Friday, October 28, 2005, 17:55
i attended the 65th birthday of a friends father yesterday, where the buffet nearly outranked the illustrous guests - i had the pleasure of bringing to girls to it, both drawing the admiration of the male guests, somewhat aging businessmen and clubmembers of the most famous tennis courts in hamburg. it was interesting to see, how the party split immediately into politics, some heavy debating was on on the smokers balcony, whereas the ladies withdrew into the dining room and talked the newest hamburg gossip. not much new to be reported there, i am afraid, most of the talked about were unknown to me or went by there nicknames only. two gentlemen raided the kitchen and the sushi were done with in no time, sauvignon blanc was de rigeur and i emptied my mobiles battery in taking flashlight photographs of guests chatting away. the german recession seemed miles away, no wonder, as most attendees were safely settled in their businesses and bank accounts respectively. i felt somewhat the stranger, being the youngest guest, but felt cordially at ease with some senior guests, who nevertheless talked on in their political discussions, not heeding my remarks very much, fearing perhaps my rather socialist views. it is remarkable, how the young seem not to be listened to, not forming part of their circle, and i grew a bit agitated, since i consider myself to be rather well informed, but to no avail: most standpoints were seemded to me rather unfounded and not really the news, but obviously that was not the issue. it was social talk, mainly, and i found a group happily exchanging trivialities on smoking and smoking habits, a theme perhaps safe enough to be conversed about, though rather boring indeed. the host was too happy to remark on this and i did my utmost to smooth over the opposing parties, but i lost a bit of my illusions about the effectiveness of social gatherings - if one has strong opinions, one should not divulge in them, lest one finds oneself isolated or happily ridiculed in the end. the weather was perfect, the temperature following the heated exchanges of two men, who luckily held different views on the situation in the country - but i had the strong impression that really not much did matter to them, and indeed not my musings about the government. i declined to be frustrated by this, but asked myself in the end, having some more champagne, why one attends such parties. is it to feel the comfort of being among people of the same opinion? was it a situation representing perhaps the general german atmosphere, much hot air and nothing else? i yearned for my student days, when everything seemed so important and my fellow students wanted to change the world. now they are all settled in their jobs and seem to be no longer interested in anything, apart from their golf clubs and yachts, their clubs and families, their positions and possible tax deductions. is this old age? is this expecting me, an ongoing dinnerparty of no consequence, an endless play without ups and downs, where some of the actors dissapear due to illnesses and deaths and leave nothing behind? i try to break this up ususally by cunning remarks but sometimes feel like a court jester, whom nobody takes in earnest, fueling the ball by insolence and a sharp tongue, unheeded by men of age or importance. did i leave any impression, apart from being well bred and well versed?
the next morning i slept long and felt drained. it was a fun party all right, but where was the point? or should one simply be happy and content with the fact that there were no more pressing problems than the bygone eras, political issues long forgotten and marriages in their death throes? am i too unrealistic, again expecting too much? another chardonnay might help, perhaps…
Tuesday, October 25, 2005, 10:52
on friday night i heard a very interesting story in one of my favourite hamburg restaurants, café paris. apart from the oysters, a friend of mine told me a tale that i find difficult to believe, but am kindly allowed to impart to a greater audience. here it is.
suppose the chairman of a huge corporation decides that he is bored and whishes to be a bit better informed. for this he decides to have a journalist flown in, let us say from some country in the east, a journalist experienced with one of the provinces where currently a civil war is on - good entertainment for one evening in the auditorium. the pr department is set to work and smoothly hammers out a flight plan and minute program for the visit - only everything goes wrong.
when the journalist is received at the airport, it turns out that she doesn´t eat or drink during flight since the secret service of her country tried to do away with her, poisoning her tea on a plane once and sending her into a coma. the honoured guest is welcomed by some high ranking officials, who forget to ask her out for lunch, as does the following german press agency colleague, who interviews her without thinking to offer her anything. perhaps she is to polite to ask, earns the equivalent of 300 dollars a month - she cannot afford to go for lunch.
my friend, responsible for the reception, finds the lady in question in the afternoon hungry and angry. it turns out that she ventured out of the hotel to buy two eggs, since her hotelapartment has a stove - but sadly no pan (the luxury of the west, who on earth cooks for himself?)
it is an interesting fact that the invitation list for the lady´s lecture contains only to brass - of course it is impossible to ask the lesser, perhaps more interested editors to attend. unfortunately, nearly none of them turns up. in an instant, the authorities decide to invite the journalist school´s young students, just in time.
let it be reported that the first thing to eat our lady from the east sees after her lecture is a cup made of chocolate, filled with mousse and a spoon, baked as a bisquite. the two eggs she donates to my friend, so that they are not wasted and she retires early. so much for the only opposition against this little, provincial war.
didn´t our poet bertold brecht write once: “erst kommt das fressen und dann die moral” - lunch first and then the morale? the only thing to be said for the whole event is that this time, sadly, it was the other way round.
Monday, October 24, 2005, 14:38
it is with some surprise that i have to report the return of the fur coat in male fashion this season, a suspicion i already had when i attended the hugo boss show lately and saw a full-lenght mink on one of the long haired models, only later realizing that it was a male model and the hip swinging fur was obviously intended for the not-so-fair sexes.
having been in the eye of the anti-fur-campaign-storm of PETA and the like not so long ago and being in the posession of several furs, all inherited, old and with the suicide notes of the animals on the record (no, really, the mink of my late greatfather was only worn in deepest winter, basically falls apart if not constantly mended and is over thirty years old), I once had the pleasure of entering a publishing house through a throng of greenpeace-demonstrators. it did not really help that i wore gucci-pythons and i felt instantly bad, suddenly remebering that at home there are two zebra-skins on the floor, one champagne-cow and a bedsheet of at least 24 white snow-rabbits. call me conservative, but being of slim built i trust during the harsh berlin winters and the foggy days of hamburg, not to speak of the ski-slopes of gstaad and the icy bahnhofstreet in zurich in granddaddys mink as the only resolve of my slim and trim body not to freeze on the spot. i once bought a shorter rabbit-fur jacket from dolce & gabbana, when i had some spare money, heeding my mother´s somewhat ironic words that “a fur holds for alifemtime”, thereby giving fuel to the suspicion that she intends to reincarnate several times, according to the shere quantity of coats that she and her mother interchange, present to each other and buy fresh every year.
there must be a campaign of the international fur-lobby that has outgrown the anti-fur-initiatives on a greater scale.
gucci astrakhan coat
a friend of mine, being confronted on the runway with the aforementioned coat looked into the eyes of her husband with a funny face and said: “don´t you dare to cross the street in one of these” - he guiltily looked at his feet and i felt the trembling lust of his male vanity to once, only once give vent to his playboy feelings in some plebejan surroundings. i myself have experienced snickers and bickering on the main shopping streets in hamburg, usually by men looking like moving lycra-tents themselves in colours that would enable them to be found easily by rescue-teams should they happen to be in an accident on sea or in the mountains alike - i did not heed them, being brave and and usued to the less fashionnables remarks. not even my own father, a rather conservative man, ever remarked on my fur in a disregarding way - he is evidently used to his extravagant offspring, and i am in the possession of some very revealing black-and-white fotos showing him with 25 years and unmistakably with the hair of elvis. perhaps we have a gentlemens agreement without even knowing it.
in the new issue of german gq style i counted twenty fur coats until i lost count, and not all looked worthy for a count or a count´s outfit. in the vogue homme international of autumn, also just off the press, one finds at least thirty pictures of fur coats on men, and if not full lenght and on the outside, then with fur trimmings or collars. thinking instantly of a production centering only on furs (should i at last be able to bring a publisher to the idea of a long needed men´s fashion mag in germany centering on trend and not so much on ageing barmen, anti-gay machos and bikini-spreads of 14year old russian women with body-implants and the “take-me-home-i´m-stark-naked-and -only-wait-for-a-rich-boring-german-middle-manager”): I was stunned to see one rather good one just on the news-stand, the otherwise remarkably dull FHM style, done, of all persons, by the ex-tenant of one of my apartments (he never paid on time, but all summed up in the end), XX YY, a talented photographer all right.
it was a spread showing basically naked men on horses draped in fur coats, and apart from their elegance and the admittedly phantastic vision of the ususal consumer being rather reluctant to get on a horse at all, apart from being naked under a fur, it gave one really valid piece of information: the price.
here my little trend report with the velocity of a greek play suddenly turns into a drama. let it be known that even the simplest rabbit-fur will cost you at least 3500 euro, a sum i can hardly believe since mine in 1996 cost about 900 deutsche mark or 450 euro. are rabbits that scarce nowadays or are fashionistas that greedy? has the price for skins exploded lately (i´ll do the research in a second and will keep you informed here)? the gucci cost around 11 000 euro and i can hardly wait to see one of the singing ghetto blasters of overseas run about in it, as if the czar never had to flee the winter palace and in the event changed his colour. eddy murphy in the prince of zamunda springs to mind, and let it be far from me to be politically incorrect, but i simply find these price tags bordering on the obscene nowadays. a coat in the reach of a small vehicle or the daily income of a third world country hardly seems to be the right answer to the already widening gap in society - or the appearance of fur coats for men might mark the beginning of the end, a final signal for the revolution.
sable coats
when and where can one wear it? these coats will be the mainstay of short visits into discotheques and posh restaurants, them being to warm to wear in a car. the disappearance of the fur was - let us remember - due to the fact that one did NOT ride out during winter, was usually not in the midst of siberia and spent most of the remains of the day in warm, air-conditioned houses. the astrakhan-jacket of armani would perhaps be a conditio-sine-qua-non for some bangladeshi potentate visiting the outskirts of earthquake-stricken cashmere, but in europe and in other surroundings than new bond street or the champs elysees it will surely raise some eyebrows. and rightly so.
it is the fashion, ok. but why? since fashion very seldom works without cause, there is, in my view, only one explanation: the rising oil price. since many central heatings will have to be turned off more often, modern man thinks ahead and buys himself some self-sufficing, efficient, portable heating system. and it costs the equivalent of a modest houses winter supply of heating oil. makes sense, somehow. or doesn´t it?
since in the times of turbocapitalism the essence of romance has basically been written off or been sentenced to an existence in hollywood productions, we perhaps have to face the fact that love in it´s purest form - endless, tender, forgiving and unconditional - is dead. or about to die. it lies in the death throes, pursued by some who cannot believe that it has gone forever, who deny that it is on permanent leave, and who desperately wish it back.
the existence of the internet, of chatrooms and profiles, where lonely hearts form the hell of being single and misunderstood, is a prove for one fact: that love in modern times has failed.
there was in baroque times the habit of the upper classes to give, from time to time, masquerades (it can still be found in the traditional form of carnival).
carneval in venice
evenings, organized solely for the purpose of allowing the frontiers of society to be taken down, of careless banter, of love affairs and whispered secrets. it seems that our present day life has become an ongoing masquerade - in e.a.poe´s famous narration death itself enters the ball in a castle in red disguise, unheeded by the partygoers, till their very end. niklas luhmann writes in his book “Liebe als Passion” that it has become necessary in relationsships to court the loved one in the semblance of being open and authentic, without being authentic in the least.
it is common knowledge now that nobody expects the other to be truthful, since it has be accepted in modern society that survival is only possible in playing a well thought out role, defined by habits, the futile attempts to show style in consuming and surrounding oneself with beautiful objects and toys, with the negation of the inner self, of emotion. we are afraid of emotion and wish for it nevertheless to come true. we seek princesses in golden carriages, beautiful women sequestered and imprisoned nowadays into golden cages of advertisments and pr-campaigns, on the golden screen of cinematic phantasies. we hope for heroes to safe us into their strong arms, to elope with them into a glorious future, to look up into their radiant faces trembling with joy.
it is escapism on a great scale, with the scales being tipped into desperation at any time possible: if a conflict arises, the sexual appetites fail, the struggle in everyday´s boredom quenches the dream of being not alone, but in the presence of someone we love. it seems to me that love now only can be found in determinism, in a constant battle to protect one´s feelings for the loved one, in the struggle to fall in love over and over again. it seems to be possible. and it is, i deem, our last hope. apart from going shopping forever.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005, 13:55
Das Kaufhaus wird zur Stätte der ästhetischen Bildung. Läden reichern ihr Angebot mit Dingen an, die ins Museum gehören: Raritäten, Kunst, Vorträge
Von Harald Stazol
Manchmal nimmt die Besessenheit von schönen Dingen solche Formen an, dass man einen Laden damit aufmacht: Peter Kempe aus Hamburg hat es getan, zusammen mit einem Freund, und nun kann man ihn sehen, werktags, wie er von Barcelona-Sesseln und weißem Meißener Porzellan umgeben auf Kundschaft wartet. Die kommt, sagt er im Vertrauen, und zahlt, sagt er, noch vertraulicher, doch ganz beträchtliche Preise: Für eine Bettwäschegarnitur aus handgenähtem französischen Leinen schon mal 4000 Mark, dafür schläft man auf der Aussteuer-Ausstattung von Maria Callas und Gracia Patricia. Mit der Hoffnung auf Ruhm über Nacht und der Gewissheit, dass wenigstens die Wäsche ewig hält. “Aber das Springseil dort kostet 25 Mark, so eins hat schon Max Schmeling gehabt”, und es wird, so versichert man, noch heute von Boxern benutzt. Einziehen möchte mancher Kunde schon mal in den Laden, was nicht nur am original Bauhaus-blauen Estrich liegt, auch an den vollsilbernen Lampen aus den Zwanzigern und am fast achtlos in die Ecke gestellten Stahlrohr-Klappsessel mit bläulichem Eisengeflecht. Das Konzept von “Kuball und Kempe” (Alter Fischmarkt 11) richtet sich gegen Massenware und Ramscherei, ist ein kleiner Aufschrei der Ästhetik in einer Welt von Ikea-Regalen und Billigwaren.
“Kuball und Kempe” reiht sich ein in jene handverlesene Geschäfte, wie sie plötzlich vermehrt in den Metropolen der Welt auftauchen. Die eine orientierungslos umherirrende Kundschaft zwischen 25 und 45 Jahren vor Augen haben, “mit ein wenig Geld und dem Sinn fürs Ausgefallene”, wie Peter Kempe sich ausdrückt. Menschen, die in Stilfragen beraten werden müssen, die einer Erziehung in Ästhetik bedürfen, “denen man die Tradition nahe bringen muss”.
Sie finden all das in Läden, die ein wenig ausgefallener sind, etwas ausgesuchtere Ware führen (zu natürlich etwas ausgesuchteren Preisen, versteht sich). Und wer solch weihevollen Ort aufsucht, der wähnt sich schon mal im Museum, nicht nur der Preise wegen. Denn die Läden sind eigentlich nur eine logische Fortführung des Gedankens vom “Sammeln und Bewahren”: Nicht umsonst hat das Museum of Modern Art in New York einen großen Shop: Man bedient sich dort, wenn schon nicht am Original, so zumindest an dessen Abbild, den Drucken, Fotografien und Bildbänden, um nach dem Museumsbesuch wenigstens einen Hauch von Moderne und Objekt mit nach Hause nehmen zu können.
Bei “Colette” in Paris (213 Rue Saint Honoré)
liegt in Glasvitrinen der Glasperlenschmuck von Jade Jagger neben japanischer Mini-Unterhaltungselektronik, einem Taschenfernglas von Zeiss, Jena, und den letzten Turnschuh-Entwürfen von Nike und Adidas - es sieht ein wenig aus, als hätte ein in der Internetbranche kurz zu Geld gekommener Teenie sein Jugendzimmer geöffnet. Die Web-Site gibt staatstragend bekannt, dass der Sportaustatter Lacoste Poloshirts in limitierter Auflage nur bei “Colette” vertreibt, je 212 für beide Geschlechter, mit silbernem Krokodil. Die Preisschilderchen, in Francs, Dollar, Yen, DM und Euro tabelliert, schreien förmlich nach Bourbon. Doch wären sie nicht, man fühlte sich ans Prager Kuriositätenkabinett von Kaiser Rudolf II. erinnert, komplett mit Hofzwergen und Alchimistenküche: Ein im Geheimen waltender Sammler erspart dem Betrachter die Weltreise und hat die schönsten Dinge zusammengestellt, wohlfeil und eben käuflich.
In New York bei “Guilde des Orfèvres Ltd.” (225 Fifth Avenue, Suite 1102) steht vor weißgewaschener Wand in Stahlregalen das handbemalte Rokoko-Service “Rocaille” von KPM neben Küchenutensilien von Philippe Starck, ganz selbstverständlich und mit jenem Hauch von Exklusivität versehen, der dem Käufer beim Kauf eine gewisse Genugtuung verleiht. Man nimmt sich vor dem Hintergrund der überquellenden Verkaufsstände bei “Bergdorf Goodman” und übers Land wuchernder Shopping Malls gewissermaßen freiwillig zurück, verzichtet auf das Konsum-Füllhorn zu Gunsten einer Stil-Oase.
Im Departmentstore des Berliner “Quartier 206″ (Friedrichstraße 271) wird regelmäßig ein “Literarisches Frühstück” veranstaltet, bei dem Autoren über Mode, Lifestyle und die Inszenierung des Alltags diskutieren. Die Requisiten dazu kann man dann unter demselben Dach erwerben: englische Rasierseifen (Taylor of Old Bond Street, Court Hairdressers), Krawatten des Pariser Herrenaustatters Charvet, Prada-Kosmetik oder Taschen von Lulu Guiness, vereint mit der üblichen Berliner Geschäftstüchtigkeit, an der Friedrichstraße den Touristenmassen Zigarrettenspitzen feilzubieten, die sie beim Kiosk am Ku’damm zehn Prozent billiger haben könnten: Es geht ja auch ums Einkaufserlebnis.
Ein Kopenhagener Händler hat sich auf die skandinavischen Designklassiker der Nachkriegszeit spezialisiert: Bei “Klassik”, (Christian IX’s Gade 5) nicht weit von Schloss Rosenborg, stehen Prototypen von Paul Kjaerholm einträchtig neben altem Silberbesteck von Georg Jensen, ausschließlich Stücke, deren Wert in zehn Jahren das Doppelte betragen dürfte.
Und so erklärt sich das Prinzip jener seltenen Läden des Handverlesenen wohl am besten: Sie sind die Schwelle jener wenigen Dinge, die gleich nach Serienreife schon zum Klassiker werden. Kleiner Stückzahlen, die dem Besitzer zumindest kurzfristig die Illusion geben, nicht bloß Käufer, sondern Kenner zu sein. Sie sind Stätten der Labsal für die Überdrüssigen einer Überflussgesellschaft, Kurorte des Konsums, die Ausstatter des Elfenbeinturms. Schade nur, dass das Motiv der Bauhaus-Bewegung, Gutes für Alle, noch immer unerfüllbar scheint. Aber Gucken kostet ja nichts.
Sunday, October 16, 2005, 17:45
if there is one thing a gentleman cannot do without - even if he can do without anything else, for is this not the essence of being one?
lord ribblesdale by john singer sargent
- it is a cigarette tip or holder. it might be seen as dangerous to smoke at all, and surely new legislation in france and italy, these bygone strongholds of the smokers paradises, the danger far surpassing nicotine addiction is that of dirtying ones hands. might it be remembered that the smoking saw his birth as evening dress through the fact that men retiring after dinner to discuss politics and business, and, of course, the women left behind in another salon, tried to protect themselves from the fumes of tobacco, they were so eagerly inhaling by donnig smoking jackets, often in bright colours, and even caps in fur, satin or brocade as to not get the hair perfumed by their vices.
the actor mark wenzel
everyone going for a drink into a bar in the evening knows that he can forget about wearing anything he had on that night for the rest of the week, and heavy smokers have the scent of poison clinging to their bodies as if nothing else would matter. it is, to be honest, not very appealing to women. apart from the fact that one reduces the habit of smoking if one makes himself the easy rule only to smoke in a smoking, it might be useful, due to the aformentioned facts, to have several smokings. the colour might vary, blue, red
and paisley have been adapted by some designers in the past to enlighten the often very formal black - but an utmost necessity is - the cigarrette holder.
in the times before the war gentleman used to wear gloves at each occasion, due to the filthyness of the streets of london, the ongoing, dusty traffic of hourse carriages (see his lordships riding outfit above) and so forth, and after six a pair of white glace gloves was inevitable. to protect these whites, one used cigarette tips. the tip for modernity, as it is, without the obligatory gloves, is obvious: who wants yellow fingers, remining of chinese opium caves, antiquity dealers and proletarians rather than of a refined man of the world? does one really want to clean fingers with a scrub, soap and the juice of a fresh citron, better used for a gin tonic at hand later?
the most famous of holders was undoubtedly audrey hepburn, whose device in one of here wonderful films (the name escapes me, was it breakfast at tiffany´s? i think, too) had the lenght of a lance, three meters long at least, in a shot that surely span a cinemascope ankle.
let her be our sparkling trophy of everlasting taste. and let us forgive the following lady for not having been provided with a holder, for she can surely do what she wants and we love her for that: the divine catherine.
the rest of the living take it for granted. a tip please! otherwise you leave the world with dirty hands - and the scarcety of white vests in present day life is scary enough, isn´t it?
Sunday, October 16, 2005, 17:49
there seems to be a little social group that seeks fun, and mostly youth, and beauty, which is so elitist, that it is going extinct - the happy few. being in the possession of a german passport, it nowadays seems that it is impossible to be happy: money is scarce, and if you are not already in possession of it, the ways to get it are blocked by a five million workforce inexplicably out of it. this leads to very intense battles in the working environment, where people one considered friends are suddenly turning into enemies, lovers become haters, bosses tyrants and mothers goddesses - the only ones who always lend and understand. there are many examples of mothers in this country, who adopt their elderly, unemployed sons and daughters again, even when they haven´t been able to make a living. fathers tend to be less understanding (and i am not alluding to mine), since they usually have done their share of hard work and want to rest, knowing that their offspring is able to fend for themselves. but nobody in germany in the eighties prepared my generation for the catastrophic decline in public spending, for the vicissitudes and vices the globalisation has in its wake, for the shere impossibility of finding a job even with the best of qualifications. the teachings i personally got in school, for example, now seem to me like a bunch of lies, told by idiots - didn´t they see it coming, did the pedagogues not see that the social paradise which they were surfing would turn into a vortex of utter bestiality, a house for the poor? was the trauma of two lost wars and the extinction of a better part of our own intelligentia, not to speak of the concentration camps, so deep, that they were blind to the simple fact that germany, the wonderful wirtschaftswunderland, was already in deep trouble? I can even now hear the optimism which which generations of chancellors spilt tons of sand into the eyes of their voters: adenauer, who, i understand from his biography, knew for a fact that our pension system would collapse in no time, leaving his own grandchildren penniless, and without hope? was not kohl aware that the falling wall in berlin would ruin our economy? on 3. of october i congratulated a dear friend of mine from thuringia on his freedom. i was happy that we did not have to shoot at each other in the case of a cold war. i was happy to be in his intellectual presence. i delighted in our discussions - i fell in love with the thought that we were brothers, german brothers, who after a long time of separation could embrace each other, have a glass and shatter the hours together, laughing our heads of. even for the cost of 3 000000000 euro (and counting) or any sum - who knows the real costs of unification - it was worth it. and then it dawned on me what we were: the happy few.
a very influential friend of mine, one of the ladies you meet in castles on a sunny morning, told me on her first visit to germany, how friendly, polite and open the germans are. she was a little surprised, since here family had to flee nazism and many did not survive. she was in a state of doubt before she came: would she be endangered? would she see the ghosts of her people, the gespenst that roamed europe? i tried to do my best and was to my usual behaviour, charming and lovely as best as i could and we had a wonderful lunch, surrounded by some of the most illustrious journalists in the country, the noblest men of our highest nobility, the creme de la creme, and i was very proud to be in her presence - though i knew that not far away my people were desperately trying to make a living, unseen, unheard, behind castle walls and unknowing of the art treasures of happier times. i again was with the happy few, and suddenly i felt depressed. i felt like on a sinking ship, where everyone knew that we were going to die and stayed in the first class, smoking and chatting away. i felt like a nobleman in a revolution hours before the block, like a lover of elisabeth I. in disgrace and at her majesty´s pleasure - one nod of her head and mine would come off.
it is my belief that in the face of danger one should be arrogant to it, one must be proud and optimistic, one has the duty of setting an example - it is what makes us civil and refined. i have been threatened, robbed and burglarised several times lately, and i fell a pity for those criminals, because they seem to be little oliver twists or the hungarian children shortly after the war, whom countess karolyi
the countess karolyi
saw to be not bad, but desperate. they had taken everything from her only fourty years before, had driven her and her beloved husband, count michael, prime minister for one year of the first free republic, into exile, penniless, under threat of political murder - but she did not yield.
and if i see one lesson in my own greatgrandmothers memoirs, a prussian lady´s telling tale, the stories she reputedly told and are retold by my grandmother and mother, it is her grace´s grace in spite of all the brutes in the world. for men are not bad, they are weak.
i fear i turn into a patriot not only in old age but at the end of these lines - a fallen grandee, surrounded by desperate men who steal from each other. i am trembling with anger at the sight of our best paid managers being to corrupt to be true, of volkswagen-chairmen robbing their employees through spending sprees on whores and prostitutes, living of poor womens despair. i shudder at the thought of a crumbling society where the rich get richer and the poor are forgotten like in a victorian play. it is no play. it is the country where i was once a happy toddler, where i wanted to see my sons grow up and prosper, my friends happy, my family safe - and my country is robbed by the forces of the market, besieged by third world workers, corrupted by incompetent politicians and cunning businessmen. i play with the thought of going into exile, of taking my fortune out of it before it is gone completely into the pockets of madmen, of telephone companies and their unstable bonds, stupid and expensive banks and lethargic waiters. i think of a castle in switzerland, a refuge for my loved ones - the happy few.
Saturday, October 15, 2005, 17:40
Friday, October 14, 2005, 17:31
na, da sind wir doch schon wieder einmal alle versammelt: das halbe deutsche feuilleton (hoffentlich die bessere), mein hübscher freund hinter der theke, die ein oder andere deutsche adelige (mit stammbaum) und deutsche hörer (ohne volksempfänger). wollen doch mal sehen, inwieweit der breifwechsel von herrn bukowski tatsächlich gefahr läuft, soziale unruhe hervorzurufen - nichts anderes schreibt einer der biographen von stanley kubrick wird durch solche dichter ausgelöst. da der termin gleich beginnt: kaschmirsakko an, hosen sind vom butler hoffentlich gebügelt, fliege an den kragen und wo ist eigentlich meine zigarettenspitze…
dann liest sie. schön wie die abendsonne auf capri. die verse, die briefe eines weltliteraten. die hamburger society verstummt endlich. einmal kommt der ganze quatsch zum stillstand. mur der rosé-champagner perlt leise vor sich hin. ich sitze neben der reizenden anna von b. und bin glücklich. einmal am tag sollte man glücklich sein. der vater meines ex-freundes hat den ganzen tag angst gehabt, die ruhige angst vor dem hospital, und ich hoffte, sie ihm nehmen zu können. nebenan, by cameraworks, langweilt sich der rest der gesellschaft. ich hole zigaretten. ich fühle mich eins mit der kunst, ein noch faltenloser beau, alles einbildung natürlich. ich glaube, verliebt zu sein. in b., in von b. oder oder in den dichter b. ein wundervoller abend. ich bin erschöpft, und freunde setzen mich in einen wagen. ich sinke ins bett. einsam. endlich allein. marie bäumer war da und meine preussische gräfin. mo, der verleger, dass ich für ihn lese. sinclair gab mir eine nummer. models verleben glückliche tage mit meiner cartier am arm und dem geld, das sie mir schulden. süsser, tiefer schlaf. nur nicht sterben vor glück.
dringend einen essay über cigarrette holders ausdenken. demnächt in diesem theater.
Damit man weiß, was man hat. Was man will. Und was es so alles gibt
leistet
sich GQ (die Bibel des Luxus) nun einmal den Luxus eines ABC des Luxus:
the cullinan diamond
Michel Foucault, der große französiche Philosoph, leistete sich immer den
Luxus klarer Gedanken — einmal, in „les mots et les choses”¸ hat er die
Welt
der Aufzählungen untersucht, von denen das ABC die klein-feinste ist:
A
Absolution, wohl die luxuriöseste Erfindung des christlichen Abendlandes,
denn wo sonst kann man sich für Schlemmen, Huren und Verschwendung so
nachhaltig entschuldigen wie bei Gott selbst? Katholiken sind da klar im
Vorteil, die religiöse Avantgarde, und, ohne die Beichte nun auch noch
unter
B zu nennen, ist das absolute an der Absolution doch wirklich ein Fünkchen
Hoffnung in der Gegenwart – unbezahlbar. Ein Aston Martin Lagonda, aus den
Siebzigern, kein schöneres Auto hat je die britischen Inseln verlassen. A
propos: Asprey würde einem noch einfallen, wenn es nicht in arabische Hand
geraten wäre: Das Haus der Hofjuweliere von England. Schade.
B
Bargeld, in Zeiten der Kreditkarte, der Pleiten und fallenden Antikpreise
das, was sogar Leo Kirch inzwischen für Luxus halten dürfte. Wenn der
Kanzler sagt, „Ich will jetzt, dass das Geld jetzt ganz schnell, also
cash,
an die Leute ran kommt” oder so ähnlich, weiß er wieder einmal, was er
sagt:
Und das Cash gleich Bar gleich schon fast eine kleine Absolution ist, ist
eine der schöneren Seiten des Luxus. Bossi zum Anwalt haben, weil Prinz
nicht mehr richtig beißt und einem sonst kein richtiger einfällt. Die
Börsennachrichten ignorieren, weil der Finanzvorstand jeden Tag berichtet
C
Mit Champagner-Spucken. Wenn man wieder mal die 64er Jahrgänge
durchprobiert. Weil man sie sonst wegschütten muss. Und dringend Platz her
muß für den 84er. Grand Dame Rosé von Veuve Cliquot. Ein Füller von
Cartier, in Gold, damit die Autogramme endlich mal wieder was hermachen.
Von
den Unterschriften ganz zu schweigen. Alles von Chanel, vorzugsweise ein
Original ihrer Schmuckentwürfe, ein Ring beispielsweise. Urlaub in
Chamonix,
im September. Château Gilette 1967, einer der besten Bordeaux überhaupt,
20
Jahre gelagert in glasbeschichteten Tanks, angeboten im Tropfenzähler,
weil
die Gebrüder Christian und Andrée Médeville nur 200 Kisten pro Jahrgang
auf
ihren 4,5 Hektar anbauen können. Und wollen.
D
Dupont-Feuerzeuge. Die man übrigens nicht mit anderem Gas füllen sollte,
anderenfalls: „Non, Monsieur, i´l y a un problème” wegen der
Verunreinigungen im normalen Feuerzeugbenzin. Das Clack beim Aufklappen
beim
Modell -> Gatsby, weil das schwere Silber so hervorragend verarbeitet ist,
dass zwischen den Kanten kaum Spiel bleibt. Die Chinalacksondermodelle
gehören zum schönsten, was man anzünden kann. Der Ausruf: DIE NICHT! Wenn
schon die achte Blondine ihre Telefonnummer abgeworfen hat, am Tisch, und
oben noch Nastassja vollbezahlt in der Suite rumhängt. Bescheuert sein mit
Stil.
E
Eiswürfelkochen: Wenn die reichen Hausfrauen sagen, Schatz, ja, ich geh
mal
in die Küche. Und in Wahrheit der Cateringservice im Keller waltet. In der
Gourmet-Ersatzküche. Da kocht er. Eine Entourage, zwei Bodyguards, eine
Sekretärin, ein Assistent, und zwar, wenn man nur über die Straße geht.
Jeden Tag. Ach ja: E-Off, die Greenpeacekampagne gegen den Strommulti Eon
—
weil der sich das saubere Veronica-Ferres-Image zulegt im Werbespot
(Barcelona-Pavillon von Mies van der Rohe und sie im Wasser) und in
Wirklichkeit säuisch-schmutzigen Atomstrom aus Tschernobylhaften Reaktoren
bezieht.
F
Frieden. Hoffentlich noch lange andauernd. Auch, wenn er ja nur auf Europa
begrenzt ist, wünscht man ihn immer noch weltweit. Filet Mignon im Aureole
in NYC, nachdem man drei Monate auf den Tisch gehofft hat und sich nun vom
Benckiser-Vorstand und seiner entzückenden Gattin Amerika erklären läßt,
im
Beisein des sommeliers, der jetzt den Roten öffnen möchte. Ficken, für den
Frieden. Macht frei – außerhalb der Ehe, natürlich. Und auch mal am
anderen
Ufer. Muß ja nicht jeder gleich mitkriegen.
G
Gesichts-OP. Teurer Spaß. Empfiehlt sich bei Gladis, Ghaddaffi, mancher
Freundin und immer nach dem Fünfzigsten, sollte aber mit einem langen
Venezuela–Urlaub gekoppelt sein. Da sind nämlich zur Zeit die Besten. Und
dann hat man einfach noch mal zwanzig Jahre à la Gunther Sachs. Gucci hier
zu nennen ist ein solches Eulen-Nach-Athen-Tragen, dass man nur die
Schwächen der letzten Kollektionen bemängeln kann und der Hoffnung
Ausdruck
verleihen, dass Tom Ford wieder zu seiner Hochform zurückfindet.
H
Houston. Nette Stadt. Wirklich. Mehr Milliardäre. Als. Sonst. Wo. Auf.
Dem.
Planeten. Nett. My compliments to the Country Club! Hochsee-Yachting, über
den Atlantik, im eigenen Boot, mit eigener Mannschaft, wie einst Herbert
von
Karajan. Die Haute Couture, weil auch Ihr Herren-Schneider irgendwann
einmal
feststellen wird, dass Draperien Grundlage seines Handwerks sind, die für
den Fortbestand der Mode unerlässlich sind. Ein roter Ledersattel von
Hèrmes
zum Militaryreiten. Mit Reitpeitsche, die man mit ins Büro nimmt, zum
Sekretärinnen-Schocken.
I
Indiskretion. Pst! Wußten Sie schon das mit der Jungen unten aus der
Kantine? Nicht? Nein, wirklich? Na so´n Pech! Der Tempel der Isis in
Philae
im Mondschein bei Nilflut (leider seit Bau des großen Staudamms selten zu
sehen), in Assuan, während des dreiwöchigen Ausgrabungsurlaubs im Old
Cataract Hotel. Unbedingt Steak à la Churchill probieren, flambiert mit
Whisky. (Abtal El-Tharir Street, Assuan, Tel 0020 97 31600, EZ 110 $, DZ
150-240$)
J
Junge Pagen. Deren Mütter einem über Landesgrenzen hinweg
nachtelefonieren.
Aus Angst, man könne sie mit dem hohen Trinkgeld und der Visitenkarte und
dem netten Lächeln verdorben haben. Unheimlich.
K
Kaffee. Wirklich. Eine der größten zivilisatorischen Errungenschaften: Die
Domestizierung der Kaffeepflanze. Unerreichte Impulse zur
kulturgeschichtlichen Entwicklung. Wiener Sezession ohne Kaffee undenkbar.
Musil morbid. Kafka krank. Kenianisches Hochlandgewächs, empfehlenswert,
„Ich hatte eine Farm in Afrika“-mäßig, und dann immer gen Horizont
blicken,
vor der Espresso-Maschine in Frankfurt Preungesheim. Kommt gut, schmeckt
gut, ist gut.
L
Lauren, egal ob Ralph oder Hutton: Wer eher darauf kam, könnte in den USA
wohl Urheberrechts-Anwälte beschäftigen, wird aber teuer. Also: Irgendwie
nimmt die Amerikanische Seele die Abfolge dieser Silben für „Gut, Teuer
und
Reich”. Beats me. Oder Like a Virgin, weiße Klamotten tragen können. Jeden
Tag. Weil man einfach so reich ist, und nur Lanson trinkt. Auf
Gletschereis.
Ein Learjet, der ständig aufgetankt bereit steht. Gar nicht so einfach zu
kaufen: Das Angebot interkontinantalflugfähiger Jets ist begrenzt, es gibt
lange Wartelisten, weswegen John Travolta sich eine Boeing 737 umbauen
liess: Less is Less, More is More.
M
Muttertag-Vergessen. Tickets nach Miami. Mani-Pullis. Mooshammers
Badelatschen. Minotti-Couches. Moschino for Men. Maserati fahren. Aston
Martin. Martini d´oro auf Martinique. Marcello Mastroianni, wegen seine
unnachahmlichen Lässigkeit, die ja wiederum eine der größten
Annehmlichkeiten. Machiavelli-Lesen auf der diakonischen Busreise nach
Neuendettelsau. Müllschlucker. Maestro Harnoncourt. Hemden von Marcello
Marcollo. Aus Calabrien.
N
Wie Norman Conquest. As in Jessye Norman. Wenn sie singt, alles absagen.
Ein
Abend mit ihr bleibt unvergesslich. Wirklich: Überlegen, ob man die
Ehefrau
mitnimmt, die Sekretärin oder den Praktikant. Den Sohn auf keinen Fall: In
Logen mordet es sich gut. Oder Nonnenbrüstchen, Antonio Salieris
Lieblingskonfekt, weiße Maroni in Schokolade.
Naddel auf eine Einsame Insel schicken, ohne Kabelanschluß. Auf
Neutrasweet
verzichten können. An Nutten lächelnd vorbeigehen. David Niven, eigentlich
immer, aber vor allem im Tropenanzug.
O
Oeuvre, wenn man eins hat. Die Orestie im Original lesen. Onassis. Omo.
Osaka, im Frühling. Der Orientexpress. Eine Omega Constellation. Die vom
Mond auch. Oahu, im September. Ottomotoren. Otto Walkes, wenn er
schweigt.
P
Pucci, Emilio. Man dankt ihm für die Freundschaft zu Pasolini, für den
Couchtisch von Giacobetti (war´s Giacometti? Mit einem von beiden habe ich
gearbeitet, dem genialen Fotografen). Puschkin. Dem Patriziat. Patek
Phillipe, dem einzigen Traum neben Piaget. Und ein Puccikleid im
Sommerwind
an Kate Moss. Pornos. Porsche.
Q
Qallentartar. Aus der Provinz Quenzuan. Ein kulinarischer Quantensprung.
Was
für Querdenker. Ein bißchen wie die Quest. Questionnable.
R
Rolls Royce. Der Camargue, oder ein weißer Silver Ghost. Und wissen, dass
das Schild am Kühler, unter der Emily, erst rot gefärbt war. Und nach dem
Tode des Ingenieurs Royce (oder Rolls?) vom trauernden Partner in
schwarzlack verfügt wurde. Ein Welterfolg ohne gleichen. Rangavilas
Sonntagabend in Hamburg, der beste Club Deutschlands, leider nur noch bis
Ende September, kann den Neubau kaum erwarten. Mit der Riva zum
Schloßhotel.
S
Sicherheit. Laut Enzensberger natürlich erkauft, durch Hingabe gewisser
Konsumgüter. Ein Studebaker, aus den Fünfzigern, zum rumcruisen in Las
Vegas, beim Rockabillyfestival. Sonnenmilch auf dem Rücken. Smythson
Notizbücher, weil die so leicht sind, die Initialen auf´s Cover geprägt
werden können, das Papier stabil und blauliniert ist und unheimlich was
hermacht. Salzburg, im Sommer, im Smoking, ein Zimmer im Österreichischen
Hof, Premierenkarten für Don Giovanni und Montblancs Young Directors
Project, ein kurzes Gespräch mit Jürgen Flimm, ein Rehrücken im Goldenen
Hirschen (wo sonst?), der Fürstin aus dem Wagen helfen und den Jedermann
mit
der Ferres nicht sehen müssen, weil man ihn seit 1936 gesehen zu haben
glaubt (und noch Zeugen dafür findet)
T
Tiffany, hat einfach alles, vom Beißring für Täuflinge über Teeservice,
Geschmeide und Murmeln zu Besteck und kleinen Vasen. Ein must.
Tut-ench-Amuns goldene Totenmaske im ägyptischen Museum zu Kairo aus der
Nähe sehen, seinen Goldschatz und die Wasserpfeife danach im Dachgarten
des
Nile Hilton. Tabake aus Havanna, allenfalls von den Toscani-Zigarren aus
Italien übertroffen, der Zwei-Mann-Zigarre, weil man sie an der Banderole
in
der Mitte brechen kann und dann zwei hat. Titians Portrait von Kaiser Karl
V., einem der ersten Dandys der Geschichte, ein Mann, dessen Macht und
Luxus-Orientiertheit in jener Geste aufscheint, in der ihn Titian in Öl
auf
die Leinwand gebannt hat.
U
U-Boote, umgebaut für Privatzwecke, russisch, ist auch viel diskreter als
ne
-> Yacht im Hafen von Marbella. Umberto Ginocchetti, immernoch
ungeschlagen
in Leinensakkos und Summer-Wear. Ulysse Nardin, für die schönsten
Taucher-Uhren der Welt. Die L´Uomo Vogue, das italienische Schwesterblatt
der GQ, wegen der Fotos und dem Blick für —> Avantgarde.
V
Visionaire-Ausgaben sammeln, jede Nummer einzeln. Und die Verpackungen
wegschmeißen, weil sie so sperrig sind. Und sich einen Dreck drum
kümmern,
dass die Dinger Sammlerstücke sind. Und jetzt schon ne Menge wert. Ein V
12
Motor, weil er einfach die Straßenlage verbessert, aber eingebaut in einen
Golf, aus Understatement. Veuve Clicquot, aber das erwähnten wir ja schon.
Hector Villa-Lobos Tangos hören in Vaudeville. Versailles. Vuitton, aber
aus
den Zwanziger Jahren, nichts aus der gegenwärtigen Produktion, das ist nur
noch was für Schlitzis.
W
Ein Wurlitzer in der Hausbar und einer am Pool, der nur Wagner spielt, in
der Wurzelholzausführung. Wichtige Telefonate wegdrücken. Walfänger jagen
mit dem Schnellboot und dem norwegischen Botschafter wöchentlich
Drohbriefe
nach Berlin abschicken, die Fangquoten betreffend. Wassergeburt, aber erst
beim zweiten Kind. Ein Watteau-Pastell im Foyer, wo es ein wenig dunkler
ist, also unter der Freitreppe, weil sonst die Farben verblassen. Ein
gerahmtes Bild mit Unterschrift von Elisabeth Windsor.
X
Noch weiter in den Xtra-Dax zu investieren, um den XJS noch abzubezahlen,
bevor die Banken aus deinen Rippen ein Xylophon schnitzen, weil sie
Schulden-Xenophob sind, wie weiland in Xanten. Exxon geht auch.
Xenon-Scheinwerfer, am Tretroller.
Y
Yachtclub. Diner. Und dabei Yps lesen. Endlich einen Schwulen finden, der
Yentl furchtbar findet und die Streisand auch, dabei Chateau d´Yquem und
ein
wenig mit Yves über Karl herziehen (oder umgekehrt).
Z
Ein Privat-Zeppelin. In Zehlendorf. Zino Davidoffs Laden in Genf und die
Beratung von Monsieur Thomas Mathys persönlich, dem Store Manager. Ein
Kühlschrank von Zanussi. Keine Zahnschmerzen haben. Ein zusätzliches
Einkommen. Zürich. Das Parteiprogramm der Zapatisten. Filme von
Zeffirelli.
Emile Zola´s „J´accuse (warum? Weil ihn zu kennen schon ein Zeichen von
Frankophilie und Literaturkenntnis, die in manchen Kreisen sehr geschätzt
wird, bis auf den heutigen Tag – denn lesen bildet).
Thursday, October 13, 2005, 16:55
Whilst a certain woman out of the east prepares for her new job
the new chancellor in one of her better moods
- widely believed to be a manifestation of further lethargy in the country for another four years, it seems that a greater part of the public and the voters do no longer care at all. they are not to be blamed, i believe, and i have personally spoken to several individuals who expressed their frustration and confessed that they had not even bothered to vote - a phenomenon described in the nineties by one of my esteemed professors, dr. moser from hamburg university, himself the husband of the late minster for social affairs in schleswig-holsten, as political frustration:
he pointed out in his lectures that the political caste had a deep interest in fueling this frustration in order to stay in power, regardless of their political beliefs, if they had any at all, clinging to their positions and regarding themselves partly as semi gods or sharers of stately state-incomes, pensions paid lifelong and i spite of their populations plight and unemployment.
let it be known that there are some voters and journalists who see this as scandalous behavior, undignified for a true subject of the state. one asks oneself why the esteemed political class is so eagerly clinging to their social positions, or as a friend of mine recently very fittingly put it: “a country run by teachers and lawyers will not function properly”.
one is suddenly reminded of times, when for instance the british government was run by gentlemen who had a status in society unchallenged perhaps and gained by family connections,
winston churchill speaking in the houses of parliament
who nevertheless could be swept out of office and made mistakes, who were uncorruptable and in the best case uncorrupted. it is with the greatest concern that i see the united states run by a bunch of millionaires, letting the power go from family to family, guarding their interests by force and suppression of the freedom of the press, as the case of mrs. miller, reported in the new york times yesterday, readily seems to prove:
“October 16, 2005
The Miller Case: A Notebook, a Cause, a Jail Cell and a Deal
By DON VAN NATTA Jr., ADAM LIPTAK and CLIFFORD J. LEVY
In a notebook belonging to Judith Miller,
mrs judith miller with her lawyer
a reporter for The New York Times, amid notations about Iraq and nuclear weapons, appear two small words: “Valerie Flame.”
Ms. Miller should have written Valerie Plame. That name is at the core of a federal grand jury investigation that has reached deep into the White House. At issue is whether Bush administration officials leaked the identity of Ms. Plame, an undercover C.I.A. operative, to reporters as part of an effort to blunt criticism of the president’s justification for the war in Iraq.
Ms. Miller spent 85 days in jail for refusing to testify and reveal her confidential source, then relented. On Sept. 30, she told the grand jury that her source was I. Lewis Libby, the vice president’s chief of staff. But she said he did not reveal Ms. Plame’s name.
And when the prosecutor in the case asked her to explain how “Valerie Flame” appeared in the same notebook she used in interviewing Mr. Libby, Ms. Miller said she “didn’t think” she heard it from him. “I said I believed the information came from another source, whom I could not recall,” she wrote on Friday, recounting her testimony for an article that appears today.
Whether Ms. Miller’s testimony will prove valuable to the prosecution remains unclear, as do its ramifications for press freedom. Yet an examination of Ms. Miller’s decision not to testify, and then to do so, offers fresh information about her role in the investigation and how The New York Times turned her case into a cause.
The grand jury investigation centers on whether administration officials leaked the identity of Ms. Plame, whose husband, a former diplomat named Joseph C. Wilson IV, became a public critic of the Iraq war in July 2003. But Ms. Miller said Mr. Libby first raised questions about the diplomat in an interview with her that June, an account suggesting that Mr. Wilson was on the White House’s radar before he went public with his criticisms.
Once Ms. Miller was issued a subpoena in August 2004 to testify about her conversations with Mr. Libby, she and The Times vowed to fight it. Behind the scenes, however, her lawyer made inquiries to see if Mr. Libby would release her from their confidentiality agreement. Ms. Miller said she decided not to testify in part because she thought that Mr. Libby’s lawyer might be signaling to keep her quiet unless she would exonerate his client. The lawyer denies that, and Mr. Libby did not respond to requests for an interview.”
the current cicero affair, where our interior minister ordered a raid on the magazine´s editorial office to uncover a source in the bundesnachrichtendienst, eerily reminds of the spiegel affair, a scandal that under similar circumstances brought down franz josef strauss, then minister of the defense - a parallel which has in my view not been explored in the political pages yet.
the mere fact that telephone converations of journalists are allowed to be tapped into by the verfassungsschutz, a right by law that is only but greatfully and hopefully still guarded by our worthy german judges, is shocking enough. it seems that our democratic rights, so established by our founding fathers of the constitution in 1948 have come under severe attack after the events of september 11 and with the sole justification of security measures. “may you live in interesting times” is an ancient chinese curse. for me, they seem interesting enough, thank very much.
I am off to zurich.
Monday, October 17, 2005, 13:28