18 August, Stockholm, Sweden

18 August, Stockholm

This is a quick entry to give a few details of Stockholm. Björn and I stopped for tea in this square in the old town section. This part of the city began in the thirteenth century, and it reminded me of sections of the Oxford warren. In this particular square (its diminutive size shows how old it is), at one infamous event of power-grabbing, many nobles were gathered and summarily slaughtered. In the corner of one of these buildings, you might see (if you had your microscope and me there to guide your view) an imbedded cannonball supposedly left from this event.

I present to you, next, my Great Aunt Ophelia and Uncle Rikkitikkitembo, standing by the Swedish Guard. I’ve been keeping them in a small brown pouch for most of this trip, but I thought they would particularly like to have their photos with the brave and honest Guard. It is true, by the way, what you have no doubt heard about the Swedish Guard: as an initiation rite, they are impaled upon a golden-tipped Swedish meatball spit, which they leave imbedded, poking through their caps, to show their piercing and pastoral powers of patriotism. See the photographs for clear evidence, as well as Great Aunt and Uncle looking quite well.

Lastly, a footnote to a trip Björn and I made to the Vasamuseet, the museum that houses the remarkably restored and mostly intact flagship Vasa, which, in 1628, sank soon after it was launched.

It is an awesome sight. Much carved decorative detail remains, as well, including this wonderful moment of cheek:

Here, you see carved and captive within the prison bars of the ship, the striking figure of the Polish king, enemy of the North, with a look a defeat in his eyes--but maintaining a remarkably fresh and defiant mustache. And thus a seventeenth century Polish king and his seventeenth century Polish mustache achieve a dubious kind of immortality.

Stockholm, Sweden. Monday, 17 August, 2009

Stockholm, Sweden
Monday, 17 August, 2009


I said goodbye to Western Europe (having already said goodbye to Eastern Europe from Poland) and hopped a flight to Stockholm, where I met up with Björn Sundmark, our fellow nonsense panelist in Frankfurt, the only man who manages to associate nonsense and Scandinavian furniture design, and overall indispensable nonsense nugget. Björn has been critical in setting up the various lectures and meetings in Stockholm, Copenhagen, Lund, and Malmö, and has been a stellar host. I tip my hats, my spats, and my cousin’s catarrhal cats (gingerly) in his general direction—but more on all those places to come! Stockholm, then. City of levels, of cliffs and waterways, islands and bridges. After meeting up with Björn in our hotel, we headed to the talk, which was held at the Swedish Institute of Children’s Literature. Something like the Norwegian Children’s Literature Institute in Oslo, this is the main organization in the country for such study. The academic study of children’s literature is still somewhat in its early stages in Europe (though it varies by country), and organizations like this one go a long way towards creating awareness of the field, facilities and institutions that encourage it, and scholarship worthy of the topic’s importance.

We settled into the comfy chairs in a scene that, to our delight, looked a little like a talk show. The crowd was large (especially considering many people were still on the Sacred Scandinavian Holiday), and we launched into it, after having been introduced by Jan Hansson, the Director of the Institute. At the last minute Björn had had to retool his talk to be in Swedish, which meant that he mostly had to adlib from his paper that was written in English. He did a marvelous job, but when my turn came to speak, it did not feel quite right simply to read my paper after such an easy-going, informative talk (or what seemed so, since my Swedish is limited to “tak” (thank you) and “hej” (hello)). And so, I also tried to be “off book” as much as possible, and I think with some success. This kind of more casual presentation has always been my ideal, though I’ve never had the nerve to do it for real. I also included in the presentation, for the first time, nonsensical throatsinging—a piece which I learned from Alash, the stellar Tuvan musical group, and their manager Sean Quirk, in particular. When I heard the distant Swedish mountains reverberate (and one distinctly hiccupped), I decided this was a feature that I should keep. We had some excellent discussion afterwards, and at the very end, we were presented with tokens of appreciation: not gargleberry, chuckleberry, or even Chuck Barry, but rather, cloudberry jam (which sustained me mightily in the days following in Malmö). I suppose one can’t punch every hanging chad.
















A select group of nonsense numina then headed to Wasa, a restaurant nearby, wherein there was a room, with plush chairs, bookcases, and a sepia nicotine patina, devoted entirely to smoking, though this was not so strange. What was strange was that one could neither eat there, nor, according to the explicit sign pointed out to me by Sonja, was one allowed to read any of the old books stacked neatly therein. This was indeed a restaurant I could believe in. Our group included: myself and Björn, Sonja and Conny Svensson, Christina Björk, and Davide Finco. If you have heard of any of these people it is with good reason: they are experts in what they do, whether it is scholarship or writing children’s literature.



After dinner, Björn and I were still full of adrenaline, and so we took a long, long walking tour of Stockholm by night. After many miles (for Björn can compete with Kevin any day in walking speed), we stopped off in the perfect pub (what more holy and appropriate event for such nonsense monks as we?) and toasted the successful day.

Amsterdam, Sunday 16 August, 2009, Meeting with Astrid Surmatz, Part 2

Amsterdam
Sunday 16 August, 2009
Meeting with Astrid Surmatz, Part 2

Kevin will be writing about our first meeting with Astrid Surmatz, but I’ll take some time here to talk about the second meeting, two days later. In order to explain, I must begin even further back, to the meeting we had with Wim Tigges. During that meeting, we had mentioned Doctorandus P (Drs. P), a well-known singer-songwriter who often performed silly and absurd songs. Wim thought that perhaps some of the music, or parts thereof, might fit our definition. He also was not sure whether Drs. P was still alive, because if he were, he would be quite old. We tried to find some notice of his death on the Web but could not. Kevin and I tucked all this away and were looking forward to hitting a record shop to inquire. Meanwhile, the nonsense gods (T Wang dillo dee*) continued to shine resplendent rays of runcible nonsense on our pates: it seemed that, this very Sunday, the famous and most-certainly-not-dead Drs. P would be appearing at a concert in his honor (he being 90 and too old to perform now) about two miles from the hotel! Astrid thought we might make a day of it and so invited me to her house for lunch, after which we would go to the concert. I could ask for no better plan, and walked about 20 minutes to Vondelpark, where I took the tram out to their house (alone now, because Kevin had left the day before!). At the end of the line, I found my way to their place, a lovely house filled, tip to turnspit, with books. I met her husband, Jasper van Merwijk, and of course her children, Ingrid and Ebba, whom we had met the previous meeting. We had a small feast in their back garden, as we talked more nonsense. Jasper and Astrid brought down books from their collection that they thought might be suitable, and we discussed. As Jasper is a musician, I talked to him quite a lot about the musical possibilities of nonsense, whether there can be a musical form of it (music, that is, without lyrics), and what form it might take. This is a puzzle that I have struggled with ever since having talks with Mark Sylvester, the illustrious and illusty composer for NiX, Kendra Fanconi’s play of snow and ice. As the Dramaturkey (or dramaturge, to those sensenobs out there) of that show, it was up to me to discreetly inject nonsense, which I did through various means, but in terms of the music, we went round and round without figuring out what it might sound like. It couldn’t be “experimental,” i.e., John Cage-ish, or sound poetry, or mere silliness, or something too dischordant… it has to be beautiful, and yet off-putting, paradoxical, absurd, yet melodic. That’s not asking too much, is it? I still have faith that it lies out there, waiting in the wings of Walhalla to be discovered…
Well, back to my lunch, during which time Ingrid and Ebba did some more performances, two of which you can see below:

This piece, which I believe is called “Der Trichter” or “The Funnel” (though I’m not sure!) is by Christian Morgenstern (of this I am sure). The second film is Ingrid doing it alone, and faster!






I also recorded the children doing a Pippi Longstocking song (from the ur-Pippi, the recently published manuscript that includes nonsense that the publishers and translators were not bold enough to include) and an Ernst Jandl piece, both of which I’ll have to get permission to post.

I left their house happy and stuffed with various and sundry, as we headed to the park on the tram. The concert was held on a stage surrounded by two small sets of stadium seating. We just barely found room to sit as the masses poured in. It seemed that not only Drs. P would be performing but some other group, perhaps even more popular with the young set. As I sat with Astrid, we wondered if Drs. P would really show up, and when the show started without his appearance, we began to be consigned to a P-less show.



A few minutes later, in the middle of a song, the crowed rose and everyone cheered as the Great Man, pile of white hair bouncing in the breeze, shuffled into the stands, shaking hands and signing autographs. Make sure to click on this photo to enlarge. He is in the front of the stands in the middle (with white hair)



In a mere two days, he had gone from dead to dead-ahead of me, in the other set of stands, and it was a great moment. It is not often that we are able to see in the flesh some of the nonsense figures (as I have been able to do a few times in India, thankfully, with Vinda Karandikar and Mangesh Padgavkar, in particular). Even though most of the songs were in Dutch, I could tell from the one song that they did in English that we might very well find some material here. Jasper had been kind enough to give me some Drs. P CDs, so I shall make an effort to include something in the anthology, and possibly have the music in the book’s website. After the show, we squeezed our way through the mob and went back to the café in the center of Vondelpark, where the children went off to play again as Astrid, Jasper, and I continued to have in-depth conversations about nonsense—a great pleasure. As the park was closing, I said good-bye, with many thanks for being such kind hosts, and walked back home the long way around. I said my nonsense vespers, T Wang dillo dee, and laid down my weary noodle.


*This, according to John Keats, is the “amen” of nonsense.

Anachronous Update: Malmö to Helsinki to Stockholm to Rättvik

Hello, all in the Nonsensosphere! I write to you from the future and the present. If your head is still in the timeframe of the blog, then I am a time-traveller, come back to klop kopf am vant (ask your Yiddish grandmother). If you head is in the timeframe of this current spaceship earth (as of now. I mean, now, as of now. Now. Oh, bugger.), then I shake your hand warmly (while passing you a surreptitious marble) and proceed:

I'm sorry to interrupt the flow, but I've just made my final plans for this leg of the nonsense research adventure. I'm in Malmö, Sweden presently (that is, August 26th, after having given lectures in Stockholm and Copenhagen--blogs to come!), headed for Helsinki tomorrow, where I will give a lecture at the University of Helsinki (many thanks, Sirke, Liisa, and Kaisu). I'll be in Helsinki until Sunday, when I hop on the Viking Cruise line for Stockholm. Monday morning I arrive and get on a train to Rättvik, Sweden, where I have rented a cottage for a month. Rättvik, I hear, is a lovely, distinctly Swedish town, on the shore of Lake Siljan and surrounded by forests full of bears (I'm hungry already). I'll be here on a writing retreat of sorts; many nonsensical projects are afoot, and so I shall lend ahand.

Stay tuned for Kevin's updates from the remainder of his time in Europe and my posts to catch us up to the present...

Michael Out

14 August, Leiden, The Netherlands

Leiden
Friday, 14 August, 2009, Heyman at the helm


Today was a hallmark for us, as we were to meet with one of the icons of nonsense scholarship, Wim Tigges, now an emeritus professor at Leiden University. In order to explain the significance of this meeting, let me take you back into the trysts of mime, to 1993, when I was a wee lad snibbling my way through Oxford’s M.Phil program in English Romantics, of all things (by the way, Keats was a fine writer of nonsense, for those who might look askance at the Romantics. He invented the “amen” to nonsense: “T wang dillo dee”). During my readings of Locke, Hume, Burke, Wordsworth, Godwin, and Godknows what else, I somehow came across the name of Edward Lear and the phenomenon of literary nonsense. I had read Lear as a child, but I never imagined that one might study nonsense, that one might twists one’s Romantic M.Phil dissertation to write about it, or that one might actually get a doctorate in nonsense. Such a perilous course was unfathomable, unmentionable. I tucked such ideas into a corner of my noodle and looked to the immediate task: investigate the possibility of academic study of nonsense. Of course, I thought such an endeavor was unique: that I would be the trailblazer, bushwhacking my way with a sharpened flamingo through the forests of rhetorical rhubarb, to find the Golden Nonsense Nubbin. With fissures of grandeur and trailing clods of glory, I made my way to the Bodleian Library, for to make my Mark upon the World of Scholarship, plopped myself down in front of the three (or was it four?) different catalogues (oh the wonders of the Bod!), and promptly found that, wonder of wonders, I would not be the first. In fact, nonsense scholarship had started in the nineteenth century, and slowly gained ground and followers through the twentieth. While the field was not aswim in scholarship, as so many others were, it was still an established Topic. No mater, I thought, as I wiped off the figurative academic shaving-cream-pie-to-the-face, and promptly went on with the unmentionable course I mentioned above. My first real look at scholarship, then, came in the form of Wim Tigges’ seminal book An Anatomy of Nonsense, which defines the genre so sharply and so cogently, that I fell in love with it and decided to devote myself to it. That was sixteen years ago, and as you all know, I am as ever on the same swath of swag. I had limped my way into Romantics because, in the application process to Oxford I was forced to pick a time period, but now I had found my calling, an area of study that was both rigorous, hilarious, and, at least it seemed to me, two fingers up the snout of Academia. I went on to read many books of nonsense theory and criticism, but I always came back to Tigges, to his careful study that is indeed an anatomy, a careful dissection of a genre that desperately needed it, and an argument for its importance in literature, and indeed, life. You could say that I was a strict Tiggesian for some time, and while I’ve backed off somewhat from his hardline (something he, himself has also done, by the way), I still consider myself nestled against his theoretical bosom.

So! Enough background! Kevin and I found ourselves on our way to meet Wim Tigges, at his office in Leiden, a university town not too far outside Amsterdam. We took the train out there, had a quick breakfast, and proceeded to his office. We thought that he might be 9 feet tall, 90 pounds, and have 9-foot wild hair blowing in every 9th breeze, but he in fact turned out to be, well, quite like us: a fellow nonsense noodle. He graciously brought tea, sat down, and proceeded to tell us much about Dutch nonsense and to show us the many Dutch anthologies of nonsense.













I don’t think that in all our travels we have seen such a keen awareness of nonsense as here in The Netherlands. Poland, the Czech Republic, Norway, these and other countries did indeed have rich traditions, and keen awareness, yet to have so many anthologies, going back to the 1950s, shows an exceptional understanding and appreciation of the genre.

After much discussion, we went to the university canteen for lunch and then on a short tour of the town, with Wim as our guide. It is a city of canals, bridges, cobbles, and bikes all running through the narrow lanes of the old town.



We climbed the earthen mount and took in the cityscape, then hit some of the bookstores, where I bagged a copy of his very own translation of Edward Lear, whose title needs no translation: Babbels en crabbels van Edward Lear.




We went back to his office, where we had more tea and nonsense discussion on such topics such as the nature of Dutch nonsense and the potential aesthetic and political motivation behind it. He was incredibly generous not only in his offer to help us in various ways with the anthology, but also in giving us multiple copies of both of his nonsense books (the other being Explorations in the Field of Nonsense, an excellent collection of scholarly essays). These books are extremely hard to come by, and we will be distributing them to nonsense scholars around the world hungry for his work.

Lastly, as if he had not done enough for us already, we asked him if he might record some Dutch nursery rhymes. He was only too happy to do so. The first is a choosing rhyme and the second a song that is almost entirely Dutch gibberish—yet a piece that almost all Dutch people grow up knowing.




We left his office in a state of giddiness, bags full of books and photocopies of nonsense texts, had a celebratory beer by a canal (where we were not the only people in such a jubilant mood apparently),



and we made our way back to Amsterdam. As Lewis Carroll would say, it was a white stone day.


PS. I could tell you how to pronounce his name, but I would have to kill you. Hint: you'll find the answer somewhere in this blog entry.

11 August, Frankfurt, IRSCL Congress, Part 2

11 August, 2009
Frankfurt, IRSCL Congress
Part 2, Heyman, DDS


Kevin will be giving you the full details of our spectacular international nonsense panel at the IRSCL congress (click here for a gallery), so I will delight you with a few Frankfurt fits. First on our tour of fits is a tour I was not able to take. I had signed up for the Struwwelpeter Tour of Frankfurt, it being a Heinrich Hoffmann anniversary, but there were apparently not enough cool people at the Congress to fill up the trip, which was canceled. Here is a little taste of Our Hero, in old and some new incarnations.



Over the years, Hoffmann has sometimes been mentioned in the same breath with nonsense and Edward Lear in particular, but, even though his work and Lear’s may both exhibit an impatience with the typical didactic, preachy, and boring eighteenth century children’s books, Hoffmann is not writing nonsense. There are many ways to skin an evangelical, apparently.

The next character we encountered was lurking about the Caricature Museum. He thought he might blend into the shadows with his trench coat, but luckily we had set up a moose hunter's blind nearby, from which we were able to spring out, shine the spotlight on him, and snap these shots.













































Kevin and I had wanted to call a special nonsense meeting while in Frankfurt, but we had trouble finding a suitable venue. If we had only known, we could have met here, a stone’s throw away from our hotel (click to enlarge).

Getting to Frankfurt the hard way... 7 August, 2009

Oslo – The Train Incident
Friday 7 August, 2009
Heyman



The above view of the city of Oslo was something we saw one too many times, as you shall see. Our last day in Oslo meant little more than going to the train station, catching the train to the airport, and sloping off towards Frankfurt for the IRSCL conference. But such simplicity often belies the prevalence of gremlins in the grill, of goblins in the upholstery, and gnomes in the gnapestry. We took the bus down to the center of town, where we figured we had just enough time to split up, go to the book stores, and look for some folk nonsense. After a quick search, we came up with nothing and headed to the rail station. At the ticket counter, I asked the young lady about the slow train to the airport, specifically saying I did not want the express (and priced double) airport express. She helpfully told us to take the train Lillehammer and gave us the track number and time. At the track, we watched as several express trains went off to the airport, but we were saving some money and waited patiently on the same platform, where the slow train (only about 10 minutes slower, really) would arrive. It did, and we were soon speeding off in Norwegian rail efficiency, past the seaside on the south side of Oslo, through the docks and by the neat, black-tiled roof houses. I sat looking out the window, in a vague haze, while Kevin began to sweat. He mentioned that he didn’t remember this scenery when we came in on the train, but then we figured that there might be multiple routes that went by the airport. We sat for a while, watching the scudding froth scud merrily (if scudding can be done in such a manner). At one point I got up to look at the stop, just to make sure we were not there. After about 15 or 20 minutes, Kevin could stew no more and asked a gentleman if we were on the way to the airport. The gentleman’s eyes bugged punctuation to his immediate “I’m afraid not.” Apparently, we had been heading in the exact opposite direction of the airport, towards Strömstad. And with a quick look at the map now, I can see that we were also not headed toward Lillehammer, and yet we were both in agreement on the track the ticket woman had told us. Where would we have ended up? Only the gremlins, goblins and gnomes know, but now with very little time, we were much farther away from the airport than when we had started. The kind gentleman was getting off at the next stop, and he walked with us off the train, to the platform, and checked timings. Another train would be coming in 15 minutes, so, after bidding farewell and thanks to our friend, Kevin and I plopped ourselves down on the bench, contemplating the fact that we were now quite unlikely to make our flight. Still, if we caught the next train and then an express, there might be a chance. The sun beat down. I pulled out my safari hat, consigned to the fate of the trains and the misery of the world. Kevin, however, was consigned to neither, and he went to check on the price of a cab. After a little haggling, Kevin got the cab driver to agree to a fee that would buy him not four platinum hubcaps for his cab, but certainly two, and as Kevin and I had both been platinum miners in our prodigal youth, we decided to cab it—an option, by the way, that we were not sure would get us there any quicker. At this point, though, having already spent a fortune on our stay in Oslo, we were fiscally numb, and so there we were, speeding down the highway, praying that we might just make our plane. Our driver was from Djibouti, and he had the habit of talking to us partly in Norwegian. He was jolly enough, but didn’t seem quite to know the way to the airport. After a wrong turn or two, some traffic, flow-impeding speeding cameras, and about 40 minutes, we arrived—and, yes, dear concerned reader, we just made our plane, with about 10 minutes to spare. The day was saved, and we were on our way to becoming Frankfurters.