Sunday, February 8, 2009
Igor Stravinsky: A Soldier's Tale
Peter Barbieri, a remarkable musician, pianist, composer and author, suggested I write this for a performance of Stravinsky's trio reduction of the full score. Stravinsky originally wrote the piece when he needed something to make money during World War I. He was stuck in Switzerland, had no access to his usual sources of funds and wrote the piece for those forces available to him. Despite or maybe because of these circumstances, the resulting work is a haunting evocation of a soldier's fate.
(I should note that throughout his life, money was notoriously important to Stravinsky. While Peter Lieberson’s father, Goddard, an elegant and witty man, was running Columbia records, he became good friends with the composer. He was well aware of Stravinsky’s obsession with money. Thus, for Christmas one year, he sent the composer a copy of the U.S. tax code. A few weeks later, he called Stravinsky to get his reaction. “Oh my dear,” (imagine a Russian accent here) “I wept on every page.")
Well, be that as it may, here is A Soldier's Tale:
L’HISTOIRE DU SOLDAT
(Narrative to accompany Igor Stravinsky’s trio reduction – Douglas J. Penick, after C,F.Ramuz)
I
Roaring guns have stopped his heart;
War has split his brain apart.
(Begin Soldier’s March)
Battle’s over, Peace is here.
Racing to erase his fear,
He marches home through shadow lands
Craving family, love and clan
As sunlight dims and lilacs fade,
Music lingers still unplayed
In worlds of promises betrayed.
II
(BEFORE PETITE AIR)
Battle scarred and shell shocked after years of war, a soldier trudges homeward through a shattered world. Tramping over rutted roads, memories of his family, friends and fiancée are all that give him strength to stumble on. He dreams of his familiar loved ones, living in world of peace, awaiting his return. His heart quickens as he nears the farm town nestled in green pastures by a stream. His steps lighten as he nears his home.
But he hears the shriek of carrion crows and sees, far off, ravens circling round the spire of the church. All is silent. There is no laughter, no sound of men at work, nor cattle lowing, nor bird song in the air. A gentle breeze brings the harsh familiar stench of charred buildings and of rotting flesh. Suddenly our soldier trembles, and his soul grows cold.
He sits down beside the sparkling stream whose pearling is the song of long remembered happiness. He reaches in his pack and brings out the old fiddle that his grandfather gave him many years ago and taught him how to play. Through years of warfare, he has carried it. He has played it often in the lull of battle to lift his spirits and rouse his comrades from despair. (pause)
Now, standing in the shadow of a willow tree, chilled by foreboding, he plays once more.
(Petit Air au bord du ruisseau)
III
“Ah now, that’s s a lively tune. But a shade, well, desperate, I’d say.”
Our soldier, lost in playing, looks up in surprise. A tiny, white haired old gentleman, attired in a dapper frock coat, sits blithely on a nearby tree stump, legs crossed and smiling at him.
“ Oh, I didn’t mean to shock you. I heard you playing, and I couldn’t resist. Such a strange old melody. And such a very fine old violin. Those things are rare now in these parts.”
“I’ve been away so long…” our soldier sighs.
“Yes, I see that. And I’m afraid that you will find things very changed.”
“My family? My…?” the soldier stutters on the verge of tears.
“We need not tell such sad tales yet. Sorrow will find time enough. But you are tired and distraught. Let me play for you on that fine old fiddle. Do let me give you that small happiness. Give it to me, and, I promise, I will lift your soul.”
Suddenly our soldier is paralyzed with fear. His grandfather often told him that music is life. The violin and the music in it were his and his alone. Never should he give it to another.
But our soldier is so very tired, and his aching heart so very full of longing. The little man is so genial, so persistent, his voice so silken smooth. He reaches for the instrument. His fingers are remarkably supple, long and white. Our soldier’s fear flares and fades, and he surrenders his violin.
He grows sleepy, and dreamscapes begin to crowd at the edges of his sight. The little gentleman deftly tucks the fiddle beneath his chin, and as if the violin had been his forever, then begins to play.
(Petit Concert)
IV
Stirred by the little man’s fiery melodies, our soldier’s heart, so long tortured and frozen, breaks like a thawing river through a dam. He seems to rise up in the sky. He flies on hidden winds like a cloud racing through the air. Below, the empty farmland and his home-town disappear, and with them all his fears and hopes.
Now he finds himself drifting through the boulevards of a great metropolis. Night-clubs, dance halls, restaurants and cafes are filled with handsome young men and elegant women, strolling together, laughing, - and kissing ardently. Neon lights in every color flicker on and off. Bright music fills the air.
Our hero does not know if it is night or day. He finds himself in a dim-lit bar. A young woman, slender, blond and slightly resembling his fiancé but much more bold, takes him in her perfumed arms and leads him to the dance.
(Tango)
V
The tune changes, and he wakes in the young woman’s warm bed, twined in her arms. He is stunned and confused. He has never been so happy. The lovers dress hurriedly, and a carriage arrives to take them to her family’s house.
There, beneath a sparkling chandelier, a grand reception is in progress. Her mother, lovely and sympathetic, greets him warmly like a long lost son-in-law. Her father, a most cordial and confident gentleman, introduces him to well-dressed nobles and important men of business, and speaks of him proudly as his heir to be.
(Waltz)
VI
The tempo quickens, and a world unfolds. Marriage, children, ah alas the in-laws die: peacefully, it’s true. And our soldier, now quite transformed, inherits all.
He has an estimable and prosperous existence, ornamented with the love of a beautiful wife, the admiration of three graceful children, and the respect of his employees and faithful servitors. This well established life is spiced by dalliance with a Spanish mistress, regular visits to the casino, and weekend hunting trips on the estates of his noble friends.
His life is a happy dance to a chipper and giddy tune.
(Ragtime)
VII
Suddenly the music stops.
Our soldier wakes beside the splashing stream. The little gentleman has vanished. The violin is gone. Our soldier shuts his eyes and hopes that, when he opens them, his dream life will return. But no. His body aches. He has no choice but to continue marching on his weary journey home.
Soon enough he arrives at his village. All is quiet. Nothing seems changed. His neighbors are returning from the fields. He waves, but they do not notice him. He enters his house. His parents, his brothers and his sister are having dinner. He greets them, but they continue eating as if he were not there. He sits down at the table at his empty place. His mother looks towards him, and silently begins to cry. The others look away and do not speak. He takes some bread but cannot break it. Galvanized in sudden shock, he bursts from the house and runs to the tavern.
All his friends are there. His best friend is flirting with his fiancée. She blushes, and she strokes his cheek. She simpers.
Our soldier shouts in outrage, but no one hears. He strikes the deceitful suitor, but the man does not feel the blow. He reaches for his sweet-heart’s arms, but his hands pass through her flesh. She shrinks from him as from a draft. And suddenly, as if he were on fire, he flees.
All is burning pain, mirage, and dream. Then, from afar he hears the pale demon’s agile hand draw more fevered and seductive melodies from his own violin. “Give me back my violin. Why have you done this to me?” the soldier cries.
If he could die, he would. But frenzied music draws him helpless on. His feet, his legs, his torso, and his head gyrate, and cannot stop and cannot rest.
“You Satan. You Satan, how can you be here?” he cries in anguished rage.
“Ah,” the sly old gent calls sweetly back, “This is Hell- nor am I out of it.”
(Devil’s Dance)
VIII
(after end)
As sunlight dims and lilacs fade,
Music lingers still unplayed
In worlds of promises betrayed.
(I should note that throughout his life, money was notoriously important to Stravinsky. While Peter Lieberson’s father, Goddard, an elegant and witty man, was running Columbia records, he became good friends with the composer. He was well aware of Stravinsky’s obsession with money. Thus, for Christmas one year, he sent the composer a copy of the U.S. tax code. A few weeks later, he called Stravinsky to get his reaction. “Oh my dear,” (imagine a Russian accent here) “I wept on every page.")
Well, be that as it may, here is A Soldier's Tale:
L’HISTOIRE DU SOLDAT
(Narrative to accompany Igor Stravinsky’s trio reduction – Douglas J. Penick, after C,F.Ramuz)
I
Roaring guns have stopped his heart;
War has split his brain apart.
(Begin Soldier’s March)
Battle’s over, Peace is here.
Racing to erase his fear,
He marches home through shadow lands
Craving family, love and clan
As sunlight dims and lilacs fade,
Music lingers still unplayed
In worlds of promises betrayed.
II
(BEFORE PETITE AIR)
Battle scarred and shell shocked after years of war, a soldier trudges homeward through a shattered world. Tramping over rutted roads, memories of his family, friends and fiancée are all that give him strength to stumble on. He dreams of his familiar loved ones, living in world of peace, awaiting his return. His heart quickens as he nears the farm town nestled in green pastures by a stream. His steps lighten as he nears his home.
But he hears the shriek of carrion crows and sees, far off, ravens circling round the spire of the church. All is silent. There is no laughter, no sound of men at work, nor cattle lowing, nor bird song in the air. A gentle breeze brings the harsh familiar stench of charred buildings and of rotting flesh. Suddenly our soldier trembles, and his soul grows cold.
He sits down beside the sparkling stream whose pearling is the song of long remembered happiness. He reaches in his pack and brings out the old fiddle that his grandfather gave him many years ago and taught him how to play. Through years of warfare, he has carried it. He has played it often in the lull of battle to lift his spirits and rouse his comrades from despair. (pause)
Now, standing in the shadow of a willow tree, chilled by foreboding, he plays once more.
(Petit Air au bord du ruisseau)
III
“Ah now, that’s s a lively tune. But a shade, well, desperate, I’d say.”
Our soldier, lost in playing, looks up in surprise. A tiny, white haired old gentleman, attired in a dapper frock coat, sits blithely on a nearby tree stump, legs crossed and smiling at him.
“ Oh, I didn’t mean to shock you. I heard you playing, and I couldn’t resist. Such a strange old melody. And such a very fine old violin. Those things are rare now in these parts.”
“I’ve been away so long…” our soldier sighs.
“Yes, I see that. And I’m afraid that you will find things very changed.”
“My family? My…?” the soldier stutters on the verge of tears.
“We need not tell such sad tales yet. Sorrow will find time enough. But you are tired and distraught. Let me play for you on that fine old fiddle. Do let me give you that small happiness. Give it to me, and, I promise, I will lift your soul.”
Suddenly our soldier is paralyzed with fear. His grandfather often told him that music is life. The violin and the music in it were his and his alone. Never should he give it to another.
But our soldier is so very tired, and his aching heart so very full of longing. The little man is so genial, so persistent, his voice so silken smooth. He reaches for the instrument. His fingers are remarkably supple, long and white. Our soldier’s fear flares and fades, and he surrenders his violin.
He grows sleepy, and dreamscapes begin to crowd at the edges of his sight. The little gentleman deftly tucks the fiddle beneath his chin, and as if the violin had been his forever, then begins to play.
(Petit Concert)
IV
Stirred by the little man’s fiery melodies, our soldier’s heart, so long tortured and frozen, breaks like a thawing river through a dam. He seems to rise up in the sky. He flies on hidden winds like a cloud racing through the air. Below, the empty farmland and his home-town disappear, and with them all his fears and hopes.
Now he finds himself drifting through the boulevards of a great metropolis. Night-clubs, dance halls, restaurants and cafes are filled with handsome young men and elegant women, strolling together, laughing, - and kissing ardently. Neon lights in every color flicker on and off. Bright music fills the air.
Our hero does not know if it is night or day. He finds himself in a dim-lit bar. A young woman, slender, blond and slightly resembling his fiancé but much more bold, takes him in her perfumed arms and leads him to the dance.
(Tango)
V
The tune changes, and he wakes in the young woman’s warm bed, twined in her arms. He is stunned and confused. He has never been so happy. The lovers dress hurriedly, and a carriage arrives to take them to her family’s house.
There, beneath a sparkling chandelier, a grand reception is in progress. Her mother, lovely and sympathetic, greets him warmly like a long lost son-in-law. Her father, a most cordial and confident gentleman, introduces him to well-dressed nobles and important men of business, and speaks of him proudly as his heir to be.
(Waltz)
VI
The tempo quickens, and a world unfolds. Marriage, children, ah alas the in-laws die: peacefully, it’s true. And our soldier, now quite transformed, inherits all.
He has an estimable and prosperous existence, ornamented with the love of a beautiful wife, the admiration of three graceful children, and the respect of his employees and faithful servitors. This well established life is spiced by dalliance with a Spanish mistress, regular visits to the casino, and weekend hunting trips on the estates of his noble friends.
His life is a happy dance to a chipper and giddy tune.
(Ragtime)
VII
Suddenly the music stops.
Our soldier wakes beside the splashing stream. The little gentleman has vanished. The violin is gone. Our soldier shuts his eyes and hopes that, when he opens them, his dream life will return. But no. His body aches. He has no choice but to continue marching on his weary journey home.
Soon enough he arrives at his village. All is quiet. Nothing seems changed. His neighbors are returning from the fields. He waves, but they do not notice him. He enters his house. His parents, his brothers and his sister are having dinner. He greets them, but they continue eating as if he were not there. He sits down at the table at his empty place. His mother looks towards him, and silently begins to cry. The others look away and do not speak. He takes some bread but cannot break it. Galvanized in sudden shock, he bursts from the house and runs to the tavern.
All his friends are there. His best friend is flirting with his fiancée. She blushes, and she strokes his cheek. She simpers.
Our soldier shouts in outrage, but no one hears. He strikes the deceitful suitor, but the man does not feel the blow. He reaches for his sweet-heart’s arms, but his hands pass through her flesh. She shrinks from him as from a draft. And suddenly, as if he were on fire, he flees.
All is burning pain, mirage, and dream. Then, from afar he hears the pale demon’s agile hand draw more fevered and seductive melodies from his own violin. “Give me back my violin. Why have you done this to me?” the soldier cries.
If he could die, he would. But frenzied music draws him helpless on. His feet, his legs, his torso, and his head gyrate, and cannot stop and cannot rest.
“You Satan. You Satan, how can you be here?” he cries in anguished rage.
“Ah,” the sly old gent calls sweetly back, “This is Hell- nor am I out of it.”
(Devil’s Dance)
VIII
(after end)
As sunlight dims and lilacs fade,
Music lingers still unplayed
In worlds of promises betrayed.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
SPARKLE
Tobias Walch was such a splendid friend, much older than I, but then we’d studied with Trungpa Rinpoche for many years. Usually we met in whatever kitchen where Tobias presided. A small, soft-featured, dapper man, bald with a fringe of gray hair, a soft German accent. He worked intently, darting irritated glances that sometimes turned to rage at his more careless amateur assistants. In terse asides, usually when I helped him in the early morning (me: “Tobias you cut things beautifully. I just can’t.” Tobias: “That’s because you have no training.”) , I came to know something of his past.
Born in Berlin in the 1920’s and his father was a famous stage actor who, from what I gathered, was witty but not exactly nice. “Tobias,” he said when his son was in his early teens, “In this life, to survive, you need talent. Unfortunately, you have none. It’s best you become a cook.” And indeed after eight years of apprenticeship, that’s what Tobias became. He worked in the kitchens of various Buddhist establishments only after he’d retired from his position as executive chef at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles, a job he hated.
Father and son fled the Nazis; his father ended up in the German Language Theater in Basel, and Tobias remembered people rushing up to his father on the street, addressing him as ‘Nathan the Wise’ after the lead in Lessing’s play of the same name in which his father had had often triumphed. The father explained: “”You know, there are only two kinds of people in this world: those who can express things very clearly, very precisely and very beautifully, and… those who never understand anything.” Something of his father’s mordant humor rubbed off.
Me: “You were married once, weren’t you?”
Tobias: “It lasted two weeks. It was terrible.”
Me: “What happened?”
Tobias: “I was working in Las Vegas, The Sands. At night I was bored, so I’d gamble. But a pit boss I knew pulled me aside: ‘Why are you doing this? This is for stupid people.’ ‘I don’t have anything else to do.’ ‘So, go to college. Take a class.’ ‘You can do that?’ ‘Yes.’ So I did. I took a philosophy class. I met a young woman there, and we began having coffee together. She agreed with everything I said, (and here Tobias shrugged and produced a naughty smile) so, of course, I thought she understood me.”
Tobias also had a wonderfully scary way of letting all the muscles in his face go slack and his eyes go blank; it made him look like a hatchet murderer about to pop. There was no way to know if he meant to do it. One evening he was bent over his plate, eating supper amid the hubbub of the dining room at a Buddhist residence house. Suddenly he looked up, made his hatchet murderer face, paused and said in a loud voice: LIFE… COULD BE SO WONDERFUL. The room fell silent as Tobias resumed eating.
I wish I could remember the hundreds of interchanges where his focused whimsy somehow made things slide into an unexpected gap. Alas, I can’t. But even on the edge of dying, his sparkle didn't dim.
Tobias’s heart trouble got worse and he spent more time in bed. After a life that was, as far as I knew, quite celibate, beautiful women, many beautiful women came to attend him. This soothed him no end. But one morning a particularly vibrant young woman came by to visit. “How are you,” asked Tobias. The woman glowed: “Why… I don’t know but I’m just feeling really wonderful today.” Tobias: “Don’t rub it in.”
And then the night before he died, another woman was feeding him, holding a spoon up in front of his face, urging him to eat.
Tobias: “Actually, you know, I’m not in any hurry.”
ENVOI
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zRdyDSbWg7w&feature=related
Born in Berlin in the 1920’s and his father was a famous stage actor who, from what I gathered, was witty but not exactly nice. “Tobias,” he said when his son was in his early teens, “In this life, to survive, you need talent. Unfortunately, you have none. It’s best you become a cook.” And indeed after eight years of apprenticeship, that’s what Tobias became. He worked in the kitchens of various Buddhist establishments only after he’d retired from his position as executive chef at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles, a job he hated.
Father and son fled the Nazis; his father ended up in the German Language Theater in Basel, and Tobias remembered people rushing up to his father on the street, addressing him as ‘Nathan the Wise’ after the lead in Lessing’s play of the same name in which his father had had often triumphed. The father explained: “”You know, there are only two kinds of people in this world: those who can express things very clearly, very precisely and very beautifully, and… those who never understand anything.” Something of his father’s mordant humor rubbed off.
Me: “You were married once, weren’t you?”
Tobias: “It lasted two weeks. It was terrible.”
Me: “What happened?”
Tobias: “I was working in Las Vegas, The Sands. At night I was bored, so I’d gamble. But a pit boss I knew pulled me aside: ‘Why are you doing this? This is for stupid people.’ ‘I don’t have anything else to do.’ ‘So, go to college. Take a class.’ ‘You can do that?’ ‘Yes.’ So I did. I took a philosophy class. I met a young woman there, and we began having coffee together. She agreed with everything I said, (and here Tobias shrugged and produced a naughty smile) so, of course, I thought she understood me.”
Tobias also had a wonderfully scary way of letting all the muscles in his face go slack and his eyes go blank; it made him look like a hatchet murderer about to pop. There was no way to know if he meant to do it. One evening he was bent over his plate, eating supper amid the hubbub of the dining room at a Buddhist residence house. Suddenly he looked up, made his hatchet murderer face, paused and said in a loud voice: LIFE… COULD BE SO WONDERFUL. The room fell silent as Tobias resumed eating.
I wish I could remember the hundreds of interchanges where his focused whimsy somehow made things slide into an unexpected gap. Alas, I can’t. But even on the edge of dying, his sparkle didn't dim.
Tobias’s heart trouble got worse and he spent more time in bed. After a life that was, as far as I knew, quite celibate, beautiful women, many beautiful women came to attend him. This soothed him no end. But one morning a particularly vibrant young woman came by to visit. “How are you,” asked Tobias. The woman glowed: “Why… I don’t know but I’m just feeling really wonderful today.” Tobias: “Don’t rub it in.”
And then the night before he died, another woman was feeding him, holding a spoon up in front of his face, urging him to eat.
Tobias: “Actually, you know, I’m not in any hurry.”
ENVOI
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zRdyDSbWg7w&feature=related
Sunday, February 1, 2009
TEXTS FOR JOAN ANDERSON’S PERFOMANCE/EXHIBIT OF RETREAT PAINTINGS
CHANT OF THE WANDERING STARS
In nearby shadows
Rise from the ground, each decked with stars,
Those who watch and bless in secret
The soil and the streams.
The star people have come;
They have come here.
The star people come;
They come here.
Here: fathers and mothers;
Here: elders and children
In nearby shadows
Rise from the ground, each decked with stars,
Those who watch and bless in secret
The soil and the streams.
The star people have come;
They have come here.
The star people come;
They come here
To the red earth.
Now they stop,
Just for this moment,
Here
On their long journey.
Now they stop,
Just for this moment,
Rising from the red earth,
Here
On their long journey
They appear.
They stop
On their long journey.
They show themselves.
Shining in the dark soil,
They rise.
They show themselves;
They show the dream pattern
Of the stars.
Wearing the pattern of the stars,
Marking the brown earth
With the sweep of rainfall:
Wearing the pattern of the stars,
Marking the red earth
With furrows of water;
Wearing the pattern of the stars,
Marking the black earth
With the glare of reflected sun on water;
Wearing the dream pattern,
Red earth
Marked by the plow;
Wearing the dream pattern of stars,
The red earth,
Marked by the scars of battle;
Wearing the secret pattern,
The dark earth
Marked by the scars of memory;
The star people have come;
They have come here.
The star people come;
To the earth.
Just for this moment,
They stop here
On their long journey.
Just for now,
They stop.
Rising from the red earth,
Here
On their long journey
They appear.
They stop
On their long journey
They show themselves.
In nearby shadows,
Rise from the ground, each decked with stars,
Those who watch and bless in secret
The soil and the streams.
III
As the spectacle endlessly ends & vanishes, somehow we refuse to accept the completeness of impermanence. But all the forms and instances of art that now exist, many are damaged, fragmentary, and all are devoid of their original context and hence meaning.
Beyond that, compared to all the things which have been made and still exist, how many more have been destroyed or lost, each of them a Repository of love and intuition, skill and concern, the outgrowth of a civilization that no longer exists.
So that being the likely fate of what we make, could we then embrace this? Could we regard what we do and the doing of it as completely momentary, having no future and accomplishing no communal result?
Momentary, surely. But cause and effect being inescapable, surely what we make and the making of it does influence the next instant in some truly unknown way.
So, making our diagrams of color or cloth, of sound or speech is perhaps like sand painting and may, for a moment, draw something into the world which has only hovered on its borders before being utterly swept away.
It is hard to overcome the desperate habits of permanence and completion. As the spectacle endlessly will be ending & vanishing.
***
FROM AN ACTOR:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D_ByGXCey68
In nearby shadows
Rise from the ground, each decked with stars,
Those who watch and bless in secret
The soil and the streams.
The star people have come;
They have come here.
The star people come;
They come here.
Here: fathers and mothers;
Here: elders and children
In nearby shadows
Rise from the ground, each decked with stars,
Those who watch and bless in secret
The soil and the streams.
The star people have come;
They have come here.
The star people come;
They come here
To the red earth.
Now they stop,
Just for this moment,
Here
On their long journey.
Now they stop,
Just for this moment,
Rising from the red earth,
Here
On their long journey
They appear.
They stop
On their long journey.
They show themselves.
Shining in the dark soil,
They rise.
They show themselves;
They show the dream pattern
Of the stars.
Wearing the pattern of the stars,
Marking the brown earth
With the sweep of rainfall:
Wearing the pattern of the stars,
Marking the red earth
With furrows of water;
Wearing the pattern of the stars,
Marking the black earth
With the glare of reflected sun on water;
Wearing the dream pattern,
Red earth
Marked by the plow;
Wearing the dream pattern of stars,
The red earth,
Marked by the scars of battle;
Wearing the secret pattern,
The dark earth
Marked by the scars of memory;
The star people have come;
They have come here.
The star people come;
To the earth.
Just for this moment,
They stop here
On their long journey.
Just for now,
They stop.
Rising from the red earth,
Here
On their long journey
They appear.
They stop
On their long journey
They show themselves.
In nearby shadows,
Rise from the ground, each decked with stars,
Those who watch and bless in secret
The soil and the streams.
III
As the spectacle endlessly ends & vanishes, somehow we refuse to accept the completeness of impermanence. But all the forms and instances of art that now exist, many are damaged, fragmentary, and all are devoid of their original context and hence meaning.
Beyond that, compared to all the things which have been made and still exist, how many more have been destroyed or lost, each of them a Repository of love and intuition, skill and concern, the outgrowth of a civilization that no longer exists.
So that being the likely fate of what we make, could we then embrace this? Could we regard what we do and the doing of it as completely momentary, having no future and accomplishing no communal result?
Momentary, surely. But cause and effect being inescapable, surely what we make and the making of it does influence the next instant in some truly unknown way.
So, making our diagrams of color or cloth, of sound or speech is perhaps like sand painting and may, for a moment, draw something into the world which has only hovered on its borders before being utterly swept away.
It is hard to overcome the desperate habits of permanence and completion. As the spectacle endlessly will be ending & vanishing.
***
FROM AN ACTOR:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D_ByGXCey68
Thursday, January 29, 2009
SOME LINES FROM DANTE
E quietate ciascuna in suo loco
La testa e ‘l collo d’un aguglia vidi
Rappresentare e quell distinto fuoco.
Quel che dipinge li, non ha chi ‘l guidi
Ma esso guida, e da lui sai rammenta
Quella virtu ch’e forma per li nidi.
(Dante-Paradiso, Canto xviii, l. 106-110)
Each sparkling flame came to rest in space
And I saw the head and neck of a great eagle
Present itself in waves of shimmering sparks.
Who maps out this form has no guide
But is a self-arisen guide, and we recognize in him
The virtue that is the paradigm of all community.
Dante’s journey begins, of course, with his love for Beatrice, and as that love deepens, it expands to encompass his entire cosmos. Thus Dante journeys upwards through celestial realms, and his love unfolds as an all-inclusive vision encompassing innumerable specific beings and moments, all rendered with such clarity and music that they are immediately alive for us.
So, as Dante nears the apex of his journey, his love becomes a radiant clear expanse in which the longing of humanity forms a vision of social harmony. The souls of thousands just rulers, both Christian and pagan, appear as ruby sparks which spontaneously coalesce to form a single imperial image, the innate principle of just rulership. When, in the following two cantos Dante asks the eagle how non-Christian rulers could attain such glory, the eagle proclaims that the ‘Supreme Goodness’ is not confined to the doctrines of the church and can be apprehended in any place and time. Thus the eagle sings:
“Lume non e, se non vien del sereno
Che non si turba mai”
“Light does not exist that does not come from the clear sky
That never is clouded”
(Ibid. Canto xix l.64-5)
La testa e ‘l collo d’un aguglia vidi
Rappresentare e quell distinto fuoco.
Quel che dipinge li, non ha chi ‘l guidi
Ma esso guida, e da lui sai rammenta
Quella virtu ch’e forma per li nidi.
(Dante-Paradiso, Canto xviii, l. 106-110)
Each sparkling flame came to rest in space
And I saw the head and neck of a great eagle
Present itself in waves of shimmering sparks.
Who maps out this form has no guide
But is a self-arisen guide, and we recognize in him
The virtue that is the paradigm of all community.
Dante’s journey begins, of course, with his love for Beatrice, and as that love deepens, it expands to encompass his entire cosmos. Thus Dante journeys upwards through celestial realms, and his love unfolds as an all-inclusive vision encompassing innumerable specific beings and moments, all rendered with such clarity and music that they are immediately alive for us.
So, as Dante nears the apex of his journey, his love becomes a radiant clear expanse in which the longing of humanity forms a vision of social harmony. The souls of thousands just rulers, both Christian and pagan, appear as ruby sparks which spontaneously coalesce to form a single imperial image, the innate principle of just rulership. When, in the following two cantos Dante asks the eagle how non-Christian rulers could attain such glory, the eagle proclaims that the ‘Supreme Goodness’ is not confined to the doctrines of the church and can be apprehended in any place and time. Thus the eagle sings:
“Lume non e, se non vien del sereno
Che non si turba mai”
“Light does not exist that does not come from the clear sky
That never is clouded”
(Ibid. Canto xix l.64-5)
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