The Years - Virginia Woolf
Saturday, January 26, 2013
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| Centre, Alexandra Waterhouse-Hayward, Arboledas Edo. de México | | | | |
A friend today mentioned that her favourite author was Virginia Woolf and by sheer coincidence I was reading my mother’s copy of The Years, a 1937 edition by Harcourt, Brace & Company. The book may have been rejected by the library of the American Grammar and High School on Freyre Street in Buenos Aires. Since only the rubber stamp of the school library is visible while the library card holder was taken out I must surmise that my mother who taught at the high school did not pinch it but bought it in a school bazaar. The book was owned by a D.H. Stillman. Her name is on the front, with the date of 1937. She also wrote Manila, which she crossed out then corrected with Shanghai. On the back inside cover there is a seal that reads: Chinese American Publishing Co. – The American Book Shop, 160 Nanking Road, Shanghai.
What is particularly beautiful about this novel is the description of the weather which appears at the beginning of each chapter headed by a year. It begins with 1880 and finishes with Present Day (mid 1930’s).
Today’s blog will meander a bit and will ultimately edge into randomness.
Today (I write this yesterday, Friday) was a fine sunny day. There was no melancholy in the sky and in the cold but dry briskness I managed to work in the garden with Rosemary under the watch of her cat, Casi-Casi.
Of all of Woolf's weather descriptions my favourite does not apply at all.
1908
It was March and the wind was blowing. But it was not “blowing.” It was scraping, scourging. It was so cruel. So unbecoming. Not merely did it bleach faces and raise red spots on noses; it tweaked up skirts; showed stout legs; made trousers reveal skeleton shins. There was no roundness, no fruit in it. Rather it was like the curve of scythe which cuts, not corn, usefully; but destroys, reveling in sheer sterility. With one blast it blew out colour – even a Rembrandt in the National Gallery, even a solid ruby in a Bond Street window: one blast and they were gone. Had it any breeding place it was in the Isle of Dogs among tin cans lying beside a workhouse drab on the banks of a polluted city. It tossed up rotten leaves, gave them another span of degraded existence; scorned, derided them, yet had nothing to put in the place of the scorned, the derided. Down they fell. Uncreative, unproductive, yelling its joy in destruction, its power to peel off the bark, the bloom, and show the bare bone, it paled every window; drove old gentlemen further and further into the leather-smelling recesses of clubs; and old ladies to sit eyeless, leather cheeked, joyless among the tassels and antimacassars of their bedrooms and kitchens. Triumphing in its wantonness it emptied the streets; swept flesh before it; and coming smack against a dust cart standing outside the Army and Navy Stores, scattered along the pavement litter of old envelopes; twists of hair; papers already blood smeared, yellow smeared, smudges with print and sent them scudding to plaster legs, lamp posts, pillar boxes, and fold themselves frantically against area railings.
It was a sunny day but after a short hour in the garden my cough began and so I came inside to look over two big thick photo files called Mexico and Mexico 1975 (we moved to Vancouver on that date).
The pictures here do not seem to hold a pattern except that they all came from two contact sheets in b+w 35 film. That they exist and that I could scan them (they are in excellent shape) is a miracle. That miracle is because I washed (to remove any vestiges of fixer) those processed negatives for hours in Mexico City or in Arboledas, Estado de México where we lived for four years until 1975. Some of the pictures are of a long forgotten performance in an Arboledas school in which my eldest daughter Ale, who was around 6 danced ballet.
I told Rosemary about today’s blog and in particular showed her the picture of her with Hilary (three years old) on her lap. She said, “They are boring. Who would want to see it?” I explained that this marks the 8th year of my blog and that by now I should know what I am doing? What am I doing? I am writing this blog for myself, to please myself. I am the publisher, editor, art director, only photographer and I can put up whatever photograph I like and want. Rosemary was silent. And unlike Virginia Woolf’s March there was no wind to mask the silence. And yet, The Years ends: The sun had risen , and the sky above the houses wore an air of extraordinary beauty, simplicity and peace. That's the kind of day Friday, a January day was.
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| Note Rosemary's legs & that's Hilary on her lap. |
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| Hilary sleeping on the floor in Arboledas. The Chapultepec Park train |
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| Ale in our Arboledas home, circa 1973 |
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| Jean Glasser, first violinist of he University of Mexico Symphony, yours truly and Hilary |
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I have no idea who they are. By 1974 I was taking pictures
of wealthy Mexican families |
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| I took this at Ale's ballet performance |
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| Portrait taken by Raúl Guerrero Montemayor |
Brother Rene, C.S.C & My First Salvador Dalí
Friday, January 25, 2013
I saw my first Salvador Dalí in 1958. I was 15. I was in the tenth grade at St. Edward’s High School.
Of our class of perhaps 70, 50 were boarders and the rest were day students who lived in Austin. We were housed in a vast dormitory on the upper floor of a neo-Gothic building. It was like sleeping in a Gothic church. We had bunk beds with desks attached to either side of the beds. I have some old photographs that I have seen in the archives of what is now St. Edward’s University. Our dorm resembled a prisoner of war camp in WW-II Poland or Germany.
In one corner of the dormitory there was a separate room with an office that had clear glass. That office was occupied by Brother Rene, C.S.C. He was tall, lean and strong. His only physical defect, his big ears, marred him from looking quite perfect. They stuck out. The other Brothers of Holy Cross might be cerebral, saintly, nerdish, frugal (Brother Emmett comes to mind), remote or funny. Only Brother Rene was cool. While he had a kind smile we respected him with an almost fear.
He wore short Wellingtons with one of his pant legs tucked in and the other left out. I immediately bought similar boots and attempted to look as cool. But I didn't and I wasn’t.
Brother Rene believed in keeping us at a distance so we never did find out much about his personal life. But we knew that in punishment he might make us do 30 pushups and we knew he could do 100 without sweating. One of his forms of punishment was to make us run.
At night he would turn off the lights but instead of giving us silence to sleep he would alternately play the Amos ‘n’Andy radio show or play classical music. His fave and mine, too, was Ravel’s Bolero. I waited for that moment with the great trombone part.
I may have been so afraid of him that I remember little of ever having crossed his path. I do not remember ever being in his room except twice. It was daylight and all the Brothers of Holy Cross who were dorm prefects always kept their door open. I remember entering and turning my head towards the left. Not up on the wall but resting on a piece of furniture was a reproduction of Salvador Dalí’s Christ of Saint John of the Cross. I did not know that was its name. Only now as I write this have I found out, courtesy of Wikipedia:
The painting is known as the "Christ of Saint John of the Cross", because its design is based on a drawing by the 16th century Spanish friar Saint John of the Cross. The composition of Christ is also based on a triangle and circle (the triangle is formed by Christ's arms; the circle is formed by Christ's head). The triangle, since it has three sides, can be seen as a reference to the Trinity, and the circle may be an allusion to Platonic thought. The circle represents Unity: all things do exist in the 'three' but in the four, merry they be.
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| Brother Rene, C.S.C. |
I was shocked and riveted by the extreme perspective of the painting. I was yet to find out about the perspective of wide angle lenses. This was to happen around 1960.
The second time that I entered Brother Rene’s room (I do not remember what the reason was) I entered with full intention of looking at the Dalí reproduction in more detail. This time I asked Brother Rene. I am sorry to report that I have no memory of his answer, but to this day Dalí and Ravel’s Bolero bring me images of a man I admired, feared but also loved.
Do This In Memory of Me
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Argentine Nostalgia
I thought I’d never miss: -
The wide expanse of pasture of the pampas,
The lead gray skies & stratus clouds
The whistling, whining, violent “pamperos”,
The wet moist cold,
The hot damp heat,
The monotonous landscape
Bare of trees & bushes 7 human beings
Populated by lazy, cattle.
But I do,
And remember,
The balmy breezes of early spring,
The mauve of jacarandá trees in early fall,
The crisp, white frost of midwinter,
The golden yellow of the aroma in late spring
The pungent, acrid odor of the figs in midsummer.
I thought I’d never miss:
The untidy
almacén at my corner
Overflowing with cellophane bags of capeletti & ravioli
And mounds of sacks of new potatoes,
Reeking of onions & “tipo Roquefort cheese”,
Of smoked ham & bacon hanging from hooks
Or:
The heated discussion of the Italian neighbours,
The chattering, singing & crying of their children,
The clatter of their plates & knives - they ate
In the patio & almost lived there,
Their plaintive singing of their summer land
And the merry quartets from Barbero & Rigoletto.
Or:
The austere grays & browns & blacks
That Porteños think proper to wear,
Their sober silence and quiet in public vehicles
The busy little sidewalk cafes under striped awnings,
The interminable wait for tram 35,
The long and never ending route it took,
But I do,
And remember:-
The exquisite taste and stark simplicity
That Porteños think proper for wear,
Their polite “permiso” as they sidled by you on
colectivos
The gracious old-fashioned cadence of the
“Cuando” danced in a café.
The beautiful church on Juramento and Cabildo
I always watched out for out of the window of Tram 35
The expectation of getting to Mother’s flat,
At the end of the line,
And the warmth I’d get there!
Filomena de Irureta Goyena de Hayward
Nueva Rosita, Coahuila, Mexico
Dec 5, 1956.
The above poem written by my mother in the northern Mexico mining town of Nueva Rosita has haunted me ever since she read it out to me a few years later. It has haunted me and also filled me with guilt that I never made her as happy as I could or that I might have shown disrespect. In fact I feel guilt because at age 15 I was not all that less of a teenage problem than my 15 year old granddaughter Rebecca is now. All I can say in my defence is that I was far less mature so my offences were not as critical.
When I see my daughter Hilary (Rebecca’s mother) and notice her smile it is the face of my mother that I gaze into and I have the idea that if I am pleasant and kind to her I will somehow compensate for my actions in the past with her grandmother, my mother.
Perhaps the most singularly beautiful sentence in the English language is this one:
“Do this in memory of me.”
It can be found in the New Testament, Luke 22:19 and also in 1 Corinthians 11:24-25. But it was only at the very bottom of the list below that I found the quote with the word memory. In fact remembrance is just as beautiful.
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| The Sacrament of the Last Supper, Salvador Dalí, 1955 | | |
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New International Version (©1984)
and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, "This is my body, which is for you; do this in remembrance of me."
New Living Translation (©2007)
and gave thanks to God for it. Then he broke it in pieces and said, "This is my body, which is given for you. Do this to remember me."
English Standard Version (©2001)
and when he had given thanks, he broke it, and said, “This is my body which is for you. Do this in remembrance of me.”
New American Standard Bible (©1995)
and when He had given thanks, He broke it and said, "This is My body, which is for you; do this in remembrance of Me."
Holman Christian Standard Bible (©2009)
gave thanks, broke it, and said, "This is My body, which is for you. Do this in remembrance of Me."
International Standard Version (©2012)
gave thanks for it, and broke it in pieces, saying, "This is my body that is for you. Keep doing this in memory of me."
King James Bible (Cambridge Ed.)
And when he had given thanks, he brake it, and said, Take, eat: this is my body, which is broken for you: this do in remembrance of me.
Aramaic Bible in Plain English (©2010)
And he blessed and he broke and he said, “Take eat; this is my body, which is broken for your persons; thus you shall do for my Memorial.
GOD'S WORD® Translation (©1995)
and spoke a prayer of thanksgiving. He broke the bread and said, "This is my body, which is given for you. Do this to remember me."
King James 2000 Bible (©2003)
And when he had given thanks, he broke it, and said, Take, eat: this is my body, which is broken for you: this do in remembrance of me.
American King James Version
And when he had given thanks, he broke it, and said, Take, eat: this is my body, which is broken for you: this do in remembrance of me.
American Standard Version
and when he had given thanks, he brake it, and said, This is my body, which is for you: this do in remembrance of me.
Douay-Rheims Bible
And giving thanks, broke, and said: Take ye, and eat: this is my body, which shall be delivered for you: this do for the commemoration of me.
Darby Bible Translation
and having given thanks broke it, and said, This is my body, which is for you: this do in remembrance of me.
English Revised Version
and when he had given thanks, he brake it, and said, This is my body, which is for you: this do in remembrance of me.
Webster's Bible Translation
And when he had given thanks, he broke it, and said, Take, eat: this is my body, which is broken for you: this do in remembrance of me.
Weymouth New Testament
and after giving thanks He broke it and said, "This is my body which is about to be broken for you. Do this in memory of me."
World English Bible
When he had given thanks, he broke it, and said, "Take, eat. This is my body, which is broken for you. Do this in memory of me."
Young's Literal Translation
and having given thanks, he brake, and said, 'Take ye, eat ye, this is my body, that for you is being broken; this do ye -- to the remembrance of me.'
For Roman Catholics the moment is the proof that in transubstantiation the substance of bread and wine becomes the body and blood of Jesus Christ. For other Christians, the breaking of the bread and the elevation of the wine is simply commemorative, a wonderful memory of an event past. For Roman Catholics, under the pain of mortal death, they are to believe that when they partake of Holy Communion they are eating the flesh and drinking the blood of Jesus Christ.
While I will not argue the one or the other and remain at a safe distance I will state here that, “Do this in remembrance of me,” is truly beautiful and my modus vivendi.
In the last four lines of my mother’s poem she writes:
I always watched out for out of the window of Tram 35
The expectation of getting to Mother’s flat,
At the end of the line,
And the warmth I’d get there!
Those lines (I was a fellow passenger of my mother in Tram 35) hit me every time when my daughter and her two daughters come four our usual Saturday evening dinner. Because it is winter I have a roaring fire waiting for Hilary when she gets here around 6:30. I put lots of effort into making a very good meal and having a family film DVD to watch after. Then I take them all home and while they are in the car I think of my mother and how at the very least for one day of the week, Hilary does not have to work, or cook, or wash dishes and simply can sit down in the warmth that Rosemary and I have given her.
I have kept the Arts section of the
NY Times of January 16 knowing I would eventually quote from
A Swinging Party With Old Friends (Nate Chinen – Music Review) which is about a ceremony for the 2013 National Endowment of the Arts Jazz Masters award.
During the ceremony and performance one of the recipients, pianist Mose Allison, “said little except in song, playing Was, an original parlor waltz featuring his daughter, Amy Allison, on vocals. It’s a meditation on mortality, infused with more curiosity than self-pity; it suggests that the afterlife has a lot to do with the simple matter of being remembered.
In remembrance of my mother and my father, what I do during the day, I do so and dedicate to them often. They live on.
Addendum: Dalí's painting is in a hallway at the National Gallery in Washington DC. When you go from the old wing of the museum to the new you pass by this painting, its only decoration. At the end of the hallway you will find, appropriately, the excellent museum cafeteria.
Ride The Cyclone, The Dead & The Half Dead
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
On Tuesday, Rosemary and I attended the opening performance of Jacob Richmond’s (with music and lyrics by Brooke Maxwell and Jacob Richmond) Ride the Cyclone at the Arts Club’s Theatre Company’s Granville Island Stage. This musical is the Arts Club’s participation in contributing to this year's PuSh festival.
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| PNE, June 1992 |
This PuSh Festival collaboration always means that Millerd’s supremely funny presence, a longstanding tradition, and introduction in every Arts Club opening (“turn of all those devices that might annoy your neighbours”) is diluted by “old stone face” Norman Armour, the Executive Director of the PuSh International Performing Arts Festival.
But it would seem that Armour is loosening up and the usual Dean Martin/Jerry Lewis or perhaps Laurel & Hardy comedy team brought me more than one expression from that serious man’s face!
The musical about 6, 17-year-old teenagers, members of a high school choir based in Uranium, Saskatchewan a one horse no half-life town, who die at the top of a roller coaster, The Cyclone, started with the haunting singing (no words) of a young woman with her back to the audience. But just about there I became confused as this show has a stage and stage curtain that is behind the 6 performers and Karnak, voice by Carey Wass, the carnival soothsayer (who must also moonlight at a middle-of-the-night FM station, he has a soothing voice). The confusion is short-lived as I came to realize that one side of that curtained stage is life, and the one closer to the audience is a limbo between life and death.
The musical then unfolds with the five (and one woman oddly neither here nor there) singing a justification for their existence in front of Karnak who is to decide in an odd unanimous decision, for their flawed existence cut short by the Cyclone.
All five (for the sixth just wait!) performers, Rielle Braid as Ocean Rosenberg the overachiever, Kelly Hudson, as Constance Blackwood, Ocean’s chubby friend, Elliott Loran, as Ricky Potts the member of the chorus who cannot speak or sing, Jameson Matthew Parker as Misha Bachinsky, the not-so-tough Ukrainian knows to kiss other men, and Kholby Wardell, as Noel Gruber, the sensitive effeminate who turns into the most macho while wearing fishnets and black lingerie, have great stage presence and powerful voices.
But it was the mysterious sixth, Sarah Jane Pelzer, as Jane Doe (appearing in the beginning holding a headless female doll) that intrigued me and took me back to a stripper’s stage in Las Vegas, back in May 1983. I was a judge at the first Golden G String festival with fellow judges Tempest Storm and a Las Vegas mafioso with a bulge in his armpit.
We were watching the crème de la crème of exotic dancers from all over the world but especially intrigued by one who wore a cowboy hat to shield her face as her layers of clothing were removed and we were supposed to marvel at the grace and beautiful body. We were simply not interested. We wanted to see the face, not as those into things crude would say, “her tits”.
And so it was with all those five performers giving strong performances I had only time and desire to hear the woman who in the beginning had impressed me with an unearthly high voice. She walked like a zombie and her face was a ghostly made up white. It took a while for me to figure out that if her five companions were dead in limbo she was undead nowhere.
I don’t want to reveal more here except to point out that this is a musical that should be attended by teenagers. There is a message there for all of them, with good music and a good band (besides the monster mash band, the five performers also happen to play recorders, a guitar and an efficient accordion).
Reading the credits of the performers it soon became apparent why Jane Doe’s song was so Kurt Weill-like. Sarah Jane Pelzer as she sings Kurt Weill songs with The Annex String Quartet. This performance was breathtaking.
I was pleased to find out at the end that Jane Doe, back in the land of the living, might help persuade Mr. Armour to smile more next year. Meanwhile let’s get more young ones to attend this terrific show.
