As a boy I used to spend hour after hour at a desk crammed into the entry hall of my childhood home, painstakingly creating one colored ink drawing after another. Aside from reading, drawing and painting was my favorite pastime, probably because such activities allowed me to enter a realm beyond "reality". A virtually limitless universe where I shared everything with everyone, but which nevertheless, at the same time and in all its vastness belonged to me and me alone. Sports have not interested me, perhaps because they are too tied up to reality, though I have always liked to run in the woods. It's probably lucky for me that there were no video games when I was young.

Among my retrieved drawings I found, some I made ​​during drawing classes at school, including a booklet about color manufacture. The task consisted of not writing any text at all, only making instructive and imaginative illustrations. It surprised me that I had been able to accomplish something that from my current point of view was quite good; rather ingenious pictures demonstrating how colors had been produced from soil, lice and rocks. A feeling similar to the one I have described in an earlier blog post came over me - the boy who made these drawings had been a completely different person than the one I am now, but he and I are nevertheless identical. A kind of vertigo seized me; a sense of lack of limitations, like the world we encounter in art and literature, where masters of the past live on through the results of their labor and continue talk to each other, while they at the same time are directing themselves to me.

The thought that occupied my mind while I in an all-pervading downpour trudged to school was art as part of an infinite universe; a living, breathing organism obtaining its nourishment from every conceivable source. Refreshing as a crystal clear mountain lake with cold, tasty, and refreshing water.

While I sat in the staff room with the day's first cup of coffee and the morning paper in front of me, I read an article "The threat to a free culture" referring to the Sweden Democrats´ members of the Governmental Culture Committee and their party's views on culture. The image of the Sweden Democrats has forced its parliamentary members to tone down what earlier was a conspicuous hostility towards "culture", except the "national heritage". Party members now point out that "heritage is in greater need of support than contemporary art." Rather than attaching themselves to a canon of traditional "fine arts", the culture gurus of the Sweden Democrats apply an "anthropological" definition inspired by “autochthonous” traditions. A view reflected in the party program which hails "shared norms and values, collective memories, common myths, common celebrations and traditions" which unite us Swedes in the peace and joy of the Great Hall of The People´s Home.

In 1928, the Social Democrats launched the catch-word “People´s Home” as a symbol of "a good and stable home for all Swedes, built on democracy´s solid ground." With the expression “all Swedes” the Social Democrats meant that The People´s Home was meant to include people from all social classes, everyone ought to contribute to and benefit from a just society. While pilfering the Social Democrat´s slogan the Sweden Democrats stress “Swedish”, an approach that undeniably emits a whiff of National Socialism.

I shudder at the thought and recall a few lines from Gunnar Ekelöf´s poem Till de folkhemske, “To the Frightening Homely”, a wordplay indicating that the Swedish noun hem, “home” can be made into an adjective hemsk, meaning “frightening”: "Svea, the hormone queen carefully guarded by confident bouncers". "Common norms", “common  values”, “common traditions”, what are the Sweden Democrats hinting at? Common for whom? Sweden Democrats? Inhabitants of Bjärnum? World Citizens? The emergence of such restrictive, limiting threats to culture worries me. I have understood culture as something full of opportunities, wide open in all directions. A sea to sail in, not a stagnant pool dammed up and poisoned by parochial grumblers.

"Culture" means cultivation and monoculture is not a particularly sustainable and healthy form of agriculture. The Sweden Democrats´ biologically determined characterization of something they call "the Swedish cultural heritage", which apparently is threatened by a multicultural bacterial growth, is in my opinion pure rubbish. It seems as if the Sweden Democrats are opening up a musty-smelling closet, releasing a stench of the rotting Blut und Boden (blood and soil) ideology that brought Germany into the abyss, and threatened Sweden with its ideological venom.

While I was pondering at the concepts of art and culture I was once again caught by an insistent urge to write a blog post. During a free period I searched my computer files for a text I wrote a few years ago. It was about colors and their origin. I wrote it after speaking with an Italian friend of mine, Marvi, who at the time worked with restoring antique paintings. I was fascinated by her stories and wrote down some insights gained from of our conversation.

When I came home from school, I found thetext among my old data files. Marvi had told me that restoration work was much more complicated than I had imagined. This meant not only trying to restore a painting to the condition it was assumed to be when it was completed. Every detail of its current condition had to be examined and its history traced. Where did the canvas come from? Where and by whom was it made? How is the state of the material, what does it consist of? Where did the colors come from? Were they perhaps made ​​in the artist's own studio? Were they maybe manufactured ​​locally by a chemist, or did they come from a company in Milan, or Paris? What kind of varnish was used? Was the canvas prepared in different layers, the paint applied in different sequences? Questions are many, the possibility of materials and technologies which were used is almost incalculable.

It does not become any easier while dealing with modern art, sometimes it is even more complicated. What do you, for example, do with a collage of the Futurist painter Carlo Carrá produced in 1914, consisting of a multitude of small pieces of paper cuts  from newspapers, cardboard pieces and other things, which furthermore in several places are painted over with different kinds of paint, like pastels, oil and water colors? The whole thing is worth millions, but the glue has in several places penetrated the paper cuts, the newspaper clippings have yellowed and become extremely fragile, some of the colors have faded; pieces of paper have fallen off. It is almost impossible to restore the original appearance of the masterpiece, when the newsprint was new and white, the colors brilliant and all the paper pieces in place. It is important to identify the original newspapers Carrá made ​​use of, to find out what kind of glue he applied, where the color came from, etc. etc. What took Carrá a day or two to make, may take more than a year of hard work to reconstruct and the result will nevertheless never be the same as the piece Carrá made exactly one hundred years ago.

Carrá´s work is far from being the most difficult example of restoration challenges. Prampolini, another futurist, used in his portraits pieces of yarn, thread rollers, sandpaper, and a varied mix of colors. Often it gets even worse the closer we come to our present time and encounter materials like plastic and latex, ingredients that are likely to become discolored or crack over time and several contemporary artists are inclined to use a variety of other materials, which in the future might be extremely difficult to trace and reconstruct.

For example, how about the possibilities of restoring a Piero Manzoni's masterpieces, like his series of 90 tin cans produced in 1961? Each can equipped with an informative label: Artist's Shit, Contents 30 gr net, Freshly preserved, Produced and tinned in May 1961. The text is printed in Italian, English, French and German. The cans have now begun to rust, while the labels are faded and discolored, some are damaged by moisture and are loosening from the cans. The state of the content remains unknown. Many owners of these artworks are willing to have them restored for considerable amounts of money and this is maybe not particularly strange. A not very well preserved can was in May 2007 sold for the price of 124,000 euros at Sotheby's in London, the price and demand are assumed to increase as more and more cans are losing their mint condition.

Marvi´s work did not consist so much of the restoration of modern art works; it was primarily provided by another group of experts at the firm where she worked. Marvi mostly occupied herself with the restoration of antique Italian paintings and was thus forced to identify and analyze various local soils which the artists had made ​​use of when they produced colors of their own. For a successful restoration of an older, Italian oil- or tempera painting, it is important to find out what kind of soil the artists have used to produce, for example, their yellow or red ocher, their raw or burnt umber. From which location in Tuscany or Umbria had the earth been dug up? How and where had it been prepared and transformed into shades of red or brown? Had pigments been mixed and bound together by something other than oil of nuts, flax, cotton or poppy? Where there traces of starch, egg white, bone glue, fig latex, Armenian clay, wax, resin, lead, tin, casein, turpentine, or potash?

Marvi made ​​me look at art with new eyes. Artists´ studios turned into alchemist laboratories where substances where bubbling and boiling within bowls and retorts, subjected to flames of fire, which transformed lead, tin, arsenic and mercury into dazzling colors.

Thousands of years of trial and error created remarkable recipes for the preparation of valuable dyes and colors. Like the yellow color euxanthin, which as early as in the Middle Ages was imported from India, where it was made from the urine of cows fed with mango leaves and spring water. A reddish-purple color came from insignificant Mediterranean snails, which in small quantities exuded yellowish, gray secretions, successively changing color from green to blue, finally turning into the coveted purple hue. The stunning red color in Venetian paintings, called cinnabar, vermillion or red lead, was originally a deadly dangerous, mercurial mud taken from the Spanish River Minio. The green malachite came in minced form from mines in Afghanistan. Lapis lazuli came from Tibet. Black came from the ivory burned in the interior of Africa. Before an even stronger , reddish color had been discovered in Mexico, the crimson color was transported along the Silk Road all the way from China, where it was made from Kermes, an unassuming but intensely red aphid. After Colombus had discovered the sea route to America, Chinese crimson was gradually replaced by shiny carmine dye produced from the cochineal bug, cultivated on a special cactus in Mexico. The green color vertegraz came from precious malachite or copper sulphate mixed with arsenic, one variant was called Parisian green since it was used for killing rats in Paris´ sewers.

Of course, such color exclusivities were expensive and difficult to come by, especially if an artist did not have the good fortune to count upon the support of an extremely wealthy patron. Accordingly, in virtually every artist's studio everything expected to produce cheap, but resistant and shining colors was boiled, dried, distilled and blended. Even close to home, there were bright red shield lice and just like the expensive kermes bugs they could produce paint if pregnant females were drained in vinegar and then dried and grounded to the sought-after red paint. Red could also be obtained from Italian soils, from copper sulfate and mercuric sulfide. Black came from charred pig bones, wine creepers or fatty soot from oil lamps. White calsomine was made by mixing slaked lime with milk, white lead paint by hanging lead sheets above trays with vinegar and then scraping off the white coating that had been formed. Green sand, or glauconite, was an iron potassium phyllosilicate found on the river banks. Azurite, or Egyptian blue, was obtained by grinding together sand, copper sulfate and bicarbonate. Plants such as indigo and woad gave blue color, mignonette and saffron yellow, a color that also could be extracted from lead, tin or arsenic.

If combined with skills and creativity these home-manufactured colors could be combined into exquisite works of art. In the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, an artist´s studio especially if it belonged to a well-known artist, was for the master´s journeymen as much a chemical laboratory and workshop, as a place to learn how to paint. The masters´ experimented with a variety of ingredients to provide their colors with glow and exclusive peculiarities, and their helpers and apprentices worked hard and long to produce and develop the different mixtures.

Contemporary restoration experts trace the masters´ techniques and ingredients in their attempts to reconstruct Cimabue´s and Duccio´s unique shades of color; their exclusive brown, gold and red. The origins of Titian's various shades of red are examined and so is the blue in Michelangelo´s drapes.

Shades and hues in the work of the genial Parmagianino are analyzed and it becomes apparent why that particular artist gained a reputation of having lost himself and his art in alchemical ruminations. The discovery of cobalt, chromium, cadmium yellow and emerald green through chemical processes and ready-made oil paints revolutionized the art; enabling masters like Cezanne and Van Gogh to experiment and on their own accomplish their masterpieces.

Commercial production of oil paint is a relatively new phenomenon. It began in France in 1720 when Lefranc & Bourgeois started to market large-scale produced colors, but for a long time after that several artists´ studios continued to give an impression of being alchemical laboratories, where the master and his pupils produced home-made and often deadly decoctions to be applied to meticulously prepared canvases.

Social changes intervened in these circumstances. In the 1700s, the artists´ guilds began to dissolve and the tradition of keeping young apprentices for the production of colors and the meticulous preparation of canvases was successively vanishing. Consequences could be disastrous, for example, masters´ disciples had previously prepared the oil paintings by applying a coat of paint grinded in slowly drying oils, afterwards the master himself painted layer after layer of paint which had been grinded with thinner and thinner oils. Over time, however, increasingly independent and solitary artists became tired of carefully preparing their canvases and dismissed the slow-drying oils. Soon, they made quite contrary to the prevalent tradition of craftsmanship, meaning that they laid the foundation with fast-drying, light oils and then successively worked with thicker and wetter oils, a procedure that eventually caused many oil paintings from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries to crack and becoming hopelessly stained and darkened. Furthermore, several artists refrained from grinding the color pigments in "black oil", a mixture of linseed oil and lead oxide and instead mixed the pigments directly into the oil, the result has in many cases been catastrophic.

Grinding color is a complicated process involving pouring a boiling oil mixture (generally lin-seed oil) onto small amounts of color pigments, gently stirring it all together with a spatula, and then carefully grind the mixture together with the help of a "runner", a seven-pound stone. A slow, heavy and dull work, but if ignored it would mean that the pigment would not be grinded in such a way that the oil enclose each tiny grain of pigment.

All this means that art is far from being something created by a spur of the moment. In a way everything in our world is part of a long evolution that includes elements from every corner of the world and every phase of human evolution and ingeniousness, a process of trial and error continuing from generation to generation, developed during times when there was little difference between art and science, craft and artistic activities.

Everything is connected; art is an ocean, a universe of crafts, science, fancy, genius, catastrophic failures and astounding successes. For all this to be achieved, openness and diversity are essential requirements. Every splash of color on a canvas is the result of a long chain of hard work; of global contacts and scientific progress. In art, one can certainly not apply limits and controls, it is eternal and limitless. It is intimately connected with the infinitely large and the infinitely small; with man and woman, life, death and the universe. Art is neither clean nor contaminated. It's like you and me, the earth and the universe. It cannot be walled in by national borders, or specific characteristics. It cannot be controlled, not engulfed by taste and ideology. It cannot be contained by "common norms and values, collective memories, common myths, common celebrations and traditions," it is much, much greater than that.

Fuga, Antonella (2004) Technici e materiale delle arte. Milano: Electa. Gilmour, John (2011) Sweden, the Swastika and Stalin: The Swedish experience in the Second World War. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press.

Som en tämligen lillgammal pojke brukade jag timme ut och timme in sitta vid mitt skrivbord i barndomshemmets tambur medan jag noggrant och detaljrikt knåpade ihop den ena färglagda tuschteckningen efter den andra. Bortsett från läsning, var att teckna och måla det bästa jag visste. Kanske för att jag därigenom kunde kliva in i en sfär bortom ”verkligheten”. Fantasins område, ett i det närmaste gränslöst universum där jag delade allt med alla, men som likväl, i all sin väldighet tillhörde mig och ingen annan. Sport har egentligen aldrig intresserat mig, kanske för att det är alltför verklighetsanknutet, fast jag har alltid gillat att springa i skogen. Det är antagligen tur för mig att det inte fanns några dataspel när jag var ung. 

Bland teckningarna fann jag också en del jag gjort under skolans teckningstimmar, bland annat ett häfte om färgtillverkning. Uppgiften hade varit att inte skriva någon text utan enbart ägna sig åt illustrationerna. Jag blev förvånad över att jag kunnat åstadkomma något som enligt min nuvarande uppfattning är riktigt bra; ganska fyndiga bilder som visade hur färger hade framställts från jord, löss och stenar. Känslan som jag beskrivit i ett tidigare blogginlägg kom över mig – att pojken som gjort teckningarna var en helt annan person än den jag nu är, men att han och jag likväl är identiska. En slags tidssvindel grep mig.  En gränslöshet, liknande den värld vi möter i konst och litteratur, där mästare från förr och nu samtalar med varandra, samtidigt som de vänder sig till dig.

Tanken som upptog mig medan jag i ett tröstlöst hällregn traskade till skolan var konsten som del av ett oändligt universum, en levande, pulserande organism som får sin näring från alla tänkbara håll. Vederkvickande som en kristallklar bergssjö fylld med kallt, välsmakande och vederkvickande vatten.

Då jag satt i lärarrummet med dagens första kopp kaffe och morgontidningen framför mig, läste jag en artikel ”Hotet mot en fri kultur”. Hotet utgjordes tydligen av sverigedemokraternas medlemmar i kulturutskottet och partiets syn på kultur. Med sin alltmer rumsrena image tonar sverigedemokraterna nu ner sin tidigare, påfallande kulturfientlighet. Partimedlemmar poängterar att ”kulturarvet är i större behov av stöd än samtidskonsten”. Partiets kulturkännare tillämpar uppenbarligen en ”antropologisk” kulturdefinition baserad på ”seder och bruk”. Partiprogrammet talar om ”gemensamma normer och värderingar, kollektiva minnen, gemensamma myter, gemensamma högtider och traditioner”, allt sådant som förenar oss svenskar i den frid och fröjd som de tycks mena skall råda i folkhemmets storstuga.

Jag ryser lätt vid tanken och erinrar mig några rader ur Gunnar Ekelöfs dikt Till de folhemske: ”Svea, hormonernas drottning noga vaktad av förtroendeingivande utkastare”. ”Gemensamma” hit och ”gemensamma” dit, handlar konst och kultur enbart om gemensamhet? Gemensam med vem? Sverigedemokrater? Bjärnumsbor? Svenskar? Mänskligheten? Detta inskränkande hot oroar mig. Kulturen borde vara som ett öppet hav, inte ett stillastående träsk som dämts upp och försurats av trångsynta kverulanter.

”Kultur” betyder odling och monokultur är ingen hållbar eller nyttig odlingsform. Sverigedemokraternas biologiska särartsflummigheter som ser ”det svenska kulturarvet” hotat av mångkulturella bakteriehärdar är enligt min mening rena rappakaljan - ett av mina favoritord, från finskans rapa (smutsig, kväljande) och kalja (svagdricka). Det tycks som om sverigedemokraterna gläntat på en unket doftande garderob och man förnimmer stanken från en härsken Blut und Boden (blod och jord) ideologi som en gång förpestade Tyskland och även bredde ut sig i Sverige, ett fenomen som får en intressant belysning i Bibi Jonssons analyser av svensk kvinnolitteratur från trettiotalet.

Medan jag funderade kring konst greps jag åter av den pockande driften att skriva ett blogginlägg.  Under en håltimme började jag bland mina datafiler söka efter en text jag skrev för flera år sedan. Den handlade om färger och deras ursprung. Jag skrev den efter att ha talat med en italiensk vän, Marvi, som restaurerade tavlor. Jag fascinerades av hennes berättelser, skrev ner vad jag mindes av vårt samtal och tog på egen hand reda på en del om färgernas ursprung.

När jag kom hem från skolan fann jag till slut texten bland mina gamla datafiler. Marvi hade berättat för mig att restaurationsarbete var betydligt mer komplicerat än jag kunnat föreställa mig. Det gäller exempelvis inte enbart att försöka återställa en målning till ett sådant skick man antar att den befann sig i när den fullbordades. Det gäller att undersöka varje detalj i dess nuvarande tillstånd och sedan spåra dess historia, vilket innebär att materialet måste detaljgranskas. Var kommer duken ifrån? Var och av vem är den tillverkad? Hur är materialet beskaffat? Vad består det av? Var kommer färgerna ifrån? Är de tillverkade i konstnärens egen ateljé, eller verkstad? Är de kanske tillverkade lokalt av någon kemist på orten, eller på ett kommersiellt företag i Milano eller Paris? Vilka lacker har använts? Är tavlan framställd i olika lager, eller målad direkt på duken, utan någon form av grundning? Frågorna är många; material och tekniker i det närmaste oöverskådliga.

Och lättare blir det inte med modern konst, snarare mer komplicerat. Vad gör man exempelvis med ett kollage av futuristen Carlo Carrà, framställt 1914 och bestående av en mängd små pappersbitar klippta ur dagstidningar, kartongbitar och annat, samt på flera ställen övermålat med olika färger, både olje- och vattenfärger? Konstverket är värt miljonbelopp, men klistret har trängt igenom på flera ställen, tidningspappret har gulnat och är mycket skört, några av färgerna har bleknat, en del pappersbitar har fallit av. Det är i det närmaste omöjligt att få mästerverket att se ut som det en gång gjorde, när tidningspappret var nytt och vitt, färgen lysande och alla pappersbitar på plats. Det gäller att identifiera exakt de dagstidningar Carrá använde sig av, finna ut hur klistret var beskaffat, var färgen kom ifrån, etc. etc. Vad som tog Carrá en dag att göra, kan ta mer än ett års hårt arbete att rekonstruera och resultatet kan ändå inte bli det samma som Carrá åstadkom för exakt hundra år sedan.

Carrá är långt ifrån det besvärligaste exemplet. Prampolini, en annan futurist, använde i sina porträtt garn, trådrullar och sandpapper, samt olika sorters färger. Värre och värre blir det ju närmare vår egen tid vi kommer. Material som plast och latex är stora utmaningar, de missfärgas och spricker med tiden och dagens konstnärer använder en mängd andra material som i framtiden kommer att bli svåra att spåra och rekonstruera.

Vad sägs exempelvis om möjligheterna av att restaurera ett av Piero Manzonis mästerverk, en serie med 90 konservburkar som framställdes 1961? Varje burk har en etikett med en text som i översättning lyder: ”Artistskit, Innehåll 30 gr. net., Färskbevarat, Producerat och förpackat i maj 1961.” Texten är tryckt på italienska, engelska, franska och tyska. Burkarna har nu börjat rosta och etiketterna har bleknat och missfärgats, en del är fuktskadade och har börjat lossna från burkarna. Om innehållets tillstånd vet vi ingenting. Flera ägare till dessa konstverk är villiga att får dem restaurerade för ansenliga belopp och det är kanske inte så märkligt. En inte speciellt välbevarad burk såldes i maj 2007 för 124 000 euros på Sotheby´s i London, pris och efterfrågan anses stiga allteftersom fler och fler burkar förlorar sitt ursprungliga skick.

Marvis arbete bestod dock inte så mycket i att restaurera moderna konstverk, det ombesörjdes främst av en annan expertgrupp inom den firma där hon arbetade. Marvi ägnade sig mest åt att restaurera äldre italienska målningar och därför tvingades hon bland annat att identifiera och analysera de olika, lokala jordarter som konstnärer använt sig av då de framställde sina färger. För en lyckad restauration av en äldre, italiensk olje- eller temperamålning är det viktigt att ta reda på vilken sorts jord konstnärerna har använt sig av för att kunna framställa exempelvis gul eller röd ockra, rå eller bränd umbra. Från vilken plats i Toskana eller Umbrien hade jorden grävts fram? Hur och var hade den preparerats och förvandlats till olika nyanser av rött eller brunt? Hade pigmenten blandats och bundits samman med något annat än olja av nötter, lin, bomull eller vallmo? Fanns det i tavlan kanske spår av stärkelselim, äggvita, benlim, fikonlatex, armenisk lera, vax, harts, bly, tenn, kasein, terpentin, eller pottaska?

Marvi fick mig att se konsten med nya ögon. Konstnärsateljéerna förvandlades till alkemistlaboratorier där det bubblade och kokade, alltmedan skålar, glas och retorter återkastade skenet från de eldslågor som användes för att koka ihop färgglada gifter baserade på bly, tenn, arsenik och kvicksilver.

Tusentals år av misslyckanden och uppfinningar har skapat märkliga recept för framställandet av värdefulla färgämnen. Som den gula färgen euxanthin, som redan under medeltiden importerades från Indien, där den framställdes från urinen av kor som svältfötts med mangoblad och källvatten. Den rödvioletta purpurfärgen kom från oansenliga medelhavssnäckor som i mycket liten mängd avsöndrade ett gulgrått sekret som efter att först ha blivit grönt, därefter blått, slutligen förvandlats till den hett eftertraktade purpurn. Den fantastiska röda färgen i venetianska tavlor, kallad cinnober, vermillion eller rött bly, var ursprungligen en dödligt farlig, kvicksilverhaltig lera som hämtades ur den spanska floden Minio. Den gröna malakiten kom i nermald form från gruvor i Afghanistan. Lapis lazuli kom från Tibet. Svart kom från elfenben som bränts i det inre av Afrika och innan en ännu mer starkt, rödskimrande färg hade upptäckts i Mexiko kom den karmosinröda färgen längs Sidenvägen från Kina, där den framställdes från kermes, en oansenlig men intensivt röd bladlus. Efter det att Colombus funnit sjövägen till Amerika ersattes de kinesiska, glänsande kermeskornen av kochenillkorn som framställdes ur kochenillsköldlusen, odlad på en speciell kaktus i Mexiko. Den gröna färgen vertegraz kom från dyrbar malakit eller kopparsulfat blandat med arsenik, en variant kallades för parisergrönt eftersom den användes för att döda råttorna i Paris kloaksystem.

Givetvis var sådana färgexklusiviteter dyrbara och därmed svåra att få tag på, speciellt om en konstnär inte haft turen att kunna räkna med en stormrik beskyddare. Därför kokades, torkades, destillerades och blandades allt möjligt i så gott som varje konstnärsateljé. Även hemmavid fanns illröda sköldlöss och precis som de svindyra kermeskrypen kunde även italienska, röda och gravida lushonor läggas i ättika för att sedan torkas och malas ner till rödfärg. Rött kunde man också få från italienska jordar, från kopparsulfat och kvicksilversulfid. Svart kom från förkolnade grisben, vinstjälkar eller fett sot från oljelampor. Sankt Johannesvitt fick man genom att blanda släckt kalk med mjölk, blyvitt genom att hänga blyplåtar över ättika och sedan skrapa bort de vita flak som bildades. Grönsand, eller glaukonit, var grönt kaliumjärnsilikat som man letade rätt på vid flodbankar. Azurit, eller egyptiskt blått, fick man genom att mala samman sand, kopparsulfat och bikarbonat. Växter som indigo och vejde gav blå färg, reseda och saffran gult, en färg som också kunde utvinnas från bly, tenn eller arsenik.

Till slut kombinerades allt detta till utsökta konstverk. En ateljé var vid medeltidens slut och under Renässansen, speciellt hos välkända och flitigt anlitade konstnärer, för gesällerna lika mycket ett kemiskt laboratorium och verkstad som en plats för att lära sig måla. Mästaren experimenterade med en mängd ingredienser för att ge sina färger lyster och alldeles speciella egenheter.Hans, i mer sällsynta fall hennes, medhjälpare och lärlingar arbetade hårt och länge med att producera och utveckla de olika blandningarna. Nutidens restaurationsexperter spårar deras tekniker och ingredienser i sina försök att rekonstruera Cimabues och Duccios unika nyanser av hudfärg, brunt, guld och rött. Man söker ursprunget till Tizians olika nyanser av rött, eller skiftningarna Michelangelos blå draperingar.

 Forskarna detaljgranskar den geniale Parmagianinos verk och inser varför just den konstnären fick rykte om sig att ha förlorat sig och sitt konstnärskap i alkemistiska grubblerier. De söker och finner uppkomsten av kobolt, krom, kadmiumgult och smaragdgrönt från tämligen senkomna kemiska processer och hur färdiggjorda oljefärger revolutionerade konsten och möjliggjorde det konstnärliga experimenterandet hos mästare som Cezanne och Van Gogh.

Kommersiell produktion av oljefärg är förhållandevis ny. Den tog sin början i Frankrike 1720, då företaget Lefranc & Bourgeois började saluföra storskaligt framställda färger, men även långt efter den tiden kunde en konstnärsateljé ge intryck av att vara ett alkemistiskt laboratorium, där mästaren och hans elever rörde ihop egenhändigt tillverkade och ofta dödligt farliga dekokter som sedan applicerades på ytterst noggrant preparerade dukar. Den komplicerade och ofta dyrbara processen att blanda och tillverka färg var minst lika betydelsefull som att täcka en preparerad duk med förbluffande och snillrikt hopkomna kompositioner.

Sociala förändringar grep in i dessa förhållanden. På 1700-talet började konstnärsgillena upplösas och därmed försvann efterhand traditionen att unga målare började som gesäller hos en mästare för att hos honom grundligt lära sig hur man tillverkar och applicerar färg. Följderna kunde bli katastrofala, exempelvis hade en mästares lärjungar tidigare preparerat en oljemålning genom att applicera ett lager färg riven i långsamt torkande oljor och sedan hade mästaren själv målat skikt efter skikt i vilka färgen rivits i allt tunnare oljor. Med tiden tröttnade dock självständiga och solitära konstnärer på att noggrant preparera sina dukar och på de långsamt torkande oljorna. Det gällde att hålla huvudet ovan vattenytan, mecenater blev allt sällsyntare, privatkapialismen fick konkurrensen Snart gjorde de alldeles tvärtemot vad den gängse hantverkstraditionen hade bestämt och kommit fram till. Det vill säga att de lade grunden med snabbtorkande, tunna oljor och sedan arbetade vidare med allt tjockare och blötare oljor, något som gjort att många oljemålningar från sjutton- och artonhundratalen nu har blivit hopplöst missfärgade, spruckna och krackelerade Likaså slutade många konstnärer riva färgen i ”svart olja”, en blandning av linolja och blyoxid och istället rörde de in färgpigmenten direkt i oljesmeten, följden har blivit att flera tavlor nu har mörknat och spruckit.

Att riva färg är en komplicerad process som innebär att man häller kokt linoljeblandning över färgstofferna och försiktigt rör ihop det hela med en spatel, därefter är man tvungen att omsorgsfullt mala samman blandningen med hjälp av en ”löpare”, en sju kilo tung sten. Ett trögt, tungt och trist arbete, men struntade man i att göra det så finfördelades inte pigmenten på ett sådant sätt att oljan omgav varje enskilt färgkorn.

Allt detta innebär att målarkonst inte är något som uppkommit genom en stundens ingivelse. Den är likt allt i vår värld en del av en lång utveckling med inslag från jordens alla hörn, en hantverksprocess av försök och misstag från generation till generation, utvecklad under tider då det inte fanns någon större skillnad mellan konst och vetenskap, hantverk och konstnärlig verksamhet.

Allt hänger samman, konsten är ett hav, ett universum av noggrant hantverk, vetenskap, infall, genialitet, katastrofala misslyckanden och förbluffande framgångar. För allt detta krävs öppenhet och mångfald, varje färgklick är resultatet av en lång kedja av hårt arbete, av globala kontakter och vetenskapliga framsteg. Inom konsten kan man inte tillämpa begränsningar och kontroller, den är evig och gränslös. Den är förknippad med det oändligt stora och det oändligt lilla, med människan, med livet, döden och universum. Den är varken ren, eller besmittad.  Den är som du och jag, jorden och universum. Den kan inte stängas in bakom några nationella gränser eller särarter. Den kan inte styras, inte ringas in av smak och ideologi. Den begränsas inte inneslutas av våra ”gemensamma normer och värderingar, kollektiva minnen, gemensamma myter, gemensamma högtider och traditioner”, den är betydligt större än så.

Bergman, Gösta (1990) Ord med historia. Stockholm: Bokförlaget Prisma. Fuga, Antonella (2004) Technici e materiale delle arte. Milano: Electa.  Jonsson, Bibi (2008) Blod och jord i trettiotalet: Kvinnorna och den antimoderna strömningen. Stockholm: Carlssons Bokförlag. Rydell, Anders (2014) ”Hotet mot en fri kultur”, i Dagens Nyheter, 22 oktober.

A few months ago I was at the circus with my youngest daughter and her boyfriend. It was a small, German circus with dilapidated vehicles and trailers. The audience was not large; a few children with friends and family sat on folding chairs around the ring, the customary wooden rows had not been raised along the tent walls. The performers were few as well, apparently the German owners and their children and a small group of Russians. All of them appeared in various guises. The circus princess had passed her prime, but was nevertheless still quite arresting. She acted as horse trainer and trapeze artist. Self-assured she performed her acts with admirable precision. I assumed it was her husband who acted as a clown and strong man of the acrobats; the Russians, who in addition to performing various acrobatic numbers also acted as jugglers, knife throwers and participated in the director's clown numbers, which actually were quite witty and fun. Although the performers were talented and could have been quite outstanding even in a larger circus context, the performance nevertheless gave a somewhat pathetic impression, as in the rather tragic circus movies that occasionally reach us from countries such as Italy or Spain. The feeling that lingered after the lights had been dimmed was more melancholy than elated, something that favored the specific mood of the evening's second activity.

On our way back to Bjärnum we stopped at Mala Stones, a graveyard from late Iron Age. I had been there once before and knew that the site would appeal to my daughter and her boyfriend. They are archaeologists and thus, with some exceptions, interested in everything that is older than a hundred years.

Mala Stones is a rural cousin of Scandinavia's most magnificent “stone ship” - a kind of stone palisade that outlines the form of a Viking long ship and fences in the grave of a chieftain - the powerful Ale´s Stones situated on a coastal plateau by Kåseberga village in the far south. The ship grave is placed close to the sharp brink of a steep slope down to the sea, thus giving an impression that the stone ship is sailing straight into the Baltic Sea´s sharp horizon. A poem by Anders Österling captures the Spirit of the Place:

Where the coast plunges from sky to sea
Ale built a giant ship of stones,
stately resting where throngs of pale wheat
blend with the boulders´ dark immobility.
A tale hidden within the
murmur of the Baltic Sea,
which alone knows the ship´s meaning.

Grandiose resolve subdued the hill,
iron met bronze, when the adventure began.
The sea king´s ship, stuck to the ground,
is here making its journey to the end of time.
It just has stone for bow
and clouds for sails,
but is still the free ships´ equal.

I lament the fact that I cannot find any translation into English and am thus forced to rely on my own clumsy attempts to make a beautiful poem understandable, while throwing rhyme and rhythm overboard. To get at least a hint of the original splendor of the poem you may try to read the original aloud, which you find in the Swedish version of my blog. The poem has at least twice been set to music and both versions were quite good.

The Irish Nobel laureate Seamus Heaney, who was fascinated by any Northern, ancient history, wrote two poems about Ale´s Stones. One of them I am not particularly fond of, the other one is very short, but captures well the mood of the stone ship´s setting:

In May, in sunlight

the stone boat lies becalmed.

Larks

sing at the masthead.

Mala Stones are much smaller in every sense, in size and scope, and the place where they have been erected have a more intimate feel to it. An oak grove on a hill, a hundred meters in circumference, harbors seven stone ships and fifty standing stones. In the areas around Mala and Vankiva we find quite a few remains of settlements from the time when the legendary Vikings were active in the northern countries. At that time, the part of southern Sweden called Göinge was apparently a lively area, albeit with a completely different look than it has now. Next to the grave site we find a six hundred meter long gorge, called hålväg in Swedish. A hålväg is a road that in ancient times has been used for such a long time that it has become worn down below the surface of the surrounding ground, a sure sign that the area containing the grave field of Mala was once part of busy and populous district.

In those days there are no conifer trees in the area, only leafy ones. What now are meadows and arable land was then swamps and lakes, people's fields covered hills and islands and just like  the burial ground, they were constantly kept free from forest and shrubbery. No one knows how the grave fields were taken care of,  if offerings and sacrifices were presented to the dead, if the area was considered to be  sacred, if it was protected and fenced.

However, we know that the graves were so called “fire graves” meaning that the interred bodies were cremated and the burned bones and human ashes were gathered in an urn, which was buried in the middle of the stone ship, or in front of the raised stones. Men and women were buried together, but it is quite rare to find any buried children. Several initially erect stones at the Mala grave field have fallen down due to earth movements caused by frost and summer heat. Many boulders have probably been carried away by farmers to serve as stone fences or becoming part of house foundations, but surprisingly many are still standing and the place has retained an air of mystery and seclusion.

It was still summer and even though the hour was late the dusk lingered on when I arrived at the grave field with Esmeralda and Vincenzo. We had with us a thermos and cinnamon buns and sat down by a rickety table in the middle of the burial ground, which bore traces of once having been adapted to visitors. However, only a few rotted planks remained of the boardwalks, while the information signs had through rain and tear become unfathomable. It did not matter much, the place had a unique atmosphere that was not marred by the decay that characterized the municipality's attempts to popularize the site. The endurance of the site reigned supreme, the leaves of the old oaks did not move, in the distance bellowed some cows. The setting sun made long shadows behind the erect stones

As we sat at the table with our coffee cups and cinnamon buns we watched the stones and realized that the ships formed a flotilla travelled in the same direction with the shadows in their wake. Were they sailing towards the Realms of the Dead? Were these kingdoms to be found in the West? As we gazed at the stone ships we were seized by a remarkable illusion of movement, as if we, or the entire world, were slowly moving in the same direction as the ships.

The sense of mystery and magic was reinforced by our unexpected company. A gray cat, not much more than a kitten, had approached us as we walked up towards the burial ground plateau. Frisky and alert she jumped around our legs, or cuddly stroke herself against them. While we drank our coffee and ate the buns she jumped up on the table. My daughter who remembered the dog that many years earlier, had followed us through the temple area of Cumae, a walk I have described in an earlier blog entry, found the cat's interest in us somewhat unnerving. Was she some kind pyschopomp, watching over the cemetery? My daughter knew that cats were the companions of the Norse goddess Freya, a goddess who was not only queen of beauty, and the deity of fertility, but also associated with divination (seiðer) war and death. She was accompanied by her two big cats, Högni and Þófnir, who also pulled her cart. It is thus no coincidence that the witches of Nordic folklore always had cats as their companions.

The dark aspect of Freya was linked to her power over the black earth's fertile strength and she was therefore closely related to Hel, the terrible mistress of the Underworld. It was Freya who taught Odin sorcery and seiðerwomen wore cloaks lined with cat fur. One of Freya's many names were Valfreyja, Lady of the Fallen, and it was said that half of all the deceased belonged to her. She was called Hörn, Protector, of the dead. So was it any wonder if she had chosen a cat to guard the Mala Stones?

To lighten up the ghostly mood, I explained to my daughter that the cat's interest in us was typical of her specie. If you cuddled a cat and showed it your kind interest it often happened that it followed you and it would be quite hard to shake off. I feared that she, for some reason I assumed it was a female cat, would follow us down to the car and thus ran the risk of being run over when we left the place. The cat's behavior did not confirm my fears, but made my daughter quite confused. Having been with us throughout our stay in the grave field she sat down when we arrived at the gate by the entrance. She sat there, completely still, looking after us when we got into the car and drove away, just like the dog had done when we left Cumae many years earlier. A psychopomp?

A fortnight ago, when my youngest daughter had traveled to Rome, I rode the bicycle between Hässleholm and Bjärnum together with my older daughter. It was night, though the moon shone and the deep purple sky was starry. When we had passed Mala Stones we regretted that we hadn´t stopped and despite the late hour we turned back. In the darkness under the big oak trees we walked cautiously up the hill until we came to the clearing where the four largest and best preserved stone ships could be found. The moon had disappeared, but above us arched the canopy of a mighty night sky. The air was chilly when we quietly stood and watched the dark stones. My daughter raised her head and exclaimed: "Look! The Milky Way is right above us!" Rarely had I seen the wide starry path so clear and densely studded with sparkling stars, it was magic and I felt a shiver down my spine when my daughter said: "Look! The ships are following it! " And verily! The stone ships were placed in exactly the same direction as the Milky Way. It was as if they followed it to the Kingdom of the Dead. I do not have the faintest idea if a similar relationship to the Milky Way is evident in other Viking burial grounds, though in Mala the entire fleet of stone vessels were placed directly under it.

The Vikings had several names for the Milky Way, which by the way has a much more poetic name in Swedish, namly Vintergatan, “The Winter Road”. One Norse name was Bifrost, which is said to mean either "The Trembling Road" or "The Flaming Bridge", a designation that fits well with the aspect of the Milky Way. At night the gods used it as their route over the heavens, by day they traveled along the rainbow, which also was called Bifrost.

Janna and I stood still under the Milky Way´s glittering span of stars, with our eyes we followed the stone ships´ course towards the darks woods that lined the clearing. We felt the connection between earth and sky and I thought about a few more stanzas in Anders Österling´s poem:

For in the middle of the farmer's plot
Ale has embarked
on the ship of Death, the last he owns.

Lindow, John (2001) Norse Mythology: A Guide to the Gods, Heroes, Rituals and Beliefs. Oxford: Oxford Universiety Press.

För några månader sedan var jag på cirkus med min yngsta dotter och hennes pojkvän. Det var en liten, tysk cirkus med nerslitna fordon och vagnar. Publiken var inte stor; barnfamiljer satt på fällstolar kring manegen, några bänkrader var inte uppriggade längs tältväggarna. Artisterna var heller inte många, uppenbarligen de tyska ägarna och deras barn och en liten grupp ryssar. De uppträdde i olika skepnader. Cirkusprimadonnan hade passerat sina ungdomsår, men var likväl ganska parant. Hon agerade som hästdomptör och trapetsartist. Vant och rutinerat utförde hon sina akter med beundransvärd precision. Jag antog att det var hennes make som agerade som clown och som stöttepelare för akrobaterna; ryssarna som förutom att de utförde olika akrobatiska nummer också agerade som jonglörer, knivkastare och medverkade i cirkusdirektörens clownnummer, som faktiskt var ovanligt fyndiga och roliga. Trots att artisterna var skickliga och kunde ha hävdat sig inom större cirkussammanhang gav det hela ett påvert och lätt patetiskt intryck, som i de filmer i cirkusmiljö som ibland dyker upp från länder som Italien och Spanien. Känslan som dröjde sig kvar var snarare vemodig än upprymd, något som säkerligen gynnade upplevelserna under aftonens andra aktivitet.

På väg tillbaka mot Bjärnum stannade vi till vid Mala Stenar, ett gravfält från yngre järnåldern. Jag hade varit där en gång tidigare och visste därför att platsen skulle tilltala min dotter och hennes pojkvän. De är arkeologer och är därigenom, med vissa undantag, intresserade av allt som är äldre än hundra år.

Mala Stenar är en lantlig kusin till Nordens mest magnifika skeppsättning - den mäktiga Ale Stenar som ligger på en kustplatå vid Kåseberga långt i söder. Den vilar inte långt från ett stup och sluttningskantens raka linje gör att det verkar som om stenskeppet seglar mot Östersjöns knivskarpa horisont. Anders Österlings dikt fångar väl platsens ande:

Där kusten stupar mellan hav och himmel
har Ale rest ett jätteskepp av stenar,
skönt på sin plats, när axens ljusa vimmel
med blockens mörka stillhet sig förenar,
en saga lagd i lönn
vid brus av Östersjön,
som ensam vet, vad minnesmärket menar.

Storvulen handlingskraft behärskar kullen.
Järn mötte brons, när äventyret hände.
Sjökungens skepp, som sitter fast i mullen,
gör här sin långfärd intill tidens ände.
Det har blott sten till stäv
och moln till segelväv,
men är trots allt de fria skeppens frände.

Den irländske nobelspristagaren Seamus Heaney, som var fascinerad av allt fornhistoriskt, har skrivit två dikter om Ale Stenar. Den ena är jag inte speciellt förtjust i, den andra är mycket kort, men fångar väl stämningen kring den märkliga  skeppsättningen:

In May, in sunlight

the stone boat lies becalmed.

Larks

sing at the masthead.

(I maj, i solskenet, ligger stenbåten stilla. Lärkor sjunger vid masten)

Mala Stenar är betydligt mindre till omfånget och platsen de är belägna är tryggare och mer intim. I en ekbacke som är ett hundratal meter i omkrets finns sju skeppsättningar och ett femtiotal resta stenar. I områdena kring Mala och Vankiva finns rikligt med lämningar av bosättningar från en tid då vikingarna var verksamma i Norden. Vid den tiden var Göinge uppenbarligen en livlig bygd, om än med ett helt annat utseende än nu. Alldeles intill gravplatsen löper en sexhundra meter lång hålväg. En hålväg är en väg som använts så länge att den slitits ner och hamnat under den omgivande jordytan, ett säkert tecken på att den varit livligt trafikerad och skurit genom en folkrik bygd.

På den tiden bestod all skog i Göinge av lövträd. Det som nu är ängs- och åkermark var då träsk och sjöar, människornas åkrar låg på höjderna, som precis som gravfältet hölls de fria från skog och sly. Ingen vet hur gravfälten sköttes, om man offrade där, om de var helgade områden, skyddade och inhängnade.

Man vet dock att gravarna var brandgravar, vilket betyder att den döde brändes på bål och de brända benen samlades i urna, som sedan grävdes ner mitt i skeppsättningen, eller framför de resta stenarna. Män och kvinnor begravdes tillsammans, men det är mycket sällan man finner några begravda barn. Säkerligen har många stenar på Mala gravfält fallit omkull genom jordens rörelser, orsakade av frost och sommarvärme. Flera har säkerligen forslats därifrån av bönder som använt dem till gärdsgårdar och husgrunder, men förvånansvärt många står kvar och platsen har bevarat en stämning av mystik och avskildhet.

Det var fortfarande sommar och trots att timmen var sen rådde det skymning när jag kom dit med Esmeralda och Vincenzo. Vi hade med oss termos och bullar och slog oss ner vid ett skrangligt bord mitt på gravfältet, som bar spår av att en gång ha blivit besöksanpassat. Nu hade dock plankgångarna ruttnat och till stor del försvunnit, medan informationsskyltarna blivit oläsliga. Det gjorde dock inte så mycket, stället hade en unik atmosfär som inte stördes av förfallet som präglade kommunens försök att populärisera platsen. Tidlösheten hade åter tagit det hela i besittning. Ekarnas blad var stilla, i fjärran råmade några kor.  Den sjunkande solens strålar skapade långa skuggor bakom skeppsättningarnas stenar.

Då vi satt vid bordet med våra medhavda kaffekoppar och kanelbullar och betraktade stenarna insåg vi att skeppsättningarna formade en flottilj, att stenskeppen färdades i samma riktning med skuggorna som kölvatten. Seglade de mot Dödens Riken? Låg de västerut? Då vi intensivt blickade mot skeppssättningarna greps vi av en märklig illusion av rörelse, som om vi, eller hela jordytan, börjat följa skeppen i deras färd.

Känslan av mystik och magi gynnades av vårt sällskap. En grå katt, inte mycket mer än en kattunge, hade tagit emot oss då vi gick upp mot gravfältets platå. Ystert hade den hoppat kring våra ben, eller kelsjukt strukit sig mot dem. Medan vi drack vårt kaffe och åt bullana hade den hoppat upp på bordet. Min dotter som mindes hunden som många år tidigare följt oss genom Cumaes tempelområde, en promenad jag beskrivit i en tidigare blogg, tyckte att kattens intresse för oss var lätt skrämmande. Rörde det sig om ännu en pyskopomp, en begravningsplatsväktare?  Min dotter visste att katten var gudinnan Frejas följeslagare, en gudinna som inte enbart var skönhetens och fruktbarhetens gudinna, utan även förknippad med spådomskonst (seiðer) krig och död. Hon följdes alltid av sina två kattor, Högni och Þófnir, som även drog hennes vagn.  Det är således inte en slump att även folktrons trollpackor hade kattor som sina följeslagare.

Frejas mörka aspekt var kopplad till hennes makt över den svarta jordens kraft och hon ansågs därför stå Hel nära, Underjordens fruktansvärda härskarinna.  Det var Freja som lärt Oden svartkonst och sejdkvinnor bar kappor fodrade med kattskinn. Ett av Frejas många namn var Valfreyja, De Stupades Fru, och det sades att hälften av alla döda tillföll henne. Hon kallas deras Hörn, beskyddarinna. Så var det så konstigt om hon satt en katt som väktare över Mala stenar?

För att lätta den spöklika stämningen förklarade jag för min dotter att kattens stora intresse för oss var typiskt för hennes släkte. Klappade du en katt och visade den vänligt intresse hände det ofta att den följde dig i hälarna och var svår att skaka av sig. Jag fruktade att hon, av någon anledning antog jag att det var en honkatt, skulle följa med oss ner till bilen och därmed löpte risken att bli överkörd då vi lämnade platsen. Kattens beteende bekräftade inte mina farhågor, men gjorde min dotter konfunderad.  Efter att ha varit med oss under hela vistelsen på gravfältet satte den sig ner då vi kommit fram till färisten som fanns vid ingången. Där blev den sittande och tittade efter oss då vi steg in i bilen och körde därifrån, precis som hunden gjort när vi lämnat Cumae många år tidigare. En psykopomp?

För en fjorton dagar sedan då min yngsta dotter rest till Rom cyklade jag och min äldsta dotter mellan Hässleholm och Bjärnum. Det var natt, men månen lyste och det var stjärnklart. Då vi passerade Mala Stenar ångrade vi oss för att vi kört förbi och trots den sena timmen vände vi tillbaka. I mörkret gick vi försiktigt uppför kullen tills vi kom till gläntan där de fyra största och mest välbevarade skeppssättningarna låg. Månen hade försvunnit, men ovanför oss välvde sig den mäktiga stjärnhimlen. Det var tyst och småkallt medan vi i stillhet betraktade de mörka stenarna. Min dotter lyfte på huvudet och utbrast: ”Se! Vintergatan är precis ovanför oss!” Sällan hade jag sett den breda stjärnevägen så klar och tätt besatt med gnistrande stjärnor, det var magiskt och jag kände en rysning längs ryggraden då min dotter konstaterade: ”Skeppen följer den!” Och sannerligen! Skeppssättningarna var satta i exakt samma riktning som Vintergatan. Det var som om de följde den mot Dödens Rike. Jag har inte den blekaste aning om att det råder samma förhållande på andra vikingagravplatser – att flottiljer med de dödas skepp seglar västerut längs med Vintergatans stjärnbeströdda väg. I Mala var det utan tvekan så.

Vikingarna hade flera namn på Vingtergatan, ett var Bifrost, som sägs betyda antingen ”Den Darrande Vägen” eller ”Den Flammande Bron”, en beteckning som passar väl in på Vintergatan. Om  natten använde gudarna den som sin färdväg, på dagen färdades de längs regnbågen, som också kallades Bifrost.

Janna och jag stod där under Vintergatans glittrande stjärnspann och följde med blicken stenskeppens kurs mot skogsbrynet. Vi kände kopplingen mellan jord och himmel och jag tänkte på ännu ett par strofer i Österlings dikt:

Ty mitt i bondens jord
har Ale gått ombord
på dödens skepp, det sista som han äger.

Baeksted, Anders (1970) Gudar och hjältar i Norden. Uddevalla: Forum. Österling, Anders (1933) Tonen från havet. Stockhom: Bonniers

Sometimes it happens that a tune pops up within the brain and runs like some kind of leitmotif throughout an entire day. Several years ago it was Le piano du pauvre, “the Piano of the Poor”, by Léo Ferré which placed its mark on a sunny day in Paris. A few years later, when I soaked and frozen during a raw autumn day walked through the gloomy streets of the metropolis on the other side of the Channel, it was La Fille de Londres by V. Marceau that haunted my brain. This morning while I through the heavy morning mist rode my bike along the crunching gravel road from our house in Bjärnum on my way to catch the train to town and another day at school (the longest one) it was a tune by the Swedish poets Olle Adolphson and Beppe Wolgers that popped up:

Children are a people and they live in a foreign land, this land is rain and a puddle
Over the puddle travel boys´ boats and sometimes they float so well without a keel
There goes a girl who collects stones, she has a million
The king of trees sits quietly among branches in the tree king´s throne
There is a boy who laughs at snow
There walks a girl who made an island of fifteen pillows
There, a boy and everything is ice cream that he touches
All are children and they belong to the mysterious people.

In the world of grown-ups, children are mysterious creatures. Their exoticism may be traced on the web where kids are even more popular than mischievous cats and dressed-up animals and contrary to them they are even providing web readers with some wisdom of their own, like:  "Mushrooms grow in damp areas. That's why they look like umbrellas "(Henrik 8 years) or “People in love are holding hands so their rings won´t not fall off, rings cost a lot of money" (Tine 7 years), etc., etc.

Everyone who talks with kids will one time or another become amazed by the insights they are able to provide. Some of us might even remember the wonder we once felt while contemplating  the strange world we live in and forget the cruelty and harshness that often are present within children’s´ habitat.

Children grow up, but the joy they provide remains. Soon, they cease to be the small, lovable creatures they once were, though nevertheless their wisdom sometimes shines through even when they have grown up. To parents their kids will remain children, even if they eventually turn into interlocutors on the same, or even a superior, level as you.  Hopefully they remain emotionally attached to their old codger, bringing him messages and impressions from another world -  The Fresh World of Youth. An enchanted place where so much is new, startling and exciting. While I continuously grow older my children always remain younger than I and thus inhabit a world that is different from mine.

After having been with me for a few months, my older daughter has just left me for new adventures. Sometimes we spent our evenings together by the fire place, talking about life and art in particular. She has long been active in art, design, film and theater, which means that we often deliberated about art’s importance in our modern existence.  Lately, we talked about her plans to design a performance that she in lack of a better word calls a freak show. What I know write might be considered as a comment, some sort of prolongation of our discussions.

I assume a freak show was something like a circus act intended to entertain a paying audience through the exposure of deformed fellow beings.  Fortunately has such depravities been discontinued within our modern and globalized societies, though some aspects of the deplorable activities have been resumed by television.

When my daughter told me about her plans for staging a "freak show" I assumed she aimed at creating a performance to highlight what is at the core of any presentation which involves at least one spectator watching someone else who acts in such a way, or who has such an appearance, that the observer becomes interested.  A  relationship mirroring the dichotomies that govern our lives and thinking – the observer and the observed, subject and object, me and “the other”, insider and outsider, center and periphery, cosmos and chaos, normality and abnormality.

Who is a freak? Who are the most common freaks? Maybe dwarfs? Dwarfism is such a conspicous condition that persons suffering from it have in most cultures and epochs attracted curiosity, jokes and fantasies from their fellow human beings. Since people generally grow from childhood to adulthood, dwarfs end up in a kind of permanent intermediate position where they do not belong anywhere. Small adults have seldom been considered as “ordinary people” who just happens to be short, instead they have been deemed as outsiders, as a separate human specimen. Since art tends to provide an alternative view of the world, dwarfs have often been consigned to that sphere. Writers, artists and people engaged with create performances of various kinds, like theatre and movies have accordingly often claimed dwarfs as their belongings, stressing their “otherness” and providing them with a specific moral and aesthetic significance. Dwarfs have thus become the “standard” freaks/outsiders of art, literature and performances.

Nowadays, dwarfs seldom appear in circus and I suspect that this state of affairs has bereaved some of them a traditional livelihood. However, I assume that society now is willing to allow genetically damaged people to find their proper place in society, meaning that they on equal terms with any other citizen are provided with opportunities to contribute to the public good in areas where they feel comfortable and have the most to give.

Like other persons who have an appearance, or specific characteristics, distinguishing them from others, it may be possible for individuals affected by genetical disorders to gain a comparative advantage in competition with individuals considered as being "normal." This is an insight that I have not reached on my own, but many years ago was taught by a student of mine who was a dwarf. She told me that she had always suffered from people’s insensitivity and senseless cruelty and in order to overcome her feelings of sorrow and alienation she was making an effort to accept her “abnormality” as an undeniable fact and trying to transform it into a base for a specific way of life. She told me she wanted to begin a career within the circus, or the movies, though I don´t know if she ever got there. She gave me a book about Curious George.

A famous and successful actor who due to his stature is forced to accept roles specifically suited for dwarfs is Peter Hayden Dinklage, who has achieved great popularity due to his interpretation of the character Thyrion Lannister in the TVseries Game of Thrones. Thyrion Lannister is an appealing character; intelligent, astute, witty and a great charmer of women, nevertheless Thyrion is acutely aware of the fact that he is a dwarf and disdained by others due to this condition. His portrayer, Peter Dinklage, is is often asked about his importance as a role model and spokeperson for dwarfs:

I don't know what I would say. Everyone's different. Every person my size has a different life, a different history. Different ways of dealing with it. Just because I'm seemingly okay with it, I can't preach how to be okay with it. I don't think I still am okay with it. There are days when I’m not.

When asked about his condition and how it has affected him, he answered:

When I was younger, I definitely let it get to me. As an adolescent, I was bitter and angry, and I definitely put up these walls. But the older you get, you realize you just have to have a sense of humor. You just know that it's not your problem. It's theirs.

It is no longer considered to be politically correct to allow yourself to be entertained by people just because they are deformed in comparison with “normal people”. The freak shows, after having been forbidden in England for almost fifty years, began to disappear from the US in the 1920s. The changing attitude to such exhibitions became apparent through the shocked reaction to Tod Browning´s movie Freaks, which was released in 1932. Even if more than thirty minutes of the most horrific sequences had been cut (and lost forever), moviegoers in general were appalled by what they saw.  Freaks was quickly removed from the repertoire and in England it was for more than thirty years banned from public screening. The career of Tod Browning, who had had a great success with his 1931 movie Dracula, derailed completely due to the reception of Freaks, though cineastes rediscovered the movie in the early 1960s and it was hailed as a masterpiece at the 1962 Cannes festival.

Many have marveled at how Tod Browning could be able to use people who were severely malformed in a commercial horror film production. One explanation may be that he already at the age of sixteen ran away from his wealthy family and for several years worked in circuses, where he became well acquainted with many of the freaks who at that time appeared in circuses and itinerant market shows. People who despite the misery and alienation they often were forced to endure, could find a place and some respect among the rootless artists and odd characters that made a living within the circus world. Freaks is still a shocking movie and I became quite upset while watching it. Although the freaks are depicted as generous and warm-hearted people, they nevertheless take a gruesome and grotesque revenge on the two "normal" members of the circus troupe, those who through their malice and moral rottenness are the real monsters. The freaks assault and injure their tormentors to such a degree that they turn them into freaks as well.

The fact that anyone, through accidents and injuries, can change into being a "monster" became apparent during and after the First World War, when several soldiers returned from the hell of the trenches maimed and wounded in both body and soul. What soldiers most of all feared, even more than death, was the risk of having their faces disfigured. Something that is easily understood if confronted with clinical pictures taken of facial injuries.

The face is the part of the body considered to reveal the most of our personality and if it becomes damaged it will affect the impression we give to people around us and thus our own soul, as well. This is a theme which with an inexorable logic is raised in a frightening short story, The Monster, by Stephen Crane. It tells the sad story of a righteous and kind, black coachman, Henry Johnson, who works for a small-town doctor. Henry becomes horribly disfigured when he saves his employer's son from a burning house. Henry's altered appearance frightens and disgusts the locals who start to avoid him and call him a monster. When the good doctor insists in taking care of the man, who so heroically has rescued his son, it results in him and his entire family becoming ostracized and isolated from society. The doctor loses his practice and cannot, against his conscious will, help nursing a resentment towards the tormented, but awful looking, Henry Johnson.

How a kind and well-intentioned man is forced to live enclosed inside a disfigured body is also masterfully depicted by David Lynch in his film The Elephant Man, based on Joseph Merrick's tragic life. The severely deformed Merrick, who, after being beaten and bullied  by an unsympathetic environment, not the least members of his own family, was approached by the renowned Victorian impresario Tom Norman, who exhibited him in a trinket shop opposite the London Hospital. Among the young physicians fascinated by Merrick´s malformations was a certain Fredrick Trevis, who found that Merrick was a likeable and intelligent man.

When freak shows in 1886 were banned in England, Merrick moved to Belgium but ended up handled by a merciless ruffian who mistreated him, behaving as if Merrick  had been a soulless beast. Merrick managed to escape and was able to seek Dr. Trevis´ help and support. The doctor took care of him, until Merrick died at the age of 27. The head had become too big for Mr. Merrick´s weakened body; its weight broke his neck while he slept. His skeleton is still preserved at the Royal London Hospital and a bizarre episode in the tragic story of Joseph Merrick is that in 1987 the famous artist Michael Jackson tried to buy the skeleton. It is possible that Jackson at some level identified himself with the unfortunate and marginalized Joseph Merrick. Jackson was often accused of being an eccentric, both as an artist and a human being. Freak was an epithet frequently thrown upon this artist who, whatever one thinks of him as a person and artist, undeniably was a genius, a revolutionary innovator in both dance and music.

That contemporary science was interested in Joseph Merrick´s condition is not surprising. Racial anthropology was in vogue after Darwin's revolutionary findings. Both human appearance and psyche were studied intensively, often in a manner that did not pay much attention to the personal feelings of “the human specimens” who became objects of “scientific investigation”.  "Primitive people" were stripped naked, measured and photographed and were like wild beats often exhibited to paying customers, generally within a framework presented as “scientific and educational”. Similarly, were mental patients transported into lecture halls so students and a paying audience could study their peculiar behavior. Particular attention was paid to Jean-Martin Charcot's public displays at La Salpêtrière hospital in Paris where visitors flocked from all over Europe to see how the renowned physician hypnotized hysterical women.

Many onlookers have testified to the dramatic atmosphere that prevailed during Charcot´s sessions and mention the doctor's "magnetic acting talent." Like in a theater, Charcot underlined the importance of paying attention to the facial expressions that accompanied the hysterical females´ body language. The faces of mentally disturbed persons have intrigued both researchers and artists. As I mentioned above, the face has generally been considered as a mirror of the soul, something that fascinated great artists like Théodore Géricault and Franz Xaver Messerschmidt, the latter obviously found himself at the brink of insanity.

A person's relationship with his own face is treated in an original way by the Japanese writer Kobo Abe, who in his novel Face of Another describes how a plastic surgeon has his face disfigured through an accident. His face is re-created, but problems to join the tissue properly to the muscle attachments result in a rigid, insensitive expression to the doctor´s reconstructed features. The surgeon becomes a stranger to his own face. When he looks into a mirror he confronts another person and is shocked when he finds that his wife treats him in a completely different way than before he suffered the accident. She appears to be more attracted by him. Instead of feeling reassured after having his looks restored, the doctor turns into a split and desperate man, experiencing how his new face has transformed him into a person he does not want to acknowledge.

It is possible that Tod Browning´s film and all the commotion it caused was one of the last nails into the coffin of American freak shows, though the concept lingered and is now frequently used to label many of the ever more popular “humiliation TVshows”, which want us to laugh at people who in front of the cameras are making fools of themselves and others.

The Swedish-Italian film director Erik Gandini has made a relentless documentary, Video Crazy, depicting the distasteful madness that has spread all through the Italian television networks after they have been poisoned by Berlusconi's gross populism. Several agonizing examples of humiliation are presented, like housewives stripping in the incredibly vulgar entertainment program Colpo Grosso or how young girls humiliate themselves in desperate attempts to be chosen as veline, scantily dressed girls who without talking make sensual dance movements during short breaks in brain dead spectacles. The most painfully pathetic scene in Gandini´s documentary is when a not particularly attractive middle-aged woman performs an unbelievable inept striptease in front of a frosty group of unsmiling media despots.

There are numerous varieties of humiliation TV. Examples are becoming countless. I will name a few to suggest what I'm referring to: Big Brother, where people are looked up in a confined space only to plague and humiliate each other, America's Next Top Model, where youngsters are cynically judged and chastened by a distasteful bunch of "successful" self-inflated and obscure luminaries, a show comparable to several similar degrading events, like The Apprentice, a program where a millionaire insults youngsters searching for an employment obtains, particularly in these times of mass unemployment among young people, an additional level of cruelty. And then there are all these tasteless horror spectacles where people are forced to disgrace themselves through their efforts to attract the attention of repugnant “celebrities” like Hugh Hefner or Paris Hilton. The X Factor, where we are welcomed to laugh at talentless wretches exposing themselves to the ruthless limelight in frantic attempts to become admired idols, or America's Funniest Home Videos where we are entertained by children and animals being hurt or mistreated. Extreme Makeover, which sells a concept indicating that gray sparrows who are dissatisfied with their looks after submitting themselves to the magic treatment of some idiotic media pixie will, like frogs in fairytales, be turned into a coveted princess. And then all those idiotic mating shows where unsuspecting couples wallow in tastelessness within the confines of a vulgar luxury “paradise”.

There are also a kind of politically correct freak shows, which according to their producers provide disabled persons with pride by giving them an opportunity to test their abilities in extreme situations, or just present themselves as the woman or man next door, thus enabling them to prove their human dignity to the common crowd. Examples are Push Girls featuring a group of wheelchair-bound women; Little People, Big World, which follows a family of six where two of the children are giants and two are dwarves; Beyond Boundaries, where a group of disabled young people are traveling around the globe while overcoming difficult challenges like mountain climbing and wilderness survival; The Undateables where dwarves, giants and other people with genetic disorders who are craving for love and understanding are presented in groups and through various life situations and Seven dwarves, which follows professional dwarf artists. There are also distasteful "documentary shows" that flatly ignores decency and compassion, like Body Shock presented on England's Channel 4 and featuring misshapen individuals like the world's smallest, tallest or fattest man, the man with a 63-pound testicle, people with mega tumors, twins who share a brain, the girl with eight legs, etc.

To consider misfits or misshapen persons as both outsiders and providers of entertainment seems to be as old as man. I have often wondered how the so often admirable Romans of classical times, who in their writings occasionally give an impression of being our contemporaries, could appreciate the sight of  fellow human beings being tortured, torn apart and killed on bloodstained arenas. When I read Ovid´s advice on how to approach desirable ladies during gladiator shows (you could for example bring along a comfortable cushion and offer it to them), or Seneca's complaints about how young people show-off and make noise in the public baths, it makes me think that you might any day pass by such individuals in the streets of Rome. Nevertheless, when I am confronted with the mighty Colosseum brooding over the city, it turns into an eerie reminder of how popular human slaughter under festive circumstances once was. Sometimes, the old Romans seem to be levelled, just and interesting people, harboring the same fellings as most of us have today, but often their lack of compassion with fellow beings seems to have been extreme.

How could that be? What surprises me is that writers like Seneca and St. Augustine condemn the cruel entertainemnt of the arenas, but apparently without expressing any thought whatsoever about the sufferings of the hapless participants. Apparently they regard the bloody games as nothing else than a form of distraction unworthy of an educated and civilized man. St. Augustine, for example, writes about his student Alypius who had become obsessed with the excitement of gladiatorial games:

He was very fond of me for what seemed to him my good conduct and learning, and I loved him for his innate virtue, which was evident from an early age. Yet the moral maelstrom of the Cathage had sucked him in, seething as it was with frivolus entertainments and especially with the craze for games in the Circus.

Augustine came to consider Alypius as a lost case, but one day the young man unexpectedly showed up during a rhetoric class. Augustine, who was  commenting on a text the students had read, immediately seized the opportunity to lecture Alypius:

The text I happened to be expounding suggested a fitting connection to the games. To make my point clearer and fix it in the mind with laugther, I described satiraically those held in thrall by that madness. [...] [God] You "blew on my heart and lips as burnijng coals" by which you cauterized and cured a mind with good propects from its self-inantion [...] After that I said, he wrenched himself from the deep pit into which he had eagerly plunged, blinded by his weird delights. With determination he took a grip on himself, the filth of the games was rinsed awas, and he stopped going to them.  

It sounds as if St.  Augustine had cured his student from a gambling addiction, rather than rescued him from a morbid interest in watching people being murdered. For an educated Roman, empathy did apparently not reach beyond your closest relations. For example, Seneca was a skilled comforter of those among his friends who had lost a beloved son, father or wife, but apparently did not have much compassion for wretched slaves, or those who, on an almost daily basis, were sacrificed in the arenas all across the Empire. He writes to friend of his that it is inexplicable that a man of his learning and refined tastes could lose his money and time on such a vulgar diversion as owning a private gladiator troop.  In a letter to his friend Lucilius, Seneca describes a visit to "the games":

The other day, I chanced to drop in at the midday games, expecting sport and wit and some relaxation to rest men's eyes from the sight of human blood. Just the opposite was the case. Any fighting before that was as nothing; all trifles were now put aside - it was plain butchery. The men had nothing with which to protect themselves, for their whole bodies were open to the thrust, and every thrust told. The common people prefer this to matches on level terms, or request performances. Of course they do. The blade is not parried by helmet or shield, and what use is skill or defense? All these merely to postpone death. In the morning men are thrown to bears or lions, at midday to those who were previously watching them. The crowd cries for the killers to be paired with those who will kill them, and reserves the victor for yet another death. This is the only release the gladiators have. The whole business needs fire and steel to urge men on to fight. There was no escape for them. The slayer was kept fighting until he could be slain. "Kill him! Flog him! Burn him alive!" (the spectators roared) "Why is he such a coward? Why won't he rush on the steel? Why does he fall so meekly? Why won't he die willingly?" Unhappy as I am, how have I deserved that I must look on such a scene as this? Do not, my Lucilius, attend the games, I pray you. Either you will be corrupted by the multitude, or, if you show disgust, be hated by them. So stay away. 

What Seneca describes are not any regular gladiatorial battles, but some kind of interludes offered in the middle of such spectacles, involving various forms of killing people sentenced to death - they were thrown naked in front of furious beasts, forced to fight to death, or were killed in bizarre tableaux alluding to classical myths; Marsyas being skinned alive by Apollo, Prometheus who still alive had his liver devoured by a vulture, Polyphemus getting his eye gouged out by Odysseus and his men, etc. Such spectacles were according to  Seneca and Cicero pitiful and disgusting. What the two philosophers, however, appreciated were the bloody battles between trained gladiators, They extolled their bravery and strength, considering that  lazy Roman citizens ought learn something from the gladiators´ contempt for death. They did not comment on the fact that such battles were fought by slaves without any other options than life or death. 

Art history presents numerous examples of how freaks, dwarves and other “odd creatures” were selected to act as buffoons, or just by their presence, as providers of merriment and laughter within the mansions and courts of Europe.

For example, Peter the Great of Russia surrounded himself with an impressive entourage of dwarfs. When his favorite dwarf, Yakim Volkov, married in 1711, he organized a sumptuous feast:

The tsar […] had instructed Prince-Caesar Romodanovsky to round up all the dwarfs in Moscow and send them to St Petersburg. Their owners were told to provide smart outfits for the dwarfs in the latest Western fashion, with plenty of gold braid and periwigs […] On the day about seventy dwarfs formed the retinue for the wedding ceremony, which was accompanied by the stifled giggles of the full-sized congregation […] a spectacle made all the funnier by the fact that most of the dwarfs were of peasant extraction with coarse manners. At the feast […] the dwarfs sat at miniature tables in the centre of the room, while full-sized guests watched them from tables at the sides. They roared with laughter as dwarfs, especially the older, uglier ones who hunchbacks, huge bellies and short crooked legs made it difficult for them to dance, fell down drunk or engaged in brawls.

Perhaps there was previously a lesser sensitivity towards the suffering of “others”, something that probably was not so strange in a society where public executions and mutilations were a common distraction from the daily toil, where there was a big difference between people and people, and the suffering and poverty certainly was bigger than it is now, at least in places like Europe and America. While considering peculiar spectacles like that of Peter the Great, it is also the possibility that the dictatorial powers of privileged classes and individuals limited their ability to feel empathy.

Without doubt did ruthless dictators like Hitler, Stalin or Mao have serious shortcomings when it came to empathy and compassion. Hitler ranting in his Berlin bunker that “The German people have not fought heroically. It deserves to perish […] it is not I who have lost the war, but the German people” or Stalin muttering to his secretary, while he routinly is signing a number of death sentences: “Gratitude is a sickness suffered by dogs”. Mao´s physician Li Zhisui wrote:

So far as I could tell, Mao was devoid of human feeling, incapable of love, friendship or warmth. Once, in Shanghai, I was sitting next to the chairman during a performance when a child acrobat was seriously injured. The crowd was transfixed, and the child's mother was inconsolable. But Mao continued talking and laughing, as if nothing had happened.

Yet another spectacle. As an art form circus includes the possibility of death and disaster. Acrobats, knife throwers, the tightrope walker high up under the dome, trapeze artists and the lion tamer all live dangerously. Performing artists, or the misshapen freaks, are targets for their spectators´ attention, objects for their approval or criticism; their assessments, anticipation and pleasure. In a way the audience is the monster; watching, lurking, evaluating. The word “monster” originates from the Latin moneo, "to recommend, show, or warn". The monster is stating something; it expresses some kind of warning. But for what? For ourselves? For our emotions? In any case, it makes us uncomfortable, but at the same time it exerts some kind of allure. As Nietzsche wrote in Beyond Good and Evil:

He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And when you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you.

Maybe it amuses us to see chimpanzees dressed up as humans, to watch dwarves who appear to be both children and adults, or clowns who in their absurd outfits hold up a laughing mirror in front of us - they are like us and yet not like us. However, it is perhaps all an delusion. Maybe it's I who am a monster, at the same time a perpetrator and a victim? The fun stops as soon we realize the monster's humanity, empathy is killing the laughter and we end up on the other side of the ramp, feeling watched and assessed:

Elephants in the circus
Have aeons of weariness around their eyes.
Yet they sit up
and show vast bellies to the children.

The scene turns, we end up as the humiliated clown, the mistreated freak. At the other side of the ramp where Verdi's Rigoletto and Leoncavallo´s Beppo express their pain through song, or Alban Berg's degraded and disorientated Wozzeck exclaims his heartbreaking Wir arme Leut, we poor Humans. Or we confront the brutal, emotionally crippled Zampanò in Fellini's magnificent La Strada. Where we also find the even more heart breaking and pathetic monsters created by Victor Hugo - the hunchback Quasimodo and Gwynplain, “The Man Who Laughs”, who both die with all their pain locked up within themselves. There are also the bewildered outcasts, the often repulsive practitioners of great art, what Jean Dubuffet called l'Art Brut, Outsider Art. Antonio Ligabue wandering between Switzerland and Italy, in and out of daytalers´ wretched lodgings or mental hospitals, while, after he had dressed up as a woman and performed magical rituals, painted masterpiece after masterpiece.

Or the deaf-mute  Nikifor, born by an equally deaf-and-dumb beggar woman, who in wartorn Poland wandered from village to village trying to sell his remarkable paintings.

Those are things I and my daughter have talked about by the fire place during the past evenings. What is art? What is theater? We discussed the distinction between performer and spectator. The division that Antonin Artaud wanted to wipe out through his "Theatre of Cruelty". In a collection of essays called Le théâtre et son double, “The Theatre and its Double”, Artaud declared that he wanted to create a theater completely different from the general practice of performing in front of passive spectators. He wanted to force the audience up onto the scene, or make it engulfed by the spectacle in such a way that "their nerves and hearts" became involved in the “grim spectacle of existence”. The audience had to be inspired by the performance´s "fiery magnetism" in such a way that the experience could never be forgotten. A theatre performance had to be like a spasm in which life is “lacerated”, where all creation rises up and challenges the imaginary social status created by ourselves. With "cruelty" Artaud meant he wanted to create a kind of theatrical performance where the viewer becomes defenseless and feels attacked, rather than distant and protected. Artaud´s ideas and desperate actions brought him to the brink of insanity. Perhaps it is, after all, best to distinguish between life and art, and thus avoid to be incinerated in a futile quest for a union between life and creation.

It is probably enough to take an occasional refreshing dip into art´s wonderland. After all, most of us are not condemned to live within a dwarf´s or giant's body and through no fault or our own be subjected to ridicule and contempt. We do not find that our desperate attempts to gain recognition and notoriety only leads to defeat and humiliation, as the wretches who are abused by the reality shows´ distasteful spectacles. We are not like the great masters of l'Art Brut whose art often was appreciated only because it was created by poor eccentrics.

The world of Art is certainly often a theater of cruelty, but it is also a refreshing source that suddenly may gush forth among the toil of every day’s dull cares and routines. It enters like an exotic stranger showing up with a bag of tricks.

Art is not only present in a painting or a theater production, it thrives in a child's smile and thought-provoking questions, within a spirited conversation with a wise daughter, or a melody that pops up during a bike ride to work. The poet Lars Forssell, who made the excellent translations of the songs of Léo Ferré and V. Marceau I was thinking of by the beginning of this blog entry, knew that poetry and art are always with us, even if we cannot always perceive their presence:

You say that poetry is dead, or at least dying,
but then you forget, my well-fed friend, that it lives like you
as neighbor with death
a few steps down
the creaking steps
there in the dark.

The bricklayer sings,
the carpenter sings,
the cashier at the supermarket sings,
ministers and opposition
and you and I and the gravedigger,
everyone sings for life.
All yelling and singing for life.
Until he a few steps down below
knocks on the ceiling with his cane!

The poem about elephants at the circus was written by D.H. Lawrence. Unfortunately, I had to translate the Swedish poems by myself, ignoring rhyme and rythm. Other sources were: Abe, Kobo (2003) The Face of Another. New York: Vintage.  Augustine of Hippo (2008) Confessions. London: Penguin Classics. Crane, Stephen (1993) The Open Boat and Other Stories. New York: Dover Publications. Drimmer, Frederick (1985) The Elephant Man. New York: Putnam. Kois, Dan (2012) “Pieter Dinklage was smart to say no “, in The New York Times, 29 mars. Hughes, Lindsey (2002) Peter the Great: A Biography. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Artaud, Antonin (1958) The Theatre and Its Double. New York: Grove Weidenfeld. Skal, David J. and Elias Savada (1995) Dark Carnival: the Secret World of Tod Browning, Hollywood's Master of the Macabre. New York: Anchor Books. Seneca (1969) Letters from a Stoic. London: Penguin Classics. Zhisui, Li (1994)The Private Life of Chairman Mao: The Memoirs of Mao´s Personal Physician. London: Random House.

Allt som oftast dyker en melodislinga upp i skallen och löper som ett ledmotiv till en hel dags upplevelser. För flera år sedan var det De fattigas piano som präglade en solig dags vandringar genom Paris och några år senare, när jag blöt och frusen promenerade genom den höstkulna världsmetropolen på andra sidan Kanalen, var det återigen Ulla Sjöblom och Lars Forssell som spökade i hjärnan, denna gång med Flickan i London. När jag i morgondimman cyklade längs den knastrande grusvägen från huset i Bjärnum på väg till tåget mot stan och ännu en dag i skolan (den längsta) var det Olle Adolphson och Beppe Wolgers som dök upp och försåg mig med dagens melodi, Det gåtfulla folket:

Barn är ett folk och de bor i ett främmande land, detta land är ett regn och en pöl
Över den pölen går pojkarnas båtar ibland och de glider så fint utan köl
Där går en flicka som samlar på stenar, hon har en miljon
Kungen av träd sitter stilla bland grenar i trädkungens tron […]
Alla är barn och de tillhör det gåtfulla folket.

Barn är exotiska främlingar i vår vardagstillvaro, på nätet delar deras förehavanden och uttalanden plats med kattors upptåg och schimpanser utklädda till människor. Vi finner barnens kluriga små funderingar: ”Svampar växer på fuktiga ställen. Det är därför de ser ut som paraplyer ” (Henrik 8 år), ”Äldreomsorg är att dela sina sorger med de äldre” (Anton 7 år), ”Folk som är förälskade håller varandra i händerna så att inte ringarna ramlar av. För de kostar mycket pengar” (Tine 7 år), etc., etc. Varje förälder som talar med sina barn förbluffas någon gång av deras insikter och en del minns även den förundran de själva som barn en gång hyste inför vår märkliga omvärld och glömmer då ofta den grymhet och hårdhet som kan råda inom barnens habitat.

Barn växer upp, men glädjen de ger försvinner inte. Snart upphör de att vara små, älskliga varelser, fast deras visdom består. De förvandlas till likställda samtalspartners, nära dig men likväl i viss mån främlingar som för med sig budskap och intryck från en annan värld. Ungdomens värld, där mycket är nytt, förbluffande och spännande. Eftersom du oavbrutet åldras förblir dina barn alltid yngre och fortsätter att leva i en annan värld än din. Jag tänker på detta alltmedan Det gåtfulla folket maler i bakhuvudet.

Sedan ett par månader tillbaka har jag bott tillsammans med min äldsta dotter i vårt hus på landet. Ibland satt vi om kvällarna framför brasan, samtalade om livet och framförallt konsten. Hon har länge varit verksam inom konst, design, film och teater, något som gör att vi ofta talar med varandra om konstens villkor och olika konstnärliga utrycksmedel. Under den senast tiden spånade vi en del kring hennes planer på att designa en slags freak show, ett ord som saknar ordentlig motsvarighet på svenska, men konceptet kan kanske förklaras som en föreställning som i underhållningssyfte förevisar människor som drabbats av genetiska åkommor och missbildningar. För att par dagar sedan reste min dotter ner till Rom och när jag nu åter är ensam i huset skriver jag ner de här raderna som kan betraktas som fortsättning på vårt samtal.

Så vitt jag vet förekommer inte freakshows längre, fast en del otrevliga aspekter av verksamheten har dessvärre överlevt i televisionens världar. När min dotter berättade för mig om sina planer att iscensätta en "freak show" antog jag att hon syftade till att skapa en föreställning som skulle rikta uppmärksamheten mot kärnan i varje presentation som innefattar åtminstone en åskådare, som betraktar andra personer som agerar på ett sådant sätt, eller som har ett sådant utseende, att betraktaren blir intresserad. En relation som speglar de dikotomier som styr våra liv och vårt tänkande - observatören och den observerade, subjekt och objekt, jag och "de andra", insider och outsider, det lokala och det främmande, centrum och periferi, kosmos och kaos, normalitet och avvikelse.

Vem är egentligen ett missfoster? Vilka freaks är vanligast? Kanske dvärgar. Dvärgväxt är ett sådan iögonfallande  tillstånd att personer som lider av det har inom de flesta kulturer och epoker lockat till nyfikenhet, skämt och fantasier. Ett intresse som lätt slagit över i cynism och grymhet. Eftersom människor i allmänhet växer från barndom till vuxen ålder, hamnar dvärgar i ett permanent mellanläge där de inte hör hemma någonstans. Små vuxna har sällan betraktats som "vanliga människor" som råkar vara korta till växten och dvärgar här därigenom kommit att betraktas som särlingar/främlingar, som en separat människoart. Eftersom konsten ofta strävar efter att presentera en alternativ syn på världen, har dvärgar i allmänhet förpassats till en estetisk sfär. Författare, konstnärer och personer som arbetar med teater och film, har ofta lagt beslag på dvärgar genom att betona deras främlingskap och därigenom förlänat dem med moraliska, religiösa och estetiska konnotationer.

Numera uppträder dvärgar sällan på cirkus och jag förmodar att det har tagit levebrödet från en del av dem. Jag hoppas att det är en allmän övertygelse att även genetiskt skadade människor skall beredas en plats i samhällslivet. Att  de liksom alla andra samhällsmedborgare skall ges möjligheter att bidra till allmännyttan inom sådana områden där de trivs och tycker sig ha mest att erbjuda.

Liksom flera andra människor som har ett utseende eller egenskaper som skiljer dem från andra kan det vara möjligt för personer som drabbats av genetiska åkommor att skaffa sig komparativa fördelar i konkurrensen med sådana personer som anses vara "normala". Detta är en insikt jag inte fått på egen hand utan som jag för många år sedan lärde mig från en av mina elever som var dvärg.  Hon berättade för mig att hon så länge hon kunde minnas hade lidit svårt av människors okänslighet och tanklösa grymhet. För att övervinna sin bitterhet och känsla av utanförskap försökte hon acceptera sitt speciella handikapp som ett obestridligt faktum och till och med ta det till utgångspunkt för en speciell livshållning, ett sätt att vara, en strävan som fick henne att hoppas på en karriär inom cirkus eller film. Jag vet inte om hon nådde sitt mål, hon gav mig en bok om Nicke Nyfiken.

En framgångsrik skådespelare som på grund av sin kroppsstorlek har  tvingas att uteslutande spela roller anpassade för dvärgar är Peter Hayden Dinklage. Efter en lång karrär inom film och teater har han slutligen uppnått stor popularitet genom sin  tolkning av karaktären Thyrion Lannister i TVserien Game of Thrones. Thyrion Lannister är en ovanligt sympatisk rollfigur; skarpsinnig, kvick och dessutom stor kvinnocharmör. Likväl är Thyrion väl medveten om det faktum att han är en dvärg och därför föraktas av de flesta människorna i sin omgivning. Peter Dinklage tillfrågas ofta om sin betydelse som förebild och talesman för dvärgar, men han värjer sig från den rollen: 

Jag vet inte riktigt vad jag skall säga om det. Vi är alla olika. Varje människa av min storlek har sitt speciella liv, en annan historia än min. Olika sätt att hantera sin situation. Enbart för att det verkar som om jag är tillfreds med min situation vill  jag inte predika för andra hur man skall bära sig åt för att acceptera den. För övrigt tror jag inte jag är tillfreds med min situation. Det finns dagar då jag definitivt inte är det.

På frågan om hur hans livssituation har påverkats av hans dvärgväxt svarar Dinklage:

När jag var yngre lät jag det definitivt påverka mig. Som tonåring var jag bitter och arg och skärmade av mig. Men när man blir äldre inser man att man måste ha humor. Man vet att det inte är ens eget problem. Det är de andras.

Det anses inte längre vara politiskt korrekt att låta sig roas av människor med missbildningar. Att freak shows under nittonhundratalet allmänt började uppfattas som otäcka och förnedrande bevisas av det hårda mottagande Tod Brownings film Freaks fick vid sin premiär 1932. Trots att filmen hade klippts ner med inte mindre än trettio minuter blev större delen av biopubliken ordentligt chockad och upprörd. Freaks togs snabbt bort från repertoaren, i England var den totalförbjuden under mer än trettio år. Tod Browning som året innan rönt stora framgångar med sin Dracula fick uppleva hur hans karriär spårade ur. Efter att ha varit så gott som bortglömd började Freaks vid slutet av 1950talet uppmärksammas av cineaster och då den fick nypremiär vid festivalen i Cannes 1962 hyllades den som ett mästerverk

Många har förundrats över hur Tod Browning kunde använda människor som verkligen var gravt missbildade som aktörer i en kommersiell skräckfilm. En förklaring kan vara att han redan som sextonåring rymde från sin välbärgade familj och under flera år arbetade vid cirkusar där han blev väl förtrogen med många av de freaks som på den tiden fortfarande uppträdde inom cirkusar och på marknader. Människor som trots misär och utanförskap likväl kunnat finna sin plats och en viss respekt bland kringfarande artister. Under alla förhållanden är Freaks fortfarande en ytterst chockerande film och jag blev mycket illa berörd då jag såg den. Även om freaks i filmen skildras som solidariska och varmhjärtade tar de en gruvlig och grotesk hämnd på de två ”normala” medlemmarna i cirkustruppen, de som genom sin elakhet och moraliska ruttenhet är de verkliga monstren. De missbildade artisterna misshandlar och förvandlar sina plågoandar till freaks, precis som de.

Det faktum att vem som helst av oss genom olyckor och skador kan förvandlas till ett ”monster” blev uppenbart under Första Världskriget då många soldater återvände lemlästade från skyttegravarna, skadade till både kropp och själ. Vad soldaterna mest av allt fruktade var att få sina ansikten vanställda. Något som är lätt att förstå då vi konfronteras av de kliniska bilder som togs på de ansiktsskadade.

Ansiktet är den del av kroppen som anses avslöja vår personlighet och om det skadas, påverkas även det intryck vi ger vår omgivning och därmed också vår egen själ. Detta är ett tema som med en obönhörlig logik tagits upp i en novell, Monstret, av Stephen Crane.  Det är berättelsen om hur en rättskaffens och sympatisk svart kusk, Henry Johnson, som arbetar för en småstadsläkare, blir fruktansvärt vanställd då han räddar sin arbetsgivares son från ett brinnande hus. Henrys förändrade utseende skrämmer och äcklar ortsbefolkningen som börjar kalla honom för Monstret. När läkaren tar hand om mannen som så hjältemodigt räddat han son leder det till att han och hans familj blir uteslutna och isolerade från samhället. Läkaren förlorar sin praktik och kan mot sin vilja inte undgå att känna en viss harm mot den hjältemodige och plågade Henry.

Hur en god och rättskaffens människa tvingas leva innesluten i en vanställd kropp skildras också mästerligt av David Lynch i hans film Elefantmannen som bygger på Joseph Merricks tragiska liv. Den svårt deformerade Merrick, blev efter att under många ha blivit misshandlad och retad av en oförstående omgivning uppsökt av den ryktbare viktorianske showmannen Tom Norman. Genom Normans försorg förevisades ”Elefantmannen” mot betalning i en trolleributik mitt emot London Hospital. Bland de unga läkare som fascinerades av Merricks missbildningar fanns en viss Fredrick Trevis som fann att Merrick var en sympatisk och intelligent man.

När freak shows 1886 förbjöds i England sökte sig Merrick till Belgien, men den skoningslösa behandling han genomled där fick honom att åter söka Dr. Trevis hjälp och läkaren tog sig då an hans vård tills dess Merrick avled vid 27 års ålder. Hans huvud hade då blivit för stort för hans försvagade kropp och dess tyngd knäckte nacken medan han sov. Hans skelett finns fortfarande bevarat på Royal London Hospital och en bisarr episod i den tragiska historien om Joseph Merrick är att Michael Jackson1987 försökte köpa skelettet. Det är möjligt att Jackson på någon nivå identifierade sig med den olycklige och marginaliserade Joseph Merrick. Jackson blev ofta anklagad för att vara en särling, både som artist och människa. Freak var ett vanligt epitet som användes om denne artist som vad man än tycker om honom som person och artist onekligen var ett geni, en nyskapande revolutionär inom både dans och musik.

Att dåtidens vetenskap intresserade sig för Joseph Merrick var inte så underligt. Antropologiska, rasmässigt grundade studier var på modet främst beroende på Charles Darwins revolutionerande insatser och både människors utseende och själsliv studerades intensivt. Ofta på ett sätt som inte tog någon större hänsyn till forskningsobjektens känslor. ”Naturfolk” kläddes av nakna, mättes och fotograferades och ställdes ofta likt vilda djur ut för att betraktas i samband med olika ”vetenskapligt” motiverade utställningar. Likaså fördes mentalpatienter in i föreläsningssalar så att studenter och betalande publik kunde studera deras säregna beteenden.

Speciellt uppmärksammade blev Jean-Martin Charcots offentliga seminarier vid La Salpetrieres sjukhus i Paris till vilka besökare flockades från hela Europa för att se hur han hypnotiserade hysteriska kvinnor. Många åskådare har vittnat om den dramatiska stämning som rådde under Charcots sessioner och nämner ofta läkarens ”magnetiska skådespelartalang”.  Som i en teaterföreställning underströk Charcot vikten av att observera de hysteriska kvinnornas kroppspråk och speciellt deras ansiktsuttryck.

Sinneförvirrades ansikten har genom tiderna fascinerat såväl forskare som konstnärer. Som jag nämnde ovan betraktas ansikten ofta som själens ansikte och detta var något som fascinerade  konstnärer som Théodore Géricault och Franz Xaver Messerschmidt, den senare blev sedemera själv förklarad sinnessjuk.

En människas komplicerade förhållande till sitt utseende skildras av den japanske författaren Kobo Abe, som i sin roman En annans ansikte berättar hur en plastikkirurg genom en olycka förlorar sitt ansikte. När han lyckas få ett ansikte återskapat gör dock att brister hos muskelfästena att det får ett stelt, okänsligt intryck. Läkaren kan inte känna igen sig själv i sitt ansikte. Han ser ”en annan man” i badrumssspegeln och får även uppleva hur hans hustru tyr sig till denne nye man på ett helt annat sätt än hon gjorde innan han fick sitt gamla ansikte förstört. Istället för att bli lugnad efter att ha fått sitt utseende “räddat” blir läkaren till en kluven och förtvivlad man efter det att hans ansikte har förvandlat honom till en person han inte vill kännas vid.

Det är möjligt att Tod Brownings film och all den uppståndelse den orsakade var en av de sista spikarna i de amerikanska freakshowernas kista, men begreppet lever kvar och tillämpas numera på den allt vanligare förnedringtelevisonen som vill få oss att skratta åt stackare som inför kamerorna gör bort sig och förnedras.

Flera plågsamma exempel på förnedringstelevision presenteras i Erik Gandinis obarmhärtiga dokumentär Videocrazy som granskar det osmakliga vansinne som brett ut sig i italiensk TV efter det att den har blivit förgiftad av Berlusconis grova populism. Hemmafruar strippar i det osannolikt vulgära underhållningsprogrammet Colpo Grosso och människor förödmjukar sig själva i jakt på några minuters närvaro i rutan, som i den smärtsamt patetiska scenen där en inte speciellt attraktiv kvinna till skrällande musik klumpigt klär av sig inför en grupp kyligt bedömande mediadespoter.   

Det finns ett otal varianter av förnedringsTV. Exemplen håller på att bli oöverskådliga, men jag kan nämna några för att antyda vad jag syftar på: Big Brother, där människor stängs in och förnedrar varandra, America´s Next Top Model, där ungdomar cyniskt bedöms av ”lyckade”, självuppblåsta förebilder, en show jämförbar med ett flertal likartade förnedringsshower, som exempelvis The Apprentice, ett program där arbetssökande ungdomar smädas av en bufflig miljonär som i dessa tider av massarbetslöshet bland ungdomar får en extra tillsats av ohygglighet. Och sedan alla dessa smaklösa kändiskopplade vedervärdigheter där människor tvingas vanhedra sig själva en strävan att uppmärksammas av och efterlikna otäcka förebilder som Hugh Hefner och Paris Hilton. The X Factor där vi kan skratta gott åt talanglösa stackare som kråmar sig i rampljuset i desperata försök att bli beundrade idoler, eller America´s Funniest Home Videos där vi blir underhållna av hur barn och djur slår sig och far illa.  Extreme Makeover som får oss att tro att grå sparvar missnöjda med sitt utseende likt sagans groda kan förvandlas till en åtråvärd prinsessa enbart genom att en idiotisk kändisfe, likt gudmodern i Askungen, förändrar deras utseende. Och alla dessa otäcka parningsshower där aningslösa par vältrar sig i smaklösheter på vulgära lyxparadis. Jag nämner engelskspråkiga fenomen ty det är mest sådana som glimtat förbi på de TV-skärmar jag har konfronterats med, men jag vet att det även finns ett otal svenska avarter, som Villa Medusa och andra vederstyggligheter.

Och givetvis finns det nu också inom TVvärlden en speciell form av politiskt korrekta freak shows, som enligt den image deras skapare vill förmedla ger handikappade människor en möjlighet att få sitt människovärde bekräftat av den ”stora publiken”. Exempel är Push Girls som presenterar en grupp rullstolsbundna kvinnor, Little People, Big World som följer en sexbarnsfamilj där två av barnen har jätteväxt och två är dvärgar, Beyond boundaries där en grupp handikappade ungdomar reser kring världen och övervinner svåra hinder i form av bergsbestigningar och vildmarksöverlevnad, The Undateables där kontaktsökande dvärgar, jättar och andra människor med genetiska åkommor presenteras i grupp och inom olika vardagssituationer och Seven Dwarves som följer professionella dvärgartister. Det finns också ”dokumentärshower” som uppenbarligen struntar blankt i hänsynstagande och dekorum, som den osmakliga Body Shock på Englands Channel 4 som presenterar missformade individer som världens minsta, största eller fetaste man, mannen med en 63 kilos testikel, megatumörer, tvillingarna som delar en hjärna, flickan med åtta ben, etc.

Att betrakta den missanpassade eller missformade människan som både utanförstående och underhållning tycks vara ett lika gammalt fenomen som homo sapiens, den tänkande människan. Jag har ofta undrat över hur de ofta beundransvärda romarna, som i sina skrifter emellanåt ger intryck av att vara våra samtida, kunde uppskatta att se medmänniskor torteras och slaktas på blodbestänkta arenor. Jag läser exempelvis Ovidius tips om hur man kan ta kontakt med vackra damer under teaterföreställningar - man kan exempelvis ta med sig en kudde och därmed erbjuda dem en bekvämare sittplats. Eller Senecas klagomål över hur ungdomar för väsen och kråmar sig på badinrättningarna:

... när de starkaste badgästerna tränar och svänger sina hanteltyngda händer, när de antingen tar ut sig eller försöker se ut som om de gjorde det, hör jag stön, och varje gång de andas ut efter att ha hållit andan hör jag visslingar och skärande blåsljud.

Människor som skriver och uppför sig så tycker jag mig kunna möta näsomhelst på Roms gator och torg. Men så så ser jag hur det väldiga Colosseum ruvar över staden och synen blir en kuslig påminnelse om hur populärt människoslakt under festliga former en gång var.

Hur kunde det vara så? Vad som förvånar mig är att författare som Seneca och den Helige Augustinus visserligen kan fördöma de blodiga uppträdena på arenorna, men uppenbarligen gör de så utan att någon större inlevelse med det lidande som åsamkas deltagarna. De tycks främst betrakta de blodiga föreställningarna som en form av förströelse ovärdig en bildad man. Augustinus skriver exempelvis om sin elev Alypius som blivit besatt av upphetsningen i samband med gladiatorspelen:

Han höll mycket av mig, därför att han fann mig vara en rättskaffens och lärd man, och jag höll av honom för den ädla läggning han i hög grad visade redan i unga år. Ändå hade han av det vanvettiga sedefördärvet i Kartago – där usla skådespel bragte känslorna i svallning – dragits ner i amfiteaterns virvelström och snurrade ömkligt runt i den. […] [Jag] sörjde över att hans löftesrika framtid av allt att döma skulle gå förlorad, eller till och med redan hade gått förlorad.

Augustinus började betrakta Alypius som ett hopplöst fall, men en dag dök han oförmodat upp under en retoriklektion. Augustinus som höll på med att kommentera en text eleverna läst tog genast tillfället i akt:

När jag förklarade innehållet fann jag en lämplig liknelse från arenan; genom den skulle det jag försökte inpränta bli både tydligare och mera bestickande, samtidigt som jag bitskt kunde förlöjliga dem som gripits av detta vanvett. […] du [Gud] gjorde av mitt hjärta och min tunga glödande kol, med vilka du brände och botade rötan i en löftesrik själ […] Efter dessa ord räddade han sig nämligen undan denna djupa avgrund, som han av fri vilja stigit ned i.

Det låter snarast som om Augustinus botat sin elev från ett farligt spelberoende än att han frälst honom från ett sjukligt intresse för att se hur människor mördas. För en bildad romare sträckte sig  empatin oftast inte längre än till de som var honom närstående, Seneca var exempelvis en skicklig tröstare av dem bland hans vänner som förlorat en älskad son, hustru eller far, men även om han ibland ondgjorde sig över det lidande och förakt som som slavar i allmänhet fick utstå, så ifrågasatte han inte själva slaveriet och han kunde liksom exempelvis Cicero finna intresse i de blodiga gladiatorspelan. De lovprisar de vältränade slavarnas mod och styrka och tycker att fria, förslappade medborgare borde lära sig något av deras dödsförakt. Likväl tycker Seneca att intresset för blodiga kampsporter inte borde gå för långt. Han skriver till en god vän att han inte kan begripa att en bildad och kultiverad man som brevmottagaren kunde finna ett nöje i att hålla sig med något så vulgärt som en privat gladiatortupp.

I ett brev till sin vän Lucilius berättar Seneca hur han "händelsevis" tittade in på en förevisning på en arena. Det var tydligen en upprivande erfarenhet och han äcklades av hela förställningen, men det framgår också att Seneca var mer upprörd över publikens otäcka uppförande, än det lidande som de dödsdömda offren utsattes för:

Jag råkade komma in på cirkus under pausen mitt på dagen och väntade mig lek och elegans och en stunds avkoppling, då människors ögon kunde vila sig från synen av människoblod. Tvärtom! Alla de tidigare matcherna framstod som barmhärtiga: nu är det inget snack längre: rena morden! De har ingenting att skydda sig med; hela kroppen är träffyta och inga slag missar. De flesta föredrar det här framför de vanliga tvekamperna och även framför matcherna på allmän begäran. Och varför skulle de inte göra det? Det finns ingen hjälm, ingen sköld att avvärja svärdet med. Vad ska man med skydd till? Eller skicklighet? Allt det där betyder uppskov med döden. På morgonen kastas de för lejon och björnar, mitt på dagen kastas de för sina åskådare. Dessa befaller att de som dödar skall kastas för andra som ska döda dem, och de håller kvar segraren för ett nytt blodbad; kämparnas slut är döden. Striden avgörs med svärd och eld. Allt detta pågår tills arenan är tom. […] ”Döda honom, piska honom, bränn honom! Varför springer han så fegt mot svärdet? Varför faller han inte lite modigare? Varför dör han inte lite mer villigt? Piska honom fram mot huggen, låt dem växla slag mot nakna bröst!” En paus följer i skådespelet: ”och så skär vi halsen av några under tiden, något måste ju hända!”

Vad Seneca beskrev var inte några regelrätta gladiatorstrider, sådana uppskattade han, utan mellanspel under sådana "matcher", som innebar att man under olika former tog livet av dödsdömda fångar – de kastades nakna framför rasande vilddjur, tvingades slåss tills de dödade varandra, eller så avlivades de under märkliga tablåer som anspelade på antika myter; Marsyas som flåddes levande av Apollon, Prometheus som fick sin lever uthackad av en gam, Polyfemus som får sitt öga utstucket av Odysseus och hans män, etc. Det var sådana skådespel som stoikern Seneca, liksom Cicero, tyckte illa om och ansåg vara något helt annat än de spänande gladiatorstriderna, även om dessa också hade dödlig utgång och utkämpades av slavar som inte hade något annat val än att slåss på liv och död inför en vrålande publik.

Konsthistorien uppvisar ett otal exempel på hur freaks, dvärgar och andra udda varelser utsågs för att verka som narrar och muntration vid Europas hov.

Sådana ”missfoster” såldes av föräldrar och släktingar till bättre bemedlade individer, som sedan klädde upp dem, lärde dem konsten att roa, eller enbart använde dem som intressanta inslag under fester och banketter. Exempelvis så omgav sig Peter den Store av Ryssland med en mängd dvärgar och när hans favoritdvärg Yakim Volkov gifte sig 1711 ordnade han med en överdådig fest:

Tsaren […] gav Caesar Romodanovsky i uppdrag att finna alla dvärgar i Moskva och skicka dem till Sankt Petersburg. Deras ägare blev tillsagda att förse dvärgarna med det senaste västerländska modet, med guldtvinnade flätor och peruker [...] På högtidsdagsdagen bildade sjuttio dvärgar bröllopsföljet inför vigselakten, som ackompanjerades av den stora församlingens kvävda fnitter […] spektaklet var speciellt underhållande eftersom de flesta av dvärgarna var av bondskt ursprung och därför bortkomna och klumpiga. Under festen [...] var dvärgarna placerade vid ett miniatyrbord i mitten av salen, medan de fullvuxna gästerna betraktade dem från bord som var uppställda runtomkring. De gapskrattade när dvärgarna, särskilt de som var äldre och fulare med puckelryggar, stora magar och korta krokiga ben som gjorde det svårt för dem att dansa, berusade ramlade omkull eller började bråka med varandra.

Kanske fanns det tidigare en större okänslighet inför ”andras” lidande, något som möjligen inte var så underligt i ett samhälle med offentliga avrättningar och lemlästningar, där det var stor skillnad mellan folk och folk och lidandet och armodet säkerligen var betydligt större än vad det nu är på platser som Europa och Amerika. Med tanke på Peter den Stores säregna spektakel är det också möjligt att maktfullkomliga, priviligierade klasser och personer besitter en begränsad förmåga när det gäller att känna empati för sina undersåtar.

Utan tvekan har hänsynslösa diktatorer som Hitler, Stalin eller Mao i stort sett saknat inlevelse och medkänsla för andras lidande. Hitler som instängd i sin berlinbunker ondgjorde sig över judarnas ondska och gav order om att hela Tyskland skulle ödeläggas som straff för tyskarnas svek: "Det tyska folket har inte kämpat heroiskt. Det förtjänar att gå under [...] det är inte jag som har förlorat kriget, men det tyska folket ". Eller Stalin som sitter och skriver under dödsdomar på löpande band, bland dem sådana som drabbar före detta kollegor och medarbetare. Med ett par pennstreck ödelägger han hela landsändar genom att beordra massförflyttning av dess invånare, alltmedan han till sin sekreterare muttrar: "Tacksamhet är en sjukdom som plågar hundar." Mao Zedongs livläkare Li Zhisui skrev:

Så vitt jag vet saknade Mao vanliga mänskliga känslor. Han var oförmögen att älska, att visa vänskap och värme. En gång, i Shanghai, satt jag bredvid Ordföranden under en föreställning när en barnakrobat blev allvarligt skadad. Åskådarna var chockade, barnets moder var otröstlig. Men Mao fortsatte att prata och skratta som om ingenting hänt.

Återigen ett spektakel. I halsbrytande cirkusnummer ingår, som en väsentlig krydda, möjligheten av en katastrof. Akrobaterna, knivkastarna, lindansaren högt under kupolen, trapetskonstnärerna och lejontämjaren lever alla farligt. Samtidigt är artisterna och de missbildade utsatta för betraktarnas blickar, bedömning, förväntan och nöje. De är monster. Ordet kommer från det latinska moneo, ”rekommendera, visa, varna”. Monstret säger något, det vill varna. Men för vad? För oss själva? För våra känslor? Under alla förhållanden så gör det oss ofta illa till mods att konfronteras med det groteska, det annorlunda, men det utövar också en lockelse.Det finns risker förknippade med konfrontationen med det groteska och okända, vårt intresse kan pervertera och korrumpera oss. Som Nietszche skriver i Bortom gott ont: "Den som kämpar mot monster [Ungeheuern]  bör se till att han inte då själv blir ett odjur. Och då du länge blickar ner i en avgrund, blickar avgrunden också in i dig."

Det kanske roar oss att se schimpanser utklädda som människor, betrakta dvärgar som tycks vara både barn och vuxna, eller clownerna som i sin groteska utstyrsel och sitt vansinniga uppförande håller fram en skrattspegel för oss – de är som vi och ändå inte som vi. Men, det är kanske inbillning. Det är snarast så att det är åskådaren som är ett monster när han kallt och cyniskt betraktar det han anser vara främmande. Det är då vi möter och inser missfostrets mänsklighet som det roliga upphör, empatin tar död på löjet och vi hamnar på andra sidan rampen, känner hur det kan vara att bli betittad och bedömd:

Elefanter i cirkus

har eoner av trötthet kring sina ögon.

Ändå måste de sitta upprätt

och visa sina väldiga magar för barnen.

Scenen vrides runt och vi hamnar på den förnedrade clownens, på missfostrets sida av rampen. Där Verdis Rigoletto och Leoncavallos Beppo gestaltar sin smärta i skönsång, eller Alban Bergs förnedrade och vilsne Wozzeck utbrister sitt hjärtskärande Wir arme Leut, Vi stackars mänskor. Och än mer tragiskt – Victor Hugos godhjärtade monster; ringaren Quasimodo och skrattmänniskan Gwynplain med sina tragiska kärlekshistorier eller den brutale, känslomässige förloraren Zampanò i Fellinis fantastiska La Strada.

Där finns också de förvirrade, utstötta och ofta frånstötande utövarna av det som konstnären Jean Dubuffet kallade l´Art Brut, särlingskonst. Antonio Ligabue som vandrade mellan Schweiz och Italien, ut och in mellan drängstugor och mentalsjukhus, och efter att ha utfört magiska riter och iförd kvinnokläder målade han fantastiska tavlor och skulpterade expressionistiska djurstudier.

Eller den dövstumme Nikifor, född av en likaledes dövstum tiggerska, som under brinnande krig i Polen vandrade från by till by och försökte sälja sina märkliga målningar.

Det är sådant jag och min dotter talade om under de senaste dagarna tillsammans framför brasan. Vad är konst? Vad är teater? Vi har talade om gränsdragningen mellan artist och åskådare. Den som Antonin Artaud genom sin “Grymhetens Teater” ville utplåna. I sin skriftsamling Le théâtre et son double förklarade Artaud att han ville skapa en teater som var fullkomligt annorlunda än den praxis som innebar att en förställning spelades upp inför passiva åskådare. Han ville tvinga åskådarna in på scenen, få dem att vakna upp, att ”med nerver och hjärta” bli delaktiga i tillvarons grymma spektakel. Han ville inspirera oss genom en ”eldfängd magnetism” vars ”beröring aldrig kan glömmas”. En spasm i vilken livet var menat  att bli sargat, där hela skapelsen skulle förmås att stiga fram och utmana den falska status vi omger oss med. Med ”grymhet” menade Artaud att han ville göra teatern till ett rum där åskådaren snarare är skyddslös och attackerad, än fjärmad och skyddad. Artauds sökande förde honom till vansinnets gränstrakter och det är kanske, trots allt, bäst att skilja mellan liv och konst. Att inte låta sig förbrännas i en strävan efter förening mellan liv och skapande.

Det räcker kanske med ett och annat vederkvickande besök i fantasins sagoland. De flesta av oss är inte dömda att leva i en dvärgs eller jättes kropp och utan egen förskyllan bli föremål för andras åtlöje. Vi behöver heller inte finna att våra förtvivlade försök att nå erkännande och ryktbarhet enbart leder till nederlag och förnedring, som de stackare som ger sig in i och utnyttjas av realityshowernas osmakliga spektakel.  Inte behöver vi heller som l´Art Bruts stora mästare få vår konst uppskattad enbart på grund av att den skapats av en särling.

Konstens värld är säkerligen ofta en grymhetens teater, men den är också en vederkvickande källa som springer fram bland vardagens tämligen trista bekymmer och rutiner. Den finns omkring oss och allt som oftast bryter den in i våra gråa vardagsrutiner, likt en exotisk främling som dyker upp med en trollerilåda. Och konsten finns inte enbart i en tavla eller en teaterframställning, den lever i ett barns leende och tankeväckande frågor, i ett samtal med en klok dotter, eller i en melodislinga som dyker upp under en cykeltur mot arbetet. Lars Forssell visste det:

Du säger att dikten är död eller åtminstone döende
Då glömmer du, välfödde vän, att den lever som du
granne med döden
en halvtrappa ner
en knarrande halvtrappa ner
där i mörkret.

Muraren sjunger
Snickaren sjunger
Kassörskan i snabbköpet sjunger
Ministrar och opposition
och du och jag och dödgrävaren
Alla sjunger för livet
Alla gapar och sjunger för livet
tills han där en halvtrappa ner
knackar i taket med käppen!

Dikten om elefanten har jag hämtat från Lawrence, D.H. (1957) Blommor och människor. Dikter i urval och tolkning av Erik Blomberg. Stockholm: FIB:s Lyrikklubb. Andra källor är: Abe, Kobo (2004) En annans ansikte. Stockholm: Lind & Co.  Augustinus (1990) Bekännelser. Skellefteå: Artos. Crane, Stephen (1964) Det blå hotellet och andra berättelser. Stockholm: Tiden. Drimmer, Frederick (1985) The Elephant Man. New York: Putnam. Forssell, Lars (1968) Ändå. Stockholm: Bonniers. Kois, Dan  (2012) “Pieter Dinklage was smart to say no “, i The New York Times, 29 mars. Hughes, Lindsey (2002) Peter the Great: A Biography.  New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Percival (1992) Artaud, Beckett, Blake: essäer och tolkningar. Stockholm: Carlssons. Seneca, Lucius Annaeus (1979) Breven till Lucilius Stockholm: Forum. Skal, David J. och Elias Savada (1995) Dark Carnival: the Secret World of Tod Browning, Hollywood's Master of the Macabre. New York: Anchor Books. Zhisui, Li (1994)The Private Life of Chairman Mao: The Memoirs of Mao´s Personal Physician. London: Random House.

When I recently turned sixty, friends and acquaintances sent me pictures of a young man. When I look at them I wonder who this spirited young man may be, with his waving mane of hair and white teeth. It's definitely not the same balding man with yellowing tusks whose aged face every morning meets me in the bathroom mirror. For years I have believed me to be identical with that smiling youth, despite the fact that he no longer exists. Well, that´s not entirely true, it must be acknowledged that in some sense he is still alive, in accordance with William Faulkner´s well-worn axiom: "The past is not dead, it's not even past."

Ten years after the photo was taken in Santo Domingo the young man was forty years old and lived in New York together with his wife and two beautiful daughters. They lived in a skyscraper with thirty floors, located on the 31st Street, between Lexington and Third as the saying goes in New York.

The apartment was small, but cozy and bright. It was to some extent a jerry-building, the family waged a constant war against tiny cockroaches that despite regular spraying insisted on returning to the kitchen cabinets. The apartment was built with plasterboard and other cheap materials, though the entire edifice gave a luxurious impression. At the entrance there was a garden with a pavilion. The lobby was elegant, or maybe somewhat too flashy, and furnished with a large desk always manned by two uniformed, male receptionists. At an impressive top floor there was a swimming pool and a fitness club.

When we swam in the pool, which was surrounded by panoramic windows, it felt like floating among Manhattan's skyscrapers and when the young man afterwards ran on one of the fitness club´s treadmills he could through the window, that in front of him ran from ceiling to floor, look down deep into the gorges where a never-ending stream of yellow taxi cabs flowed between high-rise buildings which gleaming facades during day reflected the sky with its drifting clouds and during evenings the radiance from thousands of lighted windows, neon lights and passing aircrafts. Often he sat in the sauna and conversed with their neighbors, many of them young stockbrokers who worked further down on Wall Street.

Almost daily he strolled to the Mid-Mahattan Library to work on his thesis in the spacious reading room. There, as in so many other places in New York, he was seized by a feeling of having been there before, this was probably due to all the movies he had seen. The library had for example figured in Ghostbusters and for sure in several other movies and TV series as well. As he sat in the huge reading room writing down his findings in note book after note book he sometimes came to think about what a drunk man once told him in the cafeteria, namely that Melville wrote Moby Dick in the same hall, which on further consideration proved to have been impossible since the great writer had been dead and buried before the library was built. The young man also worked a lot at the Schomburg Library in Harlem, where the buildings were lower, the streets broader and people darker than in Downtown Manhattan.

The family had several good friends within the apartment building and sometimes he was out on the town with an eccentric and short-tempered friend he knew from his time in Guatemala, David Stoll, who wrote a critical and criticized book about Rigoberta Menchú. When David appeared at Windsor Court´s lobby, he was by the receptionists always referred to the commodity entrance at the building's backside, this was because he had the bike with him and was dressed in a rather peculiar sports attire. The young man had to take the elevator down to meet David among the garbage containers and newspaper stacks.

David Stoll arranged for his acquaintance from Guatemala to give a couple of lectures at New York University. Sometimes they went to a pub together and at such occasions it happened that the young man was introduced to some of David's former professors and mentors. Probably David Stoll wanted to help the young man in his academic career, but at that time he did not really understand it.

Among others, he met the white-bearded and bald Michael Harner, a legendary anthropologist who had written a standard work about the Jivaró, the headshrinkers of the Amazon. Already at that time, Harner had turned into a shamanistic guru with a group of devoted followers. Nevertheless, the professor gave a tranquil impression and did not seem to be particularly fanatical while listening intently as the young man told him about his studies of Dominican Olivorism. After that animated conversation, he wrote a letter to Harner, but the bearded anthropologist did not respond and the contact was eventually forgotten.

Through David Stoll, he also met with Michael Taussig, whose books fascinated the young man at the time. Taussig taught at Columbia University and was a fresh thinker when it came to art, magic, neurology and cultural criticism. Together they saw Fritz Lang's M in a film club and afterwards they had an intense and unforgettable discussion about the symbols appearing in the movie. He never wrote to Taussig and that was probably rather stupid, they had gotten along well and Taussig could possibly have been a good, academic contact for the future.

More memorable and something that probably was instrumental in shaping the young man's mind  and character were probably his monthly meetings with the charming and amiably naive, but also intellectually sharp writer Esther Hautzig. Esther, who was born in Vilna, raised in Siberia and married to a concert pianist, was always friendly and attentive while they drank tea together in a Russian or Jewish café. For several years he corresponded sporadically with Esther until she slowly slipped away into Alzheimer's shadow world.

While in New York the young man wrote an occasional letter to his uncle Otto, but his response was becoming stranger and gradually took on the character of conversations the youngster ten years previously had had with patients at St. Lars mental institution in Lund, Sweden, where he for a time had been moonlighting as a caregiver for severely schizophrenic patients. They could start a conversation in a fairly normal manner, only to almost imperceptibly slip into complaints about how demons twisted their intestines while the evil creatures wondered if there "would be any fish today", they fondled imaginary cats which purred while resting on their knees, or the bewildered patients told him how evil communists tried to terminate them by means of electrical energy which was directed towards them from a huge generator carefully hidden in the hospital's basement.

Panta rei, everything flows, nothing is permanent. The young man has disappeared out of sight, he and his world has been gradually lost. Only dim memories remain, like in a poem by the Swedish Nobel laureate Werner von Heidenstam:

A tremor in a distant space, a memory
of a home, which shone among tall trees.
What was I? Who was I? Why did I weep?
It´s all forgotten now, like a song within a storm

everything rushes away among worlds that roll on.

Not only has his world changed, several friends from back then are not here anymore. Uncle Otto became increasingly confused and in the end he ate the letters instead of answering them. Now he, like Esther Hautzig, is deceased. In New York, there was also Dr. Thomas, my psychotherapist, who I have mentioned in a previous blog post. He is still alive, but is he the same person as the one I once knew?

When I few months ago, mentioned Dr. Thomas in a blog post I searched online to find a picture of him and then found that he had written a few books, including a non-fiction book called The Shame Response to Rejection. I assume that book concerned theories about the damaged and neglected child that Dr. Thomas used to talk about and that he during several years tested on his clients within the prison community. I also found another book by Dr. Thomas, Have Faith In The Good, a title consistent with the impression I had of the doctor as a friendly, insightful man with a long and rich experience gained through his care of violent prisoners. I already knew that Dr. Thomas was interested i religions and he had several times indicated that he had a strong Christian faith. However, the content of his book came as a complete surprise.

It is a confusing piece of work. It was undoubtedly written by the same Dr. Thomas I had known, the life story of the two doctors, the one I knew and the one who wrote the book, is at least identical. Perhaps was the aging Dr. Thomas like Esther Hautzig and Uncle Otto entering into Cuckooland, which is what many Americans call senility´s shadow world? Maybe did he as the saying goes in my childhood´s Göinge: "not have all his chickens at home"? What sparked my doubts about the good doctor's mental balance was maybe just the fact that I had expected something completely different than what he wrote in his book. Maybe I wanted to be confronted with a deepening of the themes Dr. Thomas used to talk with me about, namely, how people's fears made them uncertain about how precious it is to do good, to express love and kindness. How important it is to seek and find the good in ourselves and in others and not lapse into anger and violence - Have Faith in the Good. Dr. Thomas had apparently pursued the good, not only among his paying patients and people who lived a similar life as he, but also among criminal offenders.

The thirty years old man who can be seen at the beginning of this blog entry has changed. Perhaps beyond recognition. Would it be so astonishing if the Dr. Thomas of today was different as well?

Were there similarities between him and me? Correspondences? I had once written a university dissertation about Emanuel Swedenborg, the incredibly productive Swedish eighteenth-century mystic who founded a church and influenced several admirable writers like Blake, Balzac, Baudelaire and Strindberg, primarily through his remarkable correspondence doctrine based on the idea that everything in our earthly existence reflects what exists and takes place in a different, "spiritual" world. According to Swedenborg, there is an ever ongoing interaction between these two forms of existence, a "correspondence". Dr. Thomas writes:

There is only a thin sheet that separates Heaven and Earth. In Jerusalem nothing separates Heaven and Earth. Certain individuals traditionally known as angels and messengers pass back and forth between the two realities seemingly without hindrance. […] Is there a fifth dimension where times as we know it does not exist? I believe so.

A view that in my opinion is somewhat distanced from normality. Correspondences? Do they really exist? Perhaps they are nothing else than quite insignificant incidents that our preprogrammed views of reality take out of their proper context and convey a far deeper meaning to than they actually have. Apparently life is filled with such “correspondences”, my own life experience presents quite a number of examples.  Even in connection with Dr. Thomas´ book. The Introduction is written by a certain Michael Hogan, a person I have actually met, not in New York but in Guadalajara, Mexico. I remembered his name since Anastasia Clafferty, a friend and colleague of mine working at FAO in Rome, once lent me a book by him. Anastasia is a proud, Irish patriot and assumed I would be interested in reading Michael Hogan's The Irish Soldiers of Mexico, which deals with a contingent of Irish soldiers that during the US-Mexican War 1846-48 deserted from the US army to join the Mexicans in their struggle against the northern invaders.

When I read the Hogans´s book I remembered how I several years before during a reception at the University of Guadalajara had met the author in person. I do not remember much more about him than his name and had no idea about his connection  Dr. Thomas. It was Atilio Boron, who introduced him to me and Berit Olsson, my boss at Swedish International Development Cooperation Agency. Atilio was heading CLACSO, a pan-American research institute funded by Sida and he was like Michael Hogan a big fan of Noam Chomsky. If I remember correctly, Hogan had something to do with the university, though at the time I met him he worked at the American School in Guadalajara.

Remembering Guadalajara makes me think of another rather strange coincidence. When Berit and I went to meet with the Rector of the University of Guadalajara we stepped out of a taxi by the entrance to the university's impressive main building, where the headmaster and his wife awaited us at the top of the stairs. When we were half-way up the rector´s wife exclaimed in Swedish:

- But Jan, you are here!

Berit looked at me wide-eyed and I was just as surprised as she was, especially when it turned out that the exuberant lady, who I did not recall meeting before, remembered me very well. She was a Chilean lady and had previously been married to the owner of Ove´s Pizzeria in Lund, the place´s name was actually O'Vesuvio and it had in 1971 opened as one of Sweden's first pizzerias (at that time it was also a piano bar). I have unfortunately forgotten the lady´s name, but she was a good friend of Alicia, one of our best friends in Lund and like Alicia, she had worked as a nurse at the hospital. The last time I met the lady in question was a decade earlier when I helped Alicia and Miguel to move from one part of Lund to another. Since then she had divorced Ove's owner, traveled back to Chile, but at her arrival there applied for a job as secretary at the University of Guadalajara, where the rector had fallen in love with her, they married and had several children together.

Well then, besides being an historian Michael Hogan was also a poet and had met with Dr. Thomas when he had been invited to a writers' workshop at Pittsburgh's Central Prison, where Dr. Thomas was resident psychiatrist. The occasion for the invitation was the first prisoner-organized program of its kind and it was initiated by Dr. Thomas and a certain John Paul Minarik, a poet imprisoned for life after having been found guilty of murdering his girlfriend with an axe in 1971. What I could find out about Minarik suggests that he is still locked up in Pittsburgh. Dr Thomas writes:

I believe that my work as a psychiatrist in caring for countless men in maximum prisons, first in Michigan and then in Pennsylvania, has been the most important fact of my life. Many of them I still remember, and many events that occurred in those years are still very clear in my mind. Training in psychoanalysis helped me to better understand them and how we related to one another as significant others.

While reading those lines I imagined that Dr. Thomas was going to write about his involvement with life-sentenced prisoners, instead he described random encounters with mostly beggars and homeless individuals, odd people who he believes serve as messenger from a higher reality. Like the great Swedish author August Strindberg during his so called  “inferno crisis” Dr. Thomas appears to have ended up in a world where the tiniest, trivial detail is interpreted as if it contained a most profound spiritual truth, entirely in accordance with Swedenborg's correspondence teaching. Through my conversations with Dr. Thomas, I know he had read Swedenborg. At one point, I mentioned the Swedish prophet and Dr. Thomas who did not know about him and immediately wrote down his name, apparently he later read a great deal about and by Swedenborg. However, in his strange, little book Dr. Thomas does not mention the Swedish mystic, but a certain Leonard Susskind, a theoretical physicist who writes about things I do not understand.

Susskind´s research deals with cosmic holography, which means that the universe can be described as a giant hologram, quite different from the reality most of us believe we inhabit. A place where neither time nor place exist, where each part contains the entirety and each cell of a multicellular organism contains sufficient information to build up a complete body. Each cell can thus be said to contain the entire cosmos; galaxies rest latent in one of our hairs. Everything is inter-connected, the world does not consist of individual particles, but of vibrating strings.

In a poem, the Hungarian poet Sandor Weöres coupled Emanuel Swedenborg´s philosophy with this complex universe, how the immensely large is matched by the smallest fractions and the fact that Swedenborg considers love to be the force that provides life to everything:

Swedenborg in Memoriam

By the original source we examine our love
and only the silent space provides the answer
so clear, that the vessel of huge words
cannot catch what fills up the tiniest word.

Dr. Thomas seems to be well at ease in this strangest of worlds. For him, our everyday reality does not seem to be particularly significant, other than as an indication of a wider dimension. When he writes about his last day at the State Correctional Institution of Pittsburgh where several death row inmates are locked up, he does not describe his final meeting with a prisoner convicted to lifetime imprisonment, instead he tells about how, after he had left the cell of the convicted man, flocks of sparrows appeared as he walked along the top tier of the huge prison complex. He interprets the sparrows´ flight as some kind of divine message directed to him:

I retraced my steps along the catwalk which meant walking almost the full length of the block. As I did so flight after flight of noisy sparrows would swoop up beside me and then dive back down. This was repeated five or six times as I walked along. As a parting salute, it was something I could never have imagined. This occurred in 1992. My growing awareness of another reality is what I want to share with the reader.

According to Dr. Thomas - how does this "increased awareness" manifest itself? Dr. Thomas places the great cutoff point from his earlier existence to 2001, when he was seventy-three years old, their children had given him and his wife a trip to Italy to, celebrate their fifty years together. Outside the cathedral of Orvieto, Dr. Thomas found himself standing mesmerized in front of a representation of devils who with tridents pushed condemned souls into the hell fire. Suddenly he realized that these devils "were well known and had been so either forever or for a very long time. They are to be taken seriously”. Dr. Thomas cannot explain why the idea struck him with such a violent force, but already back then he understood that something ominous soon would happen and after returning to the US he renewed his Canadian passport and transferred the family savings into an account in Canada.

On September 11 the same year, he eats an early breakfast on Manhattan when he is unexpectedly affected by a strong feeling of anxiety. Worried he calls his assistant and cancels all his psychoanalyses sessions scheduled for the day. Bewildered he comes out into the street, where he overhears people talking about a plane hitting the World Trade Center. At first, Dr. Thomas assumes it is an accident similar to the one in 1945 when a plane crashed into the Empire State Building. A tune callled Wales Forever popped up in his head and made him enter a delicatessen to buy two bottles of Welsh Tynant Springwater. He continues walking down along Madison Avenue to visit his daughter and give her the bottles. When he enters the street after visiting his daughter he finds that the blue sky is quickly becoming darkened by a big dust cloud. He understands that a disaster has taken place. When Dr. Thomas realizes that the twin towers have collapsed, he wonders about his strange whim of buying two bottles of Welsh spring water. It must have been a sign from above! Something connected with the fall of the Twin Towers. After intense speculations he remembers that his mother's great-grandfather came from Wales, just as his father's great-grandfather, the two men were actually brothers. Based on this quite illogical chain of proofs Dr. Thomas became convinced that there was a connection between himself and the fallen Twin Towers. He realized that for anyone who is able to discern it everything is connected and this fact has something to do with an eternal connection between this world and "the other realm".

According to Dr. Thomas are people all over the world searching for sites where they can connect with a spiritual dimension. He found such a presence in Orvieto and assumed that other spiritual seekers accede to holy sites like Mecca, Rome, or Benares, in search of a tangible presence of the divine. Dr. Thomas is a Christian and thus assumes that for him Jerusalem must be the place where he can most easily get in touch with the spiritual realm.

After his experience in New York Dr. Thomas travels every three months to Jerusalem, where he has begun a routine meaning that he at four o'clock every morning walks down to a high palm tree that he believes is growing in the place where Jesus was crucified. He has with him a plastic bag and clear up the site from trash and debris, something that takes him about two hours, then he sits on a bench and meditates and it is at such moments that people he believes to be "messengers" or "angels" appear.

One morning when he sits deep in thought he feels a peculiar presence close by. When he lifts his head Dr. Thomas finds that just in front of him stands a young, well-dressed and exceptionally fresh looking young man. Despite his quiet and tidy exterior the man makes  Dr. Thomas feel extremely uncomfortable. Quite unexpectedly, the man asks him: "What is really this thing about Jesus Christ?" Without answering Dr. Thomas points towards the tall palm tree and the unknown man proposes that both of them may go over there. After silently having watched the tree the two men sit down on a bench. The young man is carefully shaven, smells of aftershave and is dressed in what looks like a black Sandhurst military uniform, but without any buttons or insignia. He utters nothing else than his question about Jesus, but Dr. Thomas wrote: "I have never met a more pleasant person."

On another occasion, the doctor finds himself by the palm tree and is suddenly and violently attacked by a pack of black dogs, which, however, after some growling runs off without hurting him. A man turns up, supported by a cane and produces from the  thin air a book which he places on the cane. Dr. Thomas glimpses the words "temple" and "Messiah." The man asks him whether he knows who the Messiah was and when Dr. Thomas replies "Jesus Christ," the man went away without another word. Another day, Dr. Thomas is bringing flowers to Virgin Mary's tomb and on his way he passes a black dressed, elderly lady with a face so radiant that he starts shaking inside, she smiles at him. A few days later he once again catches a glimpse of the beautiful woman, this time she sits side by side with a much younger lady, also dressed in black, who leans her head against the older woman's shoulder. Both smile at him. Dr. Thomas cannot discern if they are sitting on something, it seems as if they are floating in the air.

One morning, Dr. Thomas cellphone sounds, when he lights it up he discovers that the call is not addressed to him. He listens to someone telling another person that due to his bad health he must rest for two, entire years. This convinces Dr. Thomas that for two years he must renounce his habit to travel to Jerusalem. It turns out to be a wise decision because it enables him to settle his affairs in the United States and Canada, resulting in him becoming completely debt free and financially independent. While Dr. Thomas finds himself in New York, he continues to meet people who he believes to be messengers from a spiritual realm, mostly homeless beggars.

To me the meetings Dr. Thomas describes so carefully seems to be fairly random and insignificant, but to him they appear as very important. I do not understand why Dr. Thomas talks about all these pointless meetings, while he refrains from mentioning things that I would consider to be much more interesting, such as his work as a psychiatrist working with condemned murderers and thugs, or even things that we used to talk about - children's problems, common feelings of shame and shortcomings, people's propensity for violence, the inherent love that many of us stifle and have difficulties in expressing. No, page after page he devotes to detailed descriptions of everyday encounters and events that to him confer a great, highly personal significance, but leaves the reader baffled. Everything told in Dr. Thomas simple, quiet authoritarian and extremely friendly manner, even if the language often conveys an unpolished and even rather clumsily impression.

Reading Dr. Thomas oddities makes me think of the letters I received from my uncle Otto while I lived in New York. Letters written while he was heading straight into Alzheimer's confusing world. He writes extensively about how he every morning walks down to the sea shore to  buy fish, quotes what the vendors say, tells me  how much he pays, what kind of fish it was he bought and how the vendor carefully wraps it and places it in a brown paper bag. As if every action, every word carried a hidden meaning. Uncle Otto writes about birds and trees he watches along his way home to Roslins Väg 14B, without any particular concerns why he tells me all that. They are all oddly accurate descriptions, but they are also slightly creepy since I cannot understand why Uncle Otto's provided me with such meticulous accounts. I now assume they hint at a deeper meaning. Was it the fear of sliding into the mental darkness that threatened him that made him write to me, a nephew far away in distant New York and in such detail describe what was happening to him? Did he try to explain that he still had a certain grip on reality? And all this fish he bought, what is because it is commonly believed that fish is good for the brain?

What drove Dr. Thomas to write his remarkable book? I asked a colleague of mine who recently had been travelling around in the US. How did she interpret the fact that a reputable, professional psychiatrist that I had known and admired suddenly wrote weird books about his encounters with heavenly messengers. She replied that it probably was because he, like so many other Americans, was deeply religious and therefore did not consider it to be especially strange to describe and confess his somewhat remarkable faith to others.

I am thinking about why I was intrigued by Dr. Thomas oddities. Are perhaps correspondences governing my own life? In the Dominican Republic, I made during my research into the history of religion in the San Juan Valley acquaintance with a more than a century-old man who, like Dr. Thomas, claimed that "here are two worlds in one", one was the spirit world, while the other one was what I called “reality”. God, dreams, the dead, music and demons inhabit the “spirit world”, but people like me does not understand that and thus do not have any contact with it, while people like Julian Ramos knew the spiritual world quite well and were like him able to walk from one world to another as someone "walking through sunshine and shade."

While I lived in Paris I read Strindberg's strange Inferno, a book in which he, once again like Dr. Thomas, discovers how the spiritual world constantly breaks into his life with signs and warnings. I found that Strindberg had these experiences while he was walking through the streets I used to walk along and just as I often did he ended up within the Montparnasse Cemetery, the Luxembourg Gardens or in the Botanical Gardens. I also discovered that his most terrifying encounter with the "spirits", where "he wrestled with the Invisible" and the place where he imagined himself to be attacked by enemies equipped with mysterious devil machines, occurred in a hotel at a street just a hundred yards from my home - Rue de la Clef, The Street of the Key.

Perhaps you may detect "correspondences" wherever you are. An inner state creates external sights and events. A sensitive man, or woman, may be able to make an unconscious choice among thousands of other possibilities – they are choosing their own destiny. The possibility exists, of course, that men like Swedenborg, Strindberg, Julian Ramos and Dr. Thomas were all more or less mad. However, it may also be that the entire universe is composed of incomprehensible "correspondences" meaning that we are all integral parts of powerful connections. Something that only the most sensitive among us can perceive. Where time and space do not exist, where I am identical to the young man I once was and he is identical with me. Where madness turns into an aspect of rationality, where - with the words of the Swedish poet Gunnar Ekelöf: "everything is in everything, at once its end and its beginning" and you can feel that "here and now is both our departure and homecoming."

Hogan, Michael (1998), Irish Soldiers of Mexico. Guadalajara: Fondo Editorial Universitario. Susskind, Leonard (2005), The Cosmic Landscape: String Theory and the Illusion of Intelligent Design. New York: Little, Brown and Company. Thomas, Herbert E. (2011), Have Faith In The Good. New York: VBW Publishing. I could not find any English translations of the quoted poems bySándor Weöres, Werner von Heidenstam and Gunnar Ekelöf and unfortunately had to do them myself, of course I translated Weöres from Swedish, not from Hungarian.  

När jag i dagarna fyllde sextio år skickade vänner och bekanta bilder på en ung man. När jag nu betraktar dem förundras jag. Vem är denne frejdige yngling med yvig hårman och vita tänder? Det är definitivt inte samme tunnhårige man med gulnande tänder vars åldrade ansikte jag varje morgon möter i badrumsspegeln. Under flera år har jag trott mig vara identisk med den där leende ynglingen, detta trots att han inte längre existerar. Nja, kanske inte riktigt, det måste erkännas att han fortfarande lever, i varje fall i den mening som William Faulkner tycks hänvisa till när han skriver: ”Det förflutna är inte dött, det är inte ens förflutet”.

Drygt tio år efter det att kortet tagits i Santo Domingo var ynglingen fyrtio år och bodde i New York med hustru och två vackra döttrar. De bodde i en skyskrapa med trettioen våningar, belägen på på 31:a Gatan, ”mellan Lexington och Third”, som man sa i New York

Lägenheten var liten, men ombonad och ljus. Den var dock i viss mån ett fuskbygge, exempelvis så förde familjen en ständig kamp mot de horder av små kackerlackor som trots regelbunden besprutning envisades med att återkomma till köksskåpen. Lägenheten var till största delen uppförd med gipsplattor och annat billigt material, fast byggnaden gav ett lyxigt intryck. Vid entrén fanns en trädgård med en paviljong. Lobbyn var elegant, eller snarast något vräkig och försedd med en disk ständigt bemannad med två uniformsklädda, manliga receptionister. På en imponerande översta våning fanns en swimmingpool och en fitnessklubb.

När man simmade i bassängen, som var omgiven av panoramafönster, kändes det som att sväva bland Manhattans skyskrapor och när ynglingen sedan sprang på ett av fitnessklubbens rullband kunde han genom fönstret, som framför honom löpte från tak till golv, blicka ner i de djupa ravinerna där en aldrig sinande ström med gula taxibilar flöt fram mellan de skyhöga byggnadernas blänkande fasader, som om dagen reflekterade himlen med dess drivande moln och under kvällen ljusspelet från tusentals upplysta fönster, neonljus och förbipasserande flygplan. Ofta satt han i bastun och samtalade med sina grannar, många av dem unga börsmäklare som jobbade på Wall Street.

Så gott som dagligen promenerade han i sakta mak till Mid-Mahattan Library i vars spatiösa läsesal han skrev på sin avhandling. Där som på så många andra platser i New York greps han emellanåt av en känsla att ha varit där någon gång i ett tidigare liv, något som antagligen berodde på alla filmer han sett. Biblioteket hade exempelvis varit med i Ghostbusters och säkerligen i flera andra filmer eller TVserier. När han satt i den väldiga läsesalen och plitade i sina skrivböcker tänkte han ibland på vad en berusad man en gång berättat för honom i cafeterian, nämligen att Melville skrivit på Moby Dick i samma sal, något som vid närmare eftertanke varit omöjligt eftersom den store författaren varit både död och begraven då biblioteket byggdes.  Den unge mannen arbetade också en hel del i Schomburg Library i Harlem, där husen var lägre och människorna mörkare än i Downtown Manhattan.

Familjen hade flera goda vänner i huset och ibland var han ute på stan tillsammans med sin originelle och lättretade vän från Guatemala, David Stoll, som skrivit en kritisk och kritiserad bok om Rigoberta Menchú. Då David dök upp i Windsor Courts lobby hänvisades han av receptionisterna till varuingången på byggnadens andra sida, detta eftersom han hade med sig cykel och var iklädd en märklig ”sportmundering”. Den unge mannen fick ta hissen ner för att möta David bland sopcontainrar och tidningshögar.

David Stoll ordnade så att hans vän från Guatemala kunde ge ett par föreläsningar på New York University, någon kväll gick de på pub tillsammans och vid sådana tillfällen hände det att den unge mannen fick träffa några av Davids tidigare professorer och mentorer. Antagligen ville David Stoll hjälpa sin svenske vän i hans akademiska karriär, men på den tiden begrep han det inte.

Bland andra fick han träffa den vitskäggige och skallige Michael Harner, en legendarisk antropolog som skrivit ett standardverk om Jivaró, de huvudkrympande indianerna som bodde i Amazonas djungler. Redan på den tiden hade Harner blivit en schamanistisk guru med egen kult och devota anhängare. Professorn gav ett stillsamt intryck, verkade inte vara speciellt fanatisk och lyssnade intresserat när den unge mannen berättade om sin avhandling om dominikansk olivorism. Efter det animerade samtalet skrev svensken ett brev till Harner, men den skäggige antropologen svarade inte och kontakten glömdes bort.

Genom David Stoll träffade han också Michael Taussig, vars böcker den unge mannen på den tiden var fascinerad av. Taussig undervisade på Colombia University och var en revolutionerande nytänkare kring konst, magi, neurologi och kulturkritik. Tillsammans såg de Fritz Langs M på en filmklubb och hade sedan en lång diskussion kring filmens symbolspråk. Till Taussig skrev dock den unge mannen inget brev och det var antagligen ganska dumt, de hade ju kommit bra överens och Taussig hade möjligen kunnat bli en bra kontakt för framtiden.

Mer minnesvärt och något som säkerligen bidrog till att forma den unge mannens karaktär var de möten han en gång i månaden hade med den charmerande och älskvärt naiva, men samtidigt intellektuellt skarpa författarinnan Esther Hautzig. Esther, som var född i Vilna, uppvuxen i Sibirien och gift med en konsertpianist, var alltid vänlig och uppmärksam då de tillsammans drack te på något ryskt eller judiskt café. I flera år brevväxlade han sporadiskt med Esther tills hon sakta men säkert gled in i Alzheimers skuggvärld. Medan han var i New York skrev den unge mannen ibland ett och annat brev till sin farbror Otto, men hans svar blev allt underligare och antog karaktären av de samtal han mer än tio år tidigare hade haft på Sankt Lars mentalsjukhus i Lund, där han en gång extraknäckt som vårdare för gravt schizofrena patienter. Ett samtal kunde där börja på ett normalt sätt, enbart för att efter hand nästan oförmärkt glida in på klagomål över hur demoner vred om tarmarna på den schizofrene, alltmedan de ondskefulla varelserna undrade om det ”skulle bli någon fisk idag”, de själssjuka strök stillsamt imaginära kattor som kelsjukt vilade i deras knän eller berättade om hur fanatiska kommunister försökte förgöra dem med hjälp av elektrisk energi som riktades mot dem från en generator gömd i vårdhemmets källare, en villfarelse de delade med författare som August Strindberg och Nelly Sachs.

Panta rei, allt flyter, inget är beständigt. Den unge mannen har flutit bort, han och hans värld har succesivt förlorats. Kvar finns dunkla minnen, som i Werner von Heidenstams dikt:

En dallring i en fjärran rymd, ett minne
av gården, som sken fram bland höga träd.
Vad hette jag? Vem var jag? Varför grät jag?
Förgätit har jag allt, och som en stormsång
allt brusar bort bland världarna, som rulla.

Inte enbart har hans värld förändrats, även människor han känt har försvunnit. Farbror Otto hade blivit alltmer förvirrad och till slut åt han upp breven istället för att besvara dem. Nu är han, liksom Esther Hautzig, avliden. I New York fanns även Doktor Thomas, min psykoterapeut, som jag nämnt i ett tidigare blogginlägg.  

När jag för några månader sedan skrev det där blogginlägget letade jag på nätet upp en bild på Dr Thomas och fann då att han skrivit ett par böcker, bland andra en fackbok med titeln The Shame Response To Rejection, ”Skamkänsla som svar på bortstötning”. Jag antar att den boken berör de teorier om det skadade och försummade barnet som Dr Thomas brukade samtala med mig om och som han under många år testat på patienter inom kriminalvården. Jag skaffade en annan bok av Dr Thomas, med titeln Have Faith In The Good, ”Tro på det goda”, något som stämde väl överens med det intryck jag fått av honom som en vänlig, insiktsfull man med en lång och rik erfarenhet vunnen genom hans verksamhet som själasörjare för våldsbenägna fångar. Jag visste att Dr Thomas var religiöst intresserad och att han hade vid något tillfälle antytt att han hade en stark kristen tro.

Boken gjorde mig konfunderad. Kunde den verkligen vara skriven av densamme Dr Thomas som jag fascinerats av? Den var underlig och förvirrande, kanske var den åldrande Dr Thomas likt Esther Hautzig och Farbror Otto på väg in i Cuckooland, som i Amerika var den populära beteckningen på senilitetens skuggvärld?  Kanske hade Dr Thomas, som man säger i Göinge: ”Inte alla hönsen hemma”? Vad som främst utlöst mitt tvivel på doktorns mentala balans var nog att jag i hans bok hade förväntat mig att finna något fullkomligt annorlunda än det han skrev. Kanske en fördjupning av det Dr Thomas brukade tala med mig om, nämligen om människors rädsla och osäkerhet inför godheten; om vikten av att visa kärlek, omtanke och vänlighet. Hur viktigt det är att söka godheten inom sig själv och hos andra, att inte lättvindigt förfalla till ilska och våld – Have Faith in the Good. Dr Thomas hade uppenbarligen sökt det goda, inte enbart hos sina patienter och de medmänniskor som levde ett liknande liv som han, utan även hos kriminella våldsverkare.

Den unge mannen på det snart fyrtio år gamla fotografiet har förändrats. Kanske till oigenkännlighet. Hade Dr Thomas också blivit annorlunda?  Fanns det likheter mellan honom och mig? Korrespondenser? Jag hade en gång skrivit en universitetsuppsats om Emanuel Swedenborg, den oerhört produktive svenske sjuttonhundratalsmystikern som grundat en kyrka och påverkat beundransvärda författare som Blake, Balzac, Baudelaire och Strindberg, främst genom sin märkliga korrespondenslära som grundade sig på tanken att allt som sker i vår jordiska tillvaro avspeglar sådant som finns och sker i en annorlunda, en ”andlig” värld. Enligt Swedenborg pågår ständigt en växelverkan mellan dessa två existensformer, en ”korrespondens”. Dr Thomas skriver:

… enbart en tunn hinna skiljer Himmel från Jord. […] I Jerusalem finns det ingenting som skiljer Himmel och Jord. Vissa individer, traditionellt kända som änglar eller budbärare, passerar synbarligen obehindrat fram och tillbaka mellan de två verkligheterna. […] Finns det en femte dimension där tid som vi förstår den inte existerar? Jag tror det.

Mer än lovligt galet. Men, korrespondenser? Finns de? Kanske rör det sig enbart om obetydliga incidenter som vår förprogrammerade verklighetssyn förlänar en djupare mening än de i egentligen har? Livet är fyllt av sådana korrespondenser, exempel kan plockas överallt. Även kring Dr Thomas bok. Förordet är skrivet av en viss Michael Hogan, som jag har träffat, inte i New York utan i Guadalajara i Mexiko. Jag minns honom eftersom jag en gång av Anastasia Clafferty, en vän och kollega på FAO i Rom, fick låna en bok av Michael Hogan. Anastasia som är en stolt, irländsk patriot tyckte att  jag borde läsa Hogans The Irish Soldiers of Mexico, som handlar om hur irländska soldater under det amerikansk-mexikanska kriget 1846-48 deserterade från USAs armé för sluta upp på mexikanernas sida i deras kamp mot den mäktige grannen i norr.

Medan jag läste boken kom jag att tänka på att jag flera år innan dess under en mottagning på universitet i Guadalajara hade träffat Michael Hogan. Jag minns inte mycket mer om honom än hans namn och visste på den tiden inte att han kände Dr Thomas. Det var Atilio Boron som introducerade honom för mig och Berit Olsson, min chef på Sida/SAREC. Atilio var föreståndare för CLACSO, ett panamerikanskt forskningsinstitut som Sida finansierade och han var liksom Michael Hogan en stor beundrare av Noam Chomsky. Hogan hade något med universitet att göra, fast på den tiden arbetade han på den amerikanska skolan i Guadalajara. 

I samband med Guadalajara kommer jag att tänka på ett annat sammanträffande. En korrespondens? När Berit och jag för att träffa rektorn för Guadalajaras universitet stiger ur en taxi nedanför entrén till universitets imponerande huvudbyggnad, där rektorn och hans fru väntar på oss vid trappans krön, utropar hans fru på svenska redan innan vi kommit fram till dem:

- Men Jan, är du här!

Berit betraktade mig storögt och jag var lika förvånad som hon, inte minst då det visade sig att den översvallande damen som jag inte alls mindes, kom ihåg mig mycket väl. Hon var chilenska och hade tidigare varit gift med ägaren till Oves pizzeria i Lund, den hette egentligen O´Vesuvio och hade 1971 öppnats som en av Skånes första pizzerior (på den tiden var den också pianobar). Nu kommer jag dessvärre inte ihåg vad damen hette, men hon var väninna till Alicia en av våra bästa vänner i Lund och liksom Alicia hade hon arbetat som undersköterska på Lunds lasarett. Sista gången jag träffat damen ifråga var ett tiotal år tidigare då jag hjälpte Alicia och Miguel att flytta från en del av Lund till en annan. Sedan dess hade hon skilt sig från Oves ägare, rest tillbaka till Chile, men sedan sökt jobb som sekreterare vid universitetet i Guadalajara, där rektorn förälskat sig i henne, de hade gift sig och hade flera barn tillsammans. 

Nåväl, tillbaka till Dr Thomas märkliga bok. Förutom att han är historiker är Michael Hogan poet och han hade träffat Dr Thomas då denne bjudit in honom till en författarworkshop  på Pittsburghs Centralfängelse, där Dr Thomas  arbetade som psykiatriker. Inbjudan gällde en årligen återkommande konferens för USAs ”fångna konstnärer” som organiserades av  Dr Thomas tillsammans med en viss John Paul Minarik.  Denne livstidsfånge och poet hade 1971 med en yxa mördat sin flickvän och dömts till livstids fängelse. Vad jag funnit om Minarik tyder på att han fortfarande sitter inlåst i Pittsburgh.

I sin bok skriver Dr Thomas:                                                                                  

Jag tror att mitt arbete som psykiatriker, ansvarig för vården av oräkneliga män inom fängelser byggda för maximal säkerhet, först i Michigan och sedan i Pennsylvania, har varit den viktigaste tilldragelsen i mitt liv. Många av de fångar jag mötte och mycket som inträffade under dessa år framstår fortfarande mycket tydligt i mitt sinne. Min utbildning i psykoterapi hjälpte mig att bättre förstå mina klienter och vi kunde relatera till varandra som närstående individer.

När jag läste de raderna trodde jag mig att Dr Thomas skulle berätta om sitt samröre med livstidsdömda fångar, men istället beskriver han slumpartade möten med främst tiggande och hemlösa individer, udda människor som enligt honom fungerar som budbärare från en högre verklighet. Likt August Strindberg under sin infernokris tycks Dr Thomas ha hamnat i en värld där minsta triviala detalj tolkas som om den innefattade den djupaste andliga sanning, helt i enlighet med Swedenborgs korrespondenslära. 

Genom mina samtal med Dr Thomas vet jag att han läst Swedenborg. Vid ett tillfälle nämnde jag nämligen den svenske profeten, Dr Thomas som inte kände till honom bad mig då skriva ner hans namn och läste tydligen senare en hel del om och av Swedenborg. I sin underliga, lilla bok nämner han dock inte den svenske mystikern utan hänvisar istället till Leonard Susskind, en teoretisk fysiker som skriver om sådant jag inte begriper.

Susskind forskar kring kosmisk holografik, en teori som innebär att universum kan beskrivas som ett gigantiskt hologram, något helt annat än den verklighet vi tror oss leva i. En plats där varken tid eller rum existerar, där varje del innehåller helheten, liksom varje cell hos en flercellig organism inom sig rymmer information som är tillräcklig för att bygga upp en hel kropp, med hjärna och allt därtill. Varje cell kan således även sägas innehålla hela kosmos, galaxerna vilar latent i ett av våra hårstrån. Allt är sammanlänkat, världen består inte av oerhört små, enskilda partiklar utan av vibrerande strängar. Inom fysiken kallas detta synsätt för "supersträngteorin".

I en dikt har den ungerske poeten Sandor Weöres kopplat Emanuel Swedenborgs filosofi till ett sådant komplicerat universum, där det oändligt stora motsvaras av det lilla och det faktum att Swedenborg såg kärleken som en kraft som skänker liv. Meningen med den krsitna tron är enligt Swedenborg att den skall leda till en vilja att utföra godhet närhelst det är möjligt.

Swedenborg in memorian

Vid urkällan rannsakar vi vår kärlek

och blott den stumma rymden kan ge svar

så klart, att ej de stora ordens fångstkärl

kan samla det, som fyllt det minsta ord.

I denna värld av kosmisk holografik tycks Dr Thomas finna sig väl tillrätta. När han skriver om sin sista dag på the State Correctional Institution of Pittsburgh där flera dödsdömda fångar sitter inlåsta, beskriver han inte vad som utspann sig under hans sista möte med en livstidsdömd fånge, utan berättar istället hur han då han efter sitt avsked från honom går nerför trapporna en flock sparvar flyger fram och tillbaka i utrymmet mellan loftgångarna, som i fem våningar sträcker sig längs betongväggarna. Dr Thomas hade tidigare inte sett några fåglar därinne och uppfattade därför händelsen ”som en avskedssalut, något jag aldrig kunde ha föreställt mig” och han fortsätter med att konstatera att ”min ökade medvetenhet om existensen av en annan verklighet är vad jag nu vill dela med läsaren.”

Hur yttrar sig då, enligt Dr Thomas, denna ”ökade medvetenhet”? Brytpunkten fastställer Dr Thomas till år 2001, då han sjuttiotre år gammal tillsammans med sin hustru av sina barn får en italienresa i present för att fira deras femtioåriga äktenskap. Utanför katedralen i Orvieto blir Dr Thomas stående framför en framställning av hur djävlar med treuddar driver de helvetsdömda in i Infernos eviga eld. Plötsligt inser han att dessa djävlar ”är välkända och alltid har varit det, eller i varje fall under en mycket lång tid. Man bör ta dem på allvar”. Dr Thomas kan inte förklara varför just  tanken slog honom med en så våldsam kraft, men förstår att något kommer att hända, Vid återkomsten till USA förnyar han därför sitt kanadensiska pass och flyttar sina besparingar till ett konto i Kanada.

Den elfte september samma år äter han tidig frukost på Manhattan när en plötsligt påkommen ångest drabbar honom. Oroad ställer han in dagens psykoanalyssejourer. Då han kommit ut på gatan får han veta att ett plan flugit in i World Trade Center, men tror först att det rör sig om en en olycka, likt den som ägde rum 1945 då ett flygplan i tät dimma kraschade rakt in i Empire State Building. En sång, Wales för evigt, dyker upp i skallen på honom och leder till att han går in i en delikatessaffär och köper två flaskor Welsh Tynant Spring Water, sedan fortsätter han ner längs Madison Avenue för att besöka sin dotter och skänka henne flaskorna. När han lämnar dotterns bostad förmörkas den blå himlen av ett väldigt dammoln, han förstår att en katastrof ägt rum. När Dr Thomas får veta att tvillingtornen störtat samman undrar han över det underliga infallet som fick honom att köpa två flaskor walesiskt källvatten. Ett tecken! De fallna tvillingtornen! Han mors farfars far kom från Wales och det gjorde även hans fars farfars far, de var bröder! Dr Thomas inbillade sig därför att det fanns ett samband mellan honom och de nedstörtade tvillingtornen. Enligt honom hör allt samman och det har något med en annan dimension att göra. Händelserna kring tvillingtornens fall får honom att söka efter ett sätt att få kontakt med ”den andra sfären”.

Enligt Dr Thomas söker människor på speciella platser kontakt med en annan, en andlig dimension. Han fann en sådan närvaro i Orvieto och antog att sökandet efter sådana upplevelser är ursprunget till pilgrimsfärder. Männsikor vallfärdar till heliga platser som Mekka, Rom eller Benares eftersom de tror att det är där det gudomliga manifesterar sig. Eftersom Dr Thomas är kristen antog han att Jerusalem måste vara den plats där han lättast kunde få kontakt med den andliga sfären.

Efter upplevelsen i New York reste Dr Thomas var tredje månad till Jerusalem där han inledde en rutin som innebar att han klockan fyra varje morgon gick till en hög palm som han tror växer på den plats där Jesus korsfästes. Han hade med sig en plastpåse och rensade platsen från skräp, något som tog honom ungefär två timmar, sedan satte han på en bänk, eller promenerade i en närbelägen park. Ibland mötte han tiggare, eller outsiders, som han antog var ”sändebud”, eller ”änglar”.

En morgon satt Dr Thomas djupt försjunken i tankar då han kände en oroande närvaro. Han lyftte på huvudet och fann då att alldeles framför honom stod en ung, välklädd och ovanligt fräsch man. Trots mannens lugna utstrålning och välvårdade yttre kände sig Dr Thomas till en början mycket illa till mods. Helt oförmodat frågade mannen: ”Vad är egentligen grejen med Jesus Kristus?” Utan att svara pekade den amerikanske läkaren mot den höga palmen och den okände mannen föreslog att de skall gå fram till den, efter att under tystnad ha betraktat trädet satte de sig på en bänk i dess närhet. Mannen var omsorgsfullt rakad, doftade rakvatten och var klädd i vad Dr Thomas beskriver som en svart sandhurstuniform utan vare sig knappar eller gradbeteckningar. Främlingen sa inget mer, men Thomas skriver: ”En mer behaglig person har jag aldrig mött”.

Vid ett annat tillfälle blev Dr Thomas vid palmen attackerad av en flock svarta hundar, som dock vek undan utan att skada honom. En man kom fram till honom stöd på en käpp och producerade ur tomma luften en bok som han lade på käppen och slog upp. Dr Thomas skymtade orden ”Templet” och ”Messias”. Mannen frågade Dr Thomas om han visste vem Messias var och när han svarat ”Jesus Kristus” gick mannen sin väg. Då Dr Thomas en dag gick med blommor till Jungfru Marias grav passerade han en svartklädd, äldre dam med ett så strålande vackert ansikte att han riste våldsamt inombords, hon log mot honom. Vid ett annat tillfälle återsåg han han henne, denna gång satt hon tillsammans med en ung, likaledes svartklädd, kvinna som lutade sitt huvud mot den äldre damens axel. De log mot honom. Dr Thomas kunde inte upptäcka om de satt på något, det verkade som om de svävade i luften.

En morgon ringde Dr Thomas mobiltelefon, när han tände den upptäckte han att samtalet inte var riktat till honom. Han hörde någon säga till en annan person att någon för sin hälsas skull måste vila upp sig under två år. Detta ledde till att Dr Thomas under två års tid avstod från att resa till Jerusalem. Ett klokt beslut eftersom det gav honom möjlighet att ordna upp sina affärer i USA och Kanada, något som resulterade i att han blev skuldfri och ekonomiskt oberoende. Medan Dr Thomas vistades  i New York mötte han flera personer som han antog vara budbärare från en andlig dimension, mestadels hemlösa tiggare.

Mötena Dr Thomas beskriver tycks mig vara tämligen slumpartade och meningslösa, men de har stor betydelse för honom. Jag begriper inte varför Dr Thomas berättar allt detta i sin bok, samtidigt som han avstår från att nämna sådant som i mitt tycke skulle vara betydligt intressantare, exempelvis hans verksamhet som psykiatriker för livstidsdömda våldsmän, eller sådant som vi brukade samtala om – barns problem, skamkänslor, människors våldsbenägenhet, den inneboende kärleken som många människor kväver och har svårt för att uttrycka. Istället ägnar han sida upp sida ner åt detaljrika skildringar av vardagliga möten och händelser som tillerkänns en stor, högst personlig betydelse. Allt berättat på Dr Thomas enkla, lugnt auktoritära och ytterst vänliga sätt, även om språket ofta ger ett opolerat och tämligen taffligt intryck.

När jag läser Dr Thomas underligheter kommer jag tänka på de brev jag fick från Farbror Otto medan jag bodde i New York. Brev som skrivits medan han var på väg in i Alzheimers förvirrande värld. Han beskriver utförligt hur han varje morgon går och köper fisk, vad försäljarna säger, om hur de inköpta fiskarna omsorgsfullt slås in och läggs i en brun papperskasse. Som om varje handling, varje ord bar på en dold mening. Farbror Otto skriver om de fåglar och träd han betraktar, sakligt och utan några speciella funderingar eller kommentarer. Det rör sig enbart om noggranna beskrivningar, men likväl antar jag att Farbror Ottos pedantiska redogörelser för allsköns vardagsbestyr visar på en alldeles speciell strävan. Var det tanken på det mentala mörker som hotade honom som fick honom att för mig, brorsonen i det fjärran New York så detaljrikt som möjligt beskriva vad som hände med och omkring honom? Ett försvar mot den utplåning av hans hjärnfunktioner som redan hade startat? Och all fisk han köper? Kunde det bero att man brukar säga att fisk är nyttigt för hjärnan?

Vad drev Dr Thomas att skriva sin märkliga bok? Jag frågar en kollega som nyligen varit i USA hur hon tolkar det faktum att en välrenommerad, professionell psykiatriker som jag tidigare känt och beundrat skriver underliga böcker om  möten med himmelska budbärare. Hon svarade att det antagligen beror på att han liksom så många andra amerikaner tycks vara djupt religiös och därför inte tycker det är speciellt underligt att beskriva och bekänna sin något märkvärdiga tro för andra.

Jag funderar på varför jag fascineras av Dr Thomas underligheter. Finns det kanske korrespondenser i mitt liv? I Dominikanska Republiken gjorde jag under mina forskningar i religionshistoria bekantskap med en mer än hundraårig man som liksom Dr Thomas hävdade att ”här finns två världar i en”, en som var andarnas, Guds och drömmarnas värld och en annan, den som som jag kallade för ”verklighet”. Till skillnad från mig kände Julian Ramos den andliga världen och han vandrade från den ena världen till den andra likt en ”man som vandrar genom sol och skugga”

Då jag bodde i Paris läste jag Strindbergs Inferno, en bok i vilken han likt Dr Thomas upptäcker hur den andliga världen bryter sig in i hans tillvaro med tecken och varningar. Jag fann att Strindberg hade dessa upplevelser medan han vandrade genom samma gator som jag och ofta hamnade han liksom jag på Montparnassekyrkogården, i Luxembourgträdgården eller i den botaniska trädgården. Jag upptäckte också att hans mest skrämmande möte med ”andarna”, då han ”brottades med den Osynlige”, ägde rum på ett hotell vid en gata ett hundratal meter från min bostad – Rue de la Clef, Nyckelgatan.

Kanske är det så att om vi är uppmärksamma kan vi finna ”korrespondenser” var vi än befinner oss. Ett inre tillstånd framkallar syner och händelser. Bland tusentals möjligheter gör en känslig människa omedvetet de val som stämmer översens med hennes speciella förutsättningar – vi väljer vårt öde, vår slump. Möjligheten finns givetvis att män som Swedenborg, Strindberg, Julian Ramos eller Dr Thomas var mer eller mindre galna. Men, det kan också vara så att universum är uppbyggt av ”korrespondenser”. Att var och en av oss utgör en integrerad del av ett ofantligt, omfattande sammanhang. Något som enbart de känsligaste bland oss kan uppfatta. Där tid och rum inte existerar, där jag är identiskt med den unge man jag en gång var och han fortsätter att vara identisk med mig. Där galenskap kan vara en aspekt av förnuftet, eller tvärtom. Där – med Ekelöfs ord: ”allt är i allt, på en gång sitt slut och sin början”, där man kan känna ”att här och nu är både ens avfärd och hemkomst”.

Hogan, Michael (1998), Irish Soldiers of Mexico. Guadalajara: Fondo Editorial Universitario. Susskind, Leonard (2005), The Cosmic Landscape: String Theory and the Illusion of Intelligent Design. New York: Little, Brown and Company. Thomas, Herbert E. (2011), Have Faith In The Good. New York: VBW Publishing. Sándor Weöres dikt är översatt av Géza Thinsz och Bo Setterlind och finns i Thinsz, Géza (1968) Sex ungerska poeter. Stockholm: Albert Bonniers Förlag.

The rain poured down and made it impossible to visit Louisiana's park. Since we arrived an hour before closing time at the art museum outside of Elsinore in Denmark, we had to choose between Emil Nolde and Olafur Eliasson. I had seen more than one Nolde exposition and one of my sisters had given me the beautiful catalog. It was best to save Nolde for another visit, with more time and less people. However, I was curious about Eliasson. I had read about installations in which he had re-created nature. After having rushed through the rain, my family, a sister-in-law and one of my daughters' boyfriend, were not so specially attracted by crowding among a swarm of visitors to quickly look at painting after painting. It appeared to be more attractive to visit what in the advance publicity had been described as a piece of Icelandic nature caught within Louisiana's gallery walls. Eliasson had from Iceland brought down several tons of gravel and stone,and then tipped the entire load into three rooms, where he furthermore had arranged for an artificial stream of water to run through it all.

We hurried on into the exhibition pavilion. Eliasson's installation turned out to be what it claimed to be - 180 tons of gray and black, slightly dusty stones and gravel, which filled three large exhibition halls. A slow moving queue of visitors snaked from room to room, a brook murmured between gravel and stones, it probably came from a tap hidden under a heap of boulders. Uhhmm, this was supposed to be a work of art. White walls surrounded the softly undulating piles of gravel and spread out stones and boulders. Everything was arranged in such a way that it would seem to be as natural as possible - a piece of Icelandic landscape, but sterile, without any signs of oganic life, except the artificial brook made of tap water. I could not grasp the meaning of it all. Listened to the conversations surrounding me and became somewhat angered and irritated at the visitors who made ​​a concerted effort to find meanings, signs and experiences. After all, this was art and Louisiana had paid millions of Danish crowns to bring all this boring stuff down from Iceland.  To me it appeared as if the people around me did not see much more than piles of gray and black gravel. My wife complained that the pebbles destroyed the heels on her shoes.

Someone next to me took photo after photo. An elderly man exclaimed enthusiastically in Danish: "A landscape surrounded by white walls. Ingenious! "Another man muttered in Swedish: "More than a hundred Danish bucks for this mess! It's crazy." The lady who in high heels stumbled forward by his side was muttering:" But Nolde was included in the price." "Yes, and he was not worth it either." "You cannot mean that!" "Yes, yes, though some of it was OK and … after all, it was art”. "It is the brook that gives it life," said the elderly gentleman, who had a huge, white mane of hair. "Though, after all it  is not a real landscape. It is not true”, stated the lady by his side, an elegant, very lean and furrowed woman in a dress that was boldly patterned in black and yellow. “Of course it is not real. It is art. All art is imitation, an interpretation. As a matter of fact, this is more real than any oil painting of a landscape”, lectured the old Dane. "Gravel is gravel, wherever you put it," muttered the Swedish man, seemingly annoyed to have paid over a hundred Danish crowns just to look at this bold scam.

I slowed down, thinking that if the people around me disappeared out of sight maybe an art experience might  come my way. My family hurried on up a wooden staircase by the end of the Icelandic gravel piles. The crowd of chatting people thinned out, but even if the premises became deserted no overwhelming experience took hold of me. I gave up, went up the stairs and came into a room lined by glass walls, behind which the broad strait between Denmark and Sweden spread out - gray under a gray sky. The sea was choppy and the white crests of the waves shone in the grayness. The room was warm and cozy, the windows protected against the raw, cold air out there in the compact rain. I was standing by the window, fascinated by the sight of the landscape; the gray ocean expanse spread out in front of me to almost impercerceptibly join an equally gray sky by the horizon. It was beautiful. From the room's cozy warmth I could enjoy the chilly, damp landscape. I began to suspect that this experience was strengthening my impressions from the recent, short trek across the Icelandic gravel within the rooms behind me. I now saw a landscape that was outside the room, after walking through a landscape that was enclosed by rooms. The scenery inside was as true as the one out there in the approaching evening. The gravel and stones taken from far away Iceland now lived within Louisiana's walls. Lived? It was just gravel and stone.

I went back. The premises were now deserted. I saw how the Icelandic landscape spread out between the walls, it was as if it was floating into room after room. It was connected, uninterupted, while the white walls grew out of it. While I had been watching the cold rain hammering the dark waters of Öresund the Icelandic landscape between the white walls had changed thoroughly. It had grown and taken possession of the rooms. I went down among the boulders and gravel and placed myself by a wall to consider the enclosed landscape. I could now see and hear the murmuring brook making its way between gravel and boulders, the silence made everything widening up. It was magic; the landscape came to life and began to breathe. But then a noisy group of visitors entered, just as before they talked, took photos, looked around while their busy feet crunched the gravel, the room shrank; gravel became gravel, the brook turned into a stream of tap water. The spell vanished. However, when the group left the room rippling water could be heard again, stones and gravel once turned into nature and took possession of the room, transforming it.

I now understood what the man had meant during my previous trekking through the rooms: "A landscape enclosed by white walls. Ingenious!" Sure, it was an art exhibition after all. A sterile landscape of stones and gravel was presented inside the walls of a museum. But just the fact that it was shown in there made me and other visitors pay attention to the miracle that such insignificant objects as gravel and stones have a life of their own, together they formed a landscape and as the white-haired man had stated, it was the water that gave life to it all. I stood in the quiet room, listening to the rippling water and once again felt how the piles of gravel were breathing.

Then my oldest daughter appeared. She had also received some kind of revelation up in the room by the sea. She stood next to me and told me that she had been confused by the gravel piles. Not least due to the fact that she and her sister quite recently had been to Iceland and walked across the deserted expanses up there in the far north. What was the point of taking down all this gravel from up there? Down in the lush landscapes of Denmark it was after all impossible to recreate the strange feeling of finding oneself in the middle of an Icelandic wilderness. Furthermore, she had previously seen Olafur Eliasson´s famous installation The Weather Project in Tate Modern´s Great Hall in London, where Olafur had artificially recreated a huge sun that gave both light and heat. This huge exhibit had not only been a powerful experience, but also constituted a resting place in the middle of hectic London, where some people sought out tranquility several times a week. If Olafur achieved such an impressive work of art in London - what was his meaning with these tedious gravel mounds in Denmark?

In the room with the sea view Janna had browsed through some books and catalogs that lay scattered on a table and in one of them she found a statement by Olafur Eliasson: "Contact is content”. She looked out of the window. Once Andy Warhol had been asked which had been his greatest work of art and he answered: “To look out of the window”. Could this be something similar? She watched the bleak landscape out there. How do you describe a landscape? How do you explain it? Just looking at it creates a form of contact, an experience, and in that sense the landscape obtains a “content”, it becomes meaningful.

Perhaps Eliasson had brought down ​​stones and gravel from Iceland to make us experience a kind of contact with an Icelandic landscape? Through our interaction, our “contact” with the boulders and gravel, their "content" was revealed to us. Janna was standing beside me and together we experienced the same feeling I had had before she came. In addition, Janna now remembered how it had felt to find oneself on these Icelandic expanses. The landscape had been immense and open and yet had she and her sister got the feeling that the sky was low, it rested above them in a completely different way than it did in Sweden: "It was almost as it is here, where the roof is resting over gravel and stones." Janna left me and placed herself in another corner, in another room.

Then my sister-in-law turned up, I motioned her to me and asked her to stand next to me, wanting to test if my experience had been purely imaginary. "Stand here beside me, look and listen" I told her. After a while she said: "It's magic." Without me explaining it to her she had experienced the same thing as I and Janna; how the presence of visitors made the room shrink and transform to nothing else than a room filled with gravel and stone, but as soon as the visitors disappeared entered that strange feeling of peace and nature appeared again. We now experienced it, all of us, including Esmeralda and Vincenzo who joined us and inhaled the strange sensation that we found ourselves in rooms that enclosed a living nature. “Riverbed” is the name Eliasson gave to his installation and you could really found some rest in there.

Was it imagination? Was it because the whole thing was presented like some kind of art that the feeling of magic and rest appeared? Had we maybe experienced something like that which the Greeks described as "catharsis" – a cleansing that enables us see things, life, in a new way? Had Olafur Eliasson predicted all this? Perhaps. I do not really know. I bought the catalog and read it very carefully. Certainly there are many thoughts in it, a search, coupled with some kind of artistic assurance, but I found no description of an experience similar to the one which I and my family had received in there. A fact which further deepens the experience. Each of us was by Olafur Eliasson given an opportunity to create a personal approach to the enclosed landscape he presented us with. Once again I had realized the truth of Emile Zola's assertion about true art: "A work of art is a corner of creation seen through a temperament."

It is now September. Walking through the woods I notice that the birds are not singing anymore. Suddenly the calls of wild geese cuts through the neighborhood, looking up I can between the treetops see a plough of  geese flying south across the blue sky. Autumn´s impending arrival tunes me into a melancholy mood. A few lines from a song by Elvis Costello appear in my mind:  

Banish all dismay, extinguish every sorrow
If I'm lost or I'm forgiven, the birds will still be singing

My wife, sister-in-law and daughters, as well as the boyfriend of the younger one, were with me for a couple of weeks, something that implied a string of activities, as always a mixture of leisure, fun and strife. Now calm has settled again, everyday routines have returned and I miss both my family and the birdsong.

When I return to our empty house I am eying through Swedish Birds with its amazing aquarelles compiled by Olof Rudbeck the Younger by the end of the 17^th century. My friend Örjan gave it to me on the unforgettable surprise party my family arranged to celebrate my sixtieth birthday. While looking at the pictures I realized that birds are extraordinary creatures, with their feathers, their singing and their ability to fly. They are incomprehensible. Who could anyone in any sensible manner offer what the title of one of  António Lobo Atunes´s  novels  indicates: “An Explanation of the Birds” (Explicação dos Pássaros ). This made me think of how a blind man in H. G. Wells´s short story The Country of the Blind explains his world to Nuñez, a man who with great difficulty has found his way to an isolated country where everyone is blind from birth. Due to his gift of vision Nuñez is regarded as a kind of mental freak who from scratch has to learn everything about the world and people´s existence within it:

And the eldest of the blind men explained to him life and philosophy and religion, how the world (meaning their valley) had been first an empty hollow in the rocks, and then had come first inanimate things without the gift of touch, and llamas and a few other creatures that had little sense, and then men, and at last angels, whom one could hear singing and making fluttering sounds, but whom no one could touch at all, which puzzled Nunez greatly until he thought of the birds.

Due to their flight ability birds have by different cultures been considered as a link between the divine realm and the human world. All the evangelists wrote that after Jesus had been baptized, the Spirit of God came down upon him in the form of a dove:

And straightway coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens opened, and the Spirit like a dove descending upon him (Mark1:10).

It is thus not surprising to find pigeons in Christian art. While living in Rome I found them all over the place, from the catacombs to the numerous mosaics and frescoes depicting them in the churches, while the living specimens littered our terraces and early in the morning woke us up with their annoying cooing.

On Medieval mosaics another bird takes up competition with the doves - the peacock, the uncrowned bird champion when it comes to overwhelming displays of nature's immeasurable splendor. This bird's sumptuous appearance seems to deny Christian demands for prudent humility, but its presence in the churches are generally defended by an ancient legend stating that the peacock's flesh cannot rot and is therefore reminding us about eternal life; the eyes that adorn its train symbolize the all-seeing deity, as well as the firmament´s grandeur with its sun, moon and stars, its incomprehensible beauty has furthermore been compared to the Tree of Life in Paradise.

I came to think of the peacock while browsing the bird book I got from Örjan, he had a month before my birthday given me another book, a collection of short stories by the odd Southern gothic author Flannery O'Connor, a great connoisseur of peacocks. Suffering from an incurable and debilitating disease, systemic lupus erythematosus, she lived in anticipation of death with her mother on a farm in Georgia, surrounded by a flock of peacocks. Her short stories and two novels are characterized by grotesque characters, though she describes her peacocks with both empathy and sympathy, for example, in her article "Living with a peacock":

The cock’s plumage requires two years to attain its pattern, and for the rest of his life this chicken will act as though he designed it himself. For his first two years he might have been put together out of a rag bag by an unimaginative hand. During his first year he has a buff breast, a speckled back, a green neck like his mother’s and a short gray tail. During his second year he has a black breast, his sire’s blue neck, a back which is slowly turning the green and gold it will remain; but still no long tail. In his third year he reaches his majority and acquires his tail. For the rest of his life — and a peachicken may live to be thirty-five — he will have nothing better to do than manicure it, furl and unfurl it, dance forward and backward with it spread, scream when it is stepped upon and arch it carefully when he steps through a puddle.

Like many writers praising the peacock's astounding beauty O'Connor also points to his beauty spots:

Not every part of the peacock is striking to look at, even when he is full-grown. His upper wing feathers are a striated black and white and might have been borrowed from a Barred Rock Fryer; his end wing feathers are the color of clay; his legs are long, thin and iron-colored; his feet are big; and he appears to be wearing the short pants now so much in favor with playboys in the summer. These extend downward, buff-colored and sleek, from what might be a blue-black waistcoat. One would not be disturbed to find a watch chain hanging from this, but none does. Analyzing the appearance of the peacock as he stands with his tail folded, I find the parts incommensurate with the whole. The fact is that with his tail folded, nothing but his bearing saves this bird from being a laughingstock. With his tail spread, he inspires a range of emotions, but I have yet to hear laughter.

Another peculiarity is the peacock's voice:

Frequently the cock combines the lifting of his tail with the raising of his voice. He appears to receive through his feet some shock from the center of the earth, which travels upward through him and is released: Eee-ooo-ii! Eee-ooo-ii! To the melancholy this sound is melancholy and to the hysterical it is hysterical. To me it has always sounded like a cheer for an invisible parade.

In his Sufi inspired poem The Conference of the Birds, written in 1177, the Persian poet Farid ud-Din Attar described how the Peacock is annoyed by and suffers from his ugly feet:

Then like a Sultan glittering in all rays

Of Jewelry, and deckt with his own blaze,

The glorious Peacock swept into the ring:

And, turning slowly that the glorious thing

Might fill all eyes with wonder, thus said he.

'Behold, the secret artist, making me,

With no one colour of the skies bedeckt,

But from its angels´ feathers did select

To make up mine withal, the Gabriel

Of all the birds: though from my place I fell

In Eden, when acquaintance I did make

In those blest days with that seven-headed snake,

With these ill feet, was thrust out and debarred.

Little I care for worldly fruit or flower,

Would you restore me to lost Eden's bower,

But first my beauty making all complete

With reparation of these ugly feet.'

The peacock´s ugly feet are occasionally mentioned in Oriental literature, particularly in Arabic and Persian texts. In a collection of sayings attributed to Muhammad's cousin and son-in-law, Ali, he mentions that the peacock's feet cause so much embarrassment to the proud bird that he cannot help bursting out in ailing cries as soon as he catches a glimpse of them.

The tale that ud-Din Attar tells makes the peacock allude to a legend explaining why its most magnificent creature was banned from the Garden of Eden. The peacock is accused of bringing evil into the world since it was he who made it possible for Iblis, the Devil, to enter the Paradise in the guise the seven-headed serpent that finally succeeded in tempting Adam and Eve to eat the Fruit of Knowledge. Since he had once and for all been expelled from Paradise Iblis had been forced to persuade one of its inhabitants to open the gates. The peacock used to perch on the high walls surrounding the Garden of Eden. As he sat there, looking out over the surrounding wasteland, Iblis crept forward. After winning the peacock´s confidence by praising his breathtaking beauty and furthermore convince him that as a mighty angel Iblis would be able to grant the peacock several wishes, like eternal youth, protection against diseases and furthermore provide a guarantee of eternal residence in Paradise. However, to be able to fulfill all these promises Iblis had to gain access to the Garden of Eden and he needed help since he had lost his keys somewhere in the Garden´s lush greenery. The peacock believed Iblis, was fooled and opened the gates.

Accordingly, it was the peacock´s boundless vanity that caused the disaster of contaminating humankind with transmissible sin and his own banishment from Paradise. Like when the Devil, in the guise of Al Pacino, in the movie The Devil's Advocate states: "Vanity. Definitely my favorite sin.” This after he throughout the movie has tried a vast amount of different tricks to vanquish an honorable lawyer, only to find that flattery and the promise of admiration from his colleagues finally makes him in possession of the advocate´s soul.

Criminals are often narcissistic and one of modern history´s arch villains was in fact, like the peacock, plagued by his feet, or rather foot - Hitler's propaganda minister, the demonic Joseph Goebbels. Far from being handsome, the short Dr. Goebbels could nevertheless gain the admiration of men and women. He was always ready to flaunt his intelligence and poisonous tongue, impressing people with his blazing, brown eyes, a winning smile, a modulated baritone and not the least an aura of confident authoritarianism. He demanded to be titled "Doctor" and dressed impeccably in the latest fashion, tenderly nursing his appearance, always professionally manicured and groomed, every day he spent at least fifteen minutes under a sunlamp. Dr. Goebbels had private aircraft, rail cars and limousines at his disposal. If he became interested in a lady, he sent her clever gifts with well-formulated, romantic messages.

Early on in his life Goebbels got to know that his right foot was incurably lame, it was a "neurogenic clubfoot", which meant that it was inwardly bent, bloated and shortened. In his diary Goebbels wrote:

My youth became fairly joyless. [When the doctor said the foot was incurable] it became one of the crucial events of my childhood. I was directed to myself. Could no longer be involved in other people's games. Was alone and solitary. Maybe because of my problem too much of the darling child at home. My friends did not like me.

Goebbels noted that it was the struggle to overcome his disability that made him strong and uninhibited. The deformity caused him all sorts of misery, for example, he wrote in his diary that the great love of his youth, Else Jahne, left him after a "schism caused by my foot problem". It was his almost absolute power within the Nazi hierarchy that saved him from further humiliation.

Obviously it is not uncommon for men who have been fighting against real or imagined physical defects to develop a demonical attraction on women. Like Goebbels, Lord Byron suffered from a foot problem and like the Minister of Propaganda he surrounded himself with an aura of demonic impiety and elegance.

Byron suffered from a so-called "Achilles ailment", a defect of the Achilles tendon that made one of his feet four inches shorter than the other and turned outward, something that Byron was forced to remedy by an arrangement which meant that an iron rod was applied to the foot to keep it straight. Several of his friends and contemporaries have testified how he suffered from his foot and the fight against the malformation affected his entire attitude to life, his relations to the men and women who fell in love with him.

In the name of political correctness I ought to stress that a physical defect does not need to constitute a foundation for a person's outlook on life, but it can certainly characterize a person's emotional life and create vulnerability to any remark that could insinuate shortcomings in someone´s looks and character. As the witty and cynical Swedish writer Fritjof Nilson, “the Pirate”, used to say: "I cannot speak of a darning needle without a one-eyed wretch is hurt."

For sure, his misshapen foot made Byron hypersensitive, something that was not surprising since his mother, who he hated throughout his life, used to call him a “lame brat” However, like his sarcastic mother Byron was convinced that he was a beautiful lad, able to attract and manipulate both women and men. As the gifted poet, he was, Byron was able to reshape his existence into poetry and vice versa. His disfigurement and intellect made him a stranger in life and as such he was inclined to play theater, a spectacle that could easily turn into real cruelty.

The Italian literary historian Mario Praz wrote in his fascinating study The Romantic Agony that Byron often excelled with his malice and bitterness, for example was the poet's behavior towards his wife characterized by such an outstanding moral hardness that one may doubt whether all that was said and written about it was really true. Byron found that his irrational and offensive behavior, as well as his fascination with evil, were mixed up with passion and love: “My embrace was fatal. I loved her and destroy'd her.”

Mario Praz describes in detail how different kinds of evil virility, or rather energy, were expressed in the literature of the Romantic era. When Byron identified himself with the Satan John Milton described in his Paradise Lost, it was mainly the violent passion, the unbridled energy he was fascinated by: “The great purpose and meaning is the sense that we exist, that we do so in pain.” Praz writes that there were traits of insane comedy in the sordid drama of Byron's life, most scenes seemed to be taking place within a "moral torture chamber". Byron disciplined his body, but not his mind. He was involved in a constant struggle against his weak physique, his innate tendency to obesity and in everything he did, he sought intemperance: "Passion is our life's element, without it we would just vegetate."

It is probably no coincidence that Mario Praz wrote his book in 1930 when fascism and its vain leader Benito Mussolini were at the height of their power. Mussolini was a pompous theatrical entertainer who spiced his persona with a flavor of demonic attraction. Energy was a keyword for Fascists, everything would be renewed and revitalized. If a total ruthlessness developed during the process of change it could be defended by saying that the end justified the means, or as the Communist Lenin put it: “If you want to make an omelet, you must be willing to break a few eggs.” By the way, in spite of the fact that Italian Fascism was fervently opposed to Communism, there was a common ground in the two political movements´ fascination with vital energy. Even if the leading stars of Italian Futurism and Soviet Avant-garde, Marinetti and Mayakovski, did chose different political paths they were united in mutual respect and the artistic movements they headed were unashamed in their open avowal of violence as a political means and their ends were equally extreme and uncompromising. As an example, the 1912 Russian Futurist publication A Slap in the Face of Public Taste included Mayakovsky's first published poems: Night and Morning.

Mario Praz describes how Milton's wicked and hate filled Satan, after he had been cast down from Paradise remained beautiful and impressive, characterized by "a magnificence shaded by sorrow and death". Milton's Satan (it is no coincidence that Al Pacino's Devil in the movie Devil's Advocate calls himself John Milton) personified rebellion and defiance, a form of "heroic energy". According to Milton, Satan was the only creature who truly knew God's omnipotence, and yet he dared to rebel against him.

No one, not even Lord Byron managed to highlight the fallen angel's magnificence in such an impressive way as the Russian Mikhail Lermontov, who actually was distantly related to Byron and knowingly took after a lot of the great Englishman's manners. Lermontov's poem The Demon (1838) unfolds among Caucasus´ altitudes where "the sun's glow in the early hours" lends sky and mountains its golden color and the deep valleys are covered with pale gray mist when muezzins from minarets' crests are calling to prayers and the sound of church  bells echoes  between mountain sides.  

God´s world lay wonderful and wild …

But the proud Spirit looked with doubt

And cool contempt on God´s creation,

His brow unruffled an serene

Admitting no participation.

The Demon, Satan, who for eternity has been condemned and forsaken by God, will never die and has grown tired of everything, even sheer evilness disgusts him. Nevertheless, among the Caucasus´ valleys he catches a glimpse of beautiful Tamara and for the first time during his wretched existence the reviled Demon is struck by the full force of love.

He is utterly lost, humiliates himself and entreats the beautiful, but mortal maiden:

No sooner did I see you than

I felt a sudden, veiled revulsion

For immortality and power;

And I was drawn by a strange compulsion

To envy the frail joys of man:

Life without you became a torment

To be apart from you – a horror.

[…] You are my holy one. This day

My power at your feet I lay.

And for your love one moment long

I´ll give you all eternity.

For I am changeless, true and strong

In love as in malignity

Free spirit of the air, I´ll bear you

High up above the stars where you

Will reign in splendor as my queen.

The demon wins Tamara's love, but she is not able to cope with the coldness that has become entrenched in his soul and his pent-up passion finally destroys her. When the Angel of Death carries the deceased Tamara's soul up to Paradise the demon encounters the both. He is filled by rancor and aggressiveness since he once more has become a misunderstood outcast, cursed and opposed by God.  All his good intentions have been crushed; hatred of everything and everyone fills him to the brim. When Tamara meets the frenzied stare of her former lover she becomes terrified:

His gaze so brooding and morose

So venomous with hate eternal …

It seemed a death-like cold infernal

Lay on that frozen face and brow …

Banished from love and joy the hateful demon returns back to earth, his gloomy domicile.

One who became fascinated, or rather obsessed, by Lemontov´s demon was the Russian artist Mikhail Vrubel (1856 - 1910), who for most of his working life was struggling to complete a definitive portrayal of Lermontov's Demon. Like Gogol with his Dead Souls and Dostoevsky with A Great Sinner, Vrubel never managed to complete his plan to accomplish a “definite masterpiece”. Eight years before Vrubel´s death his great canvas The Fallen Demon was displayed at the School of Stoganov in Moscow and became an immediate success. Crowds flocked to admire the fallen demon crushed to earth "alone in the universe. Abandoned, without love and hope." The Demon is defeated and beaten, but meets the spectator with a defiant glowering gaze; still alive, but helplessly trapped in his own arrogance.

The unusual, oblong format, the thick layer of shiny color, but especially the demon's dark features and terrifying gaze enthralled the audience, who also gathered to see how Vrubel almost daily appeared in the hall carrying brushes and colors to enhance/change the expression of the demon's face. Something he continued to do when the painting a few months later was exhibited in St. Petersburg. Vrubel had gone mad and for the rest of his life he was confined to a mental institution where he continued to, in sketch after sketch, reproduce the demon's face while simultaneously working on a constantly changing painting he called The Six Winged Seraph, which also showed the demon's features.

On Vrubel's painting the fallen demon lies somewhere among the Caucasian Mountains, resting above the remnants of his mighty wings, depicted as peacock feathers. In Attar's poem about the Birds´ Conference we learned that the peacock's plumage had been created with angels' wings as a prototype and furthermore that he was called the Gabriel of Birds.  Likewise the archangel Gabriel, Heaven's chief angel, messenger of God and leader of the heavenly hosts, has been called the Peacock of the Angels. The Peacock Angel is also the main deity of the Yezidi, who call him Malāk-Tawū.

The Yezidi´s historic core area is the plains of Nineveh, north of the city of Mosul and is now divided by the border between Iraq and Syria. Yezidi villages are also found in Turkey, Armenia and Georgia. It is possible that both Lermontov and Vrubel encountered Yezidis in Georgia, where they often spent time, being inspired by legends told in the shadow of the mighty Mount Kazbek.

Yazidism finds its roots in the seedbed of various religions; like the Iranian Zoroastrianism and cult of Mithras, Babylonian Manichaeism, Judaism, Gnosticism, Christianity, Islam and several local traditions, especially popular Sufism. Central to their beliefs is that God, who among them is called Xwadē, distant, omnipotent and incomprehensible created Malāk-Tawū out of his own splendour. Since Malāk-Tawū was the creature closest to Xwadē´s heart he told him not to submit to any other creature than himself, so when Xwadē ordered the archangels to bow to Adam, Malāk-Tawū refused to obey, defending his disobedience with the fact that he had been created as a reflection of Xwadē´s divine splendour and thus could not bow before anything made out of soil. Xwadē was impressed by Malāk-Tawū´s brave stance and decided to give him the power over Adam and his offspring, as well as the entire earth.

It is thus the Peacock Angel, Malāk-Tawū, who is the Lord and Master of this world, providing meaning to our entire existence. By the beginning of humankind´s existence Malāk-Tawū fell like a star from the sky and when he reached the earth he gave it life, light and warmth. He had fallen in love with humankind and pitied it because it lived in darkness and ignorance. He felt sorry for the lonely and vulnerable and thus chose to leave the realm of infinite light and warmth, bringing with him a spark of the divine presence. That had not been part of his agreement with Xwadē, who accordingly withdrew his support to the rebellious angel. Even the people of the earth, whom he loved and provided with light and hope, feared Malāk-Tawū as an incomprehensible stranger. Many despised him, taunted and mocked him. However, Malāk-Tawū accepted their mockery with serenity, hoping that reason and goodness would ultimately prevail. Finally, he encountered a friendly people, pure of heart, and they took him in among themselves, perceiving the spark of eternal light he was nursing and venerated Malāk-Tawū as provider and protector. They gave him their trust and care. This was how the Yezidi by understanding Malāk-Tawū´s true nature became despised by those who had turned their backs on the divine harbinger of truth and enlightenment. The Yezidi saw the good in what other people despised. They knew that the world is far from being perfect, that the peacock in all its glory has ugly feet, but that does not hinder him from exposing and representing the glory of heaven and preach peace and brotherhood among men.

Yezidi beliefs arouse antipathy among those who preffered to regard life as either white or black. Those among us who want to wipe out people who do not perceive life in the same way as they do. Their enemies asserted that the Yezidi worshiped Iblis, the Devil, and the Yezidi were forced to hide their beliefs from those who were unable to understand what they were preaching. In the end, the Yezidi did not dare to mention Malāk-Tawū´s name to strangers, they hid their faith´s inner meaning and called themselves sharfadin after an insignificant man who neither said nor did anything subversive. Among themselves they assured one another that it was their duty to preserve the truth and suffer their martyrdom. Yazidi scribes sometimes state that during the last thousand years they have lived through  72 massacres and they are  currently  suffering their seventy-third visitation as IS, The Islamic State, pillages their towns and villages, while murdering any Yazidi they can lay their hands on.

The Islamic State? A group of militant Sunni Muslims who had chosen to attack the American invasion forces soon controlled several core areas in Iraq. However, their intolerant, violent regimen aroused opposition even among the Sunni who had felt discriminated by Iraq's Shiite majority. Nevertheless, the movement grew strong and is currently calling itself IS, the Islamic State. They are led by a certain Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, a forty years old man from Samarra who claims to have a PhD in theology from the University of Baghdad, but is better known as a brutal butcher. By the beginning of 2010, it was assumed that IS counted upon 4 000 armed men, but it is now estimated that its forces are constituted by between 20 000 and 32 000 fighters distributed between Syria and Iraq.

The Islamic State´s nasty ideas are not only a result of confused speculations by bigoted theologians, it is also a jailbird ideology that has emerged among criminal thugs and uneducated youth. Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi spent five years in Camp Bucca, one of the Americans' concentration camps for thugs, terrorists, common criminals and a lot of innocents rounded up during various clean-up operations. In early 2005, there were 26,000 detainees in US controlled prisons and compounds inside Iraq. Currently more than 100,000 individuals have passed through the gates of such institutions.

A fatal mistake was to separate detainees on the basis of  their self-proclaimed religious beliefs. Andrew Thompson, who worked as “intelligence liaison officer”  at  “Camp Crooper”, observed that: "the compound´s “emirs” controlled the prison population, Detainees, for example, refused to watch television or play ping-pong, lest they face the judgment of the Shariah  courts. Moderate detainees suffered repeated physical violence from radicals. When they fought back, they were punished by the prison authorities”. According to Thompson “the prisons became virtual terrorist universities". When Camp Bucca was closed in 2009 Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi was released along with other future IS leaders with names such as Abu Muslim al-Turk Mani, Loay Abu, Abu Kassam, Abu Jurnas, Abu Shema and Abu Suja (Abu is "father" in Arabic and a common prefix to Arabic surnames). Such prison radicalized fanatics could among their former fellow inmates quickly establish the terrorist gangs, which eventually become the core of IS.

Like a well-established mafia organization IS has substantial assets, mainly based on kidnapping, armed robbery and extortion. During the chaos that now prevails in Syria the IS has established itself firmly within the northern parts of the country and can thus mobilize funds originating from oil fields, electricity sales and smuggling. It is furthermore assumed that up to 10 percent of IS´s income derives from donations by individuals and other stakeholders. IS is infamous for its use of terror, but the organization also wins souls and hearts through charity, road building and by offering free electricity and "education", mainly in the form of da'wah, religious instruction or proselytizing. Like any big company IS is since publishes 2012 issuing an Annual Report, presumably to attract donors.

The Islamic State is a frequent web user. Their most prominent online publication is Dabiq. The name provides a hint to the Organization's twisted ideology. Dabiq is a city in northern Syria, which by many Sunnis is associated with an approaching Last Judgment, when the sheep will be separated from the goats. A belief that carries a special meaning and attraction for certain Salafi (from salaf, predecessor, or ancestor), who want to establish an ideal society in accordance with their perception of the conditions that 1 400 years ago prevailed in the society that grew up around of the Prophet. Of great significance are the obscure prophecies written down in Abu Hurariah´s Hadith. Abu Hurariah knew the Prophet and in his name several predictions have been handed down, in particular concerning an imminent fight against Constantinople, or Rome. A fight that presumably will start in Dabiq. IS applies these prophesies to the present and teaches that they concern the immediate fall of the Western powers and Christianity. One reason to why Abu Hurariah´s prophecies have become so popular among IS followers could be that they are generally not accepted as authentic by Shia, the group that the Sunni-oriented IS adherents consider themselves to be discriminated by. One Abu Huaryrah prophecy states, for example:

The Last hour will not happen until the Romans come to al-A'maq or Dabiq. Then they will be greeted by an army from Medina, composed of the world's best people.

The murderous Abu al-Baghdadi consider himself to the leader of the "world's best people" that the prophesy is mentioning and their task will be to realize God's plan for the entire humanity. Al-Baghdadi has taken the title of Amir al-Mu'minin, Leader of the Believers, and is by IS regarded as a caliph,, ie the Prophet's deputy, heading the State of God, IS says it wants to establish in accordance with another of Abu Huaryrahs prophesies:

God will within this community [i.e. the true believers in Northern Syria] by the end of each century exalt someone who will renew the faith.

IS´s armed forces attract young men from all over the world. They are probably looking for a cause to believe in during these times of violent structural changes, confusion, poverty and unemployment. Like Goebbels and Byron who were tormented by their infirmities and shortcomings, fundamentalists and fanatics seek confidence and justification in a faith that might strengthen them and make others forget about their mistakes and inadequacies. The thought that they have the right and power on their side and accordingly a mandate to condemn those who are not with them to death and humiliation, carries for many of IS hitherto confused youngsters a liberating sense of strength and power. To “follow the Will of God" in the company of other energetic young men and to be encouraged, praised and rewarded for acts that previously have been banned and rebuked, probably produce a sense of invulnerability and authoritarianism.

However, those who do not share the IS faith become victims of their vengeance and wrath; men, women and children are kidnapped, tortured and murdered. Blood flows in streams in the Nineveh Valley. IS fanaticism affects Shia Muslims, Assyrians, Chaldeans, Syrians, Armenians, Druze, Nizaris, Mandeans, Jews and all other people who do not share their faith. The IS caliphate provides the “infidels” with three options, i) conversion to Islam; ii) jizya, the tax imposed on monotheists who do not want to convert to the true faith; or iii) death. The last option applies inevitable to the Yezidi, who even if they would repent nonetheless are doomed since they in IS eyes are, or have been, devil worshipers.

The Islamic State denies free will and in violation of the religion they assume they belong to they place themselves on the throne of God Almighty and do in His name condemn their fellow human beings to death and suffering. Something I assume is an abomination for most righteous Muslims, who agree upon the fact that one of the prime features of The Prophet was righteousness.

Sinjar, a city that for centuries has been a center of the Yezidi and one of their most sacred sites was taken by storm by IS forces on August the third this year. More than 200 000 people were displaced, including 40 000 Yazidi, who were forced to leave behind 500 massacred co-religionists.

It has been said that the moral collapse that befall supporters of fundamentalism and totalitarianism is uncommon, but I assume that such a claim is unfounded. To me history indicates that it is fairly easy for ordinary people to become fanatics, capable of committing or defend the mass murder of innocent and defenseless human beings. Furthermore, such horrific changes may occur within a fairly short time span. For such a process of increasing indifference or, even worse, uninhibited violence to get started  it seems to be enough that a majority is becoming better off due to what they imagine to be innate characteristics, or a reliance on a fairly recently invented  traditions, while a minority for similar reasons is becoming marginalized and worse off than before. An individual's dignity becomes downgraded while entire groups of people are deemed to be unworthy of participating in the community of the majority. This may be the beginning of the establishment of a set of values ​​that eventually turns into the prerequisite for a process that ends with a group destroying another. We have witnessed such processes in Eastern Europe during the Second World War, in Bosnia and Kosovo, in Rwanda, in China under Mao, in the Soviet Union, in Kampuchea, and now in Syria and Iraq. We have to choose sides before it becomes too late.

Take care! Do not fall victim to what the current pope has called “the globalization of indifference”.  We have to avoid an overestimation of our own excellence, like the peacock being blended by the glow of his beauty and brilliance. Such blindness can easily bring us to gates of hell and beyond. We might occasionally turn into peacocks, raising magnificent trains, forgetting our own wretchedness and wallow in what many of my fellow Swedes lovingly remember as the “People´s Home” of the fifties, or the Swedish excellence that we ourselves adorn us with, instead of looking down towards our own ugly feet, those that unite us with the earth. Our feet that are supposed to anchor us in reality and make us realize that we share both the ugly and the beautiful, the good and the bad, with the other inhabitants of our global village. Like the Yezidi faith in Malāk-Tawū, the Peacock Angel who despite his superior beauty chose to descend to earth to help the people down here. A faith IS fanatics regard as devil worship. If you judge people by the results of their beliefs, it is easy to ask who worships what. To deny other people their value, to exclude, murder and rape can that be counted as service to God? No, I am assured of the fact that another Master is served by SI, exactly the one they accuse their victims of serving.

The birds have fallen silent, the cold is approaching. In this week´s elections the painfully jingoistic Sweden Democrats gained the trust of more than 700 000 of my fellow countrymen. A party that makes a difference between people and people, wanting to sift the goats from the sheep. There are currently 4 000 Yezidi in Sweden, on the run from murderous fanatics. Do the Swedish Democrats care about that?  Do they know who the Yezidi are? Where they come from? What they flee from? Come on! Please, do not lie to me. You don´t give a damn about it. You are like so many others becoming part of the mighty European party of the Indifferents. Maybe one day I will also be a party member, running the risk of waking up in a strange world, far from the one I envisioned myself to grow old in.

Maybe I'm a hopeless romantic, but like Kierkegaard I would like to be able to define himself as an individual and a human being. To avoid becoming a bloodthirsty beast, or a dumb creature, it is necessary to make choices. I did not chose the Sweden Democrats. Not that I believe myself to be superior to those who did it, but because I wanted to imagine what my choice could mean to me as an individual. I choose to try to believe in justice and equality. A choice that might help me not to end up in a situation where I have to make a choice between people and people, like on the ramp at Auschwitz - who should be put to death, who is going to live. Exaggerated? Perhaps. But, I wanted to avoid being dazzled by all this stifling Swedishness, the supposedly magnificent plumage of Our Great Nation, instead I prefer to consider the ugly feet that anchor me to the ground.

Asatrian Garnik S. and Victoria Arakelova (2014) The Religion of the Peacock Angel: The Yezidis and Their Spirit World. Cambridge: Acumen. Farid ud-Din Attar (2012) The Conference of the Birds (Bird Parliament), translated by Edward Fitzgerald. Digireads.com Publishing. Guerman, Mikhail (1988) Mikhail Vrubel. Leningrad: Aurora Art Publishers. Jackson, Christine E. (2006) Peacock. London: Reaktion Books. Lermontov, Mikhail (1976) “The Demon: An Eastern Legend, translated by Avril Pyman”, in Michail Lermontov: Selected Works. Moscow: Progress Publishers. Longerich, Peter (2015) Goebbels A biography. London: HighBridge Company (this book is scheduled to be published in Enlish translation in 2015, I read it in Swedish).  MacCarthy, Fiona (2002) Byron: Life and Legend. London: John Murray. O´Connor, Flannery (1988). “Living with a Peacock”, in O´Connor, Flannery: Collected Works. New York: Library of America. Praz, Mario (1978) The Romantic Agony. Oxford: Oxford Press Paperbacks. Tompson, Andrew and Jeremi Suri (2014) "How America helped ISIS", in New York Times International, 2 October.