Somebody

They are everywhere if you know what you are looking for. I found them in Haiti, in Tajikistan, Paris (of course), Normandy, Russia, Uzbekistan, Zurich… It's flea markets I am talking about. Yep, I am a flea market girl. Last Saturday was a perfect day to spend it on the Bürkliplatz in Zurich. The sun was shining; the lake was sparkling, people were happy to finally embrace summer (or at least a sunny weekend).

For me going to a flea market/brocante/garage sale is almost like reading or traveling. There is a bit voyeurism thrown into it as well, I am suspecting. Peeping into other people's past, reading their life's stories, trying on their hats, leafing through their books, touching their artifacts, walking in their shoes, guessing their secrets…

I love to watch and to listen people negotiating. How different the reactions and ways to find mutual understanding! I grew up in a country where buying without negotiating is an insult to a merchant, as if you were too busy or too arrogant to enter a conversation with him. I spoke shortly with an Afgan family selling jewelries, I know a little bit of Farsi and it was so curious to hear familiar words while they have been discussing their matters. I told them I lived in Tajikistan; they looked pleased and were genuinely friendly. How many language did I count while walking among the rows of antiques and trivia?..Italian, Serbian, Farsi, Spanish, French, English, Russian, German, African dialects, Turkish… It’s like a little model of the world where everybody is getting (most of the times) along.

And of course there is always a hope to find something special, something out of ordinary. Many people don’t know what they are having and what they are selling (Dear Mr. Freeble, I am expecting you to contribute to that thought in the comment section, since I know you had quite a few staggering experiences in that department).

My catch of the day? Two pairs of retro Italian sunglasses in (almost) mint condition. Together they cost me CHF 20.- ; and they were absolutely irreplaceable on Sunday since I spent it in a chaise lounge on the sun (yes, I am very much behind my assignment now...) 

Spotting the second great pair I had a lovely exchange with two elderly (hope they are not reading this) Italian men which insisted on a kiss on a chick if I buy something from them, but they quickly withdrew after my dramatically staged shock and embarrassment ( We settled on an air kiss afterwards). Seeing both pairs in my hand one made a very logical “manly” remark (in German with an absolutely charming Italian accent): “But they look almost identical…?... ” I had to say in my bad German with no charm whatsoever: “To YOU they look identical, but to any woman you ask, they look ABSOLUTELY different”. They laughed and shook their heads. You wouldn’t have this conversation in a Cartier shop, would you?

The biggest luck I ever had while browsing flea markets of the world? My discovery of Anais Nin, of course. It was some years ago in Haiti, I walked down the dusty unasphalted Rue 2, the only foreigner in sight (only I wasn’t a foreigner, they all knew my name and if I didn’t come there two weeks on a row they have been worrying about me, the merchants), and among second hand jeans and tableware from Miami I saw her face.

I picked up this book because it was in English and I had nothing to read, and I never let it go, not from the heart, anyway. I bought all other volumes of her diaries afterwards, but this one stays my favorite. Maybe because it was my first experience on Anais Nin, or because of the period covered in it (1934 – 1939, prewar Paris and “new” New York). I reread it once and again, opening on any page, starting from any line.

Page 27: “Limitations of life. Doors closing as one walks forward. Curtains of silence. Inertia. Obstacles like walls. Then to discover that the limitation is within oneself. A malformation, wanting the impossible. In all of them the imagination is the trap. Evasion is possible by reunification of life and creation of art. Or by accepting limitations….Many creators, romantics, neurotics are tragic figures in life. They are absolutists. They tire of struggling against of limitations of life. In art there are none”.

Page 34: “I love the world so much, it moves me deeply, even the ordinary world, the daily world, even the bar table, the tinkling ice in the glasses, the waiter, the dog tied in the coat room”.

Page 278: “Renata asked Jean: “What is your occupation?”

Jean answered: “My occupation is to learn to walk through all of them in a state of transcendentalism, to live only in the essence, and within the frame of none.”

That makes me think of one episode that took place nearly three years ago, when we just moved to Switzerland. A neighbor, a young woman, asked me what my occupation was, so I told her my story. She looked at me, puzzled, and said: “But you look like…somebody”... Perhaps I am not a great storyteller afterwards.

I wish you to spend this week looking like somebody happy and loved; somebody who is oneself.  

P.S.

I wasn’t going to write more this week: too many things to do and too little to say; but I couldn’t resist not to share.

“A single man”, the new film of Tom Ford. Here is an extract from the official movie description: “It's November 30, 1962. Native Brit George Falconer, an English professor at a Los Angeles area college, is finding it difficult to cope with life. Jim, his personal partner of sixteen years, died in a car accident eight months earlier when he was visiting with family. As he routinely and fastidiously prepares for the suicide and post suicide, George reminisces about his life with Jim. But George spends this day with various people, who see a man sadder than usual and who affect his own thoughts about what he is going to do…”

The official movie trailer is a little weak, I think, apart from the music. Go and see the film, it’s in the theaters now. Go and watch it with someone you love.

I post this little monolog of the professor Falconer. Colin Firth is brilliant, and this monologue sums up pretty much what I have been preoccupied with these last several weeks:

“Fear is the cause. Minorities are just people, people like us… Fear after all is our real enemy. Fear is taking over our world. Fear is being used as a tool of manipulation in our society. It’s our politicians peddle policy; it on Madison Avenue sells us things you don’t need. Think about it. The fear of being attacked. The fear that there are communists lurking around the corner. The fear that some little Caribbean country that doesn’t believe in our way of life poses a threat to us. Fear that black culture may take over the world. Fear of Elvis Presley’s hips!..Actually that one maybe is a real fear…. Fear that our bad breath may ruin our friendships. Fear of growing old and being alone. Fear that we are useless and no one cares what we have to say… Have a good weekend.”

"Жизнь - Любовь" ("Life - Love")

It’s been a long Monday… All of a sudden minutes stretched into hours, hours crawled soundlessly and unhurriedly like summer days on the beach. Not that I haven’t done anything today, on the contrary, it was a productive day, but the more I did, more time I seemed to be offered by someone invisible… A very unusual experience. Yes, probably some of the substances of John Giorno had their effect on me… And perhaps on any other occasion I would happily embrace this transformation of reality, but not today… Maybe because I was waiting?.. Or because time was making up for space and it simply wasn’t enough?..

Anyway, at some point I decided to arrange all my photographs in “My photos” folder. Normally I just dump them there hoping that one day they will somehow self-archive, and shrink, and give themselves nice names…but it never happens. So, rummaging through the years of frozen memories I found this photo made in Rome nearly 50 years ago (NOT by me, obviously)…

I made a picture of this old photograph several months ago while visiting an extraordinary person. A tiny frail woman opened the door to her apartment, and the next moment it wasn’t an apartment at all, but a Pandora’s box, or rather a magician trickbox, full of white rabbits, and paper flowers, and endless scarves, and lucky cards, and sadness, always (for some or the other reason) sadness...

I have to start from the beginning to make sense to you, don’t I? Her name is Valeria Dauwalder. She is equally articulated in Russian and French, and at her age of 92 she is sharper than anyone I know. A sculptor, a theologian, an illustrator, a writer, a philosopher…she is simply too much to be one person… but she is absolutely unintimidating in her greatness. Born in Russia in 1918 into a family of Russian aristocrats and Swiss entrepreneurs, Valeria moved back to Switzerland in the 30s to study art, to explore life, to find love...

Illustration by Valeria Dauwalder  

I am holding her book "Жизнь - Любовь" ("Life - Love") and looking through old archive photos. She brought part of her archives to the tea table where she made her tea “Russian style” (it’s when you have a little teapot with a very strongly brewed tea and next to it there is a “samovar” with hot water, so one makes his own mixture of various strength. For me, who grew up in Asia, it’s a funny way to drink tea, but Valeria dismissed all my attempts of a joke. Yes, I wanted that piece of cake, so I shut up :-)…

The book with dedications and autographs… Here is one of Fernandel…

Her archives are the most precious thing that have left in her life. She lost her children to diabetes and neurosis, her beloved husband is long gone. I look around with a mixture of feelings. 400-hundred year old furniture in this modest apartment in Oerlikon on the outskirts of Zurich looks almost metaphorical and out of place. Paintings and Russian icons on the walls and the smell of mold… cold tea, a big bruise on the side of her face (she lost balance and fell a few days before), her veined hands and feet, all this makes me want to run, and all this makes me want to stay… Where did the rabbits go? Whatever happened to multicolored scarves?...

All of a sudden Mme. Dauwalder's voice brings me back from my hypnotic state: “He had a great vision, but no talent!” She spoke of Marc Chagall, my beloved Marc Chagall!, how could I resist? – so the battle resumed. And there was more tea, and more Sprüngli cakes, and many more memories…

Vesna. Illustration by Valeria Dauwalder

PS I never went back. I promised to and I never did. I am even afraid to call. I think I am afraid of aging (even the aging of others). And loneliness... It's something new. Not a great ending for a post (I am no good at ending things, beginning is so much more fun), but I haven't got another one. I even added a second fish to my virtual fish tank this evening; no one should be lonely without one's consent, even the virtual fish deserves to be happy... It was a long day after all, maybe tomorrow I will be squeezed between short uncatchable minutes and be missing the endlessness of today?...or maybe I won't.

Swimming in a blue light of my computer screen in the middle of the night I came across this song... Yes, why can't we just rewind?... Would you if you had an opportunity?

Every day sunshine

Not every day, actually. It was a rainy day yesterday…again. But the atmosphere in the Art House Aarau (Kunsthaus Aarau) was quite sunny in spite of the name of a new exhibition of Ugo Rondinone “The night of lead”.

There are few things I really loved about his art. Names of his works…are an art themelves…

And all the different media and forms of expression! : aluminum, canvas, wood, wax, video...

My favorite exhibits: the doors. I loved this one in particular, locked and chained…the door to one’s mind I would have called it…

The clown (or is it a Ku-Klux-Clown?...). I wanted to lie down next to him, but Kunsthaus keepers have been waaaay too strict. (The same with photos, at first I was told it was ok, but then I was hunted down every time i produced my little camera…)

And at last the video project. Now this is just great. But one has to take time in this room, don’t try to judge or understand, just swim in a blue sunshine…

There was also an interesting guest performer John Giorno (it is a real name?...) I havn't finished listening to his performance, but now when i re-read his poems, i regret to have left early...  Here is a sample of his (earlier) poetry.

On a day when
you're walking
down the street
and you see
a hearse
with a coffin,
followed by
a flower car
and limos,
you know the day
is auspicious,
your plans are going to be
successful;
but on a day when
you see a bride and groom
and wedding party,
watch out,
be careful,
it might be a bad sign.

Just say no
to family values,
and don't quit
your day job.

Drugs
are sacred
substances,
and some drugs
are very sacred substances,
please praise them
for somewhat liberating
the mind.

Tobacco
is a sacred substance
to some,
and even though you've
stopped smoking,
show a little respect.

Alcohol
is totally great,
let us celebrate
the glorious qualities
of booze,
and I had
a good time
being with you.


Just
do it,
just don't
not do it,
just do it.

Christian
fundamentalists,
and fundamentalists
in general,
are viruses,
and they're killing us,
multiplying
and mutating,
and they destroying us,
now, you know,
you got to give
strong medicine
to combat
a virus.

Who's buying?
good acid,
I'm flying,
slipping
and sliding,
slurping
and slamming,
I'm sinking,
dipping
and dripping,
and squirting
inside you;

never
fast forward
a come shot;
milk, milk,
lemonade,
round the corner
where the chocolate's made;
I love to see
your face
when you're suffering.

Do it
with anybody
you want,
whatever
you want,
for as long as you want,
any place,
any place,
when it's possible,
and try to be
safe;
in a situation where
you must abandon
yourself
completely
beyond all concepts.

Twat throat
and cigarette dew,
that floor
would ruin
a sponge mop,
she's the queen
of great bliss;
light
in your heart,
flowing up
a crystal channel
into your eyes
and out
hooking
the world
with compassion.

Just
say
no
to family
values.

We don't have to say No
to family values,
cause we never
think about them;
just
do it,
just make
love
and compassion

Apart from taking unauthorized photos and listening poems I don't quite understand, I spend my days in a cellar (sounds kinda freaky...) of Teatro Palino working on a new entrance sign. If you are trying to reach me on my mobile and don’t manage, I must be there, inhaling golden paint and talking to dusty, discarded angels...

P.S. I forgot to mention that the exhibition of Ugo Rondinone “The night of lead” will stay in the Kunsthaus Aarau through summer, I will sure go back to enjoy some everyday sunshine... 

Sonntagsbrunch + Bild at Teatro Palino, Baden

I do complain about the rain…a lot, I am an outdoor kind of gal. But last Sunday was just what the doctor ordered: a quiet warm rainy day, ideal for spending it in a cozy armchair in an old Theater café, wrapped in a flicker of candles and scent of freshly cut cheeses...

It was our trial day of “Sunday brunch + Picture" project, tested on friends and family members this time. The real opening will take place this Sunday, May 09 at 10h.

Coming Sunday is a Mother’s day, isn’t it a great opportunity to invite her for a cup of coffee and a local art event? I am very much looking forward to see you next Sunday, come rain or come shine! Have a brilliant end of the week, and see you in Baden!