"Niemeyer mudou de nome e chama-se agora somente arquitectura
arte arejada palavra de betão proferida dos telhados mais altos da idade futura"
[Óscar Niemeyer, Ruy Belo]
Monday, July 4, 2011
Óscar Niemeyer, Brasil o mundo
"Niemeyer mudou de nome e chama-se agora somente arquitectura
arte arejada palavra de betão proferida dos telhados mais altos da idade futura"
[Óscar Niemeyer, Ruy Belo]
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Paris
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
self-identity
Soody Sharifii is an Iranian/American artist based in Houston. Her work primarily deals with the paradoxes and contradictions inherent in living between two cultures. In many of her series, she has explored the notion of identity and what it means to participate in two cultures from both an outsider’s and an insider’s perspective. Through different series, she investigates this concept as it applies to Moslem youth in Iran and US and their emerging concept of self-identity specifically how they accommodate modernity and the indulgences and exploration specific to youth within a very traditional society.
Soody Sharifi has been exhibited nationally and internationally since 2004 and has been collected by Museum of fine arts Houston and Portland.
http://soody-sharifi.com
os meus heróis e os meus livros
"...
Senhor, permite que algo permaneça,
alguma palavra ou alguma lembrança,
que alguma coisa possa ter sido
de outra maneira,
não digo a morte, nem a vida,
mas alguma coisa mais insubstancial.
Se não para que me deste os substantivos e os verbos,
o medo e a esperança,
a urze e o salgueiro,
os meus heróis e os meus livros?
..."
in Cuidados Intensivos III
Senhor, permite que algo permaneça,
alguma palavra ou alguma lembrança,
que alguma coisa possa ter sido
de outra maneira,
não digo a morte, nem a vida,
mas alguma coisa mais insubstancial.
Se não para que me deste os substantivos e os verbos,
o medo e a esperança,
a urze e o salgueiro,
os meus heróis e os meus livros?
..."
in Cuidados Intensivos III
Monday, June 20, 2011
digging a little deeper
there's no end to a circle...and no, you're not walking the same steps again,
you are really digging a little deeper each time
you are really digging a little deeper each time
Friday, June 17, 2011
erros meus (dedicated to Anthony Weiner, whoever he may be...)
Erro em direito é um vício no processo de formação da vontade, em forma de noção falsa ou imperfeita sobre alguma coisa ou alguma pessoa.
Erro may refer to:
Erro, Navarre, a municipality in the autonomous community of Navarre, Spain
Erro (river), a river in north-west Italy
Erro (crater), a lunar crater named after the astronomer
"Meu Erro", a song on Os Paralamas do Sucesso's 1984 album O Passo do Lui
[ People
Eric Roberson (born 1976), R&B recording artist and songwriter
Erró (born 1932), postmodern Icelandic artist
Luis Enrique Erro (1897–1955), Mexican astronomer
Enrique Erro, uruguayan politician
Erro é um vício no processo de formação da vontade, em forma de noção falsa ou imperfeita sobre alguma coisa ou alguma pessoa.
Aprenda com os erros dos outros.
A verdade surge mais facilmente do erro do que da confusão
etc etc etc etc etc etc etc
errar bummeln, herumschweifen, irren, sich irren, streifen, umherstreifen, vagieren, verwechseln err, make a mistake, roam, wander, miss, mistake errar, confundir errer, vaguer, se tromper يَرتكِب خطأً špatně pochopit tage fejl παρανοώ ymmärtää väärin pogriješiti confondere 間違える 실수하다 vergissen (zich) ta feil pomylić ошибаться missförstå ทำผิด hata yapmak nhầm 弄错1
v t errar [i'ʀar]
1 enganar-se se faire des illusions
errar as contas se tromper dans les calculs
2 não acertar, falhar manquer, rater
errar o alvo manquer la cible
v int errar cometer erros se tromper
errar na vida se tromper dans la vie
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
errar bummeln, herumschweifen, irren, sich irren, streifen, umherstreifen, vagieren, verwechseln err, make a mistake, roam, wander, miss, mistake errar, confundir errer, vaguer, se tromper يَرتكِب خطأً špatně pochopit tage fejl παρανοώ ymmärtää väärin pogriješiti confondere 間違える 실수하다 vergissen (zich) ta feil pomylić ошибаться missförstå ทำผิด hata yapmak nhầm 弄错2
v int errar andar de um lado para o outro errer
errar de país em país errer d'un pays à l'autre
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Some unknown joys
Thomas Traherne: Shadows in the Water
In unexperienced infancy
Many a sweet mistake doth lie:
Mistake though false, intending true;
A seeming somewhat more than view;
That doth instruct the mind
In things that lie behind,
And many secrets to us show
Which afterwards we come to know.
Thus did I by the water’s brink
Another world beneath me think;
And while the lofty spacious skies
Reversèd there, abused mine eyes,
I fancied other feet
Came mine to touch or meet;
As by some puddle I did play
Another world within it lay.
Beneath the water people drowned,
Yet with another heaven crowned,
In spacious regions seemed to go
As freely moving to and fro:
In bright and open space
I saw their very face;
Eyes, hands, and feet they had like mine;
Another sun did with them shine.
‘Twas strange that people there should walk,
And yet I could not hear them talk:
That through a little watery chink,
Which one dry ox or horse might drink,
We other worlds should see,
Yet not admitted be;
And other confines there behold
Of light and darkness, heat and cold.
I called them oft, but called in vain;
No speeches we could entertain:
Yet did I there expect to find
Some other world, to please my mind.
I plainly saw by these
A new antipodes,
Whom, though they were so plainly seen,
A film kept off that stood between.
By walking men’s reversèd feet
I chanced another world to meet;
Though it did not to view exceed
A phantom, ’tis a world indeed;
Where skies beneath us shine,
And earth by art divine
Another face presents below,
Where people’s feet against ours go.
Within the regions of the air,
Compassed about with heavens fair,
Great tracts of land there may be found
Enriched with fields and fertile ground;
Where many numerous hosts
In those far distant coasts,
For other great and glorious ends
Inhabit, my yet unknown friends.
O ye that stand upon the brink,
Whom I so near me through the chink
With wonder see: what faces there,
Whose feet, whose bodies, do ye wear?
I my companions see
In you another me.
They seemèd others, but are we;
Our second selves these shadows be.
Look how far off those lower skies
Extend themselves! scarce with mine eyes
I can them reach. O ye my friends,
What secret borders on those ends?
Are lofty heavens hurled
‘Bout your inferior world?
Are yet the representatives
Of other peoples’ distant lives?
Of all the playmates which I knew
That here I do the image view
In other selves, what can it mean?
But that below the purling stream
Some unknown joys there be
Laid up in store for me;
To which I shall, when that thin skin
Is broken, be admitted in.
In unexperienced infancy
Many a sweet mistake doth lie:
Mistake though false, intending true;
A seeming somewhat more than view;
That doth instruct the mind
In things that lie behind,
And many secrets to us show
Which afterwards we come to know.
Thus did I by the water’s brink
Another world beneath me think;
And while the lofty spacious skies
Reversèd there, abused mine eyes,
I fancied other feet
Came mine to touch or meet;
As by some puddle I did play
Another world within it lay.
Beneath the water people drowned,
Yet with another heaven crowned,
In spacious regions seemed to go
As freely moving to and fro:
In bright and open space
I saw their very face;
Eyes, hands, and feet they had like mine;
Another sun did with them shine.
‘Twas strange that people there should walk,
And yet I could not hear them talk:
That through a little watery chink,
Which one dry ox or horse might drink,
We other worlds should see,
Yet not admitted be;
And other confines there behold
Of light and darkness, heat and cold.
I called them oft, but called in vain;
No speeches we could entertain:
Yet did I there expect to find
Some other world, to please my mind.
I plainly saw by these
A new antipodes,
Whom, though they were so plainly seen,
A film kept off that stood between.
By walking men’s reversèd feet
I chanced another world to meet;
Though it did not to view exceed
A phantom, ’tis a world indeed;
Where skies beneath us shine,
And earth by art divine
Another face presents below,
Where people’s feet against ours go.
Within the regions of the air,
Compassed about with heavens fair,
Great tracts of land there may be found
Enriched with fields and fertile ground;
Where many numerous hosts
In those far distant coasts,
For other great and glorious ends
Inhabit, my yet unknown friends.
O ye that stand upon the brink,
Whom I so near me through the chink
With wonder see: what faces there,
Whose feet, whose bodies, do ye wear?
I my companions see
In you another me.
They seemèd others, but are we;
Our second selves these shadows be.
Look how far off those lower skies
Extend themselves! scarce with mine eyes
I can them reach. O ye my friends,
What secret borders on those ends?
Are lofty heavens hurled
‘Bout your inferior world?
Are yet the representatives
Of other peoples’ distant lives?
Of all the playmates which I knew
That here I do the image view
In other selves, what can it mean?
But that below the purling stream
Some unknown joys there be
Laid up in store for me;
To which I shall, when that thin skin
Is broken, be admitted in.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
witness and storyteller
Quote: "I have the great privilege of being both witness and storyteller.
Intimacy, trust and intuition guide my work."
Jim Goldberg joined Magnum Photos as a Nominee in 2002 and became a Full Member in 2006.
more of his work here : http://www.magnumphotos.com/C.aspx?VP=XSpecific_MAG.PhotographerDetail_VPage&l1=0&pid=2K7O3R1493TK&nm=Jim%20Goldberg
Human, All Too Human
"With the tremendous acceleration of life, we grow accustomed to using our mind and eye for seeing and judging incompletely or incorrectly, and all men are like travelers who get to know a land and its people from a train."
— Nietzsche, Human, All Too Human
found at Alex Ross the rest is noise blog
— Nietzsche, Human, All Too Human
found at Alex Ross the rest is noise blog
Monday, May 30, 2011
Sobre os cotovelos
Anonymous said...
Sobre os cotovelos a água olha o dia sobre
os cotovelos. Batem folhas da luz
um pouco abaixo do silêncio. Quero saber
o nome de quem morre: o vestido de ar
ardendo, os pés e movimento no meio
do meu coração. O nome: madeira que arqueja, seca desde o fundo
do seu tempo vegetal coarctado.
E, ao abrir-se a toalha viva, o
nome: a beleza a voltar-se para trás, com seus
pulmões de algodão queimando.
Uma serpente de ouro abraça os quadris
negros e molhados. E a água que se debruça
olha a loucura com seu nome: indecifrável cego
Herberto Hélder
Sobre os cotovelos a água olha o dia sobre
os cotovelos. Batem folhas da luz
um pouco abaixo do silêncio. Quero saber
o nome de quem morre: o vestido de ar
ardendo, os pés e movimento no meio
do meu coração. O nome: madeira que arqueja, seca desde o fundo
do seu tempo vegetal coarctado.
E, ao abrir-se a toalha viva, o
nome: a beleza a voltar-se para trás, com seus
pulmões de algodão queimando.
Uma serpente de ouro abraça os quadris
negros e molhados. E a água que se debruça
olha a loucura com seu nome: indecifrável cego
Herberto Hélder
Sunday, May 29, 2011
As mulheres têm uma assombrada roseira
AS MULHERES TÊM UMA ASSOMBRADA ROSEIRA - III
As mulheres têm uma assombrada roseira
fria espalhada no ventre.
Uma quente roseira às vezes, uma planta
de treva.
Ela sobe dos pés e atravessa
A carne quebrada.
Nasce dos pés, ou da vulva, ou do ânus ―
E mistura-se nas águas,no sonho da cabeça.
As mulheres pensam como uma impensada roseira
que pensa rosas.
Pensam de espinho para espinho,
param de nó em nó.
As mulheres dão folhas, recebem
um orvalho inocente.
Depois sua boca abre-se.
Verão, Outono, a onda dolorosa e ardente
das semanas,
passam por cima. As mulheres cantam
na sua alegria terrena.
Que coisa verdadeira cantam?
Elas cantam.
São fechadas e doces, mudam
de cor, anunciam a felicidade no meio da noite,
os dias rutilantes, a graça.
Com lágrimas, sangue, antigas subtilezas
e uma suavidade amarga ―
as mulheres tornam impura e magnífica
nossa límpida, estéril
vida masculina.
Porque as mulheres não pensam: abrem
rosas tenebrosas,
alagam a inteligência do poema com o sangue menstrual.
São altas essas roseiras de mulheres,
inclinadas como sinos, como violinos, dentro
do som.
Dentro da sua seiva de cinza brilhante.
O pão de aveia, as maçãs no cesto,
o vinho frio,
ou a candeia sobre o silêncio.
Ou a minha tarefa sobre o tempo.
Ou o meu espírito sobre Deus.
Digo: minha vida é para as mulheres vazias,
as mulheres dos campos, os seres
fundamentais
que cantam de encontro aos sinistros
muros de Deus.
As mulheres de ofício cantante que a Deus mostram
a boca e o ânus
e a mão vermelha lavrada sobre o sexo.
Espero que o amor enleve a minha melancolia.
E flores sazonadas estalem e apodreçam
docemente no ar.
E a suavidade e a loucura parem em mim,
e depois o mundo tenha cidades antigas
que ardam na treva sua inocência lenta
e sangrenta.
Espero tirar de mim o mais veloz
apaixonamento e a inteligência mais pura.
― Porque as mulheres pensarão folhas e folhas
no campo.
Pensarão na noite molhada,
no dia luzente cheio de raios.
Vejo que a morte se inspira na carne
que a luz martela de leve.
Nessas mulheres debruçadas sobre a frescura
veemente da ilusão,
nelas ― envoltas pela sua roseira em brasa ―
vejo os meses que respiram.
Os meses fortes e pacientes.
Vejo os meses absorvidos pelos meses mais jovens.
Vejo meu pensamento morrendo na escarpada
treva das mulheres.
E digo: elas cantam a minha vida.
Essas mulheres estranguladas por uma beleza
incomparável.
Cantam a alegria de tudo, minha
alegria
por dentro da grande dor masculina.
Essas mulheres tornam feliz e extensa
a morte da terra.
Elas cantam a eternidade.
Cantam o sangue de uma terra exaltada.
As mulheres têm uma assombrada roseira
fria espalhada no ventre.
Uma quente roseira às vezes, uma planta
de treva.
Ela sobe dos pés e atravessa
A carne quebrada.
Nasce dos pés, ou da vulva, ou do ânus ―
E mistura-se nas águas,no sonho da cabeça.
As mulheres pensam como uma impensada roseira
que pensa rosas.
Pensam de espinho para espinho,
param de nó em nó.
As mulheres dão folhas, recebem
um orvalho inocente.
Depois sua boca abre-se.
Verão, Outono, a onda dolorosa e ardente
das semanas,
passam por cima. As mulheres cantam
na sua alegria terrena.
Que coisa verdadeira cantam?
Elas cantam.
São fechadas e doces, mudam
de cor, anunciam a felicidade no meio da noite,
os dias rutilantes, a graça.
Com lágrimas, sangue, antigas subtilezas
e uma suavidade amarga ―
as mulheres tornam impura e magnífica
nossa límpida, estéril
vida masculina.
Porque as mulheres não pensam: abrem
rosas tenebrosas,
alagam a inteligência do poema com o sangue menstrual.
São altas essas roseiras de mulheres,
inclinadas como sinos, como violinos, dentro
do som.
Dentro da sua seiva de cinza brilhante.
O pão de aveia, as maçãs no cesto,
o vinho frio,
ou a candeia sobre o silêncio.
Ou a minha tarefa sobre o tempo.
Ou o meu espírito sobre Deus.
Digo: minha vida é para as mulheres vazias,
as mulheres dos campos, os seres
fundamentais
que cantam de encontro aos sinistros
muros de Deus.
As mulheres de ofício cantante que a Deus mostram
a boca e o ânus
e a mão vermelha lavrada sobre o sexo.
Espero que o amor enleve a minha melancolia.
E flores sazonadas estalem e apodreçam
docemente no ar.
E a suavidade e a loucura parem em mim,
e depois o mundo tenha cidades antigas
que ardam na treva sua inocência lenta
e sangrenta.
Espero tirar de mim o mais veloz
apaixonamento e a inteligência mais pura.
― Porque as mulheres pensarão folhas e folhas
no campo.
Pensarão na noite molhada,
no dia luzente cheio de raios.
Vejo que a morte se inspira na carne
que a luz martela de leve.
Nessas mulheres debruçadas sobre a frescura
veemente da ilusão,
nelas ― envoltas pela sua roseira em brasa ―
vejo os meses que respiram.
Os meses fortes e pacientes.
Vejo os meses absorvidos pelos meses mais jovens.
Vejo meu pensamento morrendo na escarpada
treva das mulheres.
E digo: elas cantam a minha vida.
Essas mulheres estranguladas por uma beleza
incomparável.
Cantam a alegria de tudo, minha
alegria
por dentro da grande dor masculina.
Essas mulheres tornam feliz e extensa
a morte da terra.
Elas cantam a eternidade.
Cantam o sangue de uma terra exaltada.
i like my body when it is with your body
i like my body when it is with your
i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh ... And eyes big love-crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you so quite new
Edward Estlin Cummings
i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh ... And eyes big love-crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you so quite new
Edward Estlin Cummings
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Monday, May 23, 2011
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Trains and boats and...
swell like an ocean, we are an unending stream running
from the beginning of history, kindness and light as
beacons along the way
blood runs inside us, like time runs
the universe, water all, we are all water and life too
is water, shape-less, i-mutable, simple
wheels within wheels, desire
travels long distances, silence rules but
a cry is never lost, a gesture always appraised
there’s no end, no end, no solution
from the beginning of history, kindness and light as
beacons along the way
blood runs inside us, like time runs
the universe, water all, we are all water and life too
is water, shape-less, i-mutable, simple
wheels within wheels, desire
travels long distances, silence rules but
a cry is never lost, a gesture always appraised
there’s no end, no end, no solution
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
This Life
This Life
My friend tells me
a man in my house jumped off the roof
the roof is the eighth floor of this building
the roof door was locked how did he manage?
his girlfriend had said goodbye I'm leaving
he was 22
his mother and father were hurrying
at that very moment
from upstate to help him move out of Brooklyn
they had heard about the girl
the people who usually look up
and call jump jump did not see him
the life savers who creep around the back staircases
and reach the roof's edge just in time
never got their chance he meant it he wanted
only one person to know
did he imagine that she would grieve
all her young life away tell everyone
this boy I kind of lived with last year
he died on account of me
my friend was not interested he said you're always
inventing stuff what I want to know how could he throw
his life away how do these guys do it
just like that and here I am fighting this
ferocious insane vindictive virus day and
night day and night and for what? for only
one thing this life this life
Grace Paley
My friend tells me
a man in my house jumped off the roof
the roof is the eighth floor of this building
the roof door was locked how did he manage?
his girlfriend had said goodbye I'm leaving
he was 22
his mother and father were hurrying
at that very moment
from upstate to help him move out of Brooklyn
they had heard about the girl
the people who usually look up
and call jump jump did not see him
the life savers who creep around the back staircases
and reach the roof's edge just in time
never got their chance he meant it he wanted
only one person to know
did he imagine that she would grieve
all her young life away tell everyone
this boy I kind of lived with last year
he died on account of me
my friend was not interested he said you're always
inventing stuff what I want to know how could he throw
his life away how do these guys do it
just like that and here I am fighting this
ferocious insane vindictive virus day and
night day and night and for what? for only
one thing this life this life
Grace Paley
Monday, May 16, 2011
Naquele tempo
Naquele tempo falavas muito de perfeição,
da prosa dos versos irregulares
onde cantam os sentimentos irregulares.
Envelhecemos todos, tu, eu e a discussão,
agora lês saramagos & coisas assim
e eu já não fico a ouvir-te como antigamente
olhando as tuas pernas que subiam lentamente
até um sítio escuro dentro de mim.
O café agora é um banco, tu professora de liceu;
Bob Dylan encheu-se de dinheiro, o Che morreu.
Agora as tuas pernas são coisas úteis, andantes,
e não caminhos por andar como dantes.
Manuel António Pina
da prosa dos versos irregulares
onde cantam os sentimentos irregulares.
Envelhecemos todos, tu, eu e a discussão,
agora lês saramagos & coisas assim
e eu já não fico a ouvir-te como antigamente
olhando as tuas pernas que subiam lentamente
até um sítio escuro dentro de mim.
O café agora é um banco, tu professora de liceu;
Bob Dylan encheu-se de dinheiro, o Che morreu.
Agora as tuas pernas são coisas úteis, andantes,
e não caminhos por andar como dantes.
Manuel António Pina
jeune
Rudolf Lehnert, La jeune Bédouine , 1914 (ou Fathma, de la tribu des Oued Nail, Tunis - ed. 1999)
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