Love and can of spray paint, really.
I've heard stories about music as a tool of rebellion under totalitarian states. Under Communism, western music was contraband in the Czech Republic and musicians could be j
ailed for playing anything that praised a non-commie way of life. The Beatles-- and John Lennon in particular-- still found their way in and hit home with the people who wanted their freedoms. When John Lennon was shot, somebody spray painted his face onto a wall near the French Embassy. It was a small act of defiance, but still a subversive act against the communist state which would have dire consequences. Each day the police painted over the wall, but each morning dawned on fresh paint covering the wall with new tributes to Lennon, Beatles lyrics and original works defying the state.
The wall's been called the first opportunity for free expression in Prague, and even part of the inspiration for the Velvet Revolution that finally ended Communism in the Czech Republic. Today you can legally graffitti anything onto the wall, and John Lennon is still front and centre.
I'd heard of the wall, and stumbled across it as night was falling. Music has often been a spark or a conduit, an underlying soundtrack that poses a threat to anyone who would have total control. But it rarely takes a city by storm (Jericho?). It flows like a small and steady stream which, in and of itself isn't very impressive. But given allowance to continue flowing, it can split the earth.
The wall lies betwixt the river an
d the Stranhov Monastary, which is where I was coming from. I didn't try the monk's beer, but I did see the library and for that I'm content.
The library houses manuscripts from as far back as the ninth century. Granted, the oldest books are not on display, copies of them are. But one was a copy crafted in the 10th century, so I didn't feel terribly cheated. Besides, I was able to look on illuminated manuscripts of all sizes and to see the books we read about and see pictured in school textbooks. Surreal. But the best part of all was when I glanced up at a huge, smooth wooden door shut tight. It was situated behind a rope that means 'stay away' in every language. The woman who worked there crept behind the rope and said "you can see" as she swung the door open wide. Understand that I was surrounded by old leatherbound volumes in dingy white and varying shades of gray, dark shelves and dead things preserved in collections. When she opened that door it was like Narnia in spring spilled out.
The ceiling was bright and airy, soaring up far above my height and painted in one of those grand panoramas of heaven touching earth. The walls of the room from top to bottom were covered in books bound in an array of colours, tucked into brightly shining shelves of polished wood. Gold ran its way through the whole room and made it gleam. The wooden floor was smooth and light and I really wanted to waltz across it.
What I was gazing at was the Philosophy Hall, which was closed to the public for renov
ations, but contained books on math and science in addition to philosophy. Photography was forbidden unless you paid for photography rights, which I refused if only on principal (and I didn't want to pay).
The rest of the library held collections of what I'm guessing was dried and preserved sea life, including a hammerhead shark that was at once awesome and revolting, crabs and large lobsters, multiple snail shells, butterflies and bugs carefully categorized, labeled and perfectly preserved. There was chain mail and armor and weapons, including crossbows and spears twice as tall as me.
So it was an afternoon of books and music. They share the common bond of having power to persuade, inspire, stir. Communism tried to hold sway, in part, by controlling any form of expression, from books to music to architecture. But these ills aren't exclusive to a soviet state. Communists hold societies in which people can't know great things and Capitalists boast of societies in which people don't want to. How does the human heart both long for and repel the same thing?
I've heard stories about music as a tool of rebellion under totalitarian states. Under Communism, western music was contraband in the Czech Republic and musicians could be j
ailed for playing anything that praised a non-commie way of life. The Beatles-- and John Lennon in particular-- still found their way in and hit home with the people who wanted their freedoms. When John Lennon was shot, somebody spray painted his face onto a wall near the French Embassy. It was a small act of defiance, but still a subversive act against the communist state which would have dire consequences. Each day the police painted over the wall, but each morning dawned on fresh paint covering the wall with new tributes to Lennon, Beatles lyrics and original works defying the state.The wall's been called the first opportunity for free expression in Prague, and even part of the inspiration for the Velvet Revolution that finally ended Communism in the Czech Republic. Today you can legally graffitti anything onto the wall, and John Lennon is still front and centre.
I'd heard of the wall, and stumbled across it as night was falling. Music has often been a spark or a conduit, an underlying soundtrack that poses a threat to anyone who would have total control. But it rarely takes a city by storm (Jericho?). It flows like a small and steady stream which, in and of itself isn't very impressive. But given allowance to continue flowing, it can split the earth.
The wall lies betwixt the river an
d the Stranhov Monastary, which is where I was coming from. I didn't try the monk's beer, but I did see the library and for that I'm content.The library houses manuscripts from as far back as the ninth century. Granted, the oldest books are not on display, copies of them are. But one was a copy crafted in the 10th century, so I didn't feel terribly cheated. Besides, I was able to look on illuminated manuscripts of all sizes and to see the books we read about and see pictured in school textbooks. Surreal. But the best part of all was when I glanced up at a huge, smooth wooden door shut tight. It was situated behind a rope that means 'stay away' in every language. The woman who worked there crept behind the rope and said "you can see" as she swung the door open wide. Understand that I was surrounded by old leatherbound volumes in dingy white and varying shades of gray, dark shelves and dead things preserved in collections. When she opened that door it was like Narnia in spring spilled out.
The ceiling was bright and airy, soaring up far above my height and painted in one of those grand panoramas of heaven touching earth. The walls of the room from top to bottom were covered in books bound in an array of colours, tucked into brightly shining shelves of polished wood. Gold ran its way through the whole room and made it gleam. The wooden floor was smooth and light and I really wanted to waltz across it.
What I was gazing at was the Philosophy Hall, which was closed to the public for renov
ations, but contained books on math and science in addition to philosophy. Photography was forbidden unless you paid for photography rights, which I refused if only on principal (and I didn't want to pay).The rest of the library held collections of what I'm guessing was dried and preserved sea life, including a hammerhead shark that was at once awesome and revolting, crabs and large lobsters, multiple snail shells, butterflies and bugs carefully categorized, labeled and perfectly preserved. There was chain mail and armor and weapons, including crossbows and spears twice as tall as me.
So it was an afternoon of books and music. They share the common bond of having power to persuade, inspire, stir. Communism tried to hold sway, in part, by controlling any form of expression, from books to music to architecture. But these ills aren't exclusive to a soviet state. Communists hold societies in which people can't know great things and Capitalists boast of societies in which people don't want to. How does the human heart both long for and repel the same thing?
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