Poland, turning nannyish?? Never!

A reader sent a link to a story in the Boston Globe that compared Poland today with where Ireland was some ten, twenty years ago: only Poland is even poorer, even more agricultural and devoutly Catholic in the rural communities, and even more historically dominated by powerful and oppressive neighbors.

It is suggested that Poles feel comfortable in Ireland and view it as the model for where they would like to be a few years down the road (given that Ireland was ranked by the Economist as having the highest quality of life in the entire world, it is not a bad goal for Poland to aspire to, especially since currently, the standard of living index for Poland is 40% of the EU average).

Okay, fine. But I’m reading as well that what Poles admire tremendously in the Irish is their confidence. We know that Poles have a strong inferiority complex, cultivated fastidiously over the centuries. There is reason for it: the country has suffered terribly in the most degrading and base ways. The resultant sense of humiliation and plain old sadness wont go away overnight, not even with a giant leap into prosperity.

But are we slated to then have a nannyish government (an accusation levied against the British as well as the Irish)? Not likely. There is a felt national defiance that is resilient to paternalism. Nannyish legislation works well in places where people continue to fuss about the proper way to drink tea – Britain comes to mind (Melanie Phillips at the Daily Mail wrote several months back when commenting on Blair’s tough stance on national vices: "Our nannyish government—which is trying so hard to stop us smoking or stuffing our faces with cream buns or behaving in other ways of which it disapproves...”). Poland has yet to even suggest, for example, a smoking ban in bars. If and when it does so, I can guarantee that the stubborn majority will roll their eyes while it’s rolling another cigarette.

weather watch

Last week I complained bitterly about traveling to Poland where early snowstorms have hit Warsaw with a fury, given that I still had roses blooming in my Wisconsin back yard.

Today I must issue a correction.

Current temp. in Madison: 36 degrees F
Current temp. in Warsaw: 36 degrees F

Now, can we just keep it at that sublime (upwards of freezing) level in both places for a month or two?

in the competition of frost v. bud, frost won 

What's so odd about Hazel?

Someone asked me just yesterday what name I would choose if I had to have a different first name. I was stumped. ‘Nina’ is all that comes to mind. Not that it is a typical Polish name. Au contraire-- I remained nameless for a while as my mother stubbornly petitioned the authorities in Poland to permit a name that was not an official entry on the calendar of saints (ah the paradoxes of communist governance!).

Today, the press is bemused at the name choices for the Julia Roberts twins (Hazel and Phinnaeus). But a WashPost article reminds us that celebrities have often found apt names for their offspring on lists that are anything but pedestrian:

Celebrity baby names these days are very . . . different. We say this not to pass judgment, but to point out one more way celebrities are not like the rest of us.

The list keeps growing. Demi Moore and Bruce Willis are the parents of Rumer Glenn, Scout LaRue and Tallulah Belle. Gwyneth Paltrow and Coldplay singer Chris Martin recently begat Apple. Sylvester Stallone sired Sage Moonblood and Sistine Rose. Courteney Cox Arquette and David Arquette are the proud parents of Coco. Singer Erykah Badu -- herself on the celebrity all-name team -- has a child named Puma. John Travolta and Kelly Preston named their boy Jett. Christie Brinkley's youngest is a girl named Sailor. The late rock star Michael Hutchence named his daughter Heavenly Hiraani Tiger Lily. Long-ago rock star Bob Geldof calls daughter Fifi Trixabelle to dinner. Soccer star David Beckham and Victoria "Posh Spice" Adams's brood includes Brooklyn, Romeo and a soon-to-be wee one who reportedly may be dubbed San Miguel. Supermodel Claudia Schiffer has a girl named Clementine, as does Cybill Shepherd. Rob Morrow, of "Northern Exposure" quasi-fame, dubbed his baby Tu, as in Tu Morrow.

We'd mention that Michael Jackson named one of his children Prince Michael, but this seems like the least Out There thing about Michael Jackson.

Of course, there are those that follow another extreme, opting to choose a plain and simple name and use it over and over again. The article notes that George Foreman named five of his ten children ‘George.’

Worry more, age more (worry less, get less done, look the same)

The WashPost reports on a study that demonstrates the relationship between long-term stress and aging. If there is a definite causal relationship, does it follow that a stress-free lifestyle puts you ahead of the pack in terms of reducing physical manifestations of old age? My guess is that it does not. However, I would be willing to offer myself up for study, since I have perfected the art of blocking to such a degree that I can actually be writing emails or a taking a splendid walk outside and remain completely oblivious to the work deadlines, household management issues, etc., that are pounding at the door trying to force me to take seriously their presence.

"...And what book are you reading right now?"

If there is one type of book that I cannot resist buying (and also oftentimes cannot finish reading), it is the biography. The thicker the better. I like it to be rich in detail and annotation, preferably a product of several decades’ worth of research. (These same traits, of course, make reading it casually almost impossible. For example, I lugged a 985 page tome to the gym this evening. Horrible choice – the workout dragged, the dilligent page-by-page reading stalled.)

If blog entries are bullet-sized chapters of an author’s work in progress, then bloggers’ question-and-answer posts must be the capsule equivalents to biographies. Not surprisingly, once I stumbled tonight onto the normblog's 52 (per year) featured bloggers, I could not tear myself away from the site. Click here and learn how bloggers describe themselves. Fascinating stuff.

A Dell-icious encounter: okay, what are you guys trying to do here? Your stock’s going under? Your company’s in trouble? What?

I used to say that Ocean *tries* to entertain and that it is not, therefore, a place where I want to let off steam. Still, sometimes I’ve been tempted. Yes, alright, I have indeed noted at times the irksome, stormy little episodes and encounters that have caused even Ocean waters to turn turbulent. A good candidate for a fuming-type post would be a recount of any exchange with a Dell service rep.

Just minutes ago, in fact, I ended a long-dreaded conversation with a Dell rep. Think I am now entering into “rant mode?” Think again:

I’m calling because my Latitude has a defective cord that often spontaneously disconnects.
That’s too bad. Wear and tear maybe?

Uh, I don’t know… Oh, and also a handful of those little screws on the bottom fell out.
You mean the thing still hangs together with the little screws missing?

Yeeees… sort of ... I didn't do anything!
We’ll have to send you some replacements right away! And a new power source. And a new cord, just in case. There’ll be no charge of course. Thank you for bringing this to our attention!

I’m leaving for an extended trip within a week…
Oh, Nina, you’ll be getting these tomorrow.

BTW, I’m always curious, which part of the world are you located in?
Alabama. Worried about outsourcing, are you? Nope, right here in the States. Here’s your order number! I so enjoyed talking with you, Nina!

Weird, isn’t it?

The world may be hostile toward our military interventions overseas, but gosh, at least we’re doing a good job with the highway to the South Pole

…And still there are those who are knocking this latest expansionist, U.S.-sponsored project. Sir Edmund Hillary (the first to drive a vehicle to the South Pole) is speaking out against the American ice-highway across Antarctica. Why? After all, according to the New Zealand foreign minister, our efforts are “environmentally acceptable” (I know, I was surprised too). Still, Sir Ed says we’re doing a “terrible job.”

Here at Ocean, I must admit I have not been following the debate very closely. But the idea is in keeping with this blog's philosophy of linking people across vast territories and bodies of water, frozen or otherwise. Thus a 1,020 mile ice highway (allowing year-round access to a research station) seems totally cool to me, undeserving of Sir Ed’s icy reception. So long as we leave the seals and polar bears alone, I’m for it. Go pick on some of our other projects – ones deemed environmentally irresponsible and foolish. I’m sure there are plenty to choose from.

Do people on this side of the ocean ever cry over the strains of the balalaika?

Is there anyone aside from me who swells with great emotion when the balalaika plays its little tune as spring comes to Yuriatin?

Doctor Zhivago is not a great movie. Yurii is in many ways a despicable character. History is simplified, love is simplified. Pasternak is not at the top of the Russian heap of great writers.

But play that tune, flash those daffodils and birches and I am lost in the world that has absolutely no resemblance to this one. This is a Russian fairy tale and I love all elements that make it exactly that.

I came back to Madison tonight and I mindlessly clicked on the TV. I don't typically do this, but I was tired and I spent way too many hours at airports (on the busiest travel day of the year). Dr. Z. spun me back to another world, made up of a different range of emotions -- one I'll fully plunge into next week on my trek back to Poland. Wonderful transition. Thank you cable TV. You came through at last.

I could be home by now

I noticed that practically all my posts today have been about the "materialistic impulse." It may have something to do with being stuck at La Guardia for half the day because I caved in to the "free ticket" grabbing game. There is no free anything. I could be sipping a nice latte at Borders right now. Instead, I am watching the fog roll in from the Long Island Sound as the post-Thanksgiving crowds get fidgety. Free travel in the future hardly seems like a pleasant prospect at the moment.

Even the liquidators found the stuff to be "down there" in terms of quality

Would you run over to the Mayflower Hotel on Central Park West (or -- the former Mayflower Hotel) to pick up a bargain -- like maybe a beat-up garbage can, or an old mattress, or a sink? Some did. For the hobby of it. In the NYTimes Metro section today I read the following (emph. my own):

Riechler's Law of Shopping states that necessity has an inverse relationship to cost. As the price of an item drops, the need to own it increases... "Do I really need a portable fridge?" [Dick Riechler, the author of the law] asked, in the Socratic style. "It's cheap. Why not?"

Okay, but a used (splattered, tarnished, chipped, stained, ugh!) garbage can? Because it came from a mediocre hotel that you once stayed in? I can think of a number of reasons for "why not."

Finding beauty in a broom that you don't necessarily use with any great frequency

Always interested in learning from those who celebrate *humble beauty,* I was drawn today to the review in the Times of The Wabi-Sabi House. Wabi-sabi doesn’t seem a difficult concept (emphases throughout are my own):

It's about spare living spaces and well-worn handmade objects, and an appreciation of quiet pleasures — indeed, of plain old quiet. Sweeping a floor rather than vacuuming, taking up knitting, washing the dishes by hand — these are wabi-sabi activities. Using a glue gun (or a vibrator) is not.

I am sorry to sound contrary, but these seem to me to be indeed quiet, but not exactly pleasure-inducing activities. I am not publicly backing glue guns or vibrators, but I stand in opposition to describing cleaning as an artistic expression of humble beauty.

Further in the article, I learn that those who practice wabi-sabi believe it to be completely un-American. Perhaps as un-American as apple pie. [This is my phrase. Apple pie is Polish. Everyone should know that. Szarlotka = apple pie. Simple.] Why does wabi-sabi confuse the average American?

That's because, [the Wabi-Sabi House author] writes: "We're afraid of real poverty and decay. … [If you want to practice wabi-sabi] try not to freak out when you come home to a dirty house. Turn the lights off and light some candles, making sure they're strategically placed away from the dirty dishes and the dog hair on the carpet.

So first I am told to celebrate quiet house cleaning and then to revel in poverty and decay. This would be tough. The third identified component – not freaking out when you come home to a house that is in disarray: no problem. I am about to do that today. Though I am not too pleased with the guy who just spilled a bag of crumbled potato chips at my feet at the airport gate area. I want to tell him to humbly sweep it up for the sake of simple beauty.

Posting in limbo

Would you give up your seat on an overbooked flight for $100?
No.
For $200?
No.
For $200, and a confirmed seat on a flight in three hours?
Uh…
For a free roundtrip ticket to anywhere in the 48 states?
Uh...
For a free roundtrip ticket to anywhere in the 48 states, and a guaranteed seat on a flight that’ll get you back home in time for dinner?
Uh…
For a free roundtrip ticket to anywhere in the 48 states, and a guaranteed seat on a flight that’ll get you back home in time for dinner, and access to WiFi during your three-hour wait at La Guardia?
Do you even need to ask?

Mail from across the ocean

A message from Warsaw:

[I]t's snowing often these days and today for the first time this season I heard the sound of somebody beating away at their carpet outside (trzepanie dywanu) - the ritual that's a sure sign that Christmas is on its way (heard again before Easter).

Seals on a rock and a rider with a beautiful Slavic face

Where would New York be without Central Park? I remember a long time ago crashing on a rented bike there and being rushed to Lennox Hospital with bloodied limbs. Pleasant memories. I wasn’t the strolling type then, but I am now and today I must have cut through the park enough times to warrant a frequent-cutter upgrade – perhaps even to gold status.

For others, the Park must be all about serenity and peaceful lakes and benches and jugglers. For me, it has always felt like not quite the real thing (remember that I come from a place that has Lazienki Park; you haven’t lived until you’ve cut through Lazienki in Warsaw). But when in New York, I go to Central Park anyway, because it is so wonderful to get lost in lanes that don’t head in any linear direction, but meander and lead you to exit ten blocks from where you want to be.

Central Park: a Lake Mendota analogue?

I can do this! Sort of. 

Central Park: seals on a rock?  

In the afternoon I stopped by the Frick Museum. Now THAT was a real place of escape for me when I was fewer than half my current years. Back in the early seventies, I’d take a notebook, scoot over to the Frick cloister, sit on a stone bench and write (amidst artwork that I occasionally looked at).

Today I did not write. I’m not even sure I still know how, given my addiction to the keyboard. And I am certain there’s no wireless at the Frick. They don’t even permit flashless photos let alone machines that don’t fit in your pocket.

But I did spend some time in front of a painting that I’d always felt perversely *proud* of: the Polish Rider by Rembrandt. Yes, it pained me when, not too long ago, critics claimed it could not have been done by the great master. But now I hear we’re back on track: that gorgeous Slavic face was almost certainly painted by Rembrandt. And what beyond the face may be attributed to Rembrandt? No one knows for sure. At the Frick, they tell you that the canvas is among the most beloved in the collection, possibly because of the aura of mystery that exists about it. It is a simple painting and it is surrounded by tremendous canvases done by Bellini, El Greco, Renoir, Titian Gainsborough, Degas, Millet, Constable, Vermeer, and more. All good, all wonderful, but none depicting those classic features of a face that belongs to people from my neck of the woods. Brushed onto a canvas by a seventeenth century master. Maybe. Almost for sure.

Rembrandt? the face for sure; probably not the skeletal horse. 

A frog for the mantle

Poland is currently in the midst of its biggest international film festival, celebrating notable achievements in cinematography (read about it in Polish here; I can't help it if the NYT chose to stay away). It may be the most passed-over film festival of all time and yet it is, I think, an intriguing event. It includes workshops and screenings, where directors, cinematographers, actresses and actors view movies together and engage in discussions on film production. Is it geared toward students of film? To an extent. But this weekend you'll also find the likes of Oliver Stone and Charlize Theron in Lodz -- the city hosting the Festival. Unfortunately, Lodz is no Cannes or Venice (perhaps for this reason, Stone had to be coaxed and cajoled into making an appearance). Is this reason enough to avoid broadcasting the awards ceremony where cinematographers receive gold, silver and bronze frogs (yes, frogs -- it works in Polish) for their work? An Oscar from Hollywood, a Frog from Lodz -- it should be every filmmaker's dream. For the record: Ocean applauds the ceremony and offers full support for Polish frogs.

New York is a collage and I am in the middle of it

I would never say that NY is a city of bright colors. (Neither is Warsaw – let’s be truthful here.)
But during a holiday season all cities stray toward the pink and red and gold. Suddenly I have flashes of eternally beautiful brightness everywhere around me.

I was lured into taking a walk across town past all the top department store window displays. A NYorker will tell you that this is a big thing: lines form to check the Lord &Taylor or Saks windows. Add to it Bergdorf’s and Bloomingdale’s and you’ll have a nice quartet, displaying (often, but not always) quite the creative flights of fancy.

Window glare and sidewalks teeming with people make photography nearly impossible. But sometimes the glare-related double-imaging works to your advantage. Could it not be that Santa (courtesy of Saks) is navigating his sleigh in and around Rockefeller Plaza?

in the realm of the fantastic 

gold and glitter over a sea of people 

Lord & Taylor has the moving characters – playful, so playful; I especially like this one girl because she is holding that airplane with an exuberance and joy that is fitting for someone who associates planes with flights of imagination and adventure. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but she appears thrilled with her dreams and games…

up, up and away 

My closing shot is of the cursing chestnut guy who did NOT want me to shoot pictures. At least not after the first handful. Too many! He told me. Too many! Does he not know that it takes at least five bad ones to come up with one that is decent enough to post?

a lightbulb over chestnuts 

Choices

You’re in New York. You have 48 hours left in the city. The air is crisp, the skies are blue, the day is young. Anyone in his or her right mind would be on a subway zipping to some far corner of Manhattan to check out a gallery, or a place for brunch. Not me. I need to write something first. Insane? No, I have developed a blogger’s conscience.

New York can wait. Bright days are laughable anyway: they impose too much pressure on you to Take Full Advantage of them. I’ll wait ‘til the shadows settle in on the city. A comfortably oppressive darkness is far more consistent with what I expect from this place. In the meantime, the computer is open, the connection is good, I can read and write.

They're talking about her over in Britain

Ann Althouse and I began blogging about the same time (I beat her to it by a handful of days). We’ve each developed our own styles and we cling to our interests and slants sometimes with a fury. But I have said this before: Ann is a gracious blogger and she always shares in her tremendous success. While Ocean has remained small, almost flaunting its ridiculously expansive name, Althouse has grown and prospered (I don’t know if Ann herself has prospered yet, but her blog is bringing in readers by the thousands and so it’s only a matter of time, I’m sure, before you’ll see corporate giants vying for ad space in her margins). Today she is profiled over across the ocean, the real ocean. Here, I just want to add my own wee little congrats …and thanks. I’ll sign off with a photo of a corner of a MoMA painting.

finding the familiar in one small corner of a large canvas 

Out and about

The nice thing about living in a city is that on any major holiday or special events day, many will choose to go outside rather than sequester themselves inside their homes for the course of the day.

…So that rather than facing empty streets, you can always encounter crowds enjoying a walk in the park, or along any of the avenues. True, today’s temps (in the mid sixties) may have played a role in the push to be outside, but I think that even if it were below freezing, there would always be those who need to go out and pace for a minute or two, making the streets forever pleasantly crowded.

There are good reasons to stay indoors on a November late-afternoon, but there are also good reasons to go outside...

Let's hang out on fifth and do some people-watching 

A threatening day turns mild 

Taking to the streets 

After the high-brow comes the low-brow

In the late misty (try rainy) evening, I went with a two enthusiasts to watch Macy’s prepare the giant balloons for tomorrow’s parade. Forget mustering up excitement for the march down Central Park West on Thanksgiving Day – it’s all in the process of getting the show up and running.

Start with good instructions. And then, turn on the hot air. These may be the only characters in the world who are adored for the blast of air that makes them rise to the top of the world. Or at least to the top of CPW, and eventually Broadway.

You don't know how to blow up Ronald? You start with the head... 

Are we talking about balloons or politics? This guy got in front of my camera and ruined the balloon photo. Can I sue? I don't know, he's the mayor of NY, he may have connections...

Kermit, still groggy after a year in seclusion 

The foot, the worker trying to make it even bigger, and the sponsor 

A fifty-third street rhapsody, part 2

Too much! It is, indeed, too much!

The new MoMA is overwhelming! It is a combination of Getty and d’Orsay and who knows what else. Matisse, Miro, Magritte, Hopper, Dali, Klee, Pollock, O’Keefe, Monet, Warhol, Gaugin, Van Gogh, Rodin, Picasso – stop! Stop already! This concentration of magnificent art, all under one roof, just cannot be.

My immediate reaction? I think there are more Picasso paintings here than the man could ever have possibly painted.

I bought tickets for MoMA ahead of time. The Museum just reopened this week after years of renovation. I was sure there would be crowds. There were. They stood in line, I did not.

The space, take a look at the space: from how many angles can you catch the Waterlillies?

Alright, no more words, let me run through my photos – be prepared! I can’t cut out too many, it was a fantastic visit!

On the very top floor you can check out special exhibits, such as this one... 

But there are many levels. And they intersect in wondrous ways.

The crowds naturally congregate around the Starry Night 

Maybe if one looks at Matisse from this angle...

And what do you make of the Demoiselles d'Avignon? Hey dude... I've no idea... 

A professorial type will always read the notes and then stare endlessly at the painting... 

The Broken Obelisk and the perfect Waterlillies