Showing posts with label image. Show all posts
Showing posts with label image. Show all posts

Thursday, 29 September 2011

Piping down the hangers wild, piping shirts of pleasant glee...

Inspired by a blogpost at Other Blog, I decided to fashion myself a clothes hanger made from galvanised steel pipes.

The first step is of course to obtain some pipes and some connecting elements. Do try to have them delivered to your home, rather than to your work, unless you enjoy the physical challenge and the bemused looks of complete strangers as you pass them by on the street... Luckily I do!

The next step is to assemble and clean your components, only to discover that they are marked with painted or relieved with industrial writing and vertical and horizontal lines.


Finally, assemble the rack...


...and decorate it with your elegant clothes.


If you are not entirely satisfied with the outcome, or if you are not quite that much into industrial fashion, stand by for Part II, where we shall decorate the rack with Mithril paint and mystical eldritch runes of eerie geometries...

Saturday, 20 June 2009

Silverback

A living image of the one who is Silverback, yet charcoal heart, burning...

Thursday, 14 May 2009

Münchhausen: Byronic or Baronic

Karl Friedrich Hieronymus, Freiherr von Münchhausen, hitherto known as the Baron, is Byron's lost progeny. Historical inaccuracy and the relative non-linearity of time come to my rescue afore critics even unhinge their mouths and unfasten their minds. As the Baron never once said, "It's much more than a fact. That's how it really happened!"1

Though the Baron's blood may not belong to Byron, they do share one ink-pot. The Baron is a Byronic hero disguised by humour, but familial features manifest clearly in the traces of Raspe's plume: his rebellion against the crude rules of reality, fuelled by intellectual and creative passions that bear oft-destructive aftermaths.

But the distant nephew becomes a bastard son when Grigori Gorin (Григорий Горин) Olivetti's claws scraped out the paper a darker, melancholy, and vitally, more human Baron. From the ashes of Gorin's nigh-forgotten play "The most truthful" (Самый правдивый) rose the tragi-comic film "That very Münchhausen" (Тот самый Мюнхгаузен), which profited from Oleg Yankovsky (Олег Янковский), whose brilliant acting gave this Baron the compelling charisma, magnetic charm and keenness of a true Byronic hero.

This forgotten classic turns the concept of Münchhausen on its very head, since here "Baron Münchhausen is famous not because he flew [to the moon] or not, but because he never lies"2, therein lies his greatest strength and fatal flaw. He lives isolated from a society that regards him first as a deceiver and later as a madman, estranged from people who eagerly shift from living one lie to the next, collectively as a herd of cattle. Our Baron simply knows that one cannot hide from truth by closing one's eyes, as children do, he "can't do anything secretly, [...] only openly"3; his maturity is even more evident in his courage, since he does not "fear appearing funny. It's not something anyone can afford."4

But he exists not merely in exile from the rest of the human race, but also in disdain of all hierarchies and ranks. He acts not merely like a king, when he threatens war against England lest it declare the Americas independent, but as a God, dispelling inclement weather, defying time and brandishing the power of death and life (over a duck). He openly rejects and ridicules the relationship of master and servant, whose orders and mandates he regards as arbitrary. As a guard is about to arrest the Baron under the Duke's orders of "using force in case of resistance", he replies "who is to use force - you or I? [...] Let us both carry out the orders. Logical?"5 and goes on to theatrically caricature their execution. When he finally arrives to the plaza where the Duke has assembled his entourage, he does so unbound and followed by a band of music. For Münchhausen, society's ways and laws are incomprehensible, as someone remarks: "First we were planning the festivities, then the arrests. Finally we decided to combine them"6



But it is the very creative and destructive passion that fuels Münchhausen that also leads to his demise when he is forced to compromise for the sake of love. Like Samson, he is rendered powerless, chained by love between two pillars when on the one hand his beloved mistress Martha, bent on marriage, threatens to leave him, and on the other hand his divorce with Jacobine won't be approved lest he declare in writing that he is a liar and his stories fabrications. Reluctantly, he concedes to the request, but the weight of the columns tears his soul in twain, and though even Galileo abjured, Münchhausen "always preferred Giordano Bruno."7 His persona humiliated and destroyed, Münchhausen finally turns unstable and, revolted by his own actions, mutinies against himself and Life, murdering the Baron and turning into a common gardener - Müller...

Yet later it is that same energy leads his rebellion against Death, his resurrection three years (not days) later, when he realises that denying his nature is futile as Martha is unable to love his empty carcass: "To return her, I'll have to return myself"8. More tragic still, is that his absence sires a cult of personality whose profiteers are those who wrought his downfall. These very leeches try to thwart his return by imprisoning him, labelling him an insane impersonator and setting up a fraudulent court hearing and a sham test of his identity. The Baron easily sees through the ploy, realising that the cannon that is meant to loft him to the Moon is filled with damp gunpowder meant to result in his public ridicule, and recharges it with dry black powder. Ironically the Duke, afraid of killing the Baron, declares his identity restored and his trip to the Moon "accomplished", launching the general merriment and urging: "Join us, Baron. Join us."9 But the Baron is "too tired of dying"10 to forfeit again, a promise is a promise, he will fly to the Moon... His last, exhausted words burst out thus: "A smart face is not a sign of intellect, gentlemen! All foolishness on earth is made with precisely this expression. Smile, gentlemen. Smile..."11

I'll leave you with a mind- and tongue-twister: Is the Baron a Byronic hero, or is Byron a Baronic villain?

Footnotes (the original Russian citations):
1) Это гораздо больше, чем факт. Так оно и было на самом деле.
2) Барон Мюнхгаузен славен не тем что он летал или не летал, а тем, что никогда не врёт.
3) Я не могу в тайне. Я могу только открыто.
4) Я не боялся казаться смешным. Это не каждый может себе позволить.
5) Кому применять силу — мне или вам? [...] Тогда оба будем выполнять приказ. Логично?
6) Сначала намечались торжества, потом аресты. Потом решили совместить.
7) Я всегда больше любил Джордано Бруно…
8) Чтобы вернуть её, придётся вернуть себя
9) Присоединяйтесь, барон. Присоединяйтесь.
10) Господи, как умирать надоело!
11) Умное лицо — ещё не признак ума, господа! Все глупости на земле совершались именно с этим выражением лица. Улыбайтесь, господа. Улыбайтесь…

Thursday, 8 May 2008

the Stone, the Mirror and the Hedgehog

Once upon a time, there was a Stone. He lived alone, a pebble, his rounded skin enclosing mystery not only to others, but also himself. He lived mute, a boulder, his voice smothered in the lattice of sial within him. He lived sightless, a rock, his only eye a cataract glossed by the rain.

Within him, a brain of basalt and quartz learned time, touch and the content of himself. He knew of the Gravel upon which he lay, his brothers and sisters. He knew of the Winds, his Chance and Destiny, dictating his story, granting and robbing all that surrounded him, yet never touching his midst. He knew of the Lake, whose waves slowly gnawed his substance away and would one day devour him, would one day know him inside out and so would he know her.

But the Winds, envious, took the Stone in their hands and threw him into the Lake. As he fell, the blazing brushing of the Winds seared his cecity away and let him behold the Lake, a round Mirror. As he touched her surface, the Mirror broke into a myriad pieces and he saw himself as he was: not a single soul but a fragmented phantom, a hundred shards, a million grains of sand. As he watched himself breaking he became thus, a Stone shattered into a thousand thorns, not dry, but carrying a Lake within himself.

Thus was the Hedgehog born. Watch your reflection in his spines, a plain looking glass to your mind...

Sunday, 4 May 2008

the Squirrel, the Tree and the Seasons

Once upon a time, upon a little hill, lived a Squirrel and a Tree, who loved each other with an abandon that knew not race nor age. The Squirrel well knew each of the Tree's branches, his lovesome leaves and fragrant bloom, she knew and reveled in the resin that flowed in his veins and gladly ate the fruits he offered her. The Tree well knew each of the Squirrel 's hairs, her tender talons and caring eyes, he knew and delighted in the dew that adorned her fur and lief warded the nuts she offered him.

But Spring soon left the Tree, then Summer came to take his flowers and rot his fruits, then Autumn came to steal his lush leaves, then Winter came to freeze the resin rivers within him. And as each Season passed, the Squirrel asked the Tree: "Why have you changed? Your gifts are gone, our love has lessened." The Tree replied each time: "'Tis but the seasons, do wait a while and I'll be born afresh." But the Squirrel did not believe, and wildly pushed the Tree away with its small mitts. But the Tree would never move.

The end of Winter came at last, and the Tree's life flowed once again, he grew once more; but the Squirrel did not look up to see, but long stared at the dry roots and softly spoke: "You are bark but I am flesh, my colour's fire but water is your life, you are stillness but I am motion. We are too different." She closed her eyes and pushed the Tree with all her might, and so great was her thrust that she fell back and rolled down from the hill. When she did open her eyes, the Tree was nowhere to be seen.

They say, soon after came the fallers and struck down the Tree, and from his body fashioned the pages on which these tales are written. Others claim a Blackbird made its nest within the Tree and stayed, for it knew much of Seasons and their ways, finding gifts in each of them. There are those who say that as the Tree waited for the Squirrel to find her way back, his fruits dried and turned chestnuts. Perhaps you know the End?

Friday, 2 May 2008

The third day Oath

Today is the third day, and neither wind nor rain have shaken the Amaranthine from its captivity. Indeed this morn, when I passed by, it hung torn between two greedy strands, each pulling her to itself. The avarice of the elements took their toll, voiding the flower of its aqua, yet failing in the quest to end its life, fortifying it instead, its petals hardened into a plate mail, guarding the heart, the scarce nectar within.

Thus it floated, a vessel of air whose soul one could not catch. Yet that was not my intent, instead, I wanted but to free it. I cut its ropes and posed it in a pocket by my chest, to warm it with my pulse. Those beats have been yours, now I have placed you in my crimson book to rest, let me now turn the page, an empty one I need this eve.

Saturday, 4 August 2007

The Hawk-moth emerges

Almost exactly one year after my sighting of the caterpillar, I have been rewarded with a sighting of its renewed nature. I take it is a sign that, too, it is in us to change, to metamorphose ourselves into our latent self, and that this new self has not been crushed by past hardships but fed on them and made them beautiful to be endured. May you feel the same...