Pollaiuollo Brothers

Pollaiuollo Brothers and The Martyrdom of St. Sebastian
Feb 17, 2010

I am spending my day trying to figure out how to spell and then pronounce the Italian name of the brothers who created the altar hanging called The Martyrdom of St. Sebastian. Pollaiuollo. I can get the “polla” syllable and the “ollo” syllable, but I can’t make those 2 vowels work in between, though the presenter could.

This week, I am a regular at the National Gallery Theatre lectures now, so I hurry to take my place at the appointed hour. And when I am sitting there, I decide that I am never going home.

I went to the gallery early today to preview the paintings of the early 15th century artists but there was an announcement on the intercom that due to “industrial action” most of the galleries would be emptied. People couldn’t get back into the building until 2:15 pm. That is the moment when I saw how many people are really in the National Gallery at one moment, when they all try to stream out of the building at the same time. Rows of employees stood, arms outstretched, silently pointing to Exit signs.

“Am I going to miss the lecture at 1 pm,” I asked.

“No, just the galleries are closed. Not the lecture theatre,” one nodded.

The only person who missed part of the lecture was the man who startled me half way through the lecture – the loudest catch of a snore that I have ever heard in a public place. As well, he woke everyone else up who had nodded off.

I looked for the collective personality of people who sit waiting for a lecture since I am so happy to have found a group like this – like-minded people. My cohort.
l see the dyed white hair of women in front of me, sparse and thin, a raspy orange red color now, dry, frizzled at the ends and I am so happy for her. Still dying her hair. Crooked lipstick. A sparkling pin on her lapel. Coming to lectures and sitting with her friends. I want to be old like that.

A man in a flowing ankle length wool coat walks by, the hem of it fluttering against his khaki pants – a circle of baldness rimming the top of his head and the long hanging shocks of hair hanging down by his ears and along his neck.

Some of the people here are definitely artists. A woman wears her body as art, so beautifully decorated in old age. Another has on a finely knitted yellow sweater full of complicated stitches – the colour flashing somehow under the lights.

Another walks by and nonchalantly pulls off the obviously silk and flowing scarf, a Van Gogh pattern with the sunshine colours of sunflowers from his painting by the same name.

My contemporaries sit alone or perhaps they are with each other. No pre-performance chatting goes on between them. Have they said everything in life they want to say to each other, I wondered. One has a pen in hand and I can see the black ink from its nib filling in the squares of the crossword puzzles.

Another has the daily newspaper stretched out before him, slowly scanning the columns and then flipping the pages.

The lady beside me is eating grapes out of her yogurt container. She reminds me of a woman in a Greek painting at a feast, lounging on a velvet couch and eating grapes? It is the way she is picking the grapes out of the bowl or the leisure with which she raises them way to her lips.

After the lecture is the first time I see groups together talking, ... and eating, couples reaching into a bag that is placed between them. They sit on round benches, the backs of which or beautifully crafted into a long bow that takes the shape of the long curve of the alcove they are sitting in.

I am looking at my contemporaries: the ones who love what I love. Tomorrow I am going to take on a new regime. I am going to use that little bit of pre-noon hunger to work for me, the hunger that staves off an afternoon nap in the middle of a lecture today.

Wyona took Zoe to Jersey Boys for the afternoon matinee. I met them there. We had seats three rows from the front. When Moiya and Dave come next week we have seats mid-centre. The difference in the perspective of the different viewing places is amazing, since we are stating to have tried them all.

Today we were close enough to see the mechanical details that make the performance work. For example, there is a loud knock on the three separate doors which are slammed in his face, when Frankie Valli is trying to find producers for the group’s newest songs. I thought ouch, that must have killed the performer’s hand. He is going to die an early death of arthritis of the knuckles.

Wyona had seen this as well, but noticed hat he took a device out of his pocket and had it hidden in the palm of his hand, probably a microphone, so that when he knocked the sound was heard to the top of the third balcony. When the knock was over, he slipped the unit back into the pocket from which it had come in his trousers.

We saw where the microphones are attached to the wigs, how the costuming changes from jeans and a T-shirt to immaculate suits with silver bracelets on men’s wrists, exquisite silk lapels on tuxedos. We laughed at the capsule of fake blood in a cheek, ready to bite so it looks like the holder of it has been shot in the head.

Jersey Boys, an old show always new one to us.

A toasted cheese sandwich roasted in a Teflon pan for meal for Zoe – that was the full extent of our cooking when we got home. Later Zoe was invited into the front room with us to practise the dance steps we had seen at the matinee. Though she loves to dance when she is with her peers, she resisted, first shrugging her shoulders and then quitting long before Wyona and I could stop our feet from dancing.

Sometimes she just mutters and whispers to herself, “Seniors”.

When Greg came home from work our feet were still going. He sat down tired from work, to watch us and was soon interested in how that dip of a back step is made by using the first and third beat of an eight bar measure as the strong beats and not first and fifth. He was a good dancer in the old days as well. I can see his feet moving to the music but his body is not out of the chair, ... yet.

Am using dangling participles and half sentences today.

Too much fun here to write with real English.

Or to even tell all.

Love,

Arta

London East Street Market on a Saturday Morning

Our plan for the day included six markets, starting with East Street. One of the watches Zoe bought there the day before didn’t work. I bought a two inch wide matte and shiny silver bracelet as well yesterday. When I spotted the bracelet in a glass case at the market, I thought it was beautiful. The shape of the beads reminded me of the shape of eye teeth of elephants.

Today I mean to wear the bracelet every day I am in London to remind me not to buy anything else like it. Over-the-top guaudy, eye-catching and useless, I bought it initially to stop myself from buying more watches at the stall that had attracted Zoe. Invest £1.5 to stop myself spending £30 pounds, I thought.

The merchants are clever with their chatter bringing the customers closer to their stalls. I was looking for a red purse, but didn’t say anything to anyone about it. However, I must have touched a couple of red bags, because in no time, every red bag the merchant had on hooks or tucked under the counter was in front of me.

The fellow selling watches to Zoe was having a harder time figuring out who his customer was. For one thing, she takes longer than the regular person to process whether she is interested in an object or not. After she has been asked a question, she may give the answer but after a 3 minute time lag. By the time she gives the answer, the merchant has already asked 10 to 15 more questions and it is hard to go back and figure out which of the questions this was the answer to.

I asked Wyona what the common denominator was for her when she had finally selected three watches. The colour pink or the shape of a heart or a combination of pink/hearts.

Wyona and I are so cold. Every day, we are cold. I layered up for the shopping trip: a t-shirt, a button up shirt, plus one of Greg’s over-the-head, zip-up-the-neck shirts, my wool coat and 2 scarves. Before I was half way down the market I had bought 5 pair of gloves – one of the pairs a much cheaper model than the same black gloves I bought a few days before on Oxford Street. I will just pick up this as a back-up pair for when I lose one of the first set, I thought.

A finely woven black and red shawl calf length coat caught my eye. I must have been cold. I paid and put it right over my shoulders. No bag for me. “Let me fiddle with this,” said the shop-keeper as she arranged it over all of those other layers I had put on in the morning. “The pin to attach this at the shoulder is free. No charge. Better to buy the cape from me, than at Harrods, and much cheaper,” she continued, all of the time interspersing our conversation with calls to other customers about the size or the price or under which pile to look to find another colour of the item they were looking at.

“Do you have a pin that matches,” I asked as she clasped one corner of the cape to my shoulders.

“Only in my knickers, and I am not giving you that one,” she replied.

Warm now, I walked ahead of Greg, Zoe and Wyona for a while, stopping to observe the underwear stall because I saw an old man there, carefully going through a beige cardboard box of bras, fingering a pink one adorned with red roses, sweeping his hand along the inside of the cup.

“I can’t tell which of these three men is the shop keeper,” I said to Greg, when he caught up. “Look, the two wizened old men behind the counter are lifting the knee length silky underwear, and letting it billow down to touch the table. And the other is interested in the bras. But neither act is attracting customers.”

I had just heard a black man shouting to a white merchant, “Shut up, you dirty black nigger.” I did a double take and had to look again to see who was black and who was white. When he shouted the same phrase again I thought there would be trouble. A younger merchant was sitting cross legged on scaffolding above his merchandise. He looked straight ahead as though he was unaware of the noise. “Looks like our friend has had too much to drink,” Greg said. “I saw him further on down the market.”

The market was also full of a lot of “Praise the Lord for the beautiful day” and “Thanks be to God, days not as good as last years, but still beautiful”. “Hey. man” and “Jesus lives” were antiphonal phrases, as well as a deferential, “Hello boss” to some customers.

One glove seller was singing along with the African music blaring from the next booth – the live singer had a rich deep operatic quality voice. A talent not really lost for he sang as he sold gloves.

Wyona showed me some small flashlights with batteries included in the package. “We need these at the lake. You should buy them for your grandchildren, Arta.”

“Now why would I do that? They are all so afraid that I don’t have one who would use a flashlight and go out after dark,” I answered.

Zoe was getting hungry by this time and she had been promised chips. Wyona stayed back buying pansies for her window boxes. Zoe looked through the window and into the House of Kebabs but they only sold Mediterranean food. At the shop called African and Caribbean Cuisine, I saw Zoe’s nose was pressed against their restaurant window reading the menu inside. The shop keeper opened the door and told her to come in. She saw the word chips on the menu. I saw the words gizzards, jollope, black-eye beans and rice, saveloy,and spinach and egusi stew. Looked like a place both of us would like to eat.

When lunch was finished and he asked, the proprietor told Greg where to find plantain chips, so we slipped across the street, behind the stall, to another store ... all out, but the shop next door had a large crate of cows feet for sale, and next door, for sale, large cows feet.

Greg said that the smell of Africa was in the House of Africa and suggested Wyona and I checked it out. Packages of dried anchovies, with 1000’s of eyes looking out of the cellophane package at us. Next to that, ground crayfish, -- a whole new world of ingredients to cook with. Greg was not up to carrying rice home in the 50 pound bags that were sold there, so we went on down the market.

On the bus, on the way home, there was the hum of international languages, none of them with the rhythm of any western European accents that I know. The bus lurches suddenly when the light turns from red to green. I was hanging onto the pole to my side, but my feet didn’t have a stance that gave me equilibrium, swinging me around the pole. Now I know where the idea of pole dancing comes from. Dramatic, but I am not that graceful yet.

Wyona and I dropped Greg and Zoe and the packages off at the flat and slipped up to Camden for the last two hours of the day. “Where you come from all the time,” the clerk in the Indian shop near the main entrance asked Wyona. “I see you every two weeks or so.”

The women on the second floor among the scarves said the same thing to her. “I know you. You come here often.” And when Wyona asked the price of the scarves, one of the clerks said, “Baal is not here today. He is at the market at Petticoat Lane, but he gives you a special price, so I will call him on his cell and tell him you are here.”

“What is going on with that?” I asked Wyona.

“I don’t know why they are saying that,” she said. “I slip in and out of these stores and I don’t want anyone to know me. These little merchants are working so hard to make a living in these stalls.”

I was in Camden with a purpose. I wanted to go to a shop that buys and sells gold. The sign says, We Buy your Old Gold, on the Spot. Cash.” I don’t have any gold, but the last time I was in Camden, in that store, I saw large seed pearls on a 48 inch string, a knot between each pearl. I know that when the necklace breaks, there will be one complete string on the floor and not the sound of beads running along the floor, everywhere. My friend, Dani Pahulje, took a course last year where she restrung some pearls of her grandmothers, and the course cost the same amount as the pearls cost that I saw in the store.

Still I had to go home and think about buying those. I am not one to buy on the spot, but ever since I saw the pearl markets in China I have been thinking about this. The seed pearls are the natural ones, not beautifully matched, and graded ones that you see in the strings of pearls in better stores. This string is full of irregular shapes, a beauty in the uneven naturalness of them, I think.

I have no idea where I will wear them when I get home. Maybe out to garden. And until I get back to my garden, I will put them on every morning and wear them under my coat as I sight see London. Wyona mocks me and asks me what I am thinking of. I tell her I am having my own kind of pleasure.

I was so tired when Wyona and I finally got home at night that I could hardly get a bite of a donut to my mouth. Wyona was the same. This morning, Greg asked us what happened to both of us last night. Two tired women absolutely disappear at the same time.

Today, Zoe and I went on a bus tour on our own. She was practising with her new camera – taking pictures of the celebration of the Chinese New Year at Trafalgar Square, shots at St. Paul’s Cathedral, walking across the Millennium Bridge and taking pictures of the tour boats as they passed underneath us, catching the British Telecom Tower and the Tate Museum in the same shot, a shot in front of the Horse Guard at Whitehall, a landscape picture of London Bridge as we were walking over the Thames, and a couple of shots of both of us at the top of the double decker bus.

We also travelled on one of the heritage Routemaster buses, one of those old vehicles where the driver is at the front, but you get on at the back. The ticket master stands at the open platform until everyone is seated and then comes by to check tickets as the bus is moving along. After all of that, the highlight was of the day for her was the chicken nuggets and fries meal at MacDonalds. Some menus work in every language.

I dropped Zoe off at the flat and went sight-seeing by myself, from the top of a bus #15. I touched in with my Oyster Card and then sat with a map on my lap, checking it often to see which of the sights were rolling by. Trafalgar, the West End, Aldwych, St. Paul’s Cathedral, the Tower of London, and then residential districts as the bus went all of the way to Blackwall, where the Docks begin.

I was the last one on the bus at its terminal and the only one on the bus as it began its route back. The name of my favourite pub along the way was Hung, Dried and Quartered. If I drank, I would surely have stopped in there.

Love,

Arta

Details for enrolling David in School

We tried to figure out what "catchment" area we are in for enrolling David Doral in Kindergarten in the Fall. No address we could recall or create worked in School District #83's transportation website.

According to BC Hydro we have a newly labelled physical address.

L3-1280 Bernie Rd,
Annis Bay, BC V0E 2V0

Our mailing address has been renewed to be

PO Box 1063
Sicamous, BC V0E 2V0

I spoke with the Principal at the Sicamous Elementary School called Parkview. He is pretty sure that North Canoe Elementary is where David should be enrolled. Then we can apply to cross school boundaries if we prefer to drive David ourselves to another school. On our list for alternative schools for David are:

-Parkview, Sicamous, full-time English Kindergarten
-Bastion, Salmon Arm, part-time French Immersion Kindergarten

We will be camping out on April 6th to get David on the waitlist for French Immersion. We hear last years camp-out was over 36 hours long and only 14 spots were available. Next week we begin visiting all the schools. What an adventure.

The lake is so calm today the sky and moutains are reflected in it. David said he wonders when it will be summer. He misses his cousins. I suggested he wear shorts around the house in honour of missing summer.

Winter harvest in the Shuswap

David Doral was invited to break through the frozen surface in Janet and Glen's garden to see if any of last summer's bounty survived. David unearthed a bucket full of potatoes, washed them, peeled them, boiled them (with help), and ate them for dinner. Each found potatoe was celebrated with a squeal of joy. The meal was served on Arta's finest china.

Tonia's Trip Down the Nile

Dear Family,

I am in Egypt and so far I have seen the pyramids, mephis, sakkara, citadel, cairo, aswan, khan market, boat ride down the nile, nubian villiage, sailing down the nile in a falukah with Captain Azu, Egyptian Museum with Tutankhamoun Golden King find of a full Egyptian burial site, unfinished obilisque, high dam, off to a sound and light show tonight and will start a three day cruise down the nile this evening. It is a mixture of the classic sites. In the markets we are a target for being sold things, people yelling at us, telling us we are beautiful and so far I have had two men tell me they wanted to marry me.

I am never coming home and will live here forever.

Your former Canadian daughter / sister / cousin / neice / aunt

Tonia

London Heldenplatz by Thomas Bernard

London Heldenplatz by Thomas Bernard
February 13, 2010

As we knew we were going to see Heldenplatz, Wyona studied the night before, how to get to the Arcola Theatre. Greg helped her. As well, I was out on the internet typing in the “to” and “from” destinations into a London planner. We were venturing into unknown territory: Northern London.

The route was marked on our map, the tube stops and bus stations noted, and the planner estimated we would be there in 45 minutes. We left early – giving ourselves a full hour.

The bus didn’t arrive in the allotted 8 minutes at the Dalton Station. Nor fifteen minutes, nor twenty, nor thirty minutes.

“Buses run slower on the weekends,” a bystander told us.

When we got off the bus 40 minutes later, we were in a dark neighbourhood, at a bus stop, questioning other transit riders who were waiting for their rides, “Where is the Arcola Theatre”. Another young student was questioning other patrons on the side of the street as to where the Arcola Theatre was. In retrospect it was not a good idea to follow her. Why would we follow a woman with an American accent, when the fellows who live in the area had no idea where the theatre was?

We switched groups of strollers to follow, this time picking up with a woman plotting her course with a GPS. She was going to the Arcola as well and took us down a dark, narrow wet alley,-- only wide enough for one car -- and there it was – a backdoor theatre.

The woman with the GPS slipped into the entry with her tickets. Wyona stood in the line-up for our tickets were vouchers and her name was to be on a list at the door.

The thirtyish fellow who helped us climb over 2 foot high ramp that led to the back door theatre stood beside us in the line-up. I could hear Wyona dialoguing with the ticket taker. “We must be on the list. Look again. If not under Bates, then under Chai Chin.”

She was not having any luck getting into the theatre.

I could see around the corner into a space that looked like the Big Secret Theatre in Calgary. A cavernous room, a super high ceiling, darkness in every corner, a few area lights streaming down and under them people standing with cigarettes and drinks. One woman in a flaming red satin dress, standing on one hip.

“Would you like a partner for the night,” the young man beside me said.

I have no idea what I mumbled back – whatever the words were, it was not a script I have practised before. Wyona grabbed my arm, swung me around and pulled my sleeve behind her as she walked down the ramp, her saying to me, “We are looking for Arcola Theatre I. That was Arcola Theatre II.

“Wyona, I want to tell you something that just happened to me,” I said.

“I know. I heard. Why did he ask you instead of me? Probably because I was busy trying to sort out tickets at the box office,” she went on.

We whipped around the corner to Arcola I. There the ticket agent told us we were too late: we had to be at the box office by 7:30 to get the tickets we had vouchers for.

By this time I was laughing so hard I had to sit down among the people finishing their pre-show drinks, since the Arcola I was running two plays that night.

“We will just pay and go to Hens in Knives that is showing in 15 minutes,” she said. “Looks like there is some nudity, but we can do it.”

“How can you tell,” I said, having never heard of that play before.

“Just look at the poster,” she laughed.

The poster?

You have to be kidding me, I thought. I am just recovering from not being able to be picked up on the streets of London.

“Did you find the theatre,” a lip-pierced young woman on the bus asked Wyona as we were on our way back to the apartment. Wyona had queried that young woman where the Arcola Theatre was on our way to the performance ... on another bus Now we were sitting at the back of the bus in a seat next to her and her boy friend as we were going back home, not theatred out, for the second play had a full house as well.

Wyona had her bus map stretched full in front of her, her arms two feet apart, her nose buried in the map, trying to find the best way back to Oxford Circus. People in every seat around her were offering suggestions to her.

How does she do it? I watched in Brussels. I watched in China. I watched her as we went through Germany and France. Now in the back of a London bus, people coming treating her as though she is a close acquaintance – more than that, like she is a second-best friend to them all.

But only the people on the back of the bus were that amicable for the driver stopped, turned out the lights of the bus chassis and said, “Last stop. Eveyone out.”

General grumbling got louder as people stepped off of the bus. “They can’t do this. I am from Italy,” said one woman exiting at the back.

At the front of the bus there was yelling by two or three men, one banging on the driver’s window and another so abusive that the driver stepped out of his cage and yelled back at them in their own language, gesticulating wildly with both of us arms.

“I have seen this before in London,” said Wyona. “Only the other time the driver stayed in his seat, called the police and in an instant the Bobbies were there hauling someone off in their paddy wagon.”

Well. What can I say. A Saturday night with live theatre on the streets of London.

Yes, I am still having fun. And too full of adrenalin to sleep, Wyona and I watched a two hour television run on the British Royalty and practised throwing into our vocabulary, two words we heard on the special: ignominious and rapacious. Not easy words to toss off in every day conversation, unless one is in an argument.

Speaking of new words, the tour guide at the Wallace kept using a word that she pronounced inVENtor-ee, with the accent on the “ven”.

Took me a long time to figure out she was talking about something I love: making lists.

Arta

London The Wallace Collection

London The Wallace Collection
February 14, 2010

Today Greg took Zoe to the Wallace Collection, a museum just at the end of Marlybone Street. I walked over with them, and then stayed until it closed at 5 and I am home at 5:10. That makes it a ten minute walk from here to a place that houses many of the treasures sold by the French to the English when Versailles was ravaged.

I remembered standing at Versailles in empty rooms and having the guide say that the furniture that belonged in these rooms was abroad and that they were trying to buy it back. Today I stood at the tour of the Wallace Collection and was told that when it was made a gift to the British people, part of the will of Mrs. Richard Wallace was that the collection was not to be separated – was always to stay there at Hertford Place.

How much fun was that, to have seen the room that the furniture sat in over there in France, and now, twenty years later, to have seen the world`s largest collection of Marie Antoinette`s furniture! She had four writing desks, and now they are all in one room. And beautiful chairs,reupholstered and sitting in a room with forest green silk wallpaper and magnificent window hangings. I was even looking at the details on the tassels that hold back the curtains.

Before the 3 pm tour of the collection began, I had worn myself out, picking up a Guide to the Paintings Hanging in the South Gallery. I was going from one master to the next, reading the text and searching through the paintings to find what the curator was alluding to in the painting. Rembrandt`s ``Titus``, and Fragonard`s ``The Swing`` just rooms away from each other and full of so much interesting detail.

I learned last week at the National Gallery that if I am tired, I can just find a chair and sit for a moment – rest my eyes and when I open them again, I am rested. Yes, it is fifteen minutes later but I feel a lot better. When I heard an announcement saying that a public tour was about to begin in the State Room, I joined about fifty other people to get an hour`s overview of the masters in the collection.

After the tour, I spent time look at paintings by Boucher, a master with the brush when it comes to the human flesh. Off the clothes of the model would come, for any reason, and Greek mythological figures are thrown in, mainly to give some message about the painting. Extra-ordinary light streams onto the human figures. The main focus of the paintings is on the beauty of the female form at that time – pert breasts and large bottoms.

When the tour finished I went back to explore the room where there are painting of Madam Pompadour. I wanted to cement again what I should be looking at in the painting. A couple stood in front of me for a while. I heard her say to him, when he asked her to come and look at Madam Pompadour and pointed out to her how small the foot on the model was, ``Yes, out of proportion.``

When he looked quizzical she said, ``Well, look at her hands.`` When he did, he had to nod in agreement to her that the hands were larger than the feet.

``And look at the dog, ... why is there a dog in the painting.`` They stood there in silence and I thought to myself, ``The dog represents fidelity – her fidelity to the king, even though he has now gone on to have many more mistresses``.

They looked back at me. I thought I was only thinking those word but I am sure now that I actually spoke them.

When I came home, Greg told me that the Wallace Collection is probably one of his favourite places in London. It is possible to explore 25 galleries in less than an hour. Wyona told me the same thing – just a small taste of so many different items are on display there.

I am going back to look at the cabinets full of Sèvres porcelain. The Wallace Collection contains one of the richest and most distinguished collections of eighteenth-century Sèvres porcelain in the world: vases, tea wares, useful wares, biscuit figures – I only have to walk down the street.

On Feb. 20th, there is going to be a celebration of Louis XV`s 300th birthday party – an opportunity to have a tour led by Madame de Pompadour, herself and a chance to dance in the Great Gallery. Odd to find all of this celebration about the French 18th and 19th century just a few blocks away from us in English Marlybone.

I know how lucky I am to be here for a longer time on this trip – a chance to look in depth at collections, when before I had to limit each visit everywhere.

I only slipped into the National Gallery last week for an hour – just looking for a rest between my exploration of London`s Chinatown and picking up tickets at the Coliseum. The Ed and Nancy Kienholz re-creation of a street in the red light district of Amsterdam is on display right now. I had time to look in the windows of the diorama and tried to skim some of the text in the catalogue that goes along with the installation. It is so hard not to buy the catalogue. I try to talk myself into the purchase thinking that I will have time to look at it later, ... which I know is not true. I spent my time instead looking at the brothel scenes of the 17th century Dutch masters held by the National Gallery and exhibited side by side with the Keinholz work.

Back to the Wallace collection -- they own the finest group of paintings of Delaroche held outside of France. But the National Gallery holds the famed Delaroche painting of The Execution of Lady Jane Grey and it is the subject of a paid exhibit right now at the National Gallery. I am going to go early tomorrow and get the audio tape and spend the day there – the whole day. I will probably listen to the tape over and over tomorrow ... between naps, sitting perpendicular, on chairs in the Gallery.

A lovely new talent I have.

Love,

Arta