The Sava River cuts Belgrade in half.
Probably the most Serbian of rivers, his waters flow lazily and merge with the mighty Danube -probably the most European of rivers.
Downtown Belgrade offers many views onto the Sava. As an example, take Kalemegdan, a large park which is to Serbia's capital what Central Park is to New York, or Les Plaines d'Abraham to Québec City. On a clear day of Summer you can relax, sit on a bench and watch as the river traffic unfolds. A cargo here, a small passenger vessel there, probably a ferry...
A number of boat-restaurants still operate along the Sava. Apparently, there was a time in the nineties where it was fancy (or it still is) to dine in this establishments. Local, national, foreign personalities and their cohorts would have lavish diners, probably consume rivers of slivovitz to the sound of the latest turbo-folk. The next day photos of these diners may or may not appear in diaries and tabloids. Patrons of these restaurants were of many sorts: politicians, football (or music) stars, gangsters, war leaders... Belgrade of the nineties was such a chaotic (and surreal) place.
The Sava has witnessed the fate of Belgraders through the centuries. The river was there in the fifteenth century when the city was on countless occasions razed down by the Turks (by the Germans in 1944) and later by the United States and its European allies as part of a NATO coordinated offensive.
Planes roared the skies, exploding bombs illuminated otherwise dark alleys, streets and run-down buildings. On the other side of the Sava, the trendy Novi Beograd wasn't spared as buildings and office complexes of the Socialist Party were fatally hit. Entire neighborhoods suddenly became ghost towns, the former glory of imposing party buildings was reduced to rubble.
I visited Novi Beograd a few years after the bombings: The Dayton accords had been signed, Bosnia had been carved up by Croatia and Serbia and the NATO planes had already abandoned their bases in Hungary and Turkey. Milosevic was still president of Yugoslavia. The memory of hyper-inflation was fresh.
I walked around one of the damaged sites. I don't remember how I got there, probably a taxi drove me. From 'Old' Belgrade we went into Novi Beograd (we crossed the Sava). On the ground I found some sort of photo ID, it belonged probably to a party member. I kept the ID as a 'souvenir' of my trip and I still have it somewhere among other things I keep from previous travels: postcards, foreign currency, magazines and papers in exotic alphabets, maps, CDs of folk music from various lands, museum entrances, leaflets, diptychs, tourist brochures... and then this party member ID.
Sometimes I wonder, who was this man? What was he doing on the day of the bombing? Is he still alive? How did his ID ever ended up in my room? A decade ago when Mr. Milosevic dictated the day-to-day affairs of Yugoslavia keeping this card might have been a felony. Today it's just a worthless relic valuable only to academics.
A relic is something material: you can touch it, feel it. On the other hand, a memory is intangible, exists only in the memory of those who have lived it.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Winter
Some people think that men shouldn't be afraid of anything.
This conviction stems from various beliefs:
* The perception that humanity has attained a level of technological advancement big enough to ward-off any threat from nature or man-provoked disaster
* The belief that 'God' is on our side and so divinity guards us against danger of all proportions
* The audacity with which some men conduct their affairs: call it 'bravado', 'temerity' or the 'macho' belief that danger can be avoided.
In the first current of thought (technological advancement) I would situate thinkers like Malthus. We should not fear overpopulation (the reasoning goes) as long as progress in agricultural techniques allow for an ever growing food output.
I am not a religious man, so I will largely bypass the second argument. As for the 'bravado', this is, unfortunately, very commonly seen in state leaders. Remember Saddam Hussein firing a rifle into the air? The talk about the 'infidel' and the 'Mother of all wars' while his people was facing the wrath of foreign armies?
In fact, my purpose in this post is to discard the three arguments all together. Technology is not the cure to all troubles. The complicated system of dykes and levees that prevent New Orleans from sinking collapsed with Hurricane Katrina. The entire computer systems of banks, governments and health institutions where jeopardised by the 'Year 2000' problem. Though most of the systems were fixed in time, y2k revealed this large dependency of societies on fragile computerised systems. Rather than a solution, technology became an issue, a cost to corporations as they tried to update computer software.
If there is something I personally fear that is winter. Every year the Eastern United States is blanketed by heavy covers of snow. Airports across the country are paralised, people stranded and air travel, along with the commercial movement of merchandise, come to a halt. Last December, most European countries saw their airports become inmense dormitories as travellers saw flight cancellations and disruptions. Secondary (and primary) routes in Belgium, France, Germany, the United Kingdom, were closed for days as the snow piled up to unseen levels.
Researchers from the Brookings Institution recently wrote a book on how a long winter affected the economy of the former Soviet Union, weather ultimately contributing to its demise in the early nineties (Hill & Gaddy, 2003). Entire cities of thousands (even millions) of people were built in the snow deserts of Siberia (some boomed in the 50s and 60s but eventually collapsed).
Winter is a double-edged sword. In some dry countries like Spain, the snow that piles up in alpine mountains feeds rivers and water reservoirs as that snow melts and flows downstream thus alleviating some of the water scarcity seen in summer.
Winter is also the postcard of children ice skating in front of the Rockefeller Plaza Christmas tree; the beautiful landscapes of painter Jean-Paul Lémieux, the cozy living rooms illuminated by a fireplace, jazzy music to the ears...
But I personally keep terrible memories of winter. A snow storm can bring all city activity to a halt. In Québec city a few years ago, a powerful storm decreed the closing of schools and offices. Daring to drive in this conditions is bravado: I nearly killed myself in a car accident as I defied the elements. Fortunately I'm still here safe and sound in front of a computer screen.
This conviction stems from various beliefs:
* The perception that humanity has attained a level of technological advancement big enough to ward-off any threat from nature or man-provoked disaster
* The belief that 'God' is on our side and so divinity guards us against danger of all proportions
* The audacity with which some men conduct their affairs: call it 'bravado', 'temerity' or the 'macho' belief that danger can be avoided.
In the first current of thought (technological advancement) I would situate thinkers like Malthus. We should not fear overpopulation (the reasoning goes) as long as progress in agricultural techniques allow for an ever growing food output.
I am not a religious man, so I will largely bypass the second argument. As for the 'bravado', this is, unfortunately, very commonly seen in state leaders. Remember Saddam Hussein firing a rifle into the air? The talk about the 'infidel' and the 'Mother of all wars' while his people was facing the wrath of foreign armies?
In fact, my purpose in this post is to discard the three arguments all together. Technology is not the cure to all troubles. The complicated system of dykes and levees that prevent New Orleans from sinking collapsed with Hurricane Katrina. The entire computer systems of banks, governments and health institutions where jeopardised by the 'Year 2000' problem. Though most of the systems were fixed in time, y2k revealed this large dependency of societies on fragile computerised systems. Rather than a solution, technology became an issue, a cost to corporations as they tried to update computer software.
If there is something I personally fear that is winter. Every year the Eastern United States is blanketed by heavy covers of snow. Airports across the country are paralised, people stranded and air travel, along with the commercial movement of merchandise, come to a halt. Last December, most European countries saw their airports become inmense dormitories as travellers saw flight cancellations and disruptions. Secondary (and primary) routes in Belgium, France, Germany, the United Kingdom, were closed for days as the snow piled up to unseen levels.
Researchers from the Brookings Institution recently wrote a book on how a long winter affected the economy of the former Soviet Union, weather ultimately contributing to its demise in the early nineties (Hill & Gaddy, 2003). Entire cities of thousands (even millions) of people were built in the snow deserts of Siberia (some boomed in the 50s and 60s but eventually collapsed).
Winter is a double-edged sword. In some dry countries like Spain, the snow that piles up in alpine mountains feeds rivers and water reservoirs as that snow melts and flows downstream thus alleviating some of the water scarcity seen in summer.
Winter is also the postcard of children ice skating in front of the Rockefeller Plaza Christmas tree; the beautiful landscapes of painter Jean-Paul Lémieux, the cozy living rooms illuminated by a fireplace, jazzy music to the ears...
But I personally keep terrible memories of winter. A snow storm can bring all city activity to a halt. In Québec city a few years ago, a powerful storm decreed the closing of schools and offices. Daring to drive in this conditions is bravado: I nearly killed myself in a car accident as I defied the elements. Fortunately I'm still here safe and sound in front of a computer screen.
GUM
My father looked up to the Soviet Union as a model society. He admired her Health system, her universities, her technology. Those were the eighties.
When the opportunity arose, the whole family embarked on an international vacation that included, literally, a dozen stops. Our plane made a first stop in Havana, a second in the Irish airport of Shanon, then landed in mighty Moscow.
We toured aboard a motor coach where a tourist guide spoke through a microphone as we passed sights. My father was no stranger to this country: he had visited at least twice. He had experienced the winters, the midnight sun. He might have been familiar with some streets, places, the trolley system... I picture him wearing a thick fur coat, his white hair flown by the cold breeze, walking clumsily in deep snow.
In his Encyclopedia of the Dead, Danilo Kis paints a character who moves to Moscow, becomes rapidly familiar with the city to the point where he knows every street, every shortcut, every square. My father never got acquainted with Moscow, or any other Soviet city, but probably he had wished to. His work, his family, his obligations prevented him from becoming that Bohemian man of which he dreamt.
Though my father never attended higher education he was highly versed in topics such as politics, metaphysics, theology, economics. He was interested in Nietzsche. On a visit to a bookstore, I suggested Kierkegaard. He bought one of his books (I don't remember which) along with half a dozen other obscure tomes.
His reading would reflect in his conversation. When others engaged in menial conversation, he would cite Biblical passages (he was no religious man, though). On other occasions he would evoke the life of notable people like Harland Sander. When he wasn't quoting philosophers, he told anecdotes from his own life. He spoke with a voice of experience.
Back to Moscow, our bus stopped at a huge downtown building. One thing that mostly impressed us, when walking this gray Moscow (it was summer!) was the lack of publicity, or advertising. The streets were packed with people, mostly ignoring each other, carrying on with their walking, with their affairs, but there were no billboards, no commercial announces hanging from the facades of buildings. We went inside this building (two or three stories high) which the tourist guide proudly described as a shopping mall.
It was the legendary GUM.
Older brother, little brother, father, mother and I walked around the hallways of this marvel of socialism. (Years later I went inside the St. Hubert galleries in central Brussels; the place instantly brought me back to the Soviet GUM).
There was this time, the eighties, when ideology had a topographical and a material reference. All a man had to do was to look up North. There were institutions, spires, high flying ondulating flags, symbols. At the time, men like my father may have looked up to Brezhnev as a visionary. We didn't imagine what the future had in stock. A subject for another post.
When the opportunity arose, the whole family embarked on an international vacation that included, literally, a dozen stops. Our plane made a first stop in Havana, a second in the Irish airport of Shanon, then landed in mighty Moscow.
We toured aboard a motor coach where a tourist guide spoke through a microphone as we passed sights. My father was no stranger to this country: he had visited at least twice. He had experienced the winters, the midnight sun. He might have been familiar with some streets, places, the trolley system... I picture him wearing a thick fur coat, his white hair flown by the cold breeze, walking clumsily in deep snow.
In his Encyclopedia of the Dead, Danilo Kis paints a character who moves to Moscow, becomes rapidly familiar with the city to the point where he knows every street, every shortcut, every square. My father never got acquainted with Moscow, or any other Soviet city, but probably he had wished to. His work, his family, his obligations prevented him from becoming that Bohemian man of which he dreamt.
Though my father never attended higher education he was highly versed in topics such as politics, metaphysics, theology, economics. He was interested in Nietzsche. On a visit to a bookstore, I suggested Kierkegaard. He bought one of his books (I don't remember which) along with half a dozen other obscure tomes.
His reading would reflect in his conversation. When others engaged in menial conversation, he would cite Biblical passages (he was no religious man, though). On other occasions he would evoke the life of notable people like Harland Sander. When he wasn't quoting philosophers, he told anecdotes from his own life. He spoke with a voice of experience.
Back to Moscow, our bus stopped at a huge downtown building. One thing that mostly impressed us, when walking this gray Moscow (it was summer!) was the lack of publicity, or advertising. The streets were packed with people, mostly ignoring each other, carrying on with their walking, with their affairs, but there were no billboards, no commercial announces hanging from the facades of buildings. We went inside this building (two or three stories high) which the tourist guide proudly described as a shopping mall.
It was the legendary GUM.
Older brother, little brother, father, mother and I walked around the hallways of this marvel of socialism. (Years later I went inside the St. Hubert galleries in central Brussels; the place instantly brought me back to the Soviet GUM).
There was this time, the eighties, when ideology had a topographical and a material reference. All a man had to do was to look up North. There were institutions, spires, high flying ondulating flags, symbols. At the time, men like my father may have looked up to Brezhnev as a visionary. We didn't imagine what the future had in stock. A subject for another post.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
On time and Michael Stipe
I remember a few press reports, articles about the personal life of Mr. Mike Jagger. He would date younger Brazilian models (almost half his age) then go on stage and 'rock' the world. His personal life was the subject of café lounges and everyone had an opinion. Should he be dating women old enough to be his daughters? Should he retire to a peaceful, quieter life and live off the proceeds of royalties?
Back in those days (the nineties) I didn't care much for the Rolling Stones. This hasn't changed (I still don't care for them) but the reports kept appearing in TV newscasts and magazines that it was impossible not to notice this scrutiny of Mr. Jagger's (Sir Jagger's) exploits.
The public scrutiny of media personalities is no surprise. Icons of mass culture, whether they're called Kurt Cobain -or Britney Spears- will always fill up the pages of tabloids, pamphlets, sunday magazines, facebook pages, blogs, twitters and most other known or yet to be known communication media.
On January 4, Michael Stipe turned 51. Though Stipe is no Jagger, his reaching of old age reminded me of Jagger in the mid to late nineties. A young teen today may be as indifferent to R.E.M. music as I was of the Rolling Stones fifteen or twenty years ago. (Today's teen may ask: 'Michael who?')
Google Michael Stipe and you are likely to see photos of a bald man sporting an abundant gray beard. The other day I was revisiting some music videos of the nineties: 'Losing my religion', 'Everybody hurts', 'Drive', 'What's the Frequency Kenneth..?' These were a sensation and the darlings of the music industry.
One video that I saw, 'New Test Leper' in particular, had a very dated feel. It looked grainy, and I thought some 're-mastering' (whatever the heck that is) would greatly benefit the image. For some reason, everything in the video seemed dated: the console, the microphones, the headphones, the cables... Nothing that a good macintosh couldn't do today! (Bear in mind these were already the nineties, the era of the dotcom boom).
Those observations aside, 'New Test Leper' is still a beautiful melody: the quality of its lyrics, the choruses, the verses, the guitar chords will all remain timeless.
Another video is 'Drive', released in 1992 and shot entirely in black in white. Through a series of 'flashes' we see slow moving images, snapshots of a young Mike Mills, a young Peter Buck sporting the classic 'rocker' look of long hair and dark glasses... Twenty years later we see Buck abandoning the rocker look in favour of long sleeve shirts and sometimes suits in classy colours.
I'll end the post with a very personal conclusion. When I first watched 'Losing my religion' on MTV, Stipe & Co. looked like grown-up men, adults if you would. The truth is Stipe was a young man in his early thirties, R.E.M. was a glorious band and the future looked full of promise (no one even remotely imagined the fiascos of Monster and Around the Sun). While this single was dominating the radio airwaves (along with Radiohead's 'Creep' and Duran Duran's 'Ordinary World') I was a young boy attending college, barely 20 years old.
What happened later? Paramores, Tokyo Hotels and Black Eyed Peas have settled in. I have the age Stipe had when he recorded 'New Test Leper', the very same video that now looks grainy and needs remastering.
Back in those days (the nineties) I didn't care much for the Rolling Stones. This hasn't changed (I still don't care for them) but the reports kept appearing in TV newscasts and magazines that it was impossible not to notice this scrutiny of Mr. Jagger's (Sir Jagger's) exploits.
The public scrutiny of media personalities is no surprise. Icons of mass culture, whether they're called Kurt Cobain -or Britney Spears- will always fill up the pages of tabloids, pamphlets, sunday magazines, facebook pages, blogs, twitters and most other known or yet to be known communication media.
On January 4, Michael Stipe turned 51. Though Stipe is no Jagger, his reaching of old age reminded me of Jagger in the mid to late nineties. A young teen today may be as indifferent to R.E.M. music as I was of the Rolling Stones fifteen or twenty years ago. (Today's teen may ask: 'Michael who?')
Google Michael Stipe and you are likely to see photos of a bald man sporting an abundant gray beard. The other day I was revisiting some music videos of the nineties: 'Losing my religion', 'Everybody hurts', 'Drive', 'What's the Frequency Kenneth..?' These were a sensation and the darlings of the music industry.
One video that I saw, 'New Test Leper' in particular, had a very dated feel. It looked grainy, and I thought some 're-mastering' (whatever the heck that is) would greatly benefit the image. For some reason, everything in the video seemed dated: the console, the microphones, the headphones, the cables... Nothing that a good macintosh couldn't do today! (Bear in mind these were already the nineties, the era of the dotcom boom).
Those observations aside, 'New Test Leper' is still a beautiful melody: the quality of its lyrics, the choruses, the verses, the guitar chords will all remain timeless.
Another video is 'Drive', released in 1992 and shot entirely in black in white. Through a series of 'flashes' we see slow moving images, snapshots of a young Mike Mills, a young Peter Buck sporting the classic 'rocker' look of long hair and dark glasses... Twenty years later we see Buck abandoning the rocker look in favour of long sleeve shirts and sometimes suits in classy colours.
I'll end the post with a very personal conclusion. When I first watched 'Losing my religion' on MTV, Stipe & Co. looked like grown-up men, adults if you would. The truth is Stipe was a young man in his early thirties, R.E.M. was a glorious band and the future looked full of promise (no one even remotely imagined the fiascos of Monster and Around the Sun). While this single was dominating the radio airwaves (along with Radiohead's 'Creep' and Duran Duran's 'Ordinary World') I was a young boy attending college, barely 20 years old.
What happened later? Paramores, Tokyo Hotels and Black Eyed Peas have settled in. I have the age Stipe had when he recorded 'New Test Leper', the very same video that now looks grainy and needs remastering.
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