Two weekends ago my classmates and I had the pleasure of taking a train to the former capitol of Russia, Sankt Peterburg. I found the train to be more comfortable than expected; we each had our own seat that also converted into a respectable bed, as the voyage was an overnight one (around 8 hrs). It was an excellent experience as we were able to mingle with some true Russians and enjoy the novelty of an extended train ride, which most of us had never encountered before. The only discomfort I felt with regards to the whole experience was the lack of privacy, as their were no partitions between my fellow passengers and I. Overall, I enjoyed it.
The real fun came when we actually arrived in Peter (as the Russians call it). The city can best be described as a gigantic museum where people live. The architecture is unlike anywhere else in the world with grand, pastel-colored buildings, massive cultural monuments, and magnificent imperial palaces. Peter the Great, when he commissioned the city's construction, roughly modled it's layout after Venice by having winding canals carved through the entire city and erecting 342 arching bridges to connect the estranged city blocks.
The weather in Peter was cold (shocker, right?) with random dousings of snowflakes the size of my eyeball. While I still recognize the freezing temperatures, they are nowhere near as bad as the 12 degree weather that accosted us when we first got here. Anyhow, here are some pics of the city in the spring (I didn't take these).
While the architecture was fantastic, the actual museums were breathtaking, full of history, extravagance, and royal vanity. The walls of both the Hermitage and the Russian Museum were adorned with golden leaf, painted with frescos, and molded with angelic sculptures. I cannot imagine how much effort and time were consumed in the erection and decoration of these massive structures. I took pictures of these locations, but if you want to see them, you will have to go to my facebook page as I am too lackadaisical to repost them here.
We meet a Brazilian named Ash in the hostel we stayed at who had been living in Peter for 4 months. He showed us around on our off evening, taking us to a cool British pub down the way from our prospekt. For the most part though, we were either touring museums, cathedrals, or museum/cathedrals to the point where I believe if I saw another sculpture of of a naked dude or iconoclast of some dead Russian saint, that I would go postal and further tighten Russia-US relations. I must admit the Rembrandt exhibit at the Hermitage was one of the most inspiring that I have ever seen. The skill and realism that Rembrandt portrayed his painstaking masterpieces blurs the line between photography and oil on canvas. I think of the torturous hours Rembrandt must have spent in his studio meticulously tracing this and that line then looking over the whole work and deciding that the tiny edge he had just spent hours defining wasn't within his vision. I can see him sigh twiddle his paint-speckled moustache and begin retracing again and again, until he had matched what was imbedded in his artistic consciousness.
This mental image reminded me of a dialogue I had just read in Plato's Symposium. In this dialogue, Socrates and Diotima are discussing the true essence of beauty and love. They are debating the conclusion that love is of the immortal and Diotima provides proof in the form of a parent's love of their offspring. She puts that people partake of immortality by conceiving offspring that will outlive them and so further themselves past their own lifespan. She believes that in this way the mortal body may partake of immortality to which Socrates asks: "'Is this really true, O thou wise Diotima?' And she answered with all the authority of an accomplished sophist: 'Of that, Socrates, you may be assured;-think only of the ambition of men, and you will wonder at the senselessness of their
ways, unless you consider how they are stirred by the love of an immortality of fame. They are ready to run all risks greater far than they would have for their children, and to spend money and undergo any sort of toil, and even to die, for the sake of leaving behind them a name which shall be eternal.'"
The real fun came when we actually arrived in Peter (as the Russians call it). The city can best be described as a gigantic museum where people live. The architecture is unlike anywhere else in the world with grand, pastel-colored buildings, massive cultural monuments, and magnificent imperial palaces. Peter the Great, when he commissioned the city's construction, roughly modled it's layout after Venice by having winding canals carved through the entire city and erecting 342 arching bridges to connect the estranged city blocks.
(Visual Aid)
(The Hermitage, one of the premier art gallas in the world)
(Cathedral of the Resurrection)
(Canal)
While the architecture was fantastic, the actual museums were breathtaking, full of history, extravagance, and royal vanity. The walls of both the Hermitage and the Russian Museum were adorned with golden leaf, painted with frescos, and molded with angelic sculptures. I cannot imagine how much effort and time were consumed in the erection and decoration of these massive structures. I took pictures of these locations, but if you want to see them, you will have to go to my facebook page as I am too lackadaisical to repost them here.
We meet a Brazilian named Ash in the hostel we stayed at who had been living in Peter for 4 months. He showed us around on our off evening, taking us to a cool British pub down the way from our prospekt. For the most part though, we were either touring museums, cathedrals, or museum/cathedrals to the point where I believe if I saw another sculpture of of a naked dude or iconoclast of some dead Russian saint, that I would go postal and further tighten Russia-US relations. I must admit the Rembrandt exhibit at the Hermitage was one of the most inspiring that I have ever seen. The skill and realism that Rembrandt portrayed his painstaking masterpieces blurs the line between photography and oil on canvas. I think of the torturous hours Rembrandt must have spent in his studio meticulously tracing this and that line then looking over the whole work and deciding that the tiny edge he had just spent hours defining wasn't within his vision. I can see him sigh twiddle his paint-speckled moustache and begin retracing again and again, until he had matched what was imbedded in his artistic consciousness.
This mental image reminded me of a dialogue I had just read in Plato's Symposium. In this dialogue, Socrates and Diotima are discussing the true essence of beauty and love. They are debating the conclusion that love is of the immortal and Diotima provides proof in the form of a parent's love of their offspring. She puts that people partake of immortality by conceiving offspring that will outlive them and so further themselves past their own lifespan. She believes that in this way the mortal body may partake of immortality to which Socrates asks: "'Is this really true, O thou wise Diotima?' And she answered with all the authority of an accomplished sophist: 'Of that, Socrates, you may be assured;-think only of the ambition of men, and you will wonder at the senselessness of their
ways, unless you consider how they are stirred by the love of an immortality of fame. They are ready to run all risks greater far than they would have for their children, and to spend money and undergo any sort of toil, and even to die, for the sake of leaving behind them a name which shall be eternal.'"
Rembrandt's wealthy sponsors deserted him in the twilight of his life, leaving him to paint in poverty and obscurity. It was during this time he composed many of his most famous masterpieces, painting elderly men and women in the Jewish ghettos. I believe he would understand more than most men this intrinsic longing for life beyond death, otherwise he would have gone out and gotten a job where he could make ends meet, not locked himself in a basement forgoing food to slather paint on a blank sheet of canvas. He outlived all of his children and his wives but continued painting, grasping at this immortality, which he achieved. However, was this a noble or selfish pursuit? Could he truly believe his art would improve the world in even some minute way or was he simply a lonely man, calling out into the void of eternity for someone to hear his voice?
I guess I am more aligned with the latter theory, but then again I don't believe anything worth happening would be accomplished without rational self-interest. That is the basis of capitalism after all; I guess I am just breaking it down to a more existential level. Anyway, he paint real good so I'm glad he was a lonely, self-promulgating money-waster.
Peace out,
Peace out,
DH
