Mari Mann's Blog, page 4

Blog Action Day

She Brings Me Water, my husband says, is my Native American name. Years ago, at the beginning of our relationship, I brought water to our first "dates"- we ate lunch together in one of our cars in the parking lot at school. I bring glasses of water to him while he's working outside, and keep bottles of water filled at the tap ready for trips to the store or to work. It would be easy for us to buy bottled water, but we don't. We are fortunate to have a well, we filter the water as it comes into the house (it has a lot of iron in it) and it is good as it comes from the tap. It's a little more work to refill empty glass bottles and then carry them around, but it is nothing compared to what others have to do around the world to acquire water. And in some places it's nearly impossible to get decent water to drink. Why water says:

"In Africa alone, people spend 40 billion hours every year just walking for water. Women and children usually bear the burden of water collection, walking miles to the nearest source, which is unprotected and likely to make them sick."

October 15th is Blog Action Day. From their website:

"Blog Action Day is an annual event held every October 15 that unites the world's bloggers in posting about the same issue on the same day with the aim of sparking a global discussion and driving collective action. This year's topic is water."

I don't know what it is like to have to walk miles to get my water. A few years ago, our well pump began failing and while it was being fixed, we had to get water from our neighbor's hose. We would put gallon jugs in my little red wagon, pull it over there, fill them up, and then pull the wagon back over to our house. This went on for maybe four days. It is hard for me to imagine having to do this, or having to go to even greater lengths, every day, year after year, for all my life.

There have been times, during our growing season, when there is not enough rain for our garden, but our well has always been able to supply water for it. I do not know what it is like to lose crops through lack of water. I do not know what it is like to lose crops through drought that may be the only food available for my family to eat. Therefore I do not know what it is like to lose family members because they starved, or to be hungry myself because there was no water to grow my food. I do not know what it is like to be thirsty and for there to not be good water for me to drink. Or any water at all.

I do know that I take for granted my easy access to water. We have always tried to be mindful of our water usage, and not be wasteful, but I know that the amount of water I use every day would be shocking to many who don't have the abundance I enjoy. There are many people around the world who do know what lack of water is like. I can't bring them water, despite my Native American name, but I can bring my awareness, and maybe the awareness of others, to this lack. And I can be more grateful and more thankful to She Who Brings Us Water, our Mother Earth and Father Sky. Namaste.

Come Make Some Art

Earlier this year, as a change from painting in acrylics and oils, I became interested in working in watercolor. I had a couple of "how to" watercolor books that I worked out of but also had a friend who had taken a workshop with a watercolor artist who does beautiful atmospheric works in a wet on wet style. This friend and I got together and she passed on some of what she'd learned to me. At about the same time another friend invited me to join her art group called stART which usually meets on Tuesdays in Pungo, VA. But this week we are meeting on Thursday, the 7th, at the Moonrise Bay Winery here on Knotts Island, from 2 pm to 5 pm. Do you have to be an artist to come? No. Do you have to be a craftsperson? No. Do you have to be someone who would like to spend time on beautiful Knotts Island for an afternoon, maybe hold a brush in your hand and create something of your own, while enjoying a glass or two or some lovely wines? Yes. And you know you want to be this person.

Knotts Island Lotus- a watercolor by me

International Literacy Day

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"September 8 was proclaimed International Literacy Day by UNESCO on November 17, 1965. It was first celebrated in 1966. Its aim is to highlight the importance of literacy to individuals, communities and societies. On International Literacy Day each year, UNESCO reminds the international community of the status of literacy and adult learning globally. Celebrations take place around the world.

Some 774 million adults lack minimum literacy skills; one in five adults is still not literate and two-thirds of them are women; 72.1 million children are out-of-school and many more attend irregularly or drop out."

http://www.unesco.org/en/literacy/

My Favorite Quote of All Time

"Work while you have light." Marcel Proust.

This is my favorite quote because it has meaning on so many levels. It can be interpreted on the material level as work while there is light because soon it will be dark, when the sun goes down, and then you can't see to work any more. Or on the physical plane as working in the light of being, as opposed to the darkness of death. Or perhaps on the level of, what shall it be called, the Muse level? Work while you are under the light of divine guidance, while the work flows through you as if from some outside source, while the Muse speaks, or the connection is strong. For when the connection breaks…

Marcel Proust Anniversary

Today, February 18, 2010, is the 3rd anniversary of this blog, so happy anniversary, blog!  Here is the first post I wrote for this blog:

"Early in the year of 2005, I began reading what I had heard was one of the greatest works of literature in the 20th century, In Search of Lost Time (previously translated as Remembrance of Things Past), by Marcel Proust.  My main impetus for reading it was that my husband, Rod and I had finally decided to take our long-desired trip to Paris in the spring of that year.  So being the reader that I am, I decided to prepare myself by reading French authors like Zola, Hugo, Colette and Voltaire.  And, of course, Proust.  Of the seven volumes comprising In Search of Lost Time , I had heard also that it was not an easy read and that many people who began the novel, never finished, for various reasons: the famously long and convoluted sentences, the pages of seemingly unrelated and trivial events, the sheer size of the work and the resulting concentration of mind and investment of time required.  But I was determined to read the entire novel and set myself the task of doing so, despite what I had heard.  But the task soon became a pleasure, and the more I read the more I wanted to read, until what began as an assignment to myself of reading Proust before going to Paris became a sincere appreciation of the work, a deep interest in the author, and a greater understanding of what made this work truly one of the greats of literature."

I'm on my second reading now of Proust and since that first reading I've read probably another 20 books or so on or by Proust, including Tadie's biography of him, Celeste Albaret's book about Proust, books that compiled letters of his, and Proust's earlier works. So my interest continues and so, I suppose, will this blog. Here's a photo of my boy taken by Nadar:

Marcel Proust, aspiring writer

A bien tot!

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Bonsoir, mon ami

Today, November 18th, is the anniversary of Marcel Proust's death in 1922.  If you will look in the column to the right of this post, you will see a badge that says "Nanowrimo participant".  Nanowrimo stands for National Novel Writing Month, and I have committed myself to the writing of a book.  Part of what I am writing includes a visit from Marcel Proust, who, as you can read below if you so choose, has just esconced himself in our guest bed and is preparing to tell me a story.  In honor of the anniversary of Marcel Proust's death, I offer this excerpt from my 50,ooo word not-so-magnum opus:

"Francoise now had Marcel propped up in the bed, with pillows and sweaters piled up behind him, and on either side of him, so that he could prop his elbows on them as he ate his croissant and drank his coffee, with the tray on a pillow on his lap.  Francoise stood at the foot of the bed, watching as Marcel finished his croissant and then going to fetch another as he requested.  While she was gone, he lay back on the pillows and closed his eyes.  He looked so much, at the moment, like the photograph taken by Man Ray after Proust had died, of him lying on his death bed with his sunken eyes closed and his nose sharp with skin stretched tight over it, that I was frozen in time, staring at the face I'd never seen in reality and yet- here it was.  He opened his eyes and caught me staring at him.  He smiled.  "Do not worry, Madame,  I will be restored soon.  And then I will begin the story". 

Man Ray's death photo of Marcel Proust

Two for the Price of One

You may already know that Marcel Proust is my favorite author.  Hence, this blog and my website, Madeleine Moments.  But do you know who my second favorite is?  I'll give you a hint: his pen name was Boz.  Need another hint? 

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times."

Yes, Charles Dickens.  The picture below is an 1873 set of Dickens' works (all but 2 or 3 volumes which we have since acquired) which I read, in order of Boz having written them, one after the other.  It took me just over one year.

Works of Charles Dickens

 So yesterday was my lucky day, because I had a Proust sighting and a Dickens sighting in the same sentence!  How's that for excitement??  You're overwhelmed, I can tell, as I was.  And it was in my favorite magazine- can you guess?  I won't make you guess- it's the New Yorker, the September 21st issue, to be exact, in Caleb Crain's article entitled "It Happened One Decade: What the Great Depression did to culture".

Here's the sentence:

"(Dickstein) praises Henry Roth's 'Call it Sleep' (1934) for its Dickensian polyphony of voices and Proustian sensibility."

Dickensian and Proustian.  Doesn't get any better than that. 

Bonus Proust sighting:

Peter Schjeldahl in the Sept. 21st issue of The New Yorker:

 "…the ailing writer Bergotte weighed the value of his life against that of a 'little patch of yellow wall, with a sloping roof' in Johannes Vermeer's "View of Delft"…"

 Schjeldahl goes on to say: "It happens to be erroneous.  There is no yellow wall under a sloping roof in Vermeer's cityscape. (There is a yellow sloping roof.)  Scholars have earnestly debated what Bergotte saw, failing to consider that, like the rest of us, Proust had a lousy memory."

For shame, Peter Schjeldahl.  Where is your Proustian sensibility?

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Post-Proustian Sighting

Every now and then I see Marcel Proust mentioned or referenced somewhere and I post them here as sightings.  Sometimes the connections are uncommon or a little hard to see, as in this naming of  an "antioxidant skin-care product" called Combray.  Maybe someone can get back to me on why a product made of grapeseed oil would be named Combray?

Anyhow, other sightings are much more common or, shall we say, the connections are easy to make.  These sightings usually involve madeleines, as in this post by my favorite ex-pat food blogger David Liebowitz.  Not only does he seem to be a great cook, he's a great read as well.  And he lives in Paris…sigh.  Here's the link: http://www.davidlebovitz.com/archives/2009/08/mad_about_the_madeleines.html

And here's a challenge: Go read David's post and find his Proust reference.  Then come back here and tell us about it in a comment.  Your prize will be a (used) copy of Paris Requiem by Lisa Appignanesi.   What's this book's connection with Proust? It takes place where and when Marcel lived and worked.  No, not Combray.  That's an antioxidant skin-care product.

To Live Once, Forever

"To create is to live twice.  The anxious groping search of a man like Proust, his meticulous collecting of flowers and tapestries and states of anguish has no other meaning."  Albert Camus

Marcel Proust was born on July 10, 1871, and so would be 138 years old on this, the anniversary of his birth.  Was his search an anxious groping one, as Camus says?  Was this the only meaning of Proust's search, to live twice?  Or to live once, forever?

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On the Day of Vincent van Gogh's birth

I know this blog is supposed to be about Marcel Proust, but March 30th is Vincent van Gogh's birthday (he was born in 1853) so this post is in honor of that event.

 

The Yellow House:
van Gogh, Gauguin,
and Nine Turbulent Weeks in Arles
By Martin Gayford

 

Knowing of my love for and reverence of Vincent van Gogh, my sister gave me this book: The Yellow House: van Gogh, Gauguin, and Nine Turbulent Weeks in Arles.  She said she "just happened to see it" at a bookstore, knew I'd like it, and got it.  It was a Christmas present, and was certainly an excellent present to receive.

It's a really well-researched and well-written book. The author seems to have read every letter, every newspaper and book, every piece of paper related to these two artists and the place, seen every painting and drawing and every actual place in and around Arles- and brings it all together in a coherent, compelling and moving account.  If it is possible to divine what someone was thinking at a certain time based on all the above, this author has done it. 

 Vincent van Gogh went to Arles, France because he felt it would give him the kind of light he needed for his paintings, the kind he thought he saw in Japanese prints, which were all the rage at this time.  He also wanted to establish an artist's colony there, and the first (and only) person he could persuade to move there with him (financed by Vincent's brother Theo, of course) was Paul Gauguin.  If there was a worse choice to be made, I can't think of one.  Their lifestyles were different, their painting styles were different, their values were different- what they had in common was that they painted.  And paint they did; van Gogh's output was astonishing, Gauguin's less so.  They also drank, visited whorehouses, took day trips, and, increasingly, got on each other's nerves.  At the end of the nine weeks, Vincent cut off all or part (reports differ) of his ear and presented it to his favorite prostitute. I blame Gauguin, who left town before Vincent even awoke from the dead faint he was in after the fit of madness.  But then, I'm biased.

 Great book.  Read it if at all possible, on this, the anniversary of Vincent's birth, or at any time.

I have another post for this event, here.