Artilleries

NATO 2012 Chicago

2012-09-30T17:15:00.000-05:00

A belated post.

Overheard:

"I'm just gonna attack a cop and get arrested!" - a youth
"Did you bring your gun?" "Nah." - two suburbanesque officers of the law
"What is NATO again? National..?" - a woman perusing the protesting crowd
"I am so disappointed that your generation can't do better..." - a man who has likely lived in Haight-Ashbury since the late 1960's

Some photos:

Do you like coffee?

2012-08-16T02:46:00.002-05:00

Made some simple Twin Peaks (David Lynch, Mark Frost) posters after a rewatch marathon on Netflix (irony regarding previous post noted). The series was in HD, I really couldn't resist. Bonus points if you get every reference.

...and now some more! Couldn't resist.

Oh deer!

2012-07-19T21:19:00.002-05:00

I got some design frustration out via Photoshop therapy. Here are the byproducts.

Addendum: The Rip Tide

2012-07-15T00:22:00.003-05:00

The fact that Zach Condon likely denies the existence of the American Midwest and Southeast is frustrating no doubt, but he's almost made of for it with the latest music video off of The Rip Tide.

Houmam Abdallah's video is a striking companion to Beirut's titular track. Influenced by Dalí, Seurat, and JMW Turner, the work, a living painting, is simple but stunning and I can't deny I've watched it on loop far too many times.

Not that you can ever have enough Beirut.

Pedantic Social Commentary No. 5: The Netflix Prison.

2012-07-02T22:40:00.002-05:00

Ranking amongst the greatest oxymorons of all time, likely somewhere between airplane food and peace force, is television marathon.

TV marathons are probably the furthest from actual physical activity marathons that they can possibly get. Sure, in both cases your vision probably gets a bit blurry, your muscles begin to ache, and you are somewhat closer to death, but the similarities end there.

Personally, the blame falls on Netflix. To me it is the root of all evil. The greatest catastrophe to hit already pop-culture satiated plebeians of all time. The plastic shopping bag in a tree to my personal Liz Lemon.

Netflix is the type of evil which reels you in with the promise of all five million seasons of such and such with the simplest click of a button. Then it… delivers. And soon enough you’ve opened the Pandora’s Box of media overstimulation and you’re being uncannily accurately suggested programs you forgot and/or never knew existed and your Netflix Instant Queue is in the triple digits.

Some British TV program you vaguely remember enjoying years ago? Seven seasons of god knows how many episodes? Sure. Whatever. Let’s go.

I should mention that there should really be a large flashing neon sign of some sort presented to you when you press play on a show of 5+ seasons that reads no stop it’s a trap. Because that’s what it is. A trap. A sort of self-imposed prison of conveniently instant amusement that pushes you more and more towards maximum security every time you press “next episode”.

Before you know it “just a few episodes” has turned into “all the episodes”. You’ve become one with your sofa. A box of gorgonzola chips probably meant for 10 or more party guests is nearly empty and you’re sipping from a plastic bottle of ginger ale like it’s one of those gerbil cage drinking bottle things.

Eventually your net physical movement is reduced to the trifecta of sofa-bathroom-fridge. You actually begin to practice one of the three songs you know on ukulele in a futile attempt to restore your depth perception because rubbing your eyes isn’t helping anymore. The narration of your thoughts is suddenly in David Mitchell’s voice. You shut your blinds to the world because the glare is ruining your picture. You’ve reached the ultimate stage of hermitude. Netflix has won.

In this state you can almost feel the sun’s rays desperately grasping through the gaps in your blinds whispering come back I miss you and the glaring lack of real social contact enveloping your black hole of a soul. There’s this vague incipient sense of shame gnawing at you like a mosquito bite on the back of your thigh that won’t go away.

And yet, you continue searching for new positions on the sofa that don’t ache. You withdraw further and further into television until you’re a dried husk of a human. You consume an amount of programming meant to be spread out over actual human years in a 9-hour timespan.

Then, tragedy strikes. You stare at your screen blankly as any semblance of willpower or purpose drains from your body. The carefully constructed glass castle of entertainment and emergent self-loathing you’ve built for yourself is shattered.

There’s no “next episode” button.

Faux Mad Men Ads

2012-06-09T03:11:00.001-05:00

Mad Men makes fake ad campaigns for a plethora of companies, so I figured why not make some fake ad campaigns for Mad Men itself. Featuring various products of actual and/or Mad Men universe fame, here are some faux magazine ads with whichever character (Betty, Don, Roger, Pete, Peggy, and Joan) and campaign seemed most... fitting. Esoteric plot-related quips included.

Adventures in Archaic Film Technology

2012-05-01T21:23:00.000-05:00

After cherishing the review and autofocus features on my digital camera, I somehow persuaded myself that a venture back into film was a good idea. So I found an old USSR-made Zenit TTL 1980 Olympic Edition, bought some (probably too much to be honest) expired Kodak 100 film, and tried it out. I would go into the trouble I had to go through to get it developed, but I'd rather not.

The first roll of film has all the markings of, well, a first roll of film with a "new" camera. Subject matter is inane, countless photos are out of focus, and a bunch are disgustingly grainy because somehow I decided that shooting in a dark library was a good idea. Here it is anyway.

Easter Chef d'Oeufres

2012-04-08T13:05:00.002-05:00

Last year I decided to spend some extra time on Easter egg painting. Logically I painted some eggs as famous artworks. Here they are. As you can see, I got a bit lazy somewhere around Warhol and Picasso.

Son of Man, Magritte

Composition, Mondrian

Starry Night, Van Gogh

Moulin Rouge: La Goulue, Lautrec

The Scream, Munch

Bridge over a Pool of Water Lilies, Monet

The Old Guitarist, Picasso

Velvet Underground Cover, Warhol

Basement Finds: Photo Slides of Lithuania, Venice, and Berlin 1970-1990.

2012-04-02T20:27:00.001-05:00

A few years ago I found a few boxes of slides in my grandmother's basement. From what I gathered, my father (the curly-haired one, as you'll see) likely took the photos during his somewhat younger days in Venice, East Berlin only a year before the fall of the wall, and Soviet Lithuania.

I plugged an old soviet slide projector into a socket one small spark away from total catastrophe and went through every one. Unfortunately, I had no time to get the slides scanned, so I did what was logically the next best thing:

I stuck a white pillowcase to the wall with safety pins, projected the slides onto it, and took photos with my camera. Some turned out reasonably well. Here they are.

Chronological Survey of the Opening Chords of Eroica

2012-04-01T11:23:00.000-05:00

An interesting youtube find- chronologically assembled opening chords of Beethoven's Eroica (Symphony No. 3). Differences are likely largely due to qualities of recording equipment but are interesting regardless.

Wish there were more of these.

Pedantic Social Commentary No. 4: General Intolerance to Interruptions in Moviegoing Syndrome

2012-03-26T00:32:00.002-05:00

On the very few fronts that I can relate to Woody Allen there’s one especially fortified one. And it’s the cinema experience.

As Alvy quips in Annie Hall after arriving two minutes late to a Bergman film, “I've got to see a picture exactly from start to finish, because I'm anal.” He subsequently offers to see a four hour documentary on Nazis.

I’m sort of like that. Well, no. I’m exactly like that. Anything from Schindler’s List to That-Katherine-Heigl-Film-You’re-Forced-Into, I have to see from its incipient moments to the point where the theatre employees are shoving me out with a broom. No late arrivals. No early departures. And especially no interruptions.

Frankly there’s a great deal of hurdles to surmount living life with such a complex.

Primarily there’s the matter of mobile phones in theatres.

Once in a while I’ll spot someone rummaging through a bag and suddenly the Lighthouse of Alexandria will be beaming directly into my eyeballs. Even worse- sending some dire text will likely follow (lol can’t talk in a movie ttyl or whatever). At this point all the glaring I can muster cannot adequately embody my frustration at being distracted from Tilda Swinton’s giant glowing face in We Need to Talk About How I Am Going to Throw Your Phone into the Ocean.

There is a place for phones and it is not the movie theatre.

There’s also food and drink. I understand the fact that munchies are keen to strike in a cinematic environment but please god is that unicorn blood in your cup because I can hear in great and excruciating detail your attempts to capture ever last drop of liquid through that straw.

Like that sound that people make when they move their straws through the plastic lid to their drinks as if it’ll cause more liquid to spontaneously appear that goes sort of like erghhhh-aughhhh-erghhhh-aughhhh-erghhhh-aughhhh.

I’m not a fan.

But good lord the holy grail of all pet peeves here is definitely that one token person who will always, always not understand any plot element whatsoever and ask for a detailed explanation of every scene from other theatregoers in a harsh yell-whisper. This same person will also often voice surprise at painfully no-shit-sherlock plot elements as if s/he deserves a little gold star and a pat on the back for finally understanding something.

However, although most of my movie interruptions are someone else’s fault, there’s one that’s not. In fact, one of the largest catastrophes of my life as a cinephile is always an ill-timed bladder matter.

A week ago I was sitting in the Gene Siskel Film Center watching a Cold War Lithuania film surrounded by what was likely a crowd of Lithuanian expats and people seeking refuge from the St. Paddy’s festivities causing city-wide chaos outdoors. Then, tragedy struck. I needed to pee.

At this point there were two courses of action: clench my thighs together and hope for the best, or wade through a crowd of theatre-goers and accept a discontinuity in the film viewing process.

After a good 10-15 minutes of strenuous clenching I came to the conclusion that I was missing even more of the film calculating how long I could hold out for instead of actually leaving, so I clambered over the rest of the aisle and jog-walked to the WC. I watched the rest of the film leaning against the exit.

But aside from having to pee I can always blame interruptions on someone else. If you disrupt my voyage into the fruitful gardens of my moviegoing experience chances are we can’t be friends. Or I’ll want to kill you. Or maybe both.

Pedestrian Lights Around the World (a.k.a. the art of not getting run over)

2012-03-16T23:56:00.000-05:00

Going through a bag of souvenirs (read: ticket stubs and other junk) I picked up in Berlin a few years ago, I came across a postcard of the rather iconic Berlin pedestrian crossing lights. Dubbed the Ampelmann, this little green (and occasionally red) gent has blossomed into quite a lucrative franchise for Berliners. Originally designed by East Germans as a friendlier version of a do-not-walk-unless-you-want-to-be-under-an-automobile man, Ampelmann can now be found on anything from necklaces to coffee mugs. The company's website does a good job of waxing poetic about all the different places they've managed to paste the thing in this video.

However, Germany isn't the only place with an idiosyncratic pedestrian light. Der Spiegel compiled Ampelmann's wide array of crossing men, which I've shared here. I've also managed to add a few of my own.

East Germany's Ampelmann

West Germany

Paris

Greece

Austria

Denmark (a Hans Christian Andersen reference)

Fredericia, Denmark (in reference to the First Schleswig War)

Belgium

China

Columbia

The EU's standard

Guadeloupe

Indonesia

Italy

Japan

Majorca

Monaco

Mongolia

Netherlands

Poland

Spain

Taiwan

Thailand

Norway

Czech Republic

Australia

Ireland

England

United States

Oscars 2012: Live Action Shorts

2012-02-22T21:47:00.000-06:00

Most years (all years really), my selections in the Short Film categories for my Academy Awards ballot have been selected purely on a basis of how interesting their titles sound or their country of origin. Fortunately, this year, I was lucky enough to come across a showing of the live action shorts nominated for the award. Thus my choices are not based upon national favoritism nor titular appeal this year, but on actual cinematic quality. And needless to say, there is quite a bit of it, especially in spans of time shorter than how long it takes me to dress myself in the morning.

Pentecost (Ireland, Peter McDonald & Eimear O'Kane)

Pentecost features an extract from the life of a young Irish Liverpool FC fanatic. Said fanatic, better known as eleven-year-old Damian Lynch (Scott Graham), also happens to be an altar boy at the local church. Unfortunately, this results in quite a conflict of interest. After Damian accidently (but, let’s be real, not really) causes Father O’Toole to tumble from the altar one woeful day at mass, he is placed under a three-month probationary period during which he is separated from his beloved footie. Most tragically, Liverpool happens to be playing the European Cup Final during this time. Damian’s father offers his son a choice- to redeem his sins by performing faultlessly during Pentecost Mass and be able to watch the match, or to cause another scandal and never set eyes on football again.

During its 11-minute span, Pentecost condenses a storyline in such a way that wouldn’t function in any other amount of time. The footie/religion parallels in the film are impeccable, especially when a priest is giving his altar boys, Damian among them, a speech which more closely resembles a locker room pep talk than any type of religious motivation. The pacing and shooting style of the film makes it incredibly entertaining, and the final scene cuts the buildup in a way which makes Pentecost my near favorite of the bunch. In truth, Pentecost shows that, to Damian especially, individual passion is the real religion.

Raju (Germany, Max Zahle & Stefan Gieren)

An Indo-German fusion, Raju tells the story of a German couple, the Fischers, that travels to the growing Indian metropolis of Kolkata to bring home an Indian orphan, Raju. The two quickly fall in love with their new child, but are just as quick to lose him, literally. When Raju disappears in a street marketplace, his adopted father’s desperate quest to find him reveals that the Fischer’s temporary loss is part of a far larger problem.

Raju carries a fairly generic theme in that it revolves around a central premise of love, family ties, and morality. Painfully bittersweet, it brings into question the value of a promising future versus a familiar past. Perhaps the most poignant detail of Raju is the hazy, seemingly unrelated scene which accompanies the titles of the film. Only after the end credits roll did I have an audible “ah-hah” moment and put together its meaning, which summarizes Raju perfectly. Overall, however, the film does teach one clear thing- do your research before bringing home a foreign orphan.

The Shore (Northern Ireland, Terry George)

Carrying the most name recognition (I could actually whisper-yell “I know about that dude” during the titles of this film), The Shore centers on an Northern Irish expat who returns to his homeland nearly three decades after having left, an evidently American daughter by his side. Aforementioned dude Ciarán Hinds plays Joe, who finds a terrifying degree of discomfort in ever discussing his mysterious childhood friends, Paddy and Mary. However, due to the persistence of his daughter, Joe attempts to seek reconciliation, revealing the origins of the group’s falling-out in the process.

The Shore isn’t anything unconventionally exceptional when it comes to short film, but it does carry the weight of a feature length film in the confines of its 30-minute span. Most of the film projects a rather perplexing yet somber tone, broken by one quite lengthy and equally hilarious instance of comic relief involving a horse chasing down a group of workers, and eventually the resolution, which turns the film from “what is happening here and why is it depressing” to “feel-good.” Overall- nothing exquisite, but not at all bad. I have a nagging feeling the Academy will take this bait.

Time Freak (USA, Andrew Bowler)

A snappy science fiction comedy, Time Freak ‘s plot revolves around a young quantum physicist’s discovery of a working time machine. However, Stillman (Michael Nathanson), the physicist, decides to use his invention for things other than visits to the 1800’s. In fact, he develops an obsessive need to fix imperfections of a much shorter timespan- that very day. Hilarity ensues, and Stillman’s misadventures are further complicated by the intervention of his friend.

Some stranger’s openly projected commentary of “good ol’ American cinema” from somewhere in the back of the theatre fits this film pretty well. No Nicolas Cage or explosions, but Time Freak is straightforward, upbeat, fast-paced, and not at all ethereal or confusingly profound. It is constantly funny, and its witty ending wraps it up well. It’s clearly the only American short film, and a welcome one.

Tuba Atlantic (Norway, Hallvar Witzø)

In Tuba Atlantic, Edvard Hægstad plays Oskar, a lonely old country man who carries a seething aversion of seagulls, and is also dying in six days. He is visited by the lively Inger (Ingrid Viken), who is part of a religious “Death Angel” club which assists the dying in their final days. Initially Oskar, who is attempting to squeeze every bit of value from his final days, is quite apprehensive about his designated Death Angel. However, following some bonding involving the mowing down of seagulls with a machine gun, Oskar welcomes Inger’s help in sounding off a transatlantically loud tuba (literally, I shit you not- he actually built the thing) in order to contact his estranged brother in America one last time before his own imminent death.

If there were a grand checklist of characteristics Nordic films commonly have, Tuba Atlantic would have filled out every single one. Complete with a chilly and airy atmosphere, warm sweaters, quirky and highly improbable events, stray violin chords, and a grizzly old man, the film screams Norway. This combination works quite well. The film is unusual and amusing, yet equally touching, seagull genocide aside. In close competition with Pentecost, Tuba Atlantic is my top pick, but maybe that’s just my affinity for stray violin chords speaking.

All five films in this category share such overarching thematic similarities that I am forced to wonder whether these short film makers have some sort of secret occult collaboration society; all entries this year focus on fixing some type of mistake. Whether it is Damian’s atonement in Pentecost, the father’s moral dilemma in Raju, Joe’s attempt to restore ties in the Shore, Stillman’s very literal mistake fixing in Time Freak, or Oskar’s final amends in Tuba Atlantic, all represent a will to straighten out muddled pasts. And all are quite effective.

My pick: Tuba Atlantic.

My alternate: Pentecost.

What will probably win: neither of the above.

Pedantic Social Commentary No. 3: Procreation.

2012-01-11T01:21:00.001-06:00

Last year was a milestone year. There were two clearly documented instances of people finding it within the realm of possibility that I could have children. Actual children. Offspring which I had produced. It was highly unnerving.

Instance number one happened during a regular doctor’s visit. I had just finished grumbling about various ways in which my body was failing my standards when my doctor interjected with “You’re that girl who came in with her little child a few weeks ago, right?” He quickly ascertained from my look of “what you have just assumed is in all realms of terribly, horribly wrong” that he was mistaken. We moved on. He took my blood pressure, which was probably elevated.

Instance number two took place while I was picking out a scrawny Christmas tree at Home Depot, with my mother no less. As always, the man who wrapped the trees and who I’d imagine had the highest splinter incidence of any job chainsawed off the very bottom of the trunk so the tree could drink its water or whatever it is that trees do. As a good-hearted gesture he offered the cross-section of the trunk he’d just created as a way of measuring how old the tree we were about to mutilate was, asking if we had any “little ones” at home who would appreciate these tree age dynamics. My mother responded with “just one” clearly (or at least to me) referring to me, her only child. Tree man forced a smile and handed the tree fragment to me, adding “oh you have one.” He was also promptly met with the look of “what you have just assumed is in all realms of terribly, horribly wrong” and attempted to reclaim the tree fragment. I kept it anyway. Why is there an age limit on interest in trees?

What I suppose I’m trying to get at here is that, provided this were any time before 1900, I would probably be mashing up cornmeal for a troupe of my own youngins by now. But this was the year 2011 and I somehow found it utterly inconceivable (insert Vizzini here) that I could have possibly procreated by now. Hell, as far as I’m willing to go at this point in time is drafting Punnett squares of what my hypothetical offspring would look like mixed with good looking celebrities. No actual uterine parasites allowed in here, no way!

To be quite honest I can’t even imagine any time in the future where I would look upon having children as a legitimate possibility. I mean my current interest in offspring really does not extend beyond:

Naming them
Clothing them

I’ve had extensive experience with the children of others and I’m just really not a huge fan of jam hands and screaming and non-rational humans and I don’t care what kind of hormones I would be under the influence of because I would still most likely not find child rearing all that thrilling. And I could really care less about what lackluster genes I pass on (oh yeah fuck you Darwin!).

Chances are I’ll have a complete motherly turnaround when it’s far too late and I’m some old curmudgeon who attempts to impregnate herself with a turkey baster, but I really just can’t see myself being responsible for another living, breathing human being when I can barely make myself breakfast. I suppose I’m just another product of changing societal attitudes regarding not seeing children as some sort of grand prize in life, and I certainly won’t judge those who do choose this, but thus far, I really, really can’t fathom having a mini-me of my own.

So preemptive sorry, (non-prospective grand) parents.

Bird & Schneller's Sonic Arboretum 22-12-11

2011-12-28T02:03:00.000-06:00

If someone were to ask me to describe ideal pneumonia-inducing weather, I would probably draw upon last Thursday's in Chicago as the prime example. Luckily, I only had to endure a good half-hour while waiting in a rather disorganized and disgruntled line in front of the Chicago Museum of Contemporary Art. Even if I am to potentially die from exposure, my experience one indoors was worth every bit of lung I may or may not cough up.

What I'd been standing in line for was a long awaited Andrew Bird show. I had attended one last year at the Fourth Presbyterian Church, which was quite good, but I hadn't gotten the Bird fix I needed. This year's show, which took full advantage of the Museum, was far more of a happy combination of both art and music.

As much signature to Andrew Bird as carefree head-shaking and performing barefoot, the Sonic Arboretum, as the installation is know, focused on Bird's idiosyncratic gramophone-like horn speakers (made by Ian Schneller), and how arrangement of sound can come to affect surroundings.

The show itself was quite good. Bird announced preemptively that he was a tad sick (I'd guess on account of the weather), and apologized if he had to turn to instrumental pieces only. Somehow, with the help of copious glasses of water, he pulled through, dishing out favorites like Skin Is My, Plasticities, Tables and Chairs, Lazy Projector, It's Not Easy Being Green, and something I deeply regret not to have recorded- Effigy. The open floor provided plenty of room to move around and, of course, to creep closer and closer to the stage. The horn speakers did their work as well, occasionally bursting with sound and surrounding the audience with Bird's crooning and layered instrumentals. It was a relatively short performance, but a great one. And Bird definitely deserved a full bottle of Nyquil for being able to squeeze out an encore.

The installation was rightfully stunning even long after the show had ended. As intended, the gallery of the MCA was open to wander through as recordings of Bird playing vague instrumental tunes and harmonizing (recorded earlier by Bird in the same museum) seemed to both lead and accompany visitors through every room, while still retaining their own presence. A very particular effect was achieved. Bird himself puts it best:

"As a composer, I am interested in how one's environment and the scale of a landscape affect one's musical imagination; how seeing a storm approach, pass overhead and continue eastward can calibrate the mind to hear music beyond the 8 bar phrase. How the surrounding walls of sand stone at Zion National Park provoke their own frequencies, or the wind strumming through a field of prairie grass has its own phrasing. A steamy mossy forest in the northwest has a certain grain and texture." (Event Pamphlet)

This really did give a walk through the gallery far more dimension than one in silence, and seemed to seamlessly tie the installation in with the regular works. Schneller's speakers were a work of art on their own, serving both a stellar aesthetic and auditory purpose. If anything, the Sonic Arboretum was a sensory wonder.

(As a side-note, I strongly suggest a listen to a recording of Bird's live show at the Rio Theater earlier this year.)

Pedantic Social Commentary No. 2: “I was born in the wrong decade.”

2011-12-15T17:21:00.000-06:00

It’s another epidemic among today’s sullen, pseudo-nostalgic plebeians to pine for life in another time period.

Somehow, many seem to be under the impression that, in the late 1800’s, life was entirely comprised of listening to Debussy and wearing frilly frocks to parties in the garden, the sole historic event of the 1940’s was the dress silhouette, and the late 1960’s were all about peace and love and John Lennon. And so on. Life was just better in the olden days. Who needs technology? Your Kindle is evil. Modern day is b-o-r-i-n-g.

Take what seems to be that uncontrollable, festering obsession with the 1940’s. Pinup bathing suits, cat-eyes, and victory rolls run rampant. Resurrected images of Casablanca, Rita Hayworth, and Rosie the Riveter reach every dark, damp corner of pop culture. 40’s vintage is chic. Go polio, war, and a myriad of various -isms! Wait, okay, maybe not that last bit. But hey, life in the 40’s wasn’t about that. It was about fashion, and victory rolls… and Casablanca.

For some reason, severe social inequalities, an overwhelming abundance of potentially deadly day-to-day situations, and crippling diseases have all been selectively omitted from our visions of history. Understandably, tuberculosis holds a slightly less pleasant connotation than Tchaikovsky’s Polonaise, but we still long to hop into a time machine and crank the lever to 1879.

We pick and choose certain aspects from history which appeal to us, creating a romanticized version of the past which we see in cinemas and old photographs and Marilyn Monroe t-shirts. Why? Because for some reason, we can never be content with what we have. For some reason, the far-reaching conveniences of the internet, modern transportation, and polio vaccines pale in comparison to the falsely constructed glamor of the past.

The eerie abundance of status updates phrased something along the lines of “I was born in the wrong time period” (oh, the irony) makes me wonder: given the chance, would half of these people last a day in 1776, 1879, or even 1969 without feeling the deep dark chasm lack of internet has left in their hearts? How could they possibly tweet about Napoleon’s comeback at Waterloo, or sitting around in a bomb shelter during the Battle of Britain? More importantly, how would they feel about dying in their mid-forties?

Of course, I can’t say I wouldn’t gladly turn back the clock to 1918, 1815, 1720, or even 2000 B.C, but only on the condition that I partake as an observer, and preferably for a short amount of time. There’s nothing quite like experiencing history firsthand, but it’s another thing to live in it.

What I would guess to be my attempt at such an experience is collecting its relics. It’s no question that I’m fond of old things. Hell, I spent a week’s wage on a WWI Brodie Helmet. Antiques are how I get close to history without having to actually experience it (or seek out a time machine), while still retaining modern conveniences. I would never willingly transport myself to the Western Front (not out of lack of respect, but out of sheer self-preservation), but if I can own a fragment of it, it’ll do. It’s why I enjoy a good period drama, why I do listen to Tchaikovsky and Grieg and Satie, why I have a rather wide array of old, mismatched china gathering dust on my shelf. I enjoy these little glimpses of history, but I avoid living in the past. Frankly, I wouldn’t trade my current spot in the time-space continuum for any time period. Not even the Jazz Age. Sorry Hemingway.

Although very, very far from his chef d’oeuvre, Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris explores quite a good and relevant point- the prettily-painted versions of history we crave to live in were once someone else’s mundane reality. Chances are, people of the forties saw the 1800’s as far more glamorous than their own time, just as discontented youths several decades from now will be collecting I-Pods and yearning for the long lost days of the newspaper and of skinny jeans, seeking to experience the past just as we do.

This longing to have been born at some other point in history can be explained, but it is neither rational not practical. It’s just another episode of selective blindness, either to the problems of the past, or the conveniences of the present.

Unintentionally Procured Wehrmacht Mail

2011-12-02T20:52:00.001-06:00

One of the greater miracles of Eastern Europe is the overabundance of 20th century remnants, especially of the Second World War. Lithuania especially, due to its role as the battlefield between Germany and the Soviet Union, tends to have gathered quite a bit of interesting trinkets. Thus, it's really no wonder that the flea markets there are a WWII fanatic's paradise. From Wehrmacht helmets, to Soviet fighting knives, to propaganda-ridden postcards, a good Lithuanian flea market is guaranteed to vacate wallets.

Last summer's damage at the Klaipėda Sea Festival's flea market turned out quite interesting. A loot of an old Cuban cigar case and a pocketful of Lenin-blazoning Soviet lapel pins already captured, I came across a Russian man who had splayed out countless German and Soviet relics on the sidewalk. Using only hand gestures, we managed to communicate price information quite well and, somehow, I ended up with an old German letter.

In the rush and fog of my purchase I had been oblivious to the fact that I was buying a specimen of Wehrmacht Feldpost.

Feldpost, as it was known, was meant for simple, inexpensive, and secretive communication with Wehrmacht soldiers and was used by Germany throughout WWII. Addressed to an R. Flöser in Wilhelmsfeld and postmarked August 13th, 1942, this letter is clear correspondence with a soldier of the front. I somehow had the luck of choosing the least legible one of the bunch, so deciphering the exact addresses and details has proven to be quite a challenge. Not to mention the letter itself, which can only be described as a cryptic scrawl. I could guess that the letter is meant for a soldier in Battalion 23191, but my finds are truncated there. Therefore, most of my purchase remains a mystery, possibly to my benefit.

And the letter itself. Have a crack at it.

Useless Yet Aesthetically Pleasing: Arms & Armor

2011-11-26T15:44:00.001-06:00

Sadly I've neglected Artilleries these past few weeks, so I'll attempt to redeem my absence in the coming month.

One of my favorite things to rummage through online museum collections for has got to be metalwork, especially arms and armor. The intricacy in the design of medieval and Renaissance armor is simply fascinating.

Of course, most of the armor found in museums today is flamboyant for a reason. Glitz and glam were not very necessary on an actual battlefield, so most of the armor used in combat was not quite so elaborate as it was practical, and most did not survive to present day. Further, following the explosion (forgive the pun) of firearms use following the Hundred Years' War in the mid 15th century continuing through until the early 1600's, metal armor slowly became obsolete. It failed to protect against modern weapons, and was unreasonably cumbersome (most suits of armor weighed 30kg or more). Thus, armor became a type of formal or ceremonial dress wear and was eventually considered bygone in practical use (don't tell the Swiss Guard).

Armor of Henry II of France, ca. 1555.

Shield of Henry II of France, ca. 1555.

Shaffron of Henry II of France when Dauphin,
Romain des Ursins, ca. 1490-1500.

Gorget, French, ca. 1600-1625.

Burgonet, Italian, Filippo Negroli, 1543.

Reinforcing Buffe with Tilting Targe,
German, 1560.

Shaffron and Crinet, Franco-Italian, Romain des Ursins,
ca. 1480-1495.

Gorget, French, ca. 1660-1610.

Burgonet, Italian, Lucio Piccinino, ca. 1575.

Swept Hilt Rapier, English, ca. 1600.

Dress Sword, English, Matthew Boulton,
ca. 1790.

And a bit of modern "dress" armor from
Dior's Fall 2006 Couture collection.

Who is this Guy anyway?

2011-11-05T19:28:00.000-05:00

Unfortunately, The Gunpowder Plot is yet another textbook case of a cultural phenomenon being misinterpreted as a social statement piece. I’d imagine a casual remark to November 5^th would be something along the lines of “Bonfires! Those cool looking masks from V for Vendetta! Rise up against the machine man!” In reality, Guy Fawkes and the Gunpowder Plot of November 5^th represent far more than a goatee and a few anarchical tendencies, so here’s the full story.

Guy Fawkes, or Guido Fawkes as he is also know, was born in 1570 to a family which regularly attended the Church of England, yet had strong Catholic history. In 1591, after selling his father’s estate, Fawkes fought for a very Catholic Spain, a country which had lost its armada to England only five years prior, in the Eighty Years War. Fawkes soon rose in ranks and became a junior officer, later travelling through Spain to recruit supporters for a Catholic rebellion in England, with little success.

In 1604, Fawkes joined a group of thirteen pro-Catholic conspirators in England seeking to rid the throne of King James, a prominent protestant. Meeting in an inn in London’s Strand, the group devised a plan to use gunpowder to blow up the House of Parliament. Urban legend dictates that the original plan was to dig a tunnel beneath the House of Lords, but this was never proven. Instead, Fawkes and his fellow conspirators leased a room in an undercroft beneath the House of Lords, filling it with 20 barrels of gunpowder. Fawkes’ task was simply to light the fuse, then escape to mainland Europe.

Fawkes with some fellow Gunpowder Plot conspirators.

However, in an attempt to protect Catholics in parliament, the group sent an anonymous letter to Catholic-friendly Lord Monteagle, warning him to keep away. Monteagle showed this letter to King James, who ordered a search of the cellars below the House of Lords, where Fawkes was discovered, holding nothing but a match and a watch.

Fawkes was detained and tortured (on the rack) extensively, eventually revealing details of the Gunpowder Plot and admitting he had wished to blow up the House of Lords. The trial of Guy Fawkes and eight other conspirators took place in early 1606. All were found guilty and condemned to be hanged, drawn and quartered, and otherwise mutilated. During the day of execution on 31^st January, 1606, Fawkes was the last to be hanged. However, Fawkes jumped from the gallows, breaking his neck and avoiding the pain of the process of his execution.

In celebration of King James’ narrowly escaped assassination, Londoners began a tradition of lighting bonfires with effigies of prominent Catholic figures or Fawkes himself. The tradition quickly evolved into Guy Fawkes Night, also known as Bonfire Night, and continues today far outside of London.

Several notable rhymes concerning the Gunpowder Plot exist, most notably this one:

Remember, remember the Fifth of November,
The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,
I know of no reason
Why the Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot.Guy Fawkes,
Guy Fawkes, t'was his intent
To blow up the King and Parli'ment.
Three-score barrels of powder below
To prove old England's overthrow;
By God's providence he was catch'd (or by God's mercy*)
With a dark lantern and burning match.
Holla boys, Holla boys, let the bells ring.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!
And what should we do with him? Burn him!

Although only part of the Gunpowder plot, Guy Fawkes became its figurehead. Anywhere from T.S. Eliot to Harry Potter, Fawkes has left his mark. He most notably appears in David Lloyd’s 1982 graphic novel, V for Vendetta, in which the main character, V, seeks to represent the anti-establishment mentality of Fawkes, and imitates both his appearance and plot. Fawkes surged again in popularity following the 2006 release of the cinematic rendition of V for Vendetta. Both the graphic novel and subsequent film consisted of a rebellion against a dystopian society (rather than Fawkes actual mission, which was far more along the lines of religious extremism), turning Guy Fawkes into an image of fighting against tyranny and giving him what can only be described as a cult following.

The mask as it appears in V for Vendetta.

Thus, the Guy Fawkes image used in V for Vendetta became a staple of numerous protest movements and organizations, most recently OccupyWall Street and the hacking group Anonymous. In fact, it is so widely used that it is the top selling mask on the internet. Ironically, Time Warner profits from every one of these masks sold due to copyright claims stemming from V for Vendetta.

Occupy Wall Street has been quite keen on the Fawkes mask.

Let’s face it, the real, rather sadistic objectives of Guy Fawkes are largely masked (da dun tss) by the image propagated by V for Vendetta today. T.S. Eliot had it right in his Hollow Men; Fawkes may have not had overwhelmingly benevolent objectives, but he fought for a cause. This is the core, and seemingly sole message Fawkes transmits today. Through selective omission and the blurring of history and cinema, Fawkes somehow no longer represents religious extremism, but a fight against tyranny. And sitting around bonfires.

Condensed message here: Use the mask all you’d like, just make sure to remember [remember] Fawkes’ original intentions.

Halloween (somewhat): Old Prussian Cemeteries

2011-10-29T02:28:00.000-05:00

Growing up in rural ex-Prussian Lithuania had its advantages for my father, especially when, this past summer, he provided me with an all-expense-paid all-inclusive tour of the small fishing village of Rusnė and its surrounding area.

We set of on a horridly soggy and equally early morning, aboard a rather old borrowed car of a brand I’d never even known existed (Proton? Is that even a real company?). Very fortunately for us, the rural Lithuanian roads where nowhere near paved. In fact, they were more along the lines of unceasing rivers of vaguely red sludge upon which our poor vehicle groaned dolefully.

Stopping briefly to chase around a herd of very talkative newly-weaned calves and to scope out the Curonian Lagoon from a watch post, we continued on to a secluded patch of trees that, had I not been told otherwise, I would’ve mistaken for an ideal setting for a gruesome homicidal wood-creature film of sorts. There, I was informed, was the setting of an old Prussian cemetery.

Not knowing what I’d see, I zealously expected some sort of grandiose burial plot complete with granite tombstones, bouts of vigil candles, and an eerie statue or two. The works. The reality was quite, quite different. In fact, the cemetery, if you could call it that, was no more than a plot of dauntingly overgrown vegetation scattered with fragments of broken headstones and iron railing. It was beyond vandalized, it was virtually non-existent.

Fortunately, I was subject to a brief history lesson from my father. Apparently, following the Soviet occupation of Lithuania in 1944, the Russians had sought to eagerly erase every trace of Prussian culture from the nation, especially in the west, where it was most prominent (the west was already the badly battered doorstep between Nazi Germany and the USSR). This involved both the destruction of Lutheran churches, exile of German nationals, and methodical demolition of Evangelical Lutheran burial plots such as the one I was treading upon. The Russians even went so far as to unearth most of the traditionally crafted Prussian ironwork and stick it under the ground several kilometres away to rust.

Names can only be made out on one or two tombstones, and most crumble slowly into the ground in this isolated patch of greenery seemingly exempt from the surrounding agricultural work. Surely, in a few decades, what’s left will be overwhelmed.

I attempted to sift through some of the greenery in the hopes of finding more headstones, or, admittedly less likely, some tremendous historical artifact. My hunger, however, and the prodigious abundance of insect life in the area successfully chased me back into the car a short while later.

I spent the remainder of the evening chiselling mud from my shoes and about the next four weeks recuperating the blood I’d lost to mosquitoes.

It reads L. Girth 4 Jan 1812 - 21 April 1880
and L. Girth 29 Dez. 1863 - 35 Febr. 1895

And here are some gratuitous images of unrelated objects in the area.

Belated Birthdays: Oscar Wilde

2011-10-20T15:18:00.002-05:00

We’ll pretend Oscar Wilde’s birthday wasn’t four days ago because I am in need of a solid excuse to wax poetic about his existence.

If I attempted to pinpoint the moment I fell madly in love with Oscar Wilde it would be in vain. It might have been sometime around my reading of excerpts from his plays ages ago, during which I was cackling madly to myself, and also likely subject to the worried gazes of onlookers. A dry mix of Victorian humor and social commentary, shaken not stirred, is side-splitting, all right? Don’t judge. And Wilde is formidable at it, if not the very best. Peppered heavily with sneering commentary of Victorian culture, Wilde’s work, whether farce or earnestly (pun somewhat intended) pensive, does not lack relevance. From the Harry Wottons to the Cecily Cardews all, often regrettably, exist today.

And yet, Wilde isn’t just some extraordinarily glib well-worded satirist. Quite far, in fact. The dimension to his work is astounding (and what makes his writing, most notably Picture of Dorian Gray, so effective). Especially poignant are Wilde’s writings following his exile, which actually turn rather depressing. Nevertheless, whether Wilde is pictured reclining on a chaise lounge and noting caustically the flaws of his society, or scrawling away solemnly to Robbie Ross, either image is that of both a quintessentially Victorian aestheticism, and universal literary magnitude.

Simply put, there’s quite a reason as to why my Complete Works of Oscar Wilde has essentially been beatified on my bookshelf.

The complete text of Picture of Dorian Gray, plus a myriad of other texts can be found here. A wonderful archive of manuscripts and letters by Wilde (it's quite amusing to see the process of his work- just compare the draft and final versions of The Artist from Poems in Prose) is offered over here. Another online manuscript archive, with a bit of analysis included here. Enjoy.

Here are a few favorite Wilde-isms:

"When good Americans die they go to Paris." (A Woman of no Importance)

"The difference between literature and journalism is that journalism is unreadable and literature is not read." (The Critic as Artist)

"The world is a stage, but the play is badly cast." (Lord Arthur Savile's Crime)

"The public is wonderfully tolerant. It forgives everything except genius." (The Critic as Artist)

"Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation." (De Profundis)

"Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!"

(The Ballad of Reading Gaol)

Lippincott's original 1890 version of The Picture
of Dorian Gray

A bit of Wilde comic relief from Kate Beaton.

Handwriting of Famous Dead Folk

2011-10-12T14:47:00.001-05:00

I adore aesthetically pleasing and/or innovative signatures. I won't delve into psychoanalyzing the fact that an "i" is dotted slightly to the left, and that such a thing represents some sort of childhood trauma, or any of that hyper-analytical pseudo science. Frankly, I just think signatures are interesting, so here are a few from notable historical/literary/artistic figures.

John Hancock

John Keats

David Lloyd George

Albert Einstein

Franklin Delano Roosevelt

Adolf Hitler

Joseph Stalin

Thomas Alva Edison

Queen Victoria

Andy Warhol

Kurt Vonnegut (note the asterisk)

Jean-Luc Godard (who is, thankfully, not deceased,
but I enjoy his signature)

Vincent van Gogh

F. Scott Fitzgerald

Ernest Hemingway

Napoleon Bonaparte

Music: Beirut's The Rip Tide

2011-10-05T14:48:00.001-05:00

A tad belated but necessary regardless, I must speak volumes on Beirut’s new album, so hold on and prepare for word vomit. Zach Condon of Beirut (it’s always tricky with largely one-man bands like these- are the band and the leader synonymous or not?) released The Rip Tide August 30^th of this year, to relatively good critical review, and good god was the wait worthwhile.

When Call to Arms began to play on a road trip through Eastern Europe four or five years ago, Beirut wormed itself into my heart instantly. With Hispanic, Balkan, and a myriad of other rhythms from all far corners of the earth, yet a simultaneous ability to retain painfully beautiful melodies, Beirut was nothing short of perfection.

However, the gap between The Flying Club Cup, released in 2008, and the new album was, to put plainly, a tad excessive. I went into Beirut withdrawal. I came to a point where I might as well have been thrashing frantically in a padded cell in anticipation for something new. The trouble is, The Rip Tide has nine new tracks. Nine. Hardly enough, right?

Wrong, at least somewhat. These nine tracks, whether individually or as a collective unit, are a fair reward for such a lengthy wait. Undoubtedly, as with The Flying Club Cup and Gulag Orkestar before it, The Rip Tide documents Zach Condon’s slow transition from pure, slightly musically abrasive folk, to more melodic, pop-driven tunes. Condon, however, does not completely relinquish the accordion, trumpet, and ukulele. He inserts it tactfully, mixing it with lyrics which are, as per usual, ingenious. Tracks like Payne’s Bay are strongly reminiscent of much of Gulag Orkestar, for example. Santa Fe, however, a likely homage to Condon’s hometown (I have never tried to track down another human being quite to such an extent as to when I visited that city), might as well be a modern pop ballad.

I can’t deny that I do pine for some good Balkan-inspired cacophony of countless instruments and Condon’s idiosyncratic tone, but I’m not disappointed by Beirut’s newer sound. Though it is more of a widely appreciated style, it remains uniquely Beirut’s.

I’m crossing my fingers for an EP sometime soon, since having to make it through another three years replaying my entire Beirut library is an extremely painful prospect.

Here are a few tracks from The Rip Tide worth noting:

East Harlem

Santa Fe

Port of Call

The Peacock

Numismatics, somewhat

2011-09-25T20:47:00.001-05:00

A week or so ago, I returned to the flea market where I'd discovered my Vietnam-era lapel pins and Lautrec-themed tea mugs. As promised, I'd come back for the 1940 New Zealand Penny with George VI.

Fortunately, after rummaging through the box of coins for what I had intended to find, I had also come across a few other coins. The owners were offering some sort of "two coins for one dollar" deal (not at all smart on their behalf, but very lucky on mine), so I grabbed a few extra. I had trouble finding a fourth coin that I wanted, but, ironically, it turned out to be the most valuable one, a Victorian farthing (a quarter penny, or around £0.50 today) from 1881. The others include aforementioned 1940 New Zealand Penny, a 1919 British Penny, and a 1938 French Two Francs. They're not worth a fortune, slightly less than $30 if anything, but it was quite a bargain regardless. Here they are in reverse-chronological order.

Tchaikovsky Feature

2011-09-14T16:05:00.001-05:00

Tchaikovsky is, without question (albeit a bit of competition from Liszt, Grieg, and Debussy), the pinnacle of classical music to me. I adore the entire Romantic Era (what is modernity how does it work), but Tchaikovsky is exceptional, so here are some of my preferred pieces.

Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky was born on the 7th of May, 1940, in Votkinsk, in the Russian Empire. Composing music from the age of 14, Tchaikovsky went on to study at the St. Petersburg Conservatory and, at the age of 26, began to teach at the Moscow Conservatory. Come the early 1870's, Tchaikovsky was becoming internationally noted for his moving, dramatic melodies. With aid by a hefty commission by Nadezhda von Meck, Tchaikovsky continued to compose such works as Eugene Onegin, The Nutcracker, and Swan Lake, among a myriad of other pieces.

Nocturne in C-sharp minor, Op. 19, No. 4 (1873)

Piano Concerto No. 1 in B-flat minor, Op. 23, 1st Mvt. (1875)

Polonaise from Eugene Onegin, Op. 24 (1878)

Serenade for Strings in C major, Op. 48 - I. Pezzo in forma di sonatina: Andante non troppo - Allegro moderato (1880)

1812 Overture, Op. 49 (1880)

Symphony No. 5 in E minor, Op. 64 - II. Andante cantabile, con alcuna licenza (1888)

The Nutcracker, Op. 71 - Act II, Pas De Deux: Variation II: Dance Of The Sugar-Plum Fairy (1892)