“The real night people, however, live at night not out of necessity, but because they want to. They belong to the world of pleasure, of love, vice, crime, drugs. A secret, suspicious world, closed to the uninitiated….I felt at the time that this underground world represented Paris at its least cosmopolitan, at its most alive, its most authentic, that in these colorful faces of its underworld there had been preserved, from age to age, almost without alteration, the folklore of its most remote past.”
Stanzas, Sexes, Seduction It’s good to be neuter. I want to have meaningless legs. There are things unbearable. One can evade them a long time. Then you die. The ocean reminds me of your green room. There are things unbearable. Scorn, princes, this little size of dying. My personal poetry is a failure. I do not want to be a person. I want to be unbearable. Lover to lover, the greenness of love. Cool, cooling. Earth bears no such plant. Who does not end up a female impersonator? Drink all the sex there is. Still die. I tempt you. I blush. There are things unbearable. Legs, alas. Legs die. Rocking themselves down, crazy slow, some ballet term for it —- fragment of foil, little spin, little drunk, little do, little oh, alas. Image. Henry Cartier Bresson
Light of Love
Joy stayed with me a night –
Young and free and fair –
And in the morning light
He left me there.
Then Sorrow came to stay,
And lay upon my breast
He walked with me in the day.
And knew me best.
I’ll never be a bride,
Nor yet celibate,
So I’m living now with Pride –
A cold bedmate.
He must not hear nor see,
Nor could he forgive
That Sorrow still visits me
Each day I live.
image – Henri Cartier Bresson
La poesía entra en el sueño como un buzo en el lago.
La poesía, más valiente que nadie,
entra y cae
a plomo en un lago infinito como Loch Ness
o turbio e infausto como el lago Batalón.
Contempladla desde el fondo:
envuelto en las plumas
de la voluntad.
La poesía entra en el sueño
como un buzo muerto
en el ojo de Dios.
Poetry slips into dreams
like a diver in a lake.
Poetry, braver than anyone,
slips in and sinks
through a lake infinite as Loch Ness
or tragic and turbid as Lake Balatón.
Consider it from below:
covered in feathers
Poetry slips into dreams
like a diver who’s dead
in the eyes of God.
THE PAINTING : THE GARDEN OF THE EARTHY DELIGHTS – HIERONYMUS BOLSCH
BOLSCH. ONE OF THE MOST ENIGMATIC ARTISTS IN HISTORY. THIS PAINTER WAS A RENAISSANCE RADICAL. HE CREATED FANTASTICAL PANEL PICTURES, CHARACTERIZED BY GROTESQUE CREATURES, DISTURBING DETAILS, AND STRANGE VISUAL SYMBOLISM. FOR SOME, THEIR IMAGERY WAS THE VISION OF A DANGEROUS SEXUAL LIBERTINE. FOR OTHERS, THE EVIDENCE OF A SECRET RELIGIOUS SECT.
TO ME THIS SYMBOLIZES THE INTERSECTION A THE DIVINE ENERGY AND THE EARTHY LIFE. IN THE MEANTIME I AM TRYING TO SEE AND INTERPRET MYSELF THE DIFFERENT COLORS AND SYMBOLS, FIGURES SUCH AS CENTAURS AND MYTHOLOGICAL CREATURES SUCH AS UNICORNS AND GRIFFINS, HEAVEN, EARTH AND THE DIVINE, CRYPTIC LANDSCAPES AND HYBRIDS OF MAN AND BEASTS.
THIS IS AN IDOL AND AN INSPIRATION.
OBSERVE VERY DEEPLY, YOU MIGHT FIND SOME SECRET FRIENDS.
“Your face is glistening, I whispered. Your eyes. The tips of your nipples. You, too, Laura said, a little pale, I guess, but you’re glistening. It’s steam mixed with sweat. One of the boys was watching us in silence. Do you really love him? he asked Laura. His eyes were enormous and black. I sat on the floor. Yes, Laura said. He must be madly in love with you, the boy said. Laura laughed like a housewife. Yes, she said. With good reason, the boy said. Yeah, I said, with good reason. Do you know what steam mixed with sweat tastes like? It depends on the particular flavor of each person.”
Extract from the Mexican Manifesto, Roberto Bolaño.
Photo: Nan Goldin, Swan-like embrace, Paris, 2010. Chromogenic print.
Originally posted on E L I X I R:
I got to see his art at the Mission of Chile to the United Nations at meetings I always attended there few years ago. Impressed by his work there, I started following him and discovered he is the father of Nicolas Jaar, the young guy from Wolf and Lamb who I met many times a while ago at the Marcy here in Brooklyn.
Alfredo Jaar, born in Chile is for me, one of the most interesting artists nowadays. The first project I saw at the Mission was “THIS IS NOT AMERICA”, a flag of USA lighting on and off in Times Square, repeating this is not America’s flag, like a mantra.
Jaar’s “Rwanda Project” occurred during the period of 1994-2000 and reminds us of the genocide occurred there and of how bodies flowed down rivers just…
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So here I am, in the middle way, having had twenty years-
Twenty years largely wasted, the years of l’entre deux guerres-
Trying to use words, and every attempt
Is a wholy new start, and a different kind of failure
Because one has only learnt to get the better of words
For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture
Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate,
With shabby equipment always deteriorating
In the general mess of imprecision of feeling,
Undisciplined squads of emotion. And what there is to conquer
By strength and submission, has already been discovered
Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope
To emulate – but there is no competition -
There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.
What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make and end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from. And every phrase
And sentence that is right (where every word is at home,
Taking its place to support the others,
The word neither diffident nor ostentatious,
An easy commerce of the old and the new,
The common word exact without vulgarity,
The formal word precise but not pedantic,
The complete consort dancing together)
Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,
Every poem an epitaph. And any action
Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea’s throat
Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start.
We die with the dying:
See, they depart, and we go with them.
We are born with the dead:
See, they return, and bring us with them.
The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree
Are of equal duration. A people without history
Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern
Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails
On a winter’s afternoon, in a secluded chapel
History is now and England.
PLAY THE GAME.
Endanger your work even more.
Don’t be the top dog.
Seek out the face-off.
But be unmindful.
Have no thoughts in back of your head.
Keen nothing secret.
Be soft and strong.
Be sly, enter the fray but hate to win.
Don’t observe, don’t test, but be ready for signs.
Tremble, quake, shatter, heal.
Show your eyes, wave the others on into the depths,
care for spaces and behold each one in their own picture.
Act only with enthusiasm.
Fail with ease.
First of all, take time and the long way round.
Go on a holiday as it were.
Overhear no tree and no water.
Enter where it pleases your heart and treat yourself to the sun.
Forget your kinfolk, strengthen the strangers, spaces,
a hoot for the tragedy,
spit on misfortune,
laugh conflicts to smithereens.
MOVE IN YOUR OWN COLORS.
until you are in the right
and the leaves’ rustling turns sweet.
Walk about the villages.
I will follow you. -
from: “Passe par les villages”
“Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
It’s in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I’m a woman
My gift to you will be an abyss, she said,
but it will be so subtle you’ll perceive it
only after many years have passed
and you are far from Mexico and me.
You’ll find it when you need it most,
and that won’t be
the happy ending,
but it will be an instant of emptiness and joy.
And maybe then you’ll remember me,
if only just a little.
My Gift To You, Roberto Bolaño
Photo: Henry Cartier Bresson- Hyeres France, 1932
Te regalaré un abismo, dijo ella,
pero de tan sutil manera que sólo lo percibirás
cuando hayan pasado muchos años
y estés lejos de México y de mí.
Cuando más lo necesites lo descubrirás,
y ese no será
el final feliz,
pero sí un instante de vacío y de felicidad
Y tal vez entonces te acuerdes de mí,
aunque no mucho.
Te regalaré un abismo – Roberto Bolaño
“I want to create something sacred. A film that gives LSD hallucinations without taking LSD”
A documentary about one of my favorite directors and his dream. Alejandro Jodorowsky, who more or less invented the midnight cinema in New York City with his fantastic – trip films: the classics “El Topo” and “The Holy Mountain,” decided to adapt Frank Herbert’s “Dune” with the French producer Michel Seydoux.
The dream team—a cast that included his son Brontis (whom he put through two years of full-time martial-arts training), Salvador Dali, and Orson Welles and a design staff that included Dan O’Bannon (“Dark Star”), the illustrator Chris Foss, and the painter H. R. Giger.
While he tried to put it in Hollywood the project went unrealized.
The documentary by Frank Pavich, shows us an amazing portrait of Jodorowsky, whos now eighty-five, and reveale the influence that Jodorowsky’s unmade film had in the Hollywood industry.
FOR THOSE WHO WANT A DOSE
Klee, as a lover of lines, started drawing them sometimes in an ephemeral way, sometimes not.
Klee’s creativity later on included “parallel figurations”; works he did during his “inner circle“: which means those works that are symbolic and universal in their intent and what I would name Esoteric Art: when the picture is conceived as a code, as an interpretation of the world through symbols. About this, Goethe said: “When a thing is not a thing yet is a thing, an image condensed in the mirror of the spirit and yet identical with the object”.
Painting this “radiating parallels” with lines both continuous and discontinuous one can say they’re also related to the principle of imitation in musical composition.
Both, my inspiration. Bellow
a little painting I finished last night .
“….Forever journeys on golden avenues….”
I will savor you with joy.
You will dream of me tonight.
We shall dine at the site of my soul.
An extract of the poem by Eunice Odio, “Possesion in the dream”
Te probaré con alegría.
Tu soñarás conmigo esta noche.
Comeremos en el sitio de mi alma.
Extracto de un poema de Eunice Odio “Posesión en el sueño” de los Elementos Terrestres”
foto de / photo by: Henri Cartier-Bresson
Do you like to get intimate with fear ? Do you like to feel disappointed? Normally I would said no. I’d usually ran away from fear and I would hate to feel disappointed.
Within almost four decades I have had certain moments where pain, difficulty and misery have affected me somehow. After the death of my Dad and the process of his disease, a divorce, and other devastating events such as break- ups-, problems at work and other situations, that I sometimes used to call or see them as failures. As many others, I’ve been running away from fear and from the fear of suffering. Instead, I had always put in place hope, to block the fear from coming. The thing is that fear and hope are actually two sides of the same coin. The hope we create in our minds is nothing but an illusion. An illusion like: “everything will be better”, “we will find the right person”, “we will get perfect job”, etc. For now I’d say: hope is not something we really need, because all we need is what we have NOW.The only that really exists is the now. In the case of fear/pain, I had finally face it, recently. Even though I’ve always thought it was horrible, because suffering involves crying and pain for hours-days-months sometimes, those days when you wake up in the middle of the night and can’t go back to sleep and on, but after all theres something I liked about it. When you finally face your fears and suffer, what you’re doing is that you’re opening your heart. You are growing stronger. It’s in the midst of troubled times when you see the light. Its one hard but meaningful moment of truth and awareness. “An illumination in the darkness of ignorance” says Pema. Here- when getting to know your fears and facing sadness and suffering- you are able to realize how much harm you have done to yourself…. and also the harm you have caused to others and from this stating point, a sense of forgiveness and of acceptance arrives. In the case of disappointment I will leave it all to Pema who wise fully says: “When there’s a disappointment, I don’t know if it’s the end of the story. It may just be the beginning of a great adventure.”
Pema Chödrön, an American Buddhist Nun and meditation master of a Tibetan Buddhist Practice, wrote a book called “When Things Fall Apart”, a book that both me and my very good friend Efy are currently reading. Will be back with a lil more from it… <3
That’s what Duchamp said in a recent publication of interviews Calvin Tomkins did in the ’60’s.
When I was talking to a friend the other night he mentioned he’s interested and currently investigating the moment or lapse that happens immediately after listening to inspiring music and the visualization of that moment before the mind intervenes. I find it similar to what Duchamp said. Marcel Duchamp said he was “learning how to forget, basically to escape from the prison of tradition”, and he wanted to unlearn how to draw. He said Matisse had to systematically unlearn how to draw to be able to produce the work he did. Its about decoding the mind.
Is it possible to learn how to forget?, to forget how we are thought at school?, how we “normally” react to situations?, how we think?. Can we do this?. Suddenly, when I think about it, I feel so light and so good. The capacity of forgetting is linked to Freedom, to the possibility of renewal and reinvention of the being and of becoming a child, a creative being once again.
Worth sharing just a few images of a great show at the Guggenheim. Using mostly Painting as a medium, here he represents the human environment and cultural references.
This paintings, photographs and works in paper are mainly monochrome and large.
His work is passionate and very inspiring; he is definitely one of the great painters of this era.
When I consider the brief span of my life
absorbed into the eternity which comes before
and after—memoria hospitis unius diei
praetereuntis—the small space I occupy and
which I see swallowed up in the infinite
immensity of spaces of which I know nothing and
which know nothing of me, I take fright and am
amazed to see myself here rather than there:
there is no reason for me to be here rather than
there, now rather than then. Who put me here?
By whose command and act were this place and
time allotted to me? —PASCAL
This week’s fresh and new sound ~~~~~yuhuuu°°°° Happy Tuesday y’all!!!
“Everybody says sex is obscene. The only true obscenity is war.”
The Tropic of Cancer, tropic referred to as the Northern tropic with the sun at its zenith, its an event that occurs once per year at the time of the June solstice. Regarding the second word, Cancer, the author explains the title of his novel: “It was because to me cancer symbolizes the disease of civilization, the endpoint of the wrong path, the necessity to change course radically, to start completely over from scratch.”
Published in Paris in 1934, this title can be read as a metaphor of the City. Indeed, the City is the main character of this extraordinary book I’m currently reading. The ironic relationship of Miller with Paris, a love/hate relationship, with a city that shines like the sun at its zenith, that promises the splendor to the young artist who enters it, but that reveals itself as a disease while the same artist actually begins to live in it.
This aforementioned quote I find brilliant, refers at some point to the huge scandal that this novel had because of its language and its approach to some taboos for that time, the 30′s, especially related to sex. Prohibited in USA and UK for three decades because of the confusion between ethics and aesthetics that seems to lead to its interpretation, the novel was considered immoral and obscene.
I feel now very fortunate to read one of the greatest modernist writings in the universal literature and as Annais Nin said in the Preface “a book that might restore our appetite for the fundamental realities”.
I am about to finish reading Henry and June, Anaïs Nin’s book. I’m astonished by the way she describes her passions but also her confusions. Reminds me that the path of being truthful to yourself and others is a long one, but it’s at the end the way of achieving true JOY. Those true moments -those one misses because of lies and darkness – are the ones that HOPE and LIGHT will bring us to achieve our dreams, those DREAMS we have when we are awake. Our DAY dreams.
A lil’ Set I just made inspired on all the music I’m listening now.