View allAll Photos Tagged =HYPERLINK(
Nitcho Reinhardt Trio opptrer på Cosmopolite under Django-festivalen 2016.
Oslo [Norway]
© 2016 Tore Sætre
Some rights reserved
This work by Tore Sætre can be used freely under the terms of the following license: Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License (CC BY-SA 4.0). When publishing the image, attribute this work to photographer.
Attribution instructions:
1) In the immediate vicinity of the image, credit Photo: Tore Sætre (CC BY-SA 4.0).
2) You are encouraged, but not required, to hyperlink or display this URL: www.setre.net
3) Send an email to tore@setre.net and let me know which image you will use and how it will be used.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at www.setre.net/about/.
License deed: creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/
This work is protected under copyright laws and agreements.
All rights reserved © 2012 Бернхард Эггер :: ru-moto images
NO RELEASE • NO flickr API • No part of this photostream may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without my prior permission!
Todos los Derechos Reservados • Tous droits réservés • Todos os Direitos Reservados • Все права защищены • Tutti i diritti riservati
▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀
►my profile.. |►collections.. |►sets.. |►facebook |►get a print
:: ru-moto is admin of 77 & member of 612 groups (5/2018)
☆ A big thankyou for incredible 61 MILLION VIEWS on flickr!
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
★ classic sports cars ★ motorcycles sports events ★ Mille Miglia | Ennstal-Classic ★ motor sports ★ Oldtimer GP ★ fine art
:: Tags: Бернхард Эггер, фото, ru-moto, images, фотограф, 写真家, Nikon, FX, full frame, Fotográfico, photographer, Fotografo, photography, Fotografie, passion, Passione, Leidenschaft, emotion, Emozioni, satisfaction, Faszination, enthusiast, classiche, classica, classic, classical, vintage, storiche, historic, historisch, historique, retro, Rétromobile, Automobile, машина, Autos, car, sportscars, Sportwagen, Rennwagen, Sportfoto, Oldtimersport, Heritage, Motorsport, motoring, competizione, motorracing, Rennsport, corse, Ecurie, veloce, speed, race, racing, race trake, circuit, Rennstrecke, Rally, Rallye, supershot, Racecar-Trophy, Planai Classic, Gröbming, Австрия, Sberbank, Сбербанк, ZENITH, Ennstal-Classic, Styria, Austria, Automobilsport, Passione senza Tempo, fine art, poster, digital, collection, Canvas Prints, posters, Kunstdruck, print, prints, quality, authentic, exclusive, original, calendar, Kalender, gallery, old stile, Event, events, postcard, greeting card, beauty, beautiful, gorgeous, canvas, best, art, 摩托, 車, バイク, камера,
motorsport photographer legends, Neill Bruce, Colin McMaster, Andrew Morland, Ian Dawson, Geoffrey Goddard, Christian Gonzenbach, Christian Hatton, Louis Klemantaski, Stefan Lüscher, Richard Meinert, F. Naef, Peter Roberts, Alois Rottensteiner, Rainer Schlegelmilch,
driver legends, Champions, Fahrer, driver, Legenden, Rauno Aaltonen, Carlo Abarth, Markku Alén, Michele Alboreto, Chris Amon, Mario Andretti, Richard Attwood, Derek Bell, Gerhard Berger, Jo Bonnier, Jack Brabham, Tony Brooks, Eric Carlson, Francois Cevert, Chapman, David Coulthard, Patrick Dempsey, Mark Donohue, Vic Elford, Michael McDowel, Bruce McLaren, De Filippis, Maria Teresa de Filippis, Emerson Fittipaldi, Nanni Galli, Peter Gethin, Jo Gartner, Jim Hall, Mike Hawthorn, Brian Henton, Hans Hermann, Phil Hill, Günther Huber, Denis Hulme, Gerad Larrousse, Niki Lauda, Umberto Maglioli, Nigel Mansell, Helmut Marko, Jochen Mass, Jo Siffert, Stirling Moss, Gino Munaron, Alfred Neubauer, Jackie Oliver, Johannes Ortner, Henry Pescarolo, Gunther Phillip, Teddy Pilette, David Piper, Dieter Quester, Joaquin Jo Ramirez, Jochen Rindt, Walter Röhrl, Pedro Rodríguez, Jean Sage, Jody Scheckter, Peter Schetty, Stuck, Marc Surer, John Surtees, Jackie Stewart, Jarno Trulli, Nino Vaccarella, Sebastian Vettel, Luciano Viaro, Jo Vonlanthen, Peter Westbury, Björn Waldegard, Mark Webber, Franz Wittmann, Alexander Wurz, Franz Wurz, Rudi Stohl, Ecurie Vienne, Walter Wolf, Helmut Zwickl,
Electrical Ferry "Beffen" docked at Bradebenken in Bergen.
Bergen [Norway]
© 2015 Tore Sætre
Some rights reserved
This work by Tore Sætre can be used freely under the terms of the following license: Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License (CC BY-SA 4.0). When publishing the image, attribute this work to photographer.
Attribution instructions:
1) In the immediate vicinity of the image, credit Photo: Tore Sætre (CC BY-SA 4.0).
2) You are encouraged, but not required, to hyperlink or display this URL: www.setre.net
3) Send an email to tore@setre.net and let me know which image you will use and how it will be used.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at www.setre.net/about/.
License deed: creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/
Having a jaunt on service 1 is 10039, a Volvo B7LA with Wright Eclipse Fusion bodywork. Apart from the hyperlinks, these are the only bendybuses left in Leeds, after a disastrous winter for the B10BLA's. These vehicles also spent a period of time off the road, until sufficient money was spent to improve their reliability.
copyright © 2008 sean dreilinger
view tall woman and her sons - _MG_0622 on a black background.
copyright © 2007 sean dreilinger
view its alive! rachel and nick poking a snake with a stick - _MG_1623 on a black background.
Woman vaping on an electronic cigarette outdoors in public
Free to use when crediting to vaping360.com/best-vape-tanks/ with a do-follow hyperlink.
copyright © 2006 sean dreilinger
view lung test - _MG_4002 on a black background.
You may use with credit to AnthonyQuintano.com or Anthony Quintano / Flickr with hyperlinks to either my website or the photo on Flickr. Photo credit must be placed directly on image or directly underneath. Contact is aquintano@gmail.com
Wooden houses in narrow streets around Fjellsiden in Bergen, Norway.
Bergen [Norway]
© 2015 Tore Sætre
Some rights reserved
This work by Tore Sætre can be used freely under the terms of the following license: Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License (CC BY-SA 4.0). When publishing the image, attribute this work to photographer.
Attribution instructions:
1) In the immediate vicinity of the image, credit Photo: Tore Sætre (CC BY-SA 4.0).
2) You are encouraged, but not required, to hyperlink or display this URL: www.setre.net
3) Send an email to tore@setre.net and let me know which image you will use and how it will be used.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at www.setre.net/about/.
License deed: creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/
There are triangles everywhere. And yet, I couldn't see or hear any begging to be photographed. I was reading a Vince Flynn book with Delta forces and it reminded me of my sorority chapter of Phi Mu called Delta Tau. The shape of a delta is a triangle. Scary how the brain jumps all around as if it has hyperlinks, isn't it?
ANSH & ODC: Triangular
Closeup of strange pattern on grungy marble slab.
This texture is provided free of charge under a Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial License with the condition that a credit (printed use) or a hyperlink (online use) is made to www.grungetextures.com. Thanks!
Have you created artwork using this texture? Post it in the Grunge Textures Showcase flickr group. We'd love to see your work.
► :: eu-moto © All rights reserved 2010 by B. Egger, Austria | Nikon FX full format | wild nature.
► photo.egger [at] gmail.com - profile: www.flickr.com/people/-eu
Nikon D700 FX-format, AF-Nikkor 1.8/85mm, f/8.0, 1/160 sec, ISO 200, -5/3 EV
IMAGES | in touch with ...
* classic sports cars & motorcycles | best european gallery there is
* classic events | Mille Miglia - Ennstal-Classic - Oldtimer Grand Prix
* motorsport - Erzbergrodeo - FMX - Red Bull photofiles ...
* landscapes & tourism | alpine and mediterranean landscapes - Europe
* panoramic shots | 3D multi row VR technic - 360° round shots
view our ►most interesting photos: www.flickriver.com/photos/-eu/popular-interesting/
and our ►sets: www.flickriver.com/photos/-eu/sets/
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Copyright © 2010 :: eu-moto - M.K. & B. Egger - All rights reserved
:: eu-moto images are copyrighted material ! ◄◄◄◄
► All kinds of commercial use and usage for any reason are prohibited !
► You need our written express permission for all kinds of publication !
► Todos los derechos reservados! - Tous droits réservés!
► Tutti i diritti riservati - Tos direitos reservados !
►► Kindly email us if you are interested on purchase of this image (photo.egger [at] gmail.com)
Hinweis Urheberrechte
► Mit Ausnahme gesetzlich zugelassener Fälle ist jede Nutzung von :: eu-moto -Bildern
ohne unsere vorherige schriftliche Erteilung des Nutzungsrechtes strafbar!
► Jede Urheberrechtsverletzung wird geahndet. Kontaktieren sie uns immer vor jeder Nutzung.
► Senden sie bei Interesse an dieser Aufnahme einfach eine e-Mail (photo.egger [at] gmail.com).
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
B. Egger :: eu-moto - is admin of 55 and member of 430 photo groups:
l a n d s c a p e s - t r a v e l l i n g - t o u r i s m - n a t u r e
• SALZKAMMERGUT... The Estate of the Salt Chamber Austria
• AUSSEERLAND... • Austrian landscapes
• IN AUSTRIA... • Holidays in Austria
• inaustria - HALLSTATT • 哈斯達特 Austria travel
• BAD MITTERNDORF • hometown gallery
• inaustria - GRUNDLSEE • austrian landscapes
• inaustria - ALTAUSSEE • austrian landscapes
• KALININGRAD KÖNIGSBERG Калининград • Kaliningradskaya Oblast, Russia
• TRANS-SIBERIAN RAILWAY • pics of your travel
• GREECE GREEK Ελληνικά - best of... • Greece Gallery - ... and any more
Tags: Wildnis nature Natur eu-moto Egger Nikon photography D700 FX full-format Nikkor Ennstal Wörschach Liezen Styria Austria Steiermark Österreich Landschaft landscape countryside outdoor autumn Herbst fall Wörschachwald alpine Alps Alpen Ostalpen view Aussicht Bergstrasse mountain Forsthaus forest Wald Haus house Nikon D4, D3, D3x, D2X, D2Hs, D300, D200, D400, D500, D600, D700, D800, D900, D60, D80, D90, D100, F6, F5, F4, F3, F2, F100, FM, F3HP
- - - - - www.vaterverbot.at - - - - - www.inaustria.at - - - - -
This photo is free to use under Creative Commons licenses and must be credited: "© European Union 2018 - European Parliament".
(Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives CreativeCommons licenses HYPERLINK "http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/" creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/). No model release form if applicable.
For bigger HR files please contact: webcom-flickr(AT)europarl.europa.eu
LEGAL NOTICE • NO use of this image is allowed without photographer’s express prior permission and subject to compensation. All Rights Reserved.
Photographer retains ownership and all copyrights in the work.
• no work-for-hire • no Creative Commons license • no flickr API •
• Todos los Derechos Reservados • Tous droits réservés • Todos os Direitos Reservados • Все права защищены • Tutti i diritti riservati
licence | please contact me to obtain prior a license and to buy the rights to use and publish this photo. A licensing usage agreed upon with Bernard Egger is the only usage granted. |► more...
photographer | Bernard Egger фотография • collections • sets
☆ Fine Art photography | alpine & mediterranean landscapes ☆
☆ classic sportscars & motorcycles | traveling | Россия | Europe
:: Берни Эггерян, rumoto images, фотограф, Linz, Austria, IN SITU, Австрия, Oberösterreich, Kulturhauptstadt, Österreich, Deutschland, Nazi, National Socialism, Nationalsozialismus, annexed, Europe,
► Linz Locations (en)... ► Linz im Nationalsozialismus (de)...
★ Rathaus (12.3.1938)
Beim Einmarsch deutscher Truppen besucht Adolf Hitler seine „Jugendstadt“. Während ihm zehntausende Menschen am Hauptplatz zujubeln, werden NS-GegnerInnen bereits inhaftiert, geschlagen und ermordet.
★ Rathaus (1.1.1944)
Franz Langoth wird Oberbürgermeister von Linz. Lange hält sich nach 1945 der Mythos von Langoths Einsatz für eine kampflose Übergabe von Linz, der zu einem Gutteil auf einer Berichtsfälschung beruht.
★ Rathaus (1939)
Mitarbeiter des Wahl- und Einwohneramts erstellen eine „Liste der Rassenjuden“. Sie liefert die Grundlage für die rassistische Verfolgung der jüdischen Bevölkerung von Linz.
★ Hauptplatz (19.2.1939)
Beim Faschingsumzug zeigt sich der tief sitzende Antisemitismus: Die bösartigen Karikaturen von Juden durch verkleidete Linzer finden besonderen Beifall.
★ Nibelungenbrücke (Juni 1938 - Sommer 1940)
Als Baustoff für die Nibelungenbrücke kommt unter anderem Granit zum Einsatz, der im nahe gelegenen KZ Mauthausen unter brutalsten Bedingungen abgebaut wird.
★ Hauptstraße 16 (19.3.1938)
Alexander, Eduard und Friederike Spitz, die InhaberInnen der Weinhandlung Ferihumer, begehen Selbstmord. Auch andere Menschen jüdischer Herkunft sehen in diesen Tagen nur im Freitod einen Ausweg.
★ Rudolfstraße 6-8 (1938 - 1942)
Der Besitz der Familie M. wird „arisiert“ und von Franz Peterseil, Gauinspektor der NSDAP, übernommen. Er war zuvor Chauffeur bei M. Leopold M. wird als 99-jähriger nach Theresienstadt deportiert.
★ Rudolfstraße 18 (1941 - 1945)
Franz Tschaff organisiert als Leiter der Abteilung „Arbeitereinsatz“ auch Arbeitsaufträge für ZwangsarbeiterInnen. Für den Bau der Luftschutzkeller setzt das Stadtbauamt KZ-Häftlinge ein.
★ Altstadt 3 (1941)
Die elfjährige Pauline H. meldet ihre Nachbarn wegen Abhören eines Feindsenders. Ein Opfer der Denunziation, Josefa F., wird zu einem Jahr Zuchthaus verurteilt.
★ Altstadt 12 (21.5.1938)
Hans A. besucht die 2. Klasse Volksschule in Kleinmünchen. Im Mai muss er in die neu gegründete „Judenschule“ in der Altstadt wechseln, die nach dem Novemberpogrom aufgelöst wird.
★ Landhaus (Februar 1945)
Landrat Adolf Dietscher formiert eine „Volkssturm“-Truppe zur Verfolgung der rund 500 aus dem KZ Mauthausen entflohenen sowjetischen Kriegsgefangenen – die so genannte „Mühlviertler Hasenjagd“.
★ Landhaus (1944)
Elmira Koref ersucht Gauleiter Eigruber vergebens um die Freilassung ihres inhaftierten Mannes. Ernst Koref wird am 7. Mai 1945 von der amerikanischen Besatzungsmacht als Bürgermeister eingesetzt.
★ Ecke Hauptplatz/Schmidtorgasse (15.3.1938)
Das Warenhaus Kraus & Schober wird von der NS-Propaganda als Symbol „jüdischen Wuchers“ attackiert und zugunsten der NSDAP „arisiert“. Der frühere Besitzer begeht im KZ Dachau Selbstmord.
★ Landstraße 18-20 (1942 - 1943)
Der Gelegenheitsdieb Alois G. stiehlt hier, vor dem Gasthaus „Zur Goldenen Kanone“, ein Fahrrad. Er wird erwischt. Als „Schädling der Volksgemeinschaft“ wird er zum Tode verurteilt und hingerichtet.
★ Graben 30 (15.3.1938)
Der Zahntechniker Heinrich S. verwehrt sich in einer Annonce gegen den Verdacht, er sei Jude. Wie er, weisen unmittelbar nach dem „Anschluss“ viele Geschäftsleute ihren Betrieb als „arisch“ aus.
★ Marienstraße 8 (April 1945)
Anton A. ist Abteilungsleiter bei der Stadtverwaltung und kritisiert die Exekution zweier „Ostarbeiterinnen“ wegen Milchdiebstahls als unmenschlich. Er wird zum Tode verurteilt und erschossen.
★ Landstraße 31 (1940/41)
Ordensschwester Kamilla wirft einem französischen Kriegsgefangenen ein Paar wollene Strümpfe aus dem Fenster des Klosters zu. Sie wird zu 4 Wochen Gefängnis verurteilt.
★ Ursulinenhof (April 1945)
Die Wehrmachtssanitätshelferin Stefanie L. wartet wegen unerlaubter Entfernung vom Dienst im Wehrmachtsgefängnis Ursulinenhof auf ihren Prozess. Sie wird zu 6 Monaten Gefängnis verurteilt.
★ Landstraße 49 (1939 - 1944)
Oskar H., Präsident der Industrie- und Handelskammer, ist für die „Arisierung“ jüdischer Betriebe verantwortlich. Er bereichert sich auch persönlich als „Ariseur“.
★ Mozartstraße 6-10 (1941)
Im Polizeigefängnis wartet die Magd Katharina G. auf ihren Prozess wegen einer sexuellen Beziehung zu einem französischen Kriegsgefangenen. Sie wird zu einem Jahr Haft verurteilt.
★ Bischofstraße 3 (1914 - 1933)
Hier verbringt Adolf Eichmann seine Jugend. In der NS-Zeit organisiert er die Deportation der jüdischen Bevölkerung. Er ist mitverantwortlich für die Ermordung von rund 6 Millionen Menschen.
★ Bischofstraße 7 (18.3.1938)
Der Rechtsanwalt Karl Schwager, Vorsitzender der Kultusgemeinde, wird kurz nach dem „Anschluss“ verhaftet. Er kommt mit der Auflage frei, das Land zu verlassen. 1939 wandert er nach Palästina aus.
★ Herrenstraße 19 (1943)
Franz Jägerstätter sucht Rat bei Bischof Fließer - er kann den Kriegsdienst für Hitler nicht mit seinem Glauben vereinbaren. Jägerstätter wird als Wehrdienstverweigerer am 9.8.1943 hingerichtet.
★ Spittelwiese 5 (12.3.1938)
Am Tag des „Anschlusses“ besetzen Nationalsozialisten die Druckerei Gutenberg und benennen sie in „NS-Druckerei und Verlag Linz“ um. Am 13. März erscheint die erste Ausgabe des NS-Kampfblattes „Arbeitersturm“.
★Landestheater (September 1944)
33 Bedienstete des Landestheaters - Schauspieler, Musiker, Bühnenarbeiter – werden vom Arbeitsamt zur Bewachung von KZ-Häftlingen in den Linzer Nebenlagern des KZ Mauthausen „notdienstverpflichtet“.
★ Landestheater Linz (1943 - 1945)
Franz Léhars „Land des Lächelns“ feiert Publikumserfolge. Der jüdische Librettist des Stücks, Fritz Beda-Löhner, bleibt ungenannt. Er ist am 4. Dezember 1942 im KZ Auschwitz ermordet worden.
★ Klammstraße 7 (25.9.1944)
Camilla E. hilft Kriegsgefangenen mit Essen und Kleidung. Sie verbreitet Weissagungen über das nahe Ende des „Dritten Reiches“. Eine anonyme Anzeige führt zu ihrer Verhaftung und Hinrichtung.
★ Märzenkeller (Februar 1944 - April 1945)
Etwa 250 Häftlinge aus dem Nebenlager Linz II des KZ Mauthausen werden zum Bau von Luftschutzkellern und für die Entschärfung von Blindgängern nach Luftangriffen eingesetzt.
★ „Aphrodite-Tempel“ Bauernbergpark (1942)
Die „Aphrodite“ wird von Kunststudierenden im Mai 2008 verhüllt, um daran zu erinnern, dass sie ein Geschenk Hitlers an Linz war. Die Stadt Linz entfernt daraufhin die Statue.
★ Stockbauerstraße 11 (August 1938)
Hermann S. ist Rechtsanwalt und war bis 1934 Gemeinderatsmitglied der Sozialdemokratischen Partei. Seine Villa wird zugunsten des Gaus eingezogen und an Johanna Eigruber, Frau des Gauleiters, verkauft.
★ Robert-Stolz-Straße 12 (1939 - 1944)
Die Jüdin Ida B. flieht aus der Ukraine. Sie arbeitet unter einem Decknamen als Haushälterin bei einem SS-Sturmbannführer. 1944 wird sie verhaftet und ins KZ Auschwitz deportiert.
★ Hauptbahnhof (16.6.1938)
Als Regimegegner werden oberösterreichische Politiker und Intellektuelle unter brutalsten Misshandlungen der SS-Wachmannschaften in das KZ Dachau deportiert.
★ Hauptbahnhof (1941)
Die beiden Löwen werden vom NS-Regime beim Halleiner Steinmetz Jakob Adelhart in Auftrag gegeben. 1999 erklärt der Linzer Gemeinderat sie nach Diskussionen für ideologisch unbedenklich.
★ Unionkreuzung (1942)
Eduard C. baut gemeinsam mit anderen Lehrlingen eine kommunistische Widerstandsgruppe innerhalb der Reichsbahn auf, die antifaschistische Flugblätter verbreitet und Sabotageakte verübt.
★ Wiener Straße 150 (Oktober - November 1945)
Hier trifft sich jeden Samstag das „Haarabschneiderkommando“ - hunderte ehemalige HJ-Mitglieder -, um Frauen zu bedrohen, die angeblich engeren Kontakt zu amerikanischen Soldaten pflegen.
★ Wiener Straße 545-549 (1938)
In der neu errichteten Kaserne werden SS-Totenkopfverbände zur Bewachung des KZ Mauthausen untergebracht. Ab 1940 dienen sie als Umsiedlerlager, nach 1945 als Lager „Davidstern“ für jüdische DPs.
★ Dauphinestraße (1942 - 1945)
In der Kleinmünchner Spinnerei befindet sich eines von sechs Linzer „Ostarbeiter“-Lagern für Frauen: 1944 sind 51% der „Ostarbeiter“ weiblich.
★ Siemensstraße (27.4.1945)
Gisela T. wird 1944 als kommunistische Widerstandskämpferin verhaftet. Wenige Tage vor Kriegsende wird sie hier, im Arbeitserziehungslager Schörgenhub, erschossen.
★ Ramsauerstraße/Uhlandstraße (Oktober 1945 - 1950)
Im Lager Bindermichl werden nach der Befreiung jüdische „Displaced Persons“ untergebracht - aus KZs befreite Jüdinnen und Juden. Sie warten auf Visa für Einwanderungsländer, vor allem in die USA und nach Palästina.
★ Siedlung Spallerhof/Muldenstraße (1938 - 1945)
Für ArbeiterInnen der Rüstungsbetriebe werden neue Wohnungen gebaut. Um eine zugesprochen zu bekommen, müssen die AnwärterInnen eine „rassenhygienische Untersuchung“ über sich ergehen lassen.
★ Niedernharter Straße 10 (1938 - 1945)
In der Landesheil- und Pflegeanstalt Niedernhart werden rund 800 geistig und körperlich behinderte Menschen als „lebensunwert“ kategorisiert und brutal ermordet.
★ Katzenau, alter Lagerplatz der Familie Kerndlbacher (1938)
Hier wird Rosa W. verhaftet, weil sie eine Sintiza ist. Im Lager Maxglan wählt Leni Riefenstahl sie als Statistin aus, nach einem Fluchtversuch kommt sie ins KZ Ravensbrück. 1945 kann sie entkommen.
★ Krankenhausstraße 9 (Mai 1943 - Mai 1945)
Im AKH und in der Landesfrauenklinik Linz werden in diesem Zeitraum mindestens 972 Zwangsabtreibungen durchgeführt. Opfer sind vor allem „Ostarbeiterinnen“.
★ Kaplanhofstraße 40 (1944 - 1945)
Vom Frauengefängnis Kaplanhof gehen regelmäßig Transporte von politischen Gegnerinnen in verschiedene Konzentrationslager ab, etwa in das KZ Ravensbrück.
★ Untere Donaulände 74 (1944)
Josef T. formiert in der Tabakfabrik eine kommunistische Widerstandsgruppe. Er wird im KZ Mauthausen auf Befehl des Gauleiters kurz vor der Befreiung gemeinsam mit anderen erschossen.
★ Donaulände (April 1945)
Bei den „Todesmärschen“ kommen tausende KZ-Häftlinge auf Frachtkähnen nach Linz, um weiter ins KZ Ebensee getrieben zu werden. Viele kommen dabei ums Leben.
★ Donaulände/Zollamtstraße 6 (13.3.1938)
Nach dem „Anschluss“ kommt es zu gewalttätigen Angriffen auf die jüdische Bevölkerung. Im Café „Olympia“ wird Ernst S. unter dem Beifall einer riesigen Menschenmenge misshandelt und verhaftet.
★ Lederergasse 20 (1943)
Die Lehrerin Hermine L. schreibt mehrere regimekritische Briefe an ihren Bruder Walter, der als Wehrmachtssoldat in Wien stationiert ist. Beide werden zum Tode verurteilt und hingerichtet.
★ Museumstraße 14 (1941 - 1945)
Geraubte Kunst bildet eine Basis für das von Hitler geplante neue Kunstmuseum. Heinrich J. Sch., Leiter der Kunstgeschichtlichen Abteilung am Landesmuseum, ist aktiv am Sammlungsaufbau beteiligt.
★ Museumstraße 12 (April 1944)
Anna H. beschimpft Hitler und gibt ihm die Schuld am Ausbruch des Krieges. Sie wird in Linz zu 3 Jahren Haft verurteilt, das Berliner Reichsgericht dehnt die Haft auf 5 Jahre aus.
★ Museumstraße 12 (4.12.1940)
Die 68-jährige Zeugin Jehovas Rosa P. wird aufgrund ihres Glaubensbekenntnisses und wegen „Wehrkraftzersetzung“ zu 6 Monaten Gefängnis verurteilt.
★ Museumstraße 12 (September 1938)
Franziska K. wird von ihrer Nachbarin denunziert. Der Besitz von Aktfotos ist ausschlaggebend für die Verurteilung als Homosexuelle: Sie verbüßt 4 Monate schweren Kerkers.
★ Fadingerstraße 4 (1913 - 1921)
Ernst Kaltenbrunner besucht hier die Oberschule. 1943 wird er Leiter des Reichssicherheitshauptamts. Er ist maßgeblich verantwortlich für die Ermordung von 6 Millionen Juden und Jüdinnen.
★ Bethlehemstraße 26 (9./10.11.1938)
In der Nacht dringt eine Einheit der SA in die Linzer Synagoge ein und setzt sie in Brand. Die Feuerwehr verhindert lediglich das Übergreifen der Flammen auf benachbarte Gebäude.
★ Hessenplatz (1944 - 1945)
Nach Luftangriffen brechen Aufräumkommandos, gebildet aus ZwangsarbeiterInnen, ZivilarbeiterInnen und KZ-Häftlingen, von hier zu Bergungsarbeiten auf.
★ Langgasse 13 (1938 - 1945)
Im Hauptquartier der Gestapo werden tausende GegnerInnen des NS-Regimes brutal gefoltert. Hier beginnt die Karriere Franz Stangls, der später in den KZs Sobibor und Treblinka Massenmorde organisiert.
★ Wurmstraße 7 (1939 - 1945)
Das Linzer Gesundheitsamt entscheidet im Sinne der NS „Erb- und Rassenpflege“ über etwa 1000 Zwangssterilisationen sowie Eheverbote und die Bekämpfung „Asozialer“.
★ Wurmstraße 11 (1940)
Das NS-Jugend- und Fürsorgeamt rühmt sich der hohen Zahl an Einweisungen von „Asozialen“ in Arbeits- und Zwangsarbeitslager. Der Leiter, Rudolf H., bleibt nach 1945 ein hoher Magistratsbeamter.
★ Gesellenhausstraße 21 (1936 - 1938)
Stefan Sch., fanatischer Nazi der ersten Stunde, verantwortet vor dem „Anschluss“ Produktion und Verbreitung des illegalen antisemitischen NS-Hetzblattes „Der Österreichische Beobachter“.
★ Volksgartenstraße 14 (Juni 1938)
Der Direktor der Blindenanstalt Johann Gruber wird wegen antinationalsozialistischer Äußerungen verhaftet, zu 3 Jahren schwerem Kerker verurteilt und 1944 im KZ Gusen ermordet.
★ Volksgartenstraße 18 (1938 - 1945)
83.000 Mitglieder zählen die NS-Frauenorganisationen in Oberdonau. Maria Sch., Leiterin der NS-Frauenschaft, seit 1932 illegales NSDAP-Mitglied, wird 1948 zu drei Jahren Haft verurteilt.
★ Volksgarten (7.9.1941)
Wegen sexueller Annäherung an einen Soldaten im Volksgarten wird Franz M. zu einem Jahr Kerker verurteilt, danach ins KZ Dachau überstellt und 1944 im Vernichtungslager Majdanek ermordet.
★ Schillerplatz 1 (März 1938)
Das Kolosseum-Kino wird von seinen jüdischen BesitzerInnen verpachtet, um die „Arisierung“ zu verhindern. Eine ehemalige Angestellte lässt den Tarnversuch auffliegen.
★ Schillerstraße 26 (9.3.1942)
„Wegen dem Scheiß-Führer haben wir kein Brot“, ruft Eleonore B. im Gasthaus „Zum Waldhorn“ wütend aus. Männer vom Stammtisch zeigen sie an. Sie wird zu 14 Monaten Haft verurteilt.
★ Goethestraße 63 (Sommer 1945 - 1954)
Simon Wiesenthal, Überlebender des KZ Mauthausen, spürt im Auftrag der amerikanischen Besatzer für die „Jüdische Historische Kommission“ NS-Kriegsverbrecher auf. Sein Zugang lautet: „Recht, nicht Rache“.
CHECK THE HYPERLINK HERE FOR FULL SHOT OF THE FALLS!
This is a detail from the Takakkaw Falls, elevation 1247 feet, Yoho National Park, BC.
Christiansborg is a palace and government building on the islet of Slotsholmen in central Copenhagen, Denmark. It is the seat of the Danish Parliament (Folketinget), the Danish Prime Minister's Office and the Supreme Court of Denmark.
København [Denmark]
© 2015 Tore Sætre
Some rights reserved
This work by Tore Sætre can be used freely under the terms of the following license: Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License (CC BY-SA 4.0). When publishing the image, attribute this work to photographer.
Attribution instructions:
1) In the immediate vicinity of the image, credit Photo: Tore Sætre (CC BY-SA 4.0).
2) You are encouraged, but not required, to hyperlink or display this URL: www.setre.net
3) Send an email to tore@setre.net and let me know which image you will use and how it will be used.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at www.setre.net/about/.
License deed: creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/
Microfinance India Women Entrepreneurs
PHOTO CREDIT. If you would like to use this image, please credit Hand in Hand International with the hyperlink: www.hihinternational.org/. Thank you.
This work by Hand in Hand International is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.Based on a work at www.hihinternational.org/.Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at www.hihinternational.org/.
A joshua tree at Hidden Valley Campground in Joshua Tree National Park on Thursday, March 22, 2012. Michael Schennum/The Arizona Republic
copyright © 2009 sean dreilinger
view nick and rachel embarking on a snowy walk to school - _MG_6418 on a black background.
Scorpio Zodiac Sign Background
Feel free to use this photo for any purpose on your website or blog as long as you include credit to our website with a clickable hyperlink. Source: Numerology Sign
► © All rights reserved 2011 by B. Egger :: eu-moto images◄ photo.egger [at] gmail.com - Austria |
► Usage of our photographic material is defined by the laws of copyright ◄ ATV Joiner IRDNING
Team ATV Joiner Irdning 1:2 TSV Pöllau - Runde 24 - 13.05.2011 - www.atv-irdning.at
Tor: Pastucha Milan - ET Celiker Cemil - 02 Marl Wolfgang - 04 Pötsch David - 06 Wallner Hannes - 07 Biljesko Slaven - 08 Schnabl Jakob - 09 Dr. Mag Krizan Ladislav (1:1) - 10 Rüscher Robert - 11 Luidold Matthias - 12 Biljesko Iwan - 13 Petutschnig Mario - 14 Flatscher Armin - 15 Schwaiger Michael - 16 Greimel Martin. Trainer: Schmid Andi / Rüscher Hannes / Thalhamer G.
- - - - -
:: eu-moto images | in touch with our passion... | 2,600.000 view counts since 2008
★ classic sports cars & motorcycles | best european gallery there is
★ classic events | Mille Miglia - Ennstal-Classic - Oldtimer Grand Prix
★ motorsport | Erzbergrodeo - FMX - Red Bull photofiles | football
view our most interesting photos ► www.flickriver.com/photos/-eu/popular-interesting/ - en.flickeflu.com/photos/-eu/interesting our sets ► www.flickriver.com/photos/-eu/sets/
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
★ All rights reserved • Todos los derechos reservados • Tous droits réservés !
★ Tutti i diritti riservati • Tos direitos reservados • Все права защищены !
★ Kindly email me if you have a question about usage (photo.egger [at] gmail.com)
► Beachten sie das Urheberrechtgesetz ! © Alle Rechte vorbehalten ! ◄
☆ Mit Ausnahme gesetzlich zugelassener Fälle ist jede Nutzung, inkl. Hyperlinks, strafbar!
☆ Kontaktieren sie mich bei Fragen einfach per e-Mail (photo.egger [at] gmail.com).
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
B. Egger :: eu-moto - is admin of 55 and member of 450 photo groups - www.flickr.com/people/-eu
Tags: Sportfoto Egger Team "Runde 24" Landesliga Steiermark KM Kampfmannschaft Mannschaft Fußball Fussball football soccer match Spiel Sport STFV Joiner Bilder images eu-moto eu-moto-atv images picture Fotos photography Passion Leidenschaft Wettkampf Nikon FX D700 Vollformat Nikkor 70-200 photo "Remax Arena" Fanclub Azurros05 Pöllau
Schiri: Baumegger Martin, Assistenten: Chiochirca Petru, Holzmann Gerhard.
- - - - -
I have passed St Mary a number of times since travelling to see the orchids at a nearby reserve. So with some time to kill a couple of weeks ago, I decide to call in.
The church is nearer to the village of Metfield than the one it is parish church for, and parking was problematic, as the church is off the main road, and the small houses and farms that make this part of Withersdale all had rather unwelcoming do not park here signs, and nearer the church, do not park on the grass signs. So where doe the visitor who arrives by car actually park? I ended up on the verge of the B road that passes close by, but the unwelcoming nature of the area had put me in a bad mood.
St mary is a small and simple church, a small bellcote at the west end, a fine ancient font on a new pedestal, some small but old pews and a fine roof.
------------------------------------------
(Introduction: Back in 2002, Withersdale was the 500th church on the Suffolk Churches site. You might say that the end of the journey was in view. I had recently had a conversation with some friends about writing parodies, using the style of other authors for those things we would have written anyway. One friend, a teacher, claimed to have written an entire school report in the style of Raymond Chandler. Some writers are easy to replicate - TS Eliot and Hemingway, for example - but it is harder to sustain a parody when the parodied writer is best known for going on at length. I said I'd have a go at Proust, which I did here, and James Joyce for church 501, Bungay St Mary. It's not for me to say how successful the parodies are, although the Joyce one has been complimented kindly by some of the man's fans. Nobody has ever said anything about the Withersdale parody - perhaps more people read Joyce than Proust, I don't know. In 2007, when I began revisiting Suffolk churches to replace the old photographs I had taken with brand spanking new digital ones, I came back to Withersdale. Unfortunately, I got here at the dullest hour on a dull day, and so the exteriors are not what I had hoped for. Still, that's a good excuse to go back again. As for the text, I have not seen any reason to change it, other than to add one hyperlink to a page on the Norfolk Churches site. I realise that this will be an annoyance for anyone wanting to find out more about Withersdale and its church. For this, I apologise.)
2002: For a long time, I used to read French novels in bed. And then, mid-morning, I'd get up and wander through an industrial wasteland.
I was living in Sheffield, in South Yorkshire, in the years when the coal and steel industries were finally coming to an end, and I'd walk through the battlefields of Brightside and Attercliffe, wondering at the abandoned factories and mills, and the wasted infrastructure, the boarded-up pubs and shops, the graffiti, the row upon row of derelict terraces. One day, I even found an old railway station, the door onto the platform hanging open, the wind howling through the gap into the tunnel, the line going nowhere.
Often, I would imagine what these places had once been like, when they were still alive, for I was not born to this, coming as I did from the flat fields of East Anglia. The first time I saw it all, it was already over. I loved the litany of names: Attercliffe and Brightside I have already mentioned, and there was Eccleshall and Carbrook, Intake and Millhouses. I don't know now if I knew them from visiting them, or only knew them from their names, bold on the fronts of buses.
I would wander alone through the broken streets, gazing up at the brick-faced shells, and imagine them full of activity, and try to decide what this winch had been for, or the platform where the lorries came, or the booth by the gate. This was all the evidence, and this was all I had to go on, as I reconstructed a world I had never seen. And what really interested me was not the places at all, but the people who had once inhabited them; those people who had now gone, but these buildings were once the focus of their lives, and they had known them very differently to the way I was knowing them now.
Using material evidence to reconstruct their activities, I could perhaps begin to understand their lives.
I was thinking about this as I cycled along the Waveney valley - but then something else happened. I had come to Withersdale from Weybread, up on the Norfolk border. In fact, I had reached Weybread from the northern side of the Waveney, since the most direct route from Mendham to Weybread had been across the river into Norfolk, and through the lanes that lead into Harleston. About fifteen years before all this happened, when I was living on the south coast of England, I had had a brief but passionate affair with a girl who came from Alburgh, a Norfolk village on the other side of the border to Mendham. I hadn't thought of this for years, but suddenly seeing the name of the village, which I had never visited, on a road sign, startled me. And then something extraordinary happened. As I sat on my bike, savouring this shock of recognition, an agricultural lorry passed me, and I noticed that the name of the town painted on the side of the lorry was the same south coast town where this occured.
I was still wondering at this as I threaded through the back lanes between Weybread and Withersdale, a world away from the post-industrial ruins of South Yorkshire, or the misery of the south coast, for I had not often been happy there, and never wish to be so poor or so far from home again. When I moved to the south, I had not many months since finished an increasingly pointless relationship that should have stopped after six months, and unfortunately went on for another two years. My habit of reading Proust in bed had come towards the end of this; that, and wandering around east Sheffield, were, I think, displacement activities of a kind, not only to avoid spending too much time with her, but also to avoid doing anything about it. It also had much to do with me leaving Sheffield shortly afterwards. It was a year later that I moved to the south coast, and I was already seeing the girl who would become my wife. And then I met this woman from a Norfolk village shortly after I arrived in the unfamiliar coastal town, in the warmest October of the century. The leaves were only just beginning to colour and fall, and I remembered the way the woods rode the Downs, and the way the fog hid all day in the valleys.
And then I thought, well, it must have been more than fifteen years ago, because I could remember leaving her bed in the early hours of one Friday morning, the paleness just beginning to appear in the east, and being stopped on a roadblock on the bypass, where it joined the Lewes road. It was the night that the IRA had bombed the Tory party conference at the Grand Hotel, and everyone leaving town was being stopped and questioned. I had no idea what had happened, and the policeman didn't tell me. As I explained where I had been, I watched the police coaches hurtling back westwards out of Kent, away from the miners' strike.
When I had made my life less complicated, I used to cycle around the Sussex lanes, finding lonely churches and sitting in them. When I'd lived in Sheffield, I liked to wander up on to the moors, perhaps to Bradfield, where the church looks out on an empty sky. Standing in its doorway took me out of the world altogether, and was the first time I experienced that sense of communion with the past. St Mary Magdalene, Withersdale, reminded me a bit of Bradfield, although busy Suffolk is much noisier than the peace around Sheffield. Here was an ancient space, plainly Norman in origin, that had stood here stubbornly while the world changed around it. Wars had come and gone, times of great prosperity had warmed it and depressions had made it cold again. Disease and famine had emptied it, until the irrepressible energy of human activity had restored it to life. And it was still here, so unlike our own transitory existences. But perhaps there is a resilience in stone that reflects the human spirit.
What would I have found most extraordinary back then, on the south coast? That we would now have known ten years of relative peace in Ireland? That the time of the Tories would finally come to an end, and it would be hard to imagine them ever regaining power? That I would be married with children in East Anglia? I think I would have found the Tories being out of power least believable.
I had been looking forward to reaching Withersdale for several years, and it had increasingly become the sole quest of the day, like people who set out on a journey to see with their own eyes some city they have always longed to visit, and imagine that they can taste in reality what has charmed their fancy.
Everybody who writes about it seems to like it, Mortlock calling it a dear little church, Simon Jenkins thought it unusually atmospheric, and Arthur Mee writes as though he actually visited the place for a change, and curiously mentions half a dozen pathetic old benches... which once held an honoured place in God's house and are now a shelter from the sun for a few of God's sheep, which is typical of barmy Arthur.
The church sits right beside the busy Halesworth to Harleston road, which you wouldn't expect from its reputation for being remote and peaceful. Incidentally, this is a road I always find difficult when I'm cycling, since it bends and twists through high Suffolk, and you can never be entirely clear about which way it is heading, and several times I have made the mistake of absent-mindedly turning for Harleston when I wanted Halesworth, and so on. Withersdale was the last piece of the jigsaw in north east Suffolk for me; I had visited every single other medieval church beyond the curve that connects Diss in Norfolk to Halesworth, and then the sea.
It was a crisp, bright afternoon towards the end of February, and my next stop after Withersdale would be the railway station at Halesworth, where I planned to catch the train that left at 4.30pm, en route from Lowestoft to Ipswich. Before Halesworth, the train would pass through Beccles, where I had stepped off of it earlier that morning, and cycled off to visit the churches of Worlingham, Mettingham and Shipmeadow workhouse. It was after this that I had made the somewhat convoluted journey through the Saints to reach Mendham in the early afternoon. Each of the Saints is an event, as if a counterpoint to the time it takes to travel through them, creating a history, a tradition of the distance, each one connected to and yet significantly different from the others, and sometimes events can overtake history and change its course, as I had discovered.
Now, I was nine miles from Halesworth, with less than an hour to go before the train left, which would give me time to visit Withersdale, but would concentrate my mind, since the 4.30pm train was the last that I could reasonably catch, having no lights, and needing to cycle a further two miles from the station when I arrived in Ipswich.
So, if I was to decide that the setting or interior of St Mary Magdalene were in any way timeless, this would have to be set against a pressing urgency - or, if not quite an urgency, a sense that an urgency would be created if I did not remain aware of the passing of time.
I stepped through the gate into the sloping churchyard, passing 18th and 19th century headstones as I walked to the east of the building. Here, I discovered that the church was not entirely rendered rubble, for the east wall had been partly rebuilt in red brick, and the window frame above was made of wood, which would be a memory of times past, and a hint of things to come.
The south side of the building was dappled in winter sunlight, and I remembered how Arthur Mee had found this church surrounded by elm trees, and how their leaves must have sent shadows scurrying along this wall, and how the sunlight had been washing it for generations. I wondered if there could be some kind of photographic effect, perhaps caused by chemicals in the rendering responding to the photons in the sunlight, and I remembered how Proust had watched from his curtained apartment the streets below, imagining scenes into stillness. I thought of my own small world, my transitory journey, and how this would be a blink of an eye, a relative stillness in comparison to the long centuries the wall had stood, and how everything I cared about, my passions, hopes and fears, signified nothing beside it.
I looked up at the pretty weather-boarded turret, and the little porch below. Although the church is visibly Norman in construction, the turret and porch have a later historical resonance, because they were the gift of William Sancroft, later to be Archbishop of Canterbury, who in the long years of the 17th century Commonwealth lived at nearby Fressingfield, during the time that the episcopal government of the Church of England was supressed.
Fressingfield was his native village, but Fressingfield church is a medieval wonder, and it is not too fanciful to imagine that Sancroft made St Mary Magdalene his quiet project, although of course it cannot be the work of one man, or even one generation or epoch, but his touch must have fallen firmly here.
I stepped inside to a cool light suffusing the nave and chancel, and I climbed up to the tiny gallery at the west end to look down on the space below. St Mary Magdalene is a relatively unspoiled prayerbook church, almost entirely of the 17th century, with some sympathetic Victorian additions. The pulpit is against the north wall as at All Saints South Elmham, to take full advantage of the theatrical sunlight from the windows in the south wall. The pulpit is tiny, barely two feet across, and the benches face it, and so do the box pews to south and east.
The woodwork is mellow, breathing a calmness into the silence, while the chancel beyond is gorgeous, a tiny altar surrounded by three-sided rails sitting beneath the elegant window, two brass vases of pussywillow sweet upon its cloth. I stood for some time looking down, and then descended, finding a superb font carved with a tree of life and a grinning face. It may be Norman, it may be older. It is set upon a modern brick base, but even this is fitting, as are the benches with strange ends, with a hole for the candlepricks, and I ran my hand over the golden curve, an eroticism stirring in the memory as the scent of flowers in a window splay touched my senses, an echo of a spring evening some twenty years before, when I had first ever thought myself in love, and this came to me now.
There was a crisp confidence to this building; it was expressed in the curious elegance of the 17th century English Church which had furnished it that, despite so many traumas, had finally come to represent the simplicity of the Puritans, the seemliness of the Anglicans, and that was the Elizabethan Settlement of the previous century fulfilled. Here Sancroft waited, while the world turned upside down around him, and then Cromwell died, and so too did the Puritan project; Sancroft became Dean of St Paul's Cathedral in London, witnessing its destruction by fire in 1666, and overseeing its complete rebuilding in the classical style, and such a contrast with St Mary Magdalene it must have made that perhaps he sometimes wished he was back here. A High Anglican, he crowned the Catholic James II with some misgivings, but then refused to recognise the Protestant coup of William III in 1688, returning once more to Suffolk, where he died.
I sat in the shadowed pew and felt the distant beat, the quiet trick of history turned and played. I thought of the certainty that this interior represented, the triumph of the will, of belief over mystery, and how the rationalist, superstitious 18th century worshippers here could not have conceived of the great sacramental fire that would one day flame out of Oxford and lick them clean.
I sat there, long enough to forget that I must of necessity move on, and the place began to cast a spell which I thought mostly due to the light, which was becoming pale as the sun faded beyond the distant trees, or perhaps the silence, but I knew in fact it was because of the matter on my mind.
You see, there's another thing. A few days before my visit to Withersdale I had spent a weekend abroad with three female friends, one of whom I felt increasingly drawn to, to the extent that I wondered if anything might come of it. This was also on my mind as I sat in the neat coolness of St Mary Magdalene, looking at the pussy willows in the altar vases, and talking to someone, possibly God.
How to understand flowers on altars, I wonder. How the 18th century puritans who furnished this place would be appalled! And yet they were perfect, as if the entire building had been constructed and furnished for them to be placed here, on this day, at this time, with the late afternoon light glancing down the hillside and leading my gaze to the brass vases. What did they mean to me, in comparison with their meaning for the people who placed them there? I ought to mention that the friends I went away with were all younger then me, at least twelve years, and it is to my great delight how younger people reinvent the world I think I understand, just as I must have done, and still do for people that much older than me. This constant process of reinterpretation must be immensely annoying for those who think they have grown old and wise, but I rejoice in it; it is a beautiful chaos, and keeps the world fresh and new, and history could not exist without it. By history, I mean of course the gradual process of constant change, which was also Newman's definition of the word tradition, rather than anything about dates and famous people.
So I sat there, and wondered if I should try and make something happen with the woman I mentioned, if I should tell her how I felt, and discover if what seemed to be the case was actually so, and so as I sit here now, writing this, I know the full story, and how it finally ended some weeks later, and this makes complete the circle from the moment I crossed the Waveney at Mendham, putting in chain an irrevokable sequence that would lead me here now to this computer keyboard, on this sunny spring evening in Ipswich. In A L'ombre des Jeunes Filles en Fleurs, Proust remembers crossing France by train at night, and the dislocation and alienation of being hurtled through an invisible, unfamiliar landscape. He cannot sleep, and in the middle of the night the train stops in a secret valley, far from the nearest town, perhaps because there is a station, or because the track is blocked, I don't remember. He opens the carriage window; it is a hot, sultry night.
Suddenly, a woman appears from the nearest cottage, with a jug of coffee, and he watches her give the coffee to a group of passengers, or perhaps they were the men removing the blockage, which I think was a tree, but may have been an animal of some kind, or perhaps it was to do with a swollen river. Proust thinks of her life in this lost valley ...from which its congregated summits hid the rest of the world, she could never see anyone save those in the trains which stopped for a moment only.
She moves back down the track, and gives the narrator some coffee. Wordlessly, he drinks it, returns the bowl, and the train starts to move, and he watches her silently as she recedes into the blackness, not knowing where he is, and only being certain that he will never see her again.
Instantly, the day is magnified, signified: Il faisait grand jour maintenant, says the narrator, je m'eloignais de l'aurore... This is history, thousands of these events, infuriatingly disparate and yet somehow connected. And this is so for everyone, for millions of us. I think now of Withersdale, and see connections ramifying, spiralling outwards, always becoming endless.
copyright © 2010 sean dreilinger
view rachel reading electric fish to nick - _MG_5367 embed on a black background.
Just using flickr to hyperlink these photos. Taken by Austin Greene Photography. I do not own these images.
copyright © 2012 sean dreilinger
view unsu - women's kata - _MG_0619 on a black background.
I have passed St Mary a number of times since travelling to see the orchids at a nearby reserve. So with some time to kill a couple of weeks ago, I decide to call in.
The church is nearer to the village of Metfield than the one it is parish church for, and parking was problematic, as the church is off the main road, and the small houses and farms that make this part of Withersdale all had rather unwelcoming do not park here signs, and nearer the church, do not park on the grass signs. So where doe the visitor who arrives by car actually park? I ended up on the verge of the B road that passes close by, but the unwelcoming nature of the area had put me in a bad mood.
St mary is a small and simple church, a small bellcote at the west end, a fine ancient font on a new pedestal, some small but old pews and a fine roof.
------------------------------------------
(Introduction: Back in 2002, Withersdale was the 500th church on the Suffolk Churches site. You might say that the end of the journey was in view. I had recently had a conversation with some friends about writing parodies, using the style of other authors for those things we would have written anyway. One friend, a teacher, claimed to have written an entire school report in the style of Raymond Chandler. Some writers are easy to replicate - TS Eliot and Hemingway, for example - but it is harder to sustain a parody when the parodied writer is best known for going on at length. I said I'd have a go at Proust, which I did here, and James Joyce for church 501, Bungay St Mary. It's not for me to say how successful the parodies are, although the Joyce one has been complimented kindly by some of the man's fans. Nobody has ever said anything about the Withersdale parody - perhaps more people read Joyce than Proust, I don't know. In 2007, when I began revisiting Suffolk churches to replace the old photographs I had taken with brand spanking new digital ones, I came back to Withersdale. Unfortunately, I got here at the dullest hour on a dull day, and so the exteriors are not what I had hoped for. Still, that's a good excuse to go back again. As for the text, I have not seen any reason to change it, other than to add one hyperlink to a page on the Norfolk Churches site. I realise that this will be an annoyance for anyone wanting to find out more about Withersdale and its church. For this, I apologise.)
2002: For a long time, I used to read French novels in bed. And then, mid-morning, I'd get up and wander through an industrial wasteland.
I was living in Sheffield, in South Yorkshire, in the years when the coal and steel industries were finally coming to an end, and I'd walk through the battlefields of Brightside and Attercliffe, wondering at the abandoned factories and mills, and the wasted infrastructure, the boarded-up pubs and shops, the graffiti, the row upon row of derelict terraces. One day, I even found an old railway station, the door onto the platform hanging open, the wind howling through the gap into the tunnel, the line going nowhere.
Often, I would imagine what these places had once been like, when they were still alive, for I was not born to this, coming as I did from the flat fields of East Anglia. The first time I saw it all, it was already over. I loved the litany of names: Attercliffe and Brightside I have already mentioned, and there was Eccleshall and Carbrook, Intake and Millhouses. I don't know now if I knew them from visiting them, or only knew them from their names, bold on the fronts of buses.
I would wander alone through the broken streets, gazing up at the brick-faced shells, and imagine them full of activity, and try to decide what this winch had been for, or the platform where the lorries came, or the booth by the gate. This was all the evidence, and this was all I had to go on, as I reconstructed a world I had never seen. And what really interested me was not the places at all, but the people who had once inhabited them; those people who had now gone, but these buildings were once the focus of their lives, and they had known them very differently to the way I was knowing them now.
Using material evidence to reconstruct their activities, I could perhaps begin to understand their lives.
I was thinking about this as I cycled along the Waveney valley - but then something else happened. I had come to Withersdale from Weybread, up on the Norfolk border. In fact, I had reached Weybread from the northern side of the Waveney, since the most direct route from Mendham to Weybread had been across the river into Norfolk, and through the lanes that lead into Harleston. About fifteen years before all this happened, when I was living on the south coast of England, I had had a brief but passionate affair with a girl who came from Alburgh, a Norfolk village on the other side of the border to Mendham. I hadn't thought of this for years, but suddenly seeing the name of the village, which I had never visited, on a road sign, startled me. And then something extraordinary happened. As I sat on my bike, savouring this shock of recognition, an agricultural lorry passed me, and I noticed that the name of the town painted on the side of the lorry was the same south coast town where this occured.
I was still wondering at this as I threaded through the back lanes between Weybread and Withersdale, a world away from the post-industrial ruins of South Yorkshire, or the misery of the south coast, for I had not often been happy there, and never wish to be so poor or so far from home again. When I moved to the south, I had not many months since finished an increasingly pointless relationship that should have stopped after six months, and unfortunately went on for another two years. My habit of reading Proust in bed had come towards the end of this; that, and wandering around east Sheffield, were, I think, displacement activities of a kind, not only to avoid spending too much time with her, but also to avoid doing anything about it. It also had much to do with me leaving Sheffield shortly afterwards. It was a year later that I moved to the south coast, and I was already seeing the girl who would become my wife. And then I met this woman from a Norfolk village shortly after I arrived in the unfamiliar coastal town, in the warmest October of the century. The leaves were only just beginning to colour and fall, and I remembered the way the woods rode the Downs, and the way the fog hid all day in the valleys.
And then I thought, well, it must have been more than fifteen years ago, because I could remember leaving her bed in the early hours of one Friday morning, the paleness just beginning to appear in the east, and being stopped on a roadblock on the bypass, where it joined the Lewes road. It was the night that the IRA had bombed the Tory party conference at the Grand Hotel, and everyone leaving town was being stopped and questioned. I had no idea what had happened, and the policeman didn't tell me. As I explained where I had been, I watched the police coaches hurtling back westwards out of Kent, away from the miners' strike.
When I had made my life less complicated, I used to cycle around the Sussex lanes, finding lonely churches and sitting in them. When I'd lived in Sheffield, I liked to wander up on to the moors, perhaps to Bradfield, where the church looks out on an empty sky. Standing in its doorway took me out of the world altogether, and was the first time I experienced that sense of communion with the past. St Mary Magdalene, Withersdale, reminded me a bit of Bradfield, although busy Suffolk is much noisier than the peace around Sheffield. Here was an ancient space, plainly Norman in origin, that had stood here stubbornly while the world changed around it. Wars had come and gone, times of great prosperity had warmed it and depressions had made it cold again. Disease and famine had emptied it, until the irrepressible energy of human activity had restored it to life. And it was still here, so unlike our own transitory existences. But perhaps there is a resilience in stone that reflects the human spirit.
What would I have found most extraordinary back then, on the south coast? That we would now have known ten years of relative peace in Ireland? That the time of the Tories would finally come to an end, and it would be hard to imagine them ever regaining power? That I would be married with children in East Anglia? I think I would have found the Tories being out of power least believable.
I had been looking forward to reaching Withersdale for several years, and it had increasingly become the sole quest of the day, like people who set out on a journey to see with their own eyes some city they have always longed to visit, and imagine that they can taste in reality what has charmed their fancy.
Everybody who writes about it seems to like it, Mortlock calling it a dear little church, Simon Jenkins thought it unusually atmospheric, and Arthur Mee writes as though he actually visited the place for a change, and curiously mentions half a dozen pathetic old benches... which once held an honoured place in God's house and are now a shelter from the sun for a few of God's sheep, which is typical of barmy Arthur.
The church sits right beside the busy Halesworth to Harleston road, which you wouldn't expect from its reputation for being remote and peaceful. Incidentally, this is a road I always find difficult when I'm cycling, since it bends and twists through high Suffolk, and you can never be entirely clear about which way it is heading, and several times I have made the mistake of absent-mindedly turning for Harleston when I wanted Halesworth, and so on. Withersdale was the last piece of the jigsaw in north east Suffolk for me; I had visited every single other medieval church beyond the curve that connects Diss in Norfolk to Halesworth, and then the sea.
It was a crisp, bright afternoon towards the end of February, and my next stop after Withersdale would be the railway station at Halesworth, where I planned to catch the train that left at 4.30pm, en route from Lowestoft to Ipswich. Before Halesworth, the train would pass through Beccles, where I had stepped off of it earlier that morning, and cycled off to visit the churches of Worlingham, Mettingham and Shipmeadow workhouse. It was after this that I had made the somewhat convoluted journey through the Saints to reach Mendham in the early afternoon. Each of the Saints is an event, as if a counterpoint to the time it takes to travel through them, creating a history, a tradition of the distance, each one connected to and yet significantly different from the others, and sometimes events can overtake history and change its course, as I had discovered.
Now, I was nine miles from Halesworth, with less than an hour to go before the train left, which would give me time to visit Withersdale, but would concentrate my mind, since the 4.30pm train was the last that I could reasonably catch, having no lights, and needing to cycle a further two miles from the station when I arrived in Ipswich.
So, if I was to decide that the setting or interior of St Mary Magdalene were in any way timeless, this would have to be set against a pressing urgency - or, if not quite an urgency, a sense that an urgency would be created if I did not remain aware of the passing of time.
I stepped through the gate into the sloping churchyard, passing 18th and 19th century headstones as I walked to the east of the building. Here, I discovered that the church was not entirely rendered rubble, for the east wall had been partly rebuilt in red brick, and the window frame above was made of wood, which would be a memory of times past, and a hint of things to come.
The south side of the building was dappled in winter sunlight, and I remembered how Arthur Mee had found this church surrounded by elm trees, and how their leaves must have sent shadows scurrying along this wall, and how the sunlight had been washing it for generations. I wondered if there could be some kind of photographic effect, perhaps caused by chemicals in the rendering responding to the photons in the sunlight, and I remembered how Proust had watched from his curtained apartment the streets below, imagining scenes into stillness. I thought of my own small world, my transitory journey, and how this would be a blink of an eye, a relative stillness in comparison to the long centuries the wall had stood, and how everything I cared about, my passions, hopes and fears, signified nothing beside it.
I looked up at the pretty weather-boarded turret, and the little porch below. Although the church is visibly Norman in construction, the turret and porch have a later historical resonance, because they were the gift of William Sancroft, later to be Archbishop of Canterbury, who in the long years of the 17th century Commonwealth lived at nearby Fressingfield, during the time that the episcopal government of the Church of England was supressed.
Fressingfield was his native village, but Fressingfield church is a medieval wonder, and it is not too fanciful to imagine that Sancroft made St Mary Magdalene his quiet project, although of course it cannot be the work of one man, or even one generation or epoch, but his touch must have fallen firmly here.
I stepped inside to a cool light suffusing the nave and chancel, and I climbed up to the tiny gallery at the west end to look down on the space below. St Mary Magdalene is a relatively unspoiled prayerbook church, almost entirely of the 17th century, with some sympathetic Victorian additions. The pulpit is against the north wall as at All Saints South Elmham, to take full advantage of the theatrical sunlight from the windows in the south wall. The pulpit is tiny, barely two feet across, and the benches face it, and so do the box pews to south and east.
The woodwork is mellow, breathing a calmness into the silence, while the chancel beyond is gorgeous, a tiny altar surrounded by three-sided rails sitting beneath the elegant window, two brass vases of pussywillow sweet upon its cloth. I stood for some time looking down, and then descended, finding a superb font carved with a tree of life and a grinning face. It may be Norman, it may be older. It is set upon a modern brick base, but even this is fitting, as are the benches with strange ends, with a hole for the candlepricks, and I ran my hand over the golden curve, an eroticism stirring in the memory as the scent of flowers in a window splay touched my senses, an echo of a spring evening some twenty years before, when I had first ever thought myself in love, and this came to me now.
There was a crisp confidence to this building; it was expressed in the curious elegance of the 17th century English Church which had furnished it that, despite so many traumas, had finally come to represent the simplicity of the Puritans, the seemliness of the Anglicans, and that was the Elizabethan Settlement of the previous century fulfilled. Here Sancroft waited, while the world turned upside down around him, and then Cromwell died, and so too did the Puritan project; Sancroft became Dean of St Paul's Cathedral in London, witnessing its destruction by fire in 1666, and overseeing its complete rebuilding in the classical style, and such a contrast with St Mary Magdalene it must have made that perhaps he sometimes wished he was back here. A High Anglican, he crowned the Catholic James II with some misgivings, but then refused to recognise the Protestant coup of William III in 1688, returning once more to Suffolk, where he died.
I sat in the shadowed pew and felt the distant beat, the quiet trick of history turned and played. I thought of the certainty that this interior represented, the triumph of the will, of belief over mystery, and how the rationalist, superstitious 18th century worshippers here could not have conceived of the great sacramental fire that would one day flame out of Oxford and lick them clean.
I sat there, long enough to forget that I must of necessity move on, and the place began to cast a spell which I thought mostly due to the light, which was becoming pale as the sun faded beyond the distant trees, or perhaps the silence, but I knew in fact it was because of the matter on my mind.
You see, there's another thing. A few days before my visit to Withersdale I had spent a weekend abroad with three female friends, one of whom I felt increasingly drawn to, to the extent that I wondered if anything might come of it. This was also on my mind as I sat in the neat coolness of St Mary Magdalene, looking at the pussy willows in the altar vases, and talking to someone, possibly God.
How to understand flowers on altars, I wonder. How the 18th century puritans who furnished this place would be appalled! And yet they were perfect, as if the entire building had been constructed and furnished for them to be placed here, on this day, at this time, with the late afternoon light glancing down the hillside and leading my gaze to the brass vases. What did they mean to me, in comparison with their meaning for the people who placed them there? I ought to mention that the friends I went away with were all younger then me, at least twelve years, and it is to my great delight how younger people reinvent the world I think I understand, just as I must have done, and still do for people that much older than me. This constant process of reinterpretation must be immensely annoying for those who think they have grown old and wise, but I rejoice in it; it is a beautiful chaos, and keeps the world fresh and new, and history could not exist without it. By history, I mean of course the gradual process of constant change, which was also Newman's definition of the word tradition, rather than anything about dates and famous people.
So I sat there, and wondered if I should try and make something happen with the woman I mentioned, if I should tell her how I felt, and discover if what seemed to be the case was actually so, and so as I sit here now, writing this, I know the full story, and how it finally ended some weeks later, and this makes complete the circle from the moment I crossed the Waveney at Mendham, putting in chain an irrevokable sequence that would lead me here now to this computer keyboard, on this sunny spring evening in Ipswich. In A L'ombre des Jeunes Filles en Fleurs, Proust remembers crossing France by train at night, and the dislocation and alienation of being hurtled through an invisible, unfamiliar landscape. He cannot sleep, and in the middle of the night the train stops in a secret valley, far from the nearest town, perhaps because there is a station, or because the track is blocked, I don't remember. He opens the carriage window; it is a hot, sultry night.
Suddenly, a woman appears from the nearest cottage, with a jug of coffee, and he watches her give the coffee to a group of passengers, or perhaps they were the men removing the blockage, which I think was a tree, but may have been an animal of some kind, or perhaps it was to do with a swollen river. Proust thinks of her life in this lost valley ...from which its congregated summits hid the rest of the world, she could never see anyone save those in the trains which stopped for a moment only.
She moves back down the track, and gives the narrator some coffee. Wordlessly, he drinks it, returns the bowl, and the train starts to move, and he watches her silently as she recedes into the blackness, not knowing where he is, and only being certain that he will never see her again.
Instantly, the day is magnified, signified: Il faisait grand jour maintenant, says the narrator, je m'eloignais de l'aurore... This is history, thousands of these events, infuriatingly disparate and yet somehow connected. And this is so for everyone, for millions of us. I think now of Withersdale, and see connections ramifying, spiralling outwards, always becoming endless.
copyright © 2009 sean dreilinger
view grandparents & grandkids on the couch - _MG_8509 on a black background.
This work is protected under copyright laws and agreements.
All rights reserved © 2012 Бернхард Эггер :: ru-moto images
NO RELEASE • NO flickr API • No part of this photostream may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without my prior permission!
Todos los Derechos Reservados • Tous droits réservés • Todos os Direitos Reservados • Все права защищены • Tutti i diritti riservati
▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀
►my profile.. |►collections.. |►sets.. |►facebook |►get a print
:: ru-moto is admin of 77 & member of 612 groups (5/2018)
☆ A big thankyou for incredible 61 MILLION VIEWS on flickr!
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
★ classic sports cars ★ motorcycles sports events ★ Mille Miglia | Ennstal-Classic ★ motor sports ★ Oldtimer GP ★ fine art
:: Tags: Бернхард Эггер, фото, ru-moto, images, фотограф, 写真家, Nikon, FX, full frame, Fotográfico, photographer, Fotografo, photography, Fotografie, passion, Passione, Leidenschaft, emotion, Emozioni, satisfaction, Faszination, enthusiast, classiche, classica, classic, classical, vintage, storiche, historic, historisch, historique, retro, Rétromobile, Automobile, машина, Autos, car, sportscars, Sportwagen, Rennwagen, Sportfoto, Oldtimersport, Heritage, Motorsport, motoring, competizione, motorracing, Rennsport, corse, Ecurie, veloce, speed, race, racing, race trake, circuit, Rennstrecke, Rally, Rallye, supershot, Racecar-Trophy, Planai Classic, Gröbming, Австрия, Sberbank, Сбербанк, ZENITH, Ennstal-Classic, Styria, Austria, Automobilsport, Passione senza Tempo, fine art, poster, digital, collection, Canvas Prints, posters, Kunstdruck, print, prints, quality, authentic, exclusive, original, calendar, Kalender, gallery, old stile, Event, events, postcard, greeting card, beauty, beautiful, gorgeous, canvas, best, art, 摩托, 車, バイク, камера,
motorsport photographer legends, Neill Bruce, Colin McMaster, Andrew Morland, Ian Dawson, Geoffrey Goddard, Christian Gonzenbach, Christian Hatton, Louis Klemantaski, Stefan Lüscher, Richard Meinert, F. Naef, Peter Roberts, Alois Rottensteiner, Rainer Schlegelmilch,
driver legends, Champions, Fahrer, driver, Legenden, Rauno Aaltonen, Carlo Abarth, Markku Alén, Michele Alboreto, Chris Amon, Mario Andretti, Richard Attwood, Derek Bell, Gerhard Berger, Jo Bonnier, Jack Brabham, Tony Brooks, Eric Carlson, Francois Cevert, Chapman, David Coulthard, Patrick Dempsey, Mark Donohue, Vic Elford, Michael McDowel, Bruce McLaren, De Filippis, Maria Teresa de Filippis, Emerson Fittipaldi, Nanni Galli, Peter Gethin, Jo Gartner, Jim Hall, Mike Hawthorn, Brian Henton, Hans Hermann, Phil Hill, Günther Huber, Denis Hulme, Gerad Larrousse, Niki Lauda, Umberto Maglioli, Nigel Mansell, Helmut Marko, Jochen Mass, Jo Siffert, Stirling Moss, Gino Munaron, Alfred Neubauer, Jackie Oliver, Johannes Ortner, Henry Pescarolo, Gunther Phillip, Teddy Pilette, David Piper, Dieter Quester, Joaquin Jo Ramirez, Jochen Rindt, Walter Röhrl, Pedro Rodríguez, Jean Sage, Jody Scheckter, Peter Schetty, Stuck, Marc Surer, John Surtees, Jackie Stewart, Jarno Trulli, Nino Vaccarella, Sebastian Vettel, Luciano Viaro, Jo Vonlanthen, Peter Westbury, Björn Waldegard, Mark Webber, Franz Wittmann, Alexander Wurz, Franz Wurz, Rudi Stohl, Ecurie Vienne, Walter Wolf, Helmut Zwickl,
Paulus kirke, which was consecrated in 1892, is located in Grünerløkka in Oslo, Norway, just opposite the Birkelunden Park. The church is made of brick with a weak front running cross-arms and has about 500 seats. It is inspired by German Gothic style and has a high narrow tower above the entrance, which faces east. Paul's Church was designed by the architect Henrik Bull in 1889. Text source: Wikipedia (CC BY-SA 3.0)
Oslo [Norway]
© 2015 Tore Sætre
Some rights reserved
This work by Tore Sætre can be used freely under the terms of the following license: Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License (CC BY-SA 4.0). When publishing the image, attribute this work to photographer.
Attribution instructions:
1) In the immediate vicinity of the image, credit Photo: Tore Sætre (CC BY-SA 4.0).
2) You are encouraged, but not required, to hyperlink or display this URL: www.setre.net
3) Send an email to tore@setre.net and let me know which image you will use and how it will be used.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at www.setre.net/about/.
License deed: creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/
This photo is free to use under Creative Commons licenses and must be credited: "© European Union 2018 - European Parliament".
(Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives CreativeCommons licenses HYPERLINK "http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/" creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/). No model release form if applicable.
For bigger HR files please contact: webcom-flickr(AT)europarl.europa.eu
Read more: HYPERLINK "http://www.europarl.europa.eu/news/en" www.europarl.europa.eu/news/en
This photo is free to use under Creative Commons licenses and must be credited: "© European Union 2017 - European Parliament".
(Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives CreativeCommons licenses HYPERLINK "http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/" creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/). No model release form if applicable.
For bigger HR files please contact: webcom-flickr(AT)europarl.europa.eu
E-Puffer XPOD disposable electronic cigarette using nicotine salts.
Free to use when crediting to vaping360.com/best-beginner-e-cigs-vapes/disposables/ with a do-follow hyperlink.