SAFE LANDING: Space shuttle Endeavour landed at the Kennedy Space Center in Cape Canaveral, Fla., Sunday after completing a mission to deliver parts to the International Space Station. (Gary I. Rothstein/European Pressphoto Agency)
We used to be amazed by the daring feats mankind (or at least the chosen few) took in our attempt to conquer space. In a time of division, space race united mankind, it celebrated human intelligence and courage. Now in the globalized world it’s second rate news, should it be ?
Mourad Gharrach est un jeune artiste franco-tunisien, né en 1982. Il est étudiant en 3éme année à l’Ecole nationale supérieure d’Art et de Design - Saint Etienne. Il a déjà participé à la Biennale du design de Saint-Etienne. Il est membre actif du collectif d’artistes et de designers de Green house.
es couleurs de Mourad Gharrach sont simples, noir, blanc et rose mais explosent en de superbes gerbes de lumières et d’ombres.
Femme Mauresque », « Femmes drapées » et « Vierges du désert », effet de réminiscence ou choix délibéré, le désert et la femme sont récurrents dans ses oeuvres.
esoin obsessionnel de restituer son substrat culturel, les photographies de Mourad, travaillées avec minutie, portent en leur sein la discrétion, symbolisée par le voile traité avec une admirable munificence.
"Waking up begins with saying am and now. That which has awoken then lies for a while staring up at the ceiling and down into itself until it has recognized I, and therefrom deduced I am, I am now. Here comes next, and is at least negatively reassuring; because here, this morning, is where it has expected to find itself: what’s called at home.
But now isn’t simply now. Now is a cold reminder: one whole day later than yesterday, one year later than last year. Every now is labeled with its date, rendering all past nows obsolete, until — later or sooner — perhaps — no, not perhaps — quite certainly: it will come.
Fear tweaks the vagus nerve. A sickish shrinking from what waits, somewhere out there, dead ahead."
Algumas ideias da última crónica de Inês Pedrosa na Única do Expresso :
- Com a limitação do uso da prisão preventiva, aumentaram imenso os maus tratos sobre as mulheres
- Quando uma situação de violência surge, é normalmente a vitima que é forçada a mudar de vida, a "esconder-se" digamos assim em lares de acolhimento (em muitos casos levando consigo crianças)
I keep things untidy, Piles of paper accumulate on my desk Even unread emails clatter My junk e-mail folder, So you see the kind of person I am. Untidy and un-organized.
Quand je vous aimerai? Ma foi, je ne sais pas, Peut-être jamais, peut-être demain. Mais pas aujourd'hui, c'est certain L'amour est un oiseau rebelle que nul ne peut apprivoiser, et c'est bien en vain qu'on l'appelle, s'il lui convient de refuser. Rien n'y fait, menace ou prière, l'un parle bien, l'autre se tait: Et c'est l'autre que je préfère, Il n'a rien dit mais il me plaît. L'amour! L'amour! L'amour! L'amour! L'amour est enfant de Bohème, il n'a jamais, jamais connu de loi; si tu ne m'aimes pas, je t'aime: si je t'aime, prends garde à toi! Si tu ne m’aimes pas, Si tu ne m’aimes pas, je t’aime! Mais, si je t’aime, Si je t’aime, prends garde à toi! Si tu ne m’aimes pas, Si tu ne m’aimes pas, je t’aime! Mais, si je t’aime, Si je t’aime, prends garde à toi! L'oiseau que tu croyais surprendre battit de l'aile et s'envola ... l'amour est loin, tu peux l'attendre; tu ne l'attends plus, il est là! Tout autour de toi, vite, vite, il vient, s'en va, puis il revient ... tu crois le tenir, il t'évite, tu crois l'éviter, il te tient. L'amour! L'amour! L'amour! L'amour! L'amour est enfant de Bohème, il n'a jamais, jamais connu de loi; si tu ne m'aimes pas, je t'aime: si je t'aime, prends garde à toi! (x2)
When will I love you? Good Lord, I don't know, Maybe never, maybe tomorrow. But not today, that's for sure. Love is a rebellious bird that nobody can tame, and you call him quite in vain if it suits him not to come. Nothing helps, neither threat nor prayer. One man talks well, the other keeps silent; it's the other one that I prefer. He said nothing, but I like him. Love! Love! Love! Love! Love is a gypsy's child, it has never, ever, recognized the law; if you love me not, then I love you; if I love you, you'd best beware! if you love me not, if you love me not, then I love you; but if I love you, if I love you, you'd best beware! if you love me not, if you love me not, then I love you; but if I love you, if I love you, you'd best beware! The bird you thought you had caught beat its wings and flew away ... love stays away, you wait and wait; when least expected, there it is! All around you, swift, swift, it comes, goes, then it returns ... you think you hold it fast, it flees you think you're free, it holds you fast. Love! Love! Love! Love! Love is a gypsy child, it has never, ever, known law; if you love me not, then I love you; if I love you, you'd best beware!
Há alguns anos vi uma exposição com os últimos trabalhos de Maria Helena Vieira da Silva e nunca mais me saíu da cabeça, uma aguarela (acho eu) na qual uma figura parecia encaminhar-se para um limiar, onde uma luz verde a aguardava...
Several years ago I saw an exibithion of the last works of painter Maria Helena Vieira da Silva and there was one I could never forget : a watercolor ( I think) of a frail figure moving towards a threshold where a green light awaited.
Hear, hear : Alex Ross marvellous book "The rest is noise" changed forever my view in XX century's music. Please take a peak, also in www.therestisnoise.com
I am in need of music that would flow Over my fretful, feeling fingertips, Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips, With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow. Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low, Of some song sung to rest the tired dead, A song to fall like water on my head, And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow!
There is a magic made by melody: A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep To the subaqueous stillness of the sea, And floats forever in a moon-green pool, Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.
Old King Cole was a merry old soul And a merry old soul was he; He called for his pipe, and he called for his bowl And he called for his fiddlers three. Every fiddler he had a fiddle, And a very fine fiddle had he; Oh there's none so rare, as can compare With King Cole and his fiddlers three
(A minha mãe guardava as coisas de costura dela, numa lata preta, com decorações em dourado e quero crer uma reprodução de uma pintura semelhante a esta na tampa. Nunca esqueci.)
No meio do caminho desta vida me vi perdido numa selva escura, solitário, sem sol e sem saída. Ah, como armar no ar uma figura desta selva selvagem, dura, forte, que, só de eu a pensar, me desfigura? É quase tão amargo como a morte; mas para expor o bem que encontrei, outros dados darei da minha sorte. Não me recordo ao certo como entrei, tomado de uma sonolência estranha, quando a vera vereda abandonei. (...)
Nel mezzo del camin di nostra vita mi ritrovai per una selva oscura che la diritta via era smarrita. Ahi quanto a dir qual era è cosa dura esta selva selvaggia e aspra e forte, che nel pensier rinuova la paura! Tant 'e amara che poco è più morte; ma per trattar del ben ch'i' vi trovai, dirò del altre cose ch'i' v'ho scorte. (Opening lines of Canto 1. Translations are all literal.)
In the middle of the journey of our life, I found myself again in [or through] a dark wood, [so dark] that the straight way was utterly lost. Alas how hard it is to say what it was like, this savage and sharp and strong forest, which even in thought renews my fear! So bitter was it that death is little moreso; but in order to speak of the good that I found there, I'll tell of the other things I saw there.
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