Plums in the Icebox

I first came across this poem by William Carlos Williams while listening to an episode of This American Life. The short, simple form and the way it immediately creates a plausible situation struck me, as well as the fact (pointed out in the episode) that the plum thief doesn't actually apologize and instead only says "forgive me."

This is Just to Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast.

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold.

The reason I post it here is because of a witty little cartoon response I stumbled upon online:

Praha!

If cities could be lovers, my romantic life would be as follows:

I would have my first puppy love crush on San Francisco, the boy next door, an ever-lasting infatuation and mutual attraction with Zürich, brief fling with Phoenix due to his impeccable knowledge of indie music, believe my soulmate to be Portland though I'd be tempted to stray with Seattle, have an intense romance with Munich but eventually leave for someone with more similar interests, consider moving in with Berlin and eternally wish that I could have Amsterdam. I would admire Barcelona and and fool myself into thinking that we could be something serious, go weak in the knees for London but be turned off by his hoity-toity sense of class status and wealth, have a fleeting thing for Venice and a two-month adventure with Vienna, and be highly intrigued by the mysterious Prague and realize that our taste in food and art (the most crucial elements) matched perfectly. I would also have an unhealthy obsession with both Copenhagen and Stockholm...

Gendering the cities was a bit odd and proved heteronormative, I must say. But it was a fun exercise nonetheless.

Oh yes, so Prague. Kundera and Kafka's city, Prague Spring, Velvet Revolution, Cubist interior design... It was glorious, of course, and I am so very glad to have been there. Prepare yourself for an overly-detailed commentary.

My favorite aspect was the Kampa Museum, a gorgeous art museum that proudly displays this quote from its creator Jan Mládek on the entrance wall: "If a culture survives, then so too does the nation." I will attempt to describe the atmosphere created within this building so as to give you a slight hint to the sensation it aroused. Imagine a large white cubic structure next to the river, appearing to levitate above the water. To the right, on a pier on the water, is a diagonal row of life-size plastic yellow penguins. Behind them is an enormous stone chair with one apparently broken leg. On land, giant iron babies with stamped barcode faces remain in a frozen crawl position and are occasionally photographed or climbed on by visitors. In the courtyard just before the museum there are three long, waist-height tetrahedrons with mirror surfaces.


When you finally make it past the ecclectic collection of public art and into the museum, you are immediately confronted by the first works. There is no foyer or unecessary extra space dividing you from the art. As you take it all in, you realize that you still must purchase a ticket (student price = 140 Czech crowns, 5,20 Euro, ~ $7.20) and buy one from the remarkably friendly - and rather adorable - young museum employee. The first room takes a fair amount of time to get through, small though it is, because of the amount of artwork in the space. In no way does it feel cramped, though, and the various styles are not in conflict with one another. A helpful factor may be the tall rectangular windows looking out to the river and the clean white walls. There is so much light in the room but it still feels intimate enough for you to have a quiet dialogue with the art.

In the adjacent room, two highly minimalist pieces lay on the floor. One was a large flat basin of nearly black water which reflected the innovative, interesting ceiling. Every once in a while, when someone upstairs walked a tad more vigorously than usualy, a small ripple would form in the basin. The second piece consisted of two opaque slates of glass sandwiching tubes of light. As I circled it, the light appeared to follow my warmth and movement, although this was surely just an illusion. After two minutes, the light disappeared, leaving me somewhat empty and unfulfilled. On an interesting side note, the curator's chair seemed to have equal significance in this room.


The stairwell was impressive in its own right, the walls covered, but not in an overwhelming way, with assorted two- and three-dimensional paintings. Hanging from the ceiling, in the middle of the spiraling stairs, was a sculpture that looked like a white DNA chandelier or those toy sticks that you connect together to make weird contraptions. I really liked the cubist works upstairs, namely one made up of miniscule wooden blocks, varying in height and resembling a blank crossword puzzle or scrabble board. Also interesting were four panels exploring shape development which to me looked unmistakably like a man devouring a sword and turning into a goat. I suppose with that comment I discredited the artist's original intent. It's what the viewer sees/reader reads that matters, right? Uff postmodernism. I apologize.


I fell head-over-heels for František Kupka's small abstract watercolors. Study for Animated Lines, Studies for Around a Point, Four Studies for a Tale of Pistils and Stamens, and Study for Lines, Planes, Depth were my favorites and reminded me of Frank Stella, but with a pointilist/impressionist twist. Otto Gutfreund's Cellist sculpture embodied all that is powerful, sensual and bold in a single sculpture... not to hype it up, but seriously.

Though I could go on longer about the artwork, I think this is sufficient and perhaps over-the-top already. One quick note though, is that I got to see the Cobra exhibit that I had wanted to check out in Amsterdam. It was a bit unimpressive, honestly, and the most I got out of it was this quote from one of the founding members on the wall: "We must turn everyone into artists! Because that is what they are. They just don't know it."

I suppose that a description of Prague is also in order, though, seeing as I also explored the city and not just a single museum there. While there, the friend I was traveling with, Andee, and I frequented Globe Café not once, but thrice. This English-language bookstore and café was, no joke, right across from our hostel (P.S. I recommend Chili Hostel, though I have heard good things about Sir Toby's as well). Aside from the Kampa Museum, we also visited the Franz Kafka Museum, which is remarkably cheap for students and can be very interesting if you speak German as well as English (or Czech) and are a fan of Kafka's works. For me, it wasn't terribly thrilling and naturally a bit of a downer after Kampa, but it was still worth the visit. The infamous and controversial Piss sculpture in front is required viewing, too.

Globe Café

We went to Havelská Market, where I bought wooden earrings and a delicate handmade wooden magnet for my aunt, saw the Hanging Out sculpture, napped, sunbathed and read in Vojan Park, saw the Spanish Synagogue, the Old Jewish Cemetary, trekked up to Prague Castle and saw numerous buildings, churches and boutiques. Astronomical Clock, the Dancing House, etc. You get the gist of it. Hey did you know Tycho Brahe, the astronomer who lost the tip of his nose in a duel (one of the few facts I remember from astronomy) had a pet moose? Apparently the poor creature died from drinking too much beer and falling down the stairs. Whaaaat?


Recommended eateries are definitely Bar Bar, Lemon Leaf, any of the vegetarian restaurants around and of course, Globe Café. Just as satisfying, however, is grabbing a sandwhich or bread, fruit and cheese and picnicking in a park or along the river. Prague has a great selection of cafés and bars and a satisfactory amount of street art. The focus seemed to be more on graffiti, however, which I was interested in but not as thrilled by. OH! So another most beloved Prague sight of mine was the Lennon Wall. I experienced surges of glee at seeing such a grand-scale and ever in flux wall open to public art. I left a contribution, naturally.

This post is absurdly long yet was still hugely satisfying to write. Hope you get something out of it (e.g. an extreme desire to see Prague).

Street Art

Amsterdam, Berlin, Barcelona: these are the cities renowned or reviled, depending on one's perspective, for their street art. They are graphic, uncompromising und situated safely within stable European countries, therefore they can afford to take such risks. Munich does not make the cut because its street art, when existent, is not remarkable. Or, to put it more diplomatically, the rare good works are few and far between due to a lower percentage of active artists and an over-eager clean-up crew.

Munich is known for its elegant, classic buildings and sprawling parks, not for it's dinginess or counterculture scene. Former East Germany has more opportunities for larger public design ventures, as the old bureaucratic buildings, abandoned factories and ramshackle apartments can be used as a canvas. This public display area cannot be found in cities like Munich or Venice, where the focus is almost always placed on architecture, church steeples and the old masters' works in museums.

Tragically, this means that Munich's streets are not a constantly fluctating gallery but rather a near-sterile embodiment and reminder of propriety as well as the city's wealth and conservative roots. For me, street art is just as viable a form of expression as sculpture, textile work, photography, portraiture and landscapes on canvas or found art (any comment about the last one?). Its ties to the clandestine graffiti culture of the past make it more adrenaline-fueled and novel. All that is good and worthwhile should be a touch on the dangerous side, right?

Photos from my time in Amsterdam

My bias on this issue lies in the fact that I am highly drawn to alternative culture in all forms. When traveling, my goals are as follows: visit modern art museums, explore the pathways, parks and buildings, take in the café, bike and street art culture, and lastly but still of utmost importance, to enjoy the food. I seek out cities like Copenhagen or London, where I know these aspects are present and thriving. I have participated, in my own small way, in the propagation of street art. This was, however, a transient and temporary experience, thus I wasn't terribly unhappy when the piece was painted over with a drab grey the next day. The point was that in the twelve hours that my work existed, people noticed and commented on it (as I was to later find out). Even during the creation process in the middle of the night, people stopped to quietly observe and sometimes pose questions.

Me with my ephemeral but enjoyable mandala mural, Fall 2006.

Street art is about pushing the boundaries of what we label as art, just as Duchamp did with his "Fountain" or Monet with his then-scorned painting "Sunrise" which served to spark the impressionist movement. The intent of this particular form is to make us, a happenstance audience of pedestrians, bikers and those who make use of side streets, to pause, observe, ponder and reevaluate our daily environment via its direct impact on our lives. A wall is more than just a wall when it is used as a surface for something great.

Street art is a noteworthy and culturally signifcant movement that inspires those who are interested and disgusts those who are not. A phenomenon that attracts a select demographic while enduring the ridicule of another signals that it effectively triggers an emotional response, a key element behind what seems to be its absolute staying power.