L'ombelico di Svesda


black and white

Willy Ronis

Zoo de Berlin Est, 1967
Zoo de Berlin Est, 1967
Londres Soho, 1955
Londres Soho, 1955
Rue Rambuteau, 1946
Rue Rambuteau, 1946
Les Plongeurs de la Ciotat, 1947
Les Plongeurs de la Ciotat, 1947
Quai Malaquai, 1953
Quai Malaquai, 1953
La Nuit au Chalet, 1935
La Nuit au Chalet, 1935

Willy Ronis was born in Paris in 1910 and became a full-time photographer in 1945. He joined Doisneau, Brassaï and others at the Rapho Agency in Paris and sought to bring a lyrical touch to the most ordinary moments of everyday life. Ronis became the first French photographer to work for LIFE Magazine. Curator Edward Steichen exhibited him at the Museum of Modern Art in 1953 in a show called Four French Photographers. Willy Ronis was also part of the famed Family of Man exhibit at Museum of Modern Art in 1955.
via Jackson Fine Art


Gianni Berengo Gardin

Venezia, Piazza San Marco, 1959
Venezia, Piazza San Marco, 1959

Gianni Berengo Gardin #1
Gianni Berengo Gardin #8
Gianni Berengo Gardin #6
Gianni Berengo Gardin #2
Gianni Berengo Gardin #9
Storie di un fotografo, Gianni Berengo Gardin a Milano | Linkiesta.it

Southend, England, 1938.
Southend, England, 1938.

Kurt Hutton | Blended – L’oeil

Cascando by Samuel Beckett

Nobuyoshi Araki, Sentimental Journey (1971-1991)
Nobuyoshi Araki, Sentimental Journey (1971-1991)


why not merely the despaired of
occasion of

is it not better abort than be barren

the hours after you are gone are so leaden
they will always start dragging too soon
the grapples clawing blindly the bed of want
bringing up the bones the old loves
sockets filled once with eyes like yours
all always is it better too soon than never
the black want splashing their faces
saying again nine days never floated the loved
nor nine months
nor nine lives


saying again
if you do not teach me I shall not learn
saying again there is a last
even of last times
last times of begging
last times of loving
of knowing not knowing pretending
a last even of last times of saying
if you do not love me I shall not be loved
if I do not love you I shall not love

the churn of stale words in the heart again
love love love thud of the old plunger
pestling the unalterable
whey of words

terrified again
of not loving
of loving and not you
of being loved and not by you
of knowing not knowing pretending

I and all the others that will love you
if they love you


unless they love you

(S. Beckett, 1936)
from Collected Poems in English and French, S. Beckett, Grove Press, Inc. N.Y. 1977

Ferdinando Scianna | Magnum Photos

Festa di Sant’Alfio, Cirino e Filadalefo, Tre Castagni, 1964 di Ferdinando Scianna
Festa di Sant’Alfio, Cirino e Filadalefo, Tre Castagni, 1964 di Ferdinando Scianna

“A photograph is not created by a photographer. What he does is just to open a little window and capture it. The world then writes itself on the film. The act of the photographer is closer to reading than it is to writing. They are the readers of the world.”

Ferdinando Scianna started taking photographs in the 1960s while studying literature, philosophy and art history at the University of Palermo. It was then that he began to photograph the Sicilian people systematically. Feste Religiose in Sicilia (1965) included an essay by the Sicilian writer Leonardo Sciascia, and it was the first of many collaborations with famous writers.

Scianna moved to Milan in 1966. The following year he started working for the weekly magazine L’Europeo, first as a photographer, then from 1973 as a journalist. He also wrote on politics for Le Monde Diplomatique and on literature and photography for La Quinzaine Littéraire.

In 1977 he published Les Siciliens in France and La Villa Dei Mostri in Italy. During this period Scianna met Henri Cartier-Bresson, and in 1982 he joined Magnum Photos. He entered the field of fashion photography in the late 1980s. At the end of the decade he published a retrospective, Le Forme del Caos (1989).

Scianna returned to exploring the meaning of religious rituals with Viaggio a Lourdes (1995), then two years later he published a collection of images of sleepers – Dormire Forse Sognare (To Sleep, Perchance to Dream). His portraits of the Argentinean writer Jorge Luis Borges were published in 1999, and in the same year the exhibition Niños del Mundo displayed Scianna’s images of children from around the world.

In 2002 Scianna completed Quelli di Bagheria, a book on his home town in Sicily, in which he tries to reconstruct the atmosphere of his youth through writings and photographs of Bagheria and the people who live there.

via Magnum Photos Photographer Profile
Ferdinando Scianna « Lo Specchio Incerto

La Vie Dans L’Après-Guerre

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Willy Ronis, who died on September 12 2009 aged 99, was the last of the great photographers whose images came to define postwar France; like Henri Cartier-Bresson and Robert Doisneau, he was an aesthete of photo-reportage and street life, capturing politics and poetry in the humdrum and the everyday.

He was, however, more artistic than Doisneau and less patrician than Cartier-Bresson. Ronis had a tender eye, photographing working-class neighbourhoods where men drank rough wine and children played on the streets.

In Le Petit Parisien (1952), a young boy wearing shorts runs down the pavement, laughing, carrying a baguette that is as long as he is tall. In Rue Rambuteau (1946), two waitresses stand behind the counter in a busy café, wearing aprons that are crumpled and dirty, leaving us in no doubt that their working days are long and hard. But with smoke rising from the grill and light falling across the scene, illuminating their hair, the documentary image is also a composition full of beauty.

To a contemporary eye, such themes – lovers kissing, smoky cafés and Parisian rooftops – can seem nostalgic and clichéd; but the lives Ronis documented during the reconstruction of France after the war were anything but cosy. The country was wracked by poverty and social unrest, and Ronis’ vision was radical: for those who wanted France to be seen as modern, he showed a humble world that was entrenched in the past.

via Willy Ronis – The Telegraph.

Five Poems

Lisette Model, NYC, circa 1950
Lisette Model, NYC, circa 1950

by Vera Pavlova

Loneliness is a sexually
transmitted disease.
I let you be; let me be, please.
Let’s have a quiet moment
chatting about this and that,
leaving some things unsaid,
let’s have a hug and realize:
no cure for the lonely.

If there is something to desire,
there will be something to regret.
If there is something to regret,
there will be something to recall.
If there is something to recall,
there was nothing to regret.
If there was nothing to regret,
there was nothing to desire.


Let us touch each other
while we still have hands,
palms, forearms, elbows…
Let us love each other for misery,
torture each other, torment,
disfigure, maim,
to remember better,
to part with less pain.


Eternalize me just a bit:
take some snow and sculpt me in it,
with your warm and bare palm
polish me until I shine.


When I am in your arms, you think: “She’s mine, without fail.”
But I will shed my body like a saurian tail,
and you will have to search the starry skies
for what you hoped to find between my thighs.

Madame Bovary leggeva Walter Scott e immaginava l’amore e la vita svolgersi in amabili scenari all’italiana. Se Madame Bovary avesse letto Madame Bovary non avrebbe frenato le sue fantasticherie? I veri libri immorali sono dunque quelli che trattano la vita in rosa e non quelli che ne dipingono gli errori e gli eccessi. Ovvero, non c’è peggior pornografia di quella sentimentale.

Edouard Boubat. Ile St. Louis, 1964
Edouard Boubat. Ile St. Louis, 1964

da Diario Notturno, Ennio Flaiano, 1956

Sanne Sannes

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Lens Culture: Vintage 60s Erotica

Dirty Talk II

Sam Haskins, Cheating Ace, 1964
Sam Haskins, Cheating Ace, 1964

Pretend that I’ve forgotten who I am
and it’s your job to remind me: say my name
and tell me all about my body, what it wants
and what you’ll make it do. Pretend we’re sick,
describe the symptoms: our wild slam-
ming hearts, our fever-flush, our violet veins
throbbing. Pretend I’m blind, and tell me what
you see. Pretend it’s possible to think

after you speak, that body can trump brain
which can trump body, translating the words
into impulses, firing from nerve
to twinkling nerve. Pretend we’ve found the way
to heal, between things and names, the divide:
you be the signifier. I’ll be signified.

Ali Shapiro

PANK Magazine / Six Poems.

Martine Franck

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Martine Franck: 1938 – 2012 – LightBox.

Paulo Nozolino’s Photography

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‘A man stands in the middle of destruction, feeling lonely to an unbelievable point, bone lonely. He makes deaf images during his blind walks. Dwelling with thoughts about the loss in all conflicts, the feeling that all systems fail and the certainty that nothing lasts forever. He wonders what light shines in loneliness, what sounds come out of a moving body, what can fill the absence. He has no answers. He sees silent panic, he hears reports on people, he smells the mould, he feels the flesh aging and he tastes the dry saliva in his mouth. There seems to be no escape. He has a word pounding inside his head: resist, resist… bone lonely.’
Nozolino has traveled widely throughout North and South America, Europe, Macau and the Arab world to capture the images in his numerous, well-received photobooks.


George Brassaï, Paris, 1932

As she laughed I was aware of becoming involved in her laughter and being part of it, until her teeth were only accidental stars with a talent for squad-drill. I was drawn in by short gasps, inhaled at each momentary recovery, lost finally in the dark cavers of her throat, bruised by the ripple of unseen muscles. An elderly waiter with trembling hands was hurriedly spreading a pink and white cheeked cloth over the rusty green iron table, saying: ‘If the lady and gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden, if the lady and gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden..’ I decided that if the shaking of her breasts could be stopped, some of the fragments of the afternoon might be collected, and I concentrated my attention with careful subtlety to this end.

Anders Petersen’s Photography

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‘I don’t believe in reality really, it’s a bluff. But I believe in a kind of reality that exists because of all the longing, dreams, secrets, nightmares, mostly longings. I think no picture is without longing. This allows you to use what you are afraid of, as a trampoline; to channel your energy into your creativity; go inside and open up like a sharp knife, like a doctor operating.’
Anders  Petersen
Anders Petersen: ‘For me, Soho is something special’ | Art and design | The Observer.


Nobuyoshi Araki, Theater of Love, c.1965

Burn of the second
throughout the tender fleshbud of desire
Sting of vagrant chili
at two in the immoral afternoon.
Glove of the edges edge to edge.
Aromatic truth touched to the quick, on connection
the sexual antenna
to what we are being without knowing it.
Slop of maximum ablution.
Voyaging boilers
that crash and spatter with unanimous fresh
shadow, the color, the fraction, the hard life,
the hard life eternal.
Let’s not be afraid. Death is like that.
Sex blood of the beloved who complains
ensweetened, of bearing so much
for such a ridiculous moment.
And the circuit
between our poor day and the great night,
at two in the immoral afternoon.

From Trilce, published in 1922, by César Vallejo (born 16 March, 1892; died 15 April, 1938)
translated by Clayton Eshleman

Ernest Hyde

Fred Lebain

My mind was a mirror
It saw what it saw, it knew what it knew.
In youth my mind was just a mirror
In a rapidly flying car,
Which catches and loses bits of the landscape.
Then in time
Great scratches were made on the mirror,
Letting the outside world come in,
And letting my inner self look out.
For this is the birth of the soul in sorrow,
A birth with gains and losses.
The mind sees the world as a thing apart,
And the soul makes the world at one with itself.
A mirror scratched reflects no image-
And this is the silence of wisdom.

Taken from the Spoon River Anthology, Edgar Lee Masters, 1915

Crossing Boundaries

Nobuyoshi Araki, Grand Diary of a Photo Maniac, 1994

I transgress the boundary as if going back and forth between life and death. Sometimes I was taking photos from the window of a car. Up until now, the inside of the car was this world and the outside of the car was the other world, but lately it has become the opposite. Inside the car is the outer world. Outside the car is this world. I feel as if I am taking photographs from a hearse. Sometimes I am looking at the outer world from inside, or I am looking at the inner world from outside. This position can be very fluid and will change again in the future, for sure.

via Crossing Boundaries: An Interview with Nobuyoshi Araki.
Le Journal de la Photographie.

Esther Bubley

New York Harbor, Looking Toward Manhattan from the Footpath on Brooklyn Bridge, October, 1946
April 1943. Washington, D.C. ‘Girl sitting alone in the Sea Grill waiting for a pickup’
December 1943.15-cent photo booth in the lobby at the United Nations service center at Washington, D.C

Utata Sunday Salon » Esther Bubley

Elena Oganesyan


Margaret Durow Photography

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Margaret Durow

Dorcas Gustine

Swimming With the Fishes by Rengim Mutevellioglu

Ho riesumato dalla scatola dei libri l’Antologia di Spoon River e pensato di rendere omaggio al poeta americano  Edgar Lee Masters citando alcuni degli epitaffi che ricordano gli intrigi, le passioni, le ipocrisie, le piccole e grandi virtù delle tante vite represse nelle abitudini e nel conformismo di un villaggio immaginario del Midwest. Questa che segue è la voce in versi di Dorcas Gustine

I was not beloved of the villagers,
But all because I spoke my mind,
And met those who transgressed against me
With plain remonstrance, hiding nor nurturing
Nor secret griefs nor grudges.
That act of the Spartan boy is greatly praised,
Who hid the wolf under his cloak,
Letting it devour him, uncomplainingly.
It is braver, I think, to snatch the wolf forth
And fight him openly, even in the street,
Amid dust and howls of pain.
The tongue may be an unruly member-
But silence poisons the soul.
Berate me who will – I am content.

Taken from Spoon River Anthology, Edgar Lee Masters, 1915

In the mood for love: Ed van der Elsken’s Love on the Left Bank | Sean O’Hagan | Art and design | guardian.co.uk

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Ed van der Elsken‘s groundbreaking book of photographs, Love on the Left Bank, first published in a small edition in 1954, has been reprinted by the small British publisher, Dewi Lewis. This is a cause for celebration. It is a classic of its kind – grainy, monochrome cinéma vérité – and one of the first photobooks to record the nascent flowering of rebellious youth culture in Europe.

Set in and around the hinterland between Odéon and St Germain-des-Prés, shot in black and white, the book is an impressionistic narrative that centres on a fictional character, Ann, a beautiful and enigmatic bohemian, and her circle of vagabond friends, who haunt the bars, cafes and clubs of the area. Van der Elsken’s camera trails Ann as she works as an exotic dancer, drinks, flirts, fights, sleeps, falls in and out of love.

Ann is actually the legendary bohemian figure Vali Myers, a self-exiled Australian artist, who was friends with Cocteau and Genet, and, by way of van der Elsken’s evocative portraits of her, later became a muse for the teenage Patti Smith. When the two eventually met in New York in the early 1970s, Myers tattooed a lightning bolt on Smith’s knee, while Smith described her as “the supreme beatnik chick – thick red hair and big black eyes, black boatneck sweaters and trench coats”.

Love on the Left Bank is actually narrated by a relatively minor character called Manuel, a young Mexican on the run from his own demons, who falls for Ann and whose thoughts form the text that accompanies the pictures. The text, van der Elsken makes clear from the start, “is entirely fictional and is not related to any living person”. The story of Manuel’s unrequited love for Ann creates another layer of mystery, adding to the sense that this is a snapshot not just of a time and place, but of a mood, maybe even a collective state of mind. That mood could be described as the beatnik sublime, and van der Elsken captures the first stirrings of a kind of youthful non-conformity that would become much more familiar – and ritualised – in the coming decades.

The intimate portraits of Ann – daydreaming, dozing, stirring a coffee – are the still moments in an otherwise impressionistic, often frenetic, narrative. The characters in the book are constantly on the move, from cafe to bar, nightclub to jazz club, the streets of St Germain-des-Prés alive with young people in search of the next nocturnal high. The supporting cast of real-life characters includes Jean-Michel, Benny and Pierre, who look like stylish proto-punks and drift in and out of trouble without much thought for the consequences, getting drunk, getting high and, at one point, getting arrested for brawling on the street. Like Brassaï before him, van der Elsken is drawn to the symbolic as well as the impressionistic: in one portrait of Ann, she leans against a wall on which the word Rêve (Dream) has been painted: shades of the Situationist slogans that would transform Paris during the student uprising of 1968.

In one series of fly-on-the-wall photographs, van der Elsken captures Jean Michel teaching a girl to “smoke hashish in the right way … the cigarette not held in the mouth, the smoke inhaled together with air from the cupped hands”. Jean Michel Mension would later become one of the main protagonists of the 1968 student uprising, a member of the Letterist International, to which the legendary Situationist activist and thinker, Guy Debord, also belonged. Legend has it that the back of Debord’s head can be seen in one of the many bar scenes in the book.

Ed van der Elsken’s Love on the Left Bank is important for many reasons, then: as an early reflection of youth cultural ennui, disaffection and rebellion; as a glimpse of a particular place and time when Parisian culture, specifically its youth culture, was on the cusp of a great sea change; as one of the first visual narratives that walks the line between fly-on-the-wall reportage and created narrative.

Vali Myers went on to become an opium addict, then an artist of some repute. She lived for a time in her own personal “Garden of Eden”, a small house with a rambling garden in Positano. She is the subject of four films, one, Death in the Port Jackson Hotel, made in 1971 by van der Elsken. She died of cancer, aged 72, in 2003 in her native Melbourne. In a newspaper interview, given from her hospital bed, she said, “I’ve had 72 absolutely flaming years. It [the illness] doesn’t bother me at all, because, you know love, when you’ve lived like I have, you’ve done it all.”

Van der Elsken went on to produce several brilliant books and to embrace colour photography in order to capture the vitality of his native Holland, but he was never at ease with the world of commercial photography.

Love on the Left Bank, his first and most groundbreaking book, remains his most beautifully realised body of work. He died of cancer, aged 65, in 1990. He once said, “I report on young, rebellious scum with pleasure … I rejoice in everything. Love. Courage. Beauty. Also blood, sweat and tears. Keep your eyes open.”

via In the mood for love: Ed van der Elsken’s Love on the Left Bank | Sean O’Hagan | Art and design | guardian.co.uk.

Hell yeah
that’s refreshing

‘For people who have no critical acumen, a state is a mythical entity, for those who think critically it is a rational fiction, created by man in order to facilitate human coexistence’ Friedrich Dürrenmatt

Rodney Smith Photography

Friedrich Dürrenmatt, (born Jan. 5, 1921, Konolfingen, near Bern, Switz.—died Dec. 14, 1990, Neuchâtel), Swiss playwright, novelist, and essayist whose satiric, almost farcical tragicomic plays were central to the post-World War II revival of German theatre.

Dürrenmatt, who was educated in Zürich and Bern, became a full-time writer in 1947. His technique was clearly influenced by the German expatriate writer Bertolt Brecht, as in the use of parables and of actors who step out of their roles to act as narrators. Dürrenmatt’s vision of the world as essentially absurd gave a comic flavour to his plays. Writing on the theatre in Theaterprobleme (1955; Problems of the Theatre), he described the primary conflict in his tragicomedies as humanity’s comic attempts to escape from the tragic fate inherent in the human condition.

His plays often have bizarre settings. His first play, Es steht geschrieben (1947; “It Is Written”), is about the Anabaptist suppression in Münster in 1534–36. In it, as in Der Blinde (1948; “The Blind Man”) and Romulus der Grosse (1949; Romulus the Great), Dürrenmatt takes comic liberties with the historical facts. Die Ehe des Herrn Mississippi (1952; The Marriage of Mr. Mississippi), a serious play in the guise of an old-fashioned melodrama, established his international reputation, being produced in the United States as Fools Are Passing Through in 1958. Among the plays that followed were Der Besuch der alten Dame (1956; The Visit); Die Physiker (1962; The Physicists), a modern morality play about science, generally considered his best play; Der Meteor (1966; The Meteor); and Porträt eines Planeten (1970; Portrait of a Planet).

In 1970 Dürrenmatt wrote that he was “abandoning literature in favour of theatre,” no longer writing plays but working to produce adaptations of well-known works. In addition to plays, Dürrenmatt wrote detective novels, radio plays, and critical essays.

via Friedrich Durrenmatt (Swiss author) : Introduction — Britannica Online Encyclopedia.
Friedrich Durrenmatt.com

Lavorare Stanca

Famous photo by Charles Ebbets of workers on their lunch break during the construction of Rockefeller center back in 1932.

Se vi chiedeste perchè è preferibile ballare la polka tra i tavoli di un bar, piuttosto che starsene in posa tutto il giorno, a fare bolle di nicotina, leggere scemenze, fantasticare diavolerie, manovre di tango, accurate teorie di sopravvivenza e la maniera di risolvere l’indovinello della sfinge: qual’è l’animale che al mattino cammina su quattro zampe, a mezzogiorno su due e alla sera su tre. Non barate, la sfinge vi osserva.
Da qualche giorno l’ombra del mio landlord mi fiata al collo e toglie il respiro a morsi di solleciti, ammanchi, arretrati. Mai ricevuti in vita mia, nel telefonino, tanti messaggini intimidatori da parte di un uomo. In compenso, il mondo mi parla, sento voci, vedo ologrammi, un cimitero di ologrammi teletrasportati nel presente dal passato; bocche sdentate, scimmie ballerine, scheletri puzzolenti chiusi nell’armadio, mostri che farei bene a portare fuori insieme al resto della spazzatura sepolta nel giardino.
A conti fatti mi manca uno stipendio e mi manca un lavoro. Principalmente disattivare i neuroni del cervello, scollegare le sinapsi e spegnere il processore. Tenerlo a riposo. A lavoro è proibito pensare, lo sanno tutti. Tutti conoscono le regole e fra le tante: a) parlare male dei colleghi e del padrone, alle spalle dei colleghi e del padrone, e b) fare buon viso a cattivo gioco. Fatto questo, a che altro serve usare un cervello, pensare?
Mi manca l’abitudine; certi ritmi, certe sfiatate, certi sudori freddi, certe scariche di adrenalina, certi momenti che è meglio prendersela con il braccio della macchinetta, sbatterlo al rullo, caricarlo energicamente di caffè, comprimerlo accuratamente al pistone, posizionarlo nella macchina e schiacciare soddisfatti il bottone numero 2.
Ho notato la meccanica del lavoro fisico si fonda su un principio fondamentale che è l’apparente equilibrio tra dire e fare; lo slancio a fare deriva da un’intuizione e diventa azione per induzione, la soddisfazione di un obiettivo, un motivo di distrazione particolareggiata: affettare i limoni con le nocche delle dita rasenti il coltello, zaczaczaczac più veloce della luce per non farsi pizzicare. La paura di tagliarsi, il ricordo di essersi già tagliati una volta, non coincidono nell’azione ma in un secondo momento di avvenuta realizzazione, ouch un rischio, quello di tagliarsi.
Aha ma allora è questo che mi manca, correre un rischio. La lettura di Rhinehart mi sta ipnotizzando. Mi ha ipnotizzata. Sono ipnotizzata.
Ho bisogno di imprevisti, una siringa nascosta dentro il cestino dei rifiuti, un tampone spalmato nel lavandino del bagno; indizi, le calze smagliate di una giovane manager in gessato nero, i calzini a paperette gialle sotto i risvolti di un pantalone in tweed, la noce al collo di un pensionato siriano, una rubrica telefonica abbandonata nel divano. Ho bisogno di dentiere smaglianti, macchie di soya, orli scuciti, bottoni staccati, facce imbambolate, acconciature vaporose, gambe accavallate, cravatte slacciate, luci accese; certi botti d’allegria, certe tuonate d’ira.
Ho deciso, dopo la doccia e Le sorelle Munekata, vado a violentare la cliente che mi ha fatta licenziare. Mi sento già meglio a pensarci.
Il lavoro fisico è la distrazione di tutti i proletari, quello che i borghesi chiamano un hobby (la palestra, il giardinaggio, la cucina, il teatro), un volgare passatempo. Mi sono sempre chiesta a cosa pensa la gente che disobbedisce alle regole mentre lavora. Una volta, a Monaco, mi capitò conoscere un cuoco greco appassionato di arte fiamminga, usava disegnare nei muri della propria stanza e prevedeva di dipingere anche il soffitto, la volta. A che pensa un cuoco che disobbedisce alle regole mentre cucina? Pensa a come non cadere dall’armadio mentre dipinge il soffitto di camera propria.
Chissà se Michelangelo pensava mai a dover cucinare, mentre dipingeva.

Lars Botten

Kung Fu

Chet and Halema – William Claxton

non resisto, si Chet, Let’s get lost, Let’s get lost una volta per tutte. Andiamo via, lontano, altrove. Ovunque vuoi tu.
Capitano anche a voi di quei momenti in cui ascoltate Since I fell for you della Simone, vi prende una certa malinconia e balza allo sguardo l’esatta visione del vostro futuro, uno squash nella devil’s kitchen di New York, una finestra a bocca spalancata nel buio della notte, un metà novembre di un giorno qualunque, una poltrona foderata di velluto viola, una bottiglia vuota di tamarindo, un gatto allampanato e nero appallottolato nel tappeto a scacchi, il ticchettio della pioggia e il braccio nudo di un fantasma coi bigodini, non Bettie Page in pensione, un fantasma abbruttito dalla solitudine, una sigaretta tra le dita e la foto del primo amore incorniciata e consacrata in un altarino, orchidee fresche, lucine a cuoricini, coniglietti bianchi di peluche, bigliettini rosa in carta riciclata. Lucky buiscuits. Vito, 14 anni, divorziato/defunto. Vito ti saluto e auguro ogni bene, ma perchè non hai mai voluto amarmi? E lo so che Martina aveva le tettine più grandi delle mie, ma io avevo solo 9 anni, come facevo ad avere le tettine a 9 anni, perchè non ti sono mai piaciuti i miei disegnini
Ecco, è in momenti come questo che bisogna avere in casa del buon whiskey, un pugnetto d’erba e la compagnia del disco giusto. Il vostro non è romanticismo, non è neanche nostalgia. O si tratta di isteria, è luna piena, aspettate il ciclo. O dovete darci un taglio, assumere la posizione del panda  e ascoltare Curtis Mayfield, in meditazione

Saudade e Midnight In Paris

Robert Doisneau, Kiss by the Hotel de Ville, 1950

Ieri sera Federica (ciao Fe :*) mi ha invitata a vedere l’ultimo di Allen, Midnight in Paris.
Il titolo anticipa la trama, tant’è è un film molto romantico e nostalgico, sempre ironico, un po’malinconico e tenero, con un finale ancora più imprevedibile. S’è mai visto nella realtà un uomo che sul punto di sposarsi abbandona l’ex milionaria per una commessa squattrinata. E’ più facile vedere nella realtà un uomo che tra ragione e sentimento sceglie di portarsi a letto la vicina di casa, ma quando ci ricapita nella realtà di vedere Djuna Barnes che balla il charleston al Moulin Rouge?
Allen accontenta tutti; è un po’ invecchiato, ma si diverte ancora a tornare bambino, vuole farci sognare e rodere il fegato.
La realtà supera di gran lunga la fantasia, e ricordarsene è frustrante. Per questo sul finale il film ha si perso di incanto ai miei occhi, ma si è rivelato in tutto il suo fascino. Come diceva Benjamin in quel saggio sulla riproducibilità dell’arte, è necessario un certo distacco, fra chi contempla l’arte e l’oggetto d’arte, perchè l’oggetto d’arte possa evocare in chi lo contempla quasi una prospettiva, un desiderio di conquista (l’età dell’oro, la belle epoque, nel caso del film) e un’immotivata nostalgia. Nostalgia per un tempo mai stato, in realtà frutto dell’immaginazione. Saudade. Midnight in Paris è un oggetto d’arte molto evocativo, che crea la giusta distanza e soddisfa l’immaginazione di chi lo contempla.
Allen si scomoda a parlare di immortalità, ma la nostra è una generazione di uomini che si, temono la morte e anelano a essere immortali, ma non felici.
Di immortale, in questa noiosissima vita, non rimane che il fascino di certe città, eternamente romantiche, almeno Parigi, e Rimbaud, Debussy, Monet, Genet, il gypsy jazz, le fotografie di Cartier-Bresson, Sieff, Doisneau. In fondo un buon motivo per distrarsi e ammalarsi di saudade.

Blossom Restaurant, 103 Bowery by Berenice Abbott in 1935, NY

_________________________________________________________January 13
A DARK, burdensome day. I stormed up from sleep this morning, not knowing what to do first – whether to reach for my slippers or begin immediately to dress, turn on the radio for the news, comb my hair, prepare to shave.
I fell back into bed and spent an hour or so collecting myself, watching the dark beams from the slats of the blind wheeling on the upper wall. Then I rose. There were low clouds; the windows streamed. The surrounding roofs – green, raw red blackened brass – shone like potlids in a darkened kitchen.
At eleven I had a haircut. I went as far as Sixty-third Street for lunch and ate at a white counter amid smells of frying fish, looking out on the iron piers in the street and the huge paving bricks like the plates of the boiler- room floor in a huge liner. Above the restaurant, on the other corner, a hamburger with arms and legs balanced on a fiery wire, leaned toward a jar of mustard. I wiped up the sweet sediment in my cup with a piece of bread and went out to walk through large melting flakes. I wandered through a ten- cent store, examining the comic valentines, thought of buying envelopes, and bought instead a bag of chocolate creams. I ate them hungrily. Next, I was drawn into a shooting gallery. I paid for twenty shots and fired less than half, hitting none of the targets. Back in the street, I warmed myself at a salamander flaming in an oil drum near a newsstand with its wall of magazines erected under the shelter of the El. Scenes of love and horror. Afterward, I went into a Christian Science reading room and picked up the Monitor. I did not read it. I sat holding it, trying to think of the name of the company whose gas stoves used to be advertised on the front page of the Manchester Guardian. A little later I was in the street again, in front of Coulon’s gymnasium, looking at photographs of boxers. ‘Young Salemi, now with the Rangers in the South Pacific.’ What beautiful shoulders!
I started back, choosing unfamiliar streets. They turned out to be no different from the ones I knew. Two men were sawing a tree. A dog sprang from behind a fence without warning, yapping. I hate such dogs. A man in a mackinaw and red boots stood in the center of a lot, throwing boxes into a fire. At the high window of a stone house, a child, a blond boy, was playing king in a paper crown. He wore a blanket over his shoulders and, for a scepter, he held a thin green stick in his thin fingers. Catching sight of me, he suddenly converted his scepter into a rifle. He drew a bead on me and fired, his lips moving as he said, ‘Bang!’. He smiled when I took off my hat and pointed in dismay to an imaginary hole.
The book arrived in the noon mail. I will find it tonight. I hope that will be the last deception imposed to me.
Text entirely taken from Dangling Man, by Saul Bellow, 1944

Traumi Infantili

Giuliano Borghesan, Untitled, 1953

voi da bambini ce l’avevate un processore multimediale a espansione proto-dinamica? nemmeno io, ma avevo un paio di giocattoli coi quali mi divertivo a giocare; la macchina del gelato (regalo di natale), la magica maglieria (regalo di compleanno), il fornetto delle meraviglie (regalo d’onomastico). Mia sorella prediligeva giocare con le macchinine, così c’eravamo messe in società e avevamo creato un autogrill e uno slow food alternativo. Non ci credete?
Da bambina mi piaceva cucinare, ricamare, cucire e fare le pulizie. Posso affermare con orgoglio di aver reso mia madre una donna fiera della propria bambina. Poi, intorno ai quindici, sedici anni, ho iniziato ad ascoltare i Pink Floyd, leggere un po’di scemenze, e sono diventata un adolescente problematico in lista agli appuntamenti dallo psicologo della mutua. Ma questa è un’altra storia, che mia madre non ha voglia di raccontare, e nemmeno io. Ogni tanto mi faccio perdonare con una sciarpa lavorata a mano, in compenso.
C’era una cosa che mi faceva incazzare dei giocattoli che avevo; alla tv dicevano la macchina del gelato in grado di fare il gelato, la magica maglieria in grado di confezionare il prossino regalo di natale per il nonno, il fornetto delle meraviglie in grado di sfornare golose cenettine. Tutte stronzate. Bertinotti parlava di sindacato, Craxi di contributi al paese, Falcone di giustizia sociale, Berlusconi di capitale e privatizzazioni.
Ecco, se io fossi stata un poco più sveglia da bambina, avrei già capito da allora la differenza fra ciò che è, appare, e sembra. Allora mi sarei potuta risparmiare la fatica di crescere e credere alle solite chiacchere da adulti, traumi infantili.

Circa Il Diritto Di Giocare

Thurston Hopkins, London 7th August, 1954

Signori, gli adulti non sanno più cosa inventarsi per traumatizzare i bambini. Ne è una prova il cartellone in Darwin Road che proibisce ai miei clienti di giocare in strada.
No ball games here
Ho sentito mamme pigolare, alcune sostengono giocare in strada è pericoloso e comporta un prezzo troppo alto da pagare. Vero. E’ però vero anche chiudere Darwin Road (per consentire ai bambini di giocare), comporta un prezzo ancora più alto che l’amministrazione non ha intenzione di pagare. Signori, io questo lo chiamo un oltraggio all’infanzia e una minaccia alla felicità dei bambini.
Non solo il cartellone è arrogante nei toni (come tutti gli imperativi in smokey suit e black tie. Stop there. Pay here. Don’t cross the line) ma scialbo e in difetto di creatività e inventiva. Pertanto, la sottoscritta pollastrella, delegata dei bambini del quartiere, non solo rivendica il Diritto di Giocare e di poterlo fare per strada, ma propone di chiudere al traffico Darwin Road e sostituire i vecchi cartelloni con dei nuovi. What about this?
Hey guys, have fun playing around with that crazy ball but remind to respect people and places around you. Qui e là una nuvoletta, un aquilone, un palloncino. Colore.
Sounds alright enough?
Prego firmare nel retro la petizione in favore dei Bambini di Darwin Road
Un grazie di cuore,
La pollastrella

Della Regina e La Regina

Robert Frank, London, 1951-1953

Ho conosciuto una donna, ieri notte. Stavo fumando una sigaretta davanti all’uscita della tube. Avevo appena finito di lavorare, contavo di rientrare a casa di lì a poco. La donna avrà avuto sessant’anni. O forse quaranta, ma portati con fatica; indossava un piumino nero, lungo fin sopra le caviglie, un paio di sandali, aperti ai talloni, un fazzoletto chiaro in testa, una borsa blu a tracolla. Mi si è avvicinata con in mano una cartina della tube. Non parlava inglese. Parlate russo? Le ho chiesto. Ma da come ha aggrottato le sopracciglia e mi ha guardata smarrita, ho capito ci saremmo dovute intuire a gesti. Ambascia Americu, dice lei. Parku, Ambascia Americu, e indica con il braccio alla nostra destra. Capisco la donna sta cercando l’ambasciata americana, che so essere nei dintorni di Hide Park, non lontano da dove ci trovavamo. Familu. Parku. Ambascia Americu. Continua a dire lei, appena sottovoce, la fronte aggrottata, gli occhi fasciati di rughe, le mani strette a pugno e tenute al petto. Una bambina timida e gentile. Graziosa e accorta nelle maniere, introversa, una matrioska dentro una matrioska dentro una matrioska ancora più piccina, cose non dette e tenute dentro, lacrime amare e silenzi.
Ho chiesto a un passante dell’ambasciata americana. Questi mi ha indicato la direzione e io e la donna ci siamo incamminate lungo la Piccadilly. La donna mi seguiva a meno di un passo di distanza, silenziosa; ogni tanto mi guardavo alle spalle e rallentavo il passo credendo di stare andando troppo veloce per la sua andatura. Mentre camminavamo ho desiderato più volte prenderla per mano; pensavo a quant’era vulnerabile, tutta sola, in un paese straniero, di notte, senza neanche conoscere la lingua del posto. Ho pensato Chiunque avrebbe potuto farle del male.
Ma chi è Chiunque. E io, Chi sono?
Io so, chi sono io, ma chi sono gli altri? Chi è la gente, chi le facce, gli ombrelli, la fretta, le code, il traffico. E chi suona le note di questo concerto, la vita? Chi scrive la partitura, chi decide le accollature, chi segna le note nel pentagramma, chi prevede per ciascuna una frequenza, gli intervalli; chi decide il suono, chi il timbro. Chi decide il tempo, chi la durata.
Chi soffia dentro il vaso e libera i fiati, le trombe, i cori dei baritoni; cose rende l’armonia, di quali accordi è fatta la speranza, cosa spiega questo caos?
Il tragitto lungo Hide Park fino a Gronsvenor Avenue dura oltre venti minuti; attraversiamo uno a uno una ventina di luxury hotels incastonati come diamanti alle dita di giovani vacche inglesi in biancheria da sera e pellicce di criceto transgenico, panciuti portieri in frac e cilindro, qualche limousine e tante macchine sportive
‘Prego, signori, accogliete le Due Regine degli Stracci! Avanti, Regine, avanzate!’
Le due regine degli stracci avanzano lungo un tappeto d’oro, sotto lo sguardo sprezzante dei passanti che si rifiutano di offrire loro la cortesia di un informazione. L’ambasciata americana si trova poco dopo Hide Park Corner; illuminata di fari e un piccolo parco di fronte all’ingresso, dall’altra parte della strada. Dove vive la regina degli stracci, la zingara bambina. ‘Avete da mangiare, Regina?’ Mi ha mostrato una bottiglia di aranciata, che teneva dentro la borsa; poi ha cacciato di tasca una manciata di monetine. ‘Se avessi una casa, Regina, ma non ho niente da offrirvi, accettate questa modesta cortesia’.
Se non mi fossi vista coi miei occhi, non avrei potuto dire quella zingara bambina era io. Chissà dov’ero stata, e se c’era qualcuno, di là nel parco, ad aspettarmi.


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Queste foto. Ne ho scoperto l’autrice,Irina Ionesco, francese di origini rumene, per aver letto della figlia, Eva Ionesco, al suo debutto cinematografico ne L’inquilino del terzo piano, di Polanski, 1976.
Pare le foto della Ionesco duramente criticate per alcune ragioni che questo articolo dell’Independent spiega, ripercorrendo l’affascinante  biografia dell’artista
Irina Ionesco: from erotica to fashion at 74 – Art – Arts & Entertainment – The Independent.
Possibile anche Ellen Rogers abbia tratto ispirazione dalla Ionesco per realizzare le sue foto.

Muhammad Ali’s birthday, photos through the years – Framework

Houston - In this Jan. 17, 1967 file photo, Muhammad Ali blows out the candles on a cake baked for his 25th birthday, in Houston. Ali's wife says the boxing great is still a "big kid" who enjoys his birthday parties. The three-time heavyweight champion turns 70 Tuesday, Jan. 17, 2012. He will be surrounded by friends Saturday night for a birthday party at the Muhammad Ali Center in his hometown. (AP Photo/Ed Kolenovsky, File)

‘Only a man who knows what it is like to be defeated can reach down to the bottom of his soul and come up with the extra ounce of power it takes to win when the match is even.
The fight is won or lost far away from witnesses – behind the lines, in the gym, and out there on the road, long before I dance under those lights’
Muhammad Ali’s birthday, photos through the years – Framework – Photos and Video – Visual Storytelling from the Los Angeles Times.
Muhammad Ali, complicated as ever, is turning 70 – latimes.com.

V&A Exploring Photography – John Deakin

J.Deakin, Lucian Freud, Mid 1950's
J.Deakin, Rosalind Windebank, Mid 1950's

John Deakin made portraits of celebrities and of his bohemian circle of friends in London’s Soho in the early 1950’s. Deakin wanted to be a painter rather than a photographer and neglected his photographs: the majority have been destroyed or damaged. In part, his attitude reflected the general status of photography in Britain in the 1950’s, as an undervalued artistic medium. After his dismissal from Vogue he photographed street scenes in Paris and Rome. Deakin’s reputation was re-evaluated following an exhibition at the Victoria and Albert Museum in 1984.

via V&A Exploring Photography – John Deakin
John Deakin – A Database

Plaisir Solitaire

Plaisir Solitaire (The pleasure of Solitude) by French Photographer Rene Maltete

Dennis Stock

Paris, Cafe de Flore, 1958.Dennis Stock
USA. A couple with a child, 1952. Dennis Stock
James Dean, 1955. Dennis Stock
James Dean, 1955. Dennis Stock
Arthur Miller, 1956. Dennis Stock
Bill Crow with his bass, Times Square, 1958. Dennis Stock
Miles Davis, 1957. Dennis Stock
Thelonious Monk in performance at Town Hall, New York, 1957. Dennis Stock
San Diego coastline, 1968. Dennis Stock

USA. California. 1968. Venice Beach Rock Festival. Dennis Stock
California Trip, 1968. Dennis Stock
A surfer at Corona del Mar, California, 1968. Dennis Stock

“Art is a well-articulated manifestation of an aspect of life. I have been privileged to view much of life through my cameras, making the journey an enlightened experience. My emphasis has mainly been on affirmative reactions to human behavior and a strong attraction to the beauty in nature.”

Dennis Stock
[via Magnum Photo]

Louis Stettner

Manhattan from the Brooklyn Promenade - 1954
Elbowing an Out of Town Newsstand - 1954
Lower Second Avenue, New York - 1954
Window Cleaner, Midtown, New York - 1953
Woman at a Demonstration, Midtown - 1976
Texans on Fifth Avenue - 1975
World Trade Center - 1978
Diner, 14th Street, New York - 1952
Subway Series - 1946

via Louis Stettner.

Perspectives Of Nudes

Bill Brandt - Nude. London, 1958

Ho per le mani ‘Perspectives of Nudes‘, una raccolta fotografica di nudi realizzata nel 1961 da Bill Brandt, fotografo inglese, di origini tedesche, cui lavoro ricorda le Distorsioni di Kertész, e riflette le influenze del movimento surrealista, pioniere Man Ray, di cui Brandt sarà amico durante gli anni trascorsi a Parigi, prima di un definitivo trasferimento a Londra, dove lavorerà come reporter.
‘When I began to photograph nudes, I let myself be guided by this camera, and instead of photographing what I saw, I photographed what the camera was seeing. I interfered very little, and the lens produced anatomical images and shapes which my eyes had never observed.
I felt that I understood what Orson Welles meant when he said ‘the camera is much more than a recording apparatus. It is a medium via which messages reach us from another world’. For over fifteen years I was now preoccupied with photographing nudes. I learned very much from my old Kodak. It taught me how to use acute distortion to convey the weight of a body or the lightness of a movement. In the end, it had also taught me how to use modem cameras in an unorthodox way, and for the last chapter of my book Perspective of Nudes which was published in 1961, I discarded the Kodak altogether.
These last pictures are close-ups of parts of the body, photographed in the open air, I saw knees and elbows, legs and fists as rocks and pebbles which blended with cliffs and became an imaginary landscape.’

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“It is part of the photographer’s job to see more intensely than most people do. He must have and keep in him something of the receptiveness of a child who looks at the world for the first time or of the traveler who enters a strange country… We are most of us too busy, too worried, too intent on proving ourselves right, too obsessed with ideas to stand and stare… Very rarely are we able to free our minds of thoughts and emotions and just see for the simple pleasure of seeing. And so long as we fail to do this, so long will the essence of things be hidden from us” – B.Brandt

I Had A Dream

Qualche giorno fa ho sognato di morire. Me ne stavo in una pozza di sangue, il mio corpo steso nudo a cadavere, per terra; tenevo gli occhi aperti, sorridevo. Ero bellissima. Incorniciata di grazia entro un polka dot di rose rosse e inchiostro nero. Nel pavimento una crepa.
Poi il fiato, in un soffio
,e sono rinata. Svegliandomi.
Ho pianto un poco, dopo. Ma di gioia.
Più tardi ho scoperto, parlando con mia sorella, e leggendo qualche articolo di interpretazione dei sogni, che sognare di morire può indicare la fine di un ciclo passato, e, con buona probabilità, l’inizio di uno nuovo; dunque sognare di morire è d’auspicio a una fase di superamento messa in atto dall’inconscio. Bello.
Sognare, pare sogniamo tutti; io raramente ricordo dei miei sogni, a meno di non essermi svegliata di soprassalto in corso a uno di questi; una notte ho sognato di mio padre steso per terra, apparentemente morto, le budella in fuori un taglio al basso ventre. Ricordo specialmente il fegato e l’intestino, adagiati nel pavimento, l’espressione incerta, ma serena, del suo viso. ‘Non è niente, appena un taglietto’, pareva volermi dire. Non ricordo alcuna sensazione di dolore, o panico, o spavento, fino a prima d’avergli sentito sussurrare il mio nome,
allora mi sono agitata e ho realizzato che non era morto. Allora mi sono svegliata. Allora mi sono sentita sconvolta, ero terrorizzata, sudavo. Allora, per la prima volta in vita mia, ho preso il telefono, e l’ho chiamato. Per sapere come stava. Stava bene. Fegato e intestino a posto.
Una volta ho sognato di volare, meglio il vento mi scaraventava all’impazzata nel cielo, come un aquilone, ora spintonata in basso, lanciata in alto, rimbalzata a destra, strattonata a sinistra, dalle correnti. Peccato essermi svegliata.
Ho fatto una breve ricerca e rilevato dieci fatti che riguardano i sogni:
Fatto num.1
ogni essere umano sogna, a meno di non avere particolari disordini psicologici. Animali inclusi

Jung-Yeon Min

Fatto num.2
non tutti sognano a colori; alcuni riportano di sognare in bianco e nero.

Robert Doisneau.Créatures de rêve 1952

Fatto num.3
I sogni sono caratterizzati da emozioni profonde, spesso dolorose, acute, e sembrano risultare specialmente dalla rappresentazione onirica di tre delle emozioni più intense che ognuno di noi sperimenta nel quotidiano: ansia, paura e stupore.

Jung-Yeon Min

Fatto num.4
I sogni sono simbolici e mancano di organizzazione, logica, continuità e coordinate spazio-temporali; sono spesso ambigui e inconsistenti.

Jung-Yeon Min

Fatto num.5
tutta quanta questa ambiguità e inconsistenza viene considerata dalla mente sognante come tale, per questo, assecondata dalla stessa senza domande, soprattutto, senza senso critico e analitico.

Jung-Yeon Min

Fatto num.6
i sogni sono spesso caratterizzati da bizzarre ma reali esperienze sensoriali quali la percezione di cadere, di non potersi muovere, di stare correndo, di mancare di fiato, di stare soffocando etc

Jung-Yeon Min

Fatto num.7
più del 90% dei sogni viene completamente rimosso dalla mente una volta svegli.

Jung-Yeon Min

Fatto num.8
anche chi è cieco dalla nascita sogna; sebbene i sogni di questi mancheranno di immagini, saranno comunque ricchi in percezioni quali odori, suoni, emozioni.

Jung-Yeon Min

Fatto num.9
è possibile avere da quattro a sette sogni per notte

Jung-Yeon Min

Fatto num.10
la nostra mente è in grado di interpretare gli stimoli esterni e incorporarli nel sogno; metti il suono di un motivetto, che se recepito durante il sonno, darà origine, per esempio, a un concerto

Jung-Yeon Min

Fatto certo
sognare di fare sesso può risultare tanto piacevole quanto nella realtà; in alcuni casi può addirittura portare all’orgasmo. Mai avuto un orgasmo da sogno? Alcune donne direbbero è il solo che sia mai capitato loro di avere a occhi chiusi.

Self Publish, Be Naughty. Be Queer.

David bath, Nicky Lesser
Karlee flash, Nicky Lesser
Caleb couch, Nicky Lesser
Matt's house, Nicky Lesser
Jill after Weston, Matthew Tammaro
Room Service by Paul Kooike
Room Service by Paul Kooike
Attack! RJ Shaughnessy
Aaron McElroy
Aaron McElroy
Polaroids by Attila Richard Lukacs
Witek Orski
Witek Orski
Harley Weir
Daniel Evans
Daniel Evans
Oliver Sieber

Self Publish, Be Naughty both reflects and emulates a new form of sexual identity, in which categories such as “straight”, “gay” and “bisexual” are irrelevant, says the brains behind the book project, Bruno Ceschel.

via Naughty But Nice – British Journal of Photography.
Self Publish, Be Happy.

Leonardo da Vinci at the National Gallery

Salvador Dalì as Mona Lisa photographed by Philippe Halsman

Renaissance man though he undoubtedly was, Leonardo da Vinci was very much a part-time artist. Among the wrecks and ruins and dubious attributions, Leonardo produced very few paintings – around 20, about some of which scholarly debate continues. There are nine in the National Gallery exhibition, all dated from his years in Milan, as well as Giampietrino‘s almost 8 metre-wide 1520 scale copy of Leonardo’s 1492-8 Last Supper.

via Leonardo da Vinci at the National Gallery – the greatest show of the year? | Art and design | The Guardian.
Leonardo in London: Da Vinci comes to the National Gallery – in pictures | Art and design | guardian.co.uk.

Hyperuranian. A Place To Be*

Qualche settimana fa m’era venuto in mente di creare un secondo blog, una sorta di art magazine, in inglese, nel quale pubblicare non solo i lavori d’arte ma anche un breve scambio di battute con gli artisti eventualmente disponibili a concedermi il favore di una risposta e l’autorizzazione a pubblicare links e immagini.
Il titolo del blog sarebbe stato Hyperuranian, da Iperuranio, secondo Platone quel mondo oltre la volta celeste -dimensione metafisica, aspaziale e atemporale- dove risiedono le idee immutabili e perfette, raggiungibile dall’intelletto soltanto, non tangibile dagli enti terreni e corruttibili.
A place to be, Art.
Ho poi scartato l’idea di creare un secondo blog (tenerne due in vita sarebbe stato impegnativo), e deciso di postare qui il resoconto di questo ‘esperimento concettuale’.
Il primo post della parentesi Hyperuranian, è dedicato alla fotografia, drammatica e sognante, di Johanna Knauer.

According to Plato, Hyperuranian is a spaceless metaphysical dimension beyond the celestial realm where all perfect and immutable ideas stand, timelessly gravitating.The Hyperurarian is at the origin of the matter and can be reached by the intellect only.
Such a fascinating idea seems to suggest that particular metaphysical place where ideas take shape and become Art; that particular place to be.
I asked Johanna Knauer which ideas mostly inspire her creation process
“My creation process is inspired by the environment that has an impact on my feelings and thoughts. In concrete terms there are mixed ideas like for example perfection, resilience, devotion, belief, vanity, mortality.”
Johanna Knauer.

Skins and Punks by Gavin Watson

Pomeriggio, spulciando tra gli scaffali della biblioteca vicino casa, sezione fotografia, ho trovato questo, singolare retrospettiva del fotografo inglese Gavin Watson, ritratto new wave della giovane e ribelle classe operaia inglese

Gavin Watson grew up in High Wycombe, Buckinghamshire, photographing the people he knew and the gangs they hung out with. In his latest book Skins and Punks, Watson captures two of the country’s most iconic subcultures as they come to life in the dreary climate of 1980s Britain. As This is England director Shane Meadows comments in the foreword, ‘What makes Gavin’s photos so special is that when you look at them, there’s clearly trust from the subject towards the photographer so it feels like you’re in the photo rather than just observing’.

via Skins and Punks by Gavin Watson | Music | guardian.co.uk.

“I made this photo in a woman’s prison in Lima, Peru. It’s part of a part of a ten year project photographing seventy four prisons in Latin America. I made contact with prisoners and guards, with fear and anger, with hope and indifference. Some convicts considered me a distraction, others looked at me with envy, others again with contempt because they thought that I was there only for taking pictures to sell of their confined life. Every jail was a way to tell the country from inside and outside. Even if everything seems to be just a reflex of violence the contrast of life and violence belongs to one line. This corresponds to the history of South America.”

via Valerio Bispuri « The New Breed of Documentary Photographers.
Valerio Bispuri – Photoreporter.

Czech Minimalism

The development of the movement between the ’60s and ’80s

Jan Mlcoch
Milan Grygar Performance Photograph by Josef Prošek, 1969
Karel Miler,Closer to Clouds, 1977.Performance.
Milan Grygar, Acoustic Drawing, 1986
Petr Stembera
Francesca Woodman---Then at one point I did not need to translate the notes...(Providence-Rhode Island,1976

Francesca Woodman was born in 1958, in Denver Colorado, and lived most of her tragically brief life in New York. Having taken her first photograph at 13, she committed suicide in 1981 at the age of 22, but in the few years that account for her career she created an enduring body of photographic work that continues to fascinate and influence today. Woodman appears frequently in her exquisitely odd and unsettling silver gelatin photographs, her body often seeming to blend into her surroundings: caught in a state of metamorphosis she is not quite here, not quite there. In others, she uses a variety of props to create strange and dreamlike tableaux tinted with melancholy. Woodman’s work has been subject to extensive critical study by Western academics and has influenced many important artists of subsequent generations.

Woodman’s work has been exhibited widely since the mid-80s with substantial exhibitions at the Cartier Foundation, Paris in 1998; the Pinakothek der Moderne, Munich, 2008 and Espacio AV centre for contemporary art in Murcia, Spain in 2009. Her work was also on show at the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art as part of the Artist’s Rooms, drawn from the Anthony d’Offay Bequest. The Woodman estate is represented by Marian Goodman Gallery and Victoria Miro and a substantial exhibition of her work was held at Ingleby Gallery in the Spring of 2009. This year there will be a major retrospective of Woodman’s work at SF MoMA, Sanfransico, which will travel to Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, New York in 2010.

via Ingleby Gallery | Artists | Francesca Woodman.

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Stanko Abadžic – Out of the Shadows, A Photojournalist’s Diary of Life

Stanko Abadžic - Those Who Like the Past
Stanko Abadžic - Female Nude by a Window
Stanko Abadžic - Cafe Imperial
Stanko Abadžic - After the Double
Stanko Abadžic - Looking through the Keyhole, Prague
Stanko Abadžic - In Front of the Mirror
Stanko Abadžic - Forgotten Bicycle
Stanko Abadžic - Woman and Shadows
Stanko Abadžic - The Day of Important News, Prague

Alfred Eisenstaedt

l’altra sera mi fa,lei
la nostalgia è un sentimento ruffiano.e a tradimento. l’espiazione di un rimpianto antico.
te puoi anche avere il coraggio di lasciare una donna che ami, ma se c’è una cosa che non avrà mai il coraggio di lasciare te, quella è la nostalgia.
te lo ricordi al nonno come luccicavano gli occhi quando ti parlava della Libia
che in Libia c’era la guerra, ma c’era Kasha
che chissà Kasha se è ancora viva
che se mai t’avessi avuta mia Kasha
che chissà Kasha se mi ami ancora
Così s’invecchia. Da giovani.

street photography by Markus Hartel, New York

Michael Kellenter

certa vita, certi giorni, certe strade
strade che non puoi tornare indietro. la vecchiaia. la morte. la follia.
strade che a una certa finiscono, si diramano,si raggomitolano,s’avviluppano entro labirinti,si sbrogliano dietro l’orizzonte,si dimenticano nel bagagliaio,in valigia, dentro il comodino di un motel,nell’orinatoio di una stazione, tra le gambe della notte, sotto il lenzuolo dell’alba
strade che tramontano di giorno e iniziano a sera
strade che pare non arrivare mai,che ti chiedi come ci sei finito,che non sai come uscirne
strade attraverso un tubo catodico,impigliate nella rete,tra i capelli, sotto le unghie,endovena
strade che odorano di pelle e sudori,circonvallazioni di ormoni, tremiti e piacere,deviazioni in promesse e abbandoni
chilometri di strade marciate dalle parole,tangenziali di sintassi grammaticale, la segnaletica un sottocodice di impressioni, sensazioni, suoni,
mappe intuitive,sottoboschi metareali ,arcipelaghi linguistici, microcosmi dialettali
strade a semaferi spenti, che è sempre rosso,che non puoi tornare indietro,che ci sei già stato,
strade che rifarai mai,che avrai mai da rifare, che a rifare è una perdita di tempo,
che è ora di partire, che è ora di tornare.

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