I wish you freedom

Thus begins the New Year’s greetings of the popular Russian photo blogger Ilya Varlamov. Of course, he immediately explains it, lest anyone misunderstands him:

“The car is freedom. Without freedom, we do not go anywhere nowadays. In the new year I wish you all good and comfortable public transport, safe cycling infrastructure, wide and clean sidewalks, proper zebras and, of course, jam-free roads, where you can quickly and easily drive along by car. I wish you all freedom, convenience and safety in any city. This is not mere fantasy. This will certainly be so both in Moscow and in the other cities.”

Nevertheless, the pictures from the post, not devoid of overtones, portray how far removed the reality is for the time being from such ideal conditions. We are, however, captivated – especially in the wake of Boris Indrikov’s post, where the bicycle becomes a symbol of freedom – rather by the first picture, the lonely bicycle on the neglected, but deserted road with a boundless perspective, in the direction opposite to the mass of cars creeping along, or rather just stopped on the one-way road. To the metaphor, if you want, you can also add the fact that in the given situation the cyclist photographs the cars and the whole context, and not vice versa. This freedom I wish to you all in the new year.

Dissolving: Europe from North to South

Lemberg/Lwów (Galicia, once Austrian Empire, then Poland, later Soviet Union, now Ukraine), c. 1900, from here

Rovinj/Rovigno (Istria, once Austrian Empire, then Italy, later Yugoslavia, now Croatia), 25 May 2014

The future has begun

The airship. A musical comedy, New York, 1898

We have already seen that late 19th-century publishers, inspired by the dizzying technical development, competed with each other to present the beautiful new future in postcards, ads and magazines. Resourceful entrepreneurs, like Károly Divald and his Austrian, German or American colleagues, published entire series with views of a hundred years later from all the cities of their countries, so that it could be tangibly felt even in the smallest places: yes, this dazzling future, the crazily racing bicycles, the automobile, the tram, the funicular railway and the zeppelin will arrive exactly this way onto their small town’s main streets as well.

Arpad Schmidhammer (the illustrator of those wartime children’s books):
A street in Munich in the 20th century. Münchener Bilderbogen, 1898

Mallorca had no Károly Divald to produce a postcard with a view of Palma one century later. However, she had her Mario Verdaguer who, in his essay collection La ciudad desvanecida, “The vanished city”, published in 1953 at the twilight of his life, beautifully and sensitively evoked how this dazzling future arrived in the first years of the century on the main street of Palma, which at that time was also a little town.

Up to the main street in the port of Palma from the La Riba lighthouse, at the turn of the century

Mario Verdaguer (1885-1963) was born in Menorca, but he spent his youth in Palma. He studied law in Barcelona, and he became involved as a journalist and a translator of Thomas Mann in the lively intellectual life of pre-war Barcelona. The civil war and the subsequent repression broke his career just like that of many others. He returned to the island, where he worked for local newspapers until his death. Already before the war he wrote two books on Mallorca – La isla de oro, “The golden island”, and Un verano en Mallorca, “A summer in Mallorca” –, but it is the work he did as an old man, The vanished city, with which he definitely wrote himself into the memory of the city. This is a book that is not given to every city. It is a rare occurrence if once a while someone is able to so carefully and sensitively capture the essence of a city, like Gyula Krúdy, Iván Mándy or Endre Lábass did in Budapest (and we would be extremely curious to know who were the ones in your city), and to present the city with her own portrait. “If there is a book that talks about the eternal femininity of a city”, writes José Carlos Llop, “then this is it, the book of Mario Verdaguer, one of the most sensitive, brilliant and sophisticated spirits who has ever lived in our city.”

Invitation to the premiere of the new edition of La ciudad desvanecida, 16 Dec 2013.
“So, in this city of Palma, which counts one hundred thousand souls, a distinct
city falls on each soul. This is one hundred thousand cities altogether.”

Verdaguer’s book, although it was originally written in Spanish, was added to the bookshelf of every Palma family in the Catalan translation of another sensitive Mallorcan author, Nina Moll. The original Spanish text was published again just now, on the sixtieth anniversary of its appearance, completed with Verdaguer’s other writings on the city. The premiere of the book was a few weeks ago, and we have just received the first copy. The few chapters we will publish from it in the next days are the first translations ever made of it apart from the two languages of Mallorca.

March 1968. The cathedral of Mallorca, in front of it the Almudaina, the former palace
of the Arab caliphs, and in front of it the place of the recently demolished quarter,
which hosted the Hotel Alhambra, the Teatro Lírico, and Gaspar’s velodrome.
We will write about all these later. In their place you can now visit
the King’s Garden. Foto Archivo Josep Planas i Montanyà.

The velodrome of Gaspar

Behind this old wooden theater, the Teatro Lírico, was the velodrome of Gaspar, who was the first to ride a velocipede in all Mallorca.

Señor Gaspar brought from Barcelona the great novelty of the velocipede, and he appeared in the afternoons on the Passage of the Borne, mounted on his machine. That is, atop a huge wheel, in the center of which they directly attached the pedals, and carrying behind, as a trailer, another tiny little wheel, like the rudder of the tall engine.

The people who saw him perched on that height, were holding their breath and waiting for the fatal, inevitable, and certainly mortal fall, since it was inexplicable to all what would keep upright such a great wheel.


But Gaspar swiftly moved his legs, and he proceeded at a speed which seemed dazzling at that time.

And more than one elderly gentlemen, imbued with the naive spirit of the previous century, exclaimed in a shock to see him pass:

“What a shame to appear in such a ridiculous position before the public!”

Because, indeed, according to the rules of civility of that time, for a mature man to shake his legs like that was a complete lack of dignity.

Nowadays these devices called velocipedes, which were soon followed by the bicycle, can only be seen in some retrospective museums or in ancient lithographs. Then, however, when we ran along the narrow alley behind the wooden theater, and left behind the wall that seemed to hold the Almudaina Palace, in the adjoining esplanade we found the velodrome of Gaspar who, in a shirt with blue and white stripes and baggy pants, was riding up and down with his machine, followed by his pupils, each sitting on a similar giant wheel.

All this seemed a miracle. We felt that Gaspar and his students were revolving with the speed of the wind.

Gaspar and his velodrome. Drawing by Mario Verdaguer

When I recall this scene, I feel like looking at one of those shining colored lithographs included in the chocolate boxes of Matías López. That revolving in that small velodrome seems so distant and so absurd, that I feel it impossible, that only a half century has passed since then, and not much, much more.

And yet, Gaspar and his velocipedists, passing over the Borne, moving their legs like nervous monkeys, and wearing their shirts with blue and white stripes, are a real lithographed emblem of the first, somewhat ridiculous, somewhat sentimental, effort of my generation to adapt ourselves to the great speed which would be soon reached by mankind, and which we foresaw in some way.

Because it is clear that our generation had to readjust itself at a rapid pace and ceaselessly to the dizzying advancement of science and to the change in the material conditions of human life. For we finished elementary school in the light of a kerosene lamp, we prepared ourselves for the baccalaureate at the gas mantle, and only the dawn of our career was enlightened by electricity.

The world was transformed very quickly, and we had to swiftly move our legs and proceed speedily, like Gaspar and the velocipedists, in order to keep pace with the time, which was just running, running and running.

For centuries, man was born, lived and died at the light of the oil lamp, which I have, in fact, seen in the form of the lamp hanging in our old kitchen.

From that lamp to the airplane trip, that is, in just half of a century, have been realized all the dreams which people considered as absurd, and with whose impossible promise Jules Verne made us tremble, when in the long winter evenings, around the family table lighted with the gas mantle, we read his charming fantasies.

Velocipedist on the beach of Palma, more or less in the period described by Verdaguer,
and just a few hundred meters from the velodrome of Gaspar

Bike on the dacha

Three families on the dacha. Smolensk Governorate, 1916

To the bike craze at the turn of the century.

“Nowadays it is difficult to imagine, that in the first quarter of the 20th century we lived fifty verstas from the train station, without electricity and telephone. The radio did not exist even in idea, a car was not seen by anyone in that place, and when the first cyclists arrived from us and Yuryev, the women in the village stuck to the fences and crossed themselves, the children threw stones on them, the dogs chased them with furious barking all over the village, and in the village the bicycle was called чертов конь, the devil’s horse, and чертово колесо, devil’s wheel.”

Tatyana Shchepkina-Kupernik (1874-1952) drama writer and translator: Из воспоминаний (My memories), 1959

“Now he’s healthy, he cycles all the day, which is why I’m really worried, because everyone says it is harmful. The doctor comes out every day, examines Dad, but he did not find any adverse changes.”

Sofia Andreevna Tolstaya’s letter to her son, Lev Tolstoy Jr., 1895

“Tolstoy wrote every morning, then he played tennis and cycled. Sofia took some photos of him during his recent entertainment. One picture shows both of them: Sofia stands not far away, and looks lovingly at her husband. The sixty-six-year old Tolstoy had a real passion for the new fun, and Sofia bought him a bicycle, with which he made long ways both in the city and outside town.”

Alexandra Popoff: Sofia Tolstaya’s life, 2012 (on 1896)

But the village of Shchepkina-Kupernik was perhaps a bit late. In fact, in Alexey Korzuhin’s painting, Petrushka is here! we already see the bike in the dacha in 1888.

And when did the bicycle reach the village in your country? Which traces did it leave in the literature?

The Republic Beyond the River

No, not that of Transdnistria, but a much smaller and certainly much more cheerful one. This republic lays beyond the little river of Vilnius, in the former ghetto, populated after the deportation of the Jews first by the underworld and the city’s poorest residents, and then, from the 70’s onwards, an increasing number of penniless artists. They proclaimed in 1997 the Užupis – that is, Beyond the River – Republic, which has its own president and bishop, embassy in Moscow and no less than four flags.


According to the founding legend of the republic, after the removal of the Lenin statues, the empty pedestal piqued the sense of beauty of the artists, and they joined forces to carve on it, in Socialist Realist style, the statue of Frank Zappa. The movement filled the local community with such a consciousness that they decided: they become independent from Lithuania, which does not care about the desolate quarter, and take their destiny into their own hands. Whatever happened, the symbol of the independent state is now the angel statue erected on its main street in 2002. It is this symbol which gave the new official name of the new state: The Angel’s Republic, announces proudly the visa, stamped in the visitors’ passport in the pub standing at the Užupis bridgehead of the border river.

Photos by Alexandr Belenkiy

La República del Otro Lado del Río

No es la de Transnistria sino una mucho menor y ciertamente mucho más acogedora. Esta república se ha establecido más allá del pequeño río de Vilnius, en el antiguo gueto repoblado, tras la deportación de los judíos, primero por marginados y por los más pobres de la ciudad y luego, desde los setenta, por un creciente número de artistas bohemios y de pocos posibles. Son ellos los que proclamaron en 1997 la República de Užupis («del otro lado del río»), con su propio presidente, obispo y embajador en Moscú, y dotada nada menos que de cuatro banderas.


Según la leyenda acerca de la fundación de la República, una vez que hubieron retirado la estatua de Lenin, el pedestal vacío espoleó el sentido estético de los artistas, que unieron sus fuerzas para colocar allí, en el mejor estilo del realismo socialista, una estatua de Frank Zappa. Esta iniciativa despertó tan vivamente sus conciencias que tomaron una solemne decisión: independizarse de Lituania ya que se había desinteresado por completo de aquel barrio desolado, y forjar su propio destino con las manos. Sea como fuere, ahora el símbolo del estado independiente es la estatua del ángel que erigieron en la calle mayor en 2002. Es esta la imagen que ha dado finalmente el nombre oficial al nuevo estado: República del Ángel es el sello que estampan orgullosamente en el pasaporte de todos los visitantes que entran en la taberna al extremo del puente, sobre la misma orilla del río.

Fotos de Alexandr Belenkiy

Hydrocycle

A hundred years ago, on Christmas Eve 1911 the Milanese weekly Letture della Domenica. Settimanale Illustrato gave news that finally, after many failed attempts, thanks to the genius of two brothers from Turin, it was possible to cross any river or lake without getting off the bike. We are surprised that the news was unveiled at a date when it was so cold on the banks of the Po. Obviously, given the importance of the technological achievement, the Bosio brothers could not wait until the arrival of good weather to spread the good news.

“The idea of transforming a regular bike into a floating vehicle able to navigate on the water, so that the rider, after following our public roads, could also cross a river or a lake, has tempted many experimented mechanics, without any of them having been able to beat the real difficulties of pedaling on the too unstable waterways.

Now the brilliant victory, as it was shown, was achieved by two inspired but modest Turin workers, the Bosio brothers.

The device consists of three floats attached to the bike with their respective tubes and steel straps; the first under the front wheel provides the function of steering, while the other two, on the two sides of the rear wheel, are linked together so that they keep the bicycle on the water.

The propulsion is obtained by normal pedaling, by way of a chain which sets in motion a propeller submerged in the water under the rear wheel.”

We have been in Turin a couple of times, but, unfortunately, we have never seen any example of the device of the Bosio brothers in work either upstream or downstream the Po.

Hidrociclo

En Nochebuena de 1911, el semanario milanés Letture della Domenica. Settimanale Illustrato daba la noticia de que por fin, tras muchos intentos fallidos, gracias al ingenio de unos hermanos turineses era posible cruzar cualquier río o lago sin apearse de la bicicleta. Nos sorprende que la noticia se diera a conocer en fechas tan frías a orillas del Po. Obviamente, dada la importancia de su logro tecnológico, los hermanos Bosio no pudieron esperar hasta la llegada del buen tiempo para difundir la buena nueva.

«El hecho de transformar una bicicleta común en una motonáutica flotante y que navegara sobre el agua, de modo que el ciclista, tras haber recorrido nuestras calles principales, pudiera también atravesar un río o un lago, ha tentado a muchos mecánicos experimentados sin que ninguno consiguiera vencer en la práctica las dificultades reales del pedaleo en las demasiado móviles pistas acuáticas.

Sin embargo, la brillante victoria, porque así se ha demostrado, la han conseguido dos geniales pero modestos trabajadores turineses, los hermanos Bosio.

El aparato consta de tres flotadores fijados a la bicicleta con sus respectivos tubos y tirantes de acero; el primero bajo la rueda delantera tiene la función de timón; los otros dos, a los lados de la rueda posterior, están unidos entre ellos de manera que mantienen la bicicleta sobre el agua.

La propulsión se obtiene por el pedaleo normal, que mediante una cadena pone en movimiento una hélice sumergida en el agua, bajo la rueda posterior.»

Muchas veces hemos estado en Turín y nunca hemos visto, lamentablemente, ninguno de los artilugios de los hermanos Bosio, ni Po arriba ni Po abajo.