Arty Farty-ish Friday ~ Modern Art & Logos

A change from looking at painters, their work and their natal charts today. First a very good cartoon on the topic of modern art styles. I hope Canadian cartoonist, John Atkinson whose website Wrong Hands never fails to provide me with an admiring chuckle or two, will not mind my borrowing it today (if he does, and lets me know, I shall remove it at once).

I found this piece about well-known logos (a type of art, I suppose) interesting:

10 Famous Logos That Have A Hidden Meaning


A few samples follow. Commentary under the article argues with interpretation of some logos, especially those of BMW and Apple, as outlined.

BMW = either a tribute to the company’s history in aviation, showing a propeller in motion with the blue part representing the sky, said to be due to the company’s role of building aircraft engines for the German military during World War II...alternatively (and I think far more likely) a representation of the Bavarian blue and white flag - honouring the company's original HQ in Bavaria.





Apple could = derivation from the story of Adam and Eve in the Bible - bitten apple represents the fruit from the “Tree of Knowledge”.....or Isaac Newton's fallen apple - with a bite (byte?) because without it Steve Jobs thought it looked like a cherry....or a reference to Alan Turing, one of the fathers of computing. He was prosecuted for homosexuality in 1952, and after being subjected to estrogen treatments as an alternative to prison, was found dead from a cyanide overdose in 1954 with a half-eaten apple next to him (which wasn’t tested, but is suspected of being the source of the poison). One of the early Apple logos is in rainbow colours, similar to the homosexual flag. Take your pick!


The FedEx logo is so simple yet so good, hiding in plain sight. I had to squint before I saw the arrow between the bottom half of the "E" and the left-hand side of the "X".

The article proposes: The white lines passing through give the appearance of the equal sign in the lower right corner, representing equality. I don't agree. I immediately saw this IBM logo as representing that old green and white horizontal striped computer paper of long ago. One commenter had thought the same, while most were probably too young to remember that paper. I actually once, briefly, worked for a company who manufactured it in the UK, so remember it well.

The well-known Chevrolet logo wasn't mentioned in the article linked above, but I'd already researched that one for myself, when preparing a post about Louis Chevrolet some years ago. Here's what I came up with:

The Chevy logo, now so well-known, came into being in 1913. Stories of its source have become muddled through time. Take your pick: it was copied from a wallpaper design in a Paris hotel room; it was copied from a newspaper advert for Coalettes; it was drawn on a dinner napkin in a restaurant by Durant [Buick owner William C. Durant, founder of General Motors]; or... it's a stylised version of the cross from a Swiss flag (reflecting the name Chevrolet's origins).

Fuzzed Up Scorpio

Before the Sun makes its exit from zodiac sign Scorpio in a few days' time, here's a little something I dug out of the November 2007 archives. Readers with strong Scorpio flavour in their natal charts should prepare to be offended or amused - or both, or neither.

Stopping off at a second-hand book shop one day, I headed towards the back of the shop, the most hidden recesses and, sure enough, there so as not to embarrass the shop owner was a small section of books devoted to "weird subjects". I was surprised to find quite a collection of secondhand books on witchcraft and Wicca here. Is there more going on in Oklahoma than meets the eye?

There were only two books on astrology, An Idiot's Guide to Astrology and You Were Born On a Rotten Day. Now, idiot I may be, but I avoid advertising the fact more than is necessary - although passing readers may think differently! "Idiot's Guide" would not look good on my bookshelf. The co-authors of the second slim volume had certainly written their book on a rotten day - rotten for astrology that is. I had to chuckle over a few of their quips though, so bought the book for the knock-down price of a dollar.

You Were Born on a Rotten Day ("The unofficial horoscope guide that tells it like it really is.....A book that comes to you after years of painful guesswork") was written by Jim Critchfield and Jerry Hopkins, first printed 1969 in Los Angeles. (I should mention that it is not the same as a later book with a similar title, "Born on a Rotten Day", that one is by different authors.)

A collection of spoof Sun Sign interpretations - I suspect the same idea has been better done and with more wit and zing in recent years, but this early attempt at astrological humour is kind of sweet.

SCORPIO

"Men and women born under the Sign of Scorpio have very active minds, bodies and police records.

This sign is all fuzzed up with mythological happenings about a pretty lady who gave a nice man a scorpion which promptly bit him and gave him such a lump he never got over it.

Much of life is like that for Scorpios.....they never get over it, or in it, or anything about it. Tragic, painfully tragic.

To begin with, Mercury rules the pelvis of each Scorpio. (You can just imagine what that causes when the lights are out). Due to this pelvic problem Scorpio has a thing about love. Crying out for love, but shoving it away when it comes. (Doesn't this one choke you up?)

Scorpio women are very giving by nature, which always makes them sought after by men who throw certain kinds of parties.

Scorpio men, on the other hand, find happiness in the Armed Services, since they are the simply marvelous cheaters at poker and craps. The Scorpio born should try to direct their emotions toward more healthy outlets....like organising waterfalls...or sending gift packages to needy Admirals.

If you are a Scorpio, never play with your yo-yo in public. (Note from me: Now that IS wise advice, Scorpios!)

Your Lucky Color is fading, and your Lucky Day is worse than most.

Scorpio x 2 ~ Lightfoot's Darker Songs, Brice's Funny Frolics

On 10 November 1975 an ore carrier, the Edmund Fitzgerald sank in Lake Superior during a November storm, taking the lives of all 29 crew members. Later that month, Canadian singer-songwriter Gordon Lightfoot, inspired by an article in Newsweek Magazine, wrote Wreck Of The Edmund Fitzgerald.

Gordon Lightfoot, born 17 November 1938 in Orillia, Ontario, Canada with Sun in Scorpio, along with Venus, and Scorpio rising must have felt immediately drawn to the tragic story of death in water. Scorpio is the Fixed Water sign of the zodiac, and with its ruler, Pluto, links to death and darkness.

Even in If You Could Read My Mind (this one I like) he writes of ghosts and chains and darkness - more Scorpionic symbolism!

And ....Ribbon of Darkness - still more dark Scorpio-ness


As far as I know Gordon Lightfoot is still around, and in his mid-70s.

Another side of Scorpio Sun, from a different generation, can be seen in Fanny Brice. Fanny was born in New York on 29 October 1891 at 12.03am (astro.com)

Her name is familiar, these days, mainly because of two movies, Funny Girl and Funny Lady starring Barbra Streisand, and based (albeit loosely and with liberties taken) on Fanny Brice's life story.

Fanny's forté was her talent to entertain, and the ability to integrate humor into music.
The daughter of immigrant Jewish saloon owners in New York, Fanny was drawn to a life on stage early on. She appeared in burlesque revues and the Ziegfield Follies, honing her craft, developing her humor. Later, from 1930 onward her radio portrayal of the character Baby Snooks, "a bratty toddler" brought her national fame.
An archived post of mine looks at Fanny Brice and her natal chart in more detail

A few astro notes:

I've borrowed natal planetary position lists for these two artists from astro.com.
Fanny Brice had benefit of sunny Leo rising and erratic Uranus close to her natal Sun.
Lightfoot's Scorpio rising with Sun just 4 degrees away in his First House of self is possibly why Scorpio's traditional darkness filters through more clearly in his work.

Generational differences figure in too, I think. Fanny Brice's generation had the Neptune/Pluto conjunction in Airy Gemini, as mentioned in my earlier post linked above: "Pluto and Neptune, two generational planets were exactly conjoined in Gemini when Fanny was born. People in her age group had a creative powerhouse to draw upon, especially if their personal planets linked to these two outer planets; in Fanny's case Mars, planet of energetic drive, was in helpful trine from Libra."

Lightfoot's generation (myself included), with Uranus in Taurus, Neptune in Virgo and Pluto in Leo were born into a more Earthy astro atmosphere, though with Pluto just inching into Leo.
Neptune sextiled Lightfoot's Sun and Venus, while Pluto sextiled his Libra Moon

Tuesday's Tune and Movie Mix

An old friend in England sent me this video last week. It's one of those musical surprise interludes, this one happened in a school lunch hall in the south of England-

The movie? A 1996 film I'd never heard of but, attracted by its cast, had picked up the DVD in a thrift store: The War at Home: Martin Sheen, Kathy Bates, Emilio Estevez. It's a story set somewhere in Texas, or maybe Oklahoma in the early 1970s, around Thanksgiving time. The Collier family had recently welcomed their son home from two years' service in Vietnam. Martin Sheen and Kathy Bates are superbly and uncomfortbly just so believable as a trying to be helpful and fair father pushed to his limit, and a niggling nagging won't shut-up God-fearing mom. Emilio Estevez is the former soldier son, physically fine but mentally damaged by his experiences in Vietnam. There's a sister, too, played by Kimberly Williams. The story wouldn't have been uncommon in real life, in 1970s USA, I feel sure. We found the film uncomfortable to watch at times, but so well acted it'd have been churlish to ditch it. Some of the background music was a bright point - Songs from that era, such as these from Buffalo Springfield and Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young:

Hoping for Cool Heads

See HERE

As was right and proper, in view of the horrendous murders and injuries perpetrated by ISIS/ISIL/Daesh terrorists in Paris just 24 hours previously, Saturday evening's Democratic presidential candidates' debate put strong emphasis on foreign policy. All three candidates had a good night, we thought, there was no obvious winner or loser; even Martin O'Malley who is far behind the other two candidates in those ubiquitous polls, put forward lot of good points, especially highlighting that new and fresh ways of approach are needed now, in the 21st century. Senator Sanders pointed out that the huge array of insanely powerful weaponry the United States has at its bidding is of no use at all against these kinds of terrorist attacks.

The history of the Middle East is such a complex and tangled net, even relatively recent history is enough to make accomplished historians fumble. Reaching back even further into the mists of centuries past, there are, no doubt, factors which have fed into 20th and 21st century issues, but humble intellects such as my own simply cannot take it all in.

Putting a magnifying glass on just what's gone on in the 21st century until now, there has been much increased internal fighting between various religious factions within the Middle East. It does appear that the US invasion of Iraq has been instrumental in growing extra factions of militants who will try, in any way they can, to avenge destruction they have seen perpetrated by Western powers during their lifetimes, not only by USA governments and forces, but by the militaries and governments of France, UK, and other European countries. Governments of these Western nations have meddled in the Middle East for decades for their own gain. This has been in tandem with constant in-fighting among religious or political Middle Eastern factions.

All that this combined madness accomplishes is a never-ending cycle of death and destruction. Yesterday French fighter planes dropped 20 bombs on an ISIS stronghold and training camp in Syria. May that be an end to it!

I do hope cool heads will prevail in coming weeks.

Self-indulgent Saturday-Sunday # 2

Second chapter of bits and pieces from my life's pattern, just the bits which float easily to the top of my memory pool. Chapter #1 can be found here.

I find few really stand-out memories of schooldays in England in the 1940s and 1950s. First school was in Grandparents' village, during the war, the same tiny one-room school my mother had attended, with probably the same headmistress (head of only two): Miss White. I mostly remember learning to write there, using pieces of chalk on a little black slate. Writing the figure 8 caused me much angst, the rest seemed easy. Next came a junior school in Hull, just after the war had ended. From that school the clearest memory I have is of being taught to knit, then of knitting a coat-hanger cover with added bobbles dangling on a braided string. The bobbles were made from cardboard circles with a hole in the middle - re-purposed milk-bottle tops in fact. It was at this school that I received, along with a couple of classmates, my one and only physical reprimand in school - a slap across the palm of my hand with a ruler by the teacher, don't recall what we'd done to deserve it.

When my parents moved to a market town, around 20 miles from Hull, to establish their own bakery and shop I changed school once again. In the Church of England junior school there I met a friend with whom I'm still in contact from time to time. Our birthdays are just a week apart. From this school, at age 11, I took the exam then nationally known as "The 11 Plus". This exam decided which of us would benefit most from academic-type further education, and which from a more practical based curriculum. From the exam results it was decided I fit the former group. The following September I began 5 years at The Bridlington High School for Girls, some 12 miles from our town.

High School/Grammar School in England back then was quite different from High School in the USA. I'd venture that it was a much more serious undertaking for pupils. We experienced no such entertainments as Prom Nights, ego boosting graduation ceremonies, or undue emphasis on sport - just solid work and a high degree of discipline much of the time.

I, and others from our town attending BHS, travelled by train each day - which entailed a longish walk or bike ride to the home railway station, and another longish walk from the Bridlington station to school, in designated groups. All school uniform hats had to be worn on these walks - or else! We had strict uniform requirements in those days. The uniforms were not cheap, but of good quality. Bottle green, white and black were the school's colours.

Gym slips, shirts, striped ties, striped blazer (see below - dress tucked in knickers), sweaters, raincoat, woollen coat, scarf, hat (horrible hat), and summer dresses. Shoes were supposed to be of a certain make and style, but most of us managed to get away with alternatives. Gymslips had to be of a certain length so as to just clear the floor when kneeling. No nylon hosiery allowed, just white ankle socks in summer, brown knee socks or nasty, thick lisle stockings in winter. Oh, the regimentation of it all!

Our BHS school motto was Laetus Sorte Mea, which, translated = Happy In My Lot. We, pupils of the Bridlington High School for Girls, carried it on the pockets of our green/black/white striped blazers and a smaller version on our green, and hated, hats. Whether all of us were - happy in our lot - isn't known, for my part, I wasn't, not really, and certainly not all the time, though the experience did develop my self-discipline, I guess.

 1951, Bridlington beach

I wasn't happy at school in my early teens. A severe bout of tonsillitis with attendant burst ear-drum during the first few months of attending BHS kept me home for three weeks. I missed so much in both learning new stuff and making friends with new people that it took me years to catch up. I must have managed it, because once the smell of freedom came along some 5 years later, at age 16, I cranked up my game and came out of seven General Certificate of Education exams with flying colours - 7 for 7, one of only two to do so in my class.

 Mum and Me, School Sports Day, 1954-ish

Bridlington High School, for many years before World War II, had been a rather exclusive private boarding school for the daughters of the so-called great and good of the area and beyond. That changed after the war. Education moved on apace from those days of class segregation, but still retained academic and gender segregation. Gender segregation tended to lead to girl "crushes". In the absence of males, among either pupils or teachers, upon which our young female adoration might rest, we youngsters would find one of the senior girls to adore. My "crush" was a senior-six called Judy. She was brilliant at everything, all the time: sports, athletics, music, art, academic subjects - and funny too. She did a little ink drawing for me in my autograph book, of a Scottie dog (Scotch Terrier) wearing a kilt - my nickname in school was "Scotty". Since my day things changed again, and again education-wise, on all fronts without, as far as I could see, any improvement in quality.

How about time out of school during those years? More crushes - on a few males, any who made me laugh went immediately into my "A-list" of crush-worthiness. Proper boy friends? Some. One, who lasted more than a couple of dates, a couple of years in fact, I'll call him GB. His birthday was in late January like mine, but he was a year or two older - and an only child as was I. GB was a farmer's son, very shy, nice looking, rode a motor bike or drove his Dad's Hillman occasionally. His Dad, the farmer, sweet guy, would come to our bakery from time to time, made friends with my parents. When the idea of an engagement (GB and me) came up it was time for yours truly to bolt and run. Being a farmer's wife had no place in my plan for the future; this plan had few ideas of what I wanted, but some very definite ideas of what I didn't want.

Shortly after GB's reign I remember going to a New Year's Eve dance at the Town Hall with a girlfriend. I wasn't much of a dancer, went mainly out of curiosity and to wear a nice new pink dress. A slightly older guy kept asking me to dance, I eventually accepted and did my best to shuffle around the floor with him. His name was Paul (how odd that I still remember his name!) He was probably in his mid-20s, horn-rimmed spectacles, not unattractive, but dark hair receding a wee bit. A gentle fellow, very nice. He was, he told me, a teacher. Oh dear - I was very silly back then, didn't want anything to do with that either! Paul tried to contact me via my parents several times afterwards but I didn't want to know. I often wonder how things might have turned out if I'd been a better friend to him, maybe even leading to...whatever.

Roads not taken! As Edith Piaf used to warble so prettily "Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien"

(To be continued)

Arty Farty Friday ~ Manon Cleary

This week, just for a change I decided to begin with a Memorial Video to this artist from YouTube. Photographs by Tom Wolff, Paul Feinberg, Steven Kijek (her husband), and family archives. Sound: Philip Glass: I'm Going to Make the Cake. Assembled by Yar Koporulin and Steven Kijek. The video tells us much there is to know about the late Manon (pronounced Mu-NAHAN) Cleary.


Some of Ms Cleary's paintings can easily be mistaken for photographs!

Born 14 November 1942, she died in 2011, aged 69. Additional detail, below, comes from an obituary in The Georgetowner by Gary Tischler, in December 2011:

Unless you were a working, writing, painting, drawing, kibitzing, loving, hanging-out member of the Washington [DC] art and gallery scene going back to the 1970s up to now, the name Manon Cleary might not immediately ring your memory bell.

To many interested people, she was something of a rumor, a wispy legend, but to those familiar with the scene and to her friends, students, intimates, her peers, she was a major somebody, a painter who was seen by at least one critic as one of the major and perhaps best figurative painters this city had to offer, perhaps one of the best in the country.

She painted and painted and painted, and her best, most visceral, most literal and haunting was herself and her body—and rats, bye the bye. If ever there was a person, man or woman, who lived the life of the artist in the very best sense of the idea, as well as its most outrageous, dramatic, shining, purposeful, generous sense, it was Cleary, who died at the age of 69 last Saturday, succumbing to her long-time companion, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease.

It’s easy enough to spy the drama, the aura surrounding her: she was one of those slender, great, long-haired beauties that once met, seem to remain unforgettable, and causing regrets in distant admirers who never got to know her. In her last years, she was forced to move about in public with breathing tubes and oxygen tubes, which turned her into a different presence, a presence which she brought off with remarkable aplomb.

She was a figurative artist class of photo realism but still in a major class by herself. Her subject was life itself, mostly her self—nudes at various stages of her life, with no illusion, bouts of self-flattery. Her work would come out in themes—including one a series of graphic works dealing with her 1996 rape in Kazakhstan. She painted her pet rat(s), white and hungry, she painted male nudes, and she paid skyscapes and erotic flowers that recalled but did not imitate O’Keeffe.

For the past 40 years, she lived in the Beverly Courts Apartments on 18th Street in Adams Morgan, famous in earlier years as a run-down bohemian art magnet, especially because she lived there in a fourth-floor apartment. The façade, the musical, jarring, often painful surface of her life obscured her willingness, indeed, her great passion to help younger artists, protect them; promote them for all of her life. She taught for years at UDC.

If you read the stories about her, from which we’ve drawn this obituary, they seem to sing a lot of songs—a kind of alluring, fragile vitality, a siren song, of a woman with an operatic first name and an Irish-sounding last name. The rats, the friends, the strong and continued output of work made her a Washington original, a kind of scarred patron saint of struggling artists.

Her natal chart, set for 12 noon as no time of birth is known. Moon and ascendant positions would not be as shown, though Moon would have been in Aquarius, somewhere.

Two pairs of conjoined planets in sensual, erotic Scorpio: Sun/Venus and Mercury/Mars. Sun/Venus is in harmonious trine to Jupiter but square to Chiron which was conjunct her North Node of Moon (her health issue?). Mercury/Mars is square to Pluto, Scorpio's modern ruler. So there we have a dose of positive mixed with two doses of negative.

Ms Cleary had the generational trine from Uranus to Neptune in Gemini and Libra respectively, one or both could be in trine to her natal Moon, but of that we cannot be certain without a time of birth. Uranus, in any case is conjunct Saturn and again likely trining her Moon...hmmm...traditional and modern rulers of Aquarius in trine to Aquarius Moon? That'd be significant, and it fits that classic "life of the artist" remark in the quote above. A tad eccentric, delighting in presenting the unexpected in her artwork, certainly not work-shy in spite of physical difficulties.

Natal Aquarius Moon was likely opposed by generational Pluto in Leo, and square Scorpio Mercury/Mars - how closely isn't clear, but could have formed a T-square, the two squares completing it, and throwing a few difficulties in the artist's path - again, mainly relating to health issues, I'd guess.

Managing High Anxiety (or not).

Among Noel Tyl's articles, available at his website, I noticed this one: Managing Anxiety. I'd just returned from a follow-up appointment with our doctor, after a bi-annual routine blood test a few days ago. I'd suffered my own routine spurt of BP and heart-rate raising anxiety, if anything it seemed even more pronounced than usual this time. It's totally daft of me, but has always been thus, since childhood. I'm not scared of needles, or much of anything they could do to me, per se - it's just...well, daft of me! I've been told my type of anxiety is known as "white coat syndrome". There was nothing whatsoever to worry about this time, I didn't expect there to be, not really. But still the feelings of anxiety arose. I suspect my being out of control of results figures into this discomfort - a serious dislike of having my independence threatened.

I'd love to be able to manage that nervous silliness of mine. At my age though, it's unlikely to happen. I found the linked article interesting even so. Astrologically I blame First House natal Pluto opposite natal Sun, and maybe Chiron (the Wounded Healer) inconjunct Sun (but trine Jupiter) for my nervousness when facing a white coat.

I particularly liked Mr Tyl's last words regarding astrologers who counsel - though I've never actually been counselled personally by an astrologer, he makes it sound like rather a nice experience, if done properly.

Our job is not to read a planetary riot-act and pronounce gloom and doom; rather, our mission it is to support and free up our clients; to help with efficiency, helping to cast off extra, useless baggage, and illuminate the individual’s light as never before within the human condition.

Postscript: Before scheduling this I noticed an article on yesterday's Huffington Post about White Coat Syndrome. I'm not overly impressed by that kind of survey/study, but found the comments more interesting and informative than the piece itself.

Thoughts for Armistice Day 11/11

In the beginning...

"And it came about when they were in the field, that Cain rose up against Abel his brother and killed him."
(The Bible, Genesis 4:8)

And They Obey by Carl Sandburg (1916).

Smash down the cities.
Knock the walls to pieces.
Break the factories and cathedrals, warehouses
and homes
Into loose piles of stone and lumber and black
burnt wood:
You are the soldiers and we command you.

Build up the cities.
Set up the walls again.
Put together once more the factories and cathedrals,
warehouses and homes
Into buildings for life and labor:
You are workmen and citizens all: We
command you.

Lines from The People, Yes by Carl Sandburg (1936)

The little girl saw her first troop parade and asked,
"What are those?"
"Soldiers."
"What are soldiers?"
"They are for war. They fight and each tries to kill as many of the other side as he can."
The girl held still and studied.
"Do you know . . . I know something?"
"Yes, what is it you know?"
"Sometime they'll give a war and nobody will come."

Some thoughts of my own (21st century):

What if a nuclear conflagration were to take place on Earth resulting, eventually, in the complete annihilation of the human race? The planet would be left devastated for many thousands of years. What if, eventually, after a minor hit from a small asteroid which carried spores from outer space, a form of life began to take root, mingling with whatever remained among the formerly radioactive rubble? Several more millennia would pass with lifeforms becoming more sophisticated and intelligent, though in no way similar in form to the human race. Would the sensibilities of these beings still be governed by the same planets, Sun and Moon, seasons and cycles as we are, we the human race ? Would the same astrological imprints still endow similar benefits and drawbacks. Would there still be that tiny seed of hatred embedded, that same seed which we all carry within us? Are we, as a race, warts and all, simply as we are because of our particular physical place in the universe? And would any other developed race spawned on this planet have the same problems because of the planetary setup?

The price we pay for the beauty of the Earth and its benefits is that its human inhabitants carry a mix of characteristics capable, at worst, of destroying themselves. If, as astrologers believe, these characteristics are governed (in part) by the physical situation of our planet Earth, and how it relates to celestial bodies surrounding it, then nothing will ever change fundamentally - only superficially. Wars and hatred will always be a part of life on Earth, the features of its inhabitants, uniforms and figureheads may change, but the core drive of hatred (and greed) will remain, always.

If this is so, then the only way for a better world would be to find another planet capable of supporting life. A different planetary configuration would surround it. A different planetary configuration would not necessarily be a better one. Humans born on such a planet, if travel and full-scale emigration to it were possible, might have less, or even none, of our Earth-born good traits and more bad ones (traits worse than we could even imagine). We carry on playing with the hand destiny has dealt the human race. It's a gamble. Gamblers do very occasionally win, even with the odds stacked against them.

Another Mystery

Recent news reports online of the discovery, via satellite pictures, of ancient earthworks, fully visible only from space set my little heart a-racing that bit faster. Memories of Erich von Däniken's book, Chariots of the Gods and old stories of the Nazca Lines bubbled to the surface once again.

High in the skies over Kazakhstan, space-age technology has revealed an ancient mystery on the ground.

Satellite pictures of a remote and treeless northern steppe reveal colossal earthworks — geometric figures of squares, crosses, lines and rings the size of several football fields, recognizable only from the air and the oldest estimated at 8,000 years old.
NASA Adds to Evidence of Mysterious Ancient Earthworks............

Click on images for enlarged versions. The earthworks are from 300 to 1,300 feet across, so they can only be fully appreciated from a distant satellite's perspective.




What was their purpose? Some suggestions I've read so far include: a way to corral cattle(that doesn't seem at all likely to me); used in religious ceremony or relating to religion - but why so huge? Some kind of calendrical guide - this sounds most likely, if we discount any alien-related fantasy (or is it fantasy?) I suppose someone standing at certain points in the square or circle, during the year (or the year as we now count it) might note the pattern the stars and planets were forming - that kind of thing. It must have taken much effort and time to construct these things, they were obviously of great importance.

Any ideas? Wilder the better!

Music and Movie Monday ~ Charade

Turner Classic Movie channel aired the 1963 movie Charade last week. We watched, both of us suspecting we must have seen it back in the day, but later and surprisingly both decided we must have let it slip past us somehow. Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn together in a movie could never be boring - I adored Cary Grant in my adolescence and early teens, and have always liked Audrey, especially enjoying her wonderful wardrobes of Givenchy outfits - she wore 'em so well!

Charade didn't disappoint, except in a bit of hammy over-acting by actors playing two of a trio of villains, stars who we know can do a whole lot better: James Coburn and George Kennedy. The film was, I now understand, a kind of homage to the classic Alfred Hitchcock style by director Stanley Donen, carried out tongue in cheek, not quite in all-out spoof mode, but getting there. Spoofing as a polished film genre hadn't quite been perfected in 1963...The Pink Panther was another early spoof-related movie from the same year.

For a very good detailed outline of Charade's story by an obvious fan, including lots of photographs, take a look at The Blonde at the Film blog HERE. A review from a writer who saw some flaws in the film, though still enjoyed it, is at The Film Sufi website HERE.


The film's Oscar nominated theme song Charade is a lovely Parisian waltz melody composed by Henry Mancini, with lyrics added by Johnny Mercer - what a wonderful collaboration! I would pronounce charade "charahde", Brit-style, so have to adjust to the American in order to appreciate the rhyming of these lyrics.

When we played our charade
We were like children posing
Playing at games, acting out names
Guessing the parts we played

Oh what a hit we made
We came on next to closing
Best on the bill, lovers until
Love left the masquerade

Fate seemed to pull the strings
I turned and you were gone
While from the darkened wings
The music box played on

Sad little serenade
Song of my heart's composing
I hear it still, I always will
Best on the bill
Charade

The original with opening credit images:

Julie London's quiet, sexy version:

And, as with any well constructed melody Charade easily lends itself to a wee bit of jazz interpretation, which I've come to much appreciate, having lived with an avid jazz fan for quite some time now....it rubs off now and then! The following two versions are by lesser known vocalists and musicians. I like them both - a lot.

Below - by a Norwegian vocalist, Ingar Kristiansen, a live performance at Rockefeller Music Hall, Oslo, from a concert titled The Sinatra Songbook. Oddly, though, I can't trace that Sinatra ever recorded Charade, but it's possible he did sing it in concert at some point. Husband suspects that Sinatra gave it a miss on his albums because Andy Williams' version had been such a huge hit...The Guv' (bless 'im) could never have put up with being just an also ran!

Self-indulgent Saturday-Sunday #1

Regular commenter "Sonny" suggested I should, occasionally, tell stories of my life. So...

This first episode is longer than most others in future are likely to be, because in a few days' time it'll be

11 November, Remembrance Day - a date when Britain remembers those lost in two horrendous World Wars. This first part of my story relates to one of those wars.

IN THE BEGINNING....

January 27 1939 – Adolf Hitler orders Plan Z, a 5-year naval expansion programme intended to provide for a huge German fleet capable of crushing the Royal Navy by 1944.

January 27 1939, President Franklin D. Roosevelt approved the sale of U.S. war planes to France.

January 27, 1939 First flight of the Lockheed P-38 Lightning fighter aircraft.

AND...January 27 1939 some time around 3 pm or just before or maybe just after, in a house in a Yorkshire city on the East coast in the North of England, I struggled into this world of ours, almost killing my mother in the process, so much so that she was unable to bear more children.

I couldn't be aware of it at the time, of course, but I made my entrance as the world was gearing up for one of mankind's most horrendous wars: World War II; by September, when I was barely 9 months old, it had begun.

To live in a world totally without war is a dream most people cherish. I've hoped and dreamed to experience this for as long as I can remember, from a very young childhood in wartime England. I may not have appreciated fully what awful risks we faced in Hull, a city port on the northern East coast, where we then lived. In later years I came to understand, and to realise how lucky we had been to survive. Hull had suffered the most significant bomb damage of any city outside London during World War II. The city had spent more than 1,000 hours under air raid alerts, had been the target of the first German daylight raid of the war and the last piloted air raid on Britain. More than 5,000 houses were destroyed along with half of the city centre. Until mid-way through the second world war more women and children in Britain had been killed than soldiers. Over three-quarters of the total housing stock in our city was either destroyed or damaged. Some families were "bombed out" of their homes two or even three times. Like many others of my generation (John Lennon from another port, Liverpool, is a famous example), I grew up hating the very word "war".

We lived in a house attached to a bakery shop. My father was bakery foreman, and later manager of a local bakery chain in the city; my mother managed this particular store, located next to a lovely big park with a boating lake, gardens, fishing ponds, swings, slides, etc and grassy areas. The big boating lake was a mixed blessing during the war. To German pilots entering the area at night the large expanse of water was sometimes mistaken for their target, the city's docks and port area, a mile or two away. Consequently, streets around us were bombed. Miraculously we weren't among the afflicted. The worst we suffered, on one occasion was when I lay asleep in my pram in the living room, a bomb dropped nearby, without the usual warning of an air raid siren. The blast sent soot billowing down our chimney (which had probably not been cleaned for years), covering me and the pram. Later on it seemed funny - a wee me covered in black soot. It wasn't unusual, though, to venture outside in the mornings and find half the houses in one's street had disappeared overnight.

My father, being a craftsman baker was in a "reserved occupation", so wasn't drafted into the forces. He did try to join early on, but was rejected on some health ground. He also tried to obtain a catering or bakery position in the NAAFI (Navy, Army and Air Force Institutes) - cafes for the forces, but was unsuccessful (he blamed the owner of the bakery chain where he was employed for that). So, while my mother was thankful Dad didn't have to leave us, he was recruited into the Home Guard. Several nights a week he donned the army uniform and headed off to a place, not far away, where anti-aircraft guns were located, and did whatever had to be done by the Home Guard there. Another part of the war effort my parents engaged in was taking in "lodgers", men and women who were temporarily seconded to the area for some war-connected reason: engineers, technicians, government workers. My memories on this must come from the last years of the war. I recall several "lodgers" billeted with us for short periods, and one, a young customs and excise officer seconded from Northern Ireland to the city's docks, who stayed for a much longer time, became fast friends with my parents. His own parents were so thankful that their son had found a kindly home-away-from-home that they sent us a ready-dressed goose from their farm every Christmas from then on for many years, until their deaths.

 

We had an air raid shelter in our back yard, similar to the one in the photograph - small, brick built, heavy concrete block for roof, some bunks inside. I'm not sure how much protection such shelters would have afforded. I remember several times being rushed into the shelter with the air raid siren blaring out eerily into the night (the sound still haunts me, even now, when they test the tornado warning siren here in Oklahoma!) On occasions when there was no time to rush to the shelter, we'd hide in the little space under our staircase until the all-clear warning sounded. All family members were provided also with gas masks. Thankfully, those were never needed.

Rationing of all food items, including sweets (candy), and clothing, was severe. Ration books and "clothing coupons" were part of life for many years. Fresh fruit, unless grown in one's own garden, was non-existent. I didn't see my first orange or banana until well after the war had ended.

Horrendous stories were reported, stories of which I was unaware until much later on. One in particular I recall was that an air raid had happened one evening, just after dark, when some 20 or more people were waiting in line to buy tickets outside a city centre cinema, the Dorchester. A bomb dropped nearby, the blast from it killed that queue of people - as they stood - and they remained standing, all dead, but just as they were before.

My Dad's younger brothers were all in the forces, one in the Royal Air Force, one in the Army, one in the Royal Navy, one in the Merchant Navy. My Merchant Navy uncle visited us in Hull during the war a couple of times when on leave or in port. I was very young then, but Mum and Dad told me that he said he'd far rather be on his ship than staying in our city, which had proved to be a more scary experience for him! My mother's younger sister, my Aunt Lil, ran away to join the ATS (Auxiliary Territorial Service - women's branch of the British Army), much to her mother's horror!

War continued for 5 years. I was evacuated, at some point, to live with my maternal grandparents for a while, out of danger, in a small country village some 22 miles away from the city. No air raid sirens there, though we often heard our own planes taking off and landing from a nearby RAF station. We sometimes saw the sky glowing red in the distance where the city lay, being bombed again. There was a prisoner of war camp in the vicinity of Grandparents' home. It mainly housed Italian prisoners who made wicker baskets to sell to locals. I was bought a small basket made by the prisoners, beautifully made too it was, in very pale wicker, I remember it well.

 Around age 5, I think.

Children of the village could often seen watching the small amount of traffic driving through on the main road to York. They could well have been collecting registration numbers - I tried to do that too, when I could read and write sufficiently, after attending the tiny one-room village school when barely aged 4. Once in a while a "Yankie" troop truck would drive through the village, we children watching knew to call out to the American lads, "Got any gum chum?" On a good day we'd be treated to packs of chewing gum thrown from the back of the truck. On a bad day, maybe just a wave and a "Hi there!"

The war ended at last, at least in Europe. My clearest memory of that exact time is of not having to feel frightened any more. We young schoolchildren were given small Union Jack flags, and for the girls, red white and blue striped hair ribbons.

To be continued.....

Arty Farty Friday ~ 3 Sides of Charles Demuth's Art : Sensitive, Homoerotic, Precisionist.

Charles Henry Buckius Demuth (November 8, 1883 – October 23, 1935) was an American watercolorist who turned to oils late in his career, developing a style of painting known as Precisionism. I'd never come across his name before, he mustn't have been one of The A-List, but he did fraternise, a lot, with several people on that list. Georgia O'Keeffe, for instance, was a close friend of his, "O'Keeffe & Deem" they called each other, though it was likely not a romantic relationship, as Demuth was homosexual. He willed all his oil paintings to O'Keeffe though so it must have been much more than a casual friendship.
(See here.)

Clipping from an article in a 2011 issue of the Journal of the American Medical Association

 Aucassin & Nicolette (1921)

Ken Johnson wrote in the New York Times in 2008:
I like to think he [Demuth] was having a bit of fun with the expectations of his day, that he said to himself: “They want manly paintings. I’ll give them manly paintings!” What he couldn’t help doing was to make them beautiful.

This 6 minute video illustrates nicely the sharp differences in Demuth's art styles: lovely dreamy water colour flower studies, sploshy figures, often homoerotic, then a complete turn around to his precisionist works. One could be forgiven for suspecting these were works of two different artists.

His erotic works, in the atmosphere of those times, were likely produced for private buyers rather than for exhibition. Clip below from Google Books here.

In a post a few weeks ago the word ekphrasis came up, in connection with a poem by William Carlos Williams about a painting. Demuth turned ekphrasis on its head and did a painting about a poem - a poem by that same poet, as it happens.

The Great Figure
By William Carlos Williams

Among the rain
and lights
I saw the figure 5
in gold
on a red
firetruck
moving
tense
unheeded
to gong clangs
siren howls
and wheels rumbling
through the dark city.

 I Saw the Figure 5 in Gold (1928)

From HERE

Williams’ poem recalls a night when he was walking down Ninth Avenue in New York City on his way to painter Marsden Hartley’s studio. He heard the noises of a fire truck, only to turn around just as it was passing by. All he saw was the number of the truck, a five painted in gold, on a red background speeding past. At this moment in his career Williams was trying to create poems that were precise and concrete representations of original experiences, so he avoided symbolism and metaphor in favor of simple language that evokes the speed (“moving tense unheeded”), the sounds (“gong clangs siren howls and wheels rumbling”), and the images (rain, lights, firetruck, dark city) he witnessed. Reportedly, Williams wrote this one-sentence poem right there on the street that night.

Williams’ poetry is deliberately straightforward, but Demuth’s painting is complicated. You really must know the poem to decode the painting. The setting is a tunnel-like street, which is flanked by sidewalks and buildings. Much of this backdrop is gray and black, but for the illuminated shop windows and globular streetlamps on both sides. The fire engine dominates the middle of the composition and although its form is abstracted we can recognize it by its red color. We can see the truck’s ladder on the right, and a long bar stretches across the bottom of the truck, which resembles an axle with two wheels or roaring sirens. The little curved lines that radiate from those sirens or wheels can indicate sound, motion, or both.
(More at the link)

A lifelong friendship between the poet (who was also a doctor) and the painter began in their student days.

While attending art school in Philadelphia he met a medical student named William Carlos Williams, and they became lifelong friends. Demuth was diabetic, and in a 1924 photograph by Stieglitz he appears emaciated. This was most likely the result of diabetes treatment in the days before insulin — a rigid diet with severe restriction of food intake. Demuth was one of Steiglitz’s circle of artists who included Charles Sheeler, Arthur Dove, Marsden Hartley, and Georgia O’Keefe. (See here.)

ASTROLOGY

The natal chart is set for 12 noon as a time of birth isn't known. Moon position will not be exact and ascendant remains unknown.

Born in Lancaster, Pennsylvania on 8 November 1883.

First thing to catch my eye is the conjunction of a doleful trio, Pluto/Chiron/Saturn in Gemini. I'd guess that this represents Demuth's ongoing severe health issues which led to a relatively early death, just short of his 52nd birthday.

Scorpio Sun in mid-sign, flanked by early degree Mercury and late degree Venus reflect his sensual and erotic nature. Venus linked to Uranus by sextile indicates a tendency to shock and experiment via his art. Neptune in Taurus lay opposite natal Sun - in this case it easily translates to inner creativity, artistic vision.

Without a time of birth Moon's exact position isn't known, so any square aspects shown in the chart may or may not be valid. Moon could have been around mid-sign Aquarius or very late sign (maybe even on the Pisces cusp) - or somewhere between. Aquarius Moon echoes the Venus/Uranus sextile link, as Aquarius in modern astrology is ruled by Uranus. His Aquarius Moon would easily go along, encourage even, any inventive, futuristic or even shocking ideas Demuth displayed in his work.

Difficult square aspects from Mars and Jupiter in Leo to his Scorpio Sun and Mercury could underline health challenges already reflected in that Pluto/Chiron/Saturn cluster.

Gunpowder Plot and All That

A couple of British 20th century humourists, W.C. Sellar and R.J. Yeatman once wrote a series under the title 1066 and All That, for the famous Punch magazine. The series, later developed into a play and, in 1930, a book. It's a tongue-in-cheek parody of English history. I have a copy of the book on my shelf and immediately reached for it when considering today's date, 5th November and all that...:

Remember remember the fifth of November
Gunpowder, treason and plot.
I see no reason why gunpowder season
Should ever be forgot

Wikipedia's other page on this topic for those who prefer a more sober assessment of events.

1066 and All That's content truly is an acquired taste. To the uninitiated, unused to this type of humour, it'd sound just silly. You really had to be there (in England over many years of a certain era) to really "get it". Anyway, I decided to re-read what the authors had to say about events of 5 November 1605:

CHAPTER 34

James I: A Tidy King
JAMES I slobbered at the mouth and had favourites; he was thus a Bad King. He had, however, a very logical and tidy mind, and one of the first things he did was to have Sir Walter Raleigh executed for being left over from the previous reign. He also tried to straighten out the memorable confusion about the Picts, who, as will be remembered, were originally Irish living in Scotland, and the Scots, originally Picts living in Ireland. James tried to make things tidier by putting the Scots in Ulsters and planting them in Ireland, but the plan failed because the Picts had been lost sight of during the Dark Ages and were now nowhere to be found.

Gunpowder Plot

Click for bigger version, see below for wording.

There were a great many plots and Parliaments in James I's reign, and one of the Parliaments was called the Addled Parliament because the plots hatched in it were all such rotten ones. One plot, however, was by far the best plot in History, and the day and month of it (though not, of course, the year) are well known to be utterly and even maddeningly MEMORABLE.
The Gunpowder Plot arose in the following way: the King had recently invented a new table called Avoirduroi, which said:
1 New Presbyter = 1 old priest.
0 Bishop = 0 King.
James was always repeating, `No Bishop, No King', to himself, and one day a certain loyal citizen called Sir Guyfawkes, a very active and conscientious man, overheard him, and thought it was the slogan of James's new policy. So he decided to carry it out at once and made a very loyal plan to blow up the King and the bishops and everybody else in Parliament assembled, with gunpowder.(*) Although the plan failed, attempts are made every year on St Guyfawkes' Day to remind the Parliament that it would have been a Good Thing.

[Words in the illustration, which is included in the book and seems to be of around 17th century origin: top left- November 5 Old Stile. Top right in the shaft of light (Oh look a real Yod!) - Digitus Dei est hic = The finger of God is here. In box above roof - I suspect it says Opus tenebrarum = Deed of darkness. On the roof: Black Deeds. On the figure's cape it looks like AVX why (but isn't clear enough). Under the illustration: ...Thus sayth the Lord behold ... will rays evil against Thee out of Thine owne house. Signature and/or date (?) SAMV]

Pilgrims' Progress
It was at this time that some very pious Englishmen, known as the Early Fathers, who were being persecuted for not learning Avoirduroi, sailed away to America in a ship called the Mayfly; this is generally referred to as the Pilgrims' Progress and was one of the chief causes of America.

My thanks to THIS website for saving me the effort of copy typing.


I decided against any astrological 5 November ventures due to the Old Style/New Style brain fogging effect, both in relation to the event and Guy Fawkes' birth date (assumed to be April 13, 1570 Julian calendar) in York, England. If the 5 November date for The Gunpowder Plot was truly "Old Stile" as the illustration declares, then by our calendar it would be 15 November. England didn't move to New Style dating until much later, mid-1700s though, but Roman Catholicism had been using it since late 1500s, and these events were Catholic-related. Date-wise it's a muddle I prefer to leave alone.

Foresight of the Hippies

Just a video today. I first linked to it in 2011. The intervening years haven't changed much, in fact they've only brought things highlighted by the video into even clearer focus


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"31 - Get Up and Run!"

I no longer contribute to any astrology message boards - not many have healthily survived the onslaught of Facebook. Noel Tyl's is one that has kept going, more thinly populated, but still alive. I wander in there occasionally to lurk awhile. (Do people still lurk, or has Facebook coined a new term for that non-active activity?) Anyway, a thread started by James Williams with the heading Age 31 ?! held my attention for a while.

"Was the year you turned 31 pivotal for you?!" Mr Williams asked.

If the above link doesn't work you could go to Noel Tyl's website and scroll down the list of discussions on the forum there.

I thought back in my own life to age 31, and did recall something interesting, if not exactly pivotal. (Pivotal = of crucial importance in relation to the development or success of something else.) Erm...well maybe it was - eventually!

I admit to not properly understanding all that was said in the fairly short discussion thread, some of it related to vedic astrology, which is where the root of this idea about age 31 originates.

At age 31 I first met the person with whom I would share the next 30+ years; I'd leave my job, move home and job more than once, but all this led, a few years later, to my long-term post in the civil service.

I'd already looked into transits in relation to this part of my life. Saturn was transiting Taurus, and met up with natal Uranus and South Node of the Moon at 13 degrees, exact in May 1970. Transiting Pluto conjoined natal Neptune around the same time, transiting retrograde Neptune conjoined natal Mars. Uranus had trined natal Sun from Libra, in April, then retrograded to the same trine in August. Something was goin' on, above and below for me! Whether any of it corresponds with vedic theories about 32nd year (or age 31 as we call it) I can't say.

Doe anyone else reading along have any outstanding experience from their own age 31 to contribute?

(Note: "31 - get up and run" is I understand, from an online list, how bingo callers are wont to announce the picking of that number.)

Monday Movie ~ Bridge of Spies

We saw Bridge of Spies last weekend. We both declared it "a very good movie" - which is to be expected with Steven Spielberg directing. My own yardstick is to note how many times my attention wanders, especially during a two and a half hour film like this. I didn't wander off mentally once, even though the movie's subject matter wasn't of great interest to me, nor is the film's leading actor, Tom Hanks, a favourite of mine. (Yep, I'm the one).

Tom Hanks played lawyer James Donovan, the guy who agreed to defend a captured Russian spy known as Rudolf Abel, played by British actor Mark Rylance. American pilot Gary Powers, whose CIA U-2 spy plane was shot down while flying a reconnaissance mission over Soviet Union airspace is not, contrary to my expectations, at front and centre of the film's story. The character being celebrated, really, is James Donovan, without whose shrewdness, foresight, tact and diplomacy the story might have ended very differently.

For more detail see review by Brian Tallerico at rogerebert.com and/or a good comparison of the facts and the film at History vs Hollywood website.

I knew little of the events depicted in this film. They were no doubt reported in Britain, but must not have attracted my attention - I was otherwise engaged in the early sixties anyway. I first knew of the name Gary Powers from a painting my now husband did back in the 1960s. I've mentioned it before in earlier posts - see below.

As I wrote above, Bridge of Spies isn't really about Gary Powers, his story provides background and purpose, but remains almost incidental. Husband's only criticism of the film was that there was little, if any, mention of the terrible time the people, the press and media in general gave to the wife of Gary Powers throughout that period.

From an archived blog post:

The Powers Trial

An oil painting by Himself - my husband. He painted it sometime in the early 1960s and called it The Powers Trial. When I first noticed this painting it was stored in a closet with a pile of others a young Himself had worked on many years ago. I liked it immediately for the shapes and colours. I later discovered that the main figure represents Francis Gary Powers, the U.2 pilot shot down while flying over Soviet Union airspace on May 1, 1960, sparking one of the greatest international crises of the Cold War. Husband said that for some reason the trial of Powers had affected him deeply, and this painting was more of a doodle than a serious painting about it. He just started drawing shapes on canvas one day and ended up sketching directly with oil colour.

I'm not sure the detail will show clearly on computer screen, but the scales of justice appear in the centre, some heads of observers in the background, representing the eyes of the world upon the proceedings, and a small depiction of Powers' wife in the lower left square. The figure to the left represents an attorney.

Gary Powers was born on 17 August 1929 in Jenkins, Kentucky. On the date Powers was shot down, 1 May 1960, his natal Pluto at 18* Cancer was being opposed by transiting Saturn at 18* Capricorn - such an opposition between two powerful planets might well be significant here. Saturn represents the law, limitation, and possibly imprisonment. Pluto is the modern ruler of Scorpio, said to represent, among other things, secrets and spying.

When Powers returned to the USA (as part of an East/West spy-swap) he was criticised for not ensuring that the revolutionary plane was destroyed, or killing himself with a suicide pin or pill. Powers was cold-shouldered by his former employers at the CIA. He died in 1977 at the age of 47 when a TV news helicopter he was piloting crashed in Los Angeles. On May 1, 2000, U.S. officials presented Powers' family with his posthumously awarded Prisoner-of-War Medal, the Distinguished Flying Cross and the National Defense Service Medal.
Info. from http://www.answers.com/topic/francis-gary-powers

Senator Sanders' First TV ad.

The first TV ad. of Senator Bernie Sanders' presidential campaign, due to air today in Iowa and New Hampshire:



Good one, Bernie!