Lomo Lyrical

Potsdamer Platz, Berlin

This photo is made from 2 Lomo pics taken in Berlin, cut into strips and woven together. I think at the time (5 years ago) when I made it, I had an urge to do something hands-on with photography. It was also a way of recycling some old photos. I found it oddly appealing that the weaving technique looked like a reject filter on photoshop. I could imagine this filter consigned to the trash with the developers saying, 'why would you want to weave a photograph for Christ's sake? Get real.'

I also used a kind of weaving technique to brainstorm some lyrics for a friend's new song. For the verses and chorus I dipped into different books at hand, taking words out of their context and mixing them up with ideas of my own. In the first verse I looked at a book of poems, the second a catalogue of an architect, the third a story for children, and the fourth a book by an art curator. Not sure if the ideas work for my friend's purpose, but maybe he can change it into his own version, or alternatively, put it into the trash.


Verses

Lend me a piece of you
Astronaut food, cellophane wrap
galloping through fatal skies
swimming in constellations

Nearing the sky, walls dissolve
Moments before light and stone
Most Tokyo-like, our empty room
Children are in command

Was it your eyes that lied?
Versed in monsters and mistakes
In harmony with the wind
Reeling my dreams further in.

Chorus

I'm reading, writing, endless snow scenes
I'm reading, writing, endless snow scenes
You're casting, shooting, static objects
You're casting, shooting, static objects

Construction site near Potsdamer Platz, Berlin

These reverse of the cut up lomo photographs.

Forever Horst

It has to be said that the Germans get pretty bad press in the UK. A standing joke is that the Germans lack a sense of humour. But one of my favourite comedians, Horst Evers, is German. He has that self deprecating humour that the English are supposed to be famous for, but without the self conceit that accompanies some of the TV comics I have seen on British television. His humour is deadpan and he captures the narratives and absurdities of everyday life. Conversations overheard on a bus, the twilight zone of his flat, forays with the German unemployment office; and believe you me, if you can't laugh at this last point then you are done for.

Writing short stories and sketches about Berlin, he lived in the borough of Wedding for a while where we later moved to. This district in Berlin lay in the then untrendy traditionally working class district of Berlin, with a large population of migrants. After living in hyper trendy Prenzlauer Berg in the former East, I found it a relief to live in an area with a wider demographic and with a high street a bit like Lewisham High street in London. There were old people, poor people and a large Turkish immigrant population.

Wedding was one of those places that was for years threatening to come up, to arrive. From what I have heard, with the property boom in Berlin, it now very nearly has.

One of Horst Ever's first collection of short stories, with the ever so slightly ironic title :Wedding - 37 Stories about the Pearl of Berlin's Boroughs was given to me in 2001 when I first moved there, and again as a leaving present when I moved away in 2009.  Horst Ever lived in Wedding when he first moved to Berlin, from 1987 - 1997.

I will try and translate a few of my favourite sketches:.

In  chapter 4
Contact to the outside world


At the (Unemployment) office

The woman behind the counter has been staring at my identification for a good three minutes. At last she looks up.

"Name?"
"Strobinsky, Horst Strobinsky."
"What?"
"Strobinsky. Horst Strobinsky."
"But it says here Evers, Horst Evers."
"What?! show me,..., ah, no that's right, it's written Evers, Horst Evers, but it is spoken Strobinsky, Horst Strobinsky"
"Oh. Can you spell that?"
Of course. E-V-E-R-S, Strobinsky, Horst Strobinsky."

In Chapter 2.
The flat

Lethargy

Germany. A country in crisis. Everywhere you look. demoralised faces. Alienated from life, prone to depression. No one strives to succeed, rolls their sleeves up, produces economic growth!
              Have the Germans become lazy?
              We wanted to investigate further and came across a shocking find. In the flat belonging to Horst Evers there has been hot wash in the machine for a week. Horst Evers had this to say: " I must have washed and spun it at least 30 times, otherwise it started to stink, but I just can't bring myself to hang it up. Oh well, at least in the end my underwear will be so clean, that everyone will be envious of me."

In Chaper 1

Wedding

In the Night bus

Thursday morning, 3.14am, on the 26 night bus, on some dark street in Moabit.
   On the seats in front of me sit two young men. Through their conduct and their gestures they make no secret of the fact that they are quite drunk. Actually, one of them is even more drunk that the other.
   The other one starts a conversation:
    "Hey mate, what d'ya think, we'll 'av another beer, before we knock off, Ok, hee hee hee hee?"
    His neighbour stares at him.
    "HrrrschajhdrerjfnfdssA...."
   Articulating more hastily this time, the first one makes another attempt,not at all bothered by the fact  that his voice has become more of a hoarse shriek.
    " of course, mate., you're right, but we can knock one more back , no problem, Zwitscherklause, it's on the way, your gonna come with me, eh? come with me, eh, heeheeheeheeheehee?"
"Baurschenschaschaaaa..."
A third run at it.
"We'll do it quick, no big deal, down a beer then hit the sack, eh? We'll do it, eh? We'll do it, eh, heeheeheeheehee?"
"Aschascha...aschaschaaa...ooouuuhhhhhhh...bbrrrbruubbrrrbbb!!!"
Suddenly the head of his friend, who has struggled to get a word out, sinks forward and vomits arduously into his rucksack.
Blankly, the the other one looks on.
"Hey, mate. Is that a yes or a no?"

Horst Evers started reading out his short stories 1990 in cabaret theatre in Berlin and now reads his short stories regularly on Berlin radio, has written many more books, and audiobooks.

http://www.horst-evers.de/

creative quandary

dining table with printmaking equipment

It feels slightly ironic that I have come here to the Mumsnet Blogfest when my two kids and my husband are back in Germany! Still, it is the first time I have been away by myself for ages and I get precious time to spend with my friends and family back in London. But the question remains: How do you balance your creative ambitions with family life.

I am staying at my mum's who is a printmaker. Her studio is in the house. When I was growing up it didn't strike me as odd that there were trays of acid in the bathroom (for etching ), for example. There were plus and minuses from our perspective that her work space was in the home. Us kids were encouraged to make lino cuts and etchings, which was fun. On the other hand, I felt it was hard for my mum to switch off from the work, especially if a print wasn't going her way. That is the problem of having your work space at home. It is hard to create a divide between your home and work life.

If your job involves being creative like an artist, where the measure of your success is not so easily defined and the output is more personal then this can be even harder. You may also have to justify to yourself and to others that what you are doing is valid, especially if you are not earning much money through your art. If you can manage that, then you may need to find the headspace in order to be creative. I have read with admiration about authors who have written books during their babies naps, for example. (I was napping through my babies naps, though!)

litho press and bookshelf

I would like to do a survey amongst people who are artists and who have families. How do they strike a balance with their art and family life? Can they involve their kids in the process, or do they need for "a room of ones own", like Virginia Woolf. Also, how do they manage between creative thinking, where you really need the luxury of time to develop ideas and the hectic schedule of family life. A female friend of mine organises family life as well as teaching at a University and developing her own art work. Her husband, who is also self employed, is away with work a lot. She said she doesn't touch the housework until the kids come back from school. It is the only way she can get things done.

Another artist friend of mine has recently taken a self imposed sabbatical. When she originally told me this I said, rather insensitively I think, I"ll believe it when I see it. I meant it in a positive way, because she is one of the most dynamic and energetic people I know. She came to Bielefeld and in less that two years embarked on a PHD, attended conferences and formed an art group. This kind of drive is often what helps you to survive as an artist, even when you have two young kids and are a trailing spouse with an uncertain future. I can imagine that it may be difficult to put aside this drive to focus on other priorities. You can read about her sabbatical here.

It is very hard to strike the balance between work and family as a freelancer or an artist.

I  discovered this when I was working from home as a translator. If you don't respond to requests and opportunities from the outside then you may kick yourself for missing out. But if you take everything on then it can easily get too much, and your health suffers and this effects your family.

printmaking table arial view

I question myself on a regular basis. How much is too much? Will I overstretch myself if I take on this job.  I also love writing my blog, which I see as being a creative outlet for me. I also question the time taken to write it, as I now question the time I have taken to come to London on my own. 

At the same time I am glad that I have a mum who has followed her artistic career, despite being a divorced mother bringing up four children singlehandedly  and can see if you fulfil your own creative ambitions then you can still be a good mum or precisely because of that you are a good mum. 

prints in progress

Tea with Tigers

Recently I was reading the children’s classic, “The Tiger who came to Tea” by Judith Kerr aloud to my kids. A tiger arrives at the doorstep one day, asks itself in for tea, and the mother and daughter graciously look on as the animal eats and drinks everything in the household. My two year old is delighted and appalled at the picture of the tiger pouring tea straight into his mouth from the teapot, my 6 year old son likes the impossible idea of the tiger drinking all the water out of the tap, so that the little girl, Sophy, cannot have her bath. And me? I am secretly impressed by the way the parents let their little girl go out in her nightie, albeit with a coat over it, when they have go to a café to have dinner, because the Tiger has eaten up all their supper. 

In the book, only one page is completely blocked through with colour, the scene where the family are walking down the high street, illuminated by street lights and car lights. On the other pages, the characters and the bare essentials of their surroundings stand out in pen and colour against white space. People sit on chairs and eat from tables, which could be floating in mid-air. A carpet, a front doormat gives occasional footing. Despite this, Judith Kerr creates a very homely and secure feeling in the pages, which has much to do with the characters expressions. Not even a tiger can disturb them.

Although the book was published in 1968, I wonder whether the illustrations were not even then a nostalgic picture of yesteryear in England. With the lovingly drawn pictures of a United Dairies milk float, a grocery delivery boy on his bicycle and the high street of independent little shops they create an atmosphere of stability and normality. But the tiger remains an enigma, strange and won’t be tied down to a normal life (‘and he never came again’).

Despite its surprise appearance, the tiger is not met by surprise, rather the mother and daughter accept the tiger in equal measures of curiosity and generosity. They do not protest when the tiger eats and drinks everything they had prepared for their afternoon tea. They are the politest of hosts and do not balk at his bad manners.  The little girl hugs the tiger and smiles upon him, as he continues to eat his way through the provisions, even the supper planned for that evening.

My friend, Vivian, lent me The Tiger Who Came to Tea, and hundreds of other children’s books by the way, so that I don’t have to translate German children’s stories into English when I read aloud to my kids, which is tedious and difficult and only delivers half the story anyway. She was also the one who told me about the semi-autobiography by Judith Kerr, which starts with the book, 'When Hitler stole Pink Rabbit'.  I have spent the last two weeks being glued not just to this, but the two following books in the trilogy.

It is a well written and moving story of how a nine year old Jewish girl has to flee Berlin with her family in 1933 because her father, a renowned theatre critic and writer, had opposed the Nazis. It shows a vivid portrait of the family, thrown upon it's own resources, as it were, to survive economically and emotionally a move to Switzerland, Paris and finally find safety in London, only to witness the daily raids of the Blitz during the war.

In the autobiography, there are no tigers, of course, but an uncle who is an eminent scientist.  When the Nazis take his job away as the curator of the natural history museum, his only solace is that he can still visit the Zoo to observe the animals and bring them food, until the Nazis take his Zoo pass away.  Then he takes his own life.

In the autobiography, a tiger doesn’t eat up all the family's food, of course, but the Nazis take everything the family are forced to leave behind in Berlin, including a beloved pink rabbit and the father's books are publicly burned.

In the autobiography, the mother doesn’t entertain a tiger, of course, but she manages to put on a brave face, to keep the family together and protect her children throughout.

“They made it feel like an adventure” Judith Kerr is quoted as saying about her parents. 


And despite the subject matter and experiences, she seems somehow to retain an optimistic voice in the autobiography, or perhaps it is her ability to observe everything that unfolds around her with clarity and keen perception that maintains her optimism.

I thought a lot about the tiger in The Tiger Who Came to Tea and about what it could possibly stand for. Could the tiger be not just any tiger, I wondered, but represent the uninvited and unexpected that enters lives, but out of which positive experiences can still emerge?

Judith Kerr has been quoted as saying “I much preferred it (her childhood as a refugee) to the sort of childhood I would have had had we had a so-called normal childhood.”

I thought about it again and again.

But I still I couldn’t work out what the tiger could be.

And then I realised. It was just The Tiger Who Came to Tea.

Why have a blog?

 I just did a quiz to see if I had what it takes to embark on a blog, and, to be honest I didn’t tick many of the boxes. For a start, I am not one to espouse my views in public, very sensitive about negative comments and I am not interested in the technology of it at all or making it a great success. In fact, I don’t read much online myself either.  Doesn’t seem like a good start, does it? Also, one of the main problems is that I don’t have a theme, like darts or gardening or books, about which I can in anyway intelligently write about.  However, I am a fan of the written word, and enjoy writing myself, so maybe there is a glimmer of hope!

The blog is named after a Hopper painting “Compartment C, car 293”, found while perusing a book by Allain de Botton called The Art of Travel, in a desperate attempt to find a name. It was painted in 1938 and is apparently owned by IBM. If you are not familiar with the painting, it depicts a woman sitting in a train carriage, her face half obscured beneath her hat, reading, alone and travelling at dusk. The ruggedness of the landscape outside the window suggests a long journey, where hours can go by without seeing a living soul in the landscape.

I couldn’t be further than this figure sitting in this carriage. I could count the hours, or rather the minutes spend in tranquil solitude on one hand. My landscape does not passively roll by. They, my children, require my attention and rightly so.  My carriage is usually swinging to the tones of Old MacDonald, and the manuscript or whatever the woman is reading has either been lost, the pages torn out or it is covered in oil, milk or juice or all three.

Perhaps though, this blog could be my Compartment C? Maybe you would like to take a seat opposite me. Any suggestions for themes welcome.