Thursday, January 28, 2016

unicornia

But my song shall see, and wake,
like a flower that dawn-winds shake,
and sigh with joy the odours of its meaning.


--Francis Thompson

It could be a sign that one has reached a certain age, or, on the other hand, a certain stage of perception, to wonder whether a cryptozoological creature might appear. Or it could be the edge of utter madness.

When I was challenged, the other day, to ask the permission of the unicorns to appear to me, I paused for a moment, and whispered, "If you would like to appear to me, I would be very grateful." And then I promptly forgot about this.

Yesterday, the alarm clock beeped insistently in the early hours; I tapped it, and hugged the pillow for a little while longer.

A very vivid image appeared to me, of a young girl with wild eyes, whose hair was streaming all akimobo in an unseen wind, a la Cosette. The sense was that she was an embodiment of inner innocence.

Following in the wake of this girl, a unicorn -- oh delight! made its appearance. The unicorn was silvery-translucent,  iridescent, and with a pale crescent-moon glow.



Yes, I realize it is still necessary to pay taxes, and make dinner, to wash up the dishes, scrub  the floors, and to perform a dozen other tasks around the house.

And yet, a subtle and honorable brand of magic manages to leave its footprints behind in every room.



I am always hearing. . . the sound of a far off song. I do not exactly know where it is, or what it means; and I don't hear much of it, only the odour of its music, as it were, flitting across the great billows of the ocean outside this air in which I make such a storm; but what I do hear, is quite enough to make me able to bear the cry from the drowning ship. So it would you if you could hear it.

--George Macdonald (At the Back of the North Wind)

Tuesday, January 19, 2016

Viktor Tsoi - Changes




This is one of those songs.

Tuesday, January 12, 2016

Kazimiera Iłłakowiczówna - The Enchantress




The Enchantress

I have a speaking bird, I have chattering waters,
I have an old enchanter, you may seize him by the beard;
I have a snake who rises on his tail among the flowers,
I have two learned hornets, who doze upon my sleeve.

I have a splendid starling, a hedgehog, a beetle, a frog,
I have a wise white jackdaw, a fluffy web of feathers:
my bird will speak to you when you least expect it,
the mournful dragon on the floor will bathe your feet in tears.

Your first dream in the world has found its homeland here,
and your joy sent into exile has come to live with me,
and if, foolish armed sentry, you come to see me too,
I'll show you your own sleeping heart inside a tiny box.


--Kazimiera Iłłakowiczówna


(painting by John Bauer)





Tuesday, December 29, 2015

Sketching Lukomorye (The Invisible Dogs)

The real reality, the flickering of seen and unseen actualities, the moment under the moment, can't be put into words; the most that a writer can do--and this is only rarely achieved--is to write in such a way that the reader finds himself in a place where the unwordable happens off the page. --Russell Hoban



When I was around six years old, I read a book that left an indelible mark on my internal clockwork: The Mouse and His Child, by Russell Hoban. I am slightly embarrassed to admit that I have forgotten much of the plot of the book. The enduring image that has remained with me is  that of a small wind-up mouse and his father. A tiny mouse-child is staring at a dog food can. Depicted on the label is a dog-chef holding a tray with a can of the dog food, which has its own label, a miniature of the larger image, and so on, and so forth until the mouse's vision blurs, and with his beady toy eyes he has glimpsed The Last Visible Dog.

At that moment, gripping the small paperback--and this was long before I had heard of Mandelbrot sets, or fractals--the realization dawned on me that beyond The Last Visible Dog, there are always more, infinitely more invisible dogs. I give full credit to the subtle magic of the author's pen for this abrupt epiphany.
“Here below the surface one studies the depths of TO BE, as manifest in AM, IS, and ARE. And if you don't hold up your end of the conversation I may very well snap you in two.” --Russell Hoban
The final dog reference I will make today will be to several discarded hotdogs that I once found floating in a gilded fountain on Old Arbat, across from the statues of Alexander Pushkin and Natalya Goncharova. Many years had passed since my childhood, and yet, like a young girl, I scampered over to the fountain and fished the debris from it. The monuments of Moscow held a strange grip on my imagination that summer, and I could not endure their desecration in my presence; nor in Pushkin's, for that matter.

The last days in that city encircled by boulevards and highways I spent sweating languidly in its outskirts in an unventilated cement apartment on the 4th floor, across from a row of tin garages that barely concealed several freight train tracks, behind which lurked the electric train line. Every few minutes, an invisible train thundered by, and the windows rattled in time to the hum in my teeth.

Frontispiece, A.S. Pushkin, Prologue to Ruslan and Lydmila, by Tatiana Mavrina

I kneeled on the garish linoleum, which was new, but not quite firmly glued to the floor, and stared fixedly at the illustrations of a children's book. Eventually, I took one of my children's paintbrushes, and opened a box of watercolors. Hour after hour, while the trains rumbled along, I painted. I painted until the linoleum was streaked with pigment, and I was forced to fetch the scrub brush and a floor rag in order to erase the remnants of my watery, unvoiced longings.

Whimsy, or the extreme heat got the better of me: when I walked out of the apartment, in a strange and wistful gesture of farewell, I left behind my humble attempts to sketch the learned Cat, who strides around an oak tree in Pushkin's Lukomorye.


For those who are unfamiliar with Lukomorye, the paintings of Tatiana Mavrina might be a good place to begin a tour. Lukomorye is a place where the creatures of the old folktales come to life: where mermaids perch on tree branches in order to comb their green hair, where bylini wander around muttering, until you aren't sure whether it is your uncle, or Leschy muttering over there behind a bush. Pushkin did not invent this place, but he set the old tales of the Slavic lands to rhymed verse, and, in the process, became a cornerstone of libraries, and a pillar of Russian literature.


Tatiana Mavrina  (1900 - 1996) devoted most of her long life to painting. She illustrated more than 200 books, including many Russian folk tales. In 1976, she was awarded the Hans Christian Andersen prize for her contribution to children's literature.

Tatiana Mavrina


Although I did not know her personally, it is my privilege to imagine that Tatiana Mavrina abides to this day in Lukomorye, enjoying the company of at least one Learned Cat.



While I am looking through the eyes of my inner mouse-child, I believe I'll join her there.


Thursday, December 17, 2015

Friday, December 11, 2015

notes to dream by



In 1880, a young widow in Germany asked the artist Arnold Böcklin for a painting "to dream by."

In response, he painted a series of five versions of a painting which became known as Isle of the Dead.





Sergei Rachmaninoff was inspired by a black and white reproduction of Isle of the Dead to write a Symphonic Poem (Opus 29) under the same name, in 1909.

This version was destroyed during WWII.

The momentum of this piece builds slowly, as if in time to the rowing of an unnamed boatman. The recording is from a performance of the Russian National Orchestra (RNO)  on November 7, 2012, with Mikhail Pletnev at the baton.



For further reading, this article in the New York Times on the subject  may be of interest.

Tuesday, December 08, 2015

the beauty of vanishing

Self-portrait with a Scarf - Zinaida Serebriakova


Before the Storm - Valentina Serebriakova



the beauty of vanishing

Some say there is a perfume named azure,
and impute to it lavender or frangipani notes;
but, for me, azure plucks at the strings of a harp,
dispersing blue morpho clouds of melody.


Spruce - Zinaida Serebriakova


In the garden of the stars her roses bloom,
their fractal filaments attract the bright bees;
the deeper I sink into the earth, the more I hear
their hum in the silence, and taste their honey.



Evening - Isaac Levitan