5 weeks lefts of English classes, 11 weeks until the English camp, and 12 weeks until we return to the United States. I would be lying if I said that I don't think about this, because it is constantly on my mind.
Coming to Policka in July 2008 changed everything in our lives. Our families and friends where far way, and we lived in a place that was completely unfamilar and foreign. Yes, Czechs have many of the same things we have in the US, but culturaly some things are very different. There are strick gender roles and a general coldness, which took about a year to get used to. Mind you there have been people who have been "warm" with us, but they have been like that from the start. We couldn't communicate with people very well, not even the simpliest things like buying chicken. We learned how to teach ESL, develope lesson plans and how to plan community events. It seemed like eveything was difficult, and the key to the difficulty was the language.
Personally I struggled every week to understand and be understood our first year. Keeping order was nearly impossible at times since my students would choose not to understand when I told them to sit down and not throw things. I was not a teacher or tutor of English language, I was entertainment. At some point I remember telling one of my students to go home if he didnt't want to be here because I was tired of him causing problems in my "class" week after week, since he odviously was not interested in improving his English. His only reply, with a mischivious grin, was that he had more fun here, AKA making my task of teaching as hard as possible, than on the computer. I was laughed at, disrespected, and completely not myself. I gave up on learning Czech about four months in, and it's something I regret, but at the time my day to day frustations with the langauge seemed so big and too hurtful to continue trying to learn. This of course only made things more difficult, and ofcourse put an unnessisary strain on our relationship. Jeremy's progress in the language was visible (and still is), and I became more and more silent and avoided situations where I would have to talk. I didn't want to out with people because I knew that I could not communicate with them in their language, and they would be forced to speak my language, which was unfair, so mostly I stay at home. Jeremy would go out and people would know me only through what he told them.
However, Our second year was completely different. We came back after 3 weeks in the US for the English Camp in July and had a blast. It was the perfect way to start our second year and in a way set me on a different path. During the camp I knew that people would be comparing our camp to all the other camps in the past, but I desided not to care and to just have fun. Yeah, we did things differently, but different doesn't equal bad.
Classes started again, but this year I am teaching both younger kids and adults. I remember being nervous for the start of the new school year, but my worries faded away soon enough. This year has been a lot easier mainly because I can understand way more and am able to communicate a lot better. I really like my classes, and if kids laugh at my Czech I no longer feel dumb, because it's not true. Yes my Czech is a grammatic mess and horribly limited vocabulary wise, but this does not make me dumb. My adult classes have been a treasure for me, because now I teach people who want to improve their English. Sure, my lessons are also a social time for them, however I know that learning English is difficult for them and I can relate. My one class has really taught me a lot personally - when they make a mistake the laugh and then fix it. My first year everything was a bit too serious and I think I missed out on a lot because of it.
We will be leaving in a short 92 days...and we are going to make the most of it. When people invite us some place we say yes, if we see a good Czech movie for 49kc we buy it, and when our favorite resturant makes svickova we eat there. For the last few weeks I have been trying to wrap my mind around the idea that in late July we will no longer be walking the same path to work that we have for two years.
About two weeks ago Jeremy and I both recieved Americorp*VISTA positions in Erie, PA. I will be working with a non-profit called Earth Force, which encourages youth people to get involved in their community in a way that focuses on Environmental awareness and stewardship. My main focus will be on networking with local colleges and public schools. Jeremy will be working with another non-profit, Urbin Erie Community Development Corp, where he will be involved with a community garden project, after school programs for local kids and working with refugrees in the city of Erie. So things are going to change, but change is good, and we have yet another adventure to look forward to.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Monday, April 19, 2010
Skyview, Mercer County, 1991.
At about the time when the Berlin wall was crumbling in what I had been taught was the homogenous, 'iron' world of 'babichkas', poverty and handkerchiefs wrapped around temples, a storm was forming over Lake Erie. The clouds were thick, gray and heavy--the kind that remind you of a torrential rain, not like the spurts that are seen in the south or along the coasts. It careened its way onto land, passed over Presquile Isle and traversed what is known as the moraine country: the border between where the Appalachian low-lands of South Western Pennsylvania intersect with the glacial plains of the Lake Erie piedmont area. In the beginning, the wind began to howl and rain splattered in thunderous drops onto concrete. It began to pick up speed. It was cold, hard rain. Loose dirt was blasted up into the air and whirled into a mixture of brown soup that smelled and roiled into long troughs of near impassable sludge. Trucks couldn't make it through the muck, and the slime grabbed a'hold of the rubber soles of sneakers and was reluctant to release. I heard a thick sucking sound with each step I took; it was a battle between me and the forces of nature, to see which one us would win the right to rip asunder the shoe and reveal my white, Hills-bought sock. From that moment on, this land of pine needles and pine cones; R.V.s and pop-ups; peeling paint and an dilapidated goofy-golf; Disney-themed fishing poles and bikes with plastic spoke noise makers; now-and-laters and 'smores over the fire, would be known as "The Muddy Camp Ground".
Usually before I doze off for the last time in a day, I find myself in a reflective state of mind. Memories of long-forgotten friends, smells, or routines come back in wistful, fleeting pictures. It's as if a merry-go-round is at work within my subconscious; bringing to the forefront a memory, but never stopping, always taking it back around for another ride. I know not how long, nor how slowly it moves. Sometimes, I jump on for a ride, and am whisked away into the world of the past-- my own history. With each passing second, I begin to visualize years and clothing. Sometimes, I relive a moment of my life that has been locked away, somewhere, for over 14, sometimes 20 years. Where did these memories go before? And why, only now, in 2010, in the Czech Republic, am I reminded of them during the quiet of night? Recently, I spent a night in intervals of sleep; waking up to write down what I was envisioning in my early-dream state: this time, it was my childhood at Skyview (Muddy Camp Ground) in Mercer County.
---
The dew on the tall field grass rubbed along my arms, making them damp and itchy. I hated the feeling. The sun was just rising above the large Oak and Pine trees that lined our path; I could see spider webs adorned in diamonds of water that hung in place along their silky strands. Chipmunks scurried in front of us; burrowing into the moist, worm-strewn soil under the shale stones that littered the undergrowth. Grasshoppers jumped from strand to strand, making a thumping sound with their unbelievably strong legs; flapping their wings in an attempt to extend their leap just a few feet further. Sometimes I would catch a few of them, shocking the creatures so thoroughly, causing them to release brown gunk from their mouths, which I had been taught was called 'tar'. My dad always woke up early on Saturday mornings to make his annual pilgrimage to the breakfast sausage, and maple-syrup pancakes on Styrofoam plates that were served in the camp communal hall situated over the bridge, across from the lake. I tagged along. The smell of fresh coffee brewing through filters, and the murmured voices of men sitting in squeaky, plastic chairs adorned in mesh baseball caps gave me the feeling as if I had entered the realm of chiefs and kings of the weekend get-a-way.
---
The propensity for dead, brown leaves to fall into the middle of the pool was always quite a mystery to me. All I knew was that I despised the feeling of 'uncleanliness' that it emitted. The pool itself was surrounded by a beat-up, twice painted over, wire fence that had only one main entrance, where the latch hung loosely against the hinged door. Each time it would be opened, a distinctive whine would ring out from the grinding steel; signifying another round of splashing and yelling. The pool basin itself was surrounded by pebbled concrete and formed into the shape a square. The blue paint that lined the walls was chipped, and the steps always struck me as looking like a layered cake--the top, closest to the water, being the smallest. The railing was chrome and a tad-bit rusty; it wobbled whenever one would grab a hold of it, as the foundational screws had somehow jarred loose. In the far-end, the water was deep and had a darker tone than nearer to the steps. There was a mysterious looking vent that sat at the bottom of 12 ft, which filled my mind with the most horrific of thoughts: "What if it sucked me down? And, I got stuck.... and I couldn't get away...and my legs and fingers would be squeezed through the small grate...and I would...DIE!" This was not exactly my paradise. I feared it, the whole thing.
I remember my mother in her one-piece black bathing suit with golden trim, and a nice soft skirt around her waist. She was wading in the water up to her belly; her hair never was wet. She was swinging her arms from side to side, enticing me to jump in. I refused with an emphatic proclamation, but I still saw her crack a smile through watery eyes. "Come on Jeremy. I'll catch you. You don't need to worry." I took a few steps backwards and felt the ball of my feet rub against a crack of cement. I looked at the water, as it limply flowed back and forth creating crystal-like streaks of light across my mother's clip-on sunglasses. I held my breath, and ran forward. Felt the slick rim of the pool and let go of all inhibition. The cold water touched my legs first, and then quickly moved up to engulf my chest and even my neck. My mouth just grazed the water line. I screamed. My mother had me in her hands, but I still felt like she let me go too deep into the depth. I climbed into her arms and felt that the back of my hair was bunching up from the chlorinated water. I had jumped. But, man, I didn't want to do it again.
---
I always heard the sputtering truck as it made its round to collect the garbage from the nights previous. A man by the name of Rick would step out the truck and saunter over to a fire ring or steel can, and take the contents. His key loop would sing from side to side as his gait was long and a little hard. The keys would make a jingling, clanging sound as they slapped in-between his front pocket and his hip. I always liked the idea of wearing pieces of equipment around my waist; it made one seem more important: policemen had a whole array of shiny contraptions, and batman always had nicely, organized yellow boxes that contained all sorts of clip hooks, wires, latches and rope. Rick was quite a unique looking fellow, in that his glasses were thick plastic and tinted. He had a ruff of thick black hair that was pulled back, revealing a round, almost chubby face. He was fairly clean-shaven, but managed to sport a stylish, black mustache. His uniform was a tan/brown button up with pockets on the breast. The Nissan truck he drove was rusted, and the tail gate never was closed. With each bump in the road, the whole truck would wobble up and down like a boat over waves, because the suspension was pretty bad. The back lights were a stacked red, white and yellow, which reminded me of a popsicle. In the morning, I saw him make his rounds, and loved how the dust would fly up from the back tires...
---
There were towering deciduous trees that lined the field. The baseball backstop was a dilapidated structure of brown-stained wood and chicken wire that had gigantic holes from where a fastball, coming off a hot bat, was fouled backwards. The sand had been absorbed into the soil, and grass was growing up; only the pitcher's mound was still discernable.
---
The trigger was easy to squeeze, and I remember hearing a 'booiiiiing' as the plastic plane made its inaugural launch from my hand. It flew to about a height of 20feet and crashed back down, straight down. The nose of the plane was wrapped in a soft, felt covering, which seemed to be a tad too heavy for the plastic fuselage and cardboard wings.
---
The rumbling air-conditioner made the whole window pane shake. I heard the water fall into the plastic container below the vents. There were strands of paper taped to the main vent flailing in the wind from the mechanically-produced, chilled air. There were shelves full of camping supplies: plastic pocket knives, with toothpicks and tweezers on the side; kerosene lanterns; cooking utensils; fold-up tables; fishing lines; bobbers and reels; camp patches; canned soup; sausage. The ceiling had two large, brown spots right in the middle, where water had leaked through the flat-top roof and pooled on the ceiling tiles. There was a back-ground 'hum' from the luminescent lights, giving off a yellow-tinged hue to the whole scene.
---
It was a granite mystery, a giant, perhaps, from millions of years ago. It found its rest nestled between the spindly saplings of oak trees and beech wood, and had a bed comprised of leaves and needles. There was green moss that covered about half of the surface, which gave the creature a slick, almost slimy feel. There were ridges and groves over which we could place our rumps into; it was a seat fit not only for imaginative little boys, but for kings, maybe, of the northern forest, or Robin Hood-type characters living a reclusive life in the woodlands; securing justice for the people, and compiling adventures to boot.
My father used to lead us on marches through the trails and into the tree line. My brothers and I would file into lines on his flanks: two to the right, the other two, to the left. We were adorned in breastplates of rubber-stamped sweatshirts, helmets of ill-fitting, elastic-fit baseball caps; carried lances more fit for spearing the bosom of hotdogs, not enemies; and, boots crafted from the finest material 'Kids' or 'L.A. Gear' had to offer. Our coat of arms was a mouse with large ears, red shorts and a squeaky, feminine intonation.
We called it, simply, "Big Rock".
Many years later, I gazed upon a yellow-tinged Polaroid of the beast, and found it to be not as impressive as my mind had imagined, and remembered it to be: it couldn't have been more than 4 ft. and height, and less than 6 ft. in circumference. It's a shame that life takes you on journeys and gives you bigger and 'better' examples of what had enchanted your mind when you were young, so when you go back home, or you revisit a building, it always seems so much smaller, less-significant than before. Oh, the joys of wonder from a time that is gone...
Usually before I doze off for the last time in a day, I find myself in a reflective state of mind. Memories of long-forgotten friends, smells, or routines come back in wistful, fleeting pictures. It's as if a merry-go-round is at work within my subconscious; bringing to the forefront a memory, but never stopping, always taking it back around for another ride. I know not how long, nor how slowly it moves. Sometimes, I jump on for a ride, and am whisked away into the world of the past-- my own history. With each passing second, I begin to visualize years and clothing. Sometimes, I relive a moment of my life that has been locked away, somewhere, for over 14, sometimes 20 years. Where did these memories go before? And why, only now, in 2010, in the Czech Republic, am I reminded of them during the quiet of night? Recently, I spent a night in intervals of sleep; waking up to write down what I was envisioning in my early-dream state: this time, it was my childhood at Skyview (Muddy Camp Ground) in Mercer County.
---
The dew on the tall field grass rubbed along my arms, making them damp and itchy. I hated the feeling. The sun was just rising above the large Oak and Pine trees that lined our path; I could see spider webs adorned in diamonds of water that hung in place along their silky strands. Chipmunks scurried in front of us; burrowing into the moist, worm-strewn soil under the shale stones that littered the undergrowth. Grasshoppers jumped from strand to strand, making a thumping sound with their unbelievably strong legs; flapping their wings in an attempt to extend their leap just a few feet further. Sometimes I would catch a few of them, shocking the creatures so thoroughly, causing them to release brown gunk from their mouths, which I had been taught was called 'tar'. My dad always woke up early on Saturday mornings to make his annual pilgrimage to the breakfast sausage, and maple-syrup pancakes on Styrofoam plates that were served in the camp communal hall situated over the bridge, across from the lake. I tagged along. The smell of fresh coffee brewing through filters, and the murmured voices of men sitting in squeaky, plastic chairs adorned in mesh baseball caps gave me the feeling as if I had entered the realm of chiefs and kings of the weekend get-a-way.
---
The propensity for dead, brown leaves to fall into the middle of the pool was always quite a mystery to me. All I knew was that I despised the feeling of 'uncleanliness' that it emitted. The pool itself was surrounded by a beat-up, twice painted over, wire fence that had only one main entrance, where the latch hung loosely against the hinged door. Each time it would be opened, a distinctive whine would ring out from the grinding steel; signifying another round of splashing and yelling. The pool basin itself was surrounded by pebbled concrete and formed into the shape a square. The blue paint that lined the walls was chipped, and the steps always struck me as looking like a layered cake--the top, closest to the water, being the smallest. The railing was chrome and a tad-bit rusty; it wobbled whenever one would grab a hold of it, as the foundational screws had somehow jarred loose. In the far-end, the water was deep and had a darker tone than nearer to the steps. There was a mysterious looking vent that sat at the bottom of 12 ft, which filled my mind with the most horrific of thoughts: "What if it sucked me down? And, I got stuck.... and I couldn't get away...and my legs and fingers would be squeezed through the small grate...and I would...DIE!" This was not exactly my paradise. I feared it, the whole thing.
I remember my mother in her one-piece black bathing suit with golden trim, and a nice soft skirt around her waist. She was wading in the water up to her belly; her hair never was wet. She was swinging her arms from side to side, enticing me to jump in. I refused with an emphatic proclamation, but I still saw her crack a smile through watery eyes. "Come on Jeremy. I'll catch you. You don't need to worry." I took a few steps backwards and felt the ball of my feet rub against a crack of cement. I looked at the water, as it limply flowed back and forth creating crystal-like streaks of light across my mother's clip-on sunglasses. I held my breath, and ran forward. Felt the slick rim of the pool and let go of all inhibition. The cold water touched my legs first, and then quickly moved up to engulf my chest and even my neck. My mouth just grazed the water line. I screamed. My mother had me in her hands, but I still felt like she let me go too deep into the depth. I climbed into her arms and felt that the back of my hair was bunching up from the chlorinated water. I had jumped. But, man, I didn't want to do it again.
---
I always heard the sputtering truck as it made its round to collect the garbage from the nights previous. A man by the name of Rick would step out the truck and saunter over to a fire ring or steel can, and take the contents. His key loop would sing from side to side as his gait was long and a little hard. The keys would make a jingling, clanging sound as they slapped in-between his front pocket and his hip. I always liked the idea of wearing pieces of equipment around my waist; it made one seem more important: policemen had a whole array of shiny contraptions, and batman always had nicely, organized yellow boxes that contained all sorts of clip hooks, wires, latches and rope. Rick was quite a unique looking fellow, in that his glasses were thick plastic and tinted. He had a ruff of thick black hair that was pulled back, revealing a round, almost chubby face. He was fairly clean-shaven, but managed to sport a stylish, black mustache. His uniform was a tan/brown button up with pockets on the breast. The Nissan truck he drove was rusted, and the tail gate never was closed. With each bump in the road, the whole truck would wobble up and down like a boat over waves, because the suspension was pretty bad. The back lights were a stacked red, white and yellow, which reminded me of a popsicle. In the morning, I saw him make his rounds, and loved how the dust would fly up from the back tires...
---
There were towering deciduous trees that lined the field. The baseball backstop was a dilapidated structure of brown-stained wood and chicken wire that had gigantic holes from where a fastball, coming off a hot bat, was fouled backwards. The sand had been absorbed into the soil, and grass was growing up; only the pitcher's mound was still discernable.
---
The trigger was easy to squeeze, and I remember hearing a 'booiiiiing' as the plastic plane made its inaugural launch from my hand. It flew to about a height of 20feet and crashed back down, straight down. The nose of the plane was wrapped in a soft, felt covering, which seemed to be a tad too heavy for the plastic fuselage and cardboard wings.
---
The rumbling air-conditioner made the whole window pane shake. I heard the water fall into the plastic container below the vents. There were strands of paper taped to the main vent flailing in the wind from the mechanically-produced, chilled air. There were shelves full of camping supplies: plastic pocket knives, with toothpicks and tweezers on the side; kerosene lanterns; cooking utensils; fold-up tables; fishing lines; bobbers and reels; camp patches; canned soup; sausage. The ceiling had two large, brown spots right in the middle, where water had leaked through the flat-top roof and pooled on the ceiling tiles. There was a back-ground 'hum' from the luminescent lights, giving off a yellow-tinged hue to the whole scene.
---
It was a granite mystery, a giant, perhaps, from millions of years ago. It found its rest nestled between the spindly saplings of oak trees and beech wood, and had a bed comprised of leaves and needles. There was green moss that covered about half of the surface, which gave the creature a slick, almost slimy feel. There were ridges and groves over which we could place our rumps into; it was a seat fit not only for imaginative little boys, but for kings, maybe, of the northern forest, or Robin Hood-type characters living a reclusive life in the woodlands; securing justice for the people, and compiling adventures to boot.
My father used to lead us on marches through the trails and into the tree line. My brothers and I would file into lines on his flanks: two to the right, the other two, to the left. We were adorned in breastplates of rubber-stamped sweatshirts, helmets of ill-fitting, elastic-fit baseball caps; carried lances more fit for spearing the bosom of hotdogs, not enemies; and, boots crafted from the finest material 'Kids' or 'L.A. Gear' had to offer. Our coat of arms was a mouse with large ears, red shorts and a squeaky, feminine intonation.
We called it, simply, "Big Rock".
Many years later, I gazed upon a yellow-tinged Polaroid of the beast, and found it to be not as impressive as my mind had imagined, and remembered it to be: it couldn't have been more than 4 ft. and height, and less than 6 ft. in circumference. It's a shame that life takes you on journeys and gives you bigger and 'better' examples of what had enchanted your mind when you were young, so when you go back home, or you revisit a building, it always seems so much smaller, less-significant than before. Oh, the joys of wonder from a time that is gone...
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Slavic, Epic?
In the past two years that I've lived in the Czech Republic, there have been numerous times where I've had to step back and say, "Hmm, so that's how it works in the Czech Republic." I could give you a literal list of such situations that deal with the Czech lackadaisical approach to following laws (like that of the drinking age for example), or the time spent home from work or school due to the fact that one has merely a runny nose, or slight headache (most recently, I've heard from a friend that they stayed home for 5 weeks, due to a sickness that to me seemed no more serious than a hangnail), but I'd rather recount to you this past weekend. It was, for me, a perfect encapsulation of the quirky and often ironic situations that the Czech Republic seems to thrive on.
Alfons Mucha was once said to be able to make any woman look beautiful. And, to tell you the truth, I believe it. Mucha was born in a small Moravian village at the end of the Austrian-Hungarian's empirical rule over the Bohemian lands. He grew up in a culture that had been oppressed, and was on the verge of breaking their Germanic chains, hoping to attain a renaissance--so to speak--of Slavic culture, language, art and theatre. But, like all things Slavic, he had to leave the 'domov' (homeland) to be discovered; the destination in the late 19th century was Paris, of course.
While in Paris, Mucha began painting advertisements for theatre production houses. People in Paris were instantly taken back by Mucha's use of color to magnify light, giving all pictures an airy, elegant quality that might have only been seen in the palaces of Roman empires or Greek thinkers. He had made an almost ancient form of beauty (women and gold), accessible to the normal, working-class Parisian, and ultimately, the world. It was here that he began to make a name for himself on the world stage. His posters and advertisements were sent all over: America, Japan, China and Europe.
Mucha was probably painting these ladies to make money, but he had much greater plans for his talent. His mind had been tilled back in his Moravian homeland, a place of cultural wealth that was hoping to blossom. In 1906 (I believe), Mucha made a trip to Chicago and met an industrialist who was known as, "A friend to the Slav."(After reading Upton Sinclair's The Jungle, I'm not so sure a Chicago 'industrialist' and 'friend of Slavs' can be uttered with out cracking an absurd smile). Anyways, the man donated oodles of money (in the millions, of course) for Mucha to paint what would later become his masterpiece, 'Slovanksa Epopej'- a collection of 20 gargantuan canvases that recount the history of the Slavic people: from their capitulation to the steppe tribes (The Huns), to their role in the first world war. The collection took him almost 18 years to paint, and was really a continual work in progress--if you go today to the exposition, you will see unfinished parts of almost every single work. The paintings themselves are overwhelming in size, scope, detail and color. Eighteen years might seem like it is quite a long time, but when he was using egg-based paints and had to mix them all himself, draw the actual from, paint a base, mix colors and continue with minute detail, it is almost unbelievable that it didn't take him 100 years to complete: each painting is about 15 feet in width by 10 feet in height. You have to stand back about 5-10 feet just to be able to make out the focus and subject of each painting. The fact that Mucha had to paint up close to the canvas is probably the most shocking/impressive aspect of this art work. How could he keep all forms and people in relational size? The whole collection makes one person feel very small and insignificant, which is the appropriate reaction to a history of a whole people group. Many of the paintings, when thought of as a whole, tell a story of the Slavic people that is a mixture of truth and fabrication: The people of the Slav nations are actually a peace-loving group that only fight when provoked, and of course, are always on the good side of things.
The overt nationalism of the paintings is by today's age (discounting some AMUUURICA-loving places in Texas and the Appalachians) almost comically simplistic. In one of his crowning pieces of the 'Slovanske Epopej', Mucha ties all the themes together into one last orgy of love for the Slav. In the center of the painting is a young man with a lean muscular body holding two wreaths above his head, to symbolize victory. His face is soft and innocent. Around him in dancing colors of light, is the historical trajectory of the entire Slavic ethnicity: starting in the far right corner of the canvas with the tribes of a long-off past, finally culminating in the golden light in the middle, where women prepare bouquets of flowers that represent the first-fruits of the new Slavic pride that is to be released into the world. Finally, in one last dash of over-the-topness, Mucha painted God (or Jesus) with shinning light and rainbows behind the head of the central, Slavic man, proclaiming the saintly, moral, Godly quality of the nation itself. This seems eerily familiar to 'God Bless America’ doesn’t it?
Now, one would think that this collection of art would be housed, oh, I don't know, maybe in the capital of the Czech Republic in its own exhibition house, for the entire world to admire? I imagine that in most countries, their most sacred works of arts from their best artists would be placed in climate-controlled, neo-classical halls of magnificent size and whiteness. Of course, entry would be free, as something of this magnitude should be accessible for all. There would be men a women sitting on wooden benches, in navy-blue blazers and leather gloves watching each move of every visitor. But, that just isn't the case here.
The chateau in which the works are housed is a crumbling mess of concrete, mildew and broken windows. I'm sure that 70 years ago, this place was something to behold, but today, it looks like just every other 'carry over' from Communist neglect. There is spray paint on the ornate walls and fences that surround the court gardens; there is crumbling plaster that reveals the steel/iron rebar that support the structure; there are weeds growing in between the stone cobblestones that were laid in the 16th century; there are walls and windows that lead to nowhere, as they've been sealed off with a wall of ugly brick; and, the roof is a mixture of brown, maroon and red shingles that sag in the middle, where water has clearly done damage to the supporting trusses. It's a shabby mess. So, when I saw the sign (next to a rubber tire with a painted advertisement about tire change discounts from the garage next door) on the main entrance gate that Mucha's 'Masterpiece is open today' and an arrow pointing inside this dilapidated reminder of what 'once was', I was a little shocked.
The room in which the paintings are held is nice enough to forget about the 'bigger' picture of where we actual were. However, there were still some signs that not all was well with the location: the hall in which they were displayed was incredibly cold, which is the reason why the exhibition each winter must be packed up and loaned away to either Paris or Vienna; there were no English, French or German information packets or guide books; and, there were a total of about ten people there to take a gander. And, this is what got me reflecting on the completely ironic situation of having one of the most 'overwhelming' proclamations of Slavic power and influence, housed in one of the most appropriate examples of Slavic suffering and neglect. It all congealed to give me the feeling that maybe this was an appropriate, if not embarrasing, balance...
Alfons Mucha was once said to be able to make any woman look beautiful. And, to tell you the truth, I believe it. Mucha was born in a small Moravian village at the end of the Austrian-Hungarian's empirical rule over the Bohemian lands. He grew up in a culture that had been oppressed, and was on the verge of breaking their Germanic chains, hoping to attain a renaissance--so to speak--of Slavic culture, language, art and theatre. But, like all things Slavic, he had to leave the 'domov' (homeland) to be discovered; the destination in the late 19th century was Paris, of course.
While in Paris, Mucha began painting advertisements for theatre production houses. People in Paris were instantly taken back by Mucha's use of color to magnify light, giving all pictures an airy, elegant quality that might have only been seen in the palaces of Roman empires or Greek thinkers. He had made an almost ancient form of beauty (women and gold), accessible to the normal, working-class Parisian, and ultimately, the world. It was here that he began to make a name for himself on the world stage. His posters and advertisements were sent all over: America, Japan, China and Europe.
Mucha was probably painting these ladies to make money, but he had much greater plans for his talent. His mind had been tilled back in his Moravian homeland, a place of cultural wealth that was hoping to blossom. In 1906 (I believe), Mucha made a trip to Chicago and met an industrialist who was known as, "A friend to the Slav."(After reading Upton Sinclair's The Jungle, I'm not so sure a Chicago 'industrialist' and 'friend of Slavs' can be uttered with out cracking an absurd smile). Anyways, the man donated oodles of money (in the millions, of course) for Mucha to paint what would later become his masterpiece, 'Slovanksa Epopej'- a collection of 20 gargantuan canvases that recount the history of the Slavic people: from their capitulation to the steppe tribes (The Huns), to their role in the first world war. The collection took him almost 18 years to paint, and was really a continual work in progress--if you go today to the exposition, you will see unfinished parts of almost every single work. The paintings themselves are overwhelming in size, scope, detail and color. Eighteen years might seem like it is quite a long time, but when he was using egg-based paints and had to mix them all himself, draw the actual from, paint a base, mix colors and continue with minute detail, it is almost unbelievable that it didn't take him 100 years to complete: each painting is about 15 feet in width by 10 feet in height. You have to stand back about 5-10 feet just to be able to make out the focus and subject of each painting. The fact that Mucha had to paint up close to the canvas is probably the most shocking/impressive aspect of this art work. How could he keep all forms and people in relational size? The whole collection makes one person feel very small and insignificant, which is the appropriate reaction to a history of a whole people group. Many of the paintings, when thought of as a whole, tell a story of the Slavic people that is a mixture of truth and fabrication: The people of the Slav nations are actually a peace-loving group that only fight when provoked, and of course, are always on the good side of things.
The overt nationalism of the paintings is by today's age (discounting some AMUUURICA-loving places in Texas and the Appalachians) almost comically simplistic. In one of his crowning pieces of the 'Slovanske Epopej', Mucha ties all the themes together into one last orgy of love for the Slav. In the center of the painting is a young man with a lean muscular body holding two wreaths above his head, to symbolize victory. His face is soft and innocent. Around him in dancing colors of light, is the historical trajectory of the entire Slavic ethnicity: starting in the far right corner of the canvas with the tribes of a long-off past, finally culminating in the golden light in the middle, where women prepare bouquets of flowers that represent the first-fruits of the new Slavic pride that is to be released into the world. Finally, in one last dash of over-the-topness, Mucha painted God (or Jesus) with shinning light and rainbows behind the head of the central, Slavic man, proclaiming the saintly, moral, Godly quality of the nation itself. This seems eerily familiar to 'God Bless America’ doesn’t it?
Now, one would think that this collection of art would be housed, oh, I don't know, maybe in the capital of the Czech Republic in its own exhibition house, for the entire world to admire? I imagine that in most countries, their most sacred works of arts from their best artists would be placed in climate-controlled, neo-classical halls of magnificent size and whiteness. Of course, entry would be free, as something of this magnitude should be accessible for all. There would be men a women sitting on wooden benches, in navy-blue blazers and leather gloves watching each move of every visitor. But, that just isn't the case here.
The chateau in which the works are housed is a crumbling mess of concrete, mildew and broken windows. I'm sure that 70 years ago, this place was something to behold, but today, it looks like just every other 'carry over' from Communist neglect. There is spray paint on the ornate walls and fences that surround the court gardens; there is crumbling plaster that reveals the steel/iron rebar that support the structure; there are weeds growing in between the stone cobblestones that were laid in the 16th century; there are walls and windows that lead to nowhere, as they've been sealed off with a wall of ugly brick; and, the roof is a mixture of brown, maroon and red shingles that sag in the middle, where water has clearly done damage to the supporting trusses. It's a shabby mess. So, when I saw the sign (next to a rubber tire with a painted advertisement about tire change discounts from the garage next door) on the main entrance gate that Mucha's 'Masterpiece is open today' and an arrow pointing inside this dilapidated reminder of what 'once was', I was a little shocked.
The room in which the paintings are held is nice enough to forget about the 'bigger' picture of where we actual were. However, there were still some signs that not all was well with the location: the hall in which they were displayed was incredibly cold, which is the reason why the exhibition each winter must be packed up and loaned away to either Paris or Vienna; there were no English, French or German information packets or guide books; and, there were a total of about ten people there to take a gander. And, this is what got me reflecting on the completely ironic situation of having one of the most 'overwhelming' proclamations of Slavic power and influence, housed in one of the most appropriate examples of Slavic suffering and neglect. It all congealed to give me the feeling that maybe this was an appropriate, if not embarrasing, balance...
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Pomlazka
All five of us walked through the rusted gate, past the flower shop and off the cobblestone street, onto uneven pavement that led to a shabby, gray-plastered house that sat within a courtyard. Like most Czech houses, at least those in the city, the main entrance consisted of two large, wooden doors with ornate iron knobs. There were no windows. The brown paint was peeling, revealing a layer of orange-tinted wood that was dry and cracked. Filip turned the knob, and we all made our way into the first hallway. It was dark and quite damp, giving us the feeling that we were walking in an underpass that lead to the departure platforms at a train station. It was a dingy place.
I heard a faint voice from around the corner, “I don't know them. I wasn't expecting visitors." The nurse who was the primary care-taker came back to us and informed us that we would have to wait a few minutes, as she needed to prepare. "It's hard for her to walk now, you know." "She isn't feeling very well today." We all stood at the stoop and pondered whether this was a good idea or not:
Number one, we're all incredibly young--I being the oldest at 25--and two out of the five of us don't speak Czech as a native language. In my gut, I had the feeling like I was completely and utterly out of place. But, we had gone too far now; there was no way we would be able to slyly escape back to our bikes and continue on our way.
The first image I remember was of an old woman rounding a corner, dressed in a pink bath robe with a fuzzy neck made of long thread; giving it a soft look like that of a stuffed animal. Her feet were adorned in equally comfortable-looking slippers that had plush, white wool covering the whole inside. I saw that her hair was long, and straight; it was pulled back into a pony tail that made its way down past her shoulder blades. Most shocking of all, it still had streaks of darkness--maybe brown or black, I wasn't sure. Her eyes were set close and round. They had a glassy look to them, and seemed to be watery all the time. "Definitely someone old.” I thought. Her mouth was beautifully shaped and her lips were still full, albeit, they had lost some color over the years. Gripping her cane, she looked up at all of us and said, "I'm sorry I'm so slow today." "I've been feeling pretty sick lately." Her voice was high-pitched and had a waver that is normally expected from an old larynx. I couldn't resist a smile; I don't think I've seen anything quite that adorable in my life. Her nurse offered a basket of tin-foiled wrapped eggs, which were to be our gift. The old women, waveringly, grasping as tight to her cane as she could, grabbed one egg for each of us. "I don't have ribbons, and I'm too old to paint them for you, so all I have is a few chocolate ones." "I'm sorry I've been feeling quite ill today,” she said as she placed candy into the palm of my hand.
After she had given each one of us our 'due', I leaned down with my pomlazka and began lightly tapping her legs and proceeded to say the rhyme. Filip and Matej both joined in. Her face looked up to the rest of the boys who were waiting in the doorway, and cracked one of the widest smiles I have seen in quite some time. Her face was so beautiful at that moment; her smile creating a perfect octagon from her chin up to her nose. It creased her cheeks into two very long dimples. I knew that her teeth were probably fake, but I liked the idea that I couldn't really be sure; all I knew, is that they were white and healthy-looking.
Once the rhyme had been said, and the wishes for health and fertility were meted out, we all rushed out through the door. One my way back to my bike, I asked Filip if he thought it was good that we had come. He replied, "Yes. This is probably her last Easter." "She is 101 years old."
I heard a faint voice from around the corner, “I don't know them. I wasn't expecting visitors." The nurse who was the primary care-taker came back to us and informed us that we would have to wait a few minutes, as she needed to prepare. "It's hard for her to walk now, you know." "She isn't feeling very well today." We all stood at the stoop and pondered whether this was a good idea or not:
Number one, we're all incredibly young--I being the oldest at 25--and two out of the five of us don't speak Czech as a native language. In my gut, I had the feeling like I was completely and utterly out of place. But, we had gone too far now; there was no way we would be able to slyly escape back to our bikes and continue on our way.
The first image I remember was of an old woman rounding a corner, dressed in a pink bath robe with a fuzzy neck made of long thread; giving it a soft look like that of a stuffed animal. Her feet were adorned in equally comfortable-looking slippers that had plush, white wool covering the whole inside. I saw that her hair was long, and straight; it was pulled back into a pony tail that made its way down past her shoulder blades. Most shocking of all, it still had streaks of darkness--maybe brown or black, I wasn't sure. Her eyes were set close and round. They had a glassy look to them, and seemed to be watery all the time. "Definitely someone old.” I thought. Her mouth was beautifully shaped and her lips were still full, albeit, they had lost some color over the years. Gripping her cane, she looked up at all of us and said, "I'm sorry I'm so slow today." "I've been feeling pretty sick lately." Her voice was high-pitched and had a waver that is normally expected from an old larynx. I couldn't resist a smile; I don't think I've seen anything quite that adorable in my life. Her nurse offered a basket of tin-foiled wrapped eggs, which were to be our gift. The old women, waveringly, grasping as tight to her cane as she could, grabbed one egg for each of us. "I don't have ribbons, and I'm too old to paint them for you, so all I have is a few chocolate ones." "I'm sorry I've been feeling quite ill today,” she said as she placed candy into the palm of my hand.
After she had given each one of us our 'due', I leaned down with my pomlazka and began lightly tapping her legs and proceeded to say the rhyme. Filip and Matej both joined in. Her face looked up to the rest of the boys who were waiting in the doorway, and cracked one of the widest smiles I have seen in quite some time. Her face was so beautiful at that moment; her smile creating a perfect octagon from her chin up to her nose. It creased her cheeks into two very long dimples. I knew that her teeth were probably fake, but I liked the idea that I couldn't really be sure; all I knew, is that they were white and healthy-looking.
Once the rhyme had been said, and the wishes for health and fertility were meted out, we all rushed out through the door. One my way back to my bike, I asked Filip if he thought it was good that we had come. He replied, "Yes. This is probably her last Easter." "She is 101 years old."
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