Times they are changing . . .

 . . .but changing back to a more normal time.
 A time when quality, not quantity ruled and when cooking was part of family life, not a celebrity game on tv. It is the time of our grandmothers when the stove always was full of pots bubbling, when the oven always had a cake magically turning golden, when one remembers standing there in an amazement comforted by the smells of home. How ever did they do it?
You are about to find out...

In this blog you will find recipts of delicious traditional continental food, tips on what to have in your larder and how to, with minimum effort, create sumtous dishes. So come along, won't you ?

Kitchen table philosophy

For me, autumn is always some sort of end of year. Summer is gone and the schools are about to start with a new year with renewed energy. And I, although not having had a vacation, again, this year, still feel energised and ready to go.

But this year is different, not in a bad way, but maybe in a more profound one. Maybe even a more “introvertly” profound way?

Lately I have been more and more finding my way in my new found life here in the countryside, here in England and even here as a mother. One day goes after the other, seemingly similar, an everyday sort of existence that quickly goes by without making you ask any questions. Until one day, one moment maybe when you against all odds a put in front of a choice and you ask yourself “what do I want” and the only answer is a silence (maybe with a small echo from your question! ). You simply do not have the answer,  you do not know what to choose, because you are not there.

Earlier this year I went to Prague and went through a return to places, lives and emotions past and for a moment I thought that I had retouched with myself, that the silence have turned into a whisper, just amplify it a little and we are back in business. But of course things are not that simple. On the contrary, they get more complicated.

I really enjoy my life, that is the paradox I think, I really enjoy to be active, to do millions things at once to juggle all sorts of projects (I even learnt how to juggle once as a pet project, really) and I do not want to give anything up. I love my cooking, I love my sewing and all those housewify things that I do. I love my gardening, although I secretly long for a gardener to do it for me instead. I do not want to give these things up but they quarrel with what I have to do, and that is my creative life whether it is my writing, my films or my pics, I need to do them or I will go mad (I know I tried it !). Not to mention that I since soon 5 years back am a mother and that is definitely something that doesn’t link well with overly introvert examination and realisation and analysing “who am I, really !”

But if I don’t analyse like that how will I get the voice back that previously guided me so well, through my studies, through my life and my choices.

I think the clue to all this is to realise if the road I am on is the right one. There are so many to choose from, how can I know that the road I am on is for me, not knowing where it leads to. I think women some time ago had an easier task. There were only a limited amounts of roads to take so the choice was not as hard. And within these roads they could create their own little paths to realise themselves . . . . I am not suggesting to turn back the clock and to return all ladies to their ties by the stove. But is there maybe something that we have lost along the way to freedom?

I do not know, and probably I will not find out. But for now I will let this midlife crises do what it pleases, because the apple cake is burning in the oven, my son wants a story read and my husband complains that the house is in a mess! I wonder if this ever happened to Hitchcock ?

v

What is in a name . . . .

I have pondered about this for a while now, how much does a name of any sort reflect on how we are perceived, whether it is a name itself , or of ones title or ones job, how true is it really.

This is the first time I live in a country that is in no way related to me. I have lived in Czech before, but my maiden family name is Czech so that was sort of well descriptive, didn’t give any surprises. In Sweden, I was born and grew up so I had the support of my friends to know that I fitted in. And also you could hear that I am Swedish as soon as I spoke.

But here, they hear that I am not English, obviously, then they read my Polish surname and immediately an image, remote from which I actually am, appears in their mind and it is not only an image they see, it is also a whole story surrounding that image.

In one way it is good, because when they do meet with me and I explain who I am really, then I will be remembered (the crypto Pole who is actually a Swede but not a real one since she is Czech). But it is, in a time of quick, fleeting contacts a very hard, almost, struggle to be perceived for what you are and what you have to offer from the very beginning. And being a filmmaker to that, rings in many people’s ears, especially in the province, as beret wearing, gloomy, angst filled, good for nothing who takes himself, and his self proclaimed greatness, too seriously, while chain smoking, sipping red wine . . .Now, I am none of those things, except the occasional red wine, and yet this is what I have to calculate with when networking with other people. A friend of mine suggested to create a work name to use when working only, but isn’t that a little strange when they do find out? Because they do find out!

And on the other hand we rely so entirely on names to guide us, to know what we want, to know who we are dealing with, even where we come from. So what to do when names no longer represents a reality. Or have they ever done that?

Of course they haven’t, but for a vast majority, the easily manipulated populous, the names have given a possibility of easily (because that is the key word with this group) defining and organising the confusing world around them. And even give them a political opinion and agenda. It is this generalisation of the world that slots people into boxes and those boxes are fixed, tagged and labelled. And if you do not fit into one, there will not be another box made for you, but you will be forced into one, until you pop out and then you are placed in another one. And you need to be in one.

But then there is a certain type of people, who has had different experiences, lived through different things, met different people and they will take the extra time to look beyond the name, who knows that if you look hard enough you can get surprised. And the funny thing is that this group of people is a cross section of all classes, you can find them among builders, among shopkeepers, among the upper classes and among the lower ones. These are the ones that we should look for and when we find them keep hold of. Because these people are the real builders of a good strong and respectful society (not tolerant, hate the word tolerant, I do not want to be tolerated, I would like to be respected though). These, and not the politically correct, bland people who will mark words, and names, and gets offended by their own gender, are the ones who will create a happy, inclusive and prosperous society. If that is what we want?

Why make it simple . . .

Now I am truly off. First lines of a new idea for a new short have been written down and I feel quite excited. I remember this phase; it is one of the more pleasant ones when you think that your idea is so original that no man in the history of humanity has ever come up with such an idea. But this phase is sharply followed by a more unpleasant one when, blushing, I can’t believe the gobbledygook I am writing and the unforgivable pride I find myself guilty of in thinking that my idea is in any way original. But does it have to be original? Or is everything, all the ideas linked in an endless chain through history?

I guess it depends ultimately on what view one has on the position of the individual in the society. Do you believe that we are born into a culture and there is not much we can do about it, or do you believe that every child born is an original, unattached, blank canvas? Is a child an original or an improved copy?

Seeing my own boy, this mixture of two European cultures, Polish and Czech (plus a whole encyclopaedia worth of other European influences) genetically and two other European cultures as influences (Swedish and English), one can clearly see that the genetic are stronger than the acquired. He is not a Sweden not English, he is too frozen for that (!), in his ways, in his way of thinking and in the way he looks. But he would completely fit into a Polish or a Czech surrounding, even behaviourally. So although he is unique, he is not original. And I think this is a good lesson to be aware of. You do not have to be original, but you should always add something of yourself to the stew. It has to be true, and by being true it becomes unique.

Sweet Dreams

So turning over another leaf and trying to ignore pondering about life in general, that never ever leads you anywhere and listening to my Angel Maxette, I concentrate on here and now and on what I know best.

We have now shown Nemo to quite a big group of people from different surroundings and with different interests and they all have one thing in common (besides really liking the film) and that is the question, “what is the next one”.  Slowly (because that is how I am constructed!), I start to realise that Nemo could be the start that I have been waiting for most of my life, the start of realising the films that has lodged themselves in the back of my mind and sits there like couch potatoes in their undershirts, bellies hanging out and a beer in hand watching “footy” on the “telly”. Now I have the chance to get them out and get them exercised.

There is no lack of ideas, fortunately I have never had that problem, but it isn’t as simple as having an idea and then finding ways of realising them, I am too much of a realist in life to think that. I do not have an endless budget, currently I have no budget, so I have to make sure that the ideas are being developed into a more generic form but without turning the whole idea into a thesis. I also need to keep in mind a way of realising the film without having a budget like Avatar.

So how do I go about it? How do you develop an idea when you have strict limitations, or maybe the best ideas comes from limitations? Maybe if I think of the whole realisation and creation of the film (as I think of my current state of mind) as a ball of yarn that has been through a cat house (hihihi, that is descriptive not only for the script, I fear)and I need to unravel it into a straight thread. What you do is you try and ease it into a bigger more airy ball and then you pull all the different loops until you find something that could be the start of it. It is not a very nice process, with a risk of not only snapping the thread, using too much frustrated force, but also there is a risk of turning you totally mental with a blood pressure of a stock broker.

But at the end could be a dream coming true, so for me it is definitely worth it, even if I only come half way to the dream , it is such an excellent dream,  a small part of it would be worth it. Because what else is the point with dreams if not realising them?

“So until we meet again and the case is solved!”

V

Home is where the heart is...

I just got back from a trip with a friend to my Prague. We went there with an excuse to show Nemo and since I have been missing Prague for so long and she had never been, we thought that we would sneak over for 2 days. What can happen in two days, right?

But as I was sitting in the restaurant Cihelna by the water overlooking Charles Bridge and those beautiful buildings lining up like heroic soldiers on the other side, I realised that I thought of this place as part of my family. There in Rudolfinum, my grandfather, who always bought season tickets, took my mum as a child to concerts. Across the street, in Umprum, my father studied and I knew which window was his studio. Further up stream, at the place where the New Stage of the National theatre is, my mum grew up, with her window facing the long corridors backstage at the National Theatre. Defying sleep she used to watch the actors rush through the corridors in full costume and then slowly walk back exhausted after the performance. It was then, she was about five, that she decided to become an actress. How can Prague not be the obvious place for me to live?

I have lived in different places, including Prague, and in every place something was missing. In Sweden it was the warmth of every day interaction, in England it is the lack of roots and family and in Prague it was the small minded view on the possibilities in life. But then it was ten odd years ago I left and I was also ten years younger and in ten years Prague has changed, I have changed.

Since I have left Prague I have only come back twice, making this last visit the second and altogether in the ten years of separation from Prague I have only spent a week of visiting it, so my view in the changes in Prague are very naive, unfounded really. But during this last visit, meeting an old friend and seeing the business he is building up, a lovely coffee shop called “Friends”, not to be missed, seeing that it is possible to have ideas and realising them, ie living a life of ones choice makes me think that maybe during our 10 years Prague and I have developed in a direction where we can create my life together. But then I walk down Narodni, a boulevard de facto, that in its prime was filled with coffee shops and book stores and galleries, with Klasterni Vinarna as an exclusive spot, where the street lead you through these elegant spaces down to the culmination which was the river and the view of Hradcany. To now see the street filled with gambling shops, thai massage offers and cheesy (sorry for the pun) fast food pizza places , makes me realise, that the Homo Sovieticus people that I fled from the last time, still exists and their mission to make other peoples life as grey as possible, is not completely failed.

So can I live there? Should I take the leap and pack the family and go back? Or is it just a nostalgic dream?  Would I be accepted? Would I be able to create a life for me and my family?

The problem lies in that I sincerely do not know the answer to any of the questions. If I did I wouldn’t have a dilemma. But then there is the fact that sitting on the plane back to England I felt that I was leaving home. And that is an argument that is really hard to beat..

Yours in Confusion

Veronika

Life as a Dream

What is imagination good for, really? Are there not enough stories of tragedies and of joy in the real life, in news for instance, to satisfy our voyeurism (the basis of our story telling, I am sure that the first story to be told was a gossip!!)?And are there not, after thousands of years of storytelling , enough stories in our common tradition to render all new attempts on retelling, pointless? Why do we need more? How come we still get excited (well I do . . . .) when a new author, describing as promising appears on the world media scene and how come we still have a thing like the Nobel Prize in Literature, no other art form have been celebrated in this way ? Literature is still first page stuff, although one must be excused for thinking that all stories have already been told?

But isn’t literature, and poetry especially, the most intimate of art forms?  Isn’t literature a window into the human internal dialogue?  Surely story and history (news or gossip if you wish) are two ends of a spectrum. We can live without the gossip (although it would be boring), we can even live without beauty (better not tried . . .) but we cannot live in separation, we cannot live in loneliness, we cannot live in a vacuum. We need to speak and to hear others speak and this is what literature fulfils. With literature we get a unique insight into the mind of a fellow human being, we get a glimpse into someone else’s most intimate self, we literary hear his/her mind.

In a world where we are more and more detached from each other, where we rely more and more on  computers and social medias (what a paradox !) to stay in touch, literature becomes more and more important. No other art form has this level of intimacy, film or theatre merely visualises an internal process, but with literature you can hear it, live it, put a face to it, maybe a face from your own world.

I do not read all that much, I haven’t really got the time, but I do have my books that I read a couple of pages from and then maybe a couple of days later I read some more. I like this, it is more of a dialogue like this and you tend to live more with the book. The book I have on the go now is Llosas “Conversation in the Cathedral” which I highly, highly recommend.  And it is such a book, and such a writer that he really overwhelms you with his world and characters. You start to remember scenes from the book and they feel like your own memories, characters start to speak freely in your mind and you rely on them like real people. Wonderful, but I couldn’t imagine what it must be like to read the book, in one go. It would take over your world completely, become your own like a day dream and, unfortunately, we all need to function in a reality and not in the intimate dreams of our inner mind. But thanks to books, thanks to the wealth of literature and the glorious spectrum of different writers, we all can, quite without getting raised eye brows, slip into our own inner world and dream about a different life, even if it is just for a minute . . . .