Spring alights on my shoulder

«Yumeji's camellias» batik 2011

After a winter that was not really winter, a flurry of snow one day or two, green is timidly burgeoning, the smell of fresh grass in the air, the warble of thrush in the hedges.

Proljeće na moje rame slijeće
Đurđevak zeleni

Spring alights on my shoulder
Lily of the Valley is flowering

We had fun imagining ourselves traversing a Siberian winter, shut up in the living room in the after hours, poring over tales of provincial life in a village near Dikanka. One misty morning, we ventured out for a stroll, reaching the great clearing that gave Lichtwiese its name, Meadow of Light. From the other end of the mud path, a man with silvery hair approached on his rickety bicycle. We inquired about the way. He put one foot down, pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed his nose, then pointed us down the road he came. But before he set off, he made a sweeping motion with his hand towards the clearing, and asked us whether we knew the poem by Matthias Claudius. “It was at this very spot that he was inspired to compose it.” Before we had time to answer, he recited this poem:

Der Mond ist aufgegangen,
die goldnen Sternlein prangen
am Himmel hell und klar;
der Wald steht schwarz und schweiget,
und aus den Wiesen steiget
der weiße Nebel wunderbar.

Wie ist die Welt so stille
und in der Dämmrung Hülle
so traulich und so hold!
Als eine stille Kammer,
wo ihr des Tages Jammer
verschlafen und vergessen sollt.

Seht ihr den Mond dort stehen?
Er ist nur halb zu sehen
und ist doch rund und schön!
So sind wohl manche Sachen,
die wir getrost belachen,
weil unsre Augen sie nicht sehn.

Wir stolze Menschenkinder
sind eitel arme Sünder
und wissen gar nicht viel;
wir spinnen Luftgespinste
und suchen viele Künste
und kommen weiter von dem Ziel


— Matthias Claudius,
Abendlied (1778)

The moon has slowly risen,
The golden starlets glisten
In the heavens, bright and clear;
The forest stands dark and silent
And from the meadow rises
A white mist most wonderful

How still is the world,
And in the veil of twilight
So intimate, so fair!
As if it were a quiet chamber,
Where the sorrows of the days
Shall be forgot and slept away

Do you see the moon up there?
There is only half of it to see,
And yet it is round and fair.
So it is with many things
That we laugh at with good cheer
For our eyes see them not.

We proud human beings
Are only poor sinners
And ignorant too;
We spin webs of air
Casting about for many an art
Moving further away from the mark

«Lichtwiese» March 2012

Milonga on the rails

In the lonely outskirts west of the city, overlooking the rails to Frankfurt, lies a former train depot, covered in ivy. To reach it from the town center, one passes many a nondescript warehouse, many a faded or peeling sign, many a billboard plastered with articles one doesn’t need.

If one were to take the train to the north via Darmstadt on a blue Sunday evening, one perchance might be surprised by a glimpse of lights dancing from glasses, bottles and chandeliers in this same brick depot, and by the shadows of pairs in close embrace. One might even be struck by the notes of red on the walls, without realizing that they are the blooms of amaryllis perched on the windowsill.

One would watch the scene as in a silent film, oblivious to the notes of the bandoneon or the voice of Carlos Gardel, from that train to Frankfurt or Cologne. Inside the depot, the dancing pairs would feel a slight tremor of the passing locomotion, and those waiting at the bar might glance through the windowpanes and meet the fading eyes of a passenger peering curiously out into the night.

Welcome to Weststadt Bar, on special Sunday evenings, when a train depot transforms into a ballroom, and a milonga brings cars from Wiesbaden, Heidelberg, Mannheim, Frankfurt, Aschaffenburg, to such a forlorn part of Darmstadt. What is it that makes people drive hundreds of kilometers for a tango?

«Un ilôt de beauté parmi les décombres» (An island of beauty among the ruins), 2011 (watercolor and digital collage)

Listen to Anibal Troilo and Alberto Marino's Milonga Triste, 1946 version

of herb and forest spirals...

Walking around town one summer day, my friend and I stumbled upon a curious mound of rubble in the courtyard of a primary school. Upon closer inspection, I perceived that the pile was dirt contained by natural stones arranged in a spiral from which weeds had sprouted and flourished. My friend, a native, enlightened my notion by explaining that it was a Kräuterspirale, an herb spiral, that children had built as a school project. One finds these spirals in gardens, private and public, and they are quite popular here.

Its larger cousin, the Waldspirale (Forest Spiral), designed by (grownup) Austrian architect Hundertwasser (A hundred waters), right in Darmstadt's backyard!

The idea is that one can grow a variety of herbs from different climates in a relatively small space by placing them at different levels in the spiral. A whole herb community can thus be cultivated.

I later discovered that it was an Australian, Bill Mollison, who had come up with the idea, as part of his “permaculture design”. Some years ago, the word “permaculture” had so captivated my imagination that I was ready to set off for farms in Wales and Japan to study it (the word permaculture comes from permanent, or sustainable cultivation of the earth). In particular, I had read about a Japanese farmer by the name of Masanobu Fukuoka who had published a book in the seventies called One Straw Revolution. It was essentially a manual of techniques Mr Fukuoka had distilled from thirty years of “natural” farming— that is, farming that rejected industrial techniques of heavy machinery or the use of herbicides, pesticides and fertilizers. It was, in short, the antithesis of the so-called “green revolutions” that promoted modern industrial agricultural techniques in developing countries such as India in the 1960s.

At the dawn of its independence, an India suffering from famine turned to the United States for food aid. In 1960, 92% of the aid that the US provided to India was alimentary in nature. It was then that the Green Revolution was launched, supported by the American Ford and Rockefeller Foundations, and India was able to considerably increase its cereal production (from 70 million tons in 1954 to 220 million today). However, the price India paid was heavy: dried-up canals and underground waterbeds, soil salinization, soaring personal debt of farmers (more than 100,000 among them committed suicide in less than a decade), an alarming rise in cancer rates in the countryside. And that without mentioning the grave repercussions at the political and social level. Many considered the Green Revolution as a major factor that led to the secessionist revolt in Punjab in the 1980s, a movement during which Indira Gandhi was assassinated by her Sikh guards in 1984, following the assault by the Indian army of the Golden Temple, a Sikh sacred site, where the insurgents had taken refuge.¹

Back to Fukuoka… one of his most cherished projects was combatting desertification through “plant irrigation,” that is, by spreading the most water-hardy plants throughout the desert first, and then using their network of roots to accumulate and hold ground water. He envisioned forests eventually engulfing the desert, although not in his lifetime.

An herb spiral is similarly concerned with water irrigation in its distribution of plants at different levels. Below are instructions on how to build an herb spiral, taken from a gardening book found in a café in Heidelberg.

Plants in an herb spiral

The upper level of the herb spiral is ideal for Mediterranean plants such as oregano, lavender, winter savory, sage, rosemary and thyme. The middle level is good for culinary herbs from the continent, such as marjoram, hyssop, basil, chives, parsley and burnet. And finally, on the lowest level of the spiral are moisture-loving plants, such as peppermint, lemon balm and watercress.

Constructing the spiral

The spiral is made out of natural stones, like a dry wall. Draw out the spiral at the location desired with a spade or stick. For the first stones, dig a foundation about 10 cm deep. From this foundation, the next levels will be built. The maximum height of the spiral should be around 50-60 cm, with the sides sloping gradually until the edges.
The space between the stones should preferably be filled with rubble. This chalky and permeable material is ideal for herbs. The rubble should then be covered with about a 10cm thick layer of earth. A good mixture would be two parts garden soil and 1 part sand.
Fill the outermost sections of the spiral with good garden soil. At the end of the spiral, one can create a small pond that collects water. Just make a hollow and line with film or simply install a plastic tub inside.


⁽¹⁾ Mira Kamdar, “L’Inde résiste à la séduction de l’agroalimentaire américain,” Le Monde diplomatique, March 2010.

Kakania or k. & k.

There, in Kakania, that misunderstood State that has since vanished, which was in so many things a model, though all unacknowledged, there was speed too, of course; but not too much speed. Whenever one thought of that country from some place abroad, the memory that hovered before the eyes was of wide, white, prosperous roads dating from the age of foot-travellers and mail-coaches, roads leading in all directions like rivers of established order, streaking the countryside like ribbons of bright military twill, the paper-white arm of government holding the provinces in firm embrace. And what provinces! There were glaciers and the sea, the Carso and the cornfields of Bohemia, nights by the Adriatic restless with the chirping of cicadas, and Slovakian villages where the smoke rose from the chimneys as from upturned nostrils, the village curled up between two little hills as though the earth had parted its lips to warm its child between them. (…) Here one was in the centre of Europe, at the focal point of world's old axes; the words 'colony' and 'overseas' had the ring of something as yet utterly untried and remote. (…) The administration of this country was carried out in an enlightened, hardly perceptible manner (…) by the best bureaucracy in Europe, which could be accused of only one defect: it could not help regarding genius and enterprise of genius in private persons, unless privileged by high birth or State appointment, as ostentation, indeed presumption. (…)And besides, in Kakania it was only that a genius was always regarded as a lout, but never, as sometimes happened elsewhere, that a mere lout was regarded as a genius.

— Robert Musil, A Man Without Qualities (Der Mann ohne Eigenschaften), tr. by Wilkins/Kaiser

There is a lingering of a perfume from a world of yesterday, a world that has since vanished, concentrated in certain coffeehouses of the most emblematic cities of Mitteleuropa, Vienna-Prague-Budapest. By some curious will, it has wafted its way even to places it never originally occupied, to the far-flung Hessian city of Darmstadt, where it has revived the initials k. u. k. (pronounced “Ka und Ka”), or kaiserlich und königlich. Those initials that once gilded all the workings of the Austro-Hungarian Dual Monarchy now grace the front of a conscious-looking café just behind the city’s transport hub, Luisenplatz.

Situated on Carree 1 with a view of Darmstadt’s Central Station, Café KuK seeks to recreate the Imperial and Royal of its initials to the letter. Its walls, painted the yellow of Schönbrunn, are adorned with framed prints of flowers and 19th century vistas, women in petticoats with gloved hands, purse and parasol. They hang in their prettiness above its wall-length mirrors. Among the ornaments, an engraving of Sissi l’impératrice in all her petulant grandeur. The sheltered interior is doubly warmed by numerous modest but bright chandeliers. Hot chocolate served in porcelain teacups as well as coffee with orange liqueur and whipped cream, known as the Maria Theresa, are the beverages of choice, especially on such overcast wintry days.

The café ignores Herr Musil, who was rather hard on everything that was k.k. or k. & k. Rather, its muse is a certain A. Polgar, urbanite and wit of Viennese society and lover of its cafés. His fond observations on coffeehouses (or rather, a certain Café Central), are sprinkled all across the menu’s pages, some of which I will reproduce here:

Das Kaffeehaus ist eine Weltanschauung, und zwar eine, deren innerster Inhalt es ist, die Welt nicht anzuschauen. Was sieht man da schon!

The coffeehouse is a worldview and one, to be sure, whose innermost essence is not to observe the world at all. What does one see in it anyway?

Die Bewohner des Kaffeehauses sind Menschen, die allein sein wollen, aber dazu Gesellschaft brauchen.

The inhabitants of coffeehouses are people who want to be alone, but need companionship for the purpose.

Teilhaftig der eigentlichen Reize dieses wunderlichen Kaffeehauses wird allein der, der dort nichts will als dort sein. Zwecklosigkeit heiligt den Aufenthalt.

The only person who partakes of the most essential charm of this splendid coffeehouse is he who wants nothing there but to be there. Purposelessness sanctifies the stay.

How true these notes are of KuK’s clientele, and of the café itself, we shall verify at present. For the most part, the patrons of this smug little corner in the city of science and art nouveau are those approaching or in their autumn years. They make their entrance in fur coats, felt hats, abundant scarves, canes or wheelchairs, and settle in their favorite spots after a drawn-out peeling ritual (although the felt hat is often kept on). Half arrive alone and sit alone, the other half join a table of senior friends. They ostensibly occupy themselves with their cake and Sudoku puzzles, chat discreetly with their neighbors, perhaps after a morning of aquatic exercises at the Jugendstilbad.

A silver-haired gentleman in tweed sits a table down from me, a glass of König Ludwig Weissbier in one hand and the Frankfurter Allgemeine in the other. He frequently peers over his paper and spectacles, shifting his eyes now right, now left, at the waitresses shuffling to and fro in black vests and long white aprons.

Of course, such a pretender to the atmosphere of Habsburg glory would not be complete without a choice selection of newspapers, international preferably, for its clientele. Indeed, by the entrance next to the coat racks and baby carriages, one finds fresh copies of the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung (FAZ), Die Zeit, Die Süddeutsche Zeitung, Der Spiegel, and selections from the NY Times. Here, one can spend hours poring over its pages without the slightest disturbance. The service is brisk, but friendly, and never attempts to shoo away a client who dallies after long finishing his Hawelka-Becher sundae, despite the rarity of an unoccupied table.

Although we barely tipped the median age of the café dwellers, I would not say that Café KuK is unpleasant for young people. On the contrary, from half past two to half past four in the afternoon, there was never a dearth of company, such that one has only to observe the world of the café.

And although the charm of the antiquated is Café KuK’s aim, it nevertheless has evolved a progressive view of the meaning of k.&k.:

Kunde und König       Client and King
Kunst und Kultur       Art and Culture
Kaffee und Kuchen       Coffee and Cake
Kellner und Koch       Waiter and Chef

Some practical information:

Kaffeehaus KuK
Im Carree 1
64273 Darmstadt

Opening hours
Sommersaison
Monday - Saturday 09.00 - 22.00
Sundays & Holidays 10.00 - 22.00
Wintersaison
Monday - Saturday 09.00 - 21.00
Sundays & Holidays 10.00 - 21.00

Lunch served from 12.00

adieu automne

«Martinsviertel», 2011 (watercolor)

Martinsviertel, a charming quarter of Darmstadt northeast of the city's green grounds, Herrngarten. The streets bear quaint names such as Pankratiusstraße (Pancras St), Gardistenstraße (Guardsmen St), Löffelstraße (Spoon St), Liebfrauenstraße (Our Lady St), all meandering around Kantplatz (Kant Square). A little more than three centuries ago, the philosopher from Königsberg wrote before his routine afternoon walk, "Sapere aude! Dare to know. Have the courage to use your reason," in his essay What is Enlightenment? Apparently, the only time he failed to accomplish his beloved daily ritual was when he was awaiting news of the French Revolution a few years later...

Painted in the early days of October.

In the afternoon, the children of the house come out and play with the big fat cat with white paws.

an autumnal procession

It was a week ago, -- when all the French (the sensible or lucky ones) were spending their last three-day weekend holiday before Christmas season dipping themselves in the Mediterranean, sipping pastis 51 by the Vieux Port of Marseille in oblivious content, and while I donned on earmuffs, gloves, two scarves and a winter coat for the icy journey to Frankfurt-- at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, that exactly 93 years had passed since the cease fire on the Western Front.

Before leaving the house, I glanced at a news photo of Julian Assange in front of the London courthouse with the red poppy of Remembrance on his lapel.

In the sundry lands where I have lived, the eleventh of November is remembered in different ways. I think of the scene in the whimsical Czech film Postřižiny where the wife of the brewery manager cuts her golden hair at news of the armistice, in an exuberant gesture towards Czechoslovak independence. Just days before, I had received an email from the American Embassy in Warsaw cautioning its addressees to avoid the plac Konstytucji, where both right and leftwing demonstrators could potentially clash on the anniversary of Polish independence-- although I could only recall the peaceful celebratory events from last year. And finally winding back to the days in the Midi, when earth, sea, sky were blue even as the calendar raced towards mid-November.

In these parts (Val de Moulin etc), what seems like a more charming, quainter version of Halloween takes place on the evening of 11.11. On Martinstag, or Martinmas and the feast of Martin le Miséricordieux, groups of children carry paper lanterns and candles in an autumnal procession through their towns and villages, singing songs about Saint Martin. And, since the nights here are cold, the children are buried under caps and mittens and woolen sweathers, rounding even more their little forms.

St Martin de Tours cutting a piece of his cloak for a shivering beggar

What exactly this has to do with St Martin, I am not sure. The Catholic Church of St. Elisabeth north of Herrngarten did arrange a horse, on which the saint is often depicted astride, to greet the children after their round about the neighborhood. And there was a jolly bonfire on St Martin's eve on Riegerplatz in Darmstadt's Martinsviertel.

Here is one of the songs the children sing:

Laterne, Laterne,

Sonne, Mond und Sterne,
brenne auf mein Licht,
brenne auf mein Licht,
aber nur meine liebe Laterne nicht.

Lantern, lantern,
Sun, Moon and stars,
Burn my light,
Burn my light,
but please not my lantern bright.