MoIA: Musee d'Art Impenetrable - imaginary wing

this is exactly what silence looks like in my head.

buried behind an uninspiring stack of rubbish & rust. a simple concept intersected by low-hanging pipes -- that clank.

and my brain is that white wall. a canvas with such potential, restless zen, longing to become flypaper with the smudge of a word - not just any word - a glacial lozenge - with layer of honest frost so flesh-ripping it causes you to gasp, catches in your throat, forces you to breath around it, negotiate through its layers in order to survive.

there are other nooks in my head too.

one featuring a giant ruler that likes to measure where i am with where it thinks i ought to be, condemns my progress, decides what letter should go before z, you know, practical things - the marketing department lets it self-promote and wrest control from time to time.

and somewhere i hear a gramophone playing songs tied to ex-lovers - that's a noisy wing.

and you -- here you are -- observing. hello!

welcome to my museee d'art impenetrable - that's impenetrable museum of art - though the "art" bit is all bravado for flourish and consistency in theme - primarily it's just an impenetrable museum. one that i find difficult to access. sometimes.

BUT - enough about me...

the charming and delightful news is that the image above is from an actual museum -- a forgotten one.

years ago, the artist Marcel Bloodstandt started Musée d'Art Moderne, Départment des Aigles - a conceptual museum with no collection and no permanent location (yep, pretty much the equivalent of my head). this picture was taken in where it once stood in a basement in Berlin; now it's nothing more than a storage shed with accumulations of chairs and random bits and bobs.

but the words are still on the wall and artist Tacita Dean has created a film called "Section Cinema" of what the abandoned museum looks like now.

i love the remnants. but perhaps what I love most is the discovery of Marcel - and how he and i are perhaps more kindred spirits now that his lofty ideas have matured to the point of stagnation, and his concepts become dusty refugees in an inaccessible basement -- which somehow make them all the more sincere and pristine...

and reflective of the modern museums we feel are inside us all...

o magnum mysterium

"Awakened at midnight
by the sound of the water jar
cracking from the ice"
— Basho


2010 winds....

the sounds of revelry and gentle snow - en thaw - grey lumplings arriving home with frozen cheeks and noses - gratefully laid to rest & happily tucked in with....

..... kisses xx



Photo is Prague Winter Scene by fellow Czech, Zdenek Vozenilek

Bohemian Koláče

At my childhood home in the States there are a few twiggy plum trees in the backyard, and just about now their whittled branches are swinging with clusters of small, begging-to-be-picked, deep-blue fruit. These little plums (technically Italian prunes), which easily fit in the hollow of your hand, are an iconic part of Bohemian* cooking. Plum dumplings, plum jam, and of course, plum koláče (pronounced "kohlachkee" and written "kolache" in American English).

Poppy seed and plum kolache were an essential part of my culinary upbringing; an edible reminder that I was Czech. I think there's something very great to be said about honoring your heritage via the food you make. And so, when Kasey and I phoned our Mom and Dad this past Sunday, and they started telling us about their great plum harvest, and how all the people nearby with a spot of Czech blood were asking with anticipation when they could come by to collect a treasured bag of fruit, and then, how nostalgically delicious the plum kolache was that they'd just made - well? Even with regular, shelf-ripened, Tesco "credit crunch special" plums at our disposal - how could we resist making a pan of our own?

While traditionally, "kolache" is a sweet yeast dough molded into individual rounds, then flattened with indentations to accommodate a filling, the root word "kolach" actually just means, generically, "cake." And since we got this recipe from my Grandmother, who never had qualms calling any number of traditional Bohemian baked goods simply "kolache," I believe we can authentically deem this particular creation "Bohemian Plum Kolache." As you can see from the picture of the half-demolished pan below... devoured by just Kasey and I... it's addictively delectable... Czech soul food, if you will. I'm sure we'll polish off the rest before the week is out. The recipe follows. Enjoy!

*History lesson: For those of you as confused by this reference to Bohemia as my Mom was when my Dad first introduced himself to her as a "Bohemian" ("What? Where's your black turtle neck and bongo drums?"), Bohemia was a region that found itself with enlarged borders and a new name when it became part of Czechoslovakia after the First World War - to date, the people who live in the area still very much identify themselves as "Bohemian."


Grandma Vi's Bar Kolache

For Crust:
1 1/2 Cups Flour
1/2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp Vanilla
1/2 Cup Butter
1/3 cup sugar
2 T Milk

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Mix all above ingredients together till dough is formed. Press down into a 8 1/2 X 12 to make crust. Prick crust and slightly brown in oven - about 15 minutes.

Topping:
Plums... lots and lots of sliced plums. "As many as will fit." Kasey cut up six rather large plums, but in the end, didn't think that was enough. ("We should have made at least two layers of plums," she said.)

StreuselMixture:
1/2 cup butter
1 cup sugar
1 cup flour
(We also added about a teaspoon of cinnamon).

Once crust is slightly cooked, evenly spread out the sliced plums onto the crust, then sprinkle with streusel on top. Return to oven and bake at 350 for 30 minutes.

Where Is Bohemia Anyway?

The best thing about Bohemia, I think, is that unlike so many other great and romanticized places that have enchanted idealists and captured imaginations (think Camelot, think Narnia), is that Bohemia is a physical place you can venture to as much as it is a state of mind. "Bohemia" is actually the western region of what is currently the Czech Republic - the locals in the area still refer to their homeland as Bohemia - which I know since that's where much of my father's side of the family still resides.

For centuries Bohemia's capital Praha (Prague) was Europe's intellectual center and the world's most promising artists and scholars found their calling and place in the city. Bohemia was also was notorious for spawning the sort of ideas and movements that fueled political dissent - (part of) the reason "Bohemian" has become synonymous with those who live on the fringes of society living according to a more romantic and less-acceptable code than what you'll find among the mainstream.

For those of us who are predisposed, genetically or otherwise, to live a little off-the-grid in accordance with romantic notions and wandering ways that sometimes make the crowds raise eyebrows... well, I frankly find it lovely to know there's a land to which I can pilgrimage - a few acres of earth where castles still stand and gargoyles blink, where gypsies in caravans laugh at the sunflowers and high waters and those people who merely dip their toes into travel while lugging around their fearful need for solid things; a preserved boulevard of medieval cities where I can sojourn and be penetrated by the air steeped in hauntings - clammy with the residue of dead people, especially those with strong characters, and absolutely reeking of all things ether-worldy; a once-upon-a-time country, a Brigadoon where the balls of my feet can meet cobblestones and fields of wildflowers as I take deep breaths and think "yes, this bewitching world is where a part me came from, where certain chambers in my soul long to be and - when the moon is just right - where I sometimes belong."