Jia: August, 2006

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August 25

lunch at bookshop

Another Saturday is coming after a long intensive training week. Even the weather shows some sympathy to me to compensate the dullness in the classroom that all of us suffered. Through the window on the fourth floor, I can see the blue sky above the Finsbury circus, imagining what is happening beyond the window frames.

Inspired by the programme on Beethoven last night, I decided to accompany my studying during the bank holiday revision with classic music. As Mark Steel, an enthusiastic comedian and columnist, argues in the programme, Beethoven is, in today's word, one rock star in the 19th century. Taking in the revolutionary nature of the Freemasons, Haydn’s contractual similarity to Prince, Beethoven’s unusual fondness for semi-hemidemisemiquavers is as feverish as his worship of Napoleon. In one word, what Beethoven has done to music is like what Napoleon has done to Europe (if we exclude Egypt in this case). Although Beethoven is only 16 years younger than Mozart, their music cannot be more different. This is not a gap that can be measured in years, but more likely this is a distance between Earth and Mars, if not so far away that we have to measure it in light years.

But by no means, revolution is as wonderful as Eroica. The culture revolution in China is as ugly and dark as black hole that seems to absorb all the good nature of human being. Whether the brutality is limited to certain people or to general mass somehow becomes the focus of discussion on Radio Four this morning on my way to training, a topic that is too heavy to be mentioned in the country that the actual event occurred. But this is not true to Dai Sijie, a Chinese born French director and writer. Accidentally I spent my lunch hour in a book store and bumped into two summer-reading books. Both happened to be by Chinese authors writing in French. Of course I do not read in French, what is in the store is the English translations. I always find it funny to read Chinese stories in English, especially this time, translated from French. Dai Sijie's Balzac and the little Chinese Seamstress is so successful that he directed the same title movie in 1998. The other book is The Girl who Played Go by Shan Sa. I only started with Shan Sa's book, which is less than 300 pages and the English is very plain. What makes her outstanding is how she organizes the story line. After 45 minutes, I am still kind of lost and have no clue what is going to happen to 'I', a young Chinese girl in Manchuria in 1930s. It is as if this is a Chinese version of 21 Grams, a bit of chaotic before you catch the puzzle.

Again culture becomes the most important word for me today. I suspect the popularity of these two Chinese writers indicates a better understanding of westerners about China. A book is just a book, probably left unfinished at the end of the holiday, and forgotten forever. What interests me is that after spending more than a decade in France, these two decided to write a series of novels on China, but with arguably the most arrogant language which is alien to them. How do they perceive themselves in the role of culture exchange? What identity and how important is this to them? Coincidental I saw D on Mastermind, a television contest consists of specific interest and general knowledge. The hoster finds him interesting, a Chinese with American accent living in England with interest in ancient Egyptian literature. The phenomenon of Dai and Shan Sa does not seem to be unique, I reckon. But what about me? Meddling between English and Chinese?

Night is close. Culture seems to be a too heavy main course to digest for me. For desert I suggest I should think more about passing the exam on Tuesday and how to mix up with my current company culture under the assumption that there is a unique enterprise identity. Or is there one?

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August 22

Saturday

Three, two, one...I am counting the weeks left before I hit the desk. Opposite from the heat in Shanghai, I am crying out for warmth in London. The sun is playing the hiding game again. The clouds seem to be very happy to join in, together is the companion of rain. Typical English weather. So on Saturday I start with a cup of Earl Grey in Russel Square. Strange that after four years around the familar public garden, this is just the second time that I sit down and have a cup of tea. So familiar too is the trees and grass, ever green and lively in this early chilly autumn.

So consiously or unconsiously I walk on the road to Waterstone. The big signs of 10% sale are everywhere, reminding me that a new school year is near. The only difference is that I am not a student any more. How looking forward I was to the new books and lecture note then! But this time, I am not targeting any particular textbook, just want to smell the books, new and old. Almost habitually I was on the first floor with second hand literature. Picked up a Coriolanus randomly, I found the Everyman version had so much details and interpretations that I had never gone into. So without hesitation, I paid two pounds for the book, totally forgot that I came here to look for Sylvia Plath's Bell Jar. Contented, I put the book carefully into my bag, wondering how much would I really read this book in two years.

August 11

the Big Read

Chapter 58 Absence:

It was a long and gloomy night that gathered on me, haunted by the ghosts of many hopes, of many dear remembrances, many errors, many unavailing sorrows and regrets. So when I was left alone with my undisciplined heart, had no conception of the wound with which it had to strive.

The knowledge came upon me, not quickly, but little by little, and grain by grain. The desolate feeling with which I went abroad, deepened and widened hourly. At first it was a heavy sense of loss and sorrow, wherein I could distinguish little else. By imperceptible degrees, it became a hopeless consciousness of all that I had lost, the whole airy castle of my life; of all that remained - a ruined blank and waste, lying wide around me, unbroken, to the dark horizon.

By accident or not, it turned out to be a lonely night. After spending half an hour on the phone and failed to find myself a companion, I almost feel desperate. Then determined, I calm myself down and walk to the kitchen. A quick stir fry of pork and green bean with noodles, not as tasty as restaurant ones, but fresh and hot, served with icy lemon tea. I cheered myself up with one of the easiest things.

Then I picked up the writing left last week, a piece of writing that was almost forgotten during the busy week and a distorting bill from Vodafone. After going to the shop in Oxford Circus three times, the staff failed to do the job properly. So short-tempered was I that the advisor had to ask for help from the store manager. So I complained the unsatisfactory service I received and sorted the whole trouble out today. But rather than relieved, I wonder why the result has to be like this: no complain and temper, no gain. Is this customer service supposed to be? Similar situation appears in the local branch of HSBC where the staff failed to know the basics, causing me spent the whole lunch hour coming and going between Natwest and HSBC, trying to sort my direct debit out, but ended with no result.

Life can be sweet sometimes, but it is certainly not smooth. So in a night like this, I recall David Copperfield, which I finished last weekend (which I regret a lot as my recent exam results are below average).

Call it a novel, but the courage of Dickens remains and lives beyond the fiction. The scene is still clear when I read the above words. As an already successful writer, David left England in a collapse caused by too much loss - love, friendship, interest; of all that had been shattered - his first trust and his first affection. So with solitude he traveled and traveled with burden with him all the time, until he reached a valley in Switzerland. Through the snowy mountain, "in the quiet air, there was a sound of distant singing - shepherd voices; but, as one bright evening cloud floated midway along the mountain's-side, I could almost have believed it came from there, and was not earthly music. All at once, in this serenity, great Nature spoke to me; and soothed I".

Sadly I can not travel abroad as I wish. The terrorist plot has pushed the airport security into limit. Also the sound in a city like London is not earthly. Nevertheless with the gale outside brought me the strike of Big Ben, reminding me that there is only two hours away from tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow is another day, and then shall I find my way back and courage to go on.

Constable and others

Constable

There are two kinds of painters. One is imitator and the other is innovators. But innovation does not come easily, on the contrary, the building up of a new style or technique is extremely hard work.

This is what I find out in the recent exhibition in Tate Britain, the Great Landscapes Constable. Neither The Hay Wain nor The Leaping Horse impressed me a lot despite their overwhelming reputation. For a person like me who does not know too much about painting, what is special about this exhibition is that it offers another perspective to look at Constable. It is he that creates this innovative six-foot canvas landscape painting. Behind the plenty details in the grand scale paintings is the passion for the ever changing and permanent landscape. It is the countryside that he lived and loved. The pencil sketches might be boring, but it is the every composing piece that tells us the full story of painting as a literature work, thinking, creating character, telling the story and revealing feeling through curves and colours. The colours are not bright, but with the gloomy sky, sunshine is often found. Some people interpret this as Constable's religious belief. It might be, especially is this true with Salisbury Cathedral from the Meadows (1831), in which a rainbow extended and crossed the middle-age Gothic cathedral. Nothing is magic if you have faith, I whisper to myself. The catalog says that when Constable was working on the oil sketches of this, his health was beginning to decline, but I believe as is sung in Turandot, what is born each night and dies each dawn is HOPE. Painting is the hope for Constable, who regardless of his fame, struggled with his personality and seeking recognition for his unusual style.

As its name suggests, Tate Britain has a big collection of Tate and the gallery itself is a place of traditional English paintings. But Constable's exhibition is non-traditional in terms how the curators organize the paintings. Apart from the full scale and completed six-foot canvas, together on the exhibition are the full-size oil sketches. Inside Berlin Alt Gallery is a full scale painting of Constable and if I understand the German correctly, the note says that Constable is special as he works outside in the open air and finishes the sketches as much as possible, which is against the common practice to start and complete the work in studios. Due to the live observation Constable's painting has more living effect than his peers. But how hard it is to finish the oil sketch in open air is beyond my imagination, especially the English weather is terrible most of the time. The weather was so bad that he had to abandon some paintings completely. So here we are, in this gallery, with full-size oil sketches and completed work together, thus every change the painter has made has no place to hide. The crowd is too big for me to focus on the paintings too much. But one thing is for sure, even for an innovative painter as Constable, good work does not come easily at all. Rather innovation of his comes from ever more and more repetition, through which the details are enhanced once and once again.

Maybe it is a good idea for similar pattern exhibitions of modern art. Howard Hodgkin is not really an abstract painter, but he is surely not a so easy to understand painter. It will be interesting to see how British interpret modern art. But the question remains if art needs any interpretation. I certainly feel the answer is no in Berlin.