O Único Verdadeiro Deus Vivo

2012-03-05T08:20:00.001-08:00

Com George Haslam, bebendo Sumol de ananás.

2012-03-05T04:04:00.000-08:00

George Haslam no Bartleby, 6ª feira passada (foto: Inês Dias).

2012-03-05T03:24:00.000-08:00

Lol Coxhill com Robert Wyatt

2012-03-05T03:20:00.002-08:00

The Elephant is Slow to Mate

The elephant, the huge old beast,
is slow to mate;
he finds a female, they show no haste
they wait

for the sympathy in their vast shy hearts
slowly, slowly to rouse
as they loiter along the river-beds
and drink and browse

and dash in panic through the brake
of forest with the herd,
and sleep in massive silence, and wake
together, without a word.

So slowly the great hot elephant hearts
grow full of desire,
and the great beasts mate in secret at last,
hiding their fire.

Oldest they are and the wisest of beasts
so they know at last
how to wait for the loneliest of feasts
for the full repast.

They do not snatch, they do not tear;
their massive blood
moves as the moon-tides, near, more near
till they touch in flood.

D. H. Lawrence

2012-03-05T03:07:00.001-08:00

Favola da Medusa e George Haslam no Bar do Cais, 6ª feira passada (clicar para aumentar).

2012-03-04T10:40:00.001-08:00

Duas páginas do meu livro "Um homem sozinho" (Língua Morta, 2011; ilustrações de Luís Henriques) fotografadas por Rui Pires Cabral

2012-03-04T06:48:00.000-08:00

Black Merda

2012-03-04T05:25:00.000-08:00

Impressionante: 4 óleos de Daniel Sprick

2012-03-04T05:17:00.000-08:00

Não é para me gabar mas trata-se de um belo livrinho...

2012-03-04T05:16:00.001-08:00

Outrora alguém olhou com os meus olhos
E alguém sentiu também com os meus sentidos.
Alguém foi Eu em sonhos derruídos,
Alguém viveu de mim ante os teus olhos.

Por isso me vejo, me conheço
De me ter visto outrora no meu Eu.
O meu passado é tudo que adormeço
Tudo o que envolvo em mim e me esqueceu.

E as minhas mãos que no teu sonho exaltas,
Outrora para Deus as elevei…
Não tocavam em Deus, eram mais altas.

Minha presença é alma que se ausenta
E o meu passado que ante mim deixei,
Uma cadeira onde ninguém se senta.

Alfredo Guisado

2012-03-03T04:11:00.000-08:00

LU JIANJUN

2012-03-02T07:28:00.000-08:00

TOMOKO SAWADA

2012-03-02T06:10:00.002-08:00

Quando eu cheguei
devia ser tarde
pois tinham dividido tudo
pelos outros
e seus descendentes.

(...)

ALMADA NEGREIROS

2012-03-01T07:08:00.002-08:00

Comes à pressa,
cagas à pressa,
dormes à pressa,
não sonhas nem fodes (ou raramente

e à pressa).

Chegues lá antes ou depois da hora,
terás à espera um carrossel desvairado,
daqueles que dão tonturas na barriga.
Deus Pai, o alfaiate da eternidade,
cortou um céu que assente a cada um.

Conto ter, só para mim, uma Bretanha
de bolso e um cachimbo e uma fonte
generosa de onde brote vinho branco.
E hei-de olhar e fumar e beber

sem pressas.

MM

2012-03-01T06:04:00.005-08:00

Bartleby Bar (Lisbon, second decade of the 21st century)

I’m a part of the (quite selfless) management of an informal association that has as motto and purpose the resistance to whatever is done by tradition, habit, obligation, self-indulgence, etc., to whatever is done without a reason or a will of one's own. We are three, or four, or five, or ten, or fifteen, maybe more – I cannot say for sure. We are as many as those willing to belong to it, truthfully and committedly. What we do there is modest and unassuming, but it's what we can do and it's good. Our aim is that others, as well as ourselves, feel more and better fulfilled and, thus, appeased and/or enraged (depending on the case), in hope that, somehow, this will make us better persons, more aware of one another and, in general, of the diversity of the world, starting off at our immediate surroundings. We are neither trying to recruit disciples nor to spread this message, but we welcome all those who come to us in goodwill, without prejudice, envy or malice, with a wholesome and unpretentious intelligence and the concomitant eagerness for plural knowledge. With those we wish to share what we know; with those we want, most of all, to learn.

As a manifesto, regarding this particular matter and my life in general, I know this isn't much, and yet my «lifelong ambitions» don't amount to much more than that. And those ambitions, if I may add, are not supported by any planning, schedules or aims other than those contained in themselves. The reward of trying to fulfill them resides, precisely, in the pleasure of doing it. And that is good enough for us.

Miguel Martins, in "Lérias", Averno, 2011
(tradução: Rui Miguel Ribeiro; revisão: Rui Pires Cabral e Mariana Pinto dos Santos)

2012-03-01T05:57:00.002-08:00

Democrítica

Mais tempo, admito, gasto a passar mal

por relativo amor e altivez

do que a fazer política, e prezo

sobre o consenso o rasgo original,

herança doentia do burguês

de génio, que nega ser geral

o raio que trilhou seu ideal,

e deixa que o isente a lucidez

da desprendida rota da unidade

além da sua esfera. Mais consola

levantar os óculos à verdade,

suspensa ao clamor mudo lá do fim

da literatura, onde não rola nada

excepto, além das massas, o sublime.

Precário verso, se o gesto

o não redime –

paira só na frouxa linha acima

dos meus ombros

onde ruo assolidária e sem assombros.

Agora, se descerem os médios

à rua os verdadeiros pobres a gente

atenta e recíproca a encher de pulmões ar

canto atrito resistência translação,

a derrubar consumo e cómodo sem afecto

e esta economia ávida que há muito não vê

pessoa que não faça género ou número, então

não seja eu por mim avara na poesia,

e, mais que busque luz, eu desconhecendo, dê.

Margarida Vale de Gato

2012-03-01T03:29:00.002-08:00

Even by avant-garde jazz standards, British saxophonist George Haslam is hard to pigeon-hole. First, he prefers to perform on the baritone saxophone and the tárogató, a Hungarian double-reed instrument -- not the most popular horns in jazz! Second, his eclectic tastes in music have taken him about everywhere between abstract free improv, Latin bop, and jazz standards. His formative years have remained undocumented, but his discography has been growing regularly since he created his own record label Slam in 1989. Favorite musical partners include trombonist Paul Rutherford and drummer Paul Hession.

Born on February 22, 1939 in Preston, Lancashire, George Haslam is for the most part self-taught on the saxophone. He began to play in dance and jazz bands at an early age, learning on the job. His main influences were Lester Young, Gerry Mulligan, and Jimmy Guiffre. At the end of the 1960s he started to include free jazz and improvisation in his methods of expression, exploring extended techniques similar to Evan Parker's without abandoning mainstream jazz altogether. He hooked up with the London Free Improv movement, performing but not recording. In the early 1980s he put together his first notable group, The Siger Band, with Rutherford, Pete McPhail, Tony Moore, and Nigel Morris (later replaced by Hession). During this period Haslam toured extensively in Eastern Europe, with and without his group. Live in Hungary by the Siger Band, released on Spotlite in 1984, was his first album.

In 1986 Haslam performed in Mexico and led the first British jazz group to play in Cuba. Four years later he became the first British jazzman to play in Argentina. This was the beginning of a love story with South America, particularly Argentina where he continues to go back each year. He has performed with legends like Arturo Sandoval and Charlie Mariano. In 1989 he put together the record label Slam which remains to this day his main musical outlet. Created to release his own material, the label has also documented the works of Steve Lacy and Mal Waldron, and has introduced a handful of Argentinian musicians to European ears. Slam's first release consisted of a set of duets with Rutherford titled 1989 And All That. Solo albums and collaborations with Rutherford, Lol Coxhill, Laszlo Gardony, Ruben Ferrero, Evan Parker and many more followed.

In 1992 Haslam formed the British Saxophone Quartet (with Paul Dunmall, Elton Dean, and Simon Picard). Five years later he started Meltdown, a workshop creative orchestra which recorded its first album in 2001, the same year his Anglo-Argentine Jazz Quartet toured England and Argentina, yielding the album Live at the Red Rose.

François Couture

2012-02-29T08:01:00.002-08:00

http://www.facebook.com/#!/photo.php?fbid=183262261690733&set=a.183262151690744.55415.183248321692127&type=3&theater

2012-02-28T07:37:00.002-08:00

Boa Tarde

Clarete,
minete
e Tom Jobim.

MM

2012-02-28T06:31:00.002-08:00

Nothing leads so straight to futility as literary ambitions without systematic knowledge.

****************************************

Moral indignation is jealousy with a halo.

****************************************

The path of least resistance is the path of the loser.

****************************************

Human history in essence is the history of ideas.

H. G. Wells

2012-02-28T06:30:00.001-08:00

Inês Dias

2012-02-27T07:51:00.000-08:00

Pôxa, olhem só essa gracinha que eu ganhei de presente...

2012-02-27T07:09:00.001-08:00

Thích Nh´ât Hạnh
(clicar para aumentar)

2012-02-27T05:40:00.000-08:00

Trecho de "Hi, Mom!" (Brian De Palma, 1970), um dos primeiros filmes com De Niro.

2012-02-27T05:37:00.002-08:00

Há alguns dias coloquei e elogiei aqui uma curta metragem de animação. Esta madrugada, ganhou um Oscar.

2012-02-25T09:17:00.002-08:00

Mutation killings

investigation 2

An aquarium

is slowly filling with blood

faster and faster the fish

are spinning around

as they´re feeding on names

Eva became Lenka

Petra became Hana

That´s how they lost their story

that´s how they lost their soul

A jazz trio

piano, drums and sax

and wax flower plant

with dark green leaves

The arms are closing

on her shoulders

until they meet

then he can hold her

investigation 3

The aquarium

is slowly filling with blood

faster and faster the fish

are spinning around

as they´re feeding on it

Marta became Lenka

Petra became Hana

that´s how they turned into victims

that´s how they lost their soul jazz piano, drums and wax flower plant

Dark leaves are closing

on her shoulders

until they meet

then he can choke her

The courtyard is flooded

you have to swim to my door

(Inspired by the diaries of the woman and the guy, an incident with the police and the coconut cake)

SONIA MONTENEGRO

2012-02-25T08:03:00.002-08:00

O ar precisa ser alimentado,
de gafanhotos, sílabas e sambas
e S. Tomás de Aquino ao fim da tarde.

Precisa ir semear já semeado,
zonzo, boquiaberto, as pernas bambas,
por quanto se não vê e, 'inda assim, arde.

Precisa de Camões, mais do que tudo,
com a Pátria a bombordo do seu peito,
e, alhures, fazer arder um novo entrudo,
perfeito.

MM

2012-02-25T04:55:00.002-08:00

Colóquio Internacional Melville e a filosofia: a vontade, as palavras e a acção

1/03
10H30 Abertura | Ouverture – António Marques (Director do IFL)
10H45 Apresentação do colóquio | Présentation du colloque – Vanessa Brito (IFL)
Des mots aux actes ?: politiques de la littérature
1º painel | 1ère session
Imagens do pensamento, figuras da (in)acção | Images de la pensée, figures de l’(in)action
Moderador | Modérateur : Golgona Anghel (CEIL)
11H00 Oliver Feltham (American University of Paris)
Origins of action in the Leviathan: Melville vs Hobbes on the modern condition
11H40 Debate | Discussion
12H10 Gisèle Berkman (Collège International de Philosophie)
La comédie de la pensée
12H50 Debate | Discussion
13H15-15H00 almoço | déjeuner
Moderador | Modérateur : Maria João Branco (IFL)
15H00 Golgona Anghel (CEIL, Universidade Nova de Lisboa)
A aventura do involuntário: suspensão, renúncia, fracasso. Billy Budd, Joséphine,
L’Innommable. | L’aventure de l’involontaire: suspension, renonciation, échec. Billy Budd,
Joséphine, L’Innommable.
15H40 Debate | Discussion
16H10 Silvina Rodrigues Lopes (CEIL, Universidade Nova de Lisboa)
«Performatividade» e decisão. (A partir de textos de Melville) | « Performativité » et décision. (À partir de textes de Melville)
16H50-17H20 Debate | Discussion
17H20-18H00 Mesa redonda | Table ronde
Manuel de Freitas, Miguel Martins, Rui Miguel Ribeiro, Mariana Pinto dos Santos

2012-02-24T08:38:00.001-08:00

Nos próximos dias 2 e 3 de Março, George Haslam, decano e um dos nomes maiores do saxofone barítono, estará em Lisboa, realizando três concertos:

DIA 2, Sexta:

22.30h - Bartleby (R. Imprensa Nacional, 116b, cave do restaurante BS) - Solo;

23.30h - Bar do Cais (Rua Nova do Carvalho) - c/ Favola da Medusa (Ana Dias, dos Madredeus, na harpa; Filipe Homem Fonseca, dos Cebola Mol, guitarra; Miguel Martins, que tocou com músicos como Dennis González, Floros Floridis, Gail Brand, Jon Raskin, Ken Filiano ou Patrick Brennan, guitarra);

Dia 3, Sábado:

23.30h - Bar A Barraca (Largo de Santos) - solo e quarteto com Favola da Medusa.

OS HORÁRIOS DEVERÃO SER CUMPRIDOS À RISCA. A entrada para cada concerto custará 5 Euros, com direito a uma imperial.

2012-02-24T08:30:00.000-08:00

TERRY RODGERS

2012-02-24T08:28:00.002-08:00

Fantaisie triste

I' bruinait... L'temps était gris,
On n'voyait pus l'ciel... L'atmosphère,
Semblant suer au d'ssus d'Paris,
Tombait en bué' su' la terre.

I' soufflait quéqu'chose... on n'sait d'où,
C'était ni du vent ni d'la bise,
Ça glissait entre l'col et l'cou
Et ça glaçait sous not' chemise.

Nous marchions d'vant nous, dans l'brouillard,
On distinguait des gens maussades,
Nous, nous suivions un corbillard
Emportant l'un d'nos camarades.

Bon Dieu ! qu'ça faisait froid dans l'dos !
Et pis c'est qu'on n'allait pas vite ;
La moell' se figeait dans les os,
Ça puait l'rhume et la bronchite.

Dans l'air y avait pas un moineau,
Pas un pinson, pas un' colombe,
Le long des pierr' i' coulait d'l'eau,
Et ces pierr's-là... c'était sa tombe.

Et je m'disais, pensant à lui
Qu' j'avais vu rire au mois d'septembre
Bon Dieu ! qu'il aura froid c'tte nuit !
C'est triste d'mourir en décembre.

J'ai toujours aimé l'bourguignon,
I' m' sourit chaqu' fois qu' i' s'allume ;
J' voudrais pas avoir le guignon
D' m'en aller par un jour de brume.

Quand on s'est connu l' teint vermeil,
Riant, chantant, vidant son verre,
On aim' ben un rayon d'soleil...
Le jour ousqu' on vous porte en terre.

Aristide BRUANT

2012-02-23T06:28:00.000-08:00

Música: Antonio e Luigi Russolo.

2012-02-23T03:34:00.001-08:00

3 X Edwin Morgan (clicar para aumentar)

2012-02-22T11:16:00.001-08:00

"The Danish Poet", realizado por Torill Kove.

2012-02-22T09:54:00.000-08:00

Puta que os pariu

Da paz, já nem vislumbre que se sinta.
A folha branca, o areal, o sol e o silêncio,
memórias que parecem de outra vida,
doutros corpo e cabeça, definidos e secos,
iguais só a si mesmos, pouco mundo
e um abdómen a retesar a tarde.
Havia a praia, pois, a demorar-se,
o beijo, a bola, o despertar, o riso,
o olhar tímido pedindo-se perdão,
antecipando, bem antes da cabeça,
a morte anunciada nos cartazes.
E eu, ainda negando as evidências,
fazendo fé numa gravura antiga
e na madeira grave das sequóias,
virei à esquerda pela porta da direita,
descoordenei a dislexia ao medo
e eis-me bimotor na lama fria.
Agora, acho que sonho carapaus
e isso só nas manhãs de mais bonança;
se não, penso só morte em tons vermelhos,
para, ao menos, por fim, não sentir sede.
Carapaus alimados, à antiga,
é menos mau do que a fábrica do nojo -
seus badalos, precisos e viscosos,
são matracas pela garganta a baixo,
santo-mártir de cama nos baldios.
É assim que me vejo, sem rodeios
nem concessões à discrição de vime
com que entretecem, os outros, as gaiolas
em que depois habitam, educados
e aceites pelos trâmites das lojas.
Não vir aí um vagalhão de lume
que lhes assasse o timo e a carteira
e as lambisgóias que usam, fotocópias!
Peço o Apocalipse, vê-lo em vida,
vestido de Marechal, rouco e míope,
assobiando um giroflé sem tino,
num quase orgasmo, demente e jovial,
e dando as boas-tardes aos espectadores asninos,
de boca aberta ante a pirotecnia!

MM

2012-02-22T08:32:00.000-08:00

Realizado por William Joyce, um dos filmes mais bonitos que vi na vida.

2012-02-22T08:26:00.000-08:00

Thro' the moated grange at twilight, my love and I we went,
By empty rooms and lonely stairs, in lover's sweet content,
And round the old and broken casement, we watched the roses flow'r,
But the place we lov'd the best of all, was call'd "My Lady's Bow'r."

And with beating hearts we enter'd and stood and whisper'd low,
Of the sweet and lovely lady who liv'd there years ago!
And the moon shone in upon us across the dusty floor,
Where her little feet had wandered in the courtly days of yore;
And it touch'd the faded arras and a gain we seem'd to see
The lovely lady sitting there, her lover at her knee,
And we saw him kiss her fair white hand and Oh! we heard him say:"
"I shall love thee love for ever, Tho' the years may pass away!
I shall love thee, for ever! Tho' the years may pass away!

But then they vanish'd in a moment, and we knew 'twas but a dream!
It was not they who sat there in the sliver moonlight gleam!
Ah! no, 'twas we, we two together who had found our golden hour,
And told the old, old story within "My Lady's Bow'r,"
And told the old, old story within "My Lady's Bow'r."

Frederick E. Weatherly

2012-02-22T08:23:00.000-08:00

Henri Salvador

2012-02-21T12:03:00.000-08:00

A única salvação do que é diferente é ser diferente até ao fim, com todo o valor, todo o vigor e toda a rija impassibilidade; tomar as atitudes que ninguém toma e usar os meios de que ninguém usa; não ceder a pressões, nem aos afagos, nem às ternuras, nem aos rancores; ser ele; não quebrar as leis eternas, as não-escritas, ante a lei passageira ou os caprichos do momento; no fim de todas as batalhas — batalhas para os outros, não para ele, que as percebe — há-de provocar o respeito e dominar as lembranças; teve a coragem de ser cão entre as ovelhas; nunca baliu; e elas um dia hão-de reconhecer que foi ele o mais forte e as soube em qualquer tempo defender dos ataques dos lobos.

Agostinho da Silva

2012-02-21T11:34:00.000-08:00

Frases que duvido que lhes ouçamos...

- Maria, passa-me aí a "Crítica da Razão Pura" que está em cima da mesa de cabeceira.

- E =mc2.

- Hoje apetecia-me era uma tachada de cabidela e umas valentes púcaras de carrascão...

- Ou muito me engano ou isso é um si bemol de sétima...

2012-02-21T11:01:00.001-08:00

This map , apparently from one of Kerouac’s own diaries, shows the itinerary of a trip from July to October 1947, much of which would later serve as the backdrop for ‘On the Road’:

New York City
Chicago
Davenport
Des Moines
North Platte
Cheyenne
(Denver
Central City)
Laramie
Salt Lake
Reno
San Francisco
Madera
Fresno
Selma
Los Angeles
Prescott
Albuquerque
Dalhart
Kansas City
St Louis
Indianapolis
Columbus
Pittsburgh
Washington DC
New York City

In ‘On the Road’, Kerouac tells the thinly veiled autobiographical tale of his trips through the US and Mexico with his friend Neal Cassady (‘Dean Moriarty’ in the book; Kerouacs narrator is called ‘Sal Paradise’). Interestingly, Kerouac never had a driver’s licence until he was 34 (in 1956), meaning that in the time of the ‘On the Road’ trips – to quote the title of a song by the band Guided by Voices – ‘Kerouac Never Drove, So He Never Drove Alone’.

2012-02-21T06:13:00.002-08:00

Victoria Van Dyke

2012-02-21T06:13:00.001-08:00

"While My Guitar Gently Weeps", pelos Black Chamber.

2012-02-21T03:52:00.001-08:00

O meu mestre Caeiro era um mestre de toda a gente com capacidade para ter mestre. Não havia pessoa que se acercasse de Caeiro, que falasse com ele, que tivesse a oportunidade física de conviver com o seu espírito, que não viesse outro dessa única Roma de onde se não voltava como se ia - a não ser que essa pessoa o não fosse, isto é, a não ser que essa pessoa fosse, como a maioria, incapaz de ser individual a não ser por ser, no espaço, um corpo separado de outros corpos e estragado simbolicamente pela forma humana.

Nenhum homem inferior pode ter um mestre, porque o mestre não tem nele nada de que o ser. É por esta razão que os temperamentos definidos e fortes são facilmente hipnotizáveis, que os homens normais o são com relativa facilidade, mas não são hipnotizáveis os idiotas, os imbecis, os fracos e os incoerentes. Ser forte é ser capaz de sentir.

Fernando Pessoa

2012-02-21T03:42:00.002-08:00

Por extraordinário que possa parecer, o Paraíso existe e está ao nosso alcance: ao cimo da Calçada, quase no encontro de três ruas, mas recolhido e ausente. Desde a Sé, lá em baixo, o labirinto das ruas, a meia-laranja, a íngreme ladeira com os gradeamentos polidos como bronze, os telhados sobrepostos, a capela sempre fechada – tudo isto forma um presépio erguido sobre muros e socalcos de jardins donde se debruçam velhas pimenteiras, trepadeiras e flores mal cuidadas, e se enxergam painéis de antigos azulejos.

José Rodrigues Miguéis

2012-02-21T02:54:00.001-08:00

Ramon Casas i Carbó

2012-02-20T03:30:00.008-08:00

Otto Meuhl

The last time I talked with the late curator and art historian Harald Szeemann – we met by chance at the train station in Zurich – I asked him why he hadn’t included happenings and performances more prominently in the seminal Documenta 5 that he curated in 1972. He replied that he originally intended to give them much more space and even made a dry run to test their potential, namely ‘Happening & Fluxus’. He organised this show at the Kölnischer Kunstverein, Cologne, in winter 1970, after leaving the Kunsthalle Bern. However, the result, he explained, turned out to be a disaster – performance simply did not fit into an exhibition.

How would art history have developed, one might ask in retrospect, if ‘Happening & Fluxus’ had not been a failure? What if the public had liked it and the politicians and collectors supported it? What would be different in today’s realm of art if the exhibition had paved the way for protagonists such as Otto Muehl and Allan Kaprow, instead of ousting them from the canon of art history during the 1970s and 1980s? Would we have another kind of art if Documenta 5 had been focused on happenings and performance, carrying on the playful impetus of the 1960s, instead of squeezing art back behind the walls of the museum?

The photographs of a group of naked performers surrounded by a rather indifferent audience strike me as crucial documents in this debate. They were unearthed in the archives of the Kölnischer Kunstverein and announced a retrospective exhibition about ‘Happening & Fluxus’, curated by Marcel Odenbach in 2007. Taken by the Swiss artist Balthasar Burkhard, it documents Otto Muehl’s Manopsychotic Ballet (Part 2), staged on the afternoon of 8 November 1970 by two male and two female performers, namely Otto Muehl, Herbert Stumpfl, Romilla Doll and Mica Most, with Charlotte Moorman playing the cello. Obviously, the event was produced both for a live audience and the camera. Two cameramen and two sound engineers are directed towards Muehl. Like Moorman, the members of the film team are naked. They are both the observers and the observed, distanced witnesses and exposed performers.

The Manopsychotic Ballet was the last important action by Muehl before he retired from the art world after a decade of painting and performance and focused on his commune as an alternative way of living. It marked the end of a very prolific phase of actions that followed the legendary Art and Revolution action by the Viennese Actionists in Vienna in 1968. As a result of this performance, Muehl and Günter Brus were prosecuted and could no longer exhibit publicly in Austria. Muehl was successful with performances in Germany, such as Oh Sensibility, Shit Head and The Wanton Woden. His actions, either in private apartments or public exhibition spaces, featured naked protagonists who were mimicking acts of sexual violence, sadism, masochism and the devouring of animals such as pigs and hens. The atmosphere was grotesque, cabaret-like, and several performances provoked scandals, such as Oh Tannenbaum in Braunschweig in December 1969, where a butcher slaughtered a pig. In the case of ‘Happening & Fluxus’, the city authorities of Cologne put pressure on the Kunstverein after right-wing politicians and representatives of the Catholic Church protested about human defecation and the slaughtering of animals during the actions of Muehl and Hermann Nitsch. The director eventually removed the exhibitions of both artists.

Looking at the photographs today, one might wonder why the public was so shocked. However, there are other pictures by Burkhard and a 16mm film by Jörg Siebert that show more explicit details. The action begins with a ritual dance of the performers, who caress each other’s genitals and mimic sexual intercourse. Muehl then extracts a tampon from the vagina of one of the female performers, presents it to the audience and carries it triumphantly between his teeth. Later, he inserts a rolling pin into her vagina. He whips her with a belt before being whipped himself by her and the others. There is a scene where a cameraman pretends to rape a female performer by inserting the lens of a camera into the vagina. In another scene the two male performers urinate on the body of one of the females. Towards the end, a live chicken is introduced into the proceedings. It remains unclear if it is actually slaughtered on stage, but the performers tear the dead bird to pieces and act as if they are devouring it. In the closing scene, Muehl defecates towards the lens of the camera. This sequence seems to be shot separately, not during the performance.

Aside from the perceived controversial nature of the performance, one cannot help but identify the Manopsychotic Ballet with the social and political events of 1968. The confrontation between the group of vulnerable naked young people exposing themselves to an anonymous crowd immediately recalls issues such as student protests, sexual revolution and the clash of the generations. The iconic photograph of Kommune 1 in Berlin comes to mind, which shows the naked members of the group standing against the wall, ready for inspection by the police. Some interpreters would probably see Manopsychotic Ballet as a symbolic re-enactment of the paternalistic structure of the older generation, based both on violence in the private sphere and the passive tolerance of the violence by the State. Political interpretations are particularly popular among art historians, because they support one of the founding myths of contemporary art – namely its birth out of the spirit of rebellion. One is pleased to hear it, because it continues the cherished story of the avant-garde’s triumph over bourgeois norms in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century.

However, why was the Manopsychotic Ballet forgotten for almost 40 years, why are there no traces of this work in art books and why did Szeemann think it did not fit into Documenta 5? The answer is that the art world – the community of cutting-edge artists, critics, curators and dealers – was afraid that it would undermine the tacit agreement that it and the rebellious students stood on the same side in those turbulent years. The work had to remain invisible because it risked revealing that the art world was not unanimous and coherent at that time, but marked by internal conflicts. What if the naked performers were not really protesting against the State, against the moral regime of society, against their parents’ generation, but rather against their audience? What if their enemy was not the reactionary politicians beyond the walls of the museum, but rather the seemingly progressive organisers of the event and the vivid, young and open-minded audience, ready to cope with every new artistic production and absorb every new provocation, those young people we see standing in the room, arms crossed, tolerant and sceptical at the same time – in other words, us?

The identification of the events of 1968 with neo-avant-garde art that prevails today is too simple. We tend to overlook the internal conflict within the realm of art that took place during the 1960s and can be traced in the fact that during that decade the earlier notion of “artist’s world” was replaced by the now common term art world. In fact, the artists lost their central role towards the end of the decade. The cascade of “isms” and the vivid debate about the definition of art that went on in journals and on discussion panels are not only the result of the historicist reference of 1960s art to the classic avant-garde. They are also symptomatic of a struggle about the control of the mediation of art, about the authority to validate art, to define its meaning. With a rapidly growing international public, with an expanding art market and with the enormous appetite of collectors and museums for ever-new works of art, the mediation of art became a valuable resource. Artists, critics and curators were struggling to control this resource. And the variety of names that were coined to define the different movements is in some way comparable with the claims made by gold-diggers a century earlier. By the end of the 1960s, the winner of this struggle was clear, namely the museums. Documenta 5 is emblematic of this shift of power, because it symbolises the rappel à l’ordre of the early 1970s, in other words, the domestication of an extraordinarily vital and complex phase in the history of art during the 1960s. The exhibition, and the colossal catalogue that went with it, stood for the triumph of the museum over the artist. Since Documenta 5, curators, not artists or critics, decide the contents of exhibitions, their themes and trends. Curators such as Szeemann became the key figures in the consolidated art world, and the critics’ voice, as well as that of the artists, lost much of its earlier influence.

If one looks closer at the oeuvre of Muehl, one can see that he was very critical of the art of his time. In the programme of his Institut für Manopsychotik, he distances himself from what he calls “representative” art, meaning art that does not really interfere with life, and he considers “happenings as thoroughly bourgeois art, just art”. Seen from this perspective, the action can be read as persiflage of a happening, the performers aping performance art and mimicking the closed-circuit structure of ephemeral media by including a naked film team as part of the performance. While the action Art and Revolution two years earlier was a test to find out how tolerant the student activists were towards art that was not ready to be instrumentalised, but who insisted on its autonomy – in the end the student activists distanced themselves from the artists – in the Manopsychotic Ballet, I would argue, was a test of the curators. The result of this test was not only the censorship of Muehl by the authorities of the Kunstverein, but, more importantly, Szeemann’s decision to exclude this kind of art from Documenta 5 altogether, and produce an exhibition that respected the limits of the museum. After that, there was no way for Muehl to gain access to the mainstream, to the important exhibitions and collections that set the trend of the 1970s and 1980s. Whereas Kaprow, to give another prominent example, retreated to his academic teaching and to small-scale performance almost without an audience, Muehl retreated to his commune, the action-analytical organisation that temporarily had more than 600 members.

Other artists, however, fitted neatly into the new regime and entered the mainstream. The most visible artist present in Documentas 5, 6 and 7 was Joseph Beuys. In retrospect, iconic works such as the print entitled La Rivolutione siamo noi (1971), where the artist is represented marching towards the camera in an obviously revolutionary pose, have forged the myth of the political roots of contemporary art. The image is still popular in the realm of art because everyone likes to identify with it and because it suggests that the mysterious “noi” means “us”; in other words, the art world and art per se is revolutionary.However, Beuys never addressed the authoritarian structure of the art world as such. Like other authors of political art, such as Hans Haacke or Thomas Hirschhorn, his work is cherished by the institutions precisely because it implies that the art world is beyond the need of political analysis. Beuys’s gesture was welcome because it suggested that art could act on society, but not the other way round. In consequence, Beuys, during the 1970s, was sometimes criticised by fellow artists of being “unpolitical” – a judgment that implicitly recalled Thomas Mann’s Observation of an Unpolitical Man, a legitimisation of Germany’s role in the First World War that became the synonym of cultural opportunism.

In fact, Beuys never boycotted an exhibition – unlike Robert Smithson. Who remembers today that Smithson was among the few who boycotted Documenta 5, precisely to protest against the inherent, yet repressed authoritarian structure within the art world that sought control over the artists. In his view, Szeemann acted like a warden of the prison, putting artists in little white cubes. Smithson’s text “Cultural Confinement” appeared in the catalogue of Documenta 5 and opens with the words: “Cultural confinement takes place when a curator imposes his own limits on an art exhibition, rather than asking an artist to set his limits… Some artists imagine they’ve got a hold on this apparatus, which in fact has got a hold of them.” The inclusion of his statement made clear that the institution of the museum was powerful enough to absorb everything, even explicit critique. Szeemann continued to show the work of Muehl in his exhibitions, yet always framed as an outsider, beyond the artistic mainstream. Documenta 5 is so important because it marks the moment when curators or, more generally speaking, the institution of the museum took over control and the authority to decide about the inclusion, or exclusion, of artists into the canon of contemporary art.

Muehl, I would argue, produced two mirror images, one of the repressive structures of European post-war society, the other of the authoritarian structure of the emerging art world. Thus, he put the viewers in an ambivalent, confusing situation. Labelling his action a “ballet”, he implicitly stated that the relationship between the artists and their audience was still deeply rooted in the entertainment structure of the nineteenth century. Deconstructing the hidden erotic meaning of the ballet by aping pornographic scenes, he made them into voyeurs. Of course, it belongs to the irony of art history that Muehl’s commune itself also became institutionalised after a while and that he, in the end, reproduced the very authoritarian structures he initially tried to overcome. But the art historical importance of the Manopsychotic Ballet, as I see it, lies in its capacity to make visible the usually hidden boundaries of the cultural realm. It makes clear that the art world had turned into an institution that, even if its protagonists did not intend to do so, developed its own exclusive and authoritarian structures. The State always knew exactly how to react to the actions of Muehl and install its jurisdiction. But unlike the State, the art world could not really cope with his art. The action put the dominant institution of the art world, the museum, embodied at that time by Szeemann, in a position where it had to exclude his work to protect its own authority. In the end, Muehl was simply struggling for the autonomy of his art. Yet this is more than the art world could – and still can – tolerate.

Philip Ursprung

2012-02-20T03:00:00.002-08:00

The Mill-Race

Four-fifty. The palings of Trinity Church
Burying Ground, a few inches above the earth,
are sunk in green light. The low stones
like pale books knocked sideways. The bus so close to the curb
that brush-drops of ebony paint stand out wetly, the sunlight
seethes with vibrations, the sidewalks
on Whitehall shudder with subterranean tremors. Overhead, faint flickers

crackle down the window-paths: limpid telegraphy of the
late afternoon July thunderstorm unfurling over Manhattan.
Its set and luminous velocity, long stalks of stormlight, and then the first drops
strike their light civic stripes on the pavement.
Between the palings, oat-panicles sift a few bright
grains to the stonecourse. Above it, at shoulder height
a side door is flung open, fire-exits; streaming from lobbies

come girls and women, white girls in shadowy-striped rayon skirts, plastic ear-hoops,
black girls in gauzy-toned nylons, ripples of cornrows and plaits,
one girl with shocked-back ash hair, lightened eyebrows;
one face from Easter Island, mauve and granitic;
thigh on thigh, waist by waist; the elbow’s curlicue and the fingers’; elbow-work, heel-work,
are suddenly absorbed in the corduroyed black rubber stairs of the bus. Humid
sighs, settlings, each face tilts up to the windows’
shadowless yards of mercuric green plate glass. An
interspace then, like the slowing of some rural
water-mill, a creaking and dipping pause
of black-splintered paddles, the irregularly
dappled off-lighting—bottle-green—the lucid slim sluice
falling back in a stream from the plank edge. It won’t take us
altogether, we say, the mill-race—it won’t churn us up altogether. We’ll keep
a glib stretch of leisure water, like our self’s self—to reflect the sky.
But we won’t (says the bus rider now to herself). Nothing’s
left over, really, from labor. They’ve taken it all for the mill-race.

In close-ups now, you can see it in every face,
despite the roped rain light pouring down the bus-windows—
it’s the strain of gravity itself, of life hours cut off and offered
to the voice that says “Give me this day your
life, that is LABOR, and I’ll give you back
one day, then another. For mine are the terms.”
It’s gravity, spilling in capillaries, cheek-tissue trembling,
despite the make-up, the monograms, the mass-market designer scarves,

the army of signs disowning the workplace and longing for night ...
But even as the rain slackens, labor
lengthens itself along Broadway. The night signs
come on, that wit has set up to draw money: O’DONNELL’S,
BEIRUT CAFE, YONAH’S KNISH ... People dart out from awnings.
The old man at the kiosk starts his late shift, whipping off rainstreaked
lucite sheets from his stacks of late-market newsprint.

If there is leisure, bus-riders, it’s not for you,
not between here and uptown or here and the Bronx.
Outside Marine Midland, the black sea of unmarked corporate hire-cars
waits for the belated office lights, the long rainy run to the exurbs;
and perhaps on a converted barn roof in Connecticut
leisure may silver the shingles, somewhere the densely packed
labor-mines that run a half mile down from the sky
to the Battery rise, metamorphic, in water-gardens,
lichened windows where the lamp lights Thucydides or Gibbon.

It’s not a water-mill really, labor. It’s like the nocturnal
paper-mill pulverizing, crushing each fiber of rag into atoms,
or the workhouse tread-mill, smooth-lipped, that wore down a London of doxies and sharps,
or the flour-mill, faërique, that raised the cathedrals and wore out hosts of dust-demons,
but it’s mostly the miller’s curse-gift, forgotten of God yet still grinding, the salt-
mill, that makes the sea, salt.

Anne Winters

2012-02-19T14:04:00.000-08:00

Matthew Cusik

2012-02-19T14:00:00.000-08:00

La magnifique et lamentable famille des nerveux est le sel de la terre.

Marcel Proust

2012-02-19T11:43:00.000-08:00

Lá onde o mundo acaba e o céu começa

2012-02-19T11:25:00.000-08:00

Acaba de me ser enviado pela poeta Gracia Iglesias:

2012-02-19T06:19:00.001-08:00

Gulsun Karamustafa

2012-02-19T05:56:00.001-08:00

Gosto de boa companhia, de rir até doer a barriga e as bochechas

gosto de acordar devagarinho e roçar os pés nos lençóis macios, preguiçar

gosto de ter o prazer de fazer as coisas bem feitas

gosto de perfeição de um ovo

gosto de anona, tamarindo e do pudim de mel de Monchique

gosto de peónias, de flores brancas e verdes e das folhas do inhame

gosto de lassy de manga, de sopa de nabiças, de água fresca, de sushi sem wasabi, do besugo grelhado da fortaleza ao domingo, do cheiro do pão acabado de fazer

gosto de ser abraçada por quem adoro abraçar, longa, terna e docemente

gosto de beijar uma boca apetitosa e aí perder-me

gosto da praia à noite, da lua gorda e brilhante, mergulhar na fosforescência da rebentação e de enterrar a mão na areia que a essa hora fica mais fina

gosto de sentir na cara o vento frio do Inverno, gosto do cheiro do mar e do barulho das ondas

gosto do cheirinho dos bebés, das suas mãos e pés minúsculos e tão perfeitos

gosto de estar sozinha

gosto de sonhar que voo ou nado no mar mais profundo sem precisar de respirar

gosto de ir para casa

Não gosto da surpresa de um pacote de leite estragado

não gosto de muito calor porque me faz dores nas pernas

não gosto da deslealdade e da falta de carácter

não gosto de açúcar na sopa ou de comida muito picante

não gosto de roupa apertada

não gosto de me sentir só

não gosto da decepção quase no fim do livro (foleiro)

não gosto de seres arrogantes, mesquinhos ou simplesmente idiotas

não gosto de bater com a cabeça nas portas do armário da cozinha, de topadas ou daquela dor fininha que apita nos ouvidos

não gosto de fruta verde e das cascas e grainhas das uvas

Catarina Félix

2012-02-19T05:51:00.002-08:00

Ao Zé Cardoso peço uma miúda
com um toque de chiado ou de grandella
às nove e duas pernas da manhã,
que, como peixe, tesa de frescura,
tenha perdido a escama de donzela,
mas não venha falar-me do Vailland ...

Alexandre O'Neill
(Na foto, da esquerda para a direita: Alexandre Ó Neill, Fernando Babo, José Cardoso Pires e Mário Cesariny. Cacilhas, 17 de Maio de 1947).

2012-02-19T05:49:00.002-08:00

Filipe Homem Fonseca

2012-02-16T04:51:00.012-08:00

FOTONOVELA:

Rapaz:

Strawman:

Rapariga:

Rapaz:

Rapariga:

Rapaz:

Rapariga:

Público:

MM

2012-02-16T02:45:00.002-08:00

É preciso fazer um esforçoConsiderar possívelEstar sempre de perfilSer mono-asaBarbatana sem dorsoBranco sem luzAve sem cisneOndular no arSer o remoto futuroRelâmpago sem ser vistoForça sem motorBuraco sem quedaConsiderar possívelEros sem frenéticoLivro sem que o leiamPoema sem que o façamFazer um esforçoSentir insensívelSem que seja possívelSem que seja precisoProfundamenteTudo é tão importanteComo um olhar furtivo

Ana Hatherly

2012-02-16T02:14:00.000-08:00

Joe Scanlan

2012-02-16T02:11:00.001-08:00

LINDO! LINDO! LINDO!

You are tired,
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.

Come with me, then,
And we'll leave it far and far away—
(Only you and I, understand!)

You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
Just tired.
So am I.

But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—
Open to me!
For I will show you the places Nobody knows,
And, if you like,
The perfect places of Sleep.

I'll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,
That floats forever and a day;
I'll sing you the jacinth song
Of the probable stars;
I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,
Until I find the Only Flower,
Which shall keep (I think) your little heart
While the moon comes out of the sea.

e.e. cummings

2012-02-15T06:21:00.000-08:00

Não gosto de crianças e adultos; gosto de bebés, adolescentes e velhos.

Não gosto da realidade presente nem da antecipação do futuro; gosto de passados e futuros mitificados.

Não gosto de automóveis nem de motos nem de aviões; gosto de bicicletas, comboios e barcos.

Não gosto de pessoas instruídas e burras; gosto de analfabetos espertos.

O meu animal preferido é a joaninha; detesto ratos citadinos.

Gosto de rios pequenos e de praias com rebentações moderadas; as barragens dão-me medo.

Amo as Aldeias do Xisto (Arganil/Pampilhosa da Serra); embirro com Óbidos e com Genebra.

Gosto de que provem que me amam sem mo dizerem; perdi a paciência para conversas pessoais.

Gosto muito de relativamente pouca poesia; os ensaios não me interessam; divirto-me com policiais, mesmo que maus; adoro biografias encomiásticas e petite histoire.

Gosto muito de ameixas amarelas, canja de galinha e peixe frito; não gosto de alcachofras; língua de vaca e dobrada metem-me nojo.

Sou muito bom a dar conferências; medíocre a dar aulas.

Gosto muito de fazer minetes e cunetes; não sou grande partidário do 69 nem das punhetas de mamas.

O jazz é bom como conceito; o teatro como processo; o cinema narrativo só muito raramente interessa; as esculturas da Barbara Hepworth são boas de ver e tocar; o Tàpies era, até há uns dias, o maior pintor vivo.

O Stevie Wonder é fixe; o Pat Metheny é chato.

A Espanha é a Hispânia e faz falta à Europa; Portugal é outra coisa e, embora ninguém saiba bem o que seja, virá a fazer falta ao mundo.

Gosto de ti, que me lês, porque me lês; não gosto de ti, que me lês, se me procurares entender.

Gosto de listas, está bom de ver; não gosto de fazer contas à vida.

MM
15/02/12

2012-02-15T05:41:00.000-08:00

VOLTAIRE - Poème sur le désastre de Lisbonne (1756)

O malheureux mortels ! ô terre déplorable !
O de tous les mortels assemblage effroyable !
D'inutiles douleurs éternel entretien !
Philosophes trompés qui criez : " Tout est bien " ;
Accourez, contemplez ces ruines affreuses,
Ces débris, ces lambeaux, ces cendres malheureuses.
Ces femmes, ces enfants l'un sur l'autre entassés,
Sous ces marbres rompus ces membres dispersés :
Cent mille infortunés que la terre dévore,
Qui, sanglants, déchirés, et palpitants encore,
Enterrés sous leurs toits, terminent sans secours
Dans l'horreur des tourments leurs lamentables jours !
Aux cris demi-formés de leurs voix expirantes,
Au spectacle effrayant de leurs cendres fumantes,
Direz-vous : " C'est l'effet des éternelles lois
Qui d'un Dieu libre et bon nécessitent le choix " ?
Direz-vous, en voyant cet amas de victimes :
" Dieu s'est vengé, leur mort est le prix de leurs crimes " ?
Quel crime, quelle faute ont commis ces enfants
Sur le sein maternel écrasés et sanglants ?
Lisbonne, qui n'est plus, eut-elle plus de vices
Que Londres, que Paris, plongés dans les délices ?
Lisbonne est abîmée, et l'on danse à Paris.
Tranquilles spectateurs, intrépides esprits,
De vos frères mourants contemplant les naufrages,
Vous recherchez en paix les causes des orages :
Mais du sort ennemi quand vous sentez les coups,
Devenus plus humains, vous pleurez comme nous.
Croyez-moi, quand la terre entrouvre ses abîmes,
Ma plainte est innocente et mes cris légitimes. [...]
Un jour tout sera bien, voilà notre espérance ;
Tout est bien aujourd'hui, voilà l'illusion.
Les sages me trompaient, et Dieu seul a raison.
Humble dans mes soupirs, soumis dans ma souffrance,
Je ne m'élève point contre la Providence.
Sur un ton moins lugubre on me vit autrefois
Chanter des doux plaisirs les séduisantes lois :
D'autres temps, d'autres moeurs : instruit par la vieillesse,
Des humains égarés partageant la faiblesse,
Dans une épaisse nuit cherchant à m'éclairer,
Je ne sais que souffrir, et non pas murmurer.
Un calife autrefois, à son heure dernière,
Au Dieu qu'il adorait dit pour toute prière :
" Je t'apporte, ô seul roi, seul être illimité,
Tout ce que tu n'as pas dans ton immensité,
Les défauts, les regrets, les maux et l'ignorance. "
Mais il pouvait encore ajouter l'espérance.

2012-02-15T05:40:00.000-08:00

Carl Larsson

2012-02-14T07:50:00.000-08:00

Sarah Small's “Tableau Vivant of the Delirium Constructions"

2012-02-14T02:53:00.008-08:00

Onde quer que vá, verifico que um poeta esteve lá antes de mim.

Sigmund Freud

Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things.

T.S. Eliot

Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

Of our conflicts with others we make rhetoric; of our conflicts with ourselves we make poetry.

William Butler Yeats

It is true that the poet does not directly address his neighbors; but he does address a great congress of persons who dwell at the back of his mind, a congress of all those who have taught him and whom he has admired; they constitute his ideal audience and his better self. ... To this congress the poet speaks not of peculiar and personal things, but of what in himself is most common, most anonymous, most fundamental, most true of all men.

Richard Wilbur

Poetry is the journal of the sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air.

Carl Sandburg

2012-02-14T02:04:00.001-08:00

2 X Jeanne Lee, uma das vozes femininas da história do jazz de que mais gosto

2012-02-14T01:34:00.000-08:00

Maurice Tabard , auto-retrato, 1936.

2012-02-13T09:09:00.000-08:00

Pirilampos no asfalto,
drogados, azul-cobalto,
iluminavam a noite, atra e atroz.
Chega um caçador furtivo
e, de modo muito esquivo,
vai de os encerrar numa casca de noz.

E, embora fossem adictos,
ficaram assaz aflitos,
enfiados nesse espaço tão exíguo.
E era tal o sofrimento
sentido nesse momento
que lhes ocorreu um pensamento ambíguo:

sua força de viver,
100% para o prazer,
para as frivolidades negadas por Ovídio,
fez-lhes grassar no bestunto
um desfecho para o assunto,
que não foi outro que não o suicídio.

Se eles perderam a vida,
a sorte não foi mais querida
para o caçador inglório, já se vê:
Queria iluminar a sala
com pirilampos à pala,
mas agora paga a conta à EDP.

MM

2012-02-13T07:24:00.000-08:00

tu que viste fiordes e corais,
que chegaste das palavras
subterrâneas e do que fica

por dizer, que aprendeste o silêncio
em várias línguas e atiraste um dia
a moeda ao ar para enganar

a morte, quantos verbos
queres mais para percorrer
esta narrativa inútil?

RENATA CORREIA BOTELHO

2012-02-13T03:43:00.000-08:00

Micol Hebron

2012-02-13T03:18:00.000-08:00

No meu sonho desfilam as visões,
Espectros dos meus próprios pensamentos,
Como um bando levado pelos ventos,
arrebatado em vastos turbillhões...

Num espiral, de estranhas contorções,
E donde saem gritos e lamentos,
Vejo-os passar, em grupos nevoentos,
Distingo-lhes, a espaços, as feições...

-Fantasmas de mim mesmo e da minha alma,
Que me fitais com formidável calma,
Levados na onda turva do escarcéu,

Quem sois vós, meus irmãos e meus algozes?
Quem sois, visões misérrimas e atrozes?
Ai de mim! ai de mim! e quem sou eu?!...

Antero de Quental

2012-02-13T03:08:00.000-08:00

Claude Lazar

2012-02-13T03:06:00.000-08:00

Johnny Cash & Louis Armstrong

2012-02-11T13:25:00.001-08:00

Saga

Aos outros dei aquilo que não eram
E por isso depois me arrependi.
Um homem morto em tudo o que perdi -
E olhos que são meus e não me esperam.

*************************************

Ausência

Num deserto sem água
Numa noite sem lua
Num país sem nome
Ou numa terra nua

Por maior que seja o desespero
Nenhuma ausência é mais funda do que a tua.

Sophia de Mello Breyner Andresen

2012-02-10T06:23:00.000-08:00

Litografias de David Lynch (esse mesmo)

2012-02-10T06:16:00.000-08:00

A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted
Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;
A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted
With shifting change, as is false women's fashion;
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
A man in hue, all hues in his controlling,
Which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.
And for a woman wert thou first created,
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,
And by addition me of thee defeated,
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
But since she pricked thee out for women's pleasure,
Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.

William Shakespeare

2012-02-10T06:14:00.000-08:00

Thays Blasco

2012-02-10T06:12:00.000-08:00

A Woman's Shortcomings

She has laughed as softly as if she sighed,
She has counted six, and over,
Of a purse well filled, and a heart well tried -
Oh, each a worthy lover!
They "give her time"; for her soul must slip
Where the world has set the grooving;
She will lie to none with her fair red lip:
But love seeks truer loving.

She trembles her fan in a sweetness dumb,
As her thoughts were beyond recalling;
With a glance for one, and a glance for some,
From her eyelids rising and falling;
Speaks common words with a blushful air,
Hears bold words, unreproving;
But her silence says - what she never will swear -
And love seeks better loving.

Go, lady! lean to the night-guitar,
And drop a smile to the bringer;
Then smile as sweetly, when he is far,
At the voice of an in-door singer.
Bask tenderly beneath tender eyes;
Glance lightly, on their removing;
And join new vows to old perjuries -
But dare not call it loving!

Unless you can think, when the song is done,
No other is soft in the rhythm;
Unless you can feel, when left by One,
That all men else go with him;
Unless you can know, when unpraised by his breath,
That your beauty itself wants proving;
Unless you can swear "For life, for death!" -
Oh, fear to call it loving!

Unless you can muse in a crowd all day
On the absent face that fixed you;
Unless you can love, as the angels may,
With the breadth of heaven betwixt you;
Unless you can dream that his faith is fast,
Through behoving and unbehoving;
Unless you can die when the dream is past -
Oh, never call it loving!

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

2012-02-10T05:37:00.000-08:00

ALBERTO GARCIA ALIX

2012-02-10T05:35:00.000-08:00

O world! O life! O time!
On whose last steps I climb,
Trembling at that where I had stood before;
When will return the glory of your prime?
No more--Oh, never more!.

Out of the day and night
A joy has taken flight;
Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar,
Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight
No more--Oh, never more!

Percy Bysshe Shelley

2012-02-10T05:33:00.000-08:00

Paul Williams

2012-02-09T02:37:00.000-08:00

Pipilotti Rist

2012-02-09T02:01:00.000-08:00

Sonnet To A Negro In Harlem

You are disdainful and magnificent--

Your perfect body and your pompous gait,

Your dark eyes flashing solemnly with hate;

Small wonder that you are incompetent

To imitate those whom you so dispise--

Your shoulders towering high above the throng,

Your head thrown back in rich, barbaric song,

Palm trees and manoes stretched before your eyes.

Let others toil and sweat for labor's sake

And wring from grasping hands their meed of gold.

Why urge ahead your supercilious feet?

Scorn will efface each footprint that you make.

I love your laughter, arrogant and bold.

You are too splendid for this city street!

Helene Johnson

2012-02-09T01:42:00.000-08:00

2 X (Jean) Saheb Sarbib

Saheb Sarbib (nascimento 1944) Contrabaixista e bandleader de jazz americano, nascido em Portugual de origem francesa/argelina. Sarbib toca também outros instrumentos, nomeadamente piano.

Índice

1 Biografia
2 Discografia
2.1 Como Lider
2.2 Como sideman
3 Referências

Biografia

Saheb Sarbib, com nome de batismo Jean Henri Sarbib, é um luso-francês e cresceu em Portugal. O seu pai foi Roger Sarbib um respeitado pianista francês e inovador do estilo Big Band em Portugal nos anos 40 e 50, também pianista de icones da canção francesa como Edith Piaf, Charles Trenet ou Maurice Chevalier. É irmão do pianista de jazz português André Sarbib.

Em 1968 Sarbib faz parte, ainda que por pouco tempo, do Quinteto Académico, e mais tarde do Trio Barroco, com Pedro Osório e Luís Villas-Boas

Entre 1973 e até cerca de 1977, Sarbib liderou os seus próprios grupos em França; Daunik Lazro, François Jeanneau, Muhammad Ali, e Mino Cinélu estão entre os que tocaram com ele como sideman. Na Europa aproximou-se de Cecil Taylor e actuou com Cecil e com Archie Shepp. Entre 1977 e 78 mudou-se para Nova York, onde liderou pequenos grupos, que se movimentaram na cena avant-gard post-jazz, com excelente aceitação pela critica.[1]

Em Nova York lidera também uma original Big Band chamada "Multinacional Big Band", incluindo sidemen como Roy Campbell, Jack Walrath, Art Baron, Talib Kibwe, Joe Ford, Jemeel Moondoc, Richard Baratta, Paul Nebenzahl, Mark Whitecage, Dave Hofstra, Booker T., Joe Lovano, Paul Motian, Rashied Ali, e Kirk Lightsey. [2] [3]

Situando-se como um dos mais originais compositores e arranjadores da geração "post-jazz", a sua musica para big band inclui o "Concerto for Rahsaan", de 34 minutos, estreado ao vivo no Public Theater (outubro de 1980), e a suite de quatro movimento "Aisha, off Aisha" (Agosto de 1981). [4]

Saheb também tocou contrabaixo para o saxofonista Archie Shepp incluindo o seu album de 1984 "Down Home New York" juntamente com Charles McGhee no trompete, Kenny Werner no piano, e Marvin "Smitty" Smith na bateria.[2]

Colaborou com o grupo de improvisação avant-garde português Telectu de Jorge Lima Barreto, tocando várias vezes com o duo, incluindo na primeira edição do Festival de Jazz de Lisboa. Em 1077 foi gravado o album "Encounters", e em 1989 o grupo gravou "Encounters II / Labirintho 7.8", o qual foi registado em Nova York e, mais tarde, completado em 1990 no Porto.

O album Aisha aparece incluido em algumas listas dos melhores albuns de jazz e de jazz avant-garde e free jazz. [4]

Sarbib retirou-se da musica em finais dos anos 80 (ou inicio de 90). Actualmente é negociante de arte e antiguidades, marido e pai, no norte do estado de Nova york.[2]
[editar] Discografia
[editar] Como Lider

1974: Evil Season [4]
1976: Live In Europe Vol 2 Marge[5]
1976: A Blessing For Joseph Dejean, [4]
1979: UFO! Live On Tour Cadence Jazz (publicado em 1981)
1980: Live at the Public Theater (Multinational Big Band) Cadence Jazz [6]
1981: Aisha (Multinational Big Band) Cadence Jazz [6]
1981: Seasons Soul Note
1982: Jancin' at Jazzmania Jazzmania
1984: It Couldn't Happen Without You Soul Note with Joe Ford, Joe Lovano soprano, Pete Chavez tenor, Kirk Lightsey piano , Rashied Alidrums

[editar] Como sideman

With Jorge Lima Barreto

1077 Encounters Alvorada [7] [4] [8]
1990: Encounters II / Labirintho 7.8 Mundo da Canção [7]

With Archie Shepp

1984 Down Home New York Soul Note

Referências

↑ JAZZ: SAHEB SARBIB QUINTET The New York Times
↑ a b c Gary W. Kennedy, "Saheb Sarbib". Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians online
↑ Scott Yanow Saheb Sarbib em Allmusic
↑ a b c d e Piero Scaruffi, Jazz Music
↑ Saheb Sarbib, no Discogs
↑ a b Saheb Sarbib e a Multinational Big Band, no Discogs
↑ a b Discografia de Jorge Lima Barreto com Saheb Sarbib, no Discogs
↑ http://discoscomsono.blogspot.com/2010/05/saheb-sarbib-jorge-lima-barreto.html

Wikipédia

2012-02-08T07:43:00.001-08:00

Mais um grande tema de Favola da Medusa.

Bruitisme dadaísta por Ana Isabel Dias, Bernardo Nascimento, Filipe Homem Fonseca, Miguel Martins e Rebeca Gradissimo.
Imagem de Joana Moura, pós-produção video Filipe Homem Fonseca.
Gravado no Teatro A Barraca,
Video © Showstoppers
2012

2012-02-08T05:59:00.000-08:00

O Cinema segundo Vera Chytilová

2012-02-08T05:47:00.000-08:00

Karen Finley

2012-02-08T05:34:00.000-08:00

Blake's Sunflower

1

Why did Blake say
'Sunflower weary of time'?
Every time I see them
they seem to say
Now! with a crash
of cymbals!
Very pleased
and positive
and absolutely delighting
in their own round brightness.

2
Sorry, Blake!
Now I see what you mean.
Storms and frost have battered
their bright delight
and though they are still upright
nothing could say dejection
more than their weary
disillusioned
hanging heads.

Elizabeth Smart

2012-02-08T03:52:00.000-08:00

Shen Wei

2012-02-08T03:34:00.000-08:00

Deep down, I'm pretty superficial.

Ava Gardner

Uma boa variação desta ideia seria: À superfície, sou bastante profundo.

2012-02-08T03:25:00.000-08:00

A palavra contém em si um mundo. Se usarmos a palavra própria podemos criar realidade, inclusivé material, num sentido geral. Quero dizer: há palavras mágicas. É acientífica esta afirmação? Não, como veremos. Por exemplo, se deixamos secar uma argila bastante moldável, o mais provável é ela adquirir uma qualquer forma. Mas se introduzirmos essa argila num campo com determinadas vibrações ela orienta-se e forma figuras com simetrias. Estes fenómenos mostram que essas vibrações têm um poder criador ou, pelo menos, orientador da matéria. Ora, do que expomos retiramos a cientificidade da referida proposição. É possível que tudo isto seja fantástico, mas não há dúvida que o nosso mal é a impropriedade com que utilizamos as palavras. Na tradição chinesa, os sábios reuniam-se para escolherem o nome de uma pessoa escutando os vagidos do feto. Por exemplo, nas obras de Balzac não há nome de personagem que não tenha uma razão de ser. As palavras são ontológicas. A língua é sagrada.

José Blanc de Portugal

2012-02-07T14:21:00.000-08:00

Fontaine Capel

2012-02-07T06:06:00.000-08:00

Sandra Filipe

2012-02-07T05:37:00.000-08:00

Ron Carter

2012-02-07T05:32:00.000-08:00

Billy Pacak

2012-02-07T05:25:00.000-08:00

Elegia do Amor

I

Lembras-te, meu amor,
Das tardes outonais,
Em que íamos os dois,
Sozinhos, passear,
Para fora do povo
Alegre e dos casais,
Onde só Deus pudesse
Ouvir-nos conversar?
Tu levavas, na mão,
Um lírio enamorado,
E davas-me o teu braço;
E eu triste, meditava
Na vida, em Deus, em ti…
E, além, o sol doirado
Morria, conhecendo
A noite que deixava.
Harmonias astrais
Beijavam teus ouvidos;
Um crepúsculo terno
E doce diluía,
Na sombra, o teu perfil
E os montes doloridos…
Erravam, pelo Azul,
Canções do fim do dia.
Canções que, de tão longe,
O vento vagabundo
Trazia, na memória…
Assim o que partiu
Em frágil caravela,
E andou por todo o mundo,
Traz, no seu coração,
A imagem do que viu.
Olhavas para mim,
Às vezes, distraída,
Como quem olha o mar,
À tarde, dos rochedos…
E eu ficava a sonhar,
Qual névoa adormecida,
Quando o vento também
Dorme nos arvoredos.
Olhavas para mim…
Meu corpo rude e bruto
Vibrava, como a onda
A alar-se em nevoeiro.
Olhavas, descuidada
E triste… Ainda hoje te escuto
A música ideal
Do teu olhar primeiro!
Ouço bem a tua voz,
Vejo melhor teu rosto
No silêncio sem fim,
N a escuridão completa!
Ouço-te em minha dor,
Ouço-te em meu desgosto
E na minha esperança
Eterna de poeta!
O sol morria, ao longe;
E a sombra da tristeza
Velava, com amor,
Nossas doridas frontes.
Hora em que a flor medita
E a pedra chora e reza,
E desmaiam de mágoa
As cristalinas fontes.
Hora santa e perfeita,
Em que íamos, sozinhos,
Felizes, através
Da aldeia muda e calma,
Mãos dadas, a sonhar,
Ao longo dos caminhos…

Tudo, em volta de nós,
Tinha um aspecto de alma.
Tudo era sentimento,
Amor e piedade.
A folha que tombava
Era alma que subia…
E, sob os nossos pés,
A terra era saudade,
A pedra comoção
E o pó melancolia.
Falavas duma estrela
E deste bosque em flor;
Dos ceguinhos sem pão,
Dos pobres sem um manto.
Em cada tua palavra,
Havia etérea dor;
Por isso, a tua voz
Me impressionava tanto!
E punha-me a cismar
Que eras tão boa e pura,
Que, muito em breve – sim! -,
Te chamaria o céu!
E soluçava, ao ver-te
Alguma sombra escura,
Na fronte, que o luar
Cobria, como um véu.
A tua palidez
Que medo me causava!
Teu corpo fino
E leve (oh meu desgosto!)
Que eu tremia, ao sentir
O vento que passava!
Caía-me, na alma,
A neve do teu rosto.
Como eu ficava mudo
E triste, sobre a terra!
E uma vez, quando a noite
Amortalhava a aldeia,
Tu gritaste, de susto,
Olhando para a serra:
- Que incêndio! – E eu, a rir,
Disse-te: - É a lua cheia!...
E sorriste também
Do teu engano. A lua
Ergueu a branca fronte,
Acima dos pinhais,
Tão ébria de esplendor,
Tão casta e irmã da tua,
Que eu beijei, sem querer,
Seus raios virginais.
E a lua, para nós,
Os braços estendeu.
Uniu-nos num abraço,
Espiritual, profundo;
E levou-nos assim,
Com ela, até ao céu…
Mas, ai, tu não voltaste
E eu regressei ao mundo.

II

Um raio de luar,
Entrando, de improviso
No meu quarto sombrio,
Onde medito, a sós,
Deixa, a tremer, no ar,
Um pálido sorriso,
Um murmúrio de luz
Que lembra a tua voz.
O Outono, que derrama
Ideal melancolia
Nas almas sem amor,
Nos troncos sem folhagem,
Deixa vibrar, em mim,
Saudosa melodia,
Dolorida canção,
Que lembra a tua imagem.
A noite, que escurece
Os vales e os outeiros,
E que acende, num bosque,
A voz do rouxinol
E a estrela que protege
E guia os pegureiros;
A lágrima do céu
Ao ver morrer o sol,
Acorda, no meu peito,
Infinda e etérea dor,
Que à memória me traz
Aluz do teu olhar.
Tudo de ti me fala,
Ó meu longínquo amor:
As árvores, a névoa,
Os rouxinóis e o mar.
Se passo por um lírio,
Às vezes, distraído,
Chama por mim, dizendo:
„Oh! Não te esqueças dela!‰
Diz-mo também, chorando
O vento dolorido.
Diz-mo a fonte, a cantar,
Diz-mo, a brilhar, a estrela.
E vejo, em toda a luz,
Teus olhos a fulgir.
Como adivinho, em tudo,
A alma que perdi!
Não encontro uma flor,
Sem o teu nome ouvir.
Não posso olhar o céu,
Sem me lembrar de ti!
Por isso, eu amo o pobre,
O triste e a Natureza,
A mãe da humana dor,
Da dor de Deus a filha.
Meu coração, ao pé Dum pobrezinho, reza;
Canta, ao lado dum ninho,
Ao pé da estrela, brilha.
O meu amor por ti,
Meu bem, minha saudade,
Ampliou-se até Deus,
Os astros alcançou.
Beijo o rochedo e a flor,
A noite e a claridade.
São estes, sobre o mundo,
Os beijos que te dou.
Hás-de senti-los, sim,
Doce mulher de outrora.
Ó roxo lírio de hoje,
Ó nuvem actual!
Como dantes teu rosto,
A rosa ainda hoje cora;
Beijo-te, sim, beijando
A rosa virginal.
Teu espectro divaga,
Ao longo dos espaços.
Teu amor, feito luz,
Desce do Firmamento.
Se abraço um verde tronco,
Eu sinto, entre os meus braços,
Teu corpo estremecer,
Como uma flor, ao vento.
Soluça a tua dor
Nas infinitas mágoas,
Que, no fumo da tarde,
Eu vejo, além, subir.
E paira a tua voz
No marulhar das águas,
No murmúrio que sai
Das pétalas a abrir.
Se os lábios vou molhar
Nas ondas duma fonte,
Queimam meu coração
Tuas lágrimas salgadas.
E, quando acaricia
O vento a minha fronte
Eu bem sinto, sobre ela,
As tuas mãos sagradas.
Quando a lua, no Outono,
Envolta em luz funérea,
Morta, vai a boiar
Nas águas do Infinito,
Doira meu frio rosto
A palidez etérea,
Que dantes emanava
O teu perfil bendito.
Quando, em manhãs d`Abril,
Acordo, de repente,
E vejo, no meu quarto,
O sol entrar, sorrindo,
Julgo ver, ante mim,
Teu corpo resplendente,
Tua trança de luz,
Teu gesto suave e lindo.
Descubro-te, mulher,
Na Natureza inteira,
Porque entendo a floresta,
A névoa, o céu doirado,
A estrela a arder, no Azul,
A lenha, na lareira
E o lírio que, na cruz
Do outono, está pregado.
Falas comigo, sim,
Da dor, do bem, de Deus.
Repartes o meu pão,
Amor, pelos ceguinhos.
E pelas solidões
Os pobres versos meus,
Como os pobres que vão,
A orar, pelos caminhos.
És a minha ternura,
A minha piedade,
Pois tudo me comove!
O zéfiro mais leve
Acende, no meu peito,
Infinda claridade;
E a brancura do lírio
Enche meu ser de neve.
Todo eu fico a cismar
Na louca voz do vento,
Na atitude serena
E estranha duma serra;
No delírio do mar,
Na paz do Firmamento
E na nuvem, que estende
As asas, sobre a terra.
Todo eu fico a cismar,
Assim como que esquecido,
Ante a flor virginal
E o sol enamorado.
Ante o luar que nasce,
Al longe, dolorido,
Dando às cousas um ar
Tão triste e macerado.
Todo eu medito e cismo.
Um vago e etéreo laço
Prende-me ao teu imendo
E livre coração,
Que abrange o mundo inteiro
E ocupa todo o espaço,
E que vai povoar
A minha solidão.
Por isso, eu vivo sempre,
Em doce companhia,
Com o pobre que pede
E a estrela que fulgura;
E, assim, a minha alma,
Igual à luz do dia
Derrama-se, no céu,
Em ondas de ternura.
Sou como a chuva e o vento
E a sombra duma cruz!
Lira, que a mais suave
Aragem faz vibrar.
Água que, ao luar brando,
Em nuvens se traduz;
Fruto que amadurece,
À luz dum claro olhar.
Pedra que um beijo funde
E místico vapor,
Que um hálito condensa
Em pura gota de água.
Sou aroma que um ai
Encarna em triste flor;
Riso que muda em choro
A mais pequena mágoa.
Vivo a vida infinita,
Eterna, esplendorosa.
Sou neblina, sou ave,
Estrela, Azul sem fim,
Só porque, um dia, tu,
Mulher misteriosa,
Por acaso, talvez,
Olhaste para mim.

TEIXEIRA DE PASCOAES

2012-02-07T03:44:00.000-08:00

Complete Destruction

It was an icy day.
We buried the cat,
then took her box
and set fire to it
in the back yard.
Those fleas that escaped
earth and fire
died by the cold.

William Carlos Williams

2012-02-07T03:33:00.000-08:00

Três capas de Alberto Velho Nogueira, o maior prosador português, cujo último livro acabo de receber

2012-02-07T03:24:00.000-08:00

Mais alguns aspectos do meu duplo-lançamento de Sábado (fotos de Rui Azevedo Ribeiro)

2012-02-06T10:56:00.000-08:00

Peter Franck