Lesley Truffle's Blog, page 7
April 25, 2022
The Addams Family House
‘They’re creepy and they’re kooky
Mysterious and spooky
They’re all together ooky
The Addams family
Their house is a museum
When people come to see ’em
They really are a scream
The Addams family…’
The Addams Family theme song
I was born in London but raised in Australia by English parents. The second house we lived in was referred to by my mother’s friends as ‘Little England’, while local kids called it ‘the Addams family house’.
I thought their insult gave our place cachet, as there were replays of the 60’s sitcom on TV and it was very funny. I’d only seen a couple of episodes as my TV viewing could only be done when visiting friend’s houses. My mother thought television was terribly ‘ suburban ‘ and quite unnecessary. Interestingly enough, once my parents divorced they both bought televisions.
Admittedly our house was a spooky when viewed from the front gates. And it seemed sinister because of all the tall pine trees that overshadowed the house. Our house wasn’t like the suburban brick houses lining the street. Its decorative half-timbered exterior, steeply pitched gable roof and over-scaled chimney made it an oddity.
It was rumoured the bachelor who’d built the house in the 1930’s had been a homesick Englishman. Apparently, he’d created a Tudor-style house on a small scale, with solid oak beams, leadlight windows, a large open fireplace, and quirky nooks. His pretensions to the Tudor’s grandeur were undermined by the small rooms.
This was a bit odd, given the size of the block of land which was large and could easily have sustained a bigger house. But it also meant that the front garden was big, with many mature trees and an enormous ghost gum leering over the front gates.
My mother spent a lot of time decorating each room with antiques and faux antiques. Each room had a colour theme. Visitors remarked the red dining room with its shining silver, champagne bottles and red glassware looked like Christmas.
She also gave free reign to her taste in heroes. Napoleon Bonaparte featured heavily fighting campaigns in brutal locations and lousy weather. I felt sorry for his horses who were always depicted falling down ravines or stumbling across snow-capped mountains.
Hanging above the telephone, just below the leering gargoyle lamp, was an etched print of Napoleon as a sullen faced baby.
When randy schoolboys were on the phone, unsuccessfully trying to chat me up, I’d catch Napoleon eyeballing me disapprovingly. He wasn’t the only one either. The gargoyle seemed to be smirking at the absurdity of it all. Whereas my mother didn’t give a damn.
Our house looked substantial but some of the woodwork wasn’t as solid as it looked. The hallway – which appeared to be panelled in solid oak – was comprised of flimsy wood that creaked when one of us kids was shoving the other against the panelling.
When my sister and I had been banished to the kitchen – so my parents could entertain the adults with fine cuisine and copious quantities of red wine – we ensured the guests got to hear the creaking panelling. Our subversive actions were guaranteed to make my mother lose her sophisticated English cool.
I remember deeply regretting I hadn’t been born into the Addams family. Their two children indulged in inappropriate and outrageous behaviour but they were loved by their parents and relatives. Lurch may have been surly but he really looked after and protected the Addams family kids.
And because the Addams family was so whacky it was their straight, dull neighbours who came off as being strange and dysfunctional.
Photograph: The Addams Family – Lurch the family butler, Gomez Addams who is madly in love with his elegant wife, Morticia Addams, Wednesday their daughter and Pugsley with his pet crocodile.
Anjelica Huston was wonderful as Morticia in the 1991 film ‘The Addams Family’
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April 22, 2022
There goes the neighbourhood
There goes the neighbourhood
I often cross the river and sneak back to my old neighbourhood. Fitzroy has become increasingly gentrified; old houses have been tizzied up and sold for exceedingly high prices. Subsequently most of the artists, writers, junkies, musicians, booze hounds, poets and reprobates I once knew have moved on.
Some of them moved up the coast to Byron Bay or disappeared overseas, whilst others disappeared into the regions. Leaving Fitzroy was the only option once rents skyrocketed and the old rental houses and gnarly old flats that had housed us all were gobbled up by property developers.
Other locals managed to stay in the neighbourhood. One of my friends lived directly opposite the old town hall. Its tower clock struck the hour loudly in the midnight hours. He was a poet and something of a womanizer. Between the striking clock and a former lover – who was prone to weeping on the street below – he didn’t get much sleep.
The saddest part about seeing an inner-city neighbourhood going upmarket is the destruction of magnificent old buildings. Due to the way our Heritage Laws work, this often means they end up being victims of facadism.
The guts of many 19th and 20th buildings are ripped out and all that remains is the outer façade. Contemporary buildings are then blended with the original façade, but the building’s heart and soul are long gone. Leaving nothing behind except a few earthbound ghosts.
It can be spooky walking down a city street late at night and realising that hidden behind the façade of what was once a classic nineteenth century commercial building sprawls a massive supermarket. And that the top floor and roof has been ripped off to provide an open-air carpark where nefarious activities occur after hours.
But here’s the thing folks. There are still some pubs built in the 1800’s that have retained their original purpose, grace and style. How? Because their publicans flatly refuse to give into gambling machines or renovation jobs that would suck the life out of their pub. The toilets and kitchen are often re-plumbed but the pub still looks essentially the same as it always has.
My favourite pub was established in 1866 during the city’s boom period. The hotel is directly opposite the magnificent Fitzroy Town Hall built in 1863. This pub is chockers with old memorabilia: faded football photographs, old Fitzroy football jumpers suspended from the roof and 50’s to 80’s kitsch piled up on the wonky shelves.
It’s been the same way for decades. And even though it’s been repainted a few times everything has been carefully put back as it was. I suspect the old footy jumpers have been washed as they look decidedly brighter. And tucked under the bar – where the wooden bar stools are all lined up – are little bronze hanging hooks for your bags and jackets.
I love all the old dark wood in the joint and the wooden tables and stools. The flooring creaks and sighs when you walk across the bare boards in your cowboy boots. And if the beer keg runs out, one of the bar tables has to be moved, so the barman can lift the trap door and go down to the worn cellar steps to change the kegs over.
Leadlight windows tinge the fading sunlight and the façade is unchanged. There’s a small tower over the corner of the building, decorated with a unique rose motif. Inside the pub the lighting is warm and low and it’s especially cosy in winter when the open fires are lit. But in summer the aircon operates at full bore and it’s a great place to retreat to après beach. You can sit in the front bar sipping an icy cold vodka sodas and listen to the Town Hall clock chime the hours.
What’s more, you know what the hell you are eating. The chicken parma doesn’t need to come with an artist’s statement. The food is lovely fresh produce, cooked with flair, style and utterly delicious. Delectable food that caters to punters who are familiar with culinary diversity.
Sunday roasts are listed on the blackboard menu next to vegan burgers and everyone is happy. The menu changes regularly but retains some old school bar favourites alongside more contemporary innovative cuisine.
Long live old school pubs!
photo collage: Fitzroy Town Hall by Lesley Truffle
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March 24, 2022
The Perils of Modern Life
I believe in censorship! If a picture of mine didn’t get an X-rating, I’d be insulted. Don’t forget dear. I invented censorship.
Mae West – actress, Hollywood legend and author of Sex (1926).
We live in strange times. 2022 has been marred by extreme climate catastrophes, the ongoing global pandemic and brutal ugly wars being inflicted on peaceful countries. And it’s still only February.
Small wonder many folk are seeking distraction by overindulging in mind altering drugs, alcohol, excessive carbohydrate fixes, virtual reality games, streamed television series and the time obliterating distraction of social media.
Those who never leave their sofa or their homes are no longer socially stigmatized. Hell, we all have those days.
However, other citizens leapt at the chance to overhaul their lives during pandemic lockdowns. Many dedicated themselves to prolonged walking, vigorous exercise and extreme sports providing both euphoria and distraction.
Barely a day passes without someone bragging on social media about how the pandemic forced them to better themselves. They mention increased focus on their mental health, improving their marriages, dealing with their body mass index, career changes and a sudden inexplicable urge to do some good in the world. I’m not mocking, merely noting.
Sometimes when I read the gloomy daily news I feel ashamed to be a human being. And during Melbourne’s prolonged shutdowns I experienced dog envy. I started to wish I was one of the canines I’d met while standing in line for takeout cafe coffee.
Most of the neighbour’s dogs have kind, caring and responsible owners. It’s been lovely watching them cavorting on the beach and they lifted my spirits.
Nothing seemed to dampen their doggy joy as they went about the serious business of simply being a dog. Sniffing, digging holes, leaping into the sea or retrieving anything tossed in their direction. Most – but not all – are living their best lives.
My favourite dog is a small fluffy mongrel who attempts to retrieve objects bigger than his head. He never gives up and is peachy keen on any planks of wood washed up on the beach.
I’ve been wondering how our ancestors coped with the stresses of living. Some things never change. The Victorian and Edwardian eras have acquired a reputation for being uptight and conservative. But titivation and erotica were just as popular then as now.
In 1903 Mrs Elinor Glyn published, Three Weeks. These days the novella is considered a bizarre but tame read, but back then it was the Edwardian version of Fifty Shades of Grey and sold about 2 million copies.
Cecil Beaton maintained she’d often been faced with the prospect of becoming a prostitute or making a living writing. She chose the pen and wrote forty books and several successful screen plays.
Mrs Glyn was eccentric, ladylike in appearance and devoted to plastic surgery. She scrubbed her face with cold water and a wire brush. Glyn also had her jaw surgically lifted forward and her teeth fixed in a forward position.
Elinor Glyn cultivated a sultry appearance – whitened skin, flaming red hair, kohl rimmed eyes and fur trimmed gowns. Despite the erotic tone of her writing, she swore love interested her much more than sex.
Three Weeks is about a passionate three week affair between a wickedly sophisticated woman with a dark past and an inexperienced younger man named Paul. Purple cushions and sumptuous Tiger rugs feature frequently. Usually with the heroine squirming around, playing guitar or posing languidly – thereby inciting her lover to fits of passion and despair.
When the lady tosses a scarlet rose to Paul he wants to strangle her with love – but instead he bites the rose. Hard. There’s many torrid passages in the novella. It comes as no surprise that Three Weeks inspired both satire and raunchy humour.
Glyn’s prose is gloriously over the top and unintentionally humorous. ‘She purred like a tiger while she undulated like a snake.’
Indeed.
Photo: Ajax and Cassandra by Solomon J. Solomon (1886). Art Gallery of Ballarat Australia.
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March 18, 2022
A Tale Of Lost Cities
I call architecture frozen music. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Even a brick wants to be something. Louis Kahn
Last night, I sat on the banks of the Yarra River which runs through the heart of Melbourne. The skyscrapers appeared as cubes of burning lights. And the Casino’s neon lights glittered on the dark waters. It provided a lovely brain clean after a grim week.
A racing shell glided past, powered by eight rowers. As the long oars dipped into the river, the coxswain barked out instructions. Perfect synchronization. Even when the crew disappeared into the darkness upriver, the coxswain’s voice drifted back to us.
Then the sound of Khol drums and cymbals drifted across the water. A small power boat emerged from under the bridge, loaded to the gills with Krishna devotees.
They were moving, jiving and waving their hands around with wild abandon. No synchronization required. The devotee’s loose orange clothing flashed in the dark. Obviously they were enjoying themselves immensely.
Due to the riotous rocking, the boat was in danger of capsizing. Fortunately it didn’t happen. The drums pounded, the devotees chants got louder and we folk on the river bank grinned fiendishly.
I liked everything about the scene. The only thing I wasn’t crazy about was Melbourne’s skyline. It has changed dramatically in the last two decades. Many of the tall buildings bear a marked resemblance to glass towers the world over.
I often drive through the heart of the city just before sunrise. As the first light hits the glass towers their faults are remorselessly revealed. Phallic, glossy, and boldly lavished with ostentatious gold and silver facings, they dwarf human limitations.
The only buildings I really like are a couple of large, retro-style buildings. Their elegance emphasises the dreariness of its neighbours. One fabulous building is neo gothic and its pointed turrets and elegant facade is eye catching, even in smog. The other marvellous building is a domed circular affair and harks back to America’s architecture of the 1920’s and 1930’s.
Fortunately other parts of the world have played it a whole lot smarter than our city. So many of Melbourne’s buildings dating from the 1800’s were demolished to make way for the glass towers.
But in old Europe, other cities chose to preserve their architectural history for future generations. Unlike Melbourne, historical buildings were not demolished quite so enthusiastically in the 1950’s –1970’s.
For centuries there were stringent height restrictions in London. Legend has it that when Queen Victoria gazed out her Buckingham palace window, she was incensed her view of Parliament was obscured by a block of flats in Westminster.
Nobody messed with the Queen’s view and legislation governing height restrictions was introduced in 1894. Subsequently for over 250 years, St Paul’s Cathedral was the tallest building in London.
Unfortunately architecture is changing this century in ways Queen Victoria could never have imagined.
Photograph by Lesley Truffle (above) – Labassa Mansion, Melbourne. The facade of Labassa was built in the fabulous French ‘Renaissance’ style of architecture.
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February 25, 2022
Messing About In Boats
Messing About In Boats
As the Water Rat in Wind in the Willows, advises the mole,
‘Believe me, my young friend, there is nothing – absolutely nothing – half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats.’
I messed around in boats when I learned to sail on a lake. It was comedic right from the start. We were a flotilla of twelve adult learners – crammed into six child-sized sailing boats. It’s difficult dodging a swinging boon when your knees are wedged up around your goddamn ears.
Choosing our sailing partners reminded me of primary school when the sports teams were chosen. We kids used to pray like mad that we’d be among the first to be picked by the designated captains. Those known to be crap at sport were the last to be picked, and none of us wanted to be publicly humiliated.
Subsequently at the boathouse, I was terribly pleased when a competent looking bloke – big shoulders, strong hands, trustworthy smile – boldly stepped up and asked if I’d like to partner up. Hell yes. He looked like he was built to wrangle sail boats. And frankly, I knew that I needed all the help I could get.
Up in the club house we’d all paid attention to the whiteboard and then practiced rigging the sails and mastering a few essentials. The more serious learners took notes. Then we’d stepped into the sailing dinghies and headed straight into a significant head wind. The dinghies promptly capsized and we all ended up in the drink.
Even before we capsized I’d noticed that – let’s call him Jim – was becoming extremely emotional at the prospect of getting wet. His eyes were unfocused and he seemed acutely distressed. Jim took control of the tiller and whipped it around, while barking out nonsensical instructions.
I decided it was best to concentrate on sorting the tangled jib. The boat was out of whack. Our comrades screamed and gestured as we narrowly avoided ramming their boats. It was chaos. At one point I briefly shut my eyes when we nearly wiped out the instructor’s boat.
When we capsized Jim cursed and clung to the hull like a drowning man. I swam over to his side and tried to coax him into relaxing a wee bit. Fortunately our instructor intervened and talked Jim down.
Back at the clubhouse Jim admitted to me that he hated all boats. He also dreaded pools, seas, lakes and oceans. And he didn’t know how to swim. I asked him why he’d decided to sail and he confessed that sailing was number one on his list of Primary Fears.
Death by drowning was Jim’s reoccurring nightmare and it haunted him. But he believed if he could conquer his fear, he’d be able to power on through the rest of his list with confidence.
I wanted Jim to succeed. So for the next couple of weeks as we recklessly sailed around the lake, I tried to distract him. We chatted about novels that were on his list of 100 Books I Must Read. He was big on Hemingway. And other hunting, sailing, fishing, bullfighting macho writers.
I only discovered the joy of sailing when Jim took a week off to regroup. I was paired with a guy whose sailing partner had flatly refused to participate in any more sailing.
Sailing with someone who was not paralysed with fear, meant that on the rare occasion we capsized we could quickly right the boat and laugh as we bucketed out the murky water. Nobody knew what lay at the bottom of the lake. There were rumours of sinister goings on involving criminals and dead folk. It lent a certain thrill to the occasion when the boat capsized in the shallower regions of the lake.
After I’d successfully completed the sailing course, I joined the local yacht club. But somehow I’d lost my enthusiasm to crew competitively in yacht races.
I do like the big boats though – especially those that have a well-stocked bar. It’s splendid being ensconced on the captain’s deck at twilight, with a glass of premium champagne in hand.
The Water Rat was right – messing about with boats is fun.
Image: photo of Port Phillip Bay by Les Truffle
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February 15, 2022
Love is the Drug
Love is the Drug
… Love is the drug and I need to score
Showing out, showing out, hit and run
Boy meets girl where the beat goes on
Stitched up tight, can’t shake free
Love is the drug, got a hook on me …
Love is the Drug by Roxy Music.
The Romantics in the mid 1800’s popularized the idea every one of us has a soulmate waiting in the wings for us. And when we find our soulmate, our loneliness is over because we move into in a coupled world. Another romantic ideal is that real love is instant, euphoric and will last until death do us part.
Saint Valentine’s Day on February 14 is all about Romantic ideals. The celebration was named after a third century saint. Saint Valentine is the patron saint of lovers, epileptics and beekeepers. Therefore he’s responsible not only for the sweetness of honey but the protection of beekeepers. Given his extensive portfolio, he’s probably one of the busier saints.
In recent years Saint Valentine’s Day has grown to include more than just coupled up folk. So we now have Mothers and Daughters and close friends celebrating the day. However, it is romantic couples who continue to monopolize social media attention.
Last night on the beach, a bloke had set up a surprise for his ladylove. Glittering in the dusk was a white light display. It was over four square metres and wired in a heart shape. And the lettering – which could be read from about half a block away – read ‘MARRY ME’.
The couple’s friends were dressed up and in attendance, along with a job lot of bemused passer-by’s and their curious dogs. Fortunately the outcome was a good one.
The bride-to-be seemed chuffed at the idea of matrimonial bliss. She was striking Instagramable poses in front of the electric heart while her female friends madly snapped away with their phone cameras. There was a lot of excitement and squealing going down which kept the dogs entertained.
The bridegroom’s male friends seemed to be standing around, not quite sure what to do. They glanced around in a wary fashion. Maybe they were wishing they could get their paws on some celebratory champagne? Unfortunately it was a dry area prohibiting alcohol consumption.
The groom-to-be appeared to be a little more subdued than his beloved. He looked – well frankly, he looked rather pleased but also immensely relieved. Who could blame him? For what if his romantic, movie-style proposal had not succeeded? It’s the stuff of nightmares.
However, given the successful outcome, it’s quite likely that the loved-up couple will remember the night in stark detail. I read that scientists believe romantic love activates some of the same brain regions as ecstasy and cocaine (Julie Shaw Scientific American Feb 9 2016.)
Apparently, one particular culprit of the feel-good effects of love is the neurotransmitter dopamine. Being love-drunk creates more dopamine, and more dopamine generally means better memory. So memories of experiencing romantic love tend to be retained – for a very long time.
Image: detail from photo by Jon Tyson (Unsplash).
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January 26, 2022
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes
‘I overheard Dorothy tell Major Falcon that she liked to become intoxicated once in a dirty while.’
Lorelei Lee
from Anita Loos novella, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.
One of my favourite books is a hardcover 1926, tenth edition of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. So popular was Anita Loos’ novella that it ran to over 80 editions and was translated into fourteen languages – including Chinese.
On my copy it has a subtitle, ‘The Illuminating Diary of a Professional Lady ’. Its been ‘intimately illustrated ’ by Ralph Barton. Barton’s line-drawn illustrations are marvellous; witty, insightful and mocking.
Anita Loos began her novella Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, after observing a female passenger on a train trip from LA to New York. A vacuous blonde actress was effortlessly hogging all the male attention, including that of the handsome actor Douglas Fairbanks. Loos idly wondered if it was because, ‘She was a natural blonde and I was a brunette.’
While still on the train, Loos whipped out her notepad and got to work, creating the blonde character, Lorelei Lee from Little Rock Arkansas. After the riotous success of Loos’ book, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes became a popular musical comedy Broadway show in 1949.
Later it morphed into a film with Marilyn Monroe as Lorelei in 1953. Monroe already possessed the acting skills to invest her latest character with immense wit and naivety while subtly giving out hints that she was one hell of a clever dame.
In the original novella Lorelei isn’t a showgirl – as depicted by Marilyn Monroe – instead Lorelei is a professional gold-digger, hustler and quite possibly a classy prostitute.
She’s a gorgeous, vivacious young platinum blonde who actively seeks out rich gentlemen to fund her fabulous, transatlantic lifestyle. The scenes on the ship were filmed on an old Titanic set but the ocean liner they’re on is supposedly the SS lle de France.
In Anita Loos novella, what makes Lorelei so damned seductive is that she’s a hell of a lot smarter than she pretends to be. Lorelei’s wry observations are sharp and observant but never cruel. She tries to look on the bright side of life. However, she’s wise to the potential for rape, murder, seduction and whoring in the jazz age world she inhabits.
The 1953 film with Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell – made in spanking new Technicolour and directed by the infamous Howard Hawks – is set in a later era. Monroe and Russell are showgirls on the make. The darkness that was hinted at in Anita Loos’ book has mostly been sanitized. Monroe’s breathy-voiced Lorelei and exquisite comic timing keeps the audience emotionally engaged. Why shouldn’t the witty, blonde showgirl genuinely care for a filthy rich but very kind-hearted geek?
While Russell’s character (Dorothy Shaw) is athletic, bold and attracted to handsome, penniless, clever men, Monroe plays Lorelei as breathy, seductive and somewhat empty-headed. But Lorelei’s actions demonstrate she knows exactly what she’s doing – she intends to bag herself a very rich man.
The comedic scenes when Dorothy and Lorelei meet the men’s US Olympic team are delicious. All that male sexuality and muscle affects Dorothy deeply, much to Lorelei’s disgust. She believes that because the athletes are not financially loaded, they’re not worthy of Dorothy’s attention.
Even the very serious avant-garde German film director, Rainer Werner Fassbinder loved Gentlemen Prefer Blondes and declared it one of the ten best films ever made.
Illustration above: from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes novella by Anita Loos. ‘Intimately illustrated‘ by Ralph Barton. 10th edition1926, Brentano’s Ltd London Publishers.
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January 25, 2022
The Heart and Soul of Paris
The Heart and Soul of Paris
Notre-Dame Cathedral is widely perceived to be the heart and soul of Paris. The first time I visited Notre-Dame on the Île de la Cité, it was wasn’t just the cathedral’s sublime beauty that captivated me. It was the fabulous French Gothic architecture, accentuated by the most extraordinary gargoyles.
Also known as Our Lady of Paris, the cathedral has been a source of inspiration, controversy and mystery ever since the first stone was laid in 1163. The initial construction was completed in 1345 but the famous Notre-Dame gargoyles were not installed until 1831.
Gargoyles were a big part of my childhood. My English mother purchased several gargoyle reproductions in Paris on her honeymoon. Gargoyles loomed at us from the bookshelves and a larger gargoyle – gnawing on what appeared to be a human shin bone – dangled a mellow light over the open fireplace. It was their bulging eyes that killed me. Especially when the fire was crackling, incense burning and the room lit with only the gargoyle lamp.
As a child I thought one of the most exciting places you could possibly visit was Hell. I also suspected the gargoyles knew my deepest secret fears. Sadly, my mother’s gargoyles were later stolen from her home along with other mementos, valuables & antiques. Perhaps the gargoyles will exert their strange mystique over the thief who stole them?
Gargoyles can appear frightening because they’re monsters, wild beasts and fantastical creatures. The myth is that gargoyles keep evil forces and demons away from a church and protect its sanctity.
Paris is widely believed to be a place of great beauty. The City of Light is venerated for its sublime cuisine, splendid museums, galleries, architecture and chic fashion. But Paris also has many dark secrets that are not so willingly revealed.
Shortly before Paris was liberated by the Allies in August 1944, Adolf Hitler ordered the total destruction of the City of Light. It’s claimed the German army placed explosives in readiness under bridges and around famous monuments such as the Eiffel Tower.
Hitler is believed to have sent several angry dispatches from Berlin demanding – ‘Is Paris burning?’
The last Nazi commander of Paris, General Dietrich von Choltitz, claimed he disobeyed Hitler’s orders and saved Paris from destruction. However, several French historians have discredited him. They insist it was the French Resistance and the Allies who saved Paris.
The controversy has never been resolved. The Nazi commander’s son told The Telegraph, ‘If he saved only Notre Dame, that would be enough reason for the French to be grateful.‘
I’ve been rereading Hal Vaughan’s non-fiction book, Sleeping with the Enemy. Coco Chanel’s role as a Nazi Agent is fully examined. It’s an unsettling, well researched book which challenges the myths immortalizing Chanel as a heroine of France during WWII.
Anne Sebba’s fascinating book Les Parisiennes details the Parisian lives of women during WWII. Sebba researched the lives of many women – not just traitors & collaborators such as Chanel – but also the writers, professionals, sex workers, teachers, actresses and resisters.
The surprising popularity of Netflix’s, Emily in Paris – an American comedy-drama – speaks volumes as to how television moguls, scriptwriters and directors perceive Paris. Many French critics loathe the series, on the grounds it stereotypes the French and is heavy on cliches and false assumptions.
I guess at least it was actually filmed in Paris – which hasn’t always been the case with many movies set in Paris. For decades movies set in Paris were filmed on sound stages. The classic movie, An American in Paris (1951) was filmed at MGM on about forty-four sets. In California.
But as Humphrey Bogart murmured in Casablanca. ‘We shall always have Paris’. And it seems we shall also have Notre-Dame Cathedral.
Following the devastating fire at Notre-Dame in 2019, French President Emmanuel Macron stated, ‘Like all our compatriots, I am sad this evening to see this part of us burning.‘
After numerous setbacks and pandemic complications, the cathedral is being painstakingly restored to its former magnificence. It’s an incredibly expensive business. And many wealthy folk – who’d initially pledged donations – have reneged.
To help cover the cost, we can now make a modest general donation or perhaps choose to ‘adopt’ a Notre-Dame artifact/art piece to help pay for its restoration. Fortunately, the gargoyles are also up for adoption. I think it’s a great idea.
Image above: detail from Victor Hugo’s, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, illustration by Luc-Olivier Merson 1881. The laconic gargoyles appear to be observing the male figure desperately clinging to the building.
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December 13, 2021
The Festive Season
The Festive Season
‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds;
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads …’
A Visit from St. Nicholas by Clement C. Moore 1823
Charles Dickens has often been blamed for inventing the festive Christmas season with the riotously successful publication of his book, A Christmas Carol.
Published in December 1843, the novella is essentially a ghost story. A Christmas Carol popularizes the joy of Christmas gatherings, public dancing and the festive consumption of food and drink.
But most importantly the key message is about kindness and generosity of spirit. By depicting the cold-hearted Ebenezer Scrooge – a rich, selfish miser who hates Christmas – Dickens raises the idea that wealthy folk should share their largesse and treat the poor with sympathy.
However, our present day Christmas traditions actually derive from ancient cultures. Originally created by our ancestors, the same rituals manifest across the Western World every December.
In the past these traditions were mysterious and sacred rites. They were backed by superstition, belief in magic and the desire to protect communities from fear of the unknown.
Celtic and Roman myths feature heavily in the way we decorate our homes at Christmas. We also shamelessly overeat, suck down vast quantities of Christmas cheer and indulge in decidedly bizarre behaviour.
However it’s not all carol singing and tinsel. The police are inevitably busier during what is quaintly termed the Festive Season. It has been noted by crime researchers that around Christmas and New Year there’s an increase in car thefts, aggravated burglaries, home invasions, robberies, serious assaults and knife crimes.
Why? It’s believed crime statistics rise because of the financial strain of Christmas gift buying and the additional stress incurred by relatives spending more time together. There’s also a marked increase in alcohol and drug abuse.
On a lighter note, Christmas as we know it started out as the ancient Roman holiday of Saturnalia. It was a pagan festival, celebrated 17–25 December. Eventually it morphed into Christmas (literally meaning Christ’s Mass) as Christians sought to usurp pagan holidays and traditions.
The Celtic year was divided into a dark half and a light half. The first of November marked the dark half. Around this time a gap in time opened and Druids believed they could travel to other times and places.
Ancient Irish and Celtic traditions are still around. In pre-Christian times holly and ivy wreaths were fixed to front doors to keep away vindictive evil spirits. Leaving a burning candle in a window was an ancient ritual to allow the spirits to pass on by peacefully.
In many Irish homes the burning of a yule log on Christmas morning happens even during the mildest winter weather. Back in pre-Christian times, Yul was a Pagan rite to honour the Mother Goddess and celebrate Winter Solstice.
It was believed that the sun stood still for twelve days in mid-winter and the lighting of logs banished the darkness along with any evil spirits.
The hanging mistletoe – that you avoid when you don’t fancy kissing disreputable acquaintances and relatives – had its origins in Celtic Druid traditions. Mistletoe was an earthly manifestation of the Thunder God (Taranus/Taranis).
Apparently Druids believed that oak trees were sacred and the mistletoe that grew on the oaks had medicinal properties and was exceptionally powerful when used in spells.
Mistletoe was also venerated as a symbol of renewal and male fertility. It was thought to be a powerful plant as it could blossom during freezing cold winters.
In the eighteenth century when mistletoe was hung overhead, gentlemen acquired the right to kiss any girl who was foolish enough to loiter under it. Since then mistletoe has gone on to become the bane of office Christmas parties and knees-ups everywhere.
Joyeux Noël! – Merry Christmas to you all!
Illustration: The Mistletoe or Christmas Gambols 1796 (Lewis Walpole Library)
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December 5, 2021
Deck the Halls
‘The worst gift is a fruitcake. There is only one fruitcake in the entire world, and people keep sending it to each other.’
The late Johnny Carson, comedian & former host of The Tonight Show.
My Christmas tree has landed and my apartment is now filled with the wonderful smell of fresh pine. It was delivered a day early and had to be wrestled up three flights of stairs. I assured the caretaker that the shedding of pine needles would be minimal. Oh la la!
I decided to see 2021 off the premises with an excess of gold lamé ribbons and cheeky red baubles. I really had to reign myself in with the glistening red balls as I want the tree to retain its natural mystique and shape.
The tree is about eight feet tall and I named him Elvis. Apparently the King developed a passion for gold lamé suits in 1957. He also perfected his iconic sneer around that time.
The tree is a heavy drinker and I top up the water in his bucket regularly. In order to do so I have to lie on my stomach, wriggle under the branches and ensure the water makes it into the bucket. This morning I missed the mark and got drenched. No matter it’s summertime.
At night when Elvis is lit up he becomes positively psychedelic. He towers over my petite 60’s bar. Instead of editing my latest manuscript, I’m busily devising canapes and Xmas cocktails to serve friends. Such fun. My neighbour in the apartment opposite, declared that the smell of my Christmas tree lingering in the stairwell made her happy.
Historians believe our Christmas trees might be a close relative of the Medieval Trees of Paradise that appeared in Western Europe around late December in mystery/miracle plays.
The Paradise Tree was a theatrical prop symbolizing the two trees in the Garden of Eden: the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil and the Tree of Life. Red apples were hung on the branches of evergreen trees and a circle of candles lit the trees for the telling of Adam & Eve’s tale.
Christmas tree traditions also go way back to pagan Irish celebrations. Decorations were handmade, usually of the sun, moon and stars. They were hung on the tree along with decorative symbols representing souls who’d left the earth.
In the sixteenth century, Martin Luther was better known for nailing 95 theses to a Wittenberg church door and initiating the reformation. But he also came up with the idea of adding candlelight to a tree.
Legend has it that one cold winters eve, as Luther tramped through the snow, he was wonder struck by the stars brilliantly lighting up the evergreen trees. He promptly chopped down a pine tree and decorated it with burning candles so his children could experience what he’d seen.
Image: Eve giving Adam the forbidden fruit, by Lucas Cranach the Elder, 1533.
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