Portrait of Artist's Daughter - Franz von Stuck
Oszkár Glatz
Oszkár Glatz
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Reality demands
Reality demands
Reality demands
we also state the following:
life goes on.
It does so near Cannae and Borodino,
at Kosovo Polje and Guernica.
There is a gas station
in a small plaza in Jericho,
and freshly painted
benches near Bila Hora.
Letters travel
between Pearl Harbor and Hastings,
a furniture truck passes
before the eyes of the lion of Cheronea,
and only an atmospheric front advances
towards the blossoming orchards near Verdun.
There is so much of Everything
that Nothing is quite well concealed.
Music flows
from yachts near Actium
and couples on board dance in the sunlight.
So much keeps happening,
that it must be happening everywhere.
Where stone is heaped on stone,
there is an ice cream truck
besieged by children.
Where Hiroshima had been,
Hiroshima is again
manufacturing products
for everyday use.
Not without its charms is this terrible world,
not without its mornings
worth our waking.
In the fields of Maciejowice
the grass is green
and on the grass is -- you know how grass is --
transparent dew.
Maybe there are no fields other than battlefields,
those still remembered,
and those long forgotten,
birch woods and cedar woods,
snows and sands, iridescent swamps,
and ravines of dark defeat
where today, in sudden need,
you squat behind a bush.
What moral flows from this? Maybe none.
But what really flows is quickly-drying blood,
and as always, some rivers and clouds.
On the tragic mountain passes
the wind blows hats off heads
and we cannot help--
but laugh.
Translated from Polish by: Joanna Maria Trzeciak
Reality demands
we also state the following:
life goes on.
It does so near Cannae and Borodino,
at Kosovo Polje and Guernica.
There is a gas station
in a small plaza in Jericho,
and freshly painted
benches near Bila Hora.
Letters travel
between Pearl Harbor and Hastings,
a furniture truck passes
before the eyes of the lion of Cheronea,
and only an atmospheric front advances
towards the blossoming orchards near Verdun.
There is so much of Everything
that Nothing is quite well concealed.
Music flows
from yachts near Actium
and couples on board dance in the sunlight.
So much keeps happening,
that it must be happening everywhere.
Where stone is heaped on stone,
there is an ice cream truck
besieged by children.
Where Hiroshima had been,
Hiroshima is again
manufacturing products
for everyday use.
Not without its charms is this terrible world,
not without its mornings
worth our waking.
In the fields of Maciejowice
the grass is green
and on the grass is -- you know how grass is --
transparent dew.
Maybe there are no fields other than battlefields,
those still remembered,
and those long forgotten,
birch woods and cedar woods,
snows and sands, iridescent swamps,
and ravines of dark defeat
where today, in sudden need,
you squat behind a bush.
What moral flows from this? Maybe none.
But what really flows is quickly-drying blood,
and as always, some rivers and clouds.
On the tragic mountain passes
the wind blows hats off heads
and we cannot help--
but laugh.
Translated from Polish by: Joanna Maria Trzeciak
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Vaga de calor no Leste
Uma vaga de calor assola o Leste,
Antigas florestas são devoradas em instantes pelas chamas
manchas escuras devassam as estepes trágicas.
Na terra foram cavados sulcos para drenar as águas
Na terra cavam-se regueiras para guiar as águas
Verdes ou palha as searas agitam-se ao sabor da estação
Um irmão liga, empertigamos o corpo e a voz
Escondemos a ternura e o afecto
Debaixo da capa da justa medida.
Antigas florestas são devoradas em instantes pelas chamas
manchas escuras devassam as estepes trágicas.
Na terra foram cavados sulcos para drenar as águas
Na terra cavam-se regueiras para guiar as águas
Verdes ou palha as searas agitam-se ao sabor da estação
Um irmão liga, empertigamos o corpo e a voz
Escondemos a ternura e o afecto
Debaixo da capa da justa medida.
Heatwave in the East
A heatwave roams the East
giant flames eat up ancient forests,
tragic Slavic air fills the lonely steppes,
dark shadows spread all over.
In the land someone dug sulks to drain the waters
In the land someone dug sulks to guide the waters
grass or hay the fields move to the rhythm of the seasons
A brother calls, we stiffen body and voice
hiding tenderness and affection,
under the cover of good measure.
giant flames eat up ancient forests,
tragic Slavic air fills the lonely steppes,
dark shadows spread all over.
In the land someone dug sulks to drain the waters
In the land someone dug sulks to guide the waters
grass or hay the fields move to the rhythm of the seasons
A brother calls, we stiffen body and voice
hiding tenderness and affection,
under the cover of good measure.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Monday, August 2, 2010
Yellow
Found these lines in Fugitive Pieces by Anne Michaels : "You're many years late,/ How happy I am to see you". I googled for the entire poem and found this :
Broad and yellow is the evening light, by Anna Akhmatova (1915)
Broad and yellow is the evening light,
The coolness of April is dear.
You, of course, are several years late,
Even so, I'm happy you're here.
Sit close at hand and look at me,
With those eyes, so cheerful and mild:
This blue notebook is full, you see,
Full of poems I wrote as a child.
Forgive me, forgive me, for having grieved
For ignoring the sunlight, too.
And especially for having believed
That so many others were you.
Broad and yellow is the evening light, by Anna Akhmatova (1915)
Broad and yellow is the evening light,
The coolness of April is dear.
You, of course, are several years late,
Even so, I'm happy you're here.
Sit close at hand and look at me,
With those eyes, so cheerful and mild:
This blue notebook is full, you see,
Full of poems I wrote as a child.
Forgive me, forgive me, for having grieved
For ignoring the sunlight, too.
And especially for having believed
That so many others were you.
As long as nothing can be known for sure...
The Ball
As long as nothing can be known for sure
(no signals have been picked up yet),
as long as Earth is still unlike
the nearer and more distant planets,
as long as there's neither hide nor hair
of other grasses graced by other winds,
of other treetops bearing other crowns,
other animals as well-grounded as our own,
as long as only the local echo
has been known to speak in syllables,
as long as we still haven't heard word
of better or worse mozarts,
platos, edisons somewhere,
as long as our inhuman crimes
are still committed only between humans,
as long as our kindness
is still incomparable,
peerless even in its imperfection,
as long as our heads packed with illusions
still pass for the only heads so packed,
as long as the roofs of our mouths alone
still raise voices to high heavens--
let's act like very special guests of honor
at the district-firemen's ball
dance to the beat of the local oompah band,
and pretend that it's the ball
to end all balls.
I can't speak for others--
for me this is
misery and happiness enough:
just this sleepy backwater
where even the stars have time to burn
while winking at us
unintentionally.
~ Wislawa Szymborska ~
(Monologue of a Dog: New Poems, translated by C. Cavanagh and S. Baranczak)
As long as nothing can be known for sure
(no signals have been picked up yet),
as long as Earth is still unlike
the nearer and more distant planets,
as long as there's neither hide nor hair
of other grasses graced by other winds,
of other treetops bearing other crowns,
other animals as well-grounded as our own,
as long as only the local echo
has been known to speak in syllables,
as long as we still haven't heard word
of better or worse mozarts,
platos, edisons somewhere,
as long as our inhuman crimes
are still committed only between humans,
as long as our kindness
is still incomparable,
peerless even in its imperfection,
as long as our heads packed with illusions
still pass for the only heads so packed,
as long as the roofs of our mouths alone
still raise voices to high heavens--
let's act like very special guests of honor
at the district-firemen's ball
dance to the beat of the local oompah band,
and pretend that it's the ball
to end all balls.
I can't speak for others--
for me this is
misery and happiness enough:
just this sleepy backwater
where even the stars have time to burn
while winking at us
unintentionally.
~ Wislawa Szymborska ~
(Monologue of a Dog: New Poems, translated by C. Cavanagh and S. Baranczak)
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
O jogo da glória
O jogo da glória joga-se em euforia ascendente
lança-se o dado e de adição em adição vamos ficando
mais perto do nosso destino.
O jogo da glória é de sorte e azar,
por vezes caímos na casa errada e temos de voltar atrás
um contratempo pode deitar tudo a perder
ou pelo contrário dar uma nova oportunidade
porque no jogo da glória todos chegam ao fim,
nem todos ao mesmo tempo é certo, mas não é vergonha
pedir ajuda, precisar de alguém nas voltas
do jogo da glória. O jogo em que todos acabam,
todos ganham, todos perdem.
lança-se o dado e de adição em adição vamos ficando
mais perto do nosso destino.
O jogo da glória é de sorte e azar,
por vezes caímos na casa errada e temos de voltar atrás
um contratempo pode deitar tudo a perder
ou pelo contrário dar uma nova oportunidade
porque no jogo da glória todos chegam ao fim,
nem todos ao mesmo tempo é certo, mas não é vergonha
pedir ajuda, precisar de alguém nas voltas
do jogo da glória. O jogo em que todos acabam,
todos ganham, todos perdem.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Férias de Verão
Quando encontrei esta pedra na praia, pareceu-me mesmo que tinha forma de coração. Trouxe-a comigo por isso, para ter em casa um coração moldado na praia pelo mar, um coração que se pode pegar, guardar distraidamente na mão enquanto se pensa nas coisas da vida.
A outra foto é do muro do meu quintal e do do meu vizinho, é a imagem que eu tenho todas as manhãs de verão, é um verde que conforta e refresca. Bom verão.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
exotic
Tianhong Sheng, Untitled, 2009, Acrylic on Canvas, 213 x 152 cm. Courtesy Schuebbe Projects, Dusseldorf
to be seen here
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Painter, Collector, Forger
Painter, Collector, Forger
Zhang Daqian (1899-1983) casts a long shadow over the modern history of Chinese painting. As a painter, he was known for his singular ability to mix traditional techniques and styles with contemporary ideas and currents. As a collector, he accumulated important examples from all genres of Chinese painting and left behind copious seals and inscriptions. As a forger, Zhang so mastered the art of deception that his fakes were purchased unwittingly by nearly every major art museum in the United States—the MFA included. Indeed, the first question asked by experts when a work is considered suspect is: “Could this be by Zhang Daqian?”
Splashed-color Landscape, dated 1965
Zhang Daqian (Chinese, 1899–1983)
Hanging scroll; ink and color on paper
23 3/4 x 37 3/4 in. (60.3 x 95.9 cm)
Inscribed by the artist
Gift of Robert Hatfield Ellsworth, in memory of La Ferne Hatfield Ellsworth, 1986 (1986.267.361)
Source: Zhang Daqian: Splashed-color Landscape (1986.267.361) | Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History | The Metropolitan Museum of Art
great american romantic
"...this is not just Dennis Hopper as an artist. It's Dennis Hopper as a painter, Dennis Hopper as a filmmaker, Dennis Hopper as a photographer, Dennis Hopper as an actor." The great glory of it is, of course, that, "It's all one person."
Monday, July 12, 2010
wide eyed, assured
I come across this picture of Susan Sontag today, couldn't help being touched by her beauty...after being touched by her mind. So I felt like paying a hommage to her.
"I am a crusader about the ill," she says. "Once you've experienced being mortally ill and you've come back, you have learned something that's worth knowing." She shifts on the couch, frowns at her hands and settles into a thought. "When you find out that you are ill," she continues, "your priorities are shattered. One moment you are in a boat, and the next moment you are in the water. But if you can take in the idea that you're going to die, there is a euphoria in it as well as great terror. Nothing else is real except the most intense experiences, intimacy. It can be exalting, even as you are reduced to this damaged body that is being cut up and made ugly and made to hurt and feel vulnerable. But it's passionate and turbulent and intense."
Cântico Negro
"Vem por aqui" - dizem-me alguns com os olhos doces
Estendendo-me os braços, e seguros
De que seria bom que eu os ouvisse
Quando me dizem: "vem por aqui!"
Eu olho-os com olhos lassos,
(Há, nos olhos meus, ironias e cansaços)
E cruzo os braços,
E nunca vou por ali...
A minha glória é esta:
Criar desumanidade!
Não acompanhar ninguém.
- Que eu vivo com o mesmo sem-vontade
Com que rasguei o ventre a minha mãe
Não, não vou por aí! Só vou por onde
Me levam meus próprios passos...
Se ao que busco saber nenhum de vós responde
Por que me repetis: "vem por aqui!"?
Prefiro escorregar nos becos lamacentos,
Redemoinhar aos ventos,
Como farrapos, arrastar os pés sangrentos,
A ir por aí...
Se vim ao mundo, foi
Só para desflorar florestas virgens,
E desenhar meus próprios pés na areia inexplorada!
O mais que faço não vale nada.
Como, pois sereis vós
Que me dareis impulsos, ferramentas e coragem
Para eu derrubar os meus obstáculos?...
Corre, nas vossas veias, sangue velho dos avós,
E vós amais o que é fácil!
Eu amo o Longe e a Miragem,
Amo os abismos, as torrentes, os desertos...
Ide! Tendes estradas,
Tendes jardins, tendes canteiros,
Tendes pátria, tendes tectos,
E tendes regras, e tratados, e filósofos, e sábios...
Eu tenho a minha Loucura !
Levanto-a, como um facho, a arder na noite escura,
E sinto espuma, e sangue, e cânticos nos lábios...
Deus e o Diabo é que guiam, mais ninguém.
Todos tiveram pai, todos tiveram mãe;
Mas eu, que nunca principio nem acabo,
Nasci do amor que há entre Deus e o Diabo.
Ah, que ninguém me dê piedosas intenções!
Ninguém me peça definições!
Ninguém me diga: "vem por aqui"!
A minha vida é um vendaval que se soltou.
É uma onda que se alevantou.
É um átomo a mais que se animou...
Não sei por onde vou,
Não sei para onde vou
- Sei que não vou por aí!
José Régio
Estendendo-me os braços, e seguros
De que seria bom que eu os ouvisse
Quando me dizem: "vem por aqui!"
Eu olho-os com olhos lassos,
(Há, nos olhos meus, ironias e cansaços)
E cruzo os braços,
E nunca vou por ali...
A minha glória é esta:
Criar desumanidade!
Não acompanhar ninguém.
- Que eu vivo com o mesmo sem-vontade
Com que rasguei o ventre a minha mãe
Não, não vou por aí! Só vou por onde
Me levam meus próprios passos...
Se ao que busco saber nenhum de vós responde
Por que me repetis: "vem por aqui!"?
Prefiro escorregar nos becos lamacentos,
Redemoinhar aos ventos,
Como farrapos, arrastar os pés sangrentos,
A ir por aí...
Se vim ao mundo, foi
Só para desflorar florestas virgens,
E desenhar meus próprios pés na areia inexplorada!
O mais que faço não vale nada.
Como, pois sereis vós
Que me dareis impulsos, ferramentas e coragem
Para eu derrubar os meus obstáculos?...
Corre, nas vossas veias, sangue velho dos avós,
E vós amais o que é fácil!
Eu amo o Longe e a Miragem,
Amo os abismos, as torrentes, os desertos...
Ide! Tendes estradas,
Tendes jardins, tendes canteiros,
Tendes pátria, tendes tectos,
E tendes regras, e tratados, e filósofos, e sábios...
Eu tenho a minha Loucura !
Levanto-a, como um facho, a arder na noite escura,
E sinto espuma, e sangue, e cânticos nos lábios...
Deus e o Diabo é que guiam, mais ninguém.
Todos tiveram pai, todos tiveram mãe;
Mas eu, que nunca principio nem acabo,
Nasci do amor que há entre Deus e o Diabo.
Ah, que ninguém me dê piedosas intenções!
Ninguém me peça definições!
Ninguém me diga: "vem por aqui"!
A minha vida é um vendaval que se soltou.
É uma onda que se alevantou.
É um átomo a mais que se animou...
Não sei por onde vou,
Não sei para onde vou
- Sei que não vou por aí!
José Régio
Sunday, July 11, 2010
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