Big blog is watching you

"To have the apprentice in the Sun"

2012-01-27T18:39:00.000Z

Duchamp, 1914

Scenes from the Class Struggles in Portugal (Cenas da Luta de Classes em...

2012-01-20T13:30:00.003Z

Watching you

2012-01-01T17:21:00.002Z

2011-12-30T01:38:00.006Z

The Worshipper of Larsa, estatueta dedicada ao Rei Hamurabi, período paleobabilónico (c. 2000 a 1595 a. C.), cobre e ouro; Museu du Louvre, Paris

Ancient Sound

2011-12-15T21:10:00.001Z

Paul Klee, Ancient Sound, Abstract on Black, 1925, Oil on cardboard, 15 x 15", Kunstsammlung, Basel.

Alfred Hitchcok Presents, "Man From The South"

2011-12-07T23:32:00.006Z

2011-09-15T21:09:00.001+01:00

Jenny Holzer. Xenon Projection. 2000.
Fundación PROA, Buenos Aires

...n’est-ce pas Monsieur Emile ?

2011-09-01T22:35:00.008+01:00

Peu un art, peu une technique. Un mystère.
Et pour le résoudre, une simple potion magique, pour éclairer notre lanterne, magique elle aussi, n’est-ce pas Monsieur Emile ? C’est dire que l’histoire du cinéma est d’abord liée à celle de la médecine. Les corps torturés d’Eisenstein, par-delà le Caravage et le Greco, s’adressent aux premiers écorchés de Vésale. Et le fameux regard de Joan Fontaine devant le verre de lait ne répond pas à une héroïne de Delacroix, mais au chien de Pasteur. Car toute la fortune de Kodak s’est faite avec des plaques de radio, pas avec Blanche-Neige.
Jean Luc Godard - HISTOIRE(S) DU CINEMA 2B - Fatale Beauté

Mujahidin. Guerreira Santa.

2011-08-21T22:03:00.001+01:00

The rescue of art

2011-07-26T21:21:00.008+01:00

The rescue of art, ca. 1946 . Ad Reinhardt papers, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution.

O Nosso Homem

2011-07-18T13:36:00.000+01:00

O NOSSO HOMEM from Revista Lumière on Vimeo.

Pedro Costa, 2011, 19ª edição do Festival de Vila do Conde

As Polaroids de Tarkovsky

2011-06-09T00:17:00.001+01:00

As Polaroids de Tarkovski

Où commence, mais où commence quoi?

2011-06-06T22:47:00.007+01:00

des tasses de café aux galaxies por lll_otto_ll

Peut-être qu'un objet est ce qui permet de relier, de passer d'un sujet à l'autre, donc de vivre en société, d'être ensemble. Mais alors puisque la relation sociale est toujours ambigüe, puisque ma pensée divise autant qu'elle unit, puisque ma parole rapproche par ce qu'elle exprime et isole par ce qu'elle tait; puisqu'un immense fossé sépare la certitude subjective que j'ai de moi-même et la vérité objective que je suis pour les autres. Puisque je n'arrête pas de me trouver coupable alors que je me sens innocent; puisque chaque événement transforme ma vie quotidienne; puisque j'échoue sans cesse à communiquer, je veux dire à comprendre, à aimer, à me faire aimer, et que chaque échec me fait éprouver ma solitude;

Puisque, puisque je ne peux pas m’arracher à l’objectivité qui m’écrase ni a la subjectivité qui m’exile, puisqu’il ne m’est pas permis ni de m’élever jusqu'à l’Etre ni de tomber dans le néant, il faut que j’écoute, il faut que je regarde autour de moi plus que jamais,le monde, mon semblable, mon frère...

Le monde seul, où aujourd'hui les révolutions sont impossibles, où des guerres sanglantes me menacent, où le capitalisme n’est plus très sûr de ces droits, et la classe ouvrière en recul; où les progrès foudroyant de la science donnent au siècle futur une présence obsédante, où l’avenir est plus présent que le présent, où les lointaines galaxies sont à ma porte, mon semblable, mon frère..

Où commence, mais où commence quoi? Dieu créa les cieux et la terre bien sur, mais c’est un peu lâche et facile, on doit pouvoir dire mieux, dire que les limites du langage sont celles du monde, que les limites de mon langage sont celles de mon monde, et qu’en parlant je limite le monde, je le termine et que la mort un jour logique et mystérieux viendra abolir un jour cette limite et qu’il n’y aura ni question ni réponse, tout sera flou mais si par hasard les choses redeviennent nettes ce ne peut être qu’avec l'apparition de la conscience, ensuite, tout s’enchaine...

Jean-Luc Godard

2011-06-01T23:24:00.002+01:00

Fire of Waters

2011-06-01T23:13:00.003+01:00

Basquiat e Warhol

2011-05-17T23:13:00.002+01:00

Maria do Mar

2011-05-02T21:48:00.003+01:00

25 de Abril

2011-04-23T23:50:00.001+01:00

ficámos para perder todos os teus eléctricos os meus estavam perdidos por natureza própria

2011-04-06T23:09:00.002+01:00

“eu sei atravessar as fronteiras das coisas” (Cesariny)

2011-03-30T22:38:00.004+01:00

Ana Vieira

"Pull my Daisy"

2011-03-06T12:48:00.006Z

Uma primeira versão do poema de Kerouac e Ginsberg de 1948, tinha sido publicado na Primavera de 1950 numa revista nova iorquina chamada Neurotica - outras duas versões só foram impressas em 1961. Brincando com palavras, alusões e sons, os autores evocam imagens fálicas não claramente expressas. Utilizando o contraste de forma (canção de crianças; quase rezando) e conteúdo, a provocação ganha ainda mais impacto. O texto integrado na canção do filme consiste em dois fragmentos menos ofensivos da versão mais longa com algumas alterações. Sob protesto dos poetas, um verso foi alterado e assim Anita Ellis canta:

Pull my daisy
tip my cup
all my doors are open
Cut my thoughts
for coconuts
all my eggs are broken
Jack my Arden
gate my shades
woe my road is spoken
Silk my garden
rose my days
now my prayers awaken

Bone my shadow
dove my dream
start my halo bleeding
Milk my mind &
make me cream
drink me when you're ready
Hop my heart on
harp my height
seraphs hold me steady
Hip my angel
hype my light
lay it on the needy

Heal the raindrop
sow the eye
bust my dust again
Woe the worm
work the wise
dig my spade the same
Stop the hoax
whats the hex
where's the wake
how's the hicks
take my golden beam

Rob my locker
lick my rocks
leap my cock in school
Rack my lacks
lark my looks
jump right up my hole
Whore my door
beat my door
eat my snake of fool
Craze my hair
bare my poor
asshole shorn of wool

say my oops
ope my shell

Bite my naked nut
Roll my bones
ring my bell
call my worm to sup
Pope my parts
pop my pot
raise my daisy up
Poke my pap
pit my plum
let my gap be shut

Annie Girardot (1931-2011)

2011-03-03T00:04:00.003Z

Egipto

2011-02-03T09:36:00.000Z

Big Brother is watching you

2011-01-19T23:21:00.005Z

Nineteen Eighty-Four: The Facsimile of the Extant Manuscript, edited by Peter Davison
(London: Secker & Warburg, 1984)

What do you see Walt Whitman?

2010-12-15T23:20:00.008Z

Salut au Monde!

1
O take my hand Walt Whitman!
Such gliding wonders! such sights and sounds!
Such join'd unended links, each hook'd to the next,
Each answering all, each sharing the earth with all.

What widens within you Walt Whitman?
What waves and soils exuding?
What climes? what persons and cities are here?
Who are the infants, some playing, some slumbering?
Who are the girls? who are the married women?
Who are the groups of old men going slowly with their arms about
each other's necks?
What rivers are these? what forests and fruits are these?
What are the mountains call'd that rise so high in the mists?
What myriads of dwellings are they fill'd with dwellers?

2
Within me latitude widens, longitude lengthens,
Asia, Africa, Europe, are to the east--America is provided for in the west,
Banding the bulge of the earth winds the hot equator,
Curiously north and south turn the axis-ends,
Within me is the longest day, the sun wheels in slanting rings, it
does not set for months,
Stretch'd in due time within me the midnight sun just rises above
the horizon and sinks again,
Within me zones, seas, cataracts, forests, volcanoes, groups,
Malaysia, Polynesia, and the great West Indian islands.

3
What do you hear Walt Whitman?

I hear the workman singing and the farmer's wife singing,
I hear in the distance the sounds of children and of animals early
in the day,
I hear emulous shouts of Australians pursuing the wild horse,
I hear the Spanish dance with castanets in the chestnut shade, to
the rebeck and guitar,
I hear continual echoes from the Thames,
I hear fierce French liberty songs,
I hear of the Italian boat-sculler the musical recitative of old poems,
I hear the locusts in Syria as they strike the grain and grass with
the showers of their terrible clouds,
I hear the Coptic refrain toward sundown, pensively falling on the
breast of the black venerable vast mother the Nile,
I hear the chirp of the Mexican muleteer, and the bells of the mule,
I hear the Arab muezzin calling from the top of the mosque,
I hear the Christian priests at the altars of their churches, I hear
the responsive base and soprano,
I hear the cry of the Cossack, and the sailor's voice putting to sea
at Okotsk,
I hear the wheeze of the slave-coffle as the slaves march on, as the
husky gangs pass on by twos and threes, fasten'd together
with wrist-chains and ankle-chains,
I hear the Hebrew reading his records and psalms,
I hear the rhythmic myths of the Greeks, and the strong legends of
the Romans,
I hear the tale of the divine life and bloody death of the beautiful
God the Christ,
I hear the Hindoo teaching his favorite pupil the loves, wars,
adages, transmitted safely to this day from poets who wrote three
thousand years ago.

4
What do you see Walt Whitman?
Who are they you salute, and that one after another salute you?
I see a great round wonder rolling through space,
I see diminute farms, hamlets, ruins, graveyards, jails, factories,
palaces, hovels, huts of barbarians, tents of nomads upon the surface,
I see the shaded part on one side where the sleepers are sleeping,
and the sunlit part on the other side,
I see the curious rapid change of the light and shade,
I see distant lands, as real and near to the inhabitants of them as
my land is to me.

I see plenteous waters,
I see mountain peaks, I see the sierras of Andes where they range,
I see plainly the Himalayas, Chian Shahs, Altays, Ghauts,
I see the giant pinnacles of Elbruz, Kazbek, Bazardjusi,
I see the Styrian Alps, and the Karnac Alps,
I see the Pyrenees, Balks, Carpathians, and to the north the
Dofrafields, and off at sea mount Hecla,
I see Vesuvius and Etna, the mountains of the Moon, and the Red
mountains of Madagascar,
I see the Lybian, Arabian, and Asiatic deserts,
I see huge dreadful Arctic and Antarctic icebergs,
I see the superior oceans and the inferior ones, the Atlantic and
Pacific, the sea of Mexico, the Brazilian sea, and the sea of Peru,
The waters of Hindustan, the China sea, and the gulf of Guinea,
The Japan waters, the beautiful bay of Nagasaki land-lock'd in its
mountains,
The spread of the Baltic, Caspian, Bothnia, the British shores, and
the bay of Biscay,
The clear-sunn'd Mediterranean, and from one to another of its islands,
The White sea, and the sea around Greenland.

I behold the mariners of the world,
Some are in storms, some in the night with the watch on the lookout,
Some drifting helplessly, some with contagious diseases.

I behold the sail and steamships of the world, some in clusters in
port, some on their voyages,
Some double the cape of Storms, some cape Verde, others capes
Guardafui, Bon, or Bajadore,
Others Dondra head, others pass the straits of Sunda, others cape
Lopatka, others Behring's straits,
Others cape Horn, others sail the gulf of Mexico or along Cuba or
Hayti, others Hudson's bay or Baffin's bay,
Others pass the straits of Dover, others enter the Wash, others the
firth of Solway, others round cape Clear, others the Land's End,
Others traverse the Zuyder Zee or the Scheld,
Others as comers and goers at Gibraltar or the Dardanelles,
Others sternly push their way through the northern winter-packs,
Others descend or ascend the Obi or the Lena,
Others the Niger or the Congo, others the Indus, the Burampooter
and Cambodia,
Others wait steam'd up ready to start in the ports of Australia,
Wait at Liverpool, Glasgow, Dublin, Marseilles, Lisbon, Naples,
Hamburg, Bremen, Bordeaux, the Hague, Copenhagen,
Wait at Valparaiso, Rio Janeiro, Panama.

5
I see the tracks of the railroads of the earth,
I see them in Great Britain, I see them in Europe,
I see them in Asia and in Africa.

I see the electric telegraphs of the earth,
I see the filaments of the news of the wars, deaths, losses, gains,
passions, of my race.

I see the long river-stripes of the earth,
I see the Amazon and the Paraguay,
I see the four great rivers of China, the Amour, the Yellow River,
the Yiang-tse, and the Pearl,
I see where the Seine flows, and where the Danube, the Loire, the
Rhone, and the Guadalquiver flow,
I see the windings of the Volga, the Dnieper, the Oder,
I see the Tuscan going down the Arno, and the Venetian along the Po,
I see the Greek seaman sailing out of Egina bay.

6
I see the site of the old empire of Assyria, and that of Persia, and
that of India,
I see the falling of the Ganges over the high rim of Saukara.

I see the place of the idea of the Deity incarnated by avatars in
human forms,
I see the spots of the successions of priests on the earth, oracles,
sacrificers, brahmins, sabians, llamas, monks, muftis, exhorters,
I see where druids walk'd the groves of Mona, I see the mistletoe
and vervain,
I see the temples of the deaths of the bodies of Gods, I see the old
signifiers.

I see Christ eating the bread of his last supper in the midst of
youths and old persons,
I see where the strong divine young man the Hercules toil'd
faithfully and long and then died,
I see the place of the innocent rich life and hapless fate of the
beautiful nocturnal son, the full-limb'd Bacchus,
I see Kneph, blooming, drest in blue, with the crown of feathers on
his head,
I see Hermes, unsuspected, dying, well-belov'd, saying to the people
Do not weep for me,
This is not my true country, I have lived banish'd from my true
country, I now go back there,
I return to the celestial sphere where every one goes in his turn.

7
I see the battle-fields of the earth, grass grows upon them and
blossoms and corn,
I see the tracks of ancient and modern expeditions.

I see the nameless masonries, venerable messages of the unknown
events, heroes, records of the earth.

I see the places of the sagas,
I see pine-trees and fir-trees torn by northern blasts,
I see granite bowlders and cliffs, I see green meadows and lakes,
I see the burial-cairns of Scandinavian warriors,
I see them raised high with stones by the marge of restless oceans,
that the dead men's spirits when they wearied of their quiet
graves might rise up through the mounds and gaze on the tossing
billows, and be refresh'd by storms, immensity, liberty, action.

I see the steppes of Asia,
I see the tumuli of Mongolia, I see the tents of Kalmucks and Baskirs,
I see the nomadic tribes with herds of oxen and cows,
I see the table-lands notch'd with ravines, I see the jungles and deserts,
I see the camel, the wild steed, the bustard, the fat-tail'd sheep,
the antelope, and the burrowing wolf

I see the highlands of Abyssinia,
I see flocks of goats feeding, and see the fig-tree, tamarind, date,
And see fields of teff-wheat and places of verdure and gold.

I see the Brazilian vaquero,
I see the Bolivian ascending mount Sorata,
I see the Wacho crossing the plains, I see the incomparable rider of
horses with his lasso on his arm,
I see over the pampas the pursuit of wild cattle for their hides.

8
I see the regions of snow and ice,
I see the sharp-eyed Samoiede and the Finn,
I see the seal-seeker in his boat poising his lance,
I see the Siberian on his slight-built sledge drawn by dogs,
I see the porpoise-hunters, I see the whale-crews of the south
Pacific and the north Atlantic,
I see the cliffs, glaciers, torrents, valleys, of Switzerland--I
mark the long winters and the isolation.

I see the cities of the earth and make myself at random a part of them,
I am a real Parisian,
I am a habitan of Vienna, St. Petersburg, Berlin, Constantinople,
I am of Adelaide, Sidney, Melbourne,
I am of London, Manchester, Bristol, Edinburgh, Limerick,
I am of Madrid, Cadiz, Barcelona, Oporto, Lyons, Brussels, Berne,
Frankfort, Stuttgart, Turin, Florence,
I belong in Moscow, Cracow, Warsaw, or northward in Christiania or
Stockholm, or in Siberian Irkutsk, or in some street in Iceland,
I descend upon all those cities, and rise from them again.

10
I see vapors exhaling from unexplored countries,
I see the savage types, the bow and arrow, the poison'd splint, the
fetich, and the obi.
I see African and Asiatic towns,
I see Algiers, Tripoli, Derne, Mogadore, Timbuctoo, Monrovia,
I see the swarms of Pekin, Canton, Benares, Delhi, Calcutta, Tokio,
I see the Kruman in his hut, and the Dahoman and Ashantee-man in their huts,
I see the Turk smoking opium in Aleppo,
I see the picturesque crowds at the fairs of Khiva and those of Herat,
I see Teheran, I see Muscat and Medina and the intervening sands,
see the caravans toiling onward,
I see Egypt and the Egyptians, I see the pyramids and obelisks.
I look on chisell'd histories, records of conquering kings,
dynasties, cut in slabs of sand-stone, or on granite-blocks,
I see at Memphis mummy-pits containing mummies embalm'd,
swathed in linen cloth, lying there many centuries,
I look on the fall'n Theban, the large-ball'd eyes, the
side-drooping neck, the hands folded across the breast.

I see all the menials of the earth, laboring,
I see all the prisoners in the prisons,
I see the defective human bodies of the earth,
The blind, the deaf and dumb, idiots, hunchbacks, lunatics,
The pirates, thieves, betrayers, murderers, slave-makers of the earth,
The helpless infants, and the helpless old men and women.

I see male and female everywhere,
I see the serene brotherhood of philosophs,
I see the constructiveness of my race,
I see the results of the perseverance and industry of my race,
I see ranks, colors, barbarisms, civilizations, I go among them, I
mix indiscriminately,
And I salute all the inhabitants of the earth.

11
You whoever you are!
You daughter or son of England!
You of the mighty Slavic tribes and empires! you Russ in Russia!
You dim-descended, black, divine-soul'd African, large, fine-headed,
nobly-form'd, superbly destin'd, on equal terms with me!
You Norwegian! Swede! Dane! Icelander! you Prussian!
You Spaniard of Spain! you Portuguese!
You Frenchwoman and Frenchman of France!
You Belge! you liberty-lover of the Netherlands! (you stock whence I
myself have descended;)
You sturdy Austrian! you Lombard! Hun! Bohemian! farmer of Styria!
You neighbor of the Danube!
You working-man of the Rhine, the Elbe, or the Weser! you working-woman too!
You Sardinian! you Bavarian! Swabian! Saxon! Wallachian! Bulgarian!
You Roman! Neapolitan! you Greek!
You lithe matador in the arena at Seville!
You mountaineer living lawlessly on the Taurus or Caucasus!
You Bokh horse-herd watching your mares and stallions feeding!
You beautiful-bodied Persian at full speed in the saddle shooting
arrows to the mark!
You Chinaman and Chinawoman of China! you Tartar of Tartary!
You women of the earth subordinated at your tasks!
You Jew journeying in your old age through every risk to stand once
on Syrian ground!
You other Jews waiting in all lands for your Messiah!
You thoughtful Armenian pondering by some stream of the Euphrates!
you peering amid the ruins of Nineveh! you ascending mount Ararat!
You foot-worn pilgrim welcoming the far-away sparkle of the minarets
of Mecca!
You sheiks along the stretch from Suez to Bab-el-mandeb ruling your
families and tribes!
You olive-grower tending your fruit on fields of Nazareth, Damascus,
or lake Tiberias!
You Thibet trader on the wide inland or bargaining in the shops of Lassa!
You Japanese man or woman! you liver in Madagascar, Ceylon, Sumatra, Borneo!
All you continentals of Asia, Africa, Europe, Australia, indifferent
of place!
All you on the numberless islands of the archipelagoes of the sea!
And you of centuries hence when you listen to me!
And you each and everywhere whom I specify not, but include just the same!
Health to you! good will to you all, from me and America sent!

Each of us inevitable,
Each of us limitless--each of us with his or her right upon the earth,
Each of us allow'd the eternal purports of the earth,
Each of us here as divinely as any is here.

12
You Hottentot with clicking palate! you woolly-hair'd hordes!
You own'd persons dropping sweat-drops or blood-drops!
You human forms with the fathomless ever-impressive countenances of brutes!
You poor koboo whom the meanest of the rest look down upon for all
your glimmering language and spirituality!
You dwarf'd Kamtschatkan, Greenlander, Lapp!
You Austral negro, naked, red, sooty, with protrusive lip,
groveling, seeking your food!
You Caffre, Berber, Soudanese!
You haggard, uncouth, untutor'd Bedowee!
You plague-swarms in Madras, Nankin, Kaubul, Cairo!
You benighted roamer of Amazonia! you Patagonian! you Feejeeman!
I do not prefer others so very much before you either,
I do not say one word against you, away back there where you stand,
(You will come forward in due time to my side.)

13
My spirit has pass'd in compassion and determination around the whole earth,
I have look'd for equals and lovers and found them ready for me in
all lands,
I think some divine rapport has equalized me with them.

You vapors, I think I have risen with you, moved away to distant
continents, and fallen down there, for reasons,
I think I have blown with you you winds;
You waters I have finger'd every shore with you,
I have run through what any river or strait of the globe has run through,
I have taken my stand on the bases of peninsulas and on the high
embedded rocks, to cry thence:

What cities the light or warmth penetrates I penetrate those cities myself,
All islands to which birds wing their way I wing my way myself.

Toward you all, in America's name,
I raise high the perpendicular hand, I make the signal,
To remain after me in sight forever,
For all the haunts and homes of men.

Walt Whitman , Salut au Monde. , in Leaves of Grass

"22474”

2010-12-09T22:26:00.010Z

“22474”, José Luís Neto . Uma fotografia de Joshua Benoliel durante a cerimónia de abolição do capuz na penitenciária de Lisboa, em 1913, é o ponto de partida para este trabalho em que os rostos encapuzados dos prisioneiros são ampliados e parecem ganhar um rosto.
“22474” - é o número que o negativo original da imagem, em formato 9x12cm, recebeu no inventário do arquivo fotográfico da Câmara Municipal de Lisboa.

Persona

2010-12-04T14:47:00.006Z

"....é através da máscara que o indíviduo adquire um papel e uma identidade social. Assim, em Roma, cada indivíduo era identificado por um nome que exprimia a sua pertença a uma gens, a uma estirpe, mas esta era, por sua vez, definida pela máscara de certo antepassado que cada família patrícia guardava no átrio da sua casa. Daqui a fazer da persona e da "personalidade" que define o lugar do indivíduo nos dramas e nos ritos da vida social, a distância é curta, e persona acabou por significar a capacidade jurídica e a dignidade política do homem livre. Quanto ao escravo, do mesmo modo que não tinha nem antepassados, nem máscara, nem nome, não podia também ter uma "pessoa" (...) A luta pelo reconhecimento é, portanto, luta por uma máscara."
in Nudez Giorgio Agamben, Relógio D'Água

( A capa do livro é má ...dos vários temas, li apenas uns excertos...fica alguma curiosidade. O filme, "Le Visage D'un Autre" de Hiroshi Teshigahara, estive a revê-lo.)

Watching You

2010-11-30T11:25:00.002Z

Walk In II

2010-11-18T13:13:00.000Z

Os seus dias estão contados...

2010-10-04T18:34:00.003+01:00

Ilustração Portuguesa, N.º 628, 4 de Março de 1918

CTRL-ALT-DEL

2010-09-20T14:16:00.003+01:00

Watching again

2010-07-15T21:12:00.005+01:00

Le sang d'un poète, Jean Cocteau,1930

O Passado e o Presente, Manoel de Oliveira, 1971

"Pensées Plumes" (1911-2010)

2010-06-02T17:54:00.002+01:00

L.B: " I am still fond of Robert Mapplethorpe's portrait. People seem to like it very much because they thought Robert and I were both 'naughty'."

Louise Bourgeois, S/título/Harry Truman, 2005, detalhe de uma sequência de 72 desenhos na 52ª Bienal de Veneza

« Dans mon art, je suis l'assassin. Je ressens le supplice de l'assassin, celui qui doit vivre avec sa conscience. Comme artiste, je suis un être puissant. Au quotidien, je suis comme une souris derrière le calorifère. »- Louise Bourgeois

Watching

2010-05-26T20:08:00.003+01:00

Tony Just, Sommer & Kohl, Berlin, Abril de 2010

Les fous

2010-04-28T23:12:00.006+01:00

L'Eternité

Elle est retrouvée.
Quoi ? - L'Eternité.
C'est la mer allée
Avec le soleil.

Ame sentinelle,
Murmurons l'aveu
De la nuit si nulle
Et du jour en feu.

Des humains suffrages,
Des communs élans
Là tu te dégages
Et voles selon.

Puisque de vous seules,
Braises de satin,
Le Devoir s'exhale
Sans qu'on dise : enfin.

Là pas d'espérance,
Nul orietur.
Science avec patience,
Le supplice est sûr.

Elle est retrouvée.
Quoi ? - L'Eternité.
C'est la mer allée
Avec le soleil.
Arthur Rimbaud, 1872

PAROLES

2010-04-22T20:54:00.014+01:00

Procurei-as num livro que tinha lido há muito, "Paroles" de Jacques Prévert. E no fim, mesmo no fim do livro, está "A Lanterna Mágica de Picasso".

Tous les yeux d'une femme joués sur le même tableau
Les traits de l'être aimé traqués par le destin sous la fleur immobile d'un sordide papier peint
L'herbe blanche du meurtre dans une forêt de chaises
Un mendiant de carton éventré sur une table de marbre
Les cendres d'un cigare sur le quai d'une gare
Le portrait d'un portrait
Le mystère d'un enfant
La splendeur indéniable d'un buffet de cuisine
La beauté immédiate d'un chiffon dans le vent
La folle terreur du piège dans un regard d'oiseau
L''absurde hennissement d'un cheval décousu
La musique impossible des mules à grelots
Le taureau mis à mort couronné de chapeaux
La jambe jamais pareille d'une rousse endormie et la très grande oreille de ses moindres soucis
Le mouvement perpétuel attrapé à la main
L''immense statue de pierre d'un grain de sel marin
La joie de chaque jour et l'incertitude de mourir et le fer de l'amour dans la plaie d'un sourire
La plus lointaine étoile du plus humble des chiens
Et salés sur une vitre le tendre goût du pain
La ligne de chance perdue et retrouvée brisée et redressée parée des haillons bleus de la nécessité
L'étourdissante apparition d'un grain de raisin de Malaga sur un gâteau de riz
Un homme dans un bouge assommant à coups de rouge le mal du pays
Et la lueur aveuglante d'un paquet de bougies
Une fenêtre sur la mer ouverte comme une huître
Le sabot d'un cheval le pied nu d'une ombrelle
La grâce incomparable d'une tourterelle toute seule dans une maison très froide
Le poids mort d'une pendule et ses moments perdus
Le soleil somnambule qui réveille en sursaut au milieu de la nuit la Beauté somnolente et soudain éblouie qui jette sur ses épaules le manteau de la cheminée et l'entraîne avec lui dans le noir de fumée masquée de blanc d'Espagne et vêtue de papiers collés
Et tant de choses encore
Une guitare de bois vert berçant l'enfance de l'art
Un ticket de chemin de fer avec tous ses bagages
La main qui dépayse un visage qui dévisage un paysage
L'écureuil caressant d'une fille neuve et nue
Splendide souriante heureuse et impudique
Surgissant à l'improviste d'un casier à bouteilles ou d'un casier à musique comme une panoplie de plantes vertes vivaces et phalliques
Surgissant elle aussi à l'improviste du tronc pourrissant
D'un palmier académique nostalgique et désespérément vieux beau comme l'antique
Et les cloches à melon du matin brisées par le cri d'un journal du soir
Les terrifiantes pinces d'un crabe émergeant des dessous d'un panier
La dernière fleur d'un arbre avec les deux gouttes d'eau du condamné
Et la mariée trop belle seule et abandonnée sur le divan cramoisi de la jalousie par la blême frayeur de ses premiers maris
Et puis dans un jardin d'hiver sur le dossier d'un trône une chatte en émoi et la moustache de sa queue sous les narines d'un roi
La chaux vive d'un regard dans le visage de pierre d'une vieille femme assise près d'un panier d'osier
Et crispées sur le minimum tout frais du garde-fou d'un phare tout blanc les deux mains bleues de froid d'un Arlequin errant qui regarde la mer et ses grands chevaux dormants dans le soleil couchant et puis qui se réveillent les naseaux écumants les yeux phosphorescents affolés par la lueur du phare et ses épouvantables feux tournant
Et L'alouette toute rôtie dans la bouche d'un mendiant
Une jeune femme infirme folle dans un jardin public qui souriant d'un sourire déchiré mécanique en berçant dans ses bras un enfant léthargique trace dans la poussière de son pied sale et nu la silhouette du père et ses profils perdus et présente aux passants son nouveau-né en loques Regardez donc mon beau regardez donc ma belle ma merveille des merveilles mon enfant naturel d'un côté c'est un garçon et de l'autre c'est une fille tous les matins il pleure mais tous les soirs je la console et les remonte comme une pendule
Et aussi le gardien du square fasciné par le crépuscule
La vie d'une araignée suspendue à un fil
L'insomnie d'une poupée au balancier cassé et ses grands yeux de verre ouverts à tout jamais
La mort d'un cheval blanc la jeunesse d'un moineau
La porte d'une école rue du Pont-de-Lodi
Et les Grands Augustins empalés à la grille d'une maison dans une petite rue dont ils portent le nom
Tous les pêcheurs d'Antibes autour d'un seul poisson
La violence d'un oeuf la détresse d'un soldat
La présence obsédante d'une clé cachée sous un paillasson
Et la ligne de mire et la ligne de mort dans la main autoritaire et potelée d'un simulacre d'homme obèse et délirant camouflant soigneusement derrière les bannières exemplaires et les crucifix gammés drapés et dressés spectaculairement sur le grand balcon mortuaire du musée des horreurs et des honneurs de la guerre la ridicule statue vivante de ses petites jambes courtes et de son buste trop long mais ne parvenant pas malgré son bon sourire de Caudillo grandiose et magnanime à cacher les irrémédiables et pitoyables signes de la peur de l'ennui de la haine et la connerie gravés sur son masque de viande fauve et blême comme les graffiti obscènes de la mégalomanie gravés par les lamentables tortionnaires de l'ordre nouveau dans les urinoirs de la nuit
Et derrière lui dans le charnier d'une valise diplomatique entrouverte le cadavre tout simple d'un paysan pauvre assailli dans son champ à coups de lingots d'or par d'impeccables hommes d'argent
Et tout à côté sur une table une grenade ouverte avec toute une ville dedans
Et toute la douleur de cette ville rasée et saignée à blanc
Et toute la garde civile caracolant tout autour d'une civière
Où rêve encore un gitan mort
Et toute la colère d'un peuple amoureux travailleur insouciant et charmant qui soudain éclate brusquement comme le cri rouge d'un coq égorgé publiquement
Et le spectre solaire des hommes aux bas salaires qui surgit tout sanglant des sanglantes entrailles d'une maison ouvrière tenant à bout de bras la pauvre lueur de la misère la lampe sanglante de Guernica et découvre au grand jour de sa lumière crue et vraie les épouvantables fausses teintes d'un monde décoloré usé jusqu'à la corde vidé jusqu'à la moelle
D'un monde mort sur pied
D'un monde condamné
Et déjà oublié
Noyé carbonisé aux mille feux de l'eau courante du ruisseau populaire
Où le sang populaire court inlassablement
Intarissablement
Dans les artères et dans les veines de la terre et dans les artères et dans les veines de ses véritables enfants
Et le visage de n'importe lequel de ses enfants dessiné simplement sur une feuille de papier blanc
Le visage d'André Breton le visage de Paul Eluard
Le visage d'un charretier aperçu dans la rue
La lueur du clin d'oeil d'un marchand de mouron
Le sourire épanoui d'un sculpteur de marrons
Et sculpté dans le plâtre un mouton de plâtre frisé bêlant de vérité dans la main d'un berger de plâtre debout près d'un fer à repasser
A côté d'une boîte à cigares vide
A côté d'un crayon oublié
A côté des Métamorphoses d'Ovide
A côté d'un lacet de soulier
A côté d'un fauteuil aux jambes coupées par la fatigue des années
A côté d'un bouton de porte
A côté d'une nature morte où les rêves enfantins d'une femme de ménage agonisent sur la pierre froide d'un évier comme des poissons suffoquant et crevant sur des galets brûlants
Et la maison remuée de fond en comble par les pauvres cris de poisson mort de la femme de ménage désespérée tout à coup qui fait naufrage soulevée par les lames de fond du parquet et va s'échouer lamentablement sur les bords de la Seine dans les jardins du Vert-Galant
Et là désemparée elle s'assoit sur un banc
Et elle fait ses comptes
Et elle ne se voit pas blanche pourrie par les souvenirs et fauchée comme les blés
Une seule pièce lui reste une chambre à coucher
Et comme elle va la jouer à pile ou face avec le vain espoir de gagner un peu de temps
Un grand orage éclate dans la glace à trois faces
Avec totues les flammes de la joie de vivre
Tous les éclars de la chaleur animale
Toutes les lueurs de la bonne humeur
Et donnant le coup de grâce à la maison désorientée
Incendie les rideaux de la chambre à coucher
Et roulant en boule de feu les draps au pied du lit
Découvre en souriant devant le monde entier
Le puzzle de l'amour avec tous ses morceaux
Tous ses morceaux choisis par Picasso
Un amant sa maîtresse et ses jambes à son cou
Et les yeux sur les fesses les mains un peu partout
Les pieds levés au ciel et les seins sens dessus dessous
Les deux corps enlacés échangés caressés
L'amour décapité délivré et ravi
La tête abandonnée roulant sur le tapis
Les idées délaissées oubliées égarées
Mises hors d'état de nuire par la joie et le plaisir
Les idées de colère bafouées par l'amour en couleur
Les idées terrées et atterrées comme les pauvres rats de la mort sentant venir le bouleversant naufrage de l'Amour
Les idées remses à leur place à la porte de la chambre à côté du pan à côté des souliers
Les idées clacinées escamotées volatilisées désidéalisées
Les idées pétrifiées devant la merveilleuse indifférence d'un monde passionné
D'un monde retrouvé
D'un monde indiscutable et inexpliqué
D'un monde sans savor-vivre mais plein de joie de vivre
D'un monde sobre et ivre
D'un monde triste et gai
Tendre et cruel
Réel et surréel
Terrifiant et marrant
Nocturne et diurne
Solite et insolite
Beau comme tout

Nos silences, nos paroles.

2010-04-14T11:30:00.005+01:00

Ta voix, tes yeux,
tes mains, tes lèvres.
Nos silences, nos paroles.
La lumière qui s'en va,
la lumière qui revient.
Un seul sourire pour nous deux.
Par besoin de savoir.
j'ai vu la nuit créer le jour
sans que nous changions d'apparence.
O bien aimée de tous,
Et bien aimée d'un seul,
en silence ta bouche
a promis d'être heureuse.
De loin en loin dit la haine,
de proche en proche dit l'amour.
Par la caresse
nous sortons de notre enfance.
Je vois de mieux en mieux
la forme humaine,
comme un dialogue d'amoureux.
Le cœur n'est qu'une seule bouche.
Toutes les choses au hasard,
tous les mots dits sans y penser,
les sentiments à la dérive,
les hommes tournent dans la ville,
le regard, la parole, et le fait que je t'aime.
Tout est en mouvement.
Il suffit d'avancer pour vivre.
D'aller droit devant soi,
vers tous ceux que l'on aime.
J'allais vers toi. J'allais sans fin vers la lumière.
Si tu souris c'est pour mieux m'envahir.
Les rayons de tes bras
entrouvraient le brouillard.
Palavras de Paul Éluard, em Alphaville, Godard.

Nouvelle vague

2010-03-24T21:12:00.001Z

Nouvelle vague (Jean-Luc Godard, 1990)

Plazaville

2010-03-11T22:04:00.017Z

Plazaville is a new media video art work. It is based on the classic 1965 movie Alphaville by Jean Luc Godard. It is set in 21st century New York City. The scenes from the original Alphaville are being re-enacted, interpreted and improvised upon by the artists, actors and videographers. The piece uses the internet as one means of distributing the short video clips. This is somewhat like a serialized program but is not in any order. Viewers can download new scenes as they become available on the Turbulence website as well as iTunes and youTube. The videos can be viewed on computers, iPhones and large screen HD televisions (using AppleTV). The final presentation of the work is a video projection/ installation work at Pace Digital Gallery scheduled for April 2009.Plazaville is a 2009 commission of New Radio and Performing Arts, Inc., (aka Ether-Ore) for its Turbulence web site. It was made possible with funding from the New York City Department of Cultural Affairs. Produced by G.H. Hovagimyan with Christina McPhee & Artists

Vê aqui:

g. h. hovagimyan's youtube channel

the artist meeting website

Watching you

2010-03-08T20:29:00.004Z

Joan Fontcuberta, L'œil de la nature, 1974.

"It's not where you take things from..."

2010-02-24T11:19:00.003Z

Há-de ser isso e nada mais...

2010-01-12T00:46:00.009Z

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;
This it is, and nothing more.”
Gustave Doré, Ilustrações de "O Corvo" de Edgar Allan Poe

Walk out there and go....

2010-01-05T09:23:00.002Z

Bells are ringing
We both know
There's nothing left to do
But walk out there and go

Lhasa de Sela (27 de Setembro de 1972 – 1 de Janeiro de 2010)

Boas Festas!

2009-12-23T09:47:00.004Z

Entre curtas e longas, entre o silêncio e as palavras, parabéns!

2009-12-11T09:30:00.005Z

Quando eu digo que o cinema não existe, que o que existe é o teatro e que o cinema é um processo de fixação audiovisual do teatro, é porque é aí que ele é rico, que é verdadeiramente distinto do teatro, que é rápido, que é efémero. Se eu digo que o cinema não existe, é da mesma maneira que podia dizer que a vida não existe, que o que existe de facto é o teatro. Porque a vida escapa-se-nos a todo o instante, o momento de agora é já perdido, e portanto o que nos resta da vida é o teatro.

2009-12-04T13:59:00.001Z

Hauschka - Morgenrot from Jeff Desom on Vimeo.

2009-12-04T11:22:00.003Z

John Parminter's

"Figuras de Sopro"

2009-11-25T22:50:00.004Z

Mário Cesariny de Vasconcelos, 9 de Agosto de 1923 - 26 de Novembro de 2006

2009-11-16T23:33:00.001Z

Watching you

2009-11-05T22:42:00.002Z

If only you could see what I've seen with your eyes!

2009-10-26T23:16:00.001Z

BRRRRAIN

2009-10-22T22:42:00.011+01:00

Auto-retrato,
António Olaio, na Culturgest até 23 de Dezembro

A rua é malvada

2009-10-19T19:33:00.006+01:00

[...]
Estou-me nas tintas para que me considerem sério ou não. Ainda lhes bebo à saúde. A minha intervenção é gratuita, absolutamente suplementar. A mãe apela outra vez para as suas coxas. Dou um derradeiro parecer. E depois, desço as escadas. No passeio está um cãozito, que coxeia. Segue-me por sua alta recriação. Tudo esta tarde se me agarra. É um pequeno fox, o cão, preto e branco. Está perdido parece-me a mim. Aqueles ingratos daqueles desempregados lá de cima. Nem sequer me acompanham à porta. Tenho a certeza que começaram logo à pancada. Ouço-os a berrar. Ele que lhe meta o tição todo pelo cu a dentro! Para a endireitar àquela porca! Para ela aprender a não me vir incomodar!
Agora viro à esquerda... Para Colombes, em suma. O cãozito continua atrás de mim... A seguir a Asniêres é a Jonction e depois o meu primo. Mas o cãozito coxeia muito. Olha para mim. Chateia-me vê-lo arrastar-se. O melhor é voltar para casa ao fim e ao cabo. Viemos pelo Pont Bineux e depois à beira das fábricas. Ainda não tinha fechado, o dispensário, quando eu voltei... «Vamos lá dar de comer a este rafeiro – disse eu para a Senhora Hortense. Alguém que vá buscar carne... Amanhã de manhã cedo logo se telefona... Hão-de vir buscá-lo de carro, lá da Protectora. Esta noite o melhor é ficar fechado.» Lá fui então, sossegado. Mas era um cão muito assustadiço. Tinha recebido duros golpes. A rua é malvada. Ao abrir a janela, no dia seguinte, nem sequer esperou, saltou logo lá para fora, também nós lhe metíamos medo. Julgou que o tínhamos castigado. Não percebia nada de nada. Confiança já a perdera de todo. Quando é assim é terrível.
[...]

Louis-Ferdinand Céline
Morte a Crédito
tradução de Luiza Neto Jorge
Assírio & Alvim, 1986

Humpty Dumpty

2009-10-15T14:02:00.005+01:00

Humpty Dumpty, Frank Brunner,1978

Humpty Dumpty, EB Thurstan,1930

des-APONTAMENTOS

2009-10-06T23:13:00.007+01:00

Socialisme, Jean-Luc Godard. Para Janeiro de 2010

K-Hole

2009-09-27T11:01:00.004+01:00

Calor

2009-09-10T23:07:00.002+01:00

Watching you again

2009-09-01T22:37:00.002+01:00

Até Setembro!

2009-07-30T22:28:00.001+01:00

Para Merce (Cunningham)

2009-07-28T09:22:00.006+01:00

Fotografia de Mark Seliger

Dancers on a plane, 1980-1, Jasper Johns (1930 - )

Cenografia de Jasper John para o espectáculo de Merce Cunningham, "Walkaround Time" (1968), baseado no "Grande Vidro" de Marcel Duchamp. Fotografia de James Klosty. "So beautiful..."

Go to work

2009-07-22T23:22:00.002+01:00

Graffiti, Parede

Ver Devagar

2009-07-08T22:41:00.009+01:00

Pina Bausch

2009-06-30T22:24:00.011+01:00

Café Müller - Pina Bausch (Solingen, 27 de julho de 1940 — Wuppertal, 30 de Junho de 2009)
Fotografia: Ulli Weiss.

À l'œil. On donne à l'œil.

2009-06-19T23:49:00.006+01:00

Cartaz publicitário, 1864, Jean-Alexis Rouchon
À l'œil. On donne à l'œil.

Permuta

2009-05-29T23:00:00.006+01:00

Graffiti, Graça, Lisboa

O Passado e o Presente

2009-05-21T22:08:00.009+01:00

O Passado e o Presente, Manoel de Oliveira,1971

João Bénard da Costa (7 de Fevereiro de 1935 - 21 de Maio de 2009)

Pandemia

2009-05-13T22:18:00.004+01:00

Morimura

2009-04-27T22:57:00.004+01:00

"Yasumasa Morimura - Requiem for the XX Century. Twilight of the Turbulent Gods," Fondazione Bevilacqua La Masa. Venice, Italy. June 8-October 8, 2007.

Dolls

2009-04-16T23:37:00.004+01:00

Die Puppe, la poupée, muñeca , boneca . Em suma, Barbie .

Black Hearted

2009-03-30T23:49:00.020+01:00

Wa-Lah!

2009-03-25T23:46:00.009Z

The Toy Factory

As Cidades e os Olhos

2009-02-26T22:55:00.014Z

CODEX SERAPHINIANUS, Luigi Serafini (Seraphianus), 1981.

…Chegados a Filias comprazemo-nos a observar quantas pontes diferentes umas das outras atravessam os canais: pontes em arco, cobertas, sobre pilares, de barcas, suspensas, com os parapeitos perfurados; quantas variedades de janelas se vêem sobre as ruas: geminadas, mouriscas, lanceoladas, em ogiva, encimadas por lunetas ou por florões; quantas espécies de pavimentos cobrem o solo: de mosaicos, de lajes, de saibro, de azulejos brancos e azuis. Em cada um dos seus pontos, a cidade surpreende a vista: um cesto de alcaparras a sair da muralha da fortaleza, as estátuas de três rainhas sobre um pedestal, uma cúpula em cebola com três cebolinhas enfiadas na agulha do pináculo. "Bem-aventurado quem tem todos os dias Filias sob os olhos e nunca deixa de ver as coisas que contém", exclamamos com a tristeza de ter de abandonar a cidade depois de havê-la só aflorado com o olhar.

Mas acontece-nos ficarmos em Filias e passarmos lá o resto dos nossos dias. Em breve a cidade empalidece aos nossos olhos, cancelam-se os florões, as estátuas sobre os pedestais, as cúpulas. Tal como todos os habitantes de Filias, seguimos linhas em ziguezague de uma rua para outra, distinguimos zonas de sol e zonas de sombra, aqui uma porta, ali uma escada, um banco onde podemos pousar o cesto, uma cunha onde o pé tropeça se não dermos por ela. Todo o resto da cidade é invisível. Filias é um espaço em que se traçam percursos entre pontos suspensos no vácuo, o caminho mais curto para chegar à loja daquele mercador evitando o portal daquele credor. Os nossos passos percorrem não o que se encontra fora (do alcance) dos olhos mas sim dentro, sepultado e apagado: se entre dois pórticos um continuar a parecer-nos mais alegre é porque é aquele por onde passava há trinta anos uma rapariga de largas mangas bordadas, ou é só porque recebe a luz a uma certa hora como aquele pórtico, que já não nos lembramos onde ficava.
Milhões de olhos erguem-se para as janelas pontes alcaparras e é como se percorressem uma página em branco. Muitas são as cidades como Filias que se subtraem aos olhares se não as apanharmos de surpresa.

Italo Calvino, As Cidades Invisíveis

Sexto dedo

2009-02-26T22:46:00.003Z

Yukoku

2009-02-12T22:28:00.016Z

Yukio Mishima, O Patriotismo - Ritos de Amor e Morte (a gerência pede desculpa pela interrupção)

"A 28 de Fevereiro de 1936, o terceiro dia depois do incidente de 26 de Fevereiro, o tenente Shunji Takeyama, do Batalhão de Transportes, profundamente perturbado ao saber que os seus colegas mais próximos eram coniventes com os amotinados, e indignado ante a iminente perspectiva do ataque das tropas imperiais, tomou a sua espada de oficial e, cerimoniosamente, esventrou as suas entranhas no quarto de oito tatamis da sua residência privada, a Residência Yotsuya, na sexta rua de Aoba-Cho, no Distrito de Iotsuya. Seguiu-se-lhe Reiko, a sua mulher, que se matou apunhalando-se".

Yukio Mishima, O Patriotismo - Ritos de Amor e Morte

Watching you

2009-02-03T18:45:00.008Z

Two Heads

2009-02-02T20:07:00.005Z

"Two Heads", Helena Nogueira da Silva

Duas cabeças na carpete, sem dúvida acrílica, do escritório do general, colocadas uma ao lado da outra, como quilhas, quase roçando entre si. Duas cabeças, bolas inertes, dois cérebros que o sangue já não irriga, dois ordenadores interrompidos na sua tarefa, que já não filtram nem descodificam o perpétuo fluxo das imagens, de impressões, estímulos e respostas que aos milhões nos atravessam todos os dias, formando no seu conjunto aquilo a que chamamos a vida do espírito e mesmo a dos sentidos e motivando e dirigindo os movimentos do resto do corpo. Duas cabeças decapitadas, partindo para um mundo diferente onde vigoram outras leis e que, ao serem contempladas, produzem mais estupefacção do que horror. Os juízos de valor, morais, políticos, ou estéticos, ficam, na sua presença, momentaneamente suspensos. A noção que se impõe é mais desconcertante e simples: entre as miríades de coisas que existem e que existiram, estas duas cabeças existiram; existem. O que enche agora esses olhos que já não vêem, não é a bandeira desfraldada dos protestos políticos, nem nenhuma outra imagem intelectual ou carnal, nem sequer o vazio que Honda contemplara e que parece agora um conceito ou um símbolo, apesar de tudo demasiado humano. Dois objectos, restos quase inorgânicos de estruturas destruídas e que depois de passarem pelo fogo serão apenas minerais e cinzas. Não são, sequer temas possíveis de meditação, pois faltam-nos os dados para podermos meditar sobre eles.
Dois destroços arrastados pelo Rio da Acção, que uma vaga imensa deixou por um instante a seco sobre o areal, antes de os voltar a levar consigo.
Marguerite Yourcenar, Mishima ou a Visão do Vazio

Suna no Onna

2009-01-27T23:07:00.005Z

LA FEMME DES SABLES (A Mulher de Areia),Hiroshi Teshigahara,1964

2009-01-25T23:33:00.009Z

LA FEMME DES SABLES (A Mulher de Areia), Hiroshi Teshigahara, 1964

Elipse

2009-01-23T10:15:00.004Z

Pierre Huyghe, l'Ellipse

L’Ellipse consiste num écrã panorâmico formado por três projecções vídeo colocadas lado a lado, as quais deverão ser lidas, sucessivamente, da esquerda para a direita. Os ecrãs laterais mostram, alternadamente, duas sequências que se sucedem no filme O Amigo Americano, de Wim Wenders, filmado em 1977 (…)
Entre estas duas sequências, o écrã central mostra uma sequência que liga as duas outras.
Esta nova sequência foi filmada vinte e um anos depois com o mesmo actor e nos mesmos locais da ficção, adoptando o tempo e o espaço sugeridos pela elipse existente no filme original.
(…)

CODEX SERAPHINIANUS

2009-01-19T19:31:00.005Z

CODEX SERAPHINIANUS, Luigi Serafini (Seraphianus), 1981.

Wait and see

2009-01-13T22:09:00.003Z

Watching you

2009-01-07T22:24:00.001Z

Marcel Mariën, L'Introuvable, 1937

Police On My Back

2009-01-04T19:22:00.007Z

...

Hap- - -py New Year!

2008-12-30T00:28:00.009Z

Joe E. Brown no filme de George Sidney, Showboat (1951), música de Jerome Kern e letra de Oscar Hammerstein II

Christmas Close Up

2008-12-12T23:27:00.007Z

Ladislaw Starewicz (1882-1965), The Insect's Christmas,1913

Son cas - "Primitif du Cinématographe"

2008-12-10T22:51:00.041Z

Manoel de Oliveira, "Douro Faina Fluvial" , 1931

"É uma pequena obra de arte. A moderna poesia do ferro e do aço, o fascinio da natureza nos seus diversos aspectos e matizes, a tonalidade das horas, a alegria e a miséria do homem na sua luta pelo pão de cada dia, tudo isto aqui está representado com verdadeira grandeza"
José Régio, 1934

Manoel de Oliveira,Mon Cas, 1985 , baseado nas obras O Meu Caso, de José Régio, Pour Finir Encore et Outres foirades (For to End Yet Again and Other Fizzles), de Samuel Beckett e exertos do Livro de Job.

Imagem e texto: Cahiers du cinéma n°400, "Mon Cas" de Manoel Oliveira - Le Primitif du Cinématographe, por Antoine de Baecque

Big Brother (is Watching you)

2008-12-09T21:22:00.016Z

Vasco Monteiro, "Big Brother"

Vasco Monteiro, "Amor louco"

(Na Módulo - Centro Difusor de Arte - Calçada dos Mestres, 34A/B, em Lisboa, até 31 de Dezembro)

Cliquot

2008-12-01T22:57:00.006Z

The Flying Club Cup

A plague in the workhouse, a plague on the poor
Now I'll beat on my drum 'til I'm dead
Yesterday, a fever, tomorrow, St. Peter
I'll beat on my drum until then.

But what melody will lead my lover from his bed?
What melody will see him in my arms again?

Set fire to foundation and burn out the station
You'll never get nothing of mine
The pane of my window will flicker and billow
I won't leave a stitching behind

But what melody will lead my lover from his bed?
What melody will see him in my arms again?

I'll sing of the walls of the well and the house at the top of the hill
I'll sing of the bottles of wine that we left on our old windowsill
I'll sing of the years you will spend getting sadder and older
Oh love, and the cold, the oncoming cold

"A criança é a máscara do velho"

2008-11-26T00:03:00.010Z

Mário Cesariny de Vasconcelos, O Operário, 1947

MGM ... mas o que é que fica, o que é que realmente fica de nós?

M.C Bom, de nós ficam os filhos se fazes filhos, ficam livros e pinturas se escreves ou pintas, ficam esculturas, etc… Não é grande consolação… para mim não é! Porque se houvesse a eternidade era uma coisa, não é? Mas não há… Não interessa quantos milhares de anos, ou milhões de anos, o planeta terra vai levar para explodir, não é? Portanto acaba tudo por desaparecer, pronto, fsssst!
É muito misterioso isto tudo, não é?

MGM Então para que é que isto serve?

MC Não sei, serve para foder que é muito agradável e dá muito gozo. Serve para amar....e serve para morrer. Pronto!
"A criança é a máscara do velho", mas a verdade é que a criança, enquanto criança, é mesmo criança, não é?

"Autografia"de Miguel Gonçalves Mendes, sobre MárioCesariny

(Watch)ing you

2008-11-19T22:11:00.020Z

Just at that moment I passed the shop of a watchmaker-optometrist, whose sign had always been a large clock that gave the exact time. Under this clock hung a picture of a pair of giant eyeglasses with staring eyes. On my morning walks I had always smiled to myself at this slightly grotesque detail in the street scene. To my amazement, the hands of the clock had disappeared. The dial was blank, and below it someone had smashed both of the eyes so that they looked like watery, infected sores. Instinctively I pulled out my own watch to check the time, but I found that my old reliable gold timepiece had also lost its hands. I held it to my ear to find out if it was still ticking. Then I heard my heart beat. It was pounding very fast and irregularly. I was overwhelmed by an inexplicable feeling of frenzy. I put my watch away and leaned for a few moments against the wall of a building until the feeling had passed. My heart calmed down and I decided to return home.

(...)

MARIANNE: Did you sleep well?

ISAK: Yes, but I dreamed. Can you imagine—the last few months I've had the most peculiar dreams. It's really odd.

MARIANNE: What's odd?

ISAK: It's as if I'm trying to say something to myself which I don't want to hear when I'm awake.

MARIANNE: And what would that be?

ISAK: That I'm dead, although I live.

Ingmar Bergman, Morangos Silvestres, Suécia,1957

Les Fleurs du Mal

2008-11-11T11:27:00.014Z

When I get old I would Like a Drink (Self Portrait) / 2002
MARILYN MANSON'S PAINTINGS IN INAUGURAL U.S. EXHIBITION DURING ART BASEL MIAMI 2008, PRESENTED BY GALERIE BRIGITTE SCHENK IN COLLABORATION WITH 101 EXHIBIT - A NEW GALLERY SPACE IN THE MIAMI DESIGN DISTRICT

L’Animateur

2008-11-08T22:59:00.005Z

L’Animateur - The Animator, Nick Hilligoss
Vencedor do Festival de Berlim Curtas 2008 e do Anima-Mundi 2008.

2008-11-03T22:19:00.030Z

'Victorin levantando vôo da ponta do Rochedo do Monte Inacessível para ir à descoberta Austral...' Gravura de Louis Binet, no livro de Rétif de la Bretonne, ' La Découverte Australe par un Homme Volant ou Le Dédale Français' , 1781, tomo primeiro

O Mocho

2008-10-28T21:42:00.015Z

Rétif de La Bretonne, Les nuits de Paris, ou Le spectateur nocturne, Londres, 1788, tomo primeiro

"Sujet de la FIGURE de la XIII.me Partie. SOUPER CÉLÈBRE: Le Spectateur nocturne à table ,au second souper, entre l'Auteur du TABLEAU-DE-PARIS, et Du-Hameauneuf, dans une salle superbement illuminée: On porte un service, avec appareil: Baïard: Cortége: Ifs ou Servantes: "QUIETI ET MUSIS", Rétif de La Bretonne, Les nuits de Paris, ou Le spectateur nocturne, tomo VII, 1789.

Qu'est ce que la nuit? -Vous alez repondre à votre question? -Sur la Terre c'est douze heures pendant lesquelles le Soleil éclaire l'autre hemisphère également partagées sous l'équateur; inégalement audelà des tropiques; mais cependant revenant toujours à douze heures, en compensant les grands jours par les petits.
Sur la lune, c'est quatorze de nos jours, & autant de nos nuits, pendant lesquels un de ses hemisphères est dans les tenèbres.
Pour les Êtres qui vivent dans Mars, c'est douze heures-un-quart & demi, c'est à dire, qu'il tourne sur lui même, à trois quarts-d'heures près, aussi rapidement que notre Globe. Ce qui peutêtre n'est pas exact. Mars devrait avoir une revolution diurne plus rapide que celle de la Terre.

Restif de La Bretonne, Les nuits de Paris, ou Le spectateur nocturne, tomo primeiro, pp. 55-56.

"Masks of Difference"

2008-10-22T21:42:00.017+01:00

Jacques Le Moyne de Morgues (c. 1533 – 1588)
Young Daughter of the Picts, c. 1585
Watercolour and gouache, touched with gold, on parchment
New Haven, Yale Center for British Art
Paul Mellon’s Legacy

Cinema Redux

2008-10-15T22:34:00.002+01:00

Vertigo (1958, Alfred Hitchcock)

The Rip

2008-10-13T23:18:00.012+01:00

Portishead - The Rip
Animação de Nick Uff

2008-10-10T22:36:00.020+01:00

Bruce LaBruce, "HETEROSEXUALITY IS THE OPIATE OF THE MASSES"

"The Dull Flame of Desire"

2008-10-08T22:07:00.012+01:00

Single de Bjork editado no final de Setembro. Com a participação de Antony Hegarty dos Antony & The Johnsons.

Cravo Vermelho no Largo do Carmo

2008-10-04T23:22:00.010+01:00

Música nas Praças, Largo do Carmo
ENSEMBLE BARROCO DO CHIADO
Verena Wachter, soprano
Álvaro Pinto, violino barroco
Pedro Castro, oboé barroco
Ana Raquel Pinheiro, violoncelo barroco
Marcos Magalhães, cravo