Untitled
Arts and Culture
Une nouvelle identité sonore
Par Jonathan Harlander
Depuis la fin de la seconde guerre mondiale, l’univers musical s’est habitué aux détournements des sons de l’ordinaire. Dans un processus de domestication du bruit-accident, ce dernier est intégré aux compositions avec la même rigueur qui est imposée à d’autres instruments. L’on se souviendra ainsi par exemple de la perceuse électrique utilisée sur le morceau Ice Girl d’Emilie Simon. Mais l’on pourra également penser aux percussionnistes sur poubelles métalliquesaux travaux du brésilien Amon Tobin ou à d’autres compositeurs comme l’américain John Cage. Ce qui compte est alors moins l’agencement des notes que la nature du son en soi.
Il y a pour celui qui écoute le résultat de ces recherches un plaisir primitif et rare. Découvrir un son nouveau, intégré à une composition musical, s’apparente en effet à la découverte d’une nouvelle couleur. Le plaisir vient alors de l’imagination qu’implique cette nouvelle écoute puisqu’alors l’expérience elle-même sera associée à un sentiment nouveau. Ainsi, Arthur Schopenhauer soulignait que notre fantaisie s’efforce de « donner chair et os » à la musique. C’est ainsi la combinaison du son, des émotions et de l’imagination de l’auditeur qui produit le plaisir musical.
Les coups d’archet portés à l’instrument dans le Premier Quatuor à Cordes de György Ligeti glacent le sang justement pour la raison que le geste en soi est une violation et qu’il est inattendu. La première écoute de ces compositions est une expérience aussi viscérale et primitive que de se brûler pour la première fois les doigts sur la vitre d’un four. Or, c’est bien l’absence de souvenir antécédent et donc le caractère purement original de cette expérience, qui produit un plaisir qui, je l’espère, ne cessera de nous être offert par les artistes à venir.
Depuis la fin de la seconde guerre mondiale, l’univers musical s’est habitué aux détournements des sons de l’ordinaire. Dans un processus de domestication du bruit-accident, ce dernier est intégré aux compositions avec la même rigueur qui est imposée à d’autres instruments. L’on se souviendra ainsi par exemple de la perceuse électrique utilisée sur le morceau Ice Girl d’Emilie Simon. Mais l’on pourra également penser aux percussionnistes sur poubelles métalliquesaux travaux du brésilien Amon Tobin ou à d’autres compositeurs comme l’américain John Cage. Ce qui compte est alors moins l’agencement des notes que la nature du son en soi.
Il y a pour celui qui écoute le résultat de ces recherches un plaisir primitif et rare. Découvrir un son nouveau, intégré à une composition musical, s’apparente en effet à la découverte d’une nouvelle couleur. Le plaisir vient alors de l’imagination qu’implique cette nouvelle écoute puisqu’alors l’expérience elle-même sera associée à un sentiment nouveau. Ainsi, Arthur Schopenhauer soulignait que notre fantaisie s’efforce de « donner chair et os » à la musique. C’est ainsi la combinaison du son, des émotions et de l’imagination de l’auditeur qui produit le plaisir musical.
Les coups d’archet portés à l’instrument dans le Premier Quatuor à Cordes de György Ligeti glacent le sang justement pour la raison que le geste en soi est une violation et qu’il est inattendu. La première écoute de ces compositions est une expérience aussi viscérale et primitive que de se brûler pour la première fois les doigts sur la vitre d’un four. Or, c’est bien l’absence de souvenir antécédent et donc le caractère purement original de cette expérience, qui produit un plaisir qui, je l’espère, ne cessera de nous être offert par les artistes à venir.
Atlantic Swash - A (very) short travel story
By Louise Assayag
The voice of Omara Portuondo resonates throughout the van as we rumble along the coastal road back to Lisbon. My companions for this trip number three, plus Bruno, the extroverted and charming driver who whistles from time to time. My roles are also three: the native speaker whose accent is often misunderstood, the occasional photographer without a real camera, and the regularly neurotic passenger who travels from one worst-case scenario to the next. My favourite image of this country is the fury of the ocean, followed by a very emotional interpretation of “Saudades do Brasil em Portugal” wailed by a tiny fadista in an unpretentious Alfama location.
Soon Cascais is no longer recognizable on the horizon. As Bruno’s voice continues to drone on, I enter a semi-sleep mode where the only resemblance to actual sleep is the way I keep my eyes (and mouth) shut. This semi-sleeping has long been my disguise for thinking while surrounded by people. Portugal and its rainy winter, whose many hues of grey cannot hide its Atlantic optimism, have stimulated my thoughts in a way that Paris and Geneva failed to do some weeks before. This is home: the streets are narrow, hard-working folks pretend to be lazy, men sing in the streets, nouns acquire diminutive suffixes for no other reason than to show affection. If my grandfather, who recently took ill, could hop on a plane from Rio and come here now, the codfish diet and the natural idiosyncrasy of this place would make him smile in a way that no medical treatment could. Back in the old colonial capital, life is no longer as simple and original as it is here: prices are rising and the attempts to become a new Paris (and a new Miami) have left visible marks.
As I open my eyes, the ocean slowly merges back into the Tagus River and we reach the Belém Tower, our last stop of the day Anyone who is heartbroken would feel welcome in Portugal; this 16th century tower serves as the ultimate symbol of a dead flame. Long past the time of the great “discoveries”, this monument built to celebrate hope and adventure echoes a reality of egocentric passion and unilateral planning. The tower is beautiful, but a closer look reveals to my colonial eyes the same mixed feelings that one has when remembering the end of a love story. Deeds eventually overpower our dreams – a sad reality that the Portuguese have clearly accepted and overcome. Although this restless nation has spent most of the last 400 years in decadence and seen its political and economic power almost vanish, this has not prevented its inhabitants from appreciating what was left and moving on. This lesson on resilience is the best flavored pastel that I take with me as our departure from Lisbon draws near.
*The author thanks Georg von Kalckreuth for his thoughtful comments on the first draft of this piece.
The voice of Omara Portuondo resonates throughout the van as we rumble along the coastal road back to Lisbon. My companions for this trip number three, plus Bruno, the extroverted and charming driver who whistles from time to time. My roles are also three: the native speaker whose accent is often misunderstood, the occasional photographer without a real camera, and the regularly neurotic passenger who travels from one worst-case scenario to the next. My favourite image of this country is the fury of the ocean, followed by a very emotional interpretation of “Saudades do Brasil em Portugal” wailed by a tiny fadista in an unpretentious Alfama location.
Soon Cascais is no longer recognizable on the horizon. As Bruno’s voice continues to drone on, I enter a semi-sleep mode where the only resemblance to actual sleep is the way I keep my eyes (and mouth) shut. This semi-sleeping has long been my disguise for thinking while surrounded by people. Portugal and its rainy winter, whose many hues of grey cannot hide its Atlantic optimism, have stimulated my thoughts in a way that Paris and Geneva failed to do some weeks before. This is home: the streets are narrow, hard-working folks pretend to be lazy, men sing in the streets, nouns acquire diminutive suffixes for no other reason than to show affection. If my grandfather, who recently took ill, could hop on a plane from Rio and come here now, the codfish diet and the natural idiosyncrasy of this place would make him smile in a way that no medical treatment could. Back in the old colonial capital, life is no longer as simple and original as it is here: prices are rising and the attempts to become a new Paris (and a new Miami) have left visible marks.
As I open my eyes, the ocean slowly merges back into the Tagus River and we reach the Belém Tower, our last stop of the day Anyone who is heartbroken would feel welcome in Portugal; this 16th century tower serves as the ultimate symbol of a dead flame. Long past the time of the great “discoveries”, this monument built to celebrate hope and adventure echoes a reality of egocentric passion and unilateral planning. The tower is beautiful, but a closer look reveals to my colonial eyes the same mixed feelings that one has when remembering the end of a love story. Deeds eventually overpower our dreams – a sad reality that the Portuguese have clearly accepted and overcome. Although this restless nation has spent most of the last 400 years in decadence and seen its political and economic power almost vanish, this has not prevented its inhabitants from appreciating what was left and moving on. This lesson on resilience is the best flavored pastel that I take with me as our departure from Lisbon draws near.
*The author thanks Georg von Kalckreuth for his thoughtful comments on the first draft of this piece.
Comics
Xiaomei Zou
Decisions by Thomas Matthew Hamilton (2010)
The Autumn Train
--in memory of Michael John Wells,the train poet
Porcelain cups,
Shiny spoons tinkle.
Milk screams as it is forced into foam.
The dining car is alive.
A farewell phone call,
Thank you for the memories.
Till next time,
Adieu.
Table lamps blush in tunnel darkness.
Modern trains
For modern travel.
A whimsy of old retained.
With electric rattle,
Our train winds
Through fluff of mist
And sulking cloud.
Confident yellow
Paints the leaves that fall.
Autumn breathes her softness and
warning.
Winter creeps.
Rippling lakes,
Industrial outskirts,
Browning vineyard.
Mountain waits for expectant snow.
The autumn train;
A witness to nature’s palette,
A vehicle for a traveller’s sadness.
Prochain arrêt: home.
Kiara Jade Barnes
Shiny spoons tinkle.
Milk screams as it is forced into foam.
The dining car is alive.
A farewell phone call,
Thank you for the memories.
Till next time,
Adieu.
Table lamps blush in tunnel darkness.
Modern trains
For modern travel.
A whimsy of old retained.
With electric rattle,
Our train winds
Through fluff of mist
And sulking cloud.
Confident yellow
Paints the leaves that fall.
Autumn breathes her softness and
warning.
Winter creeps.
Rippling lakes,
Industrial outskirts,
Browning vineyard.
Mountain waits for expectant snow.
The autumn train;
A witness to nature’s palette,
A vehicle for a traveller’s sadness.
Prochain arrêt: home.
Kiara Jade Barnes
Pressing On
by Thomas Matthew Hamilton
Bad things happen to good people. In our line of study, we’ve long become accustomed with such a statement. From refugees fleeing civil war to victims of natural disaster, people around the world suffer injustice on a daily basis. As scholars of human rights and international affairs, something compels us to study and take on the issues that others merely shrug off after the evening news goes to a commercial break. Though at times it can feel downright overwhelming, we press on because we believe somehow in the possibility for a greater world.
While I myself hold such views, I can’t help but think how easy it is to take on the worries of the world as I sit comfortably in the library. There are no troubles about whether I will eat tonight or tomorrow. No concerns that my residence will be bombed to rubble in the coming weeks. In the city we currently call home, it can often seem we lead charmed lives compared to those of the people we meticulously study in our courses.
This Friday, however, I received a great shock to the reality I live. While waiting for the bus at Coutance, my friend and I were attacked for the simple reason that we are gay. As we embraced in the cold, a group of teenagers began shouting homophobic slurs at us and abruptly pushed us from our peaceful state. Violence ensued as they began hitting my friend who valiantly tried to defend us both. I quickly attempted to call the police, only to have one of the boys hit me over the head, knocking my phone to the ground. Though a bus approached, the driver merely shouted at the boys to exit, shut the doors and promptly drove away. I watched in utter disbelief as they kicked my friend in the face, throwing him down on the pavement. I was indeed too overwhelmed to notice that one of them had taken the liberty to lower his pants and urinate on my bag.
As an openly gay man for over five years now, I have never experienced such a heinous act of violence. It was surely only the kind of thing I heard about in the media, not something I ever imagined happening to me, especially in a city so seemingly innocuous as Geneva. Yet over the past couple days as we’ve gone to the police and visited psychologists and doctors, the reality of what happened just days ago has sunk further and further into my skin.
I share my story with you not to gain your sympathy or pity, but to show that cruelty is real and may be closer to you than you think. What happened to us that night can never be changed, but can only serve as an example of the need for people to fight for greater equality in the world. Violence knows no boundaries. A kick to the face hurts the same regardless of gender, race, religion, sexuality, or nationality. When someone suffers, we all suffer as a society, despite the differences we may artificially place between “us” and “them”.
Though I can’t undo what has been done, I know one thing: I wouldn’t take it back for the world. If given the chance, I’d stand there hugging him a million times over because I would be standing up for who I am and who I love. If you take anything from this story, remember not the tragedy, but the perseverance. Bad things do and will happen to good people. Yet despite the great misfortunes we may face, we must never fail to keep pressing on.
While I myself hold such views, I can’t help but think how easy it is to take on the worries of the world as I sit comfortably in the library. There are no troubles about whether I will eat tonight or tomorrow. No concerns that my residence will be bombed to rubble in the coming weeks. In the city we currently call home, it can often seem we lead charmed lives compared to those of the people we meticulously study in our courses.
This Friday, however, I received a great shock to the reality I live. While waiting for the bus at Coutance, my friend and I were attacked for the simple reason that we are gay. As we embraced in the cold, a group of teenagers began shouting homophobic slurs at us and abruptly pushed us from our peaceful state. Violence ensued as they began hitting my friend who valiantly tried to defend us both. I quickly attempted to call the police, only to have one of the boys hit me over the head, knocking my phone to the ground. Though a bus approached, the driver merely shouted at the boys to exit, shut the doors and promptly drove away. I watched in utter disbelief as they kicked my friend in the face, throwing him down on the pavement. I was indeed too overwhelmed to notice that one of them had taken the liberty to lower his pants and urinate on my bag.
As an openly gay man for over five years now, I have never experienced such a heinous act of violence. It was surely only the kind of thing I heard about in the media, not something I ever imagined happening to me, especially in a city so seemingly innocuous as Geneva. Yet over the past couple days as we’ve gone to the police and visited psychologists and doctors, the reality of what happened just days ago has sunk further and further into my skin.
I share my story with you not to gain your sympathy or pity, but to show that cruelty is real and may be closer to you than you think. What happened to us that night can never be changed, but can only serve as an example of the need for people to fight for greater equality in the world. Violence knows no boundaries. A kick to the face hurts the same regardless of gender, race, religion, sexuality, or nationality. When someone suffers, we all suffer as a society, despite the differences we may artificially place between “us” and “them”.
Though I can’t undo what has been done, I know one thing: I wouldn’t take it back for the world. If given the chance, I’d stand there hugging him a million times over because I would be standing up for who I am and who I love. If you take anything from this story, remember not the tragedy, but the perseverance. Bad things do and will happen to good people. Yet despite the great misfortunes we may face, we must never fail to keep pressing on.
Don’t Feel Inferior
My new German roommate and his twin brother crept through the double French doors that bridged the parlor with my bedroom. He took a hunched position over his laptop at my doorway. “I’m having some problems connecting…it seems my computer is not picking up an IP address,” he said meekly as he peered at me through some aerodynamically framed glasses.
He did not make an explicit inquiry but it was clear what he wanted. “Oh, ya…just give me a second,” I said confidently as I started clicking around in network preferences. I maintained an eased yet concentrated face but I had no clue where to find the IP address. Up until a year ago, I had never even heard of an IP address. And if, today, someone asked me its true function and purpose in this world, I would mumble and toil around a clear answer until one was either given to me or wiki’d.
Eventually, I found a number that, to my eye, looked as though it could very well be an IP address. You know how they are… a series of nine numbers or so interrupted by a full stop here and there. “Think I got it.” I was not sure I found exactly what was needed but still felt proud for having come at least close. “Here, let me write it down for you.” I scrambled around my desk looking for a piece of paper but before having found one my allemand counterpart interrupted the search party. “Oh, no thanks, I can memorize it.” I looked up at him a bit puzzled simply because I had not expected that answer. Then I remembered that he was an Economics graduate student. “Oh, that’s right, you’re a numbers guy.” He looked down at me in my chair and grinned, “Yes, but no need to feel inferior.” He turned around and shuffled back to his room where his twin awaited.
While he was somewhat joking, he was also somewhat serious. I sat and wondered about all those geeky guys out there, the ones that spent their adolescence indoors pushing on controllers and keypads and later grew up to be engineers and mathematicians.
I, myself, was no bully in school, everyone knows that these were the sort of kids that got picked on. But here and now, it was the computer nerd who launched the attack. It seems the rules have changed. If I don’t want to lose the war, I guess I better pick up a copy of The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Computer Basics.
Monique Jo Beerlidit
He did not make an explicit inquiry but it was clear what he wanted. “Oh, ya…just give me a second,” I said confidently as I started clicking around in network preferences. I maintained an eased yet concentrated face but I had no clue where to find the IP address. Up until a year ago, I had never even heard of an IP address. And if, today, someone asked me its true function and purpose in this world, I would mumble and toil around a clear answer until one was either given to me or wiki’d.
Eventually, I found a number that, to my eye, looked as though it could very well be an IP address. You know how they are… a series of nine numbers or so interrupted by a full stop here and there. “Think I got it.” I was not sure I found exactly what was needed but still felt proud for having come at least close. “Here, let me write it down for you.” I scrambled around my desk looking for a piece of paper but before having found one my allemand counterpart interrupted the search party. “Oh, no thanks, I can memorize it.” I looked up at him a bit puzzled simply because I had not expected that answer. Then I remembered that he was an Economics graduate student. “Oh, that’s right, you’re a numbers guy.” He looked down at me in my chair and grinned, “Yes, but no need to feel inferior.” He turned around and shuffled back to his room where his twin awaited.
While he was somewhat joking, he was also somewhat serious. I sat and wondered about all those geeky guys out there, the ones that spent their adolescence indoors pushing on controllers and keypads and later grew up to be engineers and mathematicians.
I, myself, was no bully in school, everyone knows that these were the sort of kids that got picked on. But here and now, it was the computer nerd who launched the attack. It seems the rules have changed. If I don’t want to lose the war, I guess I better pick up a copy of The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Computer Basics.
Monique Jo Beerlidit
Simple Things they say
Laugh, they say,
For times could far be worse.
Sure, the strings are tight,
The expectation high,
But little came of the serious joke.
Hum, they say,
For it is music that breeds accord.
Sure, the graft is hard,
The future bleak,
But little came of the soulless song.
Dance, they say,
For rhythm bridges difference.
Sure, the body aches,
The shoes do pinch,
But little came of the motionless waltz.
Eat, they say,
For food is fine.
Sure, the bread is dry,
The flavours dull,
But little came of the empty plate.
Do, they say,
For doing is what starts it all.
Sure, the sentiment gets repeated,
The action subsides,
But little came of the absent feat.
Anonymous
For times could far be worse.
Sure, the strings are tight,
The expectation high,
But little came of the serious joke.
Hum, they say,
For it is music that breeds accord.
Sure, the graft is hard,
The future bleak,
But little came of the soulless song.
Dance, they say,
For rhythm bridges difference.
Sure, the body aches,
The shoes do pinch,
But little came of the motionless waltz.
Eat, they say,
For food is fine.
Sure, the bread is dry,
The flavours dull,
But little came of the empty plate.
Do, they say,
For doing is what starts it all.
Sure, the sentiment gets repeated,
The action subsides,
But little came of the absent feat.
Anonymous
Genève
By Shane Markowitz
In the city entrenched at the crescent lake’s end
Found in her are marbles of grand delight
Rousseau’s natural man found its logic upon the city’s beauty
With her, eternal romantic charm lives on
While the mighty force of the Jet d’Eau may alert wonder
Her heart sprouts the jet of wisdom which inspires minds
Visitors experience the welcoming curving streets and flower-laden stairways of the old
Yet it remains no match for the reach of the new-found gentility found in her
Great Salève towers high above in defiance
Her eyes offer an eloquent view over all
And the flags of Nations give hope
She gives peace of spirit to all who come
The taste of warmed Gruyère on Lac Leman may impress
But true modesty is found in the search of sweet perfection here
The soul of Calvin rests on in St-Pierre’s darkened corridors
In the encompassing calm of a home that provides everlasting allure
In the city entrenched at the crescent lake’s end
Found in her are marbles of grand delight
Rousseau’s natural man found its logic upon the city’s beauty
With her, eternal romantic charm lives on
While the mighty force of the Jet d’Eau may alert wonder
Her heart sprouts the jet of wisdom which inspires minds
Visitors experience the welcoming curving streets and flower-laden stairways of the old
Yet it remains no match for the reach of the new-found gentility found in her
Great Salève towers high above in defiance
Her eyes offer an eloquent view over all
And the flags of Nations give hope
She gives peace of spirit to all who come
The taste of warmed Gruyère on Lac Leman may impress
But true modesty is found in the search of sweet perfection here
The soul of Calvin rests on in St-Pierre’s darkened corridors
In the encompassing calm of a home that provides everlasting allure
