tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58550164059688619992024-03-19T09:05:28.962+00:00Imagination-ChariotAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01358941909845054941noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5855016405968861999.post-40713043364541277512014-04-12T23:01:00.000+01:002014-04-12T23:01:10.507+01:00The Swan Prince<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Last year I made an effort to fulfil some long cherished dreams. I had been promising myself for a while that I would make a wooden bird, with wings that flap up and down when you pull its string, and had started to make a working model of a heron out of cardboard. </div>
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Cardboard is one of my favourite mediums, being free and widely available. Those of you who have ever been guilt-tripped into helping with my shadow puppet shows will know how much I love it. It's such a flexible medium. I was once given ten dollars to make a giant trophy to show on stage that same evening; I spent the money on some scissors and gold paper, then wove a life-size Academy Award figurine out of strips cut from cardboard boxes and covered it with little squares of gold paper to make it shiny. Sadly I have no photographic evidence to convince you that it looked spectacular, but it did.</div>
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Most of my last minute projects have gone unrecorded: they exist only in my memory. I made a lot of props and costumes but it didn't really occur to me to take photos: what I enjoyed was the sense of achievement. And the thing about last minute work is that there is no time to hang around photographing it. But cardboard has been my friend all these years, no doubt about it. </div>
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So, I made this model to see how the wooden bird would look but then shelved it pending further inspiration. Something about it was not satisfying me and another project quickly took its place. Once something gets shelved there is usually very little chance of it being resurrected, so this bird was lucky that it was all ready to roll when I was in need of a good idea...<br />
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Its opportunity came at Christmas. I was overwhelmed by a sense of pointlessness when choosing a present for my mother this year as I didn't like anything I saw in the shops. But on the day before Christmas Eve I realised that now that the problem had gone from semi-urgent to extremely-urgent, I was in familiar territory. With my extensive experience of last minute projects I could rise to the occasion, defeat my evil arch-nemesis (myself) and make an appropriate present. My mind turned to the wooden bird.<br />
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I looked out my original sketches to choose something suitable. I found pictures of parrots, cockatils (both the pink and white varieties), owls and herons: even a dodo. I still want to make the dodo. There was a goose with a golden egg, a firebird, a griffin, a horse with wings, a dove carrying an olive branch and a little image of Lord Vishnu on his giant eagle Garuda.<br />
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Some subjects are obviously more suitable than others. One day I will find a client who wants me to make a wooden model of a harpy, but it hasn't happened yet. I also thought it would be a bit of an own goal to make one for my mother, somehow, the connotations not being entirely positive.<br />
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The nice thing about my sketches is that they are just that: sketches. They don't pretend to be moments of genius. They are simply a way for me to get my thoughts down before they vanish. They are also my nod to the world of process. At college I had an ongoing situation with my tutors in which they would ask to see the sketches I had used to arrive at my finished piece and I would do my finished piece and then fake the sketches for them. Rather than being actively malevolent I just didn't understand the importance of sketching and it is only years later that, all by myself, I have discovered the joys of planning.<br />
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I have seen sketches that are achingly beautiful and clearly going to be difficult for the artist to top in their finished piece, but not mine. A friend once tactfully pointed out that one can have many well-developed artistic skills and still be rubbish at sketching. The funny thing is that I get a lot of pleasure from looking at my sketches, even though they are a bit inept. They feel like an informal conversation with myself and even if they don't portray exactly what I imagine, they remind me of what I was imagining, like a signpost.</div>
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I chose the Swan Prince for three reasons: because I remember reading the Hans Christian Anderson story when I was little, because my mother always comments when swans fly over the house and, most importantly, because a swan is mainly white and requires much less decoration, once covered with its white background, than any other bird. Sometimes when practicality knocks you have to answer the door.</div>
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So it's as easy as this: mark out the shape you want on MDF and cut it out with a jigsaw, being incredibly careful in the matter of flex, fingers and loose clothing or long hair. I also wear plastic goggles of the chemistry lab variety so splinters don't get in my eyes and earplugs to protect my ears from the racket the drill makes.</div>
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In this case I made notches in the wood to slot tail and body together, filing and sanding them until they fitted snugly. Then I gloated over the wooden shapes for a while before getting on with the painting bit.</div>
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I actually only primed this wood with a few coats of white emulsion. Next time I will use a proper wood primer but on this occasion I had to move fast and use materials I already owned. I studied the feather patterns on swans' wings and then made my own approximation with a thin oil paint solution. We had now reached Christmas Eve so speed was of the essence, and that worked in my favour as being frugal with time made me bolder and less inclined to rework anything.</div>
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The swan has a crown on its head because it is one of eleven princes who were turned into swans by their evil stepmother in <i>The Wild Swans</i>. Their little sister saved them by taking a vow of silence and weaving shirts out of nettle flax to transform them back into princes. Rima had a great idea when I first thought of making this model, that one wing could be a swan's wing and the other be the prince's arm, but the balance of weight had to be exact, so in the end I didn't do it.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">The great thing about using white spirit with oil paint is that it dries so much faster: I was able to string the swan up and leave it to dry overnight. </span>I<span class="Apple-style-span"> used nylon thread to attach the wings to the body and also to suspend it from a thick dowling rod, pushing the thread through holes drilled in the wings and securing it with little pearl beads. I had to adjust the balance of the model until it hung horizontally but it's just trial and error</span>.<br />
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The swan's wingspan is about a metre, so it was too big to wrap up. I left it hanging in my studio and on Christmas morning my mother dutifully walked down there to collect her present. It is now taking up the only bit of free space in her already crowded sitting room. What choice did she have after all my effort? The problem with producing a creative child is that you are obliged to display whatever they make for you. Mission accomplished.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01358941909845054941noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5855016405968861999.post-8470206917321086702013-05-31T23:56:00.000+01:002013-06-02T15:29:46.435+01:00Green is the warmest colour<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I was interested to learn that our lovely month of May is named after the Roman goddess Maia, who is connected to all growing things and closely identified with Bona Deia, Flora, and many other fertility goddesses. Her public festival would be held on the first of May, and, as Bona Deia the Good Goddess, supplemented with private rites supervised by the Vestals, which only women were allowed to attend. Accounts of these rites are vague, but branches of vine leaves, blood sacrifice, 'games,' and free-flowing wine all feature. It may be a relief to know that Roman Maia took her name, and many of her attributes from the Greek nymph Maia, an altogether more wholesome prospect, sort of.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">Greek Maia is the oldest of the Pleiades, daughter of the titan Atlas and the oceanid nymph Pleione; also niece to Prometheus and to Nemesis. The Pleiades were all maiden companions of the goddess Artemis until Orion the hunter took a fancy to them and pursued them so energetically that Artemis asked her father Zeus to intervene. He quickly turned them into doves ('peleides' in Greek) and hid them in the sky, out of the reach of Orien, but also too far away for Artemis to reach. Zeus then thought it would be fun to transform both parties into adjoining constellations so Orien could chase the Pleiades for all eternity. </span>Finally, with an extracurricular dash of flair, Zeus fathered Hermes with Maia. The moral of this story is: never<span class="Apple-style-span"> ask a favour from a Greek god, even if he is your father. </span></div>
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I have shared my time, this first month of green leaves, between nature and my new studio. I say studio, but it is really the top of a barn, so it's not as grand as it sounds. I am making my home for a while in Suffolk which, for those of you who don't know, is pigs and marshes and lots of tractors! And frogs, obviously. As this happy frog will tell you, after half a year of nature's coldest whites, greys and browns: no matter what anybody says, green really is the warmest colour.</div>
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A few weeks ago I visited Redgrave and Lopham Fen with Christine, my stepmother, and as well as finding the beautiful white flowers above, also disturbed this adder. I was very impressed by it's skill in avoiding any close up photos; even such a little one was able to sprint through the grass like anything.</div>
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These ponies have been brought over to the fen from Poland as they have just the right kind of hooves to withstand the very watery conditions underfoot. They also have curious markings, similar to donkeys; dun-coloured, with the mark of the cross along their spines and down over their shoulders, called 'dorsal stripes', and very tough and tufty ears, as donkeys have. These characteristics, along with dark, striped legs and tail, are usually called 'primitive markings' and hark back to the dawn of horsey time, when they were much smaller and all had toes instead of hooves!</div>
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This is the route I take to get to my studio in the morning, along the banks of the river Waveney. When I was younger we used to swim here. In fact, I remember once swimming at midnight with a friend and being quite scared as it was pitch black with no moon to cast any light and no sound except the water and the trees. We stayed immersed out of bravado rather than pleasure, and just as we were thoroughly spooked, something large swam close to us and made the most appalling 'ooo' sound. As I spluttered with fright and paddled away from the ghastly thing, I saw it had patches of white on it's dark head; it was a Friesian cow.</div>
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This area is called Falcon's Meadow, although I have not seen falcons here, but herons, and recently one tree across the river has broadcast cuckoo song so loudly that I think the bird must have grown out of all proportion and be ready to topple out of it's nest.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">This wooden falcon is a fairly recent addition to the meadow but I feel its gargoylically menacing smirk </span>harks back to another, more hysterical age.<span class="Apple-style-span"> Actually, I am not being fair. It is quite sweet, really; hardly disturbing at all. That is, this is the least upsetting photo I was able to take of it.</span></div>
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This is the only bit of town I see on my way into 'work', as I like to think of it. Bungay is a very pretty old market town, mainly famous for the Chaucer Press and the Black Dog Marathon.</div>
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My studio!! It may be basic, but it's my first ever studio, so I am very excited about it.<br />
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This is at the back of the barn, so if I need to take a break from all my hard work I can do it here. </div>
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These lovely white flowers are called 'Star of Bethlehem' and they shut their petals at night.</div>
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Back in my studio, I have just framed a picture given to me by the great and good Rima Staines; artist extraordinaire and, luckily for me, my brother's partner. It is called 'God Learns' and it is one of my favourite of her pictures, and also one of her strangest, I feel. You can view it properly <a href="https://www.etsy.com/uk/listing/113908622/god-learns?ref=shop_home_active">here</a> - it's really worth a closer look. It reminds me of so many things; sphinxes, swallows and something of the desert, and although women with birds bodies are usually harpies this one has a very benevolent air, more like an angelic messenger, the kind of thing that might have flitted down to St John while he was editing Revelations and said, "You know all that stuff about rivers of blood? It's not true." The brushwork is so skilled and subtle, and the colours so delicate, as though Rima personally ground up rose petals, cardamom and cinnamon to make her own paint. Genius! The quote comes from the last chapter of a poem by Rainer Marie Rilke, translated by Robert Bly:</div>
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<i>'Take your well-disciplined strengths</i></div>
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<i>Because inside human beings</i></div>
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<i>is where God learns.'</i><br />
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She and Tom were here in Suffolk for the weekend to sell her paintings and prints at <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><a href="http://www.weirdandwonderfulwood.co.uk/">Weird and Wonderful Wood</a>;</span> </span>a fair for all things made of wood or just very, very natural. She had just finished painting an amazing new stall sign so here it is, hot off the press, with a wonderful smile thrown in free!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9T_75h_t1NuWd_k7mmNsDzMQ4Ij5ZxEsBz9eBM8E2Szjn8TLAH1RsPKLOlLaeHrzvClmgBwlthkFiKmSfM0DTduQZo6A4jPwldoTMyOjGl9QtQz5v6rUoxn60zWb4BoucZPfTCoTeiOHb/s1600/DSC04482.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9T_75h_t1NuWd_k7mmNsDzMQ4Ij5ZxEsBz9eBM8E2Szjn8TLAH1RsPKLOlLaeHrzvClmgBwlthkFiKmSfM0DTduQZo6A4jPwldoTMyOjGl9QtQz5v6rUoxn60zWb4BoucZPfTCoTeiOHb/s640/DSC04482.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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When we visited the stall there were lots of people talking to them and taking photos. Rima's top tip for the fair was to visit the Insect Circus Museum, so I headed straight there.</div>
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There was a queue in front of the Insect Circus Museum and, as I have just spent a year and a half in France, I felt a bit uneasy looking at it. My experiences of queuing in France were pretty much non-existent; it just doesn't happen, or if it does then it is not any queuing I have ever seen before.</div>
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Avoiding the queue, I walked around a bit and saw everything else. These are made from wood shavings; what a great idea!</div>
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See where he's marked the wood, ready to carve it. Lovely. I bought a set of chisels and a couple of clamps in France because I am convinced that I will do a bit of woodwork at some point this century. Also, I find tools completely compelling; it is as though a high pitched whistle that only attracts people like me is fitted to DIY shops all over Europe.</div>
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This man said he'd been carving the same spoon for hours because he kept stopping to talk to people, but he reckoned he could do one an hour at a push.</div>
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Very tempting; made from a large variety of trees, and they all feel subtly different.<br />
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French-festival-weirdos, eat your hearts out! I couldn't decide what this guy on stilts was dressed up as; I thought he was the Green Man, but then I saw another female one, so maybe they are straightforwardly being trees and not pagan gods after all.</div>
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Very nice arrows.<br />
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Someone was tired and possibly slightly fed up? Or maybe he was wondering if his mum would let him have a throne in his bedroom to control his criminal empire from.<br />
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I loved the simple idea behind these designs.<br />
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He was working fast and looked like he was enjoying himself, although my attempts at conversation were hampered by the fact that he really needed to concentrate on what he was doing.<br />
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And no wonder he had no time to chat; you can't mess about when you're burning something like this.<br />
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Finally, the Insect Circus Museum...! It is difficult to describe, and I didn't want to spoil the mood in there by taking too many photos, but if you like the idea of an interactive museum for pretend performing insects then you should definitely look it up <a href="http://www.insectcircus.co.uk/index.php">here.</a> Every school should have one.</div>
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I wish I'd drawn this.<br />
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As well as pictures of famous performing insects on the walls, and vintage posters, there were lots of little boxes with holes like binoculars and when you pressed a button the insects all moved and danced or whatever their thing was.</div>
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I'm assuming that the butterfly was a willing volunteer and that no cruelty to animals was involved.<br />
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You can see that this little girl thinks I'm completely mad to take a photo, even though she was nice enough to press the button to light up the circus scene for me.</div>
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This is Macha, who was waiting at home for us while we were at the fair. When Tom and Rima are away, or even in a different room, she adopts a hunted, abandoned pose but here she is looking merely bewildered.</div>
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And now I leave you with some hints of my next blog...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGcLv0zNP6HuTKsQIYwULhwyjKnfcx9Gl0Trp61J45DKytsLaX3xUUZlp07VsnGexEQvqtHNl7UBPVkZStWDAHWseY9bdzCnuCqsump9T6K-AxANuJwZ4ai-v1RxZOgnwWwb4WkMYoz8rf/s1600/Hita+Hirons+the+bear+outside+A4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGcLv0zNP6HuTKsQIYwULhwyjKnfcx9Gl0Trp61J45DKytsLaX3xUUZlp07VsnGexEQvqtHNl7UBPVkZStWDAHWseY9bdzCnuCqsump9T6K-AxANuJwZ4ai-v1RxZOgnwWwb4WkMYoz8rf/s640/Hita+Hirons+the+bear+outside+A4.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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What is going on?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx01l1Pckw5H2U-l2l2LId2RX7eOHu95PwPLHMhtzLXhCOhtGehFA_WcH62DlDvSyTZ2_R0f2euWMlqSSmF92dJE-HBDSRDvxoKABSBLsTxKCsZ-cdlX7QJEVpMeFK_kLXdNteg0p-uzyd/s1600/Hita+Hirons+the+bear+outside+A7.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx01l1Pckw5H2U-l2l2LId2RX7eOHu95PwPLHMhtzLXhCOhtGehFA_WcH62DlDvSyTZ2_R0f2euWMlqSSmF92dJE-HBDSRDvxoKABSBLsTxKCsZ-cdlX7QJEVpMeFK_kLXdNteg0p-uzyd/s640/Hita+Hirons+the+bear+outside+A7.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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What is this underpainting for?<br />
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Who is asleep?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBkoWkrQnLibVolAtEXvg-Da3cUpVqiOtcA-mu1PAQjJ4wHcdBE_5T_Ee12lRAQrhVl2ew429LfkafYXABxBsNL93Q3YmI8cOVrNHYxhrrnbKg0rtnM1xuBN1woF_9UjNa0nCP1s-OIV9M/s1600/Hita+Hirons+the+bear+outsideA1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="356" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBkoWkrQnLibVolAtEXvg-Da3cUpVqiOtcA-mu1PAQjJ4wHcdBE_5T_Ee12lRAQrhVl2ew429LfkafYXABxBsNL93Q3YmI8cOVrNHYxhrrnbKg0rtnM1xuBN1woF_9UjNa0nCP1s-OIV9M/s640/Hita+Hirons+the+bear+outsideA1.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Where can this be?<br />
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What is happening here?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheJeYBpNo8bR69KN5GEoj4FGPXs9mslFaEWi47mKMQiBjDAlEBaVvIlegU4V2OcwsQWZ1iVNrjKJQYlRsiwuyOMj2PmR0-kFeVSMmlrplptb_6mCXlMs4VPmCw00C2j2jwzHxtGv4O7Lxj/s1600/Hita+Hirons+the+bear+outside+A8.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheJeYBpNo8bR69KN5GEoj4FGPXs9mslFaEWi47mKMQiBjDAlEBaVvIlegU4V2OcwsQWZ1iVNrjKJQYlRsiwuyOMj2PmR0-kFeVSMmlrplptb_6mCXlMs4VPmCw00C2j2jwzHxtGv4O7Lxj/s640/Hita+Hirons+the+bear+outside+A8.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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And who or what is this?</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01358941909845054941noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5855016405968861999.post-17791809734627392552012-05-08T22:17:00.000+01:002013-06-01T17:32:09.388+01:00The springtime of the heart<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Spring has finally arrived and the denizens of Montpellier are cautiously sauntering forth in long sleeved t-shirts and three quarter length trousers. It has not been an excessive winter, but neither has it been a decisive spring. By April the beach should have been offering a much needed respite from the ongoing political debates, but nothing doing this year. I am told that British people can be seen in the sea from March onwards, but am prevented from trying this by the derisive tone in which this observation is commonly offered. So I will play it safe until I receive some reliable reports that people of good judgement are getting their feet wet.</div>
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Now, there are many signs that spring has arrived and one of them is that these peonies are available. They only flower here for two weeks out of the whole year, so everyone makes the most of them while they can. They are strongly perfumed, short lived and very fragile; they start life a deep peachy apricot colour but each day after they're cut the shade becomes lighter and lighter, and the texture of the petals more papery until they are almost white.</div>
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Apple tart is always in season, thank God, so it is not one of the signs of spring, but I put it in to make you all jealous. This is my absolutely favourite ever dessert and as well as being deliciously light it is also made without sugar, so there is never any guilt involved.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">This is a </span>'tarte fraises cassis pommes'<span class="Apple-style-span"> and it does involve some guilt. I have to say that it was not me that made it; that is Sara's hand adjusting the final strawberry. We have completely different tartes every day, according to what the chef of the day feels like and what happens to be in season. For instance, last autumn and winter we served up a lot of creme de marron, hazelnuts, pumpkin, chocolate and so on; comfort food. So now everything gets a bit lighter and more fruit-oriented.</span></div>
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This is a 'tarte framboise banane', just out of the oven. Again, not made by me, it was Mukunja, but I couldn't resist recording the stylish purple streakiness of the raspberries against the creamily fragrant background of banana and vanilla. Sigh.</div>
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Other signs of spring can be found on the mural, whose landscape is coming alive with a riot of blossom; the colour rolling over the hills as though painted in by an unseen hand...</div>
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The indefinite and murky green hills are forming separate trees, distinct from one another, and little bushes of perfumed flowers are clustering about them. Or something.</div>
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Although my original plans for a chaotic Indian jungle have been somewhat tempered by the tastes of my client, I think the result is better overall. It is a lot softer now than I originally thought it would be, but it is much, much more harmonious, so I'm happy I made the changes. Nobody said to me, 'Oh, you have to change this bit' but when it is in such a public place you get an idea of people like or dislike; especially with French people, I might add. There are no tortured silences while someone tries and fails to tell you that something is not pleasing to them; everyone I have met here just tells it the way it is, or the way it is with them, anyway. So it's easy to get feedback!</div>
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I'm really enjoying all the little details, like leaves and flowers; I have been jumping backwards and forwards from one thing to the other, working on all areas of the mural at the same time, as the mood takes me. I could have gridded it off and worked laboriously from one square to the next, but that doesn't work for me. I remember once when we had a very, very long song to learn in Bengali, our Guru gave us some advice on the way to learn it. Instead of starting at the beginning and working our way through to the end (between ten and fifteen minutes in all) we should listen to it, choose a bit that inspired us and learn that. Then find the next piece that inspired us and learn that. And so on and so on. We found that it really works with a long creative act, supplanting rebellion with the feeling that you are making a choice about what you do. Actually I have no idea why it works, but I use it for nearly everything now, even tax returns!</div>
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On Saturday I went for a little stroll around Montpellier in the break between one restaurant shift and another, to see what I could see. This is the street that the restaurant lives in; just on the left, the second shop sign from the front.</div>
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A natural health centre/beauty salon, which I am curious to try but looks a little bit secret, somehow.</div>
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At last we are seeing the famous mediterranean blue sky that has been hidden so much in the last months. I love looking up through the streets and seeing the contrast of the stone against it's clarity.</div>
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One of my favourite shops, <a href="http://www.tousenville.com/commercants/etat-d-ame/mobilier.html#content">'Etat d'ame'</a>, which seems to mean something like 'conscience' or 'state of the soul' or even 'mood.' Everything here is in exactly the right place; very expensive ornaments are sitting next to cheap, gimmicky items in such a way that you know the only thing that's holding it all together is the strong personality behind the design. When you get such a fortuitous display of items together, such an unlikely harmony, it speaks it's own kind of language, doesn't it? It makes it's own world seem logical because of it's continuity. I remember when I was working in a gift shop in Milano called <a href="http://www.paradisodellesorprese.it/it/tm/negozi/">Paradiso delle Sorprese</a> I was confronted by this phenomenon. I thought that as an artist I would be pretty good at arranging shop shelves, placing gifts next to each other, doing window displays. But it turned out that it required a completely different set of skills to what I had imagined. I was far too perfectionistic and was used to controlling and designing relatively small areas, whereas the shop was big. Also I was plagued with multiple ideas every time I saw a new item to include in the overall scheme until I was struck motionless by all the possibilities. I was fiddling around with a window display when one of the workers came over to show me how it was done. In about ten minutes he had filled three shop windows with the new furniture we had to display, dotted similarly coloured articles around them and then scattered lots of the imitation roses we had just unpacked onto the top of it all. It worked because it was completely bold and confident, with a final dusting of beauty; a masterpiece, in fact, and a quick one at that. Then he just went back to what he was doing, unpacking cardboard boxes; a natural artist, unconscious that he had done anything out of the ordinary. I always remembered the incident because it reminded me of that quote attributed to Goethe:<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>"Boldness has genius, power and magic in it."</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">I was curious about this quote and discovered that it actually comes from a very free translation of Goethe's play, 'Faust', by John Anster, which seems much more poetic and imaginative than other translations. The longer part of the quote usually attributed to Goethe is also by someone else entirely, a W.H. Murray in 'The Scottish Himalaya Expedition 1951,' who used Anster's translation in his memoirs:</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>"But when I said that nothing had been done I erred in one important matter. We had definitely committed ourselves and were halfway out of our ruts. We had put down our passage money; booked a sailing to Bombay. This may sound too simple, but is great in consequence. Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation), there is one elementary truth the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, the providence moves too. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favour all manner of unforseen incidents, meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamt would have come his way. I learned a deep respect for one of Goethe's couplets: 'Whatever you can do or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it.' "</i></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">So that was what was shown to me by means of a window display; fortune, and art, favours the brave. I kind of knew it in theory anyway, but to see it in action like that was illumining. There are many different qualities that go to make an excellent artist; some people are born with everything they need to fully manifest their ideas, some have half the gifts and never manifest them; some, like me, are born with half of what they need and are in constant search of the rest, having to dive deep within, confronting inherited blocks, psychological traumas and the complicated nature of one's being in order to deliver the goods. Who knows why some people have everything they need and not others? Is it genetic? Is it a happy coincidence? Is it karma from a previous life? Does grace descend from above if an aspiring artist wants it enough? Is it the gift of determination that is the deciding factor, that is enough to gain everything else that you need? I don't have answers to any of these questions. The older I get, the less I know. But, I do know that those blessed with boldness will be successful in living their lives to the full, and that those blessed with wisdom as well as boldness can do truly remarkable things.</span></div>
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Continuing my afternoon walk around town; more perfectly executed architecture.<br />
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A definite indication that spring is here; Le Jardin des Glaces is open once more! Oh wondrous icecream Mecca supreme, oh tasty and not too outrageously priced delights; I abase myself in worshipful awe beneath the white umbrellas of your outdoor seating, and breathlessly await the arrival of your frosty splendour...</div>
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Mmmmm. What more can you say, really?<br />
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Well, okay, it all looks a bit unhealthy, but you can also choose simple scoops from a large selection of flavours. When my friends were trying to eat eighty flavours of icecream in celebration of what would have been Sri Chinmoy's eightieth birthday we had an outing to Le Jardin des Glaces and much progress was made toward that worthy goal.</div>
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One of the views one can enjoy while scoffing another icecream; this is right in the centre of town, just around the corner from the restaurant.</div>
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I should spend more time walking around; so many treats for the eyes.</div>
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Endless outdoor seating; the streets are lined with tables, chairs and potted trees.</div>
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In front of another unique shop, these little musical boxes offer a strange variety of tunes. 'The Marselleise,' 'Michelle,' 'Carmen: Amour de boheme,' 'Star Wars,' 'Happy Birthday,' 'The Wedding March,' 'The Magic Flute,' 'Yellow Submarine,' etc.</div>
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There is always someone playing them and laughing, usually a group of adults.</div>
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This is the shop with the musical boxes out front; <a href="http://www.tradition-jouet.com/">'Pomme de reinette.'</a> The name comes from a French children's song about two different kinds of apple; they are both old varieties and seem to be a bit like a cox, a russet or a pippin, depending where you look for your translation. Anyway, this is a toy shop of the most original kind, full of jokes, puppets, masks, games, models and every possible thing you can imagine. 'Pomme d'api' is the part of the business devoted to very young children, just round the corner in another shop, and 'Pomme de reinette' is for the rest of us. The shop twists and turns inside and takes up a whole block, which is about five or six shops in this old part of the city. It is absolutely recommended viewing for anyone visiting Montpellier.</div>
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The window displays are animated and constantly change, so I think the shop owner must really enjoy their job. The Christmas display was extremely original and always had a crowd of people watching it.</div>
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Strange views of another Pomme de reinette window.</div>
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This little carousel goes round and round all day, just like the one in the centre of town; I would buy it if I could think of any excuse at all. That's why people have children, so they can buy all the stuff they want, like a Scalextric track or a complete set of Lego Roman Legionaries.</div>
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Inside everything is crammed together in bewilderingly excessive quantities. Christmas-stocking-filler-shoppers; behold the answer to your prayers!</div>
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Unbelievable little dolls-house things; buckets and watering cans, milk churns, baskets, clogs and tankards, an old style washing board and even what looks like jam making pans.</div>
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Sacks of goods and miniature spades, shovels, hoes and straw hats.</div>
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Look at the little champagne bottles and garlic! Before I moved to France, one of my friends who was living in Montpellier at the time, Bhashini, sent me a little dolls house gateau for my birthday, complete with cake slice, from this shop, and it is a treasured possession of mine.</div>
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More balconies. If you don't like balconies you probably shouldn't be reading this blog.</div>
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Horrendously expensive but stylish furniture shop containing items I seriously considered using next month's salary for and defaulting on my rent.</div>
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Such as the long wooden table, the large metal lamp and the cushions. Of course, the articles are arranged beautifully, which makes it all much more enticing, but even armed with that knowledge one is not really exempt from the visual manipulation. And nor do I want to be, actually. I don't want to go through my whole life on my guard, thinking, "At least I wasn't fooled by that..."</div>
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Me, revealed by my photo!</div>
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Looks like this must have been the old town gate, given that the wall is so substantial and the bar next to it is called "Bar de la Vielle Porte." Must learn more city history.</div>
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Ah, the Botanical Gardens. Last port of call before I head back for the evening shift at Tripti Kulai. This is one of the oldest botanical gardens in Europe, dating back to 1593. It is very simply laid out and natural, much more like a real garden than a batch of specimens or an allotment, which botanical gardens can sometimes feel like.</div>
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Lovely furry palm trees, somehow reminiscent of Where The Wild Things Are, if you know what I mean. Montpellier has so many palm trees. Try as I might, my mural is looking more and more like the south of France instead of India. And strangely, everyone seems to be very approving of this. I have just put in some much darker foliage on the hillside and a customer came up to me and said that it was much stronger, much more like France, and practically patted me on the back! I have given up all resistance now and am just so eager to finish the work to it's own satisfaction that I paint without thinking what I am doing. My friends have criticised me for this attitude before, feeling that endowing a work of art with it's own opinions is a kind of opting out, but I do hold to my belief that a painting contains within itself the knowledge of what it wants to be. This is obviously fairly dodgy philosophical ground, but I reckon that if externalising part of my psyche and calling it the 'painting's will' helps me finish a piece of work, that's what I'll do. </div>
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Very small bamboo forest, taking one back to House of the Flying Daggers! No bamboo in my mural though. I have forbidden things that are overtly Chinesey, although I am very fond of China, as the mural is based around an Indian deity. I have also banned Korean temples, picturesque boats or any other signs of human habitation, however stylish/soulful/appropriate they may be. </div>
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A really weird monument that I was too tired to investigate properly, although I did consider it for some time without coming to any useful conclusions and also listened to conversations in French by other people who couldn't work out what it was, so I feel I did my bit.</div>
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People admiring the lily pond, quite rightly. This pond also houses giant lotuses that make their appearance in June, so I shall be back for that.</div>
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And what on earth is this? Humanity's first Alien Vessel Identification Dome? I wouldn't put it past the French. They are very innovative, I'm finding. </div>
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Here we are; classic shots of water lilies.</div>
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I like the way that the surface of the water appears viscose in this picture.</div>
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Ah yes, the obligatory tabby cat photograph; I'm making rather a habit of it. Actually I couldn't help it; the cat came whizzing past me on the run from some miniature nature enthusiast. I saw it cowering under a bush, clearly thinking it had got away. I had to make many noises to convince it to turn it's head towards me, and so the expression on it's face is not so much lazy enjoyment of the sun as intense irritation that I am giving it's position away.</div>
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Then, as I retreated, the persistent little botanist that had been chasing it before caught up with it, and the cat was forced to interact, even though it's ears were back the whole time in an annoyed kind of way. Perhaps it's part of a botanic garden cat's duties to talk to the visitors?</div>
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Actually, there did seem to be some sort of conversation going on; the little girl threw some grass for the cat, and it started to eat it, so maybe it wasn't feeling so martyred after all.</div>
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Cactus house; we weren't allowed in, as they were doing renovations, but I will get in as soon as I can.</div>
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Look at those snake-like cacti! Or more like a giant, furry spiders I suppose. They really look like they're coming for you over the rocks...</div>
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After I had seen enough cacti I went to sleep under a large olive tree and only woke when it was time to go back to the restaurant. I live out of town so if I have a split shift like this it takes me too long to get home again, so I hang around town for the break.</div>
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The next day, Sunday, I came in again in the afternoon to address the mural once more. The lighting is really bad in the room I'm painting in so I try to do find all the lamps I can to light the place. It is hard most of the time to really see what colour I am putting on the walls, but it is kind of working out so far. </div>
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My not very high-tech and totally makeshift work station. Still, what do you really need except paint, brushes, thinner and lots of kitchen roll? When I have my own studio (at some unknown point in the future) it will be laden with all kinds of materials and constantly laid out for many different kinds of work. I have tried this sort of thing in numerous bedsits but paint, charcoal and mosaic chips all react in an unfortunate way with bedding, clothes, documents and domestic animals, so I have had to discontinue my experiments.</div>
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There seems to be so much wall to cover! Still, step by step. I have vowed to finish in June, so hopefully my ego will propel me forward.</div>
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Some trees I have redone again and again, as I feel I can do better each time. This particular tree holds the record. I have repainted it five times now. Hopefully this one will stick and I can position some parakeets on it. While I was painting, at about 20.30, I became aware of loud drumming sounds coming from the city centre, just around the corner. It could only mean that the Socialists had got into power, so I went out to see how French people celebrate a political win.</div>
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There was a band of drummers that kept it up for about an hour. The people in the crowd were all dancing about and making it difficult for me to photograph them, hence the blurred photo. I had expected an air of mad exuberance, but what I found was what I can only describe as an atmosphere of sanity. People were cheering, but in a genuinely enthusiastic way, and there was none of the feeling one often gets at public celebrations in the UK where you feel the crowd is about five minutes away from an alchoholic bender of gigantic proportions. The French just do not do binge drinking, it's not their thing. Even though I often leave the restaurant very late at night, or early in the morning if I have been painting, I never see drunken youths staggering into walls or herds of underage vamps stilettoing their way down the street in search of a good time.</div>
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This guy was so sweet I had to photograph him. I wanted to get a good shot of his flag, as it was tied to a broom, but he kept waving it about and jumping around, so this is the best I could do!</div>
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This was just a mini version of what was happening at the Bastille in Paris, and a lot more tame I'm sure; this one was full of good nature. If Sarkozy had got into power again I might not have viewed the celebrating hoards with such affection, I know. But my affection was not just for the people who had voted for the same party that I would have done. It was for the 86% of the mainland population who had actually gone to the polls. (Because there was a slightly lower response from ex pats the average percentage of those voting came down to 80%, but that is still incredibly motivated.) Look sharp, Brits; if you bother to vote you might get what you want. You may not, of course, or you may not like it once you've got it (as we discovered after jubilantly voting in Tony Blair) but you will have exercised your right to vote and become a conscious part of the political process that each of us is heir to.</div>
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When I asked the girls in the restaurant if they were going to vote, they said that of course they were. They didn't really feel that any one candidate was the ideal person, and they knew that the next few years were going to be really difficult whoever got into office, but they wanted to make a choice anyway. One of them said that she voted not because she felt that her tiny voice made a difference, but because so many people had given their lives for her right to express her opinion. I was touched by that, because it's so true.</div>
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I have no illusions about the problems Mr. Hollande is facing now, but let him try it his way and see what happens. Democracy is supposed to be about the will of the people, and he seems to believe that at the moment, rather than thinking he has some God-ordained right to lead the country in whatever way takes his fancy from day to day. The French really believe in democracy; I don't think that's a generalisation. They are prepared to make choices and to stand up for those choices. I would go so far as to say that they are bold. Sarkozy said something very important in the speech he made once he realised he had not retained his office. He urged his supporters to support Hollande in his efforts. He said, "From the bottom of my heart I want France to succeed with the challenges it faces. It is something greater than us, France. This evening we must think exclusively of France."</div>
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Back to my mural for the rest of the evening and managed to put in a lot of underpainting for the remaining trees.</div>
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Next time I paint a forest I will start with a dark colour; God alone knows what I was doing here. Still, the mural has taught me a lot, and you can't practice what you don't yet know.</div>
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Indian cows; difficult to draw and the client wants a herd of them. Hmmm. Still, it is helpful being pushed to the limits in this way, otherwise I might just chicken out and do what's easiest for me.</div>
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Now I have to wait for it all to dry before the next leg of the journey. But I can see the end in sight for the first time. As springtime comes to my painting I feel a lightening of the heart, a hope that I will soon have fulfilled my part of that bargain that is an artistic gift, and have the rare experience of closure. At least I have tried. Use it or lose it, as they say. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01358941909845054941noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5855016405968861999.post-76395976034240736722012-04-01T21:20:00.000+01:002013-06-01T19:18:15.342+01:00Painting a goddess in Montpellier<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Montpellier, in case you don’t know by now, is the beautiful town I inhabit in the south of France; near the coast but not right on it. Everyone there looks far too relaxed, by which I deduce they are all tourists. Probably the natives of Montpellier live in some other, well hidden spot.<br />
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It’s gorgeous; all white stone, iron balconies and brilliant sunshine. Some of the white isn't as white as it could be, and parts of the city are getting a bit crumbly, but the stone is still light enough to faithfully reflect the varying tones of the sun throughout the day; ranging from the colour of frothed milk in the morning to a rosy wash at dusk. Isn't it annoying how you can't use the word 'twilight' anymore?</div>
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One of the things I really like about the city is it's elegant synthesis of centuries-old and ultra modern. This is one of their latest trams being test driven before its work starts for real next week. The trams meander through the streets within inches of the general public, and because they're so much slower than buses there's no real risk of being knocked down.</div>
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Another thing I love is the way that art is cherished on the streets. Just about everything in the centre of town is a listed building but instead of insisting on smart or conventional, the town council have allowed innovative and fun. Montpellier has many outdoor murals, mostly using the style of '<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trompe-l%27%C5%93il">'trompe-l'oeil'</a> or 'trick of the eye.' This is where the painting is intended to confuse the eye into believing what it sees is really there, and is often used indoors to depict a scene from an imaginary window, or on backdrops at the theatre or ballet to simulate a scene with a horizon line and perspective.<br />
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These two photos are of my favourite mural; you can look up and really feel for a moment that you're inside a comic book! And how fantastic that they're on the side of a house, where everyone can enjoy them. I kept expecting to see graffiti appear on them, but I've never seen them damaged in any way, so either everyone claims them as their own, or the town has a really amazing anti-graffiti squad.<br />
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It's complete genius. There's only one real window in this photograph, the rest of it is a flat wall. So bold, and it works whichever angle you study it from.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times-Roman, serif;">Amusingly enough, I was apprenticed for two weeks to a master trompe-l'oeil painter when I was sixteen, and this is a close up of the mural he was working on at the time. Yes, my apprenticeship only lasted two weeks; I was sacked for 'impudence.' In my defence, I have to say it was complicated...! My two weeks were mainly spent cleaning brushes, but I was also given a few painting tasks. Alexandra Palace in London was being done up and lots of murals had been commissioned from different artists; my boss had a large wall to cover with Roman ruins. I did the underpainting for those pillar-heads, practised painting straight lines (the beginning of sign-writing training), which is not as easy as it sounds, and also, most importantly, kept him company while he talked about himself. It's a pity in some respects that I didn't stay there longer as I might have learnt a lot about planning artwork, but it wasn't a very healthy situation and, although I was a bit affronted by my sudden dismissal, I was glad to return home.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times-Roman, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times;">My own rather smaller, and still unfinished, mural is in the vegetarian restaurant Tripti-Kulai, which is at 20, Rue Jacques Coeur in the centre of Montpellier. It's right off Place de la Comedie, which you can see in the photo at the top of the page. Place de la Comedie is basically the main square; it houses the opera building, the main cinema, lots of cafes, a few fountains and my favourite French icecream shop, Le Jardin des Glaces, of which I will write a more in depth analysis once it has opened again for summer.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times-Roman, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times-Roman, serif;">The manager of Tripti-Kulai is a friend of mine. Her name is Padmasini, meaning, 'the one who is seated on the lotus', which is an epithet of the Hindu goddess of beauty and harmony, Mahalakshmi. On the crest of a wave of inspiration I suggested that I should come and paint a mural in the interior of the restaurant, and that it should be in honour of this goddess. Very bravely, she agreed to it, though I had to admit I had never painted a mural before, and she even gave me that which an artist simultaneously craves and dreads; a completely non-existent deadline.</span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times-Roman, serif;">She allowed me a free rein with the mural; the only stipulation was that I should paint the goddess in such a way that little girls would really love her!</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times-Roman, serif;"> My plan was to produce an image about two metres by three metres on the wall of the room between the kitchen and the main restaurant area. In return she would put me up, pay my fares across and, best of all, let me eat all day at the restaurant.</span><br />
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman, serif;">Because of my tendency to eat out of tins and packets, those of you who knew me before my recent restaurant indoctrination might assume I am one of those to whom food is of no consequence, a matter of survival. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times-Roman, serif;">Nothing, however, could be further from the truth. While I will not raise a hand to prepare a tasty snack for myself, I'll go to extreme lengths to eat a meal by a talented cook; in this case I actually moved country... Tripti-Kulai boasts a rather extensive dessert menu, and the ready supply of perfect ingredients means they can at all times practise what they preach.</span><br />
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman, serif;">The apple tarts, the marron noisette cheesecake, the eighty percent gateau chocolat with crème anglaise, their complete understanding of what a dessert should be; all this had etched itself upon a greedy little place in my heart. Whilst painting a mural I would be able to devour large quantities of everything and with luck they would see it as a necessary evil, a stoking of the artistic fire; maybe even an investment.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times-Roman, serif;">Furthermore, the staff at Tripti Kulai work shifts so, according to my reckoning, what I consumed before lunch would not be noted by those working in the afternoon, allowing me double helpings of everything...</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times-Roman, serif;">As I didn’t have much holiday left from work I knew that the mural would have to be completed in stages. When I arrived for the first installment of my odyssey I was relieved to find that everything I needed was close by; a well stocked art shop was just around the corner and there were a couple of supermarkets where I could get essential things like white spirit and kitchen roll. I prefer thinning oil paint with white spirit as it dries more quickly and although I am sensitive to all kinds of other chemicals I seem to be immune to its fumes. Although I had brought my paints with me I usually work small and had no idea how much I was going to need. I bought filler and primer for the rough surface of the wall and lots of green, yellow and white.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman, serif;">Whilst I had not planned my painting (of course not!) I knew that what I wanted was a giant Indian goddess in a miniature forest with little animals, birds and so on. I had done a bit of research over the years on Indian flora and fauna and so I was hoping to have elephants, monkeys, peacocks and all the rest of it. The animals would be the very last thing to be included; the icing on the cake, like in Genesis. But unlike Genesis, there would be no people created, just the goddess and the forest to aide her contemplation. I know how to learn by others’ mistakes! Although, I was unable to resist putting in some animals too early just because they were so much fun; the peacock, for example, and the elephants.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times-Roman, serif;">The girls agreed to let me paint all day as long as I would give up my worktable at lunchtime if they needed it for customers. That in itself is very generous as paint fumes don’t go with food, but they knew I had a lot of wall to cover and limited time to do it in. They thought it might be distracting to have people moving all around me but actually it added a dynamic element to the atmosphere. My natural tendency is to study the artwork in silence, making increasingly abstract design decisions and losing track of time. Having people moving around grounds me and keeps me aware of the passing of time at some unconscious level of my mind, similar to the ticking of a clock.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times-Roman, serif;">The customers, who I thought might be annoyed at having their space taken over, were very supportive. They were curious to know what I was doing and stretched my French to its limits. On my first trip, which was lots of designing and preparation and putting on undercoats of colour, I had a lot of explaining to do. On subsequent trips the form came together and the painting began to speak for itself. I have noticed that I tend to work with more dynamism if people are watching, and although I'm sure it's a character flaw it was very useful in this instance. Children and adults alike would stand nearby, offering comments, painting advice and suggestions for which animals I should include. It began to be a bit like interactive performance art. If you are painting in a public place it is really a statement that you are happy to work with people watching, and generally I am. I only get tetchy if the painting is going badly and I feel stuck in some way, then every sound distracts me and I become a bit of a nightmare.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times-Roman, serif;">There was plenty of time to work on the mural in the evenings and nights, and that in itself was a very satisfying experience. I have often heard that painting large gives you a sense of freedom, but I didn't know why until I tried it. I think, in part, we get a sense of freedom because we are forced to engage completely with the painting, and take it more seriously than normal. Because of it's size I was able to isolate and switch off that part of my mind that kept trying to tell me I could leave it til the last minute and get it done in half an hour before I left for the airport. On something so large and detailed, half an hour seems like a few seconds. Apart from the huge Saraswati I painted for Boris Gerbenshikov's concert in Milan this is the largest thing I've done. I always have to be in a good frame of mind to paint, as I don't like to use my creations as art therapy. Which means, on something so large, I am forced to be in a good mental state for days at a time. Maybe that was why my guru encouraged me to continue my art; to keep me focussed on something I could only achieve by being on my best behaviour! </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman, serif;">The whole time I painted in Tripti Kulai I felt a higher level of peace and contentment, even when it was rowdy with customers. I didn’t like to leave in the evening and sometimes worked well into the night. It was really the perfect holiday for an artist; free to paint as much as I liked and immerse myself in the world I was trying to invoke. On my last visit I gave up going back to the place I was staying and just slept at the restaurant. The girls were very tolerant; I suppose they told themselves it would all come to an end at some point. I worked in the silent hours of the night and then I would be awakened by the delivery-men with their crates of fruit and vegetables later in the morning. I fantasised about moving into the restaurant so I could continue to paint there forever, adding and adding to the walls until everything was forested and populated with animals and birds.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman, serif;">Occasionally, customers would ask when it would be finished and I'd just smile enigmatically and say there was a lot of work to do. The girls from the restaurant knew better than to ask me that question! Luckily, they took a childlike delight in the world I was creating; they had definite opinions about important things, like what animals lived in the forest and what kind of jewellery Lakshmi should be wearing. It is very pleasant to discuss one’s work with such uninhibited people. They would stop on their way through from the kitchen to remark on a certain artistic effect; that the elephant was much better now, or why had I removed the tiger? It felt like they were a big part of the process because they made it their own. This is Celana and Sarah, above, having a food break at the feet of the goddess.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman, serif;">As for finishing, what’s the hurry? One of the problems is that oil paint, even when thinned by white spirit, stays wet for a few days, so I'm forever waiting for bits to dry so they can take more paint, and then if I change my mind about the design it's a much bigger deal. Sometimes I wish I was using acrylic paint but I find the colours of oils much richer and rewarding. I wanted something that was nourishing to look at, and using oils is like using the tastiest ingredients to cook with.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman, serif;">The restaurant is closed on Sundays, so soon I will be able to have painting time there each week. I could keep this up for years, I’m sure!</span></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01358941909845054941noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5855016405968861999.post-67046310587336129932011-12-26T22:54:00.000+00:002011-12-26T22:54:24.542+00:00Peacocks at Maguelone<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Emh6KWbSl24/TvjaVYov_fI/AAAAAAAABHg/ag4Kz7Q7T4g/s1600/Peacock+12+imagination-chariot.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Emh6KWbSl24/TvjaVYov_fI/AAAAAAAABHg/ag4Kz7Q7T4g/s640/Peacock+12+imagination-chariot.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">Happy Christmas to you all! I spent my afternoon yesterday running along a beach next to the deserted cath<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">é</span>drale de Maguelone. Well, some running and some sitting down and resting. The sky was pale blue, the sea emerald green and generally it was a bit like those movies where the hero or heroine has died but doesn't yet realise it and is busy wading through a field of poppies to a gate at the other side over which can be seen an expanse of golden light...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mtMRjlRqJsI/TvddL-B7fwI/AAAAAAAABC0/LZ0yisB4FnA/s1600/Maguelone2+imagination-chariot.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mtMRjlRqJsI/TvddL-B7fwI/AAAAAAAABC0/LZ0yisB4FnA/s640/Maguelone2+imagination-chariot.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;">When I say the cathedral is deserted I mean it was <i>once</i> deserted because of viking raids. The diocese (along with the wealth it had presumably accumulated) was moved to Montpellier, which being inland gave the vikings a bit of a chance to reconsider just how much they wanted to loot and pillage. You can imagine whining teenage vikings getting back in the boat when faced with a long march; "<i>You said</i> it would be right there on the beach! I want to go to Marseille instead..."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-91LJBS9nEJA/TvdcjzHLiaI/AAAAAAAABCo/s2KPbh9V-zk/s1600/Maguelone30+imagination-chariot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="358" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-91LJBS9nEJA/TvdcjzHLiaI/AAAAAAAABCo/s2KPbh9V-zk/s640/Maguelone30+imagination-chariot.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHjnT1TOT3N4GDYb5j2-Eo7MZS4SYM_EOqos_cfXnkEDdOFrfF70fh5cGAMAdQZ2-Hu4rGsPgZ3DBDoeYaGA7ErbA_pRXZIC-L0dy7l991t7vc4o8wrgkWL-2GZHAoNCCcWkOUTwtIdUbI/s1600/Maguelone30+imagination-chariot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a></div>St. Peter and St. Paul face each other on the cathedral entrance, looking not unlike vikings themselves.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QTWD1lsQi3k/Tvjki3OtHJI/AAAAAAAABK4/G2_u1A7PJL4/s1600/Maguelone8+imagination-chariot2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QTWD1lsQi3k/Tvjki3OtHJI/AAAAAAAABK4/G2_u1A7PJL4/s640/Maguelone8+imagination-chariot2.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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I'm not sure what kind of stone everything is made out of here, but it is very soothing. The whole cathedral has a very calm and elevated vibe, and this time it seemed joyful and youthful as well.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rXMUp_6_9ek/Tvj3wc1Ix1I/AAAAAAAABNQ/5V0re9TRaKo/s1600/Peacocks+at+Maguelone+imagination-chariot.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rXMUp_6_9ek/Tvj3wc1Ix1I/AAAAAAAABNQ/5V0re9TRaKo/s640/Peacocks+at+Maguelone+imagination-chariot.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">There are masses of different carvings on the interior walls, some completely indistinct with time, but you can still see traces of a design on a lot of them; I'm pretty sure this is a lion, for instance.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YkwdTrU02X4/TvdeNE9FBcI/AAAAAAAABDA/6nSCkftB3N8/s1600/Maguelone11+imagination-chariot.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YkwdTrU02X4/TvdeNE9FBcI/AAAAAAAABDA/6nSCkftB3N8/s640/Maguelone11+imagination-chariot.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div>The shrine itself is very simple; a beautiful golden cross on a worn stone altar. The first time I visited I was surprised to see peacock feathers in front of the altar, after all, it is not what one has come to expect in England, but the reason for this was obvious once we'd climbed to the top of the cathedral and looked out into the surrounding woodland. I saw five peacocks and figured there were probably more lurking nearby. They were reticent though, for peacocks; they didn't spontaneously strike their most attractive pose or step into sudden shafts of sunlight to illuminate their plumage or anything like that.<br />
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Despite my best efforts, the photos I took with my zoom on that day are a bit like those charmless paparazzi shots you get of celebrities coming out of a gym. The peacocks are obviously trying to get on with their lives, buy their groceries or whatever, keeping their heads down and doing their best to ignore the camera. When I tried to get into the peacock enclosure for some close-ups I found it was barred to the public, so I had to admit defeat...<br />
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Until today! As I was running along the beach I came across a large iron gate with fencing all around it and a large sign with the word "interdit" on it. Now, I have encountered that word before, but I put aside the knowledge and reasoned that somebody trying to take a short cut back to the cathedral might not realise that the fence was meant to keep them out. After all, what could be more natural than to clamber down the rocks at one side of the fence, hanging perilously over the water to swing oneself around and then climb back up the other side. Obviously guests were intended to enter this way! So that's what I did, and I was rewarded for my crime by not being caught and getting right up close to all the peacocks I could possibly want.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-U9r94pW7IbQ/Tvja2tMpGGI/AAAAAAAABHs/l18THw06F2E/s1600/Peacock+1+imagination-chariot.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-U9r94pW7IbQ/Tvja2tMpGGI/AAAAAAAABHs/l18THw06F2E/s640/Peacock+1+imagination-chariot.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">The first peacock I saw looked at me quizzically and then ignored me completely. It was as though I had stumbled into some kind of peacock social event and was being given not exactly the cold shoulder, but perhaps the lukewarm elbow.</div><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">This is Padmasini's photo. These two could easily be a couple of card-playing debutantes in a period drama, pausing, in the middle of an indiscreet confidence, to check out an intruder.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rn1AV8V9tj8/TvjcWnMY-JI/AAAAAAAABIQ/2R2yu9GdwYM/s1600/Peacock+3+imagination-chariot.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rn1AV8V9tj8/TvjcWnMY-JI/AAAAAAAABIQ/2R2yu9GdwYM/s640/Peacock+3+imagination-chariot.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">Most of the action was centred around a young male peacock who was hassling the young peahens, not very successfully, I have to say. The young females ran away into the thicket and I couldn't resist this backstage shot.</div><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">It took a few minutes of constant exclamations about the magnificence of his plumage before he deigned to notice my voice, and then another half a minute for him to totter around on his little legs to face me.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1BK-1v10t9Q/TvjdRgCbO3I/AAAAAAAABIo/UoY_rZQnZ2I/s1600/Peacock+5+imagination-chariot.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1BK-1v10t9Q/TvjdRgCbO3I/AAAAAAAABIo/UoY_rZQnZ2I/s640/Peacock+5+imagination-chariot.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Tadaahhh! Hm. Once he had finished turning, the slightly bemused look in his eye told me he had registered the wrongness of my size, colour and species.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">He didn't waste time trying to impress me but lowered his tail, rather apologetically I thought.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-al0BZJm5xHQ/TvjeHuMgdGI/AAAAAAAABJA/nfkKnUbSmCI/s1600/Peacock+7+imagination-chariot.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-al0BZJm5xHQ/TvjeHuMgdGI/AAAAAAAABJA/nfkKnUbSmCI/s640/Peacock+7+imagination-chariot.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And then you could see the inspiration enter his peacock mind...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Nt1GE-evV98/TvjejyFDtMI/AAAAAAAABJM/kRpwjaaDNDU/s1600/Peacock+8+imagination-chariot.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Nt1GE-evV98/TvjejyFDtMI/AAAAAAAABJM/kRpwjaaDNDU/s640/Peacock+8+imagination-chariot.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">..."Is this thing somehow associated with food???!"</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-snaCiMFPPx4/TvjGE27m0GI/AAAAAAAABGw/eOBq4pZmO2A/s1600/P1020352.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-snaCiMFPPx4/TvjGE27m0GI/AAAAAAAABGw/eOBq4pZmO2A/s640/P1020352.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">Magisterial distain from a white dowager peacock.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Sb7KekKApX0/TvjgKcQ-piI/AAAAAAAABJY/z2_YsrBkpr4/s1600/Peacocks+16+imagination-chariot.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Sb7KekKApX0/TvjgKcQ-piI/AAAAAAAABJY/z2_YsrBkpr4/s640/Peacocks+16+imagination-chariot.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">These two remind me of Miss Haversham in Great Expectations, but I can't really say why. Okay, I can; it's the coronets, the bridal attire and the slightly seedy look, as though they've been waiting several decades to get married and the lace has got frayed at the edges. It's even spookier because they are identical twins. Are there any identical jilted twins in literature? I'm sure there are, somewhere, and that someone will tell me.</div><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">Two more senior Miss Havershams; this photo looks like one of those Pre-Raphaelite pictures where the artist has patently used the same model for all six adoring nymphs, if you know what I mean. It seems to be the same peacock, only turned around a few degrees.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-C0uf6_71dFo/TvjhRREyizI/AAAAAAAABJw/bSj-2Qmt13Q/s1600/Peacocks+22+imagination-chariot.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-C0uf6_71dFo/TvjhRREyizI/AAAAAAAABJw/bSj-2Qmt13Q/s640/Peacocks+22+imagination-chariot.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Here a family is having their yearly photograph taken and everything is in limbo while the cameraman fiddles about with the camera.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rk_Vm0pXBrw/TvjhsVWeEwI/AAAAAAAABJ8/ACED1NZ9eo0/s1600/Peacocks+21+imagination-chariot.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rk_Vm0pXBrw/TvjhsVWeEwI/AAAAAAAABJ8/ACED1NZ9eo0/s640/Peacocks+21+imagination-chariot.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Holding the pose for a perfect portrait.</div><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">Then the moment they all hear the chattering of noisy tourists who must have ignored the "interdit" notice too.</div><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">And off they go! They're surprisingly quick; a tiny bit reminiscent of a Tyranasaurus Rex running in a tutu, but only in the nicest possible way.</div><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">Tried to follow the peacocks to their secret hideaway, but they were too quick and I was left behind with a few stragglers...</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-A_rv587s5ak/TvjjMWaaFXI/AAAAAAAABKs/oFsuBe6DExc/s1600/Peacocks+18+imagination-chariot.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-A_rv587s5ak/TvjjMWaaFXI/AAAAAAAABKs/oFsuBe6DExc/s640/Peacocks+18+imagination-chariot.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">...who were so well camouflaged that they soon faded back into the leafy world they came from.</div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01358941909845054941noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5855016405968861999.post-34278673925895116062011-11-18T17:29:00.000+00:002011-11-18T17:29:57.969+00:00Cacti and cave-paintings on the way to Marseille<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkV3IFG9XHVXtxrUBdLqdNcq9DkP6A0phGlMyvWi2FZeo3FuhlwUz0cMo5ur4qirEEHdchnTcFWIJx-FQUEXBXePSEGfBvbBN4rY1uixUevH9EbbzxZyHX9Q3fVSM3hT6itCG5Kh2V1FBC/s1600/Les+Calanques1+imagination-chariot.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkV3IFG9XHVXtxrUBdLqdNcq9DkP6A0phGlMyvWi2FZeo3FuhlwUz0cMo5ur4qirEEHdchnTcFWIJx-FQUEXBXePSEGfBvbBN4rY1uixUevH9EbbzxZyHX9Q3fVSM3hT6itCG5Kh2V1FBC/s640/Les+Calanques1+imagination-chariot.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">On the way to a meditation workshop in Marseille we stopped off to do a bit of hiking in the Calanques, which are the inlets and caves to be found along that stretch of the coast. The hills were full of a smokey blue light and the air was very clear and fresh, making everything seem much closer than it really was, as though you might be able to reach out and touch it.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHGoC79WEaX_DoQVkn4t-D303Z9-sUe9iblazhFb47TBWMdH3v3VkftPNtiJ6D6UFWIohYXu0v6H3AozkyDPA5Ug301lWqhX6q9acZKKL6QlwhGTlBy37sPxEjGMhJ3IaMaxYzcFRNgbCW/s1600/Les+Calanques2+-+imagination-chariot.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHGoC79WEaX_DoQVkn4t-D303Z9-sUe9iblazhFb47TBWMdH3v3VkftPNtiJ6D6UFWIohYXu0v6H3AozkyDPA5Ug301lWqhX6q9acZKKL6QlwhGTlBy37sPxEjGMhJ3IaMaxYzcFRNgbCW/s640/Les+Calanques2+-+imagination-chariot.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;">It's amazing how quickly the French countryside changes; one moment you're driving along beside sandy golden stone laced with iron deposits and the next you're looking at limestone stuff like this. I would be interested to know what happened however many millions of years ago that concertinaed the landscape in such a way, or whether, like Douglas Adams' award winning fjord-designer, Slartibartfast, somebody amused themselves putting down all their artistic flourishes too close together to be really believable. I seem to remember the science fiction epic Saga of the Exiles by Julian May was set in this neck of the woods, though in the Pliocene Era. For anyone who hasn't read it I won't spoil the premise, but I think one of the plot-lines involves the landscape being rearranged by some cataclysmic event. If I can't remember properly then it's time to read it again!<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuT3TuxQfi6vBfmkFRqav1jKTniS-BQ1aL-u_Iwl7vdPV7ct1YlrsJFfJGSQwF0LDGSzu5M-nk9RuYGQbFTq3nhIsBhZBdV3P7RAVg_HwlCaMUYnbF4eaSQ2W6pz52jw9f4iXMamjOPHf6/s1600/cave+paintings+at+the+cosquer+cave%253A+photo+by+Jean+Clottes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuT3TuxQfi6vBfmkFRqav1jKTniS-BQ1aL-u_Iwl7vdPV7ct1YlrsJFfJGSQwF0LDGSzu5M-nk9RuYGQbFTq3nhIsBhZBdV3P7RAVg_HwlCaMUYnbF4eaSQ2W6pz52jw9f4iXMamjOPHf6/s640/cave+paintings+at+the+cosquer+cave%253A+photo+by+Jean+Clottes.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">We were also very close to the <a href="http://www.bradshawfoundation.com/cosquer/cosquer3.php"><b>Cosquer Cave</b></a>, on whose walls can be seen these paintings dated at about 20,000 years ago, during the Paleolithic Age; some even older. The entrance to the cave is 37 metres below sea level, so I think we can be forgiven for not visiting it this time. These photographs are by one of the scientists supervising the site, Jean Clottes. You can see the layout of the cave by <a href="http://www.culture.gouv.fr/culture/archeosm/en/fr-cosqu2.htm"><b>clicking here</b></a>. There seem to be a lot of prehistoric cave paintings in France; it's anybody's guess why that's so. For a truly stunning virtual visit to a decorated cave, you might also like to take a look at the official website of the cave paintings at <a href="http://www.lascaux.culture.fr/?lng=en#/en/00.xml"><b>Lascaux</b></a><b> </b>in south-western France; I found them very moving.</div></div><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">So, back to our hike; here you can see my companions; from the top, Keyarie, Mukunja and Padmasini. Of course I am at the end of the procession, cooing appreciatively over the plants and rocks. This whole area is quite arid, but the variety of plant-life is still remarkable.</div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-fP9432S1x9Hx-z31DGEsef37dI1KAU4kX0OyqY-xS73yhzKAwjHshOUDEnr5gVKa14BJMYYgL7DeoYH42jAcJQt2wx_6pkjSlimRHdGYW7negJLrReF-z7J79DGO0Hdqz4XtMr9uTprt/s1600/P1020181.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-fP9432S1x9Hx-z31DGEsef37dI1KAU4kX0OyqY-xS73yhzKAwjHshOUDEnr5gVKa14BJMYYgL7DeoYH42jAcJQt2wx_6pkjSlimRHdGYW7negJLrReF-z7J79DGO0Hdqz4XtMr9uTprt/s640/P1020181.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="640" /></a><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">Cacti next to pine trees. A strange mix, but alluring. A few years ago I saw something similar in a Sicilian lemon grove where the cacti were growing much taller than this and bearing fruit a bit like papaya but covered with mildly poisonous spikes. We put gloves on, filled the boot of the car with them and drove them all the way back to Milan, where I then found the same thing in a market. Ours tasted better, of course!</div><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">Keyarie and Padamasini waiting on the other side of a hairpin bend for me to catch up as I stop yet again for photographs.</div><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">Some of the bushes had blossom and fruits at the same time, which is a bit unsettling but you see it everywhere now; others, like this, were doing their best to pretend we had bypassed winter and headed straight into spring.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ5IQIDoqegBlYG96zLtbKib3ThbbogZv_2QbIHDnGHfeC9XDIzFPx9Hd1-j9LwLRTJ9Nbg_rQyDLTGBIX5l7nZgcC8GruoKx_RNrL_mLGGncJDAGODiJtOgRT1Cu91lBvpklpp31JW50A/s1600/Les+Calanques11+imagination-chariot.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ5IQIDoqegBlYG96zLtbKib3ThbbogZv_2QbIHDnGHfeC9XDIzFPx9Hd1-j9LwLRTJ9Nbg_rQyDLTGBIX5l7nZgcC8GruoKx_RNrL_mLGGncJDAGODiJtOgRT1Cu91lBvpklpp31JW50A/s640/Les+Calanques11+imagination-chariot.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">Rounding a corner, I saw a very young cat staring meditatively into the distance and a little boy about to throw a stone at it, probably just to see it do something exciting rather than with any particularly malicious motive. My French was sufficient to prevent this happening and the cat turned around and fixed me with a dreamy but penetrating gaze.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDiojmuNDNjjHmXxLHq3EpDzHEGlM7IQxIGF3wfZeWd_qT8KAVzolX3Lv2rmX7iCY_8rvpXaPnCrWcE99mwtHXZotbPOJsBHvsvIzFeacnB0o3FCwel8NZ7h_CvdZn86b_HWk_R5fTBzCV/s1600/Les+Calanques13+imagination-chariot.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDiojmuNDNjjHmXxLHq3EpDzHEGlM7IQxIGF3wfZeWd_qT8KAVzolX3Lv2rmX7iCY_8rvpXaPnCrWcE99mwtHXZotbPOJsBHvsvIzFeacnB0o3FCwel8NZ7h_CvdZn86b_HWk_R5fTBzCV/s640/Les+Calanques13+imagination-chariot.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This is what the cat was contemplating; no wonder it was so calm! And no, I didn't alter the colour of the sea in Photoshop, it really is turquoise. Or "azure", if you happen to be Shelley or Keats. The darker blue areas are banks of seaweed.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRtEprpOwhN_e50pnoUn9nukoyaModj1ksMjDb4Oat2XYUvG_etCEIT2UYOJbruw7K_t3Eoj6FYA02dcWvUvaW1Hm3hKBpM6cqn2j4iUnO4b7DK75uUN4O0K3Sf6DcC1ls1zNXdfPO6pUL/s1600/Les+Calanques8+imagination-chariot.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRtEprpOwhN_e50pnoUn9nukoyaModj1ksMjDb4Oat2XYUvG_etCEIT2UYOJbruw7K_t3Eoj6FYA02dcWvUvaW1Hm3hKBpM6cqn2j4iUnO4b7DK75uUN4O0K3Sf6DcC1ls1zNXdfPO6pUL/s640/Les+Calanques8+imagination-chariot.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">Dali trees.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcxzRzC4w0erc0mfPc2gqHIo7rs-BE3l3Q1kRCsHGXhotlMWPs6hnu8cdslq6DUD6JXiikTuDRKbpGtxwdKUw0-k9f4JRIMzxYCKPZWekwDEUR2-2Wljm1QLhPEHooT2hd5xHUmweo21kB/s1600/Les+Calanques3+imagination-chariot.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcxzRzC4w0erc0mfPc2gqHIo7rs-BE3l3Q1kRCsHGXhotlMWPs6hnu8cdslq6DUD6JXiikTuDRKbpGtxwdKUw0-k9f4JRIMzxYCKPZWekwDEUR2-2Wljm1QLhPEHooT2hd5xHUmweo21kB/s640/Les+Calanques3+imagination-chariot.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">Mukunja trying to get a portrait of herself with the sea behind her.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQiW-P2YHWZBF5gSKikDLQDKWqptKG7xFv3jbCJoZ6S7kSFu4krQSXXQ3fG4rJITxzks2-ouO-o0uFo4ePrYxVGV5fgvthkuNfrYw3w3YvS39th1DkECnZwFftKc-wRb0TvmYGIa_-_8s2/s1600/Les+Calanques4+imagination-chariot.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQiW-P2YHWZBF5gSKikDLQDKWqptKG7xFv3jbCJoZ6S7kSFu4krQSXXQ3fG4rJITxzks2-ouO-o0uFo4ePrYxVGV5fgvthkuNfrYw3w3YvS39th1DkECnZwFftKc-wRb0TvmYGIa_-_8s2/s640/Les+Calanques4+imagination-chariot.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Usually it is best not to suddenly loom over people when you are all trying to keep your balance on the side of a steep hill in a strong wind, but you get the best smiles when they don't expect the photo, right? It will not surprise any of my Italian friends to know that I did actually lose my balance on the way down this hill and slid over in such a way that I haven't been able to sit down comfortably since! When I was living in Milan I was so completely accident-prone that after a month or so they reckoned I was well enough known at the hospitals to leave my identity papers at home... I injured my knee, had a very amusing allergic reaction to strawberries in which my face swelled up (I'm not even allergic to strawberries so I don't quite know what happened), broke my foot stepping over a roll of linoleum, and also managed to be so ill flying from the UK to Milan that I had to be carried off the plane and into the airport hospital. I also had a few accidents navigating their public transport system on my crutches, but the one that springs most easily to mind is a tram door closing on my plaster cast and the other passengers having to pull me free. Embarrassing! But you get used to that kind of thing when you're me. </div><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">Here in France I have been lucky so far; only the minor cuts, burns, bruises and scaldings that you get for the first couple of months at any restaurant. I now have some golden rules: "*Do not attempt to do anything complicated with one hand whilst holding a sharp knife in the other (sounds almost Biblical, doesn't it?) *Do not use knives whilst hands are buttery *Do not put sharp knives in washing up water with other cutlery" etc etc. The only good thing about cutting yourself before a three hour washing-up shift is that hot water seems to stop the bleeding more quickly.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">More cactussy things. They looked edible so I ate a bit and it tasted nice. Salads here are so much more exciting! Especially when bloodstained...</div><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">Here you can see Marseille in all it's glory! I know it looks a bit rough but it's a fascinating city; the second largest in France and a Greek colony originally, I think. Money is being pumped into it now and lots of it's dodgier areas are being stylishly revamped. I like it, and I'll be back at some point to investigate further; especially the business bit of the waterfront, which has really huge ships and forbidding-looking dockyards full of things in crates to be carried onboard. Very exciting.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF0o-7_zPYbq40VXyzrxMAXRnMcnUvG1HqovZWOG5PHXZWrd4eanz18-8uefk37tkd18QML9Fj0CJYWWeJQEXfkosjXtcPW-WE9vZRNd1xGDtoOQiv-4CQUU8qnWEuM1LKUzPYPhyDNDkj/s1600/Les+Calanques18+imagination-chariot.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF0o-7_zPYbq40VXyzrxMAXRnMcnUvG1HqovZWOG5PHXZWrd4eanz18-8uefk37tkd18QML9Fj0CJYWWeJQEXfkosjXtcPW-WE9vZRNd1xGDtoOQiv-4CQUU8qnWEuM1LKUzPYPhyDNDkj/s640/Les+Calanques18+imagination-chariot.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And, of course, the best thing after a day of hiking is an icecream, on this occasion courtesy of "Le Glacier de Roi" in Marseille. I am not very adventurous with icecream flavours so I had a scoop of caramel and chocolate, but we have a whole list of places with advanced flavours to visit as soon as it gets warm again.</div></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01358941909845054941noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5855016405968861999.post-9862837140663282302011-11-03T18:43:00.000+00:002011-11-03T18:43:37.728+00:00The Ramayana, in a nutshell<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The Ramayana is a very long story, so for those of you who have never heard it, this is a potted version, you might even say an egg-cupped version. The illustrations are close-ups from the tiny wedge shaped originals (4cm-7cmx10cm) I painted many years ago for the Ramayana clock described in my previous blog. I have missed out the stuff about Rama growing up and jumped to the place at which most western fairytales begin; when all the trouble starts.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i>The ruler of Ay</i></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i>odhya, King Dasaratha, decides to name one of his sons, Rama, crown prince. Rama is virtuous, skilled in battle, devastatingly good looking and everyone loves him. He’s also the son of Dasaratha’s first wife, Kaushalya, so he’s got everything going for him. </i></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>But fate intervenes in the form of evil handmaiden Manthara</i></span><span style="color: red;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><i>.</i></span><i> </i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i> She reminds her mistress Kaikeyi, who is one of the King’s younger wives, how difficult Kaushalya is going to be with Rama on the throne, and urges Kaikeyi to act before it’s too late. Kaikeyi once nursed Dasaratha through what should have been a fatal wound on the battlefield, so she has his eternal gratitude. She also has a promise from him that when the time comes, she can have one boon, without reservation, no matter what it is.</i></span></div>
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<i>You can imagine how Dasaratha wishes he had thought more carefully before making such a promise but there’s nothing he can do about it and so he summons Rama. </i></div>
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<i>Dasaratha explains the problem, bitterly regretting his boon, but Rama only says that of course the king must honour his promise and he’ll start packing at once. He also thanks his stepmother Kaikeyi for allowing him to prove a king can still be true to his word and says he hopes she will enjoy being the Queen Mother. Dasaratha blesses Rama one last time and then falls into a coma from which nothing will waken him. When Bharata hears the news he is furious; not only because Rama is his favourite brother but because the whole affair has cast a terrible slur on his name. He kills Manthara and vows never to speak to his mother again.</i><br />
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<i>Meanwhile, Rama’s wife, Sita, and another of Rama’s brothers, Lakshmana, insist on joining in the banishment, and nothing Rama says can put them off. Laksmana bids his wife, Urmila, farewell and promises to be back in fourteen years. They leave Ayodhya for the forest and the entire city lines the streets to see them go. The country plunges into mourning. While the palace is going through the motions of Bharata’s coronation Dasaratha quietly dies of a broken heart.</i></div>
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<i>Bharata places Rama’s sandals on the throne and takes an oath that even though he is now king he will rule only as Rama’s deputy until his safe return.</i></div>
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<i>The brothers build a little hut for themselves and life in the Panchavati forest begins. The years pass quickly; good company, simple food and lots of fresh air being the best medicine for all kinds of problems. Life in a palace drags on, with its endless rituals and duties, but the forest is full of variety. The simple life of subsistence teaches them patience, endurance and peace.</i></div>
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<i>Unfortunately, dark things also enjoy the outdoor life. Prowling the forest one day, a demon called Ravana chances upon the clearing with its little hermitage. He catches sight of Sita at her everyday tasks and instantly falls in love with her. Now, Ravana is no ordinary demon, but a powerful king-demon, and his chief vice is pride. The more his subjects warn him not to interfere with Rama and Lakshmana, and to forget Sita, the more he cannot think of anything else. All his palaces, gardens and endless wealth seem as nothing compared to the beauty of the thing he cannot have. Ravana is extremely good looking for a demon, and he convinces himself that once Sita is parted from Rama she will consent to be his own wife. He has watched Rama practising martial arts so he knows that brute force is not going to work; he will have to do something really underhand to separate the two of them.</i></div>
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<i>Showing his extreme cunning and understanding of princessy psychology, Ravana disguises one of his henchmen as a beautiful golden deer and orders it to prance about enticingly in front of their hut before taking off into the forest.</i></div>
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<i>Sita immediately wants the deer as a pet and sends Rama out after it. The deer manages to evade capture and mimics Rama’s voice, calling out in pain. Laksmana warns Sita that it is a trick, but Sita insists that he goes to his brother’s aid.</i></div>
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<i>Laksmana draws a magical protective circle around Sita and instructs her not to step outside it under any circumstance. Whilst the two brothers are looking for each other in the forest, Ravana approaches Sita in the form of a holy man. He tells her he has not eaten for days, and because Sita is well brought up she steps out of the circle to make him some food. </i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj38URXkX66sZWABi5WTv3I8wRiwRHwiZt6lSihC3EPKyT-BZsnfrhq-X6J3kTweHo6_WtQo2SXpsxKqAFiNBkUG_8qZcaErNhtdPnk3hG_E_cjM7MX85amub55hONpUkq9nPjgJveNn6q5/s1600/Ramayana+-+Ravana+kidnaps+Sita+-+imagination-chariot.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="366" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj38URXkX66sZWABi5WTv3I8wRiwRHwiZt6lSihC3EPKyT-BZsnfrhq-X6J3kTweHo6_WtQo2SXpsxKqAFiNBkUG_8qZcaErNhtdPnk3hG_E_cjM7MX85amub55hONpUkq9nPjgJveNn6q5/s640/Ramayana+-+Ravana+kidnaps+Sita+-+imagination-chariot.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>No sooner does she step outside the circle than Ravana assumes his everyday form, snatches her up into the air and speeds away towards his far-off lair. When Rama returns and discovers she is gone the two brothers have the first argument of their lives and then set out to find her.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQsAwIexLM1dvj_yw80NkBsMiYMu604RHsy1pRyFMzhofDkl4OoeT5C1oYJjND_KLkJdFhU1uu3aYhJ8GZ-18y2MKytbTTwbe-I9gtxPzwBy1SAEQnl1YajyjJ80VD1iNMI8DvFtBU-hJy/s1600/Ramayana+-+Death+of+Jayatu+-+imagination-chariot.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="362" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQsAwIexLM1dvj_yw80NkBsMiYMu604RHsy1pRyFMzhofDkl4OoeT5C1oYJjND_KLkJdFhU1uu3aYhJ8GZ-18y2MKytbTTwbe-I9gtxPzwBy1SAEQnl1YajyjJ80VD1iNMI8DvFtBU-hJy/s640/Ramayana+-+Death+of+Jayatu+-+imagination-chariot.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>Rama and Lakshmana soon chance upon a great and kingly bird called Jayatu, who is dying from one of Ravana’s arrows. He attempted to rescue Sita but the demon was too stong for him and he warns the brothers not to underestimate the job in hand. Rama vows to avenge Jayatu and the bird dies satisfied.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiijD6_5jJzYENh-MCn_jjxfw5HcI-uvmx0V9ugAQrY3bOolyV_gufhoxANMUFmGlvcbVH9-FJmm6bJo27QH1t-wxhwivdDE21kaHhYeEM6iwqHn3GzGosi59JoGlYK8Hdm2inX8utDclSh/s1600/Ramayana+-+The+monkeys+bring+Sita%2527s+scarf+to+Rama+-+imagination-chariot.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="366" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiijD6_5jJzYENh-MCn_jjxfw5HcI-uvmx0V9ugAQrY3bOolyV_gufhoxANMUFmGlvcbVH9-FJmm6bJo27QH1t-wxhwivdDE21kaHhYeEM6iwqHn3GzGosi59JoGlYK8Hdm2inX8utDclSh/s640/Ramayana+-+The+monkeys+bring+Sita%2527s+scarf+to+Rama+-+imagination-chariot.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>As Sita was being carried through the air she managed to let fall a scarf in the hope that someone would find it. Two talking monkeys come across the scarf and bring it to Rama. They and all their relatives swear their allegiance to the brothers, so Rama now has an army. They introduce Rama to Hanuman, who is a real hero in the monkey world, and will also, in the fullness of time, become his greatest devotee.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVwerxnh1MwsofASz3vb48enqab9rRKIgUvE-wKgwaP70MWuxHNzm_ZZkDdw9sBHiH7cKUoslW9C8Pj1k_VZ6BAgpCOQ1he5j7aScr8bIK6uC73OqPIkSOG_pPr95PNeMIqdZoWeGOWl39/s1600/Ramayana+-+Hanuman+leaps+to+Lanka+-+imagination-chariot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVwerxnh1MwsofASz3vb48enqab9rRKIgUvE-wKgwaP70MWuxHNzm_ZZkDdw9sBHiH7cKUoslW9C8Pj1k_VZ6BAgpCOQ1he5j7aScr8bIK6uC73OqPIkSOG_pPr95PNeMIqdZoWeGOWl39/s640/Ramayana+-+Hanuman+leaps+to+Lanka+-+imagination-chariot.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>Hanuman takes Rama’s ring for Sita and follows her trail. When he reaches the sea he never pauses but throws himself into the air and leaps across the waves to Sri Lanka, the land that plays host to Ravana’s palace and vast armies.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7mNXdxAJfXkLhbFxPALf0FQXJ6cTL79WfYTddZ2RfZ-YZwPmqhY9761aW5mBM1f3o-JPMq_SFeqCXP7lSZZzSXXRVLnBDy4mW7Mx6UPQ5tlxhRBfd5z-5RpmYBVSZ5v2asankxL_ZcuaE/s1600/Ramayana+-+Hanuman+looks+for+Sita+-+imagination-chariot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7mNXdxAJfXkLhbFxPALf0FQXJ6cTL79WfYTddZ2RfZ-YZwPmqhY9761aW5mBM1f3o-JPMq_SFeqCXP7lSZZzSXXRVLnBDy4mW7Mx6UPQ5tlxhRBfd5z-5RpmYBVSZ5v2asankxL_ZcuaE/s640/Ramayana+-+Hanuman+looks+for+Sita+-+imagination-chariot.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>Magically disguising himself, Hanuman sets off in search of Sita but begins to fear the worst. The streets are full of gossip about the endless temptations Ravana has conjured up for Sita in the hope she will become his latest wife. The denizens of Lanka are all laying bets on when she will succumb. On the one hand she’s already married; on the other, Ravana is handsome, rich, sophisticated and he’s never going to release her anyway. Only the demonic bookies are certain of a win...</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzRHq1mMLoYn77_J9SzKGEVl6YETDvVq6HXhAcV3NfWCZAN2J6n4Ad6ovKJVye70YMMmBFi_md043lGxC4ow9AJqrrheTiwRLwJCbVMGwYYFJ-cCPAYQb2KO2iMS5jEDbKjnSV_irMUokA/s1600/Ramayana+-+Sita+in+Ravana%2527s+garden+-+imagination-chariot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="376" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzRHq1mMLoYn77_J9SzKGEVl6YETDvVq6HXhAcV3NfWCZAN2J6n4Ad6ovKJVye70YMMmBFi_md043lGxC4ow9AJqrrheTiwRLwJCbVMGwYYFJ-cCPAYQb2KO2iMS5jEDbKjnSV_irMUokA/s640/Ramayana+-+Sita+in+Ravana%2527s+garden+-+imagination-chariot.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>He finds Sita in one of the palace gardens. She is thrilled to see the ring and desperate to get off the island as Ravana is fast coming to the end of his patience. The dastardly demon has given her an ultimatum and soon she will face an unenviable choice; marriage to him, or being served up as his evening meal.</i></div>
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<i>Hanuman shows her the ring and promises she will be rescued, once they’ve solved the problem of getting an army over the sea without a boat. At this point he comes up with the obvious solution, that he can carry her back over the sea and out of harm's way, but Sita insists that it is Rama who should come to rescue her. Opinion is divided on the subject of her motive; after all, why hang around? Some think it was her adoration of Rama and her wish for him to glorify himself in battle, some say she wanted Ravana to suffer for her abduction. Whatever the reason, she refuses Hanuman's offer and he leaves empty-handed, although not before torching a large portion of the capital city.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeZO9ifi0FSHmwtMMaH2Rj67gEioHqsXFAPekYpwBP6l4O44iJ1pNQaHkdrDcjINXS0D8beapuSYAB6jWONgKGB3m7xV_GHwh5XUv1y6t84bgoAdRpBxqVFShVfUk8PiIhSnOuXSDOewJG/s1600/Ramayana+-+White+birds+by+the+sea+-+imagination-chariot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="364" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeZO9ifi0FSHmwtMMaH2Rj67gEioHqsXFAPekYpwBP6l4O44iJ1pNQaHkdrDcjINXS0D8beapuSYAB6jWONgKGB3m7xV_GHwh5XUv1y6t84bgoAdRpBxqVFShVfUk8PiIhSnOuXSDOewJG/s640/Ramayana+-+White+birds+by+the+sea+-+imagination-chariot.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>When Hanuman gets back to the camp his story causes an uproar. The army marches straight toward Lanka until they reach the sea. Rama paces up and down the shore thinking of Sita waiting for him in the garden. He is completely at a loss, for although he has studied the magical arts of war he never thought he would have to walk on water.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmwPUorEmcYD9vG6tUR_QdkuC5N-K6PtIFoFX0ujYPk-cfS3B8HKwkWn1OS1h8HOYKSIdO3p3C988ErJt1YuFR5Djv5TGrbSLUATCjXOn0w66i86CmIiyIFRvd4hSKFzXzNvDYbfHUNku2/s1600/Ramayana+-+Monkeys%252C+squirrels+and+bears+build+the+bridge+to+Sri+Lanka+-+imagination-chariot.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="368" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmwPUorEmcYD9vG6tUR_QdkuC5N-K6PtIFoFX0ujYPk-cfS3B8HKwkWn1OS1h8HOYKSIdO3p3C988ErJt1YuFR5Djv5TGrbSLUATCjXOn0w66i86CmIiyIFRvd4hSKFzXzNvDYbfHUNku2/s640/Ramayana+-+Monkeys%252C+squirrels+and+bears+build+the+bridge+to+Sri+Lanka+-+imagination-chariot.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>Seeing his predicament, the local monkeys, bears and squirrels get on the case and in no time at all they have built a bridge over to Lanka. It is said that Rama blessed the squirrels especially because they were so tiny and that the blessing left its mark in the black stripes Indian squirrels have on their heads to this day.</i></div>
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<i>Rama’s army marches over to Lanka and an epic battle begins (which I didn’t have space to depict.) During the course of the battle, in which demons are falling like ninepins, Laksmana takes a mortal wound and Rama sends Hanuman off to find a cure.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifOtcB5b1j2FdeBLB1IlqJoYhh4tuy9UiTt4QI5quuw-GTHcXWLzeUZZzG9pk-zhxCFmf6WEACdOxpeLc2hwVanIo2eiQMhUdqpgSbacitf43B1WmTOQRU3kBY65_dndmQkMG3NnnXHk3M/s1600/Ramayana+-+Hanuman+with+a+mountain+of+herbs+-+imagination-chariot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifOtcB5b1j2FdeBLB1IlqJoYhh4tuy9UiTt4QI5quuw-GTHcXWLzeUZZzG9pk-zhxCFmf6WEACdOxpeLc2hwVanIo2eiQMhUdqpgSbacitf43B1WmTOQRU3kBY65_dndmQkMG3NnnXHk3M/s640/Ramayana+-+Hanuman+with+a+mountain+of+herbs+-+imagination-chariot.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>After many days of patiently searching the Himalayas, Hanuman discovers a herb that will do the trick but is not sure of the correct dose so brings the whole mountain back. Laksmana is cured and continues to cause havoc amongst Ravana’s army.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhbPAjYoxx8s1aRCyL_nMNZ5FGg2fAbLttvw-Kt27cBVPPkUogOhFnO146GzuMiN6eEkkBm9cm0RrMVIQEYSo_q3yxSpCxgDFLKzmM6wgN5CiovOHNCu8y3rooW10eurraS6-Jiyn43cW-/s1600/Ramayana+-+Rama+looses+his+unbeatable+arrow+at+Ravana+-+imagination-chariot.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="374" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhbPAjYoxx8s1aRCyL_nMNZ5FGg2fAbLttvw-Kt27cBVPPkUogOhFnO146GzuMiN6eEkkBm9cm0RrMVIQEYSo_q3yxSpCxgDFLKzmM6wgN5CiovOHNCu8y3rooW10eurraS6-Jiyn43cW-/s640/Ramayana+-+Rama+looses+his+unbeatable+arrow+at+Ravana+-+imagination-chariot.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>The battle rages for many days and nights. After killing Ravana's sons, commanders and his special guard of honour, Rama finally comes up against Ravana himself. The demon performs many marvellous feats but his time is up. Rama fits an unbeatable arrow to his bow and looses it straight into Ravana’s heart.</i></div>
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<i>Ravana takes a long time to die (we all know the type) but it is said that Rama’s arrow is fulfilling a certain Rakshasic prophecy and so the demon is not too gutted; at least he is being sent to the other world by a great hero.</i></div>
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<i>When they reach the palace and rescue Sita there is much rejoicing, until Rama makes an announcement. He feels that the people of his kingdom will never believe she stayed true to him whilst living in the handsome Ravana’s palace, and being a king he must consider the will of his people. Therefore, he does not wish to keep her as his wife; he has rescued her out of a sense of duty, and not for any personal reason. When Sita hears this quite extraordinary accusation she calls out to the gods to witness her purity and causes a fierce fire to be built. Casting herself onto the fire, she declares her faithfulness will protect her (don’t try this at home.) It does, and Rama publically apologises. He says he knew he would have to goad her into establishing her innocence once and for all and now nobody in Ayodhya will doubt her fidelity. The happy couple are reunited.</i></div>
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<i>Everyone returns to Ayodhya as by now the time span of the banishment has elapsed. Bharata gives Rama’s sandals back and Sita rewards Hanuman with a beautiful necklace. </i></div>
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<i>Many happy years pass and then, somehow, the question of Sita’s supposed infidelity raises its head again. Bowing to public opinion, or to the threat of public opinion, Rama banishes the pregnant Sita from his kingdom. </i><br />
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<i>She takes shelter in the hermitage of Valmiki, and in secret bears Rama two sons, Kusa and Lava. Many years later, Rama happens to be passing through the forest and hears two boys singing a song describing his life's story. When they get to the bit about her banishment, Rama starts to cry and to ask himself how he could have sent her away.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGZTxxWw7ot2CdbLm0R_I6pEdChBDw4n2i4uuZPNiCMyTSvchsEIkNo4IZF6HnyE78vAywOzcq10GkohfpwXXd-sWY8fyrzwaTSovFzU5IkrcrZNI6o7edLNYCcdSLab2qYIyn17sMjiCq/s1600/Ramayana+-+Sita+returns+to+the+Earth+-+imagination-chariot.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="366" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGZTxxWw7ot2CdbLm0R_I6pEdChBDw4n2i4uuZPNiCMyTSvchsEIkNo4IZF6HnyE78vAywOzcq10GkohfpwXXd-sWY8fyrzwaTSovFzU5IkrcrZNI6o7edLNYCcdSLab2qYIyn17sMjiCq/s640/Ramayana+-+Sita+returns+to+the+Earth+-+imagination-chariot.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>Sita appears before him, asks that very same question and when he has no answer, instead of repeating herself with another fire, causes the ground to open up and swallow her. At this point it is revealed that she is an incarnation of the goddess Lakshmi and her disappearance into the earth is symbolic of her re-assimilation into the higher worlds she originally came from. Rama, completely distraught, wanders his kingdom for a few years before leaving the crown to his sons and following Sita to the other world.</i></div>
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Look, I didn't promise you a happy ending, did I? Please note that I have made no comments about Rama's treatment of Sita; you can draw your own conclusions about how to balance kingship with marriage. Anyone sympathising with Sita might enjoy Nina Paley's amazing animation, <a href="http://sitasingstheblues.com/watch.html">"Sita Sings the Blues."</a> It is funny and sad and has some unforgettable scenes of dancing monkeys.<br />
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Some of the full images of these pictures are already on sale at <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/imaginationchariot?ref=si_shop">ETSY</a>, the rest will join them in a few days.<br />
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That's all!</div>
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</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01358941909845054941noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5855016405968861999.post-53611721917344595522011-10-27T01:44:00.002+01:002011-10-27T01:47:23.807+01:00The Ramayana Clock<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZNrl3Q0foOgh6ZRjo27HSMTiIejidwCS2XAnpsIvwJt5qN3nBBg141hpjDJnQ2nbyxtVrOka13trrnqjNt7BAiNJ3CP1j6LYEwY2IO3xBg-wtpa-F1v62pp8okQqXACcIM5gMFOw0tjRF/s1600/valmiki2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZNrl3Q0foOgh6ZRjo27HSMTiIejidwCS2XAnpsIvwJt5qN3nBBg141hpjDJnQ2nbyxtVrOka13trrnqjNt7BAiNJ3CP1j6LYEwY2IO3xBg-wtpa-F1v62pp8okQqXACcIM5gMFOw0tjRF/s400/valmiki2.jpg" width="338" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Valmiki the Sage ©HareKrsna.com 2010</span></div></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">Valmiki the Sage is the author of the epic Indian adventure, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ramayana">"The Ramayana."</a> His name literally means, "Born out of an anthill" and begs an obvious question! The answer is that his original name was Ratnakar, and he was a successful and murderous highwayman before he made the mistake of trying to rob the celestial sage, Narada. When Narada curiously asks him why he is stealing and killing people, Ratnakar replies that he needs money to take care of his family. Narada then challenges him to ask them if they will, in return for his care, share in the bad kharma he is building up for himself; he offers Ratnakar untold wealth if he can return with the news that his family is prepared to share the penalty for his actions. Ratnakar is confident they will, but it never pays to bet against a sage...<br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">Following is an excerpt from Sri Chinmoy's play, "Why should I be responsible?" from his book of plays, "My Rama is My All."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>"WHY SHOULD I BE RESPONSIBLE?" </i><i>SCENE 3.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>(In the forest again. Ratnakar has returned to Narada.)</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br />
</i></div><i>NARADA: So, you have come here to take your money? Take as much as you want. Why are you so sad? Tell me, what is the news? What is your news?</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>RATNAKAR: My news is that I have given up my family. I will not be responsible for them since they do not feel responsible for me. They are a bunch of ungrateful creatures: my son, my wife, my parents. I do not want them. I do not need them. Right here, tell me what I should do. I will listen to you.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>NARADA: My only advice to you is this: repeat only one name - Rama, Rama, Rama. He will forgive you. He will give you salvation. And it is you who will immortalise him on earth. Long, long before he is born, before he comes into this earthly existence, you will write his biography. You will tell about his immortal life, his life of dedication, his life of glory, his life of fulfilment. All this you will write down in his biography. From now on repeat his name: Rama, Rama, Rama. Just repeat it and let me hear.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>RATNAKAR: Mara, Mara, Mara.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>NARADA: Can't you say his name?</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>RATNAKAR: I can't.</i><br />
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</div>(To read the whole play, <a href="http://www.srichinmoylibrary.com/books/0027/2/1">click here.</a>)<br />
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<i></i>Ratnakar has done so many bad things that he is unable to even say Rama's name, but Narada encourages him to just say what he can, "Mara, Mara, Mara," knowing that if you say "Ma-ra" (which means "death") it will eventually turn into "Ra-ma." A lesson for us all! The story goes that Ratnakar sits down and says the name for so many years that anthills grow up all around him, and when he comes out of his trance he takes his new name, Valmiki, and sets about writing the Ramayana.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQESa-5i_Mwh2a2kI9UHnerrbF-CZ-GRjdDinthiJmxuoMLV4l28r6YEmgKc_CCDvF8CS8-0-htcg9vqDU85f0KxdOynLNF1zG_8C8LtqG6VhwkSxr5-NHHlBon_Um3zVickvTMGU0szll/s1600/Ramayana+at+Ellora+Caves%252C+India.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQESa-5i_Mwh2a2kI9UHnerrbF-CZ-GRjdDinthiJmxuoMLV4l28r6YEmgKc_CCDvF8CS8-0-htcg9vqDU85f0KxdOynLNF1zG_8C8LtqG6VhwkSxr5-NHHlBon_Um3zVickvTMGU0szll/s640/Ramayana+at+Ellora+Caves%252C+India.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
Here you can see the story of the Ramayana carved into stone at the caves of Ellora, in India. The current academic consensus is that the oldest documented version of the Ramayana was written in either 5th or 4th century BC, but most spiritual masters refer to the story as though it happened a very long time before that. "Ramayana" means "Rama's Journey." It chronicles the exciting life of Prince Rama, his wife Sita and brother Lakshmana, and is one of the most famous of all Indian stories, along with the Mahabharata. I'm surprised Disney has never animated it, comprising as it does treacherous relatives, an unjust banishment, a wicked demon kidnapping the Princess Sita, an arduous journey and an all-out battle involving magic, widespread personal sacrifice and at least one resurrection. Plus endless talking monkeys, bears and squirrels.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTz9CulhqfooL2LomyYn-w3QmKpPInkJ5pcmzKNwOdV1Esc0TqIJCRTzOa01s209epW3RqVcKbFt4assQm2J8YEHC7lGBXpPq8C7fk2VXAU0wW5SHBnuvH5IgLQkYK_Tci9jHsgPWUQPzK/s1600/divali+lamp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="408" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTz9CulhqfooL2LomyYn-w3QmKpPInkJ5pcmzKNwOdV1Esc0TqIJCRTzOa01s209epW3RqVcKbFt4assQm2J8YEHC7lGBXpPq8C7fk2VXAU0wW5SHBnuvH5IgLQkYK_Tci9jHsgPWUQPzK/s640/divali+lamp.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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The Hindu festival of Divali, a real festival of lights, which started yesterday and lasts for five days, celebrates Rama and Sita returning to their rightful kingdom; exhausted, I'm sure. We would call it a fairy-tale, but in India it is spoken of as history, and in such a country, who knows? It was supposed to take place not in the golden age but in the time that followed it, when society had fallen considerably; though not as considerably as today. At that time, magical powers were commonplace and weird beasts lurked round every corner; even the air was different. To the Hindus, the Rama of the Ramayana is not just a prince, but a spiritual master, the first of the Indian Avatars; a word that means "descent"; in this case the descent of a very special soul from the highest inner worlds, with a particular mission to fulfil on earth. His life demonstrates the concept of morality and duty above all other considerations, and millions of Hindus pray to him for protection and illumination. His faithful companion, Hanuman, the monkey hero, embodies the ideal devotee who is completely devoted and dedicated to his master's wishes. Or they are a great warrior and a friendly talking monkey, depending on your point of view! The main thing is that it's a completely great story, on every level.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE9YTquuqyNZBvbKjwylGUNgcJwNN-4jt4SnJLJzkZsSzz4SkKVS1FZ6_WdpTTuKl6wiA3Xz-0OW0l9Qqaoa_xznI4eNJWqTYP7JXry13-L1kmKOQGrgpfkk7C-vuX9YFymLiwISTWsPZm/s1600/The+Ramayana+clock+%252798.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="381" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE9YTquuqyNZBvbKjwylGUNgcJwNN-4jt4SnJLJzkZsSzz4SkKVS1FZ6_WdpTTuKl6wiA3Xz-0OW0l9Qqaoa_xznI4eNJWqTYP7JXry13-L1kmKOQGrgpfkk7C-vuX9YFymLiwISTWsPZm/s400/The+Ramayana+clock+%252798.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Ramayana Clock, designed by Brookbrae, illustrated by Hita Hirons.</td></tr>
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The Ramayana Clock was born about ten years ago when my friends, Tirthika and Suruchi, who own a company called <a href="http://www.brookbrae.com/">Brookbrae</a>, phoned me up and said they had something interesting for me to illustrate. They design, produce, and fit fountains, sculptures, sun dials, giant clocks; lots of different things. Sometimes their clients are big businesses and sometimes it is a private commission, but everything they do is interesting and unusual. On this occasion, an Indian gentleman in Leicester had asked them to create an heirloom for his family. He wanted it to reflect the land of his birth and to instruct, but also delight, his children. He remembered the clock-tower in his home village in India where everyone would gather to tell stories, and that gave him the idea for this storytelling clock. On brass inlaid on a smooth wooden surface was to be etched the immortal message of the Gayatri mantra, and a little window was left through which another face, turned by the same mechanism as the hour hand, could be seen telling the story of the Ramayana in miniature. The little window was just 10cmx4cmx7cm; each wedge-shaped picture had to measure the same and be painted onto the metal disc that rotated behind the clockface.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL7NoOicpW2jxNqkCbJkiRPGNNzauC8vLhjgrnsAf_FiGgjtwFe9h1AEWoS4V6RMTO2uqr78dda8g29FoC2cEy0HaOfaYB_Ph8iQcDJCyYVwNYL0TqpTxoD9bNd-4Q_gkW9NMH8dDN9f5G/s1600/The+Ramayana+-+originals+painted+onto+metal.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL7NoOicpW2jxNqkCbJkiRPGNNzauC8vLhjgrnsAf_FiGgjtwFe9h1AEWoS4V6RMTO2uqr78dda8g29FoC2cEy0HaOfaYB_Ph8iQcDJCyYVwNYL0TqpTxoD9bNd-4Q_gkW9NMH8dDN9f5G/s640/The+Ramayana+-+originals+painted+onto+metal.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
Here you can see the metal plate before they fixed it into the clock.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB7DdlCCxXhs2vkX9Smesxjdks1iugwhisrj9YL-GYFOLdPNL-Jr12icywu9pKjJramP0V0_awh8EgsImtS3ot94xZMgbtRzF3DrpGTlvbS6L7Izv-2jBSvwGJmMxUM1ihmjDb0tLxoVtR/s1600/The+Ramayana+Clock%252C+imagination-chariot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB7DdlCCxXhs2vkX9Smesxjdks1iugwhisrj9YL-GYFOLdPNL-Jr12icywu9pKjJramP0V0_awh8EgsImtS3ot94xZMgbtRzF3DrpGTlvbS6L7Izv-2jBSvwGJmMxUM1ihmjDb0tLxoVtR/s640/The+Ramayana+Clock%252C+imagination-chariot.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sita in Ravana's Garden, Building the Bridge, Over the Bridge to Lanka</td></tr>
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These are some of my favourite images from the clock. When I accepted the commission I had no idea what style I would work in. At that time planning was not part of my process, so I just slapped some metalwork undercoat around the edge of the wheel, divided it into seventeen windows (the maximum I felt I could squeeze out of the space allotted me, as well as being a prime number) and started on the first picture with oil paint, as I thought it would be more durable than acrylic.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgFA9lvI7A10PEk1Okre1-j5f1XkCP2jbY5A8l0G3BfpfrDPAz4QnFk5srvjIM9PLfSmvvcf24k4cOYPGv95-ElRdcGugfA2z-CMETxazQ9W3U9YJw5WiyPoMZurl4pfKt_CYBqk43jx8l/s1600/The+Ramayana+Clock3+imagination-chariot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgFA9lvI7A10PEk1Okre1-j5f1XkCP2jbY5A8l0G3BfpfrDPAz4QnFk5srvjIM9PLfSmvvcf24k4cOYPGv95-ElRdcGugfA2z-CMETxazQ9W3U9YJw5WiyPoMZurl4pfKt_CYBqk43jx8l/s640/The+Ramayana+Clock3+imagination-chariot.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Golden Deer, The Abduction, The Handkerchief</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">I didn't draw any roughs or outlines in pencil, I just painted straight onto the metal; my illustration tutors would have despaired! I didn't want the pictures to be completely separate, but to run into each other, so that at all times something interesting could be seen, and I decided to start and finish the story using the device of a pillar. It was hard to squash everything into such a tiny space but somehow it came together. The colours came out of nowhere; I had never done anything remotely like it before. Working so small I wanted everything to jump out with a lot of energy and maybe that is where the vivid colours came from. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggUZYEOekPyUfEqoiIzrJ_vsZ2aCfK99wUcAu9NWoA1PZDvo3Vmn9MK9DPzT9ENIfE3foisUVlX8c_uY09FNEnTmsD61fNy8ElDDtOg7LZtGBolL5QvXgkGyUm9nQREHNX122VDQBqyNQJ/s1600/The+Ramayana+-+originals+painted+onto+metal.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5J2rCsZYylavkvGAw_PrsZQ_Th6qeRMe8wvrMdH47-8Ke0VAT1jIQ6qpsqCY05EQFZbPFGUhp7N7oThKBr6hN_qZ4o8KoVi0vywEbAToNwMISOsKksNZlHEFgbFiwm4DhODrm0H3Y8sMm/s1600/The+Ramayana+Clock2+imagination-chariot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5J2rCsZYylavkvGAw_PrsZQ_Th6qeRMe8wvrMdH47-8Ke0VAT1jIQ6qpsqCY05EQFZbPFGUhp7N7oThKBr6hN_qZ4o8KoVi0vywEbAToNwMISOsKksNZlHEFgbFiwm4DhODrm0H3Y8sMm/s640/The+Ramayana+Clock2+imagination-chariot.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Handkerchief, Hanuman Leaps to Lanka, Sita in Ravana's Garden</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">My favourite picture is Hanuman jumping across the sea to Sri Lanka, but the pictures work well as a set and I am happy to have them in an A4 format (well, 8"x12") for the first time, on sale at <a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/84426382/hanuman-leaps-to-lanka-the-ramayana">Etsy.</a> I have some more plans for them; for instance I will be printing them as greetings cards soon, and I would also like to make a Ramayana colouring book so that younger readers can make their own decisions on important matters, like exactly what colour Sita's dress is etc.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So, anyway, that's the story; a very Happy Divali to all lovers of Indian things, everywhere!</div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i></i><br />
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<i><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div align="JUSTIFY" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div></div></div></div></i></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01358941909845054941noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5855016405968861999.post-53445517445528624772011-10-23T08:27:00.000+01:002011-10-23T08:27:37.914+01:00Further evidence of Autumn<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg25xqbtxXJ00DDeRmufTrYQaC_IVuwLC2jx3-tbQKJ39XMZ-jFyA9Sbsa4jB-ZODBH6R8W0qVoXFlPZURpv8Tc7JtaCdlvWkOEKfxwolq-774Pk97ezSpyQ-nrbaQhyedJEGXj9mMi8VVF/s1600/P1020044.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg25xqbtxXJ00DDeRmufTrYQaC_IVuwLC2jx3-tbQKJ39XMZ-jFyA9Sbsa4jB-ZODBH6R8W0qVoXFlPZURpv8Tc7JtaCdlvWkOEKfxwolq-774Pk97ezSpyQ-nrbaQhyedJEGXj9mMi8VVF/s640/P1020044.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">We drove to the Canal du Midi to do some serious biking together, but I knew I would never keep up. Padmasini's manic enthusiasm and Celena's otherworldly energy make them perfect biking partners and it is my special role to trail behind as their happy but hopeless side-kick. I watched them speed into the distance in a cloud of dust and then got down to business taking photos of all things autumny. I knew I was being rewarded for my lethargy when I saw these huge fungi, each bigger than a serving dish.<br />
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</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVXLHReoio1P2gPt9-A_gMB3_XUZOkZhXuatMj4t3Zf7COKs7B8UepKAD6JDqeA5As9PENPKG_oaF2eWdxchh1nGxtAZ4_RalCmgcafQ9VuPqCMIhDisK9iYdk0vjRFZmNhkXphlOiRG_P/s1600/P1020063.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVXLHReoio1P2gPt9-A_gMB3_XUZOkZhXuatMj4t3Zf7COKs7B8UepKAD6JDqeA5As9PENPKG_oaF2eWdxchh1nGxtAZ4_RalCmgcafQ9VuPqCMIhDisK9iYdk0vjRFZmNhkXphlOiRG_P/s640/P1020063.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times-Roman, serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times-Roman, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black; font-family: Times-Roman, serif;">I was trying not to keep stopping; when you are posing as a proper biker you cannot have a family with small children on their first bikes repeatedly overtaking you, as was happening to me, but in the end I decided that getting these photos was worth the humiliation. The habit of jumping on and off my bike can probably be blamed on Royal Mail, Cambridge; I did one year sorting letters on night shift and another doing deliveries in the morning. Posties have to jump on and off their bikes hundreds of times each day, and what is a real effort at first soon becomes second nature, as does wearing shorts in the snow and cornering passers-by to lecture them on any topic that occurs to you. You can get really fit as a postie, and in fact many of them are ex-army, ex-navy guys or serious runners who want to be paid for getting several hours exercise a day. The level of machismo there can be a bit wearing and you have to filter out 90% of their conversation if you are female, but they are a cheerful lot, by and large, especially the older guys on night shift who have lots of stories and can be very entertaining. Sadly, I don't remember many of their stories as night-work doesn't suit me and I was barely awake for most of it. The only thing I vaguely recollect concerns a nice quiet guy nearing retirement age who decides that what other posties only dream about, he will accomplish; once a week he goes home ridiculously early for no apparent reason. After a time, complaints about lost letters on his walk filter through to head office, reach a critical mass and Royal Mail is forced to investigate. Somehow they are inspired to dig up his garden and they find all his undelivered letters buried there. The guy pleads depression, completely gets away with it and the story passes into legend. I wondered whether Management realised how easily the idea could occur to anyone and invented the story themselves as a preventative measure, "It's already been done, don't bother."</span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times-Roman, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black; font-family: Times-Roman, serif;"><br />
</span></span></span></div></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhimtXhH8ISyRSPKzPWy86E7zMZ_Qo4mFWVVDSibuuJu89RhlgOhJ_MDZbi6PG4jOoYisxP2kG_d9n8Ov2P0lWjE_3TWWOQNc2oEeQyrVjbIADYqdBDy6EenmiHL7E9839KrDhtLxVErWKG/s1600/P1020073.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhimtXhH8ISyRSPKzPWy86E7zMZ_Qo4mFWVVDSibuuJu89RhlgOhJ_MDZbi6PG4jOoYisxP2kG_d9n8Ov2P0lWjE_3TWWOQNc2oEeQyrVjbIADYqdBDy6EenmiHL7E9839KrDhtLxVErWKG/s640/P1020073.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This is the Canal du Midi, constructed in the 17th Century, which along with the Canal de Garonne links the Atlantic to the Mediterranean, and is called the Canal des Deux Mers, or the Canal of Two Seas. The previous trading route had to go all the way around Spain, so although it took nearly fifteen years to build it spared each voyager the perils of shipwreck, Spanish pirates, and seasickness. The hydraulics involved in such a long canal were way beyond the engineers of the time, who had honed their craft on fortresses, and there is an unusual story associated with the construction. Some peasant women from the Roman Baths in the Pyrenees had been hired to shift dirt from one of the canals, but their supervisors soon realised that because of the long hydraulic tradition in the Pyrenees, the women's knowledge of water-work far surpassed their own. These women then designed the canal through the mountains near Bezier, using very few locks, and built the eight-lock staircase at Fonserannes. I was really surprised to hear that their supervisors gave them the credit for this; they could easily have claimed it for themselves, as was often the case at that time.<br />
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<div class="" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">I will never get tired of seeing so many horses everywhere. I particularly love the skewbald ones that the Americans call "pinto"; that is, a horse of any colour other than black, with white patches on it, in some cases nearly all white. My father liked to play the guitar, and I can remember him singing me this American song about a famous skewbald horse: </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><i>"Stewball was a good horse</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><i>He wore a high head </i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><i>And the mane on his foretop </i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><i>Was as fine as silk thread.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><i>I rode him in England</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><i>I rode him in Spain</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><i>He never did lose, boys,</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><i>He always did gain."</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">I haven't heard it for thirty years or so! I suspect he got it from this Joan Baez songbook as I remember it kicking about for a bit. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><br />
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</tbody></table><div>Other favourites were, "Where have all the flowers gone?" and "Last night I had the strangest dream." And of course, "How many roads must a man walk down?" My parents were both complete hippies at heart, though the healthy kind rather than the other. More about them at some other point... Now is not the time to go into the upbringing that created Tom Hirons and I. A blog-entry would not suffice. An autobiographical novel would not suffice. Possibly a mini-series would suffice, if you could find a demographic that enjoyed equally Days of Our Lives and The Good Life. Let me just say that because of the wholesome nature of our household, one of my most dearly cherished dreams as a child was to persuade my mother to buy a soda-stream. For those of you who didn't grow up in Seventies England, a soda-stream is a machine with which you can make poisonous, phosphorescent fizzy drinks. You would no more have found one in our house than you would find, say, a slice of white bread, a TV or anything with sugar in it. It was actually my own fault; my mother was trying to find things that I wasn't allergic to and sugar really didn't seem to help. Strangely enough, now, after years of eating badly due to my complete lack of interest in food preparation, I am eating so well at the restaurant I work in, Tripti Kulai, that the craving for sugar has reduced and my diet is very close to what it was when I was little. The girls here are good at passing on their enthusiasm and I have been initiated, once and for all, into the noble art of cooking. They even praise my pastry! I am not worthy... Although we do deal with creme fraiche and sugar, we make sure to offer a lot of things that are without gluten, dairy or sugar, and these taste delicious too.<br />
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</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcYEfgt2HIOsgyyfkbh4vyXXsfBeNavB07LSyjSTJLLkhC4iACDQS6A57DxKovDgjwny7__AiVh9ENCDfsAPsVPzxQlvE1yVvizMWSJ_zvBlxsP1hKrLWZMfRovbePy00ufa94UfeJRsaM/s1600/P1020072.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcYEfgt2HIOsgyyfkbh4vyXXsfBeNavB07LSyjSTJLLkhC4iACDQS6A57DxKovDgjwny7__AiVh9ENCDfsAPsVPzxQlvE1yVvizMWSJ_zvBlxsP1hKrLWZMfRovbePy00ufa94UfeJRsaM/s640/P1020072.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">This vegetable patch by the cycle path reminded me of one of the gardens we had when I was little; the sea of cauliflowers and apple tree, especially. Although this looks much neater.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I realised the seasons really had changed the other night when I was woken by the sound of the wind breaking the glass in a neighbour's window. It was the Mistral, howling like an an untalented teenage band or a ferocious beast, but apparently it was only a little taster session of what we're in for later on. The custodian of my apartment treated me to a lengthy description of the upcoming weather, in French that I could barely understand but supplemented with lots of gestures. "Three hundred days of sunshine," he warned me, "but nobody tells you about the other sixty." It is going to be merely horrible, apparently, for December, but come January we will really see the Mistral kick in, with weeks of unrelenting, brain numbing and freezing wind. The only silver lining is that the Mistral blows away clouds and the sky is very clear at that time. In Provence, just next to us, the Mistral allows you to see mountains 150 kilometres away that are not normally visible at that distance. To offset this good news, there also exists a 'Mistral Noir' that brings clouds and rain... My friends tell me he is exaggerating and that Provence gets the worst of it, so now I don't know who to believe.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwdZxzpqOkfVpOj8JPWBiJex_RWQS9on3U3DB4xv47uuOV5djDJ4AGEzh_lrxtmFHFo_dEuzpWH22TzEqA0I9NPSblCLXsd4BcsXyCeyGLVw2o4gr1BoGORwXMOH17bDtIAGOD0zHf4SUk/s1600/P1020099.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwdZxzpqOkfVpOj8JPWBiJex_RWQS9on3U3DB4xv47uuOV5djDJ4AGEzh_lrxtmFHFo_dEuzpWH22TzEqA0I9NPSblCLXsd4BcsXyCeyGLVw2o4gr1BoGORwXMOH17bDtIAGOD0zHf4SUk/s640/P1020099.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Here you can see a junior Mistral ruffling the plumage of a bush. I noticed that when the wind occasionally stopped, the trees and plants stayed in nearly the same position, as though they were still compelled by it's force, so they must grow up wincing in anticipation of it's arrival each year. One of my favourite books, "A Year in Provence", has this to say about the Mistral:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><i>"We drove home, warm and well-fed, making bets on how soon we could take the first swim of the year, and feeling a smug sympathy for those poor souls in harsher climates who had to suffer real winters.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><i>"Meanwhile, a thousand miles to the north, the wind that had started in Siberia was picking up speed for the final part of its journey. We had heard stories about the Mistral. It drove people, and animals, mad. It was an extenuating circumstance in crimes of violence. It blew for fifteen days on end, uprooting trees, overturning cars, smashing windows, tossing old ladies into the gutter, splintering telegraph poles, moaning through houses like a cold and baleful ghost, causing la grippe, domestic squabbles, absenteeism from work, toothache, migraine - every problem in Provence that couldn't be blamed on the politicians was the fault of the sacre vent which the Provencaux spoke about with a kind of masochistic pride.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><i>"Typical Gallic exaggeration, we thought. If they had to put up with the gales that come off the English Channel and bend the rain so that it hits you in the face almost horizontally, then they might know what a real winter was like. We listened to their stories and, to humour the tellers, pretended to be impressed.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><i>"And so we were poorly prepared when the first Mistral of the year came howling down the Rhone valley, turned left and smacked into the west side of the house with enough force to skim roof tiles into the swimming pool and rip a window that had carelessly been left open off its hinges. The temperature dropped 20 degrees in twenty-four hours. It went to zero, then six below. Readings taken in Marseilles showed a wind speed of 180 kilometres an hour. My wife was cooking in an overcoat. I was trying to type in gloves. We stopped talking about our first swim and thought wistfully about central heating."</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><i>January, A Year in Provence by Peter Mayle 1989</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrv1ZG6E-CqNUK1y62-Y7J6oa55Dq6lovCw7VH_MR-SLeooIq7LGaTT2FAJMl6-uquNgObsGR5xKNgD0gV2PcfJfokfSxpIzA7Gvk-r3SYYeMeK1v8LsKpRwbKY876g-TGXB3NBTQ2sRx6/s1600/P1020112.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrv1ZG6E-CqNUK1y62-Y7J6oa55Dq6lovCw7VH_MR-SLeooIq7LGaTT2FAJMl6-uquNgObsGR5xKNgD0gV2PcfJfokfSxpIzA7Gvk-r3SYYeMeK1v8LsKpRwbKY876g-TGXB3NBTQ2sRx6/s640/P1020112.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">As I sped past this little glen it seemed to glitter with promise; the kind of place you might fall asleep and get kidnapped by fairies. They would probably be of a cheerful disposition though, and would send you on your way with nourishing food and a map to guide you; not like the 'Little Folk' (I think 'Supernatural Mafia' would be a more appropriate euphemism here) that frequent lonely Scottish moors specifically to lure unwary travellers into their own world. Imagine the trauma of breaking out of fairyland only to discover that your credit card expired a hundred years ago...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc3ducqYyzI76spsD8Fum1Cm1XJyDNJeiB6aPIxLzLjEDfANjH2jDNR13Zo3gWJP5BfJA6TNHzi0QfoBYGOJfjH1OQVvSV4B6GJ_Bhx4bqCW_ZI0mH5_3C80cQbWVuTlTMCSYupuc3HjuD/s1600/P1020055.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc3ducqYyzI76spsD8Fum1Cm1XJyDNJeiB6aPIxLzLjEDfANjH2jDNR13Zo3gWJP5BfJA6TNHzi0QfoBYGOJfjH1OQVvSV4B6GJ_Bhx4bqCW_ZI0mH5_3C80cQbWVuTlTMCSYupuc3HjuD/s640/P1020055.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">This is the road home on which I nearly caught up with Padmasini and Celana.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMppSwjjfg9vGJQX5NsdtEUtMIXFOBgZq_sXbh-uQ4jTpeam2W0YjcpZi8vm50xiQq5aIiTiNa7CQBVCRlxmBxXf1YIrzS5rBmKSrrWb1u_IjUdANJVckZCJoKmgbtQN4HTW3eGmw2TELi/s1600/P1020087.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMppSwjjfg9vGJQX5NsdtEUtMIXFOBgZq_sXbh-uQ4jTpeam2W0YjcpZi8vm50xiQq5aIiTiNa7CQBVCRlxmBxXf1YIrzS5rBmKSrrWb1u_IjUdANJVckZCJoKmgbtQN4HTW3eGmw2TELi/s640/P1020087.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Extremely tempted to stop and lie down in this stuff.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjZSa2sPUf81qP-UNS5-nEFI14k9HZ7aq7X9mSmD9N5m9cMyhJc-dJHuH-YsFaJ2wPkyrAJs2D9p22M5c2qylFCst0KGXnW9wxLIsIiXg8uOSov3ELI5kgKarJVP2E8iRgiLU1pyJpLzWS/s1600/P1020081.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjZSa2sPUf81qP-UNS5-nEFI14k9HZ7aq7X9mSmD9N5m9cMyhJc-dJHuH-YsFaJ2wPkyrAJs2D9p22M5c2qylFCst0KGXnW9wxLIsIiXg8uOSov3ELI5kgKarJVP2E8iRgiLU1pyJpLzWS/s640/P1020081.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Effortlessly elegant scenes like this flashed past my eyes at every moment as I breathlessly hurtled past.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZnJj_dnxonl9pryVRTJjxbI_-h6FFZPN4NBYvnxA5zW02_mp3sLVvRhSQ_nXiq4yKLBc_-ynr-W0fCIfU8MUI-iQIP6iI67jvRj8f82sA2fIiKoVac5tmScfhK44yXbtxJje-roAW06QS/s1600/P1020094.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZnJj_dnxonl9pryVRTJjxbI_-h6FFZPN4NBYvnxA5zW02_mp3sLVvRhSQ_nXiq4yKLBc_-ynr-W0fCIfU8MUI-iQIP6iI67jvRj8f82sA2fIiKoVac5tmScfhK44yXbtxJje-roAW06QS/s640/P1020094.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Shady, wind-shaken pine trees; and as many pine cones as you could possibly want.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw-hZ6UgVw32khsQfsBs8dxh3UTx23OUnNVeAKlZtl5jOUssoSh34jx4VWkIcc0d2M7X-7yduY34klbJUTMLw_4wbgNYsOYqz7qMYrEONQx9mANUJZQJZPY1QFM3rmcirz2uP2HFy9zMVb/s1600/P1020105.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw-hZ6UgVw32khsQfsBs8dxh3UTx23OUnNVeAKlZtl5jOUssoSh34jx4VWkIcc0d2M7X-7yduY34klbJUTMLw_4wbgNYsOYqz7qMYrEONQx9mANUJZQJZPY1QFM3rmcirz2uP2HFy9zMVb/s640/P1020105.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">And the final, incontrovertible evidence of autumn; bales of hay. In Suffolk, my English home county, they make huge wheels of it, but these look a bit more manageable. Summer must have gone now... As it says in one of the Harvest Festival hymms at school: </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"Roses sweet petals shed</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Apples are turning red.</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Summer goodbye, Summer goodbye."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrv1ZG6E-CqNUK1y62-Y7J6oa55Dq6lovCw7VH_MR-SLeooIq7LGaTT2FAJMl6-uquNgObsGR5xKNgD0gV2PcfJfokfSxpIzA7Gvk-r3SYYeMeK1v8LsKpRwbKY876g-TGXB3NBTQ2sRx6/s1600/P1020112.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01358941909845054941noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5855016405968861999.post-74006075492436580292011-10-22T00:22:00.001+01:002016-03-23T15:54:27.727+00:00In praise of chariots<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Queen Jadis rides a London cab with style. Illustration<br />
by Pauline Baynes from "The Magician's Nephew" by C.S. Lewis</td></tr>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">A chariot is a vehicle travelling fast and light, often over unknown terrain; a lone traveller who may be on a scouting mission or just revelling in the joy of speed. A chariot is full of the spirit of adventure. Its wheels turn always toward the unknown. I originally wanted a flying carpet but my friends tell me I need to be more grounded, so a chariot it is.</span></i></span></i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">You can accessorise a chariot. For instance: an Indian chariot has a large parasol to shelter a passenger from the elements, making it possible to be both indoors and outdoors at the same time. If you want, you can fly a flag above the parasol. In the Mahabharata, Arjuna’s flag hosted the spirit of Hanuman the monkey hero and when the chariot speeded up you could hear the flag screaming in the wind to frighten his enemies. I don’t think I need to do that, but it’s a nice idea. Boadicea had viciously long knives strapped to her wheels, all the better to mow down Romans with: again, not strictly necessary. My own chariot will have many little bells on it so you will hear my approach from a distance, like a shimmering mist. Then anyone who wants to run away and hide will have ample warning!</span></i></span></i></div>
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Chariots can also be used for exercise. On campaign, Alexander the Great would ride alongside his men, jumping on and off his chariot constantly, like a hyperactive six year old. He did it to keep himself fit, but I imagine it also cheered his weary troops to see someone working harder than them. On one occasion when they had been marching through a desert for days, water had nearly run out and morale was at an all time low. The thirsty men collected together what was left of their water ration and presented it to Alexander in a helmet, but he poured it onto the sand in front of them, saying he would not drink when his men could not. They did find water fairly soon so it all worked out okay, and he became even more of a legend. Who knows whether his behaviour displayed clever management skills or a genuine concern for his men? Maybe both. My own chariot will be able to fly through the air or speed across the surface of the ocean, so it will not support that “one of the lads” image, but Alexander would still have liked it for the ostentatiously embossed metal armouring I intend to clutter the bodywork with.</div>
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Such a chariot will need the right kind of horses, possibly the kind you could steal from a Russian fairytale. For instance, in "The Firebird", a hunter called Ivan is trying to discover what is eating all the Tzar's best apples when he finds a brightly shining tail feather, ringed with flames. His horse (the kind you really need if you are to survive a story like that) warns him not to pick it up but, having no sense of self-preservation, he does. The horse then gets him out of every sticky situation he insists on getting himself into and upstages him completely, but Ivan is the one who gets all the credit.</div>
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Another useful mount would be the fire breathing chestnut coloured horse whose left ear you can climb into and right ear you can climb out of to be completely improved in looks, strength and personality. A poor boy (called Ivan again, I think) captured the heart of a princess and made his fortune by having this makeover. Such a horse could be a constant source of revenue at fairs, or in a booth at Covent Garden, perhaps.</div>
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Or, while I was in Russia, I could lie in wait for the three horses that herald the changing times of day. If you happen to be in the right place, and if you stay very still, you can see them pass: the white horse of dawn, the red horse of midday and the black horse of darkest midnight. Of course, they are already ridden by silent but rather grim looking horsemen so you would have your work cut out pilfering one.</div>
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I have considered Scheherazade’s one-of-a-kind mechanical flying horse that made off with an Arabian prince on a test run and then landed him in enemy territory facing a three month hike home, but you could never really trust such a thing. It did redeem itself later on and his journey was the cause of great good fortune in the end, but still…</div>
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In Greece, Helios and Selene used good old horses to draw the chariots of the sun and moon across the sky. Those horses sound perfect but their absence would be quickly noted and who wants the Greek gods on their tail? Helios and Selene sound fairly easygoing but they were later identified with Apollo and Artemis: enough said. </div>
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Other options present themselves. Why horses? Well, because anybody harnessing cats to their chariot would be very disappointed. I wondered briefly how many kittens you would have to use, as they are infinitely more loveable, but imagine parking a thousand kitten power chariot and feeding them and all that. It’s just not doable. To think nothing of the furballs. Griffins, winged lions as depicted in the Book of Kells, wolves or wild boar: the list is endless. A chariot pulled by a phoenix? Think of the health and safety implications. Flamingos? Too showy. And there’s no point looking to the Indian deities for guidance as they have even less discrimination than western gods. The goddess Durga has four lions pulling her chariot, the goddess Saraswati, swans, and Lakshmi lies on the back of a gigantic cobra called Shesha. I even saw a picture of the goddess Ganga on a crocodile. I ask you! </div>
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Dogs? Now, that is a distinct possibility. On the road into Cambridge from Trumpington I once saw a kind of bicycle-rickshaw thing pulled by two dogs. They were straining at the leash, their faces quivering with joy. The women riding the contraption was not even pedaling; she smiled at me as she thundered past, certain in the knowledge she had the city’s coolest ride. It made me want a dog, just so I could take it for runs tied to my bike. It’s not cruel to ask a dog to pull something: it gives it a chance to be important and elevates its status to the indispensability that all dogs long for. I suggested to my brother that he make a little cart for his dog Macha, so she can help him when he goes shopping, but he said she would run away with it and catching her could take hours. I think if he put heavy enough items in the cart or attached little brakes to the wheels like on the bottom of a large wheelie bin so she could be parked on the pavement outside, practising her resentful look, the problem would be solved, but he remains unconvinced.</div>
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And what about huskies? Hardier than horses in a cold climate, more intelligent than reindeer; should I wish to ride my chariot across the desolate wastes of Antarctica (with sledge attachments over its wheels, of course) a husky or eight would be just the thing.</div>
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There is much to consider. Perhaps our choice of steed gives some indication of our inner nature. If so, I suspect that my chariot will be pulled by a selection of creatures in a daily relay. It would be really exciting not to know what was going to pull you each day! I could probably handle the kittens for a short while, for example, or the wild boar, but not for too long. This way, each day could be a pleasant surprise. So I am starting my journey with whatever presents itself, fair or foul, heavy-duty or lightweight.<br />
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Forward, upward, inward! The imagination-chariot must be trusted to know how best to proceed; only then we can gallop (or slither or wing) toward our goal at full speed.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01358941909845054941noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5855016405968861999.post-65688881690104379722011-10-14T18:49:00.000+01:002011-10-16T23:34:57.117+01:00Of storks and snails<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9D4mzoilOBj7UoJdUZZbG-tySKzSQHAu2hq3P1zQ841Gf0N-ok7efaCirYfWhhdKUt8_eQiNbTyaob4R1K4REEzlIeHKu7-rg2SENBUllRL5QtgArlbxR0mmMOqR7jbqqiWgLLJknZ0MJ/s1600/DSC01554.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9D4mzoilOBj7UoJdUZZbG-tySKzSQHAu2hq3P1zQ841Gf0N-ok7efaCirYfWhhdKUt8_eQiNbTyaob4R1K4REEzlIeHKu7-rg2SENBUllRL5QtgArlbxR0mmMOqR7jbqqiWgLLJknZ0MJ/s400/DSC01554.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">It is called the Park of of Birds, but it should really be the Park of Snails. They were everywhere, congregating in clumps and attaching themselves to inhospitable looking plants. This strange, in-between place, where fresh water meets the sea, is definitely poised between two worlds; humidly marshy, as though you might disappear into quicksand if you ventured off the track, but with sudden blasts of fresh sea air. When it started to rain we heard frog voices all around, ribetting appreciatively, and because of the swampy feeling I couldn't help thinking of gumbo stews and what would go in them here! I am told that there are also eels, which are very nutritious and delicious I'm sure; I'm vegetarian so I don't really know... </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYNqrZstC89KjXhrT_nc6X7o3nXENVe2yiRXm5yFYKLuLgQMxBGKZSLDkyiJl0Cid_MPiUA5VLbg6bNZM9YQKAeQUaibWVgaU9prqsWhHrCINdxNNuKVrEMIl86IO3YaPB8VTQQb_haqR3/s1600/DSC01547.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYNqrZstC89KjXhrT_nc6X7o3nXENVe2yiRXm5yFYKLuLgQMxBGKZSLDkyiJl0Cid_MPiUA5VLbg6bNZM9YQKAeQUaibWVgaU9prqsWhHrCINdxNNuKVrEMIl86IO3YaPB8VTQQb_haqR3/s400/DSC01547.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="400" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">As we ran along a path of wooden slats with bamboo grass on either side, gekko lizards scurried out of our way and the local mosquitoes welcomed us as only they know how. Crossing one stream I saw many groups of fish gathered together, all pointing in the same direction, not swimming at all, as if they were queuing or assembled for some purpose other than that of daily life. A mystery, like many others, that will never be answered.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyiz2GKm-Jkls90FMzhO2emdRMRd8w0HokOhlJjUY67jXNxG1FRx02ZujWiR4veiBRMK9lhP09rRO71C9YgxxyiL4IHGBpY9DTcENkpjnx-7qzPRysNRpPfjcwWc7kF0ZHbx9tdFrrsvCb/s1600/DSC01543.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyiz2GKm-Jkls90FMzhO2emdRMRd8w0HokOhlJjUY67jXNxG1FRx02ZujWiR4veiBRMK9lhP09rRO71C9YgxxyiL4IHGBpY9DTcENkpjnx-7qzPRysNRpPfjcwWc7kF0ZHbx9tdFrrsvCb/s400/DSC01543.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="400" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">You may not immediately recognise these for what they are; manmade stork nests! I know that from the scale of the photo they could easily be mushrooms, but they seemed to be about a metre by a metre on top. They look a bit deserted at the moment, though. From far back people all around the world used to build nests for storks in their roofs to encourage them to hang around, as they were supposed to bring good luck. In some cultures they were even credited with possessing human souls! Whether that is true or not I couldn't say, but they seem to enjoy an excellent reputation everywhere. I would really like to see a stork chick, which is bound to be less elegant than it's parents, but is even more sweet I'm sure. Because of the good weather here I think they can probably have their chicks at many different times of the year, so maybe I will be lucky sooner rather than later.</div><br />
</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRZWucWWxBKLwz5mEwNHjQGsGvg3U09WuaAeX5Sr0XA2Pt7UTg3dE5gRtYlwjg0hcAytyUbS8bnH7AMciIPP8DVrTFm7AZUWt6mtT1IN6aCOh4YN7VOOP-BXyMZA5PpNPFvxOoDMd3LNwV/s1600/DSC01557.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRZWucWWxBKLwz5mEwNHjQGsGvg3U09WuaAeX5Sr0XA2Pt7UTg3dE5gRtYlwjg0hcAytyUbS8bnH7AMciIPP8DVrTFm7AZUWt6mtT1IN6aCOh4YN7VOOP-BXyMZA5PpNPFvxOoDMd3LNwV/s400/DSC01557.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">You are not allowed to get very close to the birds because it is a conservation area. My camera's zoom is not brilliant but you can just see some of the many storks, egrets and herons we found here, cavorting about in this little lake. I asked the girls if these storks brought babies to worthy French couples and they assured me that it still happens! Clever things.</div><br />
</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsvKgl3iZ40z-4rkMfOVzbbrLxAZVloa8r35rAbWdou-n0_Wb1HXPS1bChkMKFqpl4Z_NwzDzFQ5z9vnX5BXWzoVjNgBGxXBfferUnszJuwIDp6xLIl8oxozgQTHB_lez9pCyVyoNwjWdv/s1600/DSC01560.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsvKgl3iZ40z-4rkMfOVzbbrLxAZVloa8r35rAbWdou-n0_Wb1HXPS1bChkMKFqpl4Z_NwzDzFQ5z9vnX5BXWzoVjNgBGxXBfferUnszJuwIDp6xLIl8oxozgQTHB_lez9pCyVyoNwjWdv/s400/DSC01560.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">More storks, happily perched. There are few predators to harass them here; maybe foxes? In other parts of France, the Alps for instance, there are wolves, but I don't think there are any near Montpellier.<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN2Lke6CLexJwFhyphenhyphenJoY_OyLTKgtyyY6PjbeKGNFa4RisEx4n77Pn3iRJuVu6WqPPY-a8bfluzfsVyQT70tVqnK8rn2i1zRMoo5TFQgfmdgM37YOi3qdcfnSzMpwEXsBuyCpqKpuObnH-GW/s1600/DSC01569.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN2Lke6CLexJwFhyphenhyphenJoY_OyLTKgtyyY6PjbeKGNFa4RisEx4n77Pn3iRJuVu6WqPPY-a8bfluzfsVyQT70tVqnK8rn2i1zRMoo5TFQgfmdgM37YOi3qdcfnSzMpwEXsBuyCpqKpuObnH-GW/s400/DSC01569.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">White horses; after all, we are very near to the Petit Camargue. My brother suggested that it is called the Petit Camargue because everything is small; little white horses and little black bulls, dwarfed trees and so on, but strangely enough everything seems to be the right size. Nice idea though. I will come back again to see the storks and snails, but I might need to go further afield to find something that is one of the symbols of this region but I haven't seen yet, although I am told they are everywhere; flamingoes.</div><span id="goog_140222226"></span><span id="goog_140222227"></span><br />
<span id="goog_202745647"></span><span id="goog_202745648"></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01358941909845054941noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5855016405968861999.post-48200259779026949332011-10-01T23:42:00.000+01:002011-10-01T23:42:43.580+01:00On the edge of the seasons<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>A couple of weeks ago the sea here was unusually active, gushing frothily enthusiastic onto the beach like a pot boiling over or a few million tons of champagne. The locals blamed the upcoming equinox for this change and maybe rightly, as there was no wind at all and it returned to it's trademark glassy stillness the very next day, leaving no clue as to what had inspired the anomaly. Someone suggested that the moon was closer to the earth than normal and that was what was causing all the commotion, but actually, the moon was at it's farthest yearly point from the earth so that couldn't have been the case. Whatever the cause of it, something was up. There seemed to be a different attitude in the water itself, an extra mischievous joy. Each wave was topped by meringue-like foam that dispersed into what closely resembled a bubble-bath. I floated about in it for hours, re-living watery memories of my childhood holidays, many of which were in France. I made a big mermaid sculpture out of sand, with masses of flowing hair, like I used to, rolled backwards and forwards in the tide, like I used to, and realised that if I wanted to be on holiday permanently, I could do it here.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> * * *</div></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">The very next morning, the temperature dropped like a stone and the sunny hiking trip I had committed to when I thought we were still in the middle of summer looked set to be a game of icy wind and rain. The few people I saw outside on the streets had the haunted look the French always adopt when rain appears, sort of betrayed by nature, like in Day of the Triffids when everyone's gone blind and giant carnivorous plants are stalking humanity; that level of trauma. So what? I hear you cry. Well, I was determined to find out how a mediterranean Autumn differed from an English one, preferably with lots of photos of me overcome by the heat to irritate my friends and family back home, whereas it was the exact replica of a late-October day in Cambridge and not at all the kind of evidence I was looking for.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFJGRHjpObq1psXkdXAcXFJH2mc2m7-d6aHUBRppPBrmaM1sr4Jc53zlvyUg0RG2nZc0MiOejb-pY9wcGLKlcTOqZl5mf0yCrxw4PPUIbl_Fq1zGiuvQ-1AsTV5G1Q6AOVVStb8O8wHUDH/s1600/DSC01430.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFJGRHjpObq1psXkdXAcXFJH2mc2m7-d6aHUBRppPBrmaM1sr4Jc53zlvyUg0RG2nZc0MiOejb-pY9wcGLKlcTOqZl5mf0yCrxw4PPUIbl_Fq1zGiuvQ-1AsTV5G1Q6AOVVStb8O8wHUDH/s400/DSC01430.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">On the way to the pine forest we had decided to hike through I was told that because it was now Autumn and the hunting season was starting we might have a problem with drunken hunters. Hunters are supposed to aim upwards into the trees, but sometimes they are not so discerning after a liquid lunch. My friends said it was probably okay because one of us had a red t-shirt on; that would lessen the chance of our movements being mistaken for those of game, at least. Funnily enough, I had admired some bulletproof vests in the Montpellier branch of Decathlon a few days before, but not realising I would soon have a genuine need for one I had overcome the temptation and bought a swimsuit instead. It just goes to show that you should always listen to your intuition...</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy4A60l67hcw3s5azvbBN8yF2lUiGnBsMrJDdxYc5Cix7UXFx1xblJOjVTZVoCPZRoUbAfH1GSqgWMGwi0mbJk8FsjQdGjeZl8cCk4r04y30GXDAUVG4nnsEb7nhKmnhQTUKiFOndi5zpv/s1600/DSC01405.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy4A60l67hcw3s5azvbBN8yF2lUiGnBsMrJDdxYc5Cix7UXFx1xblJOjVTZVoCPZRoUbAfH1GSqgWMGwi0mbJk8FsjQdGjeZl8cCk4r04y30GXDAUVG4nnsEb7nhKmnhQTUKiFOndi5zpv/s400/DSC01405.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><u><br />
</u></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">Clustering around our red t-shirted colleague, we entered the pine forest. After walking for some time we passed through a little settlement and encountered this insanely friendly cat guarding a church there. I thought it might be part indigenous wild-cat, but it turned out to be English.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMWn_E3jeHmlefcZKuT6Y9YnJjMisOAfttMNYH7QGzE67Mo6D7oZ1mXAx1JcrMtPAuUHEF_akdmJhU-HsB-Hn15s86tgGaxEkTczX0PB6saMgdGEQIx33vVPzF29lKoBADgy7xNtMQzN1q/s1600/DSC01407.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMWn_E3jeHmlefcZKuT6Y9YnJjMisOAfttMNYH7QGzE67Mo6D7oZ1mXAx1JcrMtPAuUHEF_akdmJhU-HsB-Hn15s86tgGaxEkTczX0PB6saMgdGEQIx33vVPzF29lKoBADgy7xNtMQzN1q/s400/DSC01407.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">The forest floor was covered with pine cones that were so springy to walk on I fantasised about covering my sitting room floor with earth and bringing back a few hundred of them to create an interior forest look. I reasoned that I would soon be doing woodwork in there anyway, so having a lot of wood and earth around would create the right ambience, but I suppose that it is going to start raining at some point and that could get quite unpleasant. Still, I am thinking about it!</div></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJEhTnh2PhBCMInT-aI3jPCXgpbbXvdMSNvu6s9_7eDXS_NTVdA-ivsMAd5642i_-cczoHKYWAJ1nyhkfxqZNHvx-etI3pkosAT0skYewzEJzPMu3OsuCm2VLUyoMA9fFy-iWqPeQYG9u5/s1600/DSC01419.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJEhTnh2PhBCMInT-aI3jPCXgpbbXvdMSNvu6s9_7eDXS_NTVdA-ivsMAd5642i_-cczoHKYWAJ1nyhkfxqZNHvx-etI3pkosAT0skYewzEJzPMu3OsuCm2VLUyoMA9fFy-iWqPeQYG9u5/s400/DSC01419.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Amazing wavy pine trees worthy of a Chinese movie. Expected to see a couple of sword fighters wafting about on them, gently bending the top branches with their exertions, but didn't. Near to Montpellier there is a famous bamboo forest, so they are probably all there.</div></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXb7ykadvGkJEaYB-IUY1W_58XaGpNuyWCeDthn8Gz8IIGgMAXnb4ETpGkj4QYMYSU-D8wHfxlpk-QFmh5H2gHl7T7tVbrx9Lyo8y7uirzbBR4yoecmCgQRTBcSmFt6feu558YblBEClxl/s1600/DSC01449.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXb7ykadvGkJEaYB-IUY1W_58XaGpNuyWCeDthn8Gz8IIGgMAXnb4ETpGkj4QYMYSU-D8wHfxlpk-QFmh5H2gHl7T7tVbrx9Lyo8y7uirzbBR4yoecmCgQRTBcSmFt6feu558YblBEClxl/s400/DSC01449.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="400" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">These trees were actually growing out of the rock; I really don't know how they do that.</div></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQKjf7OsUEWsK_sBu7SpBmv-z0FSO0wJRfkvsTqSj3YJD5MHg4Ur-Q8jXnslhK8YagT7sub9EAMar0vb1iTD_MAuHPJOvvOFmfKxFbDpqVOKl8Yhjd_Vaei9uzKNpOtV9E8X3gkIPuv63z/s1600/DSC01418.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQKjf7OsUEWsK_sBu7SpBmv-z0FSO0wJRfkvsTqSj3YJD5MHg4Ur-Q8jXnslhK8YagT7sub9EAMar0vb1iTD_MAuHPJOvvOFmfKxFbDpqVOKl8Yhjd_Vaei9uzKNpOtV9E8X3gkIPuv63z/s400/DSC01418.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="400" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Rosehips, the aftermath of wild roses; used to make herb tea and syrup out of, just like in England.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNMw4T8KUcfTqYQR4KZUDCSGO5N-5Gh8mDqM4W_qUq5H0sQ33oTbUH2ruS_H7dinNhORTDOxNTJeTWrjxS8SUvLxfiht0lyJ4ozd7BPl6Cn_b8IVP51SK1rNNmWn67tClX-HKBzhgg7c6W/s1600/DSC01447.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNMw4T8KUcfTqYQR4KZUDCSGO5N-5Gh8mDqM4W_qUq5H0sQ33oTbUH2ruS_H7dinNhORTDOxNTJeTWrjxS8SUvLxfiht0lyJ4ozd7BPl6Cn_b8IVP51SK1rNNmWn67tClX-HKBzhgg7c6W/s400/DSC01447.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Nice dried flowers, no idea what they are. We left the pine forest and made our way through the surrounding countryside, stopping to gather fruit and herbs wherever possible.</div></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3AT0Yq4g01NnBDiC2s6I4rnldL2afCflJg_SqBXtU0hiFxdUUoOveA5dtIsXK0YDkbfZgAvAAqSHhWSmt5UQr5CT_LB8Tokjq8q5MtXK2lBMJv23pyuW0j_eq3U3qEoIfqrOEj8xVZd4Q/s1600/DSC01473.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3AT0Yq4g01NnBDiC2s6I4rnldL2afCflJg_SqBXtU0hiFxdUUoOveA5dtIsXK0YDkbfZgAvAAqSHhWSmt5UQr5CT_LB8Tokjq8q5MtXK2lBMJv23pyuW0j_eq3U3qEoIfqrOEj8xVZd4Q/s400/DSC01473.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="400" /></a></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Fennel! I'm sure it must grow in England somewhere but I've never seen it in the wild. One of my favourite herbs, and something we use a lot in Tripti Kulai, the restaurant I work in, where they insist on calling it 'fenouil'. I took some of this home and I've been eating it each day as it is completely delicious. Hopefully it really is fennel and not some hallucinogenic local delicacy.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsMhp1t_d1BiYmvkgA4-1TTzDsGOMpqrLJjeE2x3RNv3KRpi99Zy8HQuEhmRm40HzWFuq4IgqVWO8hgixnGhshNagFrsq9jBGyWO5lwpsI23V4DMTKKADHzIEceD5fZrCiODLO-EE6Hkrr/s1600/Sant+Privat%253F.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsMhp1t_d1BiYmvkgA4-1TTzDsGOMpqrLJjeE2x3RNv3KRpi99Zy8HQuEhmRm40HzWFuq4IgqVWO8hgixnGhshNagFrsq9jBGyWO5lwpsI23V4DMTKKADHzIEceD5fZrCiODLO-EE6Hkrr/s400/Sant+Privat%253F.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Beautiful village called Saint-Privat (I think).</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOIvXfKEkr6vLmYXIACY3r0eO339H8Z0Pe06yEFBmuMi-uJU1RJ4n_ptqKqj5HLFKQFUjLIlXB4LrFZoWkarbQucn8BSag83J0JnVkQB9EORxaS3RMUeRIszK6d9N6zUI3szH9Q1_NMXDX/s1600/DSC01458.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOIvXfKEkr6vLmYXIACY3r0eO339H8Z0Pe06yEFBmuMi-uJU1RJ4n_ptqKqj5HLFKQFUjLIlXB4LrFZoWkarbQucn8BSag83J0JnVkQB9EORxaS3RMUeRIszK6d9N6zUI3szH9Q1_NMXDX/s400/DSC01458.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I've noticed that vegetation here has a faintly tough look, as though it is ready for whatever life throws at it, in contrast to the Italian landscape that always looks like butter wouldn't melt in it's mouth.</div></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg17wBaCtAxmtGPVZcOIhvbQ3Qw7fyEYcoMnVA0MzNj9OqNYVUZZISnjzd__OP5z8WUgnRr81NIRRJNsjjN7MlyLtH3-bU2qhzvp1clOsdb0rmR7rRRVCNDDpf4yNECsECmHPADVUNcVsz5/s1600/DSC01481.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg17wBaCtAxmtGPVZcOIhvbQ3Qw7fyEYcoMnVA0MzNj9OqNYVUZZISnjzd__OP5z8WUgnRr81NIRRJNsjjN7MlyLtH3-bU2qhzvp1clOsdb0rmR7rRRVCNDDpf4yNECsECmHPADVUNcVsz5/s400/DSC01481.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="400" /></a></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
Lovely olives! I can't be the only person who thought that olive trees yielded either black or green olives, can I? My friends had a good laugh about this, in their tactful gallic way, and then explained that it is the treatment of the olive that determines it's colour. On the way home, we interrupted a householder's siesta to buy fresh olives, and some were given to me in order to educate my palate. They were fruity, delicious and superior; predictably.</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivb18v1-9DkoRloEtvS4QZt3PpLhoo8Q2mPEeoAFR3DZULXAdWV8ejJB-ixkWGUWZlk0KTmjchcdmBbkN_lDustNn3BAw_xxI6Iio8cf5h_-ROwPOej_EBpm3LhlEHgVEERFTF2fZ3lOt_/s1600/DSC01480.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivb18v1-9DkoRloEtvS4QZt3PpLhoo8Q2mPEeoAFR3DZULXAdWV8ejJB-ixkWGUWZlk0KTmjchcdmBbkN_lDustNn3BAw_xxI6Iio8cf5h_-ROwPOej_EBpm3LhlEHgVEERFTF2fZ3lOt_/s400/DSC01480.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">My landlady in England grows very good figs. She says figs like arid conditions, which means I have been wrong all this time and Cambridge is not the rainy place I thought it was. These figs were quite little in comparison to some I have seen, but very potent, and both fruit and leaves carried the scent of aniseed.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0LGcshSnps5vGqTraOiA3TINrlI4lRXcQKGA_q2ynpzyEiIR8P6Pe6F0K2jg6dOWmRULmJGy6Jaf7Acrwlbbft-GJA0RdPoAbyvh7tSPK_4LCVFuJZr1zQ9Xk5EC5NX3Exfk4sz_62nr5/s1600/abbey.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0LGcshSnps5vGqTraOiA3TINrlI4lRXcQKGA_q2ynpzyEiIR8P6Pe6F0K2jg6dOWmRULmJGy6Jaf7Acrwlbbft-GJA0RdPoAbyvh7tSPK_4LCVFuJZr1zQ9Xk5EC5NX3Exfk4sz_62nr5/s400/abbey.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="400" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">The Priory of Grammont peeping up through the trees.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY6LtXWyHyYNtOUSJan9Te58X_DKp8VAoyJMn-AHzcOhLn3oHt2cIw8oDcBYhNb7zo7QUPusE9ge6nPWrZwXoSPHGDC0epp5AYTzS8iI1CjnlMUaLxkz36cspbxEnwnZZ8n73-0HCuostc/s1600/goat.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY6LtXWyHyYNtOUSJan9Te58X_DKp8VAoyJMn-AHzcOhLn3oHt2cIw8oDcBYhNb7zo7QUPusE9ge6nPWrZwXoSPHGDC0epp5AYTzS8iI1CjnlMUaLxkz36cspbxEnwnZZ8n73-0HCuostc/s400/goat.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">A goat we found in the grounds of the Priory that I liked very much.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUW5iAROH3J4wrRQbMfHaUp0WI3tKE0tvJLw-KOAQv5RB843lNOl_GOVzfgS4_FVXQVMlvM951jiojo6zVZPCn0TmVZT54_mbA0Qg6psuDh2c-ZPUfr-vRAt5bYYDHisLfrCtwUvDBG6mu/s1600/DSC01459.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUW5iAROH3J4wrRQbMfHaUp0WI3tKE0tvJLw-KOAQv5RB843lNOl_GOVzfgS4_FVXQVMlvM951jiojo6zVZPCn0TmVZT54_mbA0Qg6psuDh2c-ZPUfr-vRAt5bYYDHisLfrCtwUvDBG6mu/s400/DSC01459.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Although it could be a kind of guinea pig, I'm not sure...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY9LLPm8bNtS9bAJQdaft2wpFh-XS4W9H-6d6-MjEkS9_PO0unYW-HAiJ-oAsnE53YNENXwVCKE7nbHUndEkYsAdD8bYiJV2Un4W4tp4CS7lntp8oq3_tC-6F51jLFH0nl3DRv1wlvYulM/s1600/DSC01499.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY9LLPm8bNtS9bAJQdaft2wpFh-XS4W9H-6d6-MjEkS9_PO0unYW-HAiJ-oAsnE53YNENXwVCKE7nbHUndEkYsAdD8bYiJV2Un4W4tp4CS7lntp8oq3_tC-6F51jLFH0nl3DRv1wlvYulM/s400/DSC01499.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="400" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">There were grapes in abundance along the road, and these were very sweet and strong. Apparently there is a first yield and then there is a second, smaller wave that most farmers don't bother with because there are not enough grapes to justify the labour, and these just hang around waiting for people to pick them. I think that these must have been from the first, forbidden harvest, which made them even better!</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> * * *</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">The day was not as cold as it had threatened and we were only moderately chilled when we headed back to Montpellier. I actually only heard one rifle shot the whole day, and that was as we were leaving the pine forest; I think the hunting season may be just starting now. <br />
<br />
Perhaps I will go back to Decathlon for the bulletproof vest before our next hike.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div></div></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01358941909845054941noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5855016405968861999.post-6184109886243340682011-09-30T22:59:00.000+01:002011-09-30T23:17:41.050+01:00I have not said enough of moonlight<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_cWpwJrXJulkSJJIxWWrxvZsSdatiyyyp46N7ieds5HUJ9y2JPoWoD8pf-douSLOKfD1WJRLEphkkjPfU63NO6PYwZJNHluSx9PmgyYqghh85pyh0-kIVXsdWvrdQIOP4xkzKNUY-d49k/s1600/DSC01433.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_cWpwJrXJulkSJJIxWWrxvZsSdatiyyyp46N7ieds5HUJ9y2JPoWoD8pf-douSLOKfD1WJRLEphkkjPfU63NO6PYwZJNHluSx9PmgyYqghh85pyh0-kIVXsdWvrdQIOP4xkzKNUY-d49k/s400/DSC01433.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br />
"<i>Sixty-six times have these eyes of mine perceived </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>The changing scenes of autumn.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I have said enough of moonlight, ask me no more;</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Only listen to the voice of pines and cedars when no wind stirs.</i>"</div><div style="text-align: right;">Ryonen, Zen nun in 1863 </div><div style="text-align: right;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I have actually only seen the changing scenes of autumn forty-one times so far but I, like millions before me, see the world with Ryonen's own eyes through this, one of her last poems. I read this translation, I have no idea in what book, when I was eighteen and had just started practicing spiritual discipline. It seemed to me then that I still had a lot to say about moonlight, but I mentally reserved the right to have said enough of it at some point as well, especially if I could commemorate the transition with a poem like that. </div></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Her words came back to me this morning as I was thinking about my brother's latest blog <a href="http://coyopa.blogspot.com/2011/09/black-mountain-river.html">(Black Mountain River - poem by Tom Hirons at coyopa.blogspot.com)</a> and considering the various different merits of expressing a moment in words, pictures or silent meditation. There is something very meditative about the flow of his poem, (I actually couldn't resist trying to put it to music) and it made me consider the many millions of moments of inspiration that occur during meditation; some progressing on to be manifested in a further act of art and some to be lovingly stored, pristine, in the great silence itself. I imagine a giant pile of blissfully inspirational moments and myself lying, Smaug-like, on top of them. I can never consider them wasted moments, as they are still part of me and constitute a large part of my current consciousness, but they are an invisible hoard, and so cannot be enjoyed by others in the same way as a poem, a piece of art or a song. We often have to choose between adding to that silent treasure and the actual expression of an idea. I once waited a long time for a friend to finish a race just so that I could take a photo, and then when I saw the look on their face as they crossed the finish line I had to see it and remember it rather than separating myself from it with the lens of a camera. I still have the image in my memory; it's probably not the same image, as we tend to elaborate and then we end up invoking the memory of a memory of a memory, but when I feel it with my heart I get the same smiling experience I did in those original seconds. I have some photographs that meant a lot to me at the time I took them but that I have grown away from over the years; this image has grown with me as I change and so it is still good for me.</div></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify;">"I step into the water, leaving Summer's gold and laughter, like a man baptised into a luminous darkness."</div></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify;">He describes the change of pace from one state to another, and suggests that the dark river of autumn is a blessed place of stillness, introspection and regeneration, rather than a slippery slope towards the end of days, as it often seems to me. I have to admit that instead of using it as a time for reflection on and celebration of the fruits of Mother Nature, I usually experience it in it's aspect of penultimateness (if there is such a word) and it's promise that ice, oblivion and death will be coming soon. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Now that I am living in a mediterranean climate, however, (yes, yes, I promise not to go on about it) I may have to revise my seasonal uneasiness. As I was splashing about in the sea the other day and watching children playing with kites on the beach, I thought I might be able to get to grips with Autumn here. The perimeter is smaller, the sense of martyrdom and suffering pretty much nil, and if you are lucky, and a little bit brave, you can still be in the sea until the end of November. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Is Autumn in the south of France the ushering in of the next Ice Age and the beginning of the end? Or simply an extension of the icecream season and a reminder to don shorts and t-shirt instead of swimwear... In the next few weeks I will be endeavouring to answer this question.</div></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"></div></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01358941909845054941noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5855016405968861999.post-8426898673543150822011-07-14T00:51:00.000+01:002011-07-14T00:51:35.539+01:00Homeland<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCLEtkzB4t_9iyobpU7YvAuJzZyBz0-uiLpnfess2JdNKRamXZTunvUnwiSgP1LUBc7XxDDL7sJC9SLgPiHjbUHgCtS8u2_NBGNSafzmhKY_CSmsWru_tuZEVB8opSuU_B8x2jpklWPBLb/s1600/2+BLOG+waterbug+600dpi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCLEtkzB4t_9iyobpU7YvAuJzZyBz0-uiLpnfess2JdNKRamXZTunvUnwiSgP1LUBc7XxDDL7sJC9SLgPiHjbUHgCtS8u2_NBGNSafzmhKY_CSmsWru_tuZEVB8opSuU_B8x2jpklWPBLb/s400/2+BLOG+waterbug+600dpi.jpg" width="258" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
"<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Before the world, there was only the sea, and the high, bright sky arched above it like an overturned bowl.</i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> "For as many years as anyone can imagine, the people in the stars looked down at the ocean’s glittering face without giving a thought to what it was, or what might lie beneath it. They had their own concerns. But as more time passed, as is natural, they began to grow curious. Eventually it was the waterbug who volunteered to go exploring. She flew down and landed on top of the water, which was beautiful, but not firm as it had appeared. She skated in every direction but could not find a place to stop and rest, so she dived underneath.</i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> "She was gone for days and the star people thought she must have drowned, but she hadn’t. When she joyfully broke the surface again she had the answer: on the bottom of the sea, there was mud. She had brought a piece of it back with her, and she held up her sodden bit of proof to the bright light.</i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> "There, before the crowd of sceptical star eyes, the ball of mud began to grow, and dry up, and grow some more, and out of it came all the voices and life that now dwell on this island that is the earth. The star people fastened it to the sky with four long grape vines so it wouldn’t be lost again."</i></div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">from Homeland by Barbara Kingsolver </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I don’t know how my artwork got into the offices of Faber and Faber; I suppose that in a fit of mysterious efficiency I must have actually sent out a few business cards. They wanted a cover for their publication of Homeland and for some reason they thought I was the right person to do it. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The commission was completely blessed. It came without any effort on my part and I had no difficulty creating the roughs and then a finished piece; I have rarely had a project run so smoothly. Maybe it was because the subject matter was inspiring and suited to my own kind of imagery, or maybe it was because I knew I had to do it all properly; roughs on time, finished piece on time, invoice in on time. All the stuff that was anathema to me had to be done promptly because it was for real people who would notice if I didn’t.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I made three roughs – one of a circle of animal spirits including the waterbug dancing in the sky, one of a rocking chair and Indian smoking pipe that the grandmother in the story might have liked to smoke, and one of the waterbug climbing back into the sky, dripping wet, with the earth clasped in her claws, as flowers fell upon her from the heavens. The publishers chose the waterbug in the sky, which was my favourite one, so I was happy. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I did the finished piece in my favourite medium at the time; chalk pastels. A tortuous process, but worth it for the unique powdery texture. When I use oil paints now I find I am in some way trying to recreate the softness I used to get with pastels; the pastel surface is vulnerable but has a lot of life. Chalks are made of tiny crystals that reflect the light and if you look carefully you can see them glittering in direct sunlight. I have never used oil pastels as I don’t much like the feel of them.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi28per-90W3Bg2-XJfu_zULioiYL7hOJRm0K7qM-f-sWY3UKRe2kAXzO8ndxFGoMX0Y1-ZoJfmuQFuGnr4pQmHN95B4a6kKBe8JSp8zw5XvLjMsmAy78ki52ULHKhscWkCF3DDXVSA6bND/s1600/back+cover+of+homelands+72dpi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi28per-90W3Bg2-XJfu_zULioiYL7hOJRm0K7qM-f-sWY3UKRe2kAXzO8ndxFGoMX0Y1-ZoJfmuQFuGnr4pQmHN95B4a6kKBe8JSp8zw5XvLjMsmAy78ki52ULHKhscWkCF3DDXVSA6bND/s320/back+cover+of+homelands+72dpi.jpg" width="202" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu690N4AOKMGd8pmm0-dMmIcpQPrwEuusIDZ6YG9mkPnW4v0iEfCjCLXHGJH5CsGQSHgdgAjEBhywz4PR2TIUtpXM2v5vN_T5whesYo5KHY59yg6l5nP5eOYeOk5-rb-krk06Q6VIwdGC6/s1600/front+cover+of+homelands+72dpi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu690N4AOKMGd8pmm0-dMmIcpQPrwEuusIDZ6YG9mkPnW4v0iEfCjCLXHGJH5CsGQSHgdgAjEBhywz4PR2TIUtpXM2v5vN_T5whesYo5KHY59yg6l5nP5eOYeOk5-rb-krk06Q6VIwdGC6/s320/front+cover+of+homelands+72dpi.jpg" width="201" /></a></div><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">When I had finished the final piece it was only a short time before I received a proof from the publishers and then saw the book in the shops. I was so proud of it and went into many different bookshops to see my name on the back cover. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">When I got paid I also got a message from the publishers saying that Barbara Kingsolver wanted to buy the original and how much was it? I had no idea how to price originals in those days so I gave them a figure out of the air and then didn’t follow it up. Useless! I was too shy to phone Faber and Faber and ask them what an appropriate price would be, so I just never got back to them. Sad, but there you go. The picture now adorns one of my mother’s walls and is much admired by all so I’m sure it’s happy where it is. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Homeland-Barbara-Kingsolver/dp/0571179576">Homeland by Barbara Kingsolver at Amazon</a><br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barbara_Kingsolver">Barbara Kingsolver at Wikipedia</a><br />
<a href="http://www.kingsolver.com/books/homeland-and-other-stories.html">Homeland New York Times review</a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01358941909845054941noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5855016405968861999.post-756210687318018922011-06-30T15:53:00.000+01:002011-06-30T17:49:49.596+01:00Infant Joy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">‘I have no name;<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I am but two days old.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">What shall I call thee?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">‘I happy am, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Joy is my name.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Sweet joy befall thee!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="right" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: right;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 9pt;">from ‘Infant Joy’ by William Blake<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">At the birth of this blogspot, my eternal thanks go out to my brother, Tom Hirons and his partner, Rima Staines, or </span><a href="http://create.coyopa.net/">"Coyopa</a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">" and "</span><a href="http://intothehermitage.blogspot.com/">The Hermitage</a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">" as they probably think of themselves by now. Over 72 hours these angels took it in turns to teach me, step by stumbling step, how to open my online shop at <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/imaginationchariot">Etsy</a>, where to order prints, when Photoshop is best applied and, most importantly, theory of blogging. They also found time to make me a chocolate and beetroot birthday cake. Rima’s patience is, as you would expect of an angel, supernatural, and, although my brother’s heavenly nature leans more to the ‘Good Omens’ side of things, he demonstrated marathon compassion in the face of my ineptness. </span>A special mention should also go to Macha, their dog, whose insanity was a source of constant inspiration to me.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> If you like anything you see or read at this blogspot then I strongly advise you to visit the sites of these two long-suffering characters (Macha does not yet, unfortunately, write online) to whom I completely owe my newfound web presence. Long may it last; sweet may it remain! </span><br />
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</span></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01358941909845054941noreply@blogger.com2