tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13837850507309575362024-03-13T08:25:01.809+00:00Medieval Miscellany & Adriatic AdventuresThe Research Escapades and Random Thoughts of a Doctoral StudentZoe F. Willishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15895164260380204275noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1383785050730957536.post-66382185508061073012010-06-07T10:46:00.000+01:002010-06-07T10:46:58.933+01:00Update<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;">I know, I know. It's been a while. I wish that after such a hiatus this post could actually contain something riveting and amusing. Sadly my days seem to be full of tea, biscuits and trying to write some sort of linear, erudite and interesting narrative about medieval saints' reliquaries of Zadar. Yes, it's writing up time for the thesis and there's not much humour in that, let me tell you. If you ever wanted to instantly crush any instance of imagination or creativity - never mind comedy - just unleash a footnote that looks something like this...</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;">Hartvic, Bishop, 'Legenda S. Stephani regis maior et minor, atque legenda ab Hartvico episcopo conscripta', in <i>Scriptore Rerum Hungaricarum Tempore Ducum Regumque Stirpis Arpadianae Gestarum</i>, ed. by Bartoniek, Emma (Budapest: Typograhiae Reg. Universitatis Litter. Hung. Sumptibus, 1938), pp. 363-440. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;">... and feel that metaphorical tumbleweed of boredom trundle through your soul.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Yea gods. I need a proper job at some point.</span></div>Zoe F. Willishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15895164260380204275noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1383785050730957536.post-69005052759053521412009-11-08T21:57:00.001+00:002009-11-09T09:18:08.119+00:00Hackney and the 2012 Olympics<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;">So this whole redevelopment of the East End of London will not only bring with it the many social fruits associated with such massive urban regeneration projects, but also the promise of a generation of brighter, smarter and fitter kids. Apparently.<br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;">The logic is that all this hullaballoo of the Olympic variety, with the added catalyst of various government-funded local initiatives, will encourage hoards from the disenfranchised youth of the area to grab a hockey stick or bathing costume, or maybe a pair of spikes and baton, and rush with glee to one of the many soon-to-be-developed sporting arenas. Much sporty participation will ensue as well as team playing and increased social cohesiveness. Fitness, brightness, fabulousness and any range of -nesses whose absence have been the cause of a couple of generations' worth of social malaise will improve.<br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;">All well, good, noble and so forth, but where on earth do all these bright young things (and a not so bright, nor quite so young Medievalist) go to actually buy the sports kit in order to participate in such a utopian programme? Not Hackney Central, that's for sure. If you're looking for anything other than "sports fashion" - which I take to mean combinations of polyester football shirts, pale pink tracksuit bottoms and black hoodies - Hackney Central, one of the more accessible high streets in the borough, is not where one should go. Thank you, JD Sports, purveyor of flammable mediocrity and Third World-exploiting rags.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Thus for 2012, bare feet and a hockey sticks made of MacDonald straws will have to do instead for the youth of the borough. But as MacDonalds are one of the sponsors, that probably will all work out rather nicely...</span><br />
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</div>Zoe F. Willishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15895164260380204275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1383785050730957536.post-78479175570907073542009-10-12T16:54:00.002+01:002009-10-12T16:56:53.674+01:00Berlusconi Invades Britain!<meta content="" name="Title"></meta> <meta content="" name="Keywords"></meta> <meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta> <meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta> <meta content="Microsoft Word 11" name="Generator"></meta> <meta content="Microsoft Word 11" name="Originator"></meta> <link href="file://localhost/Users/zoewillis/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">Well, not quite. But it might be the only hope I have of ever speaking Italian properly. Today has been a day of linguistic tragedy, a complete mental block when it comes to reading the swathes of Italian that had, until today, been pretty commonplace since undergraduate days. Maybe it’s a bit like riding a bicycle. Once you start thinking about the mechanics and forces of physics that keep you upright, going in a straight line at speed along a tarmac road, it all goes horribly wrong and you fall off, with only a couple of scraped, bloody kneecaps full of grit to show for your intellectual musings.</span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">And so I fear this has happened to my reading of Italian. I’ve been thinking about it too much, creating cases and passive tenses where really there are none. Reams of printed word rendered into incomprehensible gobbledygook. But surely this is a simple language by comparison with German or Latin (ablative absolute, anyone?), a musical means of communicating where an abundance of gesticulation, a poetic grasp of rhythm and an avoidance of the full stop at all costs is to be admired, nay, revered. Just going with the flow should be the order of the day. But it’s all gone wrong. Too much Anglo-Saxon cogitation, or maybe a desire for Teutonic efficiency and noun endings has sounded the death knell on the afternoon’s proceedings. I shall shelve away my translation of the eleventh-century Giovanni Diacono’s <i>Istoria Veneticorum</i></span><span style="font-size: small; font-style: normal;"> for another day, have a cup of tea and ponder the slapstick comedy potential of Berlusconi actually trying to invade Britain. </span><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Photo from http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/europe/berlusconi-invokes-mussolini-in-threat-to-march-on-rome-775189.html </span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">To help you on your way, I add a link (with Italian subtitles) to a recent ribbing of Signor Berlusconi at the hands of British comedians on the BBC’s <i>Mock the Week.</i></span><span style="font-size: small; font-style: normal;"> Enjoy! </span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://antefatto.ilcannocchiale.it/glamware/blogs/blog.aspx?id_blog=96578&id_blogdoc=2345215&yy=2009&mm=10&dd=01&title=berlusconi_vittima_di_mock_the"><span style="font-style: normal;"> http://antefatto.ilcannocchiale.it/glamware/blogs/blog.aspx?id_blog=96578&id_blogdoc=2345215&yy=2009&mm=10&dd=01&title=berlusconi_vittima_di_mock_the</span></a></span><br />
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Zoe F. Willishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15895164260380204275noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1383785050730957536.post-88923375078815794832009-09-11T22:50:00.003+01:002009-09-11T22:56:06.405+01:00To tweet or not to tweet? That is the question<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">On the off chance anyone out there is procrastinating their life / PhD / job away more than I seem to be at the moment, I am now on Twitter. Yes, a couple of inconsequential microblogs a day, often of complete, febrile drivel, are spewed forth from my keyboard and unleashed into an unsuspecting, uncaring world.</span><br /><a style="font-family: georgia;" href="http://twitter.com/marvmatafarri">http://twitter.com/marvmatafarri</a><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;">Micro rants of late seem to revolve around Argos, HSBC, voids on library books shelves and Venetian moneys of account from the 14th C.</span><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;">Oh, and <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mTg5V2oA_hY">swing dancing</a>. But that is another story, for another day.</span><br /><br /></div>Zoe F. Willishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15895164260380204275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1383785050730957536.post-13880142541125217202009-08-07T14:10:00.001+01:002009-08-07T14:12:48.160+01:00Italians<div style="text-align: justify;"><meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <link style="font-family: georgia;" rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/zoewillis/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>92</o:Words> <o:characters>527</o:Characters> <o:lines>4</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>1</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>647</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>11.1282</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotshowrevisions/> <w:donotprintrevisions/> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0pt; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:595.0pt 842.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:35.4pt; mso-footer-margin:35.4pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--StartFragment--> </div><p style="text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">How do they do it? The combination of tired tracksuit bottoms, hoody, Adidas trainers and cigarette would scream grot, chav or sociopath on any man born north of the Alps. Put an insouciant Italian male into this ensemble and with the addition of a dandyish pastel green scarf about his neck you have the sort of virility that induces a contemplative, breathy silence in women, with a possible touch of pink about the cheeks that wasn’t there a moment ago.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span></p><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >I think the enforced wearing of frock coats on all non-Mediterranean males is the only sartorial hope there is to restore some sort of a level playing field on the “phwoar” front. </span>
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<br /><i><o:p></o:p></i></p> <!--EndFragment--> Zoe F. Willishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15895164260380204275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1383785050730957536.post-60544270747721021352009-08-07T08:37:00.002+01:002009-08-07T08:56:13.206+01:00Political Concerns from the BNP to the Archers<meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <div style="text-align: justify;"><link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/zoewillis/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>374</o:Words> <o:characters>2133</o:Characters> <o:lines>17</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>4</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>2619</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>11.1282</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotshowrevisions/> <w:donotprintrevisions/> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0pt; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--StartFragment--><span style="font-family:georgia;">
<br /><span style="font-family: georgia;">I do wish that I could pop up a post chock full of insightful and witty commentary on daily life in East London or regale you with some sort of amusing anecdote found whilst trawling through the reams of wills over enthusiastically photographed whilst in Zadar. Unfortunately, it's all quiet on the Western Front, so to speak. So it might just be the right time to voice a small twinge of concern about Britain today...</span></span>
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<br /><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" >So, on Radio 4 last week, I could have sworn I heard a government spokesman talk about foreigners who come and exploit our generous benegits system to the detriment of the indigenous population.</span>
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<br /><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" >???!!!??!?!?!?!?!?!???!??!!</span>
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<br /><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" >Is anybody out there at all absolutely aghast at the rather potent combination of </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" >foreigner, exploitation of OUR generous benefits system </span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" >and </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" >indigenous</span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" > in a public pronouncement by a government spokesman? Does this not sound horribly redolent of the sort of vernacular adopted by the British National Party and other fascists?</span>
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<br /><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" >It's when anthropological terms start getting used in a political sense - particularly when it comes to migration policy during a recession - that the alaraum bells start ringing. </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" >Indigenous?! </span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" >For crying out loud, this a nation of mongrels and good couple of thousand years worth of immigration from all over Europe and then later the Empire. Deal with it. If you want to find the truly</span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" > indigenous</span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" > go and seek out a grumpy Welshman in Snowdonia whose family, around the time of the Vikings, or Saxons or whatever Scandinavian warrior race kicked the biggest arse, were bullied into that soggy corner and never emerged again.</span>
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<br /><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" >Methinks the government, in a desperate bid to avoid a shallacking in next year's general election, are trying to seduce the apparently alienated group of white Brits who are ignorant enough to vote for bigoted, fascist meatheads like Nick Griffith. When mainstream political parties are trying to seduce this section of society with similar tactics to the BNP then this nation is screwed. To give the impression that a tsunami of Johnny Foreigners are coming over - not even taking our jobs but going straight for our benefits - is a dangerous, desperate and divisive step to take. I truly hope this madness will stop soon but I worry that such ill-thought and incendiary comments and ideas will become the norm for this, a government in its death throes. A Pandora's box is being opened, which shall not be closed again for a long while. Today, it's only words but I fear what tomorrow will bring...</span>
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<br /><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" >Or maybe I just misheard an episode of </span><a style="font-family: georgia;" href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/archers/">the Archers</a><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" > whilst in the kitchen and in fact all is well with this nation and its astute and competent political class. Maybe, just maybe.</span>
<br /><!--EndFragment--> </div>Zoe F. Willishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15895164260380204275noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1383785050730957536.post-38644063586615923832009-07-20T15:33:00.007+01:002009-07-21T09:16:54.332+01:00Contemporary art, parsnips and the Hayward Gallery.<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">Occasionally, after days upon days of 14th C wills or 15th C property contracts from Zadar, I step out blinking into the light of what is apparently the 21st C and gingerly embrace some of what it has on offer. The other day, I felt a spot of contemporary art might be a good thing to complement the medieval metalwork and panel paintings that seem to litter my particular academic path. So off I pootled with a chum to the Hayward Gallery on the South Bank where they have a rather spiffing show on at the moment called <span style="font-style: italic;">Walking in my Mind</span>. <a href="http://www.haywardgallery.org.uk/">http://www.haywardgallery.org.uk/</a>. 10 artists have interpreted through various media (painting, drawing, sculpture, installation, video etc) their take on the creative and imaginative processes that go into producing their own art. A rather self-reflective - and some uncharitable types might argue self-absorbed exercise - but the results would surely prove a thought-provoking way to spend a Sunday afternoon, even if those thoughts ranged in emotion from expletive-peppered outrage to genuine admiration.</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">The prizes go to:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:georgia;" > Joint favourite</span><br /><a href="http://www.doggerfisher.com/artists/artistdetail.php?id=39&current=0&imagecount=60"><br /></a><span style="font-family:georgia;"><a href="http://www.doggerfisher.com/artists/artistdetail.php?id=39&current=0&imagecount=60">Charles Avery</a>, a Scotsman and accomplished draftsman, fashions flora and fauna, landscape and people that populate his epic and fantastical project, </span><span style="font-family:georgia;"> <span style="font-style: italic;">The Islanders</span>. </span><span style="font-family:georgia;"> His sculptures and drawings imbue the seemingly commonplace with the bizarre yet without the bombast of Matthew Barney and his <a href="http://www.cremaster.net/"><span style="font-style: italic;">Cremaster Cycle</span></a>, another <span style="font-style: italic;">magnum opus</span> that made manifest - in glorious Technicolor - the rather mad and complex world within the artist’s mind. Although both artists are technically superb, Barney in film and Avery particularly in his drawings, strangely the Scotsman’s understatement and simplicity are what give his work a grandeur that Barney seemed to try too hard to achieve. In human terms, it’s a beauty competition between a tanned, beach bunny blonde Californian in a day glo bikini versus a milk-skinned, wind-swept, auburn haired bonnie Scottish lass in a sensible jumper. Choose what you will but my ideal of beauty lies with the latter.</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:georgia;" >Most use of packing tape</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">My chum is now a fan of Thomas Hirschhorn and his cavern-esque installation <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ci08lifeonmars/2441924060/"><span style="font-style: italic;">Cavemanman</span></a>. Constructed almost entirely of cardboard and packing tape, this would have taken quite a while to put together. For myself, I have now discovered a mild propensity for claustrophobia as a result of my participation in this piece. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:georgia;" >Best artist for the wee ones</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><a href="http://www.yayoi-kusama.jp/e/information/index.html">Yayoi Kusama</a>. I have never seen an 18 month-old child look so gobsmacked before. Possibly the potent combination of giant inflatable spheroid things and white polka dots on a red background. Lots of <a href="http://www.gagosian.com/news/2009-06-23_yayoi-kusama/">polka dots</a>. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:georgia;" >Best comedy value moment </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><a href="http://www.pipilottirist.net/">Pipilotti Rist</a>, <span style="font-style: italic;">Extremities (smooth, smooth)</span>. This is a video piece where you wander into a darkened room and sit on a circular bench in the middle. Stars seems to fill room and projectors, well, project, various bits of body on to sheets of diaphanous fabric thus giving the impression that they are floating. Oh, and a voice occasionally announces some piffle about being “butterflowers”. But on this particular afternoon the scene is enhanced by two rather special protagonists: </span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" > (Mother and three-year old in the room, admiring floating limbs. Child is thrilled by the "spaceman". Mother just about to depart with child when ginormous floating breast and nipple appears).</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Child <span style="font-style: italic;">(loudly)</span>: Mummy, mummy, what's that?</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Mother <span style="font-style: italic;">(with aplomb)</span>: It's a planet, dear. <span style="font-style: italic;">(cleverly keeping with spaceman theme)</span></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Child: Which planet, mummy?</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Mother <span style="font-style: italic;">(still with aplomb)</span>: It's Venus, dear. <span style="font-style: italic;">(Attempts to drag child out of room. Other visitors in the room starting to giggle)</span></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-family:georgia;" >(Cue ginormous floating phallus).</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Child <span style="font-style: italic;">(very loudly)</span>: MUMMY, MUMMY! What's that?</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" >(Outright guffaws amongst other viewers)</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Mother <span style="font-style: italic;">(aplomb starting to slip)</span>: It's a carrot, dear. <span style="font-style: italic;">(spaceman theme starting to slip as well)</span></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Child: Are you sure?</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Mother <span style="font-style: italic;">(mortification finally setting in)</span>: Ermmm... maybe it's a parsnip. Yes, a parsnip. Come. On. We. Are. Going. NOW!</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" >(Other viewers in gales of laughter).</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">Fantastic.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">And after that interlude, it’s back to the wills.</span><br /></div><br /><a style="font-family: georgia;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2cItiTb9cAObivamP2p2-4tNjslOHHmQKMdzhQIK4D0JDhgHqx679nUSwuA8Sou1ZHrbhNMv6BI38qCYO6Vy5W1_fYSXIFh_HrJeSJZJ1Rx1Js7XwbEBZc63eKz42XxwyayyGU-y6D80/s1600-h/parsnip.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2cItiTb9cAObivamP2p2-4tNjslOHHmQKMdzhQIK4D0JDhgHqx679nUSwuA8Sou1ZHrbhNMv6BI38qCYO6Vy5W1_fYSXIFh_HrJeSJZJ1Rx1Js7XwbEBZc63eKz42XxwyayyGU-y6D80/s320/parsnip.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360562313909451346" border="0" /></a>Zoe F. Willishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15895164260380204275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1383785050730957536.post-26809488259205589532009-07-13T16:31:00.011+01:002009-07-13T17:04:10.606+01:00Hot town, summer in the city… and the Death of Michael Jackson<div style="text-align: justify;font-family:georgia;">Summer has finally arrived in London, and with it all the dustiness, mugginess and general filthiness associated with 8,000,000 people working, moving, living, breathing in such close proximity to each other with the additional frisson of 30 + degrees centigrade. Needless to say, public transport is somewhat similar to the fate suffered by the arch-heretics of the 6th circle of hell in Dante’s <span style="font-style: italic;">Inferno</span> (Canto IX, 110-123 in case you’re wondering). Not quite the transport of delight that Transport for London is hoping for...<br /><br />And with summer comes rude boys in East London who are charging around in their souped-up Ford Fiestas with rhythmic noise blasting out from their rather impressive car speakers.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia0MNFSdMpBn6gQt77uMrZIrwULq4PZ9PfALOFOYSDF47Q9knmz3qydHwMHKiszP4qdNCKaAFn-s89WBs-PjsHVtEPgUR6si4UdLW-xN4n2kG-jyPt5LBmgKcjswrdH3J5JQfWybYCOU4/s1600-h/Ford-fiesta-mk2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia0MNFSdMpBn6gQt77uMrZIrwULq4PZ9PfALOFOYSDF47Q9knmz3qydHwMHKiszP4qdNCKaAFn-s89WBs-PjsHVtEPgUR6si4UdLW-xN4n2kG-jyPt5LBmgKcjswrdH3J5JQfWybYCOU4/s320/Ford-fiesta-mk2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357969160964274786" border="0" /></a><br />Apparently, the youth of today call this music and I believe this is part of either<br />a) the run up to some kind of clash to determine who is the more dominant male in the group, à la rutting stags,<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8pOftggEH_1ubZvc_j_IKlbB2Q8_W1B0a5HRYGMyDLSdC3mrCE32KFfkM_VCx_nvY4jDY_QWiFbNyUQnjBHd30rZa045hol-kvypqvLqS9e0apZN0293sUbJ8s3vsYLzC8hwEWkPB3KI/s1600-h/rutting+stags.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 135px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8pOftggEH_1ubZvc_j_IKlbB2Q8_W1B0a5HRYGMyDLSdC3mrCE32KFfkM_VCx_nvY4jDY_QWiFbNyUQnjBHd30rZa045hol-kvypqvLqS9e0apZN0293sUbJ8s3vsYLzC8hwEWkPB3KI/s320/rutting+stags.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357968829727411730" border="0" /></a>in order to advance to<br /><br />b) A modern sort of preamble to a mating ritual, à la cooing, horny pigeons<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2t4C8YpY9jkX2vK7fD5TbK8nPGSsZVW6PF1lmNHzF3ZTN6D-UtergaSDSsSdlmA-Ws54mkSylBt2KjAxx8WTGKE8fXJXQhOcXWUpcvBhx52O0GwrXT68iE147JoR0P_bS9DuDqvW6GBE/s1600-h/Courting+pigeons.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2t4C8YpY9jkX2vK7fD5TbK8nPGSsZVW6PF1lmNHzF3ZTN6D-UtergaSDSsSdlmA-Ws54mkSylBt2KjAxx8WTGKE8fXJXQhOcXWUpcvBhx52O0GwrXT68iE147JoR0P_bS9DuDqvW6GBE/s320/Courting+pigeons.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357968970644213346" border="0" /></a><br />without fear of interference from another competitor.<br /><br />However, as a certain Mr M. Jackson has left this terrestrial sphere for a circle hopefully somewhere well after the Inferno’s final canto, in commemoration of his passing the streets of Hackney, Bethnal Green and Shoreditch are filled with Doppler-effect renditions of <span style="font-style: italic;">Thriller, Bad, Don’t Stop ‘til you get Enough</span> and - in the case of one rather tragic young man who may have lost the plot somewhat in his attempt to attain cool, hip, groovy Alpha-Male status amongst his particular tribe of youths - <span style="font-style: italic;">ABC</span>.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB45sPzn8NnG-MWYVAUvyvZ8iBI26YaF6Tzwimt5wZu-IvTOpNWsjkfqCUdMeec3grCt8nSG1bTugCFt51_HsCGlabARHPfdLou8ljcKZpaK8CnUUX1qVNYG4c-yXwSSLspbrTFbGuNb4/s1600-h/off_the_wall.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 295px; height: 312px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB45sPzn8NnG-MWYVAUvyvZ8iBI26YaF6Tzwimt5wZu-IvTOpNWsjkfqCUdMeec3grCt8nSG1bTugCFt51_HsCGlabARHPfdLou8ljcKZpaK8CnUUX1qVNYG4c-yXwSSLspbrTFbGuNb4/s320/off_the_wall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357968675972480450" border="0" /></a>But he can be safe in the knowledge he shall never plummet to the depths of social tragedy as one rather buff young man I spotted driving a BMW convertible down Bethnal Green Road… with Celine Dion on at a worryingly high volume.<br /><br />He was either a man very, very secure in his masculinity and possibly packing something more powerful than a peashooter should anybody question his choice of music or genuinely thought this incongruous combination of buffness, Ms Dion and not the slightest hint of campness and would actually reel him in a chicky babe or two. Oh dear.<br /><br />This sort of primal behaviour totally lacking in self-awareness and irony almost sends one straight back to the archival documents in despair at humanity, if they weren’t also full of youths trying to pull young ladies by various similar acts of peacockery and just outright cockery. I wonder what sort of a world we would be living in today if you’d got Michael Jackson on a mandolin in the 15th C? Might these youths of old placed him on a gondola and asked him to belt out a classic disco tune or two as they cruised down the Grand Canal? Might a similarly bemused scholar wearing their equivalent of bifocals have shaken their head and penned a social commentary not unlike this one?<br /><br />Probably.<br /></div>Zoe F. Willishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15895164260380204275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1383785050730957536.post-60783108040380864202009-06-12T17:04:00.003+01:002009-06-12T17:10:54.693+01:00Loverly London<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" >So, that's it for the Venetian output. The Marvellous Matafarri is now back in London for a good long stretch. As and when anything exciting (or not) happens around here, I shall attempt to drag myself away from the reams of secondary literature gathered in Croatia and Venice (surprisingly not that hard to do. I think it's called "procrastination") and put finger to keyboard for your entertainment and delight. </span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUihq5F12dQrEm7wcIM4-yfkyLOxspqZ8htxATNoTypDYA2nnBDvAip9uOPDtyHFEBtpC0kJvSsjlHSEHB65alco1JoqxBnn-Ns9NckZnbsgAPRr9g5pZ4pwPGY1O_bC-soNyFvLwKtUU/s1600-h/2030_09_63---Red-London-Bus_web.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUihq5F12dQrEm7wcIM4-yfkyLOxspqZ8htxATNoTypDYA2nnBDvAip9uOPDtyHFEBtpC0kJvSsjlHSEHB65alco1JoqxBnn-Ns9NckZnbsgAPRr9g5pZ4pwPGY1O_bC-soNyFvLwKtUU/s320/2030_09_63---Red-London-Bus_web.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346473994042775698" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /></div>Zoe F. Willishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15895164260380204275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1383785050730957536.post-27199734751899849732009-06-12T16:54:00.003+01:002009-06-12T17:03:23.751+01:00Horrible Handwriting 1,046,148<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">A tip for posterity; make sure you and / or your scribe / secretary / notary of choice has decent and clear handwriting. I know this is continuing an ongoing theme of this blog but really, I cannot emphasise enough how mind-bogglingly irritating it is to be faced with reams upon ream upon reams of vellum or parchment, packed full of wills, property sales, judicial proceedings, policy decisions or possibly even the answers to world peace and cancer... and not be able to make out a single letter of it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">This has been the lot of the good people of Negroponte, now known as Chalkis on the Greek island of Euboa. The city itself was part of the Venetian “empire” and was one of the first of its protectorates to fall, rather dramatically, to the Turks in 1470. This was not like Venetian Crete in the 17th C when there were loads of warnings that the situation just might end up in favour of the Turks (which it did). This in turn meant time was available to clear the various chancelleries of notarial documents, diplomatic correspondence and various other bits and bobs that collects in administrative drawers over the course of centuries, and ship it all back to Venice.<br /><br />Not so for poor Negroponte. The locals foolishly bated the Turks by launching a bit of an amateurish sortie against them (burning tents, harrying chickens, that sort of thing... and maybe despoiling the odd Turkish corpse as well) in the spring of 1470: by July it was all over. Definitely no time for bundling up 250 year’s worth of paperwork for posterity’s sake. Although Venetian maritime support did arrive before the final curtain call, due to various degrees of government incompetency (e.g. making a scholar head of the navy. BIG mistake. I can vouch for that.), the galleys held back and the city fell to the Turks. Cue much enslavement of locals, ransacking of buildings and, of course, burning of notarial documents. Nothing destroys a people quite like the destruction of their history and memory. </span> <span style="font-family:georgia;"> <br /><br />But back to the 21st C. How does one try and reconstruct life in Negroponte circa 1470? To give the remaining ruins and other artefacts a sort of framework in which to come alive? Hmm... it’s a tricky one. One could try trawling through the thousands of notarial buste in Venice and hope to find something. Or how about a shortcut? Like...the notaries of Candia in Crete? As mentioned above this was another jewel in Venice’s Aegean crown and usefully one with which much trade was done by the Negoponteese. There are not so many notarial buste in the collection as to be nighmarish and Herculean but possibly just enough to get a taster of what the merchants were up to.</span> <span style="font-family:georgia;"> <br /><br />Or so you would think. Until thwarted by the truly harrowing and abominable scrawls of Francesco Vlaco (1464-1472), Nicolò Castelfilaca (1467-1497) and Francesco Castelfilaca (1470-1496) that I cannot imagine even passed as handwriting in the 15th C. To the three of you, as punishment for obliterating the posterity of your clients through your horrible handwriting, I condemn you to an eternity of ignominy. To Leonardo Pantaleo (1467-1502) however, I give you a gold star, for being vaguely legible.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">And thus mercantile activities of the Negoponteese in Candia are forever lost and I am doomed to languish for an age and more in the notarial archives of Venice. Urgh. </span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7gZiSH1NsrGyDylcyU9W0V7zxQLRHYEoF0hjH6ZI7eYPI0R7VWFQuVeq_wCOA15EOuA5P1X04aUXlf89_fSECjKBIgq5Exe4gSAPpALK0gtCMWjnpsFSWCt3NWRyHDKrhzemCZbpx9Tc/s1600-h/map+of+Chalcis131.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 195px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7gZiSH1NsrGyDylcyU9W0V7zxQLRHYEoF0hjH6ZI7eYPI0R7VWFQuVeq_wCOA15EOuA5P1X04aUXlf89_fSECjKBIgq5Exe4gSAPpALK0gtCMWjnpsFSWCt3NWRyHDKrhzemCZbpx9Tc/s320/map+of+Chalcis131.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346472081919609234" border="0" /></a><br /></div>Zoe F. Willishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15895164260380204275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1383785050730957536.post-56306541033882704452009-06-12T16:50:00.004+01:002009-06-12T16:54:21.954+01:00Brits abroad<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">Good to see that some things don’t change and that an Englishman behaved in as nobbish a manner when inebriated abroad 650 years ago as today. It seems that on the 24th May 1364, Johanes Englesius, <span style="font-style: italic;">hospes</span>, with a group of 10 other men was hauled up for trashing a tavern. Avogaria di Comun, Raspe, 3643, f. 70r</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Nice.</span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtE2CXUYsUUA1vWKZ_dgxPVI3JHfdy9LQatPD_lhsNLHS-D5af3nSasePCZswPEeb4I_gCIB7p3-rkvhRUNZFT0NsNR9ikx1-E6FowkJ93PLNpA3fh4M0Eh0jvPUsZeqVgLynXpUP37Jk/s1600-h/BoozyBrit_wideweb__470x359,0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 245px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtE2CXUYsUUA1vWKZ_dgxPVI3JHfdy9LQatPD_lhsNLHS-D5af3nSasePCZswPEeb4I_gCIB7p3-rkvhRUNZFT0NsNR9ikx1-E6FowkJ93PLNpA3fh4M0Eh0jvPUsZeqVgLynXpUP37Jk/s320/BoozyBrit_wideweb__470x359,0.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346469429095285202" border="0" /></a>Zoe F. Willishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15895164260380204275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1383785050730957536.post-32005040339447453402009-06-12T16:49:00.001+01:002009-06-12T16:49:55.495+01:00Death of a Notary II<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Ah, fear not my patient readers... if there are in fact any out there. Our original notary has returned about 5 folios later. So it was either a holiday or a bad cold that stopped him mid stream.</span></div>Zoe F. Willishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15895164260380204275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1383785050730957536.post-36872338204529629272009-06-12T16:46:00.006+01:002009-07-19T11:33:53.933+01:00Death of a Notary<div style="text-align: justify;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">It’s always a worry when the handwriting changes mid paragraph. It’s a bit like that scene from Monty Python and the Holy Grail when, upon reaching the dread cave of Kyre Banorg, the Knights of the Round Table find "carved in mystic runes upon the very living rock, the last words of Ulfin Bedweer of Regett" which state:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Here may be found the last words of Joseph of</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Aramathea. He who is valiant and pure of spirit may find the Holy Grail</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> in the Castle of uuggggggh</span>.<br /><br /></span>The final word having been carved during the demise of the aforementioned Ulfin Bedweer of Regett.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">In my case, I hope I will not be chased out of the Archivio di Stato by a Terry Gilliam-inspired, legendary Black Beast of aaauuugh, </span><span style="font-family:georgia;">although that would certainly cause comment amongst the patrons of the reading room here.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">But back to the main point; on the 21st October, 1361 a case was brought against Dominicus de Ruigo, <span style="font-style: italic;">marangonus, qui fuit ad laterand de penelo batiorium et fragend astam dictis penonis</span>. What used to happen once a year was a big punch up between the <span style="font-style: italic;">calafati</span> and the <span style="font-style: italic;">marangoni</span> of the ship-building area of Venice, the Arsenale. Manly men being manly men, that sort of thing. It seems that Dominicus, another 8 marangone and about 4 calafati (FYI Avogaria di Comun, Raspe, 3643, ff. 16v-18r) were all hauled up to officialdom for being somewhat over exuberant in their beating up of each other. In the case of Dominicus though, mid sentence the handwriting and thus the notary changes quite dramatically. This either suggests a holiday or unexpected death thus rendering the scribe in question incapacitated. I would like to hope for a holiday but this being the 14th C, it was probably something decidedly less pleasant, like syphilis, TB or BO. Lovely.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">It is these sorts of, at times, mildly macabre musings that keep one going in the archives.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">By the way, Dominicus got one month in prison for his efforts.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn4nqT466yRPM2gdY_yE5qJBvnw1pLM6tw6E0Ydo8cVLhuZTQwEpBts0xO2A7VKkU56a-V15-O9mUiPRjdVoXNdddFiSi62Ggtx5Hyzc8j5dHyE_w4oBKPlUGVyVIhKuOEE5OMBBFMhLg/s1600-h/blackbea.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn4nqT466yRPM2gdY_yE5qJBvnw1pLM6tw6E0Ydo8cVLhuZTQwEpBts0xO2A7VKkU56a-V15-O9mUiPRjdVoXNdddFiSi62Ggtx5Hyzc8j5dHyE_w4oBKPlUGVyVIhKuOEE5OMBBFMhLg/s320/blackbea.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357974831691141250" border="0" /></a><br /></div>Zoe F. Willishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15895164260380204275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1383785050730957536.post-75745105968237561962009-06-12T16:40:00.002+01:002009-06-12T16:46:34.772+01:00Venetian Matriarchs<div style="text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;">Obviously this one was written at some point in the depths of winter...<br /><br />I want to be a Venetian matriarch when I grow up. These women own the city in the wintertime, scattering the few tourists aside in their wake as they perambulate about the town. These women have probably birthed a tribe of gondoliers before lunch, their ancestors were possibly doges who ransacked Constantinople or sea captains who kicked Turkish arse at the Battle of Lepanto. The frenzy of battle is only breath away in these Amazons. A flock of American / Indian / Japanese tourists blocking a calle are like lambs in a paddock, suddenly aware their is a wolf somewhere in their midst and they better get out of the way, pronto. The waves of humanity thus part for the Matriarch, a primal sense of respect breaks through all cultural barriers.<br /><br /> The uniform of these women certainly helps. Two fingers up at all the pain and suffering of small and attractively furry animals; the Matriarchs would wear a coat of woolly mammoth if the things were still extant having killed the beast themselves with a particularly poisonous glare. Head to toe in fur of some sort, these formidable, carnivorous creatures could eat a carrot-bothering, alfalfa-munching, mink-snuggling PETA supporter for breakfast should the opportunity arise. Brilliant.<br /><br /> Oh, and they use their power for both good and evil. Don’t even both trying to queue when these women are around. I never though a rugby scrum could ever actually occur in the butcher’s / baker’s / post office, never mind with such elegance. The fur, literally, flies.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMiTrSSMgSI42W5ahNy9MGksEBkSJjMouCG3MgAY92mxgeCi_CMPF10vYAaSAilNVw2pNP9RLYaStOt4P8070wdlxDVPVuc8knsGCGE83sbGuXLJLLTCyEXcNpMa1quNqSkhrW6CbkQTc/s1600-h/Fur+coat.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 268px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMiTrSSMgSI42W5ahNy9MGksEBkSJjMouCG3MgAY92mxgeCi_CMPF10vYAaSAilNVw2pNP9RLYaStOt4P8070wdlxDVPVuc8knsGCGE83sbGuXLJLLTCyEXcNpMa1quNqSkhrW6CbkQTc/s320/Fur+coat.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346467881446355362" border="0" /></a><br /></div>Zoe F. Willishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15895164260380204275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1383785050730957536.post-73072980371385774712009-06-12T16:31:00.002+01:002009-06-12T16:39:38.337+01:00Horrible Handwriting<div style="text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;">You know, if I could build a time machine and change history in some way, I am sorry to say I wouldn’t do anything selfless for humanity. Examples where my input could help include:<br /><br />• Making sure Archduke Ferdinand avoided Sarajevo in the summer of 1914<br />• Encouraging people to wash during the Plague of 1666<br />• Suggesting King Harold stand a meter or two to the left of right when that Norman arrow was enroute to his eyeball in the Battle of Hastings of 1066.<br /><br />None of these would be on my “to do” list. In fact, I would be horribly selfish aiding only myself and those barmy few who need to read 15th C notarial documents. I would take aside all the notaries of Europe and say; “Look, for crying out loud. PLEASE write properly. Your 14th C forebears managed it with no worries and - trust me - your 16th C successors will also revel in their clarity of script. Although a significant proportion of your clients are illiterate, there is no excuse for such shoddy handwriting. In centuries to come, scholars (i.e. me) will spend hours agonising over whether the daughter of Elena of Zadar had been taken and possibly assaulted by Francesco and Rupert or if it was in fact a perfectly fair and respectable employment contract, offering Elena’s daughter employment and a roof over her head. Unfortunately, your handwriting is SO CRAP that the key verb looks like nothing more than the scratchings of a Neanderthal, only recently evolved from whatever ape came before, who thought the combination of a stick and some sand might be an amusing way to pass half an hour. Gah.”<br /><br /> Thus I hope to save the world (of mad archival-based types) from migraines, poor eyesight and disturbing interpretations primary sources.<br /></div>Zoe F. Willishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15895164260380204275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1383785050730957536.post-20869781406513274312009-06-12T16:24:00.006+01:002009-06-13T01:12:44.280+01:00The Medieval Miscellany Reboot. Kinda like the new Star Trek Movie, but not quite as cool. And fewer space ships.<div style="text-align: justify;font-family:georgia;">Crumbs... has it really been almost six months since the last post? Oops... on the off chance anybody is still out there I shall stick up a few ramblings I jotted down whilst in <span style="font-style: italic;">bella Venezia. </span>For now, a lovely picture of San Marco to help you get into the mood.<br /></div><br /><a style="font-family: georgia;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyYiLqSoDEQdSdqLxdO6nxcyo7icH0Gg9T0T1SstAW8yquWSYndm6LOnT_xnruolRzLaG-Zba60eWjINTQ0t6Oyftq1bd8W3XgLM71FfuMQO6FCKyGCqnolwyj1jIcgk1RKs2_B-4dfXs/s1600-h/SanMarco.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyYiLqSoDEQdSdqLxdO6nxcyo7icH0Gg9T0T1SstAW8yquWSYndm6LOnT_xnruolRzLaG-Zba60eWjINTQ0t6Oyftq1bd8W3XgLM71FfuMQO6FCKyGCqnolwyj1jIcgk1RKs2_B-4dfXs/s320/SanMarco.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346463136753454306" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:georgia;">P.S. I did get completely shafted by the weak £ vs all powerful €. On the plus side I think the price hike certainly focussed the mind and ensured the coffee tasted very, very good indeed and the accompanying sugar-charged breakfast </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" >brioche </span><span style="font-family:georgia;">was pure ambrosia.</span>Zoe F. Willishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15895164260380204275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1383785050730957536.post-39388674373603063822008-12-31T10:16:00.003+00:002008-12-31T10:19:21.829+00:00The Archives part 2(b)i<div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwY0-TeEu7VXpG8ro-fi_0zx2CNGXqYFYkfRHCn7TrLK4BkZd0ekWlduvWRFa3aKpj5scJwqzzNSKuRyZHmGYPHhSFySbgwngV-dsbbSxYCfsXcBZ8yz9Rfs14C6mkwnbX570qJD6KZy0/s1600-h/P1070252.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwY0-TeEu7VXpG8ro-fi_0zx2CNGXqYFYkfRHCn7TrLK4BkZd0ekWlduvWRFa3aKpj5scJwqzzNSKuRyZHmGYPHhSFySbgwngV-dsbbSxYCfsXcBZ8yz9Rfs14C6mkwnbX570qJD6KZy0/s320/P1070252.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285896373464187442" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;">Just going through my photos of the archives in Zadar and I came across this one from the documents of the former Franciscan convent of St Nicholas. </span><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;">Gosh. I hope there wasn't anything important therein.</span><br /></div>Zoe F. Willishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15895164260380204275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1383785050730957536.post-803605739315775502008-12-31T09:46:00.004+00:002008-12-31T10:06:59.716+00:00The Euro<div style="text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;">Oh pish. This is really not the best time to be heading for a three-month stint in Venice. €0.99 = £1.003. Although the Economist claims this is a good thing for the British economy as the sterling has been over valued for far too long, I am unfortunately a member of the miffed throngs who now gets decidedly less bang for their £ when cavorting on the continent. Ah well, at least I shall save on travel costs. €25 for a monthly pass on the vaporetti in Venice as well as a lot of walking, in contrast to over £100 a month for grotty, hot, over-crowded and unpleasant buses and tubes in London. Oh, and as of tomorrow, our beloved, cherubic and true blue mayor has decreed a 12% increase on travel costs in this, our fair capital. No wonder international companies are fleeing for Germany. A strong euro, cheaper living costs, clean and punctual public transport and less chance of getting stabbed by a pissed-off hoody. "Ordnung," as they say, "muß sein".<br /> Happy New Year everybody.<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4g8_hE09PtNBbEzRXYwwIFgF_BSMYZNe3vdmoCk0ixXaKXoO9kF-kh8jPMRGPZLVhdpcrC9J3QR68XkDihVU44yVuddg9gKnERUHeeHtd0HEttLtDAksQkl0LapHP0SOYIjr96lbHNFI/s1600-h/P1000492.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4g8_hE09PtNBbEzRXYwwIFgF_BSMYZNe3vdmoCk0ixXaKXoO9kF-kh8jPMRGPZLVhdpcrC9J3QR68XkDihVU44yVuddg9gKnERUHeeHtd0HEttLtDAksQkl0LapHP0SOYIjr96lbHNFI/s320/P1000492.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285892916506971858" border="0" /></a>Zoe F. Willishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15895164260380204275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1383785050730957536.post-76208234728102650292008-11-25T18:39:00.004+00:002008-11-26T16:03:57.673+00:00John Nettles. Yum<div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span style="font-family:georgia;">So one of the librarians here had a confession to make regarding her level of English. After the usual profuse apologies for such a “poor” standard of English - a standard, I might add, that many native speakers on both sides of the Atlantic often fail to meet - a story regarding her particular didactic incentive was revealed. Throughout the 1980s (and even now at lunchtime in the first decade of the 21st C) Croatian television was saturated with American television shows. <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Magnum P.I., Dallas, the ‘A’ team</span> and<span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"> the Bold and the Beautiful</span> were some of the staples as well as exposure to the early days of MTV and other such ambassadors of American popular culture. </span><span style="font-family:georgia;">Our lovely librarian however, was not impressed. She refused outright to learn a tongue whose vibrancy, phenomenal literary heritage and beauty had been so readily corrupted by half-hour sessions relaying the tedious goings on of wealthy Texans and / or Tom Selleck in a pair of khaki shorts. </span><br /><br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span style="font-family:georgia;">Even when her teenage daughters were capable of American English conversation far beyond the wit of, say, a certain wealthy president of the USA hailing from Texas, our librarian was still resolute in her determination not to succumb to the perceived nasal qualities of this particular manifestation of American cultural imperialism. </span><span style="font-family:georgia;"><br /><br />But soon after the war in this neck of the woods, a wonderful, nay, marvellous thing happened. Well, in fact it was the 1997 combination of two marvellous things that converted our librarian to the delights of the English language.</span> <span style="font-family:georgia;">The potent marriage of a certain John Nettles and a fictional county in England with what must be the highest murder rate in the entire world; glorious Midsomer. Particular emphasis, for our librarian, is upon the former rather than the latter although after five years of daily bombardment, men folk going off to war and civilians suffering such shocking privations, the politeness and understatement of <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Midsomer Murder</span>’s adulterous dalliances in the compost heap, or murder at the village jumble sale through the medium of a poisoned digestive biscuit, was a refreshing change. And over seeing all this gentrified chaos was the dashing DCI Tom Barnaby, aka John Nettles; strong, handsome, softly-spoken and terribly, terribly charming. *sigh*.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglmiAd15_XzXLuzOZi9hKlsrDTsbOqrqACqkHt-OnwdNXHPI6q9OBbH4QFVJEgg9m23vVfoeMpHj82njv1hZ8pDn9f-eQmMt5b0HWp8Nekiiv1kFdjlm2bwIEyTZhd4J-P-UxUCJrkYU0/s1600-h/midsomermurders"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272667172937393714" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 297px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglmiAd15_XzXLuzOZi9hKlsrDTsbOqrqACqkHt-OnwdNXHPI6q9OBbH4QFVJEgg9m23vVfoeMpHj82njv1hZ8pDn9f-eQmMt5b0HWp8Nekiiv1kFdjlm2bwIEyTZhd4J-P-UxUCJrkYU0/s320/midsomermurders" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:georgia;">Thus our librarian started learning English along with other female peers, equally enamoured of the DCI. And so it is all thanks to John Nettles, unwitting ambassador of the English language, that I am able to communicate my more complex bibliographic demands from our lovely librarian.</span> <span style="font-family:georgia;">John Nettles, the bookish ladies of Croatia salute you! You are truly the thinking, Balkan woman’s crumpet!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">The question must be asked though; what if Det. Serg. Jim Bergerac had been available to 1980s Croatia? An even jammier John Nettles? Younger, sleeker and sporting a leather jacket? To be honest, I don’t think internecine conflict in the Balkans would even have been on the cards; the womenfolk would have demanded all military efforts be focused on the invasion of Jersey and the capture of John Nettles instead. </span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjtKdks_Hn5m8TghHY9upm6MstwfygDWeo6N2JGyX2P8bK1H7mXmZfMpAgKzB-BTvJN6Wb-ZvcLxvheioqNd5a__RW-ZRcKNdbMT59KJZvL__vRpAmlyQD3Sr3YUlsnvHRW_3hvEzsNJ8/s1600-h/Jim+Bergerac"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272666947391608834" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 136px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 126px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjtKdks_Hn5m8TghHY9upm6MstwfygDWeo6N2JGyX2P8bK1H7mXmZfMpAgKzB-BTvJN6Wb-ZvcLxvheioqNd5a__RW-ZRcKNdbMT59KJZvL__vRpAmlyQD3Sr3YUlsnvHRW_3hvEzsNJ8/s320/Jim+Bergerac" border="0" /></a> </div>Zoe F. Willishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15895164260380204275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1383785050730957536.post-45283579297555484822008-11-14T14:36:00.004+00:002008-11-14T14:45:09.128+00:00Mullets<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiisJyBoS96yUk39GPYyk5-TeaXRXN7Vtspe9AGYZ3eRMjH7WtG_qVeWhVgK03EZPnNRNY3-ps9dRV8ukbb8UpOChOz5E8OdDEuN5NGbilgRXc6T1cuodb37dqijUUoMMu1VmnDvKDUyY4/s1600-h/gaymullet12.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268524042264980626" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 287px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiisJyBoS96yUk39GPYyk5-TeaXRXN7Vtspe9AGYZ3eRMjH7WtG_qVeWhVgK03EZPnNRNY3-ps9dRV8ukbb8UpOChOz5E8OdDEuN5NGbilgRXc6T1cuodb37dqijUUoMMu1VmnDvKDUyY4/s320/gaymullet12.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqYMuCyjvqdNkfMdLL997kFXk7WcvHMpywvx3HdJpF7fXoBhYE8FREtwHyJLm4CQ33PyxdmVcJ3a8x_iIZuT2EYEBNSCaJ1S5akaURtWKfiR5GlrpGEf9NtxCWa5qqcizyl3kklhflAfg/s1600-h/gaymullet12.jpg"></a><div align="justify"><br /><br /></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:georgia;">Oh for crying out loud. I saw about 5 middle-aged men sporting mullets yesterday. It is 2008. Will somebody please outlaw the mullet? I think I know what happened to those teenage boys in the 1980s who did not cut their hair. Let this be a warning to the current generation...</span></div><div><br /></div><div></div>Zoe F. Willishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15895164260380204275noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1383785050730957536.post-57061883388877611952008-11-14T14:32:00.003+00:002008-11-14T14:35:51.876+00:00Winter (ish)<div align="justify"><span style="font-family:georgia;">Huzzah! At last the temperatures have dropped. I think the good people of Zadar have recovered from the shock of the floral and are now ready for the unleashing of the bobble hats...</span></div>Zoe F. Willishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15895164260380204275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1383785050730957536.post-988532532136287462008-11-09T09:38:00.006+00:002008-11-09T09:59:00.854+00:00All Saints' and All Souls'<div style="text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;">As you may have guessed, Croatia is a rather Catholic country. Therefore there is a distinct absence of feral children dressed up as witches and ghouls harassing neighbours for toxic confectionery on the 31st October. Instead the 1st and 2nd November are a national holiday set aside for remembering departed family members and visiting graveyards. In order to honour those lost, flowers are an appropriate gesture so cemeteries and houses are strewn with blooms. But not just any blooms, oh no. The wonderful chrysanthemum has been bestowed with the dubious honour of a flower of remembrance, to the extent that in the village of St Philip and Jacob just outside Zadar, the name in their dialect for chrysanthemum roughly translates as “dead man’s bloom”. And the markets are chock full of them in anticipation for the start of November.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6_8tSoPSFRL2wwV6Ua3zyJnBNheLgOoN0QCe3CmlNu9xOw32r9fezHVEQ5qSB0WxWGD240c_gPqmo53bXOzM5r0x78Sq6KKFi4xS0GIQTH3ZcyDOSG1jlnpDkSeZkDZgVPDX9E0xQC3k/s1600-h/P1050353.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6_8tSoPSFRL2wwV6Ua3zyJnBNheLgOoN0QCe3CmlNu9xOw32r9fezHVEQ5qSB0WxWGD240c_gPqmo53bXOzM5r0x78Sq6KKFi4xS0GIQTH3ZcyDOSG1jlnpDkSeZkDZgVPDX9E0xQC3k/s320/P1050353.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5266593710937123858" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7jZW_ffGFDSmUVqcQ4sz4Un4gQMzYAFjbvs3UOTKAQs6JHp4VNN4i66DPen0v0HuT_ind2gVu7eqz2rm7az9X6_SRy-Io9Ae2Li0RP8uLBMQJIHSCCuUKkgy_hTySmic7r3XJbXjcfio/s1600-h/P1050357.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7jZW_ffGFDSmUVqcQ4sz4Un4gQMzYAFjbvs3UOTKAQs6JHp4VNN4i66DPen0v0HuT_ind2gVu7eqz2rm7az9X6_SRy-Io9Ae2Li0RP8uLBMQJIHSCCuUKkgy_hTySmic7r3XJbXjcfio/s320/P1050357.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5266591645001108242" border="0" /></a><br />Now, muppet me, visiting the market to buy some flowers for a hostess of a pending dinner party, was delighted by the flowers that were everywhere but in a moment where vigilance on my part was lacking, did not notice the common theme: chrysanthemums. I bought a particularly lovely bunch and that evening sallied on to the soiree and only half way to the social event in question did divine inspiration strike and the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. I was taking my kind hosts a bunch of blooms that in Croatia signify death or at least that the end of a terminal illness is looming. Not the most auspicious of starts to an event more associated with merriment. Bugger. Needless to say the “muppet foreigner from a secular / protestant country” card was played and much laughter ensued once a couple of bottles of wine had been imbibed.<br />On a lighter note I did learn that my particular choice of chrysanthemum is called a <span style="font-style: italic;">Bekerica </span>as they look like tennis balls and the most famous tennis player of them all is apparently a certain Mr. B. Becker.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7k-15gI8d5076D1dvi9w4sISEHkOeBA2zn5xhyv2df9X93xtxY8b0q1nyxVhkXBZzchYifW8e9c3nRwS0dyFe_fB-zujGd7xRdSIGnQk8RHZMkrR7Ko6rrMyyCr0Lwab3efADav7t78U/s1600-h/P1050363.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7k-15gI8d5076D1dvi9w4sISEHkOeBA2zn5xhyv2df9X93xtxY8b0q1nyxVhkXBZzchYifW8e9c3nRwS0dyFe_fB-zujGd7xRdSIGnQk8RHZMkrR7Ko6rrMyyCr0Lwab3efADav7t78U/s320/P1050363.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5266592734311205602" border="0" /></a><br /></div>Zoe F. Willishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15895164260380204275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1383785050730957536.post-34901553339050098842008-11-09T09:35:00.000+00:002008-11-09T09:37:33.391+00:00Rude boys who spend Saturday night cruising around a peninsula only approx. 750m long and 200m wide in souped up VW Polos with Turbo Folk blaring.<span style="font-family: georgia;">Why?</span>Zoe F. Willishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15895164260380204275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1383785050730957536.post-61860547443401259172008-11-09T09:11:00.004+00:002008-11-09T09:38:02.547+00:00St Simeon<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Today’s contribution to my cyber ramblings is terribly late but I wish you all a Happy St Simeon’s day (for the 8th October. Note that date down for next year). This particular feast is rather significant in Zadar. The city has Simeon’s body. Not just a finger, femur, scrap of fabric or instrument of torture but the entire body. And not just one of your bog-standard early Christian martyrs, although Zadar has lashings of those in the guise of Saints Chrysogonus and Anastasia, but someone who not only gets a mention in the New Testament but actually held the Babe Jesus when presented at the Temple (Luke 2:22-35). Cue Song of Simeon or the </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: georgia;">Nunc dimittis</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> of the Latin liturgy.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"> This then makes Simeon a bit of a trump card in the ongoing “my saint is better than yours” competition between urban centres of Medieval Europe, with the Adriatic cities of Venice and Zadar no exception to this hagiographic machismo. The Zadrani legend concerning the arrival of such an important relic is actually relatively late in their local pantheon of saints, 13th C rather than 6th, 7th or 9th C. The story goes that a nobleman from Northern Italy and the body of his “brother” were enroute home from the Holy Lands and the ship, as with most ships pottering about the Adriatic at this time did, stopped off in Zadar for a rest and refuel. Hostelries run by religious orders abounded in Zadar and the nobleman stayed in one of these establishments, having his decidedly moribund “brother” buried in the cemetery. Unfortunately the following night the nobleman himself came to a terminal end (apparently by natural causes). Before his death he told his monkish hosts to fossick through his personal effects and find something of great significance. This they did and they discovered a document that certified the veracity of the “brother’s” saintliness, in fact expressly stating that this was no “brother” but St Simeon himself!</span><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Well, you can imagine the merriment amongst the monks. It’s a bit like the ecclesiastical equivalent of winning the Lotto or guaranteeing U2 and Queen at Live Aid. Superstar saints = pilgrims = money. “Huzzah!” though the monks, and bided their time until they could think up a plausible enough reason for the relic’s arrival.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Unfortunately for the monks, God moves in mysterious ways and the three secular representatives of the town, the rectors, happened to have a simultaneous dream that St Simeon’s body was in the cemetery of the hostelry. Cue much joyous surprise amongst the three when the next morning, whilst discussing issues of great fiscal import or somesuch, they discovered their shared dream and being sensible men of God, realised that something had to be done. Rushing to the graveyard, they caught the monks exhuming Simeon, and swiftly confiscated the body The image below is from the 14th C shrine of Simeon and depicts the discussion between the rectors and the monks starting to dig for the saint.</span><br /><a style="font-family: georgia;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJUVhjG37bHoTpsFjraKrgXRoY6UCRP492WPkZ7EiRyIOJNfBJ2OM1ODIjSRJcTg4vcSx14UZ9xpUD9mrl6NwDOnQpLNDT1_Nmhu_EN6AAxHnQw6ri05pYrjr6_5OAX6uihnr8kfI-9j8/s1600-h/07.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJUVhjG37bHoTpsFjraKrgXRoY6UCRP492WPkZ7EiRyIOJNfBJ2OM1ODIjSRJcTg4vcSx14UZ9xpUD9mrl6NwDOnQpLNDT1_Nmhu_EN6AAxHnQw6ri05pYrjr6_5OAX6uihnr8kfI-9j8/s320/07.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5266584791163659506" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;">The body was then taken to the church of St Mary the Great situated on the east side of the city, next to the main gateway leading to the port. And what a jolly sensible choice of location, if I may say so. Pilgrims, sailors, merchants etc all stumble off their boats after stints at sea, wander into the city and low and behold! within spitting distance of the taverns and brothels where much of their time will be spent whilst in the city, there lies superstar St Simeon’s body. Guaranteed indulgences (or purgatory points) for the visitors before or after they indulge in the vice of their choice, guaranteed income for the college of priests running St Mary’s as well as the inevitable boost to the local economy and an official two fingers up at Venice.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"> You see, Venice ruled Zadar on and off for almost 800 years, with the occasional interruption in the guise of revolts and / or the Zadrani swearing fealty to the King of Hungary, be they Àrpàd or Angevin. Needless to say, relations between protector and protectorate were strained as a result. So, although Venice claims </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: georgia;">it</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> has the body of St Simeon, appropriately enough housed in the church of San Simeone Grande, even today local atheist Zadrani will shout with vigour “No! Ours is the real one!” Add to this the fact that during a Hungarian stint (1358 -1409) Zadar gained the most ornate reliquary of the day for their saint (of which we have had a little taster) courtesy of Elizabeth Kotomarić, princess of Bosnia and wife of Louis of Anjou the king of Hungary. Between 1377 and 80 Francesco da Milano, a permanent resident of Zadar and rather talented goldsmith, fashioned this big, bling box for Simeon.</span><br /><a style="font-family: georgia;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnvi2Q-PvJhyphenhyphen1N4hhJE8L4bURiPZ6TPgQTFK_xwJaY2Y1f6QZOTeAMAJhxGqkPtcvGnJAKYCAfx7IP2Dm3ySoVkYPkFBiEdRhWlvHgzua-OHWhImUJ3CKtlAygOskDYl-LJz3atMKMVRs/s1600-h/05.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnvi2Q-PvJhyphenhyphen1N4hhJE8L4bURiPZ6TPgQTFK_xwJaY2Y1f6QZOTeAMAJhxGqkPtcvGnJAKYCAfx7IP2Dm3ySoVkYPkFBiEdRhWlvHgzua-OHWhImUJ3CKtlAygOskDYl-LJz3atMKMVRs/s320/05.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5266583924610201378" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;">Its spectacular quality and beauty not only confirmed the veracity of the body (why bother spending so much money on it if you doubted the provenance of the relic?) but also was also a public relations coup for the House of Anjou over the Most Serene Republic, Venice.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"> After 1409 though, when Zadar returned to the Venetian fold, arguably it was the Republic who got the last laugh and lashings of income for all the efforts of the Angevins and Zadrani of the previous century. No wonder the cult in Venice stayed relatively low-key: why bother with its promotion when you can enjoy the fruits of a ready-made cult in one of you colonies?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"> But back to the 21st C, which, for reasons of rambling medieval context will be short(ish). Simeon’s body was moved to the church of St Stephen in the 1630s, and with a lick of paint and swift reconsecration of the church to its latest relic, the cult was revived. It had gone into decline somewhat with the destruction of most of St Mary the Great in 1570 to make way for fortifications (those blasted Turks) and Simeon’s body languished in what remained of the apse for another 60 years. Today it seems that in order to get past the Hitler-esque sacristan of the church to have a close look at the shrine, you either need a signed letter from the pope or to join the good burghers of the city on Simeon’s feast day. Hundred of people cram in to the church for the four masses that punctuate the day itself as well as file past the reliquary when mass is not on.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Now in the study of things older than the first photographs of the 19th C, ian over active imagination can be rather useful. So it is a special thing when your imagination is allowed a day off and contemporary humanity provides a show of medieval proportions and drama. Rather than try and describe St Simeon's day of 2008, I shall leave you with the words of Canon Pietro Casola, a Milanese pilgrim writing about his visit to Zadar in 1494.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: georgia;">I went with the other pilgrims according to arrangement to the Church of Saint Simeon, where after Vespers were sung the body of Saint Simeon was shown - a very remarkable relic - certainly the most beautiful I ever saw, either at Rome or elsewhere. The body is perfectly preserved, there is nothing in the world lacking, either in the face or in the hands or in the feet. The mouth is open and the in the upper jaw there are no teeth; I was not surprised at that, because he was very old when he died. ... I went several times to see the relic because there was a great crowd of pilgrims and also of people belonging to the city and country around who came there because it was a holiday. And the more I looked the more it seemed to me a stupendous thing, most of all when I remembered the time of his death which could not be less than one thousand four hundred and ninety-three years ago... </span><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;">Pietro Casola, Canon Pietro Casola’s Pilgrimage to Jerusalem in the Year 1494, ed. by Margaret M. Newett, trans. by M. Margaret Newett (Manchester: University Press, 1907), pp. 166-67</span><br /><br /></div>Zoe F. Willishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15895164260380204275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1383785050730957536.post-9825325867101231042008-11-09T09:08:00.001+00:002008-11-09T09:11:10.946+00:00Staring into the Abyss<div style="text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;">Crap, crap, crap, crap and fivefold crap. So life potters on in the archives and library. You are master of your own destiny, making hefty decisions such as whether to read a busta of documents from 1403-09 or maybe 1410-1418 or perchance wander about town photographing buildings that are no longer there or possibly even (controversially) doing a spot of writing. There is no one to crack the whip except yourself, no one to make sure you are at the archives spot on at 8.30am. In short life is your call. Thus you potter on contentedly, thinking everything is fine and dandy and harvesting info, articles and photocopies like an urbanite at a “Pick your Own” strawberry farm. Sometimes on a dark autumn afternoon you may have an X files moment, “is there anybody out there?”, which is swiftly followed by a reassuring Michael Jackson crooning “You are not alone” when you meet with other scholarly types but then with equal swiftness degenerates into doubt and severe misgivings for which I cannot immediately think of a 1990s pop culture comparison.<br /><br />The brilliance of other wannabe scholars out here is terrifying. Frankly, I am a fraud by comparison. Since undergraduates they have been living and breathing all things archival, can speak more languages than you can shake a stick at, and have lashings of cold, hard evidence on things such as reliquaries, patrons and Dalmatian fish names of the 7th C (don’t ask) from which reams of intelligent and insightful writing falls like apples from a tree in September. These people know exactly what they are doing, what they will achieve with the info at hand and are making tangible contributions to scholarship in the region. By comparison, my intercultural, periphery vs metropole, urban “lines of meaning”, “the city as source” topic is so bloomin’ abstract that on the off chance I even manage to articulate what I am attempting to do listeners have either nodded off with boredom or run away screaming. My topic is a bit like a saltwater croc made of jelly. Big, bad and anti-social with a tendency to slip through your fingers if you try to grapple but with the additional frisson that it will bite your arse off when you least expect it.<br /><br />A wise PhD student told me recently that your PhD only really begins when you feel as if you are staring into the abyss, so big and unwieldy have the ideas and issues become. Ladies and gentlegerms, I am officially staring into the abyss. What the hell am I doing?<br /><br />And condicionibus still looks like a significant component in a garibaldi biscuit. Crap.<br /></div>Zoe F. Willishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15895164260380204275noreply@blogger.com0