Postcards from Oz - AU Edition

Last Saturday, Cavendish and I took advantage of the long weekend and went to see the “New Objectivity” (“Neue Sachlickeit” in German) exhibition at the Kunsthalle Mannheim, just a couple of days before the exhibition’s closing date on March, 9th.

In short, a great day out. Fantastic art and after that a nice stroll through the inner city of Mannheim, including a visit to Mannheim Baroque Palace, which is one of the largest palaces in Europe and nowadays serves as one of the main buildings to host the city’s university.

Pleasant and safe train ride back home.

I have no words for how I felt when, two days later, on Rose Monday, around lunch time the news broke that two people had just been killed in a deliberate attack by a 40-year-old German who had driven his car right into the crowds at Mannheim’s main city centre shopping area.

In light of this, it took me a while to decide whether I really wanted to post an entry that was originally intended to be nothing more than an artsy picture spam with a few extra words how poignant, inspired and incredibly well curated “The New Objectivity - A Centennial -2024/11/22 - 2025/03/09” is as an exhibition.

Our annual Burns Night supper, six guests, so altogether a group of eight. This year, Cavendish and I came up with the following menu:

My Heart is in the Highlands

~Traditional: The Skye Boat Song~

1st course: Traditional Cullen Skink

~Toast to the Lassies: Afton Water by Robert Burns~

2nd course: Black and white pudding and pan-fried scallops with pea and mint puree at the side.

~Traditional: Come by the Hills~

3rd course: Haggis with pumpkin, mixed vegetables and mash at the side

~Traditional: Loch Lomond~

4th course: Apple Crumble with blueberries (absolutely delicious and kindly provided by one of our guests)

~Auld Lang Syne: Sing Along ~

What happens when Cavendish invites a bunch of colleagues for a small belated Burns Night Dinner ;)

2nd and 3rd course provided by us, extremely delicious lentil soup, amazing cheese and wonderful dessert by above mentioned colleagues…

Btw., never having tried anything like this before I was at first super skeptical about the Whisky-Cured Salmon. (Essentially fresh Salmon generously covered with a mixture of casting sugar and salt and then drowned in a larger amount of Whisky.) Turned out  I need not have worried, because twenty-four hours in our fridge rendered the fish as tender and aromatic as could be. Perfect texture and taste!
 

1st course
Soup of the Day

Toast to the Lassies

2nd course
Whisky-Cured Salmon with Beetroot Dressing and Oatcakes

Address to a Haggis

3rd course
Haggis with Mashed Pumpkin, Mixed Vegetables and Colcannon at the Side

The Corries: Oh Flower of Scotland

4th course
A Selection of fine Scottish Cheese

Sing Along: Will You Go, Lassie Go?

5th course
Surprise Dessert

Sing Along

The dialogue on Once upon a Time may not always be perfect, but there is this delightful line, spoken by Rumplestilstkin, that magic always comes with a price. It’s wonderfully catchy and universal, quite applicable to a lot of things, actually. Being the information junkie that I am, I would never have thought, though, that trying to keep up with the Brexit and its consequences would be one of those pricey things.

Some of you already know that I work in adult education, teaching everything from basic travel English to conversational English, and also British (sometimes Scottish) life and culture to a bunch of open-minded, interested and simply fantastic people, most of them in the 55+ age group, although the folks in the evening classes usually tend to be a bit on the younger side.

So spending the better part of last week discussing the various aspects of the Brexit, professionally but also with family and friends, was exactly what I had expected. What I hadn’t reckoned with, however, was how bloody exhausting these discussions would be, because I am emotionally involved.

In essence, the British Isles aren’t a foreign country to me but rather my holiday home in Europe. I’ve been travelling the UK ever since I was sixteen. Over the years, I’ve consumed more than my share of British culture, literature, history and media; I’ve formed friendships and regularly exchange Christmas cards.

Among my favourite TV people ever are David Attenborough, Simon Schama and Jim Al-Khalili. And if fellow Doctor Who fans inquire about my favourite Doctor, I’ll proudly say it’s the Fifth. (I only caught up with classic DW after the new series had started, and while I’ve seen every classic Doctor in action by now, Fivey is the one I really clicked with on every level, which is kind of sweet, because due to his early 1980s run, Peter Davison’s Doctor would have been the one I had imprinted on as a child if I had grown up in the UK.)

Despite the fact that I certainly think, feel, act and sound unmistakably German in everyday life, it is therefore no wonder that a large part of my personal identity is determined through what I love about the UK.

I would hate to see these ties substantially weakened, due to the bureaucratic complications that are likely to ensue now. Following media reports and political commentaries feels like a trip to some clownish, nonsensical and ugly bizzarro world.

From the description text of an exhibition I went to see at the Lehmbruck Museum, Duisburg:

From 27 February, 2016: Liquid Identities – Lynn Hershman Leeson. Identities in the 21st Century

“Digital identity”, “patchwork identity”, “multiple identities”, these are all terms and constructs we use in our attempts to approach the complex question of “Who am I?”: Under digital conditions identity is no longer a fixed constant. Permanently in flow, it is contingent on a multitude of changing factors, the most influential of which are the presentation and communication opportunities offered by the Internet today.

Hershman Leeson’s art is fascinating, and many of her works eerie and unsettling.

Also at the Lehmbruck as an accompanying exhibition: Jakub Nepras - State of Flux

Rushing and fleeting. Hovering, static. Organic. The most otherworldly and transient light effects. I feel privileged to have seen these in real life. Needless to say the picture below doesn’t do the actual experience any justice.

I'm currently in the process of planning our summer holiday in the Scottish Highlands. Starting from Inverness, mostly by rail. Sometimes it's just weird which remote places you can discover simply by checking out every single stop along the train line (not that there are that many stops to begin with *g*).

Altnabreac (from Scottish Gaelic Allt nam Breac) is a tiny settlement within the former county of Caithness, in the north of Scotland, and now within the Highlandcouncil area. The settlement, notable for its remoteness, consists of Altnabreac railway station, the former Altnabreac School (converted into a house in 1986), and a couple of scattered dwellings. It can only be approached by train, or along unsurfaced roads from the nearest village, Westerdale, about 12 miles away.

Altnabreac, like Dounreay, was considered as a location for a final repository for the UK's nuclear waste. However, this idea was not pursued.

If you live in an area as densely populated as I do, where one city seamlessly blends into the next and even the greener agricultural fringes with their fields and small patches of woodland just seem a little less tightly knitted, you are used to a certain level of business. Cars on the road. People running their errands. Supermarket customers queuing at understaffed checkout desks.

So the following observation took me by complete surprise, though I certainly should have expected it. After all it is mid-January; for days temperatures have been below zero, even here in north-western Rhineland. No snow, though, just frozen soil and puddles turned into ice.

Under these conditions there seem to be few places so perfectly quiet, so perfectly at peace with themselves as a garden centre at 9.15 am on a Wednesday morning.

Plants in deep slumber, their leaves rolled up or lost. In a heated glass house some eager azaleas, pink crimson and white. Not a soul in sight except for an employee quietly unpacking some bird seed.

(Before you ask what on Earth I was doing there: Cavendish had asked me to get some bark mulch for his Dahlias.)

On a less winterly note: Yesterday evening we finished rewatching Neil Gaiman’s Neverwhere, which has aged surprisingly well. A clear victory of writing and acting over relatively low production values. Even in this day and age of near perfect CGI worlds the show manages to be every bit as atmospheric as it used to be. Also, it’s fun to see a young Peter Capaldi play Islington.