On Friedship

Friendship is one of my very core values. Since I was a small girl I thought that friendship was the best a girl could experience. My mother was a romantic at heart and supplied me with books that glorified friendship between girls. I was the only child for 10 years. Then my brother appeared in my life and the life of the family. By that time I did not need a small noisy thing at home. It upset my world that was full of ideas I found in books. And I read the books my romantic mother supplied me with. The main influence was Ann of Green Gables and a book about a princess from Georgia. The second book was a translation from Russian. It was a very old book, referred to as a pre-war edition. Definitely a pre-communistic literature representing very capitalistic ideas. The book must have been forbidden in Russia. The story was about a princess who lost her mother, the unruly girl was placed by her loving father in a boarding school. His decision, however,  was influenced by a skimming and wicked woman. The school was a very exclusive boarding school in Saint Petersburg. The princess felt lonely but she found true friendship among her schoolmates. 

                                                                         

Maybe I will be able to get this book when next time in Poland, a Polish translation though

                                                       

These were friendships for life, till death do us part sort of thing. I responded to this idea vehemently and this is how friendship became my top value that still is the most important of them all. It represented love, honesty, unconditional support, trust and many other beautiful things. Actually, I consider myself most of all a friend. This is my label – I am a friend. It is a relatively new realization even if friendship has been always present and sought for through most of my life. There were times I thought I was a wife, a partner, a manager. Now I know, I am most of all a friend. I do have my own Diana, the best friend of Ann Shirley from the Green Gables. Our friendship does not go as far as the grammar school but it goes to the first day at uni.  It has been long enough to call her my friend for life. She is now the most trusted person in my life and I am very happy and grateful for that.

When I think about real friendship, I really have a friendship with a woman in mind. That is how it was in those books. Boys did feature, unless they were to become at some stage romantic partners. Like Gilbert Blythe. However, there are so many “howevers” in life, I have some male friends that are also true, valued friends.

What friendship means to me? It is trust, permanency, support, understanding, fondness and many other warm and fuzzies. When I was a young woman two of my very close friends died before they turned 30. They were my first loses of friends. It was very painful but there was no betrayal or rejection behind the end of those friendships. I wonder how far they would go. Would they finish prematurely? Would they last till this day?

When some of my friendships finish, I hurt a lot and can not understand it. Friendships do not finish. That is how it was in those books. Friendships are forever. I still want to think that and believe in it. There is a saying that I found at times comforting: Friends are for a reason, for a season or for life. Yes, I have had seasonal friends in my life as well, but those friends who are not “for life” are they real friends or are they my lapse of judgment?

This Picasso painting represents women friendship to me

                                     

Paris and memories

Today is the day after the attacks on Paris. When I wake up I usually skip my promise to meditate as a start to a good day and go straight to my computer to check out what is going on in the world and among my friends. This morning I did the same. It was not a happy good morning. I found on FB link to Marseillaise from Casablanca. One of my blogging friends reminded us of it, I watched and cried. At times it is easy to bring me to tears with moving scenes. This was definitely one of the times. The world is shocked and many deep comments have been made on the subject. I do not feel up to it, but I feel with France and French people. My thoughts went to happy times I spent in Paris – Le Gai Paris – that is far from joyful today. I still want to remember it the way I experienced it. It is my way to protest against something that I can not comprehend and cannot agree with. I feel so helpless, my little manifestation of putting French colours across my FB picture seems pathetic and inadequate but what can I do? What we, people who are against such horrific, heartless violence can do? Resist being afraid is one thing that comes to mind. Another is to remember happy times in this town. Here are my memories:

http://acobserves.blogspot.com.au/2015/05/french-are-amazing.html

http://acobserves.blogspot.com.au/2015/04/more-on-french-films-festival.html

http://acobserves.blogspot.com.au/2015/03/sydney-french-films-festival.html

http://acobserves.blogspot.com.au/2014/11/under-french-spell.html

http://acobserves.blogspot.com.au/2014/04/story-of-mussels.html

Nostalgia and confusion

I love my two countries, Poland and Australia and I travel from one to another partly because I have to but really because I want to spend time in each of them. It really is my choice. My ultimate country is Australia. I have lived here longer than I had lived in Poland. At yet, because I was born and brought up in Poland my cultural and emotional links with the country have become very strong lately. Maybe it is a function of age? I am getting on? It is also due to that Poland developed in the last few years and has reached European standards in many areas. The shops are well stocked, selection of goods is often better than in Australia. Theatres, opera and concerts offer is fantastic and inexpensive. Books stores great! So many temptations that I always come back to Sydney with new, nicely published, interesting books that are now waiting in the queue till I find time to read them all.

Focus on culture was always very strong in Poland. During communistic times arts and culture were available to all who were interested. Keeping up with the Joneses was present but it looked different than in Western countries. One looked up to and tried to keep up with people who read good books, saw ambitious films and plays, used sophisticated vocabulary, saw art exhibitions etc. It was a type of snobbery, but from a distance of time, I rather appreciate it. It is quite easy to understand the reason for such a cultural focus.  Luxuries goods and political freedom were not available and people needed panem et circenses – bread and games. Polish bread has always been fantastic, no need for improvement. Culture was means of appeasement, games and circuses for a poor, suppressed nation.

Not intending, I went on my memories trip. It was, really, going to be about nostalgia. So, ad rem. Recently I got a couple of photos from my Polish friends. One of them shows autumn version of my favourite chestnuts alley in Gdansk. Typically I get mushy when I see a spring edition of these majestic trees. This time even autumn colours triggered off nostalgia. Australians always liked that but me? not so much. In the past, I considered such views to be forerunners to bleak weather; rain and cold. Now, I do not spend winters in Poland so the golden leaves on the ground seem very attractive. Some years ago, when I spent more time in Poland than in Australia I was missing jacarandas. Nostalgia, a sentimental longing, seems to be present in my life more often than it would be logical. Seems that I want things that are not in my current life more than things I have and experience right now. Since this insight came to my attention and after all I am a coach, time to focus on the current moment and live now with joy the best I can. But nostalgia, like parting, is such a sweet sorrow…

P.S. I am not sure why I used two Latin expressions today. I even do not know the language. Is it a remnant of this old Polish cultural snobbery?

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.