on miffy, kitty and creativity

There are new (and old) things to learn everyday, and some of them are surprising ... especially when you are not expecting a trivial comment to lead you to something more.

I had no idea that Miffy was Dutch. I blame the successful marketing of (the rip-off?) Hello Kitty for my thoughtless assumption that Miffy was Japanese.

In fact, I had never really thought about it, and while I can't remember a time without Miffy, I had no idea that she was so old. Nearly as old as I am, in fact!

Was Hello Kitty a "rip-off", or was some designer unconsciously influenced by the image? Or did H K develop completely independently? (The latter seems unlikely when you consider the success of Dick Bruna's work). But it does make me ask myself the question, how much in the world can we call "original"?

I remember being surprised, when doing my "genuinely original" work, to find an artist in the UK making similar pieces. I, in turn, upset a student by suggesting that she research a certain artist who had made work almost identical to her original work. It took some time to persuade her that continuing with her work was valid, and that I had alerted her to it so that she could be aware and set her work in context, not so that she would change direction.

Being original in a universe that is cluttered with visual images from around the world can seem a difficult challenge, but I believe that if we are true to ourselves creatively then we will produce work with our own signature that can be called our own. Or can we? Does Hello Kitty have Dick Bruna's "signature" even though she was produced in Japan?

Read on... (Wikipedia) I found this really interesting. Never assume anything. Yesterday I met the cutest Miffy, and previously when flying through Amsterdam I had noticed many Miffy dolls for sale in Schiphol. A chance comment about Miffy being Dutch had me googling... :-)

Today I am grateful for children's books.

an old dog

Who says that you can't teach an old dog new tricks?

A while back I took the opportunity to spend some time in the city. The big smoke. I tried life in the fast lane. I tried life in suburbia. It was fun. It was exciting. It was a little scary!

I left the dogs without even a proper goodbye, and caught the train to another life.

My apartment in the burbs was perfectly adequate. I had everything I needed, nice neighbours, good food and a huge range of restaurants and shops nearby. Being without a car meant using the metro and walking. It was a 15 minute walk to the metro, using a shortcut only in daylight. The trip on the metro was about 25 minutes, and then I walked again to my destination, another 12 or 15 minutes I suppose, but I didn't ever look at my watch - there were too many shops to gaze into. and people to dodge on the streets.

But before I got to the metro I met my biggest obstacle, culture shock!  In my little village traffic is slow (well, mostly), and cars are small and battered. But to cross the road to leave my suburb in the city I had to cross a twelve lane highway in an affluent neighbourhood. The cars were huge, shiny, menacing. They lined up at an angle across my road like starters in a grand prix race, engines roaring, ready to pounce in that split second that the lights changed.

The green man, my best friend, was way behind the play. He simply didn't have it right.

The first day my guide led me across the road to the centre before the green man noticed us. I was nervous, but we were in number; other commuters had the same problem. The prancing vehicles were constrained, and we all crossed safely.

The second day I waited until others arrived, and I stuck to them like glue. I was far too afraid to judge when it might be safe to cross. I am not sure how many times I did this.

Then one day, to my horror, I found myself alone at the crossing. There was not another walker in sight. I took a deep breath. I tried to remember. I watched the lights.

Then, all by myself, I judged the perfect moment and stepped out in front of those shining menaces all waiting to squash me like a hedgehog or a possum on the road. But I foiled them. I was not destined to be flattened into the tarseal. I scuttled across to the green man, and then sauntered like an expert (OK, so I had 60 seconds to make a 65 second crossing, perhaps sauntered is not the right word) and I reached the other side safely, all by myself.

A week later as I confidently helped other newbies to cross I realised how things had changed. Yes, you can teach an old dog new tricks.

But, despite my wonderful mahi there, and despite the confidence that grew every day, I packed up my things and handed back the apartment key. The city might have many attractions, but it's the country life for me!

Today I am grateful for confidence.

taking a break from blogging

Sorry for not blogging recently, and no, I am not in NZ. An email tonight from someone who thought I was in NZ made me realise that quite a few days have passed without blogging. Yes it had been my intention to spend this European winter in NZ, but my plans changed considerably a few months ago.

My blogging is usually an evening affair, my conversation with myself. I think it assures me that I still exist, I have a voice, I am who I am.

But with a steady stream of visitors, yes, even in the winter, I don't really feel the need to blog.

My present visitor (now that my favourite tenor has gone to sing elsewhere) is a Wellingtonian. She is fully embracing Italian life, and establishing friendships with people I hadn't met myself as she goes to the pizza shop and has bread made with fillings as she likes it, generally creating a world that I didn't know existed. How she does it with no Italian absolutely mystifies me!

A few days ago I gave her a pattern to crochet a jacket for Zacchi, as she likes to knit or create in her free time. She set off to the shop to buy some wool... blow me down if she didn't find a tartan jacket ready made, so guess who went to Carnevale in costume? No, not me, I am merely the onlooker. Costume is not really my thing, unless at a private theme party. Zacchi went, sporting his new jacket, and was much admired and fussed over in town.

Now the snow is falling. I have seen enough snow to know the downsides (remember last year? My budget still hasn't recovered from the roof avalanche that squashed my car). I am not leaving the car anywhere near the house at the moment, just in case!

It's great having new eyes though... my guest is like a child on Christmas day as the snow settles on the orange trees. It's not that I no longer feel the wonder, I really do. Snow is delightful. But the damp is not, the ache in the joints is not, and so I greet the snow with ambivalence now.

As my visitor talks of winter wonderlands and runs out to take photos of snow on citrus (yes, that was me, in previous years) I think about the firewood supply, and wonder if we will be blocked in again this year, or whether I will lose any more citrus trees. Snow was not the norm here, but times seem to be changing. A few years ago I drove several kilometres to find snow. Now I am happy to enjoy the vista and keep the fire burning.

Actually, I'm not sorry for a lapse in blogging. After all, my family email and skype, they know that all is well. Friends email occasionally.  I blog mostly for myself, and if I decide to take a break then that's exactly what I will do. Life has been really busy with trips to Cassino for different things including organising the next Legato (two venues this year) and my evenings have been filled with friends and fun. So why, really, should I feel bad for not blogging?

Today I am greatful for olive tree firewood.

it (nearly) was spring...

The day before yesterday was a lovely spring day, so I weeded my bulb and herb garden. Believe it or not there are herbs in there... but every time my worker comes to do heavy work he kindly tidies my garden and slashes back the plants he doesn't recognise. Maybe if I poke the sticks around them he will think twice next time...  and in the meantime the lemon thyme and sage are making a recovery. The others? Well, let's pretend they weren't ever there!

The rosemary, in another garden (not photographed), has got away on me and is a bit "leggy" now. I think it needs a severe pruning, but I haven't the heart to attack it. It will make nice indoor decorations for a while, rather than firewood!

So we had a tantalising taste of spring. Today, however, is another story. With snow on the hills across the valley and the mercury falling it's a quiet night indoors by a roaring fire for me! 

Today I am grateful for home made wine and quality cheeses. 

wouldn't it... be loverly!

A recent discussion of diction and accents with my favourite tenor had me back into Youtube looking for particular songs from My Fair Lady. He had said "I want to go to London and learn to speak (sing) with an English accent". "Be careful, I replied, there is English and English".

I found the wonderful Eliza Dolittle for him, and some Professor Higgins. Together we marvelled at the variations within the English language. He agreed that what he had in mind was perhaps more Henry than Eliza.

From "My Fair Lady" I went to Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music. What wonderful diction. "But she's not a tenor", said my friend. Tonight in my wandering around via Westside Story I discovered the tenor David Curry. He is an interesting one to consider as the Canadian tenor trained in London and has no problems switching from one accent to another. (Here is David Curry singing "Tonight" in Germany).

The debate with my friend was centred around whether he should try to lose his slight American accent and cultivate an English one, or develop the ability to switch from one to another depending on where he is singing, or, his prefered option, stay with his own accent which, as he says, "is part of me".

How much does our persona come via our oral communication? And if you are a professional singer, should you have to conform to different accents at the likely expense of your own "accent history"?

I think you do need to conform. An Italian opera should be sung in Italian with perfect Italian vowel sounds. An English aria demands crisp and clear consonants. And so I think that diction lessons (other than from me) are important. And if this changes the accent of the singer, then so be it! But will that then change the person?  Perhaps it could. It's certainly something to ponder, when you carry things out to an extreme in your imagination. It certainly set me a-thinking.

It is also a long time since I have stayed up until 3am debating a point such as this with my friends. I would love to assemble my favourite talented people to discuss such things, and to help with the diction lessons currently required.

The perfect teacher is in Auckland, but the pupil is shortly to leave Italy for concerts in America. Wouldn't it be wonderful if I could wave a magic wand and have the music/diction teacher/accompianist here, this week, in this house with its wonderful acoustics and dramatic setting?

Not only would a perfect pairing of pupil and teacher be achieved, but also I would have some of my dearest friends sharing their talents, and I would simply be the coffee maker who enjoyed all the music, laughter and witty jokes.

In a perfect world... oh would...n't it... be lov..er...ly?

Today I am grateful for Youtube.

distractions

I must confess to having rather lovely distractions in my life at the moment. If I haven't answered your email then I do apologise, and I will get to it eventually.  But for now I have things to do, people to see, guests to enjoy, and a few more distractions coming up to delight me.

Today I am grateful for all kinds of love. 

today is sunday

Today is Sunday, and it is the day for remembering the holocaust. I don't remember ever marking this day in NZ, but it is certainly dominating evening television here in Italy.

This morning I read an interesting article by an English writer, and in some ways it echoes my own sentiments. It is important to remember, and to ensure that similar things don't happen again. But these atrocities do continue in other parts of the world. And we do little. Perhaps a better way of honouring those who died is, as the writer suggested, not to cling to history, refusing to move on, but to move forward.  I suggest that in moving forward we take positive actions to educate for tolerance and peace.

*****

Another article I read struck a chord. Should we be worried about nanomaterials? I heard some time ago that these have already been found in ice at the antarctic. Some are dangerous, and some are not. The ones that make socks odourless are apparently the same ones that cause deformities in fish and could threaten the aquatic ecosystem. At the very least, shouldn't we be making sure that workers in factories are not being exposed to these incredibly tiny little particles of metal and carbon?

*****

Today is now Monday. I lost internet connection and couldn't post this, and lost quite a few thoughts that had not saved. Ah well.... this is enough for now.

Today I am grateful for my young visitor who is a great cook.