first infrarealist manifesto

“It is four light-hours to the end of the solar system; to the nearest star, four light-years. A disproportionate ocean of void. But are we really sure that it is only a void? We only know that in this space there are no bright stars; if they existed, would they be visible? And if there existed bodies neither bright nor dark? Could it not happen on the celestial maps, just as on those of the earth, that the star-cities are indicated and the star-villages omitted?”

-Soviet science fiction writers scratched their faces at midnight.

-The infrasuns (Drummond would say the happy proletarian boys).

-Peguero and Boris alone in a lower class room predicting the miracle behind the door.

-Free Money


Who has traversed the city and for music has only had the whistles of his fellows, his own words of amazement and rage?

The handsome type who didn’t know

that a girl’s orgasm is clitoral

(Look, it’s not only in the museums that there’s shit) (A process of individual museification) (Certainly all that has been mentioned, revealed) (Fear of discovering) (Fear of the imbalances not foreseen).


Our next of kin:

the snipers, the lone plainsmen who devastate the Chinese cafes of Latin America, the butchers in supermarkets, in their tremendous individual-collective dilemma; the impotence of action and investigation (on the individual level or clouded in aesthetic contradictions) of the poetic act.


Tiny bright stars eternally winking at us from a place in the universe called The labyrinths.

-Dancing-Club of misery.

-Pepito Tequila sobbing his love for Lisa Underground.

-He sucks it, you suck it, we suck it. [In Spanish as in English, the verb can be used literally or informally in a derogatory sense.]

-And Horror


Curtains of water, cement, or tin separate a cultural mechanism, which serves as both the conscience and the asshole of the ruling class, from a living cultural event, scrubbed clean, in constant death and birth, ignorant of most of history and the fine arts (quotidian creator of its own insane istory and its amazing fyne artz), body that suddenly tests new sensations on itself, product of an epoch in which we approach at 200 kmph the toilet or the revolution.

“New forms, rare forms”, as old Bertolt said, half curious and half smiling.


Sensations don’t arise out of nothing (obviousness of obviousnesses), but from a conditioned reality, in a thousand ways, as a constant flow.

-Complex reality makes us seasick!

So, it is possible that in part this is a birth and in part we are in the front row for the death throes. Forms of life and forms of death pass by the retina daily. Their collision constantly gives rise to infrarealist forms: THE EYE OF TRANSITION


Put the whole city in the insane asylum. Sweet sister, howling tanks, hermaphrodite songs, diamond deserts, we only live once and every day the visions are bulkier and more slippery. Sweet sister, lifts to Monte Albán. Tighten your belts because the corpses have been watered. A scene of subtraction.


And the good bourgeois culture? And academia and the incendiaries? And the vanguards and the rearguards? And certain conceptions of love, good scenery, the precise and multinational Colt?

Like I told Saint-Just in a dream I had once: Even the heads of aristocrats can’t use us as weapons.


-A good part of the world is being born and another good part dying, and we all know that we all have to live or we all have to die: in this there is no middle road.

Chirico says: thought must move away from all that which is called logic and good sense, must move away from all human problems, in such a way that things appear under a new aspect, as if illuminated by a constellation appearing for the first time. The infrarealists say: We are going to fill our heads with all human problems, such that things begin to move inside themselves, an extraordinary vision of man.

-The Constellation of the Beautiful Bird.

-The infrarealists propose indigenousness to the world: a crazy and timid Indian.

-A new lyricism, which is starting to rise Latin America, supports itself in ways that never fail to amaze us. The way in to matter is ultimately the way in to adventure: the poem is a journey and the poet is a hero revealing heroes. Tenderness like an exercise in speed. Breathing and heat. The shotgun experience, structures that are devouring themselves, crazy contradictions.

If the poet is mixed up, the reader will have to mix himself up.

“erotic books without spelling



The 99 open flowers like a smashed-open head

The massacre, the new concentration camps

The White underground rivers, the violet winds

These are hard times for poetry, some say, drinking tea, listening to music in their apartments, talking (listening) to the old masters. These are difficult times for man, we say, turning to the barricades after a full day’s work of shit and tear gas, discovering / creating music even in our apartments, largely overlooking cemeteries-that-spread, where they [sic] despairingly drink a cup of tea or get drunk on pure rage or the inertia of old masters.

HORA ZERO precedes us

((Raise baboons and the hags will bite you)) [Sp: Cría zambos y te picarán los callos]

Still we are in the quaternary era. Are we still in the quaternary era?

Pepito Tequila kisses Lisa Underground’s phosphorescent nipples and watches her leave for a beach on which black pyramids sprout.


I repeat:

the poet is a hero revealing heroes, like the fallen red tree that announces the start of the forest.

-The attempts at a consistent ethic-aesthetic are paved with betrayals or pathetic survivals.

-And it is the individual who will be able to walk a thousand kilometers but eventually the road will eat him.

-Our ethic is Revolution, our aesthetic is Life: one-single-thing.


For the bourgeoisie and the petit bourgeoisie life is a party. Every weekend they have one. The proletariat doesn’t have parties. Only rhythmic funerals. That is going to change. The exploited will have a grand party. Memory and guillotines. Sensing it, acting it certain nights, inventing edges and humid corners, is like caressing the acidic eyes of the new spirit.


Journey of the poem through the seasons of rioting: poetry producing poets producing poems producing poetry. Not an electric alley / the poet with arms separate from the body / the poem slowly displacing his Vision of his Revolution. The alley is a complex point. “We are going to invent in order to discover its contradiction, its invisible forms of refusing, until it is explained”. Journey of the act of writing through zones not at all favorable to the act of writing.

Rimbaud, come home!

Subverting the everyday reality of modern poetry. The confinements that lead a circular reality to the poem. A good reference: the madman Kurt Schwitters. Lanke trr gll, o, upa kupa arggg, runs the official line, phonetic investigators codifying the howl. The bridges of Noba Express are anti-codification: let him shout, let him shout (please don’t take out pencil or paper, don’t record him, shout with him if you want to participate), so let him shout, in order to see what face he makes when he finishes, what other incredible things we experience.

Our bridges to ignored stations. The poem interrelating reality and unreality.




What can I demand of current Latin American painting? What can I demand of the theatre?

More revealing and expressive is stopping in a demolished park because of the smog and seeing people crossing the avenues in groups (which contract and expand), when so many motorists, like the pedestrians, urgently approach their hovels, and it’s the hour when the murderers come out and the victims follow them.

What stories do the painters really tell me?

Interesting void, fixed form and color, at best the parody of movement. Canvases that will only serve as bright posters in the rooms of engineers and doctors who collect.

The painter is made comfortable in a society that is every day more “painter” than he is himself, and that is where he is found unarmed and registered as a clown.

If a painting by X is encountered in some street by Mara, this painting acquires the standing of an amusing and informative thing; [in] a sitting room it’s as decorative as the iron armchairs of the bourgeois / a question of the retina? / yes and no / but it would be better to find ( and unfortunately to systematize for a time) the explosive factor, class-conscious, one hundred percent concerned with work, in juxtaposition to the value of “work” that precedes it and conditions it.

-The painter abandons the studio and ANY status quo and fills his head with wonders / or sets out to play chess like Duchamp / A painting that shows how to paint it again / And a painting of poverty, free or cheap enough, unfinished, of participation, of questioning the participation, of unlimited physical and spiritual extension.

Latin America’s best painting is the one that has even unconscious levels, the game, the party, the experiment that gives us a real vision of what we are and reveals to us what we can do will be Latin America’s best painting is the one that we paint with greens and reds and blues on our faces, to recognize ourselves in the incessant creation of the tribe.


Try to abandon everything every day.

Architects, abandon the construction of stages inside and extend your hands (or clench them, depending on the place) toward this space outside. A wall and a ceiling become useful when they are not only used for sleeping or avoiding rain but when they establish, starting, for example, at the everyday act of sleep, conscious bridges between man and his creations, or the momentary impossibility of them.

For architecture and sculpture the infrarealists start from two points: the barricade and the bed.

The true imagination is the one that dynamites, elucidates, injects emerald microbes into other imaginations. In poetry and in what is, the way in to matter still has to be the way in to adventure. Creating the tools for everyday subversion. The subjective seasons of being human, with their beautiful trees, giant and obscene, like laboratories of experimentation. Establishing, seeing signs of parallel situations and as harrowing as a great scratch on the chest, on the face. Unending analogy of the face. There are so many of them that when newcomers appear we don’t even count, although we are creating them / looking into a mirror. Nights of torment. Perception is opened up by means of an ethic-aesthetic taken to the extreme.

Galaxies of love appear in the palms of our hands.

-Poets, let down your hair (if you have any)

-Burn your garbage and start to love until you get down to the priceless poems

-We don’t want synthetic paintings, but enormous synthetic sunsets

-Horses running 500 kilometers per hour

-Squirrles of fire jumping through trees of fire

-A bet to see who blinks first, between the nerve and the sleeping pill

The risk is always somewhere else. The true poet is the one who is always letting go of himself. Never too much time in the same place, like guerrillas, like UFOs, like the white eyes of prisoners in perpetual chains.


Fusion and explosion of two shores: creation like audacious graffiti and opened by a crazy kid.

Nothing mechanical. The scales of of amazement. Someone, maybe Hieronymus Bosch, breaks the aquarium of love. Free money. Sweet sister. Libidinous visions like corpses. Little boys cutting the meat of kisses until December.


At two in the morning, after having been at Mara’s house, we listen (Mario Santiago and some of us) to laughter that came out of the penthouse of a 9 story building. They didn’t stop, they laughed and laughed while we slept below propped up in various phone booths. It was enough for the moment in that only Mario went on paying attention to to the laughter (the penthouse is a gay bar or something similar and Darío Galicia had told us that the police are always vigilant). We made telephone calls but the coins were made of water. The laughter continued. After we left that district Mario told me that really no one had been laughing, it was recorded laughter and upstairs there, in the penthouse, a small group, or perhaps a single homosexual, had been listening in silence to his records and had made us listen.

-The death of the swan, the last song of the swan, the last song of the black swan, ARE NOT in the Bolshoi but in the pain and the unbearable beauty of the streets.

-A rainbow that begins at a B movie and ends with a factory on strike.

-That amnesia never kisses us on the mouth. That it never kisses us.

-We dreamt of utopia and we wake up screaming.

-A poor lonely cowherd who goes back home, that is the wonder.

Making new sensations appear –Subverting the everyday




Roberto Bolaño, México, 1976

pleyades 4

To wait


“I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought: 

So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.”

Here is T. S. Eliot, warning us that in the darkness we must wait, that we must surrender, not to inaction, but to NOT KNOWING. Here is the secret. That is the universal solvent to our spiritual journey. To wait. 

(Poem is an extract from the Four Quartets)

Solar eclipse, Berlin, Friday 20 MarchSolar_1 (1) 2

Love is masochistic – Cendrars

Chagall (1887-1985)

chagallmarc_chagall_shop_t_postcard_20Chagall Wedding cropover-the-town-1918

“Love is masochistic. These cries & complaints, these sweet alarms. this anguished state of lovers, this suspense, this latent pain that is just below the surface, almost unexpressed, these thousand & one anxieties over the loved one’s absence, this feeling of time rushing by, this touchiness, these fits of temper, these long daydreams, this childish fickleness of behavior, this moral torture where vanity & self-esteem, or perhaps honor, upbringing & modesty are at stake, these highs & lows in the nervous tone, these leaps of imagination, this fetishism, this cruel precision of senses, whipping & probing, the collapse, the prostration, the abdication, the self-abasement, the perpetual loss & recovery of one’s personality, these stammered words & phrases, these pet-names, this intimacy, these hesitations in physical contact, these epileptic tremors, these successive & even more frequent relapses, this more & more turbulent & stormy passion with its ravages progressing to the point of complete inhibition & annihilation of the soul, the debility of the senses, the exhaustion of the marrow, the erasure of the brain & even the desiccation of the heart, this yearning for ruin, for destruction, for mutilation, this need of effusiveness, of adoration, of mysticism, this insatiability which expresses itself in hyper-irritability of the of mucus membranes, in errant taste, in vasomotor or peripheral disorders, & which conjures up jealousy & vengeance, crimes, prevarications & treacheries, this idolatry, this incurable melancholy, this apathy, this profound moral misery, this definitive & harrowing doubt, this despair–are not all these stigmata the very symptoms of love in which we can first diagnose, then trace with a sure hand, the clinical curve of masochism?”

― Blaise Cendrars, Moravagine

Foucault – !

La conveniencia de las actitudes esquiva los cuerpos,

la decencia de las palabras blanquea los discursos”.

de su libro: “La Historia de la Sexualidad”.


“The rest had only to remain vague; proper demeanor avoided contact with other bodies,

and verbal decency sanitized one’s speech”.

from: “The History of Sexuality”.

FullSizeRender (1)

My romance right now

“One’s destination is never a place but rather a new way of looking at things”

Not so many times you read a book and you don’t want to finish it. The book shows his soul, the funny and eloquent ways he expressed his views, the special people he met throughout his life in Big Sur and the genius he developed here as a writer, as a father and as a Human.



Brassaï and the underground


“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.” brassai 2 brassai brassai36

today -> part two

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


Resurrección ~.~ Resurrection

photo (6)
Imagen> Carolina Sevilla / Ojo de Maria Luisa Cardona

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:
un buzo
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
like lead
through a lake infinite as Loch Ness
or tragic and turbid as Lake Balatón.
Consider it from below:
a diver
covered in feathers
of will.
Poetry slips into dreams
like a diver who’s dead
in the eyes of God.

Roberto Bolaño








Its steam mixed with sweat

“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.

nan goldin 2 jpg

Alfredo Jaar: the balance between the aesthetic and the ethical

Originally posted on caricia tropical:

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. Image

His project, RWANDA was simply astonishing. This project is referred to as “The Silence of Eduwayezu”. Image

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…

View original 257 more words

for us there is only the trying.

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.

T.S. Eliot

Art: Galatea of the Spheres. Salvador Dalí

today is T S ELLIOT

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.
Be addle-brained.
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.
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”

Peter Hanke


Image by Efy Tal


“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.
I say,
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
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me”.


My Gift To You—–Te regalaré un abismo

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.


Esoteric Klee – Goethe – (and me) part 2

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 .



Possesion in the dream – Eunice Odio




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


Nothing is what I thought

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 hopeto 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… <3Image

“Learning How to Forget” : Master Duchamp

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.


photo (21)

Christopher Wool at Guggenheim

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.







here rather than there

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

Open Studios: Saturday October 26th from 2-7 at PointB -Williamsburg, Brooklyn, Come!

   Open Studios

Saturday, October 26, 2pm-7pm











Please join us this Saturday afternoon at the PointB Worklodge to see and hear what our October Lodgers are up to.

71 North 7th St.

Modern Miller

“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”.