Django Reinhardt: Three-Fingered Lightning

"The Balloon" A short story by Donald Barthelme

This particular story by Donald Barthelme is a perfect example of the power of the written word. How a writer, in just a few pages, can provide a completely fantastic setting, make it sound true, leave you guessing until the end, play games with your mind. From the first sentence, you are presented with an absurd situation. A balloon is expanding in fairytale proportions covering a whole city under it. The writer seems to be in control of this balloon "installation" as much as he is in control of this short story. We are left in the dark as to the meaning of this phenomenon. What we have throughout the story are the technicalities and the reactions of the people of the city to the balloon. The idea brings to my mind the art installations of Christo and Jeanne-Claude where whole buildings are wrapped and presented in their naked form or mass as a pure object. In the story, the writer is very careful not to say more than is needed and you are left wondering, as the story goes on, where and especially how it will all end. I will not spoil the story by giving its conclusion. Suffice it to say that the writing of Donald Barthelme, this master of the short story, should be rediscovered and reassessed.    

Read the story here... (pdf link)

David Uzochukwu: The coming of age of a talented photographer

Some say that ever since photography became digital, it has lost a lot of its magic. When something becomes easy, it starts to slip into the mundane, it becomes repetitive and loses slowly its power as a creative tool. And then, one day, someone comes and rediscovers the hidden potential and the endless possibilities. Someone comes and makes photography difficult again by making it seem effortless. I think it's time I introduced you to David.   

David Ejikeme Uzochukwu is a clever kid.

David Ejikeme Uzochukwu is good at school.
David Ejikeme Uzochukwu reads a lot.
David Ejikeme Uzochukwu shows signs of maturity way beyond his age.
David Ejikeme Uzochukwu has an imagination that knows no bounds. 
David Ejikeme Uzochukwu has a curious spirit.
David Ejikeme Uzochukwu looks for ways to express his sensitivity.
David Ejikeme Uzochukwu starts to observe carefully.
David Ejikeme Uzochukwu discovers photography.
David Ejikeme Uzochukwu understands the rules and wants to break them.
David Ejikeme Uzochukwu begins to experiment.
David Ejikeme Uzochukwu learns the tricks of the trade. 
David Ejikeme Uzochukwu possesses a natural sense of frame and composition.
David Ejikeme Uzochukwu decides to re-invent color.
David Ejikeme Uzochukwu works equally well with black and white.  
David Ejikeme Uzochukwu discovers the power of the portrait.
David Ejikeme Uzochukwu starts to unravel the poetry of the lens.
David Ejikeme Uzochukwu begins to understand texture.
David Ejikeme Uzochukwu is now taking his first steps into Photography.
David Ejikeme Uzochukwu is just 14 years old. 

And the world should now take note of this boy with the strange name. This is only the beginning...
  

To find the work and follow the progress of David Uzochukwu, please visit one of the following links:

David's site

Flickr

Tumbir

The Tiger Lillies perform "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner"

This is a match made in heaven, or rather... hell for that matter. The Tiger Lillies performing "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. This dark, epic poem of the 18th century has been brought to life through the perverted aural delicacies of Martyn Jacques and Co. and the stunning virtual world of photographer and cinema artist Mark Holthusen. For an hour and a half you follow this dark story from the icy cold waters of the Antarctic to the burning flames of hell. After having killed an albatros that had safely guided the ship in the treacherous southern waters, the mariner suffers the revenge of the spirit world who unleash their wrath on the ship. Death comes for the mariner's companions as one by one they perish from thirst and exhaustion. The irony is not lost to Coleridge who writes:


"Water, water, everywhere
And all the boards did shrink 
Water, water, everywhere 
Not any drop to drink". 




By projecting filmed segments on a transparent screen, Mark Holthusen creates a magical, fairytale world that can quickly turn into a nightmare that brings to life the famous wood engravings of Gustave Doré. Sublime creatures can be seen floating around the Tiger Lillies whose decadent and macabre delivery is often interlaced with black humor and existentialist reverie. 




Adrian Stout does not limit himself to playing the double bass. He produces the strangest of sounds on the musical saw and the theremin, creating an ever shifting background on which the inventive percussion effects of Mike Pickering and the piano and bandoneon of Martyn Jacques can bring out the full glory of this, Soho with a litle pinch of pre-war Berlin, dark cabaret act. Coleridge, who fostered a lifelong addiction to opium would certainly have approved of this at times surreal, provocative and avant-garde rendition of his all time classic of romantic literature.

A special version of "Berlin" by Lou Reed

In 2001, the release of the initially bootlegged album "Lou Reed: An American Poet", captured Lou Reed live at the Hempstead Theatre, New York on Boxing Day 26 December 1972. Hidden in the setlist there is a jewel version of the song "Berlin" from his first self titled album. Lou Reed went on to re-record the song with a different arrangement, one year later, for his 1973 album "Berlin". But this version, the live one, the badly recorded one, is for me one of the best that he ever recorded. The lyrics of the song say at one point "...you could hear the guitars play / It was very nice / it was paradise / You're right and I'm wrong / hey babe, I'm gonna miss you now that you're gone". And that says it all.

Listen to:
Lou Reed - Berlin(Live)

"Ο Ηθοποιός" Ένα ποίημα της Ματίνας Μόσχοβη

"The Return" A short animated film by Natalia Chernysheva

A sweet and short animated film about the change and difference of perspective between a child and an adult. But memory, when it's triggered by direct experience, is capable of dissolving this kind of difference and in an instant, a magical instant, the adult becomes the child once again.
   

Le retour from Natalia Chernysheva on Vimeo.

"Permanently" A poem by Kenneth Koch (1925 - 2002)

"Permanently"
 by Kenneth Koch


One day the Nouns were clustered in the street.

An Adjective walked by, with her dark beauty.

The Nouns were struck, moved, changed.

The next day a Verb drove up, and created the Sentence.



Each Sentence says one thing—for example, “Although it was a dark rainy day when

the Adjective walked by, I shall remember the pure and sweet expression on her face

until the day I perish from the green, effective earth."

Or, “Will you please close the window, Andrew?”

Or, for example, “Thank you, the pink pot of flowers on the window sill has changed color

recently to a light yellow, due to the heat from the boiler factory which exists nearby.”



In the springtime the Sentences and the Nouns lay silently on the grass.

A lonely Conjunction here and there would call, “And! But!”

But the Adjective did not emerge.



As the Adjective is lost in the sentence,

So I am lost in your eyes, ears, nose, and throat—

You have enchanted me with a single kiss

Which can never be undone

Until the destruction of language

 

The puppet theatre scene from the film "La Double Vie De Véronique" (1991)

As a child we experience the world in a completely different way from adults. Our senses are attuned to even the slightest external stimuli. Our unbound, fertile imagination whirls and creates wondrous links and conceptions that exceed all logic and "common sense". Images and sounds are conceived like fractals that give birth to new infinite designs. For, at that young age, there are no boundaries and so many empty spaces to fill in. Later on in life, these empty spaces will become casts regulating behavior and understanding. 

A child can very easily relate to a puppet or a marionette because the puppet world is an airy miniature of the real world. The child, dwarfed in it's everyday existence by all things grownup, suddenly sees something small and familiar. Something that it can relate to by intuition alone, effortlessly. Imagination takes over and the child believes. It's whole being is in fact absorbed into the characters, into the story. 

In our adult life we sometimes get flashbacks of our childhood. But it's always a fleeting moment when you loose control and dive into the rabbit hole like Alice. Just a spark and it's gone. The shadow of a memory long forgotten. But in that tiny moment there is something magical in what we experience. A letting go of all the templates, the iron casts and the frames. A re-emergence of that innocence. The infinite contentment of re-living that instant of childish insouciance.  

These thoughts came to my mind when I first saw the puppet theatre scene in Krzysztof Kieslowski's " La double vie de Véronique" in 1991. The music, by Zbigniew Preisner, makes this magical scene a cinematic moment you will always remember. A shortcut to the rabbit hole.

Transient art on the walls of Athens - Summer 2013 - part 2

The walls of Athens are canvasses on which artistic freedom of expression runs wild. No need for galleries, no patrons, no intermediaries. Just pictures at an exhibition. 

Transient art on the walls of Athens - Summer 2013 - part 1

1. The drawing style and technique of this artist distinguishes his/her work from traditional graffiti. Drawn on large pieces of paper and then plastered on the wall, his/her themes mainly include beauty, innocence and hope in the face of ugliness, adversity and racism. 

2. The following artist uses a mixed technique of stensil and graffiti to create a pastel-like soft texture. Great use of light and shadow and attention to detail. Theme: Wind and flying hats. 

3. An imaginary world of monsters and strange creatures lurk in every corner of Athens. Some of these would make H.P.Lovecraft proud while others seem to pop out of comic books.   

And here is finally the most ferocious monster of them all. A perfect specimen of the "politician" creature. It sports a long Pinocchio nose and carries a knife and fork. It has sharp teeth and greedy eyes. Beware of it's many promises... 

Transient Art on the Walls of Athens 2013: 1. Graffiti

Athens, Greece.
Summer 2013.
In the midst of a suffocating crisis, when everything is falling apart and people are sucked into swirling black holes of depression; when most of us are transformed into casual observers of the deadening of our own senses and emotions; when our backs are against the wall... We, in Athens, we turn and look at that wall. And we get a grip on ourselves, we regain our footing, we loose the numbness. For the walls of Athens are alive. They are vibrating. They carry the thoughts and feelings of young artists who refuse to cower in front of that giant crushing wave that hovers above. They just surf effortlessly through it, cutting it in half with an image, a message, a thought.

Take the graffiti artist who signs WD for example. Irony is the name of his game. All you need is Joke... You could take it literarily of course. But then you hear from the television..."- The government may be optimistic about a recovery just around the corner...". Shiny happy people and politicians kissing babies all over again... It's all a joke. The joke is on us. And in the end we live by this joke. Inspired by the Joker character in the Batman comic book, WD "defaces" his own work sending a message that ultimately aims to make you think and make your own mind about the state of things, about ways to turn the tables and react. Take laughter out of slaughter. What a Killing Joke indeed...

Listen to:

Killing Joke - Colony Collapse

John Ruskin (1819-1900) on what constitutes a book

"... A book is essentially not a talked thing, but a written thing; and written, not with the view of mere communication, but of permanence. The book of talk is printed only because its author cannot speak to thousands of people at once; if he could, he would—the volume is mere multiplication of his voice. You cannot talk to your friend in India, if you could, you would; you write instead: that is mere conveyance of voice. But a book is written, not to multiply the voice merely, not to carry it merely, but to perpetuate it. The author has something to say which he perceives to be true and useful, or helpfully beautiful. So far as he knows, no one has yet said it; so far as he knows, no one else can say it. He is bound to say it, clearly and melodiously if he may; clearly, at all events. In the sum of his life he finds this to be the thing, or group of things, manifest to him;—this, the piece of true knowledge, or sight, which his share of sunshine and earth has permitted him to seize. He would fain set it down forever; engrave it on rock, if he could; saying, “This is the best of me; for the rest, I ate, and drank, and slept, loved, and hated, like another; my life was as the vapor and is not; but this I saw and knew: this, if anything of mine, is worth your memory.” That is his “writing”; it is, in his small human way, and with whatever degree of true inspiration is in him, his inscription, or scripture. That is a “Book.”..."

Extracted from "Sesame and Lilies. Lecture I.—Sesame: Of Kings’ Treasuries" by John Ruskin.

Listen to:
Belle and Sebastian - Wrapped Up In Books

Δύο ποιήματα και ένας ζωγράφος (Γιάννης Σταύρου)

"S/S TERRIFIED RETURN" του Τάσου Κόρφη (1929-1994)

Δεν ξέρω αν φταίνε τα μάτια μου ή αν έχουν μεταβληθεί τα λιμάνια,
αν κάθε τι καινούριο κρύβει κι ένα χωρισμό,
ή μόνο τα μάτια γερνούν, όλο και πιο πολύ ησυχάζουν,
ο χρόνος καταπιεστικά μας περιφράσσει στα χαρακώματα.

Κι όλο ζητάω να βρω καινούριες προβλήτες, καινούρια περίπτερα,
τόπους καινούριους, άλλους ορίζοντες, ξένα φανάρια,
γιατί φοβάμαι, τρομάζω την κάθε επιστροφή,
δεν αντέχω την επαιτεία σε χώρους που τόσο αγάπησα.

"Τα Εσπέρια" του Αλέξανδρου Μπάρα (1906-1990)

Βράδυ.
Ελαιώδη τα νερά του προλιμένος,
βαριά, σαν υδραργυρικά, με κάτι
κυανά σαξωνικά, με κάτι ιώδεις
αποχρώσεις, κάτι θαμπούς
μεταλλισμούς κι αποχαυνώσεις ρόδινες…

Ναι, κάτι τέτοιες
ευδαιμονικές βραδιές,
ανώδυνες,
περιπλανώμενες βραδιές
μέσα στα θέρη,
διστακτικές να σβήσουν,
διστακτικές να καταλύσουν
την ονειροκρατία προς δυσμάς
μετά το πέσιμο του ήλιου,
— ενώ μια θεία μεσοβασιλεία
χωρίζει πια το φως που μας δυνάστευε
απ’ την ερχόμενη του σκότους μοναρχία
ναι, κάτι τέτοιες βραδιές,

στα ελαιώδη νερά του προλιμένος,
μετακινείται κύκνεια
ένα μεγάλο πλοίο,
μετακινείται παίρνοντας
κατεύθυνση προς τ’ ανοιχτά,
μ’ εκείνο το περιφρονητικό του μεγαλείο
των μακρινών αναχωρήσεων…

— Κι ίσως δεν είναι πλοίο,
ίσως είναι το παν που φεύγει,
όλα που φεύγουν — Όλα.

"William Trubridge - Freediver". A video from the Avant/Guard Diaries

William Trubridge - Freediver from The Avant/Garde Diaries on Vimeo.

"Das Eckhaus" Revisited. The real story.

In 2008, I wrote in my blog about a house. A house that once stood in a certain corner in the old city of Dresden. A house that was painted by the great expressionist painter Ludwig Meidner in 1913. The painting was called "Das Eckhaus" or "The House in the Corner". I became fascinated by this beautiful and evocative painting of a villa that was no more. I learned that it had a name. It was once called Villa Kochmann and it was totally destroyed in the allied carpet bombings of February 1945 that left Dresden a city only in name. 

I wondered who lived in this house. Who were the Kochmanns? At the time there was little information and I decided to fill in the gaps based on my own imagination. One day, I was surprised and moved to find a comment in my blog by Joan who was the great niece of Franz Kochmann, the once owner of das Eckhaus. She had stumbled by chance upon my blog, saw the painting and decided to provide some more information about her great uncle that lived in this very house. The villa Kochmann suddenly seemed to be coming to life. Five years later, I was contacted by L. David Tomei and based on his personal research, I can now start to piece together the life of the owner of the house in the painting. 


Franz Kochmann
 - Copyright L. David Tomei
and the Kochman family

Franz Kochmann was born on 12 September 1873. From what we know, prior to World War I, he was a well known and respected citizen of Dresden. But he was in fact a lot more than that. From a very young age he became passionate about a new magical science that was also an art and a practice. It involved creating durable images by recording light and it was simply called photography. Kochmann possessed the vision coupled with the technical ability to make this vision real. He decided to improve, design and produce photographic cameras based on his ideas and patents. In 1921, he founded the Franz Kochmann Fabrik where a number of fine cameras were produced for the professional and advanced amateur markets. Among the most notable were the Enolde and Korelle model series. Perhaps the finest were the Reflex-Korelle models first introduced in 1935. They proved to be one of the most important cameras of the 1930's. 

Herr Franz Kochmann, the successful entrepreneur, eventually became the wealthy industrialist who could afford to live in a villa that was named after him. He could now commission works of art and even become a patron to unknown but talented painters such as Ludwig Meidner or Oscar Kokoschka. There is evidence that in the villa Kochmann in Dresden one could see many important works of art hanging on the walls such as the black ink over graphite drawing "The Bar" signed by Ludwig Meidner or the "Double Portrait of Trudl" by Oskar Kokoschka to name but a few. And of course somewhere in the living room, maybe close to the imposing fireplace, or was it in the library, the Kochmanns had hung Meidner's "Das Eckhaus". A painting found in a house, depicting the very same house that contained the painting.     

But the dawn of one of the darkest hours of humanity was breaking. The rise of the Nazis to power changed the status of the Kochmann family overnight. Herr Franz Kochmann was targeted by the Nazi regime and became Franz "Israel" Kochmann (men were forced to add the name "Israel" and women "Sarah" so that they would be easily recognized as Jews). His company was taken away from him by force and nationalized. It is not clear precisely when he finally departed the family home in Dresden though late 1938 would appear to be accurate. He was refused a request to emigrate but was given permission to move to Utrecht which was at the time under Nazi control. He appears in the records (die Rijksinspectie van de Bevolkkingsregisters) as having registered in Utrecht on 26 March 1942. Such a registration was required of Jews who arrived in Holland at the time. 

The Kochmann art collection was seen to be comprised of mostly decadent art when the Nazis entered the villa. The greatest part of it was confiscated immediately and never returned to the family.

Following World War II, Herr Kochmann got a job with the Dutch camera company Vena and contributed to the design of several successful cameras such as the Venaret. These cameras were simple and inexpensive and did not come near the quality of his earlier designs produced at his own Dresden "Fabrik". 

Franz Kochmann's life came to its tragic end on 25 June 1956 when he was struck by a car in Utrecht. His wife, Clare Cleve Sprotte Kochmann died on 15 April 1971 at the age of 96.

So, here I am looking at the Meidner painting once again and it's late afternoon. It's just oil on canvas one can say, but then it's also so much more. It was a house, it was a family, it was a life and a history that should not be forgotten. 

My thanks to Joan and L. David Tomei.

You can visit David's vintage camera site right here

"Calmly We Walk Through This April's Day" by Delmore Schwartz (1913-1966)

Calmly We Walk Through This April's Day

Calmly we walk through this April's day,

Metropolitan poetry here and there,

In the park sit pauper and rentier,

The screaming children, the motor-car

Fugitive about us, running away,

Between the worker and the millionaire

Number provides all distances,

It is Nineteen Thirty-Seven now,

Many great dears are taken away,

What will become of you and me

(This is the school in which we learn...)

Besides the photo and the memory?

(...that time is the fire in which we burn.)

(This is the school in which we learn...)

What is the self amid this blaze?

What am I now that I was then

Which I shall suffer and act again,

The theodicy I wrote in my high school days

Restored all life from infancy,

The children shouting are bright as they run

(This is the school in which they learn . . .)

Ravished entirely in their passing play!

(...that time is the fire in which they burn.)

 

Avid its rush, that reeling blaze!

Where is my father and Eleanor?

Not where are they now, dead seven years,

But what they were then?

No more? No more?

From Nineteen-Fourteen to the present day,

Bert Spira and Rhoda consume, consume

Not where they are now (where are they now?)

But what they were then, both beautiful;

Each minute bursts in the burning room,

The great globe reels in the solar fire,

Spinning the trivial and unique away.

(How all things flash! How all things flare!)

What am I now that I was then?

May memory restore again and again

The smallest color of the smallest day:

Time is the school in which we learn,

Time is the fire in which we burn.