eat less chocolate
exercise more
get back in touch with lost friends
…

Oh, you are here? I’m finally drafting a New Year’s resolution list,  please do take a seat while I finish with it. Have some tea if you like.

…
clean flat weekly
update blog frequently
…

Wait a minute… Maybe you are surprised that I am back here at all? You are right, it has been quite a while, since… oh  my ears and whiskers, since 25th of October, that’s a loooong time indeed! Please accept my apologies for neglecting the place, and neglecting you. But, as you can see from the resolution list above, this shall happen no more in 2012. Ha ha.

Anyway, let’s go on with a long overdue festive entry: my Christmas and New Year menus, and The Tale of the Elusive Pear Belle Hélène.

Christmas Eve, Christmas Day.

The plan was to eat:

Christmas Eve –
mixed mushroom soup
saltimbocca alla romana
cream sherry trifle

Christmas Day –
smoked salmon salad with asian dressing
thruringian bratwurst with bratkartoffeln
lemon sorbet
pear Belle Hélène

But Circumstances decided otherwise. The trifle had to be prepared a day in advance: since I prepared it on Saturday (Christmas Eve), it would be ready for Sunday only. So the Pear Belle Hélène shifted to the Saturday Menu, while its companion sweet the Lemon Sorbet stayed on the Sunday Menu, because it had to spend a long time in the freezer as well, and there was no time left for that unless dinner was to be eaten at three in the morning.

Then Fate decided to thwart Circumstances’ efforts, and as the dinner went late and pear-making energy abandoned me, the trifle became an attractive option again. The practical upshot of which being, the pear went back to its originally scheduled place, on Sunday along with the sorbet.

Circumstances’ parting shot on Sunday came under the the guise of a full belly, which, short story even shorter, moved Pear Nibbling away to the next nearest festive meal, New Year’s Eve Dinner.

In pictures:

(click to enlarge)

Clockwise from top left:

• Teh Mushroom soup. Very, very mushroomy indeed. The recipe comes from Pippa Cuthbert and Lindsay Cameron Wilson’s book Soup!, and if you like mushrooms, this is the way to proceed. It tastes very intensely of mushroom. Mushroom would be its middle name if it has a first and last one. (You can also spot a glass of schwarzriesling, which was too fruity for my taste at that point of the meal.)
• Saltimbocca alla romana. An old favourite of mine, for reasons as unfathomable as my passion for osso bucco. I’ve been following this recipe [de].
• Cream sherry trifle, from a lovely anthology of Hitchockian fare. The dishes in this book are all related somehow to the works and life of Alfred Hitchcock; the sherry trifle is mentioned in Rich and Strange.
• Smoked salmon salad, siamese sauce. Taken from this page — a light starter is always welcome to start those heavy meals.
• Thuringian sausage and panfried potatoes. A hearty meal, maybe unexpected for such an occasion, but who cares. The potatoes had bacon, onion and garlic, aubergine (not the best idea, but it was a leftover and had to be eaten), plus I scrambled two eggs on top at the end. Needless to say, this dish cancelled all the benefits of the starter’s lightness.
• Lemon sorbet. An easy recipe [fr] with no need for an ice-cream maker, possibly too sweet for me, but really really lemony (so watch out if you have sensitive teeth). And no pears Belle Hélène: these will be served on New Year’s eve.

New Year’s Eve.

How to cook up a festive meal when you are bored to rummage in your cookbooks? Easily enough: recycle old recipes, and use mushrooms.

(click to enlarge)

• Smoked salmon and North Sea shrimps salad. A simple variation on the Christmas Day starter, with lamb’s lettuce.
• Yummy steaks with mushroom sauce (button mushrooms, shiitake and French horn mushroom, if you must know). In my universe, a mushroom sauce automatically bestows an air of earnest festivity to any dish. This one didn’t fail to maximise the tastiness-vs-cooking-trouble ratio. (If you don’t like multiple negatives: it means it was very tasty.)
• Dessert? What about the pears Belle Hélène? Well, as you have guessed already, once more the delicate dessert had to be postponed. But on New Year’s Day, really, really this time, there will be pears Belle Hélène — even if I have to starve all day to whet my appetite!

This man knows what happened with the pears.

Epilogue

The new year slowly unfolds; days finally appear to have noticeably lengthened. There is a name for that moment, which I forgot, unfortunately. As I sit on my metaphorical porch pondering life, the universe, everything, memories of 2011 arise — friendships lost and found; life changing slowly but surely like patterns in a cloudy sky; roads I could have followed, doors I should have opened; worldwide significant events, too.

What does 2012 hold in store, I wonder?

And I tear up my draft of a resolution list.

See, I did get to make Pear Belle Hélène on New Year's Day.

(Seriously, apologies for the long silence. Next time: last part of my adventurous adventures in the Far East.)

Pictures credits: me, except The Riddler: pinched from Batman wikia (don’t know who’s the artist).

First of all, it really should be Chinese foods, in plural. Even though my limited visit and its non-culinary purpose didn’t allow for in-depth exploration of oriental eating customs, I still had the opportunity to catch a glimpse of the variety and intricacies of the local cuisine. Cuisines. Well, you get the point, I’ll stick to singular.

The finest restaurants can be found in Chenghuang Miao

He who cooks but does not eat, is lost. He who eats but does not cook is in great danger — Confucius

The first impression I got of food was like an edible version of fireworks. A wide variety of dishes, where a feast of colours, a wide array of textures and a skilful composition of flavours all contribute to the dining experience. Dishes go from simple pickled roots to elaborate and colourful mixes of marinated meat, vegetable and spices; from noodly soups to flavourful dumplings; from whole grilled fish to wee pancakes with an assortment of toppings you can arrange at your fancy. On more formal occasions, or in larger groups, countless dishes are put on a large rotating plate, so everybody can get to every dish just turning the plate around. It also means you can see a coveted plate moving towards you, just to see it being steered away before you could touch it by a fellow table guest eager to reach his or her own preferred food.

Each province of China has its distinctive food traditions. Unfortunately I have not tasted many sorts yet, as I mostly stuck to the fiery spices of Sichuan style food, which I quickly grew quite fond of.

All in all I am glad I eat everything. OK, not literally everything (oysters, I just can’t), but I have no basic reluctance or allergy against, for example, garlic, fish-with-bones, nuts. Otherwise, with standard dishes involving mixing so many ingredients, prepared so as to be unrecognisable on sight, it could easily become very challenging to find a dish avoiding all of my personal ingredient blacklist. Now instead, no matter what the recipe, I’m almost sure to like it! It would be so stressy otherwise, and being stressed isn’t really the point of food (in normal situations, that is).

He who knows a cook is wise. He who knows to cook is enlightened — Lao Tzu

Enough with general statements, don’t we want a sample menu? There we go. One day that I was brought to Lu Bo Lang, a place of choice where many personalities have had dinner — I remember Clinton and her husband (when he was still US President), and Fidel Castro, but there were many others, whose pictures adorn the walls.

Lu Bo Lang, in the middle of Chenghuang Miao district

My cicerone and I had the following. (Apologies in advance for the approximate descriptions; feel free to provide more info if you can, in the comments below.)

• A Shanghainese speciality of smoked fish, which may well be marinated as well (very different from the smoked fish I know from northern Europe), one of my favourites that day;
• fish soup, clear and spicy;
• boiled vegetable (could have been pak choi or something similar), with mushrooms;
• an “8 delicacies” dish, also spicy, with beef, bell pepper, mushrooms (?), plum, and more but I forgot, also delicious;
• more beef, but more simply marinated;
• spring rolls;
• another fingerfoodey thing like spring rolls, in a funny shape, but truth be told I didn’t like it that much.

All this with green tea, and chopsticks.

Special and very popular in China is also street food. Ah, street food. I had some in the Qibao district, a web of small streets and even smaller streets with thousands of food shops, selling all things fried, boiled, candied, baked, and more; if you are hungry, or even not that hungry, or just feel like nibbling, this is the place to go. I tasted three sorts of dumplings (crab, meat, bean paste), and a popular treat called “stinky tofu”. As its name indicate, the smell isn’t the most refreshing, but the taste is curiously pleasant. Dumplings contain a core of whatever they are filled with, as well as some tasty soupish liquid, which makes them rather difficult to eat with elegance for the unexperienced visitor.

View of Qibao's "Snack Street" from the dumpling place.

In order to properly understand the dish, everyone should fear becoming mentally clouded and obsessed with one small section of the recipe — Xun Zi

The alert sinophile will have noticed that my visit happened exactly around the time of the mid-Autumn Festival, the second most important Chinese holiday after the Spring Festival. It happens every year around the same period, the exact date being chosen so as to coincide with full moon. On that day, the moon is said to be the most beautiful in the year; there must even be a wish-making scheme (there always is one).

Of course there is some folklore associated with the festival. If memory serves, the legend goes something like this. A long long time ago, the Earth was illuminated by not one, but ten suns taking turns to light the world. But one day all suns went on duty at the same time. So the Emperor asked his most skilled archer to put an end to this scorching situation by shooting down all suns bar one. Lo and behold, nine arrows later just one sun was left shining, after which the Emperor rewarded the brave man by giving him a potion of eternal life. For some reason he didn’t drink it at once, and kept it hidden instead. At some point his beautiful wife stumbled upon the vial’s hiding place, and boldly drank its content. This gave her the ability to fly, and for some reason, chased by her disappointed husband I guess, she flew to the moon. I think it is a reflection of the lady’s radiance that the moon is particularly beautiful during the festival.

Oops, didn't get the myth quite right. The actual story involves the Moon Rabbit.

As with most festivals, food is involved. Here, the custom is to eat so called moon cakes, traditionally with your family, and while sharing tea and stories. But what is a moon cake? A small pastry which comes with all sorts of different fillings, while the appearance is almost always the same (yet a completely different style exists in Beijing, for example). Once again, the appearance is dictated by tradition: legend has it that after an old-time Mongolian invasion, a brave warrior managed to smuggle messages around by hiding them in such cakes and helped to free his country. Allegedly the modern cakes have the same design as the one he had used.

I had the opportunity to taste at least five different kinds of fillings, some sweet and some savoury, and all quite dense; I remember a dark one which may have been bean paste, and possibly an almond one. The most traditional ones should contain a baked egg yolk, symbolic of the hidden messages carried around by the warrior. I tried to buy some for myself, but it is harder to get a variety of fillings when you cannot read the package. I found bean paste, though!

Notice the heart of egg. But no bean paste!

Can you imagine what I would cook if I could cook all I can? — Sun Tzu

What’s this I hear you saying now? “Bla bla bla, traditions, bla bla, folklore, bla bla bla, spices. Aren’t you forgetting something here?” Fear not, I know what you are thinking: Do they really eat dog in China? Did I eat anything weird? Well, the time has come to answer those pressing questions.

First of all, I don’t know if they do eat dog over there. Anyway I didn’t spot any on the menu, and if I’ve eaten any, it was unknowingly and probably tasty. But some unusual foods were indeed on offer: sea cucumber for example, or turtle (I tasted neither). A Sichuan restaurant had cockroaches, which I still hope was a mistranslation for some other insect. Until further research answers this mystery, I am not sure I’d be brave enough to order some, Sichuan or not. On the other hand, what I really really wanted to try was snake. I even went in search of a restaurant which reputedly serves it, but couldn’t find the place; either it had shut down, or I didn’t write down the address correctly (I suspect the latter). In any case that was a major culinary disappointment.

Instead of snake I ate duck tongue, and shark fin soup. Shark fin, I was assured, helps rejuvenation, nourishing the blood, and is an all-round benefactor of my offal; to be fair, the menu also described modern medicine benefits (proteins and vitamins and whatnot), but the traditional medicine routine is less abstract and more entertaining, almost poetic. The soup was very delicate; too delicate probably, in light of a recent experience which exposed my taste buds for the lazy fools they are. Duck tongue was quite nice, once I managed to avoid thinking about what it was (it helped to remember that I have no issue with beef tongue). Oh, and I ate bullfrogs too, also in a soup. What is so special about that, you may wonder, since, as a Frenchman, I do eat frogs for breakfast (no, not literally for breakfast). The difference is that the French eat only the legs: here, the frogs were complete, hence noteworthy.

But the highlight of my culinary experience, and definitely up there in my Top Three List of Weird Food I’ve Eaten, is marinated jellyfish. It was served as a small salad with white radish, or a similar root. The basic advantage was that both were shredded, which means that the dish looked like a homogeneous heap of translucent pale stripes. On closer examination, it turned out that radish had a clearer, more opaline tone, while jellyfish veered towards shades of sauerkrautish ivory. The major difference was texture, radish being crunchily brittle, and jellyfish tougher and somewhat rubbery. Also, tiny bits tended to get caught between my back teeth, which kind of spoiled the experience. The taste was whatever it was marinated in (something with vinegar) — it seems that these edible jellyfish have little taste of their own. Maybe I will try the fried ones next time, and hope they’re less chewy.

Not the sort I ate.

A book is like a sandwich carried in the pocket — traditional proverb.

After this overview of Chinese food, and last time’s general impressions of Shanghai, one thing is left to recount. What could that possibly be? Have I been up to some mischief after all? Did I shoot a movie scene with Jackie Chan? Find out in next week time’s installment of this fascinating tale!

Pictures credits: me, me, me, not sure who, Mooncake Desserts, Travis Snelling

Ici, on dirait que le ciel est plus grand.

This observation was made by a friend during a schooltrip to Russia a long, long time ago. I couldn’t help thinking of this again when I went to China earlier this September; the sky looks bigger over there as well. Along with quite a few other things, but that is to be expected when visiting Shanghai, the world’s “largest city proper” according to Geohive. Large city, disorienting Orient, patchwork of colourful impressions, mind-blowing experience — this is what I shall fail to capture in the next few Entries.

First a disclaimer. The following haphazard account is merely an attempt to describe my first impressions of China gathered during a very short visit in a very specific location. For this reason, it is quite subjective and more likely to reflect my own flawed perception of things rather than providing a deep insight into Chinese civilisation. But honestly, would you be reading this if you were looking for boring objectivity? So there.

Very unusual: a regular-sized sky.

So, let’s start with the obvious topic: language. This is probably the main reason why a European like me can feel isolated in China. Everything else, no matter how strange and wonderful, looks familiar enough: streets, houses, supermarkets, metro, restaurants, roads, crowds. But when you don’t know the language it is nigh on impossible to get around based on what you read and what you hear. The spoken language, a melodic flow of vocals and soft consonants, doesn’t provide me any familiar point of reference; I could not even remotely guess the difference between someone saying “come back in one hour”, “I once saw Jackie Chan in that restaurant”, or “next stop, People’s Square”.

Written language is certainly very pretty, but quite hard to learn as you go. To some extent this reminds me of sign language: there is a lot of intricate information happening in each sign, and you have to be really attentive to grasp all details in one glance. The other similarity with sign langage is that the written on the one hand, and the spoken / signed on the other hand, are not related: being able to read a word doesn’t mean you can pronounce it (or sign it), and vice versa.

Yeah yeah, all nice and well, but can you speak Chinese now, I hear you ask. Well, before going there, I could say “hello”, “thank you”, and “cat”; fascinating conversations guaranteed. Now in addition I also learned “bye bye”, and “east / west / north / south”. I can also recognise a few written words: “Shanghai”, “Exit / Entrance”, “Road”, and “South Railway Station” (the latter being useful when you want to take a bus and not end up in the wrong place). Curiously, despite being really not much, it helped me a lot feeling not quite so lost.

Shanghai.

Are there nine million bicycles in Shanghai? I don’t know, but there sure are shedloads of them, along with scooters, cars, buses. Driving, or indeed circulating, in Shanghai appears to be a very intense activity. It seems that everyone is going their own way the best they can; gently forcing their way in order to merge, turn, overtake, dodge. Lots of honking going on, not necessarily the long angry hoooonk you can hear elsewhere, which basically replaces cursing and swearing, and which more often than not turns into a two-voice concerto for hoot and peep. No, what you also frequently hear are shorter toots, which simply indicate to other people that you are here, and please don’t bump into my vehicle. And when you are already focused on overtaking the stopping taxi in front of you, dodging the pedestrians who take the opportunity to cross in front of said taxi, and not getting hit by the cars in the lane you’re moving into, you are quite happy that the little scooter who pops up from a side road resoundingly announces its arrival. All in all the whole driving spirit could be summarised as, ‘whatever works’. I was grateful not to be behind the wheel though.

Of course there are also quieter locations; there, loud honks give way to the tinkle of bicycle bells, and embarrassing collisions with dreamy pedestrians are happily avoided.

I can't see myself in such a situation, ever.

And one last topic, pretty unescapable. What about… you know… free speech? Like, is there internet in China? Why, of course there is; as much as my hotel’s shaky connection would allow anyway. Yet somehow there were some pages I, eeer, didn’t feel like visiting during my stay. Or, if you prefer: easy and painless social media detox! Two weeks freed from the procrastinating claws of facebook and twitter! Youtube I missed a bit more. As for blogs: somehow I couldn’t didn’t want to visit anyone on blogspot, while WordPress was perfectly accessible (well, not quite: I couldn’t login, causing a delay in publication of last week’s Chinese portrait). Amusingly, while the moving medical stories of Dr Jaddo [fr] were unaccessible, I could browse the fierce entries on justice and human rights by Maître Eolas [fr] to my heart’s content.

And this is the end of my general first impressions of China. Coming up next time: food! The bets are open as to what is the most unusual dish I have eaten there.

Pictures credits: me, anywhere on the web, Vanessa and Julien.

if I were an animal, I would be… a human.
if I were a word, I would be… “sirocco”.
if I were a fictional character, I would be… Arthur Dent.
if I were a deadly sin I would be… sloth.

The Book of Secrets.

And now, most exquisite Reader, why won’t you describe yourself in a similar fashion?

Picture credit: Marta Bevacqua.

–

Edited for grammar on 19. September.

A portrait in 5 snapshots

–
J is a waitress, and a student as well. She works in the pub a couple of blocks away. I am a regular there ever since the football World Cup in 2010. I am not sure she likes football. It doesn’t matter: the games are opportunities to have a good time in a lively atmosphere, and lots of beer. And long evenings chilling out with pub regulars who stay even when the game is over.

We play name-boozing: each participant gets allocated a football player. Whenever the player is mentioned on TV during the game, the participant must drink from their pint, empty it if the player scores a goal. If memory serves, the game is Germany vs. England. J gets Schweinsteiger, and complains that she will be too drunk to work by the end of the game. I get Mertesacker, who must have eaten a tiger if one is to judge by the number of times he is mentioned that night.

–

A heart of gold under an iron façade. She can be sulky at times. She seems to like the job, despite it being hard, despite the long hours and the unrelenting days — but sometimes, you can see she wants to grab the more obnoxious customers and shake the hell out of them. Which she doesn’t do, of course. She keeps working with efficiency and kindness. Just stay clear of her sharp tongue!

How often does she go to the pub even though she is not on duty, to help out the other barstaff? To be fair, maybe also for friends and company. In time I have come to associate the pub with her, more than with everyone or everything else there. Is it her strong radiant personality? Maybe because she is so often present, even off duty? Or do we just happen to be there on the same days?

–

It is winter, a particularly cold one this year. The pub still opens on Sundays, and because of the weather there is even less animation than usual Sundays. I go there anyway: the company is lovely, and the beer is nice. Sunday is a day off for J, but she often shows up anyway.

We have taken to playing rummy, the two of us, sometimes with a third man. I get systematically trounced backwards and sideways. It doesn’t matter, it is fun all the same, with her slightly wry way and mock regret.

–

Another night, same winter, after a long party evening. Is it halloween? I remember candles. It is late, very late, and too cold, and the wind is chilly. We leave the pub together. Instead of heading straight for home — our ways start the same — we make a detour through the gas station, to grab a last beer to drink on the way. We do not speak that much; too cold. Or maybe our conversation has dissolved in alcoholic mists.

We walk the short distance to her flat, sit in the street downstairs for a while. We try to light some candles we have brought from the pub. It is hard, because of the wind. Magic of the moment. We don’t speak much. Too bloody cold.

–

A bunch of people having a smoke just outside a bar is a familiar sight nowadays. J often stands outside the entrance just after opening the pub, enjoying a last Gauloise in peace before the first customers arrive. Many times on those lonely winter Sundays, I accompany her to chat and freeze a bit.

When I pass near the pub, I always take a look to try and spot her familiar silhouette standing there. Even when the pub is closed. Even though she is no more.

Every year in May, a large festival takes place in Hamburg to celebrate the harbour’s birthday. For a few days, the port becomes an even more vibrant place than usual, peppered with fairground-like stalls where you can buy street food, souvenirs and clothes; thrill rides; theatre and musical shows; and of course, all sort of ships from all over the world. Tall ships, cruise vessels, naval ships, you name it.

Two years ago, it happened that my siblings C and D were meeting me in Hamburg at that precise time. Being a resourceful lot, we seized the opportunity to see the event. So, making the most of the warm and sunny weather, we went walking around in the streets and amidst the stalls for a while, until we stumbled upon the Sedov, a tall ship which was open to visitors. So we thought, why not go and take a look.

The Sedov.

As space is limited on the ship, new visitors must wait for some of the previous ones to leave before boarding the Sedov. So we took place at the end of the queue, and started our slow way towards the gangway. Now one of my favourite activities while queueing in a bustling place, is to watch the people around me. So while C and D were discussing, I was casually looking around, until someone further down the growing queue drew my attention.

A few places behind me was a man, inconspicuously standing in line, and carrying a large round cheese. And I mean large — the sort that you rather associate with Dutch cheese commercials.

Cheese like this, but only one, and without the smile.

I rose my eyebrow, grabbed D’s sleeve and hinted at the unusual scene. “Say, that’s what I call carrying cheese in a natural way!” Another peek, another raised eyebrow, and we turned to C, who had been minding his own business and looking somewhere else, telling him to heed that most peculiar sight. “Hey, look, there’s a guy with a cheese in our line!”

Except that when we turned back to the mysterious person, he was not carrying the cheese anymore. He was still standing there, with the same slightly bored and unconcerned look as before, same raincoat, same place, but not the slightest hint that he had ever been carrying a large Dutch cheese before.

Of course C immediately jumped on the easy conclusion that D and I were trying to pull his leg. In fairness, maybe we would have, if only we had thought of such a story all by ourselves! And yet it was the truth, unbelievable though it may seem, in all its baffling splendor. Ever since, we have tried our best to convince C, to proffer rational explanations, all in vain; he could not believe that anything contrary to natural law had occurred.

And frankly, who could blame him?

Pictures credits: official Sedov website, dpa.

What I do remember though, is that for aaaages afterwards, I was convinced that dead ends always ended up with a sand-filled basin. Better still, I had been so impressed that dead ends with sand-filled basins were a recurrent feature in my drawings at that period, and for quite a while afterwards. Sometimes I wonder what the teachers (or whoever the victim recipient of the picture was) were making of it. Nor, truth be told, if they understood what the deuce this strange coloured blot at the end of the road was (I hope at least the dead end sign was recognisable). I’m not even sure I used the proper colour for the sand.

Picture credit: Kentin31

Well, I get that sort of feeling every now and then, and quite intensely at times. This week for example: on Tuesday night, I thought it was Wednesday; on Wednesday morning, I remember switching off my alarm clock thinking it’s way too early to get up for a Saturday; and on Thursday, it felt like week-end. Today as well (it’s Friday), but with Easter it is a long week-end anyway.

–

I cycled all the way to the blood donation centre yesterday, through avenues beset by trees and bushes, and along a park. The smell of vegetation coming alive, daffodils, grass, a touch of barbecue smoke, the evanescent dryness of asphalt; sounds of birds chirping, people chatting and lazying on the grass; the delicate heat of a clear sun.

Welcome, Spring!

I can feel unrest amongst the legions of readers of this blog. By Harry, you are right: time has come to post something lest it be said that I neglect you. Since I am quite busy these days, you will please forgive me for taking the lazy route and repost an interview I did last year for The h2g2 Post.

the hidden world of nature II

Marta Bevacqua is a young photographer who succeeds in capturing worlds and stories in her pictures. Like Alice following the White Rabbit, I had no idea what was awaiting me the first time I followed a linked picture to her DeviantArt account.

And what a mind-blowing feast of elaborate simplicity, surreal reality, and poetry of all senses that was! Sometimes I wish I could find myself in the world of her photographs. Or am I already?

the quiet one: Would you like first to write a few words about yourself, tell a bit the readers who you are?

Marta Bevacqua: I was born in Rome, 1989. I’m studying photography, attending an evening course in a school here in Rome, but I am mostly self taught.

I’m an emerging photographer, on the road to become a professional one.

the quiet one: It seems that you started taking photographs relatively late (not, like, when you were 6 or so). What made you start, and how did you find out this is what you wanted to do for living?

Marta Bevacqua: I started taking photographs when I was 16. I just found a site for every kind of art (DeviantArt) and discovered how much I loved seeing beautiful images, especially photographs. I passed one month browsing trough this site, I started to admire the works of different artists, then I started to imagine beautiful images in my mind. In that period I neither had a camera, only a bad one (that didn’t work so well, it also turned off by itself) and I started with that. After some time, I had my first professional camera, and I knew that it was my passion and it will be so also in the future.

the quiet one: How would you describe your style? What do you like to express with your pictures?

Marta Bevacqua: I think my style is nearly a dreamy one. I love creating surreal images or scenes in my mind and make them become real in a photograph.

Sometimes I represent a concept, objective or subjective, other times I just try to create a beautiful image, that becomes a “pleasure” for eyes.

I simply try to transport the “public” beyond the reality, that photography reproduces almost faithfully.

night soul

the quiet one: How do you create photographs? How much work is involved from the conception to the final picture?

Marta Bevacqua: Most of the times I’ve something in mind and I try to represent it as I developed it with my imagination. In these cases, I usually work a lot on the idea firstly and then on the shot, thinking about everything: composition, models, make up and hairstyle, etc and finally the post production.

Other times, I just go around with my camera, and I find beautiful things or scenes everywhere (just be careful to see how beautiful is the world we live in), from a small flower, to a lightning in the sky, or to a lot of people doing something, somewhere.

the quiet one: What and who inspires you?

Marta Bevacqua: I am mostly inspired by nature, always. Rain, snow, sunset light, trees, leaves, grass: I think everything has a little world to hide, and everything has a little thing to offer to make a photograph become something beautiful.

I am also inspired by other photographers I find great, especially Zhang Jingna, for her “fantasy” shots, Julie Blackmon, for her constructed shots and Annie Leibovitz.

the quiet one: What would you say are the important aspects of a photograph?

Marta Bevacqua: I think there aren’t specific important aspects of a photograph. Colours are not more important than composition, and the dress used by the model is not less important than the location (for example). A photograph is composed by a lot of important elements. A photo becomes a beautiful image when it has the right colours, composition, models, make-up, dress and everything else.

war is over?

the quiet one: In your opinion, what is the meaning of photography?

Marta Bevacqua: I love photography as an art, besides for being “my art”, also because it has a lot of different meanings. There are several fields in which photography plays an important role. For example: in reportage photography is used to report something, in this way photography can document history. Or for fashion, the function of photography is to show a product and with a beautiful image it’s supposed to sell that specific product.
I use photography to create beauty, and what I love most about it is that photography reproduces reality faithfully, and make the viewers understand the beauty is here, everywhere.

the quiet one: You also make drawings. How would you compare photography to drawing, and other graphical art in general?

Marta Bevacqua: I think drawing and other graphical arts are more free. If you have something in mind, also things so far from reality, you can represent them just drawing. Photography catches the reality, and for this reason I consider it as a “more difficult” way to represent surreal and magical scenes. But besides it, photography gives a lot of possibilities, as every kind of art.

keep your imagination alive

the quiet one: Let us look at the future — do you have any long-term plans, specific projects and dreams you would like to share with us?

Marta Bevacqua: My dream is to become a professional photographer (and quite famous… ^^). What I’d like most for my future is travel a lot for my work as a photographer.

the quiet one: And finally, do you have anything to add for the benefit of our readers?

Marta Bevacqua: Just support me!

All pictures © Marta Bevacqua. Reproduced with kind permission of the artist. Do visit her website and flickr photostream!

You may want to refresh your memory: Find out why I went to Edinburgh this time, read all about the memories which kept me company during the stay, see how well the first few days went.

And now, let the show begin.

–

Thursday.

Just a minute, I hear you say: last time we ended on Tuesday, and now already Thursday? What happened with Wednesday? Well, the truth is, I don’t remember. Possibly, I had a quiet day at home with a book. I may have gone out in the evening, but maybe not. Probably plans were made for the rest of the week. In short, the day was good but uneventful. There, happy?

Thursday, I said. Time to run some Errands. First things first, getting some unusual whisky, of the kind which is hard to find abroad. Since an amazing variety of even rare whiskies is exported for fussy amateurs worldwide, this turns out to be something quite hard to find in Scotland. Fortunately specialist shops always seem to have a stash of exclusive stuff somewhere. This shop was no exception, and I was offered to choose from several of their finest exclusive liquors.

Now usually I am a peat man. I like peaty stuff like Laphroaig or Ardbeg, which means I tend to always drink the smoky stuff and miss out completely on the non-smoky ones. Since these form a large class of highly enjoyable and complex whiskies, it was time to broaden my horizon and buy a non peaty sort. (I decided on a 12 years old Deanston, bottled for Glenkeir Treasures: a smooth, woody, sturdily built nectar).

By then lunch time was approaching fast, and I had to stop in, surprise surprise, a pub, for a pint lunch lunch and a pint. First stop at Rose St 100 (Deuchars), which wasn’t crowded enough for my taste (I was alone; people started coming in as I left). I went on to the Standing Order again (Old Empire IPA, Dark Island), after which I was ready for my second Errand: find a stone.

How now? A stone? Well, a friend of mine from home, upon finding out I was under these exotic skies, asked me to bring her back “a stone”. Intriguing, eh? A stone: what could she mean? Only a few possibilities seemed reasonable: it could be a heather stone, but she would have specified. It could be a stone from the castle wall, or even, speaking of the castle, the Stone of Scone. That one would have made my suitcase overweight anyway, so I decided upon just a simple ol’ stone from the ground, and to find one closeby, Calton Hill seemed the best bet.

And what view!

Eventually I found a stone to my taste, small, black, at once edgy and smooth, a metaphor for the small and winding dark streets of Edinburgh filled with rough yet friendly people.

With the satisfaction of a job well done, I decided it was time to get a hot towel shave, an oh so old project of mine. I warmly recommend it by the way; it’s a very relaxing experience. The hairdresser also asked if I wanted my hair cut, and while that wasn’t the first plan, I thought, what the hell, let’s do it. And she asked how I wanted my hair, and I said shorter. I may even have said, much shorter.

At this point you should be told I wear glasses. I’ve tried contacts before, and while it is convenient at the hairdresser’s or in warm bakeries in winter (spectacles wearers will understand), it wasn’t really me and I swiftly went back to glasses. Anyway, without my glasses on, like at the haidresser’s, I’m blind as a bat. As a side-effect, I tend to just fade out all my environment and be generally unaware of everything, lost in my thoughts (or what passes as thoughts), not speaking to people, barely responsive to external stimuli.

So there I was, helplessly sitting in the hairdresser’s comfy chair, with an impressionistic view of my surroundings, when I noticed the hairdresser grabbing the electric clippers, and zzzzt! starting to shave away the sides of my head. My heart stopped beating for a moment and, having realised that there was nothing I could do anymore, resumed at a normal rate. So I just sat there, hoping for the best and enjoying the haircut.

As a matter of fact, in the end the hair wasn’t too short either, but without glasses there is no way I could tell what the hairdresser was doing to me (hence, no worries). Plus, according to those who said anything, the short hairdo suits me.

Friday.

Las time I mentioned spending a little time in a professional’s kitchen, and sneaking out to the Oxford Bar. This was on Friday; now it is time to say what happened afterwards. I had a ticket for a comedy show, but still some time to kill so I went to the Guildford Arms (Clipper IPA, Bitter and Twisted). I like that pub very much, with its convivial atmosphere, a vast and very high ceiling, and a central circular bar which I was assured is typical of Scottish pubs. There was no music and no TV, so one would only hear the pleasant noise of people discussing, in a friendly and very crowdy atmosphere.

I love watching people  while enjoying a beer in a busy pub. I hope people don’t mind. When I was young and still learning English, I think I tended to stare at people while listening to their conversations. It wasn’t out of nosiness (I didn’t care what they were saying), but rather I was just trying to understand what was being said. Later I realised it may have looked a bit weird sometimes.

On my way back from the pub I had a little nostalgia moment, when I realised I was almost twice as old as the first time I came here (ish: I am far enough from 36 yet). I was thinking of all those young people I was seeing, which were, like, toddlers in 1995? People come and go, old people got older, some I may have crossed as children holding the hand of their parents, unaware there would be there somewhere around fifteen years later. At that moment I somehow felt like a twig in a flowing stream, and I felt that pinch I occasionally get looking back at that first time I came here in 1995, the feeling of having missed something. “Doubly”, says my notepad — again, I have no idea whatsoever what I meant writing that down.

And at last, the evening’s highlight: comedy! The word always reminds me of a standup show I saw at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival in 2009: one of the comedians observed that inserting the word “comedy” in a dramatic sentence would make it look much more harmless. Let’s try with some actual news stories:

Comedy government rules out lower drink-drive limit

Merkel gambles credibility with comedy nuclear U-turn

When police arrived at the scene they found the bodies together in a pool of comedy blood.

See? It just takes that dramatic edge out of a grim sentence. Try it out by yourself, most excellent Reader, and please do share your creations with us in the comments below.

No festival this time, it was just a regular Friday evening at the Stand Comedy Club. Arriving very early is most advisable if you want a good seat, although the room is so small, all seats are good. Seeing the audience filling up the tiny locale reminded me of the crowded cabin scene from a Marx Brothers film. I managed to spot no fewer than four doppelgangers in the room (my university friend Littlestep, animator Jérémy Michalak, and my former landlady sharing a table with an respected hootizen). Two more bottled Thistle IPA’s later the show started, with comedians Quincy, Jojo Sutherland, Ben Verth, Ian Cognito, and the compère Joe Heenan. I definitely should do that more often. Actually, I wonder why it took me so long to start going in the first place.

Saturday – party time!

Surely J knows how to throw a party. I’d estimate more than fifty guests, food galore, all home made in a broad variety (traditional fare such as baked salmon, malaysian food like beef rendang, large chocolate cakes which no-one seemed to dare to cut into, and all drinks you could imagine), a pianist, and  three butlers. Also present were ghosts from the past: a former waiter from K’s pub long long ago, whom I hadn’t seen for ages and was happy to meet again. Plus, among the guests was Jojo Sutherland herself, from yesterday’s comedy show! What a coincidence!

From the rest of the party I have little recollection: champagne bubbles must have taken them away. I dimly remember chatting up the lithuanian waitress with the whole extent of my knowledge of her language (“cheers” and “thank you”. She seemed impressed). I must have told someone about my collection of requiems, claiming that my oldest one is Guerrero’s (not quite true: I have a slightly older one by Richafort). And someone persuaded me to partake in an unofficial Highland Park whisky tasting, and give taster’s notes. While the first part was pretty straightforward, at that point (end of the party) I was way past any ability for the second task.

But food, atmosphere, interesting people, music, drinks a-plenty: even without the finer details I definitely remember having had a great time.

Sunday.

Last day, always a bit of a saddish one. Luckily the sun is shining bright, but it is reaaaally windy. Standard Edinburgh weather, says Z.

Once again, I do what I’ve never done since I came here the first time 15 years ago: to go and see the beach. A bus brings me to Portobello, and the beach is there, sandy, pebbly, wide, small waves quietly coming and going like they must have done since long before the city was built and will keep doing long after it has gone. The sound of the waves is strangely relaxing. But it’s still terribly windy. A group of teenagers is playing some ball game; they leave shortly after I arrive. The only people I still encounter are joggers, some people who walk their dogs, a couple of strollers, and children on a bike.

The stones on this beach are very different from the ones on Calton Hill – paler, polished, sometimes adorned with barnacles. They too tell a story about Edinburgh: the seaside, further away from the city centre, fishermen, holidays at the beach. I decide to take some back as well. I should make a game out of it, or an art project: capture the essence of your favourite city with a few stones gathered on site.

But it’s windy, really. I decide to walk back, all the way from Portobello to Leith via Seaside. It’s not very scenic, it’s bloody windy, but I like it nonetheless. I’ve always liked, in a city, the bits which are not meant to be visited, which are just ordinary pieces which exist because a city has to grow. I mean, not everything has to be picturesque; the other bits also tell stories, about people the who live there, or who go there every day to work, or…. You can feel quite close to a city in those parts.

Eventually I reach the end of Leith Walk, where I go for a last pint at the Central Bar (Mc Ewan’s 70/-. Possibly the first Scottish beer I’ve ever drunk, the very first day in Summer 1995 at K’s pub, unless it was Gillespie’s).

Last surprise waiting for me as I came back to my friends’ flat: one of the cats had shat in my (fortunately dirty) laundry!

Monday.

With the usual sinking heart of departure day it was time to leave: bus till Waverley station, and change for the airport shuttle. I took the opportunity of yet more bright sunshine to sit on the upper floor of a double decker, right in front. I enjoyed it so much I nearly missed my bus stop!

I have little time left to mention the last coincidence, a passenger on my plane reading the same book as I was, before sleep seizes me, carrying me away from this blog, little time to polish up the posting I couldn’t write up yesterday because it was much too late, until the clock strikes midnight and my departure ends this last sentence.