Love, Nina

Reblog (summary only: scroll down to click on “view original post”!)

In these times when one seeks both diversion and practical menus, nothing beats Love, Nina:

“quark, rye bread with seeds, balsamic vinegar of Modena, fresh lychees, spinach, Persil, olives, and other mysterious things that add up to nothing much when it comes to making meals”

Stephen Jones: a blog

Nina

Quite possibly a more plausible Christmas gift than my own books, Nina Stibbe’s Love, Nina: despatches from family life (2013) is hilarious, warm, and perceptive.

In letters to her sister she evokes her life after coming to London to work as nanny to the drôle Mary-Kay Wilmers (of the LRB) and her engaging and challenging kids, in leafy literary Gloucester Crescent in the 1980s.

Anyone taking it at face value may miss its genius. Forgive me if her original letters really had all the book’s subtleties of phrasing, but it seems to me that a lot of subtle mature editing was involved. Anyway, it’s an observational account of a niche tribe, full of linguistic delights—every page has a turn of phrase that leaves me helpless with laughter.

I apologize too for the things I got a bit wrong. Alan Bennett was never in Coronation Street for instance.

She doesn’t take…

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Some posts on Japanese culture

Here’s a varied selection from the Japan tag in the sidebar.

A little series on Noh:

and, less reverently:

On film:

Some haiku in English:

as well as

and some great Western proponents of Japanese culture:

Not forgetting the Must-read

 

How to mangle, and relish, words

Windsors

For a fruitful way of spending your time under isolation, The Windsors (Channel 4, three series now available) has much to delight in—not least linguistically.

The entire cast is brilliant. Charles (Harry Enfield) and Wills (Hugh Skinner, gormlessly idealistic to follow his cameo as feckless Will in W1A) have great fun with their posh accents and mannerisms; but it’s the personas, and voices, of Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie (Ellie White and Celeste Dring, wonderful) that I find most fascinating (or rather fascinatoring).

Along with their spectacular vapidity, their facial expressions and body language contributing to the effect, they both mangle and relish their vacuous words, constantly finding new ways of distorting vowel sounds—and even lavishing their regal attention upon the last word of a sentence, managing to elongate final consonants.* So just as you think the sentence is fizzling out with its usual innocuous ending, there’s a whole concentration of extra input. It’s like a VAR replay, slowing up even more to show if the ball really crossed the line.

Celeste Dring was inspired by Made in Chelsea—indeed, her very name surely qualifies her for the role. At least they go easy on the whole AQI uptalk thing???, though it is well suited to the Sloaney style (“I’m like, hellooooo?”).

A taster (“I think a job is where you have to go into a building, or something…”):

In their attention to enunciating vowels and consonants I detect a progression from series 1 to series 3. Good start-up words to practise include “now”, “house”, “years”, “money”, “water”.

The princesses deserve an award for elocution, if perhaps not for advancing the cause of women.

 

* BTW, the extensive stammering tag on this blog is worth consulting. One feature of speech impediments is that we (that’s an inclusive “we”—disfluencies of all kinds may afflict royalty and their loyal, servile subjects alike) tend to stammer on initial consonants: it’s getting going that’s the problem. One technique in “prolonged speech” therapy, a means of desensitisation, is to elongate the consonants, smoothly (easier for ssssustainable nasals and fricatives, whereas p-p-p-plosives have to be repeated). Now the fragrant princesses have got me wondering if it might be fair to give the neglected final consonants a chance too.

A thingamabob about whatchamacallit

thingummy

“At my age” I find myself having rather more recourse to what are cutely known as placeholders, rather like the boring prophets in The life of Brian:

There shall, in that time, be rumors of things going astray, erm, and there shall be a great confusion as to where things really are, and nobody will really know where lieth those little things wi-with the sort of … raffia-work base that has an attachment. At this time, a friend shall lose his friend’s hammer and the young shall not know where lieth the things possessed by their fathers, that their fathers put there only just the night before, about eight o’clock.

Beyond our own oojamaflip, thingamajig, whatchamacallit, gizmo, and doohickey, the useful site Europe’s not dead now enables the Europhile to tour throughout the continent and make an impression on the natives with a convincing grasp of idiom in a variety of languages—from Italian coso, Portuguese coiso and cena, chisme in Spanish, and the French truc to a wealth of words in Scandinavia (not least the Norwegian duppeditt and snurrepipperi) and around central and east Europe. Many are genital in origin; and for the organologist, in Belarus people sometimes use bandura—erstwhile a plucked lute, big and inconvenient to carry.

What’s more, a lengthy, erudite Twitter thread has supplemented the list with languages around the world. BTW, Chinese nage shenme (“that what?”) may be colloquially abbreviated, with classical economy, to nasha.

Seriously though folks, while taking care to avoid over-using such terms, allaying suspicion that one doesn’t actually know any words at all in the language in question, it’s precisely idioms like these that allow us to endow our colloquial conversations with authenticity.

Let me see now, what did I come in here for again?

The perils of tourism

Man jumping

Men Not Jumping.

I’ve already praised the exhilarating minimalist Buzz buzz buzz went the honey bee of Orlando Gough‘s band The Lost Jockey (for more minimalism, see here). Now, via the appearance of his brother Piers on Private passions, I delight further in

  • The perils of tourism, from the 1986 album World service by Lost Jockey’s successor Man Jumping

a band formed to take the Lost Jockey minimalism in the direction of pop, dance music and jazz, to get paid to play, and to concentrate on recording”.

Brian Eno described us as “the most important band in the world”—or did he? No-one was ever quite sure. The sales were disappointing. Managers were bought in, and mostly succeeded in irritating us. We probably would have benefited more from psychotherapists.

So here’s The perils of tourism—a concept almost, but not quite, before its time:

Here’s a great YouTube playlist for Man Jumping:

Their output also includes Lenin tempted by a job in advertising, a title of which Alexei Sayle would be proud. All this deserves to be far more popular—but it’s never too late. BTW, Orlando’s site has a wealth of drôle creative writing on his early travails on tour and the struggle between creativity and survival.

His later work continues to enchant. Continuing the theme of re-imagining world music, here’s a playlist of The world encompassed (2017), written for the enterprising viol consort Fretwork, about Francis Drake’s circumnavigation of the world—the title taken from a book by Drake’s nephew. As Orlando explains,

My approach is to imagine the viol players returning to England at the end of the voyage. Their friends say, so what was it like, this exotic music you heard? And they say, well, er, not so easy to give you an idea, but it was a bit like this……. And their version of the local music is as unreliable as the account of the voyage in The World Encompassed—biased, half-remembered, and severely compromised by the choice of instruments.

 

 

Towers and wells—and a ferocious quadruped

San Gim

San Gimignano.

From 1979, in that youthful idyll that one somehow took for granted, I delighted in taking part in the summer music festivals of Montepulciano (Mahler 10!!!),* Batignano (Mozart’s Zaide!!!), Pesaro (Rossini’s Mi manca la voce!!!), and the Arena di Verona. Meanwhile I avidly began exploring the whole region—Florence, Siena, Perugia, Urbino, Pisa, Orvieto, Arezzo, and so on (see also The rake’s progress).

S Fina
Apart from phrase-books, impressionistically-translated guidebooks can provide much Harmless Fun for All the Family. Among the favourites in my collection is one that I found in the medieval hill-town of San Gimignano, “the Manhattan of Tuscany” (cf. Suzhou, Venice of the East, Balham, gateway to the South, and “palm trees are nothing to us—we’re from Torquay”).

Here’s St Fina (1238–53, sic), patron saint of the town, clasping a model of it (or possibly a birthday cake), as depicted in a series of scenes from her legend on a reliquary tabernacle (1401–2) by Lorenzo di Niccolò Gerini.

Some of these guidebooks are impressively erudite. In English, estimable research like that of Enzo Raffa in San Gimignano by the beautiful towers has been pleasantly garbled, supplementing education with giggles—always a winning combo. It opens with evocative images:

Seen in the distance, it seems an inaccessible town. Going up from the Poggibonsi way, which is the most common, the towers lose their prospective and get down** till disappearing among olive trees. The brown silver color of leaves increases the silence around red bricks of walls. From the Certaldo way, the town is more braggart. Towers are as straight as halberds be they wet by the rain or burnt by the sun, they always keep the very same color and maintain the same soleliness of the black and closed cypresses of these places.

He then goes all Zen on us:

And here, in the space enlarging at a bell’s touch, a strange sensation of surety embraces our soul.

As he takes us through the usual catalogue of medieval strife, some elements in the social picture are timeless:

A few families, the richest ones, try to impose their sovereignty through the joke of reincharges.

With Italy currently a major centre for Coronavirus, some recent articles have made parallels with historical disasters such as the 1629 outbreak in Florence. Still earlier, as Raffa relates, San Gimignano was stricken by the Black Death pandemic:

Where the interior struggles could not get, the pest arrived. The great pest of 1348, the one killing the sweet Laura of Petrarca poet, along with a great number of persons.

And he’s aware of other modern parallels:

For a town like San Gimignano, the destruction of walls would have been equal to the taking off of a suit at the open air in a rigid winter day. […] San Gimignano is refusing.

Once upon a time it was said that San Gimignano had 72 beautiful towers. Only 25 were standing up in 1580. Today there are 14, others may be numbered but they are either included in buildings or docked to a great extent. Their architecture is a speaking sign of the mentality made of surety, of offense and of pride.

As the author explains:

The holes we can still see on the facades were used for the quick building of bridges which could be used either for reaching friend families’ towers or to attach enemy families’ towers.

I’m sure he’s right, but I wonder if anyone spotted a design flaw there.

well

Piazza della Cisterna.

Elsewhere I read that a common, if one-off, pastime in San Gimignano was to commit suicide by throwing oneself off a high tower. But another popular way of ending it all, in Italy as in China, was by throwing oneself down a deep well. The most elegant method, I surmise, would be to throw oneself off a high tower into a deep well, as Freud and Jung might have suggested—one possible target for the ambitious acrobatic depressive might be the well in Piazza della Cisterna.

Well (sic) might one exclaim, like a duty roster for the Wigan emergency services as read in the voice of Alan Bennett:

Sick transit, Gloria, Monday

Cf. A Bach mondegreen, and Jan ‘n’ Dia—L.A. den “Bhabi!”.

From Assisi, home of Saint Francis, I moved on to Gubbio, enjoying the miracle of the saint taming a wolf that terrorized the town until it meekly offered its paw to him. Actually, it was a peace deal:

“As thou art willing to make this peace, I promise thee that thou shalt be fed every day by the inhabitants of this land so long as thou shalt live among them; thou shalt no longer suffer hunger, as it is hunger which has made thee do so much evil; but if I obtain all this for thee, thou must promise, on thy side, never again to attack any animal or any human being; dost thou make this promise?”

“Giving in to terrorism”, as it might now be called.

Sassetta

The wolf of Gubbio is one of many panels that Sassetta painted from 1437 to 1444 for an altarpiece in San Francesco at Borgo San Sepolcro near Arezzo. And now I can go and admire it, alongside some gorgeous Duccio panels, at Room 52 of the National Gallery in London!

Describing the wolf, my Italian guidebook to Gubbio contained the delightful phrase quadrupede feroce—an expression that later my Italian partner and I always tried, on the flimsiest of pretexts, to shoehorn into our conversations revolving around cuddly domestic pets.

The troubled background of such picturesque old towns can now be neatly packed away under cultural history; and they are not mere cultural playgrounds for tourists—real people have to make a living there through changing times (cf. Venice daily life in a theme park). Still, basking in these guidebooks now, with their lavish illustrations of exquisite medieval archecture and painting, I find it intriguing that only a few years later I graduated to traipsing around grimy dilapidated towns in north China, where little trace has survived of any material culture predating the 1950s (see also Molvania).

Suide 2001

Suide county-town, Shaanbei, 2001. My photo.

And the villages are hardly more idyillic: among decrepit single-storey dwellings from the Maoist era, the alleys are strewn with litter. The great compensation, of course, is the expressive culture of rural China.

See also Italy: folk musickingOn visual culture; and The struggle against Mussolini.

 

* Exclamation marks courtesy of Mahler himself.

** Cf. “get down baby” in Bo Dudley’s Mama’s got a brand new bag.

 

 

 

Hancock’s half hour

Hancock

Here’s another post to add to my series on Being English.

I can’t tell how younger people respond to the masterly oeuvre of Tony Hancock. My generation is perhaps the last that remembers the original programmes; like Brief encounterBeyond the fringe, or the Hoffnung speeches, it seems to belong to a bygone age. Rappers are less likely to be aware of, or respond to, such works than are the aging BBC Radio 4 demographic.

Among the wealth of original broadcasts, Hancock’s disgruntled persona is justly celebrated in The blood donor:

But in recent years there have been several projects to recreate episodes (both radio and TV) for which no tapes survive, with the aid of scripts—an exercise more reliable than recreating Daoist ritual from the manuals. As with listening to early music, one tends to discern contemporary spin on the urtext. Of course, in this case—by contrast to the lack of recordings of Bach performing his own music—we can compare the original.

In the recent series The missing Hancocks the episode Prime Minister Hancock (after the 1955 original), performed with a fine feeling for period style, is particularly topical. His campaign speech (from 10.11) could have been written yesterday, alas: