building a glorious new future

In the aftermath of the revolution, the world had to be recreated anew, rejecting everything that could be possibly connected to the old. This creation had to take place in every sphere of life: in politics, education, the army, and not least, in visual culture. At the vanguard of visual reimaginings of the homeland were Aleksandr Rodchenko and Lyubov Popova. There work is currently on display at Tate Modern, and I had a wander through on Saturday. Construction art equated the artist with the engineer, as both were building the new society emerging around them. The rendering of the visual into the useful was the aim of Rodchenko and Popova, and they cultivated seriousness as a way of life. The exhibit features one of Rodchenko’s sculptures, which doubled as a Newspaper Kiosk, while Popova additionally designed patterns for the clothes of the workers. Yet my favourite part of the exhibit was the advertising section from the NEP era. Although such work was produced decades before my birht, it reminded me of my childhood. The style of production Rodchenko and Popova pioneered has lingered to the present. The theatre posters looked nearly identical to those on display outside Russian theatres today. The poster for Red October biscuits looked similar to some I used to have hanging in my room. I love the clean lines, the direct messages and the kitschy symbolism. And I was impressed that large numbers of non-Russians were showing up for this (not inexpensive) display of constructivism abroad.

reading

Using means I shall not reveal publically, I have managed to get entire collections of works by some of my favourite South American writers in pdf form on my laptop. This is important because it would be unprofessional to be seen in the office, or in an important conference, sitting and reading a book. Yet for some reason, it is absolutely normal to be sitting in those same places looking intensely at the computer. Furthermore, as these pdfs are in a language few in England speak, I think I can just about get away with it. Of course I am meant to be doing other things, but with the state of the world economy in freefall….i wouldn't get too far even if I exhausted myself trying.
So I started with Carlos Fuentes's Los anos con Laura Diaz. I love Fuentes, but this book leaves me cold. It is a sweeping 20th century epic, as Laura finds herself witness to every revolution and upheaval of the age. Yet while there are fascinating moments, the book reads more like an attempt to fictionalise a history text than a story, set in a historic setting. Too many of the characters are flat, more symbols of their era than believable personalities. So, when they die, I find myself not caring in the slightest.
So I go back and reread Aura, one of Fuentes' older works. It is really a novella, so I finish it in the afternoon. It is one of the creepiest stories I know. I first read it back when I was in school, and I marvel now that the teachers dared give such a work to a bunch of teenagers. I doubt they would today. Tomorrow, feeling an urge for some pop culture influence, I think I shall move on to Manuel Puig
Reading Los anos con Laura Diaz reminded me a bit too much in its aftertaste of a film I saw recently, Clint Eastwood's production Gran Torino. Like Fuentes' book, this film, should have been a real masterpiece. Yet…somehow too many of the characters remain flat, never really evolving into people I care about. So while you stay riveted to the plot just to see how it will all end, the feeling isn't there somehow.
Yet such was not the case with Revolutionary Road, which I saw after arriving jet lagged back in London. Possibly one of the best films I have seen in the past year, every character here is grimly believable. It is not an easy film to watch, but it was certainly worth it, and I recommend it to anyone looking for a good film.
And if anyone has any nice thick books in pdf to recommend me, I shall be more than grateful.

KL

I like big, modern Asian cities. In particular, I like their anonymous height. My hotel room is on the 30th floor of a huge modern sky scraper. I am sure my father (who hates such things) would say it was ‘characterless,’ but I quite like things that way. It is modern and comfortable. I have a huge bed, and a remote control that does everything from monitor the temperature, to control all the light switches. If I am in bed and I want it warmer, I just press the plus button and everything is taken care of. And then there is the view. I love standing at my window and watching the traffic below. I love staring at the other skyscrapers, none of which are quite close enough for me to see in or for anyone to see me. I could stand totally naked at my window (not that I have) and no one would see me. But I can see the first trains, monorails, go by in the early morning, and watch the men on their scooters racing off to work. I can watch the sun turn funny colours as it falls quickly in the west, and the bright lights of the space age buildings in front of me switch on.

Malaysia

This country is culinary heaven. I have always travelled on my stomach, but rarely do I fine countries where the hungry beast of my innards if truly satisfied. This is partly my fault. I am, after all, a vegetarian (by allergy, not by choice) and this makes it harder. India remains my all time food favourite, but I think Malaysia will join Thailand close to the top of my food list. Part of the reason I like it is the huge variety: as the advert has been telling us for the past decade, Malaysia is truly Asia. There is a real mix of the continent here, with large Malay, Chinese and Indian populations. Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism and Confucianism all exist side by side. Culturally, the mix is fascinating. From the culinary perspective, it is divine. One thing I love about Asia is that it is one of the only places where hotels serve a breakfast I actually want to eat. I hate the continental breakfasts that most hotels in Europe and the Americas serve, so I was delighted to go downstairs this morning to find the European stuff on one side, and the rice, soup, eggs and vegetables on the other. I attacked gleefully. The prices also help. I had a delicious lunch in a small restaurant in Chinatown for under 1 pound, so I splurged for dinner- I spent 2 pounds and had a feast!! Everything was so fresh and tasteful, I was in heaven. My biggest dilemma has been- is it acceptable to have something you KNOW you like again, for the pleasure of it, or should you force yourself to try something new? I seem to consistently end up doing both.

sydney

When travelling, I always enjoy being able to catch up with old acquaintances, not just because they are people I like, but also because they can add so much to the experience in a place through their insights. So I was delighted to have the opportunity to sit down in a bar with my old work colleague from Paris. We left Paris within a month of each other, as I went on to London for the PhD and she decided to return home. I think we both had got fed up with France, for similar reasons. After catching up on the past 3.5 years of our lives, I took advantage of Johanna’s native Sydney/Australian status to quiz her about some matters that had been on my mind. Since returning to Sydney, she has done well in the local theatre scene, of which I had heard many good things. She described it as “small by intense” which I suppose is enough to keep one stimulated. She confirmed and complained about the beer scene, claiming she and her friends avoid the city centre and certain other areas on weekend evenings. According to her, there just isn’t that much to do in Sydney in the evening if you have no personal or cultural interests (such as the theatre, or cinema). So, guys get blasted and get in their convertibles and drive around the city in circles, honking at women and mates whom they happen to encounter. They then move on to pubs where they get even more hammered. I had gathered this myself, based on the strange signs I kept seeing on pubs saying things like “entry and reentry forbidden between 2 and 6am.” Next I asked about the Chinese. There are really a lot of them in Sydney. Walking around with my father and his friends, we often found ourselves the only white people in the area. At one point Bob (one of our travelling companions) asked if there was anyone left in China, at which point I reminded him that there are after all 1.3 billion of them. Yet when I asked Johanna what the draw of Australia was for Chinese, she looked uncomfortable and whispered it wasn’t PC to talk about such things. She then went on to say that most were not tourists, but often students living and studying in Sydney. I personally found the Asian presence in Sydney fascinating. I wandered into one bookshop in the centre and found myself surrounded by more manga than I had ever even imagined existed. One half of the shop was in Chinese, the other half in Japanese. If I lived in this part of the world, I would totally make the effort to learn one of those two, it seems like such a great opportunity, especially as you could clearly actually use the languages. I asked Johanna if Australians went to Asia much. It seems Fiji is a popular destination, although I have difficulty imagining why given that Australia’s own beaches are lovely. Hong Kong is a major destination as well. Some of her friends had gone to Tokyo, but she bucked the trend and recently went to New Caledonia instead, wanting to hear some French again. Through our conversation, I think I gained some better insight into Sydney, and I am grateful for having such connections in odd places to allow for that. I can see the appeal of living here. The living standard is much higher than, for example, in Britain. The flats are MUCH better built, the transport system is better (not a big achievement there though) and there are fresher and cheaper fruits and vegetables than we get in most of Europe. The climate is certainly better, and the people look much healthier. They have an excellent sports infrastructure, and athletics is something they take very seriously. The nature is beautiful naturally, but also beautifully maintained. There were exquisite botanic gardens in every Kiwi and Aussie town I visited, and they were all being actively enjoyed by the locals. The beaches are gorgeous and, like in Brazil, they belong to everyone- there are no private beaches, so the rich cant try to hog the best of nature. Furthermore, it is in many ways an egalitarian society, which I also like. I couldn’t imagine living in New Zealand (too end of the earth) but I could see Sydney….for a year or two. Yet I don’t know if I could ever live in a place like this permanently. Is it perhaps too close to perfection, like Canada? Too sterilized? I really don’t know.

hair and clothes

During the past few weeks, especially aboard the ship, I had to attend several formal dinners. The ship’s instructions always specify “cocktail dress for women, tuxedos for men.” Last year, my mother telephoned me in Chile to warn me about this detail, and I ended up going shopping last minute in Santiago. My father always gets away with just a jacket, shirt and tie, but I decided to go for the different this time around. Since we were in an appropriate part of the world, I asked my mother to send me her old prom dress. My mother went to secondary school in the mid 60s, in the South Pacific, and she has a few interesting outfits to prove it, none of which she ever wears. so I decided to appropriate the mumu and use it for my formal evenings. This had the strange result of turning me into an Asian Lady Magnet. Asian ladies, both crew and guests kept coming over to admire my outfit, and were particularly amazed when I told them it was my mothers, and over a decade older than I am. I guess seeing a white person dressed in Polynesian traditional clothing is strange, but imagining that one did so 40 years ago must be mind boggling.
My father approved of the mumu, but not of my hair. Working 7 days a week in London for the past 8 months meant that some things just didnt get done, and cutting my hair was one of those. Pulled down straight, it was rapidly approaching my waist, and in the humidity of Auckland or Sydney, it was a bit frightening. So my father hauled me off to the hairdressers and ordered them to cut off what they saw fit. I guess he didn’t realise that in Australia they would have their own way of dealing with hair. Not only did 10 inches get chopped off, but I got a special treatment, which seemed to consist largely of salt, that is guaranteed to make my hair look like I just got back from the beach. Walking about Sydney, it looks pretty cool, I have to confess. But I am starting to wonder- what will it look like in the grey of a Northern European winter?

melbourne

I think I managed to explode every stereotype of Melbourne in my first 10 minutes. Before I set out on my journey, all the Australians I met warned me the weather could be really crap, at any time of the year. I was told to bring a jumper and prepare for “four seasons in one day.”
But when I stepped of the ship I knew it was hot, really really hot. By midday, the temperature had reached 45.3 degrees. I was delighted, of course, as this is my absolute ideal temperature, but I was clearly in the minority. Despite all stereotypes of Australia being a hot country, the city proved utterly incapable of dealing with such heat. By early afternoon, the transport system had essentially ceased to function and a major power outage had forced many offices to close.
Those same Australians had described Melbourne as the “cultural capital” with “good shopping” and slightly more sophisticated people. Again, I must have a talent. I had three vulgar sex jokes before my tram arrived, and literally the first sign I saw in the city featured a huge map of Australia, with “fuck off, we’re full” written in the middle. The two kiwis with me were by this time nearly dying with peals of laughter, citing their former Prime Minister’s oft quoted statement that the large migration of Kiwis to Australia “raises the IQ of both countries.”
Oh, and the shopping was quite provincial and, well, rubbish.
Despite all of this, however, Melbourne did have its benefits. The flats, especially those near the harbour, were absolutely stunning, with a great combination of glass and local wood to create a feeling of endless openness, but without roasting in the heat. The downtown is incredibly clean and liveable with huge parks everywhere. The next day the temperature went back down to a cool 38 and the shops were all open again. Furthermore, the public transport was FREE, because the authorities wished to APOLOGIZE for their poor performance the day before. Hearing that, I thought I might faint. The local explaining it to me was very earnest, feeling that this was only right. And of course she was perfectly correct, but I doubt many other transport systems around the globe would be similarly moved in such conditions.

another stanley

There is something about towns named Stanley. Every one I have been to has had an end of the world feel. The last Stanley I found myself in was the capital of the Falkland islands. So I got a bit nervous when I saw street signs in Northwest Tasmania directing me to yet another Stanley.
Stanley, Tasmania does indeed feel like the end of the world, but at least it is a beautiful end. It is on a peninsula, with clean blue water visible all around from most places. There is a hill in the middle, and we took a ski lift up to the top to get a complete view of the area. Below, you could see kids playing on the white sands of the beaches below. Above, it was scorching- at least 40 degrees, not that I have ever minded the heat.
Later we followed an aboriginal to their territory (returned to the community some years back by the government). Their territory is immense, but you have to wonder how people survive. It must have been a brutal existence at best. Yet the aboriginals lived there for 40,000 years (and maybe longer) before the arrival of whites. And their way of life changed very little in this time, so clearly their techniques worked some how.
Our guide Never Never (so named, as apparently he was never never to be found be sought…aboriginals often get their names after a few years of life, we were told) showed us where and how they caught fish, and where they lived during the different seasons. He explained the sharp division that exists between “women’s business” and “men’s business” and how the two cannot be blurred. He told us that until 1968, aboriginals were not classified as citizens in Australia, and when they died, their deaths were reported to the flora and fauna department, as though a tree had been knocked over. He described how he had stopped going to school when he was young because the white kids called him nigger and anyway, it was more exciting to be out in the bush with his grandfather, Pop Jiggles, learning how to hunt down mutton birds (you have to grab them in their hole, keeping your arm low so as not to be bitten by a snake, of which there are many, but they need to get their heads up in the air at least 6 inches in order to bite). He bemoaned the numerous social ills that plague the aboriginal communities- alcoholism, wife beating and teen pregnancy. A hardened man, but an interesting one to talk to. We got up to leave an he said with dead seriousness “thank you for respecting my culture.”