Infinity (∞), An Insipid Equivalent Of The Unfinished
Saturday, October 11, 2014
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| Nikkor 35mm 1: 2 |
On Wednesday night it
suddenly occurred to me that a particular book in my Borges collection had gone
missing. It was 2:30. I went to the den where I keep my books in Spanish and
found Jorge Luís Borges
El Hacedor (an Alianza Emecé) missfiled. It was easy to find as the cover has an
illustration that incorporates the title within a Möbius strip. Those who might
not know should know that the strip is an instance of one-sided surface. And if
you further look you note that a Möbius strip is of the same shape as the
mathematical symbol for infinity, ∞.
When I put the book in
its place I noticed a little one I had not read for some years. El Lenguaje de Buenos Aires (also published by Emecé) which contains essays about the language spoken in Buenos Aires, written by Jorge Luís Borges and José E. Clemente. In the first essay by Borges, El
Idioma de los Argentinos, a printed version of a lecture he gave in 1927 in Buenos Aires I
found this:
Sospecho
que la palabra infinito fue alguna vez una insípida equivalencia de inacabado;
ahora es una de las perfecciones de Dios en la teología y un discutidero en la
metafísica y un énfasis popularizado en las letras y una finísima concepción
renovada en las matemáticas –Russell explica la adición y multiplicación y
potenciación de números cardinales infinitos y el porqué de sus dinastías casi
terribles- y una verdadera intuición al mirar al cielo.
My translation into
English is:
I suspect that the
word infinity was at one time an insipid equivalent of the unfinished. It is
now one of the perfect attributions of the God of theology and a centre for
discussion in philosophy and popularized with emphasis in arts and letters. It
is a fine concept, renewed often in mathematics – Russell [Bertrand] the
addition, multiplication, and the powering of infinite cardinal numbers and
whence the terrible place they came from – and of a true intuition that comes
upon looking up into the sky.
I thought about that marvelous paragraph (the one in Spanish and not my poor translation) and
combined that with the image of the Möbius strip and came up with this:
Before the
proliferation of GPS devices for cars and phones most of us resorted to using
maps to find places and or used our memories and some logic to get to our
destination. This ability to find a place on one’s own will be surely lost as
we come to depend more and more on location technology.
Before cameras had auto focus lenses, photographers had to focus manually.
Before the invention of single lens reflex cameras, during the era of the
uncoupled rangefinder cameras, photographers like Cartier-Bresson would focus
using a little dark window that matched two images (let’s say Uncle Billy’s
face). When the two faces were one the camera was focused. Then Cartier-Bresson
would look into another window to frame his shot.
In all those
situations and the more primitive one of guessing a distance and manually
setting a lens to that distance the photographer made a choice. It could be a
stupid choice or an intelligent one based on experience.
All that is now almost
history. The auto-focusing cameras have just about taken the decision making
choice on where to focus out of a photographer’s hand/eyes.
That does not mean
that the curious photographer should not attempt to find out exactly what all
those focusing points in the camera’s viewing screen are doing.
Consider the problem
of attempting to photograph your Uncle Billy with the Grand
Canyon behind him. Where do you focus?
Optics and the laws of
optics since Isaac Newton discovered them are up to this point set in stone.
Whenever we look at anything with our eyes, with a camera (a still one or a
movie one), with binoculars or any other device there will always be one plane
of sharp focus.
This plane of focus,
be it near or far will have a distance behind it and a distance in front of it
that will be in acceptable focus. These two planes behind and in front are
called depth of field. That plane will be approximately parsed at 1/3 in front
and 2/3 in back. That depth of field zone will be narrow if you are up close and
wider as you move away.
When you look at that
north rim of the Grand Canyon, that 2/3 depth
of field beyond is of no consequence. The Grand Canyon
is at infinity (∞). That can be pretty far! But beyond infinity (∞) there is
more of it.
So going back let’s
say you are shooting a tight portrait of Uncle Billy. He has a big nose. Your
problem is that you want the tip of his nose sharp and also his ears. So
knowing about that 1/3 in front and 2/3 in back you might focus on the eyes
(the eyelashes). All things considered if you are using the right f-stop in
your camera the ears and the nose will be sharp. This is because you are moving
that depth of field zone so that the plane of sharp focus is by the eyes.
Now Uncle Billy is at
the Grand Canyon. You want him in focus and
the Canyon behind in focus. Where do you focus your camera?
That place has the
complicated name of hyper focal distance.
Note in the scan of my
manual focus Nikon 35mm lens. On the left you will note:
1. Where the ∞ is lies,
to the left of it is a small vertical red line. That vertical red line (faded because
this lens is very used and very old) matches the colour of the number 22 which
happens to be the smallest aperture of that lens. Just like when you squint
your eyes to read the sign on the bus, when you close a lens (you squint it)
you increase the zone of depth of field. On the opposite side (to the right) of
that vertical red line you might note that it lies a little to the left of the
number 1 representing 1 metre. That scale is telling you that if you have your
lens set as is (Uncle Billy is now about 2 metres away (a big black dot on the
lens), Uncle Billy will be in focus and so will the Grand
Canyon. Or everything from 1 metre away (Uncle Billy) to the Grand Canyon (a photographic lens infinity away (∞) will
be in focus. This is the hyper focal distance of a 35mm lens (whatever brand
you want it will be the same) at f-22.
What is interesting is
that your lens is focusing on a spot of no particular importance, a metre
behind Uncle Billy. Putting it in another way, to focus on what you want in
focus you have to focus elsewhere
How would your $6000
Canon DSL handle that problem?
Thus at 2:30 in the
morning a couple of Borges books, a Nikon lens, a couple of sketches have all
come together around the theme and or concept of infinity. Which brings me to
the idea that by its very definition of infinity, infinity has to be eternal. Both
difficult terms are linked in that Zeno paradox of Achilles and the tortoise. Achilles
can never reach the destination as he has to achieve half of it, and half
again. And that can’t be and yet we know
that Achilles will sprint and win the race in spite of our philosophical
musings to the contrary.
It is interesting for
me to know that thanks to Leibniz and Newton (who independently discovered the
calculus) we know about incremental changes in slopes (in differential
calculus) and how that led in the 20th century to hyperbolic paraboloid
roofs in modern buildings and that the source is a straight line from a point
of swivel that has an ever changing slope so that the individual lines, when
taken together form a graceful sweep of a roof. That differential calculus and Newton’s discovery of the
laws of gravitation gave us accurate ballistics is a tragedy that we cannot
avoid or find a remedy for.
Integral calculus with
the elegant sweeping of a right angle triangle from its base (at the right
angle) for 360 degrees will give us the volume of a cone of that triangle’s
height is one of those moments of my life that I will never forget. As I find all
these many (and there are many) citations of the infinite, of the eternal in
Borges I feel so lucky to be alive.
And luckier still to
be able to read the man in the language of Buenos Aires.
Emma Zunz
Friday, October 10, 2014
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| Emma Zunz |
Today marks a new direction. In the last
few weeks I have been a tad obsessive reading stories by Jorge Luís Borges as
my insomnia creeps into my night. I have read most of them several times but
increasing old age and perhaps an awareness that comes with that has helped me
find more in Borges than was lodged in my faulty memory.
Today I decided to print negatives that I
took of Caitlin Metisse Legault a month ago. These are pictures that are my
modern version of the skylight lighting of Mathew Brady’s portraits of the
1860s. The scanned negatives are very nice and I have written several blogs
about them. Here is one of them.
I decided to print the negatives in my
darkroom. I had been trying to return to it for weeks but garden work could not
be postponed. Today I found the time.
In this blog I cannot show you what it is
like to hold these 8x10 prints and what happens when you shift them in your
hands and light washes them.The experience exceeds anything you might have on your monitor screen.
I found a box of Agfa-Gevaert Brovira paper
that I purchased at Lens & Shutter about 20 years ago. The paper
has lost its sensitivity and it will not produce blacks or clean whites. It
fogs. There is never a reason to throw photographic stuff away as surprises are
always in store. I was pleasantly surprised.
I made some good prints from newer paper
and then decided to try the Brovira. I like the results. I increased the warm
tone of the print (I used Ilford Warm-tone paper developer) by immersing the
print in Kodak Selenium. When I dried the print a name was instantly conjured
in my head. Emma Zunz.
Emma Zunz is the protagonist of a Jorge
Luís Borges story of the same name that he wrote in 1948. The story is quite
famous and note below that it has been made into a film six times.
Emma Zunz (1993) (Spain) directed
for television by Jacquot Benoit.
Emma Zunz (1985) (Mexico)
directed by Giangiacomo Tabet.
Emma Zunz (1984) (Holland) directed by Peter
Delpeut.
Emma Zunz (1979) (Canada)
directed by Isabel Beveridge.
Emma Zunz (1966) (Spain)
directed by Jesús Martínez León.
Días de
odio (1954) (Argentina) directed by Leopoldo Torre Nilsson.
I will place here the
story in its original Spanish with an accompanying link to an English version.
Jorge Luis Borges
El catorce
de enero de 1922, Emma Zunz, al volver de la fábrica de tejidos Tarbuch y
Loewenthal, halló en el fondo del zaguán una carta, fechada en el Brasil, por la
que supo que su padre había muerto. La engañaron, a primera vista, el sello y
el sobre; luego, la inquietó la letra desconocida. Nueve diez líneas
borroneadas querían colmar la hoja; Emma leyó que el señor Maier había ingerido
por error una fuerte dosis de veronal y había fallecido el tres del corriente
en el hospital de Bagé. Un compañero de pensión de su padre firmaba la noticia,
un tal Feino Fain, de Río Grande, que no podía saber que se dirigía a la hija
del muerto.
Emma dejó caer el papel. Su primera impresión fue de malestar en el vientre y
en las rodillas; luego de ciega culpa, de irrealidad, de frío, de temor; luego,
quiso ya estar en el día siguiente. Acto contínuo comprendió que esa voluntad
era inútil porque la muerte de su padre era lo único que había sucedido en el
mundo, y seguiría sucediendo sin fin. Recogió el papel y se fue asucuarto.
Furtivamente lo guardó en un cajón, como si de algún modo ya conociera los
hechos ulteriores. Ya había empezado a vislumbrarlos, tal vez; ya era la que
sería.
En la creciente oscuridad, Emma lloró hasta el fin de aquel día del suicidio de
Manuel Maier, que en los antiguos días felices fue Emanuel Zunz. Recordó
veraneos en una chacra, cerca de Gualeguay, recordó (trató de recordar) a su
madre, recordó la casita de Lanús que les remataron, recordó los amarillos
losanges de una ventana, recordó el auto de prisión, el oprobio, recordó los
anónimos con el suelto sobre «el desfalco del cajero», recordó (pero eso jamás
lo olvidaba) que su padre, la última noche, le había jurado que el ladrón era
Loewenthal. Loewenthal, Aarón Loewenthal, antes gerente de la fábrica y ahora
uno de los dueños. Emma, desde 1916, guardaba el secreto. A nadie se lo había
revelado, ni siquiera a su mejor amiga, Elsa Urstein. Quizá rehuía la profana
incredulidad; quizá creía que el secreto era un vínculo entre ella y el
ausente. Loewenthal no sabía que ella sabía; Emma Zunz derivaba de ese hecho
ínfimo un sentimiento de poder.
No durmió aquella noche, y cuando la primera luz definió el rectángulo de la
ventana, ya estaba perfecto su plan. Procuró que ese día, que le pareció
interminable, fuera como los otros. Había en la fábrica rumores de huelga; Emma
se declaró, como siempre, contra toda violencia. A las seis, concluido el
trabajo, fue con Elsa a un club de mujeres, que tiene gimnasio y pileta. Se
inscribieron; tuvo que repetir y deletrear su nombre y su apellido, tuvo que
festejar las bromas vulgares que comentan la revisación. Con Elsa y con la
menor de las Kronfuss discutió a qué cinematógrafo irían el domingo a la tarde.
Luego, se habló de novios y nadie esperó que Emma hablara. En abril cumpliría
diecinueve años, pero los hombres le inspiraban, aún, un temor casi
patológico... De vuelta, preparó una sopa de tapioca y unas legumbres, comió
temprano, se acostó y se obligó a dormir. Así, laborioso y trivial, pasó el
viernes quince, la víspera.
El sábado, la impaciencia la despertó. La impaciencia, no la inquietud, y el
singular alivio de estar en aquel día, por fin. Ya no tenía que tramar y que
imaginar; dentro de algunas horas alcanzaría la simplicidad de los hechos. Leyó
en La Prensa que el Nordstjärnan, de Malmö, zarparía esa noche del dique 3;
llamó por teléfono a Loewenthal, insinuó que deseaba comunicar, sin que lo
supieran las otras, algo sobre la huelga y prometió pasar por el escritorio, al
oscurecer. Le temblaba la voz; el temblor convenía a una delatora. Ningún otro
hecho memorable ocurrió esa mañana. Emma trabajó hasta las doce y fijó con Elsa
y con Perla Kronfuss los pormenores del paseo del domingo. Se acostó después de
almorzar y recapituló, cerrados los ojos, el plan que había tramado. Pensó que
la etapa final sería menos horrible que la primera y que le depararía, sin
duda, el sabor de la victoria y de la justicia. De pronto, alarmada, se levantó
y corrió al cajón de la cómoda. Lo abrió; debajo del retrato de Milton Sills,
donde la había dejado la antenoche, estaba la carta de Fain. Nadie podía
haberla visto; la empezó a leer y la rompió.
Referir con alguna realidad los hechos de esa tarde sería difícil y quizá
improcedente. Un atributo de lo infernal es la irrealidad, un atributo que
parece mitigar sus terrores y que los agrava tal vez. ¿Cómo hacer verosímil una
acción en la que casi no creyó quien la ejecutaba, cómo recuperar ese breve
caos que hoy la memoria de Emma Zunz repudia y confunde? Emma vivía por
Almagro, en la calle Liniers; nos consta que esa tarde fue al puerto. Acaso en
el infame Paseo de Julio se vio multiplicada en espejos, publicada por luces y
desnudada por los ojos hambrientos, pero más razonable es conjeturar que al principio
erró, inadvertida, por la indiferente recova... Entró en dos o tres bares, vio
la rutina o los manejos de otras mujeres. Dio al fin con hombres del
Nordstjärnan. De uno, muy joven, temió que le inspirara alguna ternura y optó
por otro, quizá más bajo que ella y grosero, para que la pureza del horror no
fuera mitigada. El hombre la condujo a una puerta y después a un turbio zaguán
y después a una escalera tortuosa y después a un vestíbulo (en el que había una
vidriera con losanges idénticos a los de la casa en Lanús) y después a un
pasillo y después a una puerta que se cerró. Los hechos graves están fuera del
tiempo, ya porque en ellos el pasado inmediato queda como tronchado del
porvenir, ya porque no parecen consecutivas las partes que los forman.
¿En aquel tiempo fuera del tiempo, en aquel desorden perplejo de sensaciones
inconexas y atroces, pensó Emma Zunz una sola vez en el muerto que motivaba el
sacrificio? Yo tengo para mí que pensó una vez y que en ese momento peligró su
desesperado propósito. Pensó (no pudo no pensar) que su padre le había hecho a
su madre la cosa horrible que a ella ahora le hacían. Lo pensó con débil
asombro y se refugió, en seguida, en el vértigo. El hombre, sueco o finlandés,
no hablaba español; fue una herramienta para Emma como ésta lo fue para él,
pero ella sirvió para el goce y él para la justicia. Cuando se quedó sola, Emma
no abrió en seguida los ojos. En la mesa de luz estaba el dinero que había
dejado el hombre: Emma se incorporó y lo rompió como antes había roto la carta.
Romper dinero es una impiedad, como tirar el pan; Emma se arrepintió, apenas lo
hizo. Un acto de soberbia y en aquel día... El temor se perdió en la tristeza
de su cuerpo, en el asco. El asco y la tristeza la encadenaban, pero Emma
lentamente se levantó y procedió a vestirse. En el cuarto no quedaban colores
vivos; el último crepúsculo se agravaba. Emma pudo salir sin que lo
advirtieran; en la esquina subió a un Lacroze, que iba al oeste. Eligió,
conforme a su plan, el asiento más delantero, para que no le vieran la cara. Quizá
le confortó verificar, en el insípido trajín de las calles, que lo acaecido no
había contaminado las cosas. Viajó por barrios decrecientes y opacos, viéndolos
y olvidándolos en el acto, y se apeó en una de las bocacalles de Warnes. Pardójicamente
su fatiga venía a ser una fuerza, pues la obligaba a concentrarse en los
pormenores de la aventura y le ocultaba el fondo y el fin.
Aarón Loewenthal era, para todos, un hombre serio; para sus pocos íntimos, un
avaro. Vivía en los altos de la fábrica, solo. Establecido en el desmantelado
arrabal, temía a los ladrones; en el patio de la fábrica había un gran perro y
en el cajón de su escritorio, nadie lo ignoraba, un revólver. Había llorado con
decoro, el año anterior, la inesperada muerte de su mujer - ¡una Gauss, que le
trajo una buena dote! -, pero el dinero era su verdadera pasión. Con íntimo
bochorno se sabía menos apto para ganarlo que para conservarlo. Era muy
religioso; creía tener con el Señor un pacto secreto, que lo eximía de obrar
bien, a trueque de oraciones y devociones. Calvo, corpulento, enlutado, de
quevedos ahumados y barba rubia, esperaba de pie, junto a la ventana, el
informe confidencial de la obrera Zunz.
La vio empujar la verja (que él había entornado a propósito) y cruzar el patio
sombrío. La vio hacer un pequeño rodeo cuando el perro atado ladró. Los labios
de Emma se atareaban como los de quien reza en voz baja; cansados, repetían la
sentencia que el señor Loewenthal oiría antes de morir.
Las cosas no ocurrieron como había previsto Emma Zunz. Desde la madrugada
anterior, ella se había soñado muchas veces, dirigiendo el firme revólver,
forzando al miserable a confesar la miserable culpa y exponiendo la intrépida
estratagema que permitiría a la Justicia de Dios triunfar de la justicia
humana. (No por temor, sino por ser un instrumento de la Justicia, ella no
quería ser castigada.) Luego, un solo balazo en mitad del pecho rubricaría la
suerte de Loewenthal. Pero las cosas no ocurrieron así.
Ante Aarón Loeiventhal, más que la urgencia de vengar a su padre, Emma sintió
la de castigar el ultraje padecido por ello. No podía no matarlo, después de
esa minuciosa deshonra. Tampoco tenía tiempo que perder en teatralerías. Sentada,
tímida, pidió excusas a Loewenthal, invocó (a fuer de delatora) las
obligaciones de la lealtad, pronunció algunos nombres, dio a entender otros y
se cortó como si la venciera el temor. Logró que Loewenthal saliera a buscar
una copa de agua. Cuando éste, incrédulo de tales aspavientos, pero indulgente,
volvió del comedor, Emma ya había sacado del cajón el pesado revólver. Apretó
el gatillo dos veces. El considerable cuerpo se desplomó como si los
estampi-dos y el humo lo hubieran roto, el vaso de agua se rompió, la cara la
miró con asombro y cólera, la boca de la cara la injurió en español y en
ídisch. Las malas palabras no cejaban; Emma tuvo que hacer fuego otra vez. En
el patio, el perro encadenado rompió a ladrar, y una efusión de brusca sangre
manó de los labios obscenos y manchó la barba y la ropa. Emma inició la
acusación que había preparado («He vengado a mi padre y no me podrán
castigar...»), pero no la acabó, porque el señor Loewenthal ya había muerto. No
supo nunca si alcanzó a comprender.
Los ladridos tirantes le recordaron que no podía, aún, descansar. Desordenó el
diván, desabrochó el saco del cadáver, le quitó los quevedos salpicados y los
dejó sobre el fichero. Luego tomó el teléfono y repitió lo que tantas veces
repetiría, con esas y con otras palabras: Ha ocurrido una cosa que es increíble...
El señor Loewenthal me hizo venir con el pretexto de la huelga... Abusó de mí,
lo maté...
La historia era increíble, en efecto, pero se impuso a todos, porque
sustancialmente era cierta. Verdadero era el tono de Emma Zunz, verdadero el
pudor, verdadero el odio. Verdadero también era el ultraje que había padecido;
sólo eran falsas las circunstancias, la hora y uno o dos nombres propios.
Romance Apps & The Piropo
Thursday, October 09, 2014
“All our souls are written in our eyes.”
Cyrano de Bergerac
 |
| Claire Love, Feb 1991 |
These days I have been
thinking a lot about the words I use and their meaning when you think
about them. To share, a verb in a state of possible extinction thanks to facebook,
in Spanish translates to compartir. This literally means to break with, alluding to what
Christ did with a loaf of bread at that final supper. While we chat and talk we
rarely use converse. In Spanish it is more usual to conversar which means to
[to speak] in verse. By now you may be getting the idea.
There is this lovely
verb much in use in Argentina
(even though it is a Spanish word) to lisonjear. It involves saying something
nice to someone usually for ulterior motives.
lisonja1. (Del prov. lauzenja).
1. f. Alabanza
afectada, para ganar la voluntad de alguien.
A similar word, not so nice sounding is exact in its meaning. It is a piropo
which comes from the Latin and it can mean red bronze or a purple garnet.
piropo. (Del lat.
pyrōpus, y este del gr. πυρωπός).
1. m.
Variedad del granate, de color rojo de fuego, muy apreciada como piedra fina.
2. m. Rubí,
carbúnculo.
3. m.
coloq. Lisonja, requiebro.
Note the third meaning
lisonja or requiebro defined as a flirtatious remark.
A piropo, then is the
exact term in Spanish that defines those nice things you might say to someone
who is pretty or good looking, whom you might not yet know, or will never know
and you say it in passing on the street for example. The English compliments, flirtatious
remark or amorous compliment simply do not cut it.
Spaniards of the 17th
century and in earlier centuries were experts at the flowery piropo. Cyrano de
Bergerac was accomplished at that sort of thing in France.
In the late 60s when
my wife was visibly pregnant she had to navigate albañiles (brick or
construction workers) who would utter all kinds of flowery and not so flowery
remarks perched on their scaffolding in Mexico
City. I remember one in particular as the albañil was
next door to where we lived. I asked her what the man had said. Blushing, and indignant, she told
me, “Gringüita (blonde American) hagamos un taquito de carne y tu serías la
tortilla.” This translates to
“Let’s make a little taco. I will be the meat and you the tortilla.”
Much tamer was an Argentine piropo of my youth that you might tell a beautiful young woman coming your way. It drew on the three names of Columbus's caravelles, !Santa María, que Pinta está la Niña! It translates to, "Holy Mother of God how pretty the girl is!"
In my younger days I
could lay it thick and say nice things. I feel that now it has become
impossible to tell a beautiful woman, a handsome man, a man with nice hands, a
woman with interesting hair that you have noticed. In those younger days when I wore a uniform of the Argentine Navy women would come to me in the street (a very pleasant Argentine superstition, in my opinion.) and touch (demurely) some part of my uniform and say, "¡Marinero, suerte para mí! or "Sailor bring me good luck!"
It was a month ago
that Rosemary and I were leaving Oakridge Mall. We passed the very oriental
Peninsula Restaurant. At the door was a woman dressed in what I call a Susy
Wong, blue Chinese silk dress with a slit on the side. I found myself stopping
and telling her, “You look wonderful in that beautiful dress.” She took it as a
compliment. She smiled and thanked me.
That sort of thing
does not happen too much now. If the woman is young and you are an old man (as
I am) you are risking alleged sexual harassment or portraying yourself as a
dirty old man.
There are small not quite insignificant decisions that a man must make on the street when he spies a beautiful woman coming one's way. Do you avert your eyes? Do you make eye contact? Do you stare at her cleavage while avoiding her eyes? And most difficult of all do you look back at her obverse side as she walks past you?
A week ago I told the
Artistic Director of Early Music Vancouver (before a concert) that lutenist
Sylvain Bergeron was a matinee idol. I was corrected and told Bergeron was too
old to be such a person. On the other hand that Artistic Director was aware
that the term matinee idol was a term reserved to describe good looking men. It
never applied to women. You might say that it is a gender specific compliment.
For too many centuries
and perhaps one of the high points was
the Arthurian times of literature when spotlessly clean knights (who did
not even sin in thought) sought out the Holy Grail while wearing a token from
their lady love back home perched on a high pedestal.
The equality of the
sexes, or the near one in this 21st century has taken away from men
and women the heretofore sparring that preceded any kind of amorous
involvement.
Just a week ago while
watching Emily Gibbs (played by Lauren Jackson) and George Webb (Chris Cope) in
some old-fashioned mating dance in the second act of Osimous's Our Town, “Lauren can I carry your books?” I came to
understand how lucky I am to be 72 and over all that. Could I cope with on line
dating and sexting with my smart phone? No! Romance has been replaced by the
concept of a partner with privileges. The other side of the coin, when Dawn
Petten playing Mrs. Gibbs says,”When I married I went into it blind as a bat,”
now has as the reality knowledge of everything you ever wanted to or did not
want to know about your partner. Discovery
has been replaced by a “romance app” that automatically chills the Champagne, and reminds
you to break open a box of Trojans.
The simple idea that
as humans we are attracted to beauty or of a beauty of our choosing, be it a
landscape, a house, a painting, a vacation spot, a man, a woman, both, a suit,
a dress, a symmetrical tabby, and that all that does not include our right to
utter such a preference when spotting a human of our visual predilection (where
it all begins unless your predilection comes with a voice like Grace Kelly or
Debora Kerr) is a shame. If you hold open a door for a woman you might get
slapped or sneered at.
Which brings me to
this photograph of Claire Love which I took in February 1991. I went up to her
and said, “I would like to photograph you because you are stunning.” She looked
at me, up and down, and said, “When and where?” I photographed her two more
times. In these I went the route of George Hurrell glamour. I believe I used a
hair light, a light to project an out of focus gobo of stars, a boom light
shooting down and a filler or kicker central to her face. Note that while Love and my camera were hugging the floor, in my mind and in that photograph she is up on a pedestal.
I wanted to make the
beautiful, more beautiful and ethereal. Can there be anything wrong with that?
Claire Love lives in France and I am
sure that when she takes a stroll in her town, there are willing Cyranos everywhere
uttering delights her way.
Love at the Arch
More Claire Love
Of Memory - Jorge Luís Borges & Thorton Wilder
Wednesday, October 08, 2014
 |
| Jorge Luís Borges - Photograph Giselle Freund |
Salomon saith. There
is no new thing upon the earth. So that as Plato had an imagination, that all
knowledge was but remembrance; so Salomon giveth his sentence, that all novelty
is but oblivion.
Francis
Bacon: Essays LVIII.
Does a neuron, or small set of neurons,
fire only when responding to the visual image of Jennifer Aniston? An Argentine
neuroscientist, Rodrigo Quian Quiroga provides an answer in his recent book
that explores the relationship between the work of Jorge Luis Borges and modern
forays into the workings of memory. Searching for the Jennifer Aniston neuron
Mediante su
memoria el poeta puede descifrar lo invisible.
Jorge Luís Borges - El inmortal
Through memory the poet deciphers the invisible.
I may have crossed
paths with the soon to be blind man in 1964, 65 when I frequented the English
bookstore Pigmalion on Avenida Corrientes in Buenos Aires. Jorge Luís Borges bought
hundreds of books there. In 1964 my literary tastes were humble and while I
knew of the existence of the man my curiousity stopped right there.
Judging by the date on
my first Borges book, Ficciones, 1969 I made up for some lost time. In 1969 I
had been married to my Rosemary for one year and both of us were giving English
lessons at several American companies. One of then was Colgate Palmolive. I
remember distinctly in using Ficciones in one of my classes that featured
intelligent marketing executives. Once a week we would do simultaneous
translation from Spanish into English of one of the stories in Ficciones. Since
equality of the sexes was not something I thought about in those days I used a
different technique in a class, also at Palmolive that involved executive
secretaries (not yet called by the improved epithet of assistants). In that
class for several months I taught them to use their nasal passages in such a
way that without them knowing I was teaching them to speak with a Texan accent.
These days, in fact
today, when my Rosemary noticed that I was in a pretty low fit of depression
she told me, “The problem with you, Alex, is that you spend too much time
thinking about the past, of your childhood, of your mother and father, of your
Buenos Aires garden, of your grandmother, of all your dogs and cats and
parrots, of your Melián friends, of Mexico, of the Argentine navy, of the Pampa
and prickly pear cactus in the state of Mexico and palm trees in Veracruz. She
didn’t go on with the litany of my memories. I thought about it.
If I am to understand
correctly the ending of Thornton Wilder’s Our Town (an Osimous Theatre
production we saw on Saturday night) the tragedy of the living is that they
take everyday occurrences lightly and only remember their importance
(particularly the ones that are not when happening) when they are dead. And the
dead, in preparation for whatever follows death do their best to forget.
I feel that in spite
of Rosemary’s criticism I am doing well in remembering and savouring all that
past while at the same time attempting to reconcile it all with my present and
a shortened future to come.
In the last few years
I read a poem or a short story by Borges once a week. We know that for a time, beginning in 1955
Borges was the Director of the Argentine National Library.
 |
| Roberto Baschetti, El Viejo Faro, Sept 2013 |
In September of 2013 I
met Roberto Baschetti, who works at the Argentine National Library. Since then,
knowing of my interest in Borges, he sends me packages including books,
pamphlets and magazines on all things Borgesian. Baschetti’s interest lies in
the period when Juan Domingo Perón and wife Evita where in charge in Argentina. But
that does not prevent him from scouring the National Library for stuff that
might (and it does) interest me.
I live in a city of
the Northern Hemisphere. Of late I feel, as my friend Argentine painter Juan
Manuel Sánchez used to say, like a penguin in the arctic. But if I slip a CD of Argentine Tango (my fave is Mi Buenos Aires Querido with Daniel
Barenboim and Rodolfo Maderos and yes it has a six tangos by Piazzolla) in my Malibu I
am far away into a past but paradoxically a present, too, not here, but over
there. I seem to live in several worlds at the same time, all interconnected by
memory. A labyrinthian memory of which Borges would approve.
The sound of Spanish,
like the sound of those other Romance languages, Italian, French and Portuguese
has a music to my ears. Even shouted obscenities, in Spanish can sound like
poetry.
Consider to remember and its not too close
variant (with a different meaning) to
memorize. A person with a good memory could be memorious but that word is
seldom used. And yet it is used as translation to one of Borges’s most famous
stories (from Ficciones) Funes el Memorioso, translated as Funes the Memorious.
Spanish is kinder to
memory. We do have memorizar to memorize and recordar to remember. In fact
recordar is used most of the time because it sound prosaic and it is. Marcel
Proust’s famous En busca de tiempos perdidos (translates as in search of lost
time). In Spanish there is another word for memory and to remember. That word
is memorar (to remember) and to do it over and over there is the beautiful
rememorar.
The story Funes el memorioso
has a wonderful sound and meaning in Spanish that will not translate.
Funes el memorioso is
about a young man in Uruguay,
19 who has fallen off a horse and has become paralyzed. In exchange for that
Ireneo Funes has instant and all inclusive memory for everything. He is able to
see the minute difference in clouds seconds before and after. He suffers
constant insomnia as he cannot stop from noticing the details of the wall by
his bed.
Funes, we are told, by
the protagonist who stands in for a young Borges, is incapable of Platonic
ideas, of generalities, of abstraction; his world is one of intolerably
uncountable details. He finds it very difficult to sleep, since he recalls
"every crevice and every moulding of the various houses which surround
him".
Funes quotes a passage from Pliny the Elder
to Borges:
ut nihil non iisdem verbis redderetur
auditum.
This is from Pliny's Naturalis Historia,
Book VII, Chapter 24, on memory. The full passage is:
ars postremo eius rei
facta et inventa est a Simonide melico, consummata a Metrodoro Scepsio, ut nihil
non iisdem verbis redderetur auditum,
which means that an art of memory was
devised by the poet Simonides and perfected by Metrodorus of Scepsis, so that
nothing heard is not repeated in the same words.
In Spanish Borges
writes:
Pensar es
olvidar diferencias, es generalizar, abstraer. En el abarrotado mundo de Funes
no había sino detalles, casi inmediatos.
To think is to forget
differences, to generalize to abstract. The overflowing world of Funes could
not contain but details immediate one.(my translation)
Borges also tells us of a project of Funes to remember the moments of his youth. They pile up. He gives up.
In a recent email, the library man Roberto Baschetti has told me that the corner café in Bellavista where we would have our morning coffee with medias lunas (by the train station to town) has closed its doors. I can remember a lot about it and our good times chatting about politics, Boca Juniors (a football club) and yes, Borges.
Baschetti's packages, like the memories of Funes are piling up. Some of the magazines have photographs of Borges as a very young man and many more rare ones I had not seen before. It seems now as I get into bed to read Ficciones that the man I never crossed paths on Avenida Corrientes is so much part of my life now that my memory of him is so real. I have many recordings. I can hear his voice as I read. And best of all I now know that Marcel Proust's In Search of a Lost Time with its plural in its Spanish translation to Tiempos Perdidos is an apt reminder that being a memorioso isn't all that bad.
Homero Aridjis - Poeta
Tuesday, October 07, 2014
My Mother's Red Shawl
- El Rebozo Colorado
Homero Aridjis - Poeta
La Matanza
en el Templo Mayor
El capitán
buscaba oro en el templo de dios
Soldados
ávidos cerraron las salidas
El que
tañía el atabal fue decapitado
Y el dios
fue despojado de su ropa de papel
Las espadas
tumbaron ídolos y derribaron hombres
Los indios
para escapar subían por las paredes
o a punto
de morir se hacían los muertos
Sombras
recién nacidas en el más allá
partieron
degollados hacia el Sol
El capitán
buscaba oro en el templo de dios
The Slaughter in the Main Temple
The captain sought
gold in the temple of god
Greed soldiers sealed
the exits
The drummer was
decapitated
The god stripped of
his paper clothes
Swords tumbled idols cut down men
The Indians tried to
climb the walls
Or at the point of
death played dead
Shades newly born in
the far land
Setting out the throats slit toward the sun
The captain sought
gold in the temple of god
Zippy Pinhead - Musician
Monday, October 06, 2014
My Mother's Red Shawl
- El Rebozo Colorado
Zippy Pinhead -
Musician
When Alex approached me to do this photo
shoot I was celebrating my 53rd birthday with my close friends Art Bergmann and
his wife Sherry, Randy Rampage and Susanne Tabata, Long John Tanner and my wife.
I'd had photo shoots with Alex in the past so I knew he had a certain taste for
the dramatic effect in his pics. Dressing up like turn of the century bandidos
with full regalia to sensitive portraits in a heartbeat, I was
honored! When he told me the story of the red shawl and how long it
had been in his family I immediately thought of how many parties this shawl has
seen and how much comfort it gave it's owner when the party was over, so I went
into the bathroom and sort of threw it up in the air and it landed on my head
kinda like the headdress worn by Peter O'Toole in Lawrence of Arabia! A cupla
twists and I was there. Charging through the sand dunes on my trusty camel, shooting
into the air and yelling at the top of my lungs.....Get out of the way you bastards;
here I come with thousands of my close friends right behind me. That’s the way
I felt when I put on the shawl.
Caitlin Legault Art Model
Holly McRea Model - Poet - Creation Conduit.
Lisa Ha Model - Volunteer - Friend
Carmen Alatorre Diseñadora de vestuario
Roberto Baschetti Sociólogo, Investigador Histórico - Amigo
Jennifer Froese Youth Worker
Rachel Cairns Actor
Jennifer Landels Espadachina
Judith Currelly Pilot- Artist
Jim Erickson Set Decorator
Alexandra Hill Soprano
Georgina Elizabeth Isles Figure Model
Emma Middleton Actor
Mark Pryor Author/Lawyer/Assistant DA Travis County TX
Brother Edwin Charles Reggio, CSC Mentor & Teacher
Veronica Vex Burlesque Dancer
George McWhirter Poet
Raúl Guerrero Montemayor Padre-Compadre
Alexandra Waterhouse-Hayward Maestra
Shirley Gnome Singer/Provocateur
Yeva & Thoenn Glover Dancers/Choreographers
JJ Lee Writer
Jacqueline Model
Cathy Marsden Psychiatrist
André De Mondo Wanderer
Colin MacDonald Saxophonist/Composer
Nina Gouveia Yoga Instructor
Stacey Hutton Excercise Physiologist
Colleen Wheeler Actor
Sarah Rodgers Actor, Director,Mother
Tim Turner - Real Estate Agent
Kiera Hill Dancer
Johnna Wright & Sascha Director/Mother - Son/Dreamer
Decker & Nick Hunt Cat & 19th century amateur
George Bowering Poet
Celia Duthie Gallerist
Linda Lorenzo Mother
Katheryn Petersen Accordionist
Stefanie Denz Artist
Ivette Hernández Actress
Byron Chief-Moon Actor/Dancer
Colin Horricks Doctor
Ian Mulgrew Vancouver Sun Columnist
Jocelyn Morlock Composer
Corinne McConchie Librarian
Rachel Ditor Dramaturg
Patrick Reid Statesman, Flag Designer
Michael Varga CBC Cameraman
Bronwen Marsden Playwright/Actress/Director
David Baines Vancouver Sun Columnist
Alex Waterhouse-Hayward Photographer
Lauren Elizabeth Stewart Student
Sandrine Cassini Dancer/Choreographer
Meredith Kalaman Dancer/Choreographer
Juliya Kate Dominatrix
|
When I put the book in
its place I noticed a little one I had not read for some years. El Lenguaje de Buenos Aires (also published by Emecé) which contains essays about the language spoken in Buenos Aires, written by Jorge Luís Borges and José E. Clemente. In the first essay by Borges, El
Idioma de los Argentinos, a printed version of a lecture he gave in 1927 in Buenos Aires I
found this:
Before the
proliferation of GPS devices for cars and phones most of us resorted to using
maps to find places and or used our memories and some logic to get to our
destination. This ability to find a place on one’s own will be surely lost as
we come to depend more and more on location technology.
