Tintin and Girls

When I finished primary school I spent the Christmas holidays in breathless anticipation of two things which High School held out for me – an expanded audience of girls and a library. Girls? Go figure why the mind of a twelve year old would seethe so. Read more

To the Victor go the…large mounds

Battlefields have a strange attraction. Gettysburg had an impact on me which was all the more powerful for being so thoroughly unexpected. The humanity of it all was perversely rammed home by understanding the sheer scale of the slaughter. In the case of Gettysburg the preservation of the slaughter-yard otherwise called a battlefield adds to the weight of the experience. Read more

Are Cartoons Literature?

There is a general acceptance that cartoons can indeed be literature although one would need to be selective about which cartoons were selected for the library shelves. As ten years olds, or thereabouts we used to devour Commando Comics. One of our friends had a father who absolutely prohibited “this rubbish” from his house – we smuggled them to our friend under our shirts… Read more

Nicole Kidman – Possessive Tendencies

I am always intrigued by our tendency to claim something that can never be ours. We often do so under a national, collective grab. Especially when it is a celebrity, sports star, or someone who has excelled in some way. And if that person has demonstrated an especially fine and unique trait, resulting in a Nobel Prize, Academy Award, or other acknowledgment on a global scale we are especially prone to claim them as ours. We even do it to flora and fauna – we talk about “our” unique marsupials in a very possessive way, as if somehow we had some say in how they came to be to unique and striking. We claim them as “ours” as if their uniqueness makes us stand out from the rest of humanity in some sort of dramatic and better way.

An Angelic Skirt Lifter

“The Cathedral” in Brussels is understood to be the cathedral in the Grand Place Square. It is covered in intricate statues and carvings, all in fantastic detail. Row upon row of carvings that make up hundreds of characters that adorn the façade. A couple of characters caught my eye. One looking demure, the other coyly lifting her hem to reveal the petticoats underneath. At one level you might imagine that the artist was expressing his sense of humour. And that is certainly one level of interpretation that can be made of these two carvings. At another, more serious and prosaic level they need to be understood in the medieval context in which they were carved – as an instructional instrument. The clue to that is the woman on the right who wears a helmet, carries a shield, holds a lamp, and who has a character under her feet pointing at a book. As if to remind the illiterate that the Bible is the source of guidance on those weapons of spiritual warfare that she is holding. Her offsider is holding her hand over her mouth, is lifting her skirt and the character at her feet looks like a roguish monk. An instructional contrast of how to behave and live – wanton versus virtuous. While all that might be true, the wanton character was the one that caught my eye and which still seems to have a humourous streak to it. Maybe that says more about me than the artist.

Dog Turds in Brussels

I am not sure I have gotten my head around this town yet. However I have had an opportunity to get out and about this afternoon and walked a few kilometres through an interesting cross section of the city. It is certainly a town of contrasts, all living cheek by jowl. Perhaps starting with a panoramic view helps set the scene. The view from the high point of the city, the Palais de Justice, is telling. The cathedral spire, dating back to the thirteenth century, and other ancient and beautiful buildings are nearly lost by that horrible post war bland box architecture which blights all our cities to one degree or another. But in this city ancient is hemmed in by 1960s “deadimaginesque” and all piled up in a strange mix. There is no old centre gradually giving over to the modern the further you get out, although to be sure the Grand Place is about as grand medieval place as you can get. Surrounding the Palais de Justice are some interesting juxtapositions. Down from its base of imposing Roman architecture black children shouting in French play in a small concrete soccer field but with blocked drains so half their field lies under a stagnant pond. Graffiti covered the surrounding walls. Although some of that is art worthy of attention. Lift your eyes up from the soccer kids and look south across a concrete block paved courtyard surrounding the obligatory monument to the war dead of 1914-1918 an d1939-1945. Grass grows through every crack, moss and corrosion taint the statue and the damp must of a tomb pervades the site. It is a hang dog affair for the commemoration of something so glorious. Or maybe its ruin is appropriate.

Walking down from the high ground you pass through cobbled lanes that are alternatively pretty, flowered, cobbled, and given to fine furniture, architecture, or fine art, or drab piled high with rubbish and littered with dog turds. Street repairs are like those you see in China. Half done. Piles of ripped up cobbles and heaps of earth, some with well established weeds, indicating workers have been absent a while. And I am not in the back blocks here but down town – the Grand Place is a short two minute walk away.

Worship Via a Cell Phone

These old cathedrals reek of smoke and wax and are scented with aged timber. Light catches gilt and gold, careens off marble and helps give life to the slate floor, all cracked and tilted but polished smooth from eons of traffic. In their calm stillness you can understand how worshipers seek God, the more so for the singing choirs quietly being played in the background. You can imagine rows of chanting monks helping set a tone of awe, reverence and respectful worship. They would be nonplussed at the overcoated grey haired gent who rushed into this pool of quiet worship this afternoon. Crying out in French to the statue of Mary shrouded in a beautifully gilded cloth. Pointing and waving. And talking into his cell phone. I thought he was talking to someone else then I realised he was talking to Mary via his cell. It would have been humorous if his entreaties were not so earnest and heartfelt. I had stumbled over the place wandering the lanes of Brussels and had welcomed its solitude and a place to be reflective. I handed over to the cell phone worshiper and left him to this place. I hope God picks up at the other end for him.

Tintin, Waffles and Chocolate

Brussels is a strange town. I sat and ate a very expensive McDonalds burger (the Big Mac Index blows out in this place at about USD8.00, AUD10.00. And as I did so watched grey people on a grey day. It is Sunday, Mothers Day and everyone seems to be out and about. But it is not an attractive city today. It has a hard edge to it. Dirty and somehow forgotten. Museums are boarded up being repaired. Streets are filthy – cobblestones are great for trapping rubbish. Yet that which had people flee the old world is no doubt what attracts us all back. There are flashes in this town that surprise and enchant. And let’s face it, I have only walked for a couple of hours after getting off a 24 hour series of flights from Sydney. So my sampling is very limited. On the other hand first impressions count.

There is an area surrounding the Grand Place – a beautiful central square - in which you could lose yourself for a long time. Art and music, food and chocolate, fashion and books. An arcade in which colour and light entice you to the window like mosquitoes to a blue light, and from there the scent of cocoa and spices draw you in to the chocolate tar pit from which you never escape. Unless of course you spend a small fortune and walk out with your purchase wrapped in Tintin paper.