Saturday, November 7, 2009
O citador
Lotto, Lorenzo
Venus et Cupido
Year c. mid 1520s
The Metropolitan Museum of Art
O Amor Vulgar
Pinta-se o Amor sempre menino, porque ainda que passe dos sete anos, como o de Jacob, nunca chega à idade de uso de razão. Usar de razão, e amar, são duas coisas que não se juntam. A alma de um menino, que vem a ser? Uma vontade com afectos, e um entendimento sem uso. Tal é o amor vulgar. Tudo conquista o amor, quando conquista uma alma; porém o primeiro rendido é o entendimento. Ninguém teve a vontade febricitante, que não tivesse o entendimento frenético. O amor deixará de variar, se for firme, mas não deixará de tresvariar, se é amor. Nunca o fogo abrasou a vontade, que o fumo não cegasse o entendimento. Nunca houve enfermidade no coração, que não houvesse fraqueza no juízo. Por isso os mesmos Pintores do Amor lhe vendaram os olhos. E como o primeiro efeito, ou a última disposição do amor, é cegar o entendimento, daqui vem, que isto que vulgarmente se chama amor, tem mais partes de ignorância: e quantas partes tem de ignorância, tantas lhe faltam de amor. Quem ama, porque conhece, é amante; quem ama, porque ignora, é néscio. Assim como a ignorância na ofensa diminui o delito, assim no amor diminui o merecimento. Quem, ignorando, ofendeu, em rigor não é delinquente; quem, ignorando, amou, em rigor não é amante.
Padre António Vieira, in "Sermões"
tresvariar
Significado de tresvariar
v.i. Praticar desvarios, estar fora de si, delirar.
Dizer ou fazer disparates.
Sinônimos de tresvariar
Tresvariar: desarrazoar, desatinar, despropositar e disparatar
Definição de tresvariar
Classe gramatical de tresvariar: Verbo intransitivo
Separação das sílabas de tresvariar: tres-va-ri-ar
Possui 10 letras
Possui as vogais: a e i
Possui as consoantes: r s t v
Tresvariar escrita ao contrário: rairavsert
Na numerologia tresvariar é o número 5
Rimas com tresvariar
trufar
suspeitar
interessar
elementar
identificar
aniquilar
aportar
proclamar
arrepiar
determinar
descansar
raspar
roubar
manjar
espumar
Anagramas de tresvariar
estravirar
Friday, November 6, 2009
Silêncio
Inicialmente atribuída a Bramante, la autoría de esta obra (1490) corresponde probablemente a su discípulo Bramantino (1465-1530), arquitecto y pintor italiano de nombre Bartolomé Suardi. Fue adquirida para la colección Thyssen-Bornemisza en 1936
Fernando Pessoa
Cancioneiro
Não: não digas nada!
Não: não digas nada!
Supor o que dirá
A tua boca velada
É ouvi-lo já
É ouvi-lo melhor
Do que o dirias.
O que és não vem à flor
Das frases e dos dias.
És melhor do que tu.
Não digas nada: sê!
Graça do corpo nu
Que invisível se vê.
Happy Days
este é o relógio que o meu avô Francisco me deu quando fiz 18 anos
this watch was given me by my grandfather Francisco on my 18th birthday
Really enjoyed to read this article :
"The harm of death goes to the heart of who we are as human beings. We are, in essence, forward-looking creatures. We create our lives prospectively. We build relationships, careers, and projects that are not solely of the moment but that have a future in our vision of them. One of the reasons Eastern philosophies have developed techniques to train us to be in the moment is that that is not our natural state. We are pulled toward the future, and see the meaning of what we do now in its light.
Death extinguishes that light. And because we know that we will die, and yet we don’t know when, the darkness that is ultimately ahead of each of us is with us at every moment. "
from Happy Ending
By Todd May
Clairvoyant
Ted Hughes: Thistles
Against the rubber tongues of cows and the hoeing hands of men
Thistles spike the summer air
And crackle open under a blue-black pressure.
Every one a revengeful burst
Of resurrection, a grasphed fistful
Of splintered weapons and Icelandic frost thrust up
From the underground stain of a decayed Viking.
They are like pale hair and the gutturals of dialects.
Every one manages a plume of blood.
Then they grow grey like men.
Mown down, it is a feud. Their sons appear
Stiff with weapons, fighting back over the same ground.
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Thursday, November 5, 2009
Eleanor, Lake Michigan, Chicago, etc
Not Dirty Harry...
Harry Morey Callahan (October 22, 1912 – March 15, 1999) was an American photographer who is considered one of the great innovators of modern American photography. He was born in Detroit, Michigan and started photographing in 1938 as an autodidact. By 1946, he was appointed by László Moholy-Nagy to teach photography at the Institute of Design in Chicago. Callahan retired in 1977, at which time he was teaching at the Rhode Island School of Design.
Callahan left almost no written records--no diaries, letters, scrapbooks or teaching notes. His technical photographic method was to go out almost every morning, walk the city he lived in and take numerous pictures. He then spent almost every afternoon making proof prints of that day's best negatives. Yet, for all his photographic activity, Callahan, at his own estimation, produced no more than half a dozen final images a year.
He photographed his wife, Eleanor, and daughter, Barbara, and the streets, scenes and buildings of cities where he lived, showing a strong sense of line and form, and light and darkness. He also worked with multiple exposures. Callahan's work was a deeply personal response to his own life. He was well known to encourage his students to turn their cameras on their lives, and he led by example. Callahan photographed his wife over a period of fifteen years, as his prime subject. Eleanor was essential to his art from 1947 to 1960. He photographed her everywhere - at home, in the city streets, in the landscape; alone, with their daughter, in black and white and in color, nude and clothed, distant and close. He tried several technical experiments - double and triple exposure, blurs, large and small format film.
In 1950 his daughter Barbara, was born. Even prior to her birth she showed up in photographs of Eleanor's pregnancy. From 1948 to 1953 Eleanor, and sometimes Barbara, were shown out in the landscape as a tiny counterpoint to large expanses of park, skyline or water.
Callahan died in Atlanta in 1999. He left behind 100,000 negatives and over 10,000 proof prints. The Center for Creative Photography at the University of Arizona, which actively collects, preserves and makes available individual works by 20th-century North American photographers, maintains his photographic archives. His estate is represented in New York by the Pace/MacGill Gallery.
From the Wikipedia
Harry Morey Callahan (October 22, 1912 – March 15, 1999) was an American photographer who is considered one of the great innovators of modern American photography. He was born in Detroit, Michigan and started photographing in 1938 as an autodidact. By 1946, he was appointed by László Moholy-Nagy to teach photography at the Institute of Design in Chicago. Callahan retired in 1977, at which time he was teaching at the Rhode Island School of Design.
Callahan left almost no written records--no diaries, letters, scrapbooks or teaching notes. His technical photographic method was to go out almost every morning, walk the city he lived in and take numerous pictures. He then spent almost every afternoon making proof prints of that day's best negatives. Yet, for all his photographic activity, Callahan, at his own estimation, produced no more than half a dozen final images a year.
He photographed his wife, Eleanor, and daughter, Barbara, and the streets, scenes and buildings of cities where he lived, showing a strong sense of line and form, and light and darkness. He also worked with multiple exposures. Callahan's work was a deeply personal response to his own life. He was well known to encourage his students to turn their cameras on their lives, and he led by example. Callahan photographed his wife over a period of fifteen years, as his prime subject. Eleanor was essential to his art from 1947 to 1960. He photographed her everywhere - at home, in the city streets, in the landscape; alone, with their daughter, in black and white and in color, nude and clothed, distant and close. He tried several technical experiments - double and triple exposure, blurs, large and small format film.
In 1950 his daughter Barbara, was born. Even prior to her birth she showed up in photographs of Eleanor's pregnancy. From 1948 to 1953 Eleanor, and sometimes Barbara, were shown out in the landscape as a tiny counterpoint to large expanses of park, skyline or water.
Callahan died in Atlanta in 1999. He left behind 100,000 negatives and over 10,000 proof prints. The Center for Creative Photography at the University of Arizona, which actively collects, preserves and makes available individual works by 20th-century North American photographers, maintains his photographic archives. His estate is represented in New York by the Pace/MacGill Gallery.
From the Wikipedia
Life as it is
"With considerable soul searching, that to the utmost of my ability, I have let truth be the prejudice." - W. Eugene Smith
River
Days slip by, just like grains of sand through our open fingers
Some shine like gold, in a trick of the light,
Others pass, grey, unaccounted, nevertheless adding to the pile.
Time. Time as everybody seems to agree is a river,
A river going into an ocean.
My river is now wide, but not so wide
As for one to lose sight of its margins - that may happen,
But only on foggy days, dense with mist.
Most mornings my river is bright,
Blessed by sunlight, myriads of stars playing on its waters
Happy fish chase them gladly.
I should be glad too, following this river
slipping slowly into the big ocean of forgetfulness.
Presciência
CARAVAGGIO: detail of Judith Beheading Holofernes. Original oil on canvas by Caravaggio (1571-1610) Galleria Nazionale d'art Antica, Rome.
Um homem caminha tropegamente à minha frente, apoiando-se na parede, quando passo por ele reparo que tem os olhos fechados.
Treinar-se-á para a cegueira, ou é um visionário ?...
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
enough of droids and avatars
Natalya Estemirova
“The most dreadful event of not only the last week but probably the last few years is Natalya Estemirova’s murder in the Caucasus. I think it is no exaggeration to say that Natalya Estemirova was the Memorial human rights centre in Chechnya. She is a person through whose hands passed the entire information about the horrors taking place in Chechnya. Anna Politkovskaya always stayed at her house. I think Anna would have been only glad to quote Estemirova in her publications, but it was too dangerous. And now, post factum, when Natalya is dead, we can say that a great deal of what Anna wrote was what Estemirova had told her."
Maksharip Aushev
Russian opposition leader Maksharip Aushev knew he was taking a risk when he spoke out against corruption in his native Ingushetia, the troubled North Caucasus republic where the body of human-rights worker Natalya Estemirova was discovered in July. But Aushev spoke out anyway--and paid the price for his bravery. On Oct. 25, the 43-year-old businessman, who became a human-rights activist after his son and nephew were reportedly tortured by police in 2007, became the third opposition figure murdered in four months when his car was sprayed with bullets as he traveled to visit relatives. Though the Kremlin had no official response to the killing, the republic's governor said Aushev's murder could have been the work of local police carrying out a personal vendetta. The admission underscored the degree to which the lawless region's moderates are caught in the cross fire between Islamist radicals and a brutal counterinsurgency. Nearly 3,000 people attended Aushev's funeral--a turnout that his father said was proof the slain activist was not merely his son but a son of Ingushetia.
Read more: http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1933196,00.html#ixzz0VsqFSYVK
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Sufism
"As an artist, my training as a cultural historian continues to inspire the artwork that I do. Like any historian I read the world as a series of signs to be deciphered, reinterpreted and reinvented."
Huda Lufti, find out about her
Olive tree
A man goes to an olive tree, he ties a rope to one of its branches and hangs himself.
Time passes, this a hidden, forgotten corner of the land, nobody goes by there anymore, so nobody notices the dead man hanging from the olive tree.
One day, a stronger wind, makes the branch where the man hangs from, to break and the corpse falls to the floor.
Seasons pass, grass and weeds grow over the body, olives fell to the ground, they all feed the Earth and its little creatures.
The olive tree is going to be like this forever, drinking from rain water, feeding from everything its roots absorb, so the dead man is now part of the tree. This is the way things are, a big forever cycle.
The hanged man is now part of forever.
hear, hear
“ If we believe that we, as Americans, are bound together by a common concern for each other, then an urgent national priority is upon us. We must begin to end the disgrace of this other America. And this is one of the great tasks of leadership for us, as individuals and citizens this year. But even if we act to erase material poverty, there is another greater task, it is to confront the poverty of satisfaction - purpose and dignity - that afflicts us all. Too much and for too long, we seemed to have surrendered personal excellence and community values in the mere accumulation of material things. Our Gross National Product, now, is over $800 billion dollars a year, but that Gross National Product - if we judge the United States of America by that - that Gross National Product counts air pollution and cigarette advertising, and ambulances to clear our highways of carnage. It counts special locks for our doors and the jails for the people who break them. It counts the destruction of the redwood and the loss of our natural wonder in chaotic sprawl. It counts napalm and counts nuclear warheads and armored cars for the police to fight the riots in our cities. It counts Whitman's rifle and Speck's knife, and the television programs which glorify violence in order to sell toys to our children. Yet the gross national product does not allow for the health of our children, the quality of their education or the joy of their play. It does not include the beauty of our poetry or the strength of our marriages, the intelligence of our public debate or the integrity of our public officials. It measures neither our wit nor our courage, neither our wisdom nor our learning, neither our compassion nor our devotion to our country, it measures everything in short, except that which makes life worthwhile. And it can tell us everything about America except why we are proud that we are Americans.”
Robert F. Kennedy
University of Kansas
March 18, 1968
Come across this today - a smaller fragment of this speech, was included in a Time magazine article that I was reading. The article advocates, that we should measure and care about citizen's happiness instead of GDP...that's a current that is gaining strength nowadays, but I do believe that this great piece of rhetoric aims for something higher and deeper.
Avatars
One day avatars will rule the Net : they'll take over social networking sites, allowing their human creators to be engaged in more leisurely pursuits, like video gaming or mini golf. Immortality will be guaranteed while solar and wind power, will keep the huge datacenters that make up the Net running.
Huge corporations will assure that every avatar will spend a considerable amount of cash on virtual stuff and the tidbits that keep their human personas happy and comfortable, robots will take care of things and everything will run smoothly as never before.
Outsiders will live in forgotten areas, where energy will be scarce, life will be very much like it was in most of the 20th century, but that’s where all the adrenalin dependents will be, also new ideas and glorious avatars will come out of this, like beautiful fish from muddy ponds, the Corporations will not let them go to waste and through their net of spies, they will clone them and paste them to the Net, per omnia saecula saeculorum, harmless, juiceless.
… / …
It’s funny how American commercial cinema has an eye for this things, in The Surrogates, humanoid “bots” live life in our place, as us so to say, they take all the risks, they are the projections we want others to see of us, as usual on American commercial movies the plot is thin and wild chases and big explosions take its place for the rest of the movie. But the idea remains, we all know - Iraqis and Afghans in their flesh, that today war is mostly fought by droids, it’s not difficult to anticipate that tomorrow they’ll take more and more functions away from humans.
You can still go to the mall, have your friends over to the weekend barbecue and at the same time be engaged in a war thousands of miles away. Ah, and it’s a videogame that pays your monthly bills…
Feira de Emprego
Parece que Angola, vai levar a cabo uma feira do emprego aqui em Portugal - apelam aos jovens licenciados e aos operários especializados...por mais que isto mude, mais as coisas parecem iguais.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Inox
'I am waiting. No one has ever said sorry'In 1992 Ed Vulliamy revealed the existence of the Bosnian concentration camps. The remarkable image of Fikret Alic showed for the first time how Muslim prisoners were being brutalised by the Serbs.
A still image from video footage showing emaciated prisoners at the Trnopolje concentration camp in Bosnia in the summer of 1992. Fikret Alic is standing in the centre, at the front. Photograph: Reuters
I'm pretty sure one day I walked by Radovan Karadzic. It was here in Lisbon, I had come out of office and has the weather was good, I was walking all the way to the train station, window shopping or just gazing at people and things, as I usually love to do.
At the door of this fancy Hotel, in Avenida da Liberdade, there were some huge men, all dressed in black, you couldn't fail to notice them, because they were big, some of them were very athletic and good looking, sharp was the word for them. I particularly noticed one of them, with combed back white hair, conferencing with someone on the sidewalk, under the glances of all the others.
I thought that one must have been Radovan Karadzic. He must be in Lisbon at the time to conference with European Union officials.
Why do I remember this vague, quick encounter, I had years ago ? Because when I came across those men a chill come over me, looking at them was like tasting metal, you could sense evil and pain about them, I can't explain it better, but it was palpable, I felt it. Death travelled with them.
Radovan Karadzic is now at the Human Rights Court in the Hague, Netherlands, on trial for crimes against humanity.
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