Death, Speed, and random thoughts

About two months ago, people were mourning footballer Gary Speed's death. People were astonished about it: a good faithful man, both to football and to his family. A happy guy who goes to club with his former teammate. Why, why did he hang himself up without any anticipating signs, any portents?

And after all, why does a good man die this way? A suicide?

As I have watched him play since I was young, concurring many newspaper reports, he has high standards for himself and is always disciplined. At the age of 38 he plays first-team for Bolton, a English Premier League team. (That's kinda incredible.) Does this discipline drive him crazy?

It's not hard to imagine a man, at night, being troubled but doesn't want to trouble people. We may never know his problems. For him, it's an ultimate sadness.

And it stroke a chord for me. I would not venture to say I'm facing anything at the level of difficulty and troubleness as he does. Sometimes, people hit the pillow, weep, and not be able to maintain peace.

And surely, it's a time to disturb people. Many prefer you to disturb them, than to lose you. And when people disturb you, think that it's time to help, time to save a life, time to rescue a smile.

When I grow up, I start to realize freedom and death are closer than I thought. I could steal something in 10 seconds and then get caught. Dangerous drivers are around me. Deep sadness could be somewhere in everyone's heart.

And don't forget to disturb people.

I was gonna say "life is beautiful", or "life gives a lot of meanings", or smth like that. I'll also add that it's a choice. One can live in sorrow, by nihilism, or perhaps, some (anti-Nietzschean) optimism, which I believe in.

Projecting the Pierrot Project

As a non-Western student, Pierrot is not an inherent part of my culture, and I knew nothing about him before I started this project, not even how he looks. I must have seen the mask before, but I cannot associate it with Pierrot, since no one told me about it, and I didn't happen to read about it.

This is a Pierrot artwork by Toru Iwaya in 1976.
He is white-faced, and the only character in commedia dell'arte without a mask. The commedia is an improvisatory theater that started in Italy in the 16th century. He is one of the zanni, humorous character. Usually in a family troupe, the youngest son who sleeps in the straws with the animals takes up the role of Pedrolino (Pierrot in Italian.) Despite having no political power in most personal relationships, and suffering from unrequited love, he "never loses his dignity". (quoting John Rudlin) He is only a fringe character.


It spread to France and the German states, died out in the late 18th century (not totally sure) as throughly-written theater was preferred over improvisatory ones. (Didn't that happen to music as well?) It enjoyed a new life from the 19th century on, thanks to the famous actor Deburau. He also brought Pierrot into the central stage. Schumann's Carnaval has a movement for Pierrot (1834-35):

The commedia characters are frequent in carnivals in France, Germany, and Austria. That sounds kinda cute, but Pierrot began to symbolize anxiety and the uncanny in at the end of the 19th century. 

If you don't know the Pierrot traditional tune, listen to this. It's one of the cutest children's songs.


It also began to be associated with the moon. Look at the right top corner of Toru Iwaya's picture above. You can also sense sadness, loneliness/alienation.


And someone added drunkenness to it. Albert Giraud wrote 50 rondel burgamesque poems on Pierrot lunaire (usually translated as Moondrunk Pierrot, but in fact the content, not the French title, suggest "drunkenness". lunaire means "of the moon" (adjective)). Otto Erich Hartleben artfully translated/ adapted all into German. Schoenberg picked 21 and wrote some music. Ugly music. But that's how history is written. Ugly music, finally, is recognized as music.

Pierrot is a character. He may or may not look ugly. But is his surroundings full of ugliness? Let me end with a section from Baudelaire's poem Le Cygne.


"I saw a swan that had escaped from his cage,

That stroked the dry pavement with his webbed feet
And dragged his white plumage over the uneven ground.
Beside a dry gutter the bird opened his beak,

Restlessly bathed his wings in the dust
And cried, homesick for his fair native lake:
"Rain, when will you fall? Thunder, when will you roll?"
I see that hapless bird, that strange and fatal myth,

Toward the sky at times, like the man in Ovid,
Toward the ironic, cruelly blue sky,
Stretch his avid head upon his quivering neck,
As if he were reproaching God!

Paris changes! but naught in my melancholy
Has stirred! New palaces, scaffolding, blocks of stone,
Old quarters, all become for me an allegory,
And my dear memories are heavier than rocks."

You can say... this is French problem, not German! Oh well... there is a similar sensibility, and there are local differences, too. That's what I wrote about in my paper.

But don't you think it's awesome that the collection of Baudelaire poem is called Fleurs du mal? That's everything in one small, small image. Intensely emotional title. Think of it, perhaps as a black-and-white pocket-size photo (there is a better, cooler, more professional word for "pocket-size photo"... darn, ESL...)

The complete poem, in French and English translation is available here.