Art

Every so often, my flatmate and I decide that we will do something culturally improving. I mean, it's great to go out and drink beer and go dancing at Piękny Pies and watch downloads of 'How I Met Your Mother' for five hours straight, but occasionally - just occasionally - we feel that it might be a good idea to do something that is actually going to broaden our horizons, nurture our inner selves, expand our minds. Something wholesome, something Good For Us, something arty.

Unfortunately, our good intentions don't always translate into reality.

For example, in June we went to a panel discussion, with a couple of friends, on the opening of a new exhibit in Bunkier Sztuki.

After approximately thirteen minutes, all five of us - very discreetly - got up, politely shuffled our sheepish way out of the row and legged it up the stairs as soon as we were out of sight of the panel.

Then there was the book signing in Empik. Our intentions were so good: we arranged to meet inside after work at 5pm (if you actually meet inside Empik, instead of in front, the world changes in a subtle yet significant way. I have yet to write a post about meeting people outside Empik. This is negligence on my part).

Unfortunately my flatmate had to work late on a project, and I got an urgent job, so we never got there.

Once we even nearly made it to Teatr Bagatela! Having decided that our Polish was just about good enough to understand drama (although after watching Trans-Atlantyk I very quickly changed my mind), we decided to go and watch a play.
Teatr Bagatela is the theatre of the absurd in Kraków (it's also another place people meet in front of, but that's not important right now). This means - best-case scenario - visual comedy that even we can understand and - worst-case scenario - satire, ironic Polish in-jokes and utter incomprehensibility. We asked some Polish friends to come with us and looked up tickets but unfortunately there were none on the day we wanted. Then my flatmate went on holiday and I had a school trip and it simply never happened.

So when I heard about the live drawing show yesterday I was slightly sceptical about our ability to actually get there.

And yet...

Somehow at 7pm we were sitting in the cool of the gallery, facing a huge sheet of brown paper parcel-taped to the wall, waiting for the performance to start.

The artist - who is French but of Polish family - introduced himself briefly and then sat on a chair at one end of the 'canvas', looking at his feet in silence. We waited. He began to whistle a few bars of Chopin* and then - still whistling - got up and sketched a huge crescent moon in charcoal and chalk. Underneath the moon, the towers of Wawel quickly emerged, chalk moonlight glinting off the charcoal spires.

So the story began in Kraków...

He sketched the whole fairytale for us, acting through the drawing: sometimes drawing over an old episode, sometimes tearing off something to replace it somewhere else, occasionally whistling a clue (like the Marseillaise, for a French character).

And it was fun! Slightly confusing in parts, but then afterwards the artist was there so you could ask him to explain it. We were charmed. Apart from the magic of watching the picture appear on the paper before our eyes, this art was not something to stand in fear of and to be afraid to admit not understanding. It was clear, the clues were there to follow, you could watch the technique and best of all you could actually ask questions.

It turns out there's another pictorial storytelling session next Friday, so if you're interested I'd highly recommend it - Dietla 11, 7pm, at Otwarta Pracownia.

We might even go again...




*Nocturne in E-flat major.

Noc Teatrów

You rotten lot! Why didn't anyone tell me last night was Noc Teatrów? What, I have to find these things out for myself now?? Whaddya think I am, flippin' Cracow Life?!

Luckily, yesterday afternoon I went for coffee with a friend, who then invited me to a cabaret in the evening.

- So, hang on, the cabaret's in English?

So it turned out.

- How much is it?
- It's free: some theatre night festival or something.

Distinct 'ping' of a penny suddenly dropping.

I've never made it to Noc Teatrów before: last year I wasn't in Kraków, and the year before... I have no idea where I was. In any case, it's slightly more complicated than the better-known Noc Museów: you usually have to ring up and reserve in advance (Polish link here), which is less foreigner-friendly, and - as I just found out after a quick flick through Google - it's not very well publicised in English.

So I was really pleased to finally have the chance to experience it first hand.

We got tickets, through a friend of a friend who knew someone in the troupe, to the English cabaret in Cafe Moliere on Szewska. You know my policy on linguistic immersion and on avoiding the English language like that acquaintance you forgot to send a Christmas card to but we were with other anglophones and it was fun, so why not?

The cabaret was actually excellent: emphasis was put on presenting stereotypical Polish traditions through audience participation, which began with a round of (admittedly not full-strength) shots of something and evolved into a big congo-style Polonaise, via competitive singing (with the audience divided into Nowaks and Kowalskis* - I did say stereotypical) and dressing-up of one very good sport as a Szlachta noble.

It was very different from my first Polish cabaret experience, about a year and a half ago in Loch Camelot.
The Camelot cabaret involved a lot more actors, a pianist, and a series of very clever and apparently hilarious songs.

A well-meaning Polish friend invited me to help me become acquainted with Polish culture. Having been in Poland for only six months, I managed to catch the odd word here and there.

My friend was having a whale of a time.

- Oh this is very funny, you know what, it's an in-joke because there's this writer... hang on, they're starting again, I'll explain it to you at the next break... (undisguised mirth).

I was left in the dark.

I'd like to go back and try again, now that I feel I've learnt a bit more of the language: maybe I'd understand a bit more this time. And if not... Camelot has an excellent selection of drinki to help with my cultural experience.



* Grammar corner: uh... Kowalscy and umm... Nowakowie??

Kryzys tożsamości

One field trip to the eastern depths of Malopolska* and some new acquaintances later and I've decided to take a more philosophical attitude to the whole Polish learning process. After all, what does being good at something mean? It means being useful to other people. And life's too short to be useful. Somebody pass me a cold beer.

Talking of not being useful, I have been attending a literature course.

I started attending the extra classes because translators and interpreters should always be aware of the intricate cultural references underlying any text and/or speech as well as reading the news in four different languages Every Day even the bits that aren't really interesting... oh all right, I needed extra credits to get my diploma, and I quite like reading.

The course is called 'Historia literatury polskiej XX wieku', and the entire thing is in Polish. Our lecturer is small and voluble and given to twisting out direct, challenging questions with an ironic smile. I suspect he despises us for hurling ourselves against the unforgiving edifice of the Polish literary opus. Or he pities us for our naive belief that we will ever penetrate Polish culture.

On the other hand, there are a lot of pretty Hungarian girls in the class so maybe he's just in it for the banter.

In any case, this semester has been a traumatic struggle through the twentieth century, starting with war poetry, the Warsaw Uprising, moving on through the Holocaust via Tadeusz Borowski's Proszę państwa do gazu before finally tripping up on the hermetic prose of Witold Gombrowicz's Trans-Atlantyk.

This particular volume is only 120 pages long. I am on page 28. This is after three weeks. I couldn't explain exactly why I didn't understand it: most of the words themselves seemed clear enough. But the paragraph-long sentences, the stream-of-conciousness style dialogue, and a disproportionate proliferation of words ending in -ż made it harder than usual to decipher.

In desperation, we decided to go and watch the play, conveniently showing at Stary Teatr last week. The goal: to understand as much as possible, bearing in mind that the actual content of the dialogue probably isn't all that important.

This is what happened:
Act I: Gombrowicz (the main character, not the man himself) on stage with suitcases. Deckchairs. We understand that he has moved to Argentina. We also understand that war has broken out in Poland. So far so good. Although maybe not so good on the war front.
Gombrowicz asks for money from three confusing old men who toast each other a lot, plus one diplomat.
Gombrowicz has to get in with famous and decadent Argentinian writer with a penchant for attractive young boys.
Some other things happen. A lot of people are on stage, talking fast in Polish.
Mild nudity.

Curtain down

Act II:
We lose the plot completely, but there is a sparkly curtain plus lots of topless boys in white trousers, so it doesn't seem to matter so much.

I gave up and asked a Polish friend to explain it to me.

- Actually, that's an interesting question: there isn't really a plot as such, the main point is Gombrowicz playing with language. Why on earth do they want you to read that?!

I showed up at literature class on Tuesday afternoon spoiling for a fight.

The lecture consisted of a snap survey on who had read the book, who had been to the theatre and what did we understand. Having established that the answer to this was 'very little', our lecturer went on to explain the plot and its relation to the concept of Polish national identity. He then turned to one of the Hungarian girls.

- What does it mean to be Hungarian?
She answered, and the question went round the class, while I did some very quick thinking. Not quick enough though.

- So... what does it mean to be British?
- No, wlasnie, nie wiem.
- fife o-clock?
- no... nobody drinks tea at five.
- the Queen?
- ...
- well, why didn't you just fill in the Channel, instead of going to all the trouble of building a tunnel?
- That's easy: we need something to keep the French out!
- So being British means not being French?
- Yes! That's it.
- And Princess Diana?
I tried to explain that this was simply a trick caused by the tabloid press, but my powers of Polish expression failed me.

The discussion went on a bit longer.

The lecturer indicated me to the other students.

- So here we have it: it's sad isn't it? Empire, post-colonialism and now the British can't even express their own identity.

I tried to protest:
- But we've learnt from that! In Britain we're really tolerant!

laughter

- well... uh ...ok. We're tolerant to everyone except the French. But it's a joke, ok?!

I am not yet well acquainted with Witold Gombrowicz, but I suspect that the concept of a British person failing to express their cultural identity in Polish is very appropriate here.





* The Polish characters on my keyboard for some reason aren't working with Firefox.