Remembering João

What an unbelievable joy and pleasure to hear once again Yo Yo Ma. Such a gifted and passionate musician. He played Schubert´s Sonata in A minor; Chostakovitch´s Sonata for cello and piano, op. 40 - truly breathtaking; and Piazzolla´s Le Grand Tango - and I wished (again) I could dance the tango.

And I thought of João. Sweet, sensitive João, who introduced me to Chostakovitch´s works for cello. And who left us exactly one week after 9/11, and that was no lesser tragedy. It was then that I realised that people don´t leave, as long as we remember them.

The last time I heard João rehearsing, it was this piece.

Women travellers

Today I 'visited' my favourite part of the world through Annemarie Schwarzenbach´s photos from Iraq, Iran (Persia), Afghanistan, Syria... Black and white photos of men, women, children, landscapes, monuments (some lost...), streets, shops. And beautiful passages from her diaries and other reports.

Afghanistan, 1939

"Escaping to this valley, one finds oneself at the end of all roads, separated from the world by high mountain chains, surrounded, protected, a high and tranquil valley; its nights are cold...".

While visiting the exhibition, at the Berardo Museum, I remembered how it had fascinated me reading Gertrude Bell´s biography as a teenager. Things come together in a funny way, marking us for ever, it seems.

References like "the journey as exile" and "an escape forward" ring a very familiar bell...

Left: Annemarie Schwarzenbach
Right: Gertrude Bell

A trilogy by Hauschka

The bigger the turmoil, the fewer the words. Others speak for us.

This was a reason to smile today. An animated triptych with music from Hauschka´s latest album, Ferndorf.

A Memory


An Idea


A Lilt

Here comes the rain again...

... and there´s nothing we can do about it. Let´s admit it.

On the way home, I remembered this song.

Precious

Precious means of great value; highly esteemed for some espiritual, non-material, moral quality; dear, beloved. And yes, it is a good story. Yes, it is a sad story. And that´s it. I resisted it. Mentally and even physically. There´s no way I can appreciate anything like that right now. I think it´s the kind-of-happy-end that ruined it for me.

Nieuwzwart

(...) It´s good to stand empty-handed in front of an empty wall
to move from one side to the other
In front of the wall to move from one side to the other non-stop
from one side to the other the repetition the tranquilization the obstinacy
the joy
metronome from one side to the other
beyond reason and beyond tiredness and beyond hope
beyond pain
beyond consciousness
against the wall (...)
Peter Verhelst

NIEUWZWART, by Wim Vanekeybus. It was vertiginous, frantic, violent, beautiful. It knocked me out. There were some pauses where I felt my body numb. And then it would start again. It was not very good for my mood, but it would have been a pity not to see it.

A single man

"... Silence overcomes the noise. And I can feel, instead of thinking."

Loss.

Pain.

Water.

Silence.

Heart-stopping beauty it was indeed.

The trailer

Journeys I´m made of... - The Netherlands (2009)

This was a much needed journey, to start with. I decided it in no time as I felt I was reaching dangerous limits. I´ll always remember it as a break from everything. A happy, though brief, pause. A deep breath.

Amsterdam is beautiful and colourful. It feels busy and quiet at the same time. It feels warm even when the temperatures are low. Getting a glimpse of the interiors of homes and offices while walking in the street contributes to this feeling of warmness (something I had first experienced in a much colder Stockholm).

I visited many good museums. I started the afternoon I arrived with the Anne Frank House Museum. It is an experience moving around the rooms of the secret annexe. Listening to the footsteps of the visitors above us and imagining what it must have been to have to stay quiet for so many hours during the day. The content of the labels for the few objects exhibited are passages from the diary. But what touched me the most was the marks of Anna´s and her sister´s height as they grew up, registered on the wall by their father. Like my father used to do with us.

Among the rest of the museums I visited, and apart from the city´s known art museums, I thought the Jewish Historical Museum was one of the best I´ve seen so far.

But, as with every journey, the highlights were the small surprises and the things I discovered. Like being greeted by Hopper as soon as I set foot in the country and travelling to Rotterdam especially to see his exhibition. And then, while in Rotterdam, and while visiting the Netherlands Architecture Institute, coming across a very interesting invitation for lunch.

The table was set and waiting for the special guests.

I believe that the fondest memory is having dinner with two very special ladies before attending a concert at the Concertgebouw in Amsterdam. I was occupying a table for four, the last available, so they asked if they could share it with me. After that, it was as if we were friends and had planned to meet there. We had a very interesting conversation, we talked about trips and family and art and, thanks to them, I discovered Anton Mauve, who had been Van Gogh´s teacher, and went to visit his exhibition at Teylers Museum in Haarlem, a unique place, the oldest museum in the Netherlands.

What a good feeling that accidental encounter has left me with. Dear Marleen, I think of you often. I am now preparing the next journey.

In between the sheets

"...I looked up, I looked into her eyes and saw there quiet, naked contempt. It was all over and I conceived in that frenzied instant two savage and related desires. To rape and destroy her. With one sudden sweep of my hand I ripped the smock clean off her body. She had nothing on underneath. Before she had time to even draw breath I was on her, I was in her, rammed deep inside while my right hand closed about her tender white throat. With my left I smothered her face with the pillow.

I came as she died. That much I can say with pride. I know her death was a moment of intense pleasure to her. I heard her shouts through the pillow. I will not bore you with rhapsodies on my own pleasure. It was a transfiguration. And now she lay dead in my arms. It was some minutes before I compehended the enormity of my deed. My dear, sweet, tender Helen lay dead in my arms, dead and pitifully naked. I fainted. I awoke what seemed many hours later, I saw the corpse and before I had time to turn my head I vomited over it. Like a sleepwalker I drifted into the kitchen, I made straight for the Utrillo and tore it to shreds. I dropped the Rodin forgery into the garbage disposal. Now I was running like a naked madman from room to room destroying whatever I could lay my hands on. I stopped only to finish the scotch. Vermeer, Blake, Richard Dadd, Paul Nash, Rothko, I tore, trampled, mangled, kicked, spat and urinated on... my precious possessions... oh my precious... I danced, I sang, I laughed... I wept long into the night."

Why do I keep reading Ian McEwan if, every few pages, I have to stop, catch my breath and try to recover? Because he is a master with language. And because this raw way of writing is exactly what I love about him. Perversely...

On the other hand, one month and 208 pages later I am still trying hard to understand what has excited millions of people about Roberto Bolaño´s 2666. I am sure it´s a question of persistence and I´ll soon find out. And this thought makes me read a few more pages every week... The same had happened to me with Eco´s Foucault´s Pendulum, but it had only taken 100 pages before I got completely fascinated and finished the book in less than three days.

So, that´s it, I am going to the cinema. It´s one of the few places where I don´t have to speak and don´t have to be nice to anyone. And I can´t tell you what a relief that is.

The classics

Apparently, 2010 is the year of the greek classics. I started in January with Aristophanes, tonight Oedipus and maybe Antigone next month...

The questions? The same as always: democracy, corruption, war, peace, responsibility, law, principles, honour, the city, the countryside, the public, the private, love, deception, sex, lies, strength, weakness... Being blind when we think we see; getting blind when we actually see... Living with the torment of knowing. Would it have been better had we not known?

And what about when we are constantly asked for less? To think less, to feel less, to do less, to ask for less, to care less, to want less, to be less... That´s a different (lesser) tragedy. Or comedy. It depends on the mood...

Love, a double-edged knife

I listened to this song tonight after a very long time.

"Love, once the source of so much hapinness,
You´ve turned into a double-edged knife...
...Switch off the lights, switch off the moon,
Let him not see my sorrow when he takes me".



The story finishes...with a knife. This film, Stella, brought many good people together: Michalis Kakoyiannis (the director), Manos Hadjidakis (the composer), Melina Merkouri (the actress). And it brought together Melina and Jules Dassin. They met at the Cannes Festival in 1955 during the screening.

Enjoy one of the most famous scenes of greek cinema.

Journeys I´m made of... - New York (2008)

When I see images of New York today I still can´t believe I actually did that journey, I actually was there. The city felt so familiar, it was as if I had been there several times before and knew every corner.

The day started at 7 in the morning and finished around 10-11 in the evening. Walking, walking, walking... I was trying to get in as much as I could: the streets, the buildings, the smells, the people, museums, gardens, markets, the river, the ferry to Staten Island, everything. It was the steam coming out of the vents in the streets; it was the fat black policemen regulating the traffic; it was the street signs; the yellow school buses; the mess; the noise; the tall buildings; it was the view from the top of the Empire State Building in a freezing night; it was assisting the meeting of two couples in an exhibition at Whitney Museum and feeling as if I was in a Woody Allen film.

After five days I felt exhausted. My head was full of images and noise. The four days that followed in Washington brought a change in scale and the desired calm. Or so I thought. Because it was enough to get a glimpse of it when I got back to get the plane, that I forgot all about the exhaustion and noice and just felt like jumping out of the bus, getting among the crowd and immerse into its lovely agitation.

Pipilotti Rist at the MOMA. Total immersion...

Shop selling posters in Soho

Away from home...

Ma solitude

When Moustaki gave a concert in Lisbon last year, the voice was not the same, but nobody cared. It was a memorable concert. It was touching to see that small figure on the stage, dressed in white, looking so old and frail, singing some of our favourite songs and 'taking us home'.

After the concert, my nationality opened the doors and I was the only person he accepted to see. He looked very tired. He greeted me in french, but then he asked me in greek where I was from. I answered; he smiled and said his grandmother was from my hometown.

Definitions

El Greco, St. Sebastian, Prado

naked - bare, stripped, or destitute; defenseless; unprotected; exposed
wound - an injury due to external violence rather than disease
prey - an animal hunted or seized for food, esp. by a carnivorous animal
corner - an awkward or embarrassing position, esp. one from which escape is impossible
disheartenment - to depress the hope, courage, or spirits of;
exile - prolonged separation from one's country or home, as by force of circumstances (lack of metaphorical definitions for this one in the dictionaries, sorry...)

Let´s try to put everything aside. The thought of the Mediterranean to soothe one´s soul. "Il y a un bel été qui ne craint pas l´automn..."

Farewell, Madeira

Third and last time in Madeira, for now. We saw amazing, breathtaking landscapes, we visited beautiful places, small towns, villages, museums, we felt the cold mountain air, we listened to the waves, we got soaked in the rain, we enjoyed the food and the wine.

But most of all, as always, the people. Hospitable, in a good mood, always ready to chat, to show, to help, to explain. People at the market, the bookshop, the museums, the restaurants, the coffee shops; but also, the ones we got to know a bit better. So thank you, thank you, thank you: Margarida, Mafalda, Henrique, Sónia, Sara, Natércia, Cátia... For everything you shared with us and for reminding me of the time when we used to invest on every relationship, no matter how ephemeral, regardless of its expiry date. Of the time we were humane. Of the time we were 'us'.

And thank you, Cecília. For sharing all this and for making it richer. And for being... just as you are.

Casa-Museu Frederico de Freitas

Friday morning market in Funchal

Madeira Regional Archive

Porto Moniz

Casa das Mudas

Quinta do Monte, Funchal

The end

The Highland clearances

It was during the trip to Scotland in 2005 that I first heard and read about the Highland clearances. Passions about that process still run deep up there. This was the forced and many times brutal ejection of poor highlanders from their homes in order to create space for raising cattle, sheep and deer. It was carried out by the rich owners of the Highland estates. And it was merciless.

The images I saw in Erik Richard´s book, The Highland Clearances, were so tragically similar to those illustrating other 'clearances', of which I knew a lot about. The same brutality, the same despair, the same feeling of helplessness.

Journeys I´m made of... - Scotland (2006)

My fascination for the highlands and the highlanders made the journey to Scotland another dream come true. It absolutely lived up to my expectations.

I probably had the highest fever ever while visiting Edinburgh. I can´t remember ever having felt that bad before, but I had five full and exciting days in that amazing city, with the constant help of paracetamol... Very good museums (that aspect defines a city experience for me...), people in a good mood, enjoying life, lovely accent, men showing proudly their not so lovely hairy legs... I celebrated Orthodox Easter at St. Andrews church. The feeling is very special when we celebrate in churches like that. It´s like a desperate attempt to bring a piece from home to us, comforting, sweet and sour at the same time. But, in any way, deeply felt.

My Lonely Planet guide, my bible, strongly recommended a journey by train from Edinburgh to Mallaig, a small fishing village on the north-west coast. I followed the recommendation (as always) and I had the opportunity to see some of the most beautiful landscapes: mountains, rivers, lochs... The highlands as I had imagined them.

Glenfinnan

Mallaig was another 'end-of-the world-like' place. Very small, with a huge sea in front of it, with the Isle of Skye 15 minutes away by ferry (I took it! The isle of Skye is a place I have to go back to). They are very proud of their small museum. A potential visitor would find it difficult to resist after reading the comments of previous visitors, strategically presented at the entrance...

While waiting at the station for the train that would take me back to Edinburgh I received a phone call that indicated that my life was about to change. And, no matter what, that´s good news. To start with.

Barbara

While visiting Bretagne that winter, I was thinking intensely of Jacques Prévert´s poem Barbara and the respective song, which I had learned from one of my father´s old records of Les Frères Jacques. Here with Yves Montand.

Brest was close, but I didn´t get to visit.


BARBARA
Rappelle-toi Barbara Remember Barbara
Il pleuvait sans cesse sur Brest ce jour-là It rained all day on Brest that day
Et tu marchais souriante And you walked smiling
Épanouie ravie ruisselante Flushed enraptured streaming-wet
Sous la pluie In the rain
Rappelle-toi Barbara Remember Barbara
Il pleuvait sans cesse sur Brest It rained all day on Brest that day
Et je t'ai croisée rue de Siam And I ran into you in Siam Street
Tu souriais You were smiling
Et moi je souriais de même And I was smiling too
Rappelle-toi Barbara Remember Barbara
Toi que je ne connaissais pas You whom I didn't know
Toi qui ne me connaissais pas You who didn't know me
Rappelle-toi Remember
Rappelle-toi quand même ce jour-là Remember that day still
N'oublie pas Don't forget
Un homme sous un porche s'abritait A man was taking cover on a porch
Et il a crié ton nom And he cried your name
Barbara Barbara
Et tu as couru vers lui sous la pluie And you ran to him in the rain
Ruisselante ravie épanouie Streaming-wet enraptured flushed
Et tu t'es jetée dans ses bras And you threw yourself in his arms
Rappelle-toi cela Barbara Remember that Barbara
Et ne m'en veux pas si je te tutoie And don't be mad if I speak familiarly
Je dis tu à tous ceux que j'aime I speak familiarly to everyone I love
Même si je ne les ai vus qu'une seule fois Even if I've seen them only once
Je dis tu à tous ceux qui s'aiment I speak familiarly to all who are in love
Même si je ne les connais pas Even if I don't know them
Rappelle-toi Barbara Remember Barbara
N'oublie pas Don't forget
Cette pluie sage et heureuse That good and happy rain
Sur ton visage heureux On your happy face
Sur cette ville heureuse On that happy town
Cette pluie sur la mer That rain upon the sea
Sur l'arsenal Upon the arsenal
Sur le bateau d'Ouessant Upon the Ushant boat
Oh Barbara Oh Barbara
Quelle connerie la guerre What a stupidity the war
Qu'es-tu devenue maintenant Now what's become of you
Sous cette pluie de fer Under this iron rain
De feu d'acier de sang Of fire and steel and blood
Et celui qui te serrait dans ses bras And he who held you in his arms
Amoureusement Amorously
Est-il mort disparu ou bien encore vivant Is he dead and gone or still so much alive
Oh Barbara Oh Barbara
Il pleut sans cesse sur Brest It's raining all day on Brest
Comme il pleuvait avant As it was raining before
Mais ce n'est plus pareil et tout est abimé But it isn't the same anymore and everything is wrecked
C'est une pluie de deuil terrible et désolée It's a rain of mourning terrible and desolate
Ce n'est même plus l'orage Nor is it still a storm
De fer d'acier de sang Of iron and steel and blood
Tout simplement des nuages But simply clouds
Qui crèvent comme des chiens That die like dogs
Des chiens qui disparaissent Dogs that disappear
Au fil de l'eau sur Brest In the downpour drowning Brest
Et vont pourrir au loin And float away to rot a long way off
Au loin très loin de Brest A long long way from Brest
Dont il ne reste rien. Of which there's nothing left.
(Transl. Lawrence Ferlinghetti)

Journeys I´m made of... - Bretagne (2005)

Getting to Mont St. Michel was something I had always wanted to do. The rock had a very special place in my imagination and it didn´t disappoint me (once I managed to pass through all the souvenir shops and cafés, that is...).

But, as it happens sometimes, St. Michel was not after all the highlight of this trip. It was Dinan, the small town by the river, where we ate delicious crêpes and drank cidre together with many Bretons on a Sunday afternoon. It was Cancale, the grey town on the north coast, during the low tide that made the fishing boats look like abandoned orphans.

Dinan

Cancale

I saw Saint Malo from far away, on a stormy day, and my childhood song came back to me:

"Bom voyage, Monsieur Dumollet
À Saint-Malo débarquez sans naufrage..."
(I can hear my father and brother singing it with me...)

It´s raining today, a strong but quiet rain, like that winter in Bretagne. Like back home.

Fighting memory

"... you don´t come back from the exile, any intention of doing it is a fraud, an absurd attempt to live in a country kept in memory", wrote Luis Sepúlveda. And he added further down in the same book: "Never trust memory because it´s always on our side: it soothes the atrocity, it sweetens the bitterness, it sheds light where there was only darkness".

He meant it literally, I read it metaphorically. It´ll probably end up to the same.

It feels like another cycle is closing. And when that happens, it´s mainly a question of dealing with the memories and moving on... or back. Memories are not all we have, they are not all we are. Although it feels like it. They´ll be sweet one day... once they stop tasting so bitter. I am moving back to the comfort of the 'exile'. I feel stronger there, more self-sufficient (do I hear Aristoteles laughing..? Damn him!).

Ederlezi, I came to find out, is a spring festival celebrated by Roma people in the Balkans. Funny, the scene from Kusturica´s film had always made me think of death. Spring is re-birth... Anyway, it doesn´t matter, one can´t happen without the other.

Journeys I´m made of... - Hamburg (2004)

Dialogue in the Dark entrance.

In June 2004 I visited Hamburg and the 'headquarters' of Dialog im Dunkeln (Dialogue in the Dark). This is an exhibition that changes us for ever. We are given a stick at the entrance and then blind guides take us through and lead us to different real-life experiences in absolute darkness. We go to the park, to the market, we walk in the street, take a boat ride, have a drink at a bar. We are excited, desorientated, totally dependent, trying to find our way through, afraid of falling or bumping onto something or, worse, someone, judging people from their voices... And we only trust our blind guides.

My friend Andreas Heinecke, a beautiful, sensitive person, a social entrepreneur, is the man behind this. He has taken the exhibition to more than 25 countries and 150 cities all over the world, creating jobs for thousands of blind people. There are also permanent exhibitions in Italy, Japan, Israel and the USA.

View to one of Hamburg´s canals from the Dialogue in the Dark building.

It was beautiful that trip to Hamburg. People from all over the world had gathered to discuss the 'Dialogue', the weather was nice, we had a memorable cocktail on the Dialogue building terrace in the end of an afternoon; an even more memorable dinner, followed by a latin party, with live music, where I danced a mambo I´ll never forget with another amazing, sweet, surprising man, George Hein, author of the inspiring Learning in the Museum. Quiet drunk (after a couple of glasses of wine...) and still amazed at meeting him and finding out what an incredible person he was, I told him: "Tonight, when I call my husband, I´ll tell him that I danced with George Hein!". He smiled shyly and answered: "Tonight, when I talk to my wife in the States, I´ll tell her that I danced with Maria."

One of my nicest memories is a boat trip. After leaving the busy and agitated harbour, the river boat took us to the calm waters of one of Elba´s tributaries, where we enjoyed the colours and air of the countryside and a beautiful sunset.

P.S. Already missing Madeira... Thank you, dear friends.

Back in Madeira II

What a beautiful and full day I had today. People from Madeira are truly hospitable, available to help with anything at any moment, eager to share their stories, feelings and thoughts. And so proud of their homeland.

I had lunch with Sara, at her father´s restaurant, "O Celeiro" in Rua dos Aranhas. Excellent food, delicious "pudim de requeijão" and great conversation. Once again, I was very surprised to find out how something we said, an issue that seems secondary, can inspire a person to go beyond his usual self and meet his real self.

My day finished at the Regional Archive, where José Eduardo Agualusa came to talk about the new relations of the portuguese language. It amazed me how many people showed up at 9.30pm on a rainy Thursday to hear a writer talking about language. Different place, different habits, different needs. I had forgotten this reality, that was so much my reality many-many years ago, back home.

I loved his speach. And I love seeing people cherishing their language and all those who speak it, in their own way. Keeping it alive and rich and strong. "When a language disappears, a way of speaking about the world disappears with it", he said.

Funny coincidence, last week I bought my first book of Agualusa´s and now I came to find him in Madeira. The note on the book cover says that he lives between Luanda, Rio de Janeiro and Lisbon. That sounds always nice. One day they´ll say about me: "She lived between London, a fruit market in Cape Vert and the statues of Easter Island"...

Back in Madeira

It felt so good to see Funchal again from the plane. There was a glorious golden sunset shedding light on the immense ocean when I arrived. At the hotel they didn´t ask for my name, they just gave me the key... I smiled, almost laughed. This also felt good.

This time I didn´t worry about first revising my notes for tomorrow´s class. I went immediately out and took a long walk. The shops were closing, there were few people in the street, but some esplanades were full. I felt the smell of trees and grass. Then I walked along the waterfront. The sound of the waves reminded me of Greece.

Dinner at the Sacred Art Museum Café, in the Town Hall Square. I sat at a table outside. A bit chilly, but very pleasant. Excellent chocolate cake and cold water.

I´m reading I confess I have lived (Confieso que he vivido - it sounds so much nicer in spanish), Pablo Neruda´s memoirs. Somewhere in the jungle of Indochina, life taught Neruda, young consul at the time, a lesson: among the people there he discovered hidden pride, unknown brotherhood and beauty flourishing in darkness. Fortunate Neruda.

What one cannot live without

I received the most beautiful email this morning. It was an email about life, passion, people, hurricanes, eyes shining, firmness and willingness. And about how all these things can come together and push us to go after what really gives meaning to our lives.

Unwillingly, unintentionally, totally surprisingly, I was someone´s wake-up call. This is for him and for all those who find the inspiration and the strength to go after the things they really want. Because, what life can you live without them?

In Cavafy´s words, once again.

THE SATRAPY
What a misfortune, although you are made
for fine and great works
this unjust fate of yours always
denies you encouragement and success;
that base customs should block you;
and pettiness and indifference.
And how terrible the day when you yield
(the day when you give up and yield),
and you leave on foot for Susa,
and you go to the monarch Artaxerxes
who favorably places you in his court,
and offers you satrapies and the like.
And you accept them with despair
these things that you do not want.
Your soul seeks other things, weeps for other things;
the praise of the public and the Sophists,
the hard-won and inestimable Well Done;
the Agora, the Theater, and the Laurels.
How can Artaxerxes give you these,
where will you find these in a satrapy;
and what life can you live without these.