Another Gray Day in Almaty
It’s raining on and off again today, temperature has cooled way down. Actually turned off the bedroom a.c. Otis was teething and very grumpy today, as you can see from pictures below. He’s turning over by himself more and more, but when he goes from stomach to back, he lands hard on his head if we don’t catch him in time…. happened this morning and he wailed for a couple of minutes.
We asked if we could get more details on his feeding and sleeping times and if we could maybe feed him and change him, and Galina’s response was: “When you take him home.” Ohhh-kayyyy.
The Art Museum. [This post is David’s, except for this section, which is a joint production.] After the babyhouse, we went to the Kasteyev State Museum of Fine Arts with Zoya. Believe it or not, the museum was DJ’s idea, but going with Zoya makes DJ look like a serious museum lover. She scheduled us for an hour march through; we pushed it to an hour and a half. The place is three stories with a good-sized floor plate. It is the local equivalent of the National Gallery. It is not possible to get through it an hour unless you just walk through each room without looking at anything.
There were some very interesting, fun pieces, most all of it from the 20th century. Some fabulous textiles, a few sculptures, but mostly paintings, and 90% artists of the former Soviet Union, including many Kazakhstanis. One special exhibition was devoted to a contemporary Kazakhstani artist, whose work we both liked very much. Zoya promised to write down his name for us, then did not. Maybe tomorrow, because CD liked the work so much, she would love to buy a piece. This artist does landscapes of contemporary KZ, mostly of the steppe, many of industrial and mining processes, executed in big swathes of flat but intense color, colors most western artists don’t/wouldn’t use – violets and mauves and mustards and deep blues – a lot of it weirdly evocative of the American West.
Otherwise, influences among the artists collected were pretty obvious – Picasso, Cezanne and Matisse, plus a little Rivera, Bracque, Cassat/Monet and Gaugin, all strained through the Soviet ideology. The best part was after the initial, “oh that’s a ‘Rivera,’" seeing what the artist did with it, since all the subject matter was very local. Thus in the case of the “Rivera," a heroic Kazakh couple in the foreground with horses running around behind. Likewise, a "Monet" of Kazakh women celebrating the birth of a baby outside a yurt, etc.
Most irritatingly, there are no reproductions of the art for sale. Instead the “gift shop” sells rugs and antique decorative items.
* * * * *
Afterward we went to Green Bazaar and did some shopping. What follows are some random observations and whatever else I’ve been chewing on.
Cell Phone Culture. Cell phones here all seem to be burners (for you Wire aficionados). You buy a pre-paid phone and then refill it with cards you buy from kiosks or vending machines. Main providers are Activ, Beeline or K-Cell; mine’s an Activ. I’m on my third $10 refill card, burned one down calling Alan late one night at the Alehouse and another calling friends from the Spence-Chapin program, Cathy & Tony, who are now in Pavlodar, adopting their daughter Elizabeth. The kiosks sell all manner of cell phone accessories, including leather belt holders, knitted purse-like holders and little lounge chairs for your phone to sit in.
Green Bazaar. The Kazakh theory of butchering is very unlike the American/European one. We bought what we thought were chicken thighs today. They turned out to be breast pieces with part of the back attached and the rib pieces removed. CD is frying them up as I type this. Rom (or gypsy) women are all over the bazaar, either old and bent and begging for money, or middle-aged and trying to sell you shopping bags. White corn was all over the market today; half the vendors we saw were eating it raw at their booths. Other than dill and parsley, fresh herbs must be hunted down; the one woman who sells rosemary parcels it out in little bags like it’s saffron.
Garbage. We dump our garbage behind the apartment complex in a series of dumpsters that are emptied, it seems, every other day. Garbage here smells invariably like sour dill. The homeless root through it for empty beer bottles and whatnot. This evening as part of my take-out-the-garbage,- pick-up-more-cold-beer nightly routine, I approached the dumpsters, and a homeless man approached me. He looked at my bags and gestured for me to leave them on the ground, which I did. He looked in the bags, saw all the empty beer bottles and said, “Spasibo!” or “Thanks.” As I walked away he said loudly again, “Spasibo,” I turned to say “Pojolsta,” and he was giving me two thumbs up.
Dogs. Not a lot of them on the streets here. Seen a few collies, Scotties (and other terriers), Dobermans, rotweillers and assorted mutts. Bruno, we miss you.
We asked if we could get more details on his feeding and sleeping times and if we could maybe feed him and change him, and Galina’s response was: “When you take him home.” Ohhh-kayyyy.
The Art Museum. [This post is David’s, except for this section, which is a joint production.] After the babyhouse, we went to the Kasteyev State Museum of Fine Arts with Zoya. Believe it or not, the museum was DJ’s idea, but going with Zoya makes DJ look like a serious museum lover. She scheduled us for an hour march through; we pushed it to an hour and a half. The place is three stories with a good-sized floor plate. It is the local equivalent of the National Gallery. It is not possible to get through it an hour unless you just walk through each room without looking at anything.
There were some very interesting, fun pieces, most all of it from the 20th century. Some fabulous textiles, a few sculptures, but mostly paintings, and 90% artists of the former Soviet Union, including many Kazakhstanis. One special exhibition was devoted to a contemporary Kazakhstani artist, whose work we both liked very much. Zoya promised to write down his name for us, then did not. Maybe tomorrow, because CD liked the work so much, she would love to buy a piece. This artist does landscapes of contemporary KZ, mostly of the steppe, many of industrial and mining processes, executed in big swathes of flat but intense color, colors most western artists don’t/wouldn’t use – violets and mauves and mustards and deep blues – a lot of it weirdly evocative of the American West.
Otherwise, influences among the artists collected were pretty obvious – Picasso, Cezanne and Matisse, plus a little Rivera, Bracque, Cassat/Monet and Gaugin, all strained through the Soviet ideology. The best part was after the initial, “oh that’s a ‘Rivera,’" seeing what the artist did with it, since all the subject matter was very local. Thus in the case of the “Rivera," a heroic Kazakh couple in the foreground with horses running around behind. Likewise, a "Monet" of Kazakh women celebrating the birth of a baby outside a yurt, etc.
Most irritatingly, there are no reproductions of the art for sale. Instead the “gift shop” sells rugs and antique decorative items.
* * * * *
Afterward we went to Green Bazaar and did some shopping. What follows are some random observations and whatever else I’ve been chewing on.
Cell Phone Culture. Cell phones here all seem to be burners (for you Wire aficionados). You buy a pre-paid phone and then refill it with cards you buy from kiosks or vending machines. Main providers are Activ, Beeline or K-Cell; mine’s an Activ. I’m on my third $10 refill card, burned one down calling Alan late one night at the Alehouse and another calling friends from the Spence-Chapin program, Cathy & Tony, who are now in Pavlodar, adopting their daughter Elizabeth. The kiosks sell all manner of cell phone accessories, including leather belt holders, knitted purse-like holders and little lounge chairs for your phone to sit in.
Green Bazaar. The Kazakh theory of butchering is very unlike the American/European one. We bought what we thought were chicken thighs today. They turned out to be breast pieces with part of the back attached and the rib pieces removed. CD is frying them up as I type this. Rom (or gypsy) women are all over the bazaar, either old and bent and begging for money, or middle-aged and trying to sell you shopping bags. White corn was all over the market today; half the vendors we saw were eating it raw at their booths. Other than dill and parsley, fresh herbs must be hunted down; the one woman who sells rosemary parcels it out in little bags like it’s saffron.
Garbage. We dump our garbage behind the apartment complex in a series of dumpsters that are emptied, it seems, every other day. Garbage here smells invariably like sour dill. The homeless root through it for empty beer bottles and whatnot. This evening as part of my take-out-the-garbage,- pick-up-more-cold-beer nightly routine, I approached the dumpsters, and a homeless man approached me. He looked at my bags and gestured for me to leave them on the ground, which I did. He looked in the bags, saw all the empty beer bottles and said, “Spasibo!” or “Thanks.” As I walked away he said loudly again, “Spasibo,” I turned to say “Pojolsta,” and he was giving me two thumbs up.
Dogs. Not a lot of them on the streets here. Seen a few collies, Scotties (and other terriers), Dobermans, rotweillers and assorted mutts. Bruno, we miss you.
posted by Candace and David at 7/15/2005 10:52:00 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home