Sunday Round-Up
Borders has gone into administration here in the UK. Its Glasgow flagship store is covered in huge EVERYTHING MUST GO!!! STOCK LIQUIDATION!!! posters. It makes me very sad. I am an independent retailer sort of consumer, but Borders holds a special place in my heart. For years it was the only place I could find in Glasgow and I bought most of my Christmas presents there back when I lived in Stirling. In later years I have come to appreciate its friendly and knowledgeable staff, the excellent craft books section and the well laid-out fiction section. I hope the asset stripped and the liquidation means that select stores will survive - and by that I hope that the Glasgow store will keep going. It is difficult for me to imagine Buchanan Street - Glasgow's main shopping street - without it.
Kirsten S. mailed me the other day to let me know that she has listed my Laminaria shawl as one of her ten favourite shawl projects on Ravelry. Thank you so much, Kirsten! The timing was great as I have been glum these past few days for various personal reasons and it is always lovely to connect with similarly minded people (and I really enjoyed reading why she had selected particular shawls). I'd be interested in reading more posts on people's favourites if anybody has links?
Finally, congratulations to long-time blog friend, Emme, who has just had a baby boy. I love how she tweeted the news before anything else. That's how a social network expert handles big news.
Twenty Years Ago Today
Twenty years ago today my mother woke me up early. She was crying. Last time she woke me up crying, Olof Palme had just been assassinated. This time, though, my mother's tears were not angry, horrified and sad tears. She was crying with joy. The Berlin Wall had fallen.
I went to school that day. My teachers cancelled all our scheduled classes and were bust talking amongst themselves. My German teacher - the great-grandson of Paul Gauguin, by the way - sat us down to watch news reports coming in from West Germany. I still recall another teacher crying in the school yard. She was part-German. Today I suspect her German family might have fled here from the East as they never visited any of their relatives until the early 1990s.
Today it is difficult to explain what life were like before the end of the Cold War. I lived in Denmark, a small country just north of both East and West Germany. Occasionally you'd hear stories about people escaping from East Germany across the southernmost Baltic Sea to southern Denmark. Occasionally you'd also hear about people travelling the opposite direction. Swedes were paranoid about Soviet submarines and Danes were paranoid about East German spies within Danish political ranks. I was just a child when it all changed but I could definitely tell something had changed. At school they stopped teaching us how to react in event of a nuclear war, for instance.
Twenty years ago today.
Changing the Game
It is not often that people are praying for my soul when I'm at knitting group. Tonight was certainly different. We got caught up in evangelical Christians protesting the play Jesus Queen of Heaven outside Glasgow's Tron Theatre which involved the press and some (rather bored) policemen. As odd as the praying thing was, it did not compare to walking outside and seeing some very offensive anti-gay posters and billboards being held up by Respectable Citizens. Such people seek confrontation and thrive upon attention. I was not willing to give them any satisfaction and I resorted to quietly shaking my head at the candle-holding and chanting men and women as I made my way home.
The twentieth century is slipping away before our eyes: one of its greatest intellectuals, Claude Levi-Strauss has died. I always assumed that he had passed away before I began studying critical theory, although I cannot tell you why, but instead Levi-Strauss lived to the ripe old age of 100. Rest in peace, you structuralist giant.
Self Portrait With Dark Felt Hat
.. one Halloween costume down, one to go.
Other Half is currently trying to consider whether or not to stab the ear with a palette knife or not.
Oh, decisions...
I Tried to Drown My Sorrows, But the Bastards Learned to Swim
Tomorrow my partner, David, and I are off to an arty little Halloween party. As I'm writing this, David is busy getting himself all Van Gogh'ed up. Both ears are still intact, thankfully. I have chosen to go as Frida Kahlo, who is pictured to the left. Having a similar colouring as Ms Kahlo made it an obvious choice - plus I get to accessorise my outfit with my beautiful Laminaria shawl. I just need to find some statement ear rings and my outfit is complete.
But look at that photo. Isn't it stunning? I keep meaning to write about what inspires me as a knitter (and as an artist - I splash paint on canvases occasionally). Art history is a huge source of inspiration as is vintage fashion plates and photography. I continue to be fascinated by how other people approach and use colour. This photo is a brilliant example: the red playing off the teal blue with small hints of pale yellow/gold(?) offering a bit of calmness. I can see those colours being translated into, say, some beautiful teal/red colourwork mittens with a tiny pale yellow motif around the wrist.
Speaking of colourwork, I started knitting the Selbu Modern beret the other night. I uncovered two colours of Sandnes Tove in my stash and cast on cheerfully. I completed eight rows of colourwork before admitting to myself that I did not like how it was working up: the grey main colour was overpowering the purple contrast colour. Time to rip out. I'm currently considering whether to use the purple yarn as the main colour and go grey for the contrast - or whether to dig deeper into the stash.
Wholly unrelated: if you want to chill out with a little flash game this weekend, may I suggest Small Worlds? It's short and you have no enemies to kill - but it is extremely atmospheric and, dare I say it, haunting.
Have a lovely Saturday, everyone.
(Title taken from my favourite Frida Kahlo quote)
I Am An Immigrant
Last night the leader of the British National Party was part of the panel on a BBC politics programme. I was glad he got the chance to be on the panel. Last time I checked Britain was a democracy with free speech and I thought it just that the leader of the BNP got a chance to speak his mind.
I am an immigrant. I have been thinking of getting a t-shirt going "This Is What an Immigrant Looks Like". Maybe if I start wearing it, people will tell me why I’m wrong to be in the UK, why my presence is destroying Britain, just how I'm shattering social cohesion and in what way I'm inciting hatred. Also, I'd like to know why people want me to leave the man I love and thus ruin the life we have built together. If I wear my t-shirt, maybe the leader of the British National Party could tell me how my genetic make-up differs from his and why this alleged genetic difference makes me unwelcome in Britain in his eyes.
Earlier this month I was speaking with Anna about immigration and British politics. Our conversation made me wonder about the people who choose to become immigrants - that is, people like me - and whether we share a certain mentality or set of characteristics?
It takes a lot to uproot yourself from where you grew up and go live another country. It is not easy; it is not something you 'just do'. Once you are in that other country, you have to learn everything a-new. When do the banks open? Where do you go to buy electric bulbs? How do you get a library card? What is the difference between the various supermarkets? What's my clothes size? All this assumes that you are already fluent in the local language - if not, then you have to start learning that language or, in my case, get to grips with a particular local dialect.
I love living in Britain but it has been a long, labourious process getting to this stage. I love the beautiful landscapes with mountains and glens. I love being able to buy the books and records I want straight off the shelves rather than having to order them from abroad. I love tiny, unexpected things like bunting, rich tea biscuits, finding Roman coins, and Christmas stockings. But I still miss aspects of Denmark and I suspect I always will.
Ah, that reminds me of something which caused a kerfluffle among Danes yesterday (most people did not know whether to laugh or cry): Oprah Tours a Typical Danish Home. Because ALL Danes live like that. Uh huh. Absolutely. Yup.
Now I'm off to make myself some milky tea and some toast (how utterly radical of me!). I hope you have a lovely day no matter who you are and where you live. And be nice to your fellow human beings.
Along the Canal
Alexander Trocchi's novel, Young Adam, is an interesting little piece of Scottish beat literature, if rather uneven. It tells the story of Joe, a young disaffected man working and living on a barge boat travelling between Edinburgh and Glasgow. The film adaptation, which stars Ewan McGregor, Tilda Swinton and Peter Mullan, is excellent and well-worth your time (if you like your films grim and existential). Nowadays I live a very short walk away from the Forth and Clyde canal where Young Adam is set - I still halfway expect to see Ewan McGregor in a fetching fisherman's sweater every time we walk along the canal.
Today we walked down to the annual Big Man event which seeks to get the local community involved in the area surrounding the Forth and Clyde canal. Local artist Andy Scott is hoping to erect a 30m steel sculpture-cum-footbridge (the Big Man) across one of the canal junctions - in Scott's own words: "the footbridge will be representational of the historic ironworks, boat-building and other industries that were found in the (..) area. I hope he becomes a symbol of the area's proud history and a beacon of hope for the future".
Anyway.
I've now embarked on the bane of my life: the Christmas wish list. Usually I get asked for it in August but this year my family managed to wait until end of September because we are going across to Denmark and so they do not need to post the presents. I'm wondering if it would be okay to ask for yarn seeing as I'm yet to knit up all the yarn I got last year.. Any good Danish knitting books just published? Any new Scandinavian yarns? Any good shawl pin vendors in Denmark?
Now to write the UK version..
The Best Little Country in the World?
What happened to churches as places of sanctuary, Denmark? Was it really necessary to get combat-clad police to raid a church at 2am in the morning? Are leading politicians serious when they say "it was a lot more gentle to do the raid at night; imagine what a scene it would've caused by day" because being dragged from your bed at night by SWAT teams attacking you with batons does not strike me as being particularly gentle.
I'm disgusted, I'm angry and I'm deeply, deeply ashamed of being Danish. Yet again.
PS. I'm also very interested in learning where these people will end up as it has been made abundantly clear by the Iraqi government that they will not be admitting the refugees. For shame, Denmark, for shame.
Magic Tricks and Music Halls
Yesterday I found a new favourite place in Glasgow. Walking into Tam Shepard's Trick Shop is like walking into another world, another era. The shop could have been straight out of the 1930s - except for the Obama masks and the nu-rave-esque wigs. It is a place where the owner will start a Victor Borge routine when he learns you are from Denmark, where a shop assistant will disappear through a hole in the floor, you can choose between twenty different kinds of fake moustaches, and tiny kids stare with much fascination at plastic spiders. Tam Shepard's Trick Shop is a family-run business and it has been going since the 1880s. You can see faded music hall posters bearing the names of ancestors and old photos of dishy dames performing magic tricks. "That's my great-grandma," the woman behind the counter informed me.
Glasgow has a very proud music hall tradition, actually, and tomorrow we are off to The Britannia Panopticon Music Hall for a steam punk craft show. The Panopticon is the oldest surviving music hall in Britain - the place where Stan Laurel of Laurel & Hardy made his stage debut, no less, and where a young Cary Grant performed while he was still Archie Leach - and it is a beautiful, almost derelict building. The Panopticon Trust has been trying to save the building for about a decade now but it is still fragile. For more information (and a bit of singing), this youtube clip from the AyeWrite literary festival features Judith Bowers, local historian and secretary of the Panopticon Trust, talking about the music hall. If you are local and you have never been, you can visit the building during the Glasgow Doors Open days in September.
Finally, I recently subscribed to My Vintage Vogue which is a tumblr feed featuring glamorous photo shoots from the Vogue archives. And I refuse to believe there has ever been a woman quite as beautiful as Cyd Charisse..
Home: Refugee Week 2009
When I left Denmark in 2006, I spent the last few weeks living out of my suitcase and sleeping on friends' floors. I liked this sort of transitory existence because I knew I was moving from my old home in Copenhagen to a new home in Glasgow. What I did not know was that this transitory existence would continue for almost a year.
I moved to Glasgow with a suitcase. Twenty-four boxes and a chair followed quickly. I slept in a proper bed and I had a wardrobe for my clothes, but the place never felt like home. My keys did not work, my books were all in boxes and my name was not on the door. This is when I learned how important Home is.
If you do not have a home, you will not feel like you belong. If you do not have a home, you will not feel like you have rights. If you do not have a home, you do not feel safe. If you do not have a home, you will not feel whole.
We moved, of course, and I have a home now. We have bookcases (and need more, quite frankly), unwashed coffee mugs, internet connection, window sills with an ever-growing collection of clay pipes, a cupboard of yarn, and a view of green treetops. I have we because home is not home without David.
Moving to Glasgow exhausted me, mentally and physically, and mine was a voluntary move - I cannot begin to imagine what an involuntary move somewhere (caused by war, famine or persecution) would do to a human being.
(Thank you, Katherine, for alerting me to Refugee Week Scotland)