Interrail, #4: Cinque Terre

Cue the sea, the sun, and the ligurian coast, in the midst of this damp November Monday.

Max on a boat: On the day we leave Florence for La Spezia and the Cinque Terre, the Italian rail are on strike ... We have to take a very early commuter train that is exempt from the strike, and then a ferry - which is more fun than Max’s facial expression gives away.

This is the sea, and the town you can see on the horizon is Portovenere.

Precariously perched. I like how the buildings are exactly the same grey colour as the rocks they are built on. Obviously, the rocks were used to build the buildings.

The rather more provincial version of Italian Gothic. But the stripes (see Siena) cannot miss.

Riomaggiore. It’s kind of breathtaking how these villages are nestled into the side of the cliffs and the vineyards above them, like colourful buildingblocks just tumbling down towards the sea.

More happiness.

Left Luggage options in Monterosso: The tourist office is not interested in keeping our luggage while we wait for the evening ferry to take us to the next village with a camp ground (Levanto). We unceremoniously decide to ‘hide’ our luggage in a fairly inaccessible spot between the huge boulders lining the bay.

We’re not in favour of public beaches. Most of the time you have to pay, and in either case you have no privacy or room, so we choose the ‘inhospitable’ rocky alternative, close to our bagpacks, exposed to the elements.

Levanto: Campground. Quite urban.

Laundry.

Riomaggiore, again. A postcard-y sort of place.

Meeee.

La Via D'Amore! It’s a clifftop path from Riomaggiore to Manarola (or the other way around), which is dedicated to romantic love, and it’s a tradition for lovers to leave signed padlocks in every place imaginable, or scrawl their names, hearts or messages, again, in every place imaginable. Even the plants are tatooed with love.

<3
Do look down.
Sedimentary rock, flipped by the aeons.

Erm ... just say no, kids!

!

Disgusting graffiti all over the place ... something something ... your property ... something something? ... report this ... something.
 ((c) Angry Englishwoman)

In Flagranti! (He’s using a crayon!!)

Aw.

The slantedness of the tracks keeps the train from tumbling into the sea.

Manarola. This is where we later had dinner. Seafood Pasta Vol. #2, to make up for the horrid Seafood Pasta Vol. #1 in Levanto the day before. (Don’t ever take dinner in a gelateria just because it’s cheap, in case you didn’t already know that.)

Gato.

They rape horses, don't they?

“The Riding Women are evolved women, different in kind from the Free Fems. They are initially the result of the creative opportunism of a group of women used in the genetic experiments of male scientists before the wasting. Following the experiments, these new women possess the complete genetic material to reproduce without men. They produce only girl children. All that is needed to set the process in motion is the fluid from a horse's ejaculation. Most of the women therefore mate with a young horse once or twice in a lifetime, to ensure the survival of the Riding Women. It is highly ritualised and highly pragmatic. The same horse is also slaughtered for its meat, hair and skin. The women are always in total control.” (Elaine Miller, “Zero Tolerance in Wonderland”)

Firstly: What the WHAT?
And also: This is the summary of a book called Motherlines by someone called Suzy McKee Charnas, from an article about lesbian utopian novels that I read today while researching for my diploma thesis. The article is called “Zero Tolerance in Wonderland”, and the ideology reflected in it is (in its detail) new and highly disturbing to me. As the title suggests, it is extremely intolerant – towards men, and just about everything else that is not a separatist lesbian. For example, transsexuals who sneakily ‘invade’ women-only groups are evil. And of course, men are evil. All of them. Because all men are absolutely identical: violent, dangerous, incorrigible. And this is not mainly a result of cultural and social influence, but it is simply fact. Rooted in the fact that they are men. Nothing you can do about that.
So ... the logical consequence of this impressive arguement is that the world is better of killing all men, and replacing them with horses. Because raping a horse is, in any case, highly preferable to having any sort of contact with a man. Aha.
Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not being homophobic here. I’m being intolerance-phobic, and I’m terribly disappointed, because I tend to live under the impression that people who are NOT part of the hegemonially privileged group (western, white, male, heterosexual, middle-class etc.) and therefore subject to some form of oppression, discrimination or marginalisation should actually know better than to advocate a zero tolerance policy in the face of difference and to endorse the violent enforcement of conformity at any cost. Do they not see that they adopting the same stance that currently effects their own oppression, discrimination and marginalisation? I understand anger against patriarchy. I understand anger against men. I understand the desire that some lesbians undoubtedly feel, to withdraw from the oppressive environment of patriarchy into an elitist all-woman society. Personally, I would also love to live in a world where I compile the guest list. But what shocks me in the novels and stories described in that article is the method by which they compile their guest list, and the way they treat the uninvited and the accidential gatecrasher. What disturbs me is the sweeping generalisation by which the behaviour of no doubt many men is taken for an unalterable and probably biologically inscribed fact (and therefore becomes an excuse for their indiscriminate destruction). This is not acceptable (and also simply not very intelligent), especially since this same essentialism is contested in the case of women. So it is possible and necessary to liberate women from their socially and culturally prescribed roles, but simultaneously the only way to liberate men from theirs is to anihilate them? Honestly?

Now, nothing speaks against depicting controversial scenarios and values in art, and I have no problem with that as such. What disconcerts me is the fact that this is called a utopia, in the face of all those very strange values it endorses. You see, I like my utopias to evoke images of harmony and balance, suggesting that we can, after all, all get along somehow, despite our differences. Indiscriminate hate for the other, enforced conformity and idealisation of genocide? Not so much. Sounds too much like reality.

What???

????????????

Words.

Thinking independently hurts less when you share your thoughts. 

Put them out there.

Parquet Patterns.

Rachel Whiteread talking about drawing, collecting things, time.
An exhibition of her drawings is due at the Tate Modern in London and I’d love to see it.

Kitchen Outfits.

Autumn Leaves/Procrastination.

Autumn Leaves by housewitheyebrows.

Reasons To Panic

... or why Malevich’s black square is starting to look more and more like a plausible and realistic depiction of the future.

• Hectic red, toxic sludge is spilling all over the place and into running water about a two-hour drive from my hometown. And for once, this is not about vaporous and easily pushed-out-of-the-mind long-time effects. It’s killing people and shit, right now.
• About 25% of the inhabitants of the city I live in would simply love to be ruled by a radical right-wing government. This is disillusioning and does inspire a certain sense of uneasiness when walking through the streets.
• The only alternatives to exist in this world seem to be: asleep, arsehole, hypocrite, painful inbetween. I protest.
• Society is doing its best to convince me of my uselessness, and it has almost succeeded. I always used to have a innate sort of trust in myself and the fact that everything will turn out okay; but I’m realising that this is very likely not at all up to me, and all my potential and imagination will be of no consequence as long as reality does not comply.
• Deadlines, I hate you. Bureaucracy, I hate you even more. Being Ignored, you too!

Can I not simply ...
... well.
What?

Tennis.

Swimming around in this song.

Interrail, #3: Siena

It’s the 7th of July, and we leave Florence in the early morning for a day trip to Siena. This is the Santa Maria Novella Station in Florence, which is very aesthetic, but also (in its origins) somewhat fascist.

After a sweat-inducing ascent from Siena station to the inner city, we are greeted at the gates by the Capitoline She-Wolf, who is something of a recurring theme in Siena, because according to the legend, the town was founded by the fugitive sons of Remus after the latter had been killed by his brother.

Siena is full of stairs and steep slopes. We’re nearing the cathedral, as the striped marble intarsia all around give away ...

There it is! The best gothic church facade in Italy after Orvieto. Now don’t get distracted by the gentleman in the foreground.

Inner sanctum.

As you can see, it is all about the stripes.

Weary wandering feet.

Sacred bums.

Dead babies, courtesy of Bethlehem.

I have such fond memories of learning by heart the stylistic characteristics of these stone pulpits created by several generations of Pisanos, it was kind of exciting to see one in real life. I can’t tell whether Max is being pious again in this picture, or just tired.

Squee! It’s the bowlshaped Piazza del Campo and the Palazzo Pubblico (which is one of the buildings I’ll be comparing to this tower for a seminar this semester).

These are infuriatingly meaningless tourist pictures and I apologise.
Next stop: Cinque Terre!

About not giving things to others.

Why have I never seen this before?

Lewis Takes Off His Shirt from Owen Pallett on Vimeo.

Fuck yeah, soaps as building blocks, fuck yeah, topless Pwen!
Also, the music, but you all know this anyway.

Interrail, #2: Florence

The second stop of our Interrail tour was Florence, a town where it’s very hard not to feel like a tourist, when you are a tourist. Luckily we had local support (Hi Alex!) and were shown some less obvious spots (like the wonderful Edison bookshop and the inside of a Florentinian home). On the other side of the spectrum ... the Uffizi, the Cathedral, everything else. Some of the places were so busy that I actually felt too uncomfortable to take pictures, which is why some defining aspects are missing from the photo documentary. I feel rather sad, for example, that I did not take pictures of the ridiculously enormous number of almost identical leatherware stalls at the market.
We stayed in Florence for three nights but had barely two days, because of the day trip to Siena (photos coming up next!). It was not at all enough time. We plan on going back, but avoiding the peak season.

The Menu Turistico: Duomo, Campanile, Battistero

That’s how the day started - checking out of Venice in the early morn.

Pigeon chilling on top of a rape in the Loggia dei Lanzi.

Imitating Paintings while waiting for our time slot at the Uffizi.

This was taken at the Edison bookshop (+café). I loved it there!

Night falls slowly. Too many pictures are being taken of me. Accidentally I really like this one.

Ha!

Some old bridge ...

Weird markings on the wall.

Imitating statues. Badly.

Catching some atmosphere ... San Frediano by night.

The To-Do list is endless! Danger: Stendhal syndrome

Inside the Cathedral.

Come prepared or you will be humiliated: With their zero tolerance attitude towards exposed skin, Italian churches show no mercy on the indecent!

Cooking in the beautiful, tiny flat that was Alex temporary home while we were visiting. Good times!

And one more thing, because it fits: READ THIS BOOK. DO IT!

The past has never been as beautiful as today.

 

I found out about Roger Mayne because the above picture of a ‘Girl Jiving’ taken in Southam Street in 1957 is the cover to my paperback copy of Ali Smith’s Girl Meets Boy (A fabulous book by an absurdly underrated writer that I can only recommend everybody to read. In fact you should read all her books!). After I fell in love with that cover photograph, I looked Mayne up and it turns out that he is someone I should have known all along. His pictures of urban England in the 50s and 60s (interspersed with the occasional country idyll, the odd portrait) are beautiful. I particularly like the ‘snapshots’ that remind a bit of film stills. 

Here is a selection, all taken from his website.