Books and Small Museums

I blame Orhan Pamuk for my love of small museums.  (Of course, I didn’t say that when I had the honour of meeting him last year).

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Meeting Orhan Pamuk, September 2015

Specifically, The Museum of Innocence – a rich, intricate story to immerse yourself in, with textures of Istanbul, layering of details and the human flaws and obsessions of Kemal.  This was my first Pamuk and I’ve since gone back to read all of his books – My Name is Red is another favourite.  It features beautiful works of art in miniature – Pamuk as a former artist and architecture student describes these with intelligence and sincerity, without being over-bearing.

A part of The Museum of Innocence which always resonated was Kemal’s odyssey to find private museums: collections built by individuals and reflecting their idiosyncracies.  These often give an insight into lives on a human scale, rather than seeing objects held by large government institutions.  Pamuk conceived of the novel and a museum (of Kemal’s collection) simultaneously, and has opened the Museum of Innocence in Istanbul.  I saw some exhibits from it at Somerset House this year and dream of visiting it and the city.

So now I think of Orhan Pamuk whenever I visit small museums.  Sir John Soane’s Museum is mentioned in the book and blew me away when I went recently.  It was the house of Sir John Soane, architect, and is meticulous, surprising and a beautifully designed space with a reverence for architecture, Rome, sculptures and the absurd (he had a Monk’s Parlour where he would take guests after dinner, to sit amongst the skulls).

In the Frick Collection in New York, you can wander through Henry Frick’s home and chance upon Hans Holbein’s portrait of Thomas Cromwell which, after reading Wolf Hall by Hillary Mantel, is like spotting a celebrity.

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In Melbourne I love the Heide Museum of Modern Art, preserved as it was when John and Sunday Reed hosted artists there in the 1930s, 40s and 50s, and with a superb collection of Australian art.  It is wonderful to see the works of Charles Blackman, Joy Hester and Sidney Nolan (to name just a few) in the setting where they were conceived or created.  Emily Bitto’s The Strays (2015 Stella award winner) is inspired by this period; it’s on my shelf at home and high on my must-read list (= the never-ending TBR).

In Denmark in 2014 we took the wrong ferry – yes, we actually drove onto a ferry and discovered at sea 40 minutes later that we were lost – and a catastrophe ensued which was only redeemed by a visit to Finn Juhl’s House just north of Copenhagen.  It is as cosy or hygge as you would imagine and inspiring for any designer or indeed anyone with no design capability (like me) but who wants to live simply and well.

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Lost at sea, 2014

This week as part of our school holiday activities, we visited Kenwood House on Hampstead Heath, recommended by the excellent Richard the Third of London Walks.  It’s rather large for a family home, but houses the private art collection of William Murray (later Lord Mansfield) and is glorious.  All rooms have volunteer guides with interesting tidbits of history – like the time the house was nearly burnt down because of Lord Mansfield’s Catholic background a local publican waylaid the would-be arsonists with drinks.

I have library envy:

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Library at Kenwood House

The ceilings are by Antonio Zucchi.  There are also some works in the next room by Angelica Kauffmann, who was his wife.  In another room I came across The Guitar Player by Vermeer, a Turner hung casually on another wall and watching over them was a Rembrandt self-portrait.

The kids dressed up in the Orangerie and Zoe declared she could happily live there.  That makes two of us!

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Sir George and Lady Zoe

Do you have a favourite small museum?

Do Not Say We Have Nothing by Madeleine Thien; Age of Ambition by Evan Osnos

I once tutored a Chinese student in English and when I asked him what he thought of 30761967Australia, he said “Most people are nice – there are a few barbarians .”  At the time I thought, wild savages – that’s a colourful way to describe the less civil members of Adelaide society.  I didn’t realise that in China, ‘barbarian’ means ‘foreigner’, someone who has not yet been assimilated into the Chinese culture.

These books brought home to me how much we still don’t understand about China, the truth of the Mao years and what it means to live there today.

Do Not Say We Have Nothing is a devastating story, beautifully told.  It centers on three characters – Sparrow, Kai and Zhuli – as they grow up during the Cultural Revolution, famine and the Great Leap Forward.  These years are physically tortuous – many are broken by the sheer hardship, work camps and hunger (36 million people starved to death in the great famine).  “There are many stages to hunger” says Comrade Glass Eye.

The futility of these camps struck me again. Equally cruel and absurd were the criticisms and self-censorship; the repetition of Mao’s slogans, which becomes mindless.  Ordinary people live in fear of being denounced as counter-revolutionary, not knowing what the Party will pick on next.  Zhuli cuts her hair short because a long braid might be vain. A woman is yanked out of the queue for oil:

” ‘It must be her clothing,’ thought Zhuli dully, that had attracted the fury of the Red Guards.”

The backwardness of shutting the schools and universities still shocks me. Sparrow, Kai and Zhuli are musicians, and as their passion for playing and composing music is gradually snuffed out and driven inward, you have a real sense of how the party stifled creativity: books were burnt, instruments destroyed.

Music pervades the book nonetheless; it may inspire you to listen to Bach, Shostakovich or Prokofiev anew.  Thien draws attention to the gaps within the music: characters in the story disappear, some return; the Book of Records is told in fragments, hidden and shared.  The music evokes lives interrupted, dreams crushed, but a strange beauty too.

The Party shut down certain renowned composers deemed ‘Western’ or ‘bourgeouis’.  But it also affects the young students, who learn not to trust their own thoughts: they second-guess everything and default to the ‘correct’ music. Worse, the Party changed its dictates so the sands shifted.

“Now the class turned their attention to the playwright, Wu, and the poet, Guo.  Both men, once celebrated, had been discovered to be enemies of the people.”

(The same fate befell Ai Wei Wei’s father, the poet Ai Qing.)

This leads to a constant, unsettling state of fear.  We experience this sense of unease through Kai, a pragmatic and adaptible character. When he is with Zhuli:

“He had switched gears as smoothly as a bird circling, as unequivocally as a madman.”

Ordinary citizens had to denounce friends and family to protect themselves.  In a heart-wrenching scene, against the backdrop of the family’s fierce love for one another, Zhuli’s cousin must denounce her on a poster.

“Da Shan smudged the ink, and his father threw out the poster and made him do it again.”

The Party turned its own people against one another.  There is a chilling scene where He Lutong, president of the Shanghai Conservatory, is beaten on live television.  He dares to resist, crying “Shame on you for lying!” and the screens go blank.

From the 1960s to Age of Ambition, and Evan Osnos offers a modern example: a historic meeting between the Chinese and Taiwanese presidents, where the Chinese speech was broadcast but when it was Taiwan’s turn to speak, the screen went black.

18490568Age of Ambition takes us into modern China with Osnos, who lived there for 8 years from 2006 to 2014.  We meet wonderful characters: among them, brave Hu Shuli the news editor, a Crazy English teacher and Ai Wei Wei, an artist who, like Andy Warhol, has become famous  not for his art alone but for his knack of distilling events into a work with mass appeal.

Osnos finds people searching for faith since Mao’s death.  There is a focus on economic growth and some nostalgia for a communal spirit – shown tragically when two-year-old Fui Wei is run over in the market and people walk past her.

The unspoken bargain is that people will postpone idealism as long as life keeps improving.  There is massive corruption, but the young generation has turned a blind eye, although this is shaken by major events such as the Sichuan earthquake, milk poisoning and high-speed train crash.  There is censorship, the notorious “Great Firewall”, but blogger Han Han says to let the culture be more vibrant and the media be more open – he does not seek democracy.

Osnos refers to Havel’s Charter 77 (it inspired Liu Xiaobo’s Charter 08).  The key to life under a Communist party was to have a double life: “the willingness to say one thing in public and another in private.”

In Do Not Say We Have Nothing, the Professor reads from Guo Moruo’s translation of Faust:

“In me there are two souls, alas, and their / Division tears my life in two.”

After reading Thien’s poignant book, I have more sympathy both for those in China agitating for democracy and those who do not seek another revolution.  I can only admire the pragmatism and resilience of those who survive and the courage of those who resist.

But what do I know – I’m just a barbarian.

 

 

Accidental Russia Binge

This is the excerpt for your very first post.

I have a friend who is studying Russian history in his spare time, in competition with his father (an eminent judge) – that’s one way to focus your mind on a hobby in between crazy working hours (grrr over-achievers)!  I’ve come at it sideways, starting with Masha Gessen’s excellent The Man Without a Face , then tackling the rollicking The Romanovs by Simon Sebag Montefiore and now it seems 2016 is the year of reading Russian novels.

Strangely, I’ve never been to Russia and have no plans to go, but I’m bizarrely fascinated its literature.

My current read is A Woman Loved by Andrei Makine.  This was recommended to me by Sarah at South Seas Books, a gorgeous store in Port Elliot, South Australia.  It’s graced my bookshelf for 7 months, so long overdue to read (but not the longest that books have languished in my shelves before reading – does anyone else have this problem?) … It centres on Oleg, who is making a film about Catherine the Great – a wonderful character – but will she reveal herself or will he perpetuate the myths that surround her reign?

So far I’m enjoying it but finding much of the discussion about Russian politics, while illuminating and beautifully put, a little remote.

Here you can see the inadvertant Russian theme developing in my stack of books bought and (some) read in 2016:

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“War and Peace”: Do you see that big boy at the bottom of the stack?  Yes, finished! (cue applause and champagne / vodka).  I read this recently so I could watch the BBC series.  Found it heavy in every sense but enjoyed the full immersion into Russia and the Napoleonic wars, and admire it as an incredible achievement (including by Tolstoy’s wife, who transcribed it numerous times).  It makes other novels seem rushed and superficial.

“A Journey to the End of the Russian Empire”: unexpectedly fun and readable; also perfect size to take out and about in a small handbag.

“The Double”: tackling Dostoyevsky again after an earlier failed attempt.  I’m interested in doubles and doppelgangers.

“Young Stalin”: to see what makes a tyrant.  Still topical unfortunately.

“Murder on the Leviathan”: I love escaping into Boris Akunin’s detective stories: a mix of Victorian era Russia, farce and mystery.  I first heard him speaking on the BBC World Book Club and was intrigued.

Teffi: I was enchanted by her short stories, elegant and deceptively light.  Witty and pithy translation by Robert Chandler; also her memoirs (not pictured) speak of 1917 Russia with a light touch, bittersweet.

Do you ever find unexpected themes in your reading?