Lecture 5: Surface Energy Balance
- cours magistral
- surface energy balance
- longwave radiation
- outgoing shortwave
- reflectance reflectance
- sun distance
- latitude figure
- absorption absorption
- latent heat flux
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My Georgian Grandfather – by Nedyalko Delchev
th He was born on the 6 of October 2011 in Telavi, Georgia as a fictional hero in
my work on the market together with other EU artists as part of the project Corners of
He was born at 16:45 when we entered the market with different small artistic
interactions and mine happened to be a bit more than that.
Here is the market!
ME: His name was Irakli Mamulashvili… He was born here in Telavi…You might
In the university I teach in there are students from more than 40 countries.
Georgia is one of them. Two of my Georgian students (two of my best students) are
Irakli Jibladze and David Mamulaishvili. My granddad is fictional. I want to…
Actually, what do I want?
The market is typical for the area – full of traditional food, fruits, energy… Most
of the goods are produced by the sellers. There is a specific dignity, confidence, and pride
when one is selling home made stuff. I love small producers, because I am coming from
the countryside and my family was once such a small producer.
ME: Look at those pictures. Here he is, with his wife - my grandmother. He was
an engineer. She was a medical doctor, pediatrician. They met in France in the beginning
of the 30’s… I do not know a lot about him. I believe he was born here in this region, but
later the family moved to Batumi…
The story started as a small innocent joke. Maybe inspired by immigrants from
Abkhazia we saw in Tskaltubo. People waiting for Georgian Godot to come and see
them, help them, save them… I was shaken by the misery and cruelty of the situation.
And by the extraordinary pragmatism of those people. Just a few of them wanted to share
the traumatic experiences from their homeland. Great majority, however, were talking
about the new houses the Government promised to build for them, the refugee allowances
they have to receive, or other money-related issues. Even the veteran of war, who was our
guide in the Refuge Sanatorium, was surprisingly emotionally detached while sharing his
memories with me. He told me about the five thousands women and kids killed by
Russian squads. Many of the cruelest soldiers were mercenaries from Chechnya.
Merciless, bloodthirsty murderers, as he described them.
For two centuries Russian rulers have used one nation against the others and
Caucasus has always been, like the Balkans, a keg of gunpowder. Divide and conquer.
Nothing new under the sun.
There was something wrong in the announcement of our visit in the refugee
residence halls. They, the refugees, took us for the next portion of EU peacemakers,
coming to resolve this vicious circle – one of many in the region. Actually, we were
caught in the net of western political commitment – listening, nodding, understanding,
reporting, forgetting… They were asked to join and meet us and without some sort of
promise they will never do it. One girl, maybe the most honest and open-minded, told me
they are tired of meeting different delegations and hoping in vain… For 19 years
thousands of people are waiting for miracle in places like this fashionable in the 60’s
Miracle scenario 1 – Conflict is over. They are free to return home.
Miracle scenario 2 – Tbilisi central Government finally builds their houses and
they move to their new homes.
Miracle scenario 3 – Lost Grandfather / Uncle / Godot calls unexpectedly.
I am searching the market making gradually the story of my imaginary granddad.
ME: Have a look.
Big, lazy and somehow skeptical guy is looking at my photos. Giving photos
instead of money on a marketplace is not a good idea. But the business today is slow and
there is nothing better to do, so he agrees to have a look, simultaneously staring around
obviously not interested in the black and white biography of mine.
ME: He was born here in Telavi in 1908. And in 1922 he and his family moved to
Batumi. They had a small business. Somehow the family managed till the late 20’s, when
the communist regime started confiscating houses and money from the kulaks and
bourgeois. They were too frightened to stay in the USSR any longer.
First his father immigrated to Istanbul and later Irakly joined him. They opened a
small shop on Grand Bazaar. And few years latter my grandfather Irakly Mamulashvili
was send to Paris to study for engineer… Look at this picture. That’s him in Paris… Here
he is with some friends…
I am moving to another table where I find much more enthusiastic audience.
Three women are charmed by my melodrama.
ME: He arrived in Paris with some money, but evidently not enough to support
him, so he worked as an apprentice in a small photo atelier. It was in Montmartre, next to
the house of his good friend Chaim Soutine - immigrant artist from Byelorussia he met
on the market, when both of them were waiting – my granddad for leftovers in the end of
the day and Soutine for a freshly slaughtered ox… Chaim asked for help and took him to
Mixing fictional and documental is my long time interest and I have done a lot in
different occasions. Here I do not expect anyone to read all of the lairs but still it gives
me pleasure especially if some of my EU mates are around. Pure snobbish vanity of a
small provincial intellectual, I am afraid. And it goes on and on…
4 ME: Soon they were best friends and shared a small flat on the last floor just
above Picasso’s atelier. Chaim introduced Irakly to the other Russian speaking artists.
Tall Mark Chagall from Vitebsk introduced him to the Bulgarian George Papazov, who
introduced him to Romanian Tristan Tzara, who introduced him to Man Ray… Here is
portrait of Irakly, by Man Ray.
It seems they are not interested in my dada-sur-mystification, so I am back to the
immigrant saga. Meanwhile, they shout something about Mamulashvili to the sellers
around. Then the shout is reproduced and soon I am surrounded by a small interested and
supportive crowd. My granddad’s photo is then passed to a man who looks at it and
confidently runs to someone who might know him. And soon the compassionate butcher
is coming on stage.
I do my best to answer the numerous questions. Most importantly I deny being
part of the group of foreigners doing strange things around. I am on my own here,
looking for any traces of my granddad. I naively forget what might happen when my
relatives learn that a lost member of the family arrived back home… And here the hairy
and compassionate butcher is announcing he knows my family and that my granddad
from the picture is just like one of his friends, also Mamulashvili and they live in a
village three kilometers from Telavi.
HE: How many days are you planning to stay?
ME: I am leaving tomorrow!
HE: What are you saying! They will never let you go so soon! You will see! They
will make you a table! You will see!
A Table. In Georgia it means a lot - a lot of people, a lot of food and most
importantly a lot of wine and toasts. Caucasus culture, like Balkan culture, is in love with
tables. We are what we can put for the guest on the table! This is the rule you learn from
childhood. It is a family shame, if a guest is not met with a flood of food! I guess it is
related to the Orient, to Scheherazade tales and the idea of every poor man, that
prosperity is how much dishes you have on the table. The Ancient Greek culture of
endless intellectual feasts was another part of the story… Somehow both mixed and what
we had was a fake grandson in the middle of happy and drunk Mamulashvili villagers
singing and chatting for days, till they find out, or the drunken guest stupidly confesses,
the truth! The joke!
I think this is one of the few things one should not joke with! This country
suffered too much in the Ottoman, Soviet and Post-Soviet times and among the few
things that helped them survive between those big and often cruel neighbors, on this
stormy crossroad, was the family. Like Mamulashvili - keeping close to each other, up in
the mountains, and now waiting for me… The lost member, Balkan dzhigit…
Dzhigit, also spelled as djigit or jigit, is a word of Turkic origin which is used in
the Caucasus and Central Asia to describe a skillful and brave equestrian, or a brave
person in general. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dzhigit
Our driver was a modern version of dzhigit. He, unlike our Swedish driver, did
not communicate. He was much more concentrated to scare other dzhigits driving on the
roads. In general driving in Georgia is form of war or marshal art. Irrationality and brave
adventures are the rules here… Our driver smiled for the first time, when he saw us again
after driving 400 km and searching for us all night in Sheki. In the morning I saw him –
happy, and talking, and smiling. He did something extraordinary, uncommon, dzhigitian,
and was happy… Why he did it is a different story (he did not declare correctly the
custom, where we were supposed to enter Azerbaijan). Trifles, as every dzhigit will tell
But now I am in the marketplace and my friend, the Butcher, informs me:
HE: Wait here, I phoned them, someone will come to pick you up! Ooo, they will
be so happy! You will see!
I started to retreat, first mentally and soon after that physically. The butcher went
to his duties and I promised to be back after two hours and meet them, or if we miss each
other to be back early in the morning on the next day and as a serious sign of my
intentions I left the picture of my Grandfather to be given to my relatives.
My stupid idea was – they, my cousins, will see the picture and will understand
the truth. And of course they will link me to the artists that were on the market. Lastly
they better than the Butcher know that there is no such lost Grandfather anyways…
6 Now I went back to my past. In the communist times, I remember clearly, it was
some sort of blessing to have a relative abroad. Someone who can send you a glossy
postcard one can show to neighbors, friends, schoolmates and feel important. Or even
better – to receive a parcel with some small gifts… I remember the ritual of going to the
post office, picking the box, taking the longest way back home, hoping to meet as many
acquaintances as possible and make a remark about what it is… It was our way to travel,
our way to be part of the world…
My real grandfather was a prisoner of war. He was part of Bulgarian troops sent
by Germans during the WW2 to Macedonia and Serbia. He was guarding the Nish
railway station. I hope he never participated in any kind of military operations. I was a
kid when he was telling me his stories and none of them were about battles. I guess he
was a Švejk type of soldier… So one day as he was on his duties, German officer asked
him and the other Bulgarians to step forward, to put their weapons on the ground and step
back. Then a tank ran over them and destroyed them. For their greatest surprise, the
German war comrades informed them that Sofia government changed and they are
It is a long story or a lot of stories, but to put it short, he ended his journey across
destroyed Europe in Munich. There he stayed till the end of the war and worked as a
labor slave… After the end of the war he stayed for one more year, because it was not
allowed to travel on ones own. Finally he and three other Bulgarians found a Serbian
camp, explained to the chief officer what is the case, and pretending to be Serbs they
managed to return home.
In my childhood, I was so angry with him. Why the Hell had he returned! If he
had stayed in Germany I would have had the best jeans, best bike, best everything… I
was ashamed of the intellectual disability of my granddad. It was a shared opinion by all
the family members, for totally different reasons, but it is another story…
It is funny, but I have thousands of photos of unknown to me people and none of
my grandfather. Well I guess he is someone behind the curtain:
He is off-stage, with the others. He enjoyed the anonymity and quietness like
millions of the others. There was no other option. Options were collaboration with
communists or concentration camps for dissidents. Off-stage type of life during
communism was unbearable and enjoyable in the same time…
To have someone THERE was a guiding light. In the communist desert it was like
a well. Maybe you will never get THERE, but you know it exist and it makes your life
bearable and with this hope you can keep going… I do remember entering shops for
foreigners, not to by – I did not have dollars, because my granddad was crazy enough to
return – so I was not shopping, I was sightseeing. And around, there were a lot of
dreamers like me. I do remember the smell of those shops. It was different. Smell of a
better world. The smell of Freedom.
Communism in my memories is a dull time. Restricted, grey and with constant
deficit of all things I happened to love – bananas, oranges, jeans, Adidas football shoes,
Here is a photo of myself in the kindergarten during the early 70-s. I am the third
kid form the left. The one scratching/protecting his genitals. In a costume of eatable
So in Telavi I was the grandson of someone who managed in the big world, and
here I am to share, to drink, to laugh and cry, to promise help… This sort of almost
Biblical return is one of the funnies myths in the post-communist world. Long lost uncle
is coming back from America. Usually single, childless, homesick millionaire.
I was going to disappoint a lot of people. And myself. I was smiling to my EU-
country-men, but actually I was scared. We post-communist species are brave when
drinking in the kitchen our homemade schnapps. But on the square we are practical and
donate the heroic opportunity to the others. Being an average coward, I did not dare to
show up on the market and the story was closed.
We left Telavi, joking with my Croatian and Polish friends that I missed a great
drinking possibility… The story of my Georgian Ancestor was over, and we were in front
of Azerbaijani border. But when we were just crossing it, Anna, Georgian artist and our
local organizer, received a call from my Georgian family. They were looking from me
and just managed to identify the hotel where I stayed. From the reception they found her
number and called to inform her that they ate coming to the border to pick me up… With
difficulties Anna said that we are already in Azerbaijan and there is no way to come back
and see them…
I stayed for a week in Azerbaijan and on the day of my departure home I received
this letter on my e-mail:
daragoi moi Nedyalko mitebia xateli sdzes vidzit vgorodze tealvi no ne poluchilas patamushta vi
rana vutra uje uiexali. ochen xatim vas vidit mi vashi rodstviniki. mi vashi dvaiu radnie bratia i sostri, ochen
xateli vas vidit vgorodze telavi ne udalos vi akazalis vgastinice a mi iskali po aerapartu. kakda mi naxodili
vas vi uje uiexali atsuda i bili uje pogranicu azerbaijanu. zvanili pa telefonu vash sopravajdausi ni ras budzil
vas. tvai dvoi rodnie bratia i sostri giorgi i maia mamulashvili celuem i jdom atveta...
It was written in typical Georgian Russian. Translated it means, approximately:
my dear Nedyalko we wanted to see you here in the town telavi but it didn’t work
because you left early in the morning. we want a lot to see you we your relatives. we are
your cousins, we wanted to see you here in the town of telavi it did not happened we
were looking for you on the airport and you have been in the hotel and when we find out
you already left and were on the Azerbaijani border. we phoned your coordinator but
didn’t have chance to talk to you. yours cousins giorgi and maia mamulashvili. kissing
you and waiting for your reply…
I was astonished, ashamed, puzzled… What shall I do? Confess my stupid,
irresponsible, but innocent deed? Answer and explore this intriguing plot and see what
But time was pressing me. We, Corners, went to Azerbaijan and the story went in
the storage room of my mind. As strange, a bit embarrassing, a bit funny…
thOn the 12 of October I was back in Bulgaria and from the next day my
postponed rehearsals occupied my days entirely. Student projects this semester were a lot
and demanding – Amadeus, The Three Sisters, Art, Play it Again, Sam, etc. – and I
carelessly forgot my waiting reply relatives.
I can imagine now their excitement. I guess every phone call was a hope.
After two weeks I received a new letter in better Russian, written with capital
9 ЗДРАВСТВУЙТЕ, НЕДЬЯЛКО ДЕЛЧЕВ. НАДЕЮСЬ, ЧТО ПРАВИЛЬНО
НАПИСАЛ ВАШЕ ИМЯ ПО-РУССКИ. ОЧЕНЬ ЖАЛЬ, ЧТО ТАК И НЕ
ПОВИДАЛИСЬ С ВАМИ. ПОЛУЧАЕТСЯ, МЫ С ВАМИ ДВОЮРОДНЫЕ
БРАТЬЯ, ЧЕМУ Я БЫЛ ОЧЕНЬ РАД. МЕНЯ ЗОВУТ ГЕОРГИЙ
МАМУЛАШВИЛИ.Я ИЗ ДЕРЕВНИ ГУЛГУЛА, ТЕЛАВСКОГО РАЙОНА.
МОЕГО ДЕДУШКУ ЗВАЛИ ИРАКЛИЙ, ПО ФОТОРАФИИ, КОТОРУЮ ВЫ
НАМ ОСТАВИЛИ, МЫ УЗНАЛИ ЧТО ЭТО ОН. ЭТО БЫЛО ОГРОМНЫМ
СЧАСТЬЕМ ДЛЯ НАС ОСОЗНАТЬ ТОТ ФАКТ, ЧТО ПОСЛЕ ВОЙНЫ ОН
ОСТАЛСЯ ЖИВ И ЧТО У НАС ОСТАЛИСЬ РОДСТВЕННИКИ ОТ НЕГО. НАМ
РАССКАЗАЛИ ЛЮДИ С РЫНКА ЧТО ВЫ ТАМ БЫЛИ И ИСКАЛИ НАС,
ОСТАВИЛИ ДЛЯ НАС ЕГО ФОТО И КОНТАКТЫ КАК СВЯЗАТЬСЯ С ВАМИ. К
СОЖАЛЕНИЮ, ДО НАС ПОЗДНО ДОШЛИ СЛУХИ О ВАС И МЫ НЕ УСПЕЛИ
ВАС РАЗЫСКАТЬ. В ТУ ПОСЛЕДНЮЮ НОЧЬ Я ПОЕХАЛ В АЕРОПОРТ В
НАДЕЖДЕ ОТЫСКАТЬ ВАС, ВСЮ НОЧЬ Я ИСКАЛ ВАС ПО РАЗНЫМ
РЕЙСАМ, НО ОКАЗАЛОСЬ, ЧТО ВЫ В ЭТО ВРЕМЯ БЫЛИ В ГОРОДЕ
ТЕЛАВИ, А НА ВТОРОЙ ДЕНЬ ВЫ УЕХАЛИ И Я НЕ УСПЕЛ ДОЕХАТЬ ДО
ГОСТИНИЦЫ В КОТОРОЙ ВЫ НАХОДИЛИСЬ. НУ ЭТО НЕ ВАЖНО УЖЕ
СЕЙЧАС. Я ОЧЕНЬ НАДЕЮСЬ, ЧТО ВЫ ОТВЕТИТЕ НА ЭТО СООБЩЕНИЕ И ,
ВОЗМОЖНО, КАК-НИБУДЬ СВЯЖИМСЯ С ВАМИ ПО СКАЙПУ. ОЧЕНЬ
ХОЧЕТСЯ ПОЗНОКОМИТЬСЯ С ВАМИ И С МОИМИ РОДНЫМИ.
НЕСКОЛЬКО ДНЕЙ НАЗАД Я ПОПРОСИЛ НАПИСАТЬ ВАМ МОЕГО
ПЛЕМЯННИКА, НО Я НЕ ЗНАЮ, ДОШЛО ЛИ ДО ВАС ЕГО СООБЩЕНИЕ.
БУДЕМ ЖДАТЬ ОТ ВАС ВЕСТОЧКИ ПО ЭТОМУ АДРЕСУ. С УВАЖЕНИЕМ,
Translated – HELLO DEAR NEDYALKO DELCHEV. I HOPE I SPELLED
YOUR NAME CORRECTLY IN RUSSIAN. I AM SORRY, WE DID NOT MANAGE
TO SEE EACH OTHER. IT SEEMS WE ARE COUSINS WITH YOU AND I AM
HAPPY WITH THE FACT.MY NAME IS GEORGI MAMULASHVILI. I AM FROM
THE GULGULA VILLAGE, TELAVI REGION. MY GRANDDAD’S NAME WAS
IRAKLY AND WE RECOGNIZED HIM ON THE PHOTO YOU GAVE US. IT WAS
GREAT HAPPINESS FOR US TO REALIZE THE FACT THAT HE SURRVIVED
DURING THE WAR AND HE HAS HAD FAMILY AND WE HAVE RELATIVES.
PEOPLE FROM THE MARKET TOLD US THAT YOU HAVE ASKED FOR US.
YOU LEFT PHOTOGRAPHY OF YOUR GRANDFATHER AND PERSONAL E-
MAIL. UNFORTUNATELLY, RUMMORS ABOUT YOU REACHED US TOO LATE
AND WE DID NOT HAVE TIME TO FIND YOU. THE SAME NIGHT I WENT TO
AIRPORT HOPING TO FIND YOU. ALL NIGHT I WAS LOOKING FOR YOU IN
DIFFERENT FLIGHTS. IT HAPPENED YOU HAVE BEEN IN THE HOTEL IN
TELAVI AND NEXT DAY YOU LEFT AND I JUST MISSED YOU. BUT THIS IS
ON NO IMPORTANCE NOW. I REALLY HOPE YOU WILL ANSWER THIS
MESSIGE AND MAY BE WE WILL CONECT WITH YOU ON SKYPE. I WANT TO
GET AQUENTED WITH YOU AND ALL MY RELATIVES. FEW DAYS AGO I
ASKED NY NEPHEW TO CONTACT YOU, BUT I AM NOT SURE HIS LETTER
REACHED YOU. WE WILL WAIT FOR YOUR REPLY ON THIS ADDRESS.
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