web analytics

Dejeuner du matin. La variation masculine

As you know, Jacques Prévert is one of my favourite poets. It has just occurred to me that his Déjeuner du matin could be retold by a man, and the idea has captivated me so that I decided to see if I could rewrite the poem in such way. This is what came about so far.

Déjeuner du matin (Jacques Prévert)

Il a mis le café
Dans la tasse
Il a mis le lait
Dans la tasse de café
Il a mis le sucre
Dans le café au lait
Avec la petite cuiller
Il a tourné
Il a bu le café au lait
Et il a reposé la tasse
Sans me parler

Il a allumé
Une cigarette
Il a fait des ronds
Avec la fumée
Il a mis les cendres
Dans le cendrier
Sans me parler
Sans me regarder

Il s’est levé
Il a mis
Son chapeau sur sa tête
Il a mis son manteau de pluie
Parce qu’il pleuvait
Et il est parti
Sous la pluie
Sans une parole
Sans me regarder

Et moi j’ai pris
Ma tête dans ma main
Et j’ai pleuré.

Déjeuner du matin. La variation masculine (Julia Shuvalova)

Elle a mis le café
Dans la tasse
Elle a mis le lait
Dans la tasse de café
Elle a mis le sucre
Dans le café au lait
Avec la petite cuiller
Elle a tourné
Elle a bu le café au lait
Et elle a reposé la tasse
Sans me parler

Après tout ça
Elle s’est levée
Elle est allée
Vers le miroir pour se peigner
Elle a rougi
Ses lèvres
Sans me parler
Sans me regarder

Elle a soupiré
Elle a mis
Son manteau long
Elle a pris son sac
Parce qu’elle travaillait
Et elle est partie
Avec le sac
Sans une parole
Sans me regarder

Et moi je suis rentré
Dans la cuisine
Et j’ai fumé.

As you will notice, I didn’t rewrite the first stanza of Prévert’s poem – I wanted to start with exactly the same mis-en-scene, and then just to make a female the object of our attention. 

Image credits: Henri Matisse, Lorette à la tasse de café (1917) via Clarity. After After Coffee by m.mogall.

Thanks for reading and visiting! You can connect with me on Google+ @ https://plus.google.com/108262661313082363581/posts/. Julia x

The Kiss. The Story of a Dream

On Monday, I received an invitation to look at the video The Kiss by the Italian painter and animator, Giuseppe Ragazzini. At the time I was also listening to one of the songs by Paolo Conte, and the melody of that song, together with the video, became the inspiration to the text below.

Julia Shuvalova, The Kiss. The Story of a Dream.

I already told this…

And now I will tell this again. Because I love. Telling.

Once I dreamt of a woman. She was kissing me.

My eyes were closed, but even if they were opened I would never recognise her. She resembled all women I had. But she possessed something mysterious – not that kind of mysterious that the women I have not yet met and known could have. This mystery belonged to a woman who was not yet.

In my dream I was lying in the hall. The stone walls were covered with dark tapestries. The windows had shutters on them. The bed on which I lay stood in the middle of the hall, and the heavy Bordeaux cloths of the canopy hanged around. I lay on my back, with the arm under my head, and the light nightly breeze was blowing cold on my chest through the half-open shirt.

She came from nowhere, and in my dream I felt her breath on my face. She looked at me. I didn’t see her. My eyes were closed. I slept. She looked at me. This is how the mother looks at her child. This is how one looks at their beloved who seems dear and of whom they know everything. Her intimacy was warm, and I smiled, feeling her breath on my temples, between the eyebrows, on the tip of my nose, on my cheekbones.
Her lips moved closer to my ear. My smile became wider. Gentler. I think I stretched my hands out to her. But she eluded. She lay next to me, resting her head on her hand, and looked at me.

I slept and thought: who is she? Why did she come to me? Where was she before? Why does she look at me? She is smiling. Does she love me?

Suddenly a shadow entered my dream. The smile vanished from my lips. The shadow didn’t go away. It was she. She was looking at me. Then she ran along my face with her finger, from the temple to the chin. In silence. And I was silent, too. She was half lying on my chest, but I felt neither her heaviness, nor her lightness. I closed my eyes.

Her breath was approaching. I wanted this to last. And she was slowly moving closer to my face. I felt the movement of her breasts through the transparent cloth of her nightdress, on top of which she wore a cloak with rare ornament. Her plump lips. Her eyes that looked at me with such kindness. Her body was pressing intensely against my hip.

My eyelashes flickered. Her lips lightly touched mine. We both didn’t move. I let her tongue enter my mouth. Blood was pumping in my temples. I barely breathed. She was kissing me. I kissed many women. No woman has ever kissed me like she. I lay on my back. Her breasts were touching my chest like a light nightly breeze. My arm was still under my head. She was pressing her entire body against mine. I didn’t even hold her. Nothing but our lips bound us together.


Occasionally she was pulling back, and through the dream I felt that she did it in order to look at me. She didn’t say a word. Having pulled back and thrown a look at me, she was returning to my mouth. Her soft lips quickly touched its corners. Her tongue teasingly moved along my lips. Sometimes after that her lips simply touched my mouth. This calmed me down. The warmth spread in my body. And she simply looked at me, smiling. Like the beauties on the old paintings look at their beloved. Like, perhaps, I looked at women whom I really loved.

But sometimes her tongue, having moved around my lips, forcefully penetrated my mouth. She was searching for my tongue. I gave in to her. Having found each other, our tongues entwined, and her moves became slower. Gently was she holding my head in the palm of her hand, and I barely felt it. And her tongue was entering deep into my mouth. She would slowly pull back. Her tongue almost escaped from me. I followed it. Then once again she possessed me.

And it lasted. And lasted. The strength and passion of her kisses varied. One time she was kissing me like Shulammite kissed King Solomon, with all fire of the first innocent love. She was kissing me like a Parisian hooker, and in her kiss there was a suddenly awoken tenderness towards the man. In her kiss there was a lust. In her kiss there was a mystery. The impossible. Something yet impossible. But there was no fear in her kiss. She was kissing me, as if I belonged to her forever.

Somewhere afar the music is playing. Just simple chords. Their rhythm resembles the moves of her tongue on my palate. The chords join in a melody that she’s playing on my lips, on my tongue. I want to listen to it forever. And she smiles at me, and looks at me, and touches my mouth with hers, and we unite in a kiss, then she pulls back, then moves her lips closer to mine again, her tongue enters deeply into my mouth, and I lose my breath, lying on my back and feeling through the transparent cloth of her nightdress the barely heard beats of her heart against my chest.

I don’t know when the dream ends. In the morning I wake up in my room. My arm is under my head. Slightly amused, I move my hand across my bare chest, trying to remember when I took my shirt off. In truth, I always sleep without a shirt. I look around. She is nowhere. At all. I sit up in the bed. Every time I wonder why, after such passionate kissing in my sleep, I am barely aroused. I get up. Get dressed. The day goes by as a particular day needs to go. I am working. Or meeting friends. Or marking time.

This woman comes to me at night. She resembles the women I had. Those women that I occasionally meet these days have something of her. But she always retains that which none of them has yet got. There is no such woman. Maybe she is not in the city where I am. Maybe she doesn’t yet exist at all. And she always only kisses me. Like, perhaps, I kissed women whom I really loved. Like no woman has ever kissed me. And when I walk in the streets of my city, it seems to me occasionally that she swiftly passes me by. I turn around. She is not there. Perhaps, I should stop turning around, but then she will stop coming to me at night.
I love telling about this. At night I dream of a woman. She kisses me. I don’t know when it ends. They say that once a marble statue came to life. I tell about the woman who kisses me at night and I think: maybe the night comes when the dream doesn’t end. Or maybe the day will come when I meet this woman.

I dream that a woman kisses me. I already told this. I often tell this. Because I love.


English translation © Julia Shuvalova 2007

Thanks for reading and visiting! You can connect with me on Google+ @ https://plus.google.com/108262661313082363581/posts/. Julia x

My Favourite Billy Connolly

When I first came to England five years ago, I was promptly told that many things would be forgiven to me as a foreigner as long as I didn’t fail to like Billy Connolly. Watching him the first few times was tough, I must admit, for before 2002 my knowledge of the Scottish accent was virtually nonexistent. However, the man I saw on the TV screen was so charismatic and adorable, I said to myself that I must learn to understand him.

Time went by, I’ve seen Billy’s many performances, I loved the world tours he made, read about him, laughed at his sketches, certainly found him handsome, and watched Mrs Brown. The only thing I never paid attention to, for some reason, was his birthday. Turns out, he was born on November 24th and is a Sag, like myself. Obviously, I send my belated birthday greetings to him, and my adoration for a fellow Centaur has now grown even bigger. I love the month of December even more now.

Billy Connolly for me is the Henry Miller of stand-up comedy. I’ve never heard so many swearing words being said on stage in my entire life, but I cannot imagine anyone doing it with such gusto and creativity, as Connolly. Having lived in Manchester for over four years now, I also know that what he brings out on stage is the living language. Because when we think of stage we link it to theatre, and when we think of theatre we link it to art, Billy’s escapades at first look outrageous. It’s like Tropic of Cancer or The Rosy Crucifixion is being read aloud. But as I wrote last year about Henry Miller, one of his greatest achievements was in tuning his narrative in with the time in which he was writing. It was impossible to write “lovely” texts on the eve of the devastating military conflict. As far as Connolly’s shows are concerned, the bad language he uses can be heard everywhere, even in the most refined places. The brilliance of Billy is that he takes the genre which sometimes is a collection of pre-written sketches, not necessarily witty or funny, and turns it into a real people’s comedy. Again, just as Miller was able to write “decent” prose – like Big Sur or The Colossus of Maroussi – so Connolly has dazzled the viewers with his thoughtful and even romantic reports from his world tours.

I’m leaving you with the great man’s official website – BillyConnolly.com – and an extract from one of his shows, in which he talks about opera. This is an amazingly talented performance, but make sure you’ve got a few spare minutes and can afford laughing out loud.

Thanks for reading and visiting! You can connect with me on Google+ @ https://plus.google.com/108262661313082363581/posts/. Julia x

One Week Before Christmas. Listening to Paolo Conte

When winter comes to my town, but the grass is as green as in summer, – if only now it is covered with the withered leaves, resembling coffee with milk by their colour, –

When in my town the clouds freeze and become like the heaps of snow, – though, most probably, they remind me of some other town where the heaps of snow are as white as clouds, –

When in my town on the news they speak about shops, turkeys, puddings, presents, postcards, santa clauses, babies in the cradles, – even if not everyone believes in the feast and celebrates it, –

When the streets are silent because nobody likes the cold and tries to leave the house as seldom as possible, – although, of course, one has to go out for newspapers and milk, –

When in my street they hanged about ten multicolour boxes and garlands on a streetlamp, and on the next one, and on the next one, – granted that all boxes are, obviously, empty, –

When from my flat’s window I see the street where people are walking and speaking about the shops, turkeys, presents, and they don’t like cold, – just like the streetlamp where the boxes hang, –

When I hold in my hand a cup with hot chocolate and simply look from my window at people, who walk from the shops with turkeys and presents, – and who don’t like the cold, just like me, –

When the hot chocolate takes me back to my childhood, when you are waiting for a holiday not because this is how it should be, but because you don’t know what a holiday is, – this is the wisest, isn’t it, –

When childhood is visiting as the memories of the snow outside the window, and of the heaps of snow that look like white clouds full of snowfall, – it was so long ago, but I still remember, –

When something pinches strangely in your chest, because there is memory, but the time has gone so far, that, it seems, it’s impossible to remember, – and you don’t want to talk or to listen to anybody, –

Then, finally, I turn a recorder on, and with a husky “tara-ti-tara-hey” begins a miracle, of which I know nothing, – but this is exactly why I believe in it…

*The text references the beginning of  Sparring Partner by Paolo Conte.

English translation © Julia Shuvalova
Image credit © Julia Shuvalova

Other posts on Paolo Conte

Les Feuilles de la Chanson

Some of you may instantly guess to which two French songs alludes the title of this post. These are Les Feuilles Mortes by Jacques Prevert and Joseph Kosma and La Chanson de Prevert by Serge Gainsbourg. The original song was performed by Yves Montand and became one of his finest songs. Gainsbourg’s song was written in 1961 as a response and an hommage to Prevert’s talent of a poet, by including many a reference to the original song, to tell his Gainsbourg’s own story of separated lovers. The reminiscences begin in the first line, which is the same in both songs.

So, in addition to the translations below you can check out this version Les Feuilles Mortes (full track!) on Last.fm, along with C’est Si Bon, La Vie en Rose, and Sous le Ciel de Paris. The video is Gainsbourg’s live performance of La Chanson de Prevert (Prevert’s Song) in April 1961 on Discorama, very dramatic and moving. I included the texts of both songs and my English translations; the full text of Les Feuilles Mortes is provided by Patrick Auzat-Magne.

Oh! je voudrais tant que tu te souviennes
Des jours heureux où nous étions amis.
En ce temps-là la vie était plus belle,
Et le soleil plus brûlant qu’aujourd’hui.
Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle.
Tu vois, je n’ai pas oublié…
Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle,
Les souvenirs et les regrets aussi
Et le vent du nord les emporte
Dans la nuit froide de l’oubli.
Tu vois, je n’ai pas oublié
La chanson que tu me chantais.

C’est une chanson qui nous ressemble.
Toi, tu m’aimais et je t’aimais
Et nous vivions tous deux ensemble,
Toi qui m’aimais, moi qui t’aimais.
Mais la vie sépare ceux qui s’aiment,
Tout doucement, sans faire de bruit
Et la mer efface sur le sable
Les pas des amants désunis.

Oh ! So much would I like to you remember
The happy days when we were together.
At the time life was more beautiful,
And the sun was more dazzling than now.
The dead leaves are gathering at the shovel.
You see, I didn’t forget…
The dead leaves are gathering at the shovel,
And the souvenirs, and the regrets also.
And the northern wind takes them
Into the cold night of the oblivion.
You see, I didn’t forget
The song you sang to me.

This song is like us.
You loved me, and I loved you.
We lived together,
You love me, and I loved you.
But the night separates those who love each other
So softly, without making a noise.
And the sea washes off the sand
The steps of the disunited lovers.

Oh je voudrais tant que tu te souviennes
Cette chanson était la tienne
C’était ta préférée je crois
Qu’elle est de Prévert et Kosma

Et chaque fois “Les feuilles mortes”
Te rappellent à mon souvenir
Jour après jour les amours mortes
N’en finissent pas de mourir

Avec d’autres, bien sur, je m’abadonne
Mais leur chanson est monotone
Et peu à peu je m’indiffère
A cela il n’est rien à faire

Car chaque fois les feuilles mortes
Te rappellent à mon souvenir
Jour après jour les amours mortes
N’en finissent pas de mourir

Peut on jamais savoir par où commence
Et quand finit l’indifférence
Passe l’automne, vienne l’hiver
Et que la chanson de Prévert

Cette chanson “Les feuilles mortes”
S’efface de mon souvenir
Et ce jour là mes amours mortes
En auront fini de mourir

Oh how much would I love you to remember :
This was your song.
It was your favourite, I believe –
The one by Prevert and Kosma.

And every time “Les feuilles mortes”
Reminds me of you.
Day after day the autumn loves
Don’t stop withering.

With others, of course, I abandon myself,
But their song is monotonous.
And little by little I lose interest.
There’s nothing to do about it

For every time “Les feuilles mortes”
Reminds me of you.
Day after day the autumn loves
Don’t stop withering.

Is it ever possible to know where the indifference
Begins or when it ends?
The autumn passes, and the winter comes,
And if only the Prevert’s song would go.

This song, “Les feuilles mortes”,
Washes itself off my memory.
And on that day my autumn loves
Will have stopped withering.

Thanks for reading and visiting! You can connect with me on Google+ @ https://plus.google.com/108262661313082363581/posts/. Julia x

Open Directory Project Listing

I have no doubt you have heard about the Open Directory Project, that is a human-edited directory of sites and weblogs, and should be considered if one is serious about blogging and posts regularly. As the submission guidelines inform you, submission is free, and it may take up to three months to have your project listed. Whether you are successful or not, the editor of the category in which you submitted your blog will inform you accordingly. But, as I’ve just read elsewhere, the editors, being very busy people, may not have time to send a quick e-mail to you.

I feel lazy to go through my e-mails to check exactly when I submitted Los Cuadernos to the OPD. It was certainly earlier this year, and it’s definitely taken over three months. Last weekend I noticed someone visiting my blog from http://www.dmoz.org/Arts/Weblogs/, which was a sign for me that my blog has probably made an appearance there. I wasn’t disappointed, as indeed Los Cuadernos de Julia is now included in the Open Directory Project, in the Arts Weblogs category. You can find the listing if you follow the URL above. And in the spirit of co-operation I’ve included a nice little button in the side bar, clicking on which will take you to the OPD search page.

As to why the OPD project is important and why you would consider getting your site submitted there, please read these two articles. One is authored by Karen Zack from Custom Post-Its R Us. I shouldn’t hold any grudges against my category’s editor, as it hasn’t taken my site as long as Karen’s to be listed (not that I hold grudges, anyway!). And another article by Rocky John Tayaban from BloggingMix.com is fairly recent and will tell you everything you might want to know about the OPD project and the benefits of being listed there.

Thanks for reading and visiting! You can connect with me on Google+ @ https://plus.google.com/108262661313082363581/posts/. Julia x

Alberto Moravia – Eroticism in Literature

I was just going through some screenshots with articles about Quiet Flows the Don premiere last year. It’s been a very long while, unfortunately, since I wrote anything about the latest adaptation by the late Sergei Bondarchuk. In part, it had to do with the fact that I only recently managed to start watching the film, which I am yet to finish. So far in general I feel that I like this film more than the previous adaptation. However, it is the previous adaptation’s subject and the recent interpretation of it that made me remember about this short essay by Alberto Moravia. As I mentioned previously, this year is the 100th anniversary of his birthday, so it is appropriate to mark it with this text.

Alberto Moravia, Eroticism in Literature (1961)

Eroticism in modern literature has no resemblance to eroticism in pagan literature nor to eroticism in the literatures that followed it, though if there are any resemblances at all these are to the former rather than the latter. But there is the difference that in pagan literature eroticism has all the innocence, brutality and cohesion of a nature not yet divided and turned against itself by the Christian sense of sin, whereas eroticism in modern literature is bound to take the Christian experience into account. In other words, eroticism in modern literature derives not from a situatio of nature, but from a process of liberation from pre-existent prohibitions and taboos. With the pagans, freedom was an unconscious, simple fact, whereas with the moderns it has been reclaimed, rediscovered, rewon. In compensation eroticism in modern literature has, or should have, the character proper to subjects that neither shock nor draw undue attention to themselves – that are, in short, normal if we understand normal to mean the transformation of the sexual act into something scientifically known and poetically valid, and therefore insignificant from the ethical point of view.

 The result of this is, or should be, that for the first time since the pagan literatures sex is becoming material for poetry without the need to recourse to the props of symbols or the disguises of metaphor. Today, for the first time for many centuries, the sexual act can be represented directly, explicitly, realistically and poetically in a literary work, whenever the work itself makes it necessary. At this point someone will ask: but is it necessary to talk about the sexual act and, if so, when? My answer is that it is not always necessary to talk about the sexual act, just as it is not always necessary to talk about social questions or adventures in Africa, but that, as the prohibitions and taboos that stood in its way no longer exist today, to pass it over in silence when it is necessary is no longer, as it once was, a moral question but an inadequacy of expression. To take an example: the contemporary writer who does not speak of the sexual act when the subject-matter of his book requires it, is behaving like the citizen who refrains from talking about politics in a democratic regime because the dictatorship that preceded it forbade him to do so. Of course, let me repeat, it is not always necessary to talk about the sexual act; but it is necessary to talk about it when – to make a play on words – it is necessary.

 Our objector now asks why on earth it seems so often necessary to talk about the sexual act in modern literature. To this we answer very simply that in the modern world sex is synonymous with love, and who could deny that love is a very common subject in the literatures of all times and places?

 But how in the world, someone else will say, has love been transformed into sex in modern literature; in other words how has it lost the indirect, metaphorical and idealised character that it had in the past, to end up as identified with the sexual act? There are many reasons for this identification, the principal one being, as we have already pointed out, the collapse of the prohibitions and taboos that only too frequently and artificially lay at the root of the false idealisations of eroticism.

 These taboos and prohibitions were only in appearance of Christian origin; in reality Christianity confined itself to counselling chastity. Probably the taboos and prohibitions were the outcome of a slow social involution, an involution not unlike the one that can be observed in, for instance, class relationships in some Western societies.

 However, the collapse of these taboos and prohibitions has been caused mainly by what is called depth psychology, or psychoanalysis and the related psychological sciences. The discoveries of psychoanalysis have had a crucial result in two ways: they have broken down the taboos, and have raised the sexual act from the ignominy into which the taboos had cast it, and have reinstated it among the few ways of expression and communion available to man.

 The sexual act in modern literature is, or should be, neither diabolical temptation, as with the medieval ascetics, nor an almost gastronomical pleasure as with the eighteenth-century bourgeoisie, but as it shows itself when we manage to separate it both from moralistic horror and vulgar hedonism: an act of insertion into a cosmic and superhuman order. Seen in this way the sexual act is effectively something higher, more mysterious, and more complete than love, especially if love is interpreted as the simple physico-sentimental relationship between man and woman.


How does this relate to the 1957 and 1992 (2006) adaptations of Quiet Flows the Don? At the heart of the novel is a love story of Grigory and Aksinia. One of the arguments against the most recent film was that it showed the protagonists having what we may call an openly sexual relationship. I must point out that there are still no bed scenes similar to some we’ve seen in other films. At the most, we can see their bare torsos (right, although the image is quite modest), but this is obviously very different from what the viewers have been looking at since 1957 (left). Some of the Bondarchuk’s critics were saying that Aksinia would never go to bed with Grigory totally naked. It may certainly be true if we remember that it was a custom even in Europe for many centuries to exercise one’s marital duty in a nightgown (which used to be worn by both men and women). From this point of view, any historical film with a romantic scene in which both protagonists appear totally naked, is potentially historically incorrect.

What is interesting, however, is that the kind of romantic love we usually witness on screen and which makes up one of the subjects of Sholokhov’s novel is rather often than not a forbidden love. As the narrator tells us, the love of Aksinia and Grigory was forbidden not simply because it was adulterous – it flew in the face of a traditional view of how to conduct an affair. Had they concealed it or treated it as if it didn’t matter, the villagers would quickly forget about it. They, however, didn’t conceal it, and in particular Aksinia, for whom this was the first time she fell in love and had her affection returned, put herself entirely into enjoying her womanhood. Hers is a tragic character, and I can absolutely not picture Aksinia keeping her cool while burning with love – that is, wearing a nightgown at all times, figuratively speaking.

I wouldn’t want to comment in too much depth on the Russian take on eroticism in cinema as follows from the Quiet Flows the Don‘s critique, since those opinions may not be entirely representative. As with everything else elsewhere, much is built upon assumptions, in this case – an assumption that Russian culture and eroticism are alien to each other, which, of course, is nonsense. But in the case of reception of this recent adaptation of Sholokhov’s novel we find assumptions not only about the life in the Cossack village, but about the novel itself. The fact is that Sholokhov’s text is long and rich enough to include many story lines, some of which never made it to the screen. And certain portions of the text are undoubtedly erotic, although they may be too demure for our time. Nevertheless, they do exist, and since the question seems to be about whether or not it was appropriate for the protagonists to bare on screen, the answer is that it was not only appropriate, but even necessary – to underline the unconventional and tragic fate of their life-long affair.

Woody Allen and Me

Remember, remember the 1st of December – for it is Woody Allen’s birthday. I first came across the work of my fellow Sagittarian, when already in England – I watched Celebrity. I think initially I wanted to watch it because of Kenneth Branagh whom the inimitable Allen allowed to play what otherwise would normally be his own part in the film. With Branagh being but a part of larger cast, I soon was captivated by Judy Davis’s character, and especially by the scene below. When I included this video in the post on my Russian blog many months ago, I suddenly remembered about another Allen’s gem – Bananas.

I mentioned The Purple Rose of Cairo in the last year’s post about cinema. The sentence from Annie Hall about a relationship being like a shark that dies unless it moves possesses that powerful blend of humour and profound wisdom that is usually acquired through some rather sad experiences or gloomy observations. And the wrestling scene from Bananas is a brilliant jeer at the familial relationships – and it reminds me of another satyrical scene about family life from La Citta delle Donne (The City of Women) by Federico Fellini.

Most recently I’ve seen Manhattan. I watched it on the big screen, at Manchester’s Cornerhouse. Being a maverick, I watched two films in one day, which I mentioned in this post about the role of sound and colour in films (which was to an extent inspired by that day at the movies) – I saw Manhattan first, and then I watched David Lynch’s Eraserhead. I must sincerely admit that Eraserhead pretty much erased the impression of Allen’s film – except for its opening scene, which has long entered the annals of cinema as one of the best opening scenes ever. Its magical blend of music and the monochrome shots of New York is the perfect portrait of the city “that never sleeps”.

I didn’t intend to list all Woody Allen’s films I’ve seen since 2004 – I only mentioned those that I find corresponding with some of my own views, thoughts, experiences. Simply put, although I’m not Woody Allen, I can be just as clumsy, head-in-the-clouds, doubting, soul-searching, quirky person. Since I’m a woman, we should probably multiply all the above-mentioned qualities at least by two. But all that is hidden underneath, in the internal dialogue with my own self that will remain unheard and unseen, unless I put it in the subtitles (like in Annie Hall). On the surface I’ve got wisdom, buoyancy, even bravura, and the sense of humour for which the Sags are renowned. Life is full of duality for us, you see, but it’s a Sag life, after all.

Happy birthday, Mr Allen!

La Grande Vadrouille, Mon Amour

It was in the 1980s. If I was attending school, I was in the primary classes. My granny and I would go to the local cinema every so often. One day we went to see a French film which name was translated into Russian as “The Big Walk”. It was the one of the first times I’ve seen a foreign film. It was one of the first times I’ve seen a French film. It was certainly the first film with Louis de Funes that I saw. And I loved the film so much that I pleaded with my Gran to go and watch it with me once again. In the scope of one or two weeks I saw La Grande Vadrouille twice. Then I saw it a couple of times of Russian TV. And I’ve just scoured YouTube trying to find the extract below, which I loved imitating. The main participants are Louis de Funes and Bourvil.

A short synopsis from IMDb.com:

During World War II, two French civilians and a downed English Bomber Crew set out from Paris to cross the demarcation line between Nazi-occupied Northern France and the South. From there they will be able to to escape to England. First, they must avoid German troops – and the consequences of their own blunders

I have little more to say, except that I want to watch this film again! There are some extracts on YouTube, which you may like to find and see for yourself. La Grande Vadrouille is an undying classic, although when I saw the scenes below I suddenly realised that, being a child, with little knowledge of life, I didn’t see all that was humourous about these extracts.

Exercises in Loneliness – VIII (Cafe and Music)


Taking Aim
Originally uploaded by Neil101

It shall be a good lesson to me, to take a picture of the place that featured in my work in one way or another. I quite liked Caffe Uno, located in the basement of Heron House in Manchester, opposite the Town Hall and the famous fountain with gargoyles. It never occurred to me that the day may come when this cafe would no longer be. Alas, as you will know if you live in Manchester, Caffe Uno has now been changed by Brasserie, and I was lucky enough to find this picture by Neil on Flickr.

The poem below was written on a small envelope. I don’t know why it was in my bag, but it was, otherwise I’d have to deploy a paper napkin. It was my first ever visit to CaffeUno, it was in January 2005, and the story of how I ended up there is quite trivial, I suppose. I was meant to meet up with the only Russian person I know in Manchester. We were actually going to meet at Mark Addy, then known as the Russian hub in this sunny city. Not only would this be our first meeting, it was also the Orthodox Christmas, January 7th. This lady and I decided to meet at about 9pm at Mark Addy, but I first needed to actually get to Manchester, so I took a bus and reached the city at 7pm.

The evening was incredibly cold and windy. I remember wearing a long coat and a trilby hat, and all the way I had to hold on to my headwear, otherwise it would fly away, surely. I somehow decided to kill time drinking coffee at Caffe Uno. I think one of the reasons may have been that I had wanted to go there for a while, and it now seemed like a perfect occasion to finally pay a visit. I sat in the bar, at the tall table near the window, and drank Irish coffee. The weather outside was getting worse. The Christmas decorations were already taken down, except perhaps for a few garlands left randomly on trees. The wind, however, was so strong, that the bollards at the cafe’s entrance were overturned a few times. The streetlamps were glowing in the ghostly fog which was becoming denser and denser as the evening advanced. And then there was this music: a strange collection of rockabilly, soul and Italian pop songs.

I have long noticed that when you write a love poem or a poem about love, the question that inevitably rises is – was there a protagonist? My answer is always “yes” and “no”. There may be a certain person involved, not necessarily on an intimate level. They may be a good friend of yours, but something they said or you said can suddenly acquire a totally different meaning. Or the person in question may be an amalgamation of several people, and therefore thoughts, experiences. What I enjoy the most about writing is the experiment, which is why I very rarely dedicate poems to anyone because, in the end of the day, the text will not be about them, even if it might allude to them.

This poem, however, is about me. The question that I now must ask myself is – since I am the protagonist of this poem, is this me? My answer is “yes”. However, I was alone in Caffe Uno. I wasn’t looking at anybody in particular, although I probably wanted to look at somebody. The text dwells on the experience of that creative loneliness which is enhanced by the rather Gothic weather. There is no rhyme in the Russian text, but the rhythm, which I tried to replicate in the English translation, is in tune with that musical vinaigrette I described above. Having said that, the mood of the poem is closer to soul than to pop.

The poem does read like a romantic poem. But since I was looking at someone imaginary, it is rather likely than not that I was ultimately looking at myself. And little did I know, being at Caffe Uno and scribbling the lines on a tiny white envelope, that at Marc Addy I would also be on my own, and that this Russian friend wouldn’t turn up, and that, sitting in MA and gazing at the black bitter waves of the river, I would finally decide that I somehow belonged to England and wanted to stay here. The poem thus becomes Romanticist, rather than romantic, and indeed it marked yet another stage in the series of changes that started during my visit to London in April 2004.

CAFÉ AND MUSIC

Imagine this: the lights of night-time city
Are drawing me beguilingly to you.
I drink cognac which taste is blent in coffee,
And soul chords caress my ear fondly.
The cars are flying with the blowing wind;
The leaves, umbrellas, hats are flying after.
I’m thinking; in the rhythm of rockabilly
My recollections move; and I feel good.
You’re thinking too, but nothing do you know.
And so I gaze with a mysterious smile:
Imaginary flame ignites the lantern,
And all streetlamps are like the burning bushes.
And we don’t speak; sometimes an odd talk
Intrudes upon us from the corner table;
It’s ghostly; nightly; beautiful; and empty;
I drink cognac; I’m being drawn to you.

Manchester, Caffe Uno,
January 7, 2005

English translation © Julia Shuvalova 2007

(КАФЕ И МУЗЫКА

Вообрази: огни ночного города
Меня к тебе влекут неодолимо.
Я пью коньяк, чей вкус разбавлен кофе,
И блюза гаммы слух ласкают мне.
Летят автомобили ветру вслед,
Им вслед летят листва, зонты и шляпы,
Я думаю, и в ритме рокабилли
Воспоминанья движутся; мне хорошо.
Ты тоже думаешь, но ничего не знаешь.
С улыбкою загадочной смотрю:
Воображаемый огонь зажегся в лампе,
И кущами пылают фонари.
И мы молчим; случайный разговор
Доносится от столика в углу;
Все призрачно; ночно; красиво; пусто;
Я пью коньяк; меня к тебе влечет.

© Julia Shuvalova 2005)

Thanks for reading and visiting! You can connect with me on Google+ @ https://plus.google.com/108262661313082363581/posts/. Julia x
error: Sorry, no copying !!