Calliope Returns with ... On The Train

After neglecting my blog, and the few people who may stumble upon it and read it, I realised that I should return to my corner and once more try to pass myself off as innovative and creative. With this in mind here are some shots I took (funnily enough) On The Train - I think some of them turned out rather nicely...

The light and movement added a lovely, spectral quality to the station.

Following this I was blessed with a gorgeous sunset that made for some really haunting photos (these photos were not taken in, or changed to, sepia): -

The rays of light look like they've leaked out of Heaven.

I love the dark, smudged-looking streaks in the sky in this one.

The inky trees' silhouettes are attractively sinister. 

The really soft exposure makes this one look like a memory.

The Burning Bush...

I like the snail trails of clouds beneath the sun.

Well there's one way to entertain yourself on the 2 1/2 hour journey to Newcastle!

What the Jazz?

Here some wicked music for anyone else interested in jazz to have a listen to - in fact even if you think you hate jazz you should listen, and go on, I dare you to enjoy it...

Clare Teal's big band rendition of her own Messin' With Fire:

John Coltrane's awesome take on Rodgers and Hammestein's My Favourite Things:

Sammy Davis Jr's Medley in Paris - so effortless, and not to mention the casual cigarette in his hand which we must admit does not hinder his voice in the slightest. I particularly like the West Side Story section, it's "real cool!":

June 22nd, 1969 jazz vocalist Ella Fitzgerald with accompaniment by Ed Thigpen on drums, Frank de la Rosa on bass, and Tommy Flanagan on piano:

Inspired by Ella, Beyonce has a good crack at scatting and jazzing up Deja Vu:

Another modern jazz diva is inevitably Christina Aguilera: how does a white girl sing like this?

And finally, another modern and more generic singer, Lady Gaga - who'd have thought it?

I don't think it get's much better than this!

Hi I'm Hannah and I'm Melancholic...

It smells so good, but I know it's too hot - it's always the way. That tantalising smell of fresh coffee, it ensnares the victim into having the first sip at an offensive temperature, and it's always a regret. Shit! it's still too hot. I knew it would be and yet here I am with a prickly tongue, cursing the coffee for being too hot, not myself for drinking it too soon. How perfectly illogical: it is not the coffee's fault.

Today, however, I feel like everything is not my fault. Two weeks of going cold-turkey into happiness and I've cracked. Today's a blue day, a day to indulge in sorrow, a day to pass the time stewing in self-pity as a homeless person might wallow in their own filth - yet I revel in this. As far as my vices, and dare I say addictions go (caffeine, tobacco, the student drinking schedule) my substance of choice is melancholy. I'd like to say that I pull it off in Byronic style, with the makings of a 21st century Romantic, but it's highly more likely that I'm just a hormonally fucked girl trying to put an intellectual spin on a more universal problem. None-the-less, to use that clichéd brat's expression, the world is send against me today; but I don't really feel like sharing why, I feel it'll make you like me a little less. 

My coffee's run out now. Lara hasn't called. There's still an hour to kill. One hour. Oh, the things that can be achieved in an hour: ten miles running (if you're quick); the conception of a child (if you're lucky, or unlucky); the perfect coffee-date (if it exists); and, most importantly, listen to the entire of Elvis's Greatest Hits...but I'm sitting here, on an almost comfortable sofa, scrawling idol thoughts onto paper and contemplating the taste of stale coffee in my mouth.

Meanwhile, Charlotte's pouring over a copy of Glamour Magazine and absent-mindedly playing with her chipped-purple finger nails - she's utterly engrossed in the rag, oblivious to the fact that the words flowing onto this page concern her. Is that rude? Is it fair to write about someone without their permission, or even their knowledge - would you mind? I don't know if I would. I suppose it would depend on what they were writing about me; at best I suppose could get "the girl with friendly face and fabulous coat" (for it is a great coat) but at the worse - God, does it even bear thinking about? No. No, Not on a blue day. I think that's fair enough, I've shared my various vices with you so I can withhold information regarding the less attractive sides of my appearance, and indeed what cast the rain-cloud over this day: at least for the time being.

A Taste of Turkey

This Summer I hit the beautiful coast of Turkey for the second year running. The photo below was taken on a boat day-trip; a day in which we experienced three days' worth of tanning, hourly dips into the azure sea, and some serious haggling on 'genuine-fake' bags, sun glasses and the like.

Although the hotel was a little short of luxury (to abandon all candidness) the pool always looked inviting with its looking-glass surface. 

The sky always promised a cloudless day and a brilliant blue backdrop for the plants (which were few and far between).

I love the way the orange of the flower is complimented by the blue sky - also I think the fact that it's withered stands as a nice metaphor for Turkey itself: beautiful and vibrant but a little dated and out of touch.

Besides being a dedicated sun worshipper and making the most of the All-Inclusive bar I also enjoyed taking some photos of the reflections in the water: 

I think the effect of the shadowing spilling from the ground onto the pool is quite pleasing.

I messed about making ripples in the water to play about with the colours and shapes of the reflections.

The contrast of the almost garish colours on the parasol make a nice contrast with the muted beige of the buildings - not to mention the cool spear of the light on the left hand side which I only just noticed.

One of the hotel workers adorable 7 year old children - there was a serious language barrier but we managed to engage in some nice almost chats.

Some serious tanning, and a new belly bar.

Poised to take a dip.

It was a great relaxing trip - sun, water, cocktails and Forster's A Room With A View - what more could you want?

Seventeen and Single*

So I am seventeen and single – is that a problem? I never thought it was but apparently in this day and age it’s a tragedy that a girl, one year over the age of consent, should be single. I know that a few centuries back it was common for young women to be wedded off as soon as possible – their fathers couldn’t wait to get the burden of a daughter off their hands – but nowadays people tend to get married a little later down the line, and yet I’m still getting sorrowful looks for being single.

It has got to the stage where I feel as though I am some sort of social recluse – like a modern day leper – and that people, through their pitiful scrutiny, have diagnosed me as ‘terminally single.’ The situation is apparently so dire that when I told my aunt (a self-inflicted singleton) that I “didn’t have boyfriend” she responded with a melancholy “Oh don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll find someone soon.” While she was saying this, with a voice full of empathy, I was thinking I didn’t think I needed to worry? So I guess I’ll follow in my aunt’s terminally single footsteps and end up miserable and alone . . . hold the phone, I’m only seventeen! I really don’t think that the single-syndrome is fatal at this point.

My friend’s father had a rather different response on discovering that I was single: he asked “Why haven’t you got a boyfriend?” – sorry I didn’t know that they were that easy to acquire, it sounded almost as though there was some shop where I could purchase a boyfriend: “Hi, yes, I’d like one in 6ft 2, dark curly hair, a swimmer’s body with intellectual or musical tendencies…” I swear it’s not that simple. In fact I think the response of the shop girl would be: “Erm…I’m sorry we only have Nice Guy in Fat, Tall in Perverted, and Gorgeous in either Arrogant or Bully.” You see my theory is that suitable teenage boyfriends are a limited edition, and like all products of their kind they’re snapped up pretty quickly.

I think perhaps it would be nice to have a boyfriend but I’m certainly not prepared to take on some horrible specimen of mankind just to fit the teenage-relationship cult; maybe boyfriends are the must have fashion item for this season of life? Well, I survived quite well without Converse All-Stars or Doc Martins so I’m sure it’s hardly essential for me to get caught up in this craze – not that I’d turn down a nice one if he came my way (the same could be said about the shoes). You see, I really don’t think there’s an issue with me being seventeen and single, I mean I’ve hardly been condemned to a life-time of spinsterhood – and even if I do head that way I will do it in ridiculous ‘Bridget Jones-esque’ style.

*This was written several months ago - when I was still seventeen.

Black and White

When I saw this herd of Friesian Cattle grouped together in the shade on a hot day in September, it struck me that they looked less like a collection of individual creatures and more like a mass of black and white, tail swishing, nose licking life.

This image of the cattle made me think of how all black and white animals, in any group of above four, become indistinguishable from one another - a mere mish-mash of black and white, like this adorable photo of sleeping Dalmatian puppies (found at http://rachelsquest.blogspot.com/2011/04/hope-is-medicine-for-despair.html). The wildlife photographer James Warwick obviously feels similarly to me on this matter, describing the zebra photo below as thus: “I was drawn to the abstract patterns this closely grouped herd of zebras produced. The stripes of zebras appear to be a visual bonding device. It is known that evenly spaced, black and white bars simulate visual neurones very strongly and the zebra’s stripes appear to make them super-attractive to one another.”

This concept of the stimulation caused by "evenly spaced, black and white bars" got me thinking about optical illusions and indeed the similarities in the effect of a group of black and white animals (often an evolutionary defence mechanism) and that of black and white optical illusions: as seen below.

 

Notice how the image on the left appears to move whilst you should be able to see little black dots flickering across the image on the right.

There are also optical illusions that'll give us a little less of a head ache, like below - faces or vase?

Or a more complex double image as shown in the drawing by C Allan Gilbert below, named All is Vanity, in which he presents the co-existence of life and death when the meaning of existence is in discussion. This image is extremely sinister and haunting, reminding me of the the 'pride' murder in the David Fincher film Se7en.

Moving on from optical illusions, but still with the concept of black and white, my mind drifted onto my favourite type of stage make-up: that of the Pierrot. A form of traditional European theatre about the sad clown Pierrot, who dressed only in black and white; his face would be painted white which contrasted so dramatically to the black of the painted features that he would have a melancholic but ominous appearance. The idea of the Pierrot naturally leads to that of the politically incorrect character of the Minstrel, whose make-up was the polar opposite to the Pierrot but fashioned just as dramatic, yet morally unsound, effects.

The notion of racial oppression, with the over-riding title of 'Black and White', will inevitably lead to the popular hit Black or White by Michael Jackson, a great yet some what hypocritical song.

As a devoted MJ fan (one who cried at the news of his death) I do not enjoy to criticise him - he was undoubtedly the 'King of Pop', a musician who moulded the face pop, but sadly over moulded his own face in the process. It is saddening to see the transformation he underwent from the beautiful, afro'd youth to the gaunt, plastic shell of his former. However, let not his own unpleasant evolution taint the genius of his music, nor indeed the message of his song Black or White.

And finally, below is a picture I stumbled across whilst browsing through Google - I think it's a really sweet and beautiful image, if a little sentimental, that adds a nice end, for we notoriously appreciate sentimental endings, to this blog entry.

SPUD

After having my dose of culture for the day at the National Portrait Gallery to see the BP Portrait Awards (http://www.npg.org.uk/index.php?id=6757) with my fiend Libby we bimbled along towards Covent Garden in search of coffee but were not feeling up for somewhere generic, so we stopped at the newly opened Spud.

And nice coffee it was too, with a mix of mosaic / antiquey tables...

...To modern / fun chairs that POP against the grey streets.

We were met with a rather furious blast of rain, and felt smug in Spud as people rushed by!

It had a really nice atmosphere and they were really friendly - not to mention the aubergine dish looked delicious and although I wasn't hungry at the time I wish I'd eaten it! So check Spud out at http://www.ilovespud.com/ or go and see it in the flesh at 26 New Row, Covent Garden, London, WC2N 4LA.