Oops. I meant to set aside time to write before today, but no. It hasn't been hectic here. Maybe if it was I'd have been better organized. Not that I'm complaining.
In a few minutes I head out to Stansted airport to go to Greece for a friend's wedding, on Crete. Nikos (a classmate here) asked about 7 of us to come from Lispa to do a short play at the party after his wedding next Saturday. So this week we devise and rehearse, and enjoy being in Greece. Then a few days in Athens before going home for two weeks. And the Great Minnesota Get-Together (a.k.a., the state fair). I think we get the chance to see some Aeschylus this week, then deep-fried everything-under-the-sun on a stick a week later in St. Paul. Experiencing the breadth of human culture I am.
Speaking of cultcha, I've been able to see some quality theatre lately: Helen Mirren in "Phedre" at the National, and Mark Rylance in "Jerusalem" at the Royal Court, which was one of the best performances I think I've ever seen. And a second helping of Godot squeezed in between, which was even better than the first time.
I'll have to write more about those later. But for now, off to the airport...
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Sunday, August 2, 2009
This and that, part 2
The chaos of free speech
Last Sunday a friend and I wandered through Hyde Park and came upon Speakers Corner. I'd been there before on a weekday, but no one was holding forth then. I imagined that if I ever did find someone there, there'd be one man or woman speaking from a stump or soapbox while a few people stood around and listened. I still have this image of the English that's more Jane Austen and less House of Commons. As we got within a hundred yards of the corner, I could see this would be more Parliament than Pride and Prejudice. Someone was waving a Union Jack, and there were lots of people, standing in clumps of various sizes. Each clump was centered around a man or two on chairs or stepladders, shouting out their opinions, often engaging in argument with angry other men in the audience. Very few women there.
The first guy we came across was standing in front of a red flag and excoriating the bankers and capitalists. The second was wearing a helmet with horns of different sizes on it, proclaiming himself to be Lucifer and laughing off the protestations of a Somali man. The third was a hoarse man proclaiming the virtues of Islam from a lamppost. About 20 yards away, a Nigerian evangelist in a purple suit was trying to convert the masses to Jesus and clearly enjoying the spotlight. A bit farther along, two men stood holding a sign saying Free Hugs. (No one was gathered around them.) And then there was what looked like it had started out as a debate between two speakers--an American Christian and a North African Muslim standing on chairs--on the respective merits of Christianity and Islam. But now the self-appointed spokesman for Christianity and the West was engaged in a shouting match with an angry Muslim who started shoving the people around him so he could get closer to the guy standing on the chair. "Isn't this the way it always is with the Muslims?" the American said, playing to the crowd. If this guy doesn't have a background in talk radio, he's certainly learned a lesson or two from it, for better or for worse.
Oy!
Since moving to Clapton I've let my Tube pass expire, so I'm getting around on bike and bus. I have a little ting-ting bell on my handlebars, but have been advised that a good shouted "Oy!" is a more effective warning. Still haven't got that syllable hard-wired into my brain yet though.
What is it with these signs?
Maybe it's the move to new surroundings, making me more alert to things around me. Or maybe it's something more transcendent. You tell me. Last fall when I first moved here and was preparing to begin this grand adventure or folly, I came across a traffic sign that said Changed Priorities Ahead. I haven't noticed another one like it since. Yesterday, having recently completed Year 1 and hoping to use the summer to reflect more on it as I prepare for Year 2, I saw one for the first time that says Priorities Changed.
Excuse my asking,O Holy One, but Your point is...?
And finally...
Words to live by
"The greatest potential for growth and self-realization exists in the second half of life." — CG Jung
Last Sunday a friend and I wandered through Hyde Park and came upon Speakers Corner. I'd been there before on a weekday, but no one was holding forth then. I imagined that if I ever did find someone there, there'd be one man or woman speaking from a stump or soapbox while a few people stood around and listened. I still have this image of the English that's more Jane Austen and less House of Commons. As we got within a hundred yards of the corner, I could see this would be more Parliament than Pride and Prejudice. Someone was waving a Union Jack, and there were lots of people, standing in clumps of various sizes. Each clump was centered around a man or two on chairs or stepladders, shouting out their opinions, often engaging in argument with angry other men in the audience. Very few women there.
The first guy we came across was standing in front of a red flag and excoriating the bankers and capitalists. The second was wearing a helmet with horns of different sizes on it, proclaiming himself to be Lucifer and laughing off the protestations of a Somali man. The third was a hoarse man proclaiming the virtues of Islam from a lamppost. About 20 yards away, a Nigerian evangelist in a purple suit was trying to convert the masses to Jesus and clearly enjoying the spotlight. A bit farther along, two men stood holding a sign saying Free Hugs. (No one was gathered around them.) And then there was what looked like it had started out as a debate between two speakers--an American Christian and a North African Muslim standing on chairs--on the respective merits of Christianity and Islam. But now the self-appointed spokesman for Christianity and the West was engaged in a shouting match with an angry Muslim who started shoving the people around him so he could get closer to the guy standing on the chair. "Isn't this the way it always is with the Muslims?" the American said, playing to the crowd. If this guy doesn't have a background in talk radio, he's certainly learned a lesson or two from it, for better or for worse.
Oy!
Since moving to Clapton I've let my Tube pass expire, so I'm getting around on bike and bus. I have a little ting-ting bell on my handlebars, but have been advised that a good shouted "Oy!" is a more effective warning. Still haven't got that syllable hard-wired into my brain yet though.
What is it with these signs?
Maybe it's the move to new surroundings, making me more alert to things around me. Or maybe it's something more transcendent. You tell me. Last fall when I first moved here and was preparing to begin this grand adventure or folly, I came across a traffic sign that said Changed Priorities Ahead. I haven't noticed another one like it since. Yesterday, having recently completed Year 1 and hoping to use the summer to reflect more on it as I prepare for Year 2, I saw one for the first time that says Priorities Changed.
Excuse my asking,O Holy One, but Your point is...?
And finally...
Words to live by
"The greatest potential for growth and self-realization exists in the second half of life." — CG Jung
This and that, part 1
Some random notes to start catching up again:
The pub at the end of the world
There's a canal at the other end of the park near my house. Last week, several housemates and I walked up the canal path to a pub called the Anchor and Hope. The barman looked like he'd been there for years--literally, standing behind the bar for years with no break and perhaps no nourishment except what he pulled from the tap. Pretty much the worse for wear. One in our party wanted a shandy, but he refused to make one. Only beer, he said. After getting our pints and half pints we took a table outside with the rough-looking but genial clientele and the bar dog, who was looking for any new friend to scratch him on the butt. The sun had just set. All was calmer than I'd have expected. Across the canal stretched the Walthamstow Marshes--acres of grasses with feathery heads. Off in the twilight, some buildings poked up like grain elevators. The only activity across the way was the occasional passing of a train. I felt miles away from London, very much like being in the Midwest.
Variations on a theme
Went to the National Portrait Gallery again the other day. In addition to a showing of the annual portrait painting contest, there's an exhibit of one artist's collection of other people's paintings--about 300 of them, all of the same image. He went to flea markets and antique shops, originally thinking he'd collect every copy he could find of da Vinci's Last Supper or some other well-loved image. What he found over time, however, was painting after painting of a 4th century saint named Fabiola. The curator's notes describe her as the patron saint of nurses and protector of abused women. The walls are a hodgepodge of copies. Almost all show a woman in profile, facing left, red cloak on her head. A few turn her around to face right, and some change the color of her cloak. Her face, of course, is at least slightly different in each one. Most are probably in oil, some in acrylic, at least one is seed art. Some are on canvas, some on wood, one on black velvet like those homages to Elvis you find at state fairs and cheap bars back home. Some Fabiolas are huge, most modest in scale, a few are tiny, pieces of jewelry.
It's a fascinating experience to walk into the rooms and see the subtle and at times dramatic variety. Reminded me of a comment earlier about how some painters or sculptors (or actors) seem to recreate the same thing over and over again. Are they trying to get it right, or working out something inward, or is this just what we do? It occurs to me that maybe this exhibit imitated something like an archetype--an image that keeps coming up over and over again, in different parts of the world, in different times. It was also interesting to note in the curator's display that the original painting has been lost, so all we have now are probably copies of copies of a 19th century image of a woman who lived a millennium and a half before that. So it's not at all about what she really looked like, really about how she's been imagined and envisioned by individual artists of varying skill, over and over again. I guess you could say the same of any actor's portrayal of any given character. Or any preacher's take on Jesus or the gospels, for that matter.
Swine flu liturgies
Speaking of church--and no, I didn't even plan that segue--there was a notice in the paper the other day that the Church of England has, because of the swine flu outbreak and for the first time ever, directed its priests to stop using the common cup when celebrating the Eucharist. They didn't even do that during the plague--though Parliament did pass a law back then saying that in cases of necessity, Communion would be considered valid if only the bread or the cup were used (and not both). Interesting that it took an act of Parliament to settle such an issue. But this is the Sovereign Queen (or King) of England's church, after all.
The pub at the end of the world
There's a canal at the other end of the park near my house. Last week, several housemates and I walked up the canal path to a pub called the Anchor and Hope. The barman looked like he'd been there for years--literally, standing behind the bar for years with no break and perhaps no nourishment except what he pulled from the tap. Pretty much the worse for wear. One in our party wanted a shandy, but he refused to make one. Only beer, he said. After getting our pints and half pints we took a table outside with the rough-looking but genial clientele and the bar dog, who was looking for any new friend to scratch him on the butt. The sun had just set. All was calmer than I'd have expected. Across the canal stretched the Walthamstow Marshes--acres of grasses with feathery heads. Off in the twilight, some buildings poked up like grain elevators. The only activity across the way was the occasional passing of a train. I felt miles away from London, very much like being in the Midwest.
Variations on a theme
Went to the National Portrait Gallery again the other day. In addition to a showing of the annual portrait painting contest, there's an exhibit of one artist's collection of other people's paintings--about 300 of them, all of the same image. He went to flea markets and antique shops, originally thinking he'd collect every copy he could find of da Vinci's Last Supper or some other well-loved image. What he found over time, however, was painting after painting of a 4th century saint named Fabiola. The curator's notes describe her as the patron saint of nurses and protector of abused women. The walls are a hodgepodge of copies. Almost all show a woman in profile, facing left, red cloak on her head. A few turn her around to face right, and some change the color of her cloak. Her face, of course, is at least slightly different in each one. Most are probably in oil, some in acrylic, at least one is seed art. Some are on canvas, some on wood, one on black velvet like those homages to Elvis you find at state fairs and cheap bars back home. Some Fabiolas are huge, most modest in scale, a few are tiny, pieces of jewelry.
It's a fascinating experience to walk into the rooms and see the subtle and at times dramatic variety. Reminded me of a comment earlier about how some painters or sculptors (or actors) seem to recreate the same thing over and over again. Are they trying to get it right, or working out something inward, or is this just what we do? It occurs to me that maybe this exhibit imitated something like an archetype--an image that keeps coming up over and over again, in different parts of the world, in different times. It was also interesting to note in the curator's display that the original painting has been lost, so all we have now are probably copies of copies of a 19th century image of a woman who lived a millennium and a half before that. So it's not at all about what she really looked like, really about how she's been imagined and envisioned by individual artists of varying skill, over and over again. I guess you could say the same of any actor's portrayal of any given character. Or any preacher's take on Jesus or the gospels, for that matter.
Swine flu liturgies
Speaking of church--and no, I didn't even plan that segue--there was a notice in the paper the other day that the Church of England has, because of the swine flu outbreak and for the first time ever, directed its priests to stop using the common cup when celebrating the Eucharist. They didn't even do that during the plague--though Parliament did pass a law back then saying that in cases of necessity, Communion would be considered valid if only the bread or the cup were used (and not both). Interesting that it took an act of Parliament to settle such an issue. But this is the Sovereign Queen (or King) of England's church, after all.
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