Spinoza

I don’t usually get too excited about public statuary, but the monument to the philosopher Spinoza in Amsterdam is more imaginative that most.

It's also well positioned by the pedestrian and cycle bridge across the Zwanenburgwal canal, just before it joins with the Amstel river, a stone’s throw from the popular Waterlooplein market, and just around the corner from the National Opera and Ballet hall.

Of Spinoza himself there is not really much to see, as his entire body is draped in a cloak decorated with birds and roses.

Poking out above and framed by a splendid wig, is his face. Whether it's a good likeness of the great man, or not, his thoughtful facial features are well modelled and radiate a certain presence.

The birds are rose-ringed parakeets, an exotic species which have become familiar all over Amsterdam, having first settled in Vondelpark a few decades back. They symbolise the immigrant nature of the city in the 17th Century, and that it still is today.

But my favourite part of the monument is the black marble icosahedron which symbolises the the universe as a model, created by the human mind.

The whole arrangement is mounded on an elliptical plinth, conveniently low enough to sit on.
You can even lean back against the icosahedron, and perhaps contemplate the quote etched into the plinth edge beneath you: ‘The purpose of the state is freedom.'

A good place to pause for a while, and perhaps the presence of the great philosopher and the icosahedron will help sharpen your own mind, and your philosophical thoughts.

Monumzent to Spinoza, Zwanenburgwal, Amsterdam. Sculptor: Nicolas Dings 2008.

Frans Hals

Wonderful portrait of Pieter Jacobsz Olycan by Frans Hals — at the Frans Hals Museum in Haarlem. Criticized during his lifetime — his brushwork was considered to be lazy and unfinished — it took almost two hundred years for his work to become fully appreciated.

The Impressionists were particularly impressed by the freshness of his technique. Vincent even wrote to his brother Theo 'What a joy it is to see a Frans Hals, how different it is from the paintings – so many of them – where everything is carefully smoothed out in the same manner.' 

Painted in 1629, it’s hard to believe it’s nearly 400 years old, but I suppose the ruff is a bit of a give-a-way.

 

Guerrillero Heroico

Vondelpark, Amsterdam, June 2011 

Having recently been in Samaipata Bolivia (now part of the Che Guevara Trail — see link below), and that I was re-reading his autobiographical Motorcycle Diaries, I suppose it was hardly surprising that I began to notice people wearing t-shirts bearing his image.

Jimi Hendrix was also well represented, as was James Dean, The Beatles, Marilyn Monroe, Jim Morrison, and any number of other heroes (not to mention all the slogans and brands) but Che’s face kept staring out at me, or rather, staring past me into the distance. 

The image, based on Alberto Korda’s iconic 1960 photograph Guerrillerio Heroico, has become (arguably) the world’s most famous picture, and its reproduction a global phenomenon. Victor was my first ‘ask,’ though shortly afterwards I realised that Rory (with Budge the crow — see A Murder of Guevaras post) had also been wearing a Che t-shirt, so the theme had already been established.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guerrillero_Heroico

http://www.southamericanpictures.com/collections/che-guevara-trail/che-trail.htm

In transit

On Paddington station there is a display stand of the latest Dyson must-haves, and two or three Dyson ambassadors dressed in regulation black. This is new to me, and for a moment I wonder whether they haven’t enough room for him at Olympia or Earls Court. 

People momentarily pause on their way from, or to wherever they’re going, and are temporarily seduced by a fan without blades, a slim vacuum cleaner for people who live in small spaces, and other such modern marvels.

Having just heard the helpful and informative message over the station tannoy that thieves are operating in the area, I stop for a moment to fasten the zips of my gaping shoulder bag. 

I look up as woman walks past. She is tall, attractive, has blonde curly hair and is elegantly dressed, but she has no arms. Her hands sprout from her shoulders, the right one holding onto the straps of her shoulder bag – perhaps she also heard the message about the 'thieves.' 

I am reminded of all the people in Cochabamba missing one or both hands, and still don’t know the reason why: primitive farm machinery, birth defects caused by pollution? 

But there is no doubt what caused this woman to be born without arms.

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Later, I'm ensconced in my seat on the Eurostar, gliding smoothly through the French countryside towards Brussels, re-reading The Motorcycle Diaries by Che Guevara, and listening to music through my Bose headphones. London to Brussels in two hours, plus noise-cancelling headphones: it seems that the future has arrived and I'm part of it.

Che writes: "I now know, by a fantastic coincidence with fact, that I am destined to travel. All the same, there are moments when I think with profound longing of those wonderful areas in the South of Argentina. Maybe one day when I'm tired of wandering, I'll come back to Argentina and settle in the Andean lakes, if not indefinitely at least in transit to another conception of the world."

At some point we must have crossed over into Belgium, because the landscape has subtly changed, to a smaller scale it seems. With the words "if not indefinitely at least in transit to another conception of the world," I glance out of the window to see a field full of scarecrows. 

Unless they are mechanically operated – a new gadget by James Dyson perhaps – I assume they are animated by the wind, which of course, being inside the Eurostar, I have no sensation of. 
I am listening to the slow movement of Philip Glass’s violin concerto and it seems to me that they are dancing to the music on my eyepod.

A Murder of Guevaras

Chipping Norton, Oxfordshire June 2011

This is Rory, and his crow Bugde, who “fell out of his nest” a couple of weeks back.

“He’s just a baby,” Rory explains, in a deep voice which contrasts with his youthful looks.

Why Budge?  “Cos he keeps budgin’ about on my shoulder. Do you want to hold him?”

Budge hops onto the back of my hand and seems to be quite happy to be there, craning his head around to look at me and with his jet black eyes. I stroke his head feathers, feeling his small fragile skull beneath.

“Do you want to feed him?” Rory asks, reaching into the pocket of his combat trousers.

I imagine he’s got some worms or maggots in there, but he pulls out a small plastic bag of what I assume is dried cat food. I take one and offer it to Budge, who gently clasps it in his beak, tips his head back and swallows it. I give him a few more and then hand him back to Rory.

“I’ve always wanted to own a bird,” I say, but somehow the words ‘bird’ and ‘own’ don’t fit together in the same sentence. 

A Murder of Guevaras? Rory also turns out to be the first of my Che Guevara t-shirt project, which currently stands at 31, hence the collective term.
www.wearingche.blogspot.com