L'Ègoiste

 

It is a simple equation:  me wearing a mask can help you, and you wearing a mask can help me. How can that impinge on your freedom? Yet it seems that many people believe that their liberties are threatened by this act of reciprocity. If only all our heads of government would lead by example.

Nu, several weeks ago this idea for a political cartoon came to mind, and I sketched it out. Today I inked over the pencil (I was really anxious about doing that, afraid of messing things up, but finally I did do it), and here it is. My first go, so a bit rough I know. Also needs a particular cultural reference to make any sense:  somewhere around 1990 there was a tv ad that I absolutely adored and have never forgotten (you may remind yourself or introduce it to yourself here *).

* a translation of what the women are screaming may be found at the end of the wiki article here

She's Alive!

 

Thank you to Barry from Leeds for letting us know that the internet rumours of the death of everyone's favourite Egghead are premature (poo poo poo). UK quizzing fans, e.g., yours truly, breathe a sigh of relief. 

Summer's End is Nigh

 

L says once Ferragosto is over, so is the summer. It may still be hot, but summer it is not. It is certainly less than a fortnight until September, but at the orto/allotment this morning, with the bright sun and the tomatoes busting out all over (all you had to do was touch them and they would fall into your basket), it was hard to believe what she said could be true.

And then, as my students started to pack up their books, just about half-past eight this evening, I looked out of the window of the classroom and saw twilight there. It was the first time this year I'd noticed it at this time of day and I realised, hai ragione L, you called it. Summer is almost over.

Pronunciation is the Key

 

Sorting through some ESL folders I came across this lovely quote which the original poster attributed to Alan Bennett. 

Thinking about accents, mine is an utter mishmash of place and class, with an American 'R' rolling through every language I try to speak. It usually reflects that of the last person with whom I was speaking, although it strains towards RP when I'm reading or speaking in public (which many Americans find quite impressive. I remember once, after giving a eulogy in a small town in Virginia, a friend of the mourners came up to me and remarked, "I have no idea what you said, but it sounded gorgeous!"). I also have a football accent, a fact I only discovered after being interviewed outside Loftus Road before a match and listening back on the website later that day. It was quite subconscious, but apparently I feel the need to try and sound less posh. Sadly, however many glottal stops I may insert, I don't fool anyone. Sigh.

Julie Welch's Fangirl

I may be horribly gushing and over the top, but I have to post this screenshot because for me, at least, it was an incredibly exciting moment:

I read an interview with Julie Welch today in the Guardian newspaper. For those of you not of a certain age, not UK football fans, not female UK football fans, you may not know her name. When I was a teenager, she was one of my heroines. She was the only woman I knew of then who was a football journalist, and certainly made it possible for me to think that one day I could get my own work onto the back pages of national newspapers.

And Julie Welch wrote "Those Glory Glory Days", which I just found in its entirety on YouTube here (Since I bought it as a videocassette in the olden days, I will not feel like a thief watching it again. I still have the VHS tape, but the machine that used to play it is knackered). When I first saw this film, I realised there were others who felt like I did (only not for QPR. TV mentions of the R's in those days were by characters like "Steptoe & Son" or when discussing crims on "Minder"). It was important to know I wasn't the only one.

To be honest, I hadn't thought about Ms Welch in a few years. Then I saw her name at the top of a webpage, and clicked on the link to find out what she had to say. The occasion for the interview was the publication of her latest book:  "The Fleet Street Girls:  The Women Who Broke Down the Doors of the Gentlemen's Club" (Times review here). In the interview, she speaks well of Brian Clough, godfather to one of her sons. From my days as photographer for the U of Nottingham student paper, and one particular incident at Loftus Road the night the floodlights died, I had developed a pretty low opinion of Mr Clough. So I found @DameJulieWelch on Twitter, and sent a message:

"As a female photographer for QPR I will never forget (c. 1985) Clough in my face screaming 'Get back in the effing kitchen where you belong.' Others were mesmerised by his charm. Umm ..."

And she replied.

Indeed it was. Memories came flooding back:  the foul and abusive language of the fans, dealing with projectiles aimed at my back during the game (everything from apples to small pieces of terracing wrapped in snow to fresh urine), the hostility of stewards and the old guard of Press photographers. But also, the players were lovely, one evening the trainer got the team coach to stop and give me a lift when I'd been stranded in the rain after a European friendly, day and night R's all around Shepherd's Bush would greet me with a cheery "Awright!" and, best of all, my dad got to hear the QPR fans singing his firstborn's name in the away end at Stamford Bridge. But back to Julie Welch ...

(Warning:  here comes the gush)

It wasn't just getting a reply, it was that she also followed me. Wow. Thank you Julie Welch. Proud to have stood on your shoulders for a while (at least one of them).

Drawing Practice - with Snoopygrams

 

There WILL be another #DrawingTogetherGM next week (or is it the week after? Better check before I get too excited), but to keep the plates spinning I've been trying to draw something in that slot each Sunday evening. That hour is quite important for my mental health - while I focus on the drawing, everything else is quiet for a while.

At the moment, I'm following the tutorials on Instagram for how to draw figures from Peanuts.  I know it's not the same as creating my own comic, but it is good practice in getting pen to paper, which I find quite difficult. In this drawing, Schroeder is more Little Richard than Clara Schumann. I was quite nervous about having a go at Schroeder as it is a side view and has a big prop. Indeed, I redid the pencil several times, which I haven't done before. 

Nu, hurrah for having a go, and hurrah for spinning the plates, and I can't wait until the group is together again.

Lost in Modena

 

Usually at this time of year Modena is teeming with tourists. Not so during the time of Coronavirus. On my way home the other day, I noticed a couple who looked a bit lost. She was walking in a wandering style, and he had stopped and was looking at his phone and then around and then back at the phone. As I passed them I heard him say something in English, so I said, "may I help you? Are you lost?" "Yes," replied the woman, "but that is the plan." "Ok, " I said, "enjoy!"

And it's ..... Kamala Harris!

 

Breaking news as I type, but old by the time you will read it. Nevertheless, Joe Biden has just announced his running-mate for the election. He has chosen Kamala Harris. Living outside the USA, I don't know too much about her ... yet! Am looking forward to finding out that my vote will be less for a Noah (i.e., someone who is the least awful in their generation, rather than standing out as the best choice on merit) and more for a ticket including a person with values and beliefs that I can share.

BBC report

NY Times (paywall)

The Guardian

Wikipedia entry for Ms Harris

The Independent shares the first attack vid sent out within minutes of the announcement by the current incumbent's campaign

Trending Today: Medieval Wine Windows

 

Lovely story making the rounds today about medieval wine windows (buchette del vino). Read in the Independent (full story here) that a number of establishments in Firenze are reviving a tradition that goes back to the 17th century when bubonic plague ravaged the city:

"During the plague, wine producers would pass the flask of wine through the window to customers in order to prevent contagion.

As for payment, they would pass a metal pallet to the customer, who would fill it with coins, and then the wine producer would disinfect them with vinegar before collecting them."

Not sure which was the original story, but there are now several versions online. I like this one. Don't like wine so much, though. Not at the moment - it's too darn hot. Just one sip of the lovely local Lambrusco and bubbles of my boiling blood burst through my skin. Or something like that. 

How Not to Wear a Mask

 

For some reason, in the heat of the night I began to watch old eps of What's My Line (US version). Just the mysterious celebrity parts. And Groucho was being the expected iconoclast, and refused to wear his blindfold properly. 

Groucho has always reduced me to laughter, usually with little effort on his part. Seeing this picture, however, I went all Queen Victoria on him. After all these months, and all the sickness and death across the world, the fact that so many people still refuse to wear masks, or if they must then do not wear them properly, is utterly disheartening. 

It doesn't work unless we ALL do it.

It doesn't work unless we all do it PROPERLY.

In what kind of world do we live when, instead of feeling that this is something we can do for each other, people feel oppressed?

The numbers are starting to rise again folks, and the autumn's not far away. Better get your haircuts asap and maybe invest in a bidet before the lockdown returns.

Or perhaps just wash your hands and wear a bloody mask.

An Italian Pickle

Pickles are in the news at the moment, well, the cultural news maybe:  latest movie releases include "An American Pickle", which sounds like the 21st century version of my second favourite pre-persona non grata Woody Allen movie, "Sleeper". As for me, last week was my second attempt at making my own pickles, under the tutelage of my good friend W. Here are a few photos to tell the story of the day:

1. Good quality fresh cucumbers are hard to find at a decent price

Will not bore you with the list of places we drove to find my cucumbers. The silver lining was that the rental car had air-con so we were very very happy. Finally we decided to try the horticultural market, and asked the GPS how to get there.

2. This is where the fruit & veg shops in town come to get their produce

You have to buy in bulk. So I bought 2 crates of cucumbers, c. 6 kg, for €10. A risible amount in comparison to the other shoppers. What the market did NOT have, and what we would chase for a couple more hours, were the fresh dill and the mustard seed that we needed.

3. Here are some I prepared earlier

Nice and clean and ready for slicing. Big knife for slicing. W is a chef. I am not. Danger AJ Robinson, danger!

4. Freshly sliced cucumber

5. Freshly sliced fingers

Don't worry, the pickles are still vegetarian. After the second cut, W made me put on gloves. And then he said, "O the knife is a bit dull", and he sharpened it, and gave it back to me. That is trust. 

6. Mustard seed and black peppercorns

W ended up getting on his bike and got the seeds from some secret source. He knows his way around Modena!

7. Brine

There's a bit of maths to be done here when figuring out the ratio of the apple cider vinegar (& red wine vinegar when we ran out) and the other liquid parts of the brine. And then we cook it and pour it through the perfect red funnel into the jars and put the lids on. Almost done.

8. Bagno Maria

There's so much boiling to be done when pickling cucumbers. But W has A/C in his flat so I could wait forever if necessary. And we talked, and listened to music (hence the Dan Reeder track of the title photo) and another thunderstorm came and went, and by early evening we had some

9. Pickles!

Hurrah hurrah hurrah! And thank you W!! I am now the proud possessor of 8 quart jars of pickled cucumbers. That should hold me for a while. And thank me, dear reader, for deciding to omit the particularly graphic photo of my wounded thumb. 

Next up, making tomato sauce from all the pomodori we are picking in the allotment. But that is L's story to tell. 

Yo, Semite!

Was this an early Rosh Hashanah greeting?

O dear o dear o dear. #45's latest malapropism - a President of the United States of America who cannot pronounce "Yosemite". Doesn't he have people for this? And anyway, could he really have lived all his life in that country without once seeing Yosemite Sam with Bugs Bunny?

Meanwhile, the National Museum of American Jewish History is offering this lovely item:

This November, please remember to vote. Please!

DrawingTogetherGM 14: Listening and Hearing

I thought I was maybe a bit too excited to return to the Graphic Medicine drawing group after a whole month without prompts and exercises and sharing - it was good to see that I was not the only one who felt glad to be together again.

And then ... disaster struck. Our task was to draw a comic, in 10 minutes, about a conversation where somebody hadn't been listened to. Or maybe had been heard. I wasn't sure. I thought I was listening to Shelley, but somehow I couldn't understand what she wanted us to do. My thoughts were made of molasses.

We only had 10 minutes. I didn't know what to draw. I needed a story, and had bubkes. And that made me crazy. When do I never have a story? I can think of a story for any occasion. Or adapt something so it just about fits the occasion. My head hurt.

But I really do want to draw. So I came up with a compromise and, in the time that I had left, drew what I've just taken 134 words to tell you all:

Sigh. But I drew something. And very much enjoyed seeing all the other interpretations that people shared at the meeting. 

At the end, as people were leaving, someone asked if there might be any chance that we could go back to the weekly meetings. There wasn't a complete refusal. Hurrah! 

PS  we do not share other people's drawing without permission, but I think it is ok to mention a thought shared by one of the artists present. In preparation for the warm-up exercise, we were talking about listening to the soundscape around us in the room. Someone alerted us to the sounds of everyday that we do not notice, giving examples such as breathing, clocks, one's stomach and our hearts. When we listen, what do we hear? 

I do remember that Shelley began the session by talking about the speech bubbles (and thought bubbles) traditionally used in cartoons, and suggested that all the space outside them was listening space. Often, my problem is that I am so busy working on what I will say in response to the current speaker that I do not listen properly. I really should be quiet in the listening space. (I need to work on this). 

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Drawing Withdrawal

My Drawing Together group switched from weekly to monthly. I am missing it a lot. I decided to keep that same weekly hour for drawing, but it's so easy to be distracted when you have to be self-motivating. 

Thank goodness for Snoopygrams on Insta! Every now and then, they are offering a 5-minute tutorial on how to draw a Peanuts character. This week was Peppermint Patty (one of L's favourites):

Before I found these videos, I had only ever tried to draw Charlie Brown and Snoopy, and not since I was about 12. It's a bit scary to try to draw new characters (new for drawing), and afterwards the mistakes seem so glaring (fingers & toes, always. proportions. & half of PP's freckles are upside-down). But I'd like to improve, so I have to have a go.

Next up? Sally Brown and Schroeder. The piano should be fun! And, don't worry, I am also working on some things that are less copying and more my own ideas.

Remembrance of Things Past

Piglet fans, rejoice! Here he is again, in all his glory. Sadly it is not a recent photo, as he has been sheltering in place for some time now.  This was taken in 2014 when we climbed to the top of the Duomo in Milan. It feels particularly poignant considering the current situation we all are facing.

Looking forward to a time when we may hold each other's hand once more. 

A Lesson in Jamming

Apologies to any musicians inadvertently directed to this page. As the photograph shows, we are going to talk about how my plum preserves went pear-shaped, rather than spontaneous melodic interactions.

I am terribly disappointed to find some of my first attempts with plums ready to explode. It was arrogant, I suppose, to think that I'd smashed it first time up. 

Googling possible causes, I think I can eliminate not skimming the bubbles as the plums were cooking, because I did do that. I don't think it was a hygiene issue as I washed the jars in boiling hot water and dried them in the oven. This should have sterilised them properly. That leaves me with the possibility that I did not seal the jar completely and/or I let a bad plum or two through the prepping process. 

A second jar fizzed today. It was from the same batch. And both jars were ones that were not boiled after filling. So maybe the absence of a bain-marie is key?

Meanwhile, we wait and check and hope. The last unboiled jar is by the kitchen sink so if anything untoward takes place while we are busy living our lives, the mess shouldn't be too difficult to clean up.

Apropos of nothing, when googling bain-marie (or bagno-maria here), it was named after a person called Mary the Jewess or Mary the Prophetess. According to Wiki she is considered to be the first true alchemist of the Western world. 

It was disheartening to find my lovely jar full of fermentation. But I won't give up. The next fruit to be preserved according to locality and season will be, we hope, the fig. They should be at their best later in August. That should give me time to learn more about jamming.

The Blessing of Sara the Cat

Have I mentioned that Sara is the first cat, or animal of any kind, with which I have shared a home? Our family parrot-sat a few times in the 1970's, but Mervyn was my father's friend. 

This is a picture of Sara the Cat putting up with my relentless photographing of her every position. Today it is the crossed paws that entice me.

She hides and she chases imaginary demons and she stinks out the place with her poo just after everyone is happily in bed and she scratches furniture and doors and cardboard boxes and humans who are careless when they play with her and she gives me the heebie jeebies when she leans quite far out of our 3rd-floor window and she complains if you won't throw her ball but then she won't chase it if she doesn't approve of the trajectory ... and she lets me pick her up and kiss her for at least 5 seconds now before she jumps down, and curls up behind my knees when I nap and runs to the door when we come home and, to be honest, we would never have come through this past lockdown so well without Sara to play with and to care for. Thank you my pussycat friend.

Missing Wimbledon (but not the Pimms)

In no way what whatsoever do I advocate any kind of sporting competition taking place under the present circumstances. The world of tennis is still dealing with the fallout from the unofficial charity tournament organised by Novak Djokovic last month (see here), and it is clear that public health and safety must come first.

Yet it is Wimbledon time, and I miss it. If I still lived in London, I might consider queuing for tickets one day, as I did all those years ago. In those olden golden days, there was a standing area on Centre Court just behind the press photographers, and if I could get to the front there, I would take a few pictures, stay up all night developing the film and printing some b&w shots, and then flog them to people in the queue the next day. It would just about cover the cost of the materials. The rest of the time it was lazy afternoons in front of the tv, and just about the only sporting occasion for which my mother willingly joined us.

In those days we loved Billie Jean King and Chris Evert and Evonne Goolagong. We didn't like Martina Navratilova (she won us over in the end. Mostly.) or Ilie Nastase. Jimmy Connors was a good player, but too brash for the Brits. Virginia Wade won in the Silver Jubilee year, and the Fred Perry shirts we had to wear for games lessons at school were the nearest we got to a British man winning the singles.

Once I was old enough to cast off the influence of my parents' likes and dislikes, I enjoyed the tantrums of John McEnroe (and the Not the 9 O'Clock News parody), he was much more exciting than Bjorn Borg. I loved Gigi Fernandez, and didn't dislike Martina so much any more. I cried when Hana Mandlikova lost to Chris Evert, and was sad when Chris lost to Martina. Above all, I loved Steffi Graf. So calm. So powerful. That forehand. 

My memory skips a few generations, and ends up with the giants of today. The excitement of Andy Murray, a Brit, actually winning. The Federer-Nadal-Djokovic axis (my mother was Federer all the way. Elegance in person and playing style. If only Nadal could keep his hands away from his nether regions, he would be my outright favourite) and the Williams sisters. Hope is fading, but I would love for Serena to get the all-time Grand Slam record. Where are the new personalities and heroes? The real ones, not the media darlings. I don't know. Hopefully they will emerge at the next Wimbledon tournament. Meanwhile, I close my eyes and remember past loves.

Thinking of Helga

Going through old papers, I came across diary notes from a trip to NYC for Helga's ordination in 2000, and wanted to write something about her. We became friends on the day that we met, in a classroom in Jerusalem. Helga was born in Essen, as was my grandmother, and that's where our conversation began. It was a dialogue that continued for 21 years, in person and on the telephone (that quaint old way of communicating). I miss the sound of her voice: the touch of a German accent, the hint of a lisp with s's and z's, and especially the mischievous chuckle that she had. Here are a couple of memories that come to mind.

I started with a look at what is out there. If you google "Rabbi Helga Newmark" there are a few links, but very few photographs. Most of the articles refer to her being the first female Shoah survivor to be ordained a rabbi. Of all the articles to read, start with Betsy Morais in the Tablet. It makes a big deal out of Helga not liking Anne Frank, but I don't remember that at all. I was excited to learn that Helga's family lived on the same Amsterdam street as the Frank family, and of course I asked what she remembered. Helga told me that Anne was a couple of years older, and played with the older girls, and the main thing she remembered was that Anne was very bossy. I don't doubt that Helga said, more than once, that "Anne Frank was a brat." But I suspect she said it with a twinkle in her eye, if not with mischief in her voice. If you have read Anne's diary, especially the unexpurgated version, you will know how human Anne was. So she probably could be a brat sometimes, just like any of us.*

It was a struggle for Helga to get accepted into rabbinical school. Although she was well-known as an educator throughout New Jersey, she was initially rejected for not having the appropriate academic qualifications for graduate school. Nevertheless, she persisted. She went away, got the necessary certifications, and reapplied. She was warned that her age would make it extremely difficult to find employment in the field. This did not deter her. In fact, the five year programme took her eight years - she took time out to support family members in difficulty, returned, and then had to take more time off for health reasons. Nevertheless she persisted, and in May 2000 I travelled from my pulpit in the Shenandoah Valley up to Temple Emanu-El to attend her ordination ceremony.

Things had changed since my own ceremony four years earlier, and there was a new custom that when the ordinand went up for their smicha, their family stood up in the pews and applauded. I was rather dismissive of this:  "you're not supposed to applaud in the sanctuary during a ritual!" I said to my neighbour, indignantly. And then it was Helga's turn. I wrote in my diary:

"Instead of being led right up to the ark, Rabbi Zimmerman took her to the podium to tell us all about her. Hypocrite that I am, I had turned to Michael (Mandel) and said, well if everyone is applauding their guys then I am jolly well going to stand up for Helga!  Well, as she went up on the bima, the entire class and the entire congregation all of Temple Emanu-El rose and gave her an ovation. Yes I cried again. And then Helga was ordained."

That was an incredible moment. I remember that as she ascended to the bima, she was blowing kisses to the congregation. After she had received her smicha, I had to dash off back to Virginia to make the annual congregational meeting that evening. According to the diary:

"I had to leave early ... so I got the security lady to let me round the back and entered the other side of the sanctuary and snuck into the pew next to Helga. "Hey, rabbi," I say. "I have to go, and wanted to say goodbye." "Is it really true?" says Helga, "Am I really a rabbi?" "You bet!" I say, "and I am so proud of you!"

The community celebrated Helga's achievement as the first female Shoah survivor to become a rabbi, but was not so supportive when it came to offering her the opportunity to share her knowledge and experience in pulpit positions. Her life continued to be challenging. Nevertheless, she persisted. A few years later, I moved back to Europe, and by then Helga was dealing with several health problems. Even when she no longer remembered who I was, we still spoke regularly, and I might hear that mischievous chuckle as she told me about an incident with her carer or her meds.

After Helga died, many people shared their fond memories of her. She had been lonely and depressed for a long time, and I was rather angry and judgmental for a while, wishing more of them had spent more time with her when she was alive. Of course I was wishing that I had done better by Helga. This was pre-Internet and WhatsApp etc, and I was thousands of miles away, but I still felt guilty. But I also know that she knew I loved her, and vice versa. 

Although, as chronicled by herself and others, Helga had a dark and disturbing past, I will always remember her laugh and her love. May she rest in peace.

* after writing this, I came across this article by Rachel Kadish, who tells us more about Helga and Anne Frank.

Caught on Camera - the Cat that got the Cream

Thanks to my friend Martin for sharing a humorous video from Canterbury Cathedral. The minister is trying to share his biblical wisdom, but his audience, including the cameraperson, who zooms in on the table, is distracted by a feline visitor who decides to slake its thirst. You may see the whole minute here.

Sara the (Rabbi's) Cat, however, is not a dairy fan. She loves water, preferably from the bidet tap, but she's not averse to a cheeky dip into my glass if she can get away with it.