In the Labyrinth

To Hell with a Handbag.

Probably because my status has shifted from mother to um...crone (even though I don't have the long white braid wrapped around my head like a secret ninja whip -- wouldn't that be cool? )...I have been rediscovering with a new found pleasure all those story variants of the old woman who went to hell and then was sent back again after beating the imps sore, or returned on her own persistence after deciding she would remain for eternity wherever the hell she pleased. Often the women of these stories are harsh, old battle axes, though in the example of the indomitable Dowager of Downton Abbey, they do have all the best lines. 

And this is why I love this little film, "Not Without My Handbag" -- creepy and wonderful -- where the crone is a fashionable Auntie determined to remain so, despite being summoned to hell for a late payment on her "Dante Wash and Spin" washing machine. This is an early film from the very talented studio of Aardman Animations and it's elegantly charming -- the Devil even speaks with a French accent. 

 

I also like that the handbag has become one of those iconic accessories for the modern crone/grandmother. There's always a dollar or two, a hankie, a piece of candy, something to appease a beloved child regardless of age, and in some tales, the handbag is a bottomless source of magic (ala Mary Poppins.) My daughter watched this film as a child and discovered the cure for terror was the handbag -- of which she had many and as a child-crone in training, wielded it like a weapon if she felt threatened. And of course, there is Margaret Thatcher's infamous handbag which seemed to rule with a power of its own, causing her ministers to declare they had been "handbagged" when they felt sideswiped, and once before a meeting when Thatcher had set her bag down on the podium, but had left the room for a moment, a minister quipped "Why don’t we start? The handbag is here." 

All this has got me thinking, I need to work on getting just the right handbag to keep me out of hell. 

What Cocteau Is Teaching Me About Writing

I am the sort of writer who likes to know the end of a story first, and have a narrative road map along the writing way. But I can't do that with this Bordertown story/novel/novellas? I have no idea yet how it will come together and I feel like Belle arriving at the Beast's castle, where the way is dark and perilous -- but those human arms holding up the candelabras, cast a small pool of light, leading to another pool of light, pushing her towards...what?

Another hallway, with huge windows and curtains blowing inward, the moonlight making stepping stones on the floor.

I think I am writing a Bordertown noir though I am still not sure how these separate stories will come together: a girl who either predicts or creates the future by painting graffiti on the walls, while her twin shifts the terminus stones beneath Bordertown to move it like a cosmic tortoise until one stone goes missing, threatening stability of the city; two gangs that come together to create their own martial arts with a unique Bordertown dojokun and plan a tournament of styles; an unknown girl found deceased in a warehouse, and the undertaker, himself a teenager trying to unravel her identity and return her to the right world. What sort of beast is waiting at the end of this story?

 Ok...I think I am being way too dramatic! I write moments, just let them happen, and then all day, they steep and somewhere in the middle of washing dishes, driving to the store, walking along the desert washes, or in these early pre-dawn mornings I keep, another candelabra lights up and I move in that direction. Good or bad, I have to trust that somewhere in my brain (or maybe my heart) that I already know the whole story. 

Honor & Loyalty in Arturo Pérez-Reverte's The Pirates of the Levant.

There is a passage in Arturo Pérez-Reverte's The Pirates of the Levant that struck me as true. We are a military family and for over ten years it has been my pleasure (mingled with a mother's worry and sometimes grief at the violent deaths) of being in the company of remarkable men who have served or are still serving. I have met them at my local bar on occasion when they arrive in groups to attend jump school to sharpen their parachuting skills. And, with the slight cache of being a mother to one of them (even if he's not there), I am treated with affection and respect. They drink — lord how they drink — and gathered together in that small bar, they are both aware and oblivious of their alpha status, that other men not of their company stare at them with a mixture of resentment and awe. So, I was struck by the way Pérez-Reverte has captured so much of the uniqueness of a soldier's life in his novels; Captain Alatriste, with his cool green eyes, his slow to anger and quick to kill if challenged; his rules of honor that maintain a semblance of order and control in a world that is constantly engaged in war in the service of a conflicted royalty. Never paid what they are worth, these elite soldiers are yet keenly aware of their own self worth, their loyalty to each other, and their finely honed skills on which they survive.

 

The Captain Alatriste novels are a combination of storytelling and memoir; the first person narrator, Iñigo Balboa recounts his life when, after the death of his father, he became the ward of Captain Alatriste, and later his education as a young boy into soldier, trying to emulate the life of his fallen father and earn the respect of his mentor and benefactor. At the same time Iñigo recalls his life with Alatriste, he creates a second narrative in third person of the Captain's life, his adventures, the women who loved him and he they, and those of his fellow soldiers and enemies. It is a wonderful conceit for the reader gets a dual narrative — even though it's hard to know if we should entirely trust Iñigo's version of Alatriste's life, colored as it is by his love and admiration for the Captain, whom he considers the epitome of a consummate and honorable solider.

So, here is the passage that rang in my head — having heard such a sentiment expressed among all those young men I know in that life now. Reflecting on the fates of his own father and other elderly soldiers, broken by old wounds and poverty, Ingio still believed at 17 years of age and having already served in two wars, that this is the only life for him.

"I was old enough and intelligent enough to recognize the ghost of my father in that remnant of a man, and sooner or later, in that of Captain Alatriste, Copons, and myself. None of this changed my intentions. I still wanted to be a soldier, but the fact that, after Oran, I wondered if it would not be wiser to think of military life as a means rather than as an end, as a useful way of confronting — sustained by the rigor of a discipline, a rule — a hostile world I did not yet know well, but which I sensed would require everything that the exercise of arms or its results could teach me. And by Christ, I was right. When it came to facing the hard times that came later, both for poor, unfortunate Spain, and for me, as regards to loves, absences, losses, and griefs, I was glad to be able to draw on it all of that experience. And even now, on this side of the frontier of time and life, having been certain things and ceased to be many more, I am proud to sum up my existence, and those of the loyal and valiant men I knew, in the word "solider." Even though, in time, I came to command a company and made my fortune and was appointed lieutenant and later captain of the King's guard — not a bad career, by God, for a Basque orphan from Onate — I nevertheless always signed any papers with the words Ensign Balboa — my humble rank on the nineteenth of May in sixteen hundred and forty-three, when, on the plains of the Rocroi, along with Captain Alatriste and what remained of the last company of Spanish infantry, I held aloft our old and tattered flag. "

All the photos are from the Spanish film "Captain Alatriste" with, yes, Viggo Mortenson as the Captain, giving his performance in Spanish. You can see quite a few clips on Youtube — including the harrowing final battle at the plains of Rocroi.

The Mystery of Vivian Maier

In 2009 John Maloof went to an auction house and purchased for $380 a box of around 100,000 negatives as well as rolls of film, all secretly shot by a local nanny, Vivian Maier . The work had originally been stored in an abandoned locker. It wasn't until Maloof started looking through the negatives that he realized the importance of what he had found. The work is astonishing -- documenting all manner of urban life in the 50s and 60s in New York and Chicago. The images of people on the streets are rich and intimate -- which is so odd considering that Maier herself never told anyone about her work -- not even the few close friends she had. Maloof reached out to her after he identitfied her as the photographer, but she died a few days before he could meet with her -- leaving him with mostly questions. Now, there is a new documentary film about her life in development -- and it looks amazing. Here is the trailer:

I like her self portraits such as the one above as much as the street scenes. They are playful, always placing her inside a frame, as if to preserve a moment in her life as a discreet and private entity. You can see more of her photographs at the Vivian Maier website (a small warning -- easy to lose hours here pouring over these beautiful and sometimes haunting images.)

Ukiyo-e Heroes by Jed Henry and Dave Bull

I love this project by illustrator Jed Henry to take contemporary, iconic video game figures and render them in the traditional Ukiyo-e style of woodblock prints. They are beautiful -- combining the exquisite technique of Japanese printmaking and modern fantasy images. The worlds are not so far apart according to Henry -- who notes the similarity between the dynamic art of early Japanese video games and their predecessors in the pop culture of Ukiyo-e. Henry partnered with artist Dave Bull, who has spent the last 25 years in Japan working as a traditional woodblock printer and the results are a seamless mix of 18th century Japanese art and the unexpected modern hero. It's an amazing video and an amazing project -- and apparently, everyone else thought so too for the project was overfunded on Kickstarter by around $290,000. Stop by the website to see the woodblock prints and giclee prints and learn more about Henry, Bell, and watch videos on how the prints are created.

Friday Films: Feed Your Art Appetite

 

Two of my favorite films this week that make me wish I could write like these artists paint:

Above: French street-artist team of Supakitch & Koralie have filmed in time-lapse the entire process in the creation of one of their maginificent murals. (DO adjust the screen to full size just so you can see the entire mural close up in the final scene.) Originally the pair met when a bar owner hired both of them (without telling either of them) to paint a mural on his bar -- they both turned up and decided to share the job. In so doing they discovered they discovered they were perfectly matched as artists. There are quite a few videos of the pair working, as well as this charming interview with them.

Below: Another form of street-artists, this time an experimental urban projection in Sao Paolo, Brazil by vjsuave.This is a fantastic romp through the city of San Paolo, our guide a comic flying and swimming figure. It's fast and furious and wonderful. Go here to see how it was created.

 

(via Emiliano -- who has been posting some fascinating short films on Mexican art well worth checking out.)