Ken's Blog

The other day I mentioned Vigeland Park, which is filled with the magnificent sculptures of Gustav Vigeland, and is quite rightly one of the most celebrated works of public art in the world.

The park gives us back a vision of ourselves as noble, larger than life. To walk among its 212 sculptures is to see intimate details within the connections between people – the bond between father and son, husband and wife, two old friends, each moment magnified and honored, celebrating what is best in the human spirit. Not surprisingly, the park is highly visited and is hugely popular among tourists.

But there are many ways to measure the impact of a work of art. The work of Gustav Vigeland is powerful, yet it doesn’t challenge us on a deep level. On the other hand, seeing the work of Gustav’s lesser known brother Emanuel might shake you to the very core of your being.

Quite off the beaten track, outside of the center of Oslo, is a windowless building. It is open only on Sundays, and then only for a few hours. You enter this building in silence through a low doorway, and emerge into a dimly lit space. Gradually your eyes become accustomed to the dark.

You start to see that every surface of the vaulting walls and ceiling is covered by paintings of human figures. But these figures are engaged not in the friendly intimacy of conversation, but rather in all that is powerful and mythic in the human experience – birth, sex, death, all of those aspects of existence that Western religions try to euphemize and defang, here exposed and magnified in all their wildly savage glory.

On one section of wall you see women giving birth, their heads flung back in ecstacy, or holding their newborns aloft in triumph while standing on the gathered bones of previous generations long dead. From another wall emerges the naked bodies of men and women gloriously intertwined in riotous orgies of passionate sex. Further down the wall from these roiling images of life and flesh, half-hidden in the darkness, your eyes eventually find the skeletal figures of the dead, those who long ago had their moment of passion, and must now return to dust.

This work is no affirmation of the individual, but is rather a fierce primal cry of the collected human rush be be born, to procreate, to die and make way for successive waves of onrushing humanity. It is as though you have entered the fevered brain of William Blake, only it has been expanded out all around you, so that you find yourself completely enveloped.

And because this takes place in a darkened room, you do not see these visions all at once. Parts of the wild and magnificent tableau emerge piecemeal, entire sections of a vast and primal story taking shape only after you have been in the dimly lit space for a long time.

The acoustics of the room are such that you need to be absolutely quiet. Any sound, even a scrape or a cough, is magnified many times, ricocheting and reverberating around the room with deafening loudness. And so visitors walk about the space in silent wonder, casting each other looks of astonished revelation as their mind registers some new piece of the vast puzzle.

Emanuel Vigeland’s ashes lie in an urn above the entrance. His greatest work became also his mausoleum, and this is somehow fitting. He does not get many visitors – on a particularly busy day there may be eight or so people at most, wandering silently, at any one time. I was told by the friends who brought me there that at times you might find yourself completely alone in the space.

It is strange how two brothers can be so alike and yet so utterly different. The work of Gustav Vigeland is by far the more widely known – it is public to the point of being iconic. In contract, the work of Emanuel is a dark and secret masterpiece, a brazen outsider challenge to our conventional pieties, hidden away almost to the point of invisibility.

Both are unquestionably works of genius, but only one will rip at your soul, take you out of your daily existence, force you to think about difficult questions that lie beneath the surface of your life. And that is the work that will stay with you.

It is fun learning about Oslo in the company of vegans. My friends who live here are also learning at the same time; they are relatively new here in Norway, and for them this is also a time of exploration. I guess this is true of any cultural minority in a new place, be they Jews in Oahu, Muslims in Sao Paulo or Chinese in Ottawa. You gradually learn about shops and restaurants, where to find ingredients, you run into people at these places and slowly become connected to a local network of like-minded souls.

My Oslo friends generally cook at home. Earlier this week they made one of the best pizzas I have ever tasted in my life – and I say this as someone who spent quite a few years as a pizza-worshipping omnivore. But this evening, in the spirit of exploration, they followed the advice of HappyCow.net and we tried out a Lebanese restaurant they had never been to. When my friends asked the nice young waiter whether the kitchen could make something vegan, he said that it was not a problem at all, and that he would come back and show us what they had.

After a while we started to notice that he hadn’t brought any menus, and we thought our waiter had forgotten about us. But we realized that he had meant what he had said quite literally – when the dishes started coming out: Dozens of small bowls, each with something different – breaded olives and vegetables and potatoes and varieties of beans and delicate little fried felafel cakes, an enormous variety of tasty treats arrayed across our table. The sheer variation in tastes and aromas and textures was a complete delight. It took us a while, but we quite happily ate it all.

That was when, in a moment of inspiration, I referred to my friends as “Norvegans”. They seemed quite pleased with the word – or they may just share my taste in bad puns. The evening was a success all around: My friends in Oslo now have a new restaurant to frequent, I have a memory of a great meal, and this blog post gets to have a really, really cool title.

I live down the block from the King. Quite literally. If I walk out of my hotel, turn right, and walk a little more than one block, I arrive at the elegant and spacious home of King Harald V of Norway and his lovely bride Queen Sonja. I say “spacious” because their house has 117 rooms – definitely a step up from my apartment back in Manhattan.

You can walk around the palace grounds anytime you want, or hang out all day and feed the ducks in the duck pond out back. The palace itself is a grand and lovely nineteenth century residence, the kind that makes you think of swirling waltzes and young ladies in elegant gowns asking dashing officers over for tea.

My friends who live here tell me that you can from time to time see the King and his family coming and going, or just waving cheerfully from the balcony to their adoring subjects.

The King has no real power here. Officially he appoints the government, but the only government he’s allowed to appoint is the one supported by Parliament. He appoints the head of Parliament, but the only person he’s only allowed to choose is the leader of the majority party. It seems that the King’s function is basically to stand out on the balcony every day and command the Sun to rise. But people seem to really like him, maybe for that very reason.

Harald has had an interesting life. He narrowly escaped from the Nazis as a child. As a young man he insisted on marrying his sweetheart Sonja, telling his dad that if he couldn’t have her, he’d remain single all his life. This would have ended the monarchy, which stretches back about 900 years in an unbroken line of succession to Harald’s great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great granddad Egilmar I.

Sonja, by the way, is the only queen in history who has ever been to Antarctica, which continues our theme from yesterday of polar exploring Norwegians.

It seems to me that we have it exactly backwards in the United States. Our head of state is a boorish chief executive in a business suit with entirely too much power, whose own people are so annoyed with him that he needs to be guarded from them at all times. When was the last time anybody let you just stroll around the grounds of the White House and feed the ducks?

Give me a head of state who never wages war, wears a dashing uniform with a bright red sash and epaulets, throws grand teas with his arctic exploring childhood sweetheart by his side, and each morning, with all the pomp and majesty of his august office, commands the Sun to rise.

Today I rented bikes and traveled around Oslo with my friends, seeing great museums. I say “bikes” instead of “bike” because they have a wonderful system here: You walk up to a rack of interchangable bicycles, swipe a pre-paid card, and a particular bicycle is unlocked. They have these racks around the city, and you can return your bike to any one of them. At each stop along our tour, I would return the bike I had, and then afterward grab another one to go to the next place.

All the bikes were almost the same – but not quite. You quickly notice subtle differences in the gear shift, how well the brakes work, how inflated the tires are. It’s as though, as the day goes on, your bike is continuously morphing beneath you in subtle ways.

This turned out to be a theme for the day. We visited the Kon-Tiki Museum, dedicated to the series of heroic voyages across the oceans by the great Norwegian scientist Thor Heyerdahl, who has always been a personal hero of mine. By traversing vast distances in the Pacific and the Atlantic oceans in boats constructed from materials and methods available to the ancient Egyptians, Heyerdahl had shown that “primitive” peoples were quite capable of sailing across the oceans – and therefore spreading culture between continents.

The entire museum is built around a magnificent exhibit of Heyerdahl’s famous ocean-crossing raft the Kon-Tiki. Except that the Kon-Tiki had been dashed against rocks and broken up into pieces at the end of its historic 1947 voyage. So what we were seeing was the Kon-Tiki but not the Kon-Tiki. Kind of a quasi-Kon-Tiki.

The same thing happened in the next museum we visited – the Fram Museum. The museum building itself was literally built around the great ship the Fram that Amundsen had used to first reach the South Pole. Except that when you go there you learn that there was more than one Fram. A succession of explorers had traveled to far arctic and antarctic regions in the Fram from the late nineteenth through the early twentieth centuries, and each time the crew, the route, and the Fram itself were different. So what were seeing in that museum was just a particular version, one of a series.

Imagine if everything worked this way. You come home after a hard day at the office, and you have almost the same furniture, but not quite. That chair had a slightly different cushion, the floor tiles are rotated the other way, the coffee maker had the little knob on the other side. These bicycles and museums had some of that quality. It’s as if the Universe is slightly shifting all the time. There is a thing you can identify, with a name, but it’s not necessarily the same thing.

Imagine if every time you came home from work you had a slightly different family, a different husband or wife. Not radically different, just little things. Slightly different height, different way of thinking. Likes chocolate or doesn’t, snores differently, has that funny little scar on the other shoulder. Today likes your friend who talks too loud, instead of that other one with the red hair.

In other words, they generally manage to provide you with nearly the same model every day, the same kids or husband or wife. But sometimes they get it wrong, because this or that feature was out of stock for the week. So you get the nearest substitute available, hopefully a close match.

Would you notice?

Oslo is further north than anywhere I have ever been. Quite a contrast from the feeling in Paris, where it is hard to believe I woke up just this morning. Today my friend Manuela took me to Vigeland State Park to see the sculptures by Gustav Vigeland. It is one of the world’s great wonders – hundreds of sculptures of men, women and children, powerful, personal and utterly unsentimental – all aspects of the human condition in all its subtle beauty and dignity, naked and up close.

As the day goes on here, evening slowly falls, but it never does become night; the Norwegian sky never actually goes completely dark this time of year. Wandering around at 11:30pm with my friends, I find the party hasn’t even really begun yet in this town. People are just starting to pour out into the streets, and the music is only beginning to play.

It seems I got here just in time. At midnight begins the longest day of the year in Norway. And that is saying a lot, considering just how long the days can get. They mark the summer solstice here with all-day celebrations, and outside now I can hear things starting to heat up as the longest day begins.

I’m looking forward to it.

It is not often that I get a chance to really appreciate the beauty of another language at work. Last night, while I was having dinner in a Paris restaurant with my friend Henri, I noticed the headline on his newspaper:

L’ascension de Jean Sarkozy, simple comme un coup de fils

I realized that it had something to do with election to political office of the President’s son, which I had heard about, but there seemed to be something more going on. Henri explained that it was a clever pun that was quite specific to the French language.

First you need to know that Jean Sarkozy, at the tender age of 21, was recently elected to the office of Regional Manager in the very city where his father had once upon a time been Mayor – and had thereby begun his own gradual ascent to the Presidency of France.

In the wake of this surprising electoral victory, there have been dark murmurings of behind-the-scenes political influence, of presidential meddling in a local election. The headline neatly captured this mood. Taken literally, it reads:

The ascension of Jean Sarkozy, simple as a victory of a son.

But the phrase “coup de fils” – taking the word “fils” to mean “lines” (as in telephone lines) – is a also an idiom that means “phone call”. So the headline can also be read:

The ascension of Jean Sarkozy, simple as a phone call.

Isn’t that beautiful? Sigh.

Can anyone think of any puns in English that rise to this level of inspired wit?

The fourteenth amendment to the U.S. Constitution was ratified in 1868. Here is the exact wording of the first section of that amendment:

All persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the State wherein they reside. No State shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any State deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.

On June 18, 1873 – exactly 135 years ago today – Susan B. Anthony was fined $100 for attempting to vote in the 1872 presidential election. Her defense was that she was protected under the fourteenth amendment of the Constitution (what do you think?). She lost the case, but there was a silver lining: The judgement against her had roughly the same positive effect that being banned by the Pope had on the films of Monty Python. That court case may well have been the definitive turning point in the struggle for the right of U.S. women to vote.

On June 18, 1928 – exactly 80 years ago today – Amelia Earhart became the first woman to cross the Atlantic Ocean by air. And of course four years later she made history by flying across the Atlantic solo.

On June 18, 1983 – exactly 25 years ago today – Sally Ride became the first American woman to travel into outer space.

June 18 seems to be a very auspicious day for crossing oceans, don’t you think?

Took a lovely train ride from Amsterdam today, straight through Brussels and on to Paris. Then met up in the evening with some friends on Rue Bourg Tibourg near the Hotel de Ville for good wine and conversation. We were all, coincidentally, passing through Paris for perhaps a day or two. Inevitably the subject turned to the traditional swapping of outrageous travel stories. Mine was about my old friend and colleague Ken Musgrave, one of my favorite people.

Some years ago I helped arrange for some colleagues in Rio to invite Ken down to speak at a conference there. I, unfortunately, had to bow out due to a schedule conflict, but I assured his hosts that not only was Ken awesomely brilliant (his computer generated fractal landscapes are incomparably beautiful), but that he was also singularly entertaining and great fun to have around.

The moment Ken got to Rio he proceeded to prove me correct in a big way. He quickly discovered the Brazillian drink cachaça. Cachaça is to Brazil and sugar cane what tequilla is to Mexico and cactus. There are literally hundreds of varieties, both high quality and not. Most of them not.

Ken apparently conducted nightly marathon tours of the bars of Rio, in search of the perfect cachaça, with delighted and progressively more stewed colleagues in tow. I heard afterward that these nights would end only when – well actually, nobody could seem to remember exactly when or how they ended.

Some people can blend in when they go to Rio, but Ken is not one of those people. He is a big bear of a guy who has clearly had Viking ancestors somewhere in his family tree. When he gets some sun, his face doesn’t so much tan as turn a bright cheery red, as though he’s been spending the day blowing up party balloons. With his mane and beard of fiery red hair and his penchant for festive Hawaiian shirts, Ken is the very antithesis of “blending in”.

Which goes some way to explain his favorite moment of that week down in Rio, which I relate here pretty much as Ken told it to me.

Copacabana Beach is connected to the Rio Sul shopping center by a long tunnel. Almost the entire width of this tunnel is devoted to automobile traffic, but around each of the two sides there is just enough room for one narrow lane of pedestrian traffic.

The way Ken told it, he was making his way through the tunnel, ambling obliviously along the narrow pedestrian walkway on his way from beach to shopping mall, when he suddenly saw a lovely young Brazillian girl, perhaps around seventeen, with flashing black eyes, long flowing dark hair, and gently swaying hips, coming toward him from the other direction. She was looking right into his eyes, and as they got closer he found himself mesmerized, drowning in her beautiful dark gaze.

As she passed, he turned sideways and leaned back against the tunnel wall to give her room to get by. According to Ken, the girl then turned so that she was facing away from him, and firmly pressed her body back against his, while each of her hands grabbed one of his wrists and held them against the tunnel wall. As he stood there, transfixed, an entire swarm emerged – seemingly out of nowhere – of teenage girls, who proceeded to run their hands through his pockets, lifting anything they could find. Before he knew it, they had all run off, taking with them the equivalent of $35 U.S. in Brazillian real currency that he’d been carrying in his pockets.

The way Ken tells it, he spent much of the rest of the week walking up and down that tunnel, another $35 worth of reais in his pocket. But sadly, he told me, they never came back.

It’s hard to think of monster movies in the last several decades without the towering influence of Stan Winston, who has just passed away after a long illness. And it is inspiring to think that a single individual created so much movie magic. Aliens, Predator, Edward Scissorhands, Jurassic Park, The Terminator, these are names that conjure a very specific kind of vision. And the link between them, whether Burton or Cameron or Spielberg was at the helm, was Stan Winston.

We have now decisively entered a digital age of perpetual visual one-upmanship, where computer graphic effects allow our movie monsters to break free of all laws of physics, from slinking Gollums to swinging Spidermen to bounding Hulks. It’s all very impressive, yet somehow, on a subliminal level, we know that the creatures we see before us are merely things of light and shadow.

Winston’s creatures were different. He was the final hold-out, Hollywood’s last bridge to an older world, to King Kong and the films of Ray Harryhausen. Winston’s creatures have an old fashioned physicality to them, a pre-digital specificity that gets under your skin. For all their dark gleam, they share a quality that is, in its way, almost Victorian.

As odd as it seems, we are drawn to Burton’s Edward Scissorhands, Cameron’s Alien, and Spielberg’s Tyrannosaurus Rex in similar ways. There is a reason great directors have sought him out for film after film. All of his creatures share an existential burden, which on some level we recognize, and which is missing from even the most skillfully rendered of digital beings. His creatures, finding themselves in a world of uncomprehending humans, seem simultaneously lovely and monstrous, awkwardly physical. This feeling is familiar because it is the way we all felt as small children, exhilarated yet embarrassed to find ourselves inhabiting these strange bodies.

Winston’s creations, even his fiercest monsters, consistently convey an undertone of vulnerable awkwardness. We care about them because we are able to see the world through their eyes. They are not merely the Other, the thing lurking in the closet or hiding under the bed. They are also, somehow, us.

There’s an old saying that the difference between an American and a European is that a European thinks that 100 miles is a long distance, whereas an American thinks that 100 years is a long time. Today, in a conversation with some fellow Americans all finding ourselves temporarily on the other side of the Atlantic, the topic turned to differences in how time is viewed between the U.S. and Europe.

I told of the time I had gone to a conference at the in Chateau de Bloire, and was invited to dinner at the nearby chateau of a colleague (people seem to live in old castles in Europe a lot more than they do in the U.S. – maybe because we don’t have any). The thing that impressed me the most was the big barn/stables out back. The oldest part of the estate, the barn had been standing for about 800 years. The walls between the giant beams holding it up were made of a kind of mixture of caked mud and straw. My host pointed to a place where, before the mud was completely set, teenagers had carved their names and whatnot, and I realized that I was looking at 800 year old graffiti. As a native New Yorker, who thinks of “old graffiti” as something measured in mere decades, I felt a kind of awe.

The conversation drifted, naturally enough, onto the topic of giant beams. My friend Michael Gleicher told a wonderful anecdote about a college in Cambridge University – perhaps it was King’s College – where one of the old houses was held up by a single massive wooden beam, supported by smaller beams. It seems that after seven hundred years of faithful service the great beam was finally starting to rot out. Those responsible at the college realized it would need to be replaced in a few years time, lest the building itself eventually collapse.

But there was a problem: The house had been built back in a time when England was still verdant and covered with magnificent forests, and a tree from which to carve such a beam had been easy to find. Now, of course, things were very different. So the way Michael had heard it, the Cambridge dons turned for advice to the British Forestry Commission. The foresters told them “Your tree is ready.”

It seems that seven hundred years earlier, somebody had realized that this day would come. In preparation, a tree had been planted.