she closed the two doors, leaving an invidious gap between them. I could tell that she was blind to the need of the two glass doors to be fused together forthwith, in implacable union.

In the dark space that remained between the two doors, there was scarcely enough room for Marisa’s head. She looked nonchalant as she smiled at me, clearly reluctant to say goodbye. I could tell that she was oblivious to that intangible, yet menacing, force born of her delay in closing the two glass doors.

IV

One evening, Marisa invited me inside and I felt elated. Later, she asked me to stand with her on the balcony. To get there, we had to negotiate the space between the two glass doors. Surveying them, I was bemused by their inscrutability: it seemed that, before we passed, they had been thinking one thing; and, after we passed, quite another. In any case, we walked through the gap that separated them. After Marisa and I had been talking for a while, and I had started to forget about the glass doors, I felt them touching my back in hypnotic movements. And, turning round, I saw that the doors were right up against my face. In fact, they had succeeded in pushing Marisa and me to the very edge of the balcony. My instinct was to jump off there and then, taking Marisa with me.

V

One morning I was ecstatic because we had just got married. But when Marisa opened a wardrobe, I felt as perturbed as I had been by the glass doors, by this excessive aperture. One evening, while she was away, I went to take something out of the wardrobe. Although I felt like a desecrator, I opened it nonetheless. Spellbound, I stood there inert. My head was motionless also, as were the contents of the wardrobe, and one of Marisa’s white dresses, which looked just like her without arms, without legs, with no head.








le modèle et le bassiste
Sunday, August 14, 2016





Last Thursday was a hectic but fun day. My house guest Curtis Daily who plays the baroque bass and lives in Portland was in Vancouver to play with the Pacific Baroque Orchestra and guest conductor violinist Monica Huggett. They played on the next day on Friday at Christ Church Cathedral.

Daily in between rehearsals managed to find the needed concentration to swap his very large Venetian bass for a not quite as large Mamiya RB-67. We had obtained the magnificent presence of my friend Olena ( a Ukranian who lived In Colombia so she speaks excellent Castillian).

The hectic part consisted in the fact that Olena brought everything except her kitchen sink. It took a while for Daily to decide what would be worn (or not).

Daily did have one important goal. This was to photograph that huge (and heavy Olena told us) bass with a female figure. We decided that the very narrow room where we keep our 100 year-old restored Chickering baby grand would be the ideal location as my little studio would have made it claustrophobic if we managed to include the bass in it.




Because Olena has bright blue hair we opted for a secondary light as a hair light. We equipped it with a dark blue gel.

Daily’s Fuji instant prints looked perfect to my eyes. I am sure that his film, once processed will deliver equally perfect results. I chose to snap some photographs with my Fuji X-E1. 






     

Previous Posts
That Package from La Biblioteca Nacional Mariano M...

The Egg Did Not Crack

El vestido blanco - The White Dress

le modèle et le bassiste

Helmut Newton - Subtlety, Elegance & Gone

Emily Dickinson's White Dress & A Hunter of Lost S...

Olena - The Woman With Blue Hair

John Oliver - Marina Hasselberg - The Warmth of El...

so that our hands would meet - para que nuestras m...

Freckled Devon Cream



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1/23/11 - 1/30/11

1/30/11 - 2/6/11

2/6/11 - 2/13/11

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2/20/11 - 2/27/11

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3/20/11 - 3/27/11

3/27/11 - 4/3/11

4/3/11 - 4/10/11

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4/24/11 - 5/1/11

5/1/11 - 5/8/11

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11/6/11 - 11/13/11

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11/20/11 - 11/27/11

11/27/11 - 12/4/11

12/4/11 - 12/11/11

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12/25/11 - 1/1/12

1/1/12 - 1/8/12

1/8/12 - 1/15/12

1/15/12 - 1/22/12

1/22/12 - 1/29/12

1/29/12 - 2/5/12

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3/4/12 - 3/11/12

3/11/12 - 3/18/12

3/18/12 - 3/25/12

3/25/12 - 4/1/12

4/1/12 - 4/8/12

4/8/12 - 4/15/12

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4/22/12 - 4/29/12

4/29/12 - 5/6/12

5/6/12 - 5/13/12

5/13/12 - 5/20/12

5/20/12 - 5/27/12

5/27/12 - 6/3/12

6/3/12 - 6/10/12

6/10/12 - 6/17/12

6/17/12 - 6/24/12

6/24/12 - 7/1/12

7/1/12 - 7/8/12

7/8/12 - 7/15/12

7/15/12 - 7/22/12

7/22/12 - 7/29/12

7/29/12 - 8/5/12

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8/12/12 - 8/19/12

8/19/12 - 8/26/12

8/26/12 - 9/2/12

9/2/12 - 9/9/12

9/9/12 - 9/16/12

9/16/12 - 9/23/12

9/23/12 - 9/30/12

9/30/12 - 10/7/12

10/7/12 - 10/14/12

10/14/12 - 10/21/12

10/21/12 - 10/28/12

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11/4/12 - 11/11/12

11/11/12 - 11/18/12

11/18/12 - 11/25/12

11/25/12 - 12/2/12

12/2/12 - 12/9/12

12/9/12 - 12/16/12

12/16/12 - 12/23/12

12/23/12 - 12/30/12

12/30/12 - 1/6/13

1/6/13 - 1/13/13

1/13/13 - 1/20/13

1/20/13 - 1/27/13

1/27/13 - 2/3/13

2/3/13 - 2/10/13

2/10/13 - 2/17/13

2/17/13 - 2/24/13

2/24/13 - 3/3/13

3/3/13 - 3/10/13

3/10/13 - 3/17/13

3/17/13 - 3/24/13

3/24/13 - 3/31/13

3/31/13 - 4/7/13

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4/14/13 - 4/21/13

4/21/13 - 4/28/13

4/28/13 - 5/5/13

5/5/13 - 5/12/13

5/12/13 - 5/19/13

5/19/13 - 5/26/13

5/26/13 - 6/2/13

6/2/13 - 6/9/13

6/9/13 - 6/16/13

6/16/13 - 6/23/13

6/23/13 - 6/30/13

6/30/13 - 7/7/13

7/7/13 - 7/14/13

7/14/13 - 7/21/13

7/21/13 - 7/28/13

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8/4/13 - 8/11/13

8/11/13 - 8/18/13

8/18/13 - 8/25/13

8/25/13 - 9/1/13

9/1/13 - 9/8/13

9/8/13 - 9/15/13

9/15/13 - 9/22/13

9/22/13 - 9/29/13

9/29/13 - 10/6/13

10/6/13 - 10/13/13

10/13/13 - 10/20/13

10/20/13 - 10/27/13

10/27/13 - 11/3/13

11/3/13 - 11/10/13

11/10/13 - 11/17/13

11/17/13 - 11/24/13

11/24/13 - 12/1/13

12/1/13 - 12/8/13

12/8/13 - 12/15/13

12/15/13 - 12/22/13

12/22/13 - 12/29/13

12/29/13 - 1/5/14

1/5/14 - 1/12/14

1/12/14 - 1/19/14

1/19/14 - 1/26/14

1/26/14 - 2/2/14

2/2/14 - 2/9/14

2/9/14 - 2/16/14

2/16/14 - 2/23/14

2/23/14 - 3/2/14

3/2/14 - 3/9/14

3/9/14 - 3/16/14

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3/23/14 - 3/30/14

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4/20/14 - 4/27/14

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11/9/14 - 11/16/14

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11/23/14 - 11/30/14

11/30/14 - 12/7/14

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12/21/14 - 12/28/14

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1/4/15 - 1/11/15

1/11/15 - 1/18/15

1/18/15 - 1/25/15

1/25/15 - 2/1/15

2/1/15 - 2/8/15

2/8/15 - 2/15/15

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2/22/15 - 3/1/15

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3/22/15 - 3/29/15

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11/1/15 - 11/8/15

11/8/15 - 11/15/15

11/15/15 - 11/22/15

11/22/15 - 11/29/15

11/29/15 - 12/6/15

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12/13/15 - 12/20/15

12/20/15 - 12/27/15

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1/3/16 - 1/10/16

1/10/16 - 1/17/16

1/31/16 - 2/7/16

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2/14/16 - 2/21/16

2/21/16 - 2/28/16

2/28/16 - 3/6/16

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3/13/16 - 3/20/16

3/20/16 - 3/27/16

3/27/16 - 4/3/16

4/3/16 - 4/10/16

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4/24/16 - 5/1/16

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5/8/16 - 5/15/16

5/15/16 - 5/22/16

5/22/16 - 5/29/16

5/29/16 - 6/5/16

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8/14/16 - 8/21/16