A Melancholiac’s Rant at the Arrival of Spring (or: brooding about current world affairs & disasters)


Just a quick post, I thought, celebrating both the arrival of the cruellest season and Google’s recognition of the present blog as an authority on melancholiacs struggling with Spring. (1)
But current world affairs & disasters do call for some serious brooding, beyond the breeding of lilacs out of the dead land (2).


“What did the ancient Greeks ever do for us?”

In fact, I never much liked to engage in the usual left-right debates about the sustainability of our economic growth model. While personally inclined to a sober life style (3) and preferring contemplative pleasures above tangible goods & action, I did always concede that a solid basis of material wealth was needed to allow societies to produce cultural riches beyond the fulfilment of basic needs.

And being well versed in doctrines of economic rationality, I came to think of my own aversion of materialist greed as a mere aberration of a naive heart. Just as irrational as my longing for disinterested reflection and aesthetic delights. After all, was it not enlightened self-interest coupled with rational scientific thinking that built our world of abundance, lifting hundreds of millions of people out of misery? Scientists , engineers and business men: they set free humanity by understanding and exploiting the laws of nature.

“What did the ancient Greeks ever do for us?” “Those contemplating medieval monks”? “And all those serious philosophers, writers and painters of chimeras? “ “What useful things did they make, to feed, cloth, warm, shelter or transport us?” (4)
Well you see, quite relevant questions indeed! And all I had to answer was that a life without reflection or beauty would not seem worth living to me... Pretty unconvincing... (5). So I confess I conceded defeat: “they” won. (6)
But it did always remain something of a puzzle to me that ‘useless’ reflective & aesthetic qualities, having no apparent survival value at all, could have inspired so many people throughout the ages.


But what will we leave to future generations?

Having surrendered to scientific and economic rationality, I also thought I was just being naive again when wondering how on earth we were ever going to sustain this unrelenting growth in production and consumption. Weren’t we being a tad wasteful? How about billions of people wanting to eat meat, own televisions, drive cars, take planes, etc. How would there ever be enough resources?

But then, the pessimism of the Club of Rome had proven to be wrong too. Thanks to ever advancing science, human ingenuity , entrepreneurship and the geniuses of finance, the infallible free markets would make sure that processes would get ever more resource-efficient and that new solutions would be found.


Yeah right.

The past decade we have been witnessing a series of crises that throw serious doubt on the infallibility of free markets and on the human capacity to master ever more complex systems.

We have had the Great Financial Crisis (of which we are still experiencing its aftershocks): with its mixture of irresponsible greed and hubris (the geniuses of finance seem really to have thought their quantitative models had everything under control). We are experiencing uncontrollable changes in climate linked to our own behaviour. We have watched engineers struggle for months to stop a massive oil spill and to regain control of their deepwater drilling contraptions. We are all now following with horror the unfolding nuclear crisis in Japan ...

Why are humans intellectually so badly equipped to understand that statistically improbable events do can materialise (and thus may not be discarded if they have more than banal consequences). Why are our celebrated free markets so bad at pricing “externalities” (7) and long term risks?

Do I have answers? No. But this morning, looking lovingly at some art reproductions in a book about 15th century paintings, I all of a sudden anxiously wondered: what will we leave for future generations? Our kind of art does not strive for permanence anymore, our aim is no longer to bring objects in the world that may rejoice future generations. (8) We don’t build or paint or sing for eternity .... (9)



From cathedrals to nuclear sarcophagi ...

We are just using up all the resources of our planet to fulfil our present needs and follies. We are taking risks that contaminate parts of our planet for thousands of years to come, or that may irreversibly alter (for the worst) climatic conditions.

We no longer build cathedrals, to be admired throughout the ages. But what we do build, as long lasting memorials for future generations: giant steel & concrete sarcophagi to contain our radioactive debris.







Nods & Nuances in the Notes
(1) I happened to type ‘melancholiac’ and ‘Spring’ in the Google-box, and lo & behold: Frivolous Fragments turned up first !! Of course, the word ‘melancholiac’ is not in common use (Google even forces ignorant searchers to look first at ‘melancholic Spring’ results ). But still!
(2) Just like catholic church services recycle the same old bible texts (granted, with some evangelist variations) at the yearly recurring feasts, a secular melancholiac may very well, year after year, at the arrival of Spring, recite the first stanza’s of the Waste Land.
(3) I have never even owned a car, which, just as my daily cycling-commuter habits, is considered as somewhat odd by colleagues and acquaintances
(4) Heidegger (as quoted in Arendt’s Life of the Mind): “Thinking does not bring knowledge as do the sciences. Thinking does not produce usable practical wisdom. Thinking does not solve the riddles of the universe. Thinking does not endow us directly with the power to act”. (Brooding blogs don’t either)
(5) Of course, the Greeks, for instance, gave us principles of reasoning, mathematics, architecture, medicine... Their concepts are still alive in western languages, etc. Etc And those medieval monks saved western civilisation. But for the sake of this blog’s fake rhetoric method, I, for now surrender to the usual disparaging clichés
(6) “They won” – as The Economist wrote : “ The West’s long run as top dog may be ending. But the values that made it great, consumerism included, have been sold on to the rest of the world” – so depressing ... Couldn’t the rest of the world have chosen some of our “useless” reflective & aesthetic values ? Why did they all have to copy with such gusto our greedy consumerism that devours everything, and builds nothing of permanence? Does shopping & consuming perhaps correspond with a primary genetic need to hunt & gather & wallow ?
(7) Externalities : for instance side effects of pollution, the degradation of both natural and urban environment
(8) “A thing of beauty is a joy forever ....”
(9) Ok, ok – I am exaggerating. Future generations will undoubtedly be very grateful for the immense stock of scientific knowledge and technological know how we will be transmitting. And for our huge digital networks & our savvy applicatons. And perhaps, indeed, scientific advances will manage just in time to solve our resources problem (or maybe we will find yet another planet to plunder)

Venetian light in Brussels (March 2nd , 11 AM)

Assailed by twin-viruses (virtual & physical) my few days off did seem compromised. On my PC McAfee was waging a losing battle against the redoubtable Cycbot.B Backdoor Trojan. And my own defense system had been outwitted by an enemy attacking on multiple fronts: lungs (wheezing), eyes (bleary), stomach (upset), muscles (twitching), synapses (drowsy), …

Left to my own devices, I easily could have spent the day (& night) pitying myself, morosely imagining worst case crash scenarios for both PC and Body. But luckily, there was the Stern Governess (1) to take things in hand: making me put on my boots & coat, kicking me out of the door, onto my bicycle and into the cold & gloriously sunny day. Ah, the sheer luminous splendor of a frosty day, … a splendor made bearable by the ever so slight haziness hovering in the air.

A good day to seek refuge amongst old Venetian and Flemish masters (2) - who were never wrong about the subtleties of light. Nor about the subtleties of human sensibility ...

Take that Bellini Madonna for instance, how the insouciant playfulness of the child is tempered by the wistful look on the Madonna’s face (3), how with a few colors a hazy limpidity is suggested (4) .

Ah, Bellini … The emotional range of his paintings spans heart wrenching pathos as well as an intense, yet still, shade of pensive wistfulness, ‘which none of his Madonna’s altogether lack’.
And his exquisite sense of light & atmosphere! Reaching well beyond sheer technical virtuosity (5) it fills us with poetic elation, suggesting (ever so quietly) a contemplative transcendence (6). “Am Lichtsinn errätst du die Seele” (7), one might indeed consent, while meditating in front of a Bellini-painting.

Apart from luminous meditations, the exhibit also showed paintings tugging more stridently at our hearts, but I’ll leave my melancholy musings about pathos & morbidity in Christian art for a later post.
For now, let me just evoke the soothing powers of the calm blue & grey & beige hues of a Canaletto-painting. (8) Appeasing, but stimulating too – these luminous vista’s of Venetian canals: how they instantaneously widen our cramped mental horizon by their sheer spaciousness, how they lighten up our dull broodings by their sheer liveliness - with a touch of vivacious red here & there, & with everywhere little boats & gondolas & ordinary people going about their daily business in a busy town.

Cycling back home I took a short cut through the Brussels Warande park. It was 11 AM, so the park lay there quite still & empty: long gone were the hordes of commuters tramping through it in the morning, and it was still too early for the lunch hour invasion by office workers seeking repose. Right now, there were just the empty lanes & benches, the silent statues, the bare trees and the shimmering hazy light. How blessed the park felt at this fleeting hour – temporarily released from all duties & stress, basking in a luminous quiet (9).


More than Quotes in the Notes
(1) For combative melancholiacs, it is well advised to have a “Stern Governess” amongst the many persona’s that constitute their inconsistent self.
(2) Exhibit “Venetian & Flemish Masters” at the Brussels Bozar gallery
(3) What Friedländer wrote about Metsys, is so apt for Bellini’s Madonna’s too: “the imprint of sadness, which none of his madonna’s all together lack”
(4) As the exhibit notes competently & lovingly resume: “la palette réduite des couleurs, la composition épurée, la pluie de lumière dorée qui baigne la scène d’une claret tamisée concourent au tragique retenu de l’oeuvre”
(5) There have been many great colorists in the Venetian tradition, and in The Flemish one – Titian, Rubens … But somewhere along the road, their virtuosity has become so monumental & formidable…, their sheer technical prowess and confidence so overwhelming that they have crowded out some of the reflectiveness, some of the anxiety which endow a Bellini painting with en enduring poetical gravitas. However much I admire Titian, how much in awe I stand of Rubens … I agree with Yves Bonnefoy who sees , in some of their works, a certain vanity & arrogance : “ l’assez vain deploiement d’une illusion de triomphe” . (Though the triumphal tone has quite disappeared from Tiziono’s late, anxious works)
(6) Hmmm, Meditations, Transcendence … experiences not quite befitting a rational humanist? Nah, because, as Zadie Smith wrote about prayer (“prayer unmoored, without it usual object, God, but still focused, self forgetful”) : “for the secular among us, art has become our best last hope of undergoing this experience” ,
(7) Paul Celan – ‘by it sense of light you recognize the soul’
(8) Ah, at last an occasion to copy these dear, soberly consoling phrases written by Marguerite Yourcenar – “Aux pires heures de découragement et d’atonie, j’allais revoir, dans le beau Musée de Hartford (Connecticut) , une toile romaine de Canaletto, le Panthéon brun et doré se profilant sur le ciel bleu d’une fin d’après-midi d’été. Je la quittais chaque fous rassérénée et réchauffée” (from Carnets de notes de “Mémoires d’Hadrien”)
(9) Venice may seem a distant dream in a Brussels park, yet the hazy counter light of these northern skies is quite akin to the vaporous luminosity of the lagoon city. Which perhaps explains why once upon a time Flemish and Venetian painters shared this delicate sense of light.


Taking to the Streets!


Expanding my Sunday-repertoire

Well, it sure was a startling addition to my Sunday repertoire! (1) Last Sunday (2), instead of morosely watching the dreary drizzle outside, I blithely put on my walking boots and joined a demonstration in the streets of Brussels. I guess only a demonstration as unlikely as this one could have lured me into public action (3) .

The march was unlikely because only three weeks earlier a couple of students had launched the initiative on the Internet, foregoing the mobilization power and logistical support of the established interest groups. It was unlikely in its authentic concern for the welfare of all of the people living in this country (not only for those of the own language-group – which alas seems to have become the political norm). And unlikely it was too in its appeal to compromise at the service of the “common good” of the Belgian people (both ‘common good’ and ‘Belgian’ seem to have become compromised concepts, judging by the currently prevailing political discourse).

And this unlikely initiative was a success!
Because some 40.000 people decided to brave the chilly rain and to take to the streets to express their concern.

Because the overwhelming majority of these 40.000 people didn’t brandish any of the usual cliché-slogans: neither stale party-political watchwords nor easy populist anti-political cries.

Because these 40.000 people were so peaceful and tolerant (only 2 or 3 small incidents were noted) (4).

Because these 40.000 people were so diverse : young & old, from different walks of life, coming from Brussels, Flanders, Wallonia or the German speaking East cantons.

Because 40.000 people showed that action could be inspired not only by narrow party-political watchwords, but also by the “mere” concern to end a political stalemate via constructive compromise.
And, finally, this demonstration was a success because of the sheer incredible sight of it: the whole of the Rue de la Loi / Wetstraat (Brussels main thorough fare) filled with people just asking their politicians to be reasonable (5) .
As that man, obviously from far-off Eupen-Malmedy, reported on his mobile to the home front, while standing on a small height to take in the crowd filling the Rue de la Loi: “das lohnt sich! Wahnsinnig, die ganse rue de la loi ist ja voll mit leute”.

But as it goes, leading established politicians were quick to call the demonstration, well-intentioned perhaps, but quite naïve, too fuzzy in its allegiances and objectives and thus ineffective, politically speaking.
For them, apparently, mature and effective politics is about pitching “us” against “them”, about an unwavering conviction of “us” being right and “them” being wrong .
And their self-declared realist non-naïve discourse is one nurtured by short term egoist economic interests , by cowardly inertia and by atavistic tribal reflexes. Their world is one of a zero-sum-game: what “they” gain, “we” lose – thus precluding an “enlarged mentality” that could arrive at a creative solution.

One politician even managed to use the sheer diversity of the demonstrating public as proof for his belief that : 1) this country is too diverse 2) diversity isn’t workable 3) hence, this country must be split in two separate (allegedly) homogenous blocs.
So where I felt at home amongst this reassuringly diverse and friendly crowd, all sharing a common concern and peacefully demonstrating for common sense and compromise, he merely saw potential for strife & discord. (6)

Of course, dear Blog reader, the unfolding events in the Middle East and North-Africa do deserve more of your attention than the looming un- heroic demise of a small country without strategic oil-reserves or Suez-canal.
But still, the Belgian debacle is worth analyzing, if only to serve as a warning against the fatal self-fulfilling prophecy of polarizing populist rhetoric. So, please bear with me for a (not so) brief sketch of the Belgian conundrum.




                    * * * The Belgian Situation Explained in Only 789 Words ! * * *
  (which you are Free to Skip to Proceed directly to the How-to-Go-Tribal-Guide below)
(& please see elsewhere for revolutionary 50-character tweets).

Belgium was created as a nation-state in 1830, assembling a couple of regions in the low countries, with Dutch and French speaking populations (later, as part of a World war-settlement a small German speaking part was added) . Most Dutch-speaking Belgian citizens live in the Northern part of the country (Flanders) and the French-speaking citizens tend to live in the Southern part (Wallonia).
In the heroic 19th Century Wallonia , well-furnished with coal-mines and heavy industries, flourished while Flanders had become a rather poor agricultural region with many indigent Flemish emigrating as guest-workers to the heavy industries in Wallonia (this explains the very Flemish names of many now French-speaking people).

For a long time the Belgian elite was French-speaking , and higher education was for instance not even available in Dutch. This of course created much resentment with the Dutch-speakers and spawned a “Flemish emancipation” movement that battled for equal rights for the Dutch language. It was in this context that some came to see the Belgian state as a Francophile anti-Flemish clique, which contemptuously ignored the rich Flemish cultural heritage (ah, prosperous Bruges & Ghent in the Middle Ages! Oh, the Baroque splendors of Antwerp! ) .
Quite unfortunately, a few key-figures of this Flemish movement became enthralled by German-like nationalism, and even saw the German “brother people” as allies against this Frencophone imperialism, thus tainting the Flemish emancipation movement with unsavory connotations of nationalist extremism and nazi-collaboration. It also contributed to much extra resentment amongst Flemish nationalists due to the after war “repression” of Flemish collaborators.

In the course of the 20th century the discrimination of the Dutch language was gradually abolished while at the same time the economic fortunes of both regions went in reverse. The Walloon heavy industry was all but wiped out, causing high unemployment, while Flanders grew richer, positioning itself in the intermediate goods and services industries.
Wallonia got trapped in a vicious circle of unions fighting losing battles to save globally un-competitive industries, of then trying to compensate private sector job-losses by job-creation in ever swelling local administrations. The ensuing importance of having the right “political” connections created a climate of dependency on favors from local party-officials, bringing fatefully in its wake a host of corruption problems.

Brussels, in the meanwhile, evolved from the opulent financial and governmental centre of Belgium, with a Belgian French speaking elite (who often spurned the allegedly ‘lesser’ Dutch language, though over the years the Dutch language rights got quite well protected for all official dealings) to a cosmopolitan city.
French now is the “lingua franca” in Brussels, but in fact for the majority of Brussels citizens neither Dutch nor French is the mother tongue, since over 50% of the Brussels population is of non-Belgian descent. Not only is Brussels the main entry point for non-European immigrants & asylum-seekers, it is also host to the European officials from the Brussels based European institutions . Furthermore, as Belgium’s economic capital, it attracts each day tens of thousands of commuters from both Flanders and Wallonia, who work in Brussels and use its services ( but pay taxes in their home regions).
Many of the non-European immigrant families in Brussels are still struggling to catch on and, having relatively high fertility rates, this has created a boiling reservoir of under-skilled and unemployed youngsters.
On the other hand, the well-off Brussels citizens (often French speaking bourgeois as well as wealthy Eurocrats) more and more flee from messy Brussels to the quieter & greener Flemish hinterland. This migration creates not only much extra resentment in Flanders (Dutch speakers feel threatened by this afflux of allegedly arrogant non-Dutch speaking people) but also causes a huge financial drain for Brussels.

Politically speaking, the need to ‘protect’ the Dutch language from being crushed by the ‘heavyweight’ French, together with the persistence of a “Flemish emancipation” movement with separatist tendencies (which however has never represented a clear majority amongst Dutch-speaking Belgians!) resulted in a series of institutional reforms for Belgium.
A territorial language principle was established (the only official language in Flanders is Dutch, the only official language in Wallonia is French, and Brussels is officially bilingual).

Also, more and more responsibilities were devolved from the Belgian federal government level to the Dutch and French speaking language communities/regions . This evolution towards greater regional autonomy was accompanied by a system of checks and balances to safeguard the equilibrium between the language groups and regions. Thus there are also “solidarity” mechanisms implying financial transfers from the richer to the poorer communities.

As to Brussels, this complex melting pot is now jointly & messily governed by the Dutch and the French-speaking communities (not always with due consideration to its particular problems and challenges , which are quite beyond the Dutch-French language divide ).




How to drift into splendid tribal isolation

If you would want to create separate tribal identities, do adopt the following fateful features of the Belgian institutional overhaul:
The Belgian political parties and voting districts were neatly split into French speaking and Dutch speaking parties and districts. This means that, now, even for the federal government elections, people living in Flanders can only vote for Flemish parties, and people living in Wallonia can only vote for French speaking parties ( only in Brussels the two language groups may submit voting lists). So, by-and-large, Dutch-speaking politicians are accountable only to the Dutch speaking voters , and the French-speaking politicians are accountable to the French speaking voters only.

And with humans being hardwired to identify with the group they’ve been assigned to (even if it’s based on an arbitrary allocation process (7) ), this institutional insistence on having two language groups insidiously fostered the creation of separate identities within Belgium ( especially on the Flemish side , influenced by its very persistent minority of separatists) .

And obviously, with politicians only accountable to the own language group, the “others” were always the easy scapegoat, and each group, unchecked, could nurture its particular causes of cultural or economic resentment, could pursue, unaccountable to the other group, regional policies in their separate voting districts (which of course only compounded the economic & financial imbalances).

So there, the stage was set … for compromising the very notion of a common Belgian identity and for creating two groups nestling smugly in their own delusions.
Enter the caricatures of “The Flemish” and “The French-speakers”:
“The Flemish” like to see themselves as innately hard working & prudent folks, subsidizing French-speaking lazy-bones and Dutch-spurning snobs , keeping afloat an expensive & useless national Belgian structure ( not to mention that bottomless pit of a spend-thrift, dirty & dangerous capital infested with foreigners). “The Flemish” love to ignore the objective demographic and global economic factors that would explain a big part of each region’s evolution ( by the way, demographic evolutions do point towards slower growth in Flanders in future while Brussels & Wallonia have younger & growing populations… ).

“The Flemish” conveniently forget their own past stints of dependency & poverty and, continuously feeling aggrieved for past insults, they forget the Flemish have been furnishing the prime minister of the Belgian government almost continuously since WWII. They cherish a mythical Flemish identity that ignores the continuous interactions and migrations that have shaped the lowlands since the Romans … (8). And for all their self-declared economic prudence, they lack the foresight to see that more and not less cooperation with Brussels and Wallonia will be needed to take up the challenges of demographic evolutions. That more and not less investments in Brussels are needed, so as not to let go to waste yet another generation of youngsters ...

“The French-speakers ”, by contrast, see themselves as responsible folks with a social culture of caring solidarity (French speaking party 1) and/or with a refined, universal French culture far superior to the crude provincial Flemish one (French speaking party 2 ), in any case forming a French-speaking bulwark to defend the Belgian Nation against Flemish extremist separatist barbarians .
“The French-speakers” thus conveniently omit to question their own regional political governance plagued by inertia and nepotism. For lack of self-criticism “The French-speakers” perpetuate a vicious circle of unemployment, political favors and corruption. And they fail to address a certain stubbornness amongst certain classes in refusing to learn properly the language of the other community of the single Belgian Nation they profess to cherish.

And nowadays journalists and professional politicians alike seem to conspire to turn politics in a petty populist theatre whereby in the media each day each language group is turning more into the caricature the other makes of them .
Take the eloquent and charismatic president of the Flemish leading party – he is fuelled by a single-minded romantic desire for “Flemish independence” ( in fact until recently not shared by a majority of Flemish) . But he so masterly exposes all “the French-speaking “ regions’ weaknesses and failures , he so brilliantly appeals to a “martyred Flemish ‘we ‘ feeling “ that his party went from less than 5% to 30% in 7 years. (9)

But in fact this Flemish separatist strain is itself largely co-responsible for any immobility or lack of self-reflection of the French-speaking parties. Because their criticism of the French speaking parties’ failings is so entwined with this Flemish nationalist agenda, because it is so crude and laden with disrespect, it is completely counter-productive: any self-respecting French-speaking politician cannot but dismiss their criticism as extremist propaganda.
And because of it, at the very first hint of any criticism (however well-founded), these French speaking politicians can promptly evoke the specter of Flemish Separatist Extremism , so as to have the perfect excuse not to critically assess their own ways, let alone to bring about change. By which they confirm, also in the eyes of moderate Flemish people, the caricature of inert, eternally needy dependents , and by which they themselves feed Flemish extremism …




A chorus of un-assigned voices, lost in between Groups

Really, once people start to focus on their being two “Groups” and start behaving like “enemy tribes”, they in fact become the best propagandists for the other side’s most narrow cause.
Indeed, out of a sense of self-defense , each group will stifle its own doubting and critical voices (traitors!) and thus block constructive internal change. Furthermore , each Group will then abjure all empathy for the other side’s viewpoint and they will end up seeing all interactions and negotiations as a zero-sum game, where one side’s gain is the other side’s loss. And such protracted periods of animosity and mutual callousness often of course become a self-fulfilling prophecy: these hostile groups can’t live together anymore...

Ah, these human tribal instincts – quite despairing … And yet, the success of the human species lies not in tribal isolation but in cooperation … in our capacity to arrive at some sort of social contract, based on fairness, in order to find collaborative solutions (and the cooperative total is more than the sum of the parts …) .

But, alas, the leading "Flemish" and "French-speaking" parties are doing their utmost to make a fair solution impossible.
Reading the papers, one is engulfed by petty reciprocal reproaches & by extensive accounts of who- said-what-about-whom behind closed doors , there are scandals about leaked mails and there’s this & there’s that --- - but what is mostly lacking: an in-depth , sober analysis and assessment of alternative solutions.

And surfing on the websites of the two leading Flemish and French-speaking parties, I alas find much rhetoric and much trifling party-political issues, but again, no sober assessment of the main drivers of Belgium’s cultural and economic evolution, no comprehensive analysis of proposed solutions and their consequences . .. They just sell two extreme positions based on a single group’s vested interests, sure to bring us collective ruin.

Brief critique of Extreme Position 1: a definitive separation of the two language groups-regions (pleaded for in the statutes of the Flemish leading party) would, objectively speaking, have disastrous consequences : far too costly, the un-doubling of legislations would be utterly inefficient in so small an area (& would hamper the much needed mobility of labor and capital), the carving up of Brussels is as impossible as its joint government by two newly created countries would be ruinous ( and during the messy protracted divorce negotiations the financial markets can be counted on to drive up interest rates for years to come).
Also, this declaration of Flemish independence quite disturbingly definitively imposes on all Belgian Dutch-speaking persons an un-asked for Flemish identity, grounded in parochialism and stale resentment (10). Much better to find a cooperative solution at Belgian level and to strengthen mutual exchanges and accountability.

Brief critique of Extreme Position 2: whining about “Flemish nationalism” each time malfunctions of "French-speaking parties'" policies are denounced, is ultimately a self-defeating strategy.
Demanding ongoing solidarity from “the Flemish” (as does the leading French-speaking party) without any reciprocity is simply not workable. Counting for ever on transfers from others to fund higher unemployment benefits for the own group, instead of seriously tackling the root-causes of economic decline and unemployment is bound to create animosity. At the same time demanding special French-language privileges (ie so as not to have to learn Dutch) for French-speakers moving into traditionally Flemish towns, is obviously right down offensive for the other party.
And without a clear commitment to reciprocal fairness and to doing one’s duty in a cooperative scheme, it’ s quite preposterous to feel entitled to ongoing solidarity.

And yet, the Belgian conundrum need not to be insoluble. If only one could try to take a fresh, comprehensive and objective look at the situation and try to find the best arrangements , in fairness to all … It was on a site of 'amateur-politicians' ( probruxsel ) that I found such an attempt at objective analysis and a discourse not aimed at rousing tribal spirits but just trying to find arrangements that are fair to all , arrangements apt at dealing with the daunting challenges.

It is possible …. If only intellectual energy is channeled into constructive and objective analysis (instead of in petty tribal bickering).
And, though being frankly pessimistic about the situation, I do take heart from the fact that in both parts of the country, in both language groups, people now stand up to say “no” to the uncritical, unified discourse of what is supposed to be the own group. To tribal discourse, they say : ” not in my name” – “niet in mijn naam” – “pas en mon nom”. Those critics, those “traitors” of the “own group”, are very welcome voices to defend reasonableness and a modicum of impartial objectivity, both indispensable to arrive at a solution.

So there, hereby I too have added my tiny little voice to this chorus of rather liminal voices, un-assigned to either Group… . (so, just plain Belgian perhaps?)




Un-assigned Notes
(1) Regular readers of these fragments know my usual Sunday- repertoire spans Hegel-reading, Bach cantata-concerts, much wondering & pondering, frivolous blogging as well as museum visits, all-weather walks and bicycle-rides. (Attentive readers may also have caught discreet hints at strictly private Sunday-occupations involving a loved one).
(2) Ooppps : started writing this thing weeks ago…. Oh well, you know: life’s pressing demands, a bloggers’ block, a computer virus, AND the far more momentous happenings elsewhere in the world – reasons always abound for nor pursuing one’s own middling blogging activities …
(3) Don’t get me wrong, I am far from a-political. But my political awareness is a largely contemplative and analytical one. Though keeping myself daily posted about current affairs and feeling at times passionately concerned about the ways of the world, I hardly ever publicly discuss or act upon my opinions. In principle though, I greatly respect democratic politics as the process by which groups of people can arrive at decisions to organize their interactions and communities, without having to resort to violence. Politics as a necessary counterpart of the “human condition of plurality” , to speak in Arendtian terms .
But in practice, ah in practice the political terrain is occupied by the usual suspects , ie a limited number of a parties who furnish an all-in , one-stop solution to political shoppers : their single ideological party-answer to the whole gamut of social, economical, ethical, cultural and ecological issues. (I for one never managed to find a single party to match all of my viewpoints) . Also, political practice all too often appears in the media as futile bickering amongst parties and political egos rather than as an authentic well-informed debate to arrive at the “best-possible” decision . Why can’t there for instance be more media attention for non-partisan, nuanced study of each issue – as objectively as possible analyzing possible consequences of alternative decisions on the interests of different groups and individuals (I really should read more about Social Choice Theory ) . And then you could have a public debate to explain different viewpoints and proposals and put them into perspective. Now wouldn’t that be a nice basis for citizens to engage and to choose amongst solutions. Hardly workable, I suppose, this studious and referendum style of direct democracy, where each citizen appraises each issue: as “objective”, or at least serene, comparison and assessment possible ? Modern citizens hardly have time enough on their hands to master the knowledge required to come to a well-informed, enlightened decision… And why would individual citizens be better at also taking a long term perspective and the “common good” beyond their narrow immediate self-interest? Food for thought …
(4) One “French-speaking” woman saw fit to advertize her narrow-minded arrogance by brandishing a slogan meant to demean “The Flemish”: “un peu de modestie lorsqu’on parle une langue aussi locale”. And a very small group of “Flemish” “storm-troopers” saw fit to advertize their narrow-minded aggressive nationalism, by provocatively tearing up the demonstration’s manifesto and brandishing separatist slogans.
(5) As it happens, the demonstrators’ motivations were duly analyzed by alert academics distributing questionnaires on the ground – so we now know that, sample-wise, 65% of the demonstrators were French-speaking and 35% were Dutch-speaking. We also know that the French-speaking demonstrators wanted to denounce the ‘immobility’ of the leading French-speaking politicians, and that the Dutch-speaking ones wanted to make clear they opposed the separatist-nationalist strains of the Dutch-speaking politicians. Oh yes, my kind of self-critical crowd…
(6) It’s easy to understand why I really felt at ease amongst that friendly, motley bunch. Since I will never belong to a large, homogeneous, “winning” group, my own best chances for survival lie in a diverse population of minorities & immigrants where difference may be more easily tolerated than in uniform groups. But it is also my contemplative and doubting nature that makes me shun groups & religions that demand of their members undoubting loyalty and an unwavering conviction of their being right and the others being wrong .
(7) Experiments with non-suspecting subjects showed that if they were arbitrarily assigned to respectively a “blue” group and a “red” group, it didn’t take long before they really identified as respectively “reds” and “blues” and found reasons to better like the own group than the other.
(8) Art historians for instance know that “The Flemish Primitives” cover painters from Wallonia, Brussels, Flanders, Holland, Northern France etc . The archetypical Flemish Primitive, Rogier Van Der Weyden, is in fact Rogier de la Pasture from Tournai (Wallonia)
(9) This has really spooked me : the meteoric rise of a political party (from 5 to 30% in 7 years!!!) driven by the sheer popularity of a charismatic & eloquent leader (always ready with a quip or a Latin proverb, undisputed star of Flanders’ most popular TV-quiz) … and how this charismatic politician managed to hijack the political agenda by his Flemish-nationalist discourse and to completely compromise the very notion of a common Belgian identity. And how he managed to posit the whole political process as only a battle between “the Flemish” and “the French-speakers” …. (and thus more fundamental and pressing challenges go unattended now, be they economic, financial, demographic , cultural, …. ) .
(10) I for one, confess not to have a “Flemish Identity”. My mother tongue is Dutch, I have lived for 23 years in Flanders, I have lived for 22 years in Brussels, I like to go to Antwerp , Ghent, Ostend (Flanders) and I like to wander about in Liège, Tournai, Verviers, Spa (Wallonia) and yes, Charleroi... I really have a thing going for Charleroi, of all places... , ( “from the relics of old mines, Derives his algebraic signs, For all in man that mourns and seeks,For all of his renounced techniques,Their tramways overgrown with grass,For lost belief, for all Alas.") (Auden).
Professionally speaking I like the continuous interaction with both Dutch and French speaking colleagues. Culturally speaking I suppose I feel rather European: favorite writers & artists are definitely not contained to a single national culture . But I do have loads of affection for the “Belgian Identity” (ah, the Belgian Coast..., oh, the Belgian Ardennes ...! Ah, our Belgian cycling heroes... ) , precisely because it is such a mixed-up notion, precisely because it so lacks the bloated pomp and arrogance of other nationalities.

Brussels in Winter, or : Things to Brood upon while Riding on a Bus


Under the familiar weight
Of winter, conscience and the State,
In loose formations of good cheer,
Love, language, loneliness and fear,
Towards the habits of next year,
Along the streets the people flow,
Singing or sighing as they go
[….] (1)


An Office Clerk Looking Out Of The Window

From my desk on the 21th floor I could see the long trails of light formed by the many cars slowly advancing in the Friday night rush hour. A giant green neon X-mas tree was glowing on the office building across the road. And my own floor was rhythmically flooded by flashing green, blue and red lights, all embedded in the glass façade of our building – to produce a 449 ft high colorful tribute to the Winter Season.

An equally colorful and wintry scene, though in a rather more somber mode, could be observed at the nearby railway station, Brussels-North, where a few dozens of so-called asylum seekers camped out, huddling under gaudy sleeping bags and plaids, surrounded by a motley bunch of plastic bags, bottles and cans. Each day they could see the streams of commuters hurrying by, the latter mostly averting their eyes (and noses) from the unruly spectacle. (2)


A Friday Evening Downtown Stroll

As to me, my daily commute to work is usually done by bicycle, which , apart from the ongoing struggle with menacing cars , is in fact a less confrontational urban mode of mobility than walking or using public transports is. But on this particular Friday evening in December, snow and ice had made cycling too hazardous, so I did walk to the underground station hoping to catch a train home. At the turnstile a growing crowd of impatient people was kept from entering by a couple of policemen – “there has been an accident”. They gave no further explanations but diverse rumors spread fast … “ a desperate homeless man jumped from the platform ” or “ a woman trying to get in at the last second got stuck in the closing doors”…

It didn’t look like there would be a train coming through soon, so I left the station and started walking to the city centre, to find alternative transport.
The crowds in the main shopping streets had already thinned out, the ‘out of towners’ were mostly gone, which left just the locals. (3) There were the youths hanging out in little groups, bragging and yelling in high Friday night spirits. The earnest hand-holding couples, hurrying home, looking forward to a cozy dinner. And of course there were the giggling duos of girlfriends, with or without headscarves, comparing purchases while leaving the shops, where the doorguards stood fidgeting, biding their time till the closing hour.

With the shopping frenzy fizzled out, the street started looking a bit forlorn – no escaping from the gracelessness of the neon lit displays, from the garish uniformity of all these chain stores. A sneaking sense of shabbiness hovered around the street corners. This is not a rich part of town, materialism here is not redeemed by elegance. (4)



Music to the Rescue!

And yet , a full outbreak of closing-time desolateness was kept at bay by unexpectedly cheerful music. Not the usual bleary loudspeaker-music, but real, uplifting brass-music performed by a swinging bunch of young musicians who braved the seeping cold with their tubas, drums and trumpets. A modern secular version of the Salvation Army, saving our souls both from drab materialism and from willful sadness.

Thus cheered up, I arrived at the bus stop, not even minding the wait of 20 minutes. I'd found a window sill to sit on, and from this privileged observation post I could leisurely observe a sample of Brussels inner city diversity: young student lovers, so earnestly & innocently kissing; a sexy coquette on very high heels, caressing her shopping bags; a young urban muslim couple, she with an elegant headscarf, he with a neatly trimmed beard and a leather vest.
An older man, mumbling, reeking of beer. Three hipper than hip youngsters with baggy trousers, carrying skateboards. And your usual early evening batch of weary but relieved looking office workers, sprightly shoppers , sensible housewives and dependable husbands with groceries, all returning home, most of them happily blabbing. And all apparently equally unperturbed by the variety of ways of being on display at this bus-stop.


Dozing & Brooding on the Bus

Once on the bus, I was almost lulled to sleep by the hot air and the multi-language buzz around me. But at each bus-stop the opening doors brought in blasts of cold air as well as a change in passengers: a load of rowdy students got off at the Central station, a pack of panting tourists got in at the Royal Palace, and the European Parliament - stop was signaled by the sheer sartorial elegance of Europe’s finest & brightest getting on the bus. Apart from the gloomily mumbling, beer-reeking older man in the pathway, all my transient travel companions were conspicuously cheerful.

Friday night fever in the unlikely capital of Europe …



As round me, trembling on their beds,
Or taut with apprehensive dreads,
The sleepless guests of Europe lay,
[…]
All formulas were tried to still
The scratching on the window-sill,
All bolts of custom made secure
Against the pressure of the door.
[…]
O none escape these questions now:
The future which confronts us [now]
[…]
An earth made common by the means
Of hunger, money and machines,
[…]


But did they, my merry fellow travelers, did they then not wonder about the future of this city, about the future of this Europe of ours? The insouciant young European officials on this bus, blithely discussing their next city-trip or a trendy restaurant tip, did they not lie awake at night contemplating the possible demise of the Euro, worrying about Europe’s debt dilemma? (5) .
Did they not toss and turn at night wondering how to manage Europe’s newly dangerously divisive demographic mix : retiring spendthrift natives withdrawing their skills from active labor life and a growing reserve of inadequately skilled youngsters and immigrants, some of them full of resentment at being at the bottom rung of the social ladder, seeking alternative ways to assert their identity and sense of entitlement.


For we are conscripts to our age
Simply by being born; we wage
The war we are, […]
but how To be the patriots of the Now?
[…]
O all too easily we blame
The politicians for our shame
[…]
The politicians we condemn
Are nothing but our L.C.M.;
The average of the average man
[…]


Ha! “conscripts to our age”! “Patriots of the now”! We’re all more likely to be mere collaborators with whatever system we happen to find in place.

We’re all more likely to be baffled bystanders, watching events unfolding, events driven by “hunger, money and machines”. …




But the real me is, as always, snugly nested in the notes:

(1) When Winter stirs, it’ s time to get the Xmas decorations down from the attic, or , failing that, to re-read that ominous philosophical-political winter poem by WH Auden, “New Year Letter”, written in “January – April 1940” … (by the way, “Brussels in Winter”, is the title of yet another poem by Auden, written in 1938).

(2) As a rich (well, for the time being) Western country, lacking a real government to grapple with pressing contemporary issues (because we rather act out anachronistic tribal Flemish-Walloon jousts) – Belgium is invaded by the world’s economic and political refugees, who understandably hope to get access to Europe’s freedoms & filthy riches via the crumbling Brussels gate. Being a small, ill-governed country, this means ‘native’ Belgians in Winter see their cozy daily TV soap opera of native tribal disputes interrupted by news- images of asylum seekers living in the streets at minus 5° Celsius.

(3) In the mainstream downtown Brussels shopping streets , the “locals” are a mix of different generations of immigrants (mostly Maghreb), ‘native’ working classes, rowdy teenagers, a sprinkle of outsiders of all sorts, and a low dosage of trendy youngsters and yuppies spilling over from the hipper downtown quarters and the nearby mega book&CD store. In uptown Brussels the mix is more tilted towards “Core Europeans – (immigrants or EU officials temporarily residing in Brussels), university students and a few remaining Belgian bourgeois. But the richer and older strata of both Belgian bourgeois and European officials have rather moved on to the wealthy green suburbs around Brussels.

(4) “materialism redeemed by elegance” – well, it does sound good as a phrase, but frankly, my heart isn’t into it. In fact I can’t see what’s redeeming about expensive designer clothes, jewels, furniture , cars … Granted, there’s the sensual thrill of quality materials and of elegance as it is on display in upscale shops – but somehow the sheer expensiveness of it all makes the underlying primal status-seeking motive all the more embarrassing. And as to beauty, well, if ain’t got meaning, if it ain’t disinterested, it ain’t worth a thing ..? If there’s no sliver of emotional truth, no insight to gain, no sheer disinterested, useless beauty – then aesthetic qualities draw a blank with me. (See, I’m not a real flâneur, well anyhow, not in the dandy-esque 19thcentury sense of the term). And I feel slightly repulsed, both by the discreet privileged splendour of, say, a Paris upscale shop as well as by the gaudy greed in a Brussels Rue Neuve chain store.

(5) Allow me a tribute here to an anonymous small brass band which I heard & saw performing on the square in front of the Beaubourg in Paris, on a cold dull Saturday in February 2004. Neither the subtlest luminous grays and greens of Corot in the Louvre, nor the more contemporary combativeness of a Beaubourg exhibit had managed to restore my quite low spirits at the time. Even the always sublime spectacle of the bluish-grey Paris rooftops, viewed from the xth floor, had failed to produce any enthusiasm. And then, then there was that infectious rhythm, the sheer sassy joy of a throbbing tuba, a vèry trumpeting trumpet and a big fat drum. Just swinging & swaying … swaying & singing….

(6) Europe’s debt dilemma : the interests of both the recklessly spendthrift crickets and the industrious ants are so interwoven that any overly harsh punishment of the crickets might just serve to topple the entire European banking system. But helping out the reckless crickets is not only resented by the industrious ants but also creates a moral hazard of free-riding crickets always counting on their bills being paid by others. But beyond this injustice in grocer's terms, there’s the even scarier baseline that in many European countries the fundamental drivers of growth (active population, social and political stability, skills & innovation & productivity ) may have gone in reverse, which means that these countries will be unable to generate enough economic growth to repay the gigantic accumulated debt (let alone to service their pension-promises) … After about 5 decades of rising economic wealth, the prospect of a reversal in economic and social fortunes has gotten very real. And in fcat the past 20 years were nothing but an irresponsible splurging feast by generations (including my generation) in all respects too shortsighted and feeling too entitled to even realize they might irresponsibly be depleting resources, building card-houses and, in short, preparing disaster for future generations. But undoubtedly I’m being too pessimistic. Yeah, surely, everything ‘s gonna be allright! The naive utopist in me even dreams of a future in which the loss of conventional resource-guzzling, and oh so ugly, economic output, is compensated by more room for moral and cultural refinement. Concretely: less cars but more bicycles and more art and more books (on recycled paper or on iPad?).

a lovely day to bask in irrelevance


ah, the things people do on a sunny Saturday

Well, let’s face it: this blog will not earn me any points for contemporary relevance (1). And this particular post won’t help either ….

In a world facing the challenges of migratory and demographic pressures, in a world threatened by a bloated capitalist system in globalizing overdrive, in a world of dazzling scientific and technological complexity… In such a world, what did I do, on a sunny Saturday in October, AD 2010?

Reader, I confess I took the train to a provincial Flemish university town (2) to go and see a precious 14th century illuminated manuscript, the Bible of Anjou , temporarily released from its dark abode.
How out of step with one’s own time (& with the lovely weather) can one get? The sunny street-terraces were full of people eating & drinking, staring mockingly at the fool entering a museum. Even inside the museum itself, I felt as if my peculiar longings were met with contempt.
While awaiting my turn to ask for directions, I heard how an interestingly-artistic looking, casually-trendily dressed woman, who was inquiring about the different museum-levels, clicked her tongue impatiently when the official listed all exhibits, saying with peremptory disdain: “no, I am not interested in the Anjou Bible!”.

Feeling personally chastened, and darkly brooding on the irrelevance of my loves in art, I made my way through the rooms with the permanent medieval collections.
But ah, I soon stopped sulking, because there was that room with the medieval religious statues! Worn wooden statues, with faint polychromatic traces, expressing various degrees of pathos - solemn or rather hand-wringing suffering, grave or rather cloyingly sentimental mother love.
Statues telling the stories of an all but extinct religion, conveying the messages of a faith I do not share, invested with now long renounced collective beliefs, lacking all modern interest in artistic expression of highly individual emotions, far removed from my own daily pre-occupations and struggles. And yet, wasn’t the whole gamut of fundamental human emotions there?

And so, though these statues have nothing to do with me or my world, I felt connected and deeply moved. Also, I felt somehow soothed, perhaps because these statues offer a retreat from my being just trapped in my own transient hopes & fears & emotions. It felt like when hearing a far-off echo, or the distant cries of children playing in a school yard, …. or like when staring in the distance, at a receding, bluish-simmering horizon.
And only then did I really notice the sounds in the room, sounds forming so naturally a part of the setting … melancholy echoing cries of crows like one can hear in the country side in late autumn. The sounds, capturing & expressing so well this sensation of age-old echoing, turned out to come from an audio-installation by a contemporary artist,
And thus, I felt somehow vindicated: wasn’t this indeed proof enough that my sensations, my loves in art are not merely a matter of isolated idiosyncratic taste … that these medieval statues are indeed not yet dead… since they could still inspire a contemporary artistic dialogue?


An infidel humanist poring over a bible

Hey, but how about the Anjou bible, the alert reader (3) may wonder. Well, it was in yet another room, and it was lovely! Peering into the glass cases, I marveled at those folios with beautifully traced Latin letters, with texts framed by intricately interlacing curves, illuminated by pious bible-scenes and by droll figures tumbling in the margins.
I couldn’t decipher the Latin words, the precise significance of many of the bible-scenes eluded me. Mine was in part naïve marvel as well as awe at the precarious preciousness of it all. And a chuckling fascination for the irreverent menagerie of little figures in the margins: diverse naked little men (with an astonishing range of oddly shaped hats (4) ), Christian knights on horses affronting Muslim fighters on camelback, writhing dragons and other fable monsters, …

The leaflet I had picked up reassuringly showed that scholars were able to trace back each bible-scene, to identify each reference. My own cultural equipment to meet the splendor of these folios was limited to a shallow primary school religious education, to a general curiosity about the diverse manifestations of the human imagination, and to a amateur interest in western art history. A passionate amateur interest in art history!

Art history for me is about a “humanist” interest in how the human mind tirelessly (& uselessly) develops intricate systems of meanings & ideas (all destined one day to crumble & to become irrelevant) . (5) And it is about an aesthetic interest in the history of representation, of form & color & composition, the visible traces of the many splendored variations spawned by human minds. Thus, Art history bears witness to the wide range of human sensibilities & reflective possibilities as they have been realized throughout the ages. (6)


We’re all provincial postmoderns now, without any claims to universality or eternity, but no one may mock  my genuine love! (7)

Art history is obviously suffused with cultural relativity, relativity in terms of space and time. Works of art are determined by man-made social values and customs, by man-made religions and philosophies that all come and go.
Art history is about the coming and going of human ways of seeing and of representing the world. And with some of these ways of seeing I feel deep affinities, some leave me indifferent and yet others merely amaze me by their sheer exoticness. But, with some effort of the imagination, and by some learning, and by some un-learning too (of one’s own received ideas), one can arrive at some sort of connection, some sort of appreciation of human artifacts of whatever age or region.
After all, we do all share the basic human equipment of our eyes and hands, and neither has the human condition of fragility fundamentally changed.

So, both as an aesthete and as a humanist I love art history, not to impose the unaltered continuation of standards once deemed classical, nor to block artistic innovations. This love of mine is rather a love of the eye for the many formal realisations of beauty and it is a respect of the mind & the heart for traditions as fragile records of what humans once valued and thought. And these traditions are worth studying, “not [as] a review of bygone concepts”, but because they are a "precious [reminder] of [once living] men’s experiences and values, a human record".
Thus art historical studies help to enlarge one’s own limited frame of reference, and help to revive & recover something of the meaning of these human records from the past. (8)

“For the essence of humanism is that belief […] that nothing which has ever interested living men and women can wholly lose its vitality – no language they have ever spoken, […], no dream which has once been entertained by actual human minds, nothing about which they have ever been passionate, or expended time and zeal” (9)



Not entirely irrelevant notes
(1) neither for past or future relevance, come to think of it.
(2) And on the train I was woefully escaping from the present daunting world in a book, written by an early 20th C medieval art scholar, about (fading & flaking) wall paintings in Romanesque churches …
(3) Rashly assuming a reader made it till here
(4) If ever I were to be endowed with the necessary time, opportunity and skills – I’d write two thematic art histories: one about shadows and the other about the representation of hats throughout the ages.
(5) Erwin Panofsky – “Art as a Humanistic Discipline” : “It may be taken for granted that art history deserves to be counted among the humanities. But what is the use of humanities as such? Admittedly they are not practical, and admittedly they concern themselves with the past. Why, it may be asked, should we engage in impractical investigations, and why should we be interested in the past? “ A rhetorical question … If we ourselves are not interested in the past, don’t we then seal the total annihilation of everything men ever thought and aspired to, including our own aspirations and ruminations?
(6) “Impractical and useless”, this obviously applies to aesthetic interests as well as to any interest in the past. But so what, in any case, “l’homme est une passion inutile”
(7) Nè nè nà nè naa, catch me if you can! – of course I can brandish an irreproachably postmodern quote to back-up this last ditch retreat : Thierry De Duve, Au Nom de l’Art- “Vous n’êtes plus rien, rien de spécial. Vous n’êtes plus un spécialiste, vous êtes vous-même, sans qualification particulière, un simple amateur. […] Vous n’avez pour tout savoir que votre certitude et pour toute certitude que votre sentiment. Il est irrécusable à vos yeux, il est sa propre preuve. […] Votre goût est un habitus esthétique, mais c’est le vôtre »
(8) Erwin Panofsky – “Art as a Humanistic Discipline” : “The humanities […][have the task of] enlivening what otherwise would remain dead . […] the humanities endeavor to capture the processes in the course of which those records were produced and became what they are” -
H. Focillon – [l’histoire de l’art est une] “histoire de l’esprit humain par les formes”
G. Lukàcs – « conscience- de- soi de l’évolution de l’humanité »
Good Old Hegel : « Geistesgeschichte »
(9) Walter Pater, Studies in Art and Poetry, : “Pico Della Mirandola”
(10) The images of landscapes that illuminate this post are details from ancient paintings (Joos De Momper, Tiziano, Matsys). In two cases they formed only modest backdrops to the main subject. But how much I love to gaze at these little landscapes in teh background, at the blue and green hues, at the shimmering horizons, at the golden browns of leaves, at the dazzling splendor of a sinking sun… how dearly I love wandering through these landscapes…


contingent conversations (or: continuous self-doubt)









“His collections are the practical man’s answer to the aporias of theory” (1)




"And I hazard the guess that man will be ultimately known for a mere polity of multifarious and independent citizens "(2)










“she has radical and continuous doubts about the final vocabulary she currently uses, because she has been impressed by other vocabularies, vocabularies taken as final by people or books she has encountered” […] “always aware of the contingency and fragility of their final vocabularies and thus of their selves” […] “ continuous self-doubt” (3)



“He was austere with himself […] But he had an approved tolerance for others ; sometimes wondering, almost with envy, at the high pressure of spirits involved in their misdeeds” (4)







“All purposeful manifestations of life, including their very purposiveness, in the final analysis have their end not in life, but in the expression of its nature, in the representation of its significance” (5)



“Anything from the sound of a word through the color of a leaf to the feel of a piece of skin can […] serve to dramatize and crystallize a human being’s sense of self-identity. […] It can symbolize the blind impress all our behaving bear. Any seemingly random constellation of such things can set the tone of a life. Any such constellation can set up an unconditional commandment to whose service a life may be devoted – a commandment no less unconditional because it may be intelligible to, at most, only one person. “ (6)






« A supposer que Ruskin se soit quelquefois trompé, comme critique, dans l’exacte appréciations de la valeur d’une œuvre, la beauté de son jugement erroné est souvent plus intéressante que celle de l’oeuvre jugée » (7)


« Cicero says “I prefer before heaven to go astray with Plato rather than hold true views with his opponents”. It is a matter of taste to prefer Plato’s company and the company of his thoughts even if this should lead us astray from truth. Certainly a very bold, even an outrageously bold statement, especially because it concerns the truth. […] for the true humanist neither the verities of the scientist nor the truth of the philosopher nor the beauty of the artist can be absolutes; the humanist, because he is not a specialist, exerts a faculty of judgment and taste which is beyond the coercion which each specialty imposes upon us” (8)







“The thinking ego is sheer activity and therefore ageless, sexless, without qualities, and without a life story.” (9)




« Situé hors du temps, que pourrait-il craindre de l’avenir? « (10)






10 contingent contributions
(1) Walter Benjamin - Eduard Fuchs, Collector & Historian
(2) Robert Louis Stevenson - Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde
(3) Richard Rorty – Contingency, irony and solidarity
(4) Robert Louis Stevenson - Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde
(5) Walter Benjamin The Task of the Translator
(6) Richard Rorty – Contingency, irony and solidarity
(7) Marcel Proust – Traduction de “la bible d’Amiens”
(8) Hannah Arendt – The Crisis in Culture
(9) Hannah Arendt – The Life of the Mind
(10) Marcel Proust – A la recherche du temps perdu


from rocket science to the poetry of peeling wallpaper


It was a bright day in August,at last sparkling with enough sunlight to restore our summer mood after a string of rain-soaked days. The kind of day to joyously set out on a trip (1).


A small digression about cars & trains

Traffic was smooth since not that many people hit the road for Northern France on a summer day. Traffic … car traffic! While certainly not about to burst into a laudatory post about cars, I confess not being entirely immune for car-travelling romance: imagine driving along highways through vast planes, under wide skies, on the tunes of “born to be wild”.
And, from a visual point of view: how seducing is the always receding vanishing point of a long,long road stretching out in front of you (train travelers usually don’t get to enjoy this frontal viewpoint) (2)

A car also allows you to visit many “worlds” in a single day – you can for instance go to an ancient rocket launch base & war memorial in the morning, admire the landscape from a charming old French town on top of a sunny hill at noon and participate in a Flemish art& poetry happening in late afternoon.

Mixing worlds & moods may offend a sense of propriety or of due concentration (3), but is of course quite the stuff of vigorous life itself with its diversity of appeals to our attention.

Into the rocket base!!!

But so, on a bright August day this melancholy flâneur was unleashed in the ancient underground WWII rocket base of La Coupole (4)

It could easily have become a sheer amusement park where one can gleefully reenact scientific & military adventures , drooling over engine replica’s, technical drawings and real life weaponry. But this ancient base was also turned into a historical remembrance center, evoking the sufferings of war in Northern France.

Our visit took over 2.5 hours – wandering through chilly underground corridors enlivened by “James Bond” like missile launch simulations, paying close attention in educational rooms explaining the basic physics & mathematics of rocket science, watching the documentaries with testimonies, old photos & drawings evoking the horrors and the human sufferings during war time....


What a despicable species we are ...

Thus, for the more impressionable amongst us, this visit is not merely a history tour, but becomes a vivid evocation of the alternating urges that have always ruled human behavior:
• there’s the sheer intellectual fascination for scientific &technical exploits, for facts & figures that are logically combined in a rational discourse
• there’s the vivacious zest for adventure and action and heroic deeds
• there’s the appeal to our reflection and empathy, the impotent acknowledgement of so much – far too much - suffering & pain & death, materializing in a mute cry of horror, in the upwelling of dry tears

And obviously, immersion in scientific adventures and heroic action is much more fun than impotent reflection and empathy (5).
But, maybe just maybe, with a bit more reflection and empathy, those V2 rocket-engineers would have had some qualms of conscience? Instead of standing there grinning …. as shown by that unforgettable photo: a bunch of grinning brilliant nazi engineers , proudly cheering the successful trial-launch of a rocket, seemingly oblivious of the death & destruction their contraption will bring about.


But the sun is shining brightly in the sky!
Yet upon leaving the memorial center, we ourselves too, as healthy, fun-loving specimens of the human race disposing of a car, sought out more joyful stimuli for the rest of the day. Happily we motored through a lovely landscape: so soothing, so forgetful, so beautiful, so indifferent to human follies ....(6).
And we enjoyed the wide view from the top of a hill, we sipped from our drinks on a terrace in the pretty town of Cassel and took full pleasure in all the lovely sights, in the sweet breeze and the benign sun.





Art to the rescue?

Yet a ponderous flâneur can of course not leave it at that, she couldn’t possibly finish this post upon so bucolic and hedonistic a note!


And as a matter of fact the same day still brought other sensations too: poetic fragments & artistic interventions in the streets and houses of a little Flemish town in the country . And perhaps for the first time that day I felt like coming home, to be amongst kindred spirits: reflecting & remembering humans, restoring some dignity to the transience of human lives and their earthly homes.
One artist let a light beam illuminate the old fashioned , peeling wallpaper in a vacant parsonage, other artists would gently invade an abandoned rest home and amidst the echoes of declining retired lives one could slowly read poems, or be startled by loose wires and tubes (which were fake but evoked so well the undoing of abandoned houses). Ah, how soothing I found this tender play of imagination and understanding …

Will art save the world? No. Can art redeem suffering? No. Is art an escape from worldly duties? Perhaps (but a necessary one, to restore our spirits, so as not to pass too pessimistic a judgment on the human condition). Are aesthetic pleasures as a-moral as strictly sensuous and intellectual pleasures? Possibly. But still. And yet. Art at least is not as indifferent to human presence and experiences as a landscape is. Art at least is not as oblivious of human sensibilities as purely intellectual-technical reasoning is.

But ah … it was getting late …. time for another meal on yet another lovely terrace …. time to walk back to the car in the setting sun …. and cast a glance on the local 1914-1918 monument, smiling at those old-fashioned engraved names and noting with amazement, oh three brothers who all perished in the same month.



good thing there are the notes to harbor more brooding
(1) As distinguished from days when one dutifully sets out for a trip, eg when it’s the first day of your summer holidays and the rain is pouring down.
(2) So far this tribute to “rock ‘n roll car romance” from one a> who has to swallow anti car sickness pills to limit the rocking & rolling car damage to a mere headache, b> who thoroughly resents not being able to read while just sitting there, c> who draws elation & consolation from the unplugged sensuous purity of intertwining melodies rather than from beats & guitar screeches. And the obstinate train lover in me furthermore wants to point out that a train traveler gets something even better than “the frontal vanishing point”: the mysterious glimpses of a far off horizon whenever the train wheezes through a hard bend.
(3) The insufferable train purist in me wants to point out that “visiting many worlds in a single day” leads to a deplorable scattering of attention & concentration. The curse of shallowness is not far off!
(4) As a matter of fact this German rocket base never quite managed to fire a rocket in WWII since it was discovered by the Allies before it could get fully operational.
(5) and of course reflection& empathy are impotent and merely depressing and so may seek release in rage, rage at all those human specimens who oblivious of human suffering, blithely engage in scientific projects without ever pondering consequences. This rage, not wanting to remain impotent, will then itself enlist action and scientific exploits to crush the objects of its rage. Yah. The human species in action! Take the single-minded , brilliant
Wernher von Braun , oblivious (was he?) of the gruesome exploitation of the forced laborers in his base, undisturbed by the death & misery brought about by his V2 combat rockets. And living happily ever after, never ever brought to justice since the American military was all too keen to enlist this rocket-scientist for its own space programs. …
(6) Anyone who has ever visited the world war I memorials in Flanders Fields will have been struck by the contrast formed by the photos of war-torn battlefields (deserts strewn with barbed wire & dead bodies, towns and trees burnt down) with the present day prim & fertile Flemish landscape, with its neat little towns brimming with economic activity.
(7) Art …. reenacting both stark crucifixions and the endearing dalliances of colour & light …. As Bernard Marcadé wrote on the Belgian artist James Ensor : « Citoyen du « pays solitaire de narquoisie » Ensor a consacré l’essentiel de sa vie à la lumière et aux couleurs, en même temps qu’il pourfendait de façon acerbe les vilenies et petitesses de la nature humaine. […] La double exigence d’un homme partagé entre le plaisir voluptueux de peindre et la nécessité de faire rendre gorge aux turpitudes humaines. […] Les auréoles du Christ ou les sensibilités de la lumière. »


for the love of trains

“I love trains, and they have always loved me back. What does it mean to be loved by a train? Love, it seems to me, is that condition in which one is most contentedly oneself. If this sounds paradoxical, remember Rilke’s admonition: love consists in leaving the loved one space to be themselves while providing the security within which that self may flourish”.  (Tony Judt)  (1)




Sitting contentedly in a train, absorbed in some abstruse book, or engrossed in the erratic dance of light-patches…. enveloped in the “sleepy rhythm of a hundred hours” ….

Yes, certainly,I love trains, and they have always loved me back.


My enduring love-affair with trains probably dates back to childhood, in particular to the yearly family holiday to the South of France. Our train-trip would start in a sooty but still grand Brussels station (quite impressive for the provincial little girl I was) , where we would board a night train from the venerable “Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-lit” (2)

Of course, the objects of my travel-contentment were not the same as now: at that time I doted on the comic-books and peaches my parents dealt out to keep us quiet, and even on the cute little plastic cutlery that went with the packaged meals distributed by the train attendant. My elder sisters, while also keen on comics & peaches, did not compete for the cutlery, but rather swooned over the male attendant.

As to the “sleepy rhythm of a hundred hours”, instead of a poetic incantation, it was a most sensuous and sleepy rhythm indeed back then: to my great delight, at night, the seats of our compartment were transformed into 6 sleeping bunks with real sheets & blankets & pillows.


Round about 9PM my parents invariably would start worrying about the train attendant not showing up in time to perform this remarkable transformation . My 2 sisters and I further added to my parent’s stress by quarreling over who would get the top-bunk. But in the end all the family members would join in the merry hunt for the diverse light switches, with my father authoritatively seizing control of the main switch.

In the morning I would excitedly climb down out of my bunk and look out of the window to discover a southern sunlit landscape with beige-colored houses having wooden shutters. My parents would be swapping sleepless stories of all the nightly stops & shouts & murmurs that had kept them awake, but which for me had only been enchanting echoes to my train dreams. And then of course started the big morning rush to the lavatories & washing facilities, with each family egoistically monopolizing a washing facility for all of its members.

After the washing ritual, my sisters would be allowed to wander about the train, taking stock of the other teenagers, peeping into the attendant’s compartment , starting to plan their activities at the holiday resort. I would stand in the narrow passage way just outside our compartment, looking out of the window (with the beloved “e pericoloso sporgersi” admonition and the red sign prohibiting the throwing of bottles). And I would feel, already then, the seductive transience of travelling, with its mixture of great expectations and melancholy.



(1) Tony Judt In love with trains NYRB March 2010 Issue
(2)
The Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits also operated the Orient Express

one could also go to Saint-Tropez




Summertime, holiday time !!! For sea, sun and sand, please click here. (1) For meandering musings, do read on.



As you may have noticed, dear reader, I suffer from a particular nervous affliction: while sorely lacking all natural zest for useful practicalities, I definitely perk up amongst dead spirits and fantasies (2).
Not that I haunt cemeteries or study the Kabbalah – no, mine is a very humanistic kind of spirituality, finding elation (almost) only (3) when layers of man-made signs allow my imagination to reconstruct meaning & beauty.


Thus, strolling through the Parc Monceau in Paris, I could not but revel in all those traces of a certain (past) Parisian “haute bourgeoisie” way of life. There is the little pseudo-roman temple at the park-entry (which houses quite decent lavatory services - honoring the Paris habit to offer public services in style).
There are the magnificent wrought-iron gates, the stately broad park avenues with their worn iron name plates commemorating the great French writers of the past (la Comtesse de Ségur!).
And the kiosk … an iron& wood & glass construction in the best public garden tradition which sells classical (4) garden toys in merry colors alongside ice cream and lollies (& delicious croissants!).
The whole conjures up images of nannies wearing starched aprons, keeping an eye on the amusements of the well behaved local bourgeois children. The adult bourgeois locals (as well as my retrograde imagination) would of course have been enchanted also by some of the more adventurously winding garden paths, by the enigmatic Egyptian pyramid on the lawn, or by the ponderous pond surrounded by a melancholy Antique colonnade.


The surrounding broad, tree-lined streets with their marvelous mansions ooze an effortlessly elegant Parisian grandeur. A worthy neighborhood for the Cernuschi museum, which houses the (very rich) private collection of Asian art gathered by the (very rich) 19th C banker Henry Cernuschi.
The vestibule is chic and hushed, making one at once feel a privileged visitor (but entry is free!). Then, there’s the elation of mounting those regal stairs, which are flanked by two huge & exquisite Chinese vases. Only to be dumb-struck a bit later by the formidable presence of a larger than life Buddha. Then, the sheer wonder of gazing at artifacts spanning continents and millennia….
And all the time: the soothing presence of large windows looking out over a very green garden, allowing tired eyes to drift off for a while amongst sunlit foliage.


Still under the impression of the Cernuschi-plendor, aimlessly ambling on in the neighborhood, I soon stumbled on another sublime mansion turned into museum: le Musée Nissim de Camondo.

Here one is enchanted to discover the lavish tribute a Turkish born (in 1860) French banker ( from a Sephardic Jewish family who made their fortune in Constantinople) pays to the French 18th C decorative arts, the life-long object of his collector’s passion .
The interior, abounding with époque furniture, draperies, objects and paintings, is luxuriant, sumptuous …. and yet delicate & graceful – the spirit of the 18th C French decorative genius captured. And the imagination is treated to yet an extra dimension in time and space …. by an exhibit of sepia photographs of a mysterious 19th C Constantinople and of the Camondo ancestors in exotic traditional dress.


Yet, amidst all this marvel, heart & eyes are moved perhaps most by some quiet light filtering through a gauze curtain, a fleeting reflection on a glass pane, by an empty chair standing by a window looking out into the garden, or by a mere shadow in a hall-corner.
This fabulous museum is also a reminder of the vanity of riches; tinged as its history is with melancholy. Moïse Camondo, the rich passionate collector, ended up giving his collection and his house to the French state, demanding it would be named after his son and alas never-to- be heir: Nissim de Camondo, who at age 25 died in an air battle in the first world war.


Ah, pondering & wondering at signs …
Now I don't ponder & wonder only in consciously aesthetically contrived surroundings. There’s for instance this other image from my Paris-visit that lingers on: in those “Roman-temple”-lavatories in the Monceau park, behind an iron gate fencing off the service quarters from the public area, one could spot a small stock of cleaning materials, a bucket & brush-with-towel ànd a flaming red plastic toy tractor, about toddler-size.
I was captivated by that little scene, framed by pseudo-roman columns, because it was a slice of suspended life, looking as if at any moment a child would burst in and mount its toy tractor, while its parent would grab the bucket and go on about his or her cleaning chores.


Also, I could not ignore that most (not all!) of the strolling or jogging park visitors as well as most (not all!) of the museum visitors where white or Asiatic while the majority (not all!) of the attendants (in lavatories, in the kiosk, at the ticket office) were black or of Maghreb-descent. Neither could I fail to notice, on signs in the window of a nearby real estate agency, that the quoted price of, say, a 50 square meter studio in the Monceau-neighborhood is above 400.000 Eur.


But does this mean that the aesthetic and imaginative delights of this neighborhood should be shunned? Written off as mere play-things of the ruling classes, discounted as the despicable fruit of social exploitation and ill gotten capitalist riches?

No. I mean: oh please, for chrissakes no!!

What a cruel waste of potential joy & happiness that would be! However embedded in a bourgeois culture, these are still aesthetic and imaginative delights that can be tasted by all, if only given the chance and some kind of introduction by a mentor (alive or in book-form).


This is written in all honest naiveté and I do hope to prove my good faith by the story of my own late conversion.
Actually, I became sensitive to (classical) aesthetics rather late. For a long time , in my youthful city explorations, I spurned ‘officially’ picturesque sites or famous “old masters” museums , preferring to explore more neglected neighborhoods (5) .
It was an almost chance encounter with some ‘old master’ paintings (6) which “hurt and connect”, that made me curious about this powerful effect of aesthetics and high art.
And I am not ashamed to confess that it is the reading (at age 30 or so) of the best-selling book by Gombrich, “The Story of Art” (written in fact for teenagers) which marked the beginning of my passion for art history books.


Now to further appease lingering doubts of anxious post-colonial blog-readers out there, yes after my Monceau-tour I also went to visit the Quai Branly museum built to embody President Jacques Chirac's politically correct dream of French multiculturalism “. And yes, I did come under the spell of those wondrously ponderous masks.





Notes including an opinion poll about Brigitte Bardot and a question about multi-coloured propeller toys


(1) Sun, Sea & Sand: yes, prudishly eluding that other S-Word , convinced as I am that my blog readers don’t need the web for thàt. This being said – I do want to attract attention to the Saint-Tropez Tourist Office announcement of a
Brigitte Bardot exhibit. (But then again, are there any Bardot-fans amongst my select blog readership? Do let me know!)
(2) This rumination about dead spirits & fantasies of course echoes the Proust passage I read this morning: « Qui a raison du fossoyeur ou d’Hamlet quand l’un ne voit qu’un crâne là où le second se rappelle une fantaisie? La science peut dire : le fossoyeur ; mais elle a compté sans Shakespeare, qui fera durer le souvenir de cette fantaisie au-delà de la poussière du crâne. » (La bible d’Amiens, préface du traducteur)
(3) “Finding elation (almost) only amidst man-made signs” - Sorry C, that’s of course without counting you – (and anyway, there’s the “almost” qualification , dedicated to you and to sensual autumnal breezes, rays of sunlight on a tile floor, the sun hot on my skin, the smell of a park after the rain, crisp croissants et j’en passe)
(4) “Classical” in the sense of some happy form that has hardly changed since it was perfected long ago: such as red balloons, pink hoops, multi-colored mini-propellers-on-a stake - which -turn-dizzyingly-in-the-wind. (How on earth are these things called? Please let me know , together with your feelings about Brigitte Bardot)
(5) And I will always remain sensitive to the poignancy of “neglected neighborhoods”; partly out of melancholy disposition and partly out of an acute realist observer’s interest in signs of urban life & decay. Witness my Flickr-photostream dedicated to
Charleroi ….
(6) Notably, Caravaggio’s “David with the head of Goliath” and Titian’s “Noli me tangere”
(7) Quote from concierge travel guide