We’re approaching the first steps of the New Year 2009. Speaking of steps, that reminds me, both our calendar and that of the Maya of Central America has 365 days in a year. On a few expeditions to Mexico, when I was still agile and able, I’d climb the 365 steps of ancient Mayan and Aztec pyramids (the number of steps symbolizing a full calendar year.) By the way, do you know the trick to climbing pyramids?
Mexico is in on our radar screen these days. What I find fascinating whenever we have the opportunity to go there, is not just the architecture and keen intelligence represented by these ancient sites, but today to witness the vibrance of its artists and craftspeople.
On each trip we notice new and different designs have surfaced, often combined with a highly developed sense of colour. It’s evidence of a vast reservoir in the genes of these people, this creative diversity and originality. Mexico is so nearby, yet so far removed from our North American, often vulgar display of goods and colours. During the holidays we went to a major shopping mall, just to look, and once again, this non-presence of aesthetics and harmony made itself seen and known, with a few exceptions.
In the mall we noticed all kinds of sales. What always has my attention is that the price of something hits home and has a common language, but when it comes to talking about an object by colour, it becomes more difficult to describe to someone who has not seen a particular item you’re talking about. For example, on display were several sweaters and dresses. Blue, Green, Red. Say I tell someone, “There is a beautiful blue sweater for sale, but you must decide, for it’ll go quickly”, how is that person going to know which colour of Blue we are referring to?
Unless we’d take a sample of the fabric, or bring the person to whom we reveal the “sale” opportunity, he or she will not know which colour we speak of. Now here comes the next step. “It’s priced at $59”. Now this immediately rings a bell. See what we mean? Colour has to be seen, it cannot be talked about. In our society and culture the monetary value of something is at the front burner, but often the magic and mystery of colour is ignored or unknown.
Yet, from the moment we open our infant eyes to the instant we close them forever, we’re exposed to colour. It is a mistake to think that only fashion designers, interior decorators, chemists or artists need to know about colour. The magic and mystery is there for all to see, study, explore, apply, feel and enjoy. Going back to pyramid-climbing: you do it in zig-zag fashion!
Enjoy your first steps into the young Year! Hasta luego, Henri
Some of us may not know at times if “we’re coming or going”, but not so with “our” calendar, it’s always clear what day, month and year it is. I say “our” because of course there are other cultures and civilizations that have their own calendars. “End of an error”, era and drama; now we’re all (or almost all) waiting for Obama.
Speaking of traditions and beginnings, let me give you a taste of how New Year was celebrated during my boyhood in the Lowlands, before WWII in the 1930’s. First, supervised by our school teachers, we had to design our own “Best Wishes” card for our parents.
Then, we had to compose our own New Year’s message, with some kind of resolution that we would try to behave, whatever that may be. (Just like today when we hear grown-ups making resolutions but rarely live up to it them.)
Back to the special card, the idea was on January 1, we children would have to stand in front of our parents and read out loud our promises we wrote in our self-made “Hallmark” cards. How is that for overcoming stage fright or public speaking phobia? All the children, from the age they could read and write, had to go through this ordeal.
Now, the evening before (New Year’s Eve), without fail each year, as many members of the whole family that could be corralled together would come to our home. Aunts, uncles, grannies, grandpas, nieces, cousins - you get the idea. This would be on a rotating basis, for example one year we’d all go to an uncle’s home, then the next year to our grandparents, etc. The youngsters played games on their own, and so too the elders, usually cards.
The masterpiece by Jan Steen (seen here) comes to mind which depicts a typical hectic household during this festive time, sometimes a bit chaotic. So even today in the Lowlands if someone’s household is in disorder, we call it “the household of Jan Steen”.
Even though some of the adults may have been teetotallers, on this occasion two traditional beverages were present: Advocaat (an egg-yolk and alcohol concoction), and a drink with fermented raisins. The raisins had been put into jars months ahead, with alcohol and honey. Both drinks were consumed with a teaspoon! And, let us not forget, hot cocoa! And coffee.
Then there were the Oliebollen. These are ping-pong ball (or sometimes tennis ball) size dough deep-fried in hot oil. Before serving they are coated with sugar powder. They taste like a doughnut. Appelflappen were flatter than the Oliebollen, with apple inside.
During the evening the fragrances from these goodies and beverages wandered through the house and into our nostrils, awakening a constant “We want another one” sort of thing. Long before twelve o’clock we young children were supposed to be in bed, but at the stroke of Midnight (on Grandfather’s clock), the Happy Wishes came out, the embracing, kisses, and a type of “Auld Lang Syne” singing.
How do I know all this? Because I peeked, that’s how.
Have a smooth slide into 2009, and easy on the whatever.
Signing off, Henri
Speaking of traditions and beginnings, let me give you a taste of how New Year was celebrated during my boyhood in the Lowlands, before WWII in the 1930’s. First, supervised by our school teachers, we had to design our own “Best Wishes” card for our parents.
Then, we had to compose our own New Year’s message, with some kind of resolution that we would try to behave, whatever that may be. (Just like today when we hear grown-ups making resolutions but rarely live up to it them.)
Back to the special card, the idea was on January 1, we children would have to stand in front of our parents and read out loud our promises we wrote in our self-made “Hallmark” cards. How is that for overcoming stage fright or public speaking phobia? All the children, from the age they could read and write, had to go through this ordeal.
Now, the evening before (New Year’s Eve), without fail each year, as many members of the whole family that could be corralled together would come to our home. Aunts, uncles, grannies, grandpas, nieces, cousins - you get the idea. This would be on a rotating basis, for example one year we’d all go to an uncle’s home, then the next year to our grandparents, etc. The youngsters played games on their own, and so too the elders, usually cards.
The masterpiece by Jan Steen (seen here) comes to mind which depicts a typical hectic household during this festive time, sometimes a bit chaotic. So even today in the Lowlands if someone’s household is in disorder, we call it “the household of Jan Steen”.
Even though some of the adults may have been teetotallers, on this occasion two traditional beverages were present: Advocaat (an egg-yolk and alcohol concoction), and a drink with fermented raisins. The raisins had been put into jars months ahead, with alcohol and honey. Both drinks were consumed with a teaspoon! And, let us not forget, hot cocoa! And coffee.
Then there were the Oliebollen. These are ping-pong ball (or sometimes tennis ball) size dough deep-fried in hot oil. Before serving they are coated with sugar powder. They taste like a doughnut. Appelflappen were flatter than the Oliebollen, with apple inside.
During the evening the fragrances from these goodies and beverages wandered through the house and into our nostrils, awakening a constant “We want another one” sort of thing. Long before twelve o’clock we young children were supposed to be in bed, but at the stroke of Midnight (on Grandfather’s clock), the Happy Wishes came out, the embracing, kisses, and a type of “Auld Lang Syne” singing.
How do I know all this? Because I peeked, that’s how.
Have a smooth slide into 2009, and easy on the whatever.
Signing off, Henri
|
Round One of the holiday feasting is over. Round Two – the changing of one year into another, lurks nearby. “Old 2008” is getting by, just so! New-to-be born 2009 awaits on the horizon. We had an unexpected invitation to a pleasant Yuletide dinner at the friendly home of an astronomer. Since we don’t have a vehicle, we were fetched by his colleague, an astrophysicist no less, who specializes in Black Holes, thank you.
This gave us an opportunity to see all the outdoor holiday decorations with their multitude of designs, imagery and lights, in all colours of the spectrum. Always a magical, fairy-tale like phenomena, even more so on a snowy wintry night, a rarity here in Victoria. Sitting thus in the car, being driven by the astrophysicist, I was looking at these multi-coloured lights and wondered (still do) what is “behind” all this electricity?
You know, we take a lot for granted. We make use of all the frontier gadgets, from cell phone to Jumbo jet, and those “cities of the seas”, called cruise ships. Ever wondered what’s it all about? We flip a switch, push a button, Presto! Abracadabra, the lights and equipment work.
Yes, there are also batteries to provide energy, and of course the more progressive among us have solar panels or windmills, however anything we plug-in, or is plugged-in and needs to function, we switch, push or ‘whisper’ and voila! It works. How come?
“Well, that’s because of electricity, my child.”
“What’s electricity?”
“Well, ahem, ahem, Energy, my child.”
“Does it think and feel, does it know what it’s doing?”
“Ahem, well now, you’ve got me!”
See what I mean? There has to be some kind of intelligence, some consciousness behind it all.
That’s why I call it Intelligent Electricity. In the world of hydro and energy companies, they use the term intelligent electricity to refer to grids and eco-smart systems, but my reference is to the mystery of its consciousness.
Now, all those colours we witnessed, speeding by at an average of 60 km per hour, are they also not a mystery? And magical? Of course. We see the same colour range in the Rainbow, except these Yuletide little lamps and lights are an assortment of that spectrum.
And while our astrophysicist friend drove us back home on that snowy night, wondering and pondering about the mystery of this “Intelligence of Electricity”, my hungry eyes (and mind) harvested all that light and colour on that Christmas night, tapping those images and sights, sending it all to my brain, to understand . . . Being in the presence of an astrophysicist, someone who explores far-away galaxies, I return to my age-old question, “Where does all that Space come from, where the great ballroom dance of the Universe takes place?” ‘Signing off for now, Henri
This gave us an opportunity to see all the outdoor holiday decorations with their multitude of designs, imagery and lights, in all colours of the spectrum. Always a magical, fairy-tale like phenomena, even more so on a snowy wintry night, a rarity here in Victoria. Sitting thus in the car, being driven by the astrophysicist, I was looking at these multi-coloured lights and wondered (still do) what is “behind” all this electricity?
You know, we take a lot for granted. We make use of all the frontier gadgets, from cell phone to Jumbo jet, and those “cities of the seas”, called cruise ships. Ever wondered what’s it all about? We flip a switch, push a button, Presto! Abracadabra, the lights and equipment work.
Yes, there are also batteries to provide energy, and of course the more progressive among us have solar panels or windmills, however anything we plug-in, or is plugged-in and needs to function, we switch, push or ‘whisper’ and voila! It works. How come?
“Well, that’s because of electricity, my child.”
“What’s electricity?”
“Well, ahem, ahem, Energy, my child.”
“Does it think and feel, does it know what it’s doing?”
“Ahem, well now, you’ve got me!”
See what I mean? There has to be some kind of intelligence, some consciousness behind it all.
That’s why I call it Intelligent Electricity. In the world of hydro and energy companies, they use the term intelligent electricity to refer to grids and eco-smart systems, but my reference is to the mystery of its consciousness.
Now, all those colours we witnessed, speeding by at an average of 60 km per hour, are they also not a mystery? And magical? Of course. We see the same colour range in the Rainbow, except these Yuletide little lamps and lights are an assortment of that spectrum.
And while our astrophysicist friend drove us back home on that snowy night, wondering and pondering about the mystery of this “Intelligence of Electricity”, my hungry eyes (and mind) harvested all that light and colour on that Christmas night, tapping those images and sights, sending it all to my brain, to understand . . . Being in the presence of an astrophysicist, someone who explores far-away galaxies, I return to my age-old question, “Where does all that Space come from, where the great ballroom dance of the Universe takes place?” ‘Signing off for now, Henri
|
We had a few requests to elaborate, if possible, on the symbolic meaning of “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer”. We gladly oblige, allowing us to share my interpretation with a wider audience. It is very wintry across the continent including here on the West Coast so it’s not only the ‘season’ but here in Victoria we have a rare White Yuletide.
Gene Autry, the singing cowboy, made “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer” famous. It was back in 1949 and a big hit on Radio Luxembourg where we first heard it. The man who wrote the lyrics was an American advertising executive, but “Rudolph” is poetry.
I’m not sure how well Robert May knew the bohemian heartbeat of poets and artists, but he definitely hit the mark when it comes to how talent often goes unrecognized. Most artists, the gifted, visionary ones, rarely receive recognition while they’re alive. There are a few, like Picasso, but it’s uncommon.
Many artists are acknowledged by the public only when others, such as highly-popular figures in society, bestow accolades (whether they be painters, composers, sculptors, even some scientists or inventors, and last but not least, a messiah.)
Now, here we have a reindeer with a red nose, and if you care to look a bit closer, you’ll notice that it glows. All the other reindeer called him names and wouldn’t allow Rudolph to join in their games. (Ostracized). They mocked and made fun of him, humiliating poor Rudolph.
Vincent van Gogh comes to mind. He was treated “less than a dog”. Likewise with Emily Carr here in Canada.
On the other hand, Santa could be seen as Time. Through the passing of time, the well-deserved recognition of genius (Rudolph) is recognized, revealing something that was always there from the beginning.
Finally, because of this time lapse, we honour someone special, someone who gave the world beauty and treasures - - food for the soul, in this case the toys and goodies carried by Santa on his sleigh, guided by Rudolph’s glowing nose through the fog (ignorance). Light in Darkness.
Then of course, all the reindeers love Rudolph, and sing out in glee. Just like today we all love the Impressionists or Vincent van Gogh, or whomever, a century after their demise.
Now, yes, we can sing and say, “Rudolph, you’ll go down in history”. But while alive, most great artists had to live in misery.
Well, that’s my version of this popular Yuletide song, which has also been judged by history and become an evergreen. Happy sleigh rides! Henri
You know Dasher, Dancer, Prancer and Vixen,
Comet, Cupid, Donner and Blitzen,
But do you recall,
The most famous reindeer of all?
Rudolph, the red-nosed reindeer
had a very shiny nose.
And if you ever saw him,
you would even say it glows.
All of the other reindeer
used to laugh and call him names.
They never let poor Rudolph
join in any reindeer games.
Then one foggy Christmas Eve
Santa came to say:
"Rudolph with your nose so bright,
won't you guide my sleigh tonight?"
Then all the reindeer loved him
as they shouted out with glee,
Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer,
you'll go down in history
Gene Autry, the singing cowboy, made “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer” famous. It was back in 1949 and a big hit on Radio Luxembourg where we first heard it. The man who wrote the lyrics was an American advertising executive, but “Rudolph” is poetry.
I’m not sure how well Robert May knew the bohemian heartbeat of poets and artists, but he definitely hit the mark when it comes to how talent often goes unrecognized. Most artists, the gifted, visionary ones, rarely receive recognition while they’re alive. There are a few, like Picasso, but it’s uncommon.
Many artists are acknowledged by the public only when others, such as highly-popular figures in society, bestow accolades (whether they be painters, composers, sculptors, even some scientists or inventors, and last but not least, a messiah.)
Now, here we have a reindeer with a red nose, and if you care to look a bit closer, you’ll notice that it glows. All the other reindeer called him names and wouldn’t allow Rudolph to join in their games. (Ostracized). They mocked and made fun of him, humiliating poor Rudolph.
Vincent van Gogh comes to mind. He was treated “less than a dog”. Likewise with Emily Carr here in Canada.
On the other hand, Santa could be seen as Time. Through the passing of time, the well-deserved recognition of genius (Rudolph) is recognized, revealing something that was always there from the beginning.
Finally, because of this time lapse, we honour someone special, someone who gave the world beauty and treasures - - food for the soul, in this case the toys and goodies carried by Santa on his sleigh, guided by Rudolph’s glowing nose through the fog (ignorance). Light in Darkness.
Then of course, all the reindeers love Rudolph, and sing out in glee. Just like today we all love the Impressionists or Vincent van Gogh, or whomever, a century after their demise.
Now, yes, we can sing and say, “Rudolph, you’ll go down in history”. But while alive, most great artists had to live in misery.
Well, that’s my version of this popular Yuletide song, which has also been judged by history and become an evergreen. Happy sleigh rides! Henri
You know Dasher, Dancer, Prancer and Vixen,
Comet, Cupid, Donner and Blitzen,
But do you recall,
The most famous reindeer of all?
Rudolph, the red-nosed reindeer
had a very shiny nose.
And if you ever saw him,
you would even say it glows.
All of the other reindeer
used to laugh and call him names.
They never let poor Rudolph
join in any reindeer games.
Then one foggy Christmas Eve
Santa came to say:
"Rudolph with your nose so bright,
won't you guide my sleigh tonight?"
Then all the reindeer loved him
as they shouted out with glee,
Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer,
you'll go down in history
|
‘Tis the season! It’s still snowing here in Victoria, very applicable for Yuletide. Eat, drink, be merry. Everywhere people are visiting friends, going to parties and enjoying traditional dishes and mouth-watering treats over the holidays. But have you ever wondered how Indigenous peoples survived and what their diet was during the long, cold winters of North America? Or, in places like Russia and Scandinavia?
Not only wondered at their survival in freezing temperatures (and surviving they did!), but marvelled at their rich knowledge of flora and fauna?
Speaking of special dishes, when you’ve travelled and seen a bit of the world like we have, you not only encounter ‘primitive’ food markets but enter a time-tunnel and see how things used to be for all of us, long ago.
On these expeditions you need to adjust and adapt to the local food, e.g. sometimes a local delicacy such as in the Atlas Mountains of Morocco, sheep eyes in couscous. Or with the Massai of eastern Africa, where I drank “cocktails” of milk & cow’s blood, and elsewhere in Africa munched on fried termites.
[In order to survive, in my boyhood in the Lowlands during WWII we lived on potato peels and flower bulbs, or roots of non-toxic plants. Hunger always triumphs over ‘revulsion’. I know! When some people here in the West say they’re hungry, they mean they have an appetite; many have never experienced real hunger.]
Speaking of markets in far-away lands, if you live in a city in North America you may have a Chinatown. In which case there’s no need to travel to Timbuktu or Harar, Ethiopia to come across foods which for us may be unappetizing.
Here in Victoria’s Chinatown there’s a vast selection of traditional foods, often dried or in powder, as well as many (the so-called aphrodisiacs) which deplete our global rhino, bear or shark population, just to name a few. Of course many nations have been on protein-source diets which we may find unpalatable (such as dogs, considered a delicacy in some parts ofthe Far East.) Recently in the Mekong valley forests, another source of protein was discovered: a spider, the size of a dinner plate.
Going back to those long, cold winters, what were the food sources for Indigenous peoples? Of course there was meat preserved from the hunt, wild fowl, or smoked and dried fish from the oceans and rivers.
Any plant life that could be, was dried, or roots gathered or cultivated (like the primordial carrot which the English call “Queen Anne’s Lace”). There was great knowledge of berries, innocent and not-so-innocent plants, toxic and non-toxic, healing and medicinal ones, plus how to find much-treasured honey. There were smaller forms of Maize, and other earlier versions of what we know as corn, another staple of their diet.
Then of course we came along with our know-it-all attitude and began to ‘proselytize’ the Indigenous peoples, here and elsewhere, upsetting many a “corn” “apple” or whatever-cart, and in the process caused lots of cultural conflicts and irreparable damage.
Much of what we know today, we originally learned from the Indigenous peoples. But their practice of working the land was more what we’d call Horticulture, compared with our Agriculture. (Or Agribusiness.) Our agriculture exhausts the soil. Horticulture sustains it. That’s the big difference.
Tables are turning - - now at the rate we’re depleting our food supplies around the world, we are learning from Indigenous Elders about their vast knowledge of Nature.
So in the future instead of parents telling their children, “If you don’t eat your Brussel sprouts, you’ll get no plum pudding”, we may hear “If you don’t finish your steamed locusts, there’ll be no chocolate-dipped ants for you!”
Or our future gourmet meals may contain grubs, lizards, scorpions, beetles, locusts, worms and other protein-containing delicacies.
Bon appétit! Henri
Not only wondered at their survival in freezing temperatures (and surviving they did!), but marvelled at their rich knowledge of flora and fauna?
Speaking of special dishes, when you’ve travelled and seen a bit of the world like we have, you not only encounter ‘primitive’ food markets but enter a time-tunnel and see how things used to be for all of us, long ago.
On these expeditions you need to adjust and adapt to the local food, e.g. sometimes a local delicacy such as in the Atlas Mountains of Morocco, sheep eyes in couscous. Or with the Massai of eastern Africa, where I drank “cocktails” of milk & cow’s blood, and elsewhere in Africa munched on fried termites.
[In order to survive, in my boyhood in the Lowlands during WWII we lived on potato peels and flower bulbs, or roots of non-toxic plants. Hunger always triumphs over ‘revulsion’. I know! When some people here in the West say they’re hungry, they mean they have an appetite; many have never experienced real hunger.]
Speaking of markets in far-away lands, if you live in a city in North America you may have a Chinatown. In which case there’s no need to travel to Timbuktu or Harar, Ethiopia to come across foods which for us may be unappetizing.
Here in Victoria’s Chinatown there’s a vast selection of traditional foods, often dried or in powder, as well as many (the so-called aphrodisiacs) which deplete our global rhino, bear or shark population, just to name a few. Of course many nations have been on protein-source diets which we may find unpalatable (such as dogs, considered a delicacy in some parts ofthe Far East.) Recently in the Mekong valley forests, another source of protein was discovered: a spider, the size of a dinner plate.
Going back to those long, cold winters, what were the food sources for Indigenous peoples? Of course there was meat preserved from the hunt, wild fowl, or smoked and dried fish from the oceans and rivers.
Any plant life that could be, was dried, or roots gathered or cultivated (like the primordial carrot which the English call “Queen Anne’s Lace”). There was great knowledge of berries, innocent and not-so-innocent plants, toxic and non-toxic, healing and medicinal ones, plus how to find much-treasured honey. There were smaller forms of Maize, and other earlier versions of what we know as corn, another staple of their diet.
Then of course we came along with our know-it-all attitude and began to ‘proselytize’ the Indigenous peoples, here and elsewhere, upsetting many a “corn” “apple” or whatever-cart, and in the process caused lots of cultural conflicts and irreparable damage.
Much of what we know today, we originally learned from the Indigenous peoples. But their practice of working the land was more what we’d call Horticulture, compared with our Agriculture. (Or Agribusiness.) Our agriculture exhausts the soil. Horticulture sustains it. That’s the big difference.
Tables are turning - - now at the rate we’re depleting our food supplies around the world, we are learning from Indigenous Elders about their vast knowledge of Nature.
So in the future instead of parents telling their children, “If you don’t eat your Brussel sprouts, you’ll get no plum pudding”, we may hear “If you don’t finish your steamed locusts, there’ll be no chocolate-dipped ants for you!”
Or our future gourmet meals may contain grubs, lizards, scorpions, beetles, locusts, worms and other protein-containing delicacies.
Bon appétit! Henri
|
“I don’t know if it was snowing for nine days when I was six, or six days when I was nine . . .”. Dylan Thomas’ “A Boy’s Christmas in Wales” always brings back memories.
I can relate to that, as I’m sure it does to many. Of course, my boyhood wasn’t in Wales, but the Lowlands. Les Pays Bas, die Nieder-landen, “Nether” lands, which included Flanders at one time in history.
Our home in the countryside had only one source of heating, actually two, but the big iron stove with a long metal pipe going to the chimney and heated with coal was only used to prepare meals. The other source was a small gas stove. We had no electricity.
Because heating sources were scarse, the bedrooms, bathroom and hall were very cold in wintertime.
The only advantage was when the ‘Great Designer of Winter’ created fairy-tale like, lace looking images on the windows. Here they call him Jack Frost.
My apologue (children’s story) “The Icy-Crystal See-Through No-Name Man” is all about this topic. You can read this and other stories at: http://www.millennia.org/artist/stories.htm
In my boyhood winters were often a lengthy affair, and if many frosts had gone over the ponds, moats and small waterways, we would skate. In order to learn this skill, we’d hold onto a chair, pushing it along the ice, for balance, like elderly folk use walkers today.
Our skates weren’t the state of the art models like today. They were made of wood, with a carved, curly front, all held together by leather straps. The early skates were made of animal bones.
When winter was very long, with many nights of frost, in Friesland the famous “Elfstedentocht” would be held. A gruelling, lengthy skating event covering the distance between eleven (“elf”) cities throughout the waterways of Friesland. That’s why the skaters from Holland always do so well in the Olympics and other international competitions.
And yes, in our childhood we made snow men and women, and enjoyed many snowball battles. Children will always be children, no?
Enjoy the hot cocoa. Signing off, Henri
I can relate to that, as I’m sure it does to many. Of course, my boyhood wasn’t in Wales, but the Lowlands. Les Pays Bas, die Nieder-landen, “Nether” lands, which included Flanders at one time in history.
Our home in the countryside had only one source of heating, actually two, but the big iron stove with a long metal pipe going to the chimney and heated with coal was only used to prepare meals. The other source was a small gas stove. We had no electricity.
Because heating sources were scarse, the bedrooms, bathroom and hall were very cold in wintertime.
The only advantage was when the ‘Great Designer of Winter’ created fairy-tale like, lace looking images on the windows. Here they call him Jack Frost.
My apologue (children’s story) “The Icy-Crystal See-Through No-Name Man” is all about this topic. You can read this and other stories at: http://www.millennia.org/artist/stories.htm
In my boyhood winters were often a lengthy affair, and if many frosts had gone over the ponds, moats and small waterways, we would skate. In order to learn this skill, we’d hold onto a chair, pushing it along the ice, for balance, like elderly folk use walkers today.
Our skates weren’t the state of the art models like today. They were made of wood, with a carved, curly front, all held together by leather straps. The early skates were made of animal bones.
When winter was very long, with many nights of frost, in Friesland the famous “Elfstedentocht” would be held. A gruelling, lengthy skating event covering the distance between eleven (“elf”) cities throughout the waterways of Friesland. That’s why the skaters from Holland always do so well in the Olympics and other international competitions.
And yes, in our childhood we made snow men and women, and enjoyed many snowball battles. Children will always be children, no?
Enjoy the hot cocoa. Signing off, Henri
|
Remember the song from South Pacific, “Hello Young Lovers, Wherever You Are, I now have a love of my own”? Well, wherever you are in the regular winter and snow zone, we also have snow of our own. Not just a flurry or two. A “white-out”.
No sooner did we complete a five-part series of blog posts on our Antarctica adventure, than pronto, we’re into snowflakes right here in Victoria. Not just a flurry or two but a good carpeting of these magic flakes. I say magic, because we’re told, that not one of these intricately-designed ‘visitors’ is alike.
This seems incredible, as we watch the early morning snow drift, leaving hardly any space between the flakes. To think each one is unique.
Then again, the magic and mystery of such phenomenon doesn’t remain with a snowflake, everything is unique - - - you, me and all that we see (and don’t see).
It’s interesting how a snowfall rekindles memories of yesteryear. Back in the Lowlands, as a child and until we were about five years old, in wintertime my father used to roll us in the snow in our birthday suits. Afterwards he’d rub us down with a large towel. I can still sense the glowing feeling of my body afterwards.
We know the Victoria snow will not last long, unless of course there’s another script in store for the days to come.
Whatever the case, from our perch here on the seventh floor we can see people tobogganing or kids having snowball fights, while we know that further Up Island, snow dolls appear like mushrooms.
We’re usually on the ocean at this time of year, either the South Pacific, Caribbean or Indian Ocean, so for us the snowfall is a pleasant surprise. Of course this isn’t our first experience of the white stuff. Sixteen winters in Toronto tell the tale. Plus five winters in Banff, Alberta.
Looking out our window, and being a visual person by nature, we observe it’s not “all white” out there. The colours of passing cars, the attire of passers-by walking on the path, and many Yuletide lights here in James Bay village all make their appearance. Proving again that colour speaks to us even when surrounded by all that white. Something I knew a long time ago, and make visible in my work.
White is the Mother of all Colours, although Goethe said, “Colour is decayed Light”. That’s all very well, but now in Victoria, where we’re carpeted by snow, all the colours sing! A la prochaine, Henri
No sooner did we complete a five-part series of blog posts on our Antarctica adventure, than pronto, we’re into snowflakes right here in Victoria. Not just a flurry or two but a good carpeting of these magic flakes. I say magic, because we’re told, that not one of these intricately-designed ‘visitors’ is alike.
This seems incredible, as we watch the early morning snow drift, leaving hardly any space between the flakes. To think each one is unique.
Then again, the magic and mystery of such phenomenon doesn’t remain with a snowflake, everything is unique - - - you, me and all that we see (and don’t see).
It’s interesting how a snowfall rekindles memories of yesteryear. Back in the Lowlands, as a child and until we were about five years old, in wintertime my father used to roll us in the snow in our birthday suits. Afterwards he’d rub us down with a large towel. I can still sense the glowing feeling of my body afterwards.
We know the Victoria snow will not last long, unless of course there’s another script in store for the days to come.
Whatever the case, from our perch here on the seventh floor we can see people tobogganing or kids having snowball fights, while we know that further Up Island, snow dolls appear like mushrooms.
We’re usually on the ocean at this time of year, either the South Pacific, Caribbean or Indian Ocean, so for us the snowfall is a pleasant surprise. Of course this isn’t our first experience of the white stuff. Sixteen winters in Toronto tell the tale. Plus five winters in Banff, Alberta.
Looking out our window, and being a visual person by nature, we observe it’s not “all white” out there. The colours of passing cars, the attire of passers-by walking on the path, and many Yuletide lights here in James Bay village all make their appearance. Proving again that colour speaks to us even when surrounded by all that white. Something I knew a long time ago, and make visible in my work.
White is the Mother of all Colours, although Goethe said, “Colour is decayed Light”. That’s all very well, but now in Victoria, where we’re carpeted by snow, all the colours sing! A la prochaine, Henri
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