It's reassuring to know that the extraordinary Chauvet site of prehistoric cave paintings, in the nearby Ardèche département, will be protected permanently from noxious tourism.
I've just been reading news reports in the French media concerning work in progress aimed at creating, for visitors, an artificial copy of the cave and its marvelous paintings.
The cave is located not far from the splendid Berty rose gardens in Largentière, where I purchased the six old rose bushes that grow on my pergola. So, I like to imagine that my roses came into existence in that same landscape where artists, 30 millennia ago, created amazing images of the beasts of their epoch.
The idea of preventing people from visiting the real cave means that this site will only ever be revealed to us in a kind of virtual sense, as if it were a modern computerized artifact. There is already a website that offers an elementary virtual visit.
I was amused to discover that the topographic map for the virtual visit is signed by Guy Perazio: a young surveyor who has his offices down in Pont-en-Royans. This suggests that Guy was one of the privileged few who've been allowed into the site. When I next run into him in the village, I'll ask him for his impressions. I notice too that the distinguished Australian rock-art specialist George Chaloupka has visited the site and commented upon this exceptional experience.
Here's some sound advice concerning the forthcoming census in Australia: Through their numbers and their well-organized stance, Australian atheists are making a fine name for themselves on the international scene. Needless to say, that situation makes me happy.
In the humble and peaceful existence that I lead at Gamone, it's a fact that one of my greatest pleasures consists of having the privilege of getting stuck into various exceptional books. Some of them have become regular companions, which I've reread several times over. For example: The Selfish Gene by Richard Dawkins, The Blank Slate by Steven Pinker, and The Fabric of Reality by David Deutsch. Over the last decade, various new book-reading elements have been falling into place, making it easier for a science aficionado such as me to get deeply involved in this activity. I'm thinking primarily of the Internet, which enables us to learn of interesting new publications, and to obtain in-depth background information concerning, not only the authors and their books, but also—and above all—the scientific domains to which the books refer. This is particularly true of the various life sciences that interest me—biology, genetics, psychology, human paleontology—but it is also the case for websites about physics and cosmology. All that you then need is time and solitude to carry out your reading. This is ideally the case for me at Gamone, where my only annoying distractions are the present blog (which nevertheless has a few meaningful justifications) and a little too much TV (generally high-quality) at times.
I'm perfectly aware that this kind of totally-introspective almost "absolutist" lifestyle is not helping me to become a well-behaved member of any kind of "society", be it my daily real-life environment at Choranche, or the less-tangible community of individuals with whom I enter in contact through the telephone and the Internet. But I don't look upon my personality, character and behavioral faults as things that need to be modified or "improved". I'm too old for that, and I'm really irreparably obsessed and dominated by my passion for a scientific understanding of my existence.
Today, happiness is not simply a great science book. It's rather a monumental document: The Hidden Reality, the third element of Brian Greene's trilogy that started with The Elegant Universe and The Fabric of the Cosmos.
I've just received it, hot off the press, and I'm taking my time to get stuck into it. I'm like my dog Fitzroy sniffing around a new food delicacy, posing it on the lawn, and trying to figure out the best angle of attack.
The subject of Greene's new book is really powerful stuff: the fascinating mind-boggling mysteries of parallel universes, or so-called multiverses, whose "existence" is strongly suggested these days by quantum mathematics and string theory (Greene's ongoing preoccupation).
I've always looked upon the respective domains of Richard Dawkins and Brian Greene as perfectly complementary quests. Dawkins is telling us what has been happening for a while on this precious little green and blue bubble named Earth, whereas Greene is concerned by a much bigger picture: the Cosmos. If I may push my favorite metaphor to its dizzy limits, the Earth and the Cosmos appear to me as Antipodean partners. For as long as we remain preoccupied by our familiar home planet, even to the extent of examining the unbelievably small and strange entities known as viruses, the Cosmos is a weird otherworldly phenomenon where common sense appears to be walking on its head. But, as soon as we turn to the Cosmos, it's suddenly the gene-based world of Dawkins that seems to be unimaginable, walking on its head, since it contains that extraordinary "thing" called consciousness. Dawkins and Greene are two sides of a single coin. Today, what is utterly amazing is that, through a certain number of great books, we can take hold of that coin and turn it over between our fingers.
I've just finished reading this splendid 100-page specimen of science writing from the US academic Carl Zimmer, who writes regularly in the New York Times and Scientific American.
Not so long ago, I would never have imagined myself buying a book on viruses, or even being capable of reading such a book, since I've never done any formal studies in biology, let alone human viral pathologies. But this subject has been constantly in the news for many years, and I consider it worthwhile to make an effort to understand what it's all about. In any case, Zimmer's immense talents as a writer (he lectures on science writing at Yale) enable the layman to read his fascinating virus tales as if they were stories in a popular magazine. So, I strongly recommend this little book to people who are interested in topics such as infamous everyday viruses (common cold, influenza), horrors from history (smallpox), current challenges (HIV, West Nile virus, Ebola) and the astonishing case of bacteria-eating viruses (phages).
One of the mysterious themes handled brilliantly by Zimmer is summed up in a simple question: Is a virus a true living thing—like animals, plants, fungi, bacteria, etc? Normally, we would imagine that the answer is no, since the defining aspect of a virus is that it can only "be fruitful and multiply" when it has teamed up with a living host. But, insofar as a virus carries around a specific cargo of exotic genes (quite unlike those of humans), we would be narrowing down absurdly the scope of viral studies if they were to be regarded essentially as lifeless piles of chemical substances. They are better looked upon as "almost-living" entities, which often have terrifying surprises up their sleeves. Some dog-owners say, of their dear pet: "The only thing he lacks is the power of speech." In the case of viruses, the only thing that prevents them from being looked upon as "true" living creatures is their inability to reproduce themselves autonomously in an ordinary DNA style.
Incidentally, one of Zimmer's chapters has a particularly ominous title: Predicting the next plague.
VIDEO: For obvious reasons, viruses in humans have a bad reputation. But this is a narrow vision of the relationships that exist between humans and these mysterious microscopic entities, who have provided us with certain vital genes. Zimmer talks here about archaic life-sustaining viruses in humans:
I learned that it was Father's Day when my daughter phoned me this morning. Then Google's banner confirmed that this was the case:
A little later on, I discovered that Google has made an amazing announcement, at the level of their image search device.
You can actually initiate a search by dropping an image into the search box. I tested this new gadget with one of my avatars:
Sure enough, it had no trouble in locating half-a-dozen places on the web where I've used this avatar. Then I noticed that Google dares to propose a set of similar faces to mine:
[Click to enlarge]
God only knows how they obtained this assortment of male and female faces. In any case, I'm rather flattered to learn that Google finds me as pretty as those doll-faced females with pouting lips!
Meanwhile, I tried another tiny self-portrait that I also use as an avatar. Once again, Google found a few web references where this image appears. But the set of similar faces was much less flattering, and contained mug shots of a few criminals. And, funnily enough, Google didn't seem to want to link my two different portraits.
This is an amazing tool when you happen to have an image that you wish to identify. For example, I recently saved this image of a stray sheep, but I had lost the link to the story behind the photo:
Initially, Google was led astray by the red rug, and couldn't quite make out what the image represented. I gave it a one-word hint: "sheep". And Google immediately located the news article in question. Very spectacular!
Up until today, I had never heard of this maritime creature, the cone snail. Maybe I resided too far below the tropical zone (in northern New South Wales) to meet up with this fellow.
This video surprises me. Are they exaggerating in suggesting that you might encounter such a nasty creature while paddling around in shallow rock pools on the edge of the water? When I was a kid at the beach (mainly at Yamba or Woolgoolga), nobody ever warned me about the possible dangers of picking up pretty seashells. The only notorious enemy that frightened everybody was the shark. I never saw too many sharks, but I often got stung by creatures we referred to as jellyfish.
I've owned a Blue Ray machine for almost a year, but I hadn't got around to turning it on, in spite of the ten or so DVDs I'd purchased during my visits to the Fnac store in Valence. I'm rarely in a receptive mood for sitting down and watching video stuff. But this was a special evening, in that I'd invited along my marvelous Choranche friends Tineke Bot and her husband Serge Bellier for a dinner of spare ribs (soy sauce and red beans) followed by a screening of Avatar. Normally, I don't cut the flowers in my rose garden, but this was a special event, so I sacrificed a magnificent Gold Glow specimen.
[Click to enlarge]
The following morning, I was overjoyed to receive a phone call from François Skyvington informing me that he has received promises of a wonderful TV career in prime time on a national channel. Details will emerge, as usual, at the desired rhythm of my son.
It was also a fine day to say that "enough's enough" to certain would-be international Internet friends whose pretentious dullness was starting to bore me. They may not have understood what I was trying to say (they certainly don't), but I feel liberated.
One of the linden trees at Gamone blooms about a fortnight later than the others, no doubt because it's a different variety.
Flowers started to appear abundantly a few days ago.
Yesterday, I noticed that a swarm of bees had discovered the tree.
They probably come from hives that a local beekeeper installed, a year or so ago, on the other side of the hill in front of Gamone. As you might guess from reading my recent blog post entitled Basic beverages[display], I've always been so fond of fine tea and coffee that I rarely get around to brewing tisanes, which means that I don't call upon the huge potential supply of flowers from my linden trees. So, I'm happy that the bees take advantage of these flowers.
Click the banner to find some interesting portraits of Australians who had dealings of one kind or another with the police and justice system of New South Wales during the two decades from 1920 to 1940. Apparently the archives contain some 130,000 photographic negatives of individuals convicted during this period. And it would seem that these images are now being made public, whence the presentation of Down Under delinquents in the pages of a flashy French magazine.
This public display of named portraits of offenders surprises me somewhat, although I wouldn't go so far as to say that I disapprove of it. After all, a researcher in family history can't even access dull census data that's as recent as 1920 to 1940. I can't even request a copy of my birth certificate dated 1940, whereas the authorities are quite happy to release this photo of a guy named Jack Keane, a bookmaker who was shot dead at Mascot in 1933.
Some of the individuals (with hats off) appear to be nice smart guys.
Others (with hats on) seem to be less friendly. In any case, I wouldn't feel like buying a used automobile from such fellows.
There's a spooky-looking female murderer, Dorothy Mort.
A frail fellow named Sydney Skukerman has a regard that doesn't inspire confidence, but he was actually a rather minor wrongdoer. He merely stole stuff in warehouses... which, in later years, became a regular unpunished pastime—so I was told, back in the '50s in Sydney—of many waterside workers in Australian port cities.
Others look like nice blokes who wouldn't hurt a fly.
Our Australian delinquents of that epoch were probably no different to those of any other modern nation. On the other hand, I believe we've had good police photographers, and excellent archivists.
Up until recently, I was starting to imagine that my Blush Rambler bush, on the pergola, was simply a vigorously-branching late-flowering small white rose. That, in any case, was my judgment after its first flowering, one year ago. Not so long ago, in my blog post of 23 May 2011 entitled Pergola roses[display], I did not mention the Blush Rambler, because it was the only one of the six varieties of old roses on my pergola that had not started to bloom abundantly. Well, things have certainly changed by now. I've finally discovered that the charming blush of this rose is due to the presence of pastel pink petals.
There are even small dark pink spots on many of the white leaves, as if the flower can't quite decide whether it wishes to remain white or rather start to blush.
As for its rambling, I've discovered that branches and blooms of the Blush Rambler have now spread into (I was going to say "invaded") every corner of the upper region (or "roof") of the pergola.
This is not at all a problem. On the contrary, only the red Chevy Chase is still blooming, so an observer has the impression that all the bushes and foliage are Blush Rambler. This latest photo, which I took a few hours ago, indicates well what I'm trying to say.
In another corner of my garden, there's an impressive bed of mint.
Chinese tea flavored with mint leaves is delicious. The tea I most appreciate, though (and by far), is perfumed with jasmine. Yesterday, when I was buying coffee beans in Valence, I also purchased a packet of their Chung Hao leaves. Once reserved for the Imperial Court, Chung Hao is reputed to be one of the finest reasonably-priced jasmine teas produced today in China. I happen to be drinking this fine tea now, at the same time that I'm blogging, and it's truly superb.
That bit in the Bible about man not living by bread alone is fair enough, although it denigrates indirectly, to my mind, the fabulous qualities of good bread, evoked recently in my article entitled Our daily bread[display]. Besides, I've always been a little surprised that the Bible didn't get around to stating firmly that man cannot live by water alone... which would have been a friendly gesture from the Almighty in favor of marvelous beverages of all kinds.
If God were to put me back on Earth for a second existence (one never knows what might take place in the wake of the much talked-about Rapture… which unfortunately never seems to take place at all), I would hope to be able to retain my hard-earned French passport, because I've grown accustomed to Europe, and I wouldn't be too keen about returning to the relatively impoverished cultural and societal infrastructure of Australia. In other words, I would gladly spend my second life right here in God's own Mediterranean country, France, but maybe a little further south than Choranche, in a landscape where my old roses (which seem to be quite happy in my care at Gamone) would be accompanied by olive trees and prolific grape vines. I've often said that, in this second life, I would be tempted to work professionally in genetics, since I persist in believing that it's one of the most exciting sciences that exist. But I would still like to remain well-versed in computing, and I would continue to purchase from Amazon (whose business model extends up towards eternity) all the latest books on cosmology and quantum physics.
The basic beverages referred to in my title are tea, coffee, wine and beer. I would never think of claiming, of course, that this list of beverages is in any way universal. There are individuals who would replace tea by whisky or brandy, and many Americans would no doubt prefer to include Coke or Pepsi rather than wine. As for our gracious queen (who has just turned 85), she apparently prefers gin to Guinness.
I already have professional plans for my second life (over and above my research work in genetics and my constant activities in computing). I would like to set up a pub brewery in southwest France, in a fairytale place such as Carcassonne where the men play rugby and the women cook cassoulet: one of my favorite dishes [display].
This idea of making small quantities of beer in a so-called microbrewery first attracted me in 1987 when I was living out in Fremantle, where there's a nice pub brewery called the Sail and Anchor. In Sydney, there's a celebrated microbrewery at the Lord Nelson, which is said to be the oldest pub in the land. The metal equipment (mixture of copper and stainless steel) is beautiful, the aroma of brewing beer is fabulous, and I've always imagined that the very idea of transforming water and malt into beer is magic. (There used to be a great brewery in my home town of Grafton.)
The idea came back to me a fortnight ago at the People bistrot in St-Jean-en-Royans, at the regular Tuesday afternoon get-together of a small group of British expatriates who mingle there with French friends who want to brush up their English. There was an Australian visitor who told me that his job consisted of distributing German equipment to microbreweries throughout Australia.
Now, maybe you shouldn't take me too seriously when I talk about brewing beer in a medieval city of rugby and cassoulet, because strange ideas creep up on me constantly. Christine could tell you, for example, that I once suggested, during a visit to the Flemish city of Bruges, that it would be lovely if our daughter (who was then a baby) might have an opportunity of learning how to make lace. I hasten to add that Emmanuelle has never pursued this fine idea, nor has she ever thought about becoming a nun (as my mother-in-law once suggested, jokingly, to tease me).
Meanwhile, I decided to improve my production of another of the basic beverages: coffee. As a change from consuming standard supermarket stuff, I finally decided to look around for a place where they roast top-quality coffee beans. In fact, if you want a certain choice of beans that have been roasted only a few weeks prior to your purchase, well there aren't too many such places around. The Internet pointed me to an industrial site named Pivard, to the south of Valence. When I got there, I discovered a vast factory with chimneys belching marvelously-aromatic fumes. Fortunately, they have a delightful boutique in the heart of Valence, with a wide choice of the world's best beans. I purchased a packet of freshly-roasted beans of one of the most illustrious coffees in the world: Ethiopian Yrgacheffe. Back home, I used the ultra-fine setting on my KitchenAid burr grinder, to obtain espresso-grade ground coffee.
This morning, I took advantage of the sunny weather to take my DeLonghi machine outside and give it a thorough cleaning, both inside and outside.
Then I brewed my first Yrgacheffe.
The lady at the Pivard boutique in Valence had told me: "If your grinding and brewing are in perfect harmony, the surface of your espresso must be covered in froth. If there's no froth, then something's wrong. Then, of course, you'll judge the result by tasting it." As you can see, there was lots of froth. And I assure you that the taste was great. My Yrgacheffe espresso was absolutely perfect.
I've already mentioned the French tart known as a quiche lorraine[display]. Well, I've just invented this variation on the quiche theme, to be known as the quiche du roi soleil [Sun King Quiche].
That's a reference, of course, to Louis XIV [1643-1715]. You may recall that I spoke of this great French monarch in an earlier blog entitled King's anus[display]. In this new quiche, the spokes of the wheel (which might be imagined as rays of the Sun) are composed of midget asparagus shoots.
Germany has finally decided that bean sprouts are the source of the lethal strain of Escherichia coli.
But are German scientist well-informed and correct? After all the tergiversations, an observer of the devastating effects of Germany's outrageous Cucumbergate might have doubts.
In any case, it would be normal that Germany should pay cash for this erroneous rashness.
The notorious new strain of E. coli bacteria that came to light in Germany has caused acute diarrhea followed by a life-threatening affliction known as HUS (hemolytic-uremic syndrome), characterized by hemolytic anemia (breakdown of red blood cells) and acute uremia (kidney failure).
The designation of the deadly new strain, O104:H4, has nothing to do with the actual genome of this bacterium, which was sequenced in China at the BGI-Shenzhen laboratory. The O and H terms, designating the bacterium's serotype, refer to simple chemical substances called antigens that cover, respectively, the cell walls and tails of the bacteria, provoking defensive reactions (production of antibodies) from the immune system of the host in which the bacteria reside.
In fact, we humans have been living for ages with these terrifying E coli creatures, who've often become intimate friends. As the science-writer Robert Krulwich says so beautifully [click the bacteria images], they're our partners in the gigantic time-space adventure of existence, rather than our declared enemies, and we should respect them.
I nevertheless draw attention to a highly-pertinent document that I downloaded from the website of the University of California [find it by Google], suggesting that mungo bean seeds can be pathogenic, and that their inherent nastiness can move into sprouts in organic gardens. What more do we need to know or say?
ADDENDUM: This is a photo by Stew Milne for The New York Times. Click it to access an interesting US article on links between bean sprouts and the German bacterial outbreak. I learn that such events, in the USA, are referred to as sproutbreaks.
This fashionable foodstuff may indeed be most nutritious, and give the human consumer the pleasant sensation of being transformed into a herbivorous mammal (which we are not) akin to cows, horses and donkeys. What a pity that genetics in general, and bacteria in particular, don't have much respect for the latest nutritional fashions.
The Wikipedia article on the 2011 E. coli O104:H4 outbreak[display] is now well updated and informative... hopefully definitive.
Click the banner for an interesting and novel explanation of how the deadly bacteria might have set up home in our society.
Some time ago, when I took the train down to Marseille, accompanied by my dog Sophia, I had an opportunity of discovering, thanks to the wonderful hospitality of my Provençal friends Natacha and Alain, that the challenge of having a dog in an urban environment poses problems. There's a morning ritual of taking the animal downstairs, as soon as the master has woken up, for a pee. And an evening ritual of leading the dog to a convenient place to "do its business" (that's to say, for a turd session). The problem is that a master can't simply flick a switch causing his dear dog to "drop a darkie" (as we used to say in Aussie talk). I can remember Alain and I, in the backstreets of Marseille, trying desperately to imagine how we might persuade Sophia that we were starting to get fed up, and that it was time for her to arch her back and deliver. I even recall wondering whether Sophia, perfectly happy to discover the warm odors of the charming Mediterranean metropolis, realized that the only way of drawing out the delicious twilight promenade was to resist resolutely any urge to defecate. When she finally got around to depositing her turds alongside the footpath, it was because she was no longer capable of blocking them inside her intestines… but she knew perfectly well—poor dog—that this act of abandon meant that she would be led straight back to the apartment.
When I stumbled upon this delightful cartoon by the Flying McCoys, I thought immediately of Alain, Sophia and me at Marseille.
[Click the image to obtain a slight enlargement.]
The depiction of the serious but correctly-collared bespectacled dog doing its business on the suburban front lawn is marvelous, right down to the open laptop and the framed family photo on the desk. I love the dog's ears, which have a Martian-antenna look.
Talking about canine defecation (isn't that a noble expression), I can say that, up until recently, I had carted away tons of Fitzroy's turds from around the house. These days, he has apparently changed his turd territory, to an unknown location... and I don't see them anymore. So much the better. The most amazing thing is that I can truly say that I've never once actually seen Fitzroy in the act of defecating. (It's a fact that, since he lives outdoors, he has a lot of time to handle such affairs well before I'm up and about.) In the case of Sophia, on the contrary, she has always taken pleasure in dropping turds in the middle of throngs of tourists on the banks of the Bourne at Pont-en-Royans.
We're dealing, need I say, with different generations of dogs. Sophia was a pure libertarian baby-boomer (who didn't mind getting screwed by a roaming dog from the neighboring village of Presles), whereas Fitzroy is a product of canine parents who experienced the backlash of the economic shocks of the last decade. Sophia, like me, is an atheist. All I hope is that Fitzroy isn't going to tell me, one of these days, that he has certain moral principles that dissuade him from defecating in public, and that besides—horror of horrors!—he believes in God. Shit!
Some Aussie activities don't look particularly risky at first sight. Take rock fishing, for example. There's no danger whatsoever in being perched on a rock on the edge of the ocean… as long as there are no big waves in the vicinity. For rock fishing to become dangerous, you need at least one big wave in the vicinity. Often a single exceptional big wave is largely sufficient...
An invention known as the Hoverbike is the brainchild of an Australian motorbike enthusiast named Chris Malloy, seen here astride a prototype version of his toy… conveniently tethered to the ground to prevent it from flying into the heavens.
For the moment, the device is being thoroughly tested, with utmost caution, and Chris has never been tempted to release the straps that force the craft to hover close to the ground. At some time in the future, though, Chris figures out that his invention would be capable of rising to an altitude of a couple of thousand meters, and cruising at a speed of over 250 km/hour (like a motorcyclist having fun on a country highway). Here's a view that lets you see the main components of this rather elementary machine:
It occupies roughly the same surface as an automobile, but it's not intended to travel down the same roads as traditional vehicles. One day, when it's flightworthy, the Hoverbike will share the same aerial itineraries as helicopters, ULMs, hang gliders, etc.
Will this craft be risky? No more so than rock fishing… when there are no big waves in the vicinity. At a rough glance, I would imagine that, if ever there were sudden power fluctuations in one of the two propellers, the Hoverbike would immediately develop a tendency to stand up on one end, or turn somersaults, or spin out of control, or maybe simply drop. In rock fishing terms, that would be like the sudden arrival of a really big wave. But nothing like this could possibly happen as long as the Hoverbike remains firmly tethered to the ground.
Maybe, one day soon, the Hoverbike might set out unexpectedly on its maiden flight into the sky… when two of those tethering straps happen to work loose from the ground, at the same time that the pilot is revving up his toy. If this were to happen, the drop to the ground would probably be harmless, but it would be important to avoid having a spinning propeller drift down onto the pilot's head.
When all's said and done, I think it would be preferable to stick to rock fishing, or other relatively safe pastimes such as bushwalking without a compass, or surfing on unknown beaches, or swimming in crocodile ponds… Or maybe riding an old-fashioned motorcycle along winding country roads at the same cruising speed as an air-borne Hoverbike.
Now, I can imagine brave young Hoverbike enthusiasts criticizing me for whimpering liked a scared child. If you're not prepared to take a few risks, then you shouldn't even dare to walk across a busy suburban road. As I've often pointed out, my grandfather died (at the age of 93) as a result of falling off a swivel chair while changing a light bulb in his Gold Coast apartment. So, what's so crazy about jumping onto a Hoverbike and opening the throttle, then flying through the air with the greatest of ease, like the daring young man on the flying trapeze? OK, your arguments are indeed convincing. I'll think about it, and let you know if I change my mind. Meanwhile, please carry on your tethered testing.
This beautiful heart-shaped map of the world was created in 1536 by a Frenchman with a funny name: Oronce Fine. I hasten to point out that, in Latin, the gentleman's name has a much more distinguished look and feel: Oronteus Finæus.
Master Oronteus was, not only a cartographer (who produced the first-ever printed map of France), but also a mathematician of sorts, author of an opus entitled Protomathesis. Incidentally, most people would agree with me that this title sounds marvelous for a treatise on mathematics… but there's a slight hitch in that nobody seems to know with certainty what the scholarly term "Protomathesis" could possibly mean!
At the bottom of Oronce Fine's heart-shaped globe, admire the vast imaginary continent of Terra Australis… which must not be confused with the island of Australia. Medieval Terra Australis—whose existence was first envisaged by Aristotle—was more like our Antarctica.
As recently as 1981, Oronce Fine came into the spotlight once again when an American academic named Charles Hapgood [1904-1982] published a book in which he hinted that the medieval mapmaker's presentation of the Antarctic coastline was so close to reality (?) that surely the region had been mapped earlier on by mysterious expert cartographers belonging to an advanced society. What can we conclude? Maybe Martian map-makers in Antarctica?
Let's move geographically, indeed cartographically, from the heart to the head. Here's another celebrated masterpiece created by our friend Oronce Fine:
He gave it a lovely lilting title: O caput elleboro dignum, which might be translated roughly as The world in the head of a fool. Scattered throughout this intriguing mixture of art and cartographical technology, there are many little words of wisdom in Latin. For example, on the jester's scepter, we find the famous inscription Vanitas vanitatum et omnia vanitas (Vanity of vanities, all is vanity), inspired by the biblical Book of Ecclesiastes.
I'm convinced that Oronce Fine, in spite of some light-hearted airiness in his creations, was certainly no fool. And I'm sure he had lots of fun doing what he did.
I encountered the following complicated logo back in 1975, and it immediately intrigued me because of the information it seemed to convey concerning both the entity designated by the logo and the apparent intentions of the people who had designed the logo.
It was the logo of a small group of people in France who were active in various fields of music: the ACIC (Association pour la collaboration des interprètes et des compositeurs). Two categories of musicians are mentioned explicitly in the name of this association: those who interpret (perform) music, and those who compose it. The essential role of the ACIC was to organize concerts of music composed and performed by members of the association.
The aspect of the logo that struck me was the abundance of arrow forms. Clearly, the five that point to the right represent a musical staff, and it is normal that the arrows point in the same temporal direction as the notes of music when they are read and performed. In fact, it is so normal that the five lines correspond to a musical movement towards the right that one wonders why the logo designers thought it worthwhile to insert the somewhat redundant arrow heads.
The giant arrow pointing to the left, with its reinforced two-part head, is more unexpected, in that it does not appear to coincide with any obvious reality of a purely musical nature. Before trying to imagine the possible sense of this symbolism, let us move to the large letter A, which incorporates a fragment of the big arrow as its horizontal bar. The pair of pillars making up this A seem to be planted beneath the surface of the ground, represented by the big arrow, as if they were the massive foundations of a protective structure. The upper part of the A is yet another arrow head, pointing towards the heavens, like the spire of a cathedral. Clearly, it is the vast roof of a place of shelter and safety. There is no doubt whatsoever that the major element in the ACIC is this big sturdy A, for association. Viewed in this sense, the backwards-pointing arrow is probably a defense mechanism, protecting the sanctuary and its occupants from any kind of stealthy rearguard attack.
My interpretation of the sense of the big arrow might throw light upon the reasons why there are arrow heads on the five lines of the staff. They could well be thought of as offensive arrows, designed to remove obstacles from the path ahead. In other words, the composers and performers are using their musical creations as weapons, enabling them to advance without hindrances along their planned path of artistic conquest. Meanwhile, the association shelters them from the elements and protects them from any unexpected threats that might spring into existence behind their backs.
Does the symbolism of the logo suggest that composers and performers have equal status, as it were, within the association? Not really. On the contrary, the performer is represented by a relatively small letter I, firmly planted in the ground as if he were an immobile plant, whereas he is totally engulfed by the great round form of the letter C, designating the composer. An observer has the impression that the ACIC is primarily an association of composers, and that performers are invited to participate in a minor secondary role.
My analysis of this logo left me with the conviction that people do not design graphic symbols “innocently”. There is always some kind of underlying method, maybe subconscious, in their inventions. Above all, I was amused by the eagerness with which the designers of a logo exploit arrow symbols. Later, when I started looking around at other logos, I was astonished to discover that we are surrounded perpetually by all kinds of arrows. In the arena of metaphorical symbols, I have the impression that the arrow is an Olympic champion, which has come down to us from various mythical archers of Antiquity... not to mention our very real ancestors who once used pointed darts to capture mammoths and bisons. Humanity has always lived in a world of arrows, and we still do. The only difference is that, these days, the arrows that abound in our societies are nearly all purely symbolic. But that is another story...
I've just been reading news reports in the French media concerning work in progress aimed at creating, for visitors, an artificial copy of the cave and its marvelous paintings.
The cave is located not far from the splendid Berty rose gardens in Largentière, where I purchased the six old rose bushes that grow on my pergola. So, I like to imagine that my roses came into existence in that same landscape where artists, 30 millennia ago, created amazing images of the beasts of their epoch.
The idea of preventing people from visiting the real cave means that this site will only ever be revealed to us in a kind of virtual sense, as if it were a modern computerized artifact. There is already a website that offers an elementary virtual visit.
I was amused to discover that the topographic map for the virtual visit is signed by Guy Perazio: a young surveyor who has his offices down in Pont-en-Royans. This suggests that Guy was one of the privileged few who've been allowed into the site. When I next run into him in the village, I'll ask him for his impressions. I notice too that the distinguished Australian rock-art specialist George Chaloupka has visited the site and commented upon this exceptional experience.
