Softly drawing, listening to Beethoven

How can Beethoven have been so much better than all the other composers combined? Its almost as if he was the pinnacle of European culture, all by himself. His music is so beautiful it leaves all other artists in the shadows.

And yet there those who regard him with scorn!? It beggers belief. I met a Japanese girl at KIAD who was doing her MA, she was herself a pianist and had strong views on classical music. She was a bit of a snob I think, looking down on those of us who cannot play a musical instrument. She asked me who my favourite composer was and actually sneered when I said Beethoven. Apparently she thought that meant I didn't know any classical music and when I compounded my felony by stating I liked The Ninth over all other symphonies, she questioned my knowledge directly to which I replied that I also liked Penderecki and Rimsky-Korsakov (and still do). This mollified her slightly, but not for long. She tried to outfox me by asking which of Beethoven's violin concerto's did I like the best.



But of course, Beethoven only wrote the one, and thus I replied, happy to be able to show off. We were in the print making studio at the time, and Randall, who was Head of Print Making would always play Jazz Cd's by the likes of Miles Davies. That day I had put on something of my own, probably Sheherezade by Rimsky-Korsakov, which had initiated the conversation. The Japanese girls name was Seiko, pronounced 'psycho'.

I really miss that print making workshop! I'm sitting in a pool of light from my desk lamp, having spent the last few hours working on an illustration commision and about to go to bed. Tomorrow promises to be a busy day, but before I go to the land of nod, I shall just finish listening to Beethoven.

...and now for something completely different

Who is the better? The Prodigy or Massive Attack?

An anniversary of sorrow

And thus a year has passed since my mother died. It has been a strange and confusing year, full of contradictions and not easy to define in a single blog post. A part of life's joy has vanished, but at the same time, the knowledge of our mortality has meant a greater emphasis on appreciation for the few true blessings of life. Death has become a constant companion now and its hard to ignore him, especially at night. The fragility of the human condition, and the lack of any greater purpose in life means the only purpose left to believe in, is that which we make for ourselves. The only purpose I know, is then love. Let love be my guiding principle for without it, I am nothing.

Quantum of Solace

At last... I've been waiting impatiently for this one, and my expectations weren't in vain. I've read some lacklustre reviews already, but sour grapes isn't my style for tonight. QoS was brilliant. It took the story established in the previous film and built on it. Furthermore it left the door open for the next film. We've been introduced to Quantum now, Mr White is still at large (good old Jesper Christensen did a great job) and Bond has come through his personal tragedy, intact.

In this film though, the story moved with enough pace and energy to keep my eyes glued to the screen. Craig was good, very 'manly' (though the way he kept pursing his lips during the action sequences made me laugh) as was Olga Kurylenko (image below). Mathieu Amalric was without doubt the films best actor. He was as horrible a villain as only a good actor can be and easily as menacing as Mads Mikkelsen was as La Chiffre in Casino Royale.

And I even liked the 'QoS theme'

Quibbles...? I have a few, of course, but I'll stick to just the one. The advertising was obscene. Every other scene featured some glittering object of consumerist fantasty blatently displayed for the audience to drool over and we were subjected to almost thirty minutes of adverts prior to the traditional three trailers. I already knew that product placement was a factor in these new Bond films, but this was a bit over the top...

39 years old today

Boom! Boom! BOOM!

And thus with the help of Tchaikovsky's 1812 overture, I begin the last year of 'youth' before the big four oh finally pries my fingers from their failing hold on childhood, the twentieth century and all the memories there of. Thirty eight proved to be a horrible age, as the first year anniversary of my mothers death on monday will testify. It was not all bad though. Freja turned three (they say human beings are never cuter than when they are three) and Mette is pregnant again (only 2½ months to go now). By rights I should post something written by my most illustrious ancestor, Fanny Mendelessohn (sister to Felix and a composer in her own right) from whom my maternal granmother's family is descended (or so I was led to believe), for yesterday was Fanny Mendelssohn's birthday. She was born on November 14th, 1805, at the height of the war which Tchaikovsky's overture would later commemorate so magnificently. She would be 203 years old today. May she rest in eternal peace and harmony.

I shall endeavour to look forwards with bright eyes and a bushy tail, for as I always say to my friend Mehmet, you have to enjoy life whilst you've got it! Mehmet agrees with this as he is a philosophical and good natured man and even if we have very little in common but for our mutual friendliness we can readily agree on such fundamentals. If only all people could be as open hearted as Mehmet, perhaps the world would be a friendlier, though potentially duller, place. Freja likes Mehmet too, though mostly because he always gives her a bit of chocolate when she comes into the shop.

Its on a day like this, looking back, feeling nostalgic with the sun making the dust motes dance in front of the window, that I get to sentimental ponderings upon the nature of friendship, life and death. We're all going to die as a matter of course, and love and friendship are almost the only things that make life worth living. I say almost because as the dust motes illustrate, beauty is its own reward and the passing beauty of bright sunlight through an unwashed window is evocative of our own lives as it brings back so many memories from the decades past. How wonderful it is that something as mundane as dust can be so beautiful when illuminated by the sun?

We beings of light and dust, so wound up with our trivial hubris, our ideologies and politics. How easy it is to lose sight of what is most important. Thankfully I have friends and family and I know who I am and where I belong. Each meeting with my family confirms the love that binds me to this life. Each meeting with my friends likewise. Thursday evenings for example, when Oleg and the others come over and we play role playing games, table top skirmish battles or just watch a film. So small and trivial a thing it seems and yet so important that its gives context to every day life. Conversation, eating together, talking and laughing, what Danes call 'hygge', and Americans call... 'hanging'(?), possibly not quite the same thing, though both similar and of equal importance.

Is there anything of more importance than love? I can't think of anything. At least not from my mortal perspective (and I don't have an immortal perspective). Tonight Mette and I will go and see a film in the cinema together (Quantum of Solace). Its been so long since we went to the cinema together and I shall enjoy the pleasure all the greater for its rarity. There was once a time when the two of us were alone in the UK, and we went to the cinema every friday night. Can you imagine what a pleasure that was? I find it hard to even remember the full happiness of that time, so obscured by time and my present happiness it has become. We were like two souls alone together in a strange and indifferent place, finding happiness against adversity from each others company. Sometimes I long for that again but it can never be. Like childhood, the age of youth has passed and now is the age of parenthood. May it last long and bring an equal measure of pleasure.

By the way, if any one wants to hear a longer, better version of the 1812 overture, go here and enjoy. Part two is here.

A simple token of appreciation

For my Grandfather Sidney George Cooke, my Great Uncle Beresford Grosvenor, my Brother Philip, and for all those who have fought for my freedom and for those who loved them.

He's not nearly as old as the ancient ones

Too funny!

Happy Guy Fawkes Night

Today is the day the Brits celebrate their democracy by burning Guy Fawkes in effigy. Back in the halcyon days of youth we used to watch the fireworks and eat treacle toffee and toffee apples. It was one of the occaisions when England was actually 'hygggeligt' and people delighted in each others company. The kids would run around and scream in delight as the fire works went off. I can still remember the heat of the flames on my cheeks and the front of my trousers. It all seems like a dream now, it was so long ago. I have memories of certain fires but I have no idea where I was at the time. I don't even recall who I was with except once when we were in Tarleton.

The nearest Danish equivalent would be Midsummers Eve or 'Saints Hans's Night' when Danes burn witches in effigy and eat good food together. Its okay, though I haven't really celebrated it myself since 2001. Since its during the summer, the whole thing lacks the feel of Guy Fawkes Night. The fire seems 'less impressive' on a summers night.

Steam Trek

Why the hell not?

Artist of the Month: Patricia Piccinini

A lot of science fiction moves through the border zone of wonder and fear, bringing us closer to possibilities which might please or terrify us. Thats sort of the point of it. With literature, this is easy to acheive as the human imagination does the real work and the author only has to provide a few hints and vague idea's and our minds do the rest. For a sculptor, to acheive the same delicate balance of wonder and fear, requires a lot of skill and a pretty good eye for detail. You have to provide more than vague suggestions because the eye is more critical than the imagination (one might even say they contrast perfectly) and yet you have to stay within the bounds of acceptable doubt. In other words, go too far and your work becomes too fantastic to take seriously. It loses its broad appeal and appeals only to the exotic fringes.

Patricia Piccinini has found that delicate balance with some of her work, though not all. Her sculptures can sometimes be a bit too fantastical. For the most part though she manages to capture the grotesque in a way that seems believable. Its not hard to see her statues as being products of a strange future where genetic engineering can provide all manner of cheap child rearing assistance.






Balanced against realistic statues of humans, these anthropomorphic creatures become ever more believable and there fore wonderful and disturbing at the same time. Nurturing babies and nuzzling children in their sleep they are pure science fiction lent physical form.

Schism