Fleurs du Mal Magazine
His First Operation
by Arthur Conan Doyle
It was the first day of the winter session, and the third year’s man was walking with the first year’s man. Twelve o’clock was just booming out from the Tron Church.
“Let me see,” said the third year’s man. “You have never seen an operation?”
“Never.”
“Then this way, please. This is Rutherford’s historic bar. A glass of sherry, please, for this gentleman. You are rather sensitive, are you not?”
“My nerves are not very strong, I am afraid.”
“Hum! Another glass of sherry for this gentleman. We are going to an operation now, you know.”
The novice squared his shoulders and made a gallant attempt to look unconcerned.
“Nothing very bad—eh?”
“Well, yes—pretty bad.”
“An—an amputation?”
“No; it’s a bigger affair than that.”
“I think—I think they must be expecting me at home.”
“There’s no sense in funking. If you don’t go to-day, you must to-morrow. Better get it over at once. Feel pretty fit?”
“Oh, yes; all right!” The smile was not a success.
“One more glass of sherry, then. Now come on or we shall be late. I want you to be well in front.”
“Surely that is not necessary.”
“Oh, it is far better! What a drove of students! There are plenty of new men among them. You can tell them easily enough, can’t you? If they were going down to be operated upon themselves, they could not look whiter.”
“I don’t think I should look as white.”
“Well, I was just the same myself. But the feeling soon wears off. You see a fellow with a face like plaster, and before the week is out he is eating his lunch in the dissecting rooms. I’ll tell you all about the case when we get to the theatre.”
The students were pouring down the sloping street which led to the infirmary—each with his little sheaf of note-books in his hand. There were pale, frightened lads, fresh from the high schools, and callous old chronics, whose generation had passed on and left them. They swept in an unbroken, tumultuous stream from the university gate to the hospital. The figures and gait of the men were young, but there was little youth in most of their faces. Some looked as if they ate too little—a few as if they drank too much. Tall and short, tweed-coated and black, round-shouldered, bespectacled, and slim, they crowded with clatter of feet and rattle of sticks through the hospital gate. Now and again they thickened into two lines, as the carriage of a surgeon of the staff rolled over the cobblestones between.
“There’s going to be a crowd at Archer’s,” whispered the senior man with suppressed excitement. “It is grand to see him at work. I’ve seen him jab all round the aorta until it made me jumpy to watch him. This way, and mind the whitewash.”
They passed under an archway and down a long, stone-flagged corridor, with drab-coloured doors on either side, each marked with a number. Some of them were ajar, and the novice glanced into them with tingling nerves. He was reassured to catch a glimpse of cheery fires, lines of white-counterpaned beds, and a profusion of coloured texts upon the wall. The corridor opened upon a small hall, with a fringe of poorly clad people seated all round upon benches. A young man, with a pair of scissors stuck like a flower in his buttonhole and a note-book in his hand, was passing from one to the other, whispering and writing.
“Anything good?” asked the third year’s man.
“You should have been here yesterday,” said the out-patient clerk, glancing up. “We had a regular field day. A popliteal aneurism, a Colles’ fracture, a spina bifida, a tropical abscess, and an elephantiasis. How’s that for a single haul?”
“I’m sorry I missed it. But they’ll come again, I suppose. What’s up with the old gentleman?”
A broken workman was sitting in the shadow, rocking himself slowly to and fro, and groaning. A woman beside him was trying to console him, patting his shoulder with a hand which was spotted over with curious little white blisters.
“It’s a fine carbuncle,” said the clerk, with the air of a connoisseur who describes his orchids to one who can appreciate them. “It’s on his back and the passage is draughty, so we must not look at it, must we, daddy? Pemphigus,” he added carelessly, pointing to the woman’s disfigured hands. “Would you care to stop and take out a metacarpal?”
“No, thank you. We are due at Archer’s. Come on!” and they rejoined the throng which was hurrying to the theatre of the famous surgeon.
The tiers of horseshoe benches rising from the floor to the ceiling were already packed, and the novice as he entered saw vague curving lines of faces in front of him, and heard the deep buzz of a hundred voices, and sounds of laughter from somewhere up above him. His companion spied an opening on the second bench, and they both squeezed into it.
“This is grand!” the senior man whispered. “You’ll have a rare view of it all.”
Only a single row of heads intervened between them and the operating table. It was of unpainted deal, plain, strong, and scrupulously clean. A sheet of brown water-proofing covered half of it, and beneath stood a large tin tray full of sawdust. On the further side, in front of the window, there was a board which was strewed with glittering instruments—forceps, tenacula, saws, canulas, and trocars. A line of knives, with long, thin, delicate blades, lay at one side. Two young men lounged in front of this, one threading needles, the other doing something to a brass coffee-pot-like thing which hissed out puffs of steam.
“That’s Peterson,” whispered the senior, “the big, bald man in the front row. He’s the skin-grafting man, you know. And that’s Anthony Browne, who took a larynx out successfully last winter. And there’s Murphy, the pathologist, and Stoddart, the eye-man. You’ll come to know them all soon.”
“Who are the two men at the table?”
“Nobody—dressers. One has charge of the instruments and the other of the puffing Billy. It’s Lister’s antiseptic spray, you know, and Archer’s one of the carbolic-acid men. Hayes is the leader of the cleanliness-and-cold-water school, and they all hate each other like poison.”
A flutter of interest passed through the closely packed benches as a woman in petticoat and bodice was led in by two nurses. A red woolen shawl was draped over her head and round her neck. The face which looked out from it was that of a woman in the prime of her years, but drawn with suffering, and of a peculiar beeswax tint. Her head drooped as she walked, and one of the nurses, with her arm round her waist, was whispering consolation in her ear. She gave a quick side-glance at the instrument table as she passed, but the nurses turned her away from it.
“What ails her?” asked the novice.
“Cancer of the parotid. It’s the devil of a case; extends right away back behind the carotids. There’s hardly a man but Archer would dare to follow it. Ah, here he is himself!”
As he spoke, a small, brisk, iron-grey man came striding into the room, rubbing his hands together as he walked. He had a clean-shaven face, of the naval officer type, with large, bright eyes, and a firm, straight mouth. Behind him came his big house-surgeon, with his gleaming pince-nez, and a trail of dressers, who grouped themselves into the corners of the room.
“Gentlemen,” cried the surgeon in a voice as hard and brisk as his manner, “we have here an interesting case of tumour of the parotid, originally cartilaginous but now assuming malignant characteristics, and therefore requiring excision. On to the table, nurse! Thank you! Chloroform, clerk! Thank you! You can take the shawl off, nurse.”
The woman lay back upon the water-proofed pillow, and her murderous tumour lay revealed. In itself it was a pretty thing—ivory white, with a mesh of blue veins, and curving gently from jaw to chest. But the lean, yellow face and the stringy throat were in horrible contrast with the plumpness and sleekness of this monstrous growth. The surgeon placed a hand on each side of it and pressed it slowly backwards and forwards.
“Adherent at one place, gentlemen,” he cried. “The growth involves the carotids and jugulars, and passes behind the ramus of the jaw, whither we must be prepared to follow it. It is impossible to say how deep our dissection may carry us. Carbolic tray. Thank you! Dressings of carbolic gauze, if you please! Push the chloroform, Mr. Johnson. Have the small saw ready in case it is necessary to remove the jaw.”
The patient was moaning gently under the towel which had been placed over her face. She tried to raise her arms and to draw up her knees, but two dressers restrained her. The heavy air was full of the penetrating smells of carbolic acid and of chloroform. A muffled cry came from under the towel, and then a snatch of a song, sung in a high, quavering, monotonous voice:
“He says, says he,
If you fly with me
You’ll be mistress of the ice-cream van.
You’ll be mistress of the——”
It mumbled off into a drone and stopped. The surgeon came across, still rubbing his hands, and spoke to an elderly man in front of the novice.
“Narrow squeak for the Government,” he said.
“Oh, ten is enough.”
“They won’t have ten long. They’d do better to resign before they are driven to it.”
“Oh, I should fight it out.”
“What’s the use. They can’t get past the committee even if they got a vote in the House. I was talking to——”
“Patient’s ready, sir,” said the dresser.
“Talking to McDonald—but I’ll tell you about it presently.” He walked back to the patient, who was breathing in long, heavy gasps. “I propose,” said he, passing his hand over the tumour in an almost caressing fashion, “to make a free incision over the posterior border, and to take another forward at right angles to the lower end of it. Might I trouble you for a medium knife, Mr. Johnson?”
The novice, with eyes which were dilating with horror, saw the surgeon pick up the long, gleaming knife, dip it into a tin basin, and balance it in his fingers as an artist might his brush. Then he saw him pinch up the skin above the tumour with his left hand. At the sight his nerves, which had already been tried once or twice that day, gave way utterly. His head swain round, and he felt that in another instant he might faint. He dared not look at the patient. He dug his thumbs into his ears lest some scream should come to haunt him, and he fixed his eyes rigidly upon the wooden ledge in front of him. One glance, one cry, would, he knew, break down the shred of self-possession which he still retained. He tried to think of cricket, of green fields and rippling water, of his sisters at home—of anything rather than of what was going on so near him.
And yet somehow, even with his ears stopped up, sounds seemed to penetrate to him and to carry their own tale. He heard, or thought that he heard, the long hissing of the carbolic engine. Then he was conscious of some movement among the dressers. Were there groans, too, breaking in upon him, and some other sound, some fluid sound, which was more dreadfully suggestive still? His mind would keep building up every step of the operation, and fancy made it more ghastly than fact could have been. His nerves tingled and quivered. Minute by minute the giddiness grew more marked, the numb, sickly feeling at his heart more distressing. And then suddenly, with a groan, his head pitching forward, and his brow cracking sharply upon the narrow wooden shelf in front of him, he lay in a dead faint.
When he came to himself, he was lying in the empty theatre, with his collar and shirt undone. The third year’s man was dabbing a wet sponge over his face, and a couple of grinning dressers were looking on.
“All right,” cried the novice, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “I’m sorry to have made an ass of myself.”
“Well, so I should think,” said his companion.
“What on earth did you faint about?”
“I couldn’t help it. It was that operation.”
“What operation?”
“Why, that cancer.”
There was a pause, and then the three students burst out laughing. “Why, you juggins!” cried the senior man, “there never was an operation at all! They found the patient didn’t stand the chloroform well, and so the whole thing was off. Archer has been giving us one of his racy lectures, and you fainted just in the middle of his favourite story.”
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (1859 – 1930)
Round the Red Lamp: Being Facts and Fancies of Medical Life
His First Operation (#02)
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Doyle, Arthur Conan, Doyle, Arthur Conan, DRUGS & DISEASE & MEDICINE & LITERATURE, Round the Red Lamp
Over the past seven years, NEU NOW has established an innovative international festival that features a curated selection of emerging artists entering international art arenas. For the eighth edition, NEU NOW returns to the spaces of the Westergasfabriek to present a multidisciplinary programme that aims to highlight cultural exchange and the fluid character of the artistic disciplines.
NEU NOW 2016 is a five-day celebration of arts in Amsterdam that welcomes 60 artists from 18 countries. From the 14th to the 18th of September, NEU NOW brings together a generation of rising artists from across Europe and beyond to share their works, practices and cultural perspectives in ways that encourage future collaborations.
NEU NOW exhibition
At the heart of the festival is the NEU NOW exhibition. Located in the Machinegebouw at the Westergasfabriek, NEU NOW exhibition houses 12 artworks from a broad range of disciplines including design, architecture, visual art and more. On Sunday the 18th of September, each exhibiting artist will present and explain their work in an interactive artist talk that explores their unique artistic practice and perspective. The exhibition is open every day and free of charge.
Artists on view at NEU NOW exhibition are:
Design/Architecture
Emilia Strzempek-Plasun (PL), Emma Dahlqvist (SE), Katalin Júlia Herter (HU), Stine Aas (NO)
Visual Arts
Alberto Condotta (UK), Alicja Symela (PL), Massimiliano Di Franca (BE), Jaeyong Choi (DE), Jonas Böttern and Emily Mennerdahl (SE), Lana Ruellan (FR), Lea Schiess (NL), Yi-Ting Tsai (TW), Viktorija Eksta (LV), Vladimir Novak (CR), Eva Giolo (BE)
NEU NOW performance
This year NEU NOW performance will take place in the Westergastheater and its surrounding area, with two or more exciting performances occurring daily. From theatre and dance, to music and sound, the performances offer a variety of themes and styles. After each performance visitors are invited to join the NEU NOW artist talks.
Performing artists are:
Theatre/Dance
Destiny’s Children (CH), Hsu Chen Wei Production Dance Company (TW), Nína Sigridur Hjalmarsdottir (IS), Theodore Livesey & Jacob Storer (BE), Zapia Company (SP)
Music/Sound
Jimmi Hueting (NL) , Teresa Doblinger (CH), Topos Kolektiv (CZ)
NEU NOW film
The 90 minute NEU NOW film programme at Ketelhuis will feature screenings of a variety of genres.
Film/Animation
Andrea Alessi (IT), HXZ (BE), Marek Jasan (SK), Sophie Dros (NL), Yaron Cohen (NL)
NEU NOW next
In addition to the core programme, NEU NOW invites visitors to delve deeper into their understanding of the presented artworks and artistic practices by getting involved in a variety of artist talks offered onsite at the Westergasfabriek. NEU NOW is also proud to present its very first speaker’s programme, during which a variety of influencers from the art world will talk about the ever-pressing issue of (Making a) Living in the Arts.
The speaker’s programme is free of charge and open to the public.
NEU NOW nacht
On the evening of Saturday the 17th of September, NEU NOW, in collaboration with Warsteiner, invites visitors to enjoy a festive late-night programme, with music, drinks, and much more. Music of the night will be provided by deadHYPE and Jimmie Hueting’s avant-garde pop band Jo Goes Hunting.
View the timetable for the exact dates and times.
NEU NOW 2016 will be held at Amsterdam’s Westergasfabriek from the 14th to the 18th of September 2016.
Locations Amsterdam NL
NEU NOW exhibition – Machinegebouw, Pazzanistraat 8
NEU NOW performance – Westergastheater, Pazzanistraat 15
NEU NOW film – Het Ketelhuis, Pazzanistraat 4
# More information on website NEU NOW 2016
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Art & Literature News, AUDIO, CINEMA, RADIO & TV, DANCE & PERFORMANCE, Design, Exhibition Archive, Fashion, Literary Events, MUSIC, Photography, THEATRE
Leigh Hunt
(1784 – 1859)
To John Keats
‘Tis well you think me truly one of those,
Whose sense discerns the loveliness of things;
For surely as I feel the bird that sings
Behind the leaves, or dawn as it up grows,
Or the rich bee rejoicing as he goes,
Or the glad issue of emerging springs,
Or overhead the glide of a dove’s wings,
Or turf, or trees, or, midst of all, repose.
And surely as I feel things lovelier still,
The human look, and the harmonious form
Containing woman, and the smile in ill,
And such a heart as Charles’s, wise and warm,–
As surely as all this, I see, ev’n now,
Young Keats, a flowering laurel on your brow.
Leigh Hunt poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive G-H, Archive K-L, Hunt, Leigh, Keats, John
De Parelduiker 2016/3
Nozzing but ze bloes. Het vergeten schrijversleven van Bert Jansen
Bert Jansen (1949-2002) is de auteur van Nozzing but ze bloes (1975), het gebundelde feuilleton van de jaren zestig, later herdrukt als En nog steeds vlekken in de lakens. Hij publiceerde een groot aantal boeken, maar nog veel meer niet. Zijn archief in het Letterkundig Museum getuigt van vele manuscripten die keer op keer werden geweigerd. Dit lot trof ook het boek dat zijn magnum opus had moeten worden, een biografie van de Drentse blueszanger en streekgenoot Harry Muskee. Voor De Parelduiker ontsluit Rutger Vahl het schrijversarchief van Bert Jansen.
Onbekende foto’s van Slauerhoff
Onlangs kreeg het Letterkundig Museum twee albums met foto’s van Slauerhoff in bezit. Ze zijn afkomstig van Lenie van der Goes, een vrouw die Slauerhoff in 1927 in Soerabaja ontmoette en met wie hij trouwplannen smeedde. Hoewel ze voorkomt in Wim Hazeus Slauerhoff-biografie, is er nog veel onbekend over deze vrouw, die ten faveure van de exotische dichter de brui gaf aan haar kersverse huwelijk met de arts Leendert Eerland. Wie was zij en wie maakte de andere foto’s in het album, waarop Slauerhoff in Macao te zien is?
En verder:
menno voskuil, Ben je in de winterboom. James Purdy en de Nederlandse private press
marco entrop, Tussen wilde zwanen en onsterfelijke nachtegalen.Op verjaarsvisite bij J.C. Bloem
bart slijper, Desperate charges. Tachtigers en sport
hans olink, Het geheim van Buchenwald
jan paul hinrichs, Schoon & haaks
paul arnoldussen, Wout Vuyk (1922-2016)
De Parelduiker is een uitgave van Uitgeverij Bas Lubberhuizen | Postbus 51140 | 1007 EC Amsterdam
# Meer op website De Parelduiker
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: - Book Lovers, - Book Stories, Art & Literature News, Bloem, J.C., LITERARY MAGAZINES, PRESS & PUBLISHING, Slauerhoff, Jan
Beat Generation
Until 3 October 2016
The Centre Pompidou is to present Beat Generation, a novel retrospective dedicated to the literary and artistic movement born in the late 1940s that would exert an ever-growing influence for the next two decades. The theme will be reflected in all the Centre’s activities, with a rich programme of events devised in collaboration with the Bibliothèque Public d’Information and Ircam: readings, concerts, discussions, film screenings, a colloquium, a young people’s programme at Studio 13/16, etc.
Foreshadowing the youth culture and the cultural and sexual liberation of the 1960s, the emergence of the Beat Generation in the years following the Second World War, just as the Cold War was setting in, scandalised a puritan and Mc Carthyite America. Then seen as subversive rebels, the Beats appear today as the representatives of one of the most important cultural movements of the 20th century – a movement the Centre Pompidou’s survey will examine in all its breadth and geographical amplitude, from New York to Los Angeles, from Paris to Tangier.
The Centre Pompidou’s exhibition maps both the shifting geographical focus of the movement and its ever-shifting contours. For the artistic practices of the Beat Generation – readings, performances, concerts and films – testify to a breaking down of artistic boundaries and a desire for interdisciplinary collaboration that puts the singularity of the artist into question. Alongside notable visual artists, mostly representative of the California scene (Wallace Berman, Bruce Conner, George Herms, Jay DeFeo, Jess…), an important place is given to the literary dimension of the movement, to spoken poetry in its relationship to jazz, and more particularly to the Black American poetry (LeRoi Jones, Bob Kaufman…) that remains largely unknown in Europe, like the magazines in which it circulated (Beatitude, Umbra…). Photography was also an important medium, represented here by the productions of Allen Ginsberg and William Burroughs – mostly portraits – and a substantial body of photographs by Robert Frank (Les Américains, From the Bus…), Fred McDarrah, and John Cohen, all taken during the shooting of Pull my Daisy, as well as work by Harold Chapman, who chronicled the life of the Beat Hotel in Paris between 1958 and 1963. The same was true of the films (Christopher MacLaine, Bruce Baillie, Stan Brakhage, Ron Rice…) that would both reflect and document the history and development of the movement.
Exhibition at the Centre Pompidou in Paris until October 3, 2016
New publication:
Beat generation – exhibition album
Movement of literary and artistic inspiration born in the United States in the 1950s, at the initiative of William Burroughs, Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac, the Beat Generation has profoundly influenced contemporary creation.
The book displays the different artworks exhibited along with short explanatory essays. A clear and precise album suitable for a large audience.
Bilingual version French / English.
Binding: Softbound
Language: Bilingual French / English
EAN 9782844267467
Number of pages 60
Number of illustrations 60
Publication date 15/06/2016
Dimensions 27 x 27 cm
Author: Philippe-Alain Michaud
Publisher: Centre Pompidou
€9.50
# Information and schedule about the Beat Generation exhibition on website Centre Pompidou
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: #Beat Generation Archives, - Book News, Burroughs, William S., DICTIONARY OF IDEAS, DRUGS & DISEASE & MEDICINE & LITERATURE, Ginsberg, Allen, Kerouac, Jack, Literaire sporen, LITERARY MAGAZINES
De Boekenparade is hét grootste boekenevenement van 2016 Jaar van het Boek: van 2 t/m 25 september 2016 staan boeken en verhalen centraal. De focus van het festival ligt op beleving en ontmoeting. De Boekenparade belicht op prikkelende wijze het fenomeen boek in al zijn verrassende vormen en biedt een uitgebreid cross-over programma van evenementen, performances, podiumkunsten, muziek, workshops en een expositie.
Ook Manuscripta, traditioneel de opening van het boekenseizoen, is dit jaar onderdeel van de Boekenparade en vindt plaats op zaterdag 3 september in de Tolhuistuin.
Pepijn Lanen, Herman Koch en Herman Brusselmans verzorgen de openingsact van de Boekenparade. Verder geven onder meer acte de présence: Griet Op de Beeck, Abdelkader Benali, Michael Berg, Marion Bloem, Joris van Casteren, Renate Dorrestein, Michel van Egmond, Sophie Hannah, Astrid Harrewijn, Patrick van Hees, Arno Kantelberg, Geert Mak, Isa Maron, Tosca Menten, Nelleke Noordervliet, Christine Otten, Hagar Peeters, Dokter Pol, Ntjam Rosie, Mirjam Rotenstreich, Geronimo Stilton en Harmen van Straaten.
In de weekenden vinden aan de IJpromenade tegenover Amsterdam CS grote evenementen plaats en ook doordeweeks zijn er programma’s. De eerste programma’s (het concert met Pepijn Lanen en High Tea & Books) zijn bekend. Op 9 augustus volgt de precieze line-up van de overige events. In de kalender hieronder wordt een tipje van de sluier opgelicht.
Het hart van de Boekenparade is de – culturele en kunstzinnige broed- en ontmoetingsplaats – Tolhuistuin. Daarnaast is er ook programmering in filmmuseum EYE.
De Boekenparade is, mede door de diverse programmering en de doorlopende exposities, aantrekkelijk voor jong en oud, uit de stad of op bezoek, van laaggeletterd tot boekenwurm: de Boekenparade is voor iedereen. Een dagje Boekenparade is een ervaring, beginnend bij aankomst op het Centraal Station, gevolgd door de pont ofwel de heenenweer, wandelend langs de verschillende locaties en podia waar meegedaan, gegeten, bekeken en geluisterd kan worden. Met één rode draad: het verhaal en het boek als uitgangspunt voor deze ‘reis’.
02 sept: OFFICIËLE OPENING
02 sept: NAAMLOOS – DE FAVORIETE AVOND VAN PEPIJN LANEN
03 sept: MANUSCRIPTA
04 sept: DIES IST WAS WIR TEILEN
05 sept: START VAN DE WEEK VAN DE ALFABETISERING
09 sept: MEDIABORREL NOORD en DE BETERE BOEKENSHOW
10 sept: HIGH TEA & BOOKS
11 sept: REAL MEN READ & Listen
12 sept: THRILLERS: 100 JAAR HERCULE POIROT
14 sept: CPI KONINKLIJKE WÖHRMANN
15 sept: BOEKHANDEL ATHENAEUM 50 JAAR
15 sept: MORGENLANDFESTIVAL
16 sept: YALBAL
17 sept: YA-WEEKENDER: SATURDAY
17 sept: BOEKVERFILMINGEN
18 sept: Kinderboekenparade aan ’t IJ
20 sept: FRAMER FRAMED
21 sept: MÖHLEMANNS en KÖHLEMANNS
22 sept: KICK-OFF RENEW THE BOOK
23 sept: MIJN WOORDEN ZIJN MUZIEK en AC/DJ
24 sept: SPANNENDE WANDELING EN DOKTER POL
25 sept: KOOKBOEKENFESTIVAL
25 sept: Lancering van lees.magazine.bol
25 sept: NIGHTWATCH MET DIMITRI VERHULST
# Meer info op website Boekenparade 2016
De Tolhuistuin, adres Tolhuistuin: IJpromenade 2, Amsterdam
De Tolhuistuin ligt recht tegenover het Centraal Station van Amsterdam. Bij de uitgang aan de Noordzijde neem je de gratis pont ‘Buiksloterwegveer’ om het IJ over te steken.
Pont: Vanaf Amsterdam CS gaat iedere 5 minuten een gratis pont naar de overkant van het IJ (Buiksloterweg, reisduur 3 minuten). De pont vaart dag en nacht, 24 uur per dag.
Bus: Vanuit Amsterdam-Noord is de Tolhuistuin te bereiken met bus 38. De bus stopt direct naast de Tolhuistuin. Op zaterdag rijdt bus 38 om de 12 minuten. Op zondag rijdt bus 38 om het half uur.
Stichting Tolhuistuin
Tolhuisweg 5 – 1031 CL Amsterdam
www.stichtingtolhuistuin.nl
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: - Book Lovers, - Book News, Art & Literature News, Herman Brusselmans, Literary Events, Peeters, Hagar, Renate Dorrestein
David Claerbout
FUTURE
3 sept 2016 – 29 jan 2017
Zeven jaar geleden exposeerde David Claerbout (Kortrijk, 1969) voor het eerst in De Pont. De tentoonstelling The Shape of Time met een tiental video-installaties liet een onuitwisbare indruk achter. Een magische schemerwereld van oude zwart witfoto’s die op een subtiele manier tot leven worden gewekt en vertraagde filmopnames van een vrouw die koffie inschenkt op het terras van een achttiende-eeuws Frans landhuis en vervolgens bij de ondergaande zon zwaaiend afscheid neemt van de toeschouwer. Het zichtbaar verstrijken van de tijd riep een gevoel van verwondering en vervreemding op. De nieuwe tentoonstelling van Claerbout, de eerste in de nieuwbouw van het museum, is getiteld FUTURE.
FUTURE lijkt bij de feestelijke gelegenheid een toepasselijke titel, maar blijkt bij nader inzien nogal dubbelzinnig. Een van de meest recente videowerken op de tentoonstelling, Olympia (The real time disintegration into ruins of the Berlin Olympic stadium over the course of a thousand years), brengt het verval in beeld van het historisch beladen gebouw waar in 1936 de Olympische Spelen werden gehouden. Het werk verwijst naar een duistere periode, toen Hitler aan de macht was en hij samen met zijn huisarchitect Albert Speer megalomane bouwprojecten ontwikkelde. Bij hun plannen hielden beide heren al rekening met de ‘ruïnewaarde’ van een gebouw over duizend jaar. De overblijfselen van het Derde Rijk moesten dan minstens zo imposant zijn als het Colosseum in Rome nu.
Sinds de laatste tentoonstelling in De Pont heeft Claerbout zijn werkwijze radicaal veranderd. Hij volgde een opleiding 3D animatie en werkt niet langer met acteurs en filmopnames. Alles gebeurt nu in zijn studio waar hij samen met negen medewerkers elk beeld stap voor stap digitaal opbouwt. Zo creëren zij een niet-reëel bestaande werkelijkheid. Een virtuele wereld waarin elk detail moet kloppen anders verliezen de videobeelden direct hun geloofwaardigheid. Bij het maken van een foto liggen keuzes over details zoals plek, seizoen en tijdstip van de dag automatisch vast – bij een digitaal beeld moet de kunstenaar zelf steeds voor ‘god’ spelen.
De bezoeker van de tentoonstelling zal van deze technische vernieuwingen echter nauwelijks iets merken. De hand van de meester blijkt vrijwel onveranderd. Je herkent dezelfde fenomenen als licht, schaduw en wind die het oppervlak van water, bomen en architectuur zachtjes, zonder geluid, in beweging brengen. De transformaties voltrekken zich in slow motion: ‘Ik beeldhouw met duur,’ zegt Claerbout. Duur is volgens hem iets anders dan tijd: ‘duur is geen onafhankelijk verschijnsel zoals tijd, maar bevindt zich altijd ergens tussenin.’
Voor het eerst in Europa toont Claerbout zijn video-installaties in combinatie met de tekeningen die het maanden- of soms zelfs jarenlange proces van de totstandkoming van de videofilms begeleiden en ondersteunen. De Pont bezit naast videowerken ook een mooie serie tekeningen van hem. Hij is een begenadigd tekenaar die zijn gedachten snel op papier kan zetten. Zo houdt hij greep op het ingewikkelde ontstaansproces waarbij talloze medewerkers betrokken zijn. Deze functie van het tekenen verschilt in wezen niet van de schets of voorstudie die een traditionele schilder gebruikt om zijn ideeën vast te leggen. Voor 3D-animatie moet je naast moderne computertechnologie ook traditionele vakken als tekenen, schilderen, beeldhouwen en cinematografie beheersen. Met als resultaat, tot Claerbouts eigen verbazing, een ‘conservatief’ schilderkunstig realisme. Maar de tekeningen vormen voor hem ook een soort uitlaatklep gezien de uitvoerige en soms heftige teksten die hij soms in de marge schrijft. De recent verschenen tekeningencatalogus ontlokte Claerbout de opmerking dat het wel eens tijd werd om zijn recepten en keukengeheimen prijs te geven.
David Claerbout
FUTURE
3 sept 2016 – 29 jan 2017
Op 3 september tevens opening nieuwe vleugel Museum De Pont
Museum De Pont
Wilhelminapark 1
5041 EA Tilburg
# Meer info op website Museum De Pont
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: AUDIO, CINEMA, RADIO & TV, Exhibition Archive, Photography
Hiroo Onoda zit 29
jaar zonder nieuws
Thuis groeide een compleet nieuw
geslacht op terwijl hij door gebladerte
spiedde, voortdurend op zijn hoede:
maar niemand duurde almaar langer.
Pal in zijn oerwoud, van alles afgesneden.
Het zwaard nooit wijkend van de zij,
geweren tot vervelens toe gesmeerd.
Hij had geleerd hoe stand te houden.
Dagelijks menu banaan, gedroogd soms,
en vogels uit de lucht. De slapen licht
en bol van zege. Meer dan tienduizend
dagen en nachten de vijand in het hoofd.
Zelfs een havik is tussen kraaien een arend,
o zoon van de bloedrode zon.
Bert Bevers
Uit: Onaangepaste tijden, Zinderend, Bergen op Zoom, 2006
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Bevers, Bert
Walt Whitman
(1819 – 1892)
Poets to come!
1
Poets to come!
Not to-day is to justify me, and Democracy, and what we are for;
But you, a new brood, native, athletic, continental, greater than before
known,
You must justify me.
2
I but write one or two indicative words for the future,
I but advance a moment, only to wheel and hurry back in the darkness.
I am a man who, sauntering along, without fully stopping, turns a casual
look upon you, and then averts his face,
Leaving it to you to prove and define it,
Expecting the main things from you.
Walt Whitman poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive W-X, Whitman, Walt
Jean Jaurès
(1859 – 1914)
La Couleur Fille De La Lumière
Pourquoi la couleur ne serait-elle pas un produit de notre sphère? Pourquoi ne supposerait-elle pas des conditions qui ne soient pas réalisées dans l’indifférence de l’espace infini? Elle ne se manifeste aux sens qu’à la rencontre de la lumière et de ce qui est essentiellement contraire à la lumière, les corps résistants. Pourquoi donc supposer qu’elle est déjà contenue dans la lumière? On a la ressource de dire qu’elle s’y cache et qu’elle attend, pour se montrer, que la libre expansion de la clarté rencontre un obstacle. Mais il est permis de penser aussi que ce qui se cache si bien n’existe pas encore ; la couleur est fille de la lumière et de notre monde corporel et lourd. Pourquoi en appesantir la lumière elle-même dans son expansion une et simple à travers l’infini? Quel sens auraient le vert et le rouge dans les espaces indifférents? Ici ils résultent de la vie et ils l’expriment dans son rapport avec la lumière; hors de la sphère vivante, ils n’ont pas de sens . . .
Par les couleurs, la lumière fait amitié avec notre monde: la couleur est le gage d’union; la matière pesante peut enrichir l’impondérable en manifestant d’une manière éclatante ce qui se dérobait en lui; l’obscurité, en faisant sortir les couleurs de la lumière, lui vaut, dans notre sphère, un joyeux triomphe; et la lumière en même temps, en s’unissant à la matière pesante dans la couleur, l’allège et l’idéalise: rien ne demeure stérile; tout fait œuvre de beauté. Les molécules dispersées dans l’air nous donnent les splendeurs du couchant; l’obscurité infinie des espaces vides, se répandant dans la clarté du jour, l’adoucit en une charmante teinte bleue; le mystère même de la nuit et la brutalité de la lumière, saisis au travers l’un de l’autre et l’un dans l’autre, conspirent à une merveilleuse douceur: le jour manifeste la nuit; car, plus la lumière est abondante et pure, plus le ciel est profond, et plus le regard devine l’immensité des espaces qui sont au delà; et le soir, quand le voile de clarté tombe pour laisser voir la nuit à découvert, on la trouverait bien vulgaire et bien triste, si elle ne s’emplissait lentement d’un autre mystère.
Devenue expressive dans la couleur, la lumière s’est rapprochée du son: elle peut concourir avec lui à manifester l’âme des choses; tandis qu’un son qui s’élèverait dans la pure clarté serait comme une voix dans le désert, sans rien qui la soutienne ou lui réponde, les sonorités du monde s’harmonisent à ses splendeurs. La magnificence ou la tristesse des teintes correspond à la plénitude joyeuse ou à la douceur voilée des sons: la lumière, dans sa lutte et son union avec l’obscurité, est devenue dramatique, et elle s’accorde avec un monde où tout est action; l’ombre, en pénétrant dans la clarté, y a glissé d’intimes trésors de mélancolie que le bleu pâlissant du soir communique à l’âme, et la sérénité impassible de la clarté pure est devenue, au contact de l’ombre qu’elle dissipe en s’y transformant, quelque chose de plus humain, la joie.
Jean Jaurès poésie
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive I-J, Jaurès, Jean
Karoline von Günderrode
(1780 – 1806)
Der Gefangene und der Sänger
Ich wallte mit leichtem und lustigem Sinn
Und singend am Kerker vorüber;
Da schallt aus der Tiefe, da schallt aus dem Thurm
Mir Stimme des Freundes herüber. –
„Ach Sänger! verweile, mich tröstet dein Lied,
Es steigt zum Gefangnen herunter,
Ihm macht es gesellig die einsame Zeit,
Das krankende Herz ihm gesunder.“
Ich horchte der Stimme, gehorchte ihr bald,
Zum Kerker hin wandt’ ich die Schritte,
Gern sprach ich die freundlichsten Worte hinab,
Begegnete jeglicher Bitte.
Da war dem Gefangenen freier der Sinn,
Gesellig die einsamen Stunden. –
„Gern gäb ich dir Lieber! so rief er: die Hand,
Doch ist sie von Banden umwunden.
Gern käm’ ich Geliebter! gern käm’ ich herauf
Am Herzen dich treulich zu herzen;
Doch trennen mich Mauern und Riegel von dir,
O fühl’ des Gefangenen Schmerzen.
Es ziehet mich mancherlei Sehnsucht zu dir;
Doch Ketten umfangen mein Leben,
Drum gehe mein Lieber und laß mich allein,
Ich Armer ich kann dir nichts geben.“ –
Da ward mir so weich und so wehe ums Herz,
Ich konnte den Lieben nicht lassen.
Am Kerker nun lausch’ ich von Frührothes Schein
Bis Abends die Farben erblassen.
Und harren dort werd’ ich die Jahre hindurch,
Und sollt’ ich drob selber erblassen.
Es ist mir so weich und so sehnend ums Herz
Ich kann den Geliebten nicht lassen.
Karoline Günderrode Gedichte
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive G-H, Karoline von Günderrode
Poison
by Katherine Mansfield
The post was very late. When we came back from our walk after lunch it still had not arrived.
“Pas encore, Madame,” sang Annette, scurrying back to her cooking.
We carried our parcels into the dining-room. The table was laid. As always, the sight of the table laid for two—for two people only—and yet so finished, so perfect, there was no possible room for a third, gave me a queer, quick thrill as though I’d been struck by that silver lightning that quivered over the white cloth, the brilliant glasses, the shallow bowl of freezias.
“Blow the old postman! Whatever can have happened to him?” said Beatrice. “Put those things down, dearest.”
“Where would you like them …?”
She raised her head; she smiled her sweet, teasing smile.
“Anywhere—Silly.”
But I knew only too well that there was no such place for her, and I would have stood holding the squat liqueur bottle and the sweets for months, for years, rather than risk giving another tiny shock to her exquisite sense of order.
“Here—I’ll take them.” She plumped them down on the table with her long gloves and a basket of figs. “The Luncheon Table. Short story by—by—” She took my arm. “Let’s go on to the terrace—” and I felt her shiver. “Ça sent,” she said faintly, “de la cuisine …”
I had noticed lately—we had been living in the south for two months—that when she wished to speak of food, or the climate, or, playfully, of her love for me, she always dropped into French.
We perched on the balustrade under the awning. Beatrice leaned over gazing down—down to the white road with its guard of cactus spears. The beauty of her ear, just her ear, the marvel of it was so great that I could have turned from regarding it to all that sweep of glittering sea below and stammered: “You know—her ear! She has ears that are simply the most …”
She was dressed in white, with pearls round her throat and lilies-of-the-valley tucked into her belt. On the third finger of her left hand she wore one pearl ring—no wedding ring.
“Why should I, mon ami? Why should we pretend? Who could possibly care?”
And of course I agreed, though privately, in the depths of my heart, I would have given my soul to have stood beside her in a large, yes, a large, fashionable church, crammed with people, with old reverend clergymen, with The Voice that breathed o’er Eden, with palms and the smell of scent, knowing there was a red carpet and confetti outside, and somewhere, a wedding-cake and champagne and a satin shoe to throw after the carriage—if I could have slipped our wedding-ring on to her finger.
Not because I cared for such horrible shows, but because I felt it might possibly perhaps lessen this ghastly feeling of absolute freedom, her absolute freedom, of course.
Oh, God! What torture happiness was—what anguish! I looked up at the villa, at the windows of our room hidden so mysteriously behind the green straw blinds. Was it possible that she ever came moving through the green light and smiling that secret smile, that languid, brilliant smile that was just for me? She put her arm round my neck; the other hand softly, terribly, brushed back my hair.
“Who are you?” Who was she? She was—Woman.
… On the first warm evening in Spring, when lights shone like pearls through the lilac air and voices murmured in the fresh-flowering gardens, it was she who sang in the tall house with the tulle curtains. As one drove in the moonlight through the foreign city hers was the shadow that fell across the quivering gold of the shutters. When the lamp was lighted, in the new-born stillness her steps passed your door. And she looked out into the autumn twilight, pale in her furs, as the automobile swept by …
In fact, to put it shortly, I was twenty-four at the time. And when she lay on her back, with the pearls slipped under her chin, and sighed “I’m thirsty, dearest. Donne-moi un orange,” I would gladly, willingly, have dived for an orange into the jaws of a crocodile—if crocodiles ate oranges.
“Had I two little feathery wings
And were a little feathery bird …”
sang Beatrice.
I seized her hand. “You wouldn’t fly away?”
“Not far. Not further than the bottom of the road.”
“Why on earth there?”
She quoted: “He cometh not, she said …”
“Who? The silly old postman? But you’re not expecting a letter.”
“No, but it’s maddening all the same. Ah!” Suddenly she laughed and leaned against me. “There he is—look—like a blue beetle.”
And we pressed our cheeks together and watched the blue beetle beginning to climb.
“Dearest,” breathed Beatrice. And the word seemed to linger in the air, to throb in the air like the note of a violin.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know,” she laughed softly. “A wave of—a wave of affection, I suppose.”
I put my arm round her. “Then you wouldn’t fly away?”
And she said rapidly and softly: “No! No! Not for worlds. Not really. I love this place. I’ve loved being here. I could stay here for years, I believe. I’ve never been so happy as I have these last two months, and you’ve been so perfect to me, dearest, in every way.”
This was such bliss—it was so extraordinary, so unprecedented, to hear her talk like this that I had to try to laugh it off.
“Don’t! You sound as if you were saying good-bye.”
“Oh, nonsense, nonsense. You mustn’t say such things even in fun!” She slid her little hand under my white jacket and clutched my shoulder. “You’ve been happy, haven’t you?”
“Happy? Happy? Oh, God—if you knew what I feel at this moment … Happy! My Wonder! My Joy!”
I dropped off the balustrade and embraced her, lifting her in my arms. And while I held her lifted I pressed my face in her breast and muttered: “You are mine?” And for the first time in all the desperate months I’d known her, even counting the last month of— surely—Heaven—I believed her absolutely when she answered:
“Yes, I am yours.”
The creak of the gate and the postman’s steps on the gravel drew us apart. I was dizzy for the moment. I simply stood there, smiling, I felt, rather stupidly. Beatrice walked over to the cane chairs.
“You go—go for the letters,” said she.
I—well—I almost reeled away. But I was too late. Annette came running. “Pas de lettres” said she.
My reckless smile in reply as she handed me the paper must have surprised her. I was wild with joy. I threw the paper up into the air and sang out:
“No letters, darling!” as I came over to where the beloved woman was lying in the long chair.
For a moment she did not reply. Then she said slowly as she tore off the newspaper wrapper: “The world forgetting, by the world forgot.”
There are times when a cigarette is just the very one thing that will carry you over the moment. It is more than a confederate, even; it is a secret, perfect little friend who knows all about it and understands absolutely. While you smoke you look down at it—smile or frown, as the occasion demands; you inhale deeply and expel the smoke in a slow fan. This was one of those moments. I walked over to the magnolia and breathed my fill of it. Then I came back and leaned over her shoulder. But quickly she tossed the paper away on to the stone.
“There’s nothing in it,” said she. “Nothing. There’s only some poison trial. Either some man did or didn’t murder his wife, and twenty thousand people have sat in court every day and two million words have been wired all over the world after each proceeding.”
“Silly world!” said I, flinging into another chair. I wanted to forget the paper, to return, but cautiously, of course, to that moment before the postman came. But when she answered I knew from her voice the moment was over for now. Never mind. I was content to wait—five hundred years, if need be—now that I knew.
“Not so very silly,” said Beatrice. “After all it isn’t only morbid curiosity on the part of the twenty thousand.”
“What is it, darling?” Heavens knows I didn’t care.
“Guilt! “she cried. “Guilt! Didn’t you realise that? They’re fascinated like sick people are fascinated by anything—any scrap of news about their own case. The man in the dock may be innocent enough, but the people in court are nearly all of them poisoners. Haven’t you ever thought” —she was pale with excitement— “of the amount of poisoning that goes on? It’s the exception to find married people who don’t poison each other— married people and lovers. Oh,” she cried, “the number of cups of tea, glasses of wine, cups of coffee that are just tainted. The number I’ve had myself, and drunk, either knowing or not knowing—and risked it. The only reason why so many couples”—she laughed—” survive, is because the one is frightened of giving the other the fatal dose. That dose takes nerve! But it’s bound to come sooner or later. There’s no going back once the first little dose has been given. It’s the beginning of the end, really—don’t you agree? Don’t you see what I mean?”
She didn’t wait for me to answer. She unpinned the lilies-of-the-valley and lay back, drawing them across her eyes.
“Both my husbands poisoned me,” said Beatrice. “My first husband gave me a huge dose almost immediately, but my second was really an artist in his way. Just a tiny pinch, now and again, cleverly disguised—Oh, so cleverly! —until one morning I woke up and in every single particle of me, to the ends of my fingers and toes, there was a tiny grain. I was just in time …”
I hated to hear her mention her husbands so calmly, especially to-day. It hurt. I was going to speak, but suddenly she cried mournfully:
“Why! Why should it have happened to me? What have I done? Why have I been all my life singled out by … It’s a conspiracy.”
I tried to tell her it was because she was too perfect for this horrible world—too exquisite, too fine. It frightened people. I made a little joke.
“But I—I haven’t tried to poison you.”
Beatrice gave a queer small laugh and bit the end of a lily stem.
“You!” said she. “You wouldn’t hurt a fly!”
Strange. That hurt, though. Most horribly.
Just then Annette ran out with our apéritifs. Beatrice leaned forward and took a glass from the tray and handed it to me. I noticed the gleam of the pearl on what I called her pearl finger. How could I be hurt at what she said?
“And you,” I said, taking the glass, “you’ve never poisoned anybody.”
That gave me an idea; I tried to explain.
“You—you do just the opposite. What is the name for one like you who, instead of poisoning people, fills them—everybody, the postman, the man who drives us, our boatman, the flower-seller, me—with new life, with something of her own radiance, her beauty, her—”
Dreamily she smiled; dreamily she looked at me.
“What are you thinking of—my lovely darling?”
“I was wondering,” she said, “whether, after lunch, you’d go down to the post-office and ask for the afternoon letters. Would you mind, dearest? Not that I’m expecting one —but—I just thought, perhaps—it’s silly not to have the letters if they’re there. Isn’t it? Silly to wait till to-morrow.” She twirled the stem of the glass in her fingers. Her beautiful head was bent. But I lifted my glass and drank, sipped rather—sipped slowly, deliberately, looking at that dark head and thinking of—postmen and blue beetles and farewells that were not farewells and …
Good God! Was it fancy? No, it wasn’t fancy. The drink tasted chill, bitter, queer.
Poison
by Katherine Mansfield (1888 – 1923)
From: Something Childish and Other Stories
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive M-N, Katherine Mansfield, Mansfield, Katherine
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