Wednesday

The Cemetery Project - Marianne Rieter, part II


Last Saturday we featured the first part of Marianne’s interpretation of the Trinity Church, Protestant Cemetery II, located in Berlin, Germany. As we continue with our visit, we are treated not only to her visual childhood odyssey, but also to her reliving that childhood. While things have changed in the years, it still possesses its beauty and charms of those days, now reflected in her photographs. 


Walls with warm earthy textural tones reveal their age along side of climbing ivy. Hydrangeas tower along side, reaching towards the sky above, where plates with individuals names announcing their life span are mounted.




The Cemetery II of Trinity Church - Part Two
by Marianne Rieter







The Wonderful Visit
by H.G. Wells

The afterglow of the summer sunset in the north-west darkens into night and the angel sleeps, dreaming himself back in the wonderful world where it is always light, and everyone is happy, where fire does not burn and ice does not chill; where rivulets of starlight go streaming through the amaranthine meadows, out to the seas of peace. He dreams, and it seems to him that once more his wings flow with a thousand colors and flash through the crystal air of the world from which he has come.













          Translation

Der Wunderschöne Besuch
von H.G. Wells

Das Abendrot des sommerlichen Sonnenuntergangs im Nordwesten verdunkelt sich langsam, und der Engel schläft und kehrt im Traum zurück in die wunderbare Welt, wo es immer Licht ist und wo jeder glücklich ist, wo einen Feuer nicht verbrennt und Eis nicht frieren lässt; wo Bäche von Sternenlicht durch die amarantroten Wiesen fließen, hinaus in die Meere des Friedens. Er träumt, und es scheint ihm, als erstrahlten seine Flügel noch einmal von tausend Farben und blitzten in der kristallklaren Luft jener Welt, aus der er gekommen war.















In a Graveyard
By John Hay

                                   In the dewy depths of the graveyard 
                                   I lie in the tangled grass, 
                                   And watch, in the sea of azure, 
                                   The white cloud-islands pass. 

                                   The birds in the rustling branches 
                                   Sing gayly overhead; 
                                   Gray stones like sentinel spectres 
                                   Are guarding the silent dead. 

                                   The early flowers sleep shaded 
                                   In the cool green noonday glooms; 
                                   The broken light falls shuddering 
                                   On the cold white face of the tombs. 

                                   Without, the world is smiling 
                                   In the infinite love of God, 
                                   But the sunlight fails and falters 
                                   When it falls on the churchyard sod. 

                                   On me the joyous rapture 
                                   Of a heart's first love is shed, 
                                   But it falls on my heart as coldly 
                                   As sunlight on the dead. 





















Die Duineser Elegien
von Rainer Maria Rilke

                              von Die erste Elegie

                      Freilich ist es seltsam, die Erde nicht mehr zu bewohnen,
                      kaum erlernte Gebräuche nicht mehr zu üben,
                      Rosen, und andern eigens versprechenden Dingen
                      nicht die Bedeutung menschlicher Zukunft zu geben;
                      das, was man war in unendlich ängstlichen Händen,
                      nicht mehr zu sein, und selbst den eigenen Namen
                      wegzulassen wie ein zerbrochenes Spielzeug.
                      Seltsam, die Wünsche nicht weiterzuwünschen. Seltsam,
                      alles, was sich bezog, so lose im Raume
                      flattern zu sehen. Und das Totsein ist mühsam
                      und voller Nachholn, daß man allmählich ein wenig
                      Ewigkeit spürt.  Aber Lebendige machen
                      alle den Fehler, daß sie zu stark unterscheiden.
                      Engel (sagt man) wüßten oft nicht, ob sie unter
                      Lebenden gehn oder Toten. Die ewige Strömung
                      reißt durch beide Bereiche alle Alter
                      immer mit sich und übertönt sie in beiden.

























          Translation

The Duino Elegies
by Rainer Maria Rilke


                              from The First Elegy

                       True, it is strange to inhabit the earth no longer,

                       to use no longer customs scarcely acquired,
                       not to interpret roses, and other things
                       that promise so much, in terms of a human future;
                       to be no longer all that one used to be
                       in endlessly anxious hands, and to lay aside
                       even one’s proper name like a broken toy.
                       Strange, not to go on wishing one’s wishes. Strange,
                       to see all that was once relation so loosely fluttering
                       hither and thither in space. And it’s hard, being dead,
                       and full of retrieving before one begins to perceive
                       a little eternity. - All of the living, though,
                       make the mistake of drawing too sharp distinctions.
                       Angels (it’s said) would be often unable to tell
                       whether they moved among living or dead. The eternal
                       torrent whirls all the ages through either realm
                       for ever, and sounds above their voices in both.











Part one of Marianne’s visual story, The Cemetery II of Trinity Church




LINKs:
M Rieter Personal Website
M Rieter FaceBook Fan Page
M Rieter Flickr Gallery
M Rieter Instagram Gallery
M Rieter Hipstamatic Oggle Id: @ma-rie

Saturday

The Cemetery Project - Marianne Rieter, Part I


Cemeteries evolve their personality slowly, taking decades and even centuries in achieving their current stage of appearance. Be it grand or desolate abandonment, one can find beauty in a place of bereavement, for there is life, signs of hope and continuity.


The third on our series is by Marianne Rieter, taking us on a slow visual odyssey, passed stone arches and ornate gates of iron, down along fields of flowers to where grand structures stand as monuments to a period of time long passed and only a memory for a very few.


There are plenty of signs where nature has left her mark, trees rising tall above the stones, growing old in their ever changing shadow, that watches over the memories of those who came before us and are now laid to rest.


Walk down this path through the words and pictures of Marianne Rieter, as she recaptures childhood memories . . .




The Cemetery II of Trinity Church - Part One
by Marianne Rieter



          Il existe, au milieu du temps,
          la possibilité d’une île. *


                              - Michel Houellebecq





Als ich ein kleines Mädchen war, hat mich meine Großmutter im Sommer fast jeden Tag auf den Friedhof oberhalb vom Dorf mitgenommen. Sie schleppte Gießkannen voll Wasser zu den Gräbern unserer Verwandten und erzählte dabei Geschichten.


Geschichten von Tante Albina, der alten Jungfer, die nie geheiratet hatte und unten im Tobel allein in einem Haus gewohnt hatte, vom Tatt und der Tatta, deren Bilder auf den eisernen Grabkreuzen zu sehen waren, und von ihrer lieben Tochter Paula, die alle da oben bewacht vom schönen Jesus am Kreuz unter der Erde lagen. Zwischen den Kieselsteinen, mit denen ich spielte während sie erzählte, waren nicht nur Katzengold und Splitter von Bergkristallen zu finden, sondern hie und da auch kleine Teile von Knochen. Und doch hatte dieser Friedhof für mich als vierjähriges Kind nichts Gruseliges, Trauriges oder Beängstigendes – es war ein Ort voll Sonne, voll Ruhe und voll spannender Geschichten.




Viele Jahre später habe ich die ganz alten Friedhöfe entdeckt mit ihren Skulpturen, Denkmälern und Bäumen. Ich bin fasziniert von der Handwerkskunst der alten Bildhauer, dem großen Können und der Liebe, die einzelne Skulpturen auch hundert Jahre später noch strahlen lässt. Es zieht mich immer wieder hin in diese besondere Atmosphäre, die Raum lässt für Gedanken und Geschichten, zu diesen Inseln, auf denen der Zeit im üblichen Sinn nicht existent scheint – sei es in der Schweiz, in Italien oder in Berlin, wo diese Aufnahmen entstanden sind.





          Translation

When I was a little girl, my grandmother has taken me almost every summer day to the cemetery above the village. She dragged watering cans to the graves of our relatives and in doing so she told stories.


Stories of aunt Albina, the spinster, who had never married and had lived down in the ravine alone in a house; of Tatt and Tatta, whose pictures were shown on the iron grave crosses, and of her dear daughter Paula, who all were buried in this earth guarded by the handsome Jesus on the cross on top of the hill. Between the pebbles with which I played while she talked not just fool's gold and slivers of rock crystals were to find, also small pieces of bone here and there. Yet, for me, a four year old child this cemetery had nothing creepy, sad or frightening - it was a place full of sun, of calm and full of exciting stories.




Many years later I discovered the very old cemeteries with their sculptures, monuments and trees. I am fascinated by the craftsmanship of the ancient sculptors, their great skills and their love that even a hundred years later makes individual sculptures literally beam from the inside. And again I am attracted by this special atmosphere that leaves room for thoughts and stories, by these islands on which time in the usual sense does not exist – be it in Switzerland, in Italy or in Berlin, where these pictures were taken.











Der gute Engel
von Rafael Alberti

                              Es kam der, den ich liebte,
                              der, den ich gerufen.

                              Nicht jener, der schutzlose Himmel fegt,
                              Gestirne ohne Unterschlupf,
                              Monde ohne Heimat,
                              Schnee.
                              Schnee, wie er einer Hand entrieselte,
                              ein Name
                              ein Traum,
                              eine Stirn.

                              Nicht jener, der sich den Tod
                              ums Haar geschlungen hat.

                              Der, den ich liebte.

                              Ohne die Lüfte zu schrammen,
                              ohne Blätter zu ritzen oder Fenster zu rütteln.
                              jener, der sich die Stille
                              ums Haar geschlungen hat.
                              um hier, ohne mir wehzutun,
                              ein Flussbett lieblichen Lichts in meiner Brust zu
                              graben und meine Seele schiffbar zu machen.








          Translation

The Good Angel
by Rafael Alberti

                              The one I wanted came,
                              the one I called.

                              Not the one who sweeps away defenseless skies,
                              stars without homes,
                              moons without a country,
                              snows.
                              The kind of snows that fall from a hand,
                              a name,
                              a dream,
                              a face.

                              Not the one who tied death
                              to his hair.

                              The one I wanted.

                              Without scraping air,
                              without wounding leaves or shaking windowpanes.

                              The one who tied silence
                              to his hair.

                              To scoop out, without hurting me,
                              a shoreline of sweet light inside my chest
                              so that my soul could sail.








          Anmerkungen über den Friedhof
          Berlin-Kreuzberg - Friedhof II der Dreifaltigkeitsgemeinde

Der Friedhof II der Dreifaltigkeitsgemeinde liegt in Berlin-Kreuzberg und ist einer der vier evangelischen Friedhöfe an der Bergmannstraße. Angelegt im Jahr 1825, ist er der älteste von ihnen.


Charakteristisch für den rund 49.000 m² großen Dreifaltigkeitskirchhof ist die große Anzahl teils monumentaler alter Erbbegräbnisse und Mausoleen aus dem 19 Jahrhundert sowie alter, mit gusseisernen und teils verrosteten Gittern umzäunten Grabstätten. Auffallend ist auch die für Berliner Verhältnisse eher ungewöhnliche Hanglage, die dadurch bedingt ist, dass alle Friedhöfe an der Bergmannstraße auf einem ehemaligen Weinberg angelegt worden waren. Heute stehen alle vier Friedhöfe unter Gartendenkmalschutz.










          Translation

          Remarks about the cemetery
          Berlin-Kreuzberg - Cemetery II of Trinity Church

The Cemetery II of Trinity Church is located in Berlin's Kreuzberg district, and is one of the four Protestant cemeteries at Bergmannstraße. Created in 1825, Cemetery II is the oldest of them.


Characteristic of the approximately 49,000 m² cemetery is the large number of partly monumental old family graves and mausoleums of the 19th Century as well as old, gated graves with wrought iron work and partly rusted bars. Also striking for Berlin standards is the rather unusual slope, which is due to the fact that the Bergmannstraße cemetery had been build on a former vineyard. Today, all four cemeteries are under monument protection.














Part two of Marianne’s visual story will be posted this coming Wednesday.




LINKs:
M Rieter Personal Website
M Rieter FaceBook Fan Page
M Rieter Flickr Gallery
M Rieter Instagram Gallery
M Rieter Hipstamatic Oggle Id: @ma-rie



          Footnote - Translation:

         * There, in the midst of time,
            the possibility of an island

                 - Michel Houellebecq


Wednesday

Looking Back - Giancarlo Rado


It is not uncommon for some photographic projects to take years or even a lifetime, as with Bernd and Hiller Becher who collaborated on documenting industrial buildings and structures, or that of August Sander visually recording the German people in the early twentieth century, including the body of work of Robert Frank’s The Americans. Their dedication has left us with an incalculable social record of the times and Giancarlo Rado’s dedication to preserving a visual record of the inhabitants of Northeast Italy in The Italians, is such body of work.


The photographs, all environmental portraits capture not only the person’s unvarnished reality but also the surroundings of world they reside in or that of the Italian landscape. For it is Giancarlo’s purpose to visually describing the social changes of his country by describing the work of people here. And when he meets a potential subject, he ventures to their home or place of work, listening to their stories, all of which fuels Giancarlo’s inspiration.


Currently The Italians is a collection of over 400 photographs and still growing. 



The Italians

































LINKs:

Giancarlo Rado Flickr account
Giancarlo Rado FaceBook page

Saturday

The Cemetery Project - Egmont van Dyck


These past eighteen months in which I have visited numerous cemeteries, even revisiting multiple times several over the year, I have seen the seasonal changes interacting with monuments, grave markers and the plants. Also bearing witness to vandalism, theft and changes Mother Nature has upon the metal and stone. 


I have also observed how society’s views over the past century have changed about the way wish to remember the dead, especially by administrators of cemeteries. 




Each of these cemeteries with there very own appearance, giving it a unique style that also reflect the local history not only in the names of the departed, but also the craftsman’s hands that have chiseled the stone and shaped the structures.


These silicified edifices stand in glory as architectural witnesses bearing structural details and ornaments which are mostly no longer part of this century. Sadly, much of the architectural details fall victim to weather and time. 





























All photographs taken with an iPhone 4S by
©2014 Egmont van Dyck - All Rights Reserved








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