Saturday, July 17, 2021

The Importance of the Rose in the Arts, Philosophy and Politics

 

A colleague from Belgium, commented on a photo I had taken of plein air painters in Arizona.  She digitally “played” with the analogue original

 


and wrote:

“Your photography has a tendency toward impressionism, just like your poetry. You play with light as you do with words to take the focus off the theme you pursue. Sometimes I think of the song by Gilbert Bécaud “L’important c’est la rose” when I look at your work. Have you figured out what is the meaning of the rose in that song?

Hmm. Back in the 1970s there were three giants of French songs – Bécaud, Brel and Brassens. They were called ‘Les trios B de la chanson Française’. I found it funny that my friend did not choose Brel for her commentary, as he is the only Belgian out of the three!

So, I had to refresh my recollection of Bécaud’s lyrics.

 

Toi pour qui, donnant-donnant
J'ai chanté ces quelques lignes
Comme pour te faire un signe en passant
Dis à ton tour maintenant
Que la vie n'a d'importance
Que par une fleur qui danse
Sur le temps

L’important

C’est la rose l’important

 

So, the key lines seem to be:

It is your turn to say now
That life doesn't matter
Than by a dancing flower
In the time

What really counts is the rose

(The translation is mine)

 

Now, I was curious to guess why the rose was important!

… Immediately, the poem by D.H. Lawrence “Gloire de Dijon” came to mind, perhaps because of the French title and context, but also because he used the rose called Gloire de Dijon to describe a sensual and sexual moment. The specific lines are:

When she rises in the morning
I linger to watch her;
She spreads the bath-cloth underneath the window
And the sunbeams catch her
Glistening white on the shoulders,
While down her sides the mellow
Golden shadow glows as
She stoops to the sponge, and her swung breasts
Sway like full-blown yellow
Gloire de Dijon roses.

This poem is often interpreted through impressionism, like one would analyse a painting by Monet. It is fragmented, each line is self-contained and self sufficient. It is like the effect of light and shadows an impressionist painter pursues without focusing on a central theme.

Did Bécaud use the same style in his song, or is there more than style that make the song mysterious?

The definition of impressionism is:

 a style or movement in painting originating in France in the 1860s, characterized by a concern with depicting the visual impression of the moment, especially in terms of the shifting effect of light and color.

And

a literary or artistic style that seeks to capture a feeling or experience rather than to achieve accurate depiction.

Since both the song and the poem dealt with the rose, perhaps what a rose represents is worth investigating.

The rose is the most common flower used in religion, artistic writing, songs and painting as it has symbolism ranging from the veneration of Jesus Christ's mother, Mary to Greek and Roman goddesses of love, to Islamic, Indian and Persian interpretations of lust, love and death.

Indeed, in Christianity, the rose was the origin of the rosary. In Greek mythology Aphrodite preserved Hector’s body with the” immortal oil of the rose”. In Persia, the geometric designs of gardens revolved around the rose; and, the famed Sufi poet Hafez wrote that the rose gives lust to the nightingale’s song.

But the rose, while usually associated with sin and passion given its red colour, has more symbolism than for lust and veneration. For example, a blue rose connotes mystery; a yellow rose is for friendship; and, a white rose is for innocence or purity.

And, even today, these various colours are representatives of cultural celebrations or avoidance. For example, in Northern Spain, Catalans celebrate their patron Saint George (Sant Jordi) on a day called “lovers’ Day” (dia dels enamorats) by exchanging red roses.

But in recent history, some roses, especially white roses, have acquired a new political meaning regarding purity or innocence. A prominent example is from WWII when academic and students from the University of Munich started a movement called “die Weiße Rose”(The White Rose) in opposition to the Nazi party. In this instance the white rose represented purity opposing the cruelty and evil of Nazi regime.

The most enduring philosophical and political adoption of the rose started in the mid-1800s with the advent of socialism. The red rose subsequently represented socialism and the colour red communism. In post-WWII, the red rose became a political logo for socialist and social-democrat political parties. The visuals of the logo were a red rose in a fist and adopted by Socialist International, the French Socialist Party, and since the 1980s, the British Labour Party replaced its historic red flag logo with a red rose.

Finally, the symbolism of the rose would be incomplete without its place in mythology as representing secrecy. Indeed, Venus was known for her indiscretions, it is said that Cupid gave Harpocrates, the Greek god of silence, a rose asking him to be discrete about Venus’s indiscretions… A god of silence—what a valuable role he should have played in the firmament!

(I could not stop thinking that the name Harpo, the unspoken third Marx brother, came from Harpocrates. I searched the Internet for confirmation, but it seems that he was given that name when he played the harp at the Orpheum Theatre in Galesburg, Illinois.)

Today, we call that “sub rosa” as “under the rose” when we behave like Harpocrates.

So, what should I say to my friend in Belgium? That I still do not know why the rose was important to Bécaud? That I do not write, nor take photos, adhering to impressionism?

Or, that perhaps I do so sub rosa as in this photo I took in Oslo, Norway....



 

July 17, 2021

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2021

Wednesday, July 7, 2021

He Played “Szomorú Vasárnap”



 




The window was open

Like a door to walk through

 

The lilac bush was all bloom

But without the aroma

Of blooms he once knew

 

The teeth of a hippo

Made the piano clavier

But not the sadness

When he touched the “la”

 

It all ends

In Pure Minor

With an E

And three semitones

With no scales to remember

 

But it was not Sunday yet

And the window looked over a field

Of coquelicot

Fearing the slightest wind

That will make them shiver

Like unspoken words


¡Trste domingo!

 

July 7, 2021

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2021

 


Tuesday, June 22, 2021

When L'Albatros of Baudelaire Meets Rumi, Carmen and Icarus

 


I came across a photo I had taken in the Port of Baltimore and never published it. The composition was acceptable but I assume I did not find a story in it. So, it went to the “Rejects” box.

But today, years after the photo was taken with a 1953 Ukrainian Kiev camera, a single word came to my mind:

L’Albatos!

Indeed, it is a poem by the French poet Baudelaire published sometime in the late 1850s. When I was a teenager, it was one of my favorite poème noir as most of the decadent poet of “Les Fleurs du Mal”. In the L’Albatros, Baudelaire compares the albatrosses to a poet who in flight are the “prince des nueés”/prince of the clouds but when on land they are awkward walking because of their large wings.

Le Poète est semblable au prince des nuées
Qui hante la tempête et se rit de l'archer;
Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées,
Ses ailes de géant l'empêchent de marcher.

This approximately translates as:

The poet resembles this prince of clouds
who haunted storms and sneered at archers;
now, banished to the ground, and surrounded by crowds,

its wings of a giant forbid it to walk well

Indeed, the photo above seems to capture seagulls in both of these states – as magnificent birds in flight reaching the clouds like a poet is in his thoughts and expressions, but also as unattractive avian when sitting on the docks.

So, as in Egyptian art where Isis is depicted with outspread wings, there is safety in flight. As there is safety in a poet’s emotions transcending earthly slings and archers.

And my own thoughts migrated to lines from Rumi:

"This is love: to fly toward a secret sky, to cause a hundred veils to fall each moment. First to let go of life. Finally, to take a step without feet."

Without feet. That is what Baudelaire saw so awkward in the walk of the albatross. Just wings. Toward a secret sky.

Now I was thinking about love and how it has been compared to a bird in poetry. Perhaps the most famous line is from Bizet’s Carmen, Habanera:

“Love is rebellious bird that nobody can tame, and it's all in vain to call it if it chooses to refuse.”

… In my college dormitory room I had a poster that read:

Love is like a bird – if you hold it loose, it flies away. If you hold it too tight, it dies

And then, through experiences sought or unwelcome, I learned that there was a third possibility – love will end up with broken wings as Gibran described his tragic love of Selma Karamy in Beirut. Is a bird a bird when its wings are broken? Is a poet a poet when he cannot reach the clouds? And, is love worth celebrating when it cannot haunt the storms of rejection?

… When I was taking my driver’s license test in Beirut many decades ago, there was writing, in Arabic, on the wall of the test site office.  It read:

Do not speed – death is faster

And today, recalling that line (which rimed beautifully in Arabic) I thought of the inscription on the gravestone of Mary Woodson who died on her way to church to be married in 1785. It read:

Death had quicker wings than love

And this line is still being used in many songs and literary works.

 

…I think the circle was well traveled starting with the photograph, then the poet as an awkward walking albatross, and finally love and death as they get affected by the flight of time, experience and fate.

But before I stopped writing, fate made me wonder if wings, when made of wax and feathers are worse than the awkward walk of an Albatross.

I think Icarus would wonder about that too!

 

June 22, 2021

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2021

Saturday, May 15, 2021

Coquetterie

 





Donne-moi

L'espace que tu gardes

Pour ceux qui te passent

Et qui restent en toi

Pour ne pas se perdre

 

Parle tout doucement

Et dis les mots que j’aime

Comme une gamine sans face

Qui court dans les champs

Pieds nus et cœur battant

 

Laisse-moi être

Pour le court moment

Qui est notre carrefour

Le troubadour d'antan

Qui en t’attendant

A perdu son lyre

 

Et pour la première fois

Oublie les larmes du Fado

De Lisbonne ou d’Oporto

Que “partir é morrer oum pouco"

Et cours dans mes secrets champs

De coquelicots et tendres chants

 

Car demain

Un autre troubadour

Chantera ton nom

Du haut des toits

Où il restera, seul

Dans la douceur de l’espace

Que tu lui donneras

Comme revanche

 

Mai 15, 2021

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2021

Monday, April 19, 2021

Artemisia Was Absent

 


 


 

When I burned bitter dreams

Held by a flat silver spoon upon a cup where

Pain was washed down with cold water

As if dead carp in the river

Next to the catacombs of a city that has forgotten

How evil turns to anger

 

Artemisia was absent but I still called her name 

 

Artemisia was now just a name

Which

I once wrote on the sand

Of a city burning

Without a silver spoon

And without knowing why

I wrote on the sand

Of its beaches washed

By the times

By the tides

By unmoon nights

As I left the land that became

Someone else's land

Next to the bluest sea

 

Where Artemis lost her arrow

 

And her chastity

Under the half moon

 

And turned green

Like a fairy who lost her way

In the catacombs of a city

Next to a dark river

Where the beach was of concrete

And the name I had written

Was washed

 

In cold water

Over a flat silver spoon

Into a simple cup

That was now bitter

 

Because Artemisia was absent


April 19, 2021

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2021



About this poem: Artemisia absinthium is the common wormwood historically used to make absinthe. I was inspired by a visit to the catacombs of Prague where absinthe, made with wormwood, is available for experimenting. 

As such, this is not a poem about the 17th century Italian painter Artemisia Gentileschi....

Sunday, March 28, 2021

Vita Interruptus

 







 

Pull back

We had a swell

Time

Touched by a promise

We believed

In

Yet fell

Upon our backs

And waited

 

Push back

The low hanging

Fruit

Was picked last night

And the morning blue sky

Is now gray and dark

Peeping

Through the

Hanging

Old

Curtains

 

Hold still

Till the coffee percolates

And drips

With caprice

And with desire

In the unwashed cup

Left on the bed stand

Standing

Alone

 

And then

Recall a name

A place

A time

When face covering

Was a fantasy

To unveil

Yet another

Promise

To believe

In

 

March 28, 2021

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2021







Friday, March 26, 2021

From “My Land is Your Land (W. Guthrie) to “Ó Gente da Minha Terra” (Mariza) to “My Land and My People” ( Dalai Lama)

 


 


 

I enjoy listening to songs or classical music while driving more than I do in a house room or at the concert hall. So many variables interact at the same time when I insert a CD into the dashboard – the scenery keeps changing, the wind whistles differently depending on how much I crack the windows open, the sound of the road constantly changes under the tires, and I suddenly sound like a perfect tenor when I join the song!

So, I keep a multi-lingual selection of CDs in my car. I have Italian opera, French troubadour songs, Portuguese Fado, Arabic folkloric songs, Armenian popular songs, and Spanish classic guitar plays. Recently I added the CD of Silk Road music by Yo-Yo Ma.

When I have a few hours of drive (even an hour), I decide on the CD according to my mood at the moment.

A couple of weeks ago, when I had a drive to the upper country of Arizona (meaning in the mountains of an altitude of about 7,000 feet) I decided to fill the thinning air with the vibrations of Fado.

Fado is a typically Portuguese genre of “blues” that has its origins in port districts like Mouraria and Bairro Alto. Lisbon is where it blossomed in the 19th century and today the best Fado moments are still to be found in the “semi-dark ” bars in Bairro Alto where I had my introduction to the often soul wrenching songs and the 12 steel  strings guitarra.  I can still recall Tasca Do Chico and Café Luso.  I have written about my early experience here https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/4995164429340748464/5769353108438927210 with B&W photos of a fadista.

So, the CD I have is called FADO: um tesouro português. I immediately chose Gaivota by Amália Rodrigues and Ó Gente da Minha Terra by Mariza. La grande dame of Fado is incomparable to any other fadista and she remains the ambassador of my memories of Portugal. But Mariza, for whom the above song was composed by T. Machado based on a text by A. Rodrigues, takes me beyond Portugal, to all the countries where people remember their land and ancestors or celebrate them if they are lucky to still live in these ancestral places.

Here are a few lines:

Oh people of my land

Now I understand

This sadness which I carry on

Was from you that I received

… I was now driving in the high mountains still their tops covered in snow. Suddenly the desert was transformed into Nordic scenery. It is a beautiful land. I felt humbled and lucky to live my days in this context.

And without warning, I started whistling the notes of the most popular American folksong by Woody Guthrie “This Land is Your Land”. While celebrating the grandeur of this land, this song has raised historical, cultural and social issues in a country that is three centuries old. This land has seen different cultures call it their own over this time period. And yet, it remains a land with much space for all.

Here are a few lines:

I roamed and rambled and I've followed my footsteps
to the sparkling sands of her diamond deserts
All around me a voice was sounding
this land was made for you and me

 Every country has a poem, a song and especially an anthem celebrating its motherland. Or is it fatherland? Or yet homeland? And these expressions of love and belonging are often precipitated when the land is in danger, through physical or cultural invasion.

Fatherland seems to be the oldest term used in English language to describe one’s country. It may be derived from the Latin patria, meaning fatherland.

Motherland may have its origins in the French language as terre mère. Although now the French use “la mère patrie” somehow mixing between motherland and fatherland.

Homeland does not refer to the land of my mothers or fathers, but rather the land where I belong. It is perhaps a reflection of the global movement of people and the globe being truly globalized. … As I was thinking about Russia being Motherland yet surrounded at its south by Nordic countries where their land is called Fatherland, I remembered the lines by a famous Armenian poet Silva Kabudikyan. In a poem to her son, she says:

And son, no matter where you go

Or under the moon wherever you stay

Even if you forget your mother

Never forget your mother tongue

(the translation is mine)

 Could it be that she was also addressing the movement during 1920 to the 1940s of Armenians leaving the “Motherland”? Indeed, today’s Diaspora of 5 million Armenians took shape during those years. If so, did she recognize that identity can survive through the preservation of language and culture even if one is not on his motherland or fatherland?

Perhaps the one who has given much thought to all this is the four-year-old son of a humble farmer sat on a huge, gilded throne in the Himalayan city of Lhasa. Then, in exile as a young man, he is declared the reincarnated leader of Tibet. Now the most recognized monk in world history, the Dalai Lama tells his story and the story of Central Tibet in his book “My Land and My People” while China classifies Tibet as part of the Motherland.

 

… I drove to the upper country of Arizona a few weeks ago. I did not write any of these thoughts on paper (or on the screen) as I did not further explore the ways in which our understanding of “my land” has a long history in national identity. 

But a few days ago, when I was walking with my dog (not “walking my dog” as he is truly an independent soul!) we came across a spot in the rocky hills where someone had camped not long ago. And in the fire pit, I saw the partly burned tree trunk that had a pristine bird nest on it! The sun being still in the East, the shadows drew a perfectly sad face at one end of the trunk. And leaves near the bird nest seemed like fingers protecting the nest.

I could not resist thinking about Gandhi, the Dalai Lama and FADO songs! So, I looked for the definition of a nation used during the debates between the British and Gandhi’s India:

“a nation is a body of people, associated with a particular territory, which is sufficiently conscious of its unity to seek or to possess a government peculiarly of its own.”

So, now I could write these lines.

 

PS/ here is the photo original size




here is a close up of the nest:

 


And the face with so much sorrow:

 


 

March 22, 2021

©Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2021