Much Munch

So, the theme for the day is Munch. Edvard Munch.
Other than the amazing use of unlikely colors (such as a subtle green for a face, a purple for a brown, a yellow for a shadow), his expressionistic style pretty much sets the tone for the day. I started the day not really knowing where I was going. That is to say, I knew where I wanted to go, but I didn't actually know how to get there. This is pretty standard for me. So, I started with walking in a directioin. I walked until I decided I should change my direction.
These are the notes I took in my journal along the way:
I'm sitting in a cemetery in Slo right now. It is the first moments I have had alone for a couple of days now. It's about like Moscow (maybe a little warmer, or a little less wind). I'm perfectly fine in my wool pea coat and wool sweater.
In this cemetery are buried the first hostages killed in Norway under the Nazi occupation. Henrik Ibsen and Munch the artist are also buried here. Although, me having my wonderful luck with findind gravesites didn't actually find them. So, in my universe, they could have beeb buried in the Egyptian tombs for all I know. In any case, the sign said they were buried here, so buried there they probably are.
Seeing the people walk through the cemetery, I notice the Norwegians have a great dignity about them. Not pride or vanity, necessarily, but dignity. They are charming, and funny, good natured and, like I said, dignified. As a whole, I don't think I've met a happier-acting bunch. There was a girl playing fetch with her Boston Terrier (A very popular breed, by the way), in the cemetery and she didn't cease talking to her little dog. She talked and laughed at it, and it responded in it's playful puppy way by doing, apparently, exactly opposite of what she was telling it. I don't speak Norwegian. But I guessed. Still, this behavior just seemed to make her laugh more.
I can tell the days have just started getting warmer for the residents of Solo. The birds are flying about and the snow on the sidewalks and streets are just now melting a bit. There is yet to be pure water as yet, but the slipper sludge is just as good a sign of Spring as anything. And what should there be trudging the sludge but many parambulators pushed by energetic parents. On every street there were at least one or two black buggies to be seen. The outdoors is infused into every little infant at birth, it would seem. That entire passage was full of alliteration and rhyme, so I apologize.
The cemetery is just off St. Olave's street (or gate, as in Norwegian).
When I was younger, I imagined cemetaries to be frightening, spooky places. But since my travels have taken me to places beyond my family's final resting places, beyond the personal pain of loss, and because I am a bit older, cemetaries now seem to be a final refuge for the living, not the dead only. It's interesting because in the Norwegian cemetery, entire families are buried together. And there is a little star to the left of each date to symbolize when they are born, and a cross to the left of the date of decease.
I am happy to see rhodedendrons here. Some of the branches have buds. I always feel at home where there are rhodedendrons. In Arcata, California, there were huge, red rhodedendron trees blooming profusely already (that was two weeks ago).
There are a lot of black oblisks. In the snow, they look like nails in the Earth that have worked their way loose over years of movement, and might, if the Earth shook a little bit, fall out of their holes to be strewn on the ground. The peace that descends on graveyards is astounding.
Other things I am doing: Saturday night, the 5th, I am seeing the new Opera "Lulu" at the Norwegian Opera and ballet house. I bought the last, good view seat in the stalls they had. The Norwegians LOVE their theatre and art, and music.
Apparently 30% of the population has a higher education degree. This may be part of the reason why they like theatre so much. Not hat having a degree is necessary to appreciate the arts, but it does expose you to it more frequently. I'll be visiting the Munch Museum, too, and see the Royal Palace, I hope. I must find them first, though. The streets are rather confusing.

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Like I said, I did visit the Munch museum, but found something a little nicer than the grand palace. I found the Botanical garden, which, as it's pretty obvious was snowed over. BUT, inside the botanical garden park, there is a little green house, and a big green house. I visited the little green house. Inside it was a pond full of the most beautiful water lillies I have ever seen. They are irredescently pink and green and sparkled in the artificial sun light. Swimming under them were guppies and a large boxer turtle. There was also a little room with epiphytes (plants that grow in trees, which I have decided are my favorite kinds of plants.) It was very lovely, and warm, which was a bonus for having been walking around in the cold for three hours (okay, minus half an hour break for lunch.)
On to the Munch musem.
It is artists like Munch, Matisse, Man Ray, Salvador Dali, and David Bowie who inspire me in my artistic endeavors. Yes, David Bowie is an artist. They inspire me because they aren't concerned about doing things the correct way, or the conventional way, and I guess it's the appeal that all true artists have. The appeal is they are not afraid to be themselves, or express their being in an unusual way. For so long, I have been afraid of my own expression, worried about whether it is "correct" or "incorrect", effective or ineffective, right or wrong, etc.
My favorite artists didn't give a damn. Or if they did, they surpassed their giving a damn by totally creating things subtle and beautiful. Things that I hope one day to create.
Oscar Wilde also did it with words, and his writing. He created a unique representation of himself, and as he said, "Every portrait is not one of the sitter, but one of the artist."
Too true, Mr. Wilde, too true.
Anyway, words can't express my happiness at seeing Munch's work (he is best known for "The Scream", but actually has a great deal of humor and lightness in his other works), so I will move on.
I ate a shrimp salad there. It was good. Standard European fare.
I walked "home" to the Anker hostel, took a shower, and when I got out, found a great conversation in fellow roomie Enrico from Italia.
We talked for about three hours, and to repeat everything would be too exhaustive and time consuming for even me. But, to sum up, interestingly, he studied scene design at a fine arts institute and now is making his way with his poster designs. It's been a good trip for him.
We talked a lot about art, and media, our generation, politics, the Norwegian language, education, etc.

But now it is quite late, and I must be off to write personal postcards to those lucky enough to earn one (just kidding about that... send me your address and I'll send you a post card).

All for now!
Ciao!
Hannah