John Steinbeck, 'A Russian Journal'

I have just read this marvellous and totally engaging book that makes me want to marry John Steinbeck and move to Georgia. Although unsure of its exact  accuracy, I would whole-heartedly recommend it.
And I found out about so much in this enchanting and lovely book. I never knew before that 'every Russian town of any size has its permanent circus in a permanent building'. I didn't know about the churches that were 'rich and oriental' with paintings which were 'very black with incense and age'. Nor did I know of, and this one is amazing, the railway in Kiev run entirely by children! Wow.

The Ruin

This is a poem from the Exeter Book, which was originally written in Anglo-Saxon. Different translations exist and it's nice to read a couple of them, so you can really get the poem. The poem is supposedly written about the remains of the Roman Aquae Sulis, which is modern Bath. I've included a a photograph which I took in bath, just for atmosphere.

	Splendid this rampart is, though fate destroyed it, The city buildings fell apart, the works Of giants crumble. Tumbled are the towers, Ruined the roofs, and broken the barred gate, Frost in the plaster, all the ceilings gape, Torn and collapsed and eaten up by age. And grit holds in its grip, the hard embrace Of earth, the dead departed master-builders, Until a hundred generations now Of people have passed by. Often this wall Stained red and grey with lichen has stood by Surviving storms while kingdoms rose and fell. And now the high curved wall itself has fallen. ............................................ The heart inspired, incited to swift action. Resolute masons, skilled in rounded building Wondrously linked the framework with iron bonds. The public halls were bright, with lofty gables, Bath-houses many; great the cheerful noise, And many mead-halls filled with human pleasures, Till mighty fate brought change upon it all. Slaughter was widespread, pestilence was rife, And death took all those valiant men away. The martial halls became deserted places, The city crumbled, its repairers fell, Its armies to the earth. And so these halls Are empty, and this red curved roof now sheds Its tiles, decay has brought it to the ground, Smashed it to piles of rubble, where long since A host of heroes, glorious, gold-adorned, Gleaming in splendour, proud and flushed with wine, Shone in their armour, gazed on gems and treasure, On silver, riches, wealth and jewellery, On this bright city with its wide domains. Stone buildings stood, and the hot stream cast forth Wide sprays of water, which a wall enclosed In its bright compass, where convenient Stood hot baths ready for them at the centre. Hot streams poured forth over the clear grey stone, To the round pool and down into the baths. Translation courtesy of: http://colecizj.easyvserver.com/pohamrui.htm

Armistice Day

At the eleventh hour, on the eleventh day of the eleventh month we are silent. For two minutes we think of the lives and deaths that war has affected. This idea was introduced shortly before the first anniversary of the Armistice by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick. King George VI, who approved the suggestion, wrote in the national newspapers that ‘there may be for the brief space of two minutes a complete suspension of all our normal activities’. This silence is held each year, and is a significant event in the national calendar. In the two mute minutes we are able to sharpen our focus on the suffering caused by war, and our silence is also symbolic of the silences left by war.

Obama for the win

Well that's a relief, Barack Obama's still in power (no offence Mitt).

Image Courtesy of: http://hyperallergic.com/59844/and-obama-wins/

The dreams of the blind

In the lead up to the anniversary of Armistice day, I thought it would be appropriate to mention Isaac Rosenberg, whose poem, Returning, We Hear the Larks, I have been reading:

Returning, We Hear the Larks

Sombre the night is.
And though we have our lives, we know
What sinister threat lurks there.

Dragging these anguished limbs, we only know
This poison-blasted track opens on our camp-
On a little safe sleep.

But hark! joy-joy-strange joy.
Lo! heights of night ringing with unseen larks
Music showering on our upturned list'ning faces.

Death could drop from the dark
As easily as song-
But song only dropped,
Like a blind man's dreams on the sand
By dangerous tides,
Like a girl's dark hair for she dreams no ruin lies there,
Or her kisses where a serpent hides.

When reading the poem, my mind went off on a slight tangent, because of the line 'Like a blind man's dreams on the sand'. I began to wonder, and thought that you might like to read this article about an investigation into the dreams of blind people in comparison to the dreams of sighted people. I have no idea whether the article gives us an accurate interpretation of people's dreams, but I found it fascinating to read.

Strawberry Hill

In preparation for Halloween, I visited the Gothic house of Horace Walpole, author of The Castle of Otranto. The house is amazing, and much of the intricate detailing within was made, like Walpole's books, of paper. The stained glass windows are also fascinating, and were collected in Europe, as stained glass rare in the UK at the time. I would definitely recommend a visit. 

Images Courtesy of:

http://intranet.arc.miami.edu/rjohn/ARC%20268%20-%202003/Pugin.htm

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Strawberry_Hill_House_from_garden_in_2012_after_restoration.jpg

 Liubov Popova

I have to share with you my love for this woman. Let's not get on to the politics, because I know there are some very strong opinions on the ideals and the realities of Communism. But you have to admire her work: textiles, paintings, set design, photo-montage and so on. She was a genius, and so ahead of her time. If you looked at the majority of her designs you'd be justified in thinking that they were from the 1960's. But no, she was just a super cool dude.

Images courtedy of: http://www.wikipaintings.org/en/lyubov-popova

Lavender's Blue 

Lavender's Blue Dilly-Dilly,
Lavender's Green,
When I am King Dilly-Dilly
You shall be Queen

Finding this photograph, which I took during the summer, inspired me to find out more about the history and uses of lavender. In fact, the word has an extraordinary etymology. And to find out about lavender harvest, I watched this video.

1914 In Belgium, Ypres – Carrying Straw towards the trenches

I found this postcard at a Flea Market in France, and was amazed. I had no idea that postcards like this were made; who sent them? Also, it is just so real to hold an object from an era that you read about in books. And to see soldiers in such an informal photograph, preparing their trenches, in 1914, it's actually awful. I just can't let go of it.

Lazlo Moholy-Nagy

Moholy-Nagy was a Hungarian artist who formed a part of the International Constructivist Movement, and went on to become a professor at the Bauhaus. I love the image above, which he created, and also some of the things that he had to say about photography – 'The illiterate of the future will be the person ignorant of the use of the camera as well as the pen.' Photography is an increasingly significant method of documentation, and perhaps Moholy-Nagy was right.

Crucifixes

I've just got back from France, which I will write about more in the near future. But as I am going away again tomorrow I thought I'd share three of the crucifixes which I saw on holiday. They were dotted over the landscape where I stayed in such quantity that I decided to document them. These are three of my favourites, with the one on the right being my absolute favourite.