Monday, April 30, 2012

Eleven Languages

 
Twenty-year-old Alex Rawlings can currently speak eleven languages - English, Greek, German, Spanish, Russian, Dutch, Afrikaans, French, Hebrew, Catalan and Italian. He has won a national competition in the search of Britain's most multilingual student (aged between sixteen and twenty-two). This BBC News video features Rawlings speaking in all eleven languages about his learning experiences.

Oh my goodness. To know this many languages would be incredible. I wish New Zealand had more emphasis on bilingualism, let alone multilingualism.

Mournful Moonlight

'The Colosseum rose before us, serenely, calmly beautiful in the mournful moonlight, breathing a solemn monumental melancholy which was absolutely pathetic... As we strolled about the moonlight arcades, unspeakable hope and peace came into my soul. Angels seem to look down from the star-sown heavens, and the spirits of slaughtered saints to sanctify the scene of their martyrdom. Looking at the moon, clear and argentine as a silver mirror, the ills and troubles of this life faded away like a vain and troubled dream.'

Frances Eliot

Francesco's Venice: Blood






Francesco's Venice: Part I (Blood)

Sunday, April 29, 2012

Chi si volta, e chi si gira, sempre a casa va finire

Chi si volta, e chi si gira, sempre a casa va finire: No matter where you go or turn, you will always end up at home.

No Alla Guerra

No Alla Guerra, Italy
Werner Bischof, 1950

Saturday, April 28, 2012

Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore


Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore (detail)
A photograph I took in Firenze, Italia, 2009

Stendhal Syndrome

When visiting Italy in 2009, there were so many beautiful and incredible sights; it seemed that everywhere I turned was something else to wonder over. But one thing in particular moved me to the point of tears; Primavera by Botticelli. I had just finished studying an art history paper on the Italian Renaissance, and to be given the opportunity to see such an intricately detailed painting in real-life was overwhelming. I still remember standing in front of the painting for what must have been at least twenty minutes; just looking at each delicately painted flower, each perfect brush-mark. I was overcome with a strange sense of enchantment, and I don't know if it was purely obsession and wonder, or a touch of Stendhal Syndrome; a condition I did not read about until after I had returned home.

Stendhal was a French writer who adopted a German name and lived in Italy. The condition of 'Stendhal Syndrome' was named after him by Dr. Graziella Magherini, an Italian psychiatrist in 1979. Stendhal had visited Florence in 1817, and had described his first experience of the city in his book Naples and Florence: A Journey from Milan to Reggio:

'I was ecstatic with the idea that I was in Florence, close to the masters whose tombs I had seen. Deep in the contemplation of sublime beauty, I reached the point where we experience heavenly sensations. As I emerged from the porch of Santa Croce, I was seized with a fierce palpitation of the heart (that same symptom which, in Berlin, is referred to as an attack of the nerves); the well-spring of life was dried up within me, and I walked in constant fear of falling to the ground.'

Magherini realized many others felt the hastened heart-beat, nausea, dizziness, fainting, and sometimes even hallucinations, when overwhelmed by the intensity of Florence and its art, especially that of the Uffizi. The term describes a psychosomatic illness when one experiences beautiful or vast amounts of art in one place. Before the term had been coined, there had already been many descriptions and writings that revealed visitors to the city from the early 19th Century onward had experienced the same symptoms.

Magherini had worked at Santa Maria Nuova hospital in Florence for almost twenty years when she noticed a certain group of her patients shared particular pathological sensations. Many tourists who had come to the visually and culturally rich city had been overcome by strange and sudden psychosomatic episodes, triggered by their viewing of art; particularly that of the Renaissance. Dr. Graziella Magherini is interviewed by Maria Barnas, an artist and writer, in the August/September 2008 edition of Metropolism Magazine, and the following quotes come from this interview.

'Maria Barnas: How can the serene art of the Renaissance be a catalyst for the Stendhal Syndrome?
Graziella Magherini: Renaissance art is anything but serene. It just seems that way, with its beautiful forms. Florentine and Italian Renaissance art is incredible. Beneath these splendid forms are extremely powerful nuclei of communication, which can cause conflicts and disturbances in the psyche of the sensitive observer. This is why Renaissance art is so striking. It is often a detail that does it, as in Botticelli’s Spring or The Birth of Venus. Have you noticed the wind, the motion of the sea? These details allow you to understand how many disturbing elements underlie this beautiful form.

Maria Barnas: Can contemporary art have the same effect?
Graziella Magherini: An important aspect of the degree to which people can become confused by looking at art is a feeling of being completely overwhelmed. The Stendhal Syndrome occurs most frequently in Florence, because we have the greatest concentration of Renaissance art in the world. People seldom see just a single work, but overload themselves with hundreds of masterpieces in a short period. Renaissance art appeals to everyone, even those who know little about it. This is very different for modern, conceptual art. There are very few people who understand the message, because they do not know the code. Once they understand the code, a disturbance could theoretically occur and the message might be capable of striking something deep in the observer, but I have not yet seen it happen.’

In her book La sindrome di Stendhal, Magherini recounts many stories of patients who had succumbed to the illness, and writes extensively on the effects of artwork on the psyche.

'Kamil, whose last name I won’t mention, is the most memorable. We still keep in touch occasionally. He was from Prague, a student at the art academy. He had spent many days in Florence and each day, the emotions he experienced accumulated, seeing as he was very sensitive. He had visited Santa Croce, the Duomo and, of course, the Uffizi. On one of his last days in Florence, he visited the Chiesa del Carmine, with the Masaccio frescoes. He began to feel uncomfortable, was afraid he would faint. He felt like he was suffocating. He had to leave the church and lay down on the church steps. He was able to collect himself only when he managed to imagine himself at home, in his bed in Prague.

All these new emotions had made him lose his sense of identity. It was as if he were falling apart. When he came to me, he was no longer able to speak. It took months of careful therapy before he was again able to formulate his first new sentences. Stendhal had described a similar experience. When he became unwell at the Sibile di Volterrano, he too had to get away from the church. He went to Piazza Santa Croce and lay down on a bench. He managed to recover when he got a book of poems by Ugo Foscolo from his pocket and read what the poet had written about his own emotions at the church of Santa Croce.'

According to the doctor, when one feels a particular personal connection to art, in the case of Stendhal Syndrome patients, there is witnessed an overwhelming sense of the sublime. Through the research into individual cases, Magherini established there to be a relationship between art and repressed experiences of the viewer, which came to the fore when witnessing the art. This causes the viewer to feel distressed and shocked; resulting in the symptoms.

'There is a recently defined law governing the transformation of strong, uncontrollable emotion into symbols, or thought. When people are able to perform these transformations, they feel better, they can ‘free’ themselves. Psychoanalysts call this ‘mentalization’. To have a thought, it is necessary to begin from an emotion. Through this transformation in the mind, a strong emotion is turned into a symbol. Symbols are the building blocks of thought. Symbols are placed together, a thought is formed and thinking begins. This is what children do. A child’s emotional experiences are transformed, and he is able to think and speak. We have new thoughts all through life and can always make these transformations of feelings and strong perceptions. Affection, love and hate are transformed into symbols. A collection of symbols becomes a thought and a collection of thoughts can lead to reasoning, ultimately to philosophy and mathematics. However there is a hidden danger in this process, which should be a continuum. Sometimes emotions do not complete this transformation to surface as an idea, a thought. I have found from working with my patients that art can play a key role in this. A work of art may be able to pick up these past emotions and become their symbolic container.'

I discovered the concept of Stendhal Syndrome a few years ago, just after I had visited Florence, but have only just come across this interview ten minutes ago, and find it fascinating that Magherini mentions Botticelli's Primavera in particular. It seems like I was not alone in what I felt when viewing that painting. Psychology, and especially the psychology of art, is so interesting. I wish I had more papers left to do for my degree; as well as continuing to learn Italian, I would love the opportunity to take some psychology and philosophy papers. There are just so many exciting things to be learnt.

Friday, April 27, 2012

Four Months


Four months ago exactly, I was in the South Island with a group of friends, visiting the lower half of the country for the first time. Though, admittedly, Akaroa and Blenheim are near the very top of the South Island and there is still much to see further south. These photographs are taken around the Akaroa Harbour - and for the very first time I felt like a tourist in my own country; taking photos and being in total awe of the beautiful landscapes that surrounded me. The North Island also has stunning scenery, but in a very different way; less dramatic and more calm, I had grown up with it and for this reason kind of took it for granted. But visiting the South Island encouraged me to see New Zealand in a different light, fresh and vivid. What an amazing summer it was. I feel so blessed to live in this country.


Cities: The Real Rome

 

 

Cities: The Real Rome on BBC Travel

Thursday, April 26, 2012

PEnguino

Emperor penguins in Antarctica, photographed by Jeff Wilson for BBC

'Penguino' in Akaroa

Today is World Penguin Day! Penguins are one of my favourite animals, so small and cute. Here are a few that we saw while in Akaroa over the summer; they were very shy and didn't come too close to the dolphin watching boat that we were on, so I couldn't photograph them well, but they were adorable. I named my friend's small black laptop after them, but accidentally misspelt the Italian form as penguino instead of pinguino, and now it has kind of become an endearing joke. I'm not much of an animal crazy person, but I'd also like to have a pet baby polar bear, a horse, a panda, a Bambi, and a Simba.


Toscana

Toscana, Italia
Jure Kravanja

National Geographic

Romantic Melancholy

'The ascendency over men's minds of the ruins of the stupendous past, the past of history, legend and myth, at once factual and fantastic, stretching back and back into ages that can be surmised, is half-mystical in basis. The intoxification, at once so heady and so devout, is not the romantic melancholy engendered by broken towers and mouldered stones; it is the soaring of the imagination into the high empyrean where huge episodes are tangled with myths and dreams; it is the stunning impact of world history on its amazed heirs.'

from Pleasure of Ruins - Rose Macaulay (on the attraction of Rome)

La nevicata della settimana scorso, a Milano

La nevicata della settimana scorso, a Milano
(The snowfall last week, in Milan)

La Domenica del Corriere front page, 11 February 1900

Wednesday, April 25, 2012

Non ti prometto niente - Eros Ramazzotti


I adore this Eros Ramazzotti song, Non ti prometto niente - listening to it on repeat in studio.

The 25th of April

Today it is ANZAC Day; commemorating the soldiers from both New Zealand and Australia who fought in World War I. The 25th of April 1915 is the day we acknowledge the sacrifice of our men who landed in Gallipoli, expecting to capture the German-allied Ottoman Empire, but the campaign proved much more difficult than had been anticipated and lasted eight months; many from New Zealand, the United Kingdom, France, and Australia losing their lives. Though the battle campaign had failed to reach its intended capturing of Constantinople, there was created a sense of close comradery and courage among the New Zealanders and Australians in particular. ANZAC Day has in many ways become a national day where we recognize the soldiers who fought for our freedom, but also a day in which we become unified as a country.

I was reading the Italian newspapers online this morning, and discovered that the 25th of April is also the Festa della Liberazione, the Day of Liberation, celebrated in Italy. It is the day in 1945 on which Allied forces liberated the country during World War II, and the national holiday celebrates the freedom and honours the soldiers of the Italian Resistance who fought against the Nazis and Mussolini's troops, and victims of the war during the Nazi occupation of the country.

Here is a poem that I remember learning in primary school each April, famously recited on ANZAC Day and in many other Commonwealth countries. Written by the Canadian John McCrae in 1915, it references the red poppies which grow over the graves of fallen soldiers, flowers which have come to symbolize the sacrifice of men for their countries.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

The poppy was associated with World War I as it was one of the only plants to withstand the brutality of the  front line in Flanders, and the brilliance of the red petals evoked sacrifice. The small and delicate but strong flower has long been a symbol of peace and death, for years before the World War and McCrae's poem. The Ancient Greeks and Romans commonly depicted the poppy on tombstones and gifted them to the dead; the flower's opiates and blood-red colour connotative of eternal sleep. The humble poppy has become the powerful icon of hope, recognized all over the world.

Paris

'Paris is always a good idea.'

- Audrey Hepburn

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

Milano


A satellite image of Milano, Italia at night from the NASA International Space Station, 22 February 2011

Just got home from a very long but productive day at uni. Right now I feel so blessed with the opportunities I have been given.

Monday, April 23, 2012

Le promesse - Amor Fou

 

Le promesse by Italian band Amor Fou

On the path beside the Arch of Titus

'... a garden, so green and sweet-smelling that we cannot believe it is winter, that we are in the middle of January. Beds of mignonettes, stocks, and roses are all in scented flower. Oranges and lemons shine on the trees amid their dark leaves. We stroll through an avenue of laurels to the natural balcony which the wall makes, looking out towards the campagna. Below us we can see solitary burial monuments, the yellow curving Tiber and, far out to the horizon, a glass-clear strip - the Mediterranean... Up here, the roses are in bloom, the warm rays of the sun kiss the green leaves of the laurel-bush, and the foreigner drinks in a picture of the loveliness of the South that will never fade from his thoughts.'

from A Visit - Hans Christian Andersen

Pastiglie Leone: La storia


The story behind Italian confectioners, Pastiglie Leone. The brand was established in Torino, in 1857.

Clothesline

Albergheria, Palermo
William Albert Allard

National Geographic August 1995

Sunday, April 22, 2012

I colori del calcio Italiano

An illustration of the Italian football teams' colours, from Corriere dei piccoli, 1941

Delights

'But my letter would never be at an end if I were to try [to] tell a millionth part of the delights of Rome - it has such an effect on me that my past life before I saw it appears a blank and now I begin to live - in the churches you hear the music of heaven and the singing of angels.'

from a letter by Mary Wollenscraft Shelley (1819)

Natale di Roma

Rome celebrates it's 2765th birthday today (Italian time)! Each year on the 21st April, the city celebrates the day Romulus founded it. The date is based upon calculations made by Lucius Taruntius who was an astrologist during the 1st Century BC.

I want to be in Europe so badly right now; so many places to be, so many things to do.

Saturday, April 21, 2012

Ho capito che ti amo - Wilma Goich


Wilma Goich singing Luigi Tenco's Ho capito che ti amo in 1964.

Italy

There is a country in my mind,
Lovelier than a poet blind
Could dream of, who had never known
This world of drought and dust and stone
In all its ugliness: a place
Full of an all but human grace;
Whose dells retain the printed form
Of heavenly sleep, and seem yet warm
From some pure body newly risen;
Where matter is no more a prison,
But freedom for the soul to know
Its native beauty. For things glow
There with an inward truth and are
All fire and colour like a star.
And in that land are domes and towers
That hang as light and bright as flowers
Upon the sky, and seem a birth
Rather of air than solid earth.

Sometimes I dream that walking there
In the green shade, all unaware
At a new turn of the golden glade,
I shall see her, and as though afraid
Shall halt a moment and almost fall
For passing faintness, like a man
Who feels the sudden spirit of Pan
Brimming his narrow soul with all
The illimitable world. And she,
Turning her head, will let me see
The first sharp dawn of her surprise
Turning to welcome in her eyes.
And I shall come and take my lover
And looking on her re-discover
All her beauty: - her dark hair
And the little ears beneath it, where
Roses of lucid shadow sleep;
Her brooding mouth, and in the deep
Wells of her eyes reflected stars...
Oh, the imperishable things
That hands and lips as well as words
Shall speak! Oh movement of white wings,
Oh wheeling galaxies of birds... !

- Aldoux Huxley

Thursday, April 19, 2012

Admonition 27

Dov'è c'è carità e sapienza,
non c'è né paura né ignoranza.
Dov'è c'è pazienza ed umiltà,
non c'è né collera né oppressione.
Dov'è c'è povertà e gioia,
non c'è né avidità né avarizia.
Dov'è c'è pace e meditazione,
non c'è né ansietà né dubbio.

- San Francesco d'Assisi


Where there is charity and wisdom,
there is neither fear nor ignorance.
Where there is patience and humility,
there is neither anger nor vexation.
Where there is poverty and joy,
there is neither greed nor avarice.
Where there is peace and meditation,
there is neither anxiety nor doubt.


- Saint Francis of Assisi

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

Jack Kerouac

A drunk Jack Kerouac is interviewed by Fernanda Pivano in Milano, Italia in 1966 for RAI. Pivano translated not only Kerouac's novels into Italian, but the works of many others including Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald.

Judas Trees and Cypresses

'I don't know why one feels it to be so much superior to other cities - partly the colour I suppose. It is a perfect day; all the flowers are just out, there are great bushes of azalea set in the paths; Judas trees, cypresses, lawns, statues, among which go wandering the Italian nurses in their primrose and pink silks with their veils and laces and instead of being able to read Proust, as I had meant... I find myself undulating like a fish in and out of leaves and flowers and swimming round a cast earthenware jar which changes from orange red to leaf green - It is incredibly beautiful - oh, and there's St. Peter's in the distance; and people sitting on the parapet, all very distinguished, the loveliest women in Europe, with little proud heads...'

from a letter by Virginia Woolf (1927)

Nannerl, la soeur de Mozart



René Féret's French film Nannerl, la soeur de Mozart is elegant and refined; with richly exquisite costuming and detailing. 'A speculative account of Maria Anna 'Nannerl' Mozart (Marie Féret), five years older than Wolfgang (David Moreau) and a musical prodigy in her own right. Originally the featured performer, she has given way to Wolfgang as the main attraction, as their strict but loving father Leopold (Marc Barbe) tours his talented offspring in front of the royal courts of pre-French Revolution Europe. Approaching marriageable age and now forbidden to play the violin or compose, Nannerl chafes at the limitations imposed on her gender. But a friendship with the son and daughter of Louis XV offers an alternative.'

Dreamy and wonderful, this film is a brilliant fictional account of the famous Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's family, with particular focus on his sister. The story-line is somewhat slow and languid, but is more than made-up-for by the beauty of the cinematography.












Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Little Black Fiat

Umbria, Italia
Justin Guariglia

National Geographic Traveler November/December 2008

Manfred

'When I was wandering, - upon such a night
I stood within the Coliseum's wall,
Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome;
The trees which grew along the broken arches
Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars
Shone through the rents of ruin; from afar
The watchdog bay'd beyond the Tiber; and
More near from out the Caesar's palace came
The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly,
Of distant sentinels the fitful song
Begun and died upon the gentle wind.
Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach
Appear'd to skirt the horizon, yet they stood
And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst
A grove which springs through levell'd battlements,
And twines its roots with the imperial hearths,
Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth; -
But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands,
A noble wreck in ruinous perfection!'

from Manfred - Lord Byron

Monday, April 16, 2012

Panorama


This stunning panorama of Europe was taken from on board the NASA International Space Station on the 25th of January 2012, from about 386km above the Tyrrhenian Sea. The lights of Italy are especially beautiful, outlining the land in a glittering glow, with bright lights in the cities of Roma and Napoli.

Family Guy


Now I FINALLY get what the international students were referencing the entire summer - I always thought they were just being random; little did I know that it came from Family Guy. Hilarious.

Sunday, April 15, 2012

Eleven at Night

I have just submitted a preliminary application for an exchange to the University of California, Berkeley campus! I listed the Los Angeles and Santa Barbara campuses as my next options; then the University of Glasgow, and then Sciences Po in Paris. I feel like a massive weight has been lifted off my shoulders in this decision making - now it's all in the admin, getting references and course approvals sorted.

Now it's time to focus on the art making which has been on hold for too long.

Five in the Morning

It's five in the morning and I'm still not asleep. I have spent hours and hours scouring through university exchange options, and have become quite attached to the idea of applying to the University of California; possibly at the Berkeley, Los Angeles, or Santa Barbara campuses. For so long I have dreamed and obsessed about going to Europe and of living there; but at this moment everything seems to be stopping me from exchanging there. I have never been attracted to America, probably because I'm terrified of how massive all their universities seem to be. But the courses on offer at the UC campuses are extensive and more applicable to my degree than the ones at Sciences Po. in Paris, which is where I would otherwise apply. I feel so incredibly torn between choosing Europe for its culture and to immerse myself in a foreign language, or to take this opportunity to study at one of the best universities in the entire world. And the exchange program between UoA and UC is only available to undergrads. Maybe I need to step back and get some perspective instead of jumping too fast. After all, the priority is ultimately the education; UC will teach me so much about the fields I am interested in, and then I can use that knowledge to venture to Europe later, either to do post grad or to live. Everything is crowding around me at the moment and it's overwhelming, I feel like I have ridiculous amounts to get done, but procrastinating too much. Life is exciting but so stressful.

Flirting

'Travelling is like flirting with life. It's like saying, 'I would stay and love you, but I have to go; this is my station.'

- Lisa St. Aubin de Teran

Something Serious


Looking for a light-hearted clip of picturesque Italy, in all its beauty and grandeur, I typed 'Italy' into youtube, and this was the first video that appeared in the search results. Not exactly what I had been expecting. Produced by ABC Australia and distributed by Journeyman Pictures, it reveals the darker side to Italy. Trafficking is a serious problem all around the world, but sometimes from the safety of New Zealand it seems like something that only happens in movies or on the news in a country far away - its easy to forget, to be distanced from the reality of how riddled the world is with crime. It's terrifying. Watching documentaries like this make me feel so helpless and upset; there is such brokenness and inhumanity, it's hard to comprehend let alone know where to start to fix things. Those priests are amazing - to risk their lives in a very real way for other people, it's so inspiring. Lately, I haven't been feeling very close to God or particularly faithful, but I do believe that He is the only one who can heal the mess we have all made of this world, the only one who can heal the hurt and the pain. It's just so difficult to trust in Him.

I am so grateful and ridiculously blessed to be living in a country where, sure, terrible and awful things happen, but not to the same extent or at such a large scale. Sometimes it's annoying how we are so far away from the rest of the world, but then I think in some ways how lucky we are to be separated; it plays such a large part in how safe it is here. I'm overwhelmed with the desire to travel, but also wary and scared about the things that I will inevitably face.

Saturday, April 14, 2012

A Letter from Italy

'For wheresoe'er I turn my ravish'd eyes,
Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise,
Poetic fields encompass me around,
And still I seem to tread on classic ground.'

- A Letter from Italy - Joseph Addison

Robert Doisneau


Le baiser de l'hôtel de ville
1950

It is the 100th birthday of one of my favourite photographers of all time, Robert Doisneau, and Google is honouring his legacy. Doisneau was French, and is most famous for Le baiser de l'hôtel de ville, but has also documented through his photography, the streets of Paris.

'We must always remember that a picture is also made up of the person who looks at it. This is very, very important. Maybe this is the reason behind those pictures that haunt me and that haunt many people as well. It is about that walk that one takes with the picture when experiencing it. I think that this is what counts. One must let the viewer extricate himself, free himself for the journey. You offer the seed and then the viewer grows it inside himself. For a long time I thought that I had to give the entire story to my audience. I was wrong.'

Les tabliers de la rue de Rivoli

Le cadran scolaire
1956

Bois Bouloigne


Ecoliers Wangenbourg
1945

Kremlin Bicêtre
1945

L’aéroplane de Papa
1934

La cour des Invalides sous la neige
1970

La dactylo du Vert Galant
1947

La diagonale des marches
1953

Le nez au carreau
1953

Les petits enfants au lait
1934

Trois petits enfants blancs
1971

Friday, April 13, 2012

Val d'Orcia


Val d'Orcia, Toscana
Giovanni Simeone

National Geographic

Crystallization

This is one of the most bizarre analogies I have ever come across, and it comes from Stendhal, describing his concept of 'Crystallization', in regards to love. The theory is outlined in his 1822 work, On Love.


Stendhal likens the 'birth of love' to a journey from Bologna to Rome; the former symbolising 'indifference', and the latter, 'perfect love'. He explains:

'When we are in Bologna, we are entirely different; we are not concerned to admire in any particular way the person with whom we shall perhaps one day be madly in love with; even less is our imagination inclined to overrate their worth.'

The theory is that the journey is not one of choice, but the inevitable 'crystallization' begins when one leaves Bologna and travels to Rome; described in four stages:
  1. Admiration: one marvels at the qualities of the loved one.
  2. Acknowledgement: one acknowledges the pleasantness of having gained the loved one's interest.
  3. Hope: one envisions gaining the love of the loved one.
  4. Delight: one delights in overrating the beauty and merit of the person whose love one hopes to win.
'What I call 'crystallization' is the operation of the mind that draws from all that presents itself the discovery that the loved object has some new perfections.'

Stendhal's theory is that there is a process in which love blossoms from something unattractive into something of beauty. The term 'crystallization' was inspired by his 1818 journey to the Hallein salt mines, near Salzburg, where he witnessed salt crystallization with his friend Madame Gherardi.

'In the salt mines, nearing the end of the winter season, the miners will throw a leafless wintry bough into one of the abandoned workings. Two or three months later, through the effects of the waters saturated with salt which soak the bough and then let it dry as they recede, the miners find it covered with a shining deposit of crystals. The tiniest twigs no bigger than a tom-tit’s claw are encrusted with an infinity of little crystals scintillating and dazzling. The original little bough is no longer recognizable; it has become a child’s plaything very pretty to see. When the sun is shining and the air is perfectly dry the miners of Hallein seize the opportunity of offering these diamond-studded boughs to travellers preparing to go down to the mine.'

However, it was not simply the salt's crystallization alone that inspired Stendhal's thoughts. During one of their visits to the salt mines, both he and Madame Gherardi were introduced to a Bavarian officer who joined their company. What Stendhal witnessed between his friend and this officer was to become the basis for his theory. The officer began to 'fall in love' with Madame Gherardi, visible to Stendhal; but what was surprising to Stendhal was his complimenting of her hand, which had been scarred by a childhood bout of smallpox. The officer saw in Madame Gherardi the perfection that Stendhal was blind to. In this moment of realization, Stendhal noticed Madame Gherardi playing with a salt crystal-covered branch, the sunlight causing them to glitter like diamonds, and from this, his concept of mental 'crystallization' was born. He explained his thoughts later to his friend, Madame Gherardi, and illustrated on the back of a playing card (shown above):

'The effect produced on this young man by the nobility of your Italian features and those eyes of which he has never seen the like is precisely similar to the effect of crystallization upon that little branch of hornbeam you hold in your hand and which you think so pretty. Stripped of its leaves by the winter it was certainly anything but dazzling until the crystallization of the salt covered its black twigs with such a multitude of shining diamonds that only here and there can one still see the twigs as they really are.'

Stendhal's Crystallization theory imagines that when one is attracted to another person, they create an illusion of what they wish to see, no longer perceptive of reality; like 'diamonds' on a hornbeam branch, only seen by someone infatuated.
Stendhal had such strangely creative concepts; this analogy of love to salt crystals and Italian cities is just so hilarious, I love it.

Alabaster Cupids

'I had never known Florence more herself, or in other words more attaching, than I found her for a week in that brilliant October. She sat in the sunshine beside her yellow river like the little treasure-city she has always seemed, without commerce, without other industry than the manufacture of mosaic paper-weights and alabaster Cupids, without actuality or energy or earnestness or any of those rugged virtues which in most cases are deemed indispensable for civic cohesion; with nothing but the little unaugmented stock of her mediaeval memories, her tender-coloured mountains, her churches and palaces, pictures and statues. There were very few strangers; one's detested fellow-pilgrim was infrequent; the native population itself seemed scanty; the sound of wheels in the streets was but occasional; by eight o'clock at night, apparently, every one had gone to bed, and the musing wanderer, still wandering and still musing, had the place to himself - had the thick shadow-masses of the great palaces, and the shafts of moonlight striking the polygonal paving-stones, and the empty bridges, and the silvered yellow of the Arno, and the stillness broken only by a homeward step, a step accompanied by a snatch of song from a warm Italian voice. My room at the inn looked out on the river and was flooded all day with sunshine. There was an absurd orange-coloured paper on the walls; the Arno, of a hue not altogether different, flowed beneath; and on the other side of it rose a line of sallow houses, of extreme antiquity, crumbling and mouldering, bulging and protruding over the stream. (I seem to speak of their fronts; but what I saw was their shabby backs, which were exposed to the cheerful flicker of the river, while the fronts stood for ever in the deep damp shadow of a narrow mediaeval street.) All this brightness and yellowness was a perpetual delight; it was a part of that indefinably charming colour which Florence always seems to wear as you look up and down at it from the river, and from the bridges and quays. This is a kind of grave radiance - a harmony of high tints - which I scarce know how to describe. There are yellow walls and green blinds and red roofs, there are intervals of brilliant brown and natural-looking blue; but the picture is not spotty nor gaudy, thanks to the distribution of the colours in large and comfortable masses, and to the washing-over of the scene by some happy softness of sunshine. The river-front of Florence is in short a delightful composition. Part of its charm comes of course from the generous aspect of those high-based Tuscan palaces which a renewal of acquaintance with them has again commended to me as the most dignified dwellings in the world. Nothing can be finer than that look of giving up the whole immense ground-floor to simple purposes of vestibule and staircase, of court and high-arched entrance; as if this were all but a massive pedestal for the real habitation and people weren't properly housed unless, to begin with, they should be lifted fifty feet above the pavement. The great blocks of the basement; the great intervals, horizontally and vertically, from window to window (telling of the height and breadth of the rooms within); the armorial shield hung forward at one of the angles; the wide-brimmed roof, overshadowing the narrow street; the rich old browns and yellows of the walls: these definite elements put themselves together with admirable art.'

from Italian Hours - Henry James

Thursday, April 12, 2012

Prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi

Signore, fammi strumento di tua pace.
Dove c'è odio fa che io porti l'amor,
Dov'è offesa, perdono,
Dov'è dubbio, fede,
Dov'è disperazione, speranza,
Dov'è buio, luce,
Dov'è tristezza, gioia.
O Maestro Divino concedimi che io non cerchi
tanto di essere consolato quanto consolare,
non tanto di essere compreso, ma di comprendere,
non tanto di essere amato, quanto d'amare;
perchè è nel dare che riceviamo
è nel perdonare che siamo perdonati,
è nel morire che ci svegliamo a vita eterna.

- San Francesco d'Assisi

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
Where there is hatred let me sow love,
Where there is injury, pardon,
Where there is doubt, faith,
Where there is despair, hope,
Where there is darkness, light,
Where there is sadness, joy.
O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much
seek to be consoled as to console,
not so much to be understood but to understand,
not so much to be loved, as to love;
for it is in giving that we receive,
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
it is in dying that we awake to eternal life.

- Saint Francis of Assisi