Sergei Korolev and Sputnik

 

Sputnik 1 was launched on 4th October 1957, thus giving the Soviet Union the lead in the superpower space race. This achievement was primarily due to the drive and genius of one man – Sergei Korolev, the scientist who masterminded the top-secret space programme.

Born in 1906, Sergei Pavlovich Korolev was the chief engineer at Russia’s Jet Propulsion Research Institute in the mid-1930s. However, in 1938 he became a victim of Stalin’s purges and was tortured and sent to the eastern Siberian gulag, where he worked in a gold mine and suffered from scurvy. He also suffered a heart attack during his time there.

Released in 1944, he was appointed head of the secret Soviet space programme. It was his idea to launch a satellite that was heavier than anything the Americans could have considered launching at that time. It was a relatively simple craft, comprising a metal sphere containing a radio transmitter and  batteries. For three weeks it orbited Planet Earth sending out a simple beep that was designed to be heard by every territory over which it passed and which chose to tune in, with the United States being the chief intended target.

After the batteries ran out, Sputnik ran in silent mode until 4 January 1958, when it re-entered Earth’s atmosphere and burned up. By this time it had completed 1440 orbits and travelled some 43 million miles.

On 3 November 1957 Sputnik 2 was launched. This was a larger satellite, particularly notable for carrying a dog into space. Named Laika, the three year old female mongrel had been picked off the streets of Moscow to become the first living creature to leave Earth’s atmosphere. There was never any possibility that she would return to Earth, but she actually died sooner than expected when a system aboard Sputnik failed and the capsule overheated.

Korolev continued to have many successes with Soviet space missions, each one having the desired effect of catching the United States by surprise. He designed the Vostock spacecraft that launched Yuri Gargarin into space on 12th April 1961 and brought him back safely. In 1963 Valentina Tereshkova became the first woman in space, and two years later the first two-man crew was able to complete the first spacewalk.

The United States could only play catch-up with the Soviet Union at this time, but all that changed after 1966, when Korolev died. He had suffered poor health for many years as a result of his earlier ill-treatment in the gulag, and he died on the operating table during colon surgery.

Korolev had always been a magnetic personality who was able to control a highly complicated enterprise, but without him everything became embroiled in politics and bureaucracy. The Soviet space programme thus came to a virtual halt while the Americans went from strength to strength, culminating in the Apollo moon missions that landed a man on the moon in 1969.

© John Welford

Virginia Satir's five family roles

 

A healthy family life involves open and shared displays of affection and expressions of positive regard and love for one another. Compassionate, nurturing relationships play vital roles in developing well-adjusted psyches.

This was emphasised by the American psychologist Virginia Satir (1916-1988). Born to a farming family in Wisconsin, the fact that her father was an alcoholic gave her a strong awareness, from her childhood onwards, of the dynamics of caretaking, blaming and pleasing that were involved in family development, especially in families under stress. Originally trained as a teacher, Satir took a master’s degree in social work and developed the first formal family therapy training programme in the USA, which became known as the Satir Model.

When family members lack the ability to openly express emotion and affection, Satir suggested that personality roles tend to emerge in place of authentic identities. She noted five commonly played roles that individual family members are likely to adopt, especially in times of stress.

These are:

The blamer - he or she constantly finds fault and criticises other family members. They do this to hide their own feelings of unworthiness.

The computer - he or she is cold and unemotional, showing no affection. They use their intellect to stop them acknowledging their feelings.

The distractor - the person who stirs things up in order to shift the focus away from emotional issues. They believe that they will only be loved if they are seen as likeable and harmless.

The placator - the apologetic people-pleaser who is afraid of disapproval.

The leveller - the person who is an open, honest and direct communicator. Levellers maintain a healthy position and their inner feelings match their communications with other family members.

When family members adopt these roles, the family may continue to function, but at the expense of each individual’s authenticity. Satir maintained that it was important to accept one’s own self-worth as the means of casting aside a false identity. She believed that love and acceptance are the most potent healing forces for any dysfunctional family.

© John Welford

St Basil's Cathedral, Moscow

 

St Basil’s Cathedral has to be the most recognisable church in the whole of Russia, being a focal point of Moscow’s Red Square. It ceased being a place of worship after the Russian Revolution of 1917 and became a museum, but masses have been permitted to be held in the cathedral since 1991.

The cathedral is officially the Cathedral of the Intercession of the Mother of God, although the dedication to St Basil relates to a holy man who prophesied the Great Fire of Moscow in 1547.

The cathedral was built by Ivan IV (the Terrible) to commemorate his victory over the Tatars in October 1552. There is a legend to the effect that, after the building was complete, Ivan lived up to his name by having the architect blinded so that he would no longer be able to create anything to compare with it. However, given that the same man is recorded as having designed and erected many buildings in other towns after that time, the truth of the story has to be in doubt.

The cathedral has nine main domes, each with a different coloration and shape. The domes are supposedly a reference to the turbans of the Muslim princes defeated by Ivan during his reign. Unlike many Russian churches, St Basil’s is not painted on the outside but has retained a simple redbrick exterior.

The four octagonal towers surrounding the main church indicate the four cardinal points of the compass. Four further square towers standing at the diagonals between these complete the star-shaped layout. Four and eight were considered sacred numbers in the Middle Ages – there were four elements and eight was a somewhat obscure reference to Christ’s Resurrection and the Last Judgement.

The star forward by the architectural elements, connecting earth and sky, points towards the Holy Land and there is a small chapel at each of the eight corners, each commemorating one of Ivan’s battles.

© John Welford

Les Desmoiselles d’Avignon, by Pablo Picasso

 

Les Desmoiselles d’Avignon, by the Spanish painter and sculptor Pablo Picasso (1881-1973), is generally regarded as a cornerstone in the history of art and the seminal work of Cubism.

The oil on canvas painting, which measures 8 feet by 7 ft 8 ins (244 x 235 cm), dates from 1907 and was first exhibited at Bateau-Lavoir, a celebrated avant-garde studio in Paris. It was not shown in public until 1916. It can now be seen at the Museum of Modern Art, New York.

The title was given to the painting by Andre Salmon, a contemporary art critic, and refers to “Avignon” as a street in Barcelona that was the location of a well-known brothel.

The painting is of five prostitutes (the “demoiselles”), although Picasso originally intended to include two male figures, namely a sailor and a medical student holding a skull. The violently jagged bodies of the five women face the viewer head-on, two of them pushing aside curtains and the others in erotic poses.

The painting is remarkable for several reasons. For example, Picasso flouts two of the conventions by which a painter creates an illusion of reality, namely shading to convey mass and perspective to give space. Where there is a shading, it contradicts itself and refuses to convey any three-dimensional effect, and there is no use of traditional perspective. The fragmented figures are what make this painting the foundation stone of Cubism.

The painting combines completely different styles within the same image. The three faces to the left are modelled on ancient Iberian sculptures, whereas the other two come from African tribal masks.

Les Desmoiselles d’Avignon marks a transitional phase in the evolution of Picasso’s art, towards the complex geometries of full Cubism.

Picasso was arguably the single most influential artist of the 20^th century, playing a major role in its artistic development. Even those artists not directly influenced by his work could not avoid its many implications.

© John Welford

Trying to Better Michael

 

If Michael Young hadn’t started it, there is every possibility that I wouldn’t have done it. But he did, so I followed his lead.

It all began over coffee in the cafeteria at the College of Librarianship Wales, which is on a windy hillside just outside Aberystwyth. This was in 1975, when we were both doing our postgrad diplomas and were two members of a little group of friends who had got together soon after the course started.

Michael told us that we should all listen to Radio 4 that evening at a particular time. This we did, and were astonished to hear Michael’s voice as he appeared as a contestant on the long-running quiz Brain of Britain. The recording had been made shortly before we started the course and Michael had said nothing about it until the day that his particular round was broadcast.

He scored seven points on the quiz, which was not enough to get him through to the next round, but we were all very impressed that he had at least got as far as being selected to take part. As I listened to the programme it struck me that there were several questions that Michael got wrong that I would have got right, and admittedly there were some answers that he knew but I did not. Even so, on balance I reckoned that I could have done better than he did.

The idea of applying to take part myself was one that lingered in the back of my mind for some time afterwards, but it was not until about three years later, when I was working at a college library in Bognor Regis, West Sussex, that I actually did so. I wrote to the BBC and had a reply inviting me to an audition.

This took place at Broadcasting House, or rather in one of the buildings to one side that were later demolished to make room for the modern extension to the BBC’s classic HQ. The audition took the form of a one-to-one general knowledge quiz. I was told that there was a magic pass mark that would guarantee me a place on Brain of Britain, but I was not told what this was.

Things got off to a reasonable start, such as identifying which country had a flag consisting of red, gold and green horizontal stripes with a black star at the centre. I had cause to be thankful that my family had fostered a boy from Ghana for four years during my childhood, because that was the flag in question!

It struck me that the person asking the questions was going out of her way to be helpful, without actually telling me the answers. I was asked which French department had Nice as its capital. I said I didn’t know, but she suggested that I might be able to work it out.

“OK”, I said. “Nice is close to the Alps, and it’s by the sea, so how about Alpes-Maritime?” Honestly, I just made that up on the spot, but it turned out to be the right answer! I had a funny feeling that I could not expect such generosity on the quiz itself, were I to get that far.

The next thing to happen, a week or so later, was that a letter arrived at my home in Bognor Regis to say that I had been accepted for the London and South-East first round heat, to be held at a date a month or so later. The letter included three tickets for family members, should they wish to attend.

The event took place at the BBC Radio Theatre on Haymarket. Two quizzes are recorded on the same day, so eight competitors turned up. We were given the usual BBC welcome of a cup of tea and a plate of sandwiches and the redoubtable Robert Robinson introduced himself to each of us in turn. He was very good at putting everyone at their ease and made it clear that it was the general policy that everyone’s first question was an easy one so that we were virtually guaranteed a point apiece after Round One.

My appearance was on the second quiz of the evening, so my colleagues and I had front row seats during the first quiz. The questions were the usual mixture of easy and difficult, so I had no real reason to fear what would come my way when it was our turn.

The first quiz ended, the name plates were changed, and we took our places on the stage. The music played, Robert Robinson announced our names, and we were off.

The way Brain of Britain works is that each competitor is asked up to five questions in their turn. If you get the first one right you are asked a second, and so on. Get all five correct and you are awarded an extra bonus point. When someone makes a mistake the other competitors can buzz in and hope to gain a bonus point by getting it right. I was fourth in line and was just too late to pick up bonuses when two of the others failed to answer correctly. I soon realized that it paid to buzz in as soon as you knew that an answer was wrong and not wait for Mr Robinson to say that it was.

Then it came to my turn. What would my easy first question be?

“Which European capital city is served by Kastrup Airport?”

What? That was supposed to be easy? I hadn’t a clue! I guessed at Budapest, which was wrong. I was relieved that nobody else knew either, so it wasn’t as though I was woefully ignorant about something that was common knowledge. The answer was Copenhagen – a fact that I have never forgotten since!

People say that taking part in radio or TV quizzes is much more difficult than answering them at home, due to the pressure of the situation. However, I didn’t find that to be true. I didn’t fluff any questions to which I should really have known the answer or which led me to kick myself afterwards for having known the right answer but been unable to give it at the time.

It did not go well. I was never able to get more than one correct answer in my turn and most of my points came from bonuses earned when other competitors went wrong. Just like Michael Young, I went no further in the competition, although the modest cheques that later arrived in the post were very welcome. These were for the original appearance fee, another one for the repeat broadcast and a third one courtesy of World Service.

However, there was one other thing worth celebrating. I had managed to score eight points, which was one more than Michael Young!

© John Welford

A Volga Boatman Lost in a Russian Forest

My first job after qualifying as a professional librarian was with the British Council’s Libraries Department, which supplies library services to educational and diplomatic organisations across the world. After only one year I was sent to Moscow on a short assignment to establish a library within the Cultural Section of the British Embassy. This was in the summer of 1977 when the Soviet Union was at the height of its powers, led by Leonid Brezhnev.

I was there for a total of five weeks, split between two visits, and was well looked after by the Embassy’s Cultural Attaché. His wife and family were back in England for the first spell of two weeks, so I stayed with him in his flat and was shown around the city and environs during our spare time.

One Saturday he took me to the Embassy’s Rest and Recreation Centre some way north of Moscow, where the main road to Leningrad (as it then was) crosses the River Volga. There was a third person with us, namely a young lady who worked in a different section of the Embassy but with whom the Attaché was clearly on very good terms. It was not long before I appreciated that he would much have preferred my absence to my presence on this particular trip!

The R&R Centre offered a range of activities for Embassy personnel, including taking a rowing boat out on the river. This is what we did, the idea being to spend most of our time on an island half-way across quite a wide stretch of water. I learned later that this island was strictly off limits to Embassy staff for reasons of security, but my host had a reputation for bending the rules when it suited him. This did not stop him from advancing in his career to eventually becoming a British Ambassador.

I was invited to take the oars at one stage, despite having had almost no experience of rowing. It wasn’t difficult when I got the hang of it and I quite enjoyed being a “Volga boatman”, even if only for a short time. I noticed that this gave the Attaché a chance to place his arm across his companion’s shoulder, and she didn’t seem to object.

We landed the boat on a small beach at one end of the island and sat there watching the world go by. The river, despite being 2,000 miles from its final destination in the Caspian Sea, was already broad enough at this point for river cruisers to make their stately way up and down, presumably giving trusted workers and party members a well-deserved day out. Apart from that, there were few sounds apart from those made by the little waves breaking on the beach and the soughing of the wind in the silver birches that covered much of the island.

After twenty minutes or so I got the distinct impression that I was surplus to requirements as far as the Attaché was concerned. Despite being the only non-diplomat of the three people present I did the diplomatic thing and suggested that I might explore the island on my own. So off I went into the forest behind the beach.

It was a truly beautiful place, especially on a fine summer day such as this was. There were silver birches as far as I could see, separated by low-growing grass through which frogs hopped and croaked in Russian. I kept on walking, but the scenery did not change in the slightest – it was exactly the same in every direction I looked.

After a while I decided to turn back, but now I had a problem. Which way was back? I had completely lost my sense of direction and had no reference point to tell me which way I should go. I was lost in the middle of a forest somewhere in Russia.

There was one saving grace, and it was an extremely large one in that I knew I was on an island and not somewhere on the mainland with nothing but forest for hundreds of miles in every direction. All I had to do was walk in a straight line and I was bound to reach the river sooner or later. Once there, I simply had to keep as close to the river as possible until I got back to the beach where my companions were.

The next problem was that this island was shaped like a tadpole, which had been obvious from what we had seen when rowing across to it. In other words it had quite a large head – where the beach was - and a very long, narrow tail. For all I knew it could stretch for a mile or more down the middle of the river. Suppose I was heading down the spine of the island and would not see any water until I was close to the end of the tail?

There was nothing for it but to head off in one particular direction and hope it was the right one. It seemed to take an age, but eventually I was able to see a glimpse of water through the trees.

My next problem was that I did not know which side of the island I had reached, and therefore whether I needed to turn left or right to get back to the beach. If I could get close enough to the river I would be able to see which way the water was flowing and therefore answer that question because I knew that the beach was at the upstream end of the island. Unfortunately, getting close enough was impossible because the intervening ground consisted mostly of a very wet stretch of marsh.

Another piece of guesswork was needed, therefore, and a crossing of fingers. I turned left and kept as close to edge of the marsh as I could, always hoping that I might get a better view of the river before long.

I then heard voices and said to myself that everything would now be OK because I had found the beach at long last. However, when I was close enough to see who was talking I realised that the voices did not belong to the right people. This was another small group of people on another beach. I kept out of their sight – the presence of a strange Englishman turning up among a party of Russians might have led to all sorts of complications – but at least I could now see which way the river was flowing and was relieved that my guesses had been the right ones.

It did not take me much longer to get back to where I had started. The Attaché was living up to his job title by being quite firmly attached to his girlfriend, but the two pulled themselves apart and “adjusted their dress” as I approached.

I must have been away from them for about an hour and I had been quite concerned that they would be wondering where I had got to, but that was far from the case. Had I been gone for two hours, I am not sure that they would have minded – or possibly even noticed.

I had finished my assignment and flown back to London before the Attaché was reunited with his wife, so he had no fears that I might spill the beans regarding his dalliance on the island.

As for me, there were no more foreign assignments because I did not stay much longer with the British Council. My next post was in a slightly less exciting place than Moscow, namely Bognor Regis – although natives of the latter might wish to disagree!

© John Welford

Christina's World, by Andrew Wyeth

 

Andrew Wyeth (1917-2009) was the son of a popular illustrator who taught Andrew to paint. Andrew was home educated at Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania, due to childhood ill-health.

Andrew Wyeth did not travel a great deal, but explored in detail the farms, houses and land around two small areas of the eastern United States, namely Chadds Ford and Cushing, Maine. He has been termed a super-realist for his meticulous technique in depicting everything he saw with great accuracy.

The painting Christina’s World (1948) can be seen today in New York’s Museum of Modern Art. It shows a young woman half lying in a hayfield looking away from us towards to a group of farm buildings on the horizon. The chief feature of interest of this painting is the fact that her arms and legs are thin and spindly, which we might assume is the result of polio, which at the time of the painting was a terrifying and mysterious disease from which many people died.

What we know today is that Christina was suffering from a genetic wasting disease that rendered her unable to walk. Her name was Christina Olson, and she lived at the house in the background. The artist had a summer home next door to the Olson farm (near Cushing), and he was inspired to compose this work on seeing her crawl across the field when he looked out of his window.

Christina was actually much older than appears in the painting, her torso being modelled by Wyeth’s own wife. However, that takes nothing away from the poignancy of the image.

What we are see here is the girl’s struggle, not only to make slow, painful progress towards the farmhouse that is her home, but also to make a prosperous life for herself in the world that lies beyond the stark horizon.

There is much that can be read into this painting that speaks to us of the world that Christina occupies. It is clearly a lonely world, as there is not a single living creature to be seen apart from herself. Even the hay stubble, following the harvest, is brown and lifeless.  

The field is large and slopes steeply away. However, it appears that the hay has been cut more closely as she approaches the farm. Is this therefore a message of hope, that the struggle to progress will get easier in time? Do better things lie over the horizon?

It should be pointed out there is a certain amount of artistic licence in this painting, given that Christina did not live alone and lived a reasonably contented life into her mid-70s.

We are given an imagined perspective on life lived by somebody in Christina’s situation in an understanding and unusual way.

© John Welford