On belonging and Melbourne Cup

People who know Australia, understand that Melbourne Cup day, the first Tuesday of November is very special time to most Australians. Not exactly a national holiday but definitely a national day to celebrate this very special thoroughbred horses race, the race which stops the nation.

In my first year in Australia I was introduced to the rules of the day. The rules one has to follow if one wants to belong. First of all you need to place a bet either directly with TAB, Australia's Number 1 racing betting place, or through a sweep stake of a place you spend your Melbourne Cup in. The second rule is that you have to drink champagne and the third one obliges women to wear a hat or a fascinator. You just have to do it to feel an Australian. I, like most people, like to feel that I belong. My earlier post  covered my sentiments and thoughts on the subject.

I follow the Melbourne Cup rules except about the bit of wearing a hat or a fascinator. Maybe I need to put some more attention to it the next year and get myself something pretty, even though I think it is a bit silly.

I spent my first Melbourne Cup in an IBM office. One of my colleagues, who in fact was Scottish, but very much into betting and celebrating with alcohol, took care of the proceedings. Obviously he was going to place his bets in TAB, he was big on betting and I was asked to participate. I did not know anything about horses so I chose my favourite based on its name. I believe that I was Colonel Bill. I am not sure now but I remember that it was something military in the name of the horse. I got myself some sweepstakes tickets as well. When in Rome… Not having any knowledge of the horses, I won some money by chance and earned some respect amongst my colleagues and became a part of the team’s betting circle. I was very proud of it even if I was totally out of my depth in the subject. It did not stop me betting and for quite some months I was successful at it. Pretending brought fun and improved my reputation.

Later on, when I worked as an IT manager I was often invited to Melbourne Cup celebrations organized by recruitment companies. It was rather nice part of my professional responsibility to attend parties, especially that they very often took place on boats. Sydney Harbour with its extremely spectacular views, champagne, seafood lunch, national race and happy people around... Hard job, but someone has to do it. They were really nice times.

Now, that such invitations belong to the past, the Melbourne Cup lost its attractiveness to some extend. But tradition is tradition. I had a couple of invitations this year. One to my bowling club and one to my bridge club. I felt very lucky being able to choose and I chose the bridge club celebrations. It was fun. I love playing bridge, even if after a long break in playing I am a beginner again. Catching up, though. It was a lot of bridge in the morning and I enjoyed playing with my newly found partner, Florence. Lovely name, isn’t it? We got on very well. Bridge results were not outstanding but I enjoyed the game. The lunch broke my new sensible eating habit and champagne was of course on the menu. All according to the rules.

 Most of the ladies had pretty head adornments, I did not have any. But I was called to be a part of the jury to allocate prices for the best hats.

One of the most spectacular fascinators that I like

                                                   

Nobody concentrated for a race really except for those few minutes when the race took place. We all had our sweepstakes tickets.  I drew Pirate of Penzance and the horse won! The winning paid for the whole event. Lucky me.

As I found out later, from a friendly post, there is a very nice and touching story behind the winning jockey, Michlelle Payne, a first woman winning Melbourne Cup . It pleased me, of course, to see a talented person demonstrating her ability in a discipline not typically considered feminine. 

The winning moments

                                                 

Camino dreams

Many years ago, I got a very special present for Christmas. I am a bit ashamed to confess that it was The Alchemist by Coelho. This was my first encounter with the author. I was bewitched. Thank you my Viking friends for opening this path for me. I traveled spiritually Coelho way for some years and I took his messages as a gospel for a while. Looking from a hindsight I seem wiser now. Ramana knows all about Wisdom by Hindsight, he really is a wise man.  But I digress. On my bookshelves there are only two Coelho books these days. The Alchemist and The Pilgrimage. They both guided me spiritually in my busy corporate times, they will stay with me.

So, I got the Alchemist for Christmas and I had a wondrous and ponderous time reading the book in one go, sitting in the hammock with my faithful dog Mia near me. That was bliss! Beautiful memories. This is how my Camino dream has started.

Some short years later The Pilgrimage was published. Another revelation and a new dream. The dream was to walk Camino. Many, many years I was dreaming about making the pilgrimage of about 1000 kilometers. It was all before times when the walk became fashionable. It seemed to me a true self-discovery experience. But I had a job that absorbed me completely and a partner who did not see any attraction in such exercise. Those days I did not do things by myself and for myself. So, my Camino dream, together with books on the subjects were put on the shelf. They are still there,  the shelves are new but it is the same old dream. Being realistic I am not able to walk the distance now. I waited too long. But maybe another route to Santiago de Compostela, the one from Portugal, is still within my capability? One needs to have dreams and many roads lead to Santiago...

                              

One of my real and blogging friends Hans the Hiker just finished his Camino walk.  I have been following his pilgrimage thinking about dreams not fulfilled, drawing some  pseudo philosophical conclusions. Following Hans on Face Book and reading his camino blog, I saw pictures that looked exactly as I imagined the walk to be. The misty landscapes, old, very old towns and villages, elated pilgrims photographed next to Camino landmarks… It all woke up feelings of missed opportunities and even mild, friendly envy.

                                         
                                         

The people who walk the walk, are people who made it happen themselves. My full respect, chapeau bas(if you are French), szacun (if you are Polish)… They all deserve respect and admiration.  They are my role models.

Ok, this is enough for the Saturday morning observations and reflections. Time to start Carpe Diem not to miss more caminos.  

Wojciech Fangor

Few month ago I heard the first time about Wojciech Fangor, a Polish artist, and this was in relation to some of my mildly feministic comments on a post about Australian Archibald Award 2015.

I googled the artist and it helped me to recall some of his work from childhood memories. There were communistic times, which we in Poland called socialism. Communism was in Russia in Poles minds, we had only socialism. However, Poland was oppressed and art had to support the ideology of the communistic rulers. In those times, artists work to be published, exhibited, staged etc had to support and glorify the communistic ideology.  Artists had to create their art to a recipe of communism. Fangor was one of them. Naturally such people were frowned upon by those who sacrificed their careers to protect integrity. My first reaction to Fangor was negative. I remembered his posters. Hush, the Enemy Is Listening poster was everywhere. I remember it from grammar school. The enemies were all people from the “rotten west”. I was supposed to keep secrets from them. Only I have not met any for some years, so I was not tmpted. What stayed in me though was a tendency to diminish in my mind work of those artists who made too big careers in the communistic times. Fangor did. So I almost automatically dismissed him, but the painting which was brought to my attention in the course of the blogging conversation was good. I had to admit it. Its ideological expression is most likely missed or misunderstood today. The times are over, or are they?   
               
                          

                                         Early posters of Fangor with communistic message.  

Yesterday the Law and Justice Party took over power in Poland. A very sad day for me. I worry for the country that was developing so beautifully. The party has its strong views on many things. My views rarely are the same. They declare that art is to serve their ideology; no decadent ideas will be given free rein. I can expect even more monuments of John Paul II and the late president Kaczynski, the twin brother of the leader of the victorious party, more books on the “right” subjects, more pictures, plays and films supporting the conviction of the party and its ruler. The times of the art serving the rulers are coming back with the vengeance.

Back to Fangor. He died yesterday, age 93. I am glad that I did not dismiss him as a post communistic relict and googled some more to find many paintings I love. There are two examples.

Pieta after El Greco

                         

He had a remarkable career and he left valuable legacy. Warsaw metro stations have its names and entrances designed by him. He is considered to be a father of Polish poster school even if it started in support of communism.

This is what I am still mulling over. Do artists have a right to create in support of ideology they disagree with or even despise? Ideology that hurts and kills people? Does it make them responsible for the harm? Is art free of such responsibilities?

Names of Warsaw metro stations designed by Fangor

And to finish the story, he died in  2015 in Warsaw and is berried at the cemetery of Powaski in Warsaw as a celebrated artist.  The last piece of art, this time dedicated to him is his grave monument. I like this artistic expression of farewell to him. This is by K.Bednarski.

                                              

Emotions took over

In the last few years I managed to control my emotions quite well. This does not mean I am totally cool and controlled, after all I am not a fish, there is blood in my veins. But today I sort of lost it.

I was going to buy a Sunday newspaper. Approaching the newsagent I heard swearing coming out of the shop. The man working in the shop was arguing with a young man. “F” word was flying frequently. This was rather unusual and I wondered if it is OK to enter the place. The argument did not stop even if there were few customers inside. Three women. I entered, got my newspaper, put myself in the queue and waited till the salesman stops arguing. Rather unusual and confusing situation. And then one of the women in the queue said with anger “Ah, those migrants!” I just noticed that the young man was Asian. I am not sure why I reacted to this statement in rather assertive way. It could have been a reaction related to accumulated frustration triggered off by racist mood in Europe and especially Poland. I was shocked, sad and frustrated listening to the news in the recent weeks. And here, such a comment coming from a nice looking elderly lady. This was too much for me and I had a bit of a speech. “Migrants have nothing to do with this unpleasant situation. The sales person is Australian and swears as much as the other. I am a migrant myself and do not swear, am well behaved and make contribution to Australian life”. The second lady was on my side judging from her smile and facial expression. She started “ Such people…” I must confess that I interrupted (not such a good behaviour I claimed to practice) “There are no SUCH people, there are only PEOPLE, we are all people.” My transaction was completed so I left the place.

The reason why I write about it is because I was surprised to hear such a comment from a nice looking lady. I was also surprised at my own reaction. It seems that nationalistic sentiments are raising its ugly heads in many places of the world. But in Australia??? The place build on migrants? 

Today is an important and sad day for my second country, Poland. This is the parliamentary election day. It is almost certain that Law and Justice Party will win and this means that Poland will change dramatically. Not for the better in my opinion.

The Guardian says:

 "Call it the Polish paradox. As voters head to the ballot box on Sunday to pick a new parliament, the mood is decidedly at odds with the facts.

The country has taken in few refugees during Europe’s year of desperate migration – yet the campaign is marked by introspection and xenophobia (“migrants carry very dangerous diseases,” said the head of the frontrunner rightwing party last week).

The Polish economy is one of Europe’s most robust – but the talk is of mismanagement, tax avoidance and surrender to Germany. Poland should be a confident, big European player but it appears mired in fear, recrimination and an almost pathological antipathy to the idea of change."

And the people who have such views will win. They talk already about forthcoming recriminations directed to people who think differently. 

Not at all too much information!

Since my last post I found myself in a different mood and have read a couple of hundred pages of My Struggle more. I do not want to take back what I have written but the parts of the book which I found confronting tell more about me than the book. Sometimes I do not want to see un-esthetic realities of life, so I did not like some too realistic description in the book. Not my kind of literature.  I confess one of my weaknesses. There were only fragments that put me off momentarily and then my fascination and admiration of the book continued.

My Struggle is an autobiography so by its nature a kind of a bildungsroman and tells the story “of formation, of education and coming-of-age” of Karl Ove who in the course of the book becomes a famous writer. The man is obviously very talented and he was determined to become a writer when he was very young. Writing starts with reading and the young Karl Ove read an unprecedented number of books. There was no book at the town library he would not have read. When he was sixteen, he already knew that he wanted to be a writer. Mind you, when I was about that age I also started to write my first (and the last so far) book. Such dreams do not necessarily indicate promising literary future.  But it meant just that for Knausgaard, a great literary future.

He was a solitary child even if he had friends he got into mischief with and he liked to hang around with them. But there was something in him that he was on the outside. He did not like it and he did not want to be known the fact that he was often left without a friend to spend time with. He pretended that he waited for someone or looking for inexistent friends. He did not have social skills and being good at many subjects at school and talking about it did not bring friendship but competitive envy. It was not an easy childhood also because of his father. Nevertheless it had many happy moments. I found very touching the way he writes about his brother. There is so much love there expressed in a Scandinavian way, without big words or long dissertations. I was moved in a Slavic way.

       

                                                                           

Knausgaard brothers

                       

There is a lot written about getting drunk, for the young boy who was not particularly popular at school, getting drunk was a way of freedom to behave the way he felt like. Without a need to score points or appear to others as one of them without feeling on the outside.

Amazing book. He writes about a boy and a young man and I find in his stories and thoughts such relevance to some of my dilemmas.