In juni 2015 bevond ik mezelf tussen internationale academici in Sheffield, VK. Het was een bewuste keuze, geïnspireerd door een film over Elizabeth Bishop. Films hebben een grote invloed, en zo begon het avontuur dat ik kort daarna publiceerde in de Elizabeth Bishop Society Newsletter:
At the first conference I ever attended, I may have managed to slightly annoy two Creative Writing teachers by bluntly exclaiming that I do believe— and thus agree with Elizabeth Bishop— that the art of writing (anything at all) cannot be taught. Presumably because of this manner of thinking, it is plausible to imagine I’m not at all a writer: I simply never learned the Art myself. Despite of this, or maybe because of it, I sincerely hope you will bear with me and enjoy my very non-academic impression of the ‘Elizabeth Bishop – Questions of Travel: 50 Years Later conference.
Perhaps the only reason I felt confident asking Jonathan Ellis if non-academics were welcome too, was the fact I knew Elizabeth Bishop wasn’t much of an academic herself. It wasn’t unimaginable to me she may have actually appreciated the disruption. Always an avid reader, I am aware how wonderful it can be when words on a page start to speak to you— right there, straight from the pages to the senses. Still, I couldn’t have been prepared for the impact Elizabeth Bishop’s poetry instantly seemed to have on me, like falling head over heels in love – the kind of love which makes it perfectly clear it is here to stay.
Arriving at Halifax Hall the day before the conference would start, my first encounter happened to be with my hotel-room door, which refused to open once I was inside. Feeling trapped isn’t pleasant, so after several attempts at opening the stubborn thing I decided to let go of my pride and call the reception desk. Interestingly, the response sounded as if there had been guests in the past with the same kind of problem (“Oh— you just need to pull that door really hard”). Not at all unacquainted with awkwardness, I was sincerely hoping this confrontation wouldn’t set the tone for the rest of my attending the conference….
The next morning I was considerably nervous before going to breakfast (by then I had managed to conquer the reluctant door). I found myself in luck by running into a friendly Italian hotel guest, Francesco Rognoni, whom I guess was less lucky to be paired with me for breakfast. I had no idea who he was, nor that he was a conference attender as well, but I did learn straight away he was of the talkative kind. It made me feel slightly more at ease, although it meant sacrificing my breakfast altogether. This didn’t matter at all, as my new Italian friend swiftly introduced me to a couple who turned out to be Mr. and Mrs. Travisano. Of course I had read Words in Air, really the most exquisite title for a book of correspondence one could think of, though unaware of whom Thomas Travisano was (hereby I do apologize). It is terribly easy to be passionate about something (or someone, if you will) as well as ignorant at the same time.
The much larger, round table next to us turned out to be a place for reunion. It was pleasant to watch, even though I recognized just one person in this group of familiarity. Mr. Schwartz couldn’t possibly be missed: splendidly tall, with outstanding long, white hair. I had seen him on a picture, found while I was searching for his e-mail address, earlier this year after buying the Library of America edition, Elizabeth Bishop: Poems, Prose and Letters. I found myself standing next to Mr. Schwartz at the breakfast counter, searching for something to eat & drink, wishing him a ‘good morning!’, then retreating back to the table where my new Italian friend still kept me sublime company, and would continue to do so throughout the conference.
After a few readings given that morning, and still not entirely sure if, or rather how I fitted in to all of this, I bought a book, which is kind of my personal comforting practice when feeling out of place. It was one I had my eye on for quite a while but had postponed buying (there are oh so many good books on Elizabeth Bishop I could afford in the short amount of time since discovering her), and there it was! Exchanging Hats, displayed on the table of Carcanett Press. Two hardcover editions – many paperbacks. Happily I spent my ‘souvenir’ money on one of those two hardcovers (the best looking one, as the lady selling the books compared the two of them with me). It’s a breathtaking book and one I’m terribly fond of.
A few hours onwards the Dining Room got illuminated by rainbows, rainbows— even when a Harvard professor (Stephen Burt) asks his audience whether or not he talks too fast, one doesn’t really tell him he does. I’d like a transcript of his lecture instead, even though it was delightful, as well as interesting, observing his enthusiasm. I’m sure he made much more sense to those who have English as their first language.
Later that day (‘evening free’) I went out, in search for Sheffield’s Botanical Gardens. On the map it looked like one couldn’t possibly miss them, yet somehow I managed to walk entirely around the area. When I did finally find a gate, a note stuck to it said the gardens were closed – closed early because of a film crew present. Disappointed, still quite early in the evening, I turned round. On my way back to the hotel, a rather large group of people I recognized from the conference was walking in the opposite direction towards town, undoubtedly for dinner, talking animatedly. Back in my room, turning on my computer, checking twitter, I saw that quote – retweeted by Jonathan Ellis – from the Paris Review interview: “Photographers, insurance salesmen, and funeral directors are the worst forms of life.”
I am a photographer! Playing with rainbow colours and loving her poetry— what was I doing here?
The answer provided itself the next morning after the Brazil / Brasil panel, which had the most beautiful paper title of the conference (‘Eros in brushstrokes of light and shade’), and included a talk on a certain 2013 film about Elizabeth Bishop in Brazil. Little did I know beforehand how much Reaching for the Moon appeared to act like an approaching thunderstorm— After all it was because of this film I came to learn about Elizabeth Bishop, just over a year ago at the time of the conference. Yes, I am one of the ‘new ones’, if you like, as one not so subtle student titled me during lunch the first day, when being questioned who I was and what I was doing.
After all of the negative responses following the panel’s paper referring to Reaching for the Moon, I was reluctant yet determined to say at least something positive about the film— whether it was any good or not (depending on one’s taste perhaps – I rather disliked the easy rainy metaphors but enjoyed the setting overall), it had brought Elizabeth Bishop to my attention and therefore I’m very grateful. Factuality easily flies out of the window when it comes to the portrayal of writers on the big screen. They’re always depressed, always difficult and too complex, (doesn’t ‘difficult’ in this respect mean you’re just not capable, or willing to try and understand another human being?) always without a sense of humor. This image serves the public and the filmmaking industry well. Reaching for the Moon had wonderful actresses in complicated roles, as well as featuring exquisite lines of poetry. Quickly after having said all of this or perhaps a bit less or more, I escaped the room, feeling entirely positive I had made a fool of myself in front of these academics. A little while later Mrs. Travisano found me outside, catching some much needed fresh air. She provided the most reassuring words I could’ve hoped for, and after that, and then and there I felt at home—
Throughout an excellent wine-tasting (which perhaps not very surprisingly wasn’t merely a wine-tasting, though one had to take care of not accidentally picking up a glass filled with dubious leftovers) I found myself at one point carrying two filled glasses of wine, each containing a contrasting variety for extra effect – one white, one red – while at the same time being offered yet another. It was during the tasting, I learned Brazil / Brasil has a fairly large island with forty-four beaches, and I (ignorantly) never knew Brazil had an island. In my defence however, I’d like to argue it takes a digital map capable of zooming in closely, when one is on the lookout for it. I´m sure it has everything to do with the countries’ sheer size— The Netherlands is rather visually dominated by its Mohawk of tiny islands. Brazil, of course, doesn’t need this kind of decoration to be recognized.
Oh! What a joy it was contemplating an entire discussion (of “Arrival at Santos”) dedicated to the letter ‘S’! What more could one wish for! No really— waking up reading another news item entirely dedicated to the letter ‘S’ falling out off (or with – who knows) a stanza would make me very happy. Listening, always situated in the back of the room, I was unable to shake off the feeling that Ms. Bishop, had she been present, would have been thrilled learning she initiated this lengthy, amusing discussion of that one— sad— fallen ‘S’, amongst the academics. Let alone a talk claiming it was a Toucan that was keeping her in Brazil, instead of illness. She was of course a Darwinist. Now how I wish the Northern hemisphere equivalent of a Toucan would show up.
Inevitable, perhaps, at an international conference were the interesting cultural differences and equally pleasant discoveries. Much to my enjoyment I learned Americans are very fond of sharing their food, either by taking pictures of it, or by en-masse attacking a little bowl of ‘Whitebait’ I happened to have pushed to the middle of the table, still containing tiny chopped-off fishy heads and tails I didn’t much prefer. I’ll confess to being overly spoilt by having lived nearby one of Holland’s best harbours for years and years, from childhood till I was 23 (I’m 32 now), selling splendid fresh as well as smoked mackerel, and of course the famous herring – eating out of one’s hand, with or without onions, whatever ones preferences are.
Then there is the curious case of asking the British for another cup of tea. Quite possibly anyone except for a ‘Brit’ would fall into this tea-drinking nations’ trap, so when one dear American sitting next to me at our breakfast table in Halifax Hall that Sunday morning, kindly asked the waitress for another cup of ‘English Breakfast Tea’ she almost ended up with another English breakfast instead. The poor waitress looked tremendously puzzled and quite on the brink of quitting her job right then and there. Afterwards I learned the English don’t know the term ‘Breakfast Tea’, so when one wishes a cup of ‘black tea’ one asks for something like Earl Grey. I blame the ‘Twinings’ brand for this confusion, since it successfully sells not only ‘English Breakfast Tea’, but also ‘Irish Breakfast Tea’ and even ‘English Afternoon’! It makes one wish for ‘English Delight (tea!)’….
It has been said people make friends over Elizabeth Bishop and enemies over Robert Lowell— I can’t say anything about Lowell’s admirers, and I’ve been told not every conference about a poet is as favourable as this one truly was, but I’m so glad to have met interesting, as well as profoundly friendly souls.
After the conference was over I spent some days in the Peak District, wandering on my own through this lovely countryside where everyone tends to call one another ‘love’—a landscape nevertheless cruelly divided by endless stone fences and numerous gates (every single one of these seemed to me entirely unique and impossible to open). Late that Sunday afternoon, strolling a bit through the village I was staying in, I overheard a father telling his two young children who were questioning him concerning their plans for the week: “Friday we’ll do this and that” and the only thing I heard was “Friday was nice / Friday was nice, and we were friends.” The poet and her poems inhabiting the world—
As published in the Elizabeth Bishop Society Newsletter
