Imperial crown

These photos were found on a since then extinct Persian blog. The gorgeous lily is Fritillaria imperialis, in European languages “Imperial crown” (in modern English also “fritillary”), in Persian لاله واژگون lâle-ye vazhgun, that is “inverted lily/tulip” as Persian lâle means both flowers. It grows naturally in the Zagros mountain of Western Iran.










It is a magnificent view when the carpet of flaming red bells sitting on the top of a meter high stem cover the barren hillsides within a couple of days, giving a totally new dimension to the biblical saying: “Consider the lilies of the fields how they grow… not even Solomon in all his glory was arrayed as one of these.” This saying, unexpectedly, also justifies the European name of the flower.


This flower, suitably to its name, came to the European ornamental gardens through the mediation of two real emperors and two uncrowned kings of Renaissance botany. One of the emperors was Great Suleiman, il Magnifico, as Italian historians and al-Qanuni, the Legislator, as Turkish and Persian chroniclers called him. He complemented and stabilized the conquests of his father and grandfather, and his long reign was the golden age of Ottoman culture. Persian literature and art, including garden art, played a great role in this revival. Bread feeds the body, but flowers feed the soul, goes the saying attributed to Mohamed, and in this spirit Suleyman established in Istanbul the Flower Market which still functions on its original site, in the Eminönü neighborhood, next to the Spice Bazaar, not far from those wonderful fish friers. This market offered for the first time all the flowers of the empire from the Plain of Kosovo to the Armenian highlands and from the shores of Pontus to the deserts of Syria. A dream of all botanists.

Sultan Suleiman after the Battle of Mohács, Hungary (1526) which opened him the way to Europe (Istanbul, Topkapı Sarayı)

And the dream found its botanist. The Flemish Ogier Ghiselin de Busbecq, special envoy of Emperor Ferdinand I had negotiations in Istanbul on the Transylvanian border question both in 1554 and 1556. The delicate negotiations dragged on so that Busbecq had enough time not only to compose his Turkish letters that for the first time described life in Istanbul, but also to collect plants unknown in Europe on the Flower Market. He was the first to send home a number of plants which we already consider as ancient natives of Europe: tulip, horse chestnut, lilac, Syrian rose, mock orange, and of course imperial crown, thus opening the “Oriental period” of European ornamental gardens which lasted until the 1620s.

The Great Mosque of Istanbul, 1570

The addressee of Busbecq’s parcels was another Flemish botanist, the greatest of his age, Carolus Clusius, invited to Vienna in 1573 by the other emperor, Maximilian II precisely on the proposal of Busbecq. Clusius created the first exotic garden of Europe in the imperial court which also gave name to the Imperial crown. Clusius was a great collector of plants himself, the first one to describe the alpine flora of Austria and Western Hungary. He was a friend of Count Boldizsár Batthyány, a mysterious figure of Hungarian Renaissance, who also had exotic flowers, including a “thirty-six-petalled double daffodil” sent from Istanbul through his high-ranking Turkish captives, and whose ornamental garden in the castle of Németújvár (today Güssing) was planned and later often referred to by Clusius himself. The first, lavishly illustrated large manuscript encyclopedia of the mushrooms of Pannonia, published in print only in the 1990s, was compiled by Clusius on Count Batthyány’s estates.

Pieter van Kouwernhoorn: Imperial crown, detail of a florilegium, ca. 1620

But the specialty of Clusius was the exotic flora coming from Istanbul, primarily tulips, naturalized by him in Europe. Returning to Leiden, he founded the Hortus Academicus, the first European nursery of ornamental plants where he sold the bulbs of his collection for outrageous prices. Embittered local gardeners finally broke into his garden, sampling all his specimens in a professional way. This is how the fashion of tulips began in the Netherlands, leading to the infamous tulip frenzy and the famous tulip still lifes of the next generation. These still lifes are often crowned, indeed, by the Imperial crown, whose impressive dimensions made it a much liked decorative flower of large Baroque spaces. Its Baroque appearance also made it popular in late 19th-century painting.

Id. Jan Brueghel: Great bouquet, 1603

Van Gogh: Imperial crowns in a brass vase, 1886

This flower is also called in Persian لاله اشک lâle-ye ashk, weeping lily. Tradition has it that it was witness to the killing of pre-Islamic Iranian hero Siavush, and it has wept for him ever since with its head turned down. But in the much more popular version of the legend the flower sprouted from the blood of Siavush which had been poured on the barren rocks by command of the tyrant. This is how it is recounted by Ferdowsi in The Book of Kings.

Siavush, the murdered innocent hero – whose figure preserved the traits of the killed Tammuz and prepared the way to the cult of the greatest Shia martyr Husein – is one of the most important Iranian symbols of freedom suppressed but reborn from the blood of the martyrs. The mujaheds rebelling against the Shah sang about Siavush’s blood, and Siavush’s name figures in the title of a key novel of modern Iran, Simin Daneshvar’s Savushun whose plot takes place during the British occupation of 1941, but it has been read with unaltered actuality ever since. The main figure of the novel, Yusof, the young head of an important landowner family in Shiraz is caused to be killed by the British, because he as the organizer of the city’s passive resistance prevents their army from buying up food in the region which would cause famine among peasants. The last phrase of the novel is the message sent to Zari, Yusof’s widow by Yusof’s friend, an Irish poet serving in the British army as an interpreter:

Don’t cry, my sister. In your home a tree will grow, and other trees in your city, and many more ones in the whole country. And the wind will bring messages from tree to tree, and the trees will ask of the wind: “Have you met the dawn on your way?”

And this same lily, the symbol of freedom sprouting from the blood of the martyrs is also sung on the album Lâle-ye bahâr, Spring Lily, recently published in Iran by one of the greatest Iranian singers, Shahram Nazeri.


Shahram Nazeri: Lâle-ye bahâr (Spring Lily), from the album Lâle-ye bahâr (2009). The poem is by the same Malek o-Sho‘arâ Bahâr who is also the author of Dawn bird performed by Shajarian. The music was written and played by the greatest santoor player Parviz Meshkatian who died just a month ago, on September 21 in Tehran.

لاله خونین کفن از خاک سر آورده برون خاک مستوره قلب بشر آورده برون دل ماتم زده مادر زاری است که مرگ از زمین همره داغ پسر آورده برون	.....	lâle khunin kafan az khâk sar âvarde borun khâk masture-ye ghalb-e bashar âvarde borun del-e mâtamzade-ye mâdar-e zâri’st ke merg az zamin hamreh-e dagh-e pesar âvarde borun
آتشین آه فرو مرده مدفون شده است که زمین از دل خود شعله ور آورده برون راست گویی که زبانهای وطن خواهان است که جفای فلک از پشت سر آورده برون		âtashin âh-e foru morde-ye madfun shode ast ke zamin az del-e khod sho‘le var âvarde borun r’ast guyi ke zabânhâ-ye vatan khâhân ast ke jafâ-ye falak az posht-e sar âvarde borun
یا به تقلید شهیدان ره آزادی طوطی سبز قبا سرخ پر آورده برون یا که بر لوح وطن خامه خونبار بهار نقشی از خون دل رنج بر آورده برون		yâ be taghlid-e shahidân-e rah-e âzâdi tuti-ye sabz ghabâ sorgh par âvarde borun yâ ke bar loh-e vatan khâme-ye khunbâr-e bahâr naghshi az khun-e del-e ranj bar âvarde borun

the lily brings forth a blood-colored shroud from the earth
the earth uncovers the hidden soul of mankind
the mother’s mournful heart is weeping for the dead
son whose burning heart sprouts from the earth

the buried dead became fire, the blood
of his heart sets ablaze the earth
as if a thousand tongues of the country
announced that the tyranny of fate will be over

as if, similarly to the martyrs of freedom,
he wore a red feather on his parrot-green mantle
as if the burning spring covered the country’s tombstone
with the silk of the blood of tortured hearts

One Buenos Aires for Wang Wei

Things that mustn’t be left without doing in MY Buenos Aires

(a totally disordered and purely subjective enunciation: others may have different Buenos Aireses)

Eating

• Alfajores of chocolate and dulce de leche (brands: Havanna and now Cachafaz, made by the former pastry makers of the firm “Havanna” which was sold).
  
• Bonafide bocaditos (morsels), or Cabsha which are smaller.
  
• Revuelto Gramajo (Gramajo scramble), a typical porteño dish not suitable for low colesterol diets: very fine fried potatoes and ham, scrambled with eggs and the possible addition of leek and green peas.
  
• asado, of course: all kinds of meat barbecued on coal and firewood: beef: asado de tira (short ribs), vacío (flank steak), colita de cuadril (rump steak) , lomo (tenderloin), matambre (outer flank steak), not forgetting the achuras, various viscera (you might prefer not going into what each one is), mollejas (sweetbread), riñoncitos (kidney), chinchulines (beef chitterlings) etc. But also pork and chicken.
  
• Empanadas (individual semicircular pies with different fillings) are also typical. The more traditional are those with meat and cheese fillings, but in Buenos Aires there are an infinity of varied fillings that purists refuse to recognize as “empanadas”. Each province – especially those of North-Western Argentina – has its own way of preparing them.
• milanesas! (slender meat slices covered with a batter of grated bread and egg and fried in oil.) In Europe they are known as “schnitzels”.
• drinking mate (an infusion of mate herb). It can be in the traditional way, which is sipping it trough a metal straw out of a hollow gourd or as what is called ‘mate cocido’ or ‘boiled mate’ which means making it like any other infusion (there are mate bags).
• wines, of course (but I am totally ignorant in the matter – and not because of any religious reasons. I would even say that I am unworthy of my family because of this unforgivable lacking…)

Outings

• Libertador Avenue, in the zone of the Bosques de Palermo (Palermo Woods), up to the area of the Recoleta. Rather a series of parks than ‘woods’. Here used to be the residence of Juan Manuel de Rozas, Governor of Buenos Aires and important caudillo in the mid-eighteenth century.
  
• The Recoleta Cemetery and the elegant neighbourhood that surrounds it (Alvear Avenue, Quintana Avenue).
  
• The Botanical Gardens, somewhat unkempt for some years now, but getting better (it’s a childhood space for me, so it will always maintain its charm – albeit as a testimony of tempus fugit – so that the more deteriorated it is, the more evident its message!)
• The area of Callao Avenue and Santa Fe Avenue (enter the book store, bar and concert café space “Clásica y Moderna”)
• 9 de Julio Avenue, a block wide (to construct it whole blocks were torn down for its entire length), with the emblematic “Obelisco” in its crossing with Corrientes Avenue.
• Corrientes Avenue with its book stores and theatres, somewhat run down now, but still keeping something of its personality ( you must eat pizza at “Los Inmortales”).
• Plaza San Martín (visit the Plaza Hotel, first luxury hotel in Latin America).
  
• Barrio de Palermo, formerly a neighbourhood of malevos (urban toughies), today of modern designers. Borges must be recalled, fascinated as he was by the aura of slummish peril that this area had when he was a child. Then, a small distance away, you can visit the museum-house of Geogie’s friend, polifacetic Xul Solar.
  
• San Telmo and Plaza Dorrego with its Fair of Antiquarians on weekends.
  
• The neighbourhood of Barracas and Lezama Park (where some scenes of Sábato’s On Heroes and Tombs were set).
  
• La Boca and Caminito. As well as the typical tango alley, nowadays the Proa Foundation is a must.
  
• My neighbourhood: Belgrano. Avoid the hours when classes finish at schools: traffic goes mad. Walk through 11 de Septiembre or 3 de Febrero streets between the streets of Federico Lacroze and Juramento. Reach Plaza General Belgrano where “La Redonda” Church is. Look over Belgrano R, one of the finest residential areas in Buenos Aires
  
• Go to the outskirts of Buenos Aires, especially San Isidro. (I can’t invite everyone, but to me, my club, the Náutico San Isidro, is something that shouldn’t be missed. See the Rio de la Plata Delta, visiting the city of Tigre and its Port of Produce (Puerto de frutos)
  

1. Obelisco (Corrientes & 9 de Julio Avenues) • 2. Plaza San Martín • 3. San Telmo Quartier • 4. Lezama Park • 5. La Boca • 6. Santa Fe & Callao Avenues • 7. Libertador Avenue through the Palermo “Woods” • 8. Botanical Gardens • 9. Palermo Quartier • 10. Recoleta Cemetery • B. My quartier: Belgrano (out of the map) • x. This is where Wang Wei will reside during his sojourn in Buenos Aires

Nevertheless, let us not be so idealistic… As something that can’t be absent in the spirit of a porteño who always has criticism on hand and complaints on the tip of his tongue, let us remember that our visitors will surely not be able to avoid running into streets that need more cleaning, traffic jams caused by an infinity of reasons, ill tempered and aggressive people. In short, the daily charm of living in Buenos Aires!

Mate


Bocaditos of chocolate and dulce de leche



Revuelto gramajo


Empanadas


The church “La Redonda” in Belgrano


Recoleta Cemetery


Corrientes Avenue with the Obelisco


San Telmo


Belgrano R, Melián Street


Plaza de Mayo


Círculo Militar in the zone of Plaza San Martín


Santa Fe Avenue in front of Plaza San Martín

© 2005 Fotogalería Gobierno de la Ciudad de Buenos Aires

Un Buenos Aires para Wang Wei

Lo que no debe dejarse de hacer en MI Buenos Aires

(enumeración totalmente desordenada y puramente subjetiva: otros tendrán diferentes Buenos Aires)

Comer

• alfajores de chocolate y dulce de leche (marca Havanna y ahora marca Cachafaz hechos por los antiguos pasteleros de la empresa Havanna que fue vendida).
• bocaditos Bonafide de dulce de leche o los Cabsha, más pequeños.
  
• probar los helados de Freddo, Chungo y Persicco (entrar en la competencia sobre cuáles se prefieren).
• revuelto Gramajo (un plato típico porteño no apto para regímenes de bajo colesterol: papas fritas bien finitas y jamón, mezclados con huevo revuelto y con el posible agregado de puerro y arvejas)
  
• desde ya asado de todo tipo de carnes. De vaca: tira de asado, vacío, colita de cuadril, lomo, matambre, etc.; sin olvidar las «achuras»: distintas vísceras (se puede preferir no indagar qué es cada cosa), mollejas, riñoncitos, chinchulines, etc. Pero también cerdo y pollo.
  
• también son típicas las empanadas (pasteles con forma de semicírculo con diferentes rellenos). Las más tradicionales son las de carne y las de queso, pero hay en Buenos Aires una infinidad de rellenos variados, que los más puristas se niegan a llamar «empanadas». Cada provincia –especialmente las del noroeste de Argentina– tiene su forma típica de prepararlas.
  
• ¡milanesas! (tajadas finitas de carne vacuna rebozadas con una mezcla de pan rallado y huevo) fritas en aceite.
  
• tomar mate (infusión de yerba mate). Puede ser en la forma más típica y tradicional, en una calabaza y con bombilla, o como en lo que se llama “mate cocido”, haciendo una infusión tipo té (hay saquitos de «mate cocido»)
  
• por supuesto, vinos (pero desconozco absolutamente el asunto –y no por cuestiones religiosas, incluso diría que soy indigna de mi familia por esta imperdonable falla…)

Pasear

• Avenida del Libertador en la zona de los bosques de Palermo (una serie de parques más que un «bosque» donde estaba la residencia de Juan Martín de Rozas, gobernador de Buenos Aires e importante caudillo de mediados del siglo XIX) y hasta la zona de Recoleta.
  
• El cementerio de Recoleta y el elegante barrio que la rodea (Av. Quintana, Av. Alvear).
  
• El Botánico, algo descuidado desde hace ya años, pero mejorando (para mí es el espacio de mí infancia, así que siempre conservará su encanto aunque sea como testimonio del tempus fugit –así que cuanto más destruido, más patente su mensaje!)
  
• La zona de Avenida Callao y Avenida Santa Fe (entrar a la librería, bar y sala de café concert «Clásica y Moderna»)
  
• Avenida 9 de Julio, ancha como una manzana (para hacerla se derribaron manzanas enteras a lo largo de su traza), con el emblemático obelisco en el medio, en el cruce de Av. Corrientes
  
• La Avenida Corrientes, con sus librerías y teatros, algo decadente ya, pero sigue manteniendo algo de su personalidad (hay que comer pizza en «Los Inmortales»)
  
• Plaza San Martín (visitar el Plaza Hotel, el primer hotel de lujo de Latinoamérica).
  
• Barrio de Palermo, antes barrio de malevos, ahora de modernos diseñadores. Se recordará a Borges, fascinado por el aura orillera que tenía esa zona cuando él era pequeño. Luego alejándose un poco, se podrá visitar la casa museo del gran amigo de Geogie, el polifacético Xul Solar.
  
• San Telmo y la Plaza Dorrego con su feria de anticuarios los fines de semana.
  
• El barrio de Barracas y el parque Lezama (donde se sitúan algunas escenas de Sobre héroes y tumbas de Sábato)
  
• La Boca y Caminito además del pasaje típico tanguero, ahora hay que visitar la Fundación Proa.
  
• Mi barrio: Belgrano (evitar horarios de salida de colegios: una locura de tránsito) recorrer las calles 11 de Septiembre o 3 de Febrero. Llegar a la plaza General Belgrano, donde está la iglesia «La Redonda». Recorrer Belgrano R, de las mejores zonas residenciales de Buenos Aires.
  
• Ir a las afueras de Buenos Aires, especialmente San Isidro (no podré invitar a todos, pero para mí es imperdible mi club, el Náutico San Isidro). Conocer el Delta del Río de la Plata, visitando el Tigre y el Puerto de Frutos.

1. Obelisco (Av. Corrientes & 9 de Julio) • 2. Plaza San Martín • 3. Barrio de San Telmo • 4. Parque Lezama • 5. La Boca • 6. Av. Santa Fe & Av. Callao • 7. Av. del Libertador por los Bosques de Palermo • 8. Jardín Botánico • 9. Barrio de Palermo • 10. Cementerio de la Recoleta • B. Mi barrio: Belgrano (no entra) • x. En la cruz indiqué donde será la residencia porteña de Wang Wei

Pero tampoco seamos tan idealistas… como no podía faltar en el espíritu porteño, que tiene siempre a flor de piel la crítica y en la punta de la lengua una queja, recordemos que quien nos visite seguramente tampoco dejará de toparse con calles que necesitan más limpieza, embotellamientos de tránsito causados por infinidad de razones, gente malhumorada & agresiva. En fin, el encanto diario de vivir en Buenos Aires!

Mate


Bocaditos de chocolate y dulce de leche



Revuelto gramajo


Empanadas


Iglesia «La Redonda» en Belgrano


Cementerio de la Recoleta


Avenida Corrientes con vista al Obelisco


San Telmo


Belgrano R, calle Melián


Plaza de Mayo


Círculo Militar, zona de Plaza San Martín


Av. Santa Fe frente a Plaza San Martín

© 2005 Fotogalería Gobierno de la Ciudad de Buenos Aires

in English

Cacti

They grow between two and three centimeters per year. The little girl near to it was just 1.25 meter high when the photo was taken. For how many centuries has it guarded the fortress of the Tilcara Indians, built at a strategic pass of the Humahuaca Canyon?

Cardones

Crecen entre dos y tres centímetros por año. La niña fotografiada junto al cardón mide aproximadamente 1,25 m. ¿Cuántos años hará que aquel ejemplar custodia el Pucará de Tilcara, un paso estratégico de la quebrada de Humahuaca?

Mercedes Sosa

Lyrics by Violeta Parra Gracias a la vida que me ha dado tanto, Me dio dos luceros que cuando los abro, Perfecto distingo lo negro del blanco Y en el alto cielo su fondo estrellado Y en las multitudes el hombre que yo amo. Gracias a la vida que me ha dado tanto, Me ha dado el sonido y el abecedario, Con las palabras que pienso y declaro: Madre, amigo, hermano y luz alumbrando, La ruta del alma del que estoy amando. Gracias a la vida que me ha dado tanto, Me ha dado la marcha de mis pies cansados; Con ellos anduve ciudades y charcos, Playas y desiertos, montañas y llanos Y la casa tuya, tu calle y tu patio. Gracias a la vida que me ha dado tanto, Me dio el corazón que agita su marco, Cuando miro el fruto del cerebro humano; Cuando miro el bueno, tan lejos del malo Cuando miro el fondo de tu ojos claros. Gracias a la vida que me ha dado tanto, Me ha dado la risa y me ha dado el llanto. Así yo distingo dicha de quebranto Los dos materiales que forman el canto Y el canto de todos que es el mismo canto. Gracias a la vida.

Thanks to life that has given me so much: it gave me two eyes to perfectly see the black from white if I open them well and the high heaven with its starry background and in the multitude the man I love. Thanks to life that has given me so much: it has given me the voice and the alphabet and the words that I think and utter, mother, friend, brother and shining light, the path of the soul with which I love. Thanks to life that has given me so much: it has given marching to my tired feet, with them I walked to cities and puddles, beaches and deserts, mountains and plains and to your house, your street and courtyard. Thanks to life that has given me so much: it has given me the heart which throbbes when I look at the fruits of human mind when I look at the good, so far from evil when I look at the bottom of your eyes. Thanks to life that has given me so much: it has given me laughter and tears, so I distinguish happiness from pain, the two materials shaping the song the song of all which is the same song. Thanks to life.

On Sunday, October 4 died here in Buenos Aires Mercedes Sosa, the great Arrgentine singer or “cantora” as she preferred to call herself. We had already presented a little bit of her special talent in a previous post.

Now, apart from a humble tribute to his memory, I would like to tell you about the enormous impact her funerals had throughout the country. The government declared three days of mourning. Her body was laid in state in the National Congress, and her compatriots waited in endless rows for their turn to say her a final goodbye.

At a time when we Argentines seem to be divided by so many urgent or fictitious issues, it is very comforting to discover that we are united in the love of a great artist and in the appreciation of the memory of a person with firm and consistent ideals.

Much is written these days about Mercedes Sosa. Among so many words, I find particularly moving the letter that the family of Mercedes sent to the press, an accurate description of how many of us feel towards her.

We are the grandchildren, brothers, nephews and son of her who was more to us than just a great and popular artist. We have shared in her life’s private joys and sorrows. Because this great artist was also our grandmother, sister, aunt and mother. That’s why we want to reach you from this intimate place, far from the formality and severity of the official statements: because we know that you have also loved and will love her much more than just a singer and an artist. She has accompanied you so many times and she has become part of your family even without any ties of blood.

It is from this place that we want to tell you that Mercedes – our mother, aunt, grandmother and sister – left this world today. But we also want to tell you that she was always accompanied – even when she was already not aware of it – by the endless attention of friends and great artists, and through each of them, by that of you. And despite the sadness of every agony and of the hard battle she had fought against the menacing death, she spent her last moments in peace.

We are naturally shocked and want to share this sadness with you. Even if at the same time we have the reassurance that everyone – including our beloved “Black” – did their best so that she could stay a little longer with us.

Mercedes was the happiest while singing. And surely she would have liked to sing even in this finale. So that’s how we want to remember her and we invite you to do the same with us.

Thank you so much for your solidarity that we have never ceased to feel.

The family of Mercedes.

And the desire has come true. Her catafalque was encircled by a multitude of visitors singing her songs without cease.

Mercedes Sosa

Texto de Violeta Parra Gracias a la vida que me ha dado tanto, Me dio dos luceros que cuando los abro, Perfecto distingo lo negro del blanco Y en el alto cielo su fondo estrellado Y en las multitudes el hombre que yo amo. Gracias a la vida que me ha dado tanto, Me ha dado el sonido y el abecedario, Con las palabras que pienso y declaro: Madre, amigo, hermano y luz alumbrando, La ruta del alma del que estoy amando. Gracias a la vida que me ha dado tanto, Me ha dado la marcha de mis pies cansados;

Con ellos anduve ciudades y charcos, Playas y desiertos, montañas y llanos Y la casa tuya, tu calle y tu patio. Gracias a la vida que me ha dado tanto, Me dio el corazón que agita su marco, Cuando miro el fruto del cerebro humano; Cuando miro el bueno, tan lejos del malo Cuando miro el fondo de tu ojos claros. Gracias a la vida que me ha dado tanto, Me ha dado la risa y me ha dado el llanto. Así yo distingo dicha de quebranto Los dos materiales que forman el canto Y el canto de todos que es el mismo canto. Gracias a la vida.

El domingo 4 de octubre murió aquí en Buenos Aires Mercedes Sosa, grandiosa cantante argentina, o «cantora» como ella prefería llamarse. Ya habíamos mostrado algo de su especial talento en una entrada anterior.

Ahora, además de un humilde tributo a su memoria, quisiera contarles la enorme repercusión que tuvieron sus honras fúnebres en todo el país. El gobierno decretó tres días de duelo, fue velada en el Congreso de la Nación e interminables filas de compatriotas desfilaron en su velatorio para darle un último adiós.

En tiempos en que los argentinos parecemos divididos por tantas disputas urgentes o legendarias, descubrir que podemos seguir unidos ante el cariño a una gran artista y el aprecio a la memoria de una persona con ideales firmes y consecuentes resulta muy reconfortante.

Mucho se ha escrito en estos días sobre Mercedes Sosa. Entre tantas palabras, la carta que la familia de Mercedes envío a la prensa me pareció especialmente conmovedora y precisa en la descripción del sentimiento de tantos de nosotros hacia ella.

Somos los nietos, los hermanos, los sobrinos, el hijo de quien fue para nosotros algo más y distinto que una gran artista popular. Con ella compartimos la vida, las alegrías y las angustias privadas. Porque esa gran artista fue además nuestra abuela, nuestra hermana, nuestra tía, nuestra mamá. Es por eso que queremos llegar a ustedes desde ese lugar íntimo, lejos de la severidad y la dureza de los comunicados oficiales: porque sabemos que también la quisieron y la siguen queriendo aún mucho más allá de la cantante y de la artista que los acompañó tantas veces, a la que han hecho parte de su familia aún sin tener lazos de sangre.

Es desde este lugar que queremos contarles que Mercedes —la mamá, la tía, la abuela, la hermana— abandonó este mundo el día de hoy. Pero también queremos decirles que estuvo siempre acompañada —inclusive cuando ya no podía saberlo— por un desfile interminable de amigos y artistas populares, y en cada uno de ellos: Ustedes. Y que a pesar de lo triste de cualquier agonía, pasó esos últimos momentos en paz, peleando aguerridamente contra una muerte que terminó ganándole la pulseada.

Por cierto estamos conmovidos y queremos compartir con ustedes esta tristeza. Aunque, al mismo tiempo, nos queda la tranquilidad de que todos hicieron lo posible —incluida nuestra Negra— para quedarse un ratito más entre nosotros.

Lo que más feliz la hacía a Mercedes era cantar. Y seguramente ella hubiera querido cantarles también en este final. De modo que así queremos recordarla y así los invitamos a hacerlo con nosotros.

Infinitas gracias por ese acompañamiento que jamás dejó de estar presente.

La familia de Mercedes.

El deseo de canto se cumplió. Su velatorio estuvo repleto de visitantes cantando.

Wang Wei looks out of his studio

Iglesia de San Francisco

Roofs

Town hall bells

Wang Wei (699-761): 書事 輕陰閣小雨 深院晝庸開 坐看蒼苔色 欲上人衣來 shū shì qīng yīn gé xiăo yŭ shēn yuàn zhòu yōng kāi zuò kàn cāng tái sè yù shàng rén yī lái

Studiolum Light cloud. Rain drizzling around the studio. Grew tired. Opening the window to the deep courtyard. Sitting. Watching the green of the moss. It’s getting cold. I should put on some clothes.

Sunrise

Wang Wei mira afuera de su estudio

Iglesia de San Francisco

Tejados

Campanas del Ayuntamiento

Wang Wei (699-761): 書事 輕陰閣小雨 深院晝庸開 坐看蒼苔色 欲上人衣來 shū shì qīng yīn gé xiăo yŭ shēn yuàn zhòu yōng kāi zuò kàn cāng tái sè yù shàng rén yī lái

Studiolum Leve niebla. Llovizna alrededor del estudio. Cansancio. Abrir la ventana al patio profundo. Sentarse. Mirar el verde del musgo. Viene frío. Debería ponerme ropa.

Sale el sol

Whose is this song?

We have already written a couple of times about wandering melodies, the Chechen girl of Istanbul, the Hungarian-Hasidic The rooster is crowing, the internationalist Lenin Song, the Bella ciao arching from the Po to the Black Sea, the heroic songs of the Balkans, the waltz of Leonard Cohen linking Spain with Hungary. But never about the most wandering melody, the queen of all wandering melodies. To play this tune on the guitar or on the oud is the best passport from Sarajevo to Southern India: the eyes sparkle, you are offered a coffee, you’ve got home. This melody had spread all over the Ottoman Empire, every nation adopted it, and the long story of its meanderings and transformations is intertwined with that rich, complex and forceful musical and cultural world that the late Ottoman Empire was and about which we have already written a bit. Now in this post that intends to fill this gap we cannot undertake more than to simply flash this richness of the melody, hoping that in a later post we will return to it.


The perhaps best known version of this melody is the Turkish Üsküdar'a gider iken – When going to Üsküdar, aka Katibim – My scribe. Tradition has it that the beautiful scribe to whom this love song alludes was a real person and women were crazy for him. He is the main figure of the great classic Turkish movie Katip (The scribe, 1968), played by the famous singer and actor Zeki Müren. The soundtrack of the film is of course this song. The film, set in 19th-century Istanbul, can be seen here in several parts. In Turkish only, of course, but in this charming naive folk play style, so characteristic of Turkish movie, you can understand everything without it as well. You should watch at least the first few moments of it. The second version of the song below is sung by Zeki Müren himself, while the first one by one of the brightest stars of old Turkish urban music, Safiye Ayla.

Üsküdar'a gider iken aldı da bir yağmur Kâtibimin setresi uzun, eteği çamur Kâtip uykudan uyanmış, gözleri mahmur Kâtip benim, ben kâtibin, el ne karışır? Kâtibime kolalı da gömlek ne güzel yaraşır Üsküdar'a gider iken bir mendil buldum Mendilimin içine lokum doldurdum Ben yarimi arar iken yanımda buldum Kâtip benim, ben kâtibin, el ne karışır? Kâtibime kolalı da gömlek ne güzel yaraşır

When going to Üsküdar, it began to rain long is the coat of my scribe, its sleeves get muddy. The scribe woke up, his eyes are still sleepy. I am of my scribe and my scribe is mine, it’s nobody’s business. How well the stiff shirt collar suits my scribe! When going to Üsküdar, I found a kerchief I filled it with lokum (Turkish sweet) When looking for my helper, I found him on my side. I am of my scribe and my scribe is mine, it’s nobody’s business. How well the stiff shirt collar suits my scribe!

In Greek the song has several versions. Today the best known is Apo xeno topo – “From a foreign place”, as it is sung below by Eustathia Grendjelou.

Aπό ξένο τόπο κι απ' αλαργινό ήρθ' ένα κορίτσι, φως μου, δώδεκα χρονώ Ούτε στην πόρτα βγαίνει ούτε στο στενό ούτε στο παραθύρι φως μου, δυο λόγια να της πω Έχει μαύρα μάτια και σγουρά μαλλιά και στο μάγουλό του, φως μου, έχει μιαν ελιά Δε μου τη δανείζεις δεν μου την πουλάς την ελίτσα που 'χεις, φως μου, και με τυραννάς Δε σου τη δανείζω, δεν σου την πουλώ μόν' να τη χαρίσω θέλω σε κείνον π' αγαπώ

From a foreign place, a far away land came a girl, my delight, twelve years old. She does not come to the door, near to me or to the window, to tell me a word or two. Her eyes are black, her hair is curly, and on the face she has a mole. Won’t you give it away, won’t you sell to me that mole, you’re only tormenting me? I don’t give it away, I don’t sell it, I want to give it to him whom I love.

But the earlier text is Ehasa mantili – I’ve lost my kerchief. This is how Roza Eskenazi from Istanbul, the queen of rebetiko used to sing it. Unfortunately I don’t have this recording with her. Here you are instead a nice version with Anastasia Eden, from a tavern. I think this one was the Minor Asian Greek version of the song, in most recordings enriched with recitative solos.

Έχασα μαντήλι μ' εκατό φλουριά; κι έμαθα πως το 'χει η κόρη του παπά. Δωσ' μου το μαντήλι, κράτα τα φλουριά μην το μάθει η αγάπη μου και δεν με θέλει πια....

I’ve lost my kerchief with a hundred florins they say the daughter of the priest has it Give me back the kerchief and keep the florins let my lover not see it and leave me.

One can also find a Greek Gypsy instrumental version with the Giorgos Koros band, whose title is the Sephardic equivalent of Apo xeno topo: En un lugar extrangero – In a foreign place. However, the Sephardic version of the song as we know it today has a completely different text which sets the love story in the formerly largest Sephardic town, Thessaloniki: Selanik entero yo lo caminí – I’ve rambled over all Saloniki for you.


But the tune is also known all over the Balkans. The Serbian text is Dva goluba (Two doves) or Ruse kose (Black hair). This is the earliest recording of Dva goluba from 1910:

Poletela dva bijela, aman goluba pa su pali na turbeta cara Murata. Jedan nosi britku sablju cara Murata, drugi nosi amajliju cara Hamida. Pitala ga (ih) vjerna ljuba cara Murata: Oj, Boga vi, dva bijela, aman goluba, otkud vama britka sablja cara Murata, I zlacena amajlija cara Hamida? Sablju dade mila majka cara Murata. seja dade (...) naseg cara Hamida mila seja, amajliju cara Hamida.

Two dear white doves flew away they settled on the turban of Murat. One brought a sharp sabre to Murat the other an amulet to Hamid. The true lover of Murat has asked: Oh, for God, you two dear white doves where is this sharp sabre for Murat and the golden amulet for Hamid from? Murat’s dear mother gave the sabre to him and his sister gave it to our Hamid his dear sister gave the amulet to Hamid.

In Serbian-speaking but Muslim Bosnia the text of Ruse kose is also preceded by a strophe beginning with Oj devojko Anadolko budi moja ti (Oh Anatolian girl, be mine), or it is sung as an Islamic religious song, Zašto suza u mom oku (Why are my eyes weeping?) Although the text of this latter is a prayer, in the Yugoslav civil war it was an Islamist war anthem. In Bulgaria it also has two texts: the Cherni ochi imash libe (Your eyes are black, my dear) is a love song, while the Yasen mesec vech izgryava nad zelenata gora (A bright moon is rising above the green mountains) was the anthem of late 19th-century anti-Turkish liberation wars. But it is also sung in Albanian in Albania, in Macedonian (if there exists a language like this at all) in Macedonia (Oj devojche – Oh, girl), in Arabic in Iraq and in Lebanon, and the Italian KlezRoym band even made a modern klezmer of it with a mixed Arabic-Sephardic-Hebrew-French-English-Italian text.

Fel shara canet betet masha la signorina aux beaux yeux noirs come la luna etait la sua facia qui eclairait le boulevard Volevo parlar shata metni because her father was a la gare y con su umbrella darabetni en reponse a mon bonsoir Perchè my dear tedrabini kuando yo te amo kitir and if you want tehebini il n’y a pas lieu de nous conquerir Totta la notte alambiki et meme jusqu’au lever du jour and every morning ashtanaki pour le voue de notre amour...

The girl with beautiful black eyes was walking on the street, her face, like the moon suffused the street with light. I wanted to speak to her because her father was at the station but she hit me with her umbrella as a return of my bonsoir. Why do you hit me, my dear when I love you so much? Even if you want to declare love there is no way to conquer me. I will wait for you all the night until the very daybreak and every morning I’ll be there as I’ve taken a vow for our love.

The song’s modern panorama in the Balkans is surveyed in the genial documentary of Bulgarian filmmaker Adela Peeva, Чия е тази песен? – Whose is this song? The film was published in 2003 and won at least five prestigious awards, being even nominated as the best European documentary of the year. Nevertheless, it is almost completely inaccessible, you cannot order or download it from any place. You can only watch it on a Bulgarian site in several parts, or in the Google video below. Although it is one hour long, it is a must to watch it all.



The scenario starts in an Istanbul restaurant where the song is sung by a charming Turkish singer, and the table society coming from various Balkan countries starts to discuss where the song really comes from. Peeva is also there, and she decides to set out to travel across the Balkans to discover how it is sung in each country. We hear a lot of beautiful performances with various texts, and of course we are informed in each country that the song comes from there. Perhaps the only exceptions are the Muslim Bosnian choir director who recognize the Turkish origins of the song, and the Macedonian composer who points out that Macedonian folk music does not have such rhythm.

Under the pretext of the song’s various versions, the film offers an introduction to present day circumstances and tensions of the countries of the Balkans. It shows how the various communities use the song as a symbol of their identity, that some perceive the melody as a link to the others, while others interpret the different text and context as a wall against the others. Peeva herself gets into dangerous situations: the Serbians of Vranje want to beat her when she plays them the Bosnian version with her tape recorder, and in the Bulgarian mountain fiesta she is menaced to be hung up if she dares to say that the melody comes from Turkey.

The film is composed with independent scenes going from country to country. Peeva focuses everywhere on only one detail, one community or musician, but with a deep attention that is able to go beyond stereotypes and to grasp the complexity of every situation, the simultaneous presence of good and evil.

It is especially beautiful how Peeva in every scene emphasizes the personality, humanity and moral strength of her interlocutors. This film is not just an ethnomusicological journey, but a series of attentive and sensitive encounters. With the Istanbul filmmaker of Katip, who recalls with enthusiasm the singers of his youth. With the worker-musicians of Mytilene who are elevated above their everyday life by the common music-making in the pub. With the former opera singer of Tirana whose every gesture represent culture and ideas in a desperately eroded world. With the young Serbian priest of a Gypsy community who plays together with his congregation and who condemns the false Gypsy myth of Bregović and Kušturica. This film, which looks at the Balkans from inside, with love and on equal terms, and which, instead of focusing on the usual comic or tragic Balkan stereotypes exhibits the strength and steadfastness with which these people transcend their often tragic world, stands out high from the recent dumping of Balkan films.


This film and song has even inspired an EU project. The “Everybody’s Song – Music as a tool for the promotion of diversity and intercultural understanding” project supported in 2007 and 2008 with courses, events and concerts the collaboration of young musicians from the Balkans and the discovery of their common cultural roots. On their page they also illustrate the various versions of this song with several recordings, even from so implausible places and bands like Usbekistan, Malaysia and the Boney M.

However, neither the film nor the project offer an answer to the origins of the melody. Perhaps it is too early to do so. There are a number of conflicting theories around. Some Arabic sources attribute it to the 19th-century Iraqi composer Mullah Osman Al-Muselli, whose version is performed by Yousef Omar in the Iraqi video linked above. Others say that it was diffused in Istanbul by the Scottish military bands stationing in the city during the Crimean war of 1853-56. Again others defend its Armenian origins, saying that it was first sung in 1883 the operetta Leblemitzi Horboraga by Dihran Tsohatzian, which became highly popular all over the Ottoman Empire. This theory is perhaps also supported by the fact that the first recording of the melody was made by German musicologists in 1900 with an Armenian boy in the Eastern Anatolian Gaziantep. However, none of these hypotheses can be verified. We can only say with some probability that it is a relatively late, 19th-century urban song. This is also attested by the fact that its versions in the various provinces of the empire are still surprisingly uniform, and it has survived everywhere as an urban song, rather than a peasant folk song.

The Everybody’s Song project offers only one short musicological study on this song, with an interesting title from an interesting book: Dorit Klebe: “Das Überleben eines osmanisch-türkischen städtischen Liebesliedes seit einer frühen Dokumentation von 1902. Metamorphosen eines makam.” In: Marianne Bröcker (ed.): Das 20. Jahrhundert im Spiegel seiner Lieder. Schriften der Universitätsbibliothek Bamberg. Band 12 (2004), pp. 85-116. I have not yet managed to access it, but as soon as I will read it, I will report on it. If you know more, write us by all means.

Üsküdar around 1900. Photo of Sébah and Jouillier