Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa…

The most famous work of art in the history of the world resides in the Louvre. I got within 20 feet of her famously enigmatic smile, for perhaps 30 seconds of contemplation, before someone with an iPad above his head stepped in front of me to take a photo.

So, I retreated disdainfully to observe the scrum from a distance.

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The Mona Lisa must also be the most photographed and reproduced artwork in the world, yet people had travelled hundreds – possibly thousands – of miles just to turn their back on her and to take a selfie.

Why?

I can’t believe that I was the only one who wanted to just stand there and take in her beauty for a few minutes. That’s all I wanted – not just to prove that I had been there, but to introduce myself to the old girl, to tell her how much I’d read about her and how much I admired her.

I left with Nat King Cole’s classic playing softly in my head:

“Many dreams have been brought to your doorstep
They just lie there and they die there…”

Ads pretending to be art…

“An ad that pretends to be art is — at absolute best — like somebody who smiles warmly at you only because he wants something from you. This is dishonest, but what’s sinister is the cumulative effect that such dishonesty has on us: since it offers a perfect facsimile or simulacrum of goodwill without goodwill’s real spirit, it messes with our heads and eventually starts upping our defenses even in cases of genuine smiles and real art and true goodwill. It makes us feel confused and lonely and impotent and angry and scared. It causes despair.”

David Foster Wallace

Epiphany…

laughing_foolSo January shows her cold face again and we move into our lifeless and ennui-sodden post-Christmas slough of despond. Though the days are mercifully short, they are grey, heavy and wearing on the soul. Now one really feels the chill of winter.

It’s not even anything to do with the weatherman though – its a visceral and heartfelt season of reflection and near despair. The festivities are over and – unless we get a holiday in the sun booked quickly – its back to the drudgery of everyday existence.

Not watched the news for a week or so, not had to commute or do any real work, but the prospect of getting back into it is only slightly less welcome than the though of of being hit by a speeding car.

Where is all the possibility that should be whispering into my ear? Where is all the promise of the new – the sun on the horizon, the adventure and the fortune?

I’ve never been a quitter, hence my inability to stop drinking. But this year is slightly different. I don’t do new year’s resolutions. It’s all as much a cynical marketing ploy as mother’s and father’s days as far as I’m concerned – the chance to sell gym memberships, organic food and exercise equipment that won’t see any use beyond the 1st of February. But this change of year has brought about an unbidden sense of contemplation and evaluation. My father always jokes that “Every day is another nearer the gaping pit!” In middle-age, however this is less amusing and has come to resemble a dire warning.


Flashback!

Just looked at the pages in my notebook as I write this and remembered a time at school when it was a relief to come to the end of one page of ‘foolscap’ paper (does anyone call it that anymore?)

A quick consultation of the dictionary app on my phone says that it’s chiefly British, is also called ‘foolscap octavo’ and sometime ‘foolscap quarto’ when used in a book. The name dates from 1690-1700 and is so-called due to the watermark of a fool’s cap used on such paper. Needless to say that I saw no such ornamentation on the paper at my comprehensive – perhaps it was evident in posher schools, or just something consigned to the past. But, it was the size of the paper (A4) that was particularly dreaded. It was especially bad when being given ‘lines’ for some infraction or other. Of course, 100 lines involved the same amount of work in whatever size of paper, but the difference in scale seemed like comparing Silbury Hill to Mount Everest in the young mind – almost as if there were so much more effort involved.


Anyway, the January epiphany is here, literally and figuratively. We get through the familial and social obligations of Christmas only to feel the sting of the unfulfilled and of creeping antiquity once the quiet sets in. And every year, despite everything, we’ll get through it.

Of course that is, right up until we don’t…

 

Seven Brides for Seven Rapists?

Currently reading Mary Beard’s hugely enjoyable SPQR: A History of Ancient Rome. One of the early surprises to emerge is the connection between between the legendary ‘Rape of the Sabine Women‘ (or ‘Abduction of’ as in Poussin’s representation below), and the musical, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.

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According to Beard:

“[The rape] is a scene that has been reimagined in in all kinds of different ways, and media, throughout history. The 1954 musical Seven Brides for Seven Brothers parodies it (in the case, the wives are abducted at an American barn raising).”

Now, I’ve never seen the musical, basically because every time I’ve seen a few minutes of it on TV, it has made me groan loudly and reach for the remote control to rescue me from its sheer cheesiness. Strange to think that the idea of this ‘family favourite’ sprang out of the story of something so dark.