Solskin: A Photographic Tour of Copenhagen

In Danish, the word for "sunshine" is "solskin." Which I love--especially since I've acquired my first legitimate sunburn in years, and my sun-kissed skin is peeling off like I'm shedding some sort of weird, epidermal snakeskin. ANYWAY. Copenhagen has been bathed in the solskin lately, to the point where I feel terrifically guilty if I don't spend at least an hour outdoors, taking advantage of the vitamin D and the opportunity to regain my freckles. The city is beautiful, and I have stocked up on quite a lot of mental and real images to get me through the winter months (which could start tomorrow, you never know, so it's good to be prepared). Here are some sommerferie pictures of lovely Copenhagen, wrapped in solskin...


When everyone went to Roskilde, the normally popular Meatpacking District (Kødbyen), one of my favorite nighttime places, was totally empty. And cool, in a creepy, dead-animal kind of way.


I love Vesterbro--I am quite happy to be moving so close to it very soon!--and this is one of the reasons why: Optical illusion art on the side of a building.


Entering Nørrebro, I see one of my favorite signs, only huge-sized. Despite the reputation that precedes it, I adore Nørrebro. People need to give it another shot, I think.


When I moved here (almost a year ago, already!) my dad and I stayed on this block in Nørrebro. We passed this building, adorned with painted trees and chickens, every day. It is apparently a kindergarten. And because I would love a chicken-covered building, it is now my favorite kindergarten.


I keep my eyes peeled for weirdness at all times--I probably look ridiculous walking the streets because I constantly stop to ponder DONG Energy boxes and telephone poles and the backs of streetlights. Sometimes though, I just look up and see a cheeky, chalky creeper. See, THIS is why Nørrebro is wonderful. It's full of stuff like this.


Whenever I go to Tivoli--which is quite often, thanks to my friend's Wild Card for me!--I check the temperature. This is an emotional picture for me, because four or five months from now, I will fondly recall the days of summer, when that beautiful red neon light surged above 20 degrees...


Behind Tivoli is Central Station, and here you can see just absolute masses of bicycles. J'adore.


And in front of Tivoli's main entrance: fantastic old posters. This is one of my favorites.


My current 'hood, Christianshavn, is amazing in the summer. I will miss living in this lovely corner of Copenhagen; I take a book, with a pastry or coffee, and read by the canal all the time. And my awesome friend Constantine and I are becoming regulars at Sofiekælderen.


And there are roses EVERYWHERE. Seriously, I feel like a fairy princess; I leave my apartment and see roses bushes all over my block, I bike surrounded by these beautiful flowers and their fallen petals on the sidewalk...all that's missing is a prince and unicorns. And sometimes peanuts.


In Frederiksberg, there is a magical tree called "Suttetræ," and it is pacifier heaven.


As a former thumbsucker myself, I loved this tree...though I do hope there's not an equivalent sort of heaven for retired thumbsuckers.


Islands Brygge is absolutely wonderful in the summertime. Plus it's full of stuff like leftover railroad tracks, and old beams and tram cars and things like that. I love it.


Solskin and building remains on Islands Brygge.


Plus some of the most beautiful sunset views in Copenhagen...which, coincidentally, go really well with friends, summer salad, white wine, and jazz music by someone called "Odessa 5 goes X-Large."

The Geography of Love (Part 2A)

Thanks to Louise Midjord, I am in temporary possession of Annette Messager's Word for Word--a beautiful collection of the French visual artist's work. I spent the better part of this sommerferie afternoon poring over her words and art, and find myself quite enamored of her work. Messager says that for her, "words are images," a statement with which I (as a mildly hyperarticulate, word-loving ballerina child) can totally relate.

Much of her work revolves around love and relationships, a subject towards which I am ferociously naive but secretly (beneath my rock-solid layer of sarcasm) fascinated by. Summer in Scandinavia seems full of couples, and though I am not part of one, I do enjoy observing from afar. Messager's works have this raw, simple, beautifully honest and innocent atmosphere with which I think everyone can relate. And so, I transcribe two of my favorite passages here. It may be lengthy for a blog post, but there you have it :-)

My Map of the Country of Tenderness
the river of your tears
the path of your shoulder
the forest of his eyebrows
the landscape of your fingernails
the cavern of your ear
the monsoon of your tongue
the teeth of my shame
the mount of your lies
the eyelids of prudence
the navel of solitude
the bush of hairs
the route of temptations
the path of reconciliation
the forest of uncertainties
the lake of meditation
the tree of shame
the crossroads of ambition
the river of chance
the landscape of rupture
the curve of unhappiness
the slope of doubt
the clearing of indiscretion
the pass of suspicions
the stones of calumny
the pond of decline
the trail of indulgence
the woods of voluptuousness


The Men I Love, the Men I Don't Love
I love his graying side burns, I love his profile
I don't love his big side burns, I don't love his bow tie

I love his appearance of a young, neat business executive
I don't love his appearance of a young, too neat business executive, I don't like his hairstyle

I love his determined look, I like his seriousness
I don't love his serious and 40-year-old responsible man attitude

I love his relaxed and elegant style
I don't love his shirt collar, I don't love his conceited style

I love his smile behind his raincoat collar
I don't love what he is hiding behind his raincoat collar

I love his hard, clean look
I don't love his hard, clean look

I love his seductive air and his very dark eyes
I don't love his seductive air; I don't love his lock of hair

I love his eyebrows, I love his rich air, I love his cigar
I don't love his rich air, I don't love his moustache I don't love his cigar

I love his little lock of hair and his shiny hair
I don't love his hair that reminds me of a wig, I don't love his part

I love his serious look, I love his eyeglasses, I love his pipe
I don't love his eyeglasses, I don't love that he smokes a pipe

I love his loutish manner
I don't love his loutish side

I love his reassuring and chubby manner
I don't love his nervy and self-satisfied manner

I love his piercing eyes and his furrowed brow
I don't love his small, too piercing eyes

I like his good-natured manner
I don't love his clumsy, good-natured side

I love his calm and poised air, I love his house behind him
I don't love his established, settled air, smoking a pipe in front of his house

I love his bon vivant artistic manner, I love his smile
I don't love his vest, I don't love his smile

I love his smile, I love his oversized sweater
I don't love his smile, his too close-set eyes, I don't love his sweater

I don't love his very youthful and melancholic air, I would like to give him self-confidence
I don't love his overly-romantic air, or his fat lips

I love his eyes, I love his cigar
I don't love his cigar, I don't love his nostrils

I love his slenderness, I love that he gallops
I don't love his horse-riding outfit, he does not fill it out

I love his very youthful look, I love his thick eyebrows
I don't love that he looks too young, I don't love that his eyebrows are too close together

I love his hard-working and serious look, I love his file-folders and his telephone, he is wearing a wedding band
I don't love his file-folders, I don't love his fat wedding band

I love his touchable hair, I love his glass of wine
I don't love his hairstyle, I don't love his overly cute playboy attitude, I don't love his glass of wine

I love his adventurous manner, I love his grip
I don't love his falsely adventurous, office-chair astronaut, attitude

I love his wide face, I love his moustache
I don't love his beard and his moustache

I love his young, affectionate and reassuring fatherly manner
I don't love his reassuring grandfatherly manner

I love his sporty and determined air, I love the forest behind him
I don't love his determined and sporty air, I don't love his eyeglasses

I love his smile and his suit
I don't love his overly smiley aged-young man appearance

I love his big ear, I love his pursed lips
I don't love his oversized ear, I don't love his sullen pursed lips

I love his uniform, I love his serious appearance
I don't love his uniform, I don't love his serious appearance, I don't love his mouth

The Pied Piper Was a Rat

The beauty of sommerferie is this wonderful unfamiliar luxury concept of "free time." I fill that with many activities: going out with friends; physical therapy and ballerina class to stay in [something resembling] shape; biking around the city; sitting by/jumping in the water on Islands Brygge; and of course the always-reliable pasttime of futzing around on the internets. Occasionally, this last boredom-killer leads me to awesome things: shark sleeping bags, zombie defense tips, disconcerting scientific studies concluding that heterosexual men prefer women with small feet, etc. Today, the information superhighway led me to something morbidly fascinating: the real tragic story behind the popular Brothers Grimm tale of the Pied Piper.

In the Grimms' tale, the medieval German town of Hamelin is struck with a plague of rats. A hero arrives in the form of an outsider wearing red and yellow, and he promises to rid the town of their pesky problem; the townspeople like the sound of a rodent-free Hamelin, so they promise him money if he makes good on his vow. This rat-catching style maven uses this special, oddly-specific gift he has to exterminate Hamelin: He plays a tune on his pipe that the rats apparently like. They like it so much, in fact, that the rats are lured into the river Weser, where they all drown. So the piper did his job, and expects his promised fee, but the townspeople are German Scrooges and refuse to honor their promise. The Piper is, understandably, not too happy--and I totally get this. I mean, it's gotta be hard knowing exactly what music will seduce rats. So he goes away for a while to plot his revenge, because every good fairy tale needs a kick-butt revenge twist. He returns to Hamelin, but this time dresses like a hunter (I'm thinking a lot more earth tones and a lot less condiment-inspired color combos). He plays a tune that hypnotizes the town's children this time--not rats, but "rugrats"?--and so leads an entire German town's child population into the mountains, and they are never seen again.

First of all, let's just appreciate the fact that the Pied Piper, though twisted and vengeful, was apparently history's greatest DJ and must have played a mean recorder. (Many modern versions have been watered down: The Piper returns the children, having orchestrated the whole thing to teach those greedy Hamelinites a lesson.) But the kicker is that in the real town of Hamelin, there are references to a true tragedy, one of which is recorded on the walls of one recorded on the walls of the so-called Rattenfängerhaus (House of the Piper): “In the year of 1284, on the day of Saints John and Paul, the 26th of June, 130 children born in Hamelin were seduced by a piper, dressed in all kinds of colours, and lost at the calvary near the koppen.” And suddenly this fairy tale might not be so fun. What really happened?

The Market Church in Hamelin has a glass window from the 1300s which shows a colorfully dressed stranger leading a crowd of children dressed in white. This window was destroyed in 1660, but did inspire Augustin Von Moersperg in 1592. He made a watercolor painting which retains the essence of the original window and, importantly, upholds the main geographical features of the tale. Folklore has made synonymous the Pied Piper and the figure of a rat-catcher. In fact, the rats were probably a later addition (not an original element) to the Hamelin tale, but this might be because the image of rats deepened the story. I mean, most people don't associate rats with pleasant imagery, though Disney's lovely Ratatouille has done wonders for the global rodent reputation. The image of a rat-infested medieval town does bring to mind thoughts of the plague. As for the Piper, medieval representations had that cheeky figure known as Death presenting himself as a skeleton with a penchant for colorful clothes. So the Pied Piper is a sort of Black Death made human...and as a result--even less adorably--the one responsible for taking the lives of the 130 children of Hamelin.

There are many ideas and interpretations of what actually happened in Hamelin on that fateful June day, as well as who the Piper really was, or--perhaps he was not an actual person, though that remains quite possible--what the character of the Piper represents. What is clear now, after over 700 years, is that the Pied Piper of Hamelin has become a classic "trickster." The Piper was a medieval punk with terrible fashion sense; he challenged the establishment, broke the rules (both of decent common society and good taste), and spread anarchy. Depending on your sense of humor/life outlook, he can be seen as horrible or as a prankster. The Pied Piper was a bit schizophrenic. One minute he's a psycho, the next a hero, then a rebel… and then a mass murderer with some killer tunes. The Pied Piper led Hamelin's children to some sort of place, that much we know. (Plus, he was probably the best exterminator of the 13th century.) Whether this place was a new land, some weird state of consciousness, or a terrible death is a mystery yet to be solved...

Happy 234th, America!

Today is Independence Day in my native country, the wonderful mess of a (comparatively) young nation that is the United States of America. For all of my liberal, not-overly-patriotic ways, I do love where I come from. There are certain things that could--and do--only come from America, and for all its faults, it is things like these that make me love the good ol' US of A, things most non-Americans could never love in the same way we do. Without further ado, then, a list of contributions (some, admittedly, dubious) from my homeland:

- The Naked Cowboy

- Goober Jelly

- Baseball; American football; Basketball

- Lite beer (I don't agree with this, but it is quite popular, so thanks to the Miller Brewing Company.)

- Superman

- Meatloaf...and, for that matter, Meat Loaf

- The Ringling Bros. Circus

- the light bulb

- 24-hour diners

- Rock n' Roll, Jazz, and Blues music

- hot dogs and apple pie

- Slim Jim Beef Jerky

- Band-Aids

- peanut butter (as it should be) and marshmallow Fluff...and the great combination of these two, Fluffernutter sandwiches

- the first walk on the moon (and the Moonwalk as we know it, for that matter)

- SUPERmarkets and wholesale clubs and superstores

- the twist and Hammertime!

- drive-thru fast food (and the McDonald's Happy Meal, and now-retired "Supersize" option)

- Scrabble

- The Muppets and Sesame Street

- SUVs

- the International House of Pancakes

- the Big Gulp, curiously absent from Copenhagen's 7-11s (though I could be mistaken)

- Crayola crayons

- spray cheese , spray butter, and colored ketchup

- the telephone

- Lilly Pulitzer clothing--"country club wear"

- child beauty pageants (and of course, the Miss America pageant)

The list could go on, but you get the idea. Happy happy birthday, America. (And thanks again for the Fluffernutter and the rock n' roll.)

I'm Goin' Where the Water Tastes Like Wine

Yesterday was the first day of the Copenhagen Jazz Festival, and though I didn't experience any of the official concerts, I was treated to several free performances on Strøget as I made my way to see some friends perform at the Pantomime Theatre in Tivoli. And though I have never been a huge jazz fan before, this odd couple made me think: This Jazz Festival and I could get along quite well indeed. There's something very endearing about these two, and their simple/simply fabulous lyrics involving $10 shoes and water-as-wine.

Toy Story, or: My Friends are Wonderful

Sometimes, it takes a lot of things or absolutely nothing at all. But if you're lucky enough--which I have been--you have an overwhelming moment where you realize: You have the most wonderful, truest friends on Planet Earth (to your knowledge). For me, this moment occurred on sommerferie, far away from home, at a very late/early hour, and (characteristically for me) involved some tears. Despite the mini-breakdown involved, however, it was so comforting to feel I have found a second family for myself, and that I am really quite privileged in the friends department, as well as in the actual genetics/immediate family department. These people let me "Car Crash" at their apartment; feed me; make me laugh; give me the occasional reality check; listen to me cry/snort-laugh/vent/ramble; and give wonderful bear hugs.

So, they know who they are; and this post is just a small one to say: Infinity thank yous. You are all awesome, which is like...good x 100. And because it fits, and it's a little bit dorky, and truth be told I not-so-secretly love it...a little bit of Randy Newman-meets-Disney :-)

The Geography of Love (Part 2)

Continuing with the theme of Monday's post...in learning about Madeleine de Scudéry's Carte de Tendre, I also learned the work of French artist Annette Messager. She was inspired by Mlle. de Scudéry's work, and used the idea of "amorous geography" in her artwork. Her descriptions of this are beautifully worded, I think:

"We have films about love, we have novels about love, we should have paintings of love.

I draw in the lines of your foot. I paint in the lines of your mouth. I make watercolors in your hand. I sew images in your ear. I draw a map in your navel…

I was very impressed by the Carte du Tendre [Map of Tenderness] invented by a woman writer of 17th century France, Mlle de Scudery. For some time, I conceived of gardens of “tendre” which mix writing and photography with real spaces: the path of reconciliation, the tree of shame, the herbs of confidences, the turtle of longevity, the spider of scandal, the route of chance, the maple of dispute, the copse of indiscretion, the timber trees of hope, the oak of kisses, the poppies of confession, the rabbit of fortune, the branches of forgetfulness, the junction of uncertainties, the forest of hesitations, the lake of temptation, the plains of fatigue, the lime tree of rest, the mountain of assiduousness, the passageway of pain, the intersection of ambition, the ramble of emotion, the slope of forgetfulness, the mound of despair…"

I share three of her pieces here. They are wonderful in their interpretation of love as being something mappable or able to be plotted...this creative view of love and relationships greatly intrigues me, and I find Messager's words on the subject quite stunning in their simplicity and artistry.