Moving again. Rest Area and Stone Tape Theory finished, FOLA finished, a couple of days in Melbourne and then airports and airports. Remembering the tree I woke up to.
High cirrus cloud marking change’s arrival. Unsettled high wind, biting sun glare, and early afternoon me wading on the gentle sandbanks of Williamstown Beach. I picked up a touch of Australian sunburn.
Current view from my North Melbourne, Naarm balcony, home for the next couple of weeks.
Leaving my first chalky marks on the wall. 6 metres down, around 110 metres to go.
The bridge is an endless, low serpent stepping across the marshland. I took Onyx’ bike and rode back to Scienceworks, to the long bluestone wall on the side of the Yarra. I haven’t climbed bluestone in ten years. Fingers and body remember but cannot. I walk from one end to the other and back, more than 100 metres of hard climbing in both directions, feeling the rock with fingertips and toes. I remember when I first started climbing the railway bridges in Balaclava, East St. Kilda, it took me months to be able to string together one traverse, months more to reverse it, months again to do the other side of the road. This is the same, but harder.
Climbing walls to get at science. Climbing walls around the back when there’s a locked gate up the front side. Climbing walls “like, it’s literally a metaphor, lol.” In the end, I find the first several moves. Still more than 100 metres to go.
The park exists because the new Bundesnachrichtendienst buildings want a clear line of sight. The park exists because it’s a sliver of left-over land through which the south branch of the Panke Canal runs, briefly above ground before being returned to it’s tunnel until it’s spat into the Spree by Bertold-Brecht Str. There is another momentary surfacing behind Deutsches Theater where it dog-legs between the buildings. I have never seen this. It seems to do some right angles to surface in a gully along Schwarzer Weg as well. I think of the Panke as my canal, flowing as it does just beyond the buildings of Uferstudios when I lived in the Uferhallen. I’d always wanted to see where the Südpanke went, but it seemed only underground. Not at all. Between the Spree and BND it flows through a narrow park, one side wetland, the other promenade. Justine showed it to me today as we walked from Naturkundemuseum to Uferhallen, following the stream.
All the 17th and 18th century Berlin-Brandenburg Fredericks/Friedrichs confuse me, so: Frederick the Great Elector, otherwise known as the Elector of Brandenburg, Frederick William (or Friedrich Wilhelm in these parts): not a king. His son, Frederick I of Prussia, also Elector of Brandenburg, upgraded to King of Prussia, married to Sophia Charlotte of Hannover (also of Schloss Charlottenburg), the daughter of Sophia of Hannover, both of whom were good friends of Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz (and generally good for arts, culture, philosophy, science). These latter three are the ones I’ve been interested in. Their son (Sophia Charlotte’s and Friedrich I’s, I mean), Friedrich Wilhelm I of Prussia, the army guy, the Soldier King, who more or less didn’t go to war. And his son, Friedrich II of Prussia, that is, Friedrich the Great (plain Great, no Elector despite also being Elector of Brandenburg, well they were all Electors of Brandenburg, and the latter three Kings of Prussia and all called Friedrich, when not called Friedrich Wilhelm) who was totally into music, philosophy, the arts, lots of really admirable stuff, and totally went to war with his father’s Prussian military. So:
Friedrich (Wilhelm) the Great Elector (of Brandenburg), Friedrich I (of Prussia), married to Sophia Charlotte, Friedrich Wilhelm I of Prussia the Soldier King, and Friedrich II the Great (of Prussia). Four of them. (Oh, and the Great’s successor was his nephew, Friedrich Wilhelm II (yes, of Prussia), who was the indolent hedonist (and patron of the arts) who ruined all those previous Friedrichs’ good Prussian work. A couple more Friedrich Wilhelms followed but we don’t care about them.)
Because I was at Park Sanssouci today with David wandering the outsides of all that beautiful baroque and rococo architecture and was totally confused over which Friedrich was which.
As usual, the Bildergalerie was closed. I think I’ve established now that european winter means closed museums. And generally a current torrent of euros from wherever all over the place means renovations means closed museums. There isn’t one city I’ve been in this year where I haven’t been met with locked entrances of significant museums instead of awesome art.
Nonetheless, feast on the bizarre Chinoiserie of the 1755-1764 Chinesisches Haus. It’s really splendid, from the flattened cupola above high oval windows with a buddha-like golden seated figure bearing a parasol at a rakish angle (there’s a good photo on German Wikipedia), to the tented main roof with diagonal patterning and folding giving a sense of motion like a roundabout, to the massive golden columns and arrangement of trios eating and drinking at their bases, quartets of standing figures playing a diversity of musical instruments between the trios of portico windows, the entire trefoil plan splitting it into three main rooms (not that we could go inside), it’s sublime and naïvely kitsch.
Most of the figures are unambiguously European, though more than a couple of the standing musicians have eyes definitely of the Græco-Buddhist style, and some of them it’s possible were based on either art representing Chinese or South-East Asian people or actual people. What’s more remarkable is the plethora of styles and cultures all thrown together as Oriental: dress, fabrics, headdress, musical instruments, cushions, seem to come from as far north as Xinjiang and as far south as Thailand, with some of the musicians even looking Central Asian or northern Chinese, others have styles that seem imagined or fantasied, mashing together vaguely Asian with vaguely northern European hats and shoes, cuts of dresses and bonnets. It’s madly chaotic. Especially for the trios seated on pillows enjoying Chinese tea and other far eastern delicacies. For them, the musicians seem to encourage the freedom to dress up as Orientals, to wear hats and slippers, silk and embroidery, light, form-following gowns, for men to wear changshan dresses and women cheongsam. It’s gloriously radical and liberatory, yet also exactly the opposite, only possible because of wealth and might. It plays with these things, burnishes the participants’ sophistication, but never changes them. Or perhaps it did.
It’s probably far more beautiful in summer or autumn than in the last grey dregs of winter, but still …
First to Królewska Katedra na Wawelu, the Wawel Royal Cathedral of St. Stanislaus and St. Wenceslaus, then to the Cathedral Museum, past many, many bits and pieces of creepy Pope John Paul II, out and around the corner to the Muzeum Archeologiczne w Krakowie, through that quickly and perfunctorily, last one to leave early-afternoon (Monday museums!), east and south through Kazimierz, across the river, into Podgórze, through the park again, around the church again, across the bridge over road and rail, into calf-deep snow, up the hill to Kopiec Krakusa, around and around that and up to the exposed top where a slight wind picked up, like being on a mountain. Photos. On the opposite side to the city, in an unremarkable patch of land, nothing spectacular, no skyline of churches, no chimneys of Ciepłownicza power plant, no quarry with rusting lime kilns, that on the fourth side, that empty snow before the line of poplars reaching up, after the black line at the edge of cemetery, that’s the concentration camp Płaszów. That quarry also. It’s more photogenic with scarps, flat, white cones of kiln roofs and the vertical thrusting fingers of the kilns themselves. The lines of electric fences and other scraps are rather Schindler’s List’s than Nazi. I look to that rather than the bland field of scrub to the left.