Flowers everywhere - look, Maria Sibylla Merian!

Dear You, 

May does not need me - May just is. 
If you wonder what I'm talking about: each day I stop for a few minutes at my neighbour's garden  - enjoying the results of her toil for free - though I pay abundantly with praise. (Once I thought that I had invented a new profession: The True Praiser. (Lauder) People, I thought, might book me and hear what they are so thirsty for: real, genuine (!) praise of things they have accomplished - things everybody takes for granted, or, worse, does not even notice). Maybe I should create a Start Up?                                Anyone interested out there?
No - May does not need any praise - it is overwhelming HERE with its abundance of roses, iris, elder.
Bathes us  in huge clouds of perfume, showers us with sun shine, dries us with hot air - and the song of the birds come for free. Such a bliss  - and life is beautiful!
As you know I have a deep interest in flowers and plants - as a gardener, botanist and ardent admirer. I take photographs of flowers - which sometimes I like quite well - and sometimes I also paint some, though here you can foolishly hear me mumble: "Not real Art. Nice, yes, but.. artisan craftwork at it's best."
Views not shared completely  by Albrecht Dürer, who retorts: "For truly, art is rooted in nature, and whoever can draw it out, has it". 
Yet often flowers were used by artists as background painting (I "collect" them with my camera - only the flower, not the whole painting).
At the moment a beautiful exhibition on "MARIA SIBYLLA MERIAN and the Tradition of Flower Painting" is shown at the Kupferstichkabinett (Museum of Prints and Drawings) Staatliche Museen zu Berlin.
Maria Sibylla Merian was an highly gifted painter of flowers - and a very remarkable woman.
She died 300 years ago. (!!)
The exhibition starts with a broad overview of floral book illustrations of the 15th century, nature studies from Dürer's time and apothecary books from early 16th century, and wonderful portrayals of flowers by the famous Georg Flegel.
As Sibylla, they all painted insects too - but as the first mosquitos and wasps have already arrived, I am not keen on them.
Yes: flower painting is beautiful, and sometimes Art. And often surprising too: you might have seen Rachel's phantastic little drawings of flowers - especially the poppies got me, done in nail varnish, and I look musingly at "Chili Bean", my voluptious dark red nail varnish - which I seldom use, because Life is too Short to spend time on repairing flaking nail varnish in my active life. There might be a better way to use it?
Anyway:  I bought a season ticket for our Botanical Garden.
Nice to meet you - hope you guess my name! (I'm just sitting on a fence!)

Paris - In a Limited Edition!

Dear You, 

maybe I told you - and maybe not, because I am a cautious woman - that in a time not that far away I will go to Paris.
So I was very happy to find in a Berlin drugstore a "Limited Edition" of -

LAVATORY PAPER! 

Extra dedicated to PARIS! 

Oh là là! 

But was my utterance correct? Am I prepared? 

In genuine concern the loo paper roll asks me, again and again:"Parlez-vous Francais?"  

"Mais oui, mon chéri; bien sur, mon chéri; come tu veux, mon chéri!" 
This last sample of my perfect French is a quote of my friend Christine, who told me of a Lady - I anonymise the nationality intentiously, but it starts with an "R" - who desperately wanted to marry a rich Frenchman.
And she found one.
And the three sentences above are all she ever utters - and, SISTERS: there are quite a lot of men - and not only in France -  (dear male readers excepted, of course)-  who agree instantly that this is all French or whatsoever you need to know!

Hello, It's Me... (Britta, not Adele)

Dear You,

what you see above is - in my eyes - a little wonder.
This geranium - which a professional would call pelargonium, I know that, but using the "common word" is my way of trying to convince you that I really try to give up being perfect :-)  - well, this little "twig" of the geranium on my balcony broke off when I decided to give it more space, meaning: I took the plant out of its little pot and into a window box.
More earth to spread its little roots, more space to unfold its little leaves, more freedom.
In Germany we have a saying: "Where wood is chopped, splinters must fall"
So here I had that "splinter" with two little tight white buds in my hand.
And thought: "We'll see". (As you all know I am quite good in finding meaning and detecting symbols everywhere).
And put it into the turquoise-blue bird bath.
And then it happened - and, oh yes, in my eyes it took quite a long time, felt like two years - but suddenly it opened its little petals, unrolled them, seemed to say: "Well, circumstances are not as I  expected them to be - but hark! (I love to strew in a hark in my blog from time to time!) - they are not bad. So: I decide to flower in my circumstances as they are now." 
(At this moment I might have lost The Last Reader, hearing him mumble: What is that woman talking about?) 
Well, here I sit, "in the world of the ten-thousand things", and adjust to the truism that "life is not all neat and tidy".
I have thought very hard about my blogs - about the way I will write them. For me it is easy to talk about the newest exhibition in the marvelous Barberini Museum in Potsdam, but that is not enough for me. Yet also I do not want to write my Dear Diary into the air (or Cloud, or whatsoever, Howling at the Moon, just to sprinkle in a touch of modernity by a new pop-song) - no, I want a mixture of all Dear Life that surrounds me, filling me up to the brim sometimes, and show you what everyone sees, but filtered through my eyes.

Today promises to become the second really summerly day in Berlin - we had 27 degree yesterday, in May!
And yesterday evening I was sitting on my balcony, had lit a pale blue candle, a tiny glass of red wine in my hand, looking into the sky which was just preparing for the night: still pale blue at the horizon, and darker above - when a voice came from the flat above me: "Britta?"
As I am a very, very northern girl, coming from Bremen, I love my privacy - meaning: for me the balcony, which has a roof (!), is like a chamber to me - absolutely private.
And you could only see a hand of mine, from above, not more.
So I stayed silent.
"Britta? Are you alright?" 
No way to hide. Yes, my dear neighbour, I appreciate that you are caring - I really do, and thank you for that! - I can assure you - and  everyone:

"Yes - I am alright."  

Toodle pip! 

Just Jump!

I always liked the motto of Mr. Disraeli: "Never complain, never explain" -
I will take the secod half of it (never was a complainer).
So: think of Agatha Christie's disappearance for a few days (and honestly: what is a month? These days it flashes past like a few days...)

I found a wonderful little sketch in the great book
           "Drawing for the Artistically Undiscovered"
by (beloved) Quentin Blake and John Cassidy (Klutz.com)

It is so useful - not only for drawing,
no: for our whole life!

You are allowed to fill this space (and the page this drawing is printed on is four times larger!) with comments on my absence.
I will read them diligently. (Though I cannot decipher them :-)

And then Í will start to write another post. As if nothing has happened. (Though it has. All is well).

Yes, I decided to jump right in. (Otherwise I might never start again).

Last Confetti from Venice

Here - to end my report on Venice - a few confetti-like impressions which I especially remember.
(Honestly: you don't really want to see my 720 photos and listen to the description of every church or painting or Guggenheim we visited - at least 13 km walk every day, not included the vaporettos - even after three pictures of the wonderful marble floors that were everywhere you would politely yawn and remember your appointment at eleven, Pooh-bear-way).

because, somehow, they might look all the same to you_ 

I will remember:

- the smell --- water against old buildings, a musky mouldering smell - smell activates the memory of the very first time as a child in Venice
- the glitter on the often surprisingly bright turquoise water, and the very blue sky

- tons and tons of gold - on stucco, on buildings, on paintings
- the beautiful old ladies in their huge furs (it WAS cold), yet wearing thin silk stockings. Venice has a very vivid timeless elegance - both: the (often old) people and this old city do LIVE, thank you very much!

- the almost "fop" elegance of the men - beautiful patterned pencil-case thin cloaks they wore, utterly beautiful shoes (go in rags in Berlin and nobody will care - come as what the Berliner thinks of as "overdressed" - and they will stare).
- the long, long "Lido" where we took a very long walk in bright sunshine along the turquoise sea, crunching shells under our feet - I picking up shells -- just can't resist - which is for the grown-up persons accompaniyng me sometimes a bit trying... shall I keep the bizzare one, the interesting black one or - the pink one? And of course this child woman was utterly convinced to have found a rough piece of jade, which grown-up eyes tried to disenchant into "a piece of old glass formed by the sea" (let them talk... the lump of jade lies on my windowsill now, together with the - of course pink - shell...)
- the Venetian dialect: WONDERFUL! That is the Italian I had wanted to learn! (In Berlin I left after the second Italian course and after having visited Rome -- but now: two days ago I unpacked my Italian school books and will start again - uno, due tre!)
- My unability to laugh with all the other visitors in the Doge's Palace, when we were in the "interrogation" room.

The guide made a little joke, and I, being normally a person who laughs easily, looked at those awfully low cells, the walls breathing out suffering, and icy cold. I looked longingly through the window,

and silently congratulated my brother Casanova, who managed to escape. So close together: utterly horrible conditions - and golden splendour - and how easy it is to fall from the hight of luxurious abundance into this prisonal black, bleak despair.

- If I would live in Venice, I soon would have a problem: not much nature.Two parks, very few trees, a few seagulls. You can give me all the Tintorettos, and the gold, and the theatro Venice: after a few weeks I would heavily cry for a forest, or at least a garden.

- a surprise were the quite low prices in restaurants, and even more in those funny little cafés, were "the typical Italian" hastens in, grabs a tramezzino, washes it down with an espresso - and out he is again - quick, quick!
- And with this beautiful little "discolo" - wind-bag - for only 1 Euro - and so delicious! - I leave you, my Dear You - this should have been more than enough as an appetizer for Venice...

Yours Truly (a humble tourist among others)

You asked for it! (Venice again)

In a comment Rachel wrote: "I was thinking we would have to ask Inspector Brunetti to solve the mystery of the disappearing post for us."

You bet! Il commissario was joy-riding on the Canale Grande, and if you look closely you might detect that in January Venice does not sport so many tourists, and those who come are mostly from China and Japan and master the Art of Canouflage perfectly. . 

Yes: they totally merge in "the real stuff": 

Buy little factories in Italy to be able to use the label... Well - "home-made" seems to be  the new trend :-)  

I could show you now typical photos from typical Venice. In fact: I could use the photos my late fathers had taken when I was just a pre-school child - 

Not changed that much - though: a little colour added nowadays :-) 

No, I will serve you only some snippets from my impressions of Venice.  

First a question that really baffles me: how come, I ask you, that my female friends all rejoyce in visting cemeteries - and ask me to join them - ME, almost a thanatophobic? (I cross myself if I have to walk along a freshly dug empty grave - no, I'm not Catholic, but in this case I am not choosy and grab what might protect me :-) 

So: "Cimitero" it had to be, on my first day in Venice! (Came back hell-bent to "carpe diem" even more). 

Cling to dear life as good as I can - as these spartan and easy to keep Venetian balcony succulents.

Visited the church Madonna dell' Orto - which Jane Hattat (!) personally recommended to me.

So beautiful! Built in the XIVth century - with Tintorettos, (by father and son) and other famous painters. AND a heavily built white Madonna with child - in the 15th century they found her in a garden (= "Orto") near by and think her to own legendary healing powers (I, though I am very glad to say I'm healthy, thought; Assuming that it is right --- it will not hurt -- See: cemetry and cross above. At this point Elvis has left the building - better: my son would have left this post, because he absolutely hates superstition, while I ... well, well, well).
For you, My Dear Enlighted Reader: skip the madonna if you feel like that - but look at this marvelous church - not many of the lazy tourists find it, because it is up in the north, out of the conventional paths. (Though - that is what all tourists think - the oxymoon of secret insider tips...)
When you go there, you are also near to the Ghetto Novo (Sestiere Cannarigio)

which was founded in 1516 - (the time before the Jews got only a temporary resident permission). The word "Ghetto" comes from here, and they had to wear a yellow sign on their clothes when in Venice. Each night the gates of the Ghetto were locked and guarded - and the inhabitants of the Ghetto had to pay for this (sic). Though to be fair: that was a common practice at that time: the German merchants who lived at the Fondaco dei Tedeschi had to endure the same. 

I see: your eyes are shut, your face looks like a bored mask, only politeness keeps you smiling mysteriously. So I'll shut my mouth (for today, that is). 

 

You Might Have Noticed...

... Dear You,

that I have turned my yesterday's post about Venice back to draft-modus.
I just didn't like it - had that nagging feeling when I went to bed that there was just too much "room for a pony", if you know what I mean - Hyacinth Bucket for sure would have been baffled by those morbid feelings.
I mean: the hotel was wonderful - but then: who cares? (Beside me, when I want to sleep there).
I always have the difficulty after a journey that I do not want to write the 3.000.567th travel-guide about Venice (though my 720 photos would come in handy for that).
So many people have been there, at all times.
Only a few years ago, I have been there. In the foreground my little sister, 3 years younger than I:

If you own a magnifying glass, you might even detect me - as always modest in the background (haha), and as always in action. You see an arm, and you see my mother trying to protect me with her bare hands against all the Paparazzi... 

And that is all I can give you tonight - I am tired and will go to sleep soon -- soon more from the Venice I saw again.