Ivy Tower

(Washington National Cathedral)

Keiskamma Altar

(Washington National Cathedral)

Tree of States

(Washington National Cathedral)

Fiat Lux

(Washington National Cathedral)

Vitraille Cosmique

A small lunar fragment brought by cosmonauts is placed inside the vitraille.

(Washington National Cathedral)

Pink Air over the Altar of Washington National Cathedral

(Washington National Cathedral)

Children' Chapel: Gesu Bambino and Small Organ

(Washington National Cathedral)

Washington National Cathedral

A view of the National Cathedral in Washington, DC, taken from within the main altar. I tried to move my camera in the rhythm of organ movements.

• Children' Chapel: Gesu Bambino and Small Organ
• Pink Air over the Alter of Washington National Cathedral
• Vitraille Cosmique
• Fiat Lux
• Tree of States
• Keiskamma Altar
• Ivy Tower
• In the Gardens of the Cathedral
  

(Washington, District of Columbia)

(Church in America)

Check this out: The Taste of Tea

A spell of time in the life of a family living in rural Japan. The husband is busy working at an office, his wife is working on an animated film project at home. An uncle has arrived, looking to get his head together after living in Tokyo for several years. Meanwhile, the daughter is mainly concerned with why she seems to be followed around everywhere by a giant version of herself (Jean Marc Rocher).

The Taste of Tea, made in 2004 by Katsuhito Iji. I would like to find it on a dvd copy, it seems to be a lot of poetry there: that's it, a spell of time.

(Japanese Cinema)

Parintele Anton Demeter

Am mai scris acum ceva vreme despre Parintele Anton Demeter. L-am cunoscut cand aveam vreo 12 sau 13 ani. Parintele era tanar, avea 33 de ani. A fost arestat si osandit la ani grei de temnita pentru credinta sa infocata. In inchisoare a paralizat, in urma unei batai ingrozitoare pe care a primit-o la o ancheta. A iesit din inchisoare intr-un carucior si asa a trait de atunci.

Am aflat vesti despre el tarziu, dupa ani de zile, si am fost la el, intr-un sat din Moldova. Cunoscusem un tanar de 33 de ani, am regasit un preot batran, cu o barba uriasa, care spovedea si sfatuia de pe caruciorul de care era tintuit. Sufletul ii ramasese la fel de tanar, era un om extrem de deschis si de infocat in credinta. Imi aminteam de anii de demult cand mergeam la el sa imi clarific tot soiul de nelamuriri pe care le aveam la 12 ani despre credinta. Intrebari de multe ori naive. Imi raspundea intotdeauna cu rabdare si cu multa credinta in Dumnezeu. Ramasese la fel. Sigur, acum intrebarile mele erau cu totul altele. Avea curajul de a raspunde cu multa sinceritate la orice intrebare, oricat de grea ar fi fost pentru el.

Si nu voi uita niciodata un raspuns pe care mi l-a dat. Un raspuns care m-a cutremurat. In clipa aceea mi-am dat seama ce mare sfant era si in acelasi timp ce om puternic. Omul acesta care traia tintuit de carucior de atatea zeci de ani!

Am purtat o vreme corespondenta. Imi raspundea greu, pentru ca era foarte ocupat, asa cum fusese toata viata. Imi amintesc acum ce imi povestea, ca in tineretea sa ajungea sa isi recite Breviarul de abia tarziu spre miezul noptii si se lupta sa nu adoarma cu cartea de rugaciuni in mana. Lumea crede ca preotii nu au mare lucru de facut, ei bine, un preot care este preot adevarat are atatea de facut incat ajunge sa isi citeasca rugaciunile de abia tarziu de tot in noapte, luptandu-se sa nu adoarma.

Imi raspundea deci cu intarziere, dar imi raspundea de fiecare data.

Si la un moment dat am amanat scrierea unei scrisori catre el, nu aveam nici eu timp. Am tot amanat, si pana la urma nu am mai ajuns sa ii scriu. Imi tot ziceam ca o sa ii scriu odata, dar anii treceau.

Am plecat in America. Ma gandeam ca imi voi face poate timp odata sa ii scriu.

Si anii au trecut in continuare.

Acum cateva luni am cautat date despre el pe web si am gasit. Era inca in activitate la seminarul franciscan din Roman, avea peste optzeci de ani. Informatia era de prin 2004 sau 2005.

Azi am aflat ca a murit, in decembrie 2006. Am citit randurile scrise de cativa oameni care l-au cunoscut. Toti il considera un sfant.

Si voi ramane cu durerea ca lenea mea, si caracterul slab, si prea slaba credinta m-au impiedicat sa ii mai scriu.

Tacitus este mai modern în gândire decât generaţiile prezentului

La început Roma fu guvernată de regi. Lucius Brutus introduse libertatea şi consulatul. Dictaturile se luau vremelnic, puterea tribunilor nu depăşea nici ea mai mult de doi ani. Tiraniile lui Cinna şi Sulla fură scurte; din mâinile lui Pompeius şi Crassus puterea lunecă în mâinile lui Caesar, din cele ale lui Lepidus şi Antonius în mâinile lui August, care atunci când lumea deveni sătulă de lupte civile domni ca Principe.

Aşa încep Analele lui Tacitus: istoria Romei până la Imperiu condensată în câteva rânduri! Am la Bucureşti cartea, în tălmăcirea lui Eugen Lovinescu; am citat aici din memorie.

Spune Lovinescu, sintetică în sine, limba latină devine şi mai sintetică sub pana nervoasă a marelui istoric.

Este atât de modern în mentalitate şi în exprimare Tacitus! Eram elev de liceu şi am citit cartea pe nerăsuflate.

Iată fragmentul, în versiunea engleză a lui Alfred John Church si William Jackson Brodribb (reproduc aici întreg paragraful):

Rome at the beginning was ruled by kings. Freedom and the consulship were established by Lucius Brutus. Dictatorships were held for a temporary crisis. The power of the decemvirs did not last beyond two years, nor was the consular jurisdiction of the military tribunes of long duration. The despotisms of Cinna and Sulla were brief; the rule of Pompeius and of Crassus soon yielded before Caesar; the arms of Lepidus and Antonius before Augustus; who, when the world was wearied by civil strife, subjected it to empire under the title of "Prince." But the successes and reverses of the old Roman people have been recorded by famous historians; and fine intellects were not wanting to describe the times of Augustus, till growing sycophancy scared them away. The histories of Tiberius, Caius, Claudius, and Nero, while they were in power, were falsified through terror, and after their death were written under the irritation of a recent hatred. Hence my purpose is to relate a few facts about Augustus- more particularly his last acts, then the reign of Tiberius, and all which follows, without either bitterness or partiality, from any motives to which I am far removed.

Şi iată originalul (mi-a luat ceva timp să îl găsesc!):

Vrbem Romam a principio reges habuere; libertatem et consulatum L. Brutus instituit. dictaturae ad tempus sumebantur; neque decemviralis potestas ultra biennium, neque tribunorum militum consulare ius diu valuit. non Cinnae, non Sullae longa dominatio; et Pompei Crassique potentia cito in Caesarem, Lepidi atque Antonii arma in Augustum cessere, qui cuncta discordiis civilibus fessa nomine principis sub imperium accepit. sed veteris populi Romani prospera vel adversa claris scriptoribus memorata sunt; temporibusque Augusti dicendis non defuere decora ingenia, donec gliscente adulatione deterrerentur. Tiberii Gaique et Claudii ac Neronis res florentibus ipsis ob metum falsae, postquam occiderant recentibus odiis compositae sunt. inde consilium mihi pauca de Augusto et extrema tradere, mox Tiberii principatum et cetera, sine ira et studio, quorum causas procul habeo.

(Cornelius Tacitus, Annales, Charles Dennis Fisher, Ed.)

(Classics)

The Five Most Important Books for Junot Diaz

Junot Diaz was born in Santo Domingo in 1968 and lives in America since he was six. The Brief Wondrous LIfe of Oscar Wao brought him the Pulitzer. The New Yorker magazine lists him among the top 20 writers of the XXI-st century. Central to his work is the duality of immigrant experience.
He gave in the most recent issue of Newsweek his list of five most important books:

1. Beloved, by Toni Morrison: you can't understand the Americas without this novel about the haunting that is its past.
2. Texaco, by Patrick Chamoiseau: the Caribbean masterpiece, it inspired nearly all of his first literary experiments.
3. Ceremony, by Leslie Marmon Silko: a profound survival story that becomes an act of healing in itself.
4. Poison River, by Beto Hernandez: you'll have trouble trying to describe how awesome this thing is - weird, sexy, tender, cruel and hopeful.
5. Woman Warrior, by Maxine Hong Kingston: for immigrant writers this memoir is the Alpha.

Coming back to his Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao (a book that is so original it can only be described as Mario Vargas Llosa meets Star Trek meets David Foster Wallace meets Kanye West - Michicko Kakutani in NY Times), here you can watch the author as he is discussing the book:






(A Life in Books)

(Junot Diaz)

Carlyle Garden in Full Spring

Spinet in the small parlor of Carlyle House

As a descriptive basis for his Four Seasons, Vivaldi took four Sonnets, apparently written by himself. Here are his verses for the Allegro of the Spring Concerto:

Giunt' è la Primavera e festosetti
La Salutan gl' Augei con lieto canto,
E i fonti allo Spirar de' Zeffiretti
Con dolce mormorio Scorrono intanto:
Vengon' coprendo l' aer di nero amanto
E Lampi, e tuoni ad annuntiarla eletti
Indi tacendo questi, gl' Augelletti;
Tornan' di nuovo al lor canoro incanto.

Springtime is upon us.
The birds celebrate her return with festive song,
and murmuring streams are softly caressed by the breezes.
Thunderstorms, those heralds of Spring, roar, casting their dark mantle over heaven,
Then they die away to silence, and the birds take up their charming songs once more.

Veniti, privighetoarea canta
Si liliacul e-nflorit.
(Macedonski - Noaptea de Mai)

(Alexandria)

(A Life in Books)

Guitar and Harmonica on the Waterfront in Alexandria

The guy was really cool and weather was fine. My cousin and my nephew came from Bucharest to visit me and we were on the Potomac waterfront in Alexandria, in front of the torpedo factory (actually the factory is no more; it's an artistic center there now, and a torpedo remained on display in the lobby, just a reminder what was the activity there during the war).

Usually Jamey Tenney comes here on Saturdays with his glass harmonica. He didn't come this time. So I tried to record another kind of harmonica, and another kind of music: this guy was playing something between kind of blues and kind of country. It seems that his little box in front was kind of empty, so the guy was kind of concerned. I would give for this reason a PG-13 to the video: a brief piece of profanity is expressed by the end.





(Alexandria)

Skyscrapers in Philadelphia - Photo from 1935

(courtesy of Ms. Marica Solomon)

If you examine the photo you will discover a Renaissance palace somewhere on the left, of course much, much smaller than the skyscrapers. It has a huge tower (again, much smaller than the rest of the buildings).

That Renaissance palace is the City Hall: just in the middle of downtown Philadelphia. A statue is on the top of the tower: William Penn, the founder of the Province of Pennsylvania. It was settled that no building in Philadelphia should be taller than the tower with the statue of Penn.

As the city grew up, this became impossible. So the authorities decided to resort to a gentleman agreement: all skyscrapers to be built on the back of the statue, so Penn would not be able to see them.

That explains why Philly has all its skyscrapers situated in one half of the city.

And this is not the unique oddity in Philly: imagine, the prison is across the bank (it's right, in the other half of the city, so Penn can observe what's going on there).

(Philadelphia)

Atlantic again

I was coming back from Boston, and the Amtrak was passing near a long beach on Atlantic.

(Atlantic)

Black Cat in Georgetown

Because I could not stop for Death
He kindly stopped for me
(Emily Dickinson: Time and Immortality)

Pisica mea se spala

Cu laba stinga,

Iar o sa avem un razboi.

Fiindca, am observat,de cite ori se spala

Cu laba stinga,

Creste considerabil incordarea

Internationala

(Marin Sorescu: Superstitie)

Ai spus:
Pune-ti la brau pumnalul din zahar ars
Si mergi de cauta lumina
...
Sau mai bine o narghilea
Cu sange si seva
Arzand pana tarziu
(Ionela Chiru: Narghilea & Vacile Domnului)




I have smoked my nargileh
With holly men & sing-song writers
(S. Sandrigon: Song of Shisha, Hookah Poetry)

Firstly I saw the hookahs on the window. A tobacconist on the Bridge Street in Georgetown, selling all kind of stuff: hookahs and cigars, tobacco and tobacco pipes, and tobacco bags and boxes, metallic boxes and wooden boxes, lighters and matches, and so on, and so on. Then I saw the other shop window: a lady with a scythe was riding gently a motorbike. It seemed actually that she had just stopped and was now looking at me, very interested: an open invitation.

I didn't know what to say, then I saw the black cat. Suddenly all this started to have a meaning to me.

There were several recollections: that morning long time ago when I had visited a large photographic show in Bucharest, at Dalles, a retrospective of Aurel Mihailopol, probably the greatest Romanian artist photographer of the sixties. The last photo in the show was a black cat and a chair; and some verses by Marin Sorescu. The verses were kind of a weird hymnal to the cat. I liked them immediately, for their superb craziness (I would have learned after many years that the correct term wasn't craziness, rather post-modernism). I found them again, these verses of Sorescu, just one week ago, on a Romanian web page (Mariana Ciutacu: Despre superstitii. Si despre coincidente).

Other thing: it happened that I watched this last week a small movie on dvd, made by Maya Deren and Alexander Hammid: The Private Life of a Cat.

And now, the black cat.

Everything had now sense. The lady on the bike was to remind me in a funny way a small piece of poetry that I enjoyed enormously some time ago: the verses of Emily Dickinson.

So I tried some photos and some videos: a very humble homage to Emily Dickinson, Maja Deren, Hammid, Mihailopol, Sorescu; a homage to all hookah smokers and hookah poets and guitarists (Ionela Chiru and Sandrigon included), and, of course, also to Creanga:

Pashol, Vidma, na turbinca!

(Washington, District of Columbia)

Geschichten aus dem Wienerwald

I remember one of the movies I saw long time ago, a romanticized biography of Johann Strauss: his waltz was heard while the composer was making a promenade through Wienerwald.

Tales from the Vienna Woods: each Vienna with its Woods, each Vienna Woods with its Tales. Mine is Vienna from Northern Virginia. Each time the leaves show me other colors. Sometimes I meet deers in the forest, some other times there is a fox waiting for me on the road. That's the way it is.









(Around Fairfax Circle)

Misty Forest

(Around Fairfax Circle)

Beyond Harvard Square

(Cambridge)

The Stairs at COOP

(Cambridge)

Tibetans in Harvard Square

This is a sensible topic and each side has its points. Everybody agrees that Tibet was occupied by Communist China. We should also agree on two other facts: firstly that it is hypocrite to get the economical benefits of the global trade while boycotting the Olympics organized by the main manufacturer in the world; secondly, that sport should have no connection with politics.

(Cambridge)

Love in Harvard Square

Harvard Square in Cambridge, Massachusetts. The dream place for anyone looking for freedom of spirit. It's in the air there, the liberty of mind, it's so strong you feel like drunk. It's the place where all ideas meet, whatever radical, whatever crazy, whatever different. It's the spirit of Quartier Latin (however, prends garde, it's America).



I'm dreaming at a book not yet written, Love in Harvard Square. Marquez, and Pamuk, and Boell, and Pavic, all together. No, only Marguerite Yourcenar. When I was in Harvard Square for the first time, I met a guy from Montreal, we spoke about Yourcenar.



It was in 1997, my first trip to America. My son and my daughter-in-law were living by that time in Watertown. I went for a walk and took the Mount Auburn Street up. After one hour I was in Harvard Square. Love at first sight.



A very small coffee & tea house was in front of the square. A narrow room, half of it occupied by the counter. A map of the world hanging on the wall. I spent there fine moments. It's no more, out of business.




A guy was selling a Communist tabloid. I started to laugh. I knew too well what Communism meant. The guy was trying to explain to me that the experiment had failed because the bad guys had forgotten the purity of ideas, I was keeping on laughing.



The other day Tibetans were demonstrating in the Square against the Communist government from Beijing. There is a small Tibetan store, beyond the square, close to a tiny bookstore selling Marxist literature. Both of them fighting to remain in business, without success. Business is harsh: America is a free country, however it's America.



Love in Harvard Square. I'm drinking a cup of coffee just beyond the square. A large terrace, this is really Quartier Latin like. The same kind of folks, the same look and feel.



I'm dreaming. My travels, real or imaginary, in geography or in time, in China, or in Turkey, or in search of the lost kingdom of Khazars, or in Macondo, or following the books of Zora, or following Kapuscinski in Africa and in Russia - or in Yugoslavia, together with Anthony Loyd, My War Gone By I Miss It So - Piano Carpini or Marco Polo, or the old Milescu... and Pamuk, and Pavic, and Marquez, and Zora Neale Hurston, and Kapuscinski, the wizard of the narrative (when he was forgetting that he was a journalist). Dreaming at remote places, where I would dream at Harvard Square. Dreaming at books to be read while dreaming at Harvard Square.
The book of Loyd: discovering that nobody remains innocent in a conflict, predators and victims together; discovering in true honesty his vitality only in the morbid attraction to be there, on the field of war; honest to himself up to cynicism; you cannot witness a war without being implied. Philip Caputo in A Rumor of War comes somehow to the same feeling: you cannot be true in blaming the war if you are not there, on the field.
How would it sound a story of Eileen Chang taking place here, in Harvard Square? Lust, Caution placed here in Cambridge? The movie of Ang Lee is two hours long. The story of Eileen Chang is ten pages. Focused on one moment, that's it, everything else thrown in rapid flashes. Ang Lee created a whole universe from a book that had concentrated the whole world in a kernel.

Or Henry Miller and his correspondence with Anaïs Nin?



Jhumpa Lahiri writes about folks living here, not far from Harvard Square, and torn between their lost Indian identity and their new American one. A new book of her comes by the end of this month, a collection of short stories.
Harvard Square, bordered by two book temples: the COOP, the Harvard Book Store. And the antiquarian, close, on a small street. You get down several steps, you find French books, German, Russian. Living in the whole universe there, in Harvard Square...


The Singer sewing machine in a window, and all kind of stuff, old cameras, fishing tools..., close to the Harvard Book Store.
To travel through the Book of Psalms, with Freemantle, dreaming at long journeys in India and Arab countries. The Freemantle edition of the Psalms, illustrated with drawings of extraordinary animals, real or imaginary, with exotic flowers and trees, with images of vivid cities from Thousand and One Nights. Freemantle worked on his edition for thirty years: a love gift for his wife.


And the entrance in the campus of the University, the small wooden house where Washington spent one night. A bit farther, beyond the campus, the museum of glass flowers, the work of a life of two glass workers, crazy botanists. They had lived in Prague, among other dreamers, their work was bought by another crazy lover here in Cambridge. The Science Center, hosting MARK - I, the computer of Howard Aiken, from 1944: its devices along a whole wall.
The Swedenborgian church: well, that's another story. All in due time.

Love in Harvard Square. I'm a crazy dreamer.







(Cambridge)

(A Life in Books)

Romanians in Queens

(click here for the Romanian version)

The train passes over Queens, under Manhattan. Queens is just that, a huge conglomerate of neighborhoods, fractured among all kind of ethnic groups, trying to define itself some way, then giving up. A vast repository of immigrant America. Contemplated from Queens, Manhattan seems to be a legend.

I was several times in Queens. First time I was at a factory there, to see someone. The factory is no more, they relocated to Texas or Florida, I don't know exactly. Harmony was a big Romanian restaurant, it was sold, now it's Indian.

Once I was in Ridgewood, in search of Romanian places (a friend in Bucharest had told me that Ridgewood should be the neighborhood to find Romanians living in). I took the subway somewhere from Manhattan. As soon as I entered the car I heard two youngsters speaking Romanian. They were coming back home from a movie theater. I considered addressing them, only I was too timid and I decided to wait a little bit, then I kept on being discreet. I was looking at the other passengers: could have been some of them Romanians? It was one of my first visits to America, I didn't know much and I was excited, and certainly scarred.

A woman entered the car and started to preach the Gospel to us. Some people started to make fun, mocking seriousness, adding to each of her sentences That's right! She was going on, apparently unperturbed. A guy was replicating with a Hallelujah now and then. You could read on his poker face that he was actually making fun. I was asking myself whether he was a Romanian. Probably not, anyway, who cared?

I left the train in Ridgewood and started to look for something Romanian, a church, or a store, or a restaurant, or people on the street speaking Romanian. Nothing of the kind. I asked several guys. Nobody knew. I realized that the Romanian community there was among all kind of other small communities. At last a black lady knew something about Romanian places there and gave me some directions. Of course, with my lack of practice in English it was difficult to understand from her the name of the street, I got it after several attempts: Seneca Street. I found eventually a small Romanian restaurant where I had a great cup of Turkish coffee: blessed taste.

Last time I was in Queens to visit a good friend, Laurentiu, he was going back to Romania. We had a wonderful coffee and pastries at a Greek cafe, served by a Brazilian waitress. We went then to Casa Romana, and spent an unforgettable evening there: Gigi Marga gave a recital with melodies that were pouring drops of longing into my soul. Longing for my friends remained in Bucharest, longing for places in Bucharest, longing for all my years there. I went after the recital to Gigi Marga and I thanked her. I remembered when she had been singing in Bucharest Dance again: the actual title was Twist again, but twist was officially prohibited in Romania those years.

Suddenly two belly dancers appeared in the restaurant and started dancing. Everybody there were Romanians, but the two girls. Well, nobody's perfect, as it goes. How is belly dance? It's magic.

Queens and Manhattan, Queens and Bucharest, journeys in space, new discoveries, new friends, longing for the old ones, journeys in time, surprised by the present, imagining the future, charmed by the past. Mihaita, my classmate from primary school, he told me firstly about the Romanians from Queens.

I am now in Amtrak, coming from Boston, thinking at all this while trying to record a video. It's sunset. Viewed from Queens, Manhattan is blurred, the misty sunset of Childe Hassam.





(New York, New York)

Exploding Magnolias

Vienna in Fairfax County, Northern Virginia. A couple of days ago magnolias were in full blossom. Yesterday the flowers opened like exploding.





(Around Fairfax Circle)

Cherry Blossom, 2008

Long Shot

Close Up

(Washington, District of Columbia)

Deer in Night

Simt enorm si vaz monstruos

(Around Fairfax Circle)

Wong Kar-Wai and His Life in Movies

Wong Kar-Wai is perhaps the most important post-modernist filmmaker; the most original for sure. It is much to say about any of his movies, about Ashes of Time, Chungking Express or Fallen Angels, In the Mood for Love or 2046, or The Hand, his segment in the movie created together with Sodebergh and Antonioni (Eros).

I cannot be but subjective: were I to decide among them, my choice would go to Chungking Express and The Hand.

I watched today the trailer for My Blueberry Nights: his most recent film, and the first English-language one. My Blueberry Nights stars Jude Law, Norah Jones, Rachel Weisz and Natalie Portman: Newsweek summarizes it as a road movie about a woman on the rebound.

Well, the movie universe of Wong Kar-Wai is dual: the movies he has created, the movies he has watched. Here is his choice (Newsweek):

• Apu Trilogy (Satyajit Ray): for its humanity
• A Bout de Souffle (Jean-Luc Godard): for its poetry
• Vertigo (Alfred Hitchcok): for its sensuality
• Spring in a Small Town (Fei Mu): for its poignancy
• Early Autumn (Yasujiro Ozu): for its humor and wisdom

One could easily notice in Wong Kar-Wai's movies the qualities he is praising at the other masters: poetry and sensuality, humor, wisdom and humanity. Of course, humor at Kar-Wai manifests differently than at Ozu; also humanity is shown differently. Perhaps Kar-Wai is closer to Godard (and not only on the poetic side).

I've just ordered on the Amazon Spring in a Small Town: it is vaunted there as a classic example of Eastern cinema.

It is a shame that I couldn't yet make it to see any movie of Satyajit Ray: finding them is difficult. However, I hope I will watch some of them in near future. I learned about Ray more than forty years ago. I was in high school and I read a book about India, written by an Austrian journalist. One of the chapters was refering to Indian cinematography: I knew by that time the name of Raj Kapoor, the director of Awaara. The book was mentioning Kapoor, then it was presented a totally different filmmaker, Satyajit Ray.

As for Early Autumn, it is the one from Ozu's movies that I haven't seen yet. I greatly enjoyed his Late Spring (but here again one cannot be but subjective: all his movies made after the war are great)

I will come back soon on all these movies.


(Wong Kar-Way and Chris Doyle)

Symphonie Diagonale by Viking Eggeling

(video by Roxanne Minnish)

Made in 1924. It was the only movie that remained after Viking Eggeling. He would die in 1925. A first movie of him, Horizontal-vertical Orchestra, is lost.
Try to watch it with and without sound: you'll realize the perfect equivalence between the structures used by the musical language and the structures used by the cinematic language.
Actually his movie is a cinematic ballet, which was fertile space for Eggeling to find the equivalence with the harmonic and contrapuntal structures. Hans Richter, Man Ray or Walter Ruttmann were on the same page, naturally, each one with his own differences. I think now at Maya Deren: her movies were looking for something different in dance: sublimated ritual. No wonder that one of her movies is named just that, Ritual in Transfigured Time; but all her movies are about myth, and ritual, and dance.
I found on MySpace a very interesting site devoted to the art of Viking Eggeling.





(Filmele Avangardei)