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Showing posts with label Catalan artists. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Catalan artists. Show all posts

Monday, March 02, 2020

Sunshine after rain


No sooner had I started for my Catalan lesson on my trusty bike than the skies opened and lashing rain assaulted me.  I had to wait for the protection of a bridge before I could dismount and rootle around in my backpack for the bike rain trousers (there must be a single word for them, surely, that phrase is just so unwieldy – leggings perhaps) and go on my less damp in the nether regions way, conscious at the same time of the amount of static electricity I had to be generating from the swathes of waterproof nylon in which I was now encased.
     God alone know what impression I made as I eventually dripped my sodden, baggy way into the class – though one member of the group was delighted that she had finally seen me in a pair of long trousers, albeit of a strictly utilitarian persuasion!  I divested myself of various wet garments and eventually I was able to sit in remarkable dryness given the ferocity of the storm.
One of the reasons that I love this country is that, at the end of the class, I went out to ride home in blustery sunshine.  There is none of the spitefulness of the lingering rain syndrome so common in British weather.  In Catalonia it can be raining, misty, cloudy, cold, blowing a gale – but you can virtually guarantee some sunshine at some point in the day.  It is a rare occurrence indeed when the sun stays away for an entire twenty-four hours.  Delightfully rare!
The waterproofs (that’s the word!) were bought during my last visit to Wales and haven’t been used since I returned, so I will have to ensure that they are thoroughly dried before they are put away, because it might well me months before they are needed again and I do not want to withdraw a moldy garment from its packaging when occasion calls.  In the UK you can put them away in their damp state because they will be called into use far sooner than any mold could form!  Or at least, I like to think so, it makes me jocose when the weather here is not as equitable as I would wish it to be!
The fear of the upcoming examination in Catalan is developing.  One of the participants in the class asked for clarification of what exactly was going to be in the test (a much more comforting and less intimidating word) the week after next, no, at the end of next week I now realize.  We have done two pieces of writing (that have been corrected) that will be models for what we will have to complete in the test and we have been given pretty clear indications of what sort of vocab we will need to be conversant (exactly!) with.
In the description of my house that was one of the topics, I tried to explain that of the three stories that comprise the dwelling, the ground floor is taken up with the entry and the staircase, the living quarters start on the first floor with the living room/dining room and the kitchen.  The problems came in the way that I translated ‘living quarters’.  I went for a literal translation from English to Catalan “els quarts d’estar” which I suppose would be something like “quarters of being” – perhaps unsurprisingly this stumped the teacher who demanded to know what I meant.  My explanation ranged over three languages and was not easily resolved.  There is a Catalan phrase for “living room” which is “sala d’estar” – the ‘room of being’, so I think that my attempt is more than reasonable.  But it didn’t pass muster, and I was offered the complex alternative of “l’allotjament” or the much simpler “l’habitatge”.  The ore astute among you will have realized that my typing all of this is merely a device to try and fix the words in my mind so that they can be used to great effect in the examination.  Anything is worth a try, to get a foreign word to stay in my mind!
The other topic we had to complete was an email to a friend.  Given a free hand to write what we liked, I always tend to veer towards my own interests, so exhibitions in art galleries or operas in the Liceu tend to be my stock in trade for such pieces of writing.  I told my friend that I had been to an excellent exhibition in MNAC and I was then able to list the Catalan artists whose work was featured in this fabricated show.  Outside of Catalonia how many of the following artists would be known: Ramon Casas, Joaquim Mir, Joaquim Sunyer, Modest Urgell, Joan Brull, Ramon Alsina?  The Catalan artists with world recognition are probably Salvador Dalí and Joan Miró – and Picasso, of course.  Yes, I do know that he wasn’t Catalan, but Pablo himself said that he had the soul of a Catalan and so he is counted!
It is one of the delights of living near MNAC in Barcelona that I have been able to get to know a whole range of Catalan artists of whom I had never heard before I lived here.  All of the names above now mean something to me and I can link specific works of art to the names.  Of all of the artists that I have come to appreciate living in Catalonia and being able to see their paintings relatively easily, the artist whom I most admire is Ramon Casas – a draftsman and painter whose charcoal sketches of the good and the famous in Barcelona (his sketch of a young Picasso is constantly reproduced) are astonishing.  Yes, perhaps his art did not develop in a way that influenced world painting, but he remains a remarkable second or third order artist and one who deserves a wider audience for his work.
Not long after I first arrived in this country a local newspaper produced a whole series of books featuring Catalan artists, all of which I bought and which provided a firm foundation for me to begin to build my knowledge of a whole new school of art.
Always learning!

Monday, November 12, 2018

Memory - Remembering




I will never visit the War Graves of the First World War.  It is not because no members of my immediate family are buried there

My paternal grandfather was a member of the armed forces throughout the duration of the war from the start until the end. He was wounded and sent back to ‘Blighty’ (after refusing an ‘offer of a fiver’ for his wound by a passing Scots soldier!) and was returned after his recuperation to the same point in the line that his company had occupied before he was hit.  The only difference on his return was that the whole of his company had been killed.

His description (second hand via my dad) of waking up in the trenches because he was being eaten by a rat, had a thrill of primal horror about it.  He told my father that as he jerked his hand away, as a rat was eating his finger, the rat did not release its grip and followed the trajectory of his hand.


Resultado de imagen de goodbye to all that

I have read fairly widely about the First World War, not only in terms of history books but also in the literature of the period.  The poetry of the period is at once searing and compulsive.  From the poetry of Owen and Sassoon to the prose of Graves, I have sensed the horror, frustration, inhumanity, bitter irony and humour of the War to End Wars.  I have seen the photos, watched films and visited museums.  I have feasted full on the horrors of an almost unimaginable reality, that, as the real experience of the soldiers was allowed to be shared in an almost unexpurgated form was unparalleled until the truly unimaginable inhumanity that was the Second World War.

As a life-long (belligerent) pacifist I have always had problems with the glorification or normalization of War: our family outing to the Edinburgh Tattoo was a fraught moral conundrum for me.  And, just in case you are wondering about my ethical purity, I swallowed my reservations and went.  And I was moved and stirred by what I saw and heard!


Resultado de imagen de british poppy haig fund

In the same way, I cannot wear a poppy.  I pay money to the collectors, but I do not wear the flower.  I don’t know whether they still do, but the black plastic centre of the artificial flowers used to have the words “Haig Fund” embossed on them, and I simply couldn’t wear the name of the military commander who tried to kill my grandfather with his suicidal plans of attack (for the PBI, not of course for him) with any degree of equitability. 

Resultado de imagen de haig statue

And yes, I did dry-spit every time I passed his equestrian statue in the centre of London.

So, what did I do, here in Castelldefels to mark the Centenary of the Armistice?

I have my grandfather’s medals form WW1 and I have had them framed.  I may not have joined up as my grandfather did, and we obviously have differing views on the military, but I respect and value his dedication.  He was most proud of his 1914-1915 star, showing that he was one of the first to be involved in the war before conscription was needed to keep the numbers up as the disastrous swathes of destruction - ugh!  Attempting alliteration about deaths in that war is a grotesque literary trope!



Whatever I feel about the war, I respect my grandfather’s period in the Killing Fields of France and he is my real link to the conflict: not a slab of elegantly carved stone in a garden of carefully tended grass. 

Imagen relacionada


I do not denigrate the cemeteries with their immaculate rows of white, but I know that I would not be able to take them.  I know that I would feel truly miserable and depressed rather than educated by such a spectacle.  I fully recognize that, for some, visiting these graves can be a valuable and emotional experience.  It is not one that I want to put myself through.

But the man, my grandfather, is worthy of thought and consideration and to that end I made some notes and jotted down thoughts to get me started on a new poem.  Work in progress.  And my grandfather’s medals will stay on the wall where I can see them as I type for the future. 
 
And perhaps those last four words should be something of a moral for me!

-oOo-

I have now, officially, taken more time trying to find a document about two Catalan artists in Word that I wrote some time ago than giving up and doing it all over again.  Well, not quite doing everything again.  I have managed to find a copy of the original document, so I will not need to do the research, I could just copy the couple of pages that I have found, and this time create a file and put it somewhere where I will remember putting it.  



And before you start thinking that if I have found a copy of the original document all I need do is look at the document’s directory or copy and paste, I might add that I have found a ‘printed’ copy of the original not an electronic one.  I do not have the program that can take a page of print and scan it into a Word document.  I understand from cursory search-glancing at the stuff on the Internet that OneNote used to have OCR capability, but no longer.  Or not if you look elsewhere on the Internet.  The end result, after attempting to take an image of the writing, download it from my phone as a PDF file and then attempting to save it to something else in the hope that the something else would recognize that the image had words in it and treat it as something that could be edited in Word. 

Didn’t work.

I re-typed it.  It doesn’t sound much, a couple of pages, but it was a couple of pages with accents, right left and centre with the odd umlaut.  And Word trying to foil my typing of foreign names with distracting underlining!  Still, it is done, and I know where to find it again!

And that is something more than nothing!