Some Interesting Signboards

Hans Christian Andersen wrote about the storm that shifted the signboards. It looks like the winter frosts have left England more or less unscathed, whereby all signboards remained in their places.

However, some of these signboards are such gems that I simply couldn’t pass them by. The picture of the signboard below was taken in Liverpool at the end of January, in a cafe in Liverpool Lime St station. My attention was first caught by the phrase ‘if you look under the age of 21‘, but ‘a free criminal record‘ offer is totally unique for the market, I think. I wonder if there is a big boom among consumers…

And the picture below was taken this evening, when I was walking from Oxford Rd station to Deansgate where I take a bus home. You probably recognise the location. Seeing such board after a long working day is like a check on your intellectual faculties. What do we eat with, after all?

My Trips to Bolton -2 (Ye Olde Man & Scythe)

When I went to Bolton a week ago, I didn’t manage to take any decent shots of Ye Olde Man & Scythe, one of Britain’s oldest pubs. (Don’t tell me anybody that North West of England is not worth of visiting or inhabiting). The reason was that there was a van or a truck standing right in front of it, and obviously I didn’t feel so generous as to photograph the vehicle.

Thankfully, a week later it was completely different. There was no van, or truck, but there were a plenty of people walking past.

Some people were even attempting to chat up a young girl (who you can see on the right), oblivious to the fact that she was a mannequin. I must admit: every so often I fall the victim of mannequins. I mistake them for real people. The first time it happened in Moscow, many years ago, in a sportswear shop, when I needed an advice, and went up to a well-dressed young man, who confidently stood at the entrance to the sportswear section. My eye-sight was not perfect then already, so it took me to come up close to the figure to realise that I was intending to speak to a dummy.

This fairy, however, wasn’t a very simple fairy. She was very airy, for which reason, I believe, she had a ‘Mop&Shine’ stood between her feet – to keep her base down to earth.

This fairy was not the only one who was inviting you under the pub’s roof. Another airy creature was gazing from the window in the room above the entrance. You can see her on the very first picture in this post, but I tried to get a closer look at her.

The pub, as some of you may know, had existed since 1251, and was partially rebuilt in 1636. The bar inside the building shows the end of the 1251 wall.

Two views of the sitting space in the inner yard. The right picture was taken from the walk between the two buildings, and gives you a peek at the leaden barrels of bitter in the pub’s cellar.

I think some of the visitors were quite amused to see a girl in a red coat, with two bags (yes, I did some shopping, as well), first snapping pictures outside the pub, and then walking in and continuing to snap inside the building. One of those people were looking out of the window while I was trying to get a better shot of the female figure in the room above the entrance. I might not have walked into the building, but he looked like a pub’s owner, so I thought I’d come in and ask if he minded me taking pictures of his property. No, he wasn’t the owner, but he didn’t mind, and neither would the owner, he said. So, I carried on taking pics, my conscience being cleared.

Oh, I forgot to say why I ended up going to Bolton for two weekends in a row. First, I’m working full time in Warrington these days, and commuting between Manchester and Warrington takes me three hours in total each day. Needless to say, I don’t have much time to go anywhere after work during the week. And when I went to Bolton on the 10th, at Whitakers I found the buttons for the coat that I knitted. And then came a severe test to my math skills, or rather to my occasional absent-mindedness. I knew there were seven button-holes, but the buttons were being sold in pairs. So I bought three pairs, knowing all the while that the coat has got seven button-holes. Thus, a week later I had to go to Bolton again, to get another pair of buttons.

My Trips to Bolton -1

There may be something good about visiting an optician. The visit (and the news of your becoming more shortsighted after three years – as if I expected a miracle to happen instead!) may inspire you to take a bus and to go in almost any available direction.

I did this on the last two weekends. A week ago I went to Bolton after I underwent a test at the optician. I wasn’t upset by the news, as it was quite exactly what I thought it would be. I ordered new lenses to my glasses. It wasn’t raining, and it wasn’t very cold. And of the spur of the moment I took a bus and went to Bolton.

I’ve been to Bolton before, but most of the times I didn’t have a camera with me. On the occasions when I did it was a bit of a pain to have the photos developed first, and then to scan them. But last December I got a new phone for my birthday, with a good camera in it. So, now I’m taking pictures whenever I see something worth of commemorating.

This is what Bolton looked like on February, 10th (the picture above). Although I never got caught in the rain, there was some light drizzle, and the town was sober and silent.

I see a very subtle irony in the picture on the left. They may debate ad infinitum, which of these two – prostitution or journalism – is the oldest job on Earth. But if we consider both as institutions, then religion and Church are just as old. And there is something ironic that the buildings of the two these oldest social institutions are located so close to each other.

(Almost) the same spot looked like this a week later:

I must admit, though: I liked The Bolton News building. When you see it from its narrow side, it doesn’t seem interesting. But if you only walk a little down the street, you’ll see it differently. I don’t know about you, but it reminded me of a ship. And this ship is headed towards the church. I know some of you will find it natural. As for me, I’ll take a pause.

The Lovers by Rene Magritte

One of my favourite paintings is The Lovers by Rene Magritte. We see a man and a woman sharing an intimate kiss, but their faces are covered with white cloths. You can certainly interpret this as an image of blinding passion. However, I prefer to view the picture as an image of two people who were destined to meet one another. They don’t know each other by face, but they share this moment of profound intimacy because they have recognised one another.

Awhile ago, whilst looking at the painting, I realised that this scene (or rather something that must have happened prior to it in order for this moment to take place) has been described in one of my favourite novels. I speak about Chapter 13 of Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov. The text is available online in two English translations, for those who never read it, and I have to say that the passage I’m quoting below is not rendered impeccably in either version; however, the 1997 text generally follows the original Russian text closer, whereby I’m quoting from it. In this chapter (called The Hero Enters), the character of Master is fully introduced to us for the first time.

'She was carrying repulsive, alarming yellow flowers in her hand. Devil knows what they're called, but for
some reason they're the first to appear in Moscow. And these flowers stood out clearly against her black spring
coat. She was carrying yellow flowers! Not a nice colour. She turned down a lane from Tverskaya and then
looked back. Well, you know Tverskaya! Thousands of people were walking along Tverskaya, but I can assure
you that she saw me alone, and looked not really alarmed, but even as if in pain. And I was struck not so much
by her beauty as by an extraordinary loneliness in her eyes, such as no one had ever seen before! Obeying this
yellow sign, I also turned down the lane and followed her. We walked along the crooked, boring lane silently, I
on one side, she on the other. And, imagine, there was not a soul in the lane. I was suffering, because it seemed
to me that it was necessary to speak to her, and I worried that I wouldn't utter a single word, and she would leave,
and I'd never see her again. And, imagine, suddenly she began to speak:
' "Do you like my flowers?"

'I remember clearly the sound of her voice, rather low, slightly husky, and, stupid as it is, it seemed that the
echo resounded in the lane and bounced off the dirty yellow wall. I quickly crossed to her side and, coming up
to her, answered:

'"No!"
'She looked at me in surprise, and I suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, understood that all my life I had loved
precisely this woman! Quite a thing, eh? Of course, you'll say I'm mad?'

'I won't say anything,' Ivan exclaimed, and added: 'I beg you, go on!'

And the guest continued.

'Yes, she looked at me in surprise, and then, having looked, asked thus:

'"You generally don't like flowers?"
'It seemed to me there was hostility in her voice. I was walking beside her, trying to keep in step, and, to my
surprise, did not feel the least constraint.

'"No, I like flowers, but not this kind," I said.
'"Which, then?"

'"I like roses."

'Then I regretted having said it, because she smiled guiltily and threw the flowers into the gutter. Slightly at a loss,
I nevertheless picked them up and gave them to her, but she, with a smile, pushed the flowers away, and I carried
them in my hand.
'So we walked silently for some time, until she took the flowers from my hand and threw them to the pavement,
then put her own hand in a black glove with a bell-shaped cuff under my arm, and we walked on side by side.'
'Go on,' said Ivan, 'and please don't leave anything out!'

'Go on?' repeated the visitor. 'Why, you can guess for yourself how it went on.' He suddenly wiped an
unexpected tear with his right sleeve and continued: `Love leaped out in front of us like a murderer in an alley
leaping out of nowhere, and struck us both at once. As lightning strikes, as a Finnish knife strikes! She, by the
way, insisted afterwards that it wasn't so, that we had, of course, loved each other for a long, long time, without
knowing each other, never having seen each other, and that she was living with a different man ... as I was, too,
then ... with that, what's her ...'
'With whom?' asked Homeless.

With that... well... with ...' replied the guest, snapping his fingers?

'You were married?'

'Why, yes, that's why I'm snapping... With that... Varenka ... Manechka ... no, Varenka ... striped dress, the
museum ... Anyhow, I don't remember.
'Well, so she said she went out that day with yellow flowers in her hand so that I would find her at last, and that
if it hadn't happened, she would have poisoned herself, because her life was empty.

'Yes, love struck us instantly. I knew it that same day, an hour later, when, without having noticed the city, we
found ourselves by the Kremlin wall on the embankment.

We talked as if we had parted only the day before, as if we had known each other for many years. We
arranged to meet the next day at the same place on the Moscow River, and we did. The May sun shone down
on us. And soon, very soon, this woman became my secret wife.
Links: Bulgakov, Mikhail. Master and Margarita (1967, English translation by Michael Glenny).Bulgakov, Mikhail. Master and Margarita (1997, English translation by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky).

O Felici Occhi Miei: Arcadelt and Caravaggio

The sheet music to a popular madrigal O Felici Occhi Miei by Diego Ortiz and Jacob Arcadelt can be seen in The Musicians by Caravaggio

Our fascination with Renaissance Italy never ceases. This time we have unambiguous evidence of what music the contemporaries of Caravaggio preferred. One piece that was quite popular was a madrigal by Jacques Arcadelt O Felici Occhi Miei.

(As a matter of fact, last year the Victoria and Albert Museum hosted two exhibitions that were linked together thematically, as geographically, and were of immense importance to all “Italianised Englishmen”, if we are to use the 16th c. slang. One was on Leonardo da Vinci; another on Italian Renaissance household; and I wrote about both on my blog in early November).

Now, I got somewhat interested in the piece of music that I recommended in the mentioned post purely because it was composed in the 16th c., which I studied in great depth. The piece is called Divisions of Arcadelt’s O felici occhi miei, and was composed by Diego Ortiz.

The piece in question is a madrigal by Jacob Arcadelt, a Flemish composer born between 1504 and 1505, who spent a lot of his time in Rome and then in Paris, where he died in 1568. Immensely popular for his madrigals and chansons, he also composed masses and motets. The very first printed madrigals appeared in 1537, and the year 1539 saw the publication of four out of six volumes of Arcadelt’s madrigals.

The madrigal in question is called O felici occhi miei (Oh, my happy eyes), and this is the text:

O felic’ occhi miei, felici voi,
che sete car’ al mio sol
perche sembianz’ havete
de gliocchi che gli fu si dolc’e rei.
voi ben voi sete voi,
voi, voi felici et io,
io no, che per quetar vostro desio,
corr’ amirar l’onde mi struggo poi.

(My word-for-word translation:

Oh my happy eyes, happy you are
That you can dearly behold my sun,
For [this is what] the face
To the eyes, to which it was so sweet and regal.
You are beautiful, glowing,
You are happy, and I,
And I am not, for to quieten my longing desire for you,
I look up at you whereby I then suffer).

The comparisons we find in this madrigal are typical of the Renaissance poetry. The most prominent poet who comes to my mind is certainly Petrarch (Canzoniere); but similar motives we can find in Shakespeare’s Sonnet 24. Face is the Sun (the term can be extended to include God); a lover cannot stop looking at the face of his beloved, like a man cannot stop looking at the sun; but the beauty of both bedazzles the viewer, bringing him to tears (strictly, as figuratively, speaking). Such motive, I am sure, goes well back in the dawn of history of literary figures.

Caravaggio - The Musicians (1595) — In this painting by Caravaggio we see one of the boys holding a sheet music with Diego Ortiz’s work

You can follow the links below to see the score sheets for this madrigal. What is interesting, however, is that a few years ago art historians have identified the Arcadelt’s manuscripts as being included in Caravaggio’s paintings. O felici occhi miei apparently features in painting above, The Musicians (1595, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York). Which only proves how popular was the madrigal O Felici Occhi Miei by Arcadelt even quarter of a century after his death.

(The image is taken from Florence Symposium Program page).

Below is a video with the madrigal recorded by Ernst Stolz and Trond Bengston, featuring the piece of art by Andrea Previtali. It is followed by Pro Musica Antiqua ensemble from Milan singing O Felic’ Occhi Miei a-capella.

Links:

Biography of Jacob (Jacques) Arcadelt at Wiki.
Biography of Arcadelt at HOASM.
Music of Renaissance Italy – Florence Symposium Program.

Previously on this post there was a link to O felici occhi miei music score in a .pdf file. I discovered recently that the link was no longer working, but the file is still available on the original site. Flauto Dolce has been created by Andrea Bornstein and has already amassed a marvellous collection of music score sheets and ‘is dedicated to the publication of original music and arrangements for recorder made available in various formats‘. Students of both Renaissance and Baroque music will be pleased to find a wide selection of compositions from these periods, some available in MP3. Mr Bornstein also indicated on his website that he was interested in collaborating with musicians who would consider to ‘realise the continuo of pieces from the XVII and XVIII centuries‘. No money offered, but the work will be licensed under the Creative Commons Licence. If you are such musician reading this post, don’t hesitate to contact Flauto Dolce.

You can go to Jacob Arcadelt’s page on Flauto Dolce, where you will find not one, but five of his compositions. Please note that you will need to register on the site to access any content.

The Routes of Inspiration

The poem that you’ll find below bears no dedication, although it would never have been written, had I not been driven to learn more about Portugal last summer. My interest was sparkled by the work of Victor Gama that I came across during Futuresonic Festival in Manchester in July 2006. Rather naturally, I suppose, I got interested not only in his work, but also in Portugal and Angola. However, my knowledge and understanding of Europe is overall better than that of Africa, whereby I focused on Portugal, especially since I’ve never been there.

So, I was searching Google Images when I saw the picture that captivated my attention straight away. It was taken by a Portuguese photographer, Joao Leitao, and commemorates a fountain, which – to judge by many other images of it that I would find later – is a powerful tourist attraction in itself. To say that Leitao’s photograph is atmospheric is to say nothing, really. For a colour image, it is unique and is all the more impressive because it carries an air of an old oil painting.

In early October I suddenly managed to put my impressions about this picture into words, and so this poem came to life. The English text is a word-for-word translation, thus unfortunately it doesn’t give an idea of how this poem actually sounds in Russian. Anapaest is the main foot (i.e. two unstressed syllables+one stressed); odd lines contain six stressed syllables, followed by two unstressed; even lines contain five stressed syllables, followed by one unstressed.

If any poetry translator is reading this, and would like to try their hand at adapting the word-for-word translation, you’re very welcome to publish it right in the comment field or to email me. I’m sure all parties who were involved, directly or indirectly, in the making of this poem, will appreciate the effort.

Синтра. Пейзаж в тонах Веласкеса

Ранним утром уставшее за ночь от слез, постаревшее небище
Выдыхает, осипнув вконец, клочья белых туманов
На дома и долины когда-то любимого папского детища,
Что тревожило яростно древний покой океанов.

В этот час в воскресенье газетчик стоит на углу мокрой улицы,
Совершая, ссутулившись, таинство медиамессы, –
Но его горожане по-прежнему спят и не интересуются,
Что предскажет им новый пророк от печатного пресса.

Беззаботно фонарь зацепился крюком за кирпичное здание
И качается мерно над камнем булыжным. А ветры
Зимний призрачный холод несут в городок на краю мироздания,
На холмы старой Синтры. И в проблесках тусклых рассвета

Одинокий фонтан, переполненный неба рябым отражением,
Что ручьями сбегает по тверди его кринолина,
Тихо плачет, смущенный впервые замеченным жизни течением,
И восторженно смотрит поверх черепичной равнины…

October 3-7, 2006

The poem was first published here.

(Sintra. A Dimly Tinted Landscape)

At dawn an old huge sky, exhausted after a night of tears,
Has gone coarse and expires the pieces of white fog
On the houses and valleys of the once beloved papal daughter,
Who used to rampage the ancient calm of the oceans.

At this hour on Sunday a newsagent stands on the cone of a wet street,
Stooping, performing the sacrament of the media-mass, –
But his citizens are still sleep and don’t take interest
In the visions of a new prophet of the printing-press.

A streetlight carelessly holds on to brick wall by the hook
And swings in rhythm above the cobbles. The winds
Carry the winterly, ghostly cold to the town on the edge of mankind,
To the hills of Sintra. And in the dim gleams of sunrise

A lone fountain, overrun with the sky’s stippled reflection
That pours down its farthingale in streams,
Cries in silence, having noticed the motion of life for the first time,
And looks in esctasy over the plain of the roof-tiles).

A Nokia Affair and the Change of Sex

I received this leaflet from The Carphone Warehouse a couple of days ago, and I felt outraged.

First of all, I was alleged to have had a relationship with Nokia 6610i.

I categorically state that I have never had this phone in my hand.

In its exclusive interview to The Carphone Warehouse reporter, this impostor states that it’d given me the best years of its battery. Considering I’ve been in England for three years and have recently got a new, third, phone, this “best years” statement is an exaggeration, to say the least.

Moreover – is this a common phoney psychology, excuse the pun? – my bel ami says:

‘… In my mind, our relationship was solid. Then The Carphone Warehouse started flaunting younger, sexier models. I mean, these latest phones all seem to be more attractive… I began to feel like I couldn’t compete with them anymore… All I want is for Julia to be happy. So as difficult as this may be for me to say, I’ll understand if I’m traded-in for a younger model. After all, it’s not every day Julia gets a fantastic opportunity like this… Whatever Julia decides, I will always be grateful for the life we’ve had together‘.

What sort of altruism is this??? ‘They are younger, sexier, and throw themselves at Julia, so I’ll step aside‘ – if you’re so insecure about yourself, dear, then I don’t even want to know you. Had you really given me the best years of your battery, you would’ve known well that Julia never went after the features.

As if this wasn’t enough, there came this phrase:

… they’ll give him up to £20 for me and 10% off any accessory when he upgrades to a monthly contract.

When I first read it, it didn’t ever occur to me that ‘he‘ and ‘him‘ were related to myself. Then the truth came down upon me. Whereas at first I didn’t notice anything unusual about an allusion to the ‘youngier, sexier models‘, I suddenly realised that such expression was employed because I was considered male.

OMG…

I couldn’t believe it. I closed the brochure and looked at the address. And then I saw it. The brochure was addressed to ‘Mr Julia S…;’, with all correct details below. So, first I was alleged to have had a phone which I never had, and then I was also turned into a man, thanks to someone’s mistake.

I don’t actually have ‘feelings’ for my phone, although every time I dropped my first English phone, I felt ashamed. Having said that, I wasn’t ashamed that I was hurting this poor mechanism, but rather that I couldn’t hold it properly. That phone effectively died after being accidentally dropped into a sink, but again, instead of showing remorse for the phone, I was embarrassed at myself.

The younger, sexier models ‘throw’ themselves at me, screaming: ‘Let’s get together, Julia‘, ‘Fancy a fresh start with me, Julia?‘, ‘Ready for a new relationship, Julia?‘, ‘We’re made for each other, Julia‘. It feels like the old adage of a man as a social animal is being taken to the extreme. Not only that you’re expected to socialise and to have someone in your life just for the sake of it, but the same rule is now extended to the ownership of inanimate objects.

Obviously, I’m not about to give in. I’ve got the Sony Ericsson phone in my life, my relationship with it (*him*) is very satisfying. Younger models can throw themselves at someone else. And let’s hope they get the sex right this time.

…it’s snowing!..

This post is going to be very short, and there’s a big chance that by the time I finish writing it, it’ll stop snowing, as well. But – at the moment – it is snowing!

Alas, I’m not good enough at uploading pictures from my mobile; besides, the snow comes down with rain, thus so far you can only see it in the air. But my winter season has been made, anyway.

It doesn’t always take much to make me happy.

Update

As I predicted, snow has stopped. This was in Clifton, kind of between Manchester and Bolton. And in Glossop it snowed heavily enough for Richard to take a few awesome pictures! Do have a look – and you’ll probably understand why I’m so ecstatic about the snow.

Something I always knew

I always knew Paris would be my city – despite the fact that I’ve never been there. And I never actually take interest in different online polls, like this one. But this time it’s different, because it looks like I do belong in Paris. If I am to make my New Year resolution come true, then this will be my destination.

You Belong in Paris

Stylish and a little sassy, you were meant for Paris.
The art, the fashion, the wine, the men!
Whether you’re enjoying the cafe life or a beautiful park…
You’ll love living in the most chic place on earth.

What City Do You Belong In?

Happy New Year!!!

Although I didn’t write every single day in December, I managed to make it look like I spent entire December blogging about anything from James Last to shoe sizes. So, this is my post #31, and, naturally, it is about the New Year.

New Year is always about dotting the ‘i’. 2006 has definitely made me stronger, as within the first six months I had experienced two losses in the manner more direct than ever before. This has also made me more empathic and appreciative of every moment we spend with those who are dear to us.

2006 was also an amazing year. I’ve met and spoken to many interesting

and talented people, the connection with some of whom, I hope, won’t disappear in 2007. I’ve been involved in many different projects, acquired tons of experience, and am looking forward to make it all ever more applicable after 1 January. I also began to publish my poems, and the reviews prove that I didn’t spend time in vain, trying to find my way of putting my thoughts and emotions across.

And in August I began to blog. I noticed some advanced authors have examined the most visited/searched items on their blogs. I must be honest, I cannot always understand, whether I’m creating the interest, or whether I’m accommodating it. But these are the top labels and articles on my blog, some of which, I admit, I expected to be more of an interest to myself. Instead, like with Auden’s villanelle or Last/Zamfir’s Lonely Shepherd, people constantly visit these pages. May I also thank The Independent and Ogonyok for keeping the online copies of the articles, to which I linked in one of the posts on Bondarchuk’s film.

Quiet Flows the Don

If I Could Tell You (W. H. Auden)

Lonely Shepherd

Chidiock Tichborne (1558-1586) Elegy

Mishka

My Fair Cabbage

Slaughterhouse Five

Berkeley University Video Lectures

Adaptation of Maxim Gorky’s Mother

Various keyword combinations leading to Prévert’s poem Cortège

Latte Art

Most wonderfully, someone has been searching for my Russian nom de plume, obviously landing here. I’m very surprised, intrigued, but kind of happy, after all.

Hence here are some of my resolutions:

To keep creating/accommodating interest of my visitors
To go and see my parents in Moscow. I don’t know, when I go and for how long, but this must happen. I even vowed to blog about my visiting Moscow. I’m being told certain things have changed considerably. I’ve also changed considerably. So, it will probably be too considerable an experience to miss.
To travel
To find further ways and means to express my creativity
To meet interesting and talented people and to continue to know those whom I already met

Although I’m not generally superstitious, there are certain things I prefer to do or to make happen, instead of to talk about. This is why my resolutions end here. However, if any of my unannounced resolutions come true, I promise to let you know.

I’d love to send my New Year wishes to my parents, to my

University in Moscow, to CSV Media Clubhouse and QT Radio, to the BBC Radio Manchester, to Cornerhouse, and to the IWM North. I’m wishing to every single person I met, spoke, wrote to and worked with a very Happy New Year. In particular, the wishes go to: Richard F, Robin H, Linda K, Steve B, Paul R, Andrei R, Victor G, Ian C, Ian H, Daniel J, Constantine C, Manchizzle (who was the first to link to me), Mancubist, and the anonymous American who lives in Moscow and who was the first person to leave a comment on my blog. Happy New Year also to Tony Richards at Lakelandcam, to Ian and Minako at Art in Liverpool, and to everyone who’s been clicking through Notebooks since August.

In Russia, people normally go with a long list of wishes, which include health, wealth, love, success, etc, etc. For many years, I’ve been wishing peace. Let us have peace, let us give it a chance, let us be dreamers, and let us prove that we can make our dreams come true.

Happy New Year! С Новым Годом!

(the Russian phrase reads as ‘s novym godom‘)

PS – The images used are Soviet postcards. They all say ‘Happy New Year’ in Russian and are courtesy of www.davno.ru

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