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Llandudno Diaries – 5

Those of you who followed my Flickr have undoubtedly noticed just what a surge in my passion for photography came from this trip to Wales. What I wanted to share in this chapter is one particular experience which fits the notion of “l’instant decisif”, or “decisive moment“, introduced to the world of photography by Henri Cartier-Bresson. To avoid being considered a show-off, I should note that Cartier-Bresson advised to only take a shot, literally, at that very decisive moment, whereas I took a picture of this shelter on Llandudno Promenade a few times before I got it right.

It all started when I was walking from the Grand Hotel towards Craig-y-Don. These shelters stand along the entire Promenade, and the first time I took a notice of it, the shelter was used in its proper way, as you can see on the left. I remember that I was actually attracted by a man who sat in the middle section of the shelter, for his manner of dialling or writing an SMS on his mobile was somewhat peculiar. But while taking the picture, I spotted the view from the shelter’s “windows”, which I tried to capture on the next two pictures (right and below).

Between and after these shots I was walking on the Promenade, I was taking pictures of pebbles, and eventually I even descended from the Promenade and was walking on the pavement. It was then that this lady and her dog appeared. The little white dog was wearing a tartan coat and evidently found something in me, as it kept stopping and starring at me, so I even had to pause and let the pair walk ahead. This little dog, I believe, was my White Rabbit, since eventually it stopped by the yet another shelter and spent enough time for me to catch up with them. I tenderly watched the dog for a few moments, and then I looked at the shelter. Next second I was reaching out for the camera, while praying for the pair to walk away as quickly as possible because the rain was starting. Off they walked, and I took the picture (below).

The reason I call it my “decisive moment” is because it was totally spontaneous in that I didn’t plan it. In the words of Cartier-Bresson, the act of taking a photograph is “the simultaneous recognition, in a fraction of a second, of the significance of an event as well as of a precise organization of forms which gave that event its proper expression“. So far we’ve known that this is a simple shelter on Llandudno Promenade, but here, totally on its own, it seems to stand completely in the water or even to rise from the water. It is just an object, free from the presence of other objects. Naturally, one can imagine it floating between the two elements – water and air – but the precise lines of the shelter indicate that it is not about to be overturned. When I wrote about this picture in my Russian blog, I noted that the main carcass of the shelter (as well as the bench) is in the form of the letter “pi” (left) that can be interpreted as a symbol of strong will and victory, and this explains why the shelter has got this air of stability about it. At the same time, one can perhaps see two letters “T” join in the carcass (and in the bench), and this letter symbolises the union of two antagonistic forces. Indeed, the latter point is very true about this shelter: it is but a shelter, made of concrete, which can be properly used; however, seen from a different point of view, in the different atmosphere, this ordinary object becomes the subject of a photographic shot, thus being placed in the centre of a purely creative process.

The geometry of this shelter is rather interesting, in that the main lines remain unchanged even when one overturns the image. The most obvious interpretation of this picture would have to do with the place of a man in the world, face to face with the elements. As such, this shelter can be my alter ago, or it can be yours. But perhaps the really curious thing happens if we turn the picture on its head. Cartier-Bresson would perhaps advise against this, and of course, an overturned shelter begs for a different story. I did overturn the picture, however, if only to see what story it could then tell (right). Unexpectedly, the shelter now resembles a carcass of a house. The clouds from the original picture look like a stripe of grass at dusk. The sky resembles the snowy plain, or the white sand in twilight. And the sea is divided into the sea proper and the steel-coloured sky where the ghostly beams of the first floor disappear. Suddenly, the decisive moment appears to be not so much in capturing an object, but in capturing the creative potential of it.

Llandudno Diaries – 4

The Great Orme is the dramatic backdrop to Llandudno, as well as the starting point of the history of the place. Hardly anything can be more impressive than to walk in Mostyn St, the central thoroughfare of the town, and to have your eyes constantly find the awe-inspiring masses of stone. At night, when the part of the Great Orme just above the Grand Hotel is lit up, you catch yourself on a thought that you’re watching the Moon’s surface. The whole of Llandudno is impressive in such way: be that the Great Orme, the Little Orme (left) or mountains that rise in the distance (right), this is the place that seems to be forever sheltered and dominated by those giants.

The Great Orme is also known as the place where you can meet the real Kashmiri goats. On my first walk around the town I stopped at Waterstones, where I flicked through the pages of a book with unknown facts about Wales. The chapter on Llandudno informed me that on the slopes of the Great Orme one is likely to see the Kashmiri goats who may be the direct descendants of the pair presented to the Queen Victoria by the Persian Shah. As I later read, the so-called Windsor herd had come into being long before the Queen’s reign. It was in fact at the beginning of the 19th c. that Squire Christopher Tower from Essex purchased two Kashmiri goats from the number that had just been imported from India to France. His idea for a business turned out to be rather profitable, as he was eventually able to manufacture a cashmere shawl which was presented to George IV. The monarch, evidently impressed, accepted two goats from Squire Tower, and thus the Windsor herd was started. It is possible that the goats presented by the Shah were added to the existing herd, and later in the 19th c. two goats were brought to Wales.

However, the book I was flicking through made it appear as if one actually needed to go to the top of the Great Orme to see the goats. I did venture up the road until the first turn, but then I realised I wouldn’t be able to walk all the way up the mountain (granted I didn’t have suitable footwear). I decided to go back to the town, but little did I know that it would be on my way down the hill that I would virtually stumble upon the Kashmiri goats. The ones you see above were the very first on my way, and although I’ve seen and photographed a plenty of sheep, horses and cows, never before did I get the opportunity to take a picture of the goats. Admittedly, the models of the image above look regal enough to believe that they may indeed have the blue blood running in them. But before I turned my back on the Great Orme I was able to catch a glimpse of a larger herd (left). Both times I was quite startled, so much so that the second time I even paraphrased a stanza from a Russian poem about a lone pine tree that stands on the top of a certain Northern mountain, covered in snow. In my paraphrase, the goat stood on the top of the Great Orme, eating grass and covered in coat, as if it was a fir coat (I believe the unusually sharp December wind made me think of the really warm clothes).

Read more about the Great Orme Kashmiri Goats
.

To be continued…

Llandudno Diaries – 3

I arrived to Llandudno at about 5pm on Friday, 28th of December 2007. The wind and rain met me at the station, as well as two lines of taxis, with no drivers inside. Turned out, my train arrived earlier, and the drivers were all away to shops. I joined an elderly gentleman and a family couple at the taxi office. By the time I was on my own, we started talking with the lady in the reception. Turned out, she was quite familiar with Manchester: she was a part of the Jewish community who regularly travel from Llandudno to Salford. Then my taxi arrived, and a few minutes later I was in Craig-y-Don where I were to stay until January 6th 2008.

Craig-y-Don means “rock by the water”, and Dave Thompson tells us in his illustrated book about Llandudno that this area became popular with residents after the First World War. On the first walk “into town” when I don’t actually know yet where to go, the place seems to be quite far away from the town centre. But as you get to discover all the different ways to get from Craig-y-Don Parade to Trinity Church in Mostyn St, you’ll soon realise that it doesn’t actually take that long.

Llandudno itself boasts a remarkable history. The origins of the place date back as early as the Bronze Age, and the remains of the Bronze Age Copper Mines located on the Great Orme is a great tourist attraction, allowing you to explore 250ft below the surface. There, on the Great Orme, is also the church of St Tudno. The church takes its name from the site of a small monastic community founded by the Welsh Christian missionary in the 6th c. AD. I haven’t visited it, but Thompson notes that the church “still has some ancient features within it including a splendid twelfth-century font”.

The fate of Llandudno was apparently determined by the Liverpool Architect Owen Williams in 1840s. The image on the left is that of The King’s Head where Williams reportedly remarked that this bay area would make an ideal watering place. His words were related to The Hon. Edward Mostyn MP who had already had plans to exploit the area of Llandudno as a potential summer resort. Some time before Williams’s prophetic remark Lord Mostyn, with the support of the Bishop of Bangor, was able to obtain through the Parliament “the sole rights to develop the low isthmus between the north and west shores”. Williams was commissioned with the survey which, when completed, presented Llandudno as a lovely seaside town, “shaped with a grid of spacious thoroughfares and a sweeping promenade”.

Although it wasn’t Williams who undertook the final planning and building, the progress of Llandudno was compelling, given its unrivalled popularity with the masses, the royalty, and the men-of-arts. It is still disputed whether or not Lewis Carroll visited Llandudno, but even without him there are enough names among Llandudno’s patrons to make any other town of its caliber blush with envy: Napoleon III, Disraeli, Gladstone, Bismarck, to name but a few. The Queen Elizabeth of Roumania, who wrote under the pen name of Carmen Sylva (commemorated in the name of one of the streets in Craig-y-Don), stayed here for five weeks in 1890. Buffalo Bill came here with his Wild West Show in 1904. The Beatles performed at The Odeon in Llandudno in 1963, and the last person to ever appear on the Odeon’s stage was Billy Connolly in 1986.

For references, I am indebted to Dave Thompson’s Llandudno (Images of Wales series, Tempus, 2005).

To be continued…

Llandudno Diaries – 2

This stay in Llandudno was a good break from the city’s hustle and bustle, and some of you may already have checked my Flickr albums. Richard over at the BBC Manchester Blog was wondering what I would be doing in Llandudno for quite a long period of time. Indeed, I arrived on December 28th and was planning to leave on January 6th, which I did, only instead of taking a train to Manchester I went to Deganwy and stayed for another two nights at Deganwy Castle Hotel. I did a plenty of sightseeing in Llandudno but, being a peregrinating type, I did day trips to Conwy, Caernarfon, and Beaumaris. In case if Richard and all of you are wondering further, I don’t have a car, so my pilgrimages were assisted to a degree by buses, which means, I suppose, that on occasion my eye has caught something I would’ve overlooked, if sitting in the car. On the other hand, not having a car restricts your freedom, so hopefully next time I go to Wales either I’ll be driving myself or I’ll have a car and a driver.

Flickr sets:
I finally made it to Manchester on January 8th, but if I am totally honest with myself and with you, I didn’t want to leave. I had to return to Manchester, not least because I accepted the invitation to a friend’s housewarming party. Richard is absolutely right that there isn’t much to do in Llandudno, but it’s what outside Llandudno that makes the whole journey purposeful. And I don’t even have to mention castles – I can only mention Llandudno Bay and the Great Orme, which look different every time you see them. The houses on the slopes of the Great Orme, when lit up in the evening, reminded me of one image Henry Miller evoked in The Colossus of Maroussi: a Greek valley where stood houses in which windows the lights were coming up was like a bowl with cherries. And it was this bowl that I was thinking of every evening when I looked at the Great Orme from my hotel lounge where I sat uploading photographs to Flickr.

I still haven’t explained why I chose Llandudno. Back in October, I visualised some of the scenes and was convinced that the story would take place somewhere at the seaside. The choice had more to do with how much I actually knew the British seaside towns and cities. The fact is that I know them very poorly. If I am to be very honest, I think my knowledge is currently divided between two “pools”: Blackpool and Liverpool. From either “pool” I couldn’t think of a spot to pull out where I’d want my characters to find themselves. Suddenly I remembered about my short walk along Llandudno Promenade, and then I vividly imagined the wintery bay and the winds. I looked up some photos on Flickr and was convinced that this was the place to set up the story.

But then I began to research further, and I realised that there may have been another reason for why I chose Llandudno for my story, although it only came up during research. It’s been years since I watched a Russian cartoon after Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass and read both books. It was in Llandudno that the Liddell family used to stay, and there are still speculations about whether or not Carroll himself visited the Liddells in Llandudno. There are also speculations on the nature of his relationship with Alice Liddell who was the inspiration for both stories. My view on this occasion is that it probably doesn’t matter much whether or not Carroll went to Llandudno. If he did, his imagination would be assisted by personal experience. If he didn’t, his genius, as it dazzles us in two books about Alice, shines even brighter.

What cannot be denied is that both books are, as one often calls it, the labour of love. And it is significant for me that both these books are fairy tales. They could be love poems, of course, and then we might have had something of a Victorian equivalent of The Divine Comedy. They could be novellas or a novel. But they are fairy tales. Without going too much in depth about my story, I can say that it explores this connection between love and a fairy tale, childhood and adulthood and the possibility to move between the two. There are other examples, of course, of similar kind of writing for children, and J. M. Barrie’s Peter Pan may be the first to come to mind. Ultimately, one of the questions the story is asking is why fairy tales may be so important even when one seems old enough to get by without them; and what it takes to be able to tell a fairy tale.

To be continued…

Llandudno Diaries – 1

I went to Llandudno to explore the place because I want to set a story there. Last February I came up with an idea, which I actually explored in a short story in March, but then I put it aside to see if I may come up with something else. Indeed, sometime by October the original idea evolved, and I left for Llandudno, having written a few opening chapters and with the view of how the story would go.

Why Llandudno? I’ve been there in the summer of 2004, and it was a weird visit. In a company of four we checked into this hotel which had a tremendous view of Colwyn Bay, but our rooms were located on the top floor, the parking space which was expected to fit 11 cars looked too small even for 5, there was no elevator, and the prospect of staying in such place for a week was anything but pleasant. So we left the hotel, and it was then that we decided to drive to Llandudno. It was August, and naturally we didn’t find any vacancies in the hotels along the Promenade, and we didn’t venture further into town. But I had just enough time to take a short walk on the Promenade, where the elderly couples were strolling up and down the Victorian stones. I think what impressed me most at the time and which I remembered now when I began to write the story was Llandudno’s beach. I’ve never been a beach person myself, and at the time the only other place in England that I could compare to Llandudno was Blackpool. Blackpool had its own promenade and the beach, but there was a wall to actually protect the pedestrian path from the waves of the Irish sea.

There is no such wall in Llandudno. In fact, one evening the tide was away, and I was able to walk on the jetty (see left) very far into the bay. And this has been one of the most amazing experiences in my life. I was totally alone, and I cannot swim. It was very dark, there were no people around, and the only help, had I needed it, would have come from The Grand Hotel, which stood to my right. It certainly helped that there was no wind. So I stood on this jetty, surrounded by complete darkness. Underneath me there were the dark cold waters of Llandudno Bay, and above me there was a nightly January sky. And suddenly the stars began to appear and sparkle. I am sure it was the first time I was able to recognise some constellations. Eventually some stars were becoming brighter, and it was then that I just started to recite aloud this famous poem by Vladimir Mayakovsky:

Listen!

Listen,
if stars are lit
it means – there is someone who needs it.
It means – someone wants them to be,
that someone deems those specks of spit
magnificent.
And overwrought,
in the swirls of afternoon dust,
he bursts in on God,
afraid he might be already late.
In tears,
he kisses God’s sinewy hand
and begs him to guarantee
that there will definitely be a star.
He swears
he won’t be able to stand that starless ordeal.
Later,
He wanders around, worried,
but outwardly calm.
And to everyone else, he says:
‘Now,
it’s all right.
You are no longer afraid,
are you?’
Listen,
if stars are lit,
it means – there is someone who needs it.
It means it is essential
that every evening
at least one star should ascend
over the crest of the building.
To be continued…

Christmas Tale

It was a sudden inspiration as I was looking through some pictures, choosing which one of them to upload to the post. I ended up writing and narrating a story for a short video clip, which you can see below. I must admit it was the first time I attempted to synchronise my voice with the pictures, which wasn’t exactly easy. I still didn’t yet learn to produce credits, so I am passing many huge “thank-yous” to those who uploaded the pictures I used in the clip.So, this is my small present to everyone who reads Los Cuadernos regularly, and to everyone who happens to land on this page in future. I’m thoroughly enjoying writing for you, so much so in fact that now you can also hear me speaking. I know that the protagonist of the clip is a little girl, but the main idea of course is that everyone all over the world is waiting for a miracle, especially on Christmas. I’m waiting for it, too, perhaps more than ever before. I wish you all a very merry and happy Christmas, and a plenty of miracles ahead.

Christmas Tale. Written, narrated and made by Julia Shuvalova

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.

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

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.

error: Sorry, no copying !!