Caim e Abel, a cortina de ferro

two young girls among flowers

esqueci-me de ti...

Como poderia eu esquecer-me de ti ? Eu esqueci-me, apenas isso, eu esqueci-me de mim...

Falling

Falling


I watch the falling leaves and wonder why

women look so pretty in the morning,

I climb too many steps

come in tired to work, lose purpose

read news, send music to special friends

I write words like leaves

fallen from a tree…

heaven

Blue Horses

Die Grossen Blauen Pferde/ The Large Blue Horses
Oil on Canvas

rouge

so this is his real name...

Remember, remember the fifth of November,

The gunpowder, treason and plot,

I know of no reason

Why gunpowder treason

Should ever be forgot

Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, ’twas his intent

To blow up the King and Parliament.

Three score barrels of powder below,

Poor old England to overthrow;

By God’s providence he was catch’d

With a dark lantern and burning match.

Holloa boys, holloa boys, make the bells ring.

Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!

Hip hip hoorah!

A penny loaf to feed the Pope.

A farthing o’ cheese to choke him.

A pint of beer to rinse it down.

A faggot of sticks to burn him.

Burn him in a tub of tar.

Burn him like a blazing star.

Burn his body from his head.

Then we’ll say ol’ Pope is dead.

Hip hip hoorah!

Hip hip hoorah hoorah!

japanese

A Blessing

A Blessing
By James Wright 1927–1980

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.

James Wright, “A Blessing” from Above the River: The Complete Poems and Selected Prose. Copyright � 1990 by James Wright. Reprinted by permission of Wesleyan University Press.

Source: Above the River: The Complete Poems and Selected Prose (1990)

pintado do natural

The Virgin and Child
by Leonardo da Vinci
(follower of)
Date Painted: after 1510
Oil on wood, 59.7 x 43.8 cm
Collection: The National Gallery, London



"...O retrato pintado do natural regressa com o Renascimento, mesmo em imagens sagradas que antes se executavam de imaginação, como continuava aliás a fazer-se seguindo "certa idea che mi viene alla mente", como dizia Rafael. A ideia, a imaginação, a memória, "sem que a mão seja guiada por uma verdade observada" (Arikha).

"Quando se deixa guiar pela observação, a mão põe-se à prova do inacessível que se encontra do outro lado, na parte oposta ao eu; e esse outro lado só é acessível por tentativas, capta-se eventualmente por entre a incerteza e opera sem se saber exactamente como, mas deixando-se levar pelo fulgor do olhar. A arte baseada na observação criam-na, sem a priori e sem apoios, o olhar e a mão a partir do natural, ou seja, "sur le motif", como dizia Cézanne. O seu objectivo não é decorar, como o ornamento, nem documentar, como a imagem, já que nasce de uma necessidade profunda de reter o vivido."

"...a pintura de observação é fruto de um olhar galvanizado por uma presença que electrizará a mão que executa o traço e que configura o desenho ou a pintura. O olhar não pode galvanizar-se só mediante o imaginário ou a memória subjectiva, porque nesse caso nada electrizará a mão. O imaginário não pode proporcionar mais do que imagens, e não traços remanescentes do vivido. A imagem não é mais do que um aspecto do quadro; o outro é a pintura, a pintura do natural."
Avigdor Arikha

encontrado aqui : http://alexandrepomar.typepad.com/alexandre_pomar/2011/11/pintura-de-observa%C3%A7%C3%A3o.html

sem titulo

Um dia olhas no espelho quotidiano e sabes que estás velho,
Como pode isso ter acontecido, assim de um dia para o outro ?
Ainda ontem, batias na cara sorridente depois do barbear,
Olhos brilhantes e ganas de sair, abraçar o dia…

Hoje estás velho , as peles caem sobre os olhos,
O sorriso cava vales fundos na cara e não sabes mais onde ir
Isto não levou um dia a acontecer, aconteceu um dia a seguir ao outro
E tu palerma, olhavas o espelho e nada vias…

Diz o padre para o menos padre :
“- Não interessa aquilo que tu és, padre ou não padre,
Interessam as escolhas que tu fazes e como tu as defendes…”
(sabedoria avulsa de cinema de matiné)

who's afraid

Newman-Who's_Afraid_of_Red,_Yellow_and_Blue

Em minha casa há muito tempo

Em minha casa há muito tempo, havia uma lata onde se guardavam as coisas de costura. Era uma lata bonita, decorada a dourados, mesmo na altura já um pouco desmaiados, tinha cenas nocturnas, talvez evocação de uma saída à Ópera...nem me lembro bem, mas foi assim que comecei a gostar de coisas belas e fora do meu alcance...

thousands

"For I do not exist: there exist but the thousands of mirrors that reflect me. With every acquaintance I make, the population of phantoms resembling me increases. Somewhere they live, somewhere they multiply. I alone do not exist."

Nabokov, The Eye

found here : http://assemblage2011.tumblr.com/post/11047806512/for-i-do-not-exist-there-exist-but-the-thousands

a day without me

love this

Vintage Photographs - Today’s Adventure: Ingrid Bergman is captured by Gordon Parks while making Stromboli (1949)

Turner prize

The Back that used to be The Front, 2008
Photograph: George Shaw/Courtesy Wilkinson Gallery, London

Check out more, here :
http://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddesign/gallery/2011/feb/13/art-george-shaw-in-pictures#/?picture=371659398&index=9

sketch

Eugène Delacroix. Sketch for the Death of Sardanapalus

home is where you lay your heart...

power issue

“The most common way people give up their power
is by thinking they don’t have any.”

~ Alice Walker
Quote shown at the beginning of “Miss Representation”

you have to be practical

"Yeah. I go to my subconsciousness. I have to go into that chaos. But the act of going and coming back is kind of routine. You have to be practical. So every time I say, if you want to write a novel you have to be practical, people get bored. They are disappointed." He laughs again. "They are expecting a more dynamic, creative, artistic thing to say. What I want to say is: you have to be practical."

Murakami on writing novels
found here : http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2011/oct/14/haruki-murakami-1q84?fb=native&CMP=FBCNETTXT9038

Fire Graffiti

Fire Graffiti

Throughout those dismal months my life was only sparked alight
when I made love to you.
As the firefly ignites and fades, ignites and fades, we follow the flashes
of its flight in the dark among the olive trees.


Throughout those dismal months, my soul sat slumped and lifeless
but my body walked to yours.
The night sky was lowing.
We milked the cosmos secretly, and survived.

Tomas Tranströmer

I really like this blog

Georgia O’ Keeffe and Orville Cox - Ansel Adams, 1937


The Blog :

http://theimpossiblecool.tumblr.com/

the moon, the moon

Love is the seventh wave

Pequenos dias passam cheios de grandes dramas

expectante no mar, esperas a onda
o momento certo de ganhares o impulso
e de te ergueres, deslizando vertiginoso
triunfante, como a espuma ou o vento
a gaivota que grita sobre a praia

Venetian Horses

"One of the most famous features of the church is the Triumphal Guadriga, or Horses of St. Mark. You can see them above the central door and largest arch in the picture above, 4 huge bronze horses. (Today, the ones you see are copies, and the real ones are protected inside the church.) They were brought here from Constantinople in 1204 after Venetian soldiers in the 4th crusade sacked the city. They are old, and were part of a huge Roman complex there since ancient times. Debate rages on if they were made in ancient Greece or as a Roman copy, but either way, they are some of the only ancient bronze statues to survive to today. Napoleon liked them so much that he took them to Paris in 1797, but they were returned years later."

the gift

AntiCrise

o amor é uma conspiração

uma teia bem urdida que agarra o verão

impede as folhas das árvores de amarelecerem

os dias de encolherem

o amor é uma conspiração

para trazer a felicidade ás ruas

levar as flores a todo o lado

sur les pavés...

Júlio Pomar - Maio de 1968 (CRS - SS) II, 1968 - Acrílico sobre tela, 97 x 130 - Coleção de Jorge de Brito (Cascais - Portugal)

Dizzy

Dizzy

sometimes I feel so dizzy
Things go so fast, light shifts and colors mix

I walk the streets trying to make sense of things
Look for meanings on scribbles covering walls
Noise, meaningless, void.
Trash passing for currency.

A pretty woman in a TV show
Doesn’t know where Africa is,
Doesn’t know anything different from the price of things
or where to get the next euro, the next kick.
Lost all is lost
and this feeling makes our bones soft, our wills melt
No judgment, no reason, no purpose.


Our ancient name is Europa
Our old rule is Democracia.
It flows, it flows where it goes
Nobody knows, nobody knows.

Why don't you touch me ?

"...
She's a lady, she's got time
Brush back your hair
And let me get to know your face

She's a lady, she is mine
Brush back your hair
And let me get to know your flesh

I've been waiting here for so long
And all the time that passed me by
It doesn't seem to matter now

You stand there with your
fixed expression
Casting doubt on all I have to say
Why don't you touch me, touch me
Why don't you touch me, touch me
Touch me now, now, now, now, now
Now, now, now, now, now
Now, now, now, now, now
Now, now, now, now, now ..."

Genesis, The Musical Box

todo o mundo é um palco...

imagem de Jorge Molder


http://www.spq.pt/boletim/docs/boletimSPQ_102_045_07.pdf

http://www.mnhn.ul.pt/portal/page?_pageid=418,1391237&_dad=portal&_schema=PORTAL

madames et monsieurs...la valse

Vallotton, Félix (1861 - 1925)

The Waltz
Date: 1893

women rule the world

Woman 1949

once de Kooning was a stowaway in a boat to America...

A Tree in Naples

Willem de Kooning (American, born the Netherlands. 1904-1997)

1960. Oil on canvas, 6' 8 1/4" x 70 1/8" (203.7 x 178.1 cm). The Sidney and Harriet Janis Collection. © 2011 The Willem de Kooning Foundation / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York

"This work belongs to a group of abstractions inspired by the landscape. In them de Kooning simplified his visual vocabulary to a few powerful, expansive brushstrokes that evoke the vistas of color found in the natural world. He described the experience that inspired these works: “Just coming around roads, some place, and having the sensation of a piece of it, a piece of nature, like a fence, something on the road. … And I really get very elated by again looking, by again seeing that the sky is blue, that the grass is green.”"

rippling waves

“
rippling waves

with the wind scent

beat together

”

- Basho

(via yama-bato)

Cais

Tanto que eu sonhei nos degraus do cais...

colour me

all here :

http://mek.oszk.hu/kiallitas/gedo_ilka/html.en/images.html

sobreviver ao deserto

Há montes de gente bonita, por aí
Tem de ser uma coisa boa, não tem ?
Como um sinal ou um augúrio
como aquilo que os romanos procuravam no voo das aves,
Ou nas entranhas dos animais sacrificados…

Cada dia sem ti, é um deserto sem fim.

O tempo costumava ser fácil e simpático,
Tal qual uma boa loja, daquelas com corredores largos
E um sitio para cada coisa…
eu seguia-te para todo o lado tu decidias o que havíamos de levar.
Até que te foste sem mim.

Cada dia sem ti, é um deserto sem fim.

Eu enrolo-me num canto,
Os meus ombros fecham-se sobre o peito
Esmagados pelo peso de asas que já não tenho,
Tu levaste a minha capacidade de voar…e a vontade também.

Os desertos são lugares enganadores,
À primeira vista tudo parece igual e imutável,
Mas quando nos encontramos neles, descobrimos como tudo
Não pára de mudar.

Só há uma maneira de sobreviver ao deserto e é saindo dele.
(o que vale para ti, tem de valer para mim também).

I just love Haruki Murakami

“I think most people live in a fiction. I’m no exception. Think of it in terms of a car’s transmission. It’s like a transmission that stands between you and the harsh realities of life. You take the raw power from outside and use gears to adjust it so everything’s all nicely in sync. That’s how you keep your fragile body intact.”

from Sputnik Sweetheart by Haruki Murakami

não sou daqui e serei breve

Na extrema do terreno os restos de uma árvore vão-se agora cobrindo de trepadeiras,
No caminho uma avó baixa-se e pega na neta,
A menina abandona-se nos seus braços, confortável e feliz

Nas árvores os dióspiros amadurecem carnudos,
Cantam pássaros aqui e ali,
No céu dissipam-se os rastos dos aviões que voam alto e para longe

Eu sorrio,
Não sou daqui, não, não sou daqui e não demoro
venho aqui coleccionar memórias.

Aussie

Cockspur Bush

I am lived. I am died.
I was two-leafed three times, and grazed,
but then I was stemmed and multiplied,
sharp-thorned and caned, nested and raised,
earth-salt by sun-sugar. I was innerly sung
by thrushes who need fear no eyed skin thing.
Finched, ant-run, flowered, I am given the years
in now fewer berries, now more of sling
out over directions of luscious dung.
Of water crankshaft, of gases the gears
my shape is cattle-pruned to a crown spread sprung
above the starve-gut instinct to make prairies
of everywhere. My thorns are stuck with caries
of mice and rank lizards by the butcher bird.
Inches in, baby seed-screamers get supplied.
I am lived and died in, vine woven, multiplied.


from
Translations from the Natural World, 1992

Cantiga

Deixa-te estar na minha vida
Como um navio sobre o mar.

Se o vento sopra e rasga as velas
E a noite é gélida e comprida
E a voz ecoa das procelas,
Deixa-te estar na minha vida.

Se erguem as ondas mãos de espuma
Aos céus, em cólera incontida,
E o ar se tolda e cresce a bruma,
Deixa-te estar na minha vida.

À praia, um dia, erma e esquecida,
Hei, com amor, de te levar.
Deixa-te estar na minha vida.
Como um navio sobre o mar.



João Cabral do Nascimento (Poeta português, 1887-1978)

this is the end of September...

interview here :

http://www.augustman.com/2011/09/12/interview-with-michael-arad-architect-of-the-911-memorial/

why do I like this ?...

rua de trás

I have a great passion for beauty and aesthetics

see all here :

http://signevilstrup.dk/

here comes the sun

gostei de ver

para saber mais :
http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rois_et_Reine

Mabou

USA (2)

love is complicated...but possible
o amor é complicado...mas possível

USA

...ainda nos faz sonhar a América ?
...does America still makes us dream ?

very good read indeed...

"This strangest of islands, I thought, as I looked out to sea, this island that turned in on itself, and from which water had been banished. The shore was a carapace, permeable only at certain selected points. Where in this riverine city could one fully sense a riverbank? Everything was built up, in concrete and stone, and the millions who lived on the tiny interior had scant sense about what flowed around them. The water was a kind of embarrassing secret, the unloved daughter, neglected, while the parks were doted on, fussed over, overused."

found in Teju Cole "Open City", which I recommend

Read more http://www.newyorker.com/arts/critics/books/2011/02/28/110228crbo_books_wood#ixzz1XwahtuPx

Naufrágio em Zanzibar

Naufrágio em Zanzibar

O grande barco de cruzeiro eleva-se vários pisos acima da rua,
No passeio, à minha frente caminha uma mulher de longas pernas muito brancas,
Ela entra no autocarro descoberto que lhe vai mostrar a cidade
Eu desço para o metro e mais um dia de trabalho.

Quando era pequeno gostava de coleccionar nomes de terras e bandeiras
Dizer aqueles nomes, saber nomear aquelas bandeiras
Enchia-me de prazer, dava-me vontade de conhecer o mundo
Então havia a guerra, a guerra era uma forma de conhecer o mundo
Por via do desconhecimento mais brutal, penso eu agora,
Mas na altura era uma coisa que acontecia aos rapazes como eu.

Penso nisto enquanto o comboio do metro
Serpenteia pelo caro túnel, construído debaixo do rio
Debaixo da cidade histórica,
Á superfície é dia claro e quente
Manhã de verão, Lisboa arranca para um novo dia, lento e triste
Como este tempo de cansaços e decepções.

Naufrágio em Zanzibar dizem os jornais.