At a single glance

For those who don't know the immense talent of Stephen Wiltshire yet. This man, because of his spectacular visual memory (I refrained myself from using the expression 'eidetic' because I include the five senses' experience into this word) is called an 'autistic savant'. Why not simply calling him a genius, without any reference to what people will immediately think of as a handicap? This man reminds me of Da Vinci at times. Go get a look if you're on London, it is stunning. Tomorrow, I'll go again to the gallery he opened in the Royal Opera Arcades, I haven't been there in a while.

Snapshots

 Victoria and Albert Museum, plaster casts court (casts of the Trajan column in Rome).

V&A, lidded vase (enamel), unsigned, Nagoya, Japan (1880-90) - the technique of producing mirror-black enamel ground was developed through collaborative research between Namikawa Yasuyuki and the German chemist Gottfried Wagener

V&A, vase, mark of Hayashi Kodenji (1880-85) - the use of fine silver wires combined with large expanses of dark blue-black enamel ground is typical of Hayashi Kodenji's work

V&A, vase (covered with a transparent red enamel (akasuke), believed to have been invented around 1880 by Ota Jinnoei and Honda Yosaburo, signed 'Nagoya Hayashi Ko[denji]' (1880-90)

The three vases above are on display for the 'Japanese Enamels: the Seven Treasures' in the Toshiba Gallery of the Victoria and Albert Museum, London.

V&A, 'China - China bust 19' (1999), Ah Xian (born 1960) - Porcelain, painted in underglaze cobalt blue with landscape design

V&A, somewhere.

Detail of embroidered shawl (picture 1) and cape (picture 2) made from the silk of more than one million female golden orb-weaver spiders collected in the highlands of Madagascar (Golden Spider Silk display, room 17a, V&A Museum)

The Lady Chapel, Westminster Cathedral

Westminster Cathedral, somewhere

Une bonne partie de la littérature japonaise tient dans cette unique phrase...

"Mais, croyez-moi : une fois pris dans les rets de longs cheveux noirs, de quels troubles ne serez-vous la proie !"


Natsume Soseki, Kokoro (Le pauvre cœur des hommes)

passing thoughts

kites like rainbow dragonflies
hover furlongs above the
smell of the sand


lovers in the setting sun
halting to kiss
one shadow on the shore

seagulls reeling all
afternoon in the warm air
cold sobered them up

I owe this sunset everything.

One of these days when everything is different

It all started with a thick, white band of fog looming up from the horizon

 Within half an hour, the entire bay was blanketed from end to end

Here is what it looked like before sunset.

 The lone soldiers stood their ground

 Eerie seascape, where the waves were heard, rather than seen, crashing on the shore

The eye and low of the sun

Yesterday's sun

The Frog Whisperer

Basho's frog leaps - plop! -
In the pond like a thunderclap
Summer evening's rain


I composed this haiku in honour of Bashō, who incidentally came to my mind the other day, and his famous haiku on the frog. Here is Bashō's masterpiece.

水 蛙 古

の 飛 池

音 び や

     こ

     む

Furu ike ya
kawazu tobikomu
mizu no oto




Here's a link to a website hoarding 31 translations of the same haiku. I love Japanese just for this.


Matsuo Basho (1644-1694)

Requiem for a daydream

Emma Watson patted the log she was sitting on. That particular spot, where the big log of wood had drifted about a month ago and which acted as a bench, had become a tacit meeting point.

"Why the glum face, my friend? Didn't the doctor give you good news?"

I hadn't realised I was looking sullen. "He did. I am allowed to travel again. And this is good news indeed. Problem is, I am broke now. I cannot even buy a train ticket to see my friends in London."

She smiled. "You may have meagre financial means, yet you're rich in other matters and this should uplift your heavy heart. Do you want to see where all the seagulls go when the sun sets?"

I had never thought about it. I know where the ducks go when the ponds freeze. The absence of gulls at sunset did strike me one day, but my curiosity as to their whereabouts ended there and then. "You're right, they must go somewhere."

"Come on, I'll show you."

We stood up.

We walked to the furthest end of the beach, near the fishing cabins. A green and blue kite was lying on the sand. It didn't look so much as forgotten as left there on purpose. Emma picked it up and set it up on an imaginary shelf. The kite stayed levitating there. She hoisted herself onto it. She looked down at me.

"Give me your hand, I'll help you up." I had my camera in my left hand, so I held out the right one, but suddenly I hesitated. "What's the matter?" she asked.

"It's my bad hand. I can't give you my bad hand."

"Come again? Your bad hand?" She seemed genuinely surprised.

"My afflicted hand," I added.

"Will it hurt you?"

I shook my head. "No, but it's not very pleasant to the touch."

"Silly goose," she said and grabbed my hand. She hauled me up as if I were as light as a feather. We had to stay very close together as the space on the kite was quite tight. The kite flew away skywards at a slow, yet steady flight.

The sea from this viewpoint was picturesque. The waves were drawing riddles which mirrored the riddles on the dunes. Emma started singing a lullaby which I recognised to be one I had written years ago. "Do you know where all the birds go? So far, so far, so far."

The higher we flew the windier it became, until we reached the clouds. I had seen the blanket of cumuli, strolling to where Emma and I usually met, but now they struck me as particularly dense and fluffy. We went through them via a hole pierced by a beam of sunlight.

Once we were above the cloudline, the winds ceased. The pale grey surface of the clouds was almost even; it looked smooth and sleek, yet moving ever so subtly like an oily sea.

Emma put her finger across her lips. She mouthed "Look".

The spectacle was unbelievable. What I had mistaken for clouds was in fact thousands of seagulls nesting quietly. I looked down on lower cumuli. Swarms of birds were poised on the vaporous vessels: the trompe-l'oeil was perfect. Their robe was spotlessly white under the sun. They were all turned to the golden orb level with the horizon. It was eerily silent. No wind, no squawking, not a single wing flapping.

I was speechless. The bright light was flashing in every direction, bouncing on the back of the gulls, warming the still air. We stayed until the sun sank beneath the distant line of clouds.

When we came down, the entire sea was on fire. The shoreline was speckled with gold flecks. The more distant shore was streaked blue and grey. Planes had crisscrossed their white way on the scarlet skies. Everything the light touched was given life of a kind. Perhaps because it acquired or lost its shadow.

I alighted first and helped Emma down. She looked at me intently, took my hand, but didn't say a word.

I smiled at her and turned towards the purple cloudscape. "Now I know where the gulls go when the sun sets. Too bad I forgot to take pictures."

When I turned back again, Emma and the kite had vanished without a trace.