Archive for the ‘Travel’ Category

Haka

June 19, 2009

 

  That’s New Zealand’s “All Black” rugby team doing the “Ka Mate Ka Mate” Haka.  Haka is a Maori term which traditionally was a general term referring to any sort of native dance.  Purposes range from a variety of ceremonies such as funerals, to entertainment, to an organized expression of hatred for another tribe, to war mongering.

  In traditional Maori culture women performed both supporting and lead roles in Haka.  In fact the old legend Tinirau and Kae involves only women and tells a tale of the first Maori tribe.  Tinirau loaned his pet whale to a neighboring chief, Kae, to ferry him home.  Instead of sending the whale back to Tinirau, Kae killed and ate it. 

  Tinirau then gathered his best female dancers and sent them to Kae’s village.  They did not know what he looked like, but were told that there was a gap in his teeth.  They performed with such skill that Kae laughed, was thus recognized, and a spell cast upon him.  There is a moving rendition of this Haka in the wonderful movie “Whale Rider”.

  Today, the term brings to mind in most a vigorous performance by men – often with apparent bellicosity.  Western awareness of Haka most frequently relates to the All Blacks.  New Zealand’s national team has long been at or near the top of world rugby.  In fact, the national consciousness troughs with a championship loss much like Brazil does with soccer.

  All Black was originally a derogatory epithet applied to the team’s first European tour in 1905 because it included several dark skinned Maoris.  They thereafter played with vigor and adopted the black uniforms they sport to this day.

  The team performs a Haka before each game to “adrenalize” and is most frequently the “Ka Mate Ka Mate” Haka as above.  This Haka is of the legend of warrior chief Te Rauparaha.  A series of skirmishes leaves him hidden, crouching in a pit alone, protected from opponents spell casting by neutralizing effects emanating by his wife sitting above.

  Empowered, he appears and does the “Ka Mate Ka Mate” moves which are associated with the following words: 

Aha ha!  I die, I die
I live, I live
I die, I die
I live I live!
For this is the hairy man
who has fetched the sun
and caused it to shine again!
One last step up
Then step forth
Into the sun
The sun that shines! 

  Would adrenalize me.  And have the opposite effect if I watched perform it in preparation for kick off. 

  Interesting cultural side note.  The name of a prominent regional team is “The Crusaders”.  Games begin not with Haka, but with knights on horseback.  Imagine if a US football team adopted that name?  It’d be all over Al Jazeerah in a heartbeat. 

  While now on the subject of cultural insularity I’m reminded of a TV schedule insert I saw recently in a French magazine.  Through the course of a week were notices for a series called Les Peoples du Soleil about the ancient indigenous peoples of Latin America.  Problem was that there was a photo of a Mayan pyramid with the note about the Inca segment and one of Machu Pichu alongside the bit about the Maya.

  I’ll bet that they have enough history to study in Europe that those decimated by their emissaries (Cortez Pizarro et al) get short shrift.  Most American kids would notice the mistake, let alone a succession of proofreaders.  Is it a stretch to infer there from anything about the attitude of the European majority towards minorities?

Philadelphia

April 10, 2009
        Had a great few days visiting son in Philadelphia.  Undertook examination of several different important bits of our culture. 
      First was Kenny Powers, the lead character of the HBO show Eastbound and Down which you’ll find disgustingly hilarious if you’re a guy.  Only disgusting if you play for the other team. 
      Kenny never read any Greek tragedies otherwise he’d have recognized his hubris and the show would have been one-of and not a series.  It starts with him, as a rookie pitcher, winning the World Series for the Atlanta Braves.  He immediately develops a hugely oversized ego, declares himself a free agent, and begins a long obnoxious fall.  
      Our star levels out as a substitute high school gym teacher living with his brother and family.  He happily tells the school principal that his fiancé was an old KP flame and the flame that he was still in love with her chest. Drunk and high on ecstasy at the school dance he parts the crowd to strut his stuff for her.  
      There is a video of it on You Tube which I thought about inserting here, but didn’t after wife said “You better be careful, I’m a substitute too.”  Matter of fact, I looked at all of the clips on You Tube and found none appropriate for this more or less PG space.  
      Next day son and I went to an incredible show at the Philadelphia Museum of Art – Cezanne and Beyond – which intersperses about sixty works by the master with over a hundred by his heirs.  The experience makes for the enlightenment of even the most benighted philistine.*  Just take the two pictures below. 
      On the left Painting with Two Balls 1960 by Jasper Johns and (one of many of) M. Cézanne’s Mt. St Victoire (1903) on the right. johns-j-painting-with-two-balls  There is an elemental simularity – without the balls and thrust of the mountain both would be pure abstraction.  In a cezanne-msv-2very real sense the one by Johns is a reflection of the other.  Relation I mean.  Cezanne himself said “In my thought one doesn’t replace the past, one only adds a new link to it”.  So here we have the Fin de Siècle revolutionary dressed up for the 60’s.  Shows the truth in the saying: “Mediocre artists borrow.  Great artists steal”. ** 
      Son then had to take an exam (Mr.”I got ’em all right…” since the crib) and I went to another museum – the Philadelphia Academy of Fine Arts where many great American artists took training.  Importantly for me, this included William Merrit Chase whose (one of many) portrait(s) of his wife hangs in our museum here in town.

    chase-mrs-chase-in-pink1

      I have returned many times to visit  Mrs Chase In Pink starting years ago when I was younger than both then were to now older making all manner of attempts to divine something of the nature of their relationship.  Without success.  I was never able to learn anything.

    chase-portrait-of-mrs-c

      Thus I was pleased to find another portrait of her at a much younger age in PAFA thinking that a youthful impetuosity might betray something for me.  No luck.  Thinking about this while reading a review of the Cezanne show I came across a description of M. C’s portrait of Mme. C calling her his “inscrutable muse”.  Aha!

      I’ve written in a post below how it feels to be caressed by the cerebrations of an artist/spouse and realized first that both women enjoyed each sitting.  More to the point neither was a mistress, but a life partner and a hint of ire or eroticism or pretention or whatever (while well within the power of the artist/ husband) would indeed be a betrayal of confidence and likely the last such opportunity.

      Later that afternoon as I was relaxing in son’s apartment enjoying the urban street noises below and waiting for him to return I looked through a book by one of his professors: Arup Uber Engineer Cecil Balmond.  In it (Element)  he draws attention to the, uh, congruence of all the myriad wonderful patterns found the world about  and says: “We are the nervous system of a great mystery”

    balmond-element

      Ya, but I’m working on it. 

    *Given a hint and some time, even Kenny would figure out to what the two balls relate…

    ** Jasper Johns said about a Cezanne picture: “As for the Cezanne, it has a synesthetic quality that gives it great senuality-it makes looking equivalent to touching”.

My Kind Of Town

March 27, 2009

chicago-skyline-day-2

  Next time you stay overnight in Chicago and get up for your morning run, make sure to go south along the lake a bit, past the Shedd Aquarium, and then east out the Solidarity Drive peninsula to the Adler Planetarium.  Then turn around and look back. 

  You will see why the Economist called it “…architecturally the most interesting city in America”.  And a better point of vantage could not be had.  If done just as I described you’ll already be on an endorphin high and with your first look, your breath will be taken away as it was just after first hearing the major movement of some great piece of music.  You will agree with (Chicagoan) Frank Lloyd Wright that “architecture is nothing more than frozen music”.

  With each repeat of this experience, I get the feeling that the final reverberation ended just the second before I turned.  Instruments are at rest.  Orchestra standing about to bow.  Remember – this is far removed from the sounds of the city.  In the early AM there is near silence out there.

  When I noticed a nearby statue I figured it must be of a great composer, seated, listening to a performance of his finest work.  Upon closer inspection however, it turned out to be of Copernicus which in a sense is just as appropriate.

  Chicago’s architecture would not be nearly so moving and dramatic had it not been for the great fire of 1871 which burned a wide swath to the ground.  From the ashes arose what is there now there to be seen.  A big bang of sorts.  It thus makes sense to have that important early cosmologist looking upon what hath been wrought.

KC-GULL-3C-830PM_MET 0624 C03 KOZ24

  It is especially fulfilling to consider this particular measure of the built environment as of a whole rather than of its pieces.  It is a nearly perfect oeuvre of quite large scale and, in comforting contrast to the terror and turmoil about these days, shows what can be achieved through harmonious collaboration. 

  Iris Murdoch wrote: “Good art, whatever its style, has qualities of hardness, firmness, realism, clarity, detachment, justice, truth.  It is the work of a free, unfettered, uncorrupted imagination.  Whereas bad art is the soft, messy self-indulgent work of an enslaved fantasy.  Pornography is at one end of that scale, great art at the other end.”*   Hardness, firmness, realism; doesn’t that sound like Chicago?

  It is incredible to learn that the city was built upon a swamp; that its name relates to the onions found therein by Native Americans; and that the land from Michigan Avenue to the lake was reclaimed and filled with the conflagration’s remains;

  As Carl Sandburg wrote in his Chicago Poems:

Come and show me another city with lifted head singing
so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning

  And:

By night the skyscraper looms in the smoke and the stars
and has a soul

  My kind of town.

chicago-skyline-night

High Lands

February 6, 2009

0052 

  Daughter and I took lifts to the top of the ski area where we boarded a snow cat which took us up the ridge to a point where it narrowed and steepened.  We got off.

  After the drop off we began the hike up the ridge as it narrowed to a knife edge.  A sign read: “Hazards of back country skiing include death”.  Though wife and I had made this hike and ski descent before and though it is a far sight from the leading edge of this day’s temerity,  I had been sleepless the night before.

  To voluntarily enter a challenging environment with one of one’s progeny can only hope to be a healthy endeavor if accompanied by some degree of expertise, experience, and humility. And voluntary participation.  Kids are all adults now…

  Hiking in ski boots is not natural.  Hiking up a steep trail – actually only a succession of small slots kicked in the ice and frozen snow – focuses one’s attention.  Drop your skis and you’d never seen them again.  Slip, well, you get the picture.  The wind was blowing so fiercely that the contrails from my runny nose froze solid on the left lens of my shades. 

   We reached the top.  Rested a bit and considered best route of descent.  Couldn’t  see over the corniced ridge so to be safe skied down the shoulder a bit and then dropped in.  It was steep and cruddy.  Had to be athletic and assertive.  Perfect for #3.  She knew she’d be back to drop in from point zero.

   From the bottom of the bowl a short trip down a tortured trail to a cat walk and the lift took us to the summit lodge, her mother/my wife  (the real skier) and lunch.

  It is not hard to imagine how humans began to slide down frozen inclines and even began to perfect the activity.  Just watch kids in winter upon the most modest of slopes.  Thinking of kids, hundreds of years ago in Norway a child prince was spirited away from danger upon skis for some fifty kilometers.   Name of biggest cross country ski race in the states – Birkebiener – came therefrom.

  What is difficult for me to understand is how our evolution equipped us to seek, survive, and thrive in the steep cold environment.  Well maybe I can understand the seek part.   Without a thirst for adventure in at least part of the population we’d all still be starring into Olduvai Gorge.

  But the kinesthetic part I don’t get.  Such prowess must be an epiphenomenon related to swinging through a forest canopy.  Now to think of it, that does sound like fun.

  Clearly the huge ski industry is built upon a very wide range of athleticism.  Weighted toward the heavy end.  The fact that couch potatoes enjoy it is interesting.  The fact that a few seek out the steep quick and cold is fascinating. 

  Whatever.  The conviviality on top is a fine reward.  Humans are weird and I’m glad to be one.

004

From Iowa with Love

January 31, 2009

012

  The world looks different from a train.  When you’re driving you have to concentrate on what’s ahead. Keep your wits about you. It’s fatiguing.  You think in terms of starting point and destination.  Fuel and fast food.

  On a train you don’t look ahead unless you’re the engineer.  You look out to the side upon the world as it is.  No pavement, no bright lights.  Just now it’s dusk, January, and we’re crossing the Mississippi.  It’s frozen and covered with snow.  There are several bald eagles low over the small bit of open water still looking for something to eat.  I don’t envy them. 

  Now we are pulling through a small village and I’m reminded of Breughel’s winter scenes.  In those pictures you watch people interact and think about what their lives might have been like.  On a train, and in a museum, you can employ your mind to consider background, context, follow your thoughts wherever they might lead.  It looks cold out there.  I wonder if the people in that farmhouse are warm.  Do they have to go out and feed their livestock again tonight?     

  Train travel is also a kinesthetic experience.  Obviously one can rise and move about with much more ease than from the backseat or ‘the middle seat’.  On a train you become part of the swaying and the rhythms. At modest speeds it feels like a saunter on horseback.  Perhaps that’s why they’re called chemins de fer – paths of iron – in France.

  Certainly, road trips can be really great for extended conversation.  I’ve many, many very fond memories of being sealed in a vehicle with our whole family for hours on end. I’m sure my wife and kids would all agree those rides procured their own special sort of joy.  Back in the days before cell phones… 

  But kids are scattered to all four corners of the earth (well three) and I’m sitting across from their mother enjoying her company.  She’s sketching me which always sort of feels like, uhm, a homeopathic massage.  Makes me feel like daydreaming…

  “Everything conspired to make him sleep – the hasty metal gallop of the wheels, the hypnotic swoop of the silver telegraph wires, the occasional melancholy, reassuring moan of the steam whistle clearing their way, the drowsy metallic chatter of the couplings at each end of the corridor, the lullaby creak of the woodwork in the little room…” 

  “He looked down at the beautiful sleeping profile.  How innocent she looked, this girl from the Russian Secret Service – the lashes fringing the soft swell of the cheek, the lips parted and unaware, the long strand of hair that had strayed untidily across her forehead and that he wanted to brush back neatly to join the rest, the steady slow throb of the pulse in the offered neck…”*

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  Next morning we wake to the soft pink glow of first light upon the mountains.  All is quiet but for the clickity clack clickity clack.

Range after range of mountains
Year after year after year.
I am still in love**

  As we climb and draw near, lenticular clouds have formed and hover just above the ridge.  How do they hang there like that?

  Tunnel.

* From From Russia with Love by Ian Fleming

** Poem by Gary Snyder