Fighting the Praise (Kate Bush, Wow)

30 July is Kate Bush's birthday. You can wish her happy birthday on this MySpace page; view her MySpace channel; read a Wiki bio; track the tracks on Last.fm; catch up on the news; surf Gaffaweb; and, above all, visit her official website. The photo on the right was found on Last.fm.

I have really discovered Bush's music around 2006, partly thanks to YouTube. Some of the songs you have to like or love: Wuthering Heights, Babooshka, Cloudbursting... I suppose we choose books and songs as "favourites" when they resonate with us or when they open us up to something. And although I could single out Moving and Them Heavy People as favourites, I chose Wow for this post. Why? Because, God knows, "we'd give you a part, my love, but you'd have to play the fool" sounds unbelievably familiar. I'm not complaining really; it's all a part of life experience. Many of us find ourselves in the situation when someone draws you in their circle - or simply adds you to it. They appear to be genuinely "wowed" and nice. Then before long you discover that you're a court jester or savant in the kingdom too small that secretly loathes your presence.

Picture on Los Cuadernos de Don Rigoberto (Henry Gervex, Rolla)

I noted that someone was looking for "picture on The Notebooks of Don Rigoberto
". There are various editions of the book, so the covers differ accordingly. The novel itself is woven around the work of Egon Schiele, the Austrian painter, and some of his works are used to illustrate the 1999 Faber&Faber edition.

Henri Gervex, Rolla, 1878

The cover of this edition, however, features a different work: it is Rolla (1878), by the French painter Henri Gervex (left). It is an illustration of a scene from the long poem under the same name by the enfant terrible of the French literature, Alfred de Musset (1810-1857). Rolla is the story of a bourgeois, Jacques Rolla, whose self-ruin and bankruptcy come as the consequence of his ennui with his social status. Unlike what may be deduced from Gervex's painting, de Musset's Rolla ended his life in a romantic but noble way: he came to visit Marion to tell her of his state of affairs, drank poison, and died in her arms.

The painting went public 20 years after de Musset's death and 45 years after Rolla was composed. It was rejected by the Salon, and Gervex went on to display the painting in the shop window, attracting the crowds of onlookers and producing the furore. The public was not altogether unfamiliar with the portraits of courtesans or the depiction of the "gallant scenes"; the latter were particularly popular throughout the 18th c. On the left is Venus and Mars by Botticelli that dates back to 1483; and on the right is Manet's Olympia (1863), a hommage to Giorgione (Sleeping Venus) and Titian (Venus of Urbino), as far as the pose of the model is concerned. All those paintings, Manet's included, preceded the work of Gervex. His other contemporaries, including Ingres and Degas, were producing numerous studies of the nude, so the naked form, however 'indecent', wasn't necessarily the reason for a public outcry.

The Question of Privacy - 1

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At work we moved offices. I am now taking a bus in the morning and in the evening. And so the next day after we moved I went to GMPTE Travel shop in Piccadilly Gardens to buy myself a weekly bus pass.

The pass has to go with a special bus card that has to have my picture on it. The form I had to fill in asked for my title, my full name, my address, and date of birth. And then it also asked for my email and my mobile number, so that GMPTE could keep me updated.

My perspective was that I'd rather not give out my date of birth and address - but this is mandatory. Filling out the mobile number and email address wasn't a problem; nobody ever bombarded me with random calls, and as for spam email messages, they sometimes make a good lunchtime reading. But the first thing the gentleman behind the counter did upon glancing at my form was this: he vigorously started crossing out my email address and phone number.

- Don't write there what you don't need! - he was shouting rather excitedly. - They'll be sending you things, you don't need them!

- Well, I was actually interested in those things, - I tried to explain, while wondering what they would think at the GMPTE office when they saw my form.

- No, you don't need them! Or you'll be like one of those, they check their email all the time, "Oh, let's see if I've got something!" - and he showed me exactly what those people looked like: their faces are all excitement, fingers dancing all over the keyboard.

- That's OK with me, - I replied. - This is what I do for work all the time.

- Well, maybe you do but I don't, - he replied.

As a result, I will not be receiving either email or phone updates from GMPTE.

Love Imposes Impossible Tasks...

I say about nearly every place I visit that "I've long wanted to go there". Be it York, the Welsh castles, or even London, I'd long wanted to go there by the time I finally went. I should probably stop saying this because I want to go to so many places that it's only natural that by the time I do I will have been wanting to go for some time.

Speaking of Scarborough, I was obviously aware of it as a medieval landmark and also as the place commemorated in the famous song, "Scarborough Fair". The song was popularised by the American singers/songwriters, Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel, and appeared on their 1966 album. We may imagine that for some listeners this is a Simon&Garfunkel song, but in fact this is an "authentic" medieval song.

The video below is again produced with my own photos. Over at Yahoo! Geocities page by Bert you can read a lot about "Scarborough Fair", with some interesting conclusions. If you're a German reader, then this is the page for you, which also contains the known interpretations of the song. On either page you will find a short history of Scarborough and its famous fair, of Simon&Garfunkel version, and the full text of the song with the short analysis of the lyrics and its meaning. Particular attention is paid to the meaning of the herbs: parsley (soothing power), sage (strength), rosemary (faithfulness), and thime (courage). One thing I will say, is that I'd not be misled by the fact that

the singer is asking his love to do the impossible, and then come back to him and ask for his hand. This is a highly unusual suggestion, because in those days it was a grave faux-pas to people from all walks of life for a lady to ask for a man's hand.

If we suppose that the lover is offended by his beloved, then getting her to do the impossible is a rather natural way of taking the revenge. The last two lines seem to support this reading: the lover asks for the impossible as the way to prove to himself and to his beloved that she is indeed his true love.

Love imposes impossible tasks
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
Though not more than any heart asks
And I must know she's a true love of mine.

Dear, when thou has finished thy task
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
Come to me, my hand for to ask
For thou then art a true love of mine.

British Seaside and Holidays by Polnareff

It is absolutely true: my first ever sea was the Irish Sea. I saw it in 2002. When I told one of my friends about it, he pitied me. Indeed, how sad is that: to see your first sea in Blackpool?

This was in 2002. Between then and the late 2007 I visited Blackpool a few times. I rode past Conwy Bay in North Wales once or twice. But it was at the turn of 2007-2008 that I spent almost two weeks in North Wales. I was staying in Llandudno and taking day trips to Conwy, Caernarfon, Beaumaris. Most importantly, each day I was walking by the sea, breathing sea air and watching seagulls. Little did I know that the memories of staying in North Wales would be so strong that I would want to go to the seaside more and more often.

This is what has been happening since March 2009: whenever I had the chance, I tried to go and spend a day by the water. I visited Southport for the first time; then I went to Blackpool after a 3-year pause; and finally I visited Scarborough. I figured out that Scarborough would be the closest to Manchester town on the eastern coast which was unknown to me.

From all those trips I brough back some photos, and the most recent ones from Blackpool and Scarborough are still in the process of being uploaded to Flickr. But, looking at them recently, I realised that they can illustrate "Holidays" by Michel Polnareff. I have already written a post about this song in December 2006, although I include the English translation here again now. I arranged some of the photos to the "story" of Polnareff's song; the photos were taken in places like Llandudno, Conwy, and Deganwy (North Wales), Blackpool and Southport (English west coast), and Scarborough (English east coast). Mr Polnareff is web-savvy, so I hope he likes my attempt at spreading the word about his work, if he sees this post or the video.

michel polnareff



Holidays, oh holidays
It's a plane that comes down from the sky
And the shadow of its wing
Covers a city below
How close is the ground
Holidays...

Holidays, oh holidays
Churches and council flats,
What is their beloved God doing?
He who lives in the space
How close is the ground
Holidays...

Holidays, oh holidays
The plane's shadow covers the sea
The sea is like a preface
To the desert
How close is the sea
Holidays...

Holidays, oh holidays
So much sky and so many clouds
At your age you don't know
That life is boring
How close is death
Holidays...

Holidays, oh holidays
It's a plane that lives in the sky
You're so beautiful, but don't forget
That planes crash
And that the ground is close
Holidays...

Feeling Greek

Scarborough 21, originally uploaded by loscuadernosdejulia.

I remember walking up the hill on which the Scarborough castle rests, thinking that this entire place strangely reminds me of Greece. Perhaps it has to do with the general image of Greece, or even the Mediterranean: historic rocks, lush hills, deep-blue sea, beautiful leafy trees, and a clear sky with a few white clouds. When I was trying to find the angle and to "frame" the photo, I was attempting to convey this Mediterranean feel.

The Ukrainian Heights

The photo below belongs to a Russian/Ukranian Twitter user, Denis Sudilkovsky (who works in the Online Communications sphere). As I understand, it is made in the Ukraine where I've never been. But I should go: I am a quarter Ukrainian. This is perhaps one of the most interesting experiences I have taken from being and living in the UK: learning, knowing, and being aware of one's family. I became more appreciative of the fact that my great-great-grandmother had Mongolian facial traits; that my maternal grandfather was Ukranian; and that his distant ancestors were Czech and came from somewhere in Bohemia. The family name - Sokolik or Sokolyk - is now somewhat widespread in the States.

Once in my life I have already responded to the fact that the family had a lawyer: I nearly went to study Law myself, like my grandmother did after the end of the war. I guess with my natural ability to speak publicly and with the desire to share the knowledge and help people I am responding to another family fact: my paternal great grandfather was a priest. I am thinking about this as I look at the picture posted by Denis, and as I am sending my thoughts to my grandma who's fallen ill. For a brief period of time, following her marriage to my grandfather, she also lived in the Ukraine, in Lviv.

Omar Khayyam on Wine

Sobriety doth dry up all delight,
And drunkenness doth drown my sense outright;
There is a middle state, it is my life -
Not altogether drunk, nor sober quite.

Now with its joyful prime my age is rife,
I quaff enchanting wine, and list to fife;
Chide not at wine for all its bitter taste,
Its bitterness sorts well with human life!

So many cups of wine will I consume,
Its bouquet shall exhale from out my tomb,
And every one that passes by shall halt,
And reel and stagger with that mighty fume.

When I am dead, with wine my body lave,
For obit chant a bacchanalian stave,
And, if you need me at the day of doom,
Beneath the tavern threshold seek my grave.

From The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam translated by Edward Henry Whinfield (1883). The image is the portrair of Khayyam at his Mausoleum in Nishapur (Iran), courtesy of Wikipedia.

How to Scrape Skies (Nicolas Bentley Illustrations)

To scrape the skies in Manchester, you may want to go to Cloud 23 - a chic bar at the Hilton Hotel in the Beetham Tower in Deansgate. The image I took last weekend during the walk around town isn't original in its idea: arguably, this is the way (or one of the definitive ways) to photograph a skyscraper in all its glory. It was one of those snaps you make to document a fleeting sensation.

The title of the photo isn't original either: it is the title of the 1948 book by George Mikes. How To Scrape Skies: The United States Explored, Rediscovered, and Explained was published on the back of the astounding success of Mikes's best-seller, How To Be An Alien (1946). Like How To Be An Alien, and similar to a few other "how-to" books published subsequently, How To Scrape Skies documented the American peculiarities, comparing them to what could be seen in Europe or Britain. But perhaps the reason why How To Be An Alien was so successful was that it dwelt on Mikes's own life in England as a Hungarian emigrant, whereas in subsequent books Mikes couldn't rely on such a vast personal experience, and also was evidently trapped by his own success.

But over at GoofButton there is a page with the illustrations to How To Scrape Skies: these were made by Nicolas Bentley, a British author and cartoonist. The site is created by Jeffrey Meyer. As Jeffrey correctly notes, the reason why this Mikes's book was "not for sale in the U.S." is that the illustrations were arguably even more inflammatory than the text. Below are a few examples. To see them all, visit GoofButton.

Zizek: Berlusconi As Kung Fu Panda, And the Future of Democracy

I have just read a very good article by Slavoj Žižek in the London Review of Books: Berlusconi in Tehran. By "very good" I mean that he, as usual, displays an astounding amount knowledge to illustrate the problems our modern societies face today - but the fluidity of this text and the argumentative power is impressive. If you ever had problems reading and understanding Žižek, try again: with this article, you are in for a good chance to catch his flight of thought.

Although starting out by comparing the recent upheavals in Tehran to those of 1979 Khomeini revolution, Žižek doesn't stop there. To him, the events in Iran is but a part of the major trend characterised by the breach between capitalism and democracy: "the virus of authoritarian capitalism is slowly but surely spreading around the globe". Moreover, democracy today is handicapped by its inability to produce an "omni-competent citizen":

...in a democracy, the ordinary citizen is effectively a king, but a king in a constitutional democracy, a king whose decisions are merely formal, whose function is to sign measures proposed by the executive. The problem of democratic legitimacy is homologous to the problem of constitutional democracy: how to protect the dignity of the king? How to make it seem that the king effectively decides, when we all know this is not true? What we call the ‘crisis of democracy’ isn’t something that happens when people stop believing in their own power but, on the contrary, when they stop trusting the elites, when they perceive that the throne is empty, that the decision is now theirs. ‘Free elections’ involve a minimal show of politeness when those in power pretend that they do not really hold the power, and ask us to decide freely if we want to grant it to them.

La Peinture: Denis Diderot 1

La peinture c'est l'art d'arriver à l'âme par entremises des yeux. Si l'effet s'arrête aux yeux, le peintre n'a fait que le moindre partie du chemin.

Painting is the art of reaching out to the soul through eyes. If the effect didn't go beyond the eyes, the painter only walked one half of his way.

Denis Diderot, Salon de 1769.

St James Garden - White Roses

St James Garden - White Roses, originally uploaded by loscuadernosdejulia.

I love different flowers but roses are always among the favourite. Many years ago when I visited the Botanic Gardens in Moscow for the first time I was taking photos of roses. Sadly, it was early September, so the roses were on the brink of dying.

Last week I had a walk in town, which walk took me to St James's Garden in Manchester. A while ago I noted that it's possible to live in Manchester without visiting London, for there are many "namesakes" of London landmarks. There are Pall Mall, Albert Square, and Oxford Street (although not as long). Just fifteen minutes away by train from Manchester there is a Hyde Park. And there is St James's Garden. It is very small, located between Deansgate, Quay St, and Liverpool St, and close to Museum of Science and Industry, and Granada TV.

These roses also had a faint sweet scent, unlike some others. So, here are the roses for you...

...and if you like the calla lilies,click here.

How I Write: Proofreading

Previous post in How I Write: Structuring the Narrative.

I previously discussed briefly how structuring the narrative works. Editing is a creative process, so I will be back to it next time. But recently I looked at the problem of proofreading, and this is something that has long intruiged me, especially since I can compare results in at least two languages.

As I stated elsewhere, there is nothing pedantic in my attention to grammar. Although I do occasionally make typos and miss commas, my Russian texts are usually grammatically impeccable, and it comes naturally. On the one hand, I have always read a lot; on the other hand, I know the Russian grammar rules well. When I put a comma somewhere in the sentence, it is both because I know the rule and because I can give an example of the placement in other texts.

With English, I think I can safely say that the articles no longer freak me out. To some extent, the understanding of how to use the English articles was facilitated by my studying of French. At the same time, back in 2003 I found a website that stated that "even native English speakers don't use articles correctly all the time". This statement helped me to relax and to start using articles better.

The very first fairy tale I composed was written in a sketchbook; although it was my first, it comprised about 10 pages, written mainly in prose, with a couple of poetic intermezzi. It's long been lost, and I cannot tell you how good the grammar was. I suspect, though, it wasn't good at all: I was 6 years old. Just two years later I wrote another fairy tale, this time entirely in prose, and it was co-authored with a classmate over the phone. The story was basically Andersen's Mermaid, but with the happy ending. When I found it 7 years later, I was so mortified to see how bad the grammar was that I threw it away.

As you can deduce, I'm not that picky because I'm aware of my own faults. But these days we all too often come across the errors that make the author look truly dumb. This post by CopyBlogger dates back to March 2007 - Five Grammatical Errors that Make You Look Dumb. It's received over 400 comments, and still counting. And yet the web is covered by the thick net of "you're feedback", "we may loose", "this is effecting"... and I shiver each time I come across non-distinguishing between "they're", "there", and "their".

So, proofreading - how do I do it? You may be doing this differently, but here're my bullet points.

A New Word in the English Language

A New Word in the English Language, originally uploaded by loscuadernosdejulia.

July 2009 has been very rich in strange experiences in Manchester. First, there was an opera that used the film's story. Then there was a long chain of bags with rubbish. And finally there was this new word in the English language. DIVERSIOJN. I couldn't pronounce it, even if I tried.

And this is when my spirits sink low. It's already been almost two years since I took part in Blog Catalog's action day and contemplated the issue of abuse. It wasn't the usual type of abuse people would naturally talk about: beating, raping, physical and/or verbal bullying... It was the abuse of the language.

It comes in many forms today, and it doesn't cease to surprise me that the deadliest errors are made by those who must know better. Two years later I am coming to feel as if "its" and "it's" are no longer distinguished from one another by journalists and writers. Copywriting is getting cheaper and cheaper. No longer does it seem to mean "writing an original, well-researched copy"; rather it seems to mean "rewriting someone's copy so as to pass the Copyscape test".

We all make errors. As someone clever said, to err is human. To make grammatical errors is therefore very human, and I make them, too, even in my native language, although I am glad to say that they are usually typos, or an odd comma that I forgot to use because I was busy jotting down my thoughts quickly. But one thing I always do before sending a text or publishing a blog post, is proofreading. I don't rely on spellchecker; I read aloud and carefully read the text. I'll get back to this in a separate post.

So I am not trying to be pedantic when I note errors and typos: I've read and written so much that noticing errors happens automatically. Perhaps, sometimes I wish I wouldn't notice; and I never make any conclusions about the person who makes those errors, it'd be wrong. But I don't think I will ever understand the situation when errors go up, as in this photo, on the public display, for all to see. My problem is that we are defined by the language, and on this occasion we accept that we are defined erroneously. Of course, this is only a typo, but it makes the word unreadable. Suppose this is the "external" negligence, similar to putting your legs on the table during the meal. But, as with the waste management that ultimately indicates how we respect each other and what respect we are likely to accept or receive from others, this "external" inaccuracy hides the problem of not caring what words to use, and how. And this is one of the biggest, if not THE biggest, cultural problems we all face today.

More posts about "words", their use and misuse (both with my poems):

The Word (Reading Heidegger)

Paroles, And Paul Ennis on Heidegger and The Word

The Cultural Problem of Waste Management

I noticed that the picture below has attracted a lot of interest. I can understand; when I saw this mount of bin bags I HAD to take a picture. The view was astonishing. The last time I saw something similar was during the UEFA Cup Final in 2008 between Zenith and Rangers; that was a very special experience, though. And maybe I wouldn't be writing this post, but on my way back from work I saw the cleaner bringing more bags to the same pole in the same street (right). Thus I knew I had to blog this.





We are well and truly obsessed with waste and pollution today. Sometimes I even think we speak more about garbage than about cleanliness. We speak more about how to reduce waste and dirt, but we talk less about how not to be dirty in the first place. And I cannot help thinking that our waste-reducing efforts somehow get curtailed by our own focus on the negative side of things. We constantly talk about garbage - and we don't seem to stop producing it.

Shoes in the Sky

Shoes in the Sky, originally uploaded by loscuadernosdejulia.

There are many strange things you come across as you stroll down the streets of your town. I saw this scene about a month ago, near Affleck's Palace in Manchester's Northern Quarter - and I have no idea who and why would hang their sneakers to swing in the air. But it was a sight to behold.

Update:

Apparently, this is the way for gangs to mark the area they control: a full story on Daily Mail's website. Deducing from the article's findings, two people must have been mugged in the Northern Quarter. I wish I could, but I wouldn't say that I am surprised.

Callas Forever Returns as Prima Donna

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In August 2003, just a few weeks I came over to the UK, I went to the screening of a film I thought I wanted to see. I've long loved the genius of Franco Zeffirelli, and I also loved classical music, opera in particular. Zeffirelli's then latest feature, Callas Forever, was screened as a part of the programme of the annual Moscow International Film Festival.

As can be deducted from the title, the film was about Maria Callas. Or better, it was a fictional account of her final years. Zeffirelli, renowned for his work on opera productions, was very close with Callas, so he naturally tasked himself with commemorating her on screen. The story saw Callas (Fanny Ardant), living a recluse in a Parisian flat, her voice and Onassis lost, when she is reunited with her former manager, Larry Kelly (Jeremy Irons), who is determined to bring Callas out of her seclusion and to restore her legacy. With this in mind, he sets out to produce a lavish screen adaptation of Carmen, with Callas starring in it and lip-syncing to her own glorious recording.

As the film develops, so do innumerable relationships. Aside of Callas's film, Larry Kelly is managing his love affair with a young artist. Callas is managing more than just the loss of her voice: Onassis left her for Jackie Kennedy, so a woman's tragedy adds to the tragedy of the artist. Despite the pain it causes her, Callas stores the newspapers clips about her ex-husband and his new wife. While she is working on the film, she develops a certain passion for a co-actor, a young handsome man who is keen to use his relationship with Callas to advance his own career.

The feature itself is a film in a film, or better, an opera in opera. Towards the middle of the film the highly charged human relationships begin to be interspersed with extracts from a would-be adaptation of Carmen. This is where Zeffirelli's long experience of working on opera productions shines through most brightly: one of the opening scenes of this "inner" film bedazzles the viewer with pure gold that downpours from the screen and spills over onto the audience. But Carmen will never be: in the end, Callas asks Kelly to destroy it, and he cannot say "no"...

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It's July 2009, and I go to the Palace Theatre in Manchester to listen to Rufus Wainwright's first opera. It is called Prima Donna, and I have no expectations whatsoever. And in the middle of the first half I realise that, almost six years later, I am watching the musical version of Callas Forever. I didn't buy a programme upon arrival but when we learnt that the protagonist was due to sing her renowned Aliénor, a beautiful recording of which existed, my realisation was complete. And if Rufus is surprised to read this, then so was I surprised to arrive to such conclusion. The rest of the work only convinced me.

Vasari and Ingres: The Death of Leonardo

It took me a little while to get up to my own promise... but here's finally The Inspirations for the 19th Century.

Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres, The Death of Leonardo, 1818

At last, having become old, he lay ill for many months, and seeing himself near death, he set himself to study the holy Christian religion, and though he could not stand, desired to leave his bed with the help of his friends and servants to receive the Holy Sacrament. Then the king, who used often and lovingly to visit him, came in, and he, raising himself respectfully to sit up in bed, spoke of his sickness, and how he had offended God and man by not working at his art as he ought. Then there came a paroxysm, a forerunner of death, and the king raised him and lifted his head to help him and lessen the pain, whereupon his spirit, knowing it could have no greater honour, passed away in the king's arms in the seventyfifth year of his age.

The loss of Lionardo was mourned out of measure by all who had known him, for there was none who had done such honour to painting. The splendour of his great beauty could calm the saddest soul, and his words could move the most obdurate mind. His great strength could restrain the most violent fury, and he could bend an iron knocker or a horseshoe as if it were lead. He was liberal to his friends, rich and poor, if they had talent and worth; and indeed as Florence had the greatest of gifts in his birth, so she suffered an infinite loss in his death.

This passage from Giorgio Vasari's The Lives of the Artists inspired Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres (J.-A.-D. Ingres (French painter)) to paint his 1818 work, titled The Death of Leonardo da Vinci. Leonardo is depicted wearing a long beard, as on the Uffizi portrait.

Following Leonardo's death, Francesco Melzi wrote to the painter's brothers:

I understand that you have been informed of the death of Master Leonardo, your brother, who was like an excellent father to me. It is impossible to express the grief that I feel at his death, and as long as my bodily parts sustain me I will feel perpetual unhappiness, which is justified by the consuming and passionate love he bore daily towards me. Everyone is grieved by the loss of such a man whose like nature no longer has it in her power to produce...

View the excellent cover of 1568 edition of Vasari's work; and read extracts at Fordham University's website.

Other posts in 19th Century Inspirations.
Other posts about Leonardo da Vinci.
Other posts in Painting and Art.

My Footballer's Life

Last year I was given a brief, to write a short story. There was a possibility of me working on a larger project, but recession struck, so the project apparently didn't move forward. There are a few things I'd leave unchanged about the story when I rewrite it, but I decided to share it in the form it was first written.

My Footballer's Life

Frankly, I don’t like summer holidays. Being a female writer, I compare myself to the Premier League. Different teams compete in me all year round: a “Woman”, a “Wife”, a “Lover”, a “Friend”, a “Mother”, and a “Writer”. And I feel particularly vulnerable in August when the “Mother” team soars at the top of the League table, while the “Writer” is on the verge of a total relegation, and the “Lover” is having serious problems with management!

The truth is that I feel less confident having kids at home all day. It’s like my entire League is taken for a World Cup where it has to compete against the teams “Tommy”, “Jenny”, “Neighbour’s Kids”, and a few more, who know no rules of the game. I lack the order, the planning because, once August has come, we all suddenly realise just how tired we are after a school year, and the Lord of Misrule appears out of the blue. Or, in case with the team “Tommy”, the Lord of Misrule appears every morning in the doorway, half-asleep – even if this is well after 10 o’clock. And even then he’s too tired to eat the full breakfast.

We always try to take children to the events, but we do it throughout the year, so August is no different. “Friend” and “Mother” teams usually clash on these occasions, and usually draw.

The only thing that I truly enjoy about this month is family cooking. I think it’s when my “Woman” team shines modestly. During the school year cooking tends to be seasonal (like, we cook all together for Easter and Christmas, as well as birthdays and anniversaries). Then there are Sunday roasts. But during the week it’s either me or Richard who cook. The kids do the table, they help to dry the dishes, but we spare them from cooking.

The Boxing Club, Mayakovsky, and Manchester

When coincidences like this occur, you've got make a point of them. So here goes...

I was reading Mayakovski's My Discovery of America
, and in the very beginning he narrates his journey to Cuba on an ocean liner. He is a Soviet citizen, travels first class, but makes insightful observations of the three classes of travellers.

So, this is the quote from the book:

On the day before our arrival in Havana the ship came to life. A tombola was held - a nautical charitable event in aid of maritime orphans. [...]

The highlight was the boxing. Obviously, this was for the fans of this sport, the English and the Americans. None of them knew how to box. It's repulsive - belting each other in the mug in the heat. In the first pairing was the ship's cook - a disrobed, puny, hairy Frenchman with black sock full of holes over his bare legs.

The cook was battered for some while. For about five minutes he held his own through skill and for another twenty minutes through pride, but then gave in, lowered his hands and went off, spitting out blood and teeth.

In the second bout, some fool of a Bulgarian, who arrogantly left his chest wide open, was scrapping with an American detective. This detective, a boxer of professional standard, was seized with fits of laughter. He flailed around but, through hilarity and surprise, was wide of the mark and broke his own hand, which had mended badly after a war-wound.

And just as I was reading this, the doorbell rang. I answered it; a man in glasses wanted to leave some leaflets. He left them in the doorway, so I collected and brought them in the building. But try and imagine my face when I saw what the leaflet read:

So, on top of all sorts of things to be found in Manchester, there is now a Mancunian Boxing Club. Maybe it'll see Rocky
or The Wrestler ; or maybe it spurs the underground Fight Club. Whatever happens, this was an occasion to remember.

P.S. - As it happens, I remembered everything I knew about Mickey Rourke and his latest film, except the film's name. So I had to google "Mickey Rourke", and found out that Rourke has a very official website. Also, The Wrestler can be viewed on Amazon as the video on demand. Unfortunately, it is available for U.S. viewers only.

What Would Jean Cocteau Say About the Web?

Jean Cocteau (French poet and artist) died in 1963. We therefore don't know what he'd say about the web; whether he'd be passionate about it or critical. But he said something else in an interview when he was explaining the design of a postal stamp with the portrait of Marianne, France's national symbol. Turns out, Marianne was a bureaucrat's wife, and so on Cocteau's stamp there was this female head, not really heroic or even beautiful. The journalist asked if Marianne on the stamp was perhaps too typical.

-Yes, maybe, - Cocteau replied, - but I think it's good. When one is licked by so many it doesn't pay to be too singular, lest one is licked with disgust.

I remembered this when I read Chris Brogan's recent post - Is Your Web Presence Multi-use - and the commentary to it. Put simply, Brogan's idea in the post is to encourage website owners to bear in mind that they are read by hundreds, if not thousands, different people. In addition to all the different things about those people, they may also speak a different language. The latter fact alone puts a whole new spin on the story.

Some commentators, though, were at odds with such suggestion. "It's not possible to be all things to all people" and "isn't the web is all about finding the niche and catering for it?" sum up the criticism amply.

I often find that we lock ourselves in a niche, either as producers or consumers. We think that we found the proverbial purple cow, but what few people remind us of is that the colour fades in the sun. The day will come when your cow is lilac or even white - and that's not the same as purple. So you at least need to paint your cow once in a while, to freshen it up - which, in terms of a website, may mean changing its design, or putting a new spin on your niche subject.

I'd argue that it's impossible to cater for a niche. On the one hand, there's always a bigger picture, and if it's possible to have your niche border on several supportive subjects, then why not? A blogger's block often happens in a competitive niche. On the other hand, exactly how niche can you be? So, you may be making a website about scrap cars, but so are a few dozen of other people. What makes you different? How sustainable is your business? Imagine the worst case scenario: the day came when no-one wants to scrap their cars. What will you do? What will make your site - and your name - continue appearing in search results?

You therefore cannot be too niche, and at the same time you have to attract different people if you're working on the web. Some will come for information; others will come to spend money. I'm one of the kind who believes in the possibility of blending humanism and business. And although it's not possible to be all things to all people, there's nothing wrong with making an impact on lives of many people - pretty much like what we're seeing for over a week now since Michael Jackson is no more.

To round up - a quote from the magnificent Peter Blake, about what makes a person an icon: "You've got to have your own style. But not so that in a short while you're out of fashion. It's not about being fashionable; it's just a look, a feel". Perhaps, we can think of our web presence as if we're Vivienne Westwood, and, should it be our vision, blend punk with tartan, even if this goes against what the savvy folks teach us. Or think of our web presence as if it's Kate Moss. She can sniff crack; she can wear a dress in royal blue colour at the Queen's dinner. But when a fashion journo asks people in the street "who is your fashion icon?", we all know what the answer will often be.

The image is courtesy of Charles Blomefield, the leading specialist in French stamps.

St Paul's Cathedral - London 2004

St Paul's Cathedral, originally uploaded by loscuadernosdejulia.

I look at my own photos of London, taken between 2004 and 2008... and I can't help feeling that the 2004 pictures have got a different air about them. I'm not sure what to attribute this to. It was my first ever time in London, it was April 2004, and every street, every building promised an adventure. I was also relieved to get back to my "real" self: a girl who grew up in a capital city and who loved exploring the endless twists and turns of streets and alleys of a highly urbanised city.

More than anything, the 2004 photos were made with a "soapbox" Kodak, so looking at these pictures now is interesting from a technical perspective. This is not digital photography, and the biggest difference consists in the fact that on my present camera I can view and review the result instantly. If I don't like it, I can erase it and make a new picture. With a soapbox cam, using a film, I essentially follow the path blindly, relying on my eye to tell me if the image looks right.

But maybe - maybe - this is precisely what I find different in all these pictures of the UK's capital city? Watching an image instantly on the screen is different from literally capturing it with the eye. Maybe I like the 2004 London photos exactly because taking them arguably involved more hard graft on my part?

But if it is so, then there must be a different reason for me liking those 2004 photos. And I reckon it is that I was really in love - not with London as such, but with the sheer sense of freedom, space, and liberation. Yes, spending 7 months in Manchester's suburb after 22 years in Moscow was tough! Understanding this led me to explore Manchester more, so that now, I suppose, I could see the same feeling in the photos I take in Manchester. But on the human scale, the 2004 London photos capture my infatuation, the one of a kind that often takes place at the beginning of a romance.

Of course, what this means is that I must go to London some time soon. I miss it.

Other posts in Visiting London

Manchester International Festival Is Back!

Manchester International Festival 2009 - Albert Square, originally uploaded by loscuadernosdejulia.

It's still July 2 in the UK, and therefore there's still time to make a announcement of the launch of Manchester's very own arts biennale - Manchester International Festival 2009.

This means that Manchester International Festival label is back and will be updated with reviews of whatever events I get to attend. One of them is Rufus Wainwright's Prima Donna, and I am very much looking forward to it. Here's a video from MIF's website of Rufus introducing his tour de force.



You can check the festival's programme here, and if you want to download a calendar, there's a .pdf version to your service.

And I will also be updating the MIF09 Flickr set, as well as posting other photos of events and venues that I find elsewhere. Again, you may want to check a few photos from the first festival, MIF07.

Something I keep forgetting to mention... yes, the abbreviation of the festival is MIF, and if you read it as one word, it'll sound as the Russian for "myth". I don't know how this phonetic similarity plays out in this year's festival, but perhaps this is something that the festival organisers decide to explore in 2011.

As to why I chose this photo... everyone who walked or sat in Albert Square this afternoon knows that the Festival Pavilion wasn't yet open. The photo thus reflects the "nascence" of the festival... or to play on the above mentioned linguistic peculiarity, "the emergence of the myth". So, let's welcome the second biannual artistic phantasmagoria to our busy hive.

Other posts in Manchester International Festival

Making a Day

Heaton Park 14, originally uploaded by loscuadernosdejulia.

Just when many of us are gently roasting in the dazzling sun in Manchester, the memories of shady walks in Heaton Park bring the nice breeze, and the plump flowers remind of spring freshness.