The island of Sazan (Saseno, Σασων)

One of the standard air routes between Athens and western Europe takes a path just west of the Albanian coast. If you are seated on the right side of the airplane, you can see the city of Vlorë (italian: Valona, greek: Αυλών). The Bay of Vlorë is bound by the characteristic Karaburun peninsula, beyond the tip of which lies the small island of Sazan (it. Saseno, gr. Σάσων - Sáson).

This tiny island, who has an area of just 5.70 km², is a very fascinating curiosity in modern greek history, as it is one of the rare instances when Greece voluntarily ceded any of its territory (in 1914, to Albania). I first learned about this from my father when I was a teenager, and since then, every time I fly past it I think of the strange fate of Sazan.

Σασώ, as it was known in antiquity, was already mentioned by Polybius in a military episode taking place in 215 BC. Part of the Roman and Byzantine empires, it was captured by the Anjou of Naples in 1279, and was held by Albanian lords in the 1300s, often under the protection of Venice. The Ottoman Turks captured it around 1400, but it belonged to the Venetians by 1696. From then on, it follows the fate of the Ionian Islands, which were eventually given to Britain in 1815 as an autonomous republic under British protection.

In 1864 the Ionian Islands were given to Greece. That's when Sáson/Sazan becomes de jure part of the greek state. However, Greece did not try to make its presence felt on the uninhabited island at that point, and never tried to occupy it. In fact, Ottoman Turkey reestablished its presence there by building a lighthouse in 1871. During the Balkan Wars, the greek navy captured Sáson on 8 November 1912, almost fifty years after it was legally transfered to Greece. In early 1914 though, after the great powers finalized the borders of the newly independent Albania, Greece was asked to cede the island to Albania. The greek government introduced the relevant law proposal (of just two articles) to Parliament, which voted on it on 28 May and published it on 7 June. The greek guard of twenty-five soldiers left the island on 2 July 1914. Thus ends the greek presence on Sazan.

That was not the end of the story, by the way. Italy took possession of the island in 1920 and kept it through World War II. It was formally restored to Albania in 1947, and was used as a base of the Soviet navy until 1961. It is currently used by Albania and the Italian coast guard in their efforts against illegal migration and contraband traffic.

So, next time you fly near Sazan, think of all its adventures, and, especially if you are greek, of its strange fate! (The photo of Vlorë, the Karaburun peninsula, and Sazan was taken during a flight from Athens to London).


Sources
Σπυρίδων Λάμπρος, Η νήσος Σάσων, Νέος Ἑλληνομνήμων, τόμος 11, σελ. 57-93 (1914).
Petrit Nathanaili, L’ île de Sazan (Saseno), Balkanologie, vol. VI, no 1-2, p. 41-46 (2002).
L'occupazione dell'isola di Saseno ed i reati commessi sull'isola, Prassi Italiana di Diritto Internazionale.
Wikipedia: Sazan Island (in english), Saseno (in italian).

Statues in Madrid

One of the striking things that I notice when I visit Madrid is the impressive statues positioned on top of various buildings. While this is not a feature unique in Madrid, I haven't seen them in such great numbers in any other city that I have visited. Most of them depict heroic or mythological compositions and are made in a neoclassical, realistic, or art deco style. They certainly catch one's attention! Some of the photos that I took last week can be seen here (click on the picture above for a full size version).

But perhaps the most unique one, whose location happens to be rather easy to miss, is an eye catching representation of what would appear to be a Fallen Angel (i.e. Lucifer, the devil) or perhaps Icarus. It is located on a building at the corner of Calle Mayor and Calle de los Milaneses, about half-way between Puerta del Sol and the Almudena Cathedral. As it turns out, it is "Ni Ícaro, ni el diablo", according to an interview of the artist who created it in 2005, Miguel Ángel Ruiz. Its title is, funnily enough, Accidente Aéreo, Air Crash! Of the many photos that I took, I chose to post this one, as I like the contrast between the green patina and the ochre background.

Some other pictures, of a different theme, from my previous visit to Madrid can be seen in this post.

Bird's eye view

One of the things that I like when I fly is the views that one gets to enjoy. I always request a window seat and have my camera ready to go. Here are some of the pictures that I have captured. For this posting, I have concentrated mostly on greek themes. (Click the thumbnails for a full size version of each pic).

Halifax, Nova Scotia	Greenland	Boston Harbor
Galaxidi & Itea Γαλαξίδι & Ιτέα	Halkida Xαλκίδα	Ioannina Ιωάννινα
Μornos lake, Vardousia & Giona mntns Λίμνη Μόρνου, Βαρδούσια & Γκιώνα	Alkionides Bay, Porto Germeno Κόλπος Αλκυονίδων, Πόρτο Γερμενό	Kalymnos Κάλυμνος

"Pianism personified"

For anyone who happens to like both piano music and history, few twentieth century personalities can match the fame of the Polish pianist, composer, and statesman Paderewski. Polish national hero Ignacy Jan Paderewski (1860-1941) was "the most publicized, most admired, most successful and most legendary pianist after Liszt", as Harold Schonberg writes in The Great Pianists (a must-have book for any lover of piano playing). Firmly rooted in the 19th century tradition of pianism, he composed romantic piano music in the salon genre, very melodic and pleasant, though not particularly original. He was a fervent patriot and in 1919, following Polish independence after World War I, he became prime minister. He represented his country at the Versailles peace conference that settled european affairs at the aftermath of the Great War. Such was his fame as a pianist, that when Clemenceau, the French prime minister, met him at the conference, he famously said "So now you are Prime Minister of your country. What a comedown!"

Mazurka in B flat major, from Danses polonaises, Op. 9 No. 4, played by Karol Radziwonowicz (LDC 278 1073/75)

Critics and fellow pianists were not always kind in their opinions of him, as he was not a great technician and blurred rhythms too much, even for the lax standards of his era. Moreover, he persisted appearing in public into his old age, long after his best days were past. What he had was nobility of tone, grace, a magnetic personality, and a "poetic haze" that was difficult to resist. Some of his problems with technique were due to the fact that he didn't really receive competent instruction till he was relatively old. His love of music was profound, but technique did not come natural to him, contrary to most great pianists. He had to work very hard to temper his limitations. During his first american tour, in 1891, he practiced 17 hours a day. The hysteria that women in his audiences displayed (his dazzling handsome looks helped too!) was reminiscent of Liszt or of the rock stars later in the 20th century.
Nonetheless, his concerts were so successful that he became very rich. He was very generous with his money and donated much of his fortune to charities and to Polish causes.
He died in New York two years after Poland was overcome by nazi troops, while heading the Polish parliament in exile, and was buried in Arlington National Cemetery. His remains were reburied in Warsaw in 1992.

J S Bach

One of my earliest and continuing musical fascinations is organ music. It started when I was fourteen (14) years old, when a colleague of my father's gave me, as a Christmas gift, a vinyl LP record (Archiv 2565 002) of organ music by Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750). It was a very fortunate introduction to the great works of Bach, as the LP, produced in 1971, was by a great german organist, Helmut Walcha (1907-1991), playing on the Grand Organ of the St Laurens Church, Alkmaar and the organ in the Church of Saint-Pierre-le-Jeune, Strasburg. With his magnificent and at the same time subtle playing, Walcha remains to this day my favorite Bach organ interpreter. That old LP, which I still have, is in fact a selection from the complete recording of Bach's organ works by Walcha. Many years later I bought the 12-CD set. It remains in print and is still available today. Among the pieces featured on the record is the Pastorale, BWV 590, one of my favorite not-so-known Bach works, and several of his famous chorale preludes, written on themes of lutheran hymns. Among them, one that I find very moving is Ich ruf' zu dir, Herr Jesu Christ, BWV 639 (I call to you, Lord Jesus Christ - Κύριε, εκέκραξα προς Σέ) which Bach composed around 1713 and is part of the Orgelbüchlein collection of 46 chorale preludes.

I think that, in the right mood, it can bring tears to one's eyes. It was memorably used by film director Andrei Tarkovsky in his 1972 masterpiece Solaris. BWV 639 is one of the Bach chorales transcribed for the piano by Ferruccio Busoni (1866-1924). Busoni's Bach transcriptions are among the most performed pieces in the transcription repertoire, and it has been recorded by many famous pianists. It is played here by Dinu Lipatti (1917-1950).

Since that Christmas, many years ago, I have been exploring the organ repertory and I have developed a liking for composers and pieces from the Baroque, Romantic, and modern eras. But Bach's works retain a special place in my heart.
(The score of Busoni's BWV 639 transcription pictured here was published by Breitkopf & Härtel and is in the public domain. The full PDF can be had here).

To kokoraki - Το Κοκοράκι

When it comes to songs, one thing that always attracts my curiosity is non-greeks singing greek songs. One of the most humorous such cases is Donald Swann, of the legendary 50's and 60's Flanders and Swann duo, singing To Kokoraki (Το Κοκοράκι - The Cockerel), a satyrical traditional greek song. Before joining Michael Flanders, composer and pianist Donald Swann (1923–1994) studied modern languages in Oxford, and during World War II served in Greece "whose music and culture became a life-long passion and influence". In that sense his admirable rendering of To Kokoraki is not surprising.
Still, I think it's no small feat, as even native greek speakers can easily trip over their tongues trying to imitate the required animal sounds and going through the repetitions of this funny song.

This 1959 recording is from their musical revue At the Drop of a Hat. Swann's handwritten notes on the song are interesting themselves, with all the words mimicking the animal voices carefully written out. Greek listeners will easily recognize the tune, as it is a children's favorite and has been recorded many times. In Ζήτω το ελληνικό τραγούδι Dionysis Savvopoulos made a version where each animal voice was performed by another artist.
Perhaps the most famous Flanders and Swann song is the The Hippopotamus ("Mud, mud, glorious mud"). You can check out a couple of versions here - with a russian interlude - and here.

Ten years and counting

Ten years have passed since the adoption of the euro as the common currency of many European Union countries. Today, sixteen EU countries and three "microstates" (Monaco, San Marino, and the Vatican) are officially using the euro. A few other countries use the euro unofficially or without formal agreements with the EU.

Beyond the economic implication of the euro introduction, which I won't discuss here, I'd like to mention the excitement and opportunities that all these new coins have provided coin collectors and enthusiasts. As every participating country has a distinct design on the coins' obverse (the coins have a common reverse), there are nineteen different versions for each euro coin denomination. On top of that, one should add the commemorative, circulating 2-euro coins that have been issued regularly since 1994 (fifty-one, by 2008. The first one is pictured here, issued by Greece for the 2004 Olympics).

The euro coins of Monaco, San Marino, and the Vatican have attracted particular attention, as their low mintage numbers have led to a huge collector demand and high prices. Vatican euros especially are very highly sought after.

Happy New Year!

Glad tidings for Christmas and a happy New Year!

George Wesley Bellows (1882-1925)

Love of Winter
1914
Oil on canvas

In January 1914, George Bellows wrote to a friend: "There has been none of my favorite snow. I must always paint the snow at least once a year." Soon after, on February 13, a major blizzard hit New York City, inspiring the artist to paint Love of Winter. In the work, he used bright reds, yellows, and greens to intensify the winter scene and broad, slashing brushstrokes to convey movement, wind, and speed. The energetic group of skates and onlookers, composed of people of a range of ages and social classes, reflects the diversity of public parks and leisure activities in early-20th-century New York City.

Painting photographed and text copied at The Art Institute of Chicago.
Click for larger vesrion

Flying

A couple of pics captured earlier this week. Sunrise at the airport at Syracuse, NY,
and evening over Chicago, IL.

(click the pics for a larger version).