3000 miles away

3023 miles to be precise. I am lying on a comfy sofa, clicking away on my computer; Fashion TV is murmuring on the background (good motivation technique not to eat in the evening :-), yet everything feels different, everything IS different. I am in some other dimension, another era, a different planet.

I am in Alexandria Eschate (English meaning "Alexandria the Farthest"), the final destination of Alexander the Great. Alexandria Eskhata was founded by Alexander III of Macedon in August 329 BCE as his most northerly base in Central Asia. Alexander built a 6 kilometer brick wall around the city which, according to the ancient authors, was completed in only about twenty days.

Nowadays Khojent is a modern city, but it’s history continues to live in folk tales, in the architecture, and, of course, on the markets.

Here I am, at one of the biggest markets of Sogdian region - "Panjshanbe" (The name translates from Farsi as "Thursday").

Ground floor is occupied by food merchants. Here one can buy warm bread, vegetables and fruit, meat, flour, nuts, honey and oils.

Arches of the first floor are thousands of little shops where I got lost immediately. Carpets, iPods (for 20 USD), real and fake diamonds, hairproducts and DVD players…you can find almost anything here.  

I don't need diamonds today; I am here to look at people. Tajiks are full of life, even in the midst of the heat (which is rather impressive- the heat, I mean). They are curious and willing to strike a conversation, they laugh and make jokes. Women are more reserved and shy. 

Most women wear calf-long colorful dresses and matching pants underneath. Hair is normally covered with a scarf (or two, depending on the degree of religiousness). Many young and middle age women dress in “European” clothes, skirts and business suits. 98 % of population is very tolerent, something to learn and copy from, perhaps?.. 

Everyone can find something for the soul here. I found beautiful mosaics. I have seen them many times as a child, but now they have a special meaning to me…

"...Flat baskets full of fruit and vegetables arranged with a fine sense of design, of decorative art and harmonies. Strings of chili hang from the rafters. The scent of saffron, and rythmes of Chagall-colored laundry hanging like banners from windows, and in gardens. Warmth falls from the sky like the fleeciest blanket. Even the night comes without a change of temperature or alteration in the softless of the air. You can trust the night." (Anais Nin)

Good night and good Sunday, everyone.

Departures and Arrivals

"I never travel without my diary. One should always
 have something  sensational to read in the train".

Oscar Wilde

There is always something very exciting about departures. I have a feeling of thrill invariably at every train station, every airport. Illusion of a new beginning, of a new venture. People, connected strictly by one purpose – to go someplace else, to leave - for a day, a week or for good. Change is the only constant.

This time I am travelling by plane and the diary I am holding is not mine, but of Anais Nin, her Vth volume with the trip to Mexico (I thought it was a suitable occasion to reread it)… While she is floating in the hand-carved canoe near Acapulco, I am being checked for drugs and explosive materials; I am changing terminals, cities, countries. I am waiting. The sun is shining through the glass walls of the airport café in Riga (a pleasant change). Soft trumpet music is pouring out of the speakers. It’s a near-perfect transit experience…The power sockets are different and I cannot plug my laptop.

“I had a recurrent dream always of a boat, sometimes small, sometimes large, but invariably caught in a waterless place, in a street, in a city, in a jungle or a desert. When it was large it appeared in city streets, and the deck reached to the upper windows of houses. I was always in this boat and aware it could not sail unless I pushed it, so I would get off and seek to push it along so it might move and finally reach water. The effort of pushing the boat along the street was immense and I never accomplished my aim. Whether I pushed it along cobblestones or over asphalt, it moved very little, and no matter how much I strained I always felt I could never reach the sea” (Anais Nin).

I cannot push the plane nor change its course when it lands in Samarkand instead of Dushanbe due to thunderstorms. More waiting. More Nin’s diaries: “I took delight in the market. There mere arrangement of ribbons women wore in their hair, the decorative way fruit was laid out in huge round baskets, the birdcages, the smell of melons and oranges, the playfulness of the children. I took delight in the animated and crowded square, in the jetty where the fishing boats returned with their colored pennants flying. I loved to watch the fisherman pulling in their nets at sundown.”

Finally arriving to Dushanbe at daybreak. The air is warm and fresh from the storm. Crowds of people outside of the airport, many of which are taxi drivers offering their services. The young driver of a shared cab I took starts racing with another taxi on the busy morning street…he is grinning in the back mirror. City overflowing with fountains. Breakfast of sweet cherries and apricots and green tea. I am so far away from home and yet this is home.

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!

Dreaming about Bleus or shelf life of Angels

I don’t have many possessions. Among those few which I treasure there are two wooden sculptures I found in Haiti. Both are carved signed “Bleus”. My Internet search didn’t bring any results. But questions remain. Who was he?  Was he young or old?  Was Bleus a good psychologist, who knew exactly what Haiti-voodoo-magic-obsessed treasure hunters would bite into, or was he himself voodoo-magic-obsessed-dreamer?...

I love the choice of material of his sculptures: driftwood, metal wire, buttons, nails (lots of’em), even a plastic cap of a Haitian yogurt LAKAY (which was rather sweet, so I would  just use it to ferment fresh milk to make my own yogurt in Haiti) .

One sculpture is hanging next to my bed. What was he thinking making it? To me it is a Cyclops (the yogurt cap makes a perfect watchful eye) who watches over me while I sleep. I call him “zanj gadyen mwen” – my guardian angel in Creole.

The wood is so old and fragile; sometimes I am afraid it will vanish all together. So here is a portrait of my guardian angel (40x15 cm, acrylic on paper). Naturally the portrait is abstract and looks almost nothing like the original, but you'll get an idea.

Speaking of angels…one is indeed gone for good. I really liked her. I painted her hair gold and I made her make up, I even fixed her wings with new white feathers…and now she is gone. Everything has it’s shelf life, even angels...

1+1

Yey! My blog is two months old today! It seems like it has been a long time, and - on the other hand - like I have just started.  I am wondering how I am doing, blogging-wise... Are there any manuals on “How to make a good blog” or “How to force people to read your blog AND leave comments”?.. :-)

Thank to all (two) of you who reads my thoughts. It has been a healthy experience, also painting-wise, I had to go through all my previous works, sort them out, think them over; I should do the same with my winter wardrobe…maybe sometime in autumn?..

Here is another drawing from my Normandy series “Blue glass collection”. Mixed media on paper.

42x30 cm unframed, 53x43 cm framed.

7 minutes with M. Keyes or the „Yes“ woman

Ok, it is going to be a muddled post, because I am in a tangled state of mind today (it’s a good thing). Have you seen a movie with Jim Carrey “Yes man”? Yes? No? Yes? Well, you should, I mean, everybody should...because every single each of us at some point of life (multiply it by 1000) is missing on an opportunity. We say “No” to too many things, for different reasons (or without any reason at all): laziness, fear of commitment, fear of judgment, fear of this, fear of that.

Perhaps it was the fresh wind of Normandy, or too many oysters, or the long boring winter that made it obvious to me: something has to change (let’s start with that weather, ok?)… And I am changing my life: I am becoming a “Yes” woman. It doesn’t mean that if you approach me with an absurd proposition, like jumping off the Eifel tower, I will jump into the opportunity (ok, maybe with a bungee cord I will…).

A couple of days ago I was sitting in a train opposite of a young woman who was reading a book (In English!). It was a novel I read a while ago “Anybody out there?” by Marian Keyes, one of my favorite female Irish writers. Normally I would just keep looking out of the window with an absent face, because I always worry to be a nuisance to others. But at this very moment I have been thinking about the whole “Yes” concept, so I decided to speak to her. Apparently it was her favorite writer too, so we were shooting titles and names at each other, as if speaking in some secret language. 7 minutes of bliss and complete understanding.

I might sound banal and pathetic to you that I am writing about such an unimportant incident (see?.. another fear), but you can’t even imagine what it takes for me to make a first step, no matter how big or how small. There, I said it. I will leave you at that now (no one promised smooth, well-shaped thoughts, remember?), I have a thousand of first steps to make (getting out of bed will be the first challenge).

If anyone is reading this blog, which I doubt for the most of the time, your thoughts and comments are welcome. Yes.

I wish you a fear free week…now, where is that bungee cord?..

Easter “à la normande” (with onions and cream)

I suspect I won’t be the most popular girl on the blog writing about food right after Easter. Apparently too many of us have been overeating, drinking in abundance, spending too much time with in-laws, and wishing now to forget about the whole ordeal… Not me, though. This Easter wasn’t your regular Sunday with dyed eggs and chocolate bunnies (what do chocolate bunnies have to do with the resurrection of Jesus anyway?), it was the Easter of oysters and champagne, decadent chocolate cakes and coquilles St. Jacques.

For those who just suppressed a yawn reading this there is a button “Next blog” on the top of the screen, for the others I have three words: “The French can eat” (technically it is four words, no? Native English speakers please do correct). But you probably already knew it. I kind of did too, but the combination of several ingredients, such a Frenchman, passionate about food, his Central American wife, passionate about food and life in general, and Easter holidays on the shore of Calvados, produced an explosion of self-indulgence and unforgettable festivities.

On arrival to Grandcamp I was relieved of my luggage and handed a chilled glass of Pommeau (a new pleasant thing to discover, I love “pommes” in all forms, from calvados (in moderation) to apple charlotte (again, in moderation). While "le canard au pêches" was shimmering sweetly, oysters have been opened and glasses of champagne have been filled. Let the magic of French cuisine begin! Ask me about the best way to eat oysters…I will answer: With vinegar and shallots, and a crispy baguette (preferably from a local artisanal bakery) spread with French butter… The duck was served with Château du Bois Meney (Bordeaux Côtes De Francs 2000). Then came a round of cheese (I went for Roquefort and Camembert) and mini cakes from a bakery next door, accompanied, again, by champagne. How much more decadent life could get? Oh, there is always a space for a next downfall…how about an 11 hour sleep? :)

Saturday morning was…well, slept through, and the day started at lunch in Bayeux (at least that’s when my recollection of memories picks up again…). Bayeux is a little town seven kilometers from the coast of La Manche (English Channel), best known for the Bayeux tapestry, made to commemorate events in the Norman Conquest of England in 1066.  Lots of English tourists, indeed, even the menus outside of brasseries had little English incriptions: “Mules Frites a la normande. With onions and cream". That’s what I was having for lunch. And a little portion of sunshine, it is almost as precious as coquilles St. Jacques here. Later there was a “light” dinner of oysters and crabs from the local market (It really would be light if the baguette and butter didn’t cut in).

The Easter morning was cold and windy, so the activities of the day were narrowed down to a walk to the local market (hmmm… 150m both ways, I suppose) to stock up on oysters. Meanwhile le mouton a la moroccaine was shimmering on the stove for lunch. And that should have been it for a day, but of course it wasn’t. There was also dinner with oysters for starters (what else?...) and the coquilles St. Jacques with Pommeau and cream sauce. “It’s never as good as the first time” – wasn’t this song of Sade written about the first experience of tasting a coquille St. Jacques? I am almost sure it was. It’s delicacy and texture are indescribable, at least not with my literary abilities anyway.

The highlight of Monday was a trip to the Mont St. Michel. As proper tourists we had an overpriced crêpe at an overpriced café, washing it down with a glass of dark beer for some reason…an unusual and not unpleasant combination. I felt almost rebellious ordering it.   

Looking back I can’t believe that all this hedonism took place practically in the middle of a construction field. Between the magnificent meals doors were replaced and walls there knocked down and bathrooms repaired. Only the three-meter-long antique oak table in the center of the room was undisturbed (unless by changing sets of plates and glasses) and served us as a sanctuary of stability and reassurance.

I am afraid to bore you to death with my culinary delirium, try to get back to it on an empty stomach, it’s quite fun. Anyway, that was my Easter. How was yours?

Changing sides or A Midsummer Night's Dream

A recent sms from my mother: “I fell in love with elephants”. No, she hasn’t moved to Africa; my mother has been visiting St.Peters- burg in February. The only elephants to be found at this time of the year in St.Petersburg (or any other time of the year in St.Petersburg) were in a circus…

Now, wait a minute, am I missing something here? My mom, who since I can remember (and that would be for about 30 years this time) was declaring her disdain for circus and was vigorously cultivating a matching contempt in her two daughters, was IN LOVE with it? Here is a heart break for you. Is there anything for me left to believe in? Anything at all? It was my third favorite subject (after Casinos and ZOOs) to pour my scorn on (not that I do it often or excessively). I feel like I lost the best comrade, the ideological anti-circus leader. Disoriented and determinated to prove her wrong I am going undercover.

Here I am, sitting in S12 train from Brugg to Winterthur on a sunny Thursday morning, reading the new brilliant novel by Nick Hornby “Juliet, Naked”, and trying to reason what is wrong with the circus:

1. Clowns. They are scary. Not funny. Fake. (The only clown I ever liked was on a photo – it was the best art item of an exposition I visited few years back – he looked frustrated and has been curled up in a bath tub with a bottle of wine).

2. Animals. Don’t, oh, don’t tell me they prefer jiggling balls and dancing, to running around the savannah and copulating happily. Every time I hear about accidents involving a trainer I feel a little pang of satisfaction (scratch out the lethal cases, I am not that vicious). But still, remember the recent tragedy when the killer whale dragged his 40 year old woman trainer under water and she died? … Hello? It’s a KILLER whale, remember? Never underestimate the nature.

3. Acrobats. I mean, have you seen those muscles? With those physiques they should join a fire brigade or REGA, or something, I mean, what a waste. The best counterargument I got to this one was: “You are making art. There is no use to it either”. Righty.

Arriving to Rikon, ZH where Circolino Pipistrello is stationed. For a couple of hours I am “a representative of the Russian National Circus”, as Marc Palino Brunner, the director of the upcoming new production “EIN SOMMERNACHTSTRAUM”, jokingly introduced me to the troupe. I am watching, absorbing, and trying not to be judgmental (which isn’t even an issue by the way). No clowns with orange wigs. Check. No animals (at least I haven’t seen one apart from lazy cats stretched out on the sun). Check. Some muscles indeed, but it is actually quite pleasant to look at them (err…scratch that one too). Check.

What I see is a group of young alternative men and women (personally I don’t like the term “alternative”, misused too much and is too general – alternative to what?) with a passion for acting, for drama. Their enthusiasm, their bravado is contagious. I am enjoying the preparation process so much that I decide not to stay for the general rehearsal with costumes in case I come to their premiere this weekend. I can’t believe it is happening to me…

Simona Hofmann and Marc Palino Brunner, directors of  EIN SOMMERNACHTSTRAUM show, discuss last details.

Wednesday Blues, Thursday Jazz

Yesterday my otherwise vacant evening was interrupted by a phone call with a request to fill in at the bar. It was Thursday, which in UnvermeidBar language means JAZZ.

Since I can remember (and I can only remember from February 2009 on (that’s when I learned to know the Teatro Palino gang) every Thursday a tiny stage of UnvermeidBar is filled with talented, prominent (or not at all), but invariably very cool people.  Christoph Baumann, Hämi Hämmerli, Toni Renold – just to name a few.

To be frank, I have no idea when the “Ueli &Friends” project started. Every Thursday Ueli Gygli, teacher by day and pianist by night, walks through UnvermeidBar doors - with a guest. It is always a mystery. It is always a treat.

Ueli and his companion take their places on stage. The atmosphere is light; the guest of the night is humorous and easy going. But something is different. After a few minutes the audience falls silent (a pretty rare event too). Suddenly it feels like a chamber music concert. 

The guest is Gallus Burkard. He has been a member of the Zurich Tonhalle-Orchestra since 1990. He plays contrabass which he built himself (being nearly illiterate music-wise I admire anyone who can play anything, but building your own instrument which can actually produce a sound?..). Since 10 years Gallus plays with Trio Gilboa and is a member of Swiss Octet. A striking resume and a matching personality to go with it.

If you happen to be in Baden on Thursday evening, don’t miss the opportunity to meet some extraordinary people at the UnvermeidBar.

Have an extraordinary weekend everyone!