Christian Alexandrov: June 2011

Who the hell is Johannes Vermeer?

Mefisto - angel, necromancer and volunteer

Anonymous, incognito, with mask. behind a wall

The ballad of the lonesome goat

Come get me off the merry-go-round

The divine Bella Capricia is now gone! She is lost forever!

This story is both prosaic and highly moving, what makes it so irresistible
is just the main character - Bella Capricia Transparanta, the immortal Bella Capricia.
They call her "the rose of the sunrise", "the mystical emerald", "the golden Celtic
chariot "- all nicknames won because of her astonishing soprano.

English speakers use the unequivocal word "to dwarf", when comparing Capricia to Callas.
And they call her "divine", which has two meanings.

People called her "divine" because of her superiority over others,

she was like a daughter of the gods; but also "heavenly divine",

because of some rather "alien qualities" and inhuman nature,

which she had in herself.

The whole enigma of this opera monster remained a mystery throughout her life,

largely due to a strange approach when communicating with others -

it was either consciously or instinctively created, or it was a mere haphazard.

In her interviews and casual conversations, she selected words that seemingly downplayed
the meaning behind the sentences and because of this, people quickly forgot them,
despite the strict logic of her mind.
At other times she used simple, slightly outdated forms of speech, expressing her thoughts precisely and accurately.

Her personality was too controversial - she was icy, but passionate woman,

radiating wildness, combined with almost obvious ignorance.

Her black shiny hair contrasted with her smooth white skin, just like a milk drinking raven.
Bella`s silhouette was rounded, but graceful,

with titanic breasts rising like two buoys in stormy waters.

Her demise was as tragic, as it was farcical.
In the culture circles all whispered her name as if she were an ancient idol,

bitter grief of loss was mixed with unspeakable awe.

The circumstances surrounding her death then clarified, and euphemisms such as

"accident" and "adversity" gave way to the right words.

The day after her death, an article came out, which falsely claimed,

that Bella Capricia had died "after her square agate gemstone ring got caught

in a factory conveyor machine."

Roger (or Roger pronounced in French) Fabien was ardent devotee of Bella Capricia,

who sacrificed all his life and personal interests, just to give her all

and to become her shadow and confidant.
His name is obviously an alias, his origin is unidentified, but one thing is certain -

he was born in Saint Petersburg.
Roger and Bella Capricia were very close friends and their relationship was highly spiritual,
but having strange erotic manifestations, that confused people that they are lovers.
The two of them were inseparable, and apparently their union could be defined

with only one word ... complicity.

Roger accompanied her on her tours of the most glamorous and prestigious European scenes.
He watched her in awe and admiration from the most luxurious seats in the opera houses

amidst echoing applause and rainfalls of flowers.

Roger (or Roger pronounced in French) striked as a very stingy man,

although living in extravagant hotel suites and making very good earns from gambling.

The circumstances surrounding the death of the great soprano are ... too horrible.
The awkward truth is that Bella Capricia did not die in a factory for underwear packaging,

as said the early reports, but she slipped and fell under the blades of a running machine

in a slaughterhouse for cattle.
Roger Fabien remained stubbornly silent on this issue, but soon a quite striking fact

became evident - her manic attraction to blood.

Of course, there was nothing monstrous or demonic in this, it was well known

that she repeatedly visited slaughterhouses, because she drew great inspiration from the scarlet jets, she could not find anywhere else.
The red plasma contemplation, the so-called "water of the sword" (and of the butcher machines)
transformed her voice fabulously, and if normally she was just a great singer,
the subsequent ecstasy gave her vibrato and the upper octaves such touching tenderness,
that compares to nothing, and the resulting trance as if made the

audience spread white wings and soar in the sky.

Thus her rich and magical voice became a revelation of the beginning and the end,

like it was separating darkness from light, or naming the nameless and creating miracles.

After her tragic end, Roger (or Roger in French) secluded himself in his temporary dwellings

and often watched archival footage of her performances.

For some unknown reason he ordered the manufacture of a huge bronze boar

and entrusted some skillful Parisian founders with the difficult task.
There are two interpratations of this mysterious act - either he wanted the wild animal

to remind him of the expansive and fiery temper of his beloved Bella

or he saw it as a symbol of the slaughtered animals, which immortalized her unique voice.

Roger changed his quarters often, but kept hauling the boar with him.
This is almost inexplicable, given its terrible weight.
According to his neighbors in the most prestigious hotels, the boar sang at night,

mostly during full moon, with the voice of the immortal idol,

the miracle Bella Capricia Transparanta.

Resemblance to any actual persons and events is purely coincidental.

A man with ice cream cone

True north

Ivan the Terrible and his son Ivan Ivanovich, 15 Nov, 1581

Sheriff`s delirium

Disturbing landscapes in Transylvania

The bad day of Lars Borg

Certain messages and ideas are hardly usable without their formal shell. Except for the people who create them. What is the meaning of a black face with gaping mouth, a crying silhouette, viewed in profile? Inevitable and irreversible consequence? What could foretell this ambigious image?

One can immediately spot the contrast with the bright, pearl background that emphasizes the curves of the forehead, nose, chin and the squinted eyes.

The more abstract the ideas, the more vague is their relation towards certain setup of thoughts, feelings and debates, and they are easily forgotten. An idea could be unforgettable only when it summarizes; when offers a synoptic viewpoint and - as strange as it may sound concerning the modern man - when it is poignant.

On the other hand, the words, which contain a thought or a given postulate and their "direction", have clear impact on all, i.e. on both sides in any single combat . A well known fact.

Lars Borg, a lawyer-trainee from Stockholm had a very bad day. "I have a bad day" does not describe in the least the situation and does not have much to do with the inner turmoil that shook the young man.

The bluish clouds spread over Ostermalm, flocks of cormorants flew over the building rooftops and Lars walked to the local museum, hoping he had found refuge.

On display was an exhibition by Irish artist from Dublin, F.B.

Lars was struck aback. To his great regret the paintings in the museum had nothing to do with the charm of their reproductions, which he contemplated half his life. As if in the museum there had been a fire incident and firefighters washed away the contents of the works along with the soot. The shock was so strong that he felt cheated and robbed, then frustration prevailed and made him call himself a liar and a fraud. He was ashamed to be in this place in the early hours of the morning and for a moment honestly thought that the hanging paintings of the exhibition were delightful parody of inspired images, so empowering and comforting in his dull days.

"Comfort" is a strange word, because most paintings depicted characters with suicidal inclinations, sitting in closed dwellings. The painter`s idea, however, did not matter to him. Lars worshiped the pure, snobbish esotericism and was comforted by it; he enjoyed the torn flesh of the suffering, and reveled in the familiar details of interiors - the stage of the most important and fateful happenings, where you remove your makeup and become what you really are.

He wandered in the halls half-asleep. Lars trembled and often touched the paintings, hoping that they will come to life and be like his visions, but the images remained impersonal sham. The pictures shocked him with their faceless nature, if I may say so; the means of expression and even the ideas played with words, rather than the image itself.

Lars was disgusted and felt he had embraced a false idol (the ridiculous representation of the ancient Greek Furies was the last straw). He was shocked by a striking pretence, devoid from that mischievous spark he saw before.

Lars withdrew into a corner, breathing fast, and was able to formulate the impact of the work - not only on himself, but on the whole universe, because the perception of one man is like the eyes of many galaxies. He called the pictures "cardboard models of barns, scalded by the teapot water of aunt Astrid". While he scratched a purple pope on the nose, cursing the Dubliner and his own aunt, two employees helpfully directed him toward the exit.

Outside, he remembered the story of his late idol (late both literally and figuratively) and realized why during his long stay in Rome, F. B. did not visit Doria Pamphilii Gallery, to see Pope Innocent X, the greatest portrait of the 17th century, which he adored and recreated again and again in dozens of paintings. The truth is, he was aware of his impotence - just like in the story of two great bards, who were getting ready for a duel and as the first one rose abruptly, the second bard sat down. End of story.

The worst was already past, but the intangible destruction was followed by a real meeting with the boss, whom Lars pleased to visit right after lunch. They had to discuss large order for corporate clients, which was already delayed. Before entering the building, Lars stumbled on some cables, staggered and hugged a gray concrete pillar - obviously an electric power pole. In the foreground, just like in a haze, emerged a black face in profile; the freshly excavated street seemed to widen and the blue light from above doubled up. Around him workers with yellow helmets changed old, rusty pipes. For a moment the whole horizon was visible for Lars. He saw the buildings, their entrances, revolving doors, pavements, trees, benches, grass, curbs, windows, railings,

satellite dishes ... His eyes caught every detail, there was nothing hidden. Only in front of the office windows was flapping white pleated fabric - just like in the works of that... "valiant little tailor" Christo.

While climbing the spiral staircase, Lars was humming "Hit the road, Jack", with the intention to exchange a few words with the boss Larsson and quickly leave. Unfortunately, once up he was annoyed with the long nose of Mr. L., his perverse manicure, and his collection of very expensive pens - as if they scratched the void and punished it by his very own order. Lars took a pen ("exhibit A" as he called it with a tasteless humor) and vividly imagined piercing Larsson below the right ear - to the left of the mastoid nub (processus mamillaris) of the skull lies the only direct access to the brain, not counting the holes in the optic nerve that runs behind the eye. Lars shivered from the terrible thought that he could stick a pen in Larsson`s eye and so disfigure it - these glass spheres, resembling paperweights with tiny hail storms inside, are a passage to another world. They decorate the head miraculously, and his innate sense of aesthetics completely vetoed such vandalism.

Well, yes, but one thing is to talk about this decision (in which death inevitably follows), quite another to do it. It is quite preposterous, that the courts and criminal records represent murderers as frustrated and contradictory people with tormented childhood and all such sorts of nonsense. Many looters and killers, however, recognize that this is their only career ambition and they follow it with joy. A moment before the killing, Lars realized that murderers are extremely harmonious natures and that - like the predatory hawk - they will always prevail. For them there is no doubt, nor hesitation, if something is bound to happen, it would be as certain as the past.

The facade of the opposite building seemed to get closer to the windows of the already darkened office. Lars shook his weapon, mentally fixed the four corners of the room and the position of the enemy. At that moment he heard some cries and lamentations from the street. The electric power pole in front of the building shook and broke the window of the office with a thunderous strike . The concrete pillar shattered the occipital bone of Larsson and threw his lifeless body in the arms of Lars.

Rise and shine in a masculine way

Brief stop while escaping the flooded restaurant with the stolen urinal

The first published portrait of dr. Frankenstein (Zurich,1832 )

Gravity

The dead poet

The art of aerial navigation

Stay strong against Grim Flamingo

"This is part of the Grim Flamingo saga. I came across a text in "New Yorker" magazine;
it was about the notorious killer, Perry Smith, the "short-legged".
He recounts in detail a story about a strange yellow bird, which always comes to help him in difficult times and saves him from his feverish raving and woeful lot.
I immediately thought of another bird - its exact opposite - Grim Flamingo.
In his youth, he looks almost like the yellow bird, but after he gains strenght and grows feathers, he develops an intolerable and evil temper.
Grim Flamingo is like a black hole, like a crooked mirror.
His essence is immaterial, so he cannot be defeated."

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