CHRIST! Look what they've done to this painting!

 

 





‘Good deed’ by rogue restoration pensioner ruins 19th-century Spanish fresco

 

 

 

Masterpiece no more: the alterations to Elias Garcia Martinez's Ecce Homo were made by an elderly Spanish woman trying to do a good deed.

 

Ecce Homo (Behold the Man) was a prized Spanish fresco — the pride of the Sanctuary of Mercy Church in Borja, near Zaragoza, where it has delighted parishioners for more than 100 years.

But after a botched restoration attempt by a well-meaning DIY pensioner, Elias Garcia Martinez’s 19th-century masterpiece looks more like a child’s finger-painting.

The unauthorized alterations were made by a Spanish woman in her 80s who had apparently grown upset over the worsening state of the painting.

The leftmost image is how the painting looked two years ago; the middle image is how it looked in July, when it was photographed for a catalogue of regional religious art. The image on right is how it looked on Aug. 6, when the Centro de Estudios Borjanos, a local cultural organisation, went to check on it after receiving a donation for its restoration.

A spokesman from the Centre said: “The value of the original work was not very high but it was more of a sentimental value.” It was painted by Elias Garcia Martinez who is the father of two well known local artists and the family had made a donation towards its preservation.

“The lady, who is in her 80s, acted without authorisation from anyone.

“The church is always open because many people visit and although there is a guard, no one realised what the old woman was doing until she had finished,” the spokesman said.

The woman contacted Juan Maria Ojeda, the city councillor in charge of cultural affairs, after recognizing her error. Ojeda says that art historians are now discussing if the painting can be saved.
“I think she had good intentions. Next week she will meet with a repairer and explain what kind of materials she used,” Mr Ojeda said. ”If we can’t fix it, we will probably cover the wall with a photo of the painting.”



Blogger's note. HEY! How about covering it with wallpaper? Any kind would do, even Hello Kitty or those freaky dolls from Monster High.

I now feel a whole lot better about my own non-existent artistic skills.

But I will say this: it's the most unusual iconic depiction of Jesus I've ever seen, beating even those burnt-grilled-cheese varieties that sell on eBay for a zillion dollars.

I kept looking at this face, and it dern-toonderin'-well reminded me of something, or someone, but at first I just couldn't figure out what.

 

Surely Jesus resembles, if ever so vaguely, Alice the Goon from the old Popeye series.

No?

Alice just isn't brown and smeary enough. How about a botched gingerbread man?

There's a small resemblance about the mouth, but it's not quite smooshy enough.

 

 

Chocolate chip? I think there must be a special stamp for these things. This one has a delightful Shroud of Turin aspect, but it doesn't quite match Mr. Ecce.

 

 

 

Flip and tilt him, and he looks alarmingly like Bob Dylan in his Self Portrait days.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It's weird how many resemblances you spot when you stare at this monstrosity long enough Such as. . .

 

 

 

 

 

"I am not an animal! I am just a bad restoration!"

 

 

 

 

Scary.

 

 

But what's this? It's Homo Erectus! His hair (fur?) doesn't quite cqpture the Inuit-fur-hood-with-chin-strap-effect, and to tell you the truth I think he's more evolved than Cookie Face with the smarmed mouth. But still. . .

Ecce Homo Erectus? I think it might fly.

Noel: music and images for Christmas

 

 

Whom we call Mary, will we ever know?

We have turned the girl bearing down in a freezing barn

hiding her bastard child in terror of death

to someone carved of soap, made cloud or heaven.

Poor Mary. We have robbed you of you.

 

 

 

 

This edifice, this war! This junkyard of faith!

Like molten lead in water

this phosphorescent upflash

of livid flame

 

 

 

 

 

We have this idea we're married to

that men came,

three, though we don't know that,

that they had money and power, though we don't know that,

That they knelt and adored

but we don't know that either

the story has hung itself around us

like crepe paper

 

 

 

 

 

This is Jesus, though hidden.

Jesu ben Yusef

circumcized, a Jew.

We cannot look at him, do not look upon him,

You will burn your eyes.

We know no good has ever come from Nazareth.

 

 

 

 

This is what we find on the sidewalk

Don't go there   don't go outside

Go inside the church and stay there

 

 

 

 

 

 

Portal: walk along the street

where Jesus was, where Jesus was.

Who was Jesus, what, an idea?

A reigning prince, a pretender?
I think he was a dream

a wish, a desire, a scramble for meaning

in the small square hole of our lives.

 

 

 

 

 

For all that, there lives a desperate sort of grace

and we must reach for it

or not go on.

Stay out of our church, go in this one,

be run out of that one,

find the True Church, the one true religion

 inside your own brain.

 

 

 

 

 

For all that, there is this repeating, not endless, just seeming so,

for surely it will end

before we know it.

Will the end be the same,

faith or unfaith,

knowing or not knowing?

Why must hope be born again

at the very desolation of the year

and customs dragged out

dusted off

as if they make a difference to the world?

 

 

 

 

Like chess-pieces, we hold and handle

the smooth turquoise, the cracked cool finish

in a need to comprehend the vast mystery

in

the dailiness and boredom

 

the ascendance

the rhapsody of light

the scent of winter trees

sounds of owls

we live for this, die for it

this stubborn insistence of wonder

this god with a human heart

This one's for Matt: a Merry Very Crispness

 

 

 

 

 

 

For my friend Matt Paust, the Hemingway of the Henhouse (his name inspired by this rare photo of Ernest H. at the DayGlo Hotel in Ketchup, Idaho: I don't know how he kept all those cats away).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nah. . . it must be a fake.

This has to be the video of the week. Though it's a little hard to see, after falling down like bowling pins, all the cows immediately get up again, almost in unison. Herd animals, I guess. My question is: does the truck hit somebody at .12? SOMETHING gets in the way of the truck which swerves to avoid it, but is it a person? For a minute I thought it was a stray cow.

Syrup suckers

$18M Quebec maple syrup heist leads to arrests

5 more suspects sought by investigators

CBC News

 

Police are looking for five other people in connection to last summer's heist. (CBC)

 

Maple syrup seized in Quebec theft probe to be released

Quebec police conduct 2nd maple syrup raid

Maple syrup seized in N.B. may have been stolen in Quebec

Police search warehouse for missing maple syrup

Maple syrup worth up to $30M stolen in Quebec

An investigation into a massive maple syrup theft from a Quebec warehouse last summer has led to the arrest of three people, who are due to face charges in court today.

Between August 2011 and July 2012, thieves got away with 9,600 barrels of maple syrup worth approximately $18 million from a warehouse in Saint-Louis-de-Blandford, about 95 kilometres southwest of Quebec City.

Richard Vallières, 34, of Loretteville and Avik Caron, 39, of Saint-Wenceslas, along with a third person arrested without a warrant face charges of theft, conspiracy, handling stolen goods and fraud.

 

 

Syrup Suckers (a seasonal meditation)

 

They have no holiday spirit

these men

(or at least we kind of hope they’re men

though

we're not sure about that Avik Caron character

what sort of name is Avik anyway, not a proper

Canadian name

but I’d be shocked if he was a she

for what sort of woman would suck up

 

so much forbidden fluid?)

and we don’t even know for sure

how they sucked it up, did they use a wet-dry vac

an underground pipeline

or did they just plain

cart it away
 

 

One o’ dese guys is from Saint-Wenceslas

and truly, I resent the implications

of that name

at this festive time of year

 

The maple syrup heist has far-reaching ramifications,

as it looks like Santa’s pancake breakfasts

will be a little on the dry side

with only Aunt Jemima’s “no sugar added”

as a soulless substitute

 

 

Just imagine

After all the hard work of tappin’ them trees

Hangin’ up tin buckets, you know the ones

Making them give up their precious sap

Drip by drip by drip

Then boiling it for about a million hours

Then putting it up in dem-dar vats

(or whatever they are, barrels I think)

then just having them cart it off like that

as if it was nothing

 

Maple syrup is a symbol of our home and native land

(one little, two little, three Canadians)

so we can't just let it all go like that

about a billion barrels

smuggled into Thailand or something

I mean that really bad part

We owe the world our syrup

We are a misunderstood nation

and who was it who said Canadians

are just a bunch of sapsuckers

(or was it syrup suckers?)

It was one-o-dem

wiseacre American ignorami

who know nothing about such matters

and never mind that stuff they make in Vermont
 

 

but it looks like that stuff they make in Vermont

is going to be just about it for the world supply

Quebec’s bitter loss is Vermont’s sweet syrupy gain

until those guys from Wenceslas strike again

tipping the golden barrels of the world

into their filthy coffers

Fie on them, fie

It’s the most wonderful time of the year

and it’s no time to be sucking up all our syrup

leaving us parched pancakes and dessicated waffles

and none-o-dem-dar cookies shaped like a leaf, you know,

them

 

 

what’s got that maple stuff inside.

Dead leaves in your pockets. . .

 
 

 

When you're in the Little Land
You watch the wee folk play,
You see them through a game or two,
You come out old and gray.

 

When you're in the Little Land
They fill your hands with gold,
You think you stay for just a day,
You come out bent and old.

 

 

 

Dead leaves in your pockets

O my enchanted, have a care

Run, run from the little folk

Or you’ll have dead leaves in your pockets

And snowflakes in your hair

 

 

 

Lights shine in the Little Land
From diamonds on the wall,
But when you're back on the brown hill side
It's cold pebbles after all.

 

 

 

 

 

Music in the little land
Makes the heart rejoice.
It charms your ear so you can not hear
The sound of your true love’s voice

 

Dead leaves in your pockets

O my enchanted, have a care

Run, run from the little folk

Or you’ll have dead leaves in your pockets

And snowflakes in your hair

 

 

 

 

When you’re in the Little Land

You watch the wee folk play,

You see them through a game or two,

You come out old and gray.

 

Dead leaves in your pockets

O my enchanted, have a care

Run, run from the little folk

Or you’ll have dead leaves in your pockets

And snowflakes in your hair

  

 

 

 

Why did this leap into my head today, and where did it come from? Until this morning, damned if I knew. I remember my brother singing it in the '60s when he came home from university. Everyone was singing and playing the guitar and going to hootenannys, whatever they were, and most of us sucked our songs off record albums, often with wrong words and crazy chords.

 

It took me quite a while to find any semblance of this song, except for a very Irish version of it on YouTube. His didn't much resemble mine. It spoke of leprechauns, which gave me a clue as to what the song was about. But my version was one of those cobbled-together-from-memory things. I was only 9 or 10 years old and impressionable. I had NO IDEA what this song meant or even where it came from: I remember finding it weird and disturbing, which it still is.
 

 

 

So today, thanks to the good graces of YouTube, I more or less hunted it down, but it wasn't easy. This was originally written by Malvina Reynolds, an eccentric folk genius who wrote Little Boxes (on the hillside) and What Have they Done to the Rain? This was one of her more obscure numbers and sounds like it's based on folk poetry. One false lead took me to a poem called The Little Land by Robert Louis Stevenson (ph?), but it was one of those How Would you Like to Go Up in a Swing kind-of things, echoes of childhood, etc. Not threatening enough.

 

Somewhere I found a reference to the Limelighters, a folk group we listened to a lot back then. It featured Glen Yarbrough (borough? Who has time to check?), a tenor with a voice that would cut through barbed wire. I remember quite a few of their songs, but not this one.

 

 

So it was still pretty obscure when I finally tracked down the available fragments and pieced them together with my  bits of memory: hey, folk singers do that all the time. (I left out one line: someone's version said "Deadly in your pocket," which is completely nonsensical. 'Scuse me while I kiss this guy.) But somewhere else, someone made a comment that actually made sense: Reynolds had a sense of social satire which could be quite biting (see Little Boxes). Perhaps the song was about another kind of "enchantment", not by leprechauns, faeries or other "little folk", but by the seductiveness of riches and fame.

 

It actually works. First you're just looking in from the outside, watching all these charming people at play, and it looks harmless enough, so you stay around for "a game or two". But then, bizarrely, you wake up and realize that decades have passed in a flash. The gold pouring through your hands eventually runs out and disappears. As in those alien encounters where people mysteriously lose time, the lurch ahead into old age is frightening: suddenly you're a has-been who never was.

 

 

The dead leaves in your pockets that I took so literally as a child could be the deadened browned scorched currency of false fame, crumbling away into nothing.  And I don't need to explain those snowflakes. Bright lights, white hair, cold stones. To enchant, literally, means to gain magical power over someone by chanting, usually in song. Soon the sound of enchantment becomes so strong that we can no longer make out the voice of the one we love.

 

It's a kind of evil reverse fairy-tale where the victim quickly shrivels under forces he or she can't comprehend. So much for cute little leprechauns, Lucky Charms and Kiss Me, I'm Irish.

 

 

 

Throw it all away, and listen

I don't have the technical language to describe what the composer is doing from 4:10 to the end, but I had to listen to it 3 or 4 times to believe it: I felt nothing but astonishment. What seems like a simple amen turns and turns again, then spirals upward in utter yearning, only to end by just touching an unknowable mystery.

The Hebrews called God "he who has no name". I hate words and wish I could dispense with them utterly. Music is the ONLY authentic language. Except for a very few geniuses, all of us spew ugliness and misunderstanding daily in the attempt at "communication". Throw it all away! Throw it away, and listen.

Let's forget the headlines: cute Xmas gifs!

 

 

 

 

 

This is kind of the condensed version of that Rudolph show we all watch(ed: I think it still comes on). I want to be a child again, except happy! There were some moments, there HAD to be. Maybe we imagined ourselves into being happy. Like every other kids' story, this one is about the underdog winning. I don't remember too many other underdogs around, so why was this so popular? And at the end of MY story, why didn't I win?

 

 

 

 

What happened to his red nose? Did that only happen at puberty?

 

 

 

Not too funny, but I have a weakness for flashing colored lights. They do something magical to my retinas.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now c'mon, guys. . . admit this is cute!

 

We've saved the best 'til last: a holiday tradition. Don't think too hard about what Santa is doing.