Toys are Memory

Museum of Bringuedo
Sintra, Portugal

  TOYS ARE FOREVER.

Toys are fairly central to most childhoods, whether a simple piece of wood, a rag doll or some sophisticated western what not. No matter what your childhood economic circumstances, we treasure those moments of pure imagination, when we could create our own world and people it accordingly. Years ago I had visited a Money Box Museum in Amsterdam, all very Dutch, but still I was surprised to find a Toy Museum in Sintra, Portugal, so people establish museums for all sorts of things.

The Museum of Bringuedo in the centre of Sintra, possesses a very fine collection of some 40,000 toys ranging from 1930’s Hornby train sets, lead soldiers, dolls, and every other kind of toy imaginable. Collections of any sort must reflect to a great extent the interests of the collector, and when I cast back into my own memory and recall the World War II battles I played out under the dining table, because an uncle of mine had lent me his collection of 1930’s German lead soldiers.

The owner and founder of this museum turned out to be an elderly gentleman, now unfortunately confined to a wheelchair due to a recent stroke. This however, did not stop him from doing the rounds of “his museum”. Luckily he was very talkative and only too anxious to talk about his passion. He had been collecting  all his life, and had set up a repair and restoration workshop in the museum where children of all ages could bring their treasures for renewal. Many toys are discarded, and he felt it was his duty to give them new life. Everything in this world has memory that has witnessed different time frames. I am sure if this establishment had been around during Hans Christian Andersen stay in Sintra, he would have felt a great affinity. The owner had built a special playroom with puppets and story tellers, so each child could relive their own make-believe worlds.

Apart from this great collection of lead soldiers from every corner of the globe, he had acquired a few ancient bronze toys from Syria some 3000 years old. There were also a few carved marble toys, also from the Middle East. I believe simple moulded clay toy animals have been found in Anatolia dated 6000BC. It is a great pity that as adults, we tend to forget the joys of childhood when time is always the present. When anything is possible, and we endow our toys with a life of their own, and the only restriction is imagination. I often wonder whether in this contemporary world of  were children are fed a diet of preprogramed toys, and technological wonders whether children are the real losers in their inability to entertain themselves, were everything is in the fast lane, and there is no time to think and dream.

Sintra Portuguese Sketches

PALACE OF PENA, SINTRA

            

Clinging to the northern slopes of the Serra, some forty-five minutes by train from Lisbon sits Sintra.  This former summer capital of the Portuguese Kings, offers the early morning  raiser a sight not to be missed.  Covered in early morning  mountain mist, castle turrets, conical chimneys, and segments of peaks piece the clouds offering the most jaded traveller a fairy tale vista. It is little wonder that the town has attracted writers, musicians, and artists over the centuries. Hans Christen Andersen spent a year here writing fairy tales, while Richard Strauss on visiting Palacio da Pena, believed he had found the home of the Holy Grail. Strauss recorded in his diary, “This is the happiest day of my life, I have travelled in Italy, Sicily, Greece and Egypt, but have never seen anything to equal Pena. It is the most beautiful sight I have ever witnessed. This is the true Klingsor garden and up there above  in the Towers  the Castle the Holy Grail.”

                                                               

Rua Marechal, Sintra. 

A typcial Sintra street, old walls, cobble stoned road.

There is more to Sintra than the Castle of Pena, the town is rich in Royal Palaces, Castles, Museums and parks, not to mention the numerous mansions built by the mega rich from South America and the Royal families of Europe. I had decided to spend the next month here gathering material for a painting exhibition. The difficult part was going to be what to ignore, every where I looked picturesque scenes presented themselves. After spending the first week walking along cobblestone lanes, visiting churches, and viewing Moorish fountains, I decided to attempt to covey the many layers of Portuguese history through the tile decoration, so much loved in this country. Nearly every building in Portugal appears to be covered in ceramic tiles; the use of this form of decorative motif often is included in the original architectural design. Many architects design the tiles themselves, while the many ceramic tile workshops employ several artists to create and carry out the design and painting. No building is considered complete without some form of artwork, Portugal must be an artists’ paradise. I visited several of these workshop during my stay.

One of my paintings based on the walls and old Moorish tiles.

     100x70 cm. on board textured, acrylic paint. $1500.

                               

 I carried out many on the spot sketches and reworked them into abstract designs. Fragmented tile patterns surrounded by textured walls, I broke the complete tiles up to create a sense of history as they are in their own way fragments of past memory. I was quite pleased with the way the watercolour washes on the walls took on a cork like appearance, this allowed me to develop three very important elements of Portugal, the legacy of Moorish tiles, textured stonewalls, and the cork trees.

Watercolour sketch

                                                      Further development of tile sketchs

Sintra is full of surprise, it houses one of the best private modern art collections of the 20^th cent. The Berardo Collection, includes many major artists of this century, Magritte, Pollock, Bacon and Warhol to name just a few. Joe Berardo’s collection is so large, that it seemed as though half the works in the Museum of Modern Art in Lisbon are on loan from his museum. Then there is the eccentric Brazilian millionaire’s contribution, Antonio Monteriro’s Quinta da Regaleira built in 1890. This feast of the absurd is filled with every kind of folly imaginable, secret grottoes, forts, castles, underground lakes, this would have to be one of the great examples of exoteric. There is even an underground staircase taking you down some 27m into the earth to what is called the Guardians Gate. This several acres of park of follies have been built around classical mythology, were Monteriro has tried to recreate the worlds Virgil, Dante, and Milton , with a touch of the Knights Templars thrown in, a world to delight any child.

One of the follys at Antonio Monteriro's Quinta da Regalira

The Palace of Pena set on a mountain top creates a presence all of its own. Set within a large park like woodland, the visitor wanders along numerous paths and tracks, until you suddenly come across the palace. Built at a time of great Portuguese wealth were no cost has been spared. The range of architectural detail and décor is hard to describe, but the range  runs from The Arab Room, to an over the top 16^th cent alabaster Chapel filled with every kinf of oddities from every corner of the globe. Then there is the King’s oval shaped bedchamber,  a ballroom lit by German stained glass windows complete with four life-sized turbaned torchbearers holding a giant candelabra. I need say no more,

 One afternoon Heather and I were taken by our host to a little summer house rebuilt by a Professor of Architecture at Lisbon University. This little building consisted of two floors, one room to each floor with a narrow staircase joining them, with a tiny bathroom halfway down the stairs. The great delight in this building was theunusal use of eye patterns and reliefs on the walls and around windows, even the patio chairs had eyes cut into their backs. The whole house was a delight and very imaginative, although I don’t know how two people could live there at the same time!

Walking the track to the National Park I came across this scene near the church of Santa Maria. Every day I would climb the mountain roads, forever going up and down, so we discovered many little treasures tucked away in the hilly landscape such as the church below Santa Maria.

Santa Maria.

The church of Santa Maria first conceived in the 12th centit took many centries to complete. The church is one of the few remaing examples of medieval architecture. The building has a Gothic Romantic feel, in this sense it encompass the spirit of Sintra. The church face the little square above.

99th Tour de France

Few events arouse as much enthusiasm world wide as the Tour de France, an event unparalleled on the sporting calender. A road race requiring both physical commitment, and physical punishment unknown in most sports. A commitment of some 22 days of concentration and stamina if a rider is to avoid injury, let alone finish. This is one of the world's most watched events by an audience who for the most part, have not ridden a bicycle since childhood.

This year's Tour has a special interest for many Australians, not only has the country  it's first tour winner taking part, but the country has it's first National Team in the form of Greenedge. It remains to be seen whether Cadel Evans, as the oldest Tour winner since World War Two, is able the defend his title. A race of some 3630 kms takes on the dimensions of a modern day pilgrimage.  All this suffering and heroism would not be out of place in a pilgrimage to the Holyland during the Middle Ages.

Overlaying the event, we have a high priest in the form of Phil Ligget who guides the viewer with both a rich dialogue and evaluation of tactics, as the riders wind their way up and down mountains, around and through villages, while he casts a historic eye on passing chateaus and sights of interest. These riders are travelling at some 40 to 50 plus kms per hour, and anything can happen. Hardly a day passes without a pile up, broken bones, not to mention many bloody grazes and dislocated bones.

The Tour also has a somewhat voyeur aspect, many female friends have expressed their pleasure at viewing the shaved, bronze legs and arms of the contestants. then there are participants articulating their dreams, while they resign themselves to reality. A Greek Drama could not present more. In the background the possibility of a raid by the drug squad or some other internal intrigue. I would love to have watched the early Tours, when riders refreshed themselves at local bars and cafes on route.

The Tour is the ultimate reality show, played out on that vast stage called rural France, where only the strongest will survive. What I enjoy most is the modern coverage of the race,  the viewer is effortlessly moved back and forth from breakaway group to peloton, set in a background of mountain and, ruined castles, where these young, lean riders strut their stuff. The event brings out the best and worst of human nature,  riders at one level have great concern for each other, while commiting themsleves totally to try and win for their team. Personally, I don't understand much about the rules, but there is obviously a considerable amount of tactics envolved. Your team rider has total loyality.

Then there are the crowd who line the route, on top of mountains, many trying the catch their moment of glory in the sun. How the riders find their way through this throng is hard to imagine, but they do. These fans often wait for hours in the wind and rain, waiting for their heros to appear, but they are all heros in different ways. So, as the peloton, packed like sardines in a tin, speed down the road, the voices of Liggett and Sherwin draw everything together, such is the Tour de France.

When Olive Oil is not Olive Oil

The mislabling of food products in Australia seems to continue unabated. Major supermarkets continue to sell such mislabled products such as "pure, light, extra light olive oil" to an unsuspecting public, who seem unaware that they are buying diluted oil. Much of this so called olive oil, has failed the Australian Standards test for olive oil. The so called oil ,has often been contamjnated by other products, while cheap olive oil often is heat extracted, destroying it's health giving properties. The Australian Olive Oil Council has made repeated represention to various members of parliament, and has had a sympathetic hearing, but more needs to be done to create some action. The major supermarkets continue to sell this poor substitute as olive oil, claiming they will meet Australian Standard when there is a demand, whenever that will be is anyones guess. In the meantime, they continue to sell oils that are unsalable in Europe. It is highly profitable to dump this product in Australia for both themselves and the Australian supermarkets.

The only way to correct this continual practice, is to legalise the requirement of meeting Australian Food Standards by law. The Aust. Olive Council urges anyone concerned about the quality of the food they consume, to write, email, or phone their local members of Federal Parliament, in both Houses, requesting them to support a private member's or hopefully, Government Bill to make such an obligation binding. The people of this country deserve nothing less.

Not only are European producers dumping their olive oil rubbish here, but other importers food products package them here and lable them in large print 'Packed in Australia'. But rarely  tell the consumer  where the item has been imported from. Much of the house brands currently sold in major supermarkets simply say, imported ingredients. This problem of incorrect labeling must be address by everyone living in this country, your health depends on it.

Transit of Venus, Hobart

Courtesy of Mercury

As a Libran I could not possibly miss the Transit of Venus, an event that only comes around every hundreds years or so. Luckily the event happens in pairs eight years apart, so you have a double chance in each lifetime. Living in Hobart there is always the chance of cloud cover or overcast weather, but on” the day “  last week, the sky cleared and the sun came out. The Astrological Society of Tasmania set up a battery of telescopes on the Hobart Domain, a great location as this area juts out into the River Derwent allowing panoramic views of not only the sky, but of the river and Hobart as well. Generally, this area is mainly used for kite flying, the odd circus and somewhere to park your car. During the morning of the Transit there was a steady stream of people using the telescopes and taking this opportunity to view that other world.

The sun proved to be pulsating orange ball with a scattering of sun spots randomly scattered across its surface, and there was Venus a perfect round black form moving across its surface. I must confess, I was somewhat surprised by the perfect geometry of its shape in sharp contrast to that of the sun. Around the sun’s edge fiery gases licked the heavens. The whole scene was one that suggested power and heat, so if you missed it make a note for next time; it is only 117 years away.

Blake Prize 2012 for Religious Art?

Luke Roberts "Three Figures at the base of the Crucifixions"

The 60th BLAKE PRIZE seems neither religious or spiritual, despite claims of exploring these matters on the front of the catalogue. If anything, the touring exhibition currently showing in Hobart is not only disappointing, buy does not seem to address any of the issues claimed. In fact, nearly the entire exhibition could have been shown in any mixed display of art works anywhere no matter what the subject, as there is little reference to the purpose for which the prize was created. When the Blake Prize was established in the 1950s, there was a desire to create a vehicle  to promote a modern, and dare I say genuine expression of religious truths. A landscape painting by Carla Hananiah "Refuge" won the John Coburn Award for Emerging Artist, deserves commendation, but little else. The winner of this year's $20000 prize money was rather questionable 90-minute video of what appears to be  a group of Muslims praying in a suburban house. How a video of a religious service of any sort, becomes a work of art is hard to say. One would think that any church, mosque or temple event would qualify. The recording of something does not turn it into an art work, let alone be considered the winning entry. Then there is the referral work to Breughel's masterpiece "The Blind Leading the Blind" in Naples. However, in Brueghel's painting each and every figure is packed with emotion and hidden meaning, while Lisa Lee "Safety Seekers" seems to lack any meaning what so ever, apart from the suggested haven for asylum for boat people. Even haloed orangutans receive a jersey in this show. All in al,l the exhibition leaves much to be desired, no matter what your viewpoint. Whether the use of the word spiritual has lead to this situation, I will leave the viewer to judge.

Luke Roberts' digital triptych, panel one  illustrated above pretty much sums it up. While attempting to make reference to Christ's Crucifixion, The use of strippers, female impersonators in scant clothing boarders on the insulting to any one with any Christian belief. One can imagine the out cry, if a scene from the Koran was treated in this way. It would seem in this multi cultural Australia no respect is shown towards majority views. Personally, I respect any artist right to express themselves as they see fit, but such a work as the above, has no place in an exhibition of religious art. Strangely, little objection seems to have been expressed,  when you consider outcry  over the photo of a pubescent girl by Henderson a few years ago.

What the founding fathers of the Blake think about this new direction, I leave to your imagination. Serious thought needs to be undertaken by the current co-coordinators, they need to come up with a new theme, and stop referring to religion, spiritual etc, for these themes this current show is not.

Flamenco , Dance of Life.

                                                                                

 
Many people are lucky enough to some point of their life to experience an unforgettable evenings, or if you are very lucky several, so if you are ever in Madrid in June, be sure to visit the Teatro Albeniz to watch Danza Espanola y Flamenco. This theatre plays host around this time, to a choreography competition for all the best flamenco schools in Spain. This is a competitions for the best new work in dance, music and choreography, it should be an original composition. I found this theatre quite by accident, having asked my hotel if they could recommend a venue were one could view authentic flamenco dancing.

On the evening I attended, I  immediately became aware that this was not just some normal night, everything seemed to be on a high octane level. Those in attendance were not your normal audience, but seemed to be a highly select group. Looking around the theatre, one became aware that it was full of dancers and knowledgeable patrons. They were mainly young, beautiful, and critical. Dressed in all the finery of Spanish fashion, the girls with red flowers in their jet black shiny hair,  were a sight to behold, as they chatted excitably about the coming evening's entrainment. These exquisitely dressed young women, filled the air with that buzz of excitement that only the young and passionate are capable of, They seemed to have come from not only Spain, but all over Europe. The couple seating next to me had only just arrived from St. Petersburg to watch their son, young Juan dance.

This competition is held over four days, three nights of elimination with only the three best from each evening, going through to the final. All the performances seemed to me to be out of this world, how one could judge was beyond my limited knowledge. This was no tired nightclub routine, but the real thing, for not only were reputations at stake, but substantial prize money could be won. An electric current surrounded each group of dancers, as their seamless intensity of movement griped your throat. The girls twirled and spun in their well-trained routines to the haunting sounds of flamenco voice and guitar, as they moved around their male partners. Each individual performance of these young dancers filled the theatre with their passion, skill and power, the visual sight was one of sheer joy, and love of their dance. There would be short quick flicks of a foot that sent their dress flying through the air, to fall in some perfect pattern upon the stage. The crisp defiant body movement, the tossed head and flashing eyes were a language in themselves. Their tense steps, seemed like coiled springs would suddenly release, as they turned away from some unwanted lover. One particular performance on the first night I was there, a choreography of memory, of a young girl, as she used her cape to represent various aspects of her life. Her first love, her child and the death of that child, Spanish culture is very dark, but also wonderful.

It seemed inevitable, that I was destined to return the following night to watch the final. The  sensation of this night was even more intense than before. The winners of this competition was Olga Pericet, who played and sang with two other dancers, one male, one female. They danced out their life with such passion, that many eyes were somewhat teary. The audience and performers had become one, each twirl and movement was greeted with a shout of Ole, the audience by now were one their feet, shouting in great excitement, as they encourage the dancers to even more daring feats. The guitars seemed ready to burst, as frenzied feet beat the stage at greater and great speed. You felt you were at a bullfight, as this fierce national pride over took over the theatre, it is hard to explain the experience to anyone, unless you were there in the flesh. The crowd just clapped in time to he music, as they stamped their feet, shouting their approval. Life and death seemed so close, as the male dancer in this sager departed from this world, leaving his partner to her lonalyness and grief. This performance won both the music and dance section, and left me with this wonderful memory of an unforgettable night. I have never in my life experience such a high powered evening, and I only hope that such a night may come again.