Przedtem malował meble, bezkrwawo pokawałkowane kobiety oraz męskie garnitury bez wypełnienia, teraz zmienił tematykę i światło, teraz jest lato, nawet w nocnym barze jest słonecznie… Japonki na wakacjach, Penelopa na wakacjach… Wakacyjne martwe natury z warzywami, no chyba że…
I was reading a wonderful book of W. G. Sebald, a German writer which left Germany in early 60. and went to Manchester. He is one of the best writer I ever read in my whole life, better as Marcel Proust. It means something when I say something like that. His book, Die Ausgewanderten / The Emigrants I am reading ever and ever again… It was published in German 1992 and in English 1996. Sebald won with it the Berlin Literature Prize, the Literatur Nord Prize, and the Johannes Bobrowski Medal. Wikipedia says: The Emigrants is largely concerned with memory, trauma, and feelings of foreignness. All the characters in the work are emigrants who have left Germany, mostly Jewish and mostly self-murder. In the 3rd novel in a scene which takes place in a bar in Deauville, he writes.
Die Instrumentalisten waren vier schon etwas gealterte Jünglinge mit lockigem Haar. Sie spielten songs aus den sechziger Jahren, die ich in der Union Bar in Manchester ich weiß nicht wie oft gehört hatte. It is the evening of the day. Hingebungsvoll hauchte die Vokalistin, ein blondes Mädchen mit noch sehr kindlicher Stimme, hinein in das Mikrofon, das sie mit beiden Händen ganz dicht an ihre Lippen hielt. Sie sang in englischer Sprache, aber mit deutlichen französischen Akzent. It is the evening of the day, I sit and watch the children play. Manchmmal, wenn sie die Worte nicht richtig erinnern konnte, ging ihr Gesang in ein wundervolles Summen über. Ich setzte mich auf einen der weißen Schleiflacksessel. Die Musik erfüllte den ganzen Raum. Rosarote Quellwolken bis unter den goldumrankten Plafond. Procol Harum. A whiter shade of pale. Die reine Rührseligkeit.
I needed urgently to listen to it…
Original lyrics were written by Keith Reid
We skipped the light fandango
turned cartwheels ‘cross the floor
I was feeling kinda’ seasick
the crowd called out for more
the room was humming harder
as the ceiling flew away
when we called out for another drink
the waiter brought a tray
and so it was that later as a mirror
told its tale that her face
at first just ghostly turned
a whiter shade of pale
She said: “There is no reason
and the truth is plain to see”
but I wandered through my playing cards
would not let her be one
of sixteen vestal virgins
who were leaving for the coast
and although my eyes were open
they might just as well’ve been closed
and so it was that later
as the miller told his tale
that her face at first just ghostly
turned a whiter shade of pale.
But all that was nothing in comparison to what was written underneath. So I just quote it, reading a book of Sebald and listening ever und ever again to Procol Harum, which I liked so much as I was young, and then forgot them totally till bei reading Sebald the 10th time or so I found them again. Rührselig.
Anyway, did you know it?
could you please stop commenting about it being ‘originally written by’ Johann Sebastian Bach? I tried to find similarities with “Air on G String”, “Ich steh mit einem Fuß im Grabe” (BWV 156), “O Mensch bewein dein’ Sünde groß” (BWV 622), “Sleepers, Wake!” from Bach, but honestly: None of them warrant the claim that the melody is borrowed from any of them. It’s quite a stretch to find similarities, even, between chord-schemes, bass-lines, and the two or three tone-sequences that match with aforementioned pieces by Bach; You could then say the same about ALL pop hits! To claim it borrows ideas from “When a Man Loves a Woman” (Percy Sledge) is like saying every pop-song in C-minor borrows ideas from songs with the same tempo. This composition stands tall on its own. Every song out there is *inspired* by those from other songwriters, you don’t need to brag about your miracle discovery; I’m holding a do-I-give-a-shit-o-meter in my hand, and the needle’s not moving.
Mmmmm… it was published on you tube on 09.09.2007 and since then people listened to it (only here of course) 89.577.793 times (the last ten times it was me listening to it). 89 millions! It was commented 22 009 times.
I copied only comments from today and yesterday, I finished by a comment from somebody remembering Poland…
I first saw this video on a “video jukebox” in a corridor in a mall in Quebec City in about 1967. There was a selection of less than a dozen videos to choose from, and you had to stand at the jukebox to see the film projected onto a small screen within the box. In the meantime, the music was almost drowned out by the passing shoppers and tourists. This was truly groundbreaking at the time.
When I was a teenager I would leave the radio on all night….this is the only song that would wake me up no matter what time in the wee hours it came on….always gave me goosebumps
A whiter shade of pale has been N0 one a long time in 1967. One of the greatest year for music. What a thrill it was on Radio Caroline. How great it was to be in England for sweet Summer of Love..!!!
música lindona por demais que nós envolve por inteiro dessa banda inglesa que arrebatou os corações apaixonados em 1.976 na Hippoputumus disco Club em São Paulo, Dancei por demais.
En complacencias en tj,México yo escuchaba esta canción en 1972, mi hermana, Yani,amigas Irma,laya,maria vivíamos en colonia libertad p/a saturnino herrant,serca de iglesia Loreto y tienda maiza, my novio que quise mucho Victor lo recuerdo con estas cansiones,samba pa ti Santana ,color my world,Chicago,have you seen her,chi-lites,my world bee gees, my mama ya se fue en enero 22,2017 en San Diego ella escuchaba complacencias radio de tj, los Freddy’s moonlights,solitarios,los dos oros cros,
Les arbres sont des poèmes que la terre écrit sur le ciel.
Kahlil Gibran
Budda powiedział, że jeśli uczepisz się jakiegoś wyobrażenia i uznasz je za “prawdę”, stracisz szansę poznania prawdy. Nawet kiedy prawda osobiście zapuka do twych drzwi, nie będziesz chciał otworzyć przed nią umysłu. Jeśli więc masz wyobrażenie tego, co jest prawdą albo jakie warunki muszą zostać spełnione, byś był szczęśliwy – bądź ostrożny.
Well… That pic was posted in Facebook, with funny and cute and awesome text underneath: Rosa Luxemburg, Simone de Beauvoir, and Emma Goldman on the beach, smoking pipes (1930’s.)
I shared it on my FB wall and my dear friend Esther Schulz-Goldstein wrote as a comment: Ungefähr 30 Jahre später, habe ich als junge Frau im Museumsrestaurant in Tübingen Zigarre geraucht und da zischte ein für mich damals alter Herr am Nebentisch, “eine deutsche Frau raucht nicht”. Ich zischte zurück, “deutsche Männer hätten lieber nicht soviele Menschen umgebracht”.
I was so taken over by this beautiful foto, that I did not notice, it could be a fake and in fact it is, what my two Polish friends – Ula Ptak and Elżbieta Jagiełło – immediately noticed. Sure it is a fake. The authors do not even try to say you it is not. Just look at it: Emma Goldman 1869-1940 Rosa Luxemburg 1871-1919 Simone de Beauvoir 1908-1986
But obviously I am not alone in my being mistaked. Somebody found out, that that foto with it’s purposely false caption was shared 13,268 times. Well, so… I was the 13,269th one…
But I found the true story about that pic, it was so called WOPS in Mexico:
The Womens’ Pipe Smoking Group affectionately known as the WOPS or Borkum Riffs because of the sweet smells that trail behind them. They meet every early morning of the week and stroll along Olas Altas smoking and discussing shag tobacco. This wonderfully relaxed group sometime mix a blend of prime Moroccan hashish with their fine Borkum Riff fine cut shag from the Netherlands.
There is a waiting list to join these women of the below the knee dress wearing persuasion who want to become involved in this sedate pursuit of strolling and chatting and puffing away on their smooth Calabash Meerschaum pipes like steam locomotives struggling up a hill. The youthful countenances of this group suggest tobacco smoke is good for the complexion and has general health benefits.
Searching for the text above I found another two interesting texts about women and smoking and pipes and now I am rebbloging them for you:
By 1615 in England, the first consignments of Virginia tobacco for pipe smoking had arrived and some 7,000 shops in London sold tobacco .
Women Pipe smokers are rare today but female smoking was very popular in the 17th and 18th centuries. Respectable women were commonly seen smoking pipes in public. Many famous paintings exist of noble women of the period drinking in the smoke from a clay pipe. The middle classes were eager to enjoy this new pastime as well. In the Elizabethan times clays were quite delicate with graceful thin bowls and long stems. The Dutch redesigned these clays by enlarging the bowl and lengthened the stem.
Dutch, French and English women all enjoyed the “Indian Weed”. For centuries the favorite way of enjoying tobacco was to smoke it in clay pipes. As early as about 1575 pipes were being made in England, but by the 17th century Holland had become the dominant center for the manufacture of clay pipes. Clays were made in many other European countries at this time, as well. Such pipes were usually white, with small bowls and long stems. They were extremely fragile and did not last long. However, by the 1850s, when pipe smoking in general became associated with the working class, female smoking began to decline, at least in public. The acceptance of female smokers seemed to vary between regions at this time. It is believed that many women kept their old habits. It is more than likely it was done in secret while they outwardly treated the act as a disgrace.’
Marquise de Pompadour, the favorite mistress of Louis XV, was a passionate smoker and owned more than three hundred pipes!
In rural areas such as the Highlands of Scotland and in Ireland the women smoked without shame. Women in the Hebrides smoked well into the 1930s due to the cultural isolation just as Appalachian women in the US did. It was seen as a very crude and backwards habit by most of polite society but little changes in any society without contact with urban centers. Today a women smoking a pipe draws immediate notice and sometimes ridicule.
I was rather disturbed to find out recently that some folk I admire are giving up smoking.
I was startled to say the least. No matter what anyone says, smoking remains the hallmark of cool. It’s as synonymous with art as booze, and as chic as any Euro fantasy.
Besides my obvious initial concerns (the loss of revenue for large faceless corporations and a drop in “cool” for those I admire) which are the same I think we all have when a dear one suggests they want to give up smoking, I had some broader concerns after giving the issue some thought.
Clarice Lispector. Smoking.
What about the health care professionals who are kept in a job because they have to care for the ill as a result of smoking all their life? (approx 48 billion a year is spent in smoking related health problems – approximately $11.00 of the cost of your cigarettes goes to health care professionals and their industries). The local tabac merchant, and all the other smaller stores that make the bulk of their revenue from cigarette sales. What of the poor governments loss of revenue (approximately $4 per pack) the drop of approximately 12.4 billion dollars from the advertising industry in the US alone (I think they’d notice this decrease, don’t you?) not to mention the drop in work for the legal industry. Tobacco is grown in 21 states of the United States, a leading producer of tobacco along with China and India. Think of all those farms and farmers, all those small communities kept alive – schools, libraries and hospitals because the local farmers grow tobacco.
Margurite Duras and Michelangelo Antonioni. Both Smoking.
And finally, the most poignant argument of all – almost everyone in Paris smokes.
Or is that all just bullshit?
If existence precedes essence, then I need to smoke in order to ‘be’ the writer I want to be. I know how the writer I want to be appears, because it has been determined (in essence preceding existence) by the writers I most want to emulate. Above you can see images of them smoking in the years before I took to the passion of writing. If I am determined by what surrounds me (according to Spinoza) the pressure to give up smoking is in direct confrontation with my experience of free will. It is in the world being a mirror of my free will that I am obliged to react. To overtake myself. The question here, is what self am I overtaking? Am I oppressed by my desire to give up cigarettes or my desire to smoke them in the first place?
Like Sartre’s waiter, I need to ‘play’ at being a writer until whatever (mysterious) criterion has been fulfilled that will have my inner self belive I am a writer. Scoff if you will, but this is a small charade that works for me. I had a blissful afternoon of writing today, in an atmosphere conducive to writing. Sometimes it is my desk and sometimes I will go mad if I have to look at my desk any longer and sometimes I need to play at being a writer just to feel its direction on my skin for the smallest while. Existence is defined by my concrete interactions with the world. Is it completely absurd that writers usually drink and smoke to excess? Of course it is – but again (if you adhere to the tenants of existentialism) that absurdism gives the action more meaning and puts us in touch with the basic humanity of existence.
Then, of course, we get into the nature of the cigarette itself. Should we roll our own? Can I still be an artist if the Gauloises are replaced by B & H extra mild?
And here comes the unpalatable truth. I have actually tried to smoke at several points in my life, and always given up in bitter disappointment, because I just can’t do it. I tend to be a very healthy person. The slightest upset in health regime sits poorly with me. I’ve never been able to smoke properly. I get too sick. For the most part, I’ve had to hang out with artists who do smoke, drinking in the second-hand, and wishing my little healthy body could tolerate it a little more hard-core.
And perhaps at the end of the day that is the source of my disappointment. Those around me giving up smoking results in me giving up the possibility of smoking. If I don’t see it, I wont remember it and horror of all horrors – I wont’ miss it. Perhaps my primal cry is more about the final shedding of the connection I have with the old artist image that fed me for so long. Just as I know the day of the depressed artist is over, perhaps the day of the drinking, smoking artist is over also.
The text was published on 15th of March 2018 on the blog 20th century Typographers; the idea of that post was proposed to me by our Avant-Garde specialist, our author doctor Lidia Głuchowska.
PS. Written on Mai 2025 – unfortunately after years are all pictures gone.
Steven Heller
Stamp Of Approval For Polish Avant Garde
On November 11, 2018, Poland marks the 100th anniversary of the Second Polish Republic and independence from foreign domination upon signing the armistice that ended World War I (until the Nazis and Soviets carved it up again in 1939 prior to the start of World War II).
As a contribution to the celebration, Dr. Piotr Rypson, Polish design historian and deputy director for research at the National Museum in Warsaw, conceived a project that commemorates the 100th anniversary of the first Polish avant-garde exhibition of Polish Formists-Expressionists on October 27, 1917. The result is four postage stamps with illustrative and typographic work represented by Poland’s leading progressive artists.
The series was designed by Agata Tobolczyk, together with the date stamp and commemorative envelopes featuring constructivist sculpture by Katarzyna Kobro and a functionalist Warsaw villa by architect duo Lachert & Szanajca. The edition of 120,000 is sold by the Polish Post Office.
Below are stamps with covers of three avant-garde periodicals in the Formist (akin to the Constructivist) style and a theater program in an Expressionist manner.
Otrzymałem niedawno list od Andreja Frołowa, o którego zainteresowaniach pisałem już raz na tym blogu. Jako że stanowi on uzupełnienie wpisu sprzed dwóch lat, a odnosi się do prezentowanych zdjęć Petersburga sprzed ponad stu lat – publikuję go z małymi skrótami.
Andrej pisze:
“…Members of our group are still discussing your wonderful photos – we all admire them, without exaggeration. Some depicted locations were newly determined. So, we have amended our first suggestion that the picture
“Hrebnicki 3_Institutskiy shopping mall” (photo 1) had been taken on Malaja Spasskaja street. Instead,it was Institutskiy Prospekt, clearly visible signboards of various stores led us to this conclusion – all the stores are listed in the phone books of that time (they have been recently scanned by our Russian National Library website). At least one food store is still existing on this place:
The depicted shopping mall was very close to Institutskiy Pereulok (not Prospekt, these are two different streetnames), where the family of your grandfather probably used to live. You’ve sent two pictures that allow the suggestion about the photographer’s special relationship to the house with the current adress Institutskiy Pereulok 5-9. One of these photos was probably the view from the flat window of Institutskiy Pereulok in the south direction (fot. 2 ). The other photo depicts the house itself (fot 3). There is also a general view of Institutskiy Pereulok in the north direction (fot 4 ). Another picture (fot 5) shows how does it look like right now (was taken on 17th February 2018). The current general view of Institutskiy lane (south direction) should not be missed (fot 6).
The view from the photo “Kemeri_Villa Mitau” (fot 8 ) is not belonging to our neighborhood, it has been taken in the Latvian resort Kemeri (or Kemmern) near Jurmala. One member of our community managed to find an other photo of this marvellous building in the Internet (fot 7).
Oryginalne zdjęcie Hrebnickiego
The next photo (fot 9 ) grants us a rare view of the villa with an informal name “Three wells”. It was located approximately here:
Thank you very much again for the photos! It was a huge step forward for the local history of our district Lesnoy. I hope our correspondence will continue and I could provide you with the news about depicted locations. …”
Andrej Frolov, St. Petersburg
*** I ja dziękuję Andrejowi za szczegółowe opisy i pasję w kultywowaniu pamięci o jego mieście, które było też miastem młodości moich przodków…
THE HISTORY OF LOUISIANA, OR OF THE WESTERN PARTS OF VIRGINIA AND CAROLINA Containing a DESCRIPTION of the Countries that lie on both Sides of the River Missisippi. With an ACCOUNT of the SETTLEMENTS, INHABITANTS, SOIL, CLIMATE, AND PRODUCTS.
Translated from the FRENCH Of M. LE PAGE Du PRATZ;
With some Notes and Observations relating to our Colonies.
Supposedly is Benjamin Smith Bartonan owner of Le Page`s book.
Let us return to Manchac, where I quitted the Missisippi; which I shall cross, in order to visit the west side, as I have already done the east. I shall begin with the west coast, which resembles that to the east; but is still more dry and barren on the shore. On quitting that coast of white and crystal sand, in order to go northward, we meet five or six lakes, which communicate with one another, and which are, doubtless, remains of the sea. Between these lakes and the Missisippi, is an earth accumulated on the sand, and formed by the ooze of that river, as I said; between these lakes there is nothing but sand, on which there is so little earth, that the sand-bottom appears to view; so that we find there but little pasture, which some strayed buffaloes come to eat; and no trees, if we except a hill on the banks of one of these lakes, which is all covered with ever-green oaks, fit for ship-building. This spot may be a league in length by half a league in breadth; and was called Barataria, because enclosed by these lakes and their outlets, to form almost an island on dry land.
One league means 5556 meters or 5,5 kilometer.
Fort Bute or Manchac Post was established on a board between Florida and Louisiana in 1763 at the junction of Iberville River (Bayou Manchac) with the Mississippi River. It was an important military and trading post in British West Florida until captured by Spanish forces on 1779, during what became known as Battle of Fort Bute of the American Revolutionary War. Manchac was one of the originally-planned stations along the railroad, which were generally at ten-mile intervals. It was a part of the Canadian National Railway system.
Canadian! In Luisiana!
The name “Manchac” derives from a Choctaw expression for “rear entrance” and really – it was a sort or rear entrance to Lake Pontchartrain, a lake we know already – Halfway House Jazz Orchestra was playing its New Orlans Jazz 1925 – 1936 in a Halfway House what was build on a half way from New Orleans to that lake.
So if we see that sober, the Barataria Jazz have been somewhat similiar to the situation of giving a title Chelsea for a Jazz composition made in a studio located in Chelsea. Or something like that.
M. LE PAGE Du PRATZ was an interesting personality.
Antoine Simon Le Page Du Pratz was a Dutchman, as his birth in Holland about 1695 apparently proves. He died in 1775, just where available records do not tell us, but the probabilities are that he died in France, for it is said he entered the French Army, serving with the Dragoons, and saw service in Germany. While there is some speculation about all the foregoing, there can be no speculation about the statement that on May 25, 1718 he left La Rochelle, France, in one of three ships bound for a place called Louisiana.
For M. Le Page tells us about this in a three-volume work he wrote called, Histoire de la Louisiane, recognized as the authority to be consulted by all who have written on the early history of New Orleans and the Louisiana province.
Le Page, who arrived in Louisiana August 25, 1718, three months after leaving La Rochelle, spent four months at Dauphin Island before he and his men made their way to Bayou St. John where he set up a plantation. He had at last reached New Orleans, which he correctly states, “existed only in name,” and had to occupy an old lodge once used by an Acolapissa Indian. The young settler, he was only about 23 at the time, after arranging his shelter tells us: “A few days afterwards I purchased from a neighbour a native female slave, so as to have a woman to cook for us. My slave and I could not speak each other’s language; but I made myself understood by means of signs.” This slave, a girl of the Chitimacha tribe, remained with Le Page for years, and one draws the inference that she was possessed of a vigorous personality, and was not devoid of charm or bravery. Le Page writes that when frightened by an alligator approaching his camp fire, he ran to the lodge for his gun. However, the Indian girl calmly picked up a stick and hammered the ‘gator so lustily on its nose that it retreated. As Le Page arrived with his gun, ready to shoot “the monster,” he tells us: “She began to smile, and said many things which I did not comprehend, but she made me understand by signs, that there was no occasion for a gun to kill such a beast.”
It is unfortunate, for the purpose of sociological study, that this Indian girl appears so infrequently in the many accounts Le Page has left us in his highly interesting studies of early Louisiana and its original inhabitants. He does not even tell us the Indian girl’s name.
We are told that after living on the banks of Bayou St. John for about two years, he left for the bluff lands of the Natchez country. His Indian girl decided she would go with him, as she had relatives there. Hearing of her plan, her old father offered to buy her back from Le Page. The Chitimacha girl, however, refused to leave her master, whereupon, the Indian father performed a rite of his tribe, which made her the ward of the white man—a simple ceremony of joining hands.
Le Page spent eight years among the Natchez and what he wrote about them—their lives, their customs, their ceremonials—has been acknowledged to be the best and most accurate accounts we have of these original inhabitants of Louisiana. He has left us, in his splendid history, much information on the other Indian tribes of the lower Mississippi River country.
Antoine Simon Le Page Du Pratz tells us he spent sixteen years in Louisiana before returning to France in 1734. They were years well spent—to judge by what he wrote.
As it was written and published in the French language, Le Page’s history proved in many instances to be a tantalizing casket of historical treasure that could not be opened by those who had not mastered French. The original edition, published in Paris in 1758, a score of years after the author landed in New Orleans, was followed in 1763 by a two-volume edition in English, and eleven years later in 1774, by a one-volume edition in English, entitled: “The History of Louisiana, or of the Western Parts of Virginia and Carolina.” The texts in the English editions are identical.
Fortunately, early historians who could not read the French edition, were now able to read M. Le Page’s accounts of his adventures in the New World. Unfortunately, especially for present day historians, the English editions have become increasingly rare—many libraries do not have them on their shelves. Therefore, the present re-publication fills a long-felt want.
STANLEY CLISBY ARTHUR
(Mr. Arthur is a naturalist, historian and writer, and executive-director of the Louisiana State Museum.— J. S. W. Harmanson, Publisher.)
In Manchac went the young colonist from th Mississipi river, going either east or west. An here fe found Barataria. It s for him no place of resemblance on Don Quijote or Cervantes or Sancho Pans, but only a word meaning an an island on dry land, exactly as the place Sancho Pansa got als his Governement. It is exatly one hundred years after publishing a second part of Don Quijote, where Barataria was described. The name is already existing, given to the place for sure some years or maybe even some decades before.
I try modestly to put here my simple question:
Was the word Baratria invented by Cervantes which (VERY QUICKLY!!!) became synonyme to an island on dry land? (Was he word inventor? Or quotations author?) When it became proverbial?
Or was it always the description for it and Cervantes picked it as all writers do with words?