Nov

“Blistering Blue Brussels, Tintin!”

by Joyce McGreevy on November 6, 2017

The Tintin mural in Brussels, Belgium showcases comic book art as a cultural tradition. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

Hugely popular in Belgium, Tintin and friends race down a wall in Brussels’ Rue de l’Etuve.
© Joyce McGreevy

Where Comic Books Are
a Cultural Tradition

Remember watching Saturday morning cartoons and reading Sunday’s comic strips? Settling in to reread stockpiled comic books? And how your parents—those draconian disciplinarians—made you go outside to play?

In Brussels, you can have your comics and play outside, too. Just follow the Comic Book Route.

The Léonard mural by Turk in Brussels shows why comic books are a cultural tradition in Belgium. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

Léonard, a zany caricature of da Vinci by cartoonist “Turk,”
paints Brussels’ Palais de Justice.
© Joyce McGreevy

Launched in 1991, this citywide project turns buildings into comic-book panels to celebrate one of Belgium’s most popular cultural traditions—l’art de la bande dessinée, the art of the comic strip.

A mural of Francis Carin's "Victor Sackville" in Brussels shows why comic books are a cultural tradition in Belgium. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

Meticulous cartoonist Francis Carin, creator of spy hero Victor Sackville,
is known as Belgium’s “tour guide to history.”
© Joyce McGreevy

Picturing Brussels

Brussels features 55 murals and counting. Centering your sightseeing around comics is a wonderful way to explore the city.

A mural of Frank Pé's "Broussaille" in Brussels shows why comic books are a cultural tradition in Belgium. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

In Frank Pé’s “Broussaille,” even background details (inset) get star treatment.
© Joyce McGreevy

The Ninth Art

Belgium boasts more comic strip artists per square kilometer than anywhere else in Europe. It’s here that the comic strip grew from a popular medium into le neuvème art, “the ninth art.”

“In most Belgian homes, you will find a collection of comics or even an entire library dedicated to comic strips. More than half of the books published or produced in Belgium are comics.” So says Jean Auquier, director of the Belgian Comic Strip Center, Centre Belge de la Bande Dessinée.

There’s a comic book museum? Actually, there are several. “Nowhere else are comics so strongly rooted in reality and in people’s imagination.”

The Belgian Comic Strip Center in Brussels showcases comic books as a cultural tradition. (Image © www.visitbrussels.be and Daniel Fouss)

The Belgian Comic Strip Center is housed in Art Nouveau architecture.
© www.visitbrussels.be and Daniel Fouss

Belgium’s Comic-Book Legacy

Some Belgian comic-book characters are famous worldwide. As a kid, you likely spent Saturdays with Les Schtroumpfs, as Franco-Belgians call them, De Smurfen in Flemish. That’s “Smurfs” to you and me. Cartoonist Peyo (Pierre Culliford) invented the little blue characters after coining the word schtroumpf as a joke and sprinkling variations of it into conversations.

A group of children intently reading comic books at the Belgian Comic Strip Center show why comic books are a popular cultural tradition in Belgium. (Image © www.visitbrussels.be and Daniel Fouss)

What, no comic book for the Smurf?
© www.visitbrussels.be and Daniel Fouss

Belgium’s Boy Wonder

First, however, came Tintin, globe-trotting reporter, faithful dog Milou (“Snowy”) and brash Captain Haddock—he of tongue-twisting epithets like “Blistering blue barnacles!” and “Ten thousand thundering typhoons!”

Created by Hergé (Georges Remi), whose tumultuous life merits its own graphic novel, Tintin comics (1920s–1980s) influenced generations of cartoonists with their lignes claires (“clear lines”) and innovative use of speech balloons—previously, cartoonists kept text beneath the drawings.

A window at the Belgian Comic Strip Center showcases the comic-book art as a cultural tradition. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

The Adventures of Tintin (Kuifje in Flemish) have been
translated into 80 languages.
© Joyce McGreevy

Beyond Europe, Hergé influenced artists like Andy Warhol and Roy Liechtenstein and filmmaker Steven Spielberg. He was also honored by the Dalai Lama for his 1960 work, Tintin in Tibet.

Paper Heroes

Brussels Comic Book Route will inspire you to get to know other Belgian héros de papier, too.

A mural of Hergé's Quick and Flupke in Brussels shows why comic books are a popular cultural tradition in Belgium. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

The adventures of Hergé’s “other sons,” characters Quick and Flupke,
take place in the Marolles, where Hergé grew up.
© Joyce McGreevy

Where to Begin?

Because you’re never far from public transportation, I recommend starting wherever you are. Use the museum’s interactive online map to locate clusters of nearby murals.

A mural of Yves Chaland’s comic-book character, Le Jeune Albert, in Brussels shows why comic books are a popular cultural tradition in Belgium. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

Yves Chaland’s comic-book character, Le Jeune Albert,
is himself deeply engrossed in a comic book.
© Joyce McGreevy

My base is L’Art de la Fugue, in the St. Gilles neighborhood, an inexpensive B&B with—aptly—visually dazzling rooms, each unique. Like a cartoon detective, I begin my mystery tour by seeking out the proverbial Fat Cat:

A mural of Philippe Geluck's "Le Chat" in Brussels shows why comic-book art is a popular cultural tradition in Belgium. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

Philippe Geluck’s “Le Chat” series delights in perplexing readers.
© Joyce McGreevy

The trail winds through the heart of the Marolles, one of the city’s oldest neighborhoods, where streets are lined with vintage shops. Like comic-book panels, the neighborhood reveals itself one fascinating window at a time.

A vintage figurine in a Brussels inspires comparisons with Belgian comic-book art as a cultural tradition. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

A window on Rue Blaes reflects a spirited image of Brussels.
© Joyce McGreevy

Likewise, everyday sights seem to imitate comic art, evoking the seductions of a great story.

A street scene in Brussels, with yellow motorbike and "L'Etoile Verte" sign, inspires ideas for comic-book art, a cultural tradition in Belgium. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

A street scene in Brussels (above) inspires comic-book daydreams (below).
© Joyce McGreevy

Walking Through Pictures

By moseying from one mural to another, I cover a wide swath of Brussels on foot. The search for comic-book murals reveals other urban pleasures, too. Like comic-book motion lines, the aromas of coffee and fresh-baked bread lead to wonderful cafés, places filled with locals, where visitors find a warm welcome.

A street scene in Brussels, featuring Café L'Aubette, inspires ideas for comic-book art, a cultural tradition in Belgium. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

There’s visual inspiration on every corner.
© Joyce McGreevy

Turning a corner becomes like turning a page. Mural by mural, I’m guided from one facet of the city to another—peaceful gardens, bustling market squares, centers of cutting-edge design, and places of gilded baroque magnificence.

At one point, I encounter a glass elevator that lifts me high above red-tiled rooftops to panoramic views from the Palais de Justice.

A mural in Brussels of François Schuiten and Benoît Peeters' "The Passage" shows why comic books are a cultural tradition in Belgium,. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

A couple stands beside François Schuiten and Benoît Peeters’ “The Passage,”
unaware of their cartoon shadows (inset).
© Joyce McGreevy

All day I follow the visual narrative. The passing hours play with the autumn sunlight like a cartoonist experimenting with background colors: slate grey dawn becomes morning’s pale gold, then afternoon’s bonus blue. With so many comic-book heroes watching over Brussels, can sunset be anything but rosy?

Finally, as darkness inks in the sky, the city’s windows begin to glow, like panels in a graphic novel.

A café window in Brussels inspires ideas for comic-book art, a cultural tradition in Belgium. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

When life imitates Belgian comic-book art…
© Joyce McGreevy

Oh, I see: In the comic-book city, where the cartoonist’s art is a cultural tradition, Brussels has ever more stories to tell.

View a map of Brussels’ Comic Book Route here and see a mural being created here. See more street art in London here, on top of gum globs here, and at the Tour 13 project in Paris here.

Comment on this post below.

Joyce McGreevy 2 Comments

Belgium/Cultural Heritage & Traditions/On Foot/The World's Art & Design

Oct

The Egg and “Ei”

by Joyce McGreevy on October 24, 2017

When four teenagers and a writer, Joyce McGreevy, meet in the Volksgarten, Vienna, Austria, they share the fun of speaking two languages. Image © Joyce McGreevy

Finding our voices in Vienna: Catrina, Cedric, the author, Nicky, and Adah. (Oh, and “Albert.”)
© Joyce McGreevy

What Four Viennese Teens Taught Me
About Speaking Two Languages

I was sitting on a park bench in Vienna when they approached me, speaking two languages.

What’s more international than the Volksgarten? An Austrian park in formal French style around a replica Greek temple, it attracts visitors from around the world.

The replica Temple of Theseus at the Volksgarten, Vienna gives a group of visitors an opportunity for speaking in two languages. (Public domain image by Norman Davies)

The Volksgarten (“people’s garden”) blooms with roses and buzzes with languages.
Norman Davies (public domain)

I’d been thinking about language, about the surprising fact that I’d found it easier to speak Hungarian than German.

Let me explain. One of my travel pleasures is taking language lessons and then practicing every day with native speakers. Picking things up little by little. Savoring the taste of new words.

Permission to Speak

When I did this in cities like Budapest, or countries like Malta, Bulgaria, Greece, and Turkey, native speakers responded with encouragement. It’s not about ego boosting—the nearest toddler could out-debate me—but genuine human connection.

People overlooked flaws in pronunciation, eased me past mistakes, and enriched my vocabulary with the aplomb of chocolatiers proffering boxes of pralines.

Alas, when I spoke German in Austria, native speakers switched to English. Politely, but irrevocably. How to negotiate, to explain that I missed speaking two languages?

So what if I strode in one language, limped in the other? I’d happily hobble along in order to learn.

A street scene in Vienna reminds a writer of the pleasures of speaking two languages. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

I longed to steep myself in another language to the point of dreaming in it. (Vienna)
© Joyce McGreevy

A Wanderlust for Words

I became a silent student of German. I read food labels and environmental text, listened to opera and watched local news. At a thrift store near Sigmund Freud’s historic apartment, I found a 1970s children’s book and carried it home like it was Mozart’s lost sonata.

Whenever I rode the metro or shared an elevator, my ears fairly twitched like a dog’s toward familiar sounds.

Assorted German-language reading materials inspire a writer in Vienna who misses speaking two languages. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

A language learner’s improvised library.
© Joyce McGreevy

Talking Points

I marveled at close connections and vast gaps between German and English.

I fell in love with the word arbeitslust, which artist Gustav Klimt used to discuss the will, indeed the burning desire, to do one’s work.

But I wasn’t speaking two languages.

It was like viewing a feast, but never tasting it. Maybe there’s a German word for that, too.

Cakes on display in Cafe Demel, Vienna, Austria become a metaphor for speaking two languages. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

Cakes on display at Café Demel, Vienna. The sweetness is hidden inside.
© Joyce McGreevy

Teen Talk to the Rescue

Then I met four Austrian teens on a mission.

Their teacher had sent forth small groups with an unusual assignment: Go to the Volksgarten, find a friendly foreigner, and make a trade using English.

Their teacher was helping her students acquire language functions.

Language functions are specific purposes we address every day: We summarize a movie. We compare and contrast our baseball team’s wins and losses. We greet neighbors and ask questions to get to know them. We persuade a friend to help us move.

A market in Budapest reminds a writer of reasons for speaking two languages. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

We negotiate everything from groceries to relationships. (Budapest)
© Joyce McGreevy

A Good Egg

“What are you trading?” I asked.

“Albert,” they said.

“Excuse me?”

Albert, it turned out, was a total egghead. Hard-boiled, I was assured.

Cedric, Catriona, Adah, and Nicky persuaded me that I would benefit from the trade, because:

Albert had purple hair,
a nice smile,
a pleasing shape,
and was very portable.
Besides, how often do you meet a purple-haired egg named Albert in a 19th century park in Vienna?

Sure, they might have mentioned that eggs are a reliable source of protein, selenium, and vitamin D. But when the egg in question has a big goofy smile, why go there?

For my negotiation, all I had was a pen. So I told stories about, well, writing stories with it.

And since negotiations entailed that all stakeholders should benefit, I suggested they each use the pen to record English expressions.

“It’s a deal!”

A deal that got sweeter: The teens spoke German with me. Vielen Dank!

People conversing near water in Vienna, Austria become a metaphor for speaking two languages. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

Languages reflect our universal impulse to connect. (Vienna)
© Joyce McGreevy

Trading Ideas

We traded pleasantries and then we traded languages. Like ei for “egg.” And glücklich for “happy.”

Ich bin glücklich, I ventured.

“We’re happy, too,” they said. “This was fun!” When four teens say they’ve enjoyed meeting a woman old enough to be their ~~grandm~~—uh, mom, that’s a good day.

Suddenly, it didn’t matter who was the native speaker. Only that we were speaking. In two languages.

These confident-looking teens admitted they’d felt nervous approaching strangers to start a conversation. Some folks shooed them away.

As for the trade, anyone who’d been willing to negotiate offered . . . a pen. So why had they accepted mine?

“You made it into a story,” they said. “What about us?”

“You made an egg into ‘Albert.’ An ei into an I.”

An egg character set against a scene of urban crowds becomes a metaphor for the fragility one can feel when speaking two languages. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

Feel fragile when speaking two languages? C’mon out of your shell!
© Joyce McGreevy

Oh, I see: We’re all speaking two languages. Words, and whatever gives them meaning. Imagination and negotiation. Curiosity and discovery. Trust and connection.

Is there a word that means “a love of communicating with others”? With practice—and the encouragement of fellow travelers—we just might find out.

Comment on this post below, or inspire insight with your own OIC Moment here.

Joyce McGreevy 3 Comments

Austria/Becoming Bilingual/Cultural Encounters/Language & Culture

Oct

What’s in Your Suitcase?

by Joyce McGreevy on October 9, 2017

A souvenir store in Budapest, Hungary leads a writer to seek the locus of travel inspiration and other aha moments. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

Collected Travel Inspiration,
With & Without Souvenirs

Souvenirs—talismans of travel inspiration, mere trinkets, or trash? Can they inspire aha moments or only memorialize them?

The very word is a souvenir of 18th century French—from souvenir “to remember.” But I like the ancient Latin even better. Subvenire, “to come up from below,” tips its hat to the subconscious. It makes me think of opening old boxes in a basement and finding forgotten treasure, some silly, small item of no value. And yet . . .

Lost Souvenirs

My first souvenir? Petite plastic dolls from a Paris flea market. In the 1960s, my sister Carolyn and I splurged all our pocket money on them, one franc each. Ah, but that included “tous les meubles!”—all the furniture. Our dollhouse was a cupboard in our hotel, itself a souvenir of La Belle Époque.

A dollhouse in a store window in Sofia, Bulgaria leads a writer to ponder the travel inspiration we find in souvenirs. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

They’re long gone now—dolls, furniture, the hotel, too. But my flea-market mind maintains a little shrine for them.

The first recorded use of souvenir as a token of remembrance occurred in 1782. One dictionary after another presents this tidbit but omits the actual example. It’s like finding a silver lid minus the vessel. Souvenirs are like that—parts that can only hint at the whole.

Today, few people admit to souvenir-collecting. Marketing reports attest that travelers spend more on sightseeing than on shopping, souvenirs, and nightlife combined. Yet souvenir shops do booming business around the globe.

It’s Only Natural?

Early souvenir hunters “preserved” the past by breaking off bits of it. In the 1800s, visitors to Plymouth Rock were even provided with hammers.

An 1850 souvenir of Plymouth Rock leads a writer to ponder the downside of souvenirs and the true locus of travel inspiration. (Public domain image, National Museum of American History)

A chip off the old block? Some souvenirs proved too popular.
Plymouth Rock Fragment by National Museum of American History, CC BY 4.0

Can the quest for remembrances make us forgetful? Recently, a mother and daughter from Virginia mailed back “souvenirs” to Iceland—a stone and a bag of sand they’d collected from the black volcanic beaches of Reynisfjara.

Back home, they learned that Icelandic law strictly forbids such souvenir collecting. The tourism board accepted their apology and promised to return the items to their natural setting.

Practical Souvenirs

A friend of mine collects “shoe-venirs” when she travels. Every walk she takes begins in lands she has loved.

A chef I know collects household objects—a moka pot from Milan, spices from Moroccan souks. They link his American kitchen to kitchens around the world.

I like how these souvenirs, modern cousins to ancient vessels and vestments, are connected to daily rituals.

Ancient gold jewelry in the Benaki Museum, Athens, Greece inspires an aha moment about their connection to ordinary souvenirs. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

Post-travel Souvenirs

One January, after returning from verdant Maui to snowbound Chicago, I saw melancholy sidle up to me. An aha moment intervened. I collected post-travel souvenirs: thrift store décor; Hawaiian-themed groceries; traditional island music. I adore Chicago, but Chicago-infused-with-Maui did wonders for my psyche that winter.

Garden objects in Maui lead a writer to ponder the reasons we find travel inspiration in souvenirs. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

Ephemeral Souvenirs

Even minimalists-to-the-max collect souvenir ephemera. It’s scientific fact. Just as magnets attract iron filings, humans attract paper: playbills from Piccadilly, coasters from Costa Rica, a café napkin from Nantes.

One day, you rediscover it—the train ticket turned bookmark. Suddenly, you’re traveling again, backtracking along the past, or pressing your nose against a window onto the future.

A collage made of travel ephemera on an office wall in Chicago leads a writer to ponder ways people find travel inspiration in souvenirs. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

Whimsical Souvenirs

Now comes the parade of fringed pillows, ceramic caricatures, and other tchotchkes. Brazenly they shout out where you’ve been: Niagara Falls 1978! I heart Twickenham! Gibraltar ROCKS My World!

All hail souvenirs that sport the name Souvenir. If that Souvenir of Venice tea-towel were a person, it would stand arms akimbo and declare, “Yeah, pal, that’s right, I’m a Souvenir. What’s it to ya?”

Mass-produced pillows in California lead a writer to ponder why people find travel inspiration in souvenirs. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

“Elsewhere” Souvenirs

But what of provenance? During my youth in Ireland, the more stereotypical the souvenir, the likelier it was to be stamped An tSeapain tir adheanta—“Made in Japan.” Who made the faux French dolls my sister and I played with? Where did they live? What were their lives like? Souvenirs keep secrets.

Twilight in Baltimore, Co. Cork, Ireland leads a writer to compare the travel inspiration of souvenirs vs. experiences. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

Elusive Souvenirs

The day I left Budapest, I passed between souvenir stores. Innumerable wares glinted in the sunlight like autumn leaves. As a single-suitcase traveler, I pretend I’m “immune to the stuff.” But the ache of departure made me gluttonous with desire, as if travel inspiration were something to consume: I wanted the “all” of Budapest.

Oh, I see moment: Maybe that’s what travel souvenirs represent—a longing to live multiple lives in myriad places, in times that never have to end.

Empty-handed, heart full, I boarded the train and said goodbye to Budapest.

Now then, what’s in your suitcase?

See souvenirs so quirky they seem satirical, here.

Comment on this post below, or inspire insight with your own OIC Moment here.

Joyce McGreevy Comments

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“Blistering Blue Brussels, Tintin!”