Dance

I've rarely translated my works before, but this is the first attempt, which I do want to share. The Russian text has already been published, for anyone who can compare.

[I'd also like to dedicate this translation to my grandmother, who's 82 on 1 October. I couldn't spend the day with her, so this is my birthday present for her].

Enjoy!

Dance

(A sketch)

When she was dancing, I used to pretend to read a paper. But we both knew: she was dancing for me, and I was there for her.

For a whole month, every evening I’ve been going to this small restaurant and taking a table in the second row from the stage. After the first time I always took the same table, and when it had once been occupied, I booked it. From here I watched her, as she’d come on stage, make her first step, stretch her arm, reminding me of a wild cat before a jump, and her partner would embrace her waist and tickle her right cheek with his spear-headed moustache.

I don’t even know what’s been happening to me all this time. Perhaps, I felt lonely in the town where I didn’t know anyone, except for two or three people who I met regularly since we lived in the same hotel. And then I went into this restaurant, for no reason, least of all to become a regular visitor. But it turned out differently.

The very first evening I saw her. She was wearing a red basque and a small black skirt; she danced to the 1940s tune. Harmonica and accordion were her partners that night. She had a stick, which she waved as if she was a fairy making wonders, and she wore a black top hat. And when she was repeating this dance I suddenly caught her eye. She was looking at me!

Of course, I knew it wasn’t true, that I was imagining things, and that as soon as I’d turned round I’d have seen someone for whom that glance and that happy smile were intended. There was the time when I went on stage regularly, and I knew that actors often chose a face in the audience to look at and felt nothing towards this person. Normally, the actor and the spectator meet and part in the same evening. But for her I wanted to be more than just a spectator. I could be her partner on stage or in life, her soul mate, her friend, - anyone, except a stranger who takes one and same table every evening and sits there saying and doing nothing, as if fearing of committing a crime. She took me back to my past, which was just as bright as her smile. But I didn’t even know her name, and that fact, together with her reminding me of my past life, made me think occasionally that I was losing my time in vain spending evenings ‘together with her’. There was something in my head that didn’t let me approach her, and the thought of the silliness of waiting was often crossing my mind. This ‘something’ was telling me, how stupid I was. Still, I was dreaming.

I dreamt of us dancing before the audience who engorge on their lobsters. We swirl to the French harmonica, we tango, and then we perform a mix of twist and cha-cha-cha in front of the audience who looks way too bored. And then slow rhythms of rumba penetrate our temporary habitat, and we no longer notice the restaurant emptying, everyone’s leaving because they feel like intruders, while we continue to dance for each other only. My imagination brought me other pictures, very passionate indeed, until one day all dreams were broken at once.

That evening I came to the restaurant as usual, had my meal, and then opened a magazine and began to wait for her. When she appeared, she looked dazzling, in a splendid white dress, with a white rose in her hair. Her partner was dressed in black, and his spear-headed moustache was particularly solemn that evening, - I even think it was greased. Their site was admirable, although I was only admiring her, her alone. She was beautiful and beaming, when she looked my way, and I was feeling something that one would call happiness. People around me were also looking at the stage in glee, and not at the main course in their plates, - probably for the first time this month.

When the music stopped, everyone began to applaud and ask for another dance, and she was curtseying in front of these plain faces, as if wanting to express her uttermost gratitude. And then she blew me a kiss, and I shivered as the thought that I’ve been pushing away all this time has finally caught me. This kiss was not for me. Everyone around was clapping hands, and shouting ‘bravo!’, but I felt jealous and curious at the same time. I wanted to know, for whom this light gesture and so all her dances were intended. I casually turned round, and right behind me at the table there was this tall suave man, in dark suit, with moustache, and a red rose in his boutonnière. He stood, hands crossed on his chest, smiling in his thick and groomed moustache.

I also noticed that everyone in the restaurant was looking at him. A man with red cheeks, who sat at the front table, pointed on him and said in a low voice:

-This is her husband, they got married today.

-Oh, who is he? – I asked as casually as I could.

The man clicked his tongue.

-A film director’s son. Has been coming here for five months, sat at the same table all the time. Will now promote our dancer. She’s good, isn’t she?

I nodded, trying to embrace all feelings that were about to overtake me. The man was still speaking.

-… and tomorrow they cross the Ocean. You’ve got to know how to do things, - he concluded and, turning to the stage, shouted: - Bravo, Lili!

So at once I learnt her name and her marital status. I never came back to this restaurant.

Now I spend evenings walking in the park, among the ever-silent gods and heroes. They send me no smiles, they don’t blow me kisses, and I’ll never stand naked next to them. I spend less money, I live alone, and I don’t think about this vainly spent month. As before, I’m sad and lonely.

Julie Delvaux/Жюли Дельво
© Julia Shuvalova 2000

English translation © Julia Shuvalova 2006

C'Est Ta Ta Ta Ta

I've written somewhere that I adore Michel Polnareff, but now I also adore all YouTube users who've collected and uploaded his videos for me to find them and to go totally mad with the man. :-) I've heard many of his songs before, but watching him perform, especially those early songs, is a different kind of experience. So much so that I've embedded one of his videos, 'Ta Ta Ta Ta', on my blog. It comes from the YouTube user called zoizeezoo. I couldn't resist doing so because it sounds like a medieval troubadour song, with a modern twist, and medieval music is one of my weaknesses. And so is Michel Polnareff.




Femme que j'aime c'est ta ta ta ta
Femme que j'aime mais ce n'est pas toi.
I love a woman, ta ta ta ta
I love a woman, but she's not you.

Latte Art

For one of my projects, I've been researching into coffee, its origins, sorts, etc. On the way I came across an intriguing term 'latte art' and went on to look for images. Well, this is a 3-page gallery of latte art images, which, despite being generally similar, sometimes are real gems.

Also, check out another fantastic website, Just Coffee Art, where art images are painted with coffee.



[P.S. Oh, and as you may notice, I've added a counter, which, because it's been added so recently, doesn't match the number of my profile views...]

How to Compliment a 16th c. Lady

Medieval poetry, in spite of its literary images, was in truth quite pathetic in describing a woman. Naturally, all women were 'fair beauties', but, like in painting, poetry rarely went much further.

I like a lot this poem by one of the best-known Tudor poets, John Skelton, The Commendations of Mistress Jane Scrope, which was published in 1545. Throughout the poem Skelton compares his beloved to a number of historical and mythical characters, such as Lucres, Polyxene, Calliope, "or else Penolope" (=Penelope), the nymph Egeria, and deities, starting with "Dame Flora". It is also interesting that Skelton is more concerned about comparing his dame to an antique character, rather than about the homogeneity of the characters' geographical origin. The names that we already mentioned come from both Greek and Roman history and mythology.

For my part, I like this passage from the poem:

My pen is unable,
My hand is unstable,
My reason rude and dull,
To praise her at the full,
Godly mistress Jane,
Sober, demure Diane.
Jane this mistress hight,
The lodestar of delight,
Dame Venus of all pleasure,
The well of worldly treasure.
She doth exceed and pass
The prudence dame Pallas.

It is really peculiar how in the space of 12 lines Skelton compares his beloved to Diane, Venus and Pallas - the three goddesses, (in)famously judged by Paris. This is also a curious instance of mixing and matching the names of deities from various mythologies. Both Diane and Venus are goddesses of Roman pantheon, whereas Pallas is a Greek goddess. Her Roman equivalent would be Minerva, but - as it seems - the choice of name was subjected to the purposes of rhyming.

[The quotations are from The Oxford Book of 16th c. verse].

...Acclimatised!..

When I first came to England four years ago in mid-July, it's been raining cats and dogs for two long weeks. It was very cold, plus I didn't take any sweater with me and, being an incorrigible aesthet, I was frantically knitting myself a sweater instead of buying a cardigan.

This Friday I looked out of the window in the morning, and I saw beautiful blue sky. The day was promising to be nice and warm, so I put on a light summer denim dress. Even when by the evening it started raining, I didn't feel cold.

When at one of the pedestrian crossings I saw a girl wearing a long puff jacket, with its hood on, I realised that I acclimatised.

The Rubaiyat

http://www.therubaiyat.com/

Complete Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. I know some verses relatively well in Russian, but haven't found them in the English translation yet. One of my favourite is this (my literal translation from Russian):

To live life wisely, there's a lot to know,
Two ground rules remember for a start:
Better be hungry than eat whatever food,
And better be alone than with whoever.


Чтоб мудро жизнь прожить, знать надобно немало,
Два важных правила запомни для начала:
Ты лучше голодай, чем что попало есть,
И лучше будь один, чем вместе с кем попало.


Please note that, as I said above, this is a literal translation. I couldn't find the English version, so I rendered the text from Russian into English, to give an idea. As I don't know the language of Khayyam, I wouldn't actually translate this verse from Russian, since the Russian text is already a translation. I'm writing this, having discovered that my rendition has been quoted elsewhere on the web as a variant of the English translation. It must not be used as such.

Mishka

Soaps can teach very many things to those who watch them (I'm not among those, so I must be unbearably ignorant). They can also highlight various issues, and so both Coronation Street and Emmerdale have each got their own 'gay in the village', and Emmerdale has recently highlighted the problem of euthanasia.

However, some soaps go really multicultural. Neighbours, which is made in Australia and shown daily on BBC1, is now incorporating members of the Russian community (these, however, are not played by Russian actors).

There is a girl 'from Belarus', who's got a strikingly Asian look. Don't get me wrong: I'm not stating this is impossible altogether. I'm simply saying: it's striking.

Better still, there is this female character 'from Russia' whose name is Mishka. 'Mishka' is Russian for 'a little bear'. There is NO WAY it can be a female name. It can be a short form of the name Michael (Mikhail in Russian), but never a full name in its own right. As for a feminine equivalent to a masculine form of the name, in the West it is possible to meet a woman called Michaela, but not in Russia.

I don't want to guess why Neighbours editors came up with this exact name, although I've got an inkling it may have to do with the 1980 Olympics, which mascot, as you know, was a teddy bear (it can also be called 'mishka'). So, the connection could of course be that the woman's parents were feeling patriotic and called their baby after the mascot. The only problem with this interpretation is that the female character looks at least 49 and there is no way she could've been born in 1980.

New label

9/11 this year wasn't just the anniversary of the terrorist attack on the United States five years ago. It was also the date when I flew from Moscow to Manchester three years ago. I haven't been to Russia since then, and it looks like I won't have a chance to go until after January 2007 (don't worry :-), it's simply more convenient this way). Naturally, in these three years many things have happened, some were thrilling, some were fine, some I could do without, but all in all it was very important time for me.

One of the outcomes of those three years is the new label I'm starting on this blog. I might change its name down the line, but at this moment it's gonna be called 'On Russia' and will be dedicated to correcting various misconceptions regarding Russia and its culture, as well as to posting comments on Russian literature, cinema, music, arts, etc.

Under this label you won't find any comments on politics, except for some historical notes perhaps, if I find those appropriate. My intention is not to command people to think about my country in a certain way. Apart from being a sort of outlet for my growing nostalgia, this label's aim is to simply tell about Russia something that only a native citizen (+historian+writer+linguist) can tell. At the same time, my intention is to correct some really striking misconceptions, which sometimes stem from the lack of knowledge (for which there may be no-one to blame) or from wrong interpretations (for which the interpreter is to blame). I would like to think that my posts will be engaging and enlightening enough, although I don't invest any unrealistic hopes in this.

If there is anything I would urge you to do it is to ask me questions or to comment on my posts under this label. My posts will predominantly be based on the media reports and on my talks with people, but since this blog exists on the world-wide web, it's being read world-wide, so if you've got a comment or a question, feel free to send them to me.

One final thing, just in case if someone ever gets a feeling of my being patronising. I already said my intention is not to tell people what to think. But the simple fact is: there are very many Russians who know English, but very few English/British/English-speaking people who know Russian. So first and foremost I'm a translator, who wants to be faithful to their original milieu but is aware of the inevitable losses or changes during the process of relocation of a text into a different milieu. And because some changes have a resonating effect, this label has come into being.

More of 'avidadollars'

This is to double the information I've posted on the front page of my programme's website, but also so it could be available anytime for anyone, since the info on The LOOK will only be there for a short period of time. Yes, I'm now officially a published author, and if you read in Russian you're more than welcome to follow this link, which will take you to my page on www.stihi.ru.

Two things need to be said. First, what has already been published is only a selection of poems from approx. 1996 till 2006. It will gradually be growing, of course. Secondly, I'm writing under a pen name, as Julie Delvaux. I've come up with it ages ago, and the pen name reflects my francophilia, surreaphilia and Delvaux-philia. I've always loved French (although ended up making English my 'second' language). I've loved surrealism (which I already mentioned somewhere on the blog). And I've loved Paul Delvaux ever since I saw his paintings, which was at least 10 years ago. In fact, he's one of my favourite artists.

[And as always there's a bit of 'avidadollars'].

Needless to say, if you ever wish to share your thoughts, you're more than welcome to post a comment here or to email me.

You Are What You...

... Listen (again!)

A new study reveals that if you're a classical music fan, you will have tried cannabis. I wonder if this may be the case of the so-called false correlation?

This is what was written in Psychology Today (you already read it here):

Compared with other music fans, opera aficionados are three times more likely to endorse suicide as a solution to family dishonor, says Steven Stack, a psychologist at Wayne State University in Michigan. Don't blame Madame Butterfly. Stack says dramatic personalities are drawn to opera, not influenced by it.

I think this thesis explains better, why people who like opera have tried magic mushrooms (mind you, I'm not among them!) It is mushrooms that draw people to opera, not opera that draws them to mushrooms. If we blame it on music, we'll have to think that Beethoven was the true reason behind the rampages of Alex and his gang in A Clockwork Orange - which couldn't be further from the truth.

(And I don't even mention Wagner...)

César sur Marx

Malgré ma barbe, je ne m'appelle pas Karl Marx! - Despite my beard, my name isn't Karl Marx! (César)

On Plagiarism

Blessed be the times when medieval monks simply 'continued' the chronicles and annalles that had been started by other monks. Today the family of the monk who started the chronicle could very well have sued the family of the monk who continued it for violation of the copyright.

The question of originality is something that always bothers artists, critics and the audience alike. There's no point to narrate the perils that have postmortem befallen William Shakespeare or Mikhail Sholokhov because of some scholars' zealous attempts to prove they were plagiarists. In truth, since our world is so old, originality may be a strange thing to desire, as it's very likely that there will be oblique links between you and a certain, let us say, Hume, even if you've never heard of the chap.

I'm thinking: perhaps the change in attitude to plagiarism has to do, among other reasons, with how people see their place in the world. In the past, when the world's exact frontiers were still undiscovered and its historic past was still largely undeciphered, to borrow from someone or to openly cite them for inspiration had meant to find links between yourself and this vast territory of the Unknown. It was not considered bad; instead, it gave perspective to your experience and donned importance to anything you had to offer.

These days it's different, and it seems that people are suffering from agoraphobia. Although they say they like exploring the big world, they in fact always want to get back to their communities and homes. Globalisation, we're told, is challenged by localisation. There are so many groups and communities, and some of them only exist in the virtual world of the Internet. We didn't become any more knowledgeable. What the philosopher said is still true. 'I only know that I know nothing' - the land of ignorance grows, as the limits of knowledge expand.

Paradoxically, this Brave Huge world scares (to one extent or another) authors of any kind. They want to be unique, but what if they're doing exactly the same thing now that someone has already done in the past and they simply didn't know about it? However, even if you know that you're totally unique (if such thing is still possible today), then you certainly cannot prohibit others from being inspired by your work.

I guess, the best thing to do is to acknowledge the fact that 1) the world is too old, and it's not your conscience that should be troubled by 'plagiarism' but rather that of your predecessor who was a 'pioneer'; and that 2) inspiration, aside from talent, is among the reasons why we have artists. To conclude, this is the translation of an extract from the talk of Andy Warhol, one of the gurus of Pop Art, with Adrian Darmon:

AD: Where do you find yourself vis-a-vis Picasso?
AW: He's dead, and I'm in his place. On the artistic level, I think I'll be a milestone.
AD: Do you take yourself seriously?
AW: I'm doing things seriously, with aesthetic taste.
AD: And without plagiarism?
AW: I don't understand the meaning of your question. In any case, the artists are inspired by the works of others.

You Are What You...

[This post is dedicated to the playwright from Tom Stoppard's The Real Thing, who was gifted, but liked listening to The Monkees' I'm a Believer].

... Listen

Psychologists have found out that the music young people listen to can tell (almost exactly) who they are. In simple terms, if you're a jazz aficionado, you're probably a very brainy person. If you like pop, you don't like overcomplicating things. If you like dance or soul, your tongue is likely to be your enemy. If, however, you're a fan of gangsta rap, it's very possible that you're timid by nature.

Music, claims an article by Lane Jennings in The Futurist (vol. 39, 2005), is forming the communities, and portals like Last.fm and, of course, My Space, certainly prove the point. But, personally, I have reservations about the idea that it is iPods and iTunes that are causing this change. Rather, they ferment or even bring to the surface the long-existing tendency. And we've become more aware of it because fans don't have to travel miles to the annual meeting of Ella Fitzgerald or ABBA fan clubs - they can simply meet online as often as they like.

To test the findings, follow this link, to listen to The Wicked and Unfaithful Song of Marcel Duchamp to His Queen. The text of the poem was written by Paul Carroll, and was put to music by John Austin. Feel free to tell us what it made you discover about yourself.

[In case if the link doesn't work, please go to www.toutfait.com, to 'Music' folder, and look for 'The Wicked and Unfaithful Song...' in the list of works. I do hope, however, that the above link will take you there directly].


... Eat

Another researcher's findings (in the article by Kathy Lane in The Mail on Sunday, April 2004) have revealed that in England your eating habits stand for your social status. Apparently, if you're an upper-middle-class person you won't be seen dead eating bacon and chip butties, prawn cocktail with Marie-Rose sauce, or rice salads with sweetcorn - typically working-class or lower-middle-class foods. [Strictly speaking, you may indulge in any of these, but only if you're socially secure enough to be eccentric].

Then, of course, we can bring the whole bunch of food advice in the picture, and it will turn out that the lower classes shop for ready-made foods in cheap supermarkets, while the upper branches shop for organic and 'healthy' foods in more expensive stores, or even have their friendly butcher and greengrocer.

It all looks kind of funny and superficial if we take this simply as the reflection of class differences in food consumption. However, I was astounded to read a booklet containing advice on healthy eating for those who suffer from MS (multiple sclerosis). This is the list of products they were not supposed to have: lard, butter, cream of soups, caffein, and - most importantly - fish in batter and chips.

Why 'most importantly'? Because all of us who've been to England at least once already know that fish in batter and chips are one of the favourite English meals, especially in the North. As a matter of fact, the statistics show that the Northerners are more often affected by MS that the Southerners. I asked a representative of one MS Care Centre in South Manchester, if the food guidelines for the MS sufferers can also be used as general guidelines for MS prevention. His answer was 'yes'. 'Then doesn't it look like', I asked, 'that the favourite Northern food may also be the cause of MS?' I would like to be wrong, but I felt that his 'yes' to my question contained a lot of astonishment.

So, eating habits evidently define much more than just your social status, which sounds quite commonsensical, and is exactly what Jamie Oliver has been uttering for a long while. Perhaps, then, it is time to do something about it?


... Say

What you say and how you say it is also manifestant of your class background. Two years ago I was returning to Manchester from my research spell in London. It was an evening train, and in the carriage there was this group of young office workers, two men and two women. They were talking loudly, and eventually I heard one man, speaking in RP [Received Pronunciation, also known as the Queen's English], explaining to a woman, how he could tell her social background. She referred to her father as 'Dad', which gave away her not-so-high social status. If she was posh, he explained, she'd call her parent 'Father'.


... Read

Until now we may be thinking that everything that is written here may or may not be true. In the end of the day, the egalitarians will say that people must not be judged by the music they listen or by the words they use in their speech. On the other hand, all people like coming together in groups, and the entering criteria must be defined. So, whether one likes this or not, if there are people who want to be 'upper-middle-class', there will always be those who don't fall into the category.

However, reading habits is my most favourite example of how little reading tells about who you are. To define people by their bookshelf is totally futile, because they may be buying books simply to decorate the room or to impress the visitors. Such thing as the entire edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica standing in the most prominent place in someone's study never means that the owner has actually read it.

Then there are people who read Dan Brown and Gabriel Garcia Marquez with the same degree of pleasure. There are also people who we'd assume are very cultivated because they listen to Antonio Caldara (an Italian Baroque composer) and read Martin Heidegger. I'd imagine that reading Heidegger's musings on language would at least make one more attentive and sensitive to their own speech. And yet, I've been proved wrong.

I read the news today, oh boy...

Perhaps unwittingly, today's Metro (www.metro.co.uk) was full of offbeat stories. This is just a short sample of what was intended to attract today's readers' attention (among other stories, of course).

11 schools shut on the eve of Robbie Williams's concert, to avoid problems. One parent, however, was not amused: 'Everybody is back at school,... and they have closed already'.

A student, who was secretly filming his fellow female students taking a bath, initially tried to hide a digital camera in a shower gel bottle but didn't manage to record clear footage. I wonder, why...

A new drug that was developed to treat premature ejaculation comes with side-effects: nausea, diarrhoea, headache and dizziness.

In the States, three men, aged 20, drove 50 miles to dig out a corpse of a girl, to have an intercourse with it. They've never known the young woman, but saw her photo on the obituaries page in a newspaper. All three face more than 5 years in prison.

You thought that Mona Lisa could only be used in one way - as an object of inspiration that hangs under the glass in the Louvre? Pas du tout. It can also be used as a Hallowe'en mask, and this newly discovered facet has just been presented at the Tokyo International Gift Show. If you're tired of goth damsels and Freedy Krugers swarming at your Hallowe'en's party, spice it up with a bit of true Beauty. Worry not: you'll look as fearful, as the occasion demands. This latex Gioconda's beauty is indeed a dreaful force.

In Paris, Societe Generale [apologies, I cannot insert accents] celebrated the opening of the Rugby World Cup by having the acrobats stage a vertical rugby match on the Societe's facade. I wish I could see it.

A bull attempted to cross the river to reach a herd of cows on the opposite bank. Unfortunately, he got stuck in the mud and had to be rescued by the fire brigade and a tractor.

Finally, the paper contained a plenty of advice to the couple who suffer from their over-amorous and loud neighbours. Someone suggested to play Handel's Hallelujah Chorus at the peak of the neighbours' passion (and claimed it had worked).


You know, I tried to do a similar thing several years ago, in Moscow. My neighbour upstairs was a convinced DIY-er. He DIYed everything in his flat, from furniture to cars and motorbikes. Some outcomes were freakish. His passion for fish-breeding, for instance, culminated in dropping of a 20-litre fish tank, filled with water (without fish, thankfully). I was told there had been torrential rain in my parents' corridor.

Naturally, my parents tried to influence him in one way or another, but nothing would stop this Jack-of-all-trades. As I grew older and began to listen to a lot of music, this man's domestic pursuits started ennerving me. His drilling and hammering was way too loud, and I literally couldn't hear my music. I decided I'd use shock therapy. I had a record of Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture, which score, as you know, contains the sounds of cannon fire. One day, when my neighbour had once again passionately embraced his electric drill, I forwarded the record to the exact point of cannon fire, and played it on full volume.

This was the only time I played any record on full volume. Believe it or not, the drilling became less loud. Or maybe I just deafened myself shortly. At any rate, this did not avert my neighbour from DIYing, and he continues to drill and hammer until this day.

This is one of the few occasions when I can (otherwise being an apartment partisan) wholeheartedly agree that having your own house has its benefits. On the other hand, having neighbours is very beneficial for one's life experience.

Exercises in Loneliness - II

A few pearls of wisdom from the Memoirs by Casanova:

- My errors will point to thinking men the various roads, and will teach them the great art of treading on the brink of the precipice without falling into it. It is only necessary to have courage, for strength without self-confidence is useless.

- As for the deceit perpetrated upon women, let it pass, for, when love is in the way, men and women as a general rule dupe each other.

(Casanova knew this better than anyone - his affair with La Charpillon (Marie Anne Auspurgher) was the fascinating, if impossibly bitter, case of deceipt perpetrated by a woman upon a man. The 'affair' which was never consummated and which cost Casanova 2,000 guineas culminated in a "journee du dupe", when Casanova was denied access to La Charpillon under the pretext that she was dying. Unconsolable, he decided to throw himself in the Thames, but was talked out of it by a friend who happened to pass by. Together, they went to Ranelagh Gardens, where Casanova saw his expensive darling dancing, offensively healthy and beautiful.)


Also, to carry on expanding on the phrase by Huysmans that appeared on The LOOK's Front Page

There is only one reason for literature to exist, to save those who write it from the tedium of living,

here are a couple of extracts from Casanova's Memoirs that quite potently prove the Frenchman's point:

- I have written the story of my life,.. but am I wise in throwing it before a public of which I know nothing but evil? No, I am aware it is sheer folly, but I want to be busy, I want to laugh, and why should I deny myself this gratification?... By recollecting the pleasures I have had formerly, I renew them, I enjoy them the second time, while I laugh at the remembrance of times now past, and which I no longer feel.

Indeed, for the man who had been to many countries and places and had known (literally, as figuratively, speaking) many people, to find himself as a librarian in an old chateau in Dux must have been frustrating, especially as his health had also begun to deteriorate. With nothing interesting happening around him in the chateau his only resort was his own past, which thought he captured with the well-known 'my life is my subject, and my subject is my life'.

[The quotes are from the unabridged English translation of Casanova's Memoirs (London, 1894)].

My Fair Cabbage

Reuters reported on a new film dedicated to the British royal family, The Queen, directed by Stephen Frears and starring Dame Helen Mirren as Elizabeth II. The film has just been screened at the Venice Film Festival and is based on extensive research, resulting in what is described as 'a realistic dramatisation'.

The realism goes along with a plenty of humour, the report says, 'particularly when dramatising scenes of intimacy between the queen, Prince Philip, Charles and her mother.

"Move over, cabbage," Philip says as the couple go to bed, and the queen dons a woolly dressing gown and clutches a hot water bottle on the night Diana is killed'. (Reuters 2 September 2006).

It is, of course, very funny to have Her Majesty being called a "cabbage". However, this is exactly what the French call their beloved. 'Mon petit chou' (my little cabbage) is a famous French expression of love and affection. The English equivalents to this lovely French phrase are hopelessly simple - "sweetheart", "sweetie", or "honey".

In the context of the film, what may have been intended to look like an odd sign of affection is actually a literal translation into English of the French idiom. So, Prince Philip does in fact speak the language of love - however funny it may sound.

The Initiation of Winston Churchill

I've been recently to a provincial Masonic Lodge in Cheshire, on behalf of a non-Masonic charity. Among the stands in the room there was one that listed 'Famous Masons'. Quite a few biographies have been taken from an American database, including the one of Winston Churchill. At a certain point, when reading his profile, I thought my research into Tudor history has begun to bring the most unexpected fruits. I was reading on the sheet that Churchill had been initiated in '1591'. Fortunately for me, '1591' was, of course, a typo.

That typo came as quite a surprise, as I never scan these kinds of profiles for the purpose of finding errors in them. So, I carefully let one of the members know, and he promised to try and do something about it. However, the story he told next confirmed to me that most people (even including me, perhaps) would never notice that '1591' thing. The map of Cheshire on the Lodge's stand was a much-zoomed version of a nice colourful table mat from Little Chef, the bygone chain of road cafes. It was chosen simply because of its colour and slightly moderated, so to distinguish the names of the places where provincial halls are located. What could not be moderated, were the black signs designating the locations of Little Chefs on the Cheshire roadways. The signs were, predictably, in the form of a chef.

'In five years nobody has asked what that black symbol meant', the Mason told me.

'They probably think it is a Freemason', I replied.

Late Summer Bank Holiday: Part Two

Another family event that took place across Greater Manchester during the Late Summer Bank Holiday Weekend was the first ever Family Friendly Film Festival. In the words of its co-ordinator, Leah Byrne, the idea has been in the air for some time, and was finally brought to life - and to children and their parents - between 25th and 28th August. The event was taking place at such venues, as the Chinese Arts Centre, the Cornerhouse, the Green Room, the Manchester Museum, the Zion Arts Centre, and even Princes Park in Irlam in Salford. The festival was supported by Manchester City Council, Salford Council, Manchester Kids, the Workers' Film Association, Robert Hamilton and Cosgrove Hall, Arts About Manchester, and Arts Council England.

The tagline for the festival was "life is just as complex for kids as adults, so why should children's films be superficial and formulaic?", and so instead of the Disney films there was an amazing selection of cartoons, shorts and features from all over the world. The festival premiered Eve & the Fire Horse (dir. Julia Kwan, Canada, 2005, 92 mins), which scooped quite a few awards, including the Special Jury Prize at the Sundance Film Festival this year.

Other films at the Festival included the Oscar-winning Spirited Away, the Oscar-nominated Belleville Rendezvous, as well as some undying British classics, like The Wind in the Willows after the novel by Kenneth Graham. Three films by Eva Saks were also screened, Colorforms, Getting My Goat, and Confection. Confection, in particular, tells the story of a girl who learns empathy from a pastry - definitely a film to watch with a family!

Some other distinguished films were The Fan and the Flower, Chika's Bird, Lucia, La Grande Migration, to name but a few. Open A Door series (2003) were also shown, an award-winning international exchange of 5-mins silent films. The series is aimed at the young viewers, illustrating the differences and similarities between the world's cultures. Episodes come from Cuba, USA, Great Britain, Taiwan, Iran, Mexico, and South Africa. Whose Children Are These? (2004) looks at how the 9/11 has affected the lives of three Muslim teenagers. In Leah's words, the aim of the Festival organisers was to bring such films to Manchester's youngest viewers that would tell them about the bigger world and children that live in other countries.

But children and their parents were not just watching films together - they could also dabble into filmmaking, providing they booked a place in a workshop. Several kinds of workshops were going during this year's Festival, supported by the Workers' Film Association. A workshop at the Greenroom was for teenagers between 10 and 15 yrs old, who were invited to create their own short films, using professional digital video camcorders and I-Mac work stations. Two workshops were held at the Zion Arts Centre in Hulme, a session of puppet animation for 5-10 year olds, and a Manga-themed animation workshop for 10-15 year olds. And a workshop at Princes Park in Irlam, Salford, was dedicated to wildlife animation and invited family members of all ages.

I went to the puppet animation workshop on Saturday, 26 August, at the Zion Arts Centre. In a large well-lit room children and their parents were sitting at the tables, absorbed in the task of making figurines of plasticine. The multi-aged and multicultural groups showed formidable team-working skills, especially when it finally came to shooting. The room periodically filled with bursts of laughter, especially when things were not going smoothly. At one point all props (plasticine pines) collapsed at the set of one of the features. At another set two plasticine "actresses" fell face down from their carton board bench. In spite of this, the filmings progressed well, the credits appeared, the "actors" bowed, and then the groups went on to edit their films.

The scripts, composed by children themselves, were anything but simple. One group's film was about a squirrel visiting another squirrel and bringing a bag of hazelnuts. When opened, the bag contained a mouse, who was eating away the nuts! Another group made a film about two female friends who had to handle an uneasy task of sharing money between themselves. Yet another group's film (by The Quincy Blake Production) was about two aliens fighting and then befriending on the Sun. In the words of Quincy Blake (a boy of about 7), he enjoyed making his movie. And in the words of one of the mothers, attending such workshop was not just enlightening, but also made her feel like going back to her childhood.

I must admit I felt I went back in time, too, despite the fact that I didn't participate in preparing the sets or props, or in the actual filming and subsequent editing. Simply the glee and the spirit of team-working have filled the ground, so it was almost impossible not to immerse in this wonderful atmosphere.

The first Family Friendly Film Festival will definitely not be the last, although it did take a lot of time, pain and money to obtain clearances for screenings, especially of such films as the multi-winning Spirited Away, Belleville Rendezvous, and Eve and the Fire Horse. However, with the obvious success of this year's Festival the plans will be growing bigger for the next year, and Leah Byrne has told The LOOK that the BBC is already looking into taking part with a workshop on score-writing. So, watch out for the Family Friendly Film Festival next year (www.familyfriendly.org.uk), and in the meantime check out this year's list, and try and catch the films you haven't yet seen!


Holes (dir. Andrew Davis, USA, 2003, 117 mins)
Raju & I (dir. Gayatri Rao, India, 2003, 30 mins)
Whose Children Are These? (dir. Theresa Thanjann, USA, 2004, 27 mins)
Getting My Goat (dir. Eva Saks, USA, 2005, 2 mins)
Colorforms (dir. Eva Saks, USA, 2003, 8 mins)
Maya - the Indian Princess (dir. Kavita Ramchandran, USA, 2005, 3 mins)
Happy Holy Maya (dir. Kavita Ramchandran, USA, 2005, 2 mins)
Dial 'M' for Monster (dir. Kevin Nikkel, Canada, 2003, 1 min.)
Open a Door (Cuba, USA, Great Britain, Taiwain, Iran, Mexico, South Africa, 2003, 7x5 mins)
Welcome to My Life (dir. Elizabeth Ito, USA, 2004, 5 mins)
Circuit Marine (dir. Favez Isabelle, France, Canada, 2003, 7 mins 50)
The Wind in the Willows (dirs. Mark Hall and Chris Taylor, UK, 1983, 79 mins)
Eve & the Fire Horse (dir. Julia Kwan, Canada, 2005, 92 mins)
La Grande Migration (dir. Youri Tcherenkov, France, 1995, 7 mins 54)
Let's Play (dirs. Francois Lecauchois, Cassandre Hornez, France, 2003, 26 mins)
Confection (dir. Eva Saks, USA, 2003, 5 mins)
Lucia (dir. Felix Goennert, Germany, 2004, 8 mins 30)
Chika's Bird (dir. Adam Mars, Canada, 2003, 15 mins)
The Fan and the Flower (dir. Bill Plympton, USA, 2005, 7 mins 10)
Spirited Away (dir. Hayao Miyazaki, Japan, 2001, 125 mins)
Yoko! Jakamoko! Toto! (dir. Tony Collingwood, UK, 2005, 2x4 mins 30)
Bark, George! (dir. Gene Deitch, USA, 2003, 6 mins)
Eddy and the Bear (dir. Tony Collingwood, UK, 2003, 9 mins 30)
The Pipsqueak Prince (dir. Zoia Trofimova, France, 2002, 7 mins)
Animal Stories (dir. Tony Collingwood, UK, 2001, 2x 5 mins)
Gorden the Garden Gnome - The Veggie Pet (dir. Tony Collingwood, UK, 2005, 11 mins)
A Fortune in Frozen Dim Sum (dir. Ling Chiu, 2004, Canada, 13 mins)
Belleville Rendezvous (dir. Sylvain Chomet, France/Canada/Belgium, 2003, 80 mins).

(The list is compiled after the Festival's brochure).

She Came in with a Tray of Tea Cups... on Her Head

The story arrived today to all of us who are subscribers to the BBC Newsnight and Panorama newsletters. While the Health Minister was interviewed in one of the BBC's newsrooms, a lady walked past her in the background, carrying a tray full of teas on her head. Peter Barron, the editor of Newsnight, tells us that the lady in question is Nana Amoatin, originally from Ghana, and she's been getting the teas in like this for years. As she put it, 'anyone can do it'.

Indeed, I tried to do this is my childhood, when I was myself fascinated with this practice of carrying things on the head. I wouldn't dare try to carry anything like tea cups, so I limited myself down to books, and I think I managed to make a few steps with a couple of thick volumes on my crown. I also think I began to lose balance, so I stopped, since books were even more precious to me, than tea cups. Either way I didn't learn to carry things on my head then, but I'm thinking I might need to learn now. Quite frankly, it would help.