Viejas postales de Kutaisi


“Mando esta foto a mi querida madre en recuerdo mío, para que tenga una imagen mía, porque estoy muy lejos. Mírala mucho, y no me olvides. Guárdala hasta la muerte. Alexandre Ghoghoberidze. 21 de febrero de 1915”

En compañía de Jacopo y Eka estamos sentados en una cocina, en Mestia, bajos la montañas de Svaneti, y escrutamos estas líneas anotadas en viejas fotos georgianas. No es fácil: en cien años el georgiano ha cambiado mucho: las viejas formas dialectales han desaparecido, las fórmulas de cortesía se han olvidado, el alfabeto ha sido reformado, hasta la caligrafía ha cambiado.


“Mando este recuerdo mío a mis dulces padres y a mis queridos hermanos. […] Tabidze. Estos dos jóvenes son unos buenos amigos de verdad, Ivane y […] Mamaladze. 29 de febrero de 1904.”

Las fotos, de jóvenes georgianos que parten a la Gran Guerra, fueron entregadas a padres y hermanos para que los recordaran tras su muerte en algún rincón de Galizia, de los Cárpatos húngaros o Przemyśl. En ellas, los autores se muestran respetuosamente agradecidos a un editor por haber publicado sus artículos en la revista de la asociación cultural de la pequeña ciudad. Oficiales, ciudadanos en traje tradicional georgiano, muchachas, padres de familia posan por última vez ante el fotógrafo y dan testimonio, cien años después, de una Kuitasi desaparecida.


“Ekaterina Eristavi, fundadora de la biblioteca de Medjuriskhevi, hermana de Kita Abashidze. Shalva Eristavi, de Medjuriskhevi. [… ilegible] Con agradecimiento a Ekaterina, por haber publicado tan amablemente mi trabajo en la revista Iveria, ilustrando también de este modo a los lectores de la sala de lectura.”

Encontramos las postales en la trastienda de un pequeñ puesto de antigüedades de la calle de atrás del bazar de Kutaisi, donde fuimos con Eti en busca de bisutería antigua. Me permitieron fotografiarlas. En su mayoría parecen tomadas por Ermakov, su exitoso estilo creó escuela entre los fotógrafos georgianos en el cambio de siglo. Esperaba encontrar también una foto suya pero luego supe que las fotos originales de Ermakov están guardadas en casa de su propietario, el joven historiador y reputado coleccionista Ramaz Obuladze. Ya ha publicado su segundo libro de fotos antiguas georgianas titulado Indumentaria georgiana, donde muestra la ropa tradicional que guardan los museos con fotos de antes de la guerra de los habitantes de las montañas ataviados de aquel modo, así como fotos de gente de ciudad patriotas que posaban en traje tradicional. Pronto hablaremos también algo más de este asunto.

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Old photos from Kutaisi


“I commend this photo to my dear mother in memory of myself, so that she may have a picture of me, because I am far away. Look at it often, and do not forget me. Keep it until your death. Alexandre Ghoghoberidze. 21 February 1915”

Together with Jacopo and Eka, we sit in a kitchen in Mestia, beneath the mountains of Svaneti, and we pore over the Georgian inscriptions on old photos. It is not easy: in a hundred years the Georgian language has changed a lot: old dialectal forms are gone, courtesy formulas have been forgotten, the alphabet was reformed, even handwriting has changed.


“I commend this in memory of myself to my sweet mother and father, and my dear brothers. […] Tabidze. These two boys are my really good friends, Ivane and […] Mamaladze. 29 February 1904.”

The photos, by Georgian boys leaving for the Great War,  were left to their parents and brothers, so they would remember them after they died somewhere in Galicia, the Hungarian Carpathians, or under Przemyśl. On them, the authors pay respectful thanks to an editor for having published their articles in the journal of the cultural association of the small town. Officers, citizens dressed in Georgian folk costume, ladies, fathers of families stand for the last time before the photographer, and bear witness, a hundred years later, to a vanished Kutaisi.


“Ekaterina Eristavi, founder of the library of Medjuriskhevi, sister of Kita Abashidze. Shalva Eristavi, from Medjuriskhevi. [… illegible] With thanks to Ekaterina, for having so willingly published my work in the journal Iveria, thereby also enriching the readers of the reading room.”

I found these photos in the cabinet of a small antique shop on the street behind the bazaar of Kutaisi, where we went with Eti to peruse old jewelry. They permit me to take photos of them. Many of them are as if they had been taken by Ermakov, it seems that his successful photos made a school among the Georgian photographers at the turn of the century. I hope to find a photo by him, too, but then I find out that the original photos by Ermakov are kept at home by their owner, the young historian and renowned collector Ramaz Obuladze. He has already published his second book on old Georgian photographs, entitled The Georgian Attire, in which he illustrates traditional clothing kept in museums with the pre-war photographs of mountain dwellers in their traditional costumes and patriotic urban citizens dressed in folk costume. Soon I will write about this, too.

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Barcelona – Bayern München

Photo by Csaba Labancz

Sighnaghi, a small town in Eastern Georgia, on the cliff of the Gombori Range, deep beneath us the wide plains of the Kura and Alazani rivers, across the mountains of Azerbaijan. By midnight, only a small Georgian company sits in front of the wide screen in the restaurant of the only hotel, on the day of Saint George, the patron saint of Georgia, on which I first arrived to Georgia twenty years ago. Messi kicks the second goal. A member of the company rises to toast, with an archaic clay vessel in the hand, filled to the brim. Drinks it out, and passes it to the next. “What do they drink to?”  I ask of the waiter. “To the ancestors. On St. George’s night we drink to the ancestors, who died, so Georgia could live in freedom.”

Sighnaghi, una pequeña ciudad al este de Georgia, sobre el acantilado de la cordillera Gombori, abajo a lo lejos la ancha llanura de los ríos Kura y Alazani entre las montañas de Azerbaiyán. A medianoche solo queda un pequeño grupo de georgianos sentados ante la gran pantalla de plasma del restaurante del único hotel. Es el día de San Jorge, patrón del país al que llegué por vez primera hace veinte años. Messi marca el segundo gol. Un miembro de la compañía alza un anticuado vaso de barro lleno hasta los bordes. Echa un trago y lo pasa al de al lado. «¿Cuál es el brindis?», pregunto al camarero. «Es por los antepasados. En la noche de San Jorge bebemos por los antepasados, por quienes han muerto, así Georgia viviría en paz».

The red wall board • El colgador rojo


Lemberg, Gas Lamp Café in the Armenian Renaissance house, where in 1853 a Pole and a Hungarian invented kerosene. The four floors of the café are decorated with photos, newspaper clippings, shares and objects of use in the fin-de-siècle oil fields of Galicia. In the glass-enclosed top floor with open views over the rooftops of old Lemberg, a typical red-painted Soviet-era wall board with red fire buckets and shovel. “Do you know why the bottom of the fire bucket was pointed in those days?” asks András. “So it would not be stolen. Because like this, it could not be used for anything else.”

Leópolis, Café Luz de Gas en la casa renacentista armenia donde en 1853 un polaco y un húngaro inventaron el queroseno. Los cuatro pisos de la cafetería están decorados con fotos, recortes de periódico, cacharros variopintos y objetos de uso cotidiano en los campos petroleros del fin de siglo en Galizia. En la planta superior acristalada que mira sobre los tejados de la antigua Leópolis cuelga de la pared un tablero pintado de rojo, típico de la era soviética, con cubos de incendio también rojos y una pala. «¿Por qué se harían estos cubos en forma de cono en aquella época?», se pregunta András. «Así nadie se los llevaba. Con esta forma no podían utilizarse para otra cosa».

Kutaisi, Georgia, inner courtyard of the city museum, with old Georgian grape treading tub • Kutaisi, Georgia, patio interior del museo de la ciudad con una antigua artesa para pisar la uva

Abastumani, Southern Georgia, inside an Armenian church that was converted into bakery in Soviet times and then left to decay • Abastumani, Georgia del Sur, en el interior de la iglesia armenia transformada en horno de pan en tiempos soviéticos y luego abandonada

Khiva, service courtyard of Said Niyaz Sholikorbay mosque. Stealing from a mosque would have been embarrassing even in Soviet times • Jiva, patio de servicio de la mezquita Said Niyaz Sholikorbay. Robar en una mezquita habría sido vergonzoso incluso en la época soviética.

Gelati, royal monastery / Gelati, monasterio real



Mama o shenma. The monks of the monastery and singer school of Zarzma / Monjes del monasterio y escolanía de Zarzma

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El centenario


Recogida en el viejo barrio armenio-judío, la pequeña iglesia armenia está hasta los topes esta mañana. Mucha más gente que en una misa dominical normal. La región del sur de Georgia, habitada por armenios, no se vio afectada por el genocidio de 1915, pero muchos sobrevivientes de las masacres del Imperio Otomano llegaron huyendo hasta aquí. Sus descendientes hoy conmemoran, junto con los armenios dispersos por todo el mundo, que hace cien años, el 24 de abril de 1915, doscientos cincuenta líderes armenios fueron arrestados en Constantinopla, dándose inicio así a la persecución y expulsión de los varios millones de personas que componían la fuerte población armenia del Imperio Otomano.

Una niña de doce o trece años se me acerca con sus enormes ojos oscuros, diciéndome en un florido inglés: «Quisiera preguntarle, caballero, ¿qué piensan en Europa sobre lo que nos pasó? ¿Hay alguien que reconozca que hubo un genocidio armenio?» «Por supuesto, en Europa casi todo el mundo lo reconoce». «Gracias, muchas gracias, caballero», dice con admiración.

El anciano sacerdote habla largamente, con calma. Sólo entiendo frases sueltas del sermón, recitado en el dialecto armenio de Akhaltsikhe: los nombres de los países, las naciones, las personas y, de manera recurrente, metz yeghern, «el gran crimen», como designan los armenios al genocidio. La gente escucha atentamente, asintiendo con la cabeza. «¿De qué hablaba?», pregunto al final de la misa. «Que no hay que olvidar lo que pasó, pero que debemos superarlo y no odiar a los descendientes de los que nos hicieron esto».


Misa en la iglesia armenia de Akhaltsikhe

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The hundredth year


Hiding in the old Armenian-Jewish neighborhood, the little Armenian church was packed this morning. There are many more people than on a regular Sunday Mass. The southern region of Georgia, inhabited by Armenians, was not hit by the Genocide of 1915, but many survivors of the massacres in the Ottoman Empire fled here. Their descendants today commemorate, together with the Armenians scattered all over the world, that a hundred years ago, on 24 April 1915, 250 Armenian leaders were arrested in Constantinople, and thus began the extermination and expulsion of the several million strong Armenian population of the Ottoman Empire.

A twelve or thirteen year old girl comes to me, with huge dark eyes, calling me in very ornate English: “I want to ask you, Sir, what they think in Europe about what happened to us? Is there anyone who recognizes that there was an Armenian genocide?” “Of course, in Europe almost everyone recognizes it.” “Thank you very, very much, Sir,” she says in awe.

The old priest speaks long, calmly. I understand only snippets of the sermon, recited in the Armenian dialect of Akhaltsikhe: the names of countries, nations, persons, and the recurrent term metz yeghern, “the great crime”, as the Armenians call the Genocide. People are watching intently, nodding. “What did he talk about?” I ask at the end of the mass. “That we must not forget what happened, but we must rise above it, and must not hate the descendants of those who did this to us.”


Mass at the Armenian church of Akhaltsikhe

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For St. George’s Day / Celebració de Sant Jordi



Last night, before St. George’s icon in the 11th-c. royal monastery of Nikortsminda. According to the ancient Georgian tradition, St. George defeated not the dragon, but Emperor Diocletian.

Anit, davant la icona del reial monestir de Nikortsminda, del segle XI. Segons l'antiga tradició georgiana, Sant Jordi va vèncer no al drac, sinó a l'emperador Dioclecià.


აღდგომასა შენსა (Aghgdomasa shensa) Thy resurrection. The monks of the monastery and singer school of Zarzma / Els monjos del monestir i l'escolania de Zarzma

Vineyards next to the monastery of Nikortsminda, in the Khvanchkara wine region, yesterday afternoon
Vinyes al costat del monestir de Nikortsminda, a la regió vinícola de Khvanchkara, ahir al capvespre

War


The Old Lion Publisher of Lviv has been in the market for a few years, and published some wonderful children’s books with the characteristic beautiful, surrealistic illustrations of contemporary Lviv books. The first one, which we will soon present, is about Lemberg’s heraldic animal, who gave its name to the publisher, the old lion, who receives exotic visitors in his loft, and while we accompany their way from the railway station to Lemberg’s main square, we also get to know the city’s enchanting small streets and houses.

The Old Lion also publishes other books related to Lemberg and to the Ukraine. Last year was published the picture book – which we will also present – that explains the Maidan to the children, with illustrations based on old Rusyn motifs. And this year the book that tells what is war, and how to counter it.

In 2015 the book received the special prize of the Bologna Ragazzi Award, and on this occasion the publisher interviewed the two authors, Romana Romanyshyn and Andrij Lesiv.

The war, as our previous post shows, is actual again in the Ukraine now, a hundred years after the great war that destroyed Galicia. However, acording to the authors, the book is not only about this war.

“We have many book ideas, that are constantly noted on this paper on the wall here, marking their priority by underlining, highlighting and with exclamatin marks. The theme of war has never been included on this paper. We heard about the war only from our grandparents, or from the news about other countries. All these horrors were far away, and seemed to never reach here. But things have changed in the Ukraine. Other kinds of priorities have emerged, we had to rethink the values. Suddenly, all the stories told by witnesses about other wars, have become reality in our own country. This book on the war naturally reflects the events happening now. But this book is not only about our war in the Ukraine, it contains no data or geographical reference to it. All is based on simple symbols, like light and darkness, flowers and weeds, thin paper and sharp metal. The language of symbols is a clear and universal language, independent of geography.”


The War that changed Rondo


The city called Rondo was special. The air was clean and transparent, as if it were of the finest light. And its inhabitants were also all special and fragile. They grew flowers, tended gardens and parks, built fantastic houses, talked with the birds and plants, loved to sing, draw and write poetry. And they were happy to live in Rondo. But the city was most loved by three friends: Darko, Zirka and Fabian. Everyone knew them in Rondo.



Danko’s body was thin and translucent, and bright as a candle. His heart shone the brightest. He often rambled the streets of the city on his penny-farthing, humming the melodies of his favorite movies. A basket hung on the handlebar, with a thick atlas in it, which contained the old engravings of plants, flowers and trees.


Mozart: Rondo alla turca. Fiona Vilnite’s transcript for string quartet

Fabian was a descendant of ancient treasure hunters, with sharp sense of smell and sight. He was so light, that even the slightest breeze could have lifted and taken him far away, had he not had a silver medal with a letter “F” in his neck. The medal was heavy and solid, and Fabian never took it off his neck, he was so stuck to the land and to Rondo.

Zvirka could fly. He soared high in the sky, and could even perform complex aerobatics. He flew high on his paper wings, and he wrote on them his travel sketches and notes. Because he loved to travel more than anything else.



Rondo was famous for its beautiful flowers. On the main square was the city’s pride and treasure, the greenhouse. Here they collected the rarest flowers and plants from the most remote corners of the planet. But what was most surprising: these flowers could sing.

They often staged concerts in the greenhouse, which always featured Mozart’s Rondo. They came together from every corner of the city to enjoy this incredible spectacle. And every morning, when the sun rose, the flowers sang the anthem of the city, proudly lifting up their heads into the light.



Danko cycled every morning before sunrise to the greenhouse, because he loved to start the day by singing. Together with the flowers. He understood the flowersr better than anyone else. He took care so they felt well, and always had enough water and light. He carefully studied the atlas with the Latin names, because he wanted to know, which flower what needs the most.

After lunch, Danko often met Fabian in the corner café, where they discussed the latest news. Then they went to see Zvirka. Although they were never sure whether they find him at home, because Zvirka often flew to distant voyages, and he was not seen for several days in the city.

This day was just like any other in Rondo. The inhabitants of the town rushed after their jobs. Danko was going to his friend, because he knew that Zvirka had just come back from a journey, and he brought lots of new stories and pictures with him. The sun was shining, the birds and flowers singing. Everything was like always…

Suddenly everything was quiet. The news swept through the town:



THERE IS WAR IN OUR CITY!


The inhabitants of Rondo did not know, who the War is. It came out of nowhere, black and terrible. Roaring and gnashing crept towards the city, leaving behind ruins, chaos and darkness. Everything it touched fell into an impenetrable darkness. But the most terrible was that it sowed black flowers, dry and thorny weeds, which had no smell and no sound. They instantly sprang out of the earth, and grew into a thick jungle, which hid the sun. And in the lack of light, the fragile and defenseless flowers of Rondo began to fade and wither. They had no more force to raise their heads towards the light. And worst of all, they did not sing any more.


Danko, Zirka and Fabian, though fragile, were brave. They went out against the War. First they wanted to speak to it, asking it to go away. But the War ignored them, stubbornly going further, and launched its terrible machinery into attack. It threw fiery sparks and sharp stones everywhere.


One of the stones hit Danko on the chest, just above the heart, and a huge crack arose on his body. The sparks reached Zirka, and burned through his paper wings. And a black flower grew out in front of Fabian, piercing his leg.

The War did not spare anyone.



Then the three friends tried to talk to War in its language. Zirka and Fabian collected the stones and nails flying over the city, and threw them back. But this did not stop the War. Danko thought that the War could be stopped if they made better its heart. But in vain, because the War had no heart.

The three friends watched in despair as the War was destroying their fragile world. The inhabitants of the city disappeared one after another. There was less and less hope that the War would ever leave. The once bright and bustling streets became empty. And there was less and less light.

It went on day after day. The War steadily advanced, spreading black flowers everywhere, and the three friends tried to defend the city as they could.



Danko continued to go to the greenhouse, whose windows were darkened, and where the few surviving flowers stood languidly and silently in the corner.

On one occasion, when darkness was already so thick, that Danko could barely find his way, he tried to save at least these last flowers with the light of his penny-farthing. He put it on a stand, directed its lamp on the flowers, and began to pedal.

As soon as the light fell on the flowers, they recovered, and their pale color became vivid. Danko pedaled more and more quickly. The light grew greater and greater. Then Danko started to sing the anthem of the city, which had not been heard for long in Rodno. As he arrived at the end of the first stanza, one of the flowers lifted its head, and sang wwith him. And then the second and the third. Then a dozen of them sang the anthem in choir.

And Danko understood: the War was terrified, because a dozen flowers kept on singing, in spite of everything, because even the thinnest beam of light weakened the darkness. So, to stop the War, the whole community has to build the great machinery of Light, which dispels darkness and saves the singing flowers!



The three friends immediately went to work. The other inhabitants of the city also come one after the other to help them, and the main square of Rondo became a bustling ant’s nest. All united in a common cause, they worked as well as they could. The city worked like a single coordinated clockwork.


Zirka carried out reconnaissance flights, and drew on his wings the location of the enemy camp, and the peered data. Fabian, as the best treasure hunter, collected parts to the light machine in construction. Danko acquired a large book on mechanics, and directed from it the construction of the machine.


When the machine was ready, they all took their places, and began to pedal on command. Hundreds of pedals, thousands of wheels started to spin at a rate – and the machine was launched. Light flooded the streets. Danko, Zvirka, Fabian and all the inhabitants of the city sang the anthem of Rondo together with the flowers.


Mozart: Rondo alla turca. Guitar transcription by Charlie Parra del Riego


The War stopped short, then it slowly began to dissipate in the light emitted by the machine. The stronger the light, the louder the anthem, the quicker the War disappeared, and together with it, the darkness and the thorny black flowers as well.

Rondo sang the anthem until the last black flower disappeared, and the last remnant of the darkness was dispelled.

It was a victory!



In place of the black flowers, red poppies grew out of the earth. Before the War, poppies of many colors grew in Rondo, pink, yellow, violet, purple, white, but not a single red one. Now, however, all the poppies were only red.


However, unfortunately, not everything could be restored. The cracks remained on Dankoʻs transparent body and heart, as well as the burn marks on Zirka’s wings, and Fabian was limping with his pierced leg.

The inhabitants of the city also became different. Everyone had sad memories about the War, which changed Rondo. And the city was covered with the multitude of the red poppies growing all over.*

(* Since 1914, the red poppy has been the symbol of the falle in the war.)



Mozart: Rondo alla turca. The original piano piece, performed by Daniel Barenboim