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

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

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.







Las cosas que nunca dijimos

Son las 9, es noche de invierno en la ciudad hace mucho frío. Paso frente a hoteles, las calles pobladas. Fuerte vacío. Luces brillantes me gritan miles de sonidos. Cuántas historias, cuántos amantes, rostros anónimos, todos desconocidos. Pero tengo uno que otro recuerdo!, quizás tu regreses? Un desafío. Memorias desprevenidas, un constante delirio. La lluvia afuera, las gotas de agua son tantas como las cosas que nunca dijimos. Lo de nosotros es la música y el ron como tu dices, a eso quedo reducido. Nos gusta lo mismo, ya sabes, el toque y lo divertido, pero hasta eso está destruído. Así como los lugares a los que nunca fuimos.