Colliding Galaxies

On the 18th birthday of the Hubble Telescope, pictures it took of colliding galaxies, hundreds of millions of light years away were released ...

French Poetry

The wonders of the Internet! I was in search of my favorite French poems, and I was about to look for poetry books on my bookshelves when I suddenly thought of Google. And indeed all of French poetry is at my finger tips. I just have to remember the first verse ... But this is too parochial a statement. I bet that all of the world's poetry is accessible on the internet and can now be quickly found through Google, in the language in which it was written.
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The first poem is by Gerard de Nerval, and it is somber and romantic


EL DESDICHADO

Je suis le Ténébreux, - le Veuf, - l'Inconsolé,
Le Prince d'Aquitaine à la Tour abolie :
Ma seule Etoile est morte, - et mon luth constellé
Porte le Soleil noir de la Mélancolie.

Dans la nuit du Tombeau, Toi qui m'as consolé,
Rends-moi le Pausilippe et la mer d'Italie,
La fleur qui plaisait tant à mon coeur désolé,
Et la treille où le Pampre à la Rose s'allie.

Suis-je Amour ou Phébus ?... Lusignan ou Biron ?
Mon front est rouge encor du baiser de la Reine ;
J'ai rêvé dans la Grotte où nage la sirène...

Et j'ai deux fois vainqueur traversé l'Achéron :
Modulant tour à tour sur la lyre d'Orphée
Les soupirs de la Sainte et les cris de la Fée.

Gerard de Nerval
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The second poem is a familiar dream about a beloved woman who is no more ... or never was ... take your pick!


Mon Rêve familier

Je fais souvent ce rêve étrange et pénétrant
D'une femme inconnue, et que j'aime, et qui m'aime,
Et qui n'est, chaque fois, ni tout à fait la même
Ni tout à fait une autre, et m'aime et me comprend.

Car elle me comprend, et mon coeur transparent
Pour elle seule, hélas ! cesse d'être un problème
Pour elle seule, et les moiteurs de mon front blême,
Elle seule les sait rafraîchir, en pleurant.

Est-elle brune, blonde ou rousse ? --Je l'ignore.
Son nom ? Je me souviens qu'il est doux et sonore
Comme ceux des aimés que la Vie exila.

Son regard est pareil au regard des statues,
Et pour sa voix, lointaine, et calme, et grave, elle a
L'inflexion des voix chères qui se sont tues.

Paul VERLAINE, Poèmes saturniens (1866)

Poetry should be read aloud, and I found this wonderful link, where you can listen to the poem above by Francois Perrier, a very good French actor, now dead.

http://www.wheatoncollege.edu/Academic/academicdept/French/ViveVoix/Resources/monrevefamilier.html

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The third poem is a lesson by Verlaine on how to make poetry (Poetic Art): It starts with a famous first line: "Music above all!"

Art poétique

De la musique avant toute chose,
Et pour cela préfère l'Impair
Plus vague et plus soluble dans l'air,
Sans rien en lui qui pèse ou qui pose.

Il faut aussi que tu n'ailles point
Choisir tes mots sans quelque méprise :
Rien de plus cher que la chanson grise
Où l'Indécis au Précis se joint.

C'est des beaux yeux derrière des voiles,
C'est le grand jour tremblant de midi,
C'est, par un ciel d'automne attiédi,
Le bleu fouillis des claires étoiles !

Car nous voulons la Nuance encor,
Pas la Couleur, rien que la nuance !
Oh ! la nuance seule fiance
Le rêve au rêve et la flûte au cor !

Fuis du plus loin la Pointe assassine,
L'Esprit cruel et le Rire impur,
Qui font pleurer les yeux de l'Azur,
Et tout cet ail de basse cuisine !

Prends l'éloquence et tords-lui son cou !
Tu feras bien, en train d'énergie,
De rendre un peu la Rime assagie.
Si l'on n'y veille, elle ira jusqu'où ?

O qui dira les torts de la Rime ?
Quel enfant sourd ou quel nègre fou
Nous a forgé ce bijou d'un sou
Qui sonne creux et faux sous la lime ?

De la musique encore et toujours !
Que ton vers soit la chose envolée
Qu'on sent qui fuit d'une âme en allée
Vers d'autres cieux à d'autres amours.

Que ton vers soit la bonne aventure
Eparse au vent crispé du matin
Qui va fleurant la menthe et le thym...
Et tout le reste est littérature.

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The fourth and last one, also by Verlaine, is about Autumn ... and the alliterations express a deep melancholy.

Chanson d'automne

Les sanglots longs
Des violons
De l'automne
Blessent mon coeur
D'une langueur
Monotone.

Tout suffocant
Et blême, quand
Sonne l'heure,
Je me souviens
Des jours anciens
Et je pleure

Et je m'en vais
Au vent mauvais
Qui m'emporte
Deçà, delà,
Pareil à la
Feuille morte.

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These poems, the last three in particular, reveal a secret of poetry. A poem to be light, ethereal, musical, in brief, to be good, should not contain any long word. Most of the words in these poems are one or two syllables long, at most three.

This is why these poems sing. The words are like notes dancing on the page for you, or, even better, dancing in the air as they are recited or read aloud. The same rule would hold in English as well. I bet that you will have a hard time to find the word 'acknowledgement' in a good poem. Such a word would weigh the poem down. It belongs in a legal contract, not in a poem.

The best poetry is also ambiguous. Its meaning should not be too clear. It should evoke, rather than explain or assert, and put the reader in a mood to fill in the blanks.

The last gasps of a building

Seen about a week ago from my rear window ...


The demolition reached the first floor.

A forest of reinforcing steel bars surges from the scarred walls that remain standing.

The moans of the dying building can be heard under the pneumatic jack hammer whose enormous steel head, hovering over its open wounds, is looking for the next weak spot to attack.

Soon, the horrible noise that has been going on six days a week for the last few months will stop, and, from a vast gaping hole in the ground, a new building will rise.

Willem de Kooning, an American Master

I read recently "Willem de Kooning, an American Master" by Mark Stevens and Annalyn Swann. It was a revelation.

I knew de Kooning as a great modern painter, and I did like his paintings when I saw them in museums. But this book revealed to me the anguish of being an artist, the angst of finding yourself in the studio in front of a white canvas and of having to create something out of nothing, and the effect this angst has on an artist's life.

This stress almost destroyed de Kooning, through alcoholism.

The book goes beyond this however. It is an account, not only of a great painter's life, but also of New York and the art scene after the second world war, the time when de Kooning finally rised from obscurity and when New York supplanted Paris as the place where new art was being created.

He sailed to New York from Rotterdam (where he was born) in 1926 at the age of 22, paying his way by working as a cook on board. He had a classic art education as a draughtsman and a craftsman at the Rotterdam Academy of Arts, and it served him well. But, in spite of his European roots and his traditional education as an artist, he truly was, as the title of the book suggests, an "American Master", inventing a new art movement in New York in the 40s (he was one of the founders of what is called "abstract expressionism") and constantly reinventing himself, and challenging himself to launch new experiments in painting.

He exploded onto the scene with a revolutionary painting in 1950, titled Excavation.


This was received at the time as a masterpiece of abstract painting, but it was, for de Kooning, the result of a slow evolution through a long struggle trying to represent the human body by breaking it apart. It was purchased by the Art Institute of Chicago, where it is still now on display.

Then, instead of resting on his laurels and exploiting that line of painting, he started a struggle that lasted years in his studio, trying to represent Woman as a Goddess or a Monster, the woman with teeth in her vagina, who destroys manhood. The book reveals that it was a very personal odyssey for de Kooning, who had a difficult relationship with his wife, a very independent woman pursuing her own artistic ambitions, in spite of the fact that she always considered her husband to be a genius and promoted his art aggressively (although for her own agrandisement). The result was Woman I (followed by sequels Woman II, III, etc. and numerous drawings on the same subject). This was very much derided by the art critics who considered abstract, non-representational, art as the only valid expression for 20th century painting. It is on display at the Museum of Modern Art in New York, and I just had to go see it a few trips back.


The book is just as much about New York as it is about de Kooning and Modern Art, and it is an absolute pleasure to read. After the second world war, when the United States stood as the victor and the super-power who vanquished the forces of evil in Germany and Japan, New York burst onto the scene as the pre-eminent center where new art was being invented by de Kooning, Jackson Pollock, Franz Kline, Mark Rothko and many others.

But it is not only modern painting that flourished at the time in New York. It was also Jazz music, another quintessentially American art form, and the book touches on that too. De Kooning was a Jazz lover, and a great admirer of Miles Davis, a rising star in the 1940s and 1950s, who reigned supreme in the Jazz world until the 70s and 80s.

There is a wonderful statement in the book that de Kooning "bended" colours, just as Miles "bended" notes, rather than just playing them. It was their common signature, one of unbounded creativity and genius.

Impressions from Ahmedabad

Images I could not take.

In the streets of Ahmedabad, heavy loads on wooden carts are pulled by dray animals of various kinds: donkeys, oxes, camels that seem outsized for the task ... and men, one on each side of the shaft, bent forward, strenuously pushing a yoke at the height of their waist.

Our car passed a strange procession of perhaps 40-50 people. In front were carriers of brightly colored flags and banners, then musicians and singers followed by elaborately dressed people and, at last, a man sitting on a grey horse, in a long white tailored jacket and light blue silk pants, his head adorned by a golden turban, looking lost and out of place at the end of that procession that moved slowly down the street, at the rythm of a rather mocking tune.

My Indian colleagues in the car explained this scene to me. The man on the horse was a groom on his way to his wedding ceremony. The tradition requires that his entourage of friends thus make fun of him, as he is about to make the biggest mistake in his life. It occurred to me then that his golden turban was like a dunce cap.

In Gandhinagar, the capital of Gujarat about 20 km north of Ahmedabad, I visited with an Indian colleague a temple of the Akshardham sect, which has many followers here, but also in far-away places, including Chicago. Since a terrorist attack that occurred about five years ago, tight security measures have been put in place, and I had to relinquish my phone and even my belt as a guard frisked me at the entrance of the temple complex.

The place has been built on a grand scale, and looks very new. It is in fact only about 10 years old and obviously very well maintained. A central alley leads to the main temple of light color stone, standing large (with a rather ugly dome) straight in front of us, perhaps 400 meters away. On each side, there are at first playgrounds for children and families. Then the alley cuts through a very green lawn in the middle of a huge square surrounded by buildings. We have to leave our shoes in a "shoe house" on the left side of a few wide steps leading to the entrance of the temple.

In the center, immediately visible, is a large golden statue of the founder of the sect, Lord Swaminarayan, in a sitting Buddha position. He lived from 1781 to 1830, and inscriptions on the walls retracing his saintly life inform us that he reached mastery of the Vedic arts very early. We went upstairs, and walked around the octogonal gallery, adorned at each corner by a wide and rather ugly stone basin. On top, a plastic cover with back-lighting coming from a neon lamp inside, displays various designs and inscriptions in sanskrit. These must reproduce words of wisdom and devotion from Lord Swaminarayan. The scale of the building and the noble materials used in its construction are impressive, but I found the neon-lighting of religious inscriptions on plastic lamp-covers in very poor taste and out of place.

Leaving the temple and retrieving my shoes, I notice an inscription in large letters on the top level of a side-building: AARSH - Akshardham Center for Applied Research in Social Harmony. A noble and worthy pursuit of an elusive goal the world over, but in particular in Gujarat, which has been riven for decades by atrocities committed in sectarian riots between Hindus and Muslims.

I wonder: how can applied research in social harmony be conducted? And do the followers of Lord Swaminarayan, attacked not so long ago in this temple by Muslim terrorists, have the answer?

Ahmedabad - The Adalaj Step Well

A two-day business trip to Ahmedabad this week left me an afternoon free for some tourism yesterday. If I had known, I would have taken my camera, for I saw some incredible street scenes, which my phone camera was incapable of catching.

Ahmedabad is the largest city in Gujarat, a state bordering Pakistan. It used to be the state capital, before the seat of the government was moved to Ghandinagar, about 20 km North.

Already in April the temperature is high (37 degrees Celsius) but the air is extremely dry, which makes the heat bearable ... at least if you do not stay too long in the sun. In June-July, I am told, the temperature rises to 45.

Driving through Ahmedabad is going through a kaleidoscope of impressions and colours. The contrasts in the streets are amazing. Goats, dogs, donkeys, camels, cows roam around in the middle of a sea of people on foot, bikes, mopeds. A motorcycle can carry a whole family: the man drives and his wife seats in the back, holding one or two children between herself and her husband.

Gandhi was a Gujarati and Ahmedabad was his base for many years. He lived in an ashram in the city from 1918 to 1930. This ashram is now called the Satyagraha Ashram. Satyagraha means "non-violent civil disobedience". It is from this place that Gandhi started his historic walk to Dandi together with 79 Ashramites, vowing not to return till he achieved freedom for India.

This was my first stop in my tour of Ahmedabad yesterday. The place is full of Gandhi memorabilia and retraces in several rooms the various stages of Gandhi's life and his various deeds in defense of poor people and, ultimately, in his campaign to free India from the British Empire.

In one room in particular, there were statements made by several thinkers on this remarkable man and what he accomplished through his use of non violent civil disobedience. There was, however, a thoughtful comment by Bertrand Russell which pointed out the limits of non-violence. I do not remember the exact quote but it stated that the effectiveness of non-violence depends very much on the nature of the enemy, and that you have to understand this before you ask people to lie across a railroad track. Very true, I think. What worked against the British may not have worked against the armies of Hitler or Stalin.

ADALAJ STEP WELL

The high point of this quick tour was on the road from Ahmedabad to Gandhinagar: a step-well built in the late 15th century, a marvel of architecture and sculpture.

Gujarat is a very dry state. The purpose of this step-well was to collect and conserve water from the monsoon rains. This water would run down a system of stairways to a central well. But what an incredible work of art was built for such a utilitarian purpose!

A sign at the entrance stated the following:
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This step-well (VAV) was built in Samvat 1555 (1498 A.D.) by Ruda, wife of Vaghela Chief Virasimha. This is recorded in a Sanskrit inscription on a marble slab set into a niche in the first storey on the Eastern side.

The oblong step-well runs from South to North; entry to the VAV is from the South through stairs on three sides which descend into a spacious landing with an octagonal opening supported on eight pillars. At each of the four corners of the landing platform is a small room with an Oriel window.

From the landing platform the corridor begins with a gently descending staircase leading to the octagonal well-shaft on the North. The stepped corridor has a parapet wall at ground level.

The octagonal shaft is five storeyed; its upper four storeys are entered through spiral staircases on the Western and Eastern sides. The corridor railing around the octagonal shaft, pillars, pilasters, entablatures, lintels and other architectural orders are profusely decorated.

A panel showing nine planets (Navagrahas) is found over a door in the second storey on the Eastern side of the Octagonal shaft.

Among sculptures particular mention may be made of a king seated on a stool under a parasol with two Chauri bearers in attendance, erotic scenes, scenes showing churning of buttermilk, bhairava, female dancers and musicians, various birds and animals like Gaja-Sardula, symbolic representation of Mother Goddess, and medallions, half-medallions, scroll motifs evolving out of Kirttimukha, etc.
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Follow me in the discovery of this incredible well. There are many things I could not see because access to the back of the galleries was only possible if I had dared to walk on a narrow corniche and negotiate spikes installed on it to prevent access.














On top of the lintel in the picture below, you can see a little furry animal (looking very much like a chipmunk).

Le Louvre comes to Singapore

The National Museum of Singapore is a strange place. Behind the rather charming front of a 19th century colonial building, a very modern addition was built a few years ago, but one wonders why the State bothered to spend so much money, since the building is practically empty, and does not house any art collection of note.

From December to March, however, a temporary exhibition of Greek Masterpieces from the Louvre was on display in the basement. I visited it in January and found it inspiring. The artwork was very well displayed, with much room in the spacious underground gallery between the pieces, which were enhanced by a very effective, although subdued, lighting.

A few pieces dated from the Classical Greek period (5th - 4th centuries BCE), but many, although ancient, actually were copies of masterpieces of that period made in the Roman era (2nd - 3rd centuries CE).

Art of this period is refreshing to the jaded eye of the modern museum goer because it is not self-focused. What matters is not the process of creation, or the originality of the outcome, but the subject matter chosen by the artist, which is always representational. More broadly, the subject of this exhibition was the enormous and fundamental contributions to Western Culture made by the Classical Greek period.

I delighted in walking around portraits (sculpted in marble stones) of the founders of Western philosophy: Socrates


his pupil, Plato

Aristotle (tutor of Alexander the Great).

(It has been said that all of Western philosophy is but footnotes to Plato and Aristotle)...

of the founders of the theater: Euripides, the great Athenian tragic poet

Sophocles (on the left) and Aristophanes (on the right), linked in this Roman style double portrait as the complementary fathers of Tragedy and Comedy


of poets: Archilochus

and Anacreon


of the gods: Ares, the violent and irascible god of warlike frenzy, son of Zeus and Hera and lover of Aphrodite

Apollo

Aphrodite

Eros, son of Aphrodite, the god of Love


Hermes, Orpheus and Eurydice in a relief of a funerary monument that may have been erected during the Peloponnesian War (431-404 BCE)


A mask of Dionysus



Pan, the son of Hermes and a nymph



The Milo Amphora, an Attic red figure amphora of circa 410-400 BC



And this sumptuous bronze drinking cup (kantharos)

Partita No.2 in D minor for solo violin BWV 1004

After 17 minutes of divine music in four movements (Allemande, Courante, Sarabande, Gigue) which already uncovered for you the peaks of musical perfection, Bach suddenly takes you in an unexpected fifth movement to the ultimate summit, the Everest of musical composition, unmatched over the last 300 years (Beethoven came close in the Arietta of his last piano sonata), the Chaconne.

For another 15 minutes, you wander through the imaginings of Bach's beautiful mind. His musical ideas assert and question the value and meaning of life in infinite meanderings of unspeakable beauty and grandeur ... you are left exhausted but entirely satisfied after listening to this masterpiece.

As Dawkins would say, 'Who needs God when one has Bach?'

As a lover of music, and of Bach's music in particular, I am quite sympathetic to that rethorical question, and would gladly embrace the obvious answer that one indeed does not need God, if all one is longing for is perfect beauty and harmony. These are all in Bach's music.

But, as great as he is, and as happy as he makes me listening to his music, Bach does not help me getting reconciled with the all too final fact of death. The Grim Reaper has the last word and only the belief in God can sustain you in the happy delusion that you will still, after death, hear the music of the spheres.

That faith, however, is unfortunately beyond my grasp. But still, one must be content that there is Bach ... life without his music would be much grimmer.

A visit at the Modern

A few weeks ago, to kill time before dining at "The Modern" (a fine restaurant in the new building housing the Museum of Modern Art in New York) we walked around the galleries of the museum. Entrance to this museum is expensive ($20 or $25, I believe), but it is free on Friday evenings after 5. It somehow felt appropriate to get this esthetic experience for free before an expensive meal ...

The architecture inside the museum building sometimes looks like a post-modern painting:

There was an excellent exhibit of Lucien Freud's works. I captured two which I particularly liked:
A self-portrait:

and a print of a dog at rest.

Selected from a very rich collection of photographs, an amazing series of pictures of the Eiffel Tower under construction: