April 30, 2009:
In the course of multiple and multifarious e-mail exchanges on any number of political topics with any number of people, I received an e-mail lauding the competence and dedication of scientists who worked for the various U.S. Defense Department development laboratories. The following is my response:
"I respectfully exempt the entire national defense establishment, government and private, from any and all criticism of government, which I indulge in from time to time. I spent years with two private defense contractors attending meetings, negotiating and whatever both internally and with the government and other contractors. I second everything (my interlocutor) says. What I carried away with me were the countless photos on desk after desk and cubible after cubicle of fathers, sons and brothers in the military. These folks all knew that what they were doing literally had life or death consequences for the nation and for their loved ones. Every day was zero defects day for these folks, so no one ever slacked or wavered.
"Defense had a high priority [through the end of the Viet Nam war], so nor only was morale high in the industry but the government supported this with funding equal to the task. Would these priorities were still so valued. The US is periodically handicapped by a fallback to the primeval feeling of security spawed by the barrier of two oceans. I worked with a French defense company as a co-venturer and as a client, and I soon learned that the French never (at least until 15 or so years ago) skimped on defense spending because they all know down to their bones that war is just a few miles away.
"Having said that, I can dimly remember in the long, long ago a junior private contractor employee just accidentally vacationing in a Hawaii condo next door to a Major he just happened to know while an RFQ was outstanding. On his own salary I doubt if the Major would have made it past Tijuana.
"I also knew a character, who among other distinctions was married for a while to Eva Gabor, who took a group of Greek Air Force officers to the Desert Inn for three days (I'm talking late '60's) and escorted them to the tables where, mysteriously, they all came away with substantial winnings. And then there was a brilliant Englishman, Alec Samson, who worked for British Aircraft Corporation in the heyday. Alec would spin spellbinding tale after tale about selling arms to Arab kings and sheiks over martinis at the RAF's London club.
"I've got dozens of them. Whatever happened to the good old days, anyhow?"
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Visit to the Berlin headquarters of a big German bank
April 29, 2009:
This morning I visited a good young friend and fellow fan of the Berlin professional soccer team, Hertha B.S.C. He also looks after my modest German bank account. R. was in his new office in the headquarters of the Commerzbank in Berlin, where he was recently permitted to set up an international private banking function.
The headquarters is housed in a small, utterly charming yet modest classical building on the now elegant Pariser Platz, the showplace square of the city, sandwiched between the Brandenburg Gate and the new U.S. Embassy. It sits across the square from the prestigious Hotel Adlon and the French Embassy. I had been eager to enter that building since it was remodeled three or four years ago, and today was the day.
I found upon entering that the headquarters was like the Berlin offices of many national firms, such as Deutsche Telecom and Deutsche Bank, in that the building is basically a shell and a showplace. The building houses an enormous conference room, an large room for meetings and lectures and a generous space that serves as a ballroom or cocktail party area - in short all the elements needed to show the corporate flag in the new capital city but nothing essential to the direction or operation of the bank, all of which remain safely in Frankfurt. The windows are Canadian oak, and the parquet floors gleam to distraction. There is a pretty garden behind the building that fronts on the street that runs from the U.S. Embassy on the south to the Brandenburg Gate immediately to the north just west of Pariser Platz. The Tiergarten is across that street. The garden is separated from the street by a massive iron fence, and R. remarked that he was never sure whether the people on the street were being kept out or the bankers were locked in.
I was struck by two items of information that R. imparted to me:
1. He reminded me that some months ago, at the polite request of the German government, Commerzbank had absorbed the venerable Dresdner Bank, which had fallen on hard times. The government was in no mood for a failure of a major bank and even less in the mood for a nasty takeover of a key financial institution by some Arab or Asian sovereign fund. The government now owns about a third of the stock of Commerzbank, and the stock is selling for about one-third of book value.*
2. There is a spacious office on the same floor near R.'s - there might be the only two in the headquarters - occupied by an important Herr V. I was not invited to visit it. Herr V. must be important because his name was whispered, so of course I couldn't catch it, although I think I was expected to know it. It happens that Herr V. is the chief, or at least a highly placed, liaison between the German Armed Forces and the government, presumably the Chancellor and the Bundestag. At the same time he works for the Bank.
And there, ladies and gentlemen, you have Europe in a nutshell.
* I have not verified the book value to stock price ratio.
This morning I visited a good young friend and fellow fan of the Berlin professional soccer team, Hertha B.S.C. He also looks after my modest German bank account. R. was in his new office in the headquarters of the Commerzbank in Berlin, where he was recently permitted to set up an international private banking function.
The headquarters is housed in a small, utterly charming yet modest classical building on the now elegant Pariser Platz, the showplace square of the city, sandwiched between the Brandenburg Gate and the new U.S. Embassy. It sits across the square from the prestigious Hotel Adlon and the French Embassy. I had been eager to enter that building since it was remodeled three or four years ago, and today was the day.
I found upon entering that the headquarters was like the Berlin offices of many national firms, such as Deutsche Telecom and Deutsche Bank, in that the building is basically a shell and a showplace. The building houses an enormous conference room, an large room for meetings and lectures and a generous space that serves as a ballroom or cocktail party area - in short all the elements needed to show the corporate flag in the new capital city but nothing essential to the direction or operation of the bank, all of which remain safely in Frankfurt. The windows are Canadian oak, and the parquet floors gleam to distraction. There is a pretty garden behind the building that fronts on the street that runs from the U.S. Embassy on the south to the Brandenburg Gate immediately to the north just west of Pariser Platz. The Tiergarten is across that street. The garden is separated from the street by a massive iron fence, and R. remarked that he was never sure whether the people on the street were being kept out or the bankers were locked in.
I was struck by two items of information that R. imparted to me:
1. He reminded me that some months ago, at the polite request of the German government, Commerzbank had absorbed the venerable Dresdner Bank, which had fallen on hard times. The government was in no mood for a failure of a major bank and even less in the mood for a nasty takeover of a key financial institution by some Arab or Asian sovereign fund. The government now owns about a third of the stock of Commerzbank, and the stock is selling for about one-third of book value.*
2. There is a spacious office on the same floor near R.'s - there might be the only two in the headquarters - occupied by an important Herr V. I was not invited to visit it. Herr V. must be important because his name was whispered, so of course I couldn't catch it, although I think I was expected to know it. It happens that Herr V. is the chief, or at least a highly placed, liaison between the German Armed Forces and the government, presumably the Chancellor and the Bundestag. At the same time he works for the Bank.
And there, ladies and gentlemen, you have Europe in a nutshell.
* I have not verified the book value to stock price ratio.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Taking the temperature of contemporary Mexico
April 21, 2009
Is this advert for an upcoming Mexico City contemporary art fair something we should concern ourselves with?
Is this advert for an upcoming Mexico City contemporary art fair something we should concern ourselves with?
| THE FINAL COUNT DOWN HAS BEGUN FOR THE OPENING OF ZONAMACO® , THE YEARS MOST ANTICIPATED ART FAIR |
 · More than 900 artists and 80 galleries of 19 countries together in the most important Art Fair in Mexico and Latin America. · Adriano Pedrosa will present ZONAMACO® SUR, featuring solo projects from 15 Latin American artists. · During the Fair, there will be a grand number of activities as openings, expositions and private events that will make of Mexico City a unique attraction center for tourism and arts. The final countdown has begun for the opening of ZONAMACO® MÉXICO ARTE CONTEMPORÁNEO that takes place on April 22nd-26th, 2009 at Centro Banamex, Hall D. |
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Essay on Order and Disorder
[Footnotes are omitted from the Ptolemy Blog version of this essay.]
SOME PHILOSOPHICAL INVESTIGATIONS INTO THE CLOSING OF THE VIRGIN MEGASTORE IN SAN FRANCISCO, MARCH AND APRIL, 2009
Events at the Virgin Megastore:
Several weeks ago it was announced that the huge Virgin Megastore at Fourth and Market in San Francisco would be closing. I have been a once-a-month visitor to the store, in particular to the Dance/Electronica section of CD’s on the second floor. While I was well aware that retailers selling music, movie DVD’s and pop clothing and paraphernalia of the gaudy/shabby/hip/pop variety over-the counter were in trouble, it hardly seemed possible that this particular store, squarely in the territory of those questionably educated and hip kids who appear to make up the preponderance of San Francisco youth could succumb to Internet purchasing, file sharing or the recession. With that news, I walked through the store on three separate occasions at the end of March. Nothing had prepared me for the upheaval that I saw and that increased with each visit. It was one thing, and expected, that the world financial structure might bend or break, but the creation and distribution of popular music and mass consumption films would surely hold fast.
Everything in the store was discounted at least 30 percent, and signs indicated that the sale of merchandise, and fixtures would continue until all items were sold. At the first visit the pre-established but not necessarily segregated categories of products were being maintained. Various genres of music – pop, rock, soul, rhythm and blues, dance, country, new releases - remained separated, although some of the categories were scattered in various places in the store, so that if a new release by Kelly Clarkson or Coldplay were passed by the target consumer with a cold eye at first glance, that consumer might buy on the third pass. If a division in a rack announced that the CD’s of the Beatles or Bob Dylan were in that spot, those CD’s were still there, and the names of the bands and artists were kept as tidy and alphabetical throughout the racks as they had ever been. Each listening post with headphones for sampling the recordings had six CD’s racked below, each DC carefully numbered so that a browser could listen to the music before deciding to buy or not.
By the second visit the order of the last few years was in disarray. CD’s and DVD’s in the racks were being consolidated by the staff to clear shelf space, and customers appeared to be inspecting the goods and putting the items back on the racks randomly. Everything was everywhere, in many cases every which way, and the rack labels were useless. The received order appeared to have been scrambled into chaos. The effect was disorienting to say the least.
What is order anyway?
Upon reflection the long-standing order at the Megastore had always been suspect. Let’s stipulate that, for example, two films on DVD, “Booty” a “comedy” from the hip black culture and “Bourne Identity,” a thriller probably appealing to white adventure seekers, would be found more or less adjacent on the rack for the eminently practical reason that both titles began with the letter “b.” Apart from that link, what on earth did the two movies have in common?
This question referred me to an ancient script, Michel Foucault’s The Order of Things, a treatise so seminal to our current understanding of how the world is or might be organized that it would surely hold the answer.
Foucault begins his Preface (page xv) with a famous passage wherein he reports his amusement and then disorientation upon reading a passage from Luis Borges. Foucault claims that this passage breaks up “all the ordered surfaces and all the planes with which we are accustomed to tame the wild profusion of existing things” while subsequently threatening to collapse our “age-old distinction between the Same and the Other.” I hadn’t really spent much time figuring out whether “Booty” was part of the Same or banished to the Other, but I kept reading.
In the cited passage Borges purported to quote from “a certain Chinese encyclopedia” that said that “animals are divided into: (a) belonging to the Emperor, (b) embalmed, (c) tame, (d) suckling pigs, (e) sirens, (f) fabulous, (g) stray dogs, (h) included in the present classification, (i) frenzied, (j) innumerable, (k) drawn with a very fine camelhair brush, (l) et cetera, (m) having just broken the water pitcher, (n) that from a long way off look like flies.”
At an earlier reading of The Order of Things I had taken Borges literally, but I decided on this reading that Borges had played a game. Foucault continues: “In the wonderment of this taxonomy, the thing we apprehend in one great leap, the thing that, by means of the fable, is demonstrated as the exotic charm of another system of thought, is the limitation of our own, the stark impossibility of thinking that. (page xx.)” Another revelation: Beethoven and punk rock are united in a taxonomy; that they represent music is incidental. If we follow Foucault, what “Booty” and “Bourne Identity” have in common, as it turns out, is being grouped only through a linguistic convention that many would argue doesn’t “really” exist, namely, that items with names starting in “b” are to be placed between items with names starting in “a” and those starting with “c.” It’s just that superficial and illusionary.
Foucault continues: “The fundamental codes of a culture – those governing its language, its schemas of perception, its exchanges, its techniques, its values, the hierarchy of its practices – establish for every man, from the first, the empirical orders with which he will be dealing and within which he will be at home.” At the other pole, scientific and philosophical theories try to explain why a particular ordering has been chosen by the culture. The domain between these fundamental codes and such scientific musings thereon “…is more confused, more obscure, and probably less easy to analyze. It is here that a culture, imperceptively deviating from the empirical orders prescribed for it by its primary codes, causes them to lose their initial transparency, relinquishes its immediate and invisible powers, frees itself sufficiently to discover that these orders are perhaps not the only possible ones or the best ones; this culture then finds itself faced with the stark fact that there exists, below the level of its spontaneous orders, things that are in themselves capable of being ordered, that belong to a certain unspoken order; the fact, in short, that order exists.” At this point, argues Foucault, “…the culture, by this very process, came face to face with order in its primary state.”
Well, not exactly or in all cases. Rather than the slow changing of cultural expectations predicating Foucault’s analysis, here before my eyes American, and indeed worldwide, popular culture was transforming in a matter of days with a wrenching acceleration. What sort of “order in its primary state” might emerge or subjectively be made to apply from all of this? Writing in the late ‘60’s Foucault’s bias as an outsider on more than one count, being at the same time French, a lot smarter than everyone else and an early European participant in the American practice of cruising, was to claim that a fundamental order always exists but that our mores and standards form a superstructure that rarely if ever gets it right and, in any event, is always subject to major paradigm shifts.
Was the Megastore closing process evidencing the post-modern condition?
Let’s look at this question from another perspective: It has been proposed that modernity - and it is a strong tendency of my American generation, at least, to believe that we are living in modern times - “takes place in the withdrawal of the real and according to the sublime relation between the presentable and the conceivable.” In terms of the Megastore I would essay that my (no doubt shared) concept of the Megastore I had been patronizing was an idealized mechanism of near perfect organization and functioning – go in, find the DVD, pay and leave with no questioning of the store or my role as consumer. I could conceive this, but, accepting Foucault’s theories, that was always “a withdrawal from the real.” What the store presented had always fallen short of that ideal concept. As the store imploded and dissolved what was presentable, i.e., how the Megastore was functioning even in “normal” times and later as it was closing, deviated more and more from the concept.
Going a bit afield, is there is a parallel between an attempted description of the dissolution of the Megastore and what could not be adequately described in that process with postmodern works such as the writings of Proust and Joyce? Perhaps. Jean-Francois Lyotard argues in the last chapter of his landmark book, The Postmodern Condition, that works by Proust and Joyce evidence an “aesthetic of the sublime, though a nostalgic one. It allows the unpresentable to be put forward only as the missing contents…”, in our case the unpresentable would be the disorder attendant upon the rapid, daily disappearance of merchandise and fixtures from the Megastore. Lyotard continues, “The postmodern would be that which … puts forward the unpresentable in presentation itself; that which denies itself the solace of good forms, the consensus of taste which would make it possible to share the nostalgia for the unattainable;…” Form and taste were collapsing at the Megastore as the attainable increasingly diverged from the concept. The Megastore was becoming like a postmodern author, “working without rules in order to formulate the rules of what will have been done.” The collapse was writing its own rules and establishing a new order – or not – as it was going along. It is unlikely that the phenomenon of the closing could be shoehorned into a unified, always applicable concept, otherwise describable as a concept representing “the whole and the one.”
Lyotard concludes with these chilling observations: “Finally, it must be clear that it is our business not to supply reality but to invent allusions to the conceivable which cannot be presented.” Presenting the imperfect cannot be reconciled to the ideal except by a “transcendental illusion” a la Hegel, “But Kant also knew that the price to pay for such an illusion is terror. “The nineteenth and twentieth centuries have given us as much terror as we can take. We have paid a high enough price for the nostalgia for the whole and the one, for the reconciliation of the concept and the sensible, of the transparent and the communicable experience. Under the general demand for slackening and for appeasement, we can hear the mutterings of the desire for a return to terror [e.g., jihad] for the realization of the fantasy to seize reality.” Lyotard’s answer is a call to wage war on totality, i.e. the heritage of the Enlightenment itself.
What about some new ways of reclaiming order from confusion and entropy:
Establishing order within a given genre or territory was formerly the work of experts. Today it may be argued this is better made the work of the crowd.
Lyotard created opposites between artistic or philosophical domains that were relatively free in the marketplace, i.e., between experimentation and the avant garde and those over which government or capitalistic interests might control or shape, i.e., the social realism of the USSR, the suppression of degenerate art by the Nazis the cartoons of Disney or the conventions of commercial television.
Lyotard noted: ‘The Salons and the Academies, at the time when the bourgeoisie was establishing itself in history, were able to grant awards for good plastic and literary conduct under the cover of realism. But capitalism inherently possesses the power to derealize familiar objects, social roles, and institutions to such a degree that the so-called realistic representations can no longer invoke reality except as nostalgia or mockery, as an occasion for suffering rather than for satisfaction. Classicism seems to be ruled out in a world in which reality is so destabilized that it offers no occasion for experience but one for ratings and experimentation.”
When power is in the hands of capital, eclecticism rules, i.e., for the purposes of our argument, the Megastore while in its functioning state. Aesthetic criteria vanish for all that music and those movies, and “it remains possible and useful to assess the value of works of art according to the profits they yield.
Enter the new models now used to create rankings of and connections between disparate cultural productions, whether pieces of music, movies, artworks, artists or performers. In brief, these are the techniques employed by Amazon, You Tube, Google and “American Idol.” Chapter 8 of Crowdsourcing. for example, is entitled “What the Crowd Thinks – How the 10 Percent Filters the Wheat from the Chaff.”
“American Idol” put itself in the vanguard with Internet related creation of links and rankings at its inception in 2000 by soliciting and receiving millions of votes from its audience regarding the contestants who would be selected as the Idols. By 2006, 80 million votes were being cast, about the same number as were participating in U.S. midterm elections. “Voting became part of the culture of consumption.” Voting by phone or over the Internet is now a staple of granting the lay audience greater control over the production process. The filtering of winners from losers, whether performers or products, is accomplished by measuring ratings and downloads. YouTube uses a five-star system, a kind of Michelin Guide for the masses, all put into the hands of the viewers. “Only the collective power of the crowd has the manpower to create an effective filter, implying that panels of experts or smaller samples of voters could not filter with any comparable degree of accuracy or acceptance. Without this system, the author says that YouTube would be an undifferentiated morass of stupid pet tricks, although one might not rate the final products of the massive filtering substantially “better” than just that. The 1979 statement by Lyotard about ratings and experimentation quoted above appears prescient.
How did the inventory of the Megastore before the closing take shape? Initially, buyers for Virgin applied something like Sturgeon’s Law, which states that of all products created in a given field and during a given timeframe, 90% are trash. In many fields, for example in contemporary art, the formula must applied in series, i.e., 10% of 10%, or one percent of artworks produced in any given timeframe are worthy of serious consideration. But with the crowd referenced by Virgin, quality in the old-fashioned sense as noted above from the myriad of titles on the racks becomes suspect.
Many of the links applied by museums, artspaces, curators and critics, for example, to artists or works of art – or pieces of music plus performers and composers – to create a collection, an exhibition or a concert program come out of the perceptions of and from networks of peers and experts that operate much the way that Google ranks links to an item one is searching for on the web, namely, how many other Internet addresses reference or feed into the link under consideration. It follows that the opinions and criteria of experts, a very small sample of an audience, are now in the age of Google being encroached upon or displaced by judgments of the Crowd, i.e., consumers of the cultural productions in the field, both by the number of times a particular cultural production has been cited and how many sources have cited or valued it.
To propose one example, before what now appears to have been the art market decline of the fall of 2008, the function of experts had been substantially usurped by the large number of collectors in the market and the sheer wealth expended by persons invidiously were referred to as “the hedge fund guys,” who bought what they wanted and paid what they wanted, usually with little or no advice from the professionals.
Add “tagging,” which are the names of categories of products applied by members of the Crowd as they buy or comment, and entire taxonomies formerly the province of experts are changed or swamped. Henceforth, one is advised to refer to “folksonomies.”
Back to the Virgin Megastore:
At the end of my last visit to the Megastore, I ascended the long escalator to the Dance/Electronica section on the second floor only to find that all the racks had been emptied. It was like going to New York harbor and finding that the Statue of Liberty was missing. Upon inquiring, the last sad sack at the cash counter lamented that all remaining contents had been taken down to the first floor “in the rear, by the elevator.” Dutifully I descended on the down escalator. There was not much left. CD’s of this genre to my taste such as Stephane Pompougnac and his Hotel Costes series, Buddha Bar (8 Bis, Rue Boissy d'Anglas 75008 Paris, France), or Berlin techno by Ellen Allien, Paul Kalkbrenner, Sascha Funke or Modeselektor had long since vanished from the racks, preempted by women and men of good taste who had preceded me.
As I cruised the disheveled aisles I decided to list what I was seeing in all its apparent disarray and overflowings. Another issue emerged: Was I seeing everything without bias, or was it inevitable that my eyes were registering mostly the titles that I already recognized? If so, that was involuntary but unpreventable. Here is what I saw and recorded on my iPhone memo pad more or less in sequence:
Franz Ferdinand
Rod Stewart
Bob Dylan, Highway 61 Revisited
Pearl Jam
B spring
Deadmaus5
Marianne Faithfull
Raphael Saadiq
Middle Cyclone
The Eagles 71-99
AC/DC
Stallone First Blood
Ghandi
Bee Gees
Jamiroquai
Jewel
The Clash at Shea Stadium 1982.
The Doors
Duffy
Spice World
Patton
Schindler’s List
Gloria Estefan
Britney Spears
U2
The Bourne Identity
Mamma M
The Chronicles of Narna
Mummy
Booty
Animal House
Rush Hour
Friday the 13th
House Bunny
Treasure of Sierra Madre
Radiohead
L.A. Mothership poster
Star Trek
Para Siempre by Javier Solis
Kiss Kiss Bang Bang
Quarantine
The Great Ziegfeld
John Wayne, The Searchers
Casino Royale
Blackchristmas
Batman, Gotham Knight
An American in Paris
House of Games
Stargate Atlantis
Starter Wife
Bellboy II
Dirty Harry
Righteous Kill, Al Pacino and Robert Deniro
All about Eve
Rosa Parks Story
Builders of the Lost Ark
Swing Vote
Strangers on a Train
The Exorcist
Bucket List
Get Smart
Rocky
Dreamgirls
Princess Bride
Hud
Snakes on a Plane
Hard Candy (Madonna)
Shanghai, the Sex, the City, the Music
He'd Kandi
Thievery Corporation’s Radio Retaliation
Smooth Grooves
Best of Trance, Hits
Destination Marrakesh
Paris (Nothing French)
Sister Bliss
In Foucault’s formulation, had I at last “come face to face with order in its primary state?” Devoutly wishing not, I struggle to find some way out of the morass. Or should adopt Foucault’s pose that “I am restoring to our silent and apparently immobile soil its rifts, its instability, its flaws; and it is the same ground that is once again stirring under our feet?”
“Stirring” 40 years ago. “Erupting” today.
My struggle lasted about five minutes, whereupon I sucked it up, strode out into the bright sunshine, crossed to the bus stop island in front of the already fading Megastore on Market Street, blinked a few times and took the Number 9 bus home.
Themistocles G. Michos
San Francisco, California
April 7, 2009
By the same author(partial listing):
“The Mayflower Compact, a Historical Fantasy in Three Acts,” play (1986)
“Thanksgiving in Space,” a play in two acts (1987)
“A Theory of Presentation (or Why Ezra Pound, Richard Serra and Ronald Reagan Are the Same Person),” essay (1990)
“Jesse Helms Tours the Polke Show,” essay (1991)
“How Ulysses S. Grant Discovered the Twentieth Century,” essay (1991)
SOME PHILOSOPHICAL INVESTIGATIONS INTO THE CLOSING OF THE VIRGIN MEGASTORE IN SAN FRANCISCO, MARCH AND APRIL, 2009
Events at the Virgin Megastore:
Several weeks ago it was announced that the huge Virgin Megastore at Fourth and Market in San Francisco would be closing. I have been a once-a-month visitor to the store, in particular to the Dance/Electronica section of CD’s on the second floor. While I was well aware that retailers selling music, movie DVD’s and pop clothing and paraphernalia of the gaudy/shabby/hip/pop variety over-the counter were in trouble, it hardly seemed possible that this particular store, squarely in the territory of those questionably educated and hip kids who appear to make up the preponderance of San Francisco youth could succumb to Internet purchasing, file sharing or the recession. With that news, I walked through the store on three separate occasions at the end of March. Nothing had prepared me for the upheaval that I saw and that increased with each visit. It was one thing, and expected, that the world financial structure might bend or break, but the creation and distribution of popular music and mass consumption films would surely hold fast.
Everything in the store was discounted at least 30 percent, and signs indicated that the sale of merchandise, and fixtures would continue until all items were sold. At the first visit the pre-established but not necessarily segregated categories of products were being maintained. Various genres of music – pop, rock, soul, rhythm and blues, dance, country, new releases - remained separated, although some of the categories were scattered in various places in the store, so that if a new release by Kelly Clarkson or Coldplay were passed by the target consumer with a cold eye at first glance, that consumer might buy on the third pass. If a division in a rack announced that the CD’s of the Beatles or Bob Dylan were in that spot, those CD’s were still there, and the names of the bands and artists were kept as tidy and alphabetical throughout the racks as they had ever been. Each listening post with headphones for sampling the recordings had six CD’s racked below, each DC carefully numbered so that a browser could listen to the music before deciding to buy or not.
By the second visit the order of the last few years was in disarray. CD’s and DVD’s in the racks were being consolidated by the staff to clear shelf space, and customers appeared to be inspecting the goods and putting the items back on the racks randomly. Everything was everywhere, in many cases every which way, and the rack labels were useless. The received order appeared to have been scrambled into chaos. The effect was disorienting to say the least.
What is order anyway?
Upon reflection the long-standing order at the Megastore had always been suspect. Let’s stipulate that, for example, two films on DVD, “Booty” a “comedy” from the hip black culture and “Bourne Identity,” a thriller probably appealing to white adventure seekers, would be found more or less adjacent on the rack for the eminently practical reason that both titles began with the letter “b.” Apart from that link, what on earth did the two movies have in common?
This question referred me to an ancient script, Michel Foucault’s The Order of Things, a treatise so seminal to our current understanding of how the world is or might be organized that it would surely hold the answer.
Foucault begins his Preface (page xv) with a famous passage wherein he reports his amusement and then disorientation upon reading a passage from Luis Borges. Foucault claims that this passage breaks up “all the ordered surfaces and all the planes with which we are accustomed to tame the wild profusion of existing things” while subsequently threatening to collapse our “age-old distinction between the Same and the Other.” I hadn’t really spent much time figuring out whether “Booty” was part of the Same or banished to the Other, but I kept reading.
In the cited passage Borges purported to quote from “a certain Chinese encyclopedia” that said that “animals are divided into: (a) belonging to the Emperor, (b) embalmed, (c) tame, (d) suckling pigs, (e) sirens, (f) fabulous, (g) stray dogs, (h) included in the present classification, (i) frenzied, (j) innumerable, (k) drawn with a very fine camelhair brush, (l) et cetera, (m) having just broken the water pitcher, (n) that from a long way off look like flies.”
At an earlier reading of The Order of Things I had taken Borges literally, but I decided on this reading that Borges had played a game. Foucault continues: “In the wonderment of this taxonomy, the thing we apprehend in one great leap, the thing that, by means of the fable, is demonstrated as the exotic charm of another system of thought, is the limitation of our own, the stark impossibility of thinking that. (page xx.)” Another revelation: Beethoven and punk rock are united in a taxonomy; that they represent music is incidental. If we follow Foucault, what “Booty” and “Bourne Identity” have in common, as it turns out, is being grouped only through a linguistic convention that many would argue doesn’t “really” exist, namely, that items with names starting in “b” are to be placed between items with names starting in “a” and those starting with “c.” It’s just that superficial and illusionary.
Foucault continues: “The fundamental codes of a culture – those governing its language, its schemas of perception, its exchanges, its techniques, its values, the hierarchy of its practices – establish for every man, from the first, the empirical orders with which he will be dealing and within which he will be at home.” At the other pole, scientific and philosophical theories try to explain why a particular ordering has been chosen by the culture. The domain between these fundamental codes and such scientific musings thereon “…is more confused, more obscure, and probably less easy to analyze. It is here that a culture, imperceptively deviating from the empirical orders prescribed for it by its primary codes, causes them to lose their initial transparency, relinquishes its immediate and invisible powers, frees itself sufficiently to discover that these orders are perhaps not the only possible ones or the best ones; this culture then finds itself faced with the stark fact that there exists, below the level of its spontaneous orders, things that are in themselves capable of being ordered, that belong to a certain unspoken order; the fact, in short, that order exists.” At this point, argues Foucault, “…the culture, by this very process, came face to face with order in its primary state.”
Well, not exactly or in all cases. Rather than the slow changing of cultural expectations predicating Foucault’s analysis, here before my eyes American, and indeed worldwide, popular culture was transforming in a matter of days with a wrenching acceleration. What sort of “order in its primary state” might emerge or subjectively be made to apply from all of this? Writing in the late ‘60’s Foucault’s bias as an outsider on more than one count, being at the same time French, a lot smarter than everyone else and an early European participant in the American practice of cruising, was to claim that a fundamental order always exists but that our mores and standards form a superstructure that rarely if ever gets it right and, in any event, is always subject to major paradigm shifts.
Was the Megastore closing process evidencing the post-modern condition?
Let’s look at this question from another perspective: It has been proposed that modernity - and it is a strong tendency of my American generation, at least, to believe that we are living in modern times - “takes place in the withdrawal of the real and according to the sublime relation between the presentable and the conceivable.” In terms of the Megastore I would essay that my (no doubt shared) concept of the Megastore I had been patronizing was an idealized mechanism of near perfect organization and functioning – go in, find the DVD, pay and leave with no questioning of the store or my role as consumer. I could conceive this, but, accepting Foucault’s theories, that was always “a withdrawal from the real.” What the store presented had always fallen short of that ideal concept. As the store imploded and dissolved what was presentable, i.e., how the Megastore was functioning even in “normal” times and later as it was closing, deviated more and more from the concept.
Going a bit afield, is there is a parallel between an attempted description of the dissolution of the Megastore and what could not be adequately described in that process with postmodern works such as the writings of Proust and Joyce? Perhaps. Jean-Francois Lyotard argues in the last chapter of his landmark book, The Postmodern Condition, that works by Proust and Joyce evidence an “aesthetic of the sublime, though a nostalgic one. It allows the unpresentable to be put forward only as the missing contents…”, in our case the unpresentable would be the disorder attendant upon the rapid, daily disappearance of merchandise and fixtures from the Megastore. Lyotard continues, “The postmodern would be that which … puts forward the unpresentable in presentation itself; that which denies itself the solace of good forms, the consensus of taste which would make it possible to share the nostalgia for the unattainable;…” Form and taste were collapsing at the Megastore as the attainable increasingly diverged from the concept. The Megastore was becoming like a postmodern author, “working without rules in order to formulate the rules of what will have been done.” The collapse was writing its own rules and establishing a new order – or not – as it was going along. It is unlikely that the phenomenon of the closing could be shoehorned into a unified, always applicable concept, otherwise describable as a concept representing “the whole and the one.”
Lyotard concludes with these chilling observations: “Finally, it must be clear that it is our business not to supply reality but to invent allusions to the conceivable which cannot be presented.” Presenting the imperfect cannot be reconciled to the ideal except by a “transcendental illusion” a la Hegel, “But Kant also knew that the price to pay for such an illusion is terror. “The nineteenth and twentieth centuries have given us as much terror as we can take. We have paid a high enough price for the nostalgia for the whole and the one, for the reconciliation of the concept and the sensible, of the transparent and the communicable experience. Under the general demand for slackening and for appeasement, we can hear the mutterings of the desire for a return to terror [e.g., jihad] for the realization of the fantasy to seize reality.” Lyotard’s answer is a call to wage war on totality, i.e. the heritage of the Enlightenment itself.
What about some new ways of reclaiming order from confusion and entropy:
Establishing order within a given genre or territory was formerly the work of experts. Today it may be argued this is better made the work of the crowd.
Lyotard created opposites between artistic or philosophical domains that were relatively free in the marketplace, i.e., between experimentation and the avant garde and those over which government or capitalistic interests might control or shape, i.e., the social realism of the USSR, the suppression of degenerate art by the Nazis the cartoons of Disney or the conventions of commercial television.
Lyotard noted: ‘The Salons and the Academies, at the time when the bourgeoisie was establishing itself in history, were able to grant awards for good plastic and literary conduct under the cover of realism. But capitalism inherently possesses the power to derealize familiar objects, social roles, and institutions to such a degree that the so-called realistic representations can no longer invoke reality except as nostalgia or mockery, as an occasion for suffering rather than for satisfaction. Classicism seems to be ruled out in a world in which reality is so destabilized that it offers no occasion for experience but one for ratings and experimentation.”
When power is in the hands of capital, eclecticism rules, i.e., for the purposes of our argument, the Megastore while in its functioning state. Aesthetic criteria vanish for all that music and those movies, and “it remains possible and useful to assess the value of works of art according to the profits they yield.
Enter the new models now used to create rankings of and connections between disparate cultural productions, whether pieces of music, movies, artworks, artists or performers. In brief, these are the techniques employed by Amazon, You Tube, Google and “American Idol.” Chapter 8 of Crowdsourcing. for example, is entitled “What the Crowd Thinks – How the 10 Percent Filters the Wheat from the Chaff.”
“American Idol” put itself in the vanguard with Internet related creation of links and rankings at its inception in 2000 by soliciting and receiving millions of votes from its audience regarding the contestants who would be selected as the Idols. By 2006, 80 million votes were being cast, about the same number as were participating in U.S. midterm elections. “Voting became part of the culture of consumption.” Voting by phone or over the Internet is now a staple of granting the lay audience greater control over the production process. The filtering of winners from losers, whether performers or products, is accomplished by measuring ratings and downloads. YouTube uses a five-star system, a kind of Michelin Guide for the masses, all put into the hands of the viewers. “Only the collective power of the crowd has the manpower to create an effective filter, implying that panels of experts or smaller samples of voters could not filter with any comparable degree of accuracy or acceptance. Without this system, the author says that YouTube would be an undifferentiated morass of stupid pet tricks, although one might not rate the final products of the massive filtering substantially “better” than just that. The 1979 statement by Lyotard about ratings and experimentation quoted above appears prescient.
How did the inventory of the Megastore before the closing take shape? Initially, buyers for Virgin applied something like Sturgeon’s Law, which states that of all products created in a given field and during a given timeframe, 90% are trash. In many fields, for example in contemporary art, the formula must applied in series, i.e., 10% of 10%, or one percent of artworks produced in any given timeframe are worthy of serious consideration. But with the crowd referenced by Virgin, quality in the old-fashioned sense as noted above from the myriad of titles on the racks becomes suspect.
Many of the links applied by museums, artspaces, curators and critics, for example, to artists or works of art – or pieces of music plus performers and composers – to create a collection, an exhibition or a concert program come out of the perceptions of and from networks of peers and experts that operate much the way that Google ranks links to an item one is searching for on the web, namely, how many other Internet addresses reference or feed into the link under consideration. It follows that the opinions and criteria of experts, a very small sample of an audience, are now in the age of Google being encroached upon or displaced by judgments of the Crowd, i.e., consumers of the cultural productions in the field, both by the number of times a particular cultural production has been cited and how many sources have cited or valued it.
To propose one example, before what now appears to have been the art market decline of the fall of 2008, the function of experts had been substantially usurped by the large number of collectors in the market and the sheer wealth expended by persons invidiously were referred to as “the hedge fund guys,” who bought what they wanted and paid what they wanted, usually with little or no advice from the professionals.
Add “tagging,” which are the names of categories of products applied by members of the Crowd as they buy or comment, and entire taxonomies formerly the province of experts are changed or swamped. Henceforth, one is advised to refer to “folksonomies.”
Back to the Virgin Megastore:
At the end of my last visit to the Megastore, I ascended the long escalator to the Dance/Electronica section on the second floor only to find that all the racks had been emptied. It was like going to New York harbor and finding that the Statue of Liberty was missing. Upon inquiring, the last sad sack at the cash counter lamented that all remaining contents had been taken down to the first floor “in the rear, by the elevator.” Dutifully I descended on the down escalator. There was not much left. CD’s of this genre to my taste such as Stephane Pompougnac and his Hotel Costes series, Buddha Bar (8 Bis, Rue Boissy d'Anglas 75008 Paris, France), or Berlin techno by Ellen Allien, Paul Kalkbrenner, Sascha Funke or Modeselektor had long since vanished from the racks, preempted by women and men of good taste who had preceded me.
As I cruised the disheveled aisles I decided to list what I was seeing in all its apparent disarray and overflowings. Another issue emerged: Was I seeing everything without bias, or was it inevitable that my eyes were registering mostly the titles that I already recognized? If so, that was involuntary but unpreventable. Here is what I saw and recorded on my iPhone memo pad more or less in sequence:
Franz Ferdinand
Rod Stewart
Bob Dylan, Highway 61 Revisited
Pearl Jam
B spring
Deadmaus5
Marianne Faithfull
Raphael Saadiq
Middle Cyclone
The Eagles 71-99
AC/DC
Stallone First Blood
Ghandi
Bee Gees
Jamiroquai
Jewel
The Clash at Shea Stadium 1982.
The Doors
Duffy
Spice World
Patton
Schindler’s List
Gloria Estefan
Britney Spears
U2
The Bourne Identity
Mamma M
The Chronicles of Narna
Mummy
Booty
Animal House
Rush Hour
Friday the 13th
House Bunny
Treasure of Sierra Madre
Radiohead
L.A. Mothership poster
Star Trek
Para Siempre by Javier Solis
Kiss Kiss Bang Bang
Quarantine
The Great Ziegfeld
John Wayne, The Searchers
Casino Royale
Blackchristmas
Batman, Gotham Knight
An American in Paris
House of Games
Stargate Atlantis
Starter Wife
Bellboy II
Dirty Harry
Righteous Kill, Al Pacino and Robert Deniro
All about Eve
Rosa Parks Story
Builders of the Lost Ark
Swing Vote
Strangers on a Train
The Exorcist
Bucket List
Get Smart
Rocky
Dreamgirls
Princess Bride
Hud
Snakes on a Plane
Hard Candy (Madonna)
Shanghai, the Sex, the City, the Music
He'd Kandi
Thievery Corporation’s Radio Retaliation
Smooth Grooves
Best of Trance, Hits
Destination Marrakesh
Paris (Nothing French)
Sister Bliss
In Foucault’s formulation, had I at last “come face to face with order in its primary state?” Devoutly wishing not, I struggle to find some way out of the morass. Or should adopt Foucault’s pose that “I am restoring to our silent and apparently immobile soil its rifts, its instability, its flaws; and it is the same ground that is once again stirring under our feet?”
“Stirring” 40 years ago. “Erupting” today.
My struggle lasted about five minutes, whereupon I sucked it up, strode out into the bright sunshine, crossed to the bus stop island in front of the already fading Megastore on Market Street, blinked a few times and took the Number 9 bus home.
Themistocles G. Michos
San Francisco, California
April 7, 2009
By the same author(partial listing):
“The Mayflower Compact, a Historical Fantasy in Three Acts,” play (1986)
“Thanksgiving in Space,” a play in two acts (1987)
“A Theory of Presentation (or Why Ezra Pound, Richard Serra and Ronald Reagan Are the Same Person),” essay (1990)
“Jesse Helms Tours the Polke Show,” essay (1991)
“How Ulysses S. Grant Discovered the Twentieth Century,” essay (1991)
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Relevance of Keynes today
I think it's interesting and somewhat humorous that Keynes is being invoked all over the place but that, as usual, no one has actually read him.
The book was "The General Theory of Employment, Interest and Money," written in 1935. The Great Depression was still raging, and politicians, economists and business men were were preoccupied with the main problem of money societies, i.e., the business cycle. To make matters even more urgent, the severities of these cycles over the 150 years before the Great Depression had given great impetus to communism. Analyzing from within a particular capitalist economy, there didn't appear to be a way (nor has one really been discovered since) of stopping the cycle of shortage/demand, followed by overproduction to meet that demand, followed by depressions caused by the overhang of supply.* As long as a culture has only one way of valuing individuals in a society, i.e., by their productivity and net worth, the poor and unproductive will always be despised. Prevalent Christianity and Judaism took some of the sting away, but now that that's gone those left out have no recourse but (mostly talking about) political action.
The most cogent recent thinking on these issues and the supersession of controls by governments over credit and money supply by an amorphous international hoard of capital accountable to no one, has come from a few left-wing Italians.
13th century in France (please give me some leeway here) had it all figured out, and while it's been 25 years or more since I last glanced at the Keynes book,* which had been a bible until at least 1950, I believe Keynes cited the example of Chartres. That region of France was rich enough to be able to produce a surplus of food with, let's say 75% of the work force for the sake of argument. What to do with the rest? The answer is, "Build a cathedral." That society was wise and devout enough to value building the cathedral, which in economic terms was hardly a capital asset, equally with growing crops and building houses, etc.
We desperately need an equivalent of building the cathedral. Stiff-necked outcries against the excesses of business by those of lesser economic means won't do, just as business arrogance and belittling of the poorer won't do. These are just two sides to everybody's preoccupation with and valuing of money. Valuing, say, Peace Corps or national service is a start, but we need the old maid school teacher and the nun-nurse back. We need dignity for the housewife and mother. But mostly we need a place for those not employed productively in the econmic sense, where they can be entitled to nurture, health care, etc. As it stands now, I and others are opposed to extending health care coverage because under the prevalent value system it makes no sense to keep an unproductive person healthy. Democrats want to extend such care as virtual charity, with reference to "rights." Neither position will do. We have to find a way to value what those who are now deemed unproductive do, and they will have to do something that we wll value.
The book was "The General Theory of Employment, Interest and Money," written in 1935. The Great Depression was still raging, and politicians, economists and business men were were preoccupied with the main problem of money societies, i.e., the business cycle. To make matters even more urgent, the severities of these cycles over the 150 years before the Great Depression had given great impetus to communism. Analyzing from within a particular capitalist economy, there didn't appear to be a way (nor has one really been discovered since) of stopping the cycle of shortage/demand, followed by overproduction to meet that demand, followed by depressions caused by the overhang of supply.* As long as a culture has only one way of valuing individuals in a society, i.e., by their productivity and net worth, the poor and unproductive will always be despised. Prevalent Christianity and Judaism took some of the sting away, but now that that's gone those left out have no recourse but (mostly talking about) political action.
The most cogent recent thinking on these issues and the supersession of controls by governments over credit and money supply by an amorphous international hoard of capital accountable to no one, has come from a few left-wing Italians.
13th century in France (please give me some leeway here) had it all figured out, and while it's been 25 years or more since I last glanced at the Keynes book,* which had been a bible until at least 1950, I believe Keynes cited the example of Chartres. That region of France was rich enough to be able to produce a surplus of food with, let's say 75% of the work force for the sake of argument. What to do with the rest? The answer is, "Build a cathedral." That society was wise and devout enough to value building the cathedral, which in economic terms was hardly a capital asset, equally with growing crops and building houses, etc.
We desperately need an equivalent of building the cathedral. Stiff-necked outcries against the excesses of business by those of lesser economic means won't do, just as business arrogance and belittling of the poorer won't do. These are just two sides to everybody's preoccupation with and valuing of money. Valuing, say, Peace Corps or national service is a start, but we need the old maid school teacher and the nun-nurse back. We need dignity for the housewife and mother. But mostly we need a place for those not employed productively in the econmic sense, where they can be entitled to nurture, health care, etc. As it stands now, I and others are opposed to extending health care coverage because under the prevalent value system it makes no sense to keep an unproductive person healthy. Democrats want to extend such care as virtual charity, with reference to "rights." Neither position will do. We have to find a way to value what those who are now deemed unproductive do, and they will have to do something that we wll value.
The other, and perhaps more interesting, side of the civil rights movement
The Pen and the Gun:
Robert Franklin Williams's Project of Cultural Subversion from the Margins of the Civil Rights Movement
Born in Monroe, North Carolina in 1925, Robert Franklin Williams was a controversial figure at the margins of the civil rights movement who rose to national prominence in the late 1950s as an antagonist to Martin Luther King. His early stand on the necessity and morality of armed self-defense, and his 1962 publication Negroes with Guns, established him as a pioneer of the later militancy of Malcolm X and the Black Panthers. In exile from 1961 to 1969, Williams traveled through Havana, Hanoi, Moscow, Peking, and Dar es Salaam. From Havana, he broadcast into the American South a program titled Radio Free Dixie, which was periodically rebroadcast via Radio Hanoi. Throughout his exile he published a newsletter, The Crusader, which he described as a weapon of "cultural warfare." The FBI and CIA monitored Williams from the age of sixteen throughout his life; the Justice Department considered an indictment on charges of treason and sedition, and both Naval Intelligence and congressional committees investigated him for subversive activities. Largely lost from narratives of the civil rights movement, and associated principally with the gun, this thesis argues that Williams is as well remembered for his use of the pen, and that his position was less extreme than its rhetorical peaks sometimes suggested. The most symbolic evidence for such a conclusion came upon his death in 1997, when he was eulogized by Rosa Parks.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Log of a trip to Berlin and London, February 13 to March 1, 2009
In an effort to maintain our standing as one of the world's most avaricious and only occasionally discriminating consumers of "cultural signs," as Baudrillard might have termed it, I hereby offer this modest catalogue of such consumption during our European tour. We arrived in Berlin late in the evening on February 12, whereupon our major activities proceeded as follows:
February 13: Rest and recuperation. Visited Max Hetzler Galerie (Jesus Rafael Soto - magnificent abstraction/op art wall pieces from the 1940's and '50's) and Klosterfelde Galerie (stunning floor sculpture by Tobias Buche, one of our artists) in the afternoon.
February 14: Saturday evening and a 6 p.m. opening show at Gitti Nourbakhsch Galerie curated by Matthew Higgs, a friend formerly at CCA in SF, who runs the White Columns art space in Greenwich Village, of art made at the Creative Growth Center in Oakland by developmentally challenged individuals. The tour Matthew gave us verged on the emotional, as one could understand how significant art can be made by persons on a different place in the spectrum of human talents.
February 15: Holy Communion at St. George's Anglican Church near the Neu Westend U-Bahn station on the west side of Berlin. Superb service as usual. Followed by hot chocolate and a pastry at the nearby Wiener Cafe, decorated in deep reds, leather, blonde woods and chrome, a refuge for those with a sweet tooth and a bent for whipped cream Vienna style. Then, a subway ride to the Buelowstrasse U-Bahn station for an opening and brunch at the Nolan-Judin Galerie, built as a conversion of an old service station and an adjacent apartment. The owner is a master chef, and the gallery is equipped with an extraordinary modern kitchen. The brunch prepared by Her Judin was delicious and the art was bad but the people-watching was excellent - lots of hip, aging arty types in svelte black with babies and small children. We had not been invited to the brunch, but in Germany anyone is admitted to anything if one looks and is dressed right. Class has its privileges. The evening was capped off with a delicious dinner at Borchardt, our favorite restaurant. The day before the suave, Polish maitre 'd, Sebastian (no this is not an oxymoron), who knows us well, had refused us a last-minute Saturday evening reservation because that was the last day of the Berlinale, the annual Berlin film festival, and the whole restaurant was dedicated to the legions of elite film persona and glamor world that were expected to, and did, gather for farewell libations and people-watching. To make up for it, Sebastian graced us with a grappa for Dare and a Courvoisier for me on the house at the end of our dinner. We forgave him for his lapse of the day before.
February 16: A stunning performance by the Arcanta Quartet at the small salon of the Berlin Philharmonic concert hall. For an account of this extraordinary performance, go to this link: http://niledelta.blogspot.com/2009/02/bartoks-fifth-string-quartet.html
February 17: A performance of Rossini's "Barber of Seville" at the nearby Staats Oper. Predictable good fun with fantastic stage settings and props, and very smooth comic acting by the cast. The sight gags were amazing. Followed by cocktails (Dare had a syrupy Mojito, and I had a wonderful girl's drink, a blackberry dacquiri) at one of the smartest bars in Berlin and probably all of Europe at the Hotel de Rome.
February 18: A lazy day, punctuated by visits to two art galleries, neugerriemschneider for a showing of brilliant minimal and difficult color photos made by Sharon Lockhart, an acquaintance over the years originally from Los Angeles, documenting the sad and slow closing of a naval shipyard on the Maine coast, and Capitain-Petzel of new and innovative paintings by now New York based Charline von Heyl, a woman we have known slightly for twenty years who is a great-granddaughter of Bismarck and is married to Christopher Wool. All of this entailed scuffling through snow and ice on the streets left over from an earlier snow. The gallerists, Messrs. Neuger, Riemschneider and Petzel and Frau Capitain, have been friends for more than 15 years. Time flies when you're having fun.
February 19: Up at 4:45 a.m. for dress, taxi ride to Schoenefeld Airport and a 7 a.m. EasyJet flight to London Gatwick. Then the Gatwick Express to VIctoria Station and a taxi ride to the edge of the Bloomsbury area, in this case Tavistock Square. The Tavistock Hotel turned out to be quite reasonable for the low price of about $125 per night. We soon found, however, that this was a school holiday week, and we were soon inundated by seemingly 20,000 high school students, mostly from Spain, where teen-agers apparently aren't any quieter than teen-agers from any other country. After a couple of small pastries from an undistinguished Iranian run coffee house around the corner, we struck out for the British Museum about 500 yards away through Russell Square (I think Bertrand Russell was of the family after whom the Square and Hotel are named). There we toured the fourth in a series of shows revolving around significant political and cultural leaders throughout history, most of whom at a glance turned out to be rather grim, authoritarian figures, in this case the redoubtable Shah Abbas, more or less the founder or consolidator of the Iranian Shi'a and Iran as we know it today contemporaneously with the reign of Elizabeth I and Philip II. This no doubt explains the Iranian nuclear development program. There were few artifacts, some rugs and miniatures (budget constraints are becoming evident in all European art exhibitions as that wonderful font of plenty, state backing, inevitably shrivels) and lots of narrative supporting the Shah's importance. A good show, but much less ambitious and smaller than such a show would have been five years ago. Dinner was in a neighborhood Italian restaurant recommended by one of the illiterate concierges at the hotel.
February 20: The day was dedicated to the Royal Academy. In the morning we toured the highly touted Byzantium, 330 to 1453 A.D. A number of superb icons, reliquaries, gospel covers, in ivory and gold, culminating in a treat of icons from St. Catherine's Monastery at Mount Sinai. We had visited St. Catherine's last February, but our time in the icon gallery there had been limited. The show was troublesome, however, because the labels carried almost no information, and that that was given was often useless unless the viewer knew Greek or the art beforehand - although perhaps the acoustiguide which we disdained carried more data. For example, icons were labeled as being depictions of the "koimesis" or a "deisis" of the Virgin Mary, without any clue that the former meant the dormition of Mary (i.e., her falling asleep, since the Orthodox theologians could not let her die because of complications that would have caused given the resurrection and ascension of Christ and pressures from wealthy women in Constantinople for equal treatment of Mary as a female with Jesus - in case you thought feminism is a recent phenomenon) or Mary in prayer in the second case. In general, we thought the show was dumbed-down, whether in consideration of an ill-educated public or because we are now in an era of badly educated curators. Two different labels spelled "koimesis" differently. Disappointing for connoisseurs or pretender-connoisseurs. Partially to make up for that bland curatorial performance, the Academy had mounted a mouth-watering treat, a showing of the plans and model of works by the sixteenth century architect, Palladio. His contributions to buildings in Venice and the Veneto are legendary, and were privileged with a look into the mind of this undoubted genius. We then walked all the way to Hyde Park and along the Serpentine until we reached the Serpentine Gallery. There we saw a very good show of contemporary art from India called "Indian Highway." It's my observation that the Indians absorb Western contemporary art techniques better than the Chinese and to better effect. The art was much more comprehensible than a similar Chinese exhibition might have been. Still walking, we came to the wonderful and frumpy Victoria & Albert Museum. There I was treated to an exhibition in the fashion section that displayed the costumes worn by the courtiers in the courts of the Tsars from 1732 until the coronation of the last Tsar, Nicholas II, in 1894. The costumes were elegantly perfect for officers who probably never suffered shots fired at them in anger. I decided that I was born in the wrong era and into a much too low class. After surviving the sardine crush in the Underground from Kensington Square to Russell Square, we had our dinner in a small Italian restaurant around the corner from the nearby Bloomsbury Park Hotel that we had visited on a previous trip. The food was good, but the owner was a bit condescending, showing the inherent Italian superiority more than might have been expected. Too many years in a deteriorating London, I imagine.
February 21: Saturday in London with brilliant sunshine, blue skies and temperatures in the mid-fifties. No intention of any museum shows this morning, so weighed anchor for something dimly described as "East London," which turned out to be the area of Bethnal Green and which is home to a number of less pretentious, "young" galleries. We wanted to see SF's own Mitzi Pedersen at the Approach, but that show was already down. We saw a very talented young Danish painter at Vilma Gold, a gallery owned by an young English woman, Rachel Williams, who wanted a more important sounding name, Thomas Hylander. Bears watching. Then a talented young German woman artist who started as something of a fashion designer - fashions that would never make a Paris or Milano show - and now does artworks out of fabric and readymade clothing, Alexandra Bircken. She once was photographed almost nude by Wolfgang Tillmans in an early Tillmans signature photo. Good stuff but out of our price range by a bit. At that point Dare and I split, and went shopping on Carnaby Street and later Saville Row. I had seen the first miniskirts there in 1967, on my first business trip for Teledyne to London to sell airborne navigation systems to British Aircraft. British Aircraft is gone,but Carnaby Street thrives. All the fashionable shops for the young are on that street, but it is afflicted with that "sameness" that plagues all present-day upper-end shopping centers from one city to another. Dinner that evening was back in Mayfair in a small enclave of shops of Curzon Street called Shepherd's Square in a tiny Indian Tandoori restaurant. Good but not great. We had no clue what to order and paid the price.
February 22: Sunday morning but no church. We had made a reservation and bought our tickets for the London version of what had been a much larger and better researched and displayed show in Berlin last fall called "Babylon: Myth and Reality." The tour was at 10:10 a.m., and sorry to say it was small and a bit on the slapdash side. We were beginning to think that, at least at the British Museum and the Royal Academy, some sort of dumbing-down process had set in. Painful. Not to worry, however. We took the Underground to Pimlico Station and walked the half mile to the Tate Britain on the Thames. There we were treated to a very good Tate Triennial of Contemporary Art that had a particularly cunning and brilliant piece by our guy, Simon Startling, and an astonishing show called "Van Dyke in England," which demonstrated how Van Dyke transformed British portrait painting from the first two decades of the Seventeenth Century through John Singer Sargent. Excellently curated. We then walked past the Parliament buildings and Westminster Abbey to Picadilly, pausing to admire the gardens and the Rodin "Burghers of Calais." The monuments of Empire were stunning, but brought with them a bit of sadness that the Britain we had been brought up to believe was indestructible had faded badly. DInner that evening in a good enough Cypriot taverna near the hotel. Great retsina.
February 23: Monday. Underground at St. Pauls' followed by coffee at that location of our favorite London coffee house chain, Caffe Nero. Then the nearly a mile walk down to the River and across the Millenium Bridge to the Tate Modern. We saw the excellent exhibition of the works of Rodchenko and Popova, from early painting through the renunciation of painting and all fine art to the final employment of art in the cause of design of goods for the people - construction of such goods, leading to the term "constructivism." First class exhibition in every respect. This was followed by a tube ride all the way to Knightsbridge, where we indulged in an hour and a half wandering through Herrod's (no sign of recession there) and lunch in the gourmet lunch section. Great people watching. Back to the hotel, taxi to Victoria Station, Gatwick Express and then a five hour wait for the flight back to Berlin. To bed finally at about one a.m., tired but pleased.
February 24: Loafed all day. Then in the evening betook ourselves to the Arsenal, a movie house in Potsdamer Platz, for a screening of what is technically known as a structural movie by Sharon Lockhart (see above) called "Pine Flat." "Structural" because there is no theme or plot, just six or seven single shots of five to eight minutes or so duration during which the camera stays on a single subject, such as a girl reading a book on a grassy knoll, a young boy sleeping on hot day in the grass or a boy waiting for a school bus that takes five minutes to come. The film literally forces your inner time clock to slow to the barely creeping pace of the film. Outside in the lobby of the theater, which resembles a below deck area of an aircraft carrier, there were posters advertising an impending lecture by the popular philosopher and critic, Slavoj Zizec and quoting Zizec to the effect that film is the most tyrannical of arts because it never gives you what you want, it gives you what it wants you to have. After viewing the very difficult, although obviously beautifully conceived and crafted Lockhart film, the answer is "yes." Unfortunately, the Arsenal was unable to show Sharon's film on the Maine shipyard closing that evening.
February 25: Nothing all day. Ash Wednesday service at St. George's at 7:30 that evening. The best service of the liturgical year after Good Friday.
February 26: Nothing of moment until an 8 p.m. concert in the small Chamber Music salon of the Philharmonic building called "Alla Turca." Six percussionists from the Berlin Philharmonic and a group of Turks calling themselves the Istanbul Oriental Ensemble. The six Germans began with a phenomenal performance of a 1941 John Cage piece, "3d Construction,"written for drum quartet. Sounded as fresh as yesterday. Then the Turks played a number of pieces that sounded like Aaron Copeland meets Asia Minor gypsy music. The musical abilities of the Turks was phenomenal, particularly on the tavlas. The Germans ended with a Russell Peck piece, "Lift-Off!" from 1966 for two drum trios playing together - but what an amazing ranges of tones emerged from those drums. The finale was a rousing Turkish piece, with the six German percussionists joining in half way through to create a barn burner. A great evening.
February 27: The full Philharmonic this time, conducted by a Swiss born in 1939, Heinz Holliger. No Simon Rattle. An all romantic program, with the first two pieces by one of the best of the immediately post-war German composers, Bernd Alois Zimmerman, and the second two by Schumann. Flawlessly played as usual. The Schumann First Symphony, entitled the Spring Symphony, was at times so free and innocent you wanted to cry. How on earth did that come about, and why play it now? To escape.
February 28: The iPhone went kablooey, but a nice guy in the Cyberport (chain) store around the corner downloaded new software and fixed it. What a combination - Apple and a German phone company, neither of whom would share a secret with their mothers. In the afternoon a real Berlin experience. Out to the Olympic Stadium to see the Berlin professional soccer team, Hertha BSC, play Moenchen Gladbach. The locals, to much cheering, singing and chanting won 2-1 and catapulted into first place in the German professional league - which isn't very good because the Germans are too tight to pay the best players. The crowd went and stayed nuts, all the way back to Berlin Mitte on the subway. We learned to cheer "Spitzreiter," which I translate as related to a cavalry term, namely, ride the point. In any event, it means we're number one in our language. We then rode underground for 40 minutes up to the working class section of Wedding and to the gallery of a good guy, Guido Baudach, and the opening of an excellent show of one of our "guys," Bjorn Dahlem. Bjorn did the pine tree radio receiver in my loft that received radio signals from the planet Saturn, the home of the goddess Melancholia, without whom reputedly no art creation would be possible. We had a beer with the young people while inspecting the new sculptures and generally had a good time. We were home at nine for a dinner in the apartment with a chicken dish purchased from the nearby Galerie Lafayette, the Berlin branch of the famous Paris store.
March 1: Breakfast a noon at our favorite coffee place, the Cafe Einstein on Unter den Linden, followed by a long winding walk all the way to Alexander Platz. Church services at the Marienkirche near Alexander Platz, a church that miraculous survived the WW II bombing. About 25 people. Solid, no frills worship and very satisfying. We capped that off by devouring a big bowl of Berlin style potato soup followed by a humongous Wiener Schnitzel at Lutter & Wegner, one of the best of the local wine and dining establishments (since 1811).
February 13: Rest and recuperation. Visited Max Hetzler Galerie (Jesus Rafael Soto - magnificent abstraction/op art wall pieces from the 1940's and '50's) and Klosterfelde Galerie (stunning floor sculpture by Tobias Buche, one of our artists) in the afternoon.
February 14: Saturday evening and a 6 p.m. opening show at Gitti Nourbakhsch Galerie curated by Matthew Higgs, a friend formerly at CCA in SF, who runs the White Columns art space in Greenwich Village, of art made at the Creative Growth Center in Oakland by developmentally challenged individuals. The tour Matthew gave us verged on the emotional, as one could understand how significant art can be made by persons on a different place in the spectrum of human talents.
February 15: Holy Communion at St. George's Anglican Church near the Neu Westend U-Bahn station on the west side of Berlin. Superb service as usual. Followed by hot chocolate and a pastry at the nearby Wiener Cafe, decorated in deep reds, leather, blonde woods and chrome, a refuge for those with a sweet tooth and a bent for whipped cream Vienna style. Then, a subway ride to the Buelowstrasse U-Bahn station for an opening and brunch at the Nolan-Judin Galerie, built as a conversion of an old service station and an adjacent apartment. The owner is a master chef, and the gallery is equipped with an extraordinary modern kitchen. The brunch prepared by Her Judin was delicious and the art was bad but the people-watching was excellent - lots of hip, aging arty types in svelte black with babies and small children. We had not been invited to the brunch, but in Germany anyone is admitted to anything if one looks and is dressed right. Class has its privileges. The evening was capped off with a delicious dinner at Borchardt, our favorite restaurant. The day before the suave, Polish maitre 'd, Sebastian (no this is not an oxymoron), who knows us well, had refused us a last-minute Saturday evening reservation because that was the last day of the Berlinale, the annual Berlin film festival, and the whole restaurant was dedicated to the legions of elite film persona and glamor world that were expected to, and did, gather for farewell libations and people-watching. To make up for it, Sebastian graced us with a grappa for Dare and a Courvoisier for me on the house at the end of our dinner. We forgave him for his lapse of the day before.
February 16: A stunning performance by the Arcanta Quartet at the small salon of the Berlin Philharmonic concert hall. For an account of this extraordinary performance, go to this link: http://niledelta.blogspot.com/2009/02/bartoks-fifth-string-quartet.html
February 17: A performance of Rossini's "Barber of Seville" at the nearby Staats Oper. Predictable good fun with fantastic stage settings and props, and very smooth comic acting by the cast. The sight gags were amazing. Followed by cocktails (Dare had a syrupy Mojito, and I had a wonderful girl's drink, a blackberry dacquiri) at one of the smartest bars in Berlin and probably all of Europe at the Hotel de Rome.
February 18: A lazy day, punctuated by visits to two art galleries, neugerriemschneider for a showing of brilliant minimal and difficult color photos made by Sharon Lockhart, an acquaintance over the years originally from Los Angeles, documenting the sad and slow closing of a naval shipyard on the Maine coast, and Capitain-Petzel of new and innovative paintings by now New York based Charline von Heyl, a woman we have known slightly for twenty years who is a great-granddaughter of Bismarck and is married to Christopher Wool. All of this entailed scuffling through snow and ice on the streets left over from an earlier snow. The gallerists, Messrs. Neuger, Riemschneider and Petzel and Frau Capitain, have been friends for more than 15 years. Time flies when you're having fun.
February 19: Up at 4:45 a.m. for dress, taxi ride to Schoenefeld Airport and a 7 a.m. EasyJet flight to London Gatwick. Then the Gatwick Express to VIctoria Station and a taxi ride to the edge of the Bloomsbury area, in this case Tavistock Square. The Tavistock Hotel turned out to be quite reasonable for the low price of about $125 per night. We soon found, however, that this was a school holiday week, and we were soon inundated by seemingly 20,000 high school students, mostly from Spain, where teen-agers apparently aren't any quieter than teen-agers from any other country. After a couple of small pastries from an undistinguished Iranian run coffee house around the corner, we struck out for the British Museum about 500 yards away through Russell Square (I think Bertrand Russell was of the family after whom the Square and Hotel are named). There we toured the fourth in a series of shows revolving around significant political and cultural leaders throughout history, most of whom at a glance turned out to be rather grim, authoritarian figures, in this case the redoubtable Shah Abbas, more or less the founder or consolidator of the Iranian Shi'a and Iran as we know it today contemporaneously with the reign of Elizabeth I and Philip II. This no doubt explains the Iranian nuclear development program. There were few artifacts, some rugs and miniatures (budget constraints are becoming evident in all European art exhibitions as that wonderful font of plenty, state backing, inevitably shrivels) and lots of narrative supporting the Shah's importance. A good show, but much less ambitious and smaller than such a show would have been five years ago. Dinner was in a neighborhood Italian restaurant recommended by one of the illiterate concierges at the hotel.
February 20: The day was dedicated to the Royal Academy. In the morning we toured the highly touted Byzantium, 330 to 1453 A.D. A number of superb icons, reliquaries, gospel covers, in ivory and gold, culminating in a treat of icons from St. Catherine's Monastery at Mount Sinai. We had visited St. Catherine's last February, but our time in the icon gallery there had been limited. The show was troublesome, however, because the labels carried almost no information, and that that was given was often useless unless the viewer knew Greek or the art beforehand - although perhaps the acoustiguide which we disdained carried more data. For example, icons were labeled as being depictions of the "koimesis" or a "deisis" of the Virgin Mary, without any clue that the former meant the dormition of Mary (i.e., her falling asleep, since the Orthodox theologians could not let her die because of complications that would have caused given the resurrection and ascension of Christ and pressures from wealthy women in Constantinople for equal treatment of Mary as a female with Jesus - in case you thought feminism is a recent phenomenon) or Mary in prayer in the second case. In general, we thought the show was dumbed-down, whether in consideration of an ill-educated public or because we are now in an era of badly educated curators. Two different labels spelled "koimesis" differently. Disappointing for connoisseurs or pretender-connoisseurs. Partially to make up for that bland curatorial performance, the Academy had mounted a mouth-watering treat, a showing of the plans and model of works by the sixteenth century architect, Palladio. His contributions to buildings in Venice and the Veneto are legendary, and were privileged with a look into the mind of this undoubted genius. We then walked all the way to Hyde Park and along the Serpentine until we reached the Serpentine Gallery. There we saw a very good show of contemporary art from India called "Indian Highway." It's my observation that the Indians absorb Western contemporary art techniques better than the Chinese and to better effect. The art was much more comprehensible than a similar Chinese exhibition might have been. Still walking, we came to the wonderful and frumpy Victoria & Albert Museum. There I was treated to an exhibition in the fashion section that displayed the costumes worn by the courtiers in the courts of the Tsars from 1732 until the coronation of the last Tsar, Nicholas II, in 1894. The costumes were elegantly perfect for officers who probably never suffered shots fired at them in anger. I decided that I was born in the wrong era and into a much too low class. After surviving the sardine crush in the Underground from Kensington Square to Russell Square, we had our dinner in a small Italian restaurant around the corner from the nearby Bloomsbury Park Hotel that we had visited on a previous trip. The food was good, but the owner was a bit condescending, showing the inherent Italian superiority more than might have been expected. Too many years in a deteriorating London, I imagine.
February 21: Saturday in London with brilliant sunshine, blue skies and temperatures in the mid-fifties. No intention of any museum shows this morning, so weighed anchor for something dimly described as "East London," which turned out to be the area of Bethnal Green and which is home to a number of less pretentious, "young" galleries. We wanted to see SF's own Mitzi Pedersen at the Approach, but that show was already down. We saw a very talented young Danish painter at Vilma Gold, a gallery owned by an young English woman, Rachel Williams, who wanted a more important sounding name, Thomas Hylander. Bears watching. Then a talented young German woman artist who started as something of a fashion designer - fashions that would never make a Paris or Milano show - and now does artworks out of fabric and readymade clothing, Alexandra Bircken. She once was photographed almost nude by Wolfgang Tillmans in an early Tillmans signature photo. Good stuff but out of our price range by a bit. At that point Dare and I split, and went shopping on Carnaby Street and later Saville Row. I had seen the first miniskirts there in 1967, on my first business trip for Teledyne to London to sell airborne navigation systems to British Aircraft. British Aircraft is gone,but Carnaby Street thrives. All the fashionable shops for the young are on that street, but it is afflicted with that "sameness" that plagues all present-day upper-end shopping centers from one city to another. Dinner that evening was back in Mayfair in a small enclave of shops of Curzon Street called Shepherd's Square in a tiny Indian Tandoori restaurant. Good but not great. We had no clue what to order and paid the price.
February 22: Sunday morning but no church. We had made a reservation and bought our tickets for the London version of what had been a much larger and better researched and displayed show in Berlin last fall called "Babylon: Myth and Reality." The tour was at 10:10 a.m., and sorry to say it was small and a bit on the slapdash side. We were beginning to think that, at least at the British Museum and the Royal Academy, some sort of dumbing-down process had set in. Painful. Not to worry, however. We took the Underground to Pimlico Station and walked the half mile to the Tate Britain on the Thames. There we were treated to a very good Tate Triennial of Contemporary Art that had a particularly cunning and brilliant piece by our guy, Simon Startling, and an astonishing show called "Van Dyke in England," which demonstrated how Van Dyke transformed British portrait painting from the first two decades of the Seventeenth Century through John Singer Sargent. Excellently curated. We then walked past the Parliament buildings and Westminster Abbey to Picadilly, pausing to admire the gardens and the Rodin "Burghers of Calais." The monuments of Empire were stunning, but brought with them a bit of sadness that the Britain we had been brought up to believe was indestructible had faded badly. DInner that evening in a good enough Cypriot taverna near the hotel. Great retsina.
February 23: Monday. Underground at St. Pauls' followed by coffee at that location of our favorite London coffee house chain, Caffe Nero. Then the nearly a mile walk down to the River and across the Millenium Bridge to the Tate Modern. We saw the excellent exhibition of the works of Rodchenko and Popova, from early painting through the renunciation of painting and all fine art to the final employment of art in the cause of design of goods for the people - construction of such goods, leading to the term "constructivism." First class exhibition in every respect. This was followed by a tube ride all the way to Knightsbridge, where we indulged in an hour and a half wandering through Herrod's (no sign of recession there) and lunch in the gourmet lunch section. Great people watching. Back to the hotel, taxi to Victoria Station, Gatwick Express and then a five hour wait for the flight back to Berlin. To bed finally at about one a.m., tired but pleased.
February 24: Loafed all day. Then in the evening betook ourselves to the Arsenal, a movie house in Potsdamer Platz, for a screening of what is technically known as a structural movie by Sharon Lockhart (see above) called "Pine Flat." "Structural" because there is no theme or plot, just six or seven single shots of five to eight minutes or so duration during which the camera stays on a single subject, such as a girl reading a book on a grassy knoll, a young boy sleeping on hot day in the grass or a boy waiting for a school bus that takes five minutes to come. The film literally forces your inner time clock to slow to the barely creeping pace of the film. Outside in the lobby of the theater, which resembles a below deck area of an aircraft carrier, there were posters advertising an impending lecture by the popular philosopher and critic, Slavoj Zizec and quoting Zizec to the effect that film is the most tyrannical of arts because it never gives you what you want, it gives you what it wants you to have. After viewing the very difficult, although obviously beautifully conceived and crafted Lockhart film, the answer is "yes." Unfortunately, the Arsenal was unable to show Sharon's film on the Maine shipyard closing that evening.
February 25: Nothing all day. Ash Wednesday service at St. George's at 7:30 that evening. The best service of the liturgical year after Good Friday.
February 26: Nothing of moment until an 8 p.m. concert in the small Chamber Music salon of the Philharmonic building called "Alla Turca." Six percussionists from the Berlin Philharmonic and a group of Turks calling themselves the Istanbul Oriental Ensemble. The six Germans began with a phenomenal performance of a 1941 John Cage piece, "3d Construction,"written for drum quartet. Sounded as fresh as yesterday. Then the Turks played a number of pieces that sounded like Aaron Copeland meets Asia Minor gypsy music. The musical abilities of the Turks was phenomenal, particularly on the tavlas. The Germans ended with a Russell Peck piece, "Lift-Off!" from 1966 for two drum trios playing together - but what an amazing ranges of tones emerged from those drums. The finale was a rousing Turkish piece, with the six German percussionists joining in half way through to create a barn burner. A great evening.
February 27: The full Philharmonic this time, conducted by a Swiss born in 1939, Heinz Holliger. No Simon Rattle. An all romantic program, with the first two pieces by one of the best of the immediately post-war German composers, Bernd Alois Zimmerman, and the second two by Schumann. Flawlessly played as usual. The Schumann First Symphony, entitled the Spring Symphony, was at times so free and innocent you wanted to cry. How on earth did that come about, and why play it now? To escape.
February 28: The iPhone went kablooey, but a nice guy in the Cyberport (chain) store around the corner downloaded new software and fixed it. What a combination - Apple and a German phone company, neither of whom would share a secret with their mothers. In the afternoon a real Berlin experience. Out to the Olympic Stadium to see the Berlin professional soccer team, Hertha BSC, play Moenchen Gladbach. The locals, to much cheering, singing and chanting won 2-1 and catapulted into first place in the German professional league - which isn't very good because the Germans are too tight to pay the best players. The crowd went and stayed nuts, all the way back to Berlin Mitte on the subway. We learned to cheer "Spitzreiter," which I translate as related to a cavalry term, namely, ride the point. In any event, it means we're number one in our language. We then rode underground for 40 minutes up to the working class section of Wedding and to the gallery of a good guy, Guido Baudach, and the opening of an excellent show of one of our "guys," Bjorn Dahlem. Bjorn did the pine tree radio receiver in my loft that received radio signals from the planet Saturn, the home of the goddess Melancholia, without whom reputedly no art creation would be possible. We had a beer with the young people while inspecting the new sculptures and generally had a good time. We were home at nine for a dinner in the apartment with a chicken dish purchased from the nearby Galerie Lafayette, the Berlin branch of the famous Paris store.
March 1: Breakfast a noon at our favorite coffee place, the Cafe Einstein on Unter den Linden, followed by a long winding walk all the way to Alexander Platz. Church services at the Marienkirche near Alexander Platz, a church that miraculous survived the WW II bombing. About 25 people. Solid, no frills worship and very satisfying. We capped that off by devouring a big bowl of Berlin style potato soup followed by a humongous Wiener Schnitzel at Lutter & Wegner, one of the best of the local wine and dining establishments (since 1811).
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
