Maltese: Learning the Lingo

having a good laugh in class

"....she'll be riding 6 white horses when she comes...she'll be riding 6 white horses, riding 6 white horses..riding 6 white horses when she comes...". A fun song we all know, usually associated with merry-makers in a pub after one too many rounds of beer. However, this little bar-stomping number was a spontaneous performance conducted by us students during a Maltese lesson. In Maltese, no less. Teacher Daniela asked us to form a sentence using the future tense of the verb "to ride". Caroline L , who is a polo fanatic and I (who shall remain undefined at this stage) glanced nervously at each other, our over-strained cerebral wheels and cogs spinning frantically. A split second of synchronicity and we burst into song. Teacher Daniela was taken aback-momentarily; she had by this stage in the course become accustomed to our disruptive antics. An earlier lesson about the verb "to dress" springs to mind, in which to dress paired with the word trousers somehow devolved into a conversation about a Ukrainian student's husband's prowess. Don't ask.

cat napper in the class

Yes indeed that is a cat. Cookie by name, attention grabber by trade.. For a while, he graced us with his scintillating presence although he wasn't the most attentive in class. Then one day he just got up and ran away. Sadder things have been known to man. I personally am not a cat person. Which brings me to one of the quirkiest aspects of the Maltese language. Cat in Maltese is Qattus, pronounced A'toos. Its got that silent back-of-the-throat Arabic  sound although spelled with a Q. The silent Q  is the stumbling block of many an uninitiated visitor to Malta, or rather I should say separates the them that knows the lingo and them that dont. The spelling of many words in the language look like proper tongue twisters for visitors and must give rise to some hilarious attempts to pronounce place names. Take Xemxija for instance.Its pronounced Shemshiya. Not Exemexiya, which sounds like something that requires a long period of quarantine. This reminds me of the group of painting holidayers I hosted whose creative genius manifested itself in their interpretation of Maltese place names. One evening after their day off wandering around the island we gathered for dinner and they proceeded to recount their adventures. "Oh it was wonderful! First we drove up to Dingli and saw Flimflam Island (Filfla) then stopped at the Tequila Craft Village (Ta'Qali)...later we drove through a place called Ze Bug (Zebbug) and ended up in Surrey (Zurrieq) to visit the Blue Grotto....". One day I must do a cartoon of the Map of Malta according to these and many other hilarious interpretations of Maltese place-names.

smoker's corner

Weird spelling  is the  result of the disparate fusion of a Semitic-based language with the Latin alphabet. This unlikely partnership reflects both the richness and at times the schizophrenic nature of Maltese culture. I am bemused by the fact that a considerable number of Maltese don't know how to speak their own language and are quite happy to remain that way. This strange disengagement with one's own language goes back a way. Right back to the Knights of Malta who during their occupation of the country demoted the local lingo to a kitchen language. Hello? You only speak Maltese? Use the tradesman's entrance please, thank you. If you wanted to rub shoulders with the upper-crusters, you had to speak Italian, or French. Since the British occupation, English became the lingua franca and social climbers or people hailing from good stock preferred to speak English. The attitude has stuck, unfortunately. Its an attitude which also has assumed a geographical identity and has over time given rise to Malta's very own Mason-Dixon Line.

Maybe my genetic make-up has left me with linguistic skills that are very thin on the ground, or its the result of a lifetime of swanning around in ex-British colonies, from East Africa to the Middle East to Malta, where learning the local lingo simply wasn't necessary- everybody spoke or wanted to learn English.Or maybe Maltese really is a difficult language to learn. Several months down the line and I still have difficulty speaking it. More than likely its because I don't get enough practice, and,truth be told, I'm lazy. Whatever the case, I am determined to crack it and under Daniela's patient and professional approach to teaching, no doubt one day it will all fall into place. And then finally I'll be able to figure out what the neighbours have been saying about me.

END of Part ONE & A HALF..PART DEUX coming soon....

Adults art classes at C.S.Lawrence Art Studio

I can proudly say that in many of my adult art classes, the artists-in-training will often behave like children: at times rebellious and argumentative but most of all playful. I welcome it since my objective is to coax them into getting in touch with their "child within". What good is that going to do them, you may ask.Well, this is the point where I will get out my dog-eared artists' bible "Drawing on the Right Side of The Brain" and start quoting ad infinitum. 

A funny thing happens on the way to adulthood. Its generally called growing up, but i think in many ways, particularly with respect to creative self-expression, its got more to do with a downward movement than an upward one. For so many people, as the physical self grows, the creative soul shrinks. Fear is a word that comes to mind. Conformity is another.

Fear of failure and conformity are two things I tackle head-on with a vengeance. Fear shows up in the nervous preliminary pencil marks. It shows up when I hand someone a big brush and tell them to randomly lay down wide strokes across the canvas. Conformity shows up in students' desire to paint like such-and-such artist. Copying is as good a place to start as any, but the goal is to find one's own individual groove. As Picasso is purported to have said: "Good Artists Borrow. Great Artists Steal." (Click on the link to read an interesting discussion on what exactly Picasso might have meant.)

The use of acrylics is ideal for these exercises in letting go, because unlike watercolour, it allows sufficient elbow room to make mistakes which can later be modified or retained. Very often its the "mistakes" which prove to be the highlight of a painting and I always stress the need to be alert and spot which mistakes work and which mistakes don't. In the picture to the left is a preciously talented young artist. And a perfectionist. I invited him to let go of the process and make a mess. He reluctantly did so and then slowly started the exciting journey of "finding" the painting.

art students painting at Birgu marina overlooking Senglea

Dghajsas off Birgu marina by Maria Vella

Having my art studio located in the stunningly beautiful Three Cities of Malta I am spoiled for choice of outdoor venues to hold painting sessions. The photo on the right shows a group of students set up on Birgu marina looking towards Senglea promenade. At first there is a sense of being overwhelmed by so much information. Where to start? What to include and what to leave out? How to match that particular colour? How to manipulate tonal values to give a sense of depth and light? But with practice they learn to filter out all the "white noise", find a focal point and build everything, from the colours tones and shapes used, to creating a dynamic eye-catching composition.

In 2012 I took a group of my art students on a painting holiday to Modica in Sicily. It proved to be an exhilarating experience for both students and their non-painting partners. Needless to say, one cant go wrong in Sicily as far as finding beautiful vistas to paint and wrapping up a day's painting with some fine dining! But more of that in my next post.

2013 kids' art classes at C.S.Lawrence Art Studio

can you believe it? a room full of kids..and you could hear a pin drop!!

I strongly recommend any artist spending some time working with kids. I personally find my art classes with kids to be the funnest part of my busy work schedule. They are an inspiration. They are fearless in their determination to tackle any task I present them with. That is, those who have not already been influenced by negative feedback from either parents, school teachers or peers. Those kids who have had their innate creative impulse stalled will show reluctance to go out of the lines or get their hands dirty. You kidding? A 5-7 year old reluctant to get their hands dirty? Yep. It happens. But generally, it doesn't last long in my classes. They soon loosen up and get back on track allowing themselves to enjoy the unrestrained pleasure of being creative. 

Many times I will look at them and see parts of myself reflected back: the carefree energized creative spirit willing to surrender control and let the artwork speak for itself and the hesitant  controlling spirit  intent on staying well within the boundaries of a safety net. 

After Picasso by Juliana Zammit

One of my favourite quotes attributed to Picasso is: "All children are artists. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up." In my years of working with kids I have  noticed that the age at which they start to lose their uninhibited self-confidence and become more self-conscious is around nine years. Unfortunately I have also noticed a progressive shift downwards whereby even younger kids manifest signs of uncertainty about their creative genius. Maybe they're growing up faster. That's why this year I have started accepting 5-6 year olds into the fold and have been pleasantly surprised at how well they integrate with the older 7-12 year kids. Being primarily a portrait painter part of the drawing exercises I introduce them to is proportional representation and at times I wonder if I shouldn't let them be. Given that the contemporary art world, following in the wake of Picasso's legacy to stay in touch with the "child within", appears to favour art which looks at best childish, am I smothering kids' creativity by showing them how to draw "properly"? After all, the modern art world is full of adult artists striving to paint like kids! I think not. I am convinced that an artist needs to know how to draw well before he or she can successfully indulge in deconstructing art. At the heart of drawing well is learning how to SEE. Therefore whether or in not my efforts to teach children to draw accurately I am stifling their naivety which so many modern artists aspire to emulate, at least these kids are learning to observe their environment and notice things,be it colours or forms. Too often I am astonished, while tutoring adults, at how little they actually SEE colours and forms around them.

Sample of kids' collage art: what a fantastic sense of humour!

To dissipate my concern about stifling the cheerful spontaneity evident in these young artists' way of representing things, I set exercises in deconstructing representational art. This is where collage art, which I love, comes into its own. The comical is the primary objective and the kids go for it with a passion. In many instances I feel the artworks being produced in these classes could and should be submitted to modern art galleries, and would (with the artist's age concealed) be readily accepted.

There is a certain dis-ingenuity about the modern art world's love affair with naive "childish" painting in which adult artists can enjoy success in the wake of art critics' endorsements for their painting like children do, when children who produce as good as, if not better, art must wait till they "grow up" ..(and by which time they may have lost that element of authenticity in their creative work) to be acknowledged as artistic geniuses.

In the painting below, 7 year-old Zoey Scerri  has reinforced my conviction that exposing children to art and encouraging them to express themselves without judgement or control through this medium is one of-if not THE best way-to build self-confidence in children: of all the captions she could have chosen while trawling through magazines to define her composition, there it is emblazoned in amidst all the comical incongruity:

"I MATTER"

"I MATTER" by Zoey Scerri

View kids art video 2007-2010 on youtube

View Kids Art 2011 on my Picasa Album. Click here
 
View Kids Art 2012 on my Picasa Album. Click here

Gallivants around the Gorgeous Cuban countryside

View of the Capitol. Havana

(Part 2): Cuba left me somewhat perplexed. There I am hailing from a democratic environment looking slightly disapprovingly at the blatant incongruities of a totalitarian state-controlled country. The idealistic ideology of communism just doesn't hack it; we all know that. It sooner or later devolves into that famous parody: George Orwell's Animal Farm. All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others. And yet, how exactly are democratic "civilised" societies any better? At first glance certainly we enjoy a lifestyle that is the envy of every Cuban. 

This became apparent to me within minutes of landing in Havana. A member of the airport security staff stopped me as I had my hand luggage screened .She pulled out some magazines I had bought at Gatwick airport, one in particular-a rather highbrow graphic designer's publication caught her attention and she started flicking through it. I thought she was checking for pornographic material and subtly smirked. Stupid woman. Then the guy manning the scanning machine said something abrupt to her and she promptly dropped the magazine back into my bag and I realized she had simply been sneaking a moment to enjoy a glossy magazine which she had no chance of every buying and taking home to flick through during a relaxing moment on her sofa at the end of her hard working day. I felt awful when I realized what was going on and wanted to give her the magazine but hesitated, knowing I would probably not find any other English reading material there. I never got a chance to read the magazine during my holiday. On my departure, the magazine didn't tip the scales at the check-in counter but it weighed heavily on my heart.

Not that Cuba opened my eyes to the pseudoness of democratic societies. I've known that. It just reinforced my cynicism. We too are subjects of the same perversion of an idealistic ideology.

But I digress. Current election campaign fever in Malta is responsible for these heavy-hearted ruminations. It always leaves me wondering if the human condition is eternally cursed to submit itself to wholesale self-delusion in the quest of mortal utopia. If religions have historically failed to remedy global deprivations and injustices, what hope of having politicians keep their promises? But I digress again. Sorry.

Vinjales Valley

Back to  more upbeat reminiscences. Three days of pavement pounding in Havana, our first trip out of the congestion of the capital  was to the south-west town of Vinjales, (set in what my companion Heather aptly referred to as Jurassic Park and which otherwise was comically called the Cow Shit Mountains valley because of the bizarre shape of the mountain range). As it happened, during the days we were there, the climate was unpredictable and  there were banks of clouds scudding across the sky intermittently casting black shadows over the hills making them truly look like enormous mounds of cow poo. But it only enhanced the dramatic beauty of this area. We walked through the fields and passed long-horned cows sitting statuesque on the warm red soil ruminating, as they seemed, on the sweetness of the natural life. We passed tobacco barns and roughshod farmers gladly explained to us the process by which the multiple rows of hanging bundles of green leaves drying in the deep shadow of the cool high roofed houses would ultimately be turned into the most exquisite tasting experience of any cigar aficionado. We bought some cigars off the farmer  and later, on a balmy night under the pitch black sparkling sky, accompanied by a bottle of fine wine, we oozed satisfaction with each long slow draw on these iconic symbols of the good life. I'd often chuckle whenever I'd see a weather-beaten villager, taxi driver, stall vendor, barman or otherwise lowly Cuban nonchalantly puffing on these jewels. He or she probably didn't have a cent to their name yet they were enjoying a treat that was the enviable desire of any high-flying socialite in the West. Irony at its best.

home delivery by horse - Vinjales

Vinjales is a classic Hollywood-generated example of a one-horse town.  One main road was lined with colourfully painted bungalows where barbers, jewellers, tailors, bakers etc vended their trade in the shade of their house's veranda. And of course the ubiquitous cafes, bars and restaurants. The ubiquitous banged-up American classic car would share roadspace with horses ridden by laidback cowboys , their eyes shielded under wide-brimmed stetson hats or steered by sunburnt farmers pulling carts laden with bulbous vegetables. The town could easily pass for a film set. Yet it wasn't. It was real life. And no doubt a hard life. But the humble unassuming joie-de-vivre that I came to associate with all Cubans I met was evident everywhere.

local bus!!

Next we hopped on a coach to the south-east town of Cienfuegos, via Havana (not the one in the photo..that's the standard bus service for locals!!). That cost an extra 4 hours to an otherwise brisk trip. If there had been a direct road. But there isn't. So it took us about nine hours coach riding to get to our penultimate destination. When we got there we fell out of the coach and swiftly set our internal GPS systems for the nearest joint serving mojitos, the almighty medicine to cure any known ailment known to humankind. We were aching and stiff but otherwise totally ebullient. Every step of the way was alternately laughable, exciting, eye-opening and altogether colourful. A night-over in Cienfuegos, a quiet town resplendent with exotic French colonial architecture, and we set off for our eastern-most destination: Trinidad. What a fun-filled time lay in wait for us. 

street musicians in Trinidad

We had a horse and cart waiting for us at the coach terminus which took us on a short but seriously unstable ride along the rough cobbled streets to our little private house set in a slightly out-of-centre street. We disembarked, plonked our luggage in our spartan rooms which looked out onto a lovely courtyard at the back of the house and headed into the town centre. Five minutes' walk and we were in the midst of a beautiful quintessential Caribbean town, resplendent with classically Caribbean colours: pinks yellows sky blues. Periodically we'd pass by musicians assembled along a wall beating on their flame red congo drums singing their hearts out to passing pedestrians; a charismatic toothless old man entertaining the assembled crowds and possessing a liquid gold voice that any London jazz nightclub worth its salt would run miles barefoot to recruit. He was a regular street performer. He was commonplace. We heard variations of that beautiful voice everywhere, solo or accompanied by backing musicians in perfect harmony, in every bar and restaurant. It was intoxicating even before we got around to wetting our lips with the first round of Cuban rum.

 On one of the three nights stay-over, we stopped at a  music venue. It was an ethereal experience. A six-piece band of Cuban musicians playing to a packed house, many of those present taking to the small dance floor space and dancing their hearts away; dancing with such vivacious sexual energy, one could not resist following their every swaying suggestive move. And how fluid their figures mirrored the beat of the music. 

music hall in Tinidad

 I kept having flashbacks of discos back home and involuntarily associating it with gyrating headless chickens. Maybe by that time I was so enamoured by Cuban culture that I was unfairly dissing our European shortcomings when it came to understanding and interpreting sexual expression through music. But I had never in my life till my experience of Cuba  seen so much commonplace demonstrations of irrepressible physical  joy through dance. It's like they simply can't listen to their music without dancing to it. At the end of day, they'd probably go back home to leaking faucets and flickering bare light bulbs and bedrooms bulging with mattresses. We'd  sleep in our internet-booked double rooms in Casa Particulares which no doubt enjoyed many subtle luxuries of state-sponsored privileges. And yet in response to the raw beauty of their music, we, members of the great "civilized" 1st world, would hesitate, riddled with social awkwardness, to get up off our chairs to dance. Daft, is it.

We sorely regretted not staying longer in Trinidad. The colours, the music, the provincial tempo of life...it was hard to leave but leave we must for our last 5 days in Havana.