maurice ravel – miroirs

I can recommend Ravel’s piano works as suitable accompaniment when hurtling through the dark across unfamiliar country in a high-speed train.

Miroirs (“Reflections”) is a suite for solo piano written by French impressionist composer Maurice Ravel between 1904 and 1905, first performed by Ricardo Viñes in 1906.

Around 1900, Maurice Ravel joined a group of innovative young artists, poets, critics, and musicians referred to as “Les Apaches” or “hooligans”, a term coined by Ricardo Viñes to refer to his band of “artistic outcasts”.

To pay tribute to his fellow artists, Ravel began composing Miroirs in 1904 and finished it the following year. There are five movements, each dedicated to a member of Les Apaches:

1. “Noctuelles” (“Night Moths”) – Dedicated to Léon-Paul Fargue

2. “Oiseaux tristes” (“Sad Birds”) – Dedicated to Ricardo Viñes

3. “Une barque sur l’océan” (“A boat on the Ocean”) – Dedicated to Paul Sordes

4. “Alborada del gracioso” (“The Alborada Gracioso’s Aubade”) – Dedicated to Michel-Dimitri Calvocoressi

5. “La vallée des cloches” (“The Valley of Bells”) – Dedicated to Maurice Delage.

Pianist: Jean-Efflam Bavouzet


dave coba – “broken” (2008)

Dave Coba – From "Broken" Series

Dave Coba – From “Broken” Series, 2008

Broken is a project by photographer Dave Coba which features black and white studies of nude models. Coba says the images “were created by photographing the models in front of broken, partly “blind” mirrors. Thematically they’re about dreamlike rapture — self awareness in a reality that’s altered, twisted, broken and reflected in an enigmatic way. It means a lot to me that the models wanted to see themselves as they were portrayed: They played their decisive part by ‘putting themselves into the mirror’ and letting the photographer document them.”

Dave Coba – From Broken Series 01

Dave Coba – From “Broken” Series, 2008

See more of these intriguing photographs HERE.

anne carson – the glass essay

An incredible poem… Thank you to Kate Highman for turning me on to Anne Carson.
I can hear little clicks inside my dream.
Night drips its silver tap
down the back.
At 4 A.M. I wake. Thinking
of the man who
left in September.
His name was Law.
My face in the bathroom mirror
has white streaks down it.
I rinse the face and return to bed.
Tomorrow I am going to visit my mother.
She lives on a moor in the north.
She lives alone.
Spring opens like a blade there.
I travel all day on trains and bring a lot of books—
some for my mother, some for me
including The Collected Works Of Emily Brontë.
This is my favourite author.
Also my main fear, which I mean to confront.
Whenever I visit my mother
I feel I am turning into Emily Brontë,
my lonely life around me like a moor,
my ungainly body stumping over the mud flats with a look of transformation
that dies when I come in the kitchen door.
What meat is it, Emily, we need?