Skopje: beauty, brutalism, and unpopular propoganda

I can't get to my SD card so will have to make
do with crappy cellphone pics for now.

You can’t come to Skopje and not talk about the monuments. Everyone in the city has an opinion. And I mean that literally, an opinion. The same one. Not a single Macedonian I talked to disagreed about the massive urban development, er, beautification? Statue-ization? Neo-classical building barrage? Not sure what to call the $80-500 million project that’s been renovating downtown Skopje since 2010, but they all hate it. Or rather, in keeping with the Macedonian character, it’s more of a bemused ridicule mixed with an acidic disgust in their government.

For starters, how about that price tag? Quite a tally, especially for a country with high levels of poverty and about 30% unemployment. And how about that range? Hard to pin down numbers, especially when no one quite knows what they are and the opposition says it’s ten times what it needed to be.

So...why? Why is Skopje doing this?

Friday morning at 5:17 AM, exactly 53 years ago today, a magnitude 6.1 earthquake in Skopje killed over a thousand people, injured upwards of three thousand, left 200,000 people homeless, and destroyed about 80% of the city.

80% of your city destroyed in 20 seconds. Can’t begin to imagine. One local I talked to said “We were just glad it happened during summer when many people were on vacation. If it had been in October or something, it would have been worse.” Now that’s dedication to the silver lining. Nazdravje! (Yes, they say that here too.)

The Triumphal Arch.
Let me get back to you on the paint job...

Kennedy and Kruschev both sent help, and in the demolished streets of Skopje, Soviet and American troops could shake hands for the first time since 1945. Maybe they should have stayed.

Downtown Skopje was gradually rebuilt under a plan that was half Japanese architect Kenzo Tange and half Yugoslavia. The aesthetic bummer (if you ask me) was that Tange offered neo-brutalism, and Yugoslavia added the sort of concrete blast-wall atmosphere that we associate with Communism during the Soviet age. A tad bit bleak. Who do you know who raves about Macedonia? (Unless you’re Dutch or Australian, in which case y’all’re so well traveled you’re exempted from rhetorical questions like that. Sorry.)

So why not pep it up? Except there are those pesky issues of funding. And then there’s the style. Oh mama, the style. Ancient Rome meets the Hollywood Walk of Fame. A heroic guy who is officially not Alexander the Great because of the ongoing dispute with Greece (but totally is) looms over the main square, anchoring a lattice of marble-columned buildings for such exalted institutions as the Agency of Electronic Communications, whose temple reminded me of Ephesus.

It’s quite a spectacle. Rather...monumental, you might say. And to be honest? I loved it. It’s ridiculous, yes. Perhaps obscenely expensive and criminally irresponsible. But in a day and age when so many places seem to not give the slightest thought to how they look (Athens isn’t standing behind me, is it?) it’s nice to see a city giving it a go. A bizarre festival of propaganda and thinly veiled ethnic discrimination, but still, a go.

In fact? I’m going to rave about Macedonia. Back me up, Aussies and Nederlanders.

Things like this still happen in Havana

The thing about Cuba is all the streets are so...Cuban. Roaming about, I often feel like large cities belong to the country of Citylandia, removed from the nations that surround them, but Havana? Havana is Havana, pure and simple and fragrant and musical and crumbly in the most beautiful way imaginable. To be honest, it’s rather preposterous, how Cuban la Habana is.

A piece of that (shall we call it Cubanity?) is that prime locations in city centers have not been monopolized by the monied class, especially not the international set of extra-home owners who are rarely even there (no offense, London) or chain-stores that feed without fertilizing. So along the Prado you find abuelas and abuelos, tio and tia live down near Obispo, and lining the malecon...well, those buildings are too salt-devoured to support much accommodation at the moment, but the point stands. It was on one of these streets in Havana, Cubanic in every unconscious detail, that we stepped into an average-looking house and found the studio of an internationally renowned artist.

Was he pretentious? Distant, too busy to talk, or irritated by our distraction? Not remotely. He was friends. For years with our organizer, and now with us as well. We mused about his studio and gathered around his table, having a shockingly normal conversation that just happened to touch on art, culture, and what it means to be Cuba.

That can happen in Cuba, or at least, that can happen on an Altruvistas & Ethical Traveler Interactive Arts Delegation where we benefit from 25 years of experience in the country.

Of course, we’re not the only outfit down there. Not by a long shot. Just a couple days ago I got an email from The Nation Magazine advertising their trip, which runs at nearly the same time as ours. Now, I love The Nation, and I’m sure they’ll have a great time, but I couldn’t help noticing that their trip doesn’t seem as connected as ours is. And in case you were wondering, theirs is substantially more expensive, for less days.

I don’t mean this to be a salespitch. My goal was to tell you more about that artist, but I’m overflowing with gratitude that I get to go back down there with this group, deeply honored at getting to lead it, and eager to see who is coming with me.

Are you? The link, for you or your friend who’s always wanted to go, is here.

Love that street art

I reckon I’ve seen “F_ck the police” spelled with darn near every vowel in the English language, in one country or another. On the one hand, it’s nice to see something bringing us all together, but on the other, isn’t there something a tad more creative we could be doing with our walls?

Let's not hide from the issue. (Penang, Malaysia)

I’m glad you asked.

When I hear the word “graffiti” I think of all the useless little vandals writing their names on things in a desperate attempt to stave off mortality. And that dreadful woman in Yosemite.

Granada

When I hear the phrase “street art” my mind takes a stutter-step towards judging the pretension of it, but then takes the kinder path, and jumps to Granada, Spain.

Granada

Or Penang, Malaysia.

Or the innumerable alleys and train tunnels where dead functional structures have become space for something more, some place to add another form of beauty, after all the trees have been cut down.

Berchem is not seen as the most beautiful part of Antwerp
but I always enjoyed the train station.

Going three dimensional in extremely
artistic Florence, and scaring a bus tour

Havana, Cuba is in on the game

We will keep fighting, I love it, in Panama City

The owners of this parking lot in Panama City said a guy
just showed up one day, painted this, and left.

France is on board for sure, near Place de Clichy, Paris

Rome hasn't been left out of the art world in 2000 years,
they're not about to start now.

(I take it as a given that Nature is the primary source of beauty for the human mind and spirit, with a secondary face that’s a bit more controversial, but we can talk about that some other time. Today I have to get out of my building before they spray the hallway for bed bugs. Joy!)

If museum-art somehow became the property of the wealthy, assuming it was not before, then I am deeply glad to see any artist who takes their gifts back to the people, no ticket required, no exclusion possible.

And if all else fails….  Feck the police?

Reverential expression of the divine, or just obsessed with boobs?

“Ugh. Great. Tits again. Cuz that’s all women are. I am so sick of that.”

“No way! Look at the care, the precision, the ornamentation and dignity of the carvings. And the serene smiles, delicate hand mudras, and lengthened earlobes of enlightenment. These are demonstrations of reverence for feminine deities, or femininity itself as divine.”

“But why do they all have to be bare breasted? The dudes get to cover their junk.”

“Maybe they didn’t see boobs as nudity, maybe that’s just how women dressed. Lots of cultures are like that, hence National Geographic’s popularity among boys.”

“So why are they so big? This isn’t Sweden. Men are depicted pretty normally, so why are all the ta-tas supersized?”

Lydia and I had different responses to the ubiquitous boobage of Angkor Wat. In the mass of carved curves, one of us saw a monotonous obsession with female bodies, and the other saw the meticulous expression of their sanctity.

What do you think?

Do the multitudinous bare breasts of Angkor Wat reveal an obsession with one aspect of female anatomy, with an emphasis on exaggerated, even unnatural dimensions?

Or do they reflect a culture that revered femininity as a goddess, an apsara or devata?

Is it artistic license and style, or another oppressive patriarchal hypersexuality?

Or is it both, a fascination that was both sexual and respectful, boobcentric reverence?

Or are we missing the point entirely?

What if Angkor Wat sucks?

Be honest, though you’ve heard it all before. The Mona Lisa...looks like it’s supposed to, and is surprisingly small. The Coliseum? Sure, you feel like watching Gladiator, but mostly you’re just waiting for your next gelato. The Petronas Towers in Kuala Lumpur? Yup, really tall, pretty. Now what’s for dinner? The Panama Canal...is impressive as hell on paper, but outside the window it’s the world’s most boring river.

Now that I’ve offended a few million people, I should clarify that all of these places are still worth seeing. Lordy knows I’ve sought out my share of postcard sites, and smile at my inner version every time I see their iconic images. But in the end? They can be a little underwhelming.

There are exceptions to this. Machu Picchu is stunning, even with the crowds. I hear the Grand Canyon is the same, though I shamefacedly admit I’ve never been. Which category would Angkor Wat fall into?

When we pulled up along the reservoir outside the iconic triple-tower-temple, there was a bit of a “Yup, there it is” first impression. But Angkor Wat is much more than a first impression.

It is cool hallways filled with the soft tranquility left by centuries of people relaxing in relief from the sun. A visceral tradition you’re now part of. Then you’re humbled by the massive stone structures, an achievement in any century. Where did they get the stone? How many people worked on this? For how many generations? My mind felt fragile with admiration already, when I noticed the carvings. Unimaginable, incredible that humans did this. The sheer volume of artistry made me want to shake the nearest Cambodian hand.

Entire armies marched down walls, identical and detailed in an age before mechanized reproduction. Elephants reared and kings balanced, chariots raced while horses pranced and archers took aim. But apparently the ancient Khmer and I have something in common. Because as well and good as war is, sure, whatever, there are more beautiful things in life.

Namely? Boobs. Lots and lots of boobs.

Women danced on walls, watched from doorways, and made mudras in alcoves throughout the temples, hallways, and galleries of the ancient complex. Subtle smiles of feminine wiles that predated and predicted Mona Lisa’s secret by centuries, inspiring craftsmanship and care that has stood the test of time. And they all had knockers to die for.

(See the additional 6 image gallery on the vagabondurges.com post)

To speak or not to speak?

The young woman was determined to be heard. She had the sort of volume that can only be achieved through a combination of theater training, ample quantities of alcohol in the recent past, and an unquestionable confidence in the righteousness of her every word.

“Straight white men should not be allowed to speak” she stated, at eardrum cracking amplitude. “And putting on Shakespeare is just listening to another straight white man.”

We were backstage at Cal Shakes, the beautiful outdoor theater in Orinda where friend and savant Mike Daisey had just given another of his brilliant monologues, this time combining personal revelations, cultural insights, and a powerfully lucid vision of Hamlet.

I’ve been to two of his shows, was blown away both times, and hanging out afterwards, have witnessed the consequence of his provocative monologues, namely that everyone comes up to him after the show and inflicts their own monologues on him. The exhausted man sits and endures speech after speech with grace and good humor. It’s a second impressive performance.

But last Friday the diatribe being shout-talked into the ear drums of every human in the room (and possum, raccoon, and sleeping raven in the woods outside) came from this young lady, swaying moderately, Racer 5 beer tipping up in hand, and opinions crashing around the room like a demolition derby.

We’d communally decided that theater is a medium for a cultural discussion about the rights, roles, and purpose of people (or something like that) when she informed us that straight white men should be allowed no voice in the conversation.

Don’t get me wrong, I know what she means. Here in the West we dwell in the aftereffects of centuries of straight white men screwing things up royally, in a cavalcade of crap, storms of stupidity, avalanches of assholery. It is well past, centuries past, the time when a broader spectrum of voices needs to gain power in our dialogues...all of them.

But NO role? NO voice? Is that the way forward? Should I be bound and gagged because of the skin, anatomy, and sexual preference I was accidentally born into, to pay the penance earned by my pigment predecessors? Is retribution of discrimination the best way forward?

Or is there some way we can take the former criminal class, and let them help drive the progress? Let’s ask Iceland and Suriname.

Those two antipodal countries recently announced an upcoming U.N. panel on gender equality...to which only men and boys will be invited. More oppression? More uninclusive dialogue? Or do, perhaps, straight white men have a role to play?

Do you agree with my opinionated friend and straight white men should bow out (or be forced out), or do straight white men have a responsibility to be involved in advancing equality?

Cubans are magical

Did you know Cubans can fly? I knew about the salsa dancing and the talking fast, but the flying, that surprised me.

I didn't think much of the ballet during my first three decades of life. Didn't think about it at all, in fact. It was an archetype assigned to a gender not my own, a cliché for generic jewelry boxes and little sisters' Halloween costumes, nothing of interest to me.

Then I met a real-life ballerina. Instead of mincing around talking like Glinda from the Wizard of Oz, she showed me the practice and persistence required to get the foot to tap at just the right place at just the right time, and somehow a dance that had been prancing, became art.

So I walked into Prodanza, one of the schools in Cuba’s world-renowned ballet tradition, with cautious optimism that I might see something cool. That was when the teenagers started flying. The first was a boy built from rebar and hickory, sailing through warm air soaked with sweat and dedication. After he eventually consented to gravity, the other boy followed his flight path, leaving a twin con trail through the room’s stratosphere.

Four girls followed, their legs unhooked like snakes’ jaws, so that their knees tended to float around at ear level. They spun in impossible circles, arched in implausible directions, and their faces reflected a devotion and poise beyond their years.

And it was only warm-ups.