Dissolving: A long march

Abbey Road, London. Iain Macmillan’s photo to Beatles’ Abbey Road album. 8 August 1969, right before the break-up of the band

Black Sea Road, Yeisk, a spa and trading town on the Azov Sea shore. 1910s, right before the break-up of the empire

And once we are sitting in the time machine, let’s take a look at some more views of Yeisk, this charming little town that had three large streets with beautiful eclectic buildings and a Singer sewing machine shop, a harbor and a steamship company, a girls’ gymnasium and a park, and they even drilled an arthesian well, introduced the railway, and started to build the first railway bridge right before the break-up of the empire. The water on the main street still exists today. For the painting of a pedestrian crossing, there was no time left.

yeisk1 yeisk1 yeisk1 yeisk1 yeisk1 yeisk1 yeisk1 yeisk1 yeisk1 yeisk1 yeisk1 yeisk1 yeisk1 yeisk1 yeisk1 yeisk1 yeisk1 yeisk1 yeisk1 yeisk1 yeisk1 yeisk1 yeisk1 yeisk1 yeisk1 yeisk1 yeisk1


Letter to the frontline


“Жди меня и я вернусь”“Wait for me, and I will come”, wrote Konstantin Simonov in 1941 in his letter from the front to his girlfriend and later wife, the Soviet movie star Valentina Serova (who, however, did not wait for him, but mixed up with Marshal Rokossovsky). The poem, that became public only months later, together with the music of Matvey Blanter, became one of the unofficial hymns of the Great Patriotic War, and kept up the soul and hope of millions of soldiers and soldier’s wives.

In the now-running Ukrainian patriotic war, the tables turn, and women left at home send letters to the frontline, to urge their beloved ones to endure, and to foster patriotism in every Ukrainian. This is how the letter is introduced by filmmaker Ivan Kravchyshyn, who, together with his wife Natalia, designed and photographed each page of it, and whose films – such as Політ золотої мушки (The flight of the golden fly, 2014) – fit together with the visual world of the album..


Because the letter is nothing but a twelve-page album. On each page, a beautiful Ukrainian girl is looking at the reader, dressed in the costume of a different Ukrainian historical region. The pieces of the costume are authentic: most of them come from museums in Kolomea, Tarnopol and Prelesne, as well as from the private collections of Natalia Kravchishin and three of the girls photographed. On the back of each photo they give a detailed description of each piece of clothing, they mark their place of origin on the map of the traditional regions of Ukraine, and add archival photos to show how they were worn at that time.

zhdi zhdi zhdi zhdi zhdi zhdi zhdi zhdi zhdi zhdi zhdi zhdi zhdi zhdi zhdi zhdi zhdi zhdi zhdi zhdi zhdi zhdi zhdi zhdi

To encourage our sons fighting on the front with girls dressed in national costumes, and at the same time to fasten national cohesion, may seem archaic to us, who saw similar publications from the time of the First World War. But the idea fits well with the nation-building endeavor of a belated nation. The photos, the girls, the costumes are beautiful, the typography tasteful, and the archive photos and texts well-rounded and informative.

What a pity that the letter has not been signed by the whole of Ukraine. The Bukovinian Romanian, Galician Pole, Black Sea Russian, Holichian Karaim, Crimean Tatar, Subcarpathian Hungarian soldiers perishing on the eastern front are looking in vain for the pictures of their loved ones in the album. These ethnic fragments shredded from here and there into Ukraine have been forgotten in the heyday of nation-building.

For them, pars pro toto, plays the Hungarian version of Wait for me and I will come, which may be a surprise to the speakers of the other languages, too. In fact, this is not identical with the well-known version of Blanter. Inasmuch as it sounds authentically Russian, it comes from the Hungarian composer Henrik Negrelli. You can make a hit, singing it with a Russian text in a Russian company. The Hungarian translation was done by Sarolta Lányi, who probably did not have the front in mind, but rather her husband Ernő Czóbel, who kept her in countenance with his letters from the Siberian Gulag. It is sung by the great Hungarian actor Iván Darvas, whose mother was a Tsarist Russian emigrant in Prague, and who in 1945 served as an interpreter to the Red Army, and in 1956, organized a revolutionary committee against the Soviet invaders, for which he spent two years in prison and worked for years as a factory laborer; and then in 1965 he featured in the pro-Soviet cult film The Corporal and Others, so he also might have had a multifaceted relationship with what he sings about.


Konstantin Simonov: Wait for me. Hungarian translation by Sarolta Lányi, music by Henrik Negrelli, sung by Iván Darvas

Жди меня, и я вернусь.
Только очень жди,
Жди, когда наводят грусть
Желтые дожди,
Жди, когда снега метут,
Жди, когда жара,
Жди, когда других не ждут,
Позабыв вчера.
Жди, когда из дальних мест
Писем не придет,
Жди, когда уж надоест
Всем, кто вместе ждет.

Жди меня, и я вернусь,
Не желай добра
Всем, кто знает наизусть,
Что забыть пора.
Пусть поверят сын и мать
В то, что нет меня,
Пусть друзья устанут ждать,
Сядут у огня,
Выпьют горькое вино
На помин души...
Жди. И с ними заодно
Выпить не спеши.

Жди меня, и я вернусь,
Всем смертям назло.
Кто не ждал меня, тот пусть
Скажет: - Повезло.
Не понять, не ждавшим им,
Как среди огня
Ожиданием своим
Ты спасла меня.
Как я выжил, будем знать
Только мы с тобой,-
Просто ты умела ждать,
Как никто другой.
Wait for me, and I’ll come back!
Wait with all you’ve got!
Wait, when dreary yellow rains
Tell you, you should not.
Wait when snow is falling fast,
Wait when summer’s hot,
Wait when yesterdays are past,
Others are forgot.
Wait, when from that far-off place,
Letters don’t arrive.
Wait, when those with whom you wait
Doubt if I’m alive.

Wait for me, and I’ll come back!
Wait in patience yet
When they tell you off by heart
That you should forget.
Even when my dearest ones
Say that I am lost,
Even when my friends give up,
Sit and count the cost,
Drink a glass of bitter wine
To the fallen friend –
Wait! And do not drink with them!
Wait until the end!

Wait for me and I’ll come back,
Dodging every fate!
“What a bit of luck!” they’ll say,
Those that would not wait.
They will never understand
How amidst the strife,
By your waiting for me, dear,
You had saved my life.
Only you and I will know
How you got me through.
Simply – you knew how to wait –
No one else but you.

Remembering the Alhambra


When, thirty years ago, I heard for the first time Recuerdos de la Alhambra played by Narciso Yepes, I thought it was a terribly difficult piece, a for-four-hands written for a single guitar, the peak of virtuoso guitar. But I was so fascinated by it that I asked my teacher to let me have it as my exam piece. Just as I was practicing, I realized how simple it was. It is one single calm, big-hearted romantic tune, like a Venetian gondoliere song. And this light and spacious framework is constantly woven around by the tremolo of the three middle fingers, this creates the crystal palace, as British Romanticism called the Alhambra. Because the Alhambra itself is built like this.


Francisco Tarrega: Recuerdos de la Alhambra (1896). Leo Brouwer’s concert recording from the 1970s


alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra alhambra


Perspective

Ronda, Andalusia

Seville, airport. The X-ray detects some elctronics in the stomach of the bag, which is no wonder, as it ate it for breakfast.The twenty-some-year old security guard takes me aside. “Please open it, because the books don’t let it see well.” I look at him, startled. “But it is precisely books that make you see better.” He is brooding, while his hand does it job mechanically. “I would not say better”, he says, „but rather more widely”. He finishes it, closes the bag. “Señor, yo soy un gran lector. Reading is like mountaineering. It is hard to get up”, he points at the stretching bag, “but once you are on the top, there’s a lot more perspective up there.” We shake hands.

Lookout La Lastra, Andalusia

The birds of the air


The Colossal portal recently published a nice post with Caner Cangül’s photos and Kate Sierzputowski’s brief text about those Ottoman-era “bird houses” that were carved in the form of miniature mosques and palaces, and embedded in the façades of real mosques and palaces. A larger, better illustrated version of this article had been published on Caner Cangül’s own Istanbulium blogj, és and in general, the topic is abundantly present on Istanbul’s city blogs. The “sparrow palaces”, as folk mouth has called them, were raised mainly by religious inspiration, as a good act towards God’s creatures. However, they fit nicely in the love of animals of the people of Istanbul, who seldom have their own pets, but devotionally provide for the city’s public dogs and public cats, as we have just seen in Kedi – Cats of Istanbul.


In Europe, care for public birds has rather secular rooots, from titmouse feeding through stork wheels to Bird Day. That is why it is so interesting that in Seville, the Law of 19.9.1896 on the Protection of Birds was published with reference to the children’s fear of God, in the usual way of the period, in azulejo inserted in the wall.

“Children, do not deprive birds from their freedom, don’t torture them, neither destroy their nests. God rewards those children who protect birds, and the law prohibits hunting them, destroying their nests, and kidnapping their nestlings.”

Life is there


Just four hundred meters from a huge cathedral, it looks as if we are in a suburb. A small bar on a side street, with three tables. At one of them, two thirty-something women friends are talking, having escaped for a few minutes from their children; at the other a colorful Gipsy woman, I cannot see the face of the man next to her, and I am sitting at the third one. I ask for a tapas “with some kind of ham”, we discuss how the bread should be toasted and seasoned with alioli, plus a beer. I’m listening to the conversation of those standing at the counter, I’m adjusting my ears to the lisping Andalusian dialect. Even after many years, it is strange how adult people can make do with so few consonants. I’d like to pay, but I spot the barrels behind the counter. I ask for a glass of old jerez to say good-bye. The bartender winks at me. “It’s not good enough.” He pours me from a bottle, San Diego, it is really heavenly. He also praises it to his actual conversation partner, filling up half a glass to him, to prove how good it is. “It smells like wood”, he knocks on the counter. In a Sevillan way, he writes the amount with chalk on the counter, in a vivid, almost Moorish hand; he generously skips the tapas, counting only the beer and the jerez. I take a photo of the beautiful handwriting. He positions himself above it, he imitates writing it once more, I also take photos of it.


I also praise his jerez, he pours another glass, he does not accept money for it. “Salud”, I lift it. While he is pouring one for himself, he points at the security camera, “I really should not do this, but I’m the boss here”. We clink glasses. “What’s your name?” “Tomás.” “Pedro.” “Encantado.” “Tomás, when I saw you browsing the menu outside there, I thought that whoever leaves deserves it, and whoever comes in also deserves it.” He pours again. “However, in Seville, the downtown is not the real thing. But the barrios, the suburbs around it!” He draws a circle with his hand. “Wow. Life is there. I come from Huelva, I have been working here since I was twelve. I lived in twenty-eight places,” he also writes it with number on the counter. “I know everything.” I start questioning him as to what is worth seeing there, where life is. He lists it. Quarters, encounters, loves, friendships. “Because friendship is the most important thing in life.” And of course bars, taverns and cellars, the theaters of friendship, where you can show that you have a friend. “Tomás. On Sunday, at half past two, I close here,  I go with my daughter around Seville, to the white villages. There is such a cellar there, full of wild game, deer, wild boar. Everything is completely fresh. Come with us.” “Thank you.” Obviously, I say, “I will be here.” “Call me beforehand, on Saturday,” he writes on a napkin his number. “I have not invited anyone there yet.”


The Three Kings




Who are these three riders going uphill on the Romanesque bronze door of the cathedral of Pisa? Of course, the Three Kings, we say self-evidently, although, if you think about it more, no attribute proves it: no star and no manger. In our culture, the image of three riders has become an obvious visual topos over the centuries, and it evokes the Three Kings even when it comes to something completely different.

Originally, the three figures had neither horses nor crowns. They came to Bethlehem in simple clothes, on foot, carrying by hand their gifts, gold, frankincense and myrrh. This is how we see them in their earliest portrayal, in the Greek Room of the Priscilla Catacomb in Rome, and for centuries afterwards.



A thousand years later, the legend of the Pisan gate, MAGIS (correctly Magi) refers to the humble beginnings. The Latin word, written in a curious local orthography, like in many other places of the bronze gate, refers to the second chapter of Matthew’s Gospel: “After Jesus was born in Bethlehem in Judea, during the time of King Herod, Magi from the east came to Jerusalem and asked: Where is the one who has been born king of the Jews? We saw his star when it rose and have come to worship him.” (Mt 2:1-2)


The adoration of the Wise Men, with the inscription “Magi”, in Anglo-Saxon runes. From the 8th-century Franks Casket, London, British Museum

What the King James Version translates wise men, is μάγοι in the original Greek, and magi in the Vulgata: “magicians”. But already in Matthew’s time, the Greek word had two meaning. One was “magician”, like Simon the Magician or Sorcerer in the Acts of Apostles. The other, original meaning, however, was the Persian magūs, which referred to the Zoroastrian priesthood, and, more broadly, to Persian astronomers. The Zoroastrian Persians also had their own traditions of a Savior to be born, and the Gospel suggests – which the Syrian and Armenian apocryphals then expand in detail – that they also recognized it in Jesus. That is why the magi are depicted even in the 5th century in Persian clothes and distinctive Persian hats. It is a strange twist in the story, that, according to the tradition, the Persian army devastating the Holy Land during the Byzantine-Persian War spared the Church of Bethlehem, because on its gate three characteristic Persian magi brought gifts to the just-born Savior.

The three Persian magi on the 6th-century mosaic of San Apollinare Nuovo in Ravenna

The three Pagan philosophers worshiping Jesus might have been an attractive model to the newly converted Roman Christians, since they could identify themselves with them. This is why they are so often represented on sarcophagi. And probably for the same reason they are accompanied, from the earliest times, by another motif, the ox and donkey above the manger. These two animals, an inseparable part of all Nativity pictures, are surprisingly never mentioned in the Gospels. In fact, they are only visual representations of the quotation from Isaiah: “The ox knows his master, the donkey his lord’s manger, but Israel does not know, my people do not understand.” (Is 1:3) Therefore, they symbolize the same as the three Persian wise men: that Christians converted from paganism – like, for example, the one lying in this sarcophagus – are more devoted to the true God than the Jews.

The ox and donkey focusing on the manger, as a confession of faith on Stilicho’s sarcophagus (ca. 385) in Milan’s San Ambrogio Basilica

A 4th-century sarcophagus, above with the ox and donkey, and below with the three magi. Arles, Musée de l’Arles et de la Provence Antique

An Ethiopian icon

The Christian exegesis of te first centuries used similar Old Testament parallels to draw out with more detailed features the very sketchy figures of the three wise men of the Gospels. Thus, for example, the star they followed was not considered a true star, but a reference to the prophecy of the pagan prophet Balaam: “A star will come out of Jacob, a scepter will rise out of Israel.” (Num 24:17) So the wise men, and later the kings in the pictures, originally follow not a star, but an angel who leads them to the “Star of Jacob”, that is, Jesus, and who then warns them to go back by another way. How much ink could be saved by the amateur astronomers, if they considered this, instead of trying to reconstruct the wildest constellations and comets for the supposed birthday of Jesus?

Altar of Duke Ratchis, Cividale, 737

Stonemason Gislebertus: The dream of the three kings. Column head in the Cathedral of Autun, 1125-1135

The dream of the three kings in the Salzburg Missal (ca. 1478-1489, München, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek 15708 I, fol. 63r)

In the same way, the wise men bringing gold, frankincense and myrrh became kings by virtue of that verse of the Psalm: “May the kings of Tarshish and of distant shores bring tribute to him, may the kings of Sheba and Seba present him gifts. May the gold of Sheba be given to him.” (Ps 72:10). In the great 14th-century Catalan Atlas – drawn by our old acquaintance, the Mallorcan Jewish cartographer Jefudà Cresques – the three kings even appear next to the name of Tarshish, revealing the source of the identification.


Prophecy is also read elsewhere about the gifts: “Herds of camels will cover your land, young camels from Midian and Ephah. And all from Sheba will come, bearing gold and incense, and proclaiming the praise of the Lord.” (Is 60:6). For this reason – and not for the sake of exoticism – camels are already included in the earliest representations with the three magi, whether on the sarcophagi, or in later paintings.

Adoration of the magi. Sarcophagus from Basilica Sant’Agnese in Rome. Vatican, Museo Pio Cristiano, Inv. 31459

Giotto: Adoration of the Kings. Padova, Scrovegni Chapel, ca. 1305

Bartolo di Fredi: Adoration of the Kings, 1385. Siena, Pinacoteca Nazionale, originally perhaps in the Duomo of Siena. In the background, in the city of Jerusalem we can discover our old acquaintance, the typical domed church of the Holy Sepulchre


On the Pisan bronze gate, made in 1181, we also find the scene of the Nativity. Bonanno Pisano, the master of the gate, had the original solution – repeated five years later on the gate of the Cathedral of Monreale – of dividing each biblical scene into two adjacent tables of the gate. The two tables look at each other and respond to each other. Here, the scene of the Nativity and the adoration of the shepherds to the left is complemented by the table of the three kings coming from the right, at the bottom of which, as a footnote interpreting the Nativity, the small-print scene of the fall of Adam and Eve and their expulsion from Paradise is also represented. This refers to the well-known parallel, that “Adam is the pattern of the One to come” (Rom 5:14), and that “Death from Eve, life from Mary” (St. Jerome, 22.)



The separation of the two scenes also corresponds to the separation of the two feasts, Christmas and Epiphany, which were celebrated by the first Christians on the same day. The reason for the separation is that the Latin and Greek churches calculated the birth of Christ in different days: the Latins on 25 December, while the Greeks on 6 January. Not because – as it has been suggested since the 18th century – the Roman Christians wanted to christianize the pagan feast of Sol Invictus, since this feast was only introduced by Emperor Aurelianus (270-275), precisely to repaganize the Christian feast of Christmas. But rather because the Latin and the Greek solar calendars converted the day of Christ’s death, 14 Nisan in the Jewish lunar calendar, to different days, and, according to the biblical tradition, the prophets died the same day they were conceived. Thus, the Roman calendar converted 14 Nisan to 25 March – which is still the celebration of the Annunciation –, so Jesus was born on 25 December, while the Greek calendar to 6 April, so He had to be born on 6 January. By the 4th century, the Greek world had already adopted the Roman calendar, and the Greek church also celebrates Christmas on 25 December (which today falls on our 7 January, due to the difference between the Gregorian and Julian calendars), but the tradition preserved the importance of 6 January. The three kings continue to arrive on this day, just as Jesus is baptized on this day thirty years later. And the two former dates of Christmas constitute a frame for the festive garland of the Twelve Days of Christmas.



The scene divided in two by Bonanno Pisano also symbolizes the unity of the two churches. In fact, the gate of the Latin cathedral displays a Nativity according to the Orthodox tradition. In the late 12th century, the last peak of Constantinople, Byzantine icons inspired Italian art, and the early Renaissance will also germinate from them in the hands of Giotto and Duccio. The model used by Bonanno Pisano can be illustrated with the Nativity icon of the Church of the Dormition of Mary in Berat:


The 16th-century icon, written by Nicola, son of Onufri, the greatest icon painter of Epirus, follows the rules of Orthodox iconography, and every part of it carries a theological reference. In the middle of the rocky landscape, the newborn Jesus lies in a cave, wrapped in swaddling clothes, just as He will lay in a cave, wrapped in a shroud, after His death on the cross. He is recognized as their Lord by the ox and the donkey. A star appears in the sky above the manger, its ray points to the Star of Jacob appearing on the earth. The three kings, representing the pagans, and the shepherds called by the angels, representing the Jews, are coming towards Him. Mary, lying in glorious light, looks to the lower left corner of the picture, where a little tree crops up, referring to the tree of Jesse, the descendance of Jesus: “A shot will come up from the stump of Jesse, from his roots a branch will bear fruit.” (Is 11:1) In the lower region, two scenes from the apocryphal gospel of James, both of which are examples of faith overcoming doubt: Salome, the midwife helping at the birth of Jesus, who personally made sure of the virginity of Mary, and Joseph, tempted by Satan coming in the disguise of an old man, with the question: if the conception of Jesus was divine, why did He come to the world in an earthly way?

magi1 magi1 magi1 magi1 magi1 magi1 magi1 magi1 magi1 magi1 magi1 magi1 magi1

Each scene in the two icons are as per specification. They do not primarily narrate past events, but rather visualize verses of the Old Testament, which formulate the theological truth of the Nativity. The figures are needed to make visible, as in a mirror, the real significance of this event. The icon is not a representation in the Western sense, but a window onto the transcendence.

The only real figures, depicted for themselves on both icons, are the lambs, which are wandering free from all iconographic constraints in the transcendent space of the icon. They do not care about the biggest event in world history happening just around them, but they go on grazing, studying the grass, doing their business, like the skating kids in Brueghel’s pictures. They offer an excuse for the painter to use them as decorative motifs, or to happily play with them, like the medieval manuscript painters with the little figures of monsters in the margins. But if we think about Rilke’s Eight ecloge, we can also attach significance to them. They are the animal which does not need visual mediation, because they already see face to face, and by penetrating into the transcendent space of the picture, and freely wandering in it, they also invite us, the viewers, like the children’s faces looking out from the lower corners of the Renaissance paintings.

Mit allen Augen sieht die Kreatur
das Offene… Frei von Tod.
Ihn sehen wir allein; das freie Tier
hat seinen Untergang stets hinter sich
und vor sich Gott, und wenn es geht, so gehts
in Ewigkeit, so wie die Brunnen gehen.
With all its eyes the animal world
beholds the Open. … Free from death.
Only we see death; the free animal has its demise
perpetually behind it, and before it always
God, and when it moves, it moves into eternity,
the way brooks and running springs move.