Poezija posvećena grčkoj boginji Persefoni

Kore from the Acropolis, 6th century BCE, marble. New Acropolis Museum, Athens.

EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY: PRAYER TO PERSEPHONE

Be to her, Persephone,
All the things I might not be;
Take her head upon your knee.
She that was so proud and wild,
Flippant, arrogant and free,
She that had no need of me, Nastavite sa čitanjem

A . A . A u antologiji „Somehow“

Novosadski dizajnerski studio Peter Gregson osmislio je koncept za časopis (antologiju) koji bi sadržao eseje, poeziju, studije, odlomke. Švajcarski proizvođač nameštaja Woak podržao je ovu ideju.

Na sajmu nameštaja u Kelnu, koji je u toku, kupci i posetioci izlagačkog prostora Nastavite sa čitanjem

Intervju: Silvija Plat i Ted Hjuz

Intervju naslovljen Two of a Kind: Poets in Partnership snimljen je 18. januara 1961. godine, a emitovan 31. januara iste godine. BBC novinar bio je Oven Liming. Ovaj interesantan razgovor može doprineti razumevanju odnosa dva pesnika, ali i razumevanju pojedinačnih stvaralačkih ličnosti kao što su bili Silvija Plat i Ted Hjuz. Nastavite sa čitanjem

O tri engleska gotik romana

Ova objava donosi dva znanja: jedno je profesora Džona Bovena o ključnim motivima gotik žanra, izloženog kroz priloženi video, kratak uvod o fenomenu književnosti nastale u 18. veku; drugo je profesora Džona Mulana koje je izloženo u pisanom obliku. Odlomci priloženi u nastavku objave, kao i fotografije prvih izdanja knjiga, preuzete su sa sajta British Library i nalaze se u okviru članka The Origins of the Gothic koji je napisao profesor Džon Mulan.

Odlomci na engleskom jeziku deo su pomenutog teksta i ukratko opisuju neke od osnovnih odlika prvih gotskih romana koji su se pojavili u Engleskoj sredinom 18. veka. U pitanju su dela „Zamak Otranto“ Horasa Volpola, „Misterije Udolfa“ En Redklif i „Monah“ Metju Luisa. U Mulanovom tekstu pominju se i drugi romani koji pripadaju tradiciji gotskog žanra poput dela „Northangerska opatija Džejn Ostin, „Frankenštajn“ Meri Šeli, „Orkanski visovi“ Emili Bronte, kao i kasnije napisanim knjigama – „Velika očekivanja“ Čarlsa Dikensa, „Drakula“ Brema Stokera ili „Doktor Džekil i mister Hajd“ R. L. Stivensona.

Generally regarded as the first Gothic novel, The Castle of Otranto was first published in 1764. Its author is Horace Walpole (1717-97), but it purports to be a translation of a work printed in Naples in 1529 and newly discovered in the library of ‘an ancient Catholic family in the north of England’. The novel relates the history of Manfred, the prince of Otranto, who is keen to secure the castle for his descendants in the face of a mysterious curse. At the beginning of the work Manfred’s son, Conrad, is crushed to death by an enormous helmet on the morning of his wedding to the beautiful princess Isabella. Faced with the extinction of his line, Manfred vows to divorce his wife and marry the terrified Isabella himself. The novel had a major effect on the reading public throughout Europe, with the poet Thomas Gray commenting to Walpole that it made ‘some of us cry a little, and all in general afraid to go to bed o’nights.’

The Mysteries of Udolpho is a Gothic novel by Ann Radcliffe, published in 1794. It was one of the most popular novels of the late 18th and early 19th centuries. It was then and continues to be widely regarded as a key text in the development of the Gothic genre.

The Mysteries of Udolpho is set in France and Italy in the late 16th century. The main character is Emily St. Aubert, a beautiful and virtuous young woman. When her father dies, the orphaned Emily goes to live with her aunt. Her aunt’s husband, an Italian nobleman called Montoni, tries to force Emily to marry his friend. Montoni is a typical Gothic villain. He is violent and cruel to his wife and Emily, and locks them in his castle. Eventually Emily escapes, and the novel ends happily with Emily’s marriage to the man she loves.

Like other Gothic novels, The Mysteries of Udolphocontains ruined castles, beautiful countryside, a virtuous heroine and a villain. There are a number of strange occurrences in the novel which seem to be supernatural, but which are revealed to have rational explanations. This too is a common theme in Gothic novels, although other examples of the genre (such as Horace Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto and Matthew Lewis’s The Monk) do feature the genuinely supernatural.

Matthew Lewis’s novel The Monk (1796) marked a turning point in the history of Gothic literature. With its emphasis firmly on the horrific and the shocking, the book moved Gothic away from the gentle terrors of earlier authors such as Horace Walpole and, instead, confronted readers with an onslaught of horror in the form of spectral bleeding nuns, mob violence, murder, sorcery and incest. Unsurprisingly the book met with outrage and condemnation from critics. Equally unsurprisingly it was hugely popular with the public.

With its twin themes of erotic obsession and the corrupting influence of power, The Monk deals with important issues and contains moments of impressive psychological insight. At heart, however, it remains a morality tale about one man’s fall from grace through greed, pride and lust.

Izvor: British Library

Gotski roman na blogu A . A . A

Džon Boven o romanu „Orkanski visovi“

 

Profesor engleske književnosti, Džon Boven, o kome je bilo reči u tekstu O tri engleska gotik romana, ovoga puta govori o elementima specifičnog prostora koji se uklapa u gotski senzibilitet romana Orkanski visovi.

O romanu sam pisala i ja, iz ugla teme kojom se već dugo bavim, a koja se tiče različitih oblika koje junaci dati kao putnici u književnosti 18. i 19. veka zadobijaju. Tim povodom pisala sam o Hitklifu, junaku romana Emili Bronte, u tekstu pod nazivom Putnik Hitklif.

Klavirski virtuoz Frederik Šopen

Listova muzika opčinjava duh a Šopenova govori srcu. Ako inspiracija kod jednog ne ide uvek u korak sa čudnom lakoćom izražavanja, kod drugog ona nikad ne izneverava. Rođen u Želazova-Volja, kod Varšave, 1810. godine, Frederik je po ocu poreklom Francuz. Virtuoz od svoje osme godine, on preduzima, kao List turneje koncerata po Evropi. Napušta Varšavu 1830. i odlazi u Pariz, gde ga primaju oni koji zapažaju u njemu više nego običan talenat. Posećuje Lista, Berlioza, Hajnea, Majerbera, i radije izvodi svoja dela u užem krugu publike. Posle jednog putovanja u Drezden, gde se upoznaje s Marijom Vodžinskom, koju ne može da dobije za ženu, on odlazi u Lajpcig, gde nalazi u Klari Vik idealnog interpretatora svojih dela. Zaljubljuje se u Žorž Sand (1836) sa kojom odlazi da provede zimu na Balearskim ostrvima. Ali Šopen, nagrižen bolešću koja ne oprašta, vraća se samo još više bolestan. Ljubavnici žive u Parizu, ili u Noanu, do dana raskida (1847). Posle putovanja u Englesku i Škotsku, Šopen se vraća u Pariz, i tu, sasvim zahvaćen tuberkulozom, umire ubrzo (1849).

Njegova klavirska dela odaju brižnog umetnika koji pati. Nesumnjivo je da se u njima mogu naći mnogobrojne reminiscencije iz njegovog rodnog kraja, izvesna slovenska nostalgija, ritam u osnovi poljski. Ali ima i nečeg više: prisna veza između umetnika, sanjalice, i njegovog omiljenog instrumenta, klavira. Čovek čija je osetljivost neobično utančana crpe iz svoje ljubavi prema Sandovoj stvaralačke snage koje mu inspirišu najslavnija dela: Etide, Preludije, Sonate, Balade, Berseze, dva Koncerta. Romantičar po imaginaciji, neki put klasičar po oblicima koje obrađuje, često inspirisan igrom, ovaj pesnik klavira govori svojim jezikom, sa osetljivošću i prefinjenošću tako ličnom da njegovo celokupno delo, kao kod Baha ili Mocarta, dostiže od prve krajnju granicu lepote. Ima u njegovim Valcerima, Mazurkama, Polonezama, onoliko poezije koliko i u njegovim Impromptima, Nokturnima. Svaka etida, svaki preludij sačinjava jedan potpun i savršen svet. Emocija je izvor njegove umetnosti, a zvučan izraz je njen krajnji cilj. Izrazita melodija, sa svojom osobenom figuracijom, novim ukrasima, koji zahvataju često više oktava, veoma retko osećanje za modulaciju, izvesna tendencija da se insistira na nekom motivu na kome pisac voli da se zadržava, arpeđirani akordi, to su karakteristične osobine ove muzike, u isto vreme i bujne i prijatne, diskretne i strasne, čežnjive i snažne, koja nosi pečat genijalnosti.

*

I tell my piano the things I used to tell you.

U nastavku sledi jedno pismo poljskog kompozitora, na engleskom, upućno nepoznatoj osobi koje otkriva umetnikov senzibilitet, uklopiv u raspoloženja romantičarskih junaka. Ovi crteži, zajedno sa prepiskom i mazurkama, predstavljaju kuriozitet za istraživanje ovog umetničkog i intelektualnog pokreta, ali i za ljubitelje klasične muzike.

Poetski citat na početku koji je floberovski, ako smem impresionistički da ostavim svoj utisak, a bez odgovarajućih dokaza, svedoči o odnosu umetnika i njegovog instrumenta. Za pisca je to papir, za pijanistu klavir, za slikara platno, za skulptora kamen ili glina. Tako klavir postaje dnevnički zapisnik, najbliži poverenik, deo tela.

How strange! This bed on which I shall lie has been slept on by more than one dying man, but today it does not repel me! Who knows what corpses have lain on it and for how long? But is a corpse any worse than I? A corpse too knows nothing of its father, mother or sisters or Titus. Nor has a corpse a sweetheart. A corpse, too, is pale, like me. A corpse is cold, just as I am cold and indifferent to everything. A corpse has ceased to live, and I too have had enough of life….

Why do we live on through this wretched life which only devours us and serves to turn us into corpses? The clocks in the Stuttgart belfries strike the midnight hour. Oh how many people have become corpses at this moment! Mothers have been torn from their children, children from their mothers – how many plans have come to nothing, how much sorrow has sprung from these depths, and how much relief!…

Virtue and vice have come in the end to the same thing! It seems that to die is man’s finest action – and what might be his worst? To be born, since that is the exact opposite of his best deed. It is therefore right of me to be angry that I was ever born into this world! Why was I not prevented from remaining in a world where I am utterly useless? What good can my existence bring to anyone? …

But wait, wait! What’s this? Tears? How long it is since they flowed! How is this, seeing that an arid melancholy has held me for so long in its grip? How good it feels – and sorrowful. Sad but kindly tears! What a strange emotion! Sad but blessed. It is not good for one to be sad, and yet how pleasant it is – a strange state…

Citat: Norbert Dufourcq, Mala istorija muzike u Evropi, preveo Mirko G. Avakumović, Nardona prosvjeta, Sarajevo, 1959.

Izvor: SlikaPismo

Intervju za „Parisku reviju“: Maja Angelou

U nastavku slede neki od najzanimljivijih odlomaka iz intervjua koji je američka književnica Maja Angelou dala za časopis The Paris Review. Autor intervjua bio je Džordž Plimton, osnivač i dugo godina glavni i odgovorni urednik tog lista. Intervju je dobro polazište za otkivanje biografskih detalja i stvaralačkih rituala ove umetnice. Boca šerija, Biblija i hotelska soba neki su od neophodnih detalja pre početka rada na jeziku.

INTERVIEWER

You once told me that you write lying on a made-up bed with a bottle of sherry, a dictionary, Roget’s Thesaurus, yellow pads, an ashtray, and a Bible. What’s the function of the Bible?

MAYA ANGELOU

The language of all the interpretations, the translations, of the Judaic Bible and the Christian Bible, is musical, just wonderful. I read the Bible to myself; I’ll take any translation, any edition, and read it aloud, just to hear the language, hear the rhythm, and remind myself how beautiful English is. Though I do manage to mumble around in about seven or eight languages, English remains the most beautiful of languages. It will do anything.

INTERVIEWER

When you are refreshed by the Bible and the sherry, how do you start a day’s work?

ANGELOU

I have kept a hotel room in every town I’ve ever lived in. I rent a hotel room for a few months, leave my home at six, and try to be at work by six-thirty. To write, I lie across the bed, so that this elbow is absolutely encrusted at the end, just so rough with callouses. I never allow the hotel people to change the bed, because I never sleep there. I stay until twelve-thirty or one-thirty in the afternoon, and then I go home and try to breathe; I look at the work around five; I have an orderly dinner—proper, quiet, lovely dinner; and then I go back to work the next morning. Sometimes in hotels I’ll go into the room and there’ll be a note on the floor which says, Dear Miss Angelou, let us change the sheets. We think they are moldy. But I only allow them to come in and empty wastebaskets. I insist that all things are taken off the walls. I don’t want anything in there. I go into the room and I feel as if all my beliefs are suspended. Nothing holds me to anything. No milkmaids, no flowers, nothing. I just want to feel and then when I start to work I’ll remember. I’ll read something, maybe the Psalms, maybe, again, something from Mr. Dunbar, James Weldon Johnson. And I’ll remember how beautiful, how pliable the language is, how it will lend itself. If you pull it, it says, OK.” I remember that and I start to write. Nathaniel Hawthorne says, “Easy reading is damn hard writing.” I try to pull the language in to such a sharpness that it jumps off the page. It must look easy, but it takes me forever to get it to look so easy. Of course, there are those critics—New York critics as a rule—who say, Well, Maya Angelou has a new book out and of course it’s good but then she’s a natural writer. Those are the ones I want to grab by the throat and wrestle to the floor because it takes me forever to get it to sing. I work at the language. On an evening like this, looking out at the auditorium, if I had to write this evening from my point of view, I’d see the rust-red used worn velvet seats and the lightness where people’s backs have rubbed against the back of the seat so that it’s a light orange, then the beautiful colors of the people’s faces, the white, pink-white, beige-white, light beige and brown and tan—I would have to look at all that, at all those faces and the way they sit on top of their necks. When I would end up writing after four hours or five hours in my room, it might sound like, It was a rat that sat on a mat. That’s that. Not a cat. But I would continue to play with it and pull at it and say, I love you. Come to me. I love you. It might take me two or three weeks just to describe what I’m seeing now.

INTERVIEWER

How much revising is involved?

ANGELOU

I write in the morning and then go home about midday and take a shower, because writing, as you know, is very hard work, so you have to do a double ablution. Then I go out and shop—I’m a serious cook—and pretend to be normal. I play sane—Good morning! Fine, thank you. And you? And I go home. I prepare dinner for myself and if I have houseguests, I do the candles and the pretty music and all that. Then after all the dishes are moved away I read what I wrote that morning. And more often than not if I’ve done nine pages I may be able to save two and a half or three. That’s the cruelest time you know, to really admit that it doesn’t work. And to blue pencil it. When I finish maybe fifty pages and read them—fifty acceptable pages—it’s not too bad. I’ve had the same editor since 1967. Many times he has said to me over the years or asked me, Why would you use a semicolon instead of a colon? And many times over the years I have said to him things like: I will never speak to you again. Forever. Goodbye. That is it. Thank you very much. And I leave. Then I read the piece and I think of his suggestions. I send him a telegram that says, OK, so you’re right. So what? Don’t ever mention this to me again. If you do, I will never speak to you again. About two years ago I was visiting him and his wife in the Hamptons. I was at the end of a dining room table with a sit-down dinner of about fourteen people. Way at the end I said to someone, I sent him telegrams over the years. From the other end of the table he said, And I’ve kept every one! Brute! But the editing, one’s own editing, before the editor sees it, is the most important.

INTERVIEWER

So you don’t keep a particular reader in mind when you sit down in that hotel room and begin to compose or write. It’s yourself.

ANGELOU

It’s myself . . . and my reader. I would be a liar, a hypocrite, or a fool—and I’m not any of those—to say that I don’t write for the reader. I do. But for the reader who hears, who really will work at it, going behind what I seem to say. So I write for myself and that reader who will pay the dues. There’s a phrase in West Africa, in Ghana; it’s called “deep talk.” For instance, there’s a saying: “The trouble for the thief is not how to steal the chief’s bugle but where to blow it.” Now, on the face of it, one understands that. But when you really think about it, it takes you deeper. In West Africa they call that “deep talk.” I’d like to think I write “deep talk.” When you read me, you should be able to say, Gosh, that’s pretty. That’s lovely. That’s nice. Maybe there’s something else? Better read it again. Years ago I read a man named Machado de Assis who wrote a book called Dom Casmurro. Machado de Assis is a South American writer—black father, Portuguese mother—writing in 1865, say. I thought the book was very nice. Then I went back and read the book and said, Hmm. I didn’t realize all that was in that book. Then I read it again, and again, and I came to the conclusion that what Machado de Assis had done for me was almost a trick: he had beckoned me onto the beach to watch a sunset. And I had watched the sunset with pleasure. When I turned around to come back in I found that the tide had come in over my head. That’s when I decided to write. I would write so that the reader says, That’s so nice. Oh boy, that’s pretty. Let me read that again. I think that’s why Caged Bird is in its twenty-first printing in hardcover and its twenty-ninth in paper. All my books are still in print, in hardback as well as paper, because people go back and say, Let me read that. Did she really say that?

Full Interview

Dokumentarni film o T. S. Eliotu

Dokumentarni film o američkom pesniku Tomasu Sternsu Eliotu donosi relevantan izbor podataka i vizuelnih predložaka za jednu biografsku priču koja obuhvata različite faze i na dobar način, kako to inače važi za BBC dokumentarne filmove, približava i predstavlja datu ličnost. Na sajtu BBC radija o ovom ostvarenju piše sledeće:

For the first time on television, Arena tells the whole story of the life and work of T. S. Eliot including the happiness he found in the last years of life in his second marriage. His widow Valerie Eliot has opened her personal archive, hitherto unseen, including the private scrapbooks and albums in which Eliot assiduously recorded their life together.

Arena brings an unprecedented insight into the mysterious life of one of the 20th century’s greatest poets, and re-examines his extraordinary work and its startling immediacy in the world today. Thomas Stearns Eliot materialises as banker, critic, playwright, children’s writer, churchwarden, publisher, husband and poet.

Slikarstvo Džordžije O’ Kif

Georgia O’Keeffe is much more extraordinary than even I had believed. In fact I don’t believe there has ever been anything like her. Mind and feeling very clear, spontaneous and uncannily beautiful – absolutely living every pulse beat. – Alfred Stieglitz

Američka umetnica Džordžija O’Kif (Georgia O’Keeffe) poznata je po svojim apstraktnim pejsažima, predstavljenim iz ptičije perspektive, predstavama mrtve prirode (uglavnom, reč je o talasastim oblicima cveća koji lako mogu podsetiti na spoljašnji izgled ženskih genitalija), slikama njujorških nebodera predstavljenim, za razliku od pejsaža, iz mišje perspektive (ima li simbolike, u ovom slučaju, u načinu predstavljanja, uglu iz koga se predmeti i pojave posmatraju?), po slikanju kostiju i lobanja bizona na području Novog Meksika gde je, pored Njujorka, umetnica imala svoj atelje. Takođe, Džordžija O’Kif bila je poznata i po mnogobrojnim akvarelima ženskih aktova.

Džordžija O’Kif je bila poznata kao muza i životna saputnica pionira umetnosti fotografije, Alfreda Stiglica, osnivača magazina Camera Work koji je prvi okupljao u svom studiju na Menhetnu modernističku elitu mlade Amerike. Stiglic je voleo da fotografiše Džordžijino lice koje bi bilo istaknuto neobičnim položajem njenih ruku, gordost njenog pogleda i oštrinu njene brade koju bi oči bezpogovorno podržale u ponosnom držanju. Sa njenim delom sam se susrela jednog maja kada sam kupila monografiju koja joj je bila posvećena. Kasnije, klupko se dodatno odmotalo kada sam saznala za časopis Camera Work, s obzirom na moje sve veće interesovanje za fotografiju, kao i za knjigu pisama koje su ona i Stiglic razmenjivali tokom mnogih godina njihove burne veze.

Tonight I walked into the sunset — to mail some letters — the whole sky — and there is so much of it out here — was just blazing — and grey blue clouds were riding all through the holiness of it — and the ugly little buildings and windmills looked great against it…

The Eastern sky was all grey blue — bunches of clouds — different kinds of clouds — sticking around everywhere and the whole thing — lit up — first in one place — then in another with flashes of lightning — sometimes just sheet lightning — and some times sheet lightning with a sharp bright zigzag flashing across it –. I walked out past the last house — past the last locust tree — and sat on the fence for a long time — looking — just looking at — the lightning — you see there was nothing but sky and flat prairie land — land that seems more like the ocean than anything else I know — There was a wonderful moon.

Well I just sat there and had a great time all by myself — Not even many night noises — just the wind —

It is absurd the way I love this country… I am loving the plains more than ever it seems — and the SKY — Anita you have never seen SKY — it is wonderful —

Preporuka: 1, 2, 3

Izvor citata: Brain Pickings

Umetnik i njegov pas: Emili Dikinson

Rano ustanem – Psa povedem –
U posjet moru krenem –
Iz Prizemlja su – da vide mene –
Izišle sve Sirene.

Fregate – s prvog sprata – ruke
Kudeljne ispružale –
Misleći da sam Miš nasukan –
Na pjeskovite žale –

No ne makoh se – dok mi Plima –
Cipelu prostu ne prođe –
I moju Kecelju – i moj Pojas –
I Steznik moj – takođe –

Ko da je htjelo – cijelu mene –
Da proguta ko Rosu
Što se rukavom Maslačka osu –
A potom – i ja krenem –

Išlo je za mnom – tik uz mene –
Moji Gležnjevi ćute –
Srebrnu Petu mu – a Cipele mi
Biserjem obasute –

Kod Tvrdog Grada više nikog
Znanog mu nije bilo –
Pa uz naklon – i uz mig oka –
More se povlačilo –

Izvor: Emili Dikinson, Poezija, preveli Jasna Levinger i Marko Vešović, Svjetlost, Sarajevo, 1988.

Preporuka: Poetry Foundation

Pesma pod rednim brojem 520.

Image result for emily dickinson i started early took my dog

Jedna pesma Meri Šeli

Mary Shelley’s handwritten poem “Absence”

Rukopis pesme “Absence” Meri Šeli

ABSENCE

Ah! he is gone — and I alone;
How dark and dreary seems the time!
‘Tis Thus, when the glad sun is flown,
Night rushes o’er the Indian clime.

Is there no star to cheer this night
No soothing twilight for the breast?
Yes, Memory sheds her fairy light,
Pleasing as sunset’s golden west.

And hope of dawn — Oh! brighter far
Than clouds that in the orient burn;
More welcome than the morning star
Is the dear thought — he will return!

Pesma je napisana na dan smrti njenog supruga, engleskog pesnika Persija Biš Šelija. Sve se desilo u Italiji, leta 1822. godine. Posle viđanja sa Bajronom i Li Hantom, po olujnoj noći, Persi je odlučio da se čamcem vrati k svom prebivalištu. Udavio se u zalivu La Spezia koji se nalazi u severo-zapadnom delu Italije, u blizini Đenove.

„The paper fell from my hands. I trembled all over“, napisala je Meri kada je pročitala pismo Li Hanta, upućeno Persiju, koje je stiglo pre njega. Meri je pričitavši Hantovo pismo shvatila da nešto nije u redu i počela je sa potragom za Persijem. U Livornu su joj rekli da su ga videli kako u čamcu napušta obalu. Upozoravanja meštana o nadolazećoj oluji pesnik nije uzimao za ozbiljno.

Persi je Bajrona i Hanta napustio u ponedeljak a nije se pojavljivao do petka, dana kada je Meri i primila Hantovo pismo. Narednog dana joj je javljeno da su olupine nekog čamca pronađene u blizini obale, ali ne i telo. Ono je isplivalo tek nakon dve nedelje od potonuća čamca. Meri je posle ovog događaja, prethodno sudbinski najavljenog smrću njihovog deteta u Veneciji od dizenterije, septembra 1818, u pismu prijateljici napisala: „The scene of my existence is closed“.

Preporuka: British Library Blog

Kubistički postupak Vilijama Foknera

Pablo Picasso - Figure dans un Fauteuil (Seated Nude, Femme nue assise), 1909-10.

Pablo Pikaso, Ženski portret, 1910.

Just as Picasso and Braque fragment their canvases in an attempt to capture the subject from many perspectives at once, Faulkner shifts his narrative voice from one character to another, surrounding the plot from all sides while interrupting its flow. – Lindsay Gellman

Nedavno sam naišla na članak Lindzi Gelman koji je objavljen u Pariskoj Reviji u kome autorka termin „sintetički kubizamn“ transponuje  sa slikarstva na literaturu. Kao što su slikari poput Braka i Pikasa kombinovali različite tehnike i materijale da bi stvorili novu perspektivu posmatranja, tako je, prema autorki, i američki pisac Vilijamn Fokner postupio u literaturi kroz narativne tokove i tehnike, stvarajući karaktere koji bi, baš kao i portreti Brakovbih i Pikasovbih figura, imali razbijenu tekstualnu strukturu. U nastavku slede neki od najzanimljivijih delova teksta Lindzi Gelman.

Faulkner himself had an eye for art and a flair for visual expression; he drew and painted as a young man. And Picasso’s (and his contemporary Georges Braque’s) cubist project resonated with him. Beginning roughly after Picasso’s revolutionary „Les Demoiselles d’Avignon in 1907 and ending about 1912, Picasso and Braque mainly produced paintings now classified as analytic cubism, representing a subject from multiple perspectives simultaneously. In May of 1912, Picasso glued a piece of oilcloth, printed with a pattern of woven chair caning, onto a canvas he had painted with a still life. Synthetic cubism—the incorporation of found objects in a work to create a modernist collage—was born. (It died two years later.)

Some critics argue that Faulkner deliberately modeled the structure of his earlier works, like „The Sound and the Fury“ and „As I Lay Dying“ along analytic-cubist lines. Just as Picasso and Braque fragment their canvases in an attempt to capture the subject from many perspectives at once, Faulkner shifts his narrative voice from one character to another, surrounding the plot from all sides while interrupting its flow. But little attention has been paid to whether Faulkner continues to trace the cubist trajectory in his later work (or, put differently, whether cubism remains a helpful interpretive framework for Faulkner’s mature fiction). Was he a synthetic cubist, too?

Albert Gleizes - Man on a Balcony (Portrait of Dr. Théo Morinaud), 1912.

Albert Gleizes,Muškarac na balkonu, 1912.

Albert Gleizes, Portrait de Jacques Nayral, 1911.

Albert Gleizes, Portret muškarca, 1911.

Intervju za „Parisku reviju“: Simon de Bovoar

Simone de Beauvoir

Simone de Beauvoir

U nastavku sledi intervju sa francuskom književnicom Simon de Bovoar čiji su priloženi delovi preuzeti iz američkog književnog časopisa Pariska revija (The Paris Review) u kome ona govori o svom univerzitetskom iskustvu, o radnim navikama, o tome da li je dobro rano objaviti knjigu, o svom doživljaju vremena i osećaju da je oduvek bila stara, o ženama kakve jesu (u njenim romanima) i ženama kakve bi trebalo da budu (Drugi pol).

Više puta sam pominjala i insistirala na činjenici da je intervju sa umetnikom veoma značajna književna forma. Ona može teorijski i kritički biti pogodna za dalju analizu umetnika i njegovog rada, ali može po sebi imati odlike umetničkog kvaliteta. Takvi su Ekermanovi razgovori sa Geteom, kao prvi u ovom žanru, a takvi su i mnogi drugi čiji je sadržaj moguće naći u brojevima pomenutog časopisa, ali i, svakako, van njega.

INTERVIEWER

What do you think about college and university education for a writer? You yourself were a brilliant student at the Sorbonne and people expected you to have a brilliant career as a teacher.

DE BEAUVOIR

My studies gave me only a very superficial knowledge of philosophy but sharpened my interest in it. I benefited greatly from being a teacher—that is, from being able to spend a great deal of time reading, writing and educating myself. In those days, teachers didn’t have a very heavy program. My studies gave me a solid foundation because in order to pass the state exams you have to explore areas that you wouldn’t bother about if you were concerned only with general culture. They provided me with a certain academic method that was useful when I wrote The Second Sex and that has been useful, in general, for all my studies. I mean a way of going through books very quickly, of seeing which works are important, of classifying them, of being able to reject those which are unimportant, of being able to summarize, to browse.

INTERVIEWER

Were you a good teacher?

DE BEAUVOIR

I don’t think so, because I was interested only in the bright students and not at all in the others, whereas a good teacher should be interested in everyone. But if you teach philosophy you can’t help it. There were always four or five students who did all the talking, and the others didn’t care to do anything. I didn’t bother about them very much.

INTERVIEWER

You had been writing for ten years before you were published, at the age of thirty-five. Weren’t you discouraged?

DE BEAUVOIR

No, because in my time it was unusual to be published when you were very young. Of course, there were one or two examples, such as Radiguet, who was a prodigy. Sartre himself wasn’t published until he was about thirty-five, when Nausea and The Wall were brought out. When my first more or less publishable book was rejected, I was a bit discouraged. And when the first version of She Came to Stay was rejected, it was very unpleasant. Then I thought that I ought to take my time. I knew many examples of writers who were slow in getting started. And people always spoke of the case of Stendhal, who didn’t begin to write until he was forty.

INTERVIEWER

People say that you have great self-discipline and that you never let a day go by without working. At what time do you start?

DE BEAUVOIR

I’m always in a hurry to get going, though in general I dislike starting the day. I first have tea and then, at about ten o’clock, I get under way and work until one. Then I see my friends and after that, at five o’clock, I go back to work and continue until nine. I have no difficulty in picking up the thread in the afternoon. When you leave, I’ll read the paper or perhaps go shopping. Most often it’s a pleasure to work.

Simone de Beauvoir

Simone de Beauvoir

INTERVIEWER

Do your writer friends have the same habits as you?

DE BEAUVOIR

No, it’s quite a personal matter. Genet, for example, works quite differently. He puts in about twelve hours a day for six months when he’s working on something and when he has finished he can let six months go by without doing anything. As I said, I work every day except for two or three months of vacation when I travel and generally don’t work at all. I read very little during the year, and when I go away I take a big valise full of books, books that I didn’t have time to read. But if the trip lasts a month or six weeks, I do feel uncomfortable, particularly if I’m between two books. I get bored if I don’t work.

INTERVIEWER

In The Blood of Others and All Men Are Mortal you deal with the problem of time. Were you influenced, in this respect, by Joyce or Faulkner?

DE BEAUVOIR

No, it was a personal preoccupation. I’ve always been keenly aware of the passing of time. I’ve always thought that I was old. Even when I was twelve, I thought it was awful to be thirty. I felt that something was lost. At the same time, I was aware of what I could gain, and certain periods of my life have taught me a great deal. But, in spite of everything, I’ve always been haunted by the passing of time and by the fact that death keeps closing in on us. For me, the problem of time is linked up with that of death, with the thought that we inevitably draw closer and closer to it, with the horror of decay. It’s that, rather than the fact that things disintegrate, that love peters out. That’s horrible too, though I personally have never been troubled by it. There’s always been great continuity in my life. I’ve always lived in Paris, more or less in the same neighborhoods. My relationship with Sartre has lasted a very long time. I have very old friends whom I continue to see. So it’s not that I’ve felt that time breaks things up, but rather the fact that I always take my bearings. I mean the fact that I have so many years behind me, so many ahead of me. I count them.

INTERVIEWER

In every one of your novels we find a female character who is misled by false notions and who is threatened by madness.

DE BEAUVOIR

Lots of modern women are like that. Women are obliged to play at being what they aren’t, to play, for example, at being great courtesans, to fake their personalities. They’re on the brink of neurosis. I feel very sympathetic toward women of that type. They interest me more than the well-balanced housewife and mother. There are, of course, women who interest me even more, those who are both true and independent, who work and create.

INTERVIEWER

None of your female characters are immune from love. You like the romantic element.

DE BEAUVOIR

Love is a great privilege. Real love, which is very rare, enriches the lives of the men and women who experience it.

Simone de Beauvoir

Simone de Beauvoir

INTERVIEWER

You’ve never created an independent and really free female character who illustrates in one way or other the thesis of The Second Sex. Why?

DE BEAUVOIR

I’ve shown women as they are, as divided human beings, and not as they ought to be.

INTERVIEWER

Some people think that a longing for God underlies your works.

DE BEAUVOIR

No. Sartre and I have always said that it’s not because there’s a desire to be that this desire corresponds to any reality. It’s exactly what Kant said on the intellectual level. The fact that one believes in causalities is no reason to believe that there is a supreme cause. The fact that man has a desire to be does not mean that he can ever attain being or even that being is a possible notion, at any rate the being that is a reflection and at the same time an existence. There is a synthesis of existence and being that is impossible. Sartre and I have always rejected it, and this rejection underlies our thinking. There is an emptiness in man, and even his achievements have this emptiness. That’s all. I don’t mean that I haven’t achieved what I wanted to achieve but rather that the achievement is never what people think it is. Furthermore, there is a naïve or snobbish aspect, because people imagine that if you have succeeded on a social level you must be perfectly satisfied with the human condition in general. But that’s not the case.

“I’m swindled” also implies something else—namely, that life has made me discover the world as it is, that is, a world of suffering and oppression, of undernourishment for the majority of people, things that I didn’t know when I was young and when I imagined that to discover the world was to discover something beautiful. In that respect, too, I was swindled by bourgeois culture, and that’s why I don’t want to contribute to the swindling of others and why I say that I was swindled, in short, so that others aren’t swindled. It’s really also a problem of a social kind. In short, I discovered the unhappiness of the world little by little, then more and more, and finally, above all, I felt it in connection with the Algerian war and when I traveled.

Full Interview 

O pesmama Nika Kejva i putovanjima

Fotografija katedrale Notr Dam iz 1853. godine

Poezija Nika Kejva uvek mi se nametala, spontano i bez plana, kada bih negde putovala. Vožnja bi bila duga tako da bi ostajalo dovoljno vremena za detaljno preslušavanje svih pesama sa većine albuma koje sam imala sa sobom. Potom, vrativši se sa puta, opet bih se vraćala Kejvu, pokušavajući da posredstvom muzike evociram utiske, sećanja, i da napustim realno postojeće prostor i vreme i mišlju budem negde, izvan. Na primer, u Francuskoj iz doba katedrala, baš kao na priloženoj slici.

Kejvova muzika je pogodna za evokaciju davnog i dalekog, misterioznog, romanesknog, avanturističkog jer je u većini slučajeva narativna, kazuje priču od početka do kraja, obično podrazumeva likove, izvesnu radnju, tok koji je uzročno-posledičan i čini da slušalac zapravo gleda film. Muzika je takva da podstiče slušaoca da sam stvara spoljašnje elemente koje Kejvov scenarij podrazumeva ili tek nagoveštava. Opšta mesta svetske književnosti u njoj mogu biti prepoznta i na taj način dobro ju je slušati, naročito, kada se putuje.

Tokom putovanja Francuskom, posle obilaska mesta gde je Leonardo da Vinči navodno sahranjen, tokom dugog putovanja tokom noći, slušala sam dve neogotik pesme koje su, uz jamena stvorenja na katedralama koja se keze na svoje posmatrače, u potpunosti obeležila moje tadašnje utiske i sva sećanja koja su potom usledila. Dve pesme se izdvajaju: Ain’t gonna rain anymore i Do you love me 2.

Intervju za „Parisku reviju“: Toni Morison

Toni Morrison

Toni Morrison

U intervjuu koji je američka nobelovka Toni Morison neposredno po dobijanju Nobelove nagrade dala za Parisku reviju (The Paris Review) možemo čitati o njenim ritualima pred pripremu za pisanje, od kakvog je značaja uloga urednika u životu pisca, zašto je teško pisati o seksu, zašto je oduvek želela da bude čitalac pre nego pisac i zašto je najčešće pisala pre svitanja.

INTERVIEWER

You have said that you begin to write before dawn. Did this habit begin for practical reasons, or was the early morning an especially fruitful time for you?

TONI MORRISON

Writing before dawn began as a necessity—I had small children when I first began to write and I needed to use the time before they said, Mama—and that was always around five in the morning. Many years later, after I stopped working at Random House, I just stayed at home for a couple of years. I discovered things about myself I had never thought about before. At first I didn’t know when I wanted to eat, because I had always eaten when it was lunchtime or dinnertime or breakfast time. Work and the children had driven all of my habits . . . I didn’t know the weekday sounds of my own house; it all made me feel a little giddy.

I was involved in writing Beloved at that time—this was in 1983—and eventually I realized that I was clearer-headed, more confident and generally more intelligent in the morning. The habit of getting up early, which I had formed when the children were young, now became my choice. I am not very bright or very witty or very inventive after the sun goes down.

Recently I was talking to a writer who described something she did whenever she moved to her writing table. I don’t remember exactly what the gesture was—there is something on her desk that she touches before she hits the computer keyboard—but we began to talk about little rituals that one goes through before beginning to write. I, at first, thought I didn’t have a ritual, but then I remembered that I always get up and make a cup of coffee while it is still dark—it must be dark—and then I drink the coffee and watch the light come. And she said, Well, that’s a ritual. And I realized that for me this ritual comprises my preparation to enter a space that I can only call nonsecular . . . Writers all devise ways to approach that place where they expect to make the contact, where they become the conduit, or where they engage in this mysterious process. For me, light is the signal in the transition. It’s not beingin the light, it’s being there before it arrives. It enables me, in some sense.

I tell my students one of the most important things they need to know is when they are their best, creatively. They need to ask themselves, What does the ideal room look like? Is there music? Is there silence? Is there chaos outside or is there serenity outside? What do I need in order to release my imagination?

INTERVIEWER

Who was the most instrumental editor you’ve ever worked with?

MORRISON

I had a very good editor, superlative for me—Bob Gottlieb. What made him good for me was a number of things—knowing what not to touch; asking all the questions you probably would have asked yourself had there been the time. Good editors are really the third eye. Cool. Dispassionate. They don’t love you or your work; for me that is what is valuable—not compliments. Sometimes it’s uncanny; the editor puts his or her finger on exactly the place the writer knows is weak but just couldn’t do any better at the time. Or perhaps the writer thought it might fly, but wasn’t sure. Good editors identify that place and sometimes make suggestions. Some suggestions are not useful because you can’t explain everything to an editor about what you are trying to do. I couldn’t possibly explain all of those things to an editor, because what I do has to work on so many levels. But within the relationship if there is some trust, some willingness to listen, remarkable things can happen. I read books all the time that I know would have profited from not a copy editor but somebody just talking through it. And it is important to get a great editor at a certain time, because if you don’t have one in the beginning, you almost can’t have one later. If you work well without an editor, and your books are well received for five or ten years, and then you write another one—which is successful but not very good—why should you then listen to an editor?

INTERVIEWER

Did you know as a child you wanted to be a writer?

MORRISON

No. I wanted to be a reader. I thought everything that needed to be written had already been written or would be. I only wrote the first book because I thought it wasn’t there, and I wanted to read it when I got through. I am a pretty good reader. I love it. It is what I do, really. So, if I can read it, that is the highest compliment I can think of. People say, I write for myself, and it sounds so awful and so narcissistic, but in a sense if you know how to read your own work— that is, with the necessary critical distance—it makes you a better writer and editor. When I teach creative writing, I always speak about how you have to learn how to read your work; I don’t mean enjoy it because you wrote it. I mean, go away from it, and read it as though it is the first time you’ve ever seen it. Critique it that way. Don’t get all involved in your thrilling sentences and all that . . .

INTERVIEWER

You mentioned getting permission to write. Who gave it to you?

MORRISON

No one. What I needed permission to do was to succeed at it. I never signed a contract until the book was finished because I didn’t want it to be homework. A contract meant somebody was waiting for it, that I had to do it, and they could ask me about it. They could get up in my face and I don’t like that. By not signing a contract, I do it, and if I want you to see it, I’ll let you see it. It has to do with self-esteem. I am sure for years you have heard writers constructing illusions of freedom, anything in order to have the illusion that it is all mine and only I can do it. I remember introducing Eudora Welty and saying that nobody could have written those stories but her, meaning that I have a feeling about most books that at some point somebody would have written them anyway. But then there are some writers without whom certain stories would never have been written. I don’t mean the subject matter or the narrative but just the way in which they did it—their slant on it is truly unique.

INTERVIEWER

Why do writers have such a hard time writing about sex?

MORRISON

Sex is difficult to write about because it’s just not sexy enough. The only way to write about it is not to write much. Let the reader bring his own sexuality into the text. A writer I usually admire has written about sex in the most off-putting way. There is just too much information. If you start saying “the curve of . . .” you soon sound like a gynecologist. Only Joyce could get away with that. He said all those forbidden words. He said cunt, and that was shocking. The forbidden word can be provocative. But after a while it becomes monotonous rather than arousing. Less is always better. Some writers think that if they use dirty words they’ve done it. It can work for a short period and for a very young imagination, but after a while it doesn’t deliver. When Sethe and Paul D. first see each other, in about half a page they get the sex out of the way, which isn’t any good anyway—it’s fast and they’re embarrassed about it—and then they’re lying there trying to pretend they’re not in that bed, that they haven’t met, and then they begin to think different thoughts, which begin to merge so you can’t tell who’s thinking what. That merging to me is more tactically sensual than if I had tried to describe body parts.

Full Interview

Silvija Plat čita pesme iz zbirke „Arijel“

Sylvia Plath

Silvija Plat

Zbirka Arijel američke pesnikinje Silvije Plat objavljena je 1965. godine, dve godine posle pesnikinjine smrti. Tridesetog oktobra 1960. godine, tri dana posle svog tridesetog rođendana, Silvija Plat čitala je pesme koje su tonski zabeležene onim redosledom po kome se pojavljuju u zbirci.

Pored romana Stakleno zvono (1963), Silvija Plat napisala je i dve zbirke poezije, Kolos (1960) i Arijel (1965). Takođe, sačuvana su i objavljena njena pisma, kao i dnevnici. O njoj je objavljeno i mnoštvo knjiga čije su teme njena privatna situacija, njena ličnost, njeno delo.

 

 

Ljiljana Đurđić, prevodilac Silvije Plat na srpski jezik, u tekstu Silvija Plat – Superstar, napisala je sledeće:

Pre svog spektakularnog „ranog odlaska“ Silvija Plat nije bila nepoznata pesnikinja, ali ne i neko na koga će pasti opklada za pesnika veka. Jedna zbirka poezije, „Kolos“, i autobiografski roman „Stakleno zvono“, objavljen pred samu smrt pod imenom Viktorija Luka, nisu bili dovoljni da joj obezbede književni rejting koji je u tom trenutku već uživao njen muž, engleski pesnik Ted Hjuz. Njen uspon počinje posle njene smrti i predstavlja neku vrstu literarnog uskrsnuća ne tako čestog u istoriji književnosti.

Više nego književni, Silvija Plat danas predstavlja sociološki fenomen koji je lako objašnjiv u okvirima filma, pop muzike i drugih medija ali ne i u književnosti. Književne zvezde koje traju su retkost, da bi se to postiglo moraju se zadovoljiti barem četiri uslova: stvarno medijski prihvatljivo biće, stvarni dar, lična tragedija i želja da se ona učini javnim dobrom, i konačno, spremnost da se za sve to umre. Silvija Plat je ispunila sve uslove, ispisavši u groznici svojih poslednjih dana svoje literarno zaveštanje, zbirku poezije „Arijel“, koje će joj, uz pomoć Teda Hjuza, središnje figure njene poezije i veštog književnog agenta lično zainteresovanog za celu stvar, obezbediti večnost i slavu za kojom je tako žudela u svom kratkom životu.

Izvor: Silvija Plat, Rani odlazak. Izabrane pesme, prevela Ljiljana Đurđić, Paideia, Beograd, 2010.

Уметник и Венеција: Клод Моне

Claude and Alice Monet in Venice, October 6th 1908.

Клод и Алис Моне у Венецији октобрa 1908.

Између првог октобра и седмог децембра 1908. године Клод Моне је са супругом Алис боравио у Венецији. Двомесечни боравак у поменутом граду допринео је, подједнако колико светлуцања искри на површини воде његове баште у Живернију, или кретања светлости насупрот катедрале у Руану, да сликар додатно развије свој импресионистички поступак. Светлост насупрот конкретном приказу објекта, отворен потез четкице оку посматрача, форме које се растачу у плавој, сликање на отвореном, све су то поступци који су и овде афирмисани.

Импресионизам афирмише боју, а не спољашњу представу, иако првенствено од ње полази. Моне употребом боје предочава како сунчева светлост формира облике, парадоксално, тако што их раствара, тако што их чини непостојаним. У тој игри стварања и порицања облика саткан је опус Клода Монеа, бар она три која сам поменула (венецијански мотиви, катедрала у Руану, искре светлости на површини воде). Захваљујући писмима која је Монеова супруга слала својој ћерци ми имамо и увид у стваралачку свакодневицу сликара током боравка у Венецији.

Стваралачки процес дуг је и подразумева више фаза па је тако било и у Монеовом случају. Платна започета на путовању довршена су и изложена тек четири године касније у једној париској галерији. Сходно томе, можемо ли сматрати 1912. уместо 1908. као годину сликаревог коначног напуштања града, раствореног влагом и светлошћу? Ово питање остаје отворено, али и подстиче размишљање о једном другом естетском и стваралачком феномену: где настаје уметничко дело? Да ли оно бива створено „на лицу места“ или тек у атељеу?

Клод Моне, Santa Maria della Salute, 1908.

Claude Monet - Twilight in Venice, 1908.

Клод Моне, Залазак сунца у Венецији, 1908.

Claude Monet - San Giorgio Maggiore, 1908.

Клод Моне, Сан Ђорђо Мађоре, 1908.

Claude Monet - Palazzo da Mula in Venice, 1908.

Клод Моне, Једна венецијанска палата, 1908.

Claude Monet - Gondola, 1908.

Клод Моне, Гондола, 1908.

Вивијан Вествуд о значају уметности

Vivienne Westwood

Вивијен Вествуд

Моду не треба олако одбацити и разумети је као тривијалну појаву. Модна индустрија је изузетно проблематична појава нашег времена, она наружава значај моде, као форме, и њу треба критиковати. Међутим, мода у ужем смислу, као начин облачења и представљања себе посредством одеће, одувек је била значајна појава која је, као невербална комуникативна вештина, говорила много о ономе ко је ту одећу куповао или кројио. Она је сведочила о укусу, класном статусу, вештини.

У наставку следе речи Вивијен Вествуд о значају уметности које је изрекла приликом разгледања Волас колекције у Лондону. Музеј садржи дела рококо уметности, за све историчаре моде изузетно занимљивог перидоа који је највећу афирмацију добио у француској уметности. Енглеска креаторка, свесна положаја који данас модна индустрија заузима, нарушавајући статус креативности, угрожавајући права милиона радника, говори о уметности и одговорности.

Уметничко дело је прозор кроз који се посматра свет. Има онолико погледа колико је било уметника који су стварали у различитим историјским периодима. Свако доба види свет другачије.

Велика уметност је безвремена, она је визија коју можемо поделити било када. Она дотиче нешто суштинско у људској природи, полазишну основу за нашу имагинацију и естетско чуло.

Велика уметност има потенцијал да повезује људе. Она даје културу.

Уметност повезује прошлост, садашњост и будућност.

Длан као симбол стваралачког

Ханс Белмер, 1934.

Ханс Белмер, 1934.

Ханс Белмер, 1934.

Пусти да ти свирам, душа гине од тишине
и не бој се буке, то што свира то су руке. – Дарко  Рундек

Руке и дланови као инспирација за поезију, музику и фотографију честа су појава. Облик длана приказан у форми коју бисмо могли назвати делом сликарства првобитно нам долази из пећинске уметности. Тада је човек имао инстинктиван однос према стваралаштву и у дубинама пећина није био свестан да ствара нешто што ћемо ми, много миленијума касније, назвати уметношћу. Оцртавање мокрих зидова материце земље био је део ритуала, чин умољавања природе или божанства да исто оно што је представљено буде приносом богато за првобитну заједницу која је од меса и крзна представљене животиње зависила. Има у том процесу још нечег што подразумева повратак на почетну запитаност: да ли су та осликавања била у део инстинкта за одржањем, сујеверја и повод за бестијална жртвовања? Разлог недоумици крије се у чињеници да је читав један зид у тим пећинама био би посвећен искључиво формама у облику длана. Постоје две могућности за њихово порекло које нам не откривају и разлоге за њихова постојања, а што к нама, још једном, приводи тезу да мистерија одржава уметност. Оно што је далеко и неухватљиво више привлачи јер човек је, баш као и његов предак из пећине, архетипски предодређен да буде ловац. Прва од могућности значења дланова на зидовима пећина јесте да се древни уметник на тај начин потписивао. У остатке боје он би умочио већ мусави длан и на тај начин оставио свој потпис. Дакле, тада је човек имао свест о свом стваралачком значају. Исти ритуал могао је бити рађен и са другачијим циљем. Можда би после „потписивања“ тај исти длан био одсечен како би се жртвом одређеног дела људског тела, оног којим животиња бива савладана, умилостивило божанство и плен у виду животиње лакше омогућио припадницима племена. Свест примитивног човека инстинктивна је али не и без плана. То нам пећинско сликарство лепо показује.

Дакле, длан је симбол онога што приноси жртву али што и само бива жртвовано. Длан је симбол стварања, длан је симбол човека у непрекидној потрази за пленом. Са визуелних примера прелазимо на књижевне где длан, такође, задобија извсну мистичку димензију коју није изгубио још од пећине, Константиновог кажипрста или Микеланђела (сетимо се само фреске „Стварање Адама“ или Давидовог прецизно исклесаног длана). У наредним поетским примерима видећемо како, у случају Џона Китса, длан заправо симболизује живог човека, оног који дела, кроз чије вреле вене протиче крв, енергија живота. Слика таквог длана истовремено је и упозорење. Писана тоном који одаје извесну ноту готског сaспенса ова песма пример је романтичарске опсесије темама ствараоца и смрти. У контексту песме Пабла Неруде длан је инструмент љубавника, налик латицама цвета и крилима голубице, симбол рањивости и нежности. Руке које се додирују и укрштају заједно настављају свој лет, путовање коме је одредиште тело другог. У песми Сивa Цедеринга руке су део сна и независно биће у међупростору живота и смрти. Дланови лете, враћају се, цртају и опет се враћају етру, летећи на југ. У другом делу песме руке се лирском субјекту одају као сенке које знају тајне раста поморанџи, као море које зна тајну путовања бродова, они су топли као бића која су расла крај сунца. У последњој песми песникиња Џејн Хиршфилд набраја шта рука није, на тај начин јој стварајући значења и пишући, заправо, шта све рука јесте. Поступак негације је поступак афирмације. Рука није само пет прстију, јастук и ливада за сан, подлога за предвиђање будућности и стаза путовања, оловка која исписује стихове по другом телу. Длан је налик здели у коју падају капи које носе у себи многострука значења. Длан окренут ка небу, налик глиненој посуди, нерешива је загонетка налик зују пчела који нараста, приближава се и одмиче, без обећања за повратак.

JOHN KEATS: THIS LIVING HAND

This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calmed–see here it is–
I hold it towards you.

PABLO NERUDA: YOUR HANDS

When your hands go out,
love, toward mine,
what do they bring me flying?
Why did they stop
at my mouth, suddenly,
why do I recognize them
as if then, before,
I had touched them,
as if before they existed
they had passed over
my forehead, my waist?

Their softness came
flying over time,
over the sea, over the smoke,
over the spring,
and when you placed
your hands on my chest,
I recognized those golden
dove wings,
I recognized that clay
and that color of wheat.

All the years of my life
I walked around looking for them.
I went up the stairs,
I crossed the roads,
trains carried me,
waters brought me,
and in the skin of the grapes
I thought I touched you.
The wood suddenly
brought me your touch,
the almond announced to me
your secret softness,
until your hands
closed on my chest
and there like two wings
they ended their journey.

SIV CEDERING: HANDS

I

When I fall asleep
my hands leave me.

They pick up pens
and draw creatures
with five feathers
on each wing.

The creatures multiply.
They say: „We are large
like your father’s
hands.“

They say: „We have
your mother’s
knuckles.“

I speak to them:
„If you are hands,
why don’t you
touch?“

And the wings beat
the air, clapping.
They fly

high above elbows
and wrists.
They open windows
and leave

rooms.
They perch in treetops
and hide under bushes
biting

their nails. „Hands,“
I call them.
But it is fall

and all creatures
with wings
prepare to fly
South.

II

When I sleep
the shadows of my hands
come to me.

They are softer than feathers
and warm as creatures
who have been close
to the sun.

They say: „We are the giver,“
and tell of oranges
growing on trees.

They say: „We are the vessel,“
and tell of journeys
through water.

They say: „We are the cup.“

And I stir in my sleep.
Hands pull triggers
and cut
trees. But

the shadows of my hands
tuck their heads
under wings
waiting
for morning,

when I will wake
braiding

three strands of hair
into one.

JANE HIRSHFIELD: A HAND 

A hand is not four fingers and a thumb.

Nor is it palm and knuckles,
not ligaments or the fat’s yellow pillow,
not tendons, star of the wristbone, meander of veins.

A hand is not the thick thatch of its lines
with their infinite dramas,
nor what it has written,
not on the page,
not on the ecstatic body.

Nor is the hand its meadows of holding, of shaping—
not sponge of rising yeast-bread,
not rotor pin’s smoothness,
not ink.

The maple’s green hands do not cup
the proliferant rain.
What empties itself falls into the place that is open.

A hand turned upward holds only a single, transparent question.

Unanswerable, humming like bees, it rises, swarms, departs.

Интервју за „Париску ревију“: Вилијам Фокнер

William Faulkner

Вилијам Фокнер

У наставку следи одломак из интервјуа који је амерички нобеловац Вилијам Фокнер дао за књижевни часопис Париска ревија (The Paris Review) у пролеће 1956. године. Пишчеви одговори могу бити корисни онима којима је књижевност фасцинација, било да је у питању реципирање или стварање исте. Такође, они су значајни и са поетичког становишта јер су одговарајуће полазиште за приступ његовом делу док су, истовремено, бритки, духовити и налик афоризмима.

Теорија књижевности не мора нужно бити изложена пред читаоце својим специфичним лексичким и синтаксичким језичким апаратом већ може бити дата у одговорима који, попут романтичарских афоризама и фрагмената, имају стваралачки и креативни потенцијал. Фокнер одговара на питања која су у вези са одговорношћу писца, са садржајима његових романа који су утемељени у личном искуству, са његовим односом према сопственим делима.

INTERVIEWER 

Is there any possible formula to follow in order to be a good novelist?

FAULKNER

Ninety-nine percent talent, ninety-nine percent discipline, ninety-nine percent work. He must never be satisfied with what he does. It never is as good as it can be done. Always dream and shoot higher than you know you can do. Don’t bother just to be better than your contemporaries or predecessors. Try to be better than yourself. An artist is a creature driven by demons. He don’t know why they choose him and he’s usually too busy to wonder why. He is completely amoral in that he will rob, borrow, beg, or steal from anybody and everybody to get the work done.

INTERVIEWER

Do you mean the writer should be completely ruthless?

FAULKNER

The writer’s only responsibility is to his art. He will be completely ruthless if he is a good one. He has a dream. It anguishes him so much he must get rid of it. He has no peace until then. Everything goes by the board: honor, pride, decency, security, happiness, all, to get the book written. If a writer has to rob his mother, he will not hesitate; the “Ode on a Grecian Urn” is worth any number of old ladies.

INTERVIEWER

Some people say they can’t understand your writing, even after they read it two or three times. What approach would you suggest for them?

FAULKNER

Read it four times.

INTERVIEWER

How much of your writing is based on personal experience?

FAULKNER

I can’t say. I never counted up. Because „how much“ is not important. A writer needs three things, experience, observation, and imagination—any two of which, at times any one of which—can supply the lack of the others. With me, a story usually begins with a single idea or memory or mental picture. The writing of thestory is simply a matter of working up to that moment, to explain why it happened or what it caused to follow. A writer is trying to create believable people in credible moving situations in the most moving way he can. Obviously he must use as one of his tools the environment which he knows. I would say that music is the easiest means in which to express, since it came first in man’s experience and history. But since words are my talent, I must try to express clumsily in words what the pure music would have done better. That is, music would express better and simpler, but I prefer to use words, as I prefer to read rather than listen. I prefer silence to sound, and the image produced by words occurs in silence. That is, the thunder and the music of the prose take place in silence.

Full Interviw

Зачудни свет Едварда Мејбриџа

Eadweard Muybridge

Едвард Мејбриџ

Едвард Мејбриџ рођен је истог дана када и француски песник Шарл Бодлер – 9. априла – али девет година касније (1830). Баш као и песник, и фотограф о коме је реч био је иноватор и зачетник новог сензибилитета у оквиру уметности којој је припадао. Ако Бодлера можемо сматрати оцем модерне поезије, онда Мејбриџа можемо сматрати једним од зачетника модерне уметности – кинематографије.

Мејбриџ је захваљујући својим фотографијама учинио да оне више не буду једино документовани и заустављени поетски тренутци, већ одрази брзине и покрета, динамике својствене америчком духу који је Мејбриџ прихватио по пресељењу из Енглеске. У наредном документарном филму приказан је развојни пут фотографа, подједнако прожет личним драмама, жељом за иновацијом и уметничким признањем.

Muybridge's The Horse in Motion, 1878.

Едвард Мејбриџ, Коњ у покрету, 1878.

Eadweard Muybridge - Boys playing Leapfrog, 1887.

Едвард Мејбриџ, Скок, 1887.

Eadweard Muybridge

Едвард Мејбриџ

Galloping horse, animated in 2006, using photos by Eadweard Muybridge

Едвард Мејбриџ, Коњ у галопу. Анимација из 2006.

American bison cantering – set to motion in 2006 using photos by Eadweard Muybridge

Едвард Мејбриџ, Бизон у покрету. Анимација из 2006.

Једно писмо Егона Шилеа

Egon Schiele

Егон Шиле

Верујем да сваки уметник једном, или два пута, а да несрећа буде већа, можда и више од два пута, преиспитује свој однос према земљи у којој је рођен, према времену и простору којима је, желео то или не, обликован и условљен.

Апсолутна слобода је немогућа. Њен привид може се наслутути посредством стваралаштвa које је било, и које ће остати, најузвишенији, најхрабрији, најтежи акт слободе, побуне, удаљавања, неприпадања, могућности за један другачији и бољи живот.

Желео бих да напустим Беч што пре. Колико је овде ружно! Сви ми завиде. Колеге ме гледају својим неискреним очима. Град је црн, све се ради према задатом рецепту. Желим да будем сам.

Волео бих да одем у шуме Бохемије. Мај, јун, јул, август, септембар, октобар. Морам да видим нове пределе и да учим о њима, да окусим тамне воде, да видим неукроћено дрвеће, неприпитомљен ваздух, желим да у чуду гледам плесњиве баштенске ограде како живе, шумарак младих бреза, и да чујем лишће како подрхтава, желим да видим светлост, сунце и опорно влажне зелено-плаве вечерње долине, да осетим караш како светлуца, да видим беле облаке како се нагомилавају, да говорим цвећу, цвећу. Траве, да се загледам у ружичасте људе, желим да трчим не обазирући се на поља, кроз широке равнице желим да љубим земљу и миришем топли мочварни невен.

Рано изјутра волео бих да гледам излазак сунца и да гледам земљу како дише и светлуца.

Вечно сам у садашњости.

Плачем, из мојих полуотворених очију теку црвене сузе. Осећам влажни шумски ветар. Ти који можеш да осетиш, како дивно ти мораш дисати божански удах.

Пријатељу, плачући, ја се смејем.

Пријатељу, мислим на тебе.

У мени си ти.

Egon Schiele's Letter, Page 1

Писмо Егона Шилеа, страна 1

Egon Schiele's Letter, Page 2

Писмо Егона Шилеа, страна 2

Egon Schiele's Letter, Page 3

Писмо Егона Шилеа, страна 3

Egon Schiele's Letter, Page 4

Писмо Егона Шилеа, страна 4

Рене Магрит и Жоржет Берже

Љубав белгијског сликара Рене Магрита и његове супруге Жоржет на основу ових фотографија чини се другачијом у односу на мотив који је сликар често понављао: пар који се љуби има белим велом прекривена лица. Отуђење, немогућност коначне спознаје другог, иронична дистанца у односу на схватање „романтичне љубави“, „далеко у нама“ које се опире потпуној предаји другоме, све то могу бити интерпретације Магритове слике Љубавници (Les amants).

Прича Жоржет и Рене Магрита еквивалентна је односу Салвадора и Гале Дали, али са мање ексцентичности и медијске пажње. Приложене фотографије једна су страна новчића. Друга страна су Магритово загонетно, бизарно и необјашњиво збуњујуће сликарство при представљању парова. Рене и Жоржет срели су се када је сликар имао петнаест година. Жоржет је била његова муза и једини модел. Отпочели су везу 1920. године у Паризу.

Серија фотографија „Пали Анђео“ Дуејна Мајкла

Duane Michals - The Fallen Angel

Дуејн Мајкл – Пали Анђео

Наредни наративни след фотографија припада америчком уметнику Дуејну Мајклу, рођеном 1932. године. Мајкл је познат о фотографским есејима. Својим фотографијама он визуелно приповеда о анђелу који долази у посету девојци. Анђео улази у девојчину собу са крилима, а излази без њих. Он к њој долази наг а излази обучен.

После студија уметности Дуејн се посвећује фотографији коју једно време и предаје на различитим колеџима. Његови радови се појављују у магазинима Vogue, Mademoiselle, Scientific America. Музеји који су откупили његове радове су Museum of Modern Art, New York, Art Institute of Chicago, Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Његове поетске фотографије понекад неодољиво подсећају на поезију једног другог америчког уметника, песника Е.Е. Камингса. Овај тип фотографија почео да израђује око 1966. године. Они су се доста разликовали од фотографских есеја који су тада излазили у магазину Life. Његове фотографије често су праћене речима које дописује пошто их изради. Углавном је у питању поезија.

Duane Michals - The Fallen Angel

Дуејн Мајкл – Пали Анђео

Duane Michals - The Fallen Angel

Дуејн Мајкл – Пали Анђео

Duane Michals - The Fallen Angel

Дуејн Мајкл – Пали Анђео

Duane Michals - The Fallen Angel

Дуејн Мајкл – Пали Анђео

Duane Michals - The Fallen Angel

Дуејн Мајкл – Пали Анђео

Duane Michals - The Fallen Angel

Дуејн Мајкл – Пали Анђео

Нобелов говор Орхана Памука

Orhan Pamuk

Орхан Памук

У једном од раних дела једне веома популарне списатељице главна јунакиња, још увек девојчица, после мајчине смрти нема никаквих емоционалних реакција, тупост је једино што је првих неколико дана, па и месеци, прожима после немилог догађаја. Онда, након одређеног времена, десило се нешто што је проузроковало страховиту реакцију, ону коју би свако очекивао, како то патетичне претпоставке сугеришу, одмах по сазнању да је вероватно најбитније биће у вашем животу нестало, да је, грозне ли речи! – умрло. Јунакиња једног топлог и пријатног поднева, из непознатих разлога, одлази у подрум куће у којој је становала и тамо, већ на почетку просторије, затиче кофер са старим стварима своје мајке. Ту проналази махом гардеробу по којој претура да би, у једном тренутку, рукама напипала старе мајчине ципеле. Јунакиња их полако вади из безобрличне масе и по некаквом необјашњивом правилу одмах окреће. Тада jунакиња сазнаје да су једине ципеле које је њена мајка носила последњих дана свог кратког живота заправо имале бушно дно.

У коферу свог родитеља дете не мора нужно затећи пријатан садржај. Нажалост, или на срећу, непријатност долази увек после, онда када родитељ није жив. За писце су њихови родитељи неисцрпна грађа, нарочито родитељи које, упркос заједничком животу, писац није упознао, али које, баш из тог разлога непознанице, сада може по својој вољи да конструише, изнова ствара и кроз стваралачки процес упознаје. Кофер је метафора онога што је живот, или бар онога што га је већим делом чинило. Садржај кофера оца турског нобеловца Орхана Памука је далеко другачији од кофера мајке поменуте јунакиње, али је и он, баш као и у првом примеру, резултат детета, његове списатељске интенције, дара запажања и, што је најважније, он је резултат упорности памћења. Прошлост увек своје место, са правом или не, жели у садашњости и будућности.

Ако је кофер садржај нечијег живота, онда је отац је оно прошло у нама, оно што је наследство предака, традиција, култура из које потичемо и која нас, хтели ми то да прихватимо и признамо или не, обликује и одређује. Са тим у вези појављује се проблем идентитета. Како прихватити и учинити садржај прошлости инхерентним али му не допустити да управља нашим бићем и да нам одређује садашњост и будућност? Родитеље, као и земљу у којој смо рођени, нажалост, не можемо да бирамо. При спознаји те чињенице теорија о предестинацији може постати прихватљива. Али, свет је и доживљавао изнова мале и велике прогресе управо зато што појединац није желео да прихвати идеју предестинације, идеју да је његова судбина унапред одређена и да начин на који ће проживети свој живот није у моћи његове индивидуалне воље.

Сви наслеђујемо кофер. Садржаји у њима подједнако утичу на наша схватања и разумевања родитеља, али и нас самих. Подједнак је проблем када са микро нивоа пређемо на макро ниво, када са родитеља пређемо на културу државе у којој смо одрастали и која нас је васпитала (чак и онда када се одричемо њеног васпитања, то нас је она васпитала да тако реагујемо). Проблем Орхана Памука управо је у томе. Традиција и култура из које потиче и традиција и култура чије је утицаје Турска трпела током његовог одрастања далеко су једна од друге. Разапетост на том нивоу није пожељна, с обзиром на какве тектонске поремећаје личности може довести, али је од Памука начинила писца, и то не било каквог писца. Његов говор одржан по прихватању Нобелове награде управо је сликовито и скоро фикционално предочено искушење прихватања садржаја који нам се не мора нужно допасти, али који би требало, нарочито ако је реч о уметнику, преокренути у споствену корист прилагодивши га свом свету речи.

*

MY FATHER’S SUITCASE

December 7, 2006

Two years before his death, my father gave me a small suitcase filled with his writings, manuscripts and notebooks. Assuming his usual joking, mocking air, he told me he wanted me to read them after he was gone, by which he meant after he died.

‘Just take a look,’ he said, looking slightly embarrassed. ‘See if there’s anything inside that you can use. Maybe after I’m gone you can make a selection and publish it.’

We were in my study, surrounded by books. My father was searching for a place to set down the suitcase, wandering back and forth like a man who wished to rid himself of a painful burden. In the end, he deposited it quietly in an unobtrusive corner. It was a shaming moment that neither of us ever forgot, but once it had passed and we had gone back into our usual roles, taking life lightly, our joking, mocking personas took over and we relaxed. We talked as we always did, about the trivial things of everyday life, and Turkey’s neverending political troubles, and my father’s mostly failed business ventures, without feeling too much sorrow.

I remember that after my father left, I spent several days walking back and forth past the suitcase without once touching it. I was already familiar with this small, black, leather suitcase, and its lock, and its rounded corners. My father would take it with him on short trips and sometimes use it to carry documents to work. I remembered that when I was a child, and my father came home from a trip, I would open this little suitcase and rummage through his things, savouring the scent of cologne and foreign countries. This suitcase was a familiar friend, a powerful reminder of my childhood, my past, but now I couldn’t even touch it. Why? No doubt it was because of the mysterious weight of its contents.

I am now going to speak of this weight’s meaning. It is what a person creates when he shuts himself up in a room, sits down at a table, and retires to a corner to express his thoughts – that is, the meaning of literature.

When I did touch my father’s suitcase, I still could not bring myself to open it, but I did know what was inside some of those notebooks. I had seen my father writing things in a few of them. This was not the first time I had heard of the heavy load inside the suitcase. My father had a large library; in his youth, in the late 1940s, he had wanted to be an Istanbul poet, and had translated Valéry into Turkish, but he had not wanted to live the sort of life that came with writing poetry in a poor country with few readers. My father’s father – my grandfather – had been a wealthy business man; my father had led a comfortable life as a child and a young man, and he had no wish to endure hardship for the sake of literature, for writing. He loved life with all its beauties – this I understood.

The first thing that kept me distant from the contents of my father’s suitcase was, of course, the fear that I might not like what I read. Because my father knew this, he had taken the precaution of acting as if he did not take its contents seriously. After working as a writer for 25 years, it pained me to see this. But I did not even want to be angry at my father for failing to take literature seriously enough … My real fear, the crucial thing that I did not wish to know or discover, was the possibility that my father might be a good writer. I couldn’t open my father’s suitcase because I feared this. Even worse, I couldn’t even admit this myself openly. If true and great literature emerged from my father’s suitcase, I would have to acknowledge that inside my father there existed an entirely different man. This was a frightening possibility. Because even at my advanced age I wanted my father to be only my father – not a writer.

A writer is someone who spends years patiently trying to discover the second being inside him, and the world that makes him who he is: when I speak of writing, what comes first to my mind is not a novel, a poem, or literary tradition, it is a person who shuts himself up in a room, sits down at a table, and alone, turns inward; amid its shadows, he builds a new world with words. This man – or this woman – may use a typewriter, profit from the ease of a computer, or write with a pen on paper, as I have done for 30 years. As he writes, he can drink tea or coffee, or smoke cigarettes. From time to time he may rise from his table to look out through the window at the children playing in the street, and, if he is lucky, at trees and a view, or he can gaze out at a black wall. He can write poems, plays, or novels, as I do. All these differences come after the crucial task of sitting down at the table and patiently turning inwards. To write is to turn this inward gaze into words, to study the world into which that person passes when he retires into himself, and to do so with patience, obstinacy, and joy. As I sit at my table, for days, months, years, slowly adding new words to the empty page, I feel as if I am creating a new world, as if I am bringing into being that other person inside me, in the same way someone might build a bridge or a dome, stone by stone. The stones we writers use are words. As we hold them in our hands, sensing the ways in which each of them is connected to the others, looking at them sometimes from afar, sometimes almost caressing them with our fingers and the tips of our pens, weighing them, moving them around, year in and year out, patiently and hopefully, we create new worlds.

The writer’s secret is not inspiration – for it is never clear where it comes from – it is his stubbornness, his patience. That lovely Turkish saying – to dig a well with a needle – seems to me to have been said with writers in mind. In the old stories, I love the patience of Ferhat, who digs through mountains for his love – and I understand it, too. In my novel, My Name is Red, when I wrote about the old Persian miniaturists who had drawn the same horse with the same passion for so many years, memorising each stroke, that they could recreate that beautiful horse even with their eyes closed, I knew I was talking about the writing profession, and my own life. If a writer is to tell his own story – tell it slowly, and as if it were a story about other people – if he is to feel the power of the story rise up inside him, if he is to sit down at a table and patiently give himself over to this art – this craft – he must first have been given some hope. The angel of inspiration (who pays regular visits to some and rarely calls on others) favours the hopeful and the confident, and it is when a writer feels most lonely, when he feels most doubtful about his efforts, his dreams, and the value of his writing – when he thinks his story is only his story – it is at such moments that the angel chooses to reveal to him stories, images and dreams that will draw out the world he wishes to build. If I think back on the books to which I have devoted my entire life, I am most surprised by those moments when I have felt as if the sentences, dreams, and pages that have made me so ecstatically happy have not come from my own imagination – that another power has found them and generously presented them to me.

I was afraid of opening my father’s suitcase and reading his notebooks because I knew that he would not tolerate the difficulties I had endured, that it was not solitude he loved but mixing with friends, crowds, salons, jokes, company. But later my thoughts took a different turn. These thoughts, these dreams of renunciation and patience, were prejudices I had derived from my own life and my own experience as a writer. There were plenty of brilliant writers who wrote surrounded by crowds and family life, in the glow of company and happy chatter. In addition, my father had, when we were young, tired of the monotony of family life, and left us to go to Paris, where – like so many writers – he’d sat in his hotel room filling notebooks. I knew, too, that some of those very notebooks were in this suitcase, because during the years before he brought it to me, my father had finally begun to talk to me about that period in his life. He spoke about those years even when I was a child, but he would not mention his vulnerabilities, his dreams of becoming a writer, or the questions of identity that had plagued him in his hotel room. He would tell me instead about all the times he’d seen Sartre on the pavements of Paris, about the books he’d read and the films he’d seen, all with the elated sincerity of someone imparting very important news. When I became a writer, I never forgot that it was partly thanks to the fact that I had a father who would talk of world writers so much more than he spoke of pashas or great religious leaders. So perhaps I had to read my father’s notebooks with this in mind, and remembering how indebted I was to his large library. I had to bear in mind that when he was living with us, my father, like me, enjoyed being alone with his books and his thoughts – and not pay too much attention to the literary quality of his writing.

But as I gazed so anxiously at the suitcase my father had bequeathed me, I also felt that this was the very thing I would not be able to do. My father would sometimes stretch out on the divan in front of his books, abandon the book in his hand, or the magazine and drift off into a dream, lose himself for the longest time in his thoughts. When I saw on his face an expression so very different from the one he wore amid the joking, teasing, and bickering of family life – when I saw the first signs of an inward gaze – I would, especially during my childhood and my early youth, understand, with trepidation, that he was discontent. Now, so many years later, I know that this discontent is the basic trait that turns a person into a writer. To become a writer, patience and toil are not enough: we must first feel compelled to escape crowds, company, the stuff of ordinary, everyday life, and shut ourselves up in a room. We wish for patience and hope so that we can create a deep world in our writing. But the desire to shut oneself up in a room is what pushes us into action. The precursor of this sort of independent writer – who reads his books to his heart’s content, and who, by listening only to the voice of his own conscience, disputes with other’s words, who, by entering into conversation with his books develops his own thoughts, and his own world – was most certainly Montaigne, in the earliest days of modern literature. Montaigne was a writer to whom my father returned often, a writer he recommended to me. I would like to see myself as belonging to the tradition of writers who – wherever they are in the world, in the East or in the West – cut themselves off from society, and shut themselves up with their books in their room. The starting point of true literature is the man who shuts himself up in his room with his books.

But once we shut ourselves away, we soon discover that we are not as alone as we thought. We are in the company of the words of those who came before us, of other people’s stories, other people’s books, other people’s words, the thing we call tradition. I believe literature to be the most valuable hoard that humanity has gathered in its quest to understand itself. Societies, tribes, and peoples grow more intelligent, richer, and more advanced as they pay attention to the troubled words of their authors, and, as we all know, the burning of books and the denigration of writers are both signals that dark and improvident times are upon us. But literature is never just a national concern. The writer who shuts himself up in a room and first goes on a journey inside himself will, over the years, discover literature’s eternal rule: he must have the artistry to tell his own stories as if they were other people’s stories, and to tell other people’s stories as if they were his own, for this is what literature is. But we must first travel through other people’s stories and books.

My father had a good library – 1 500 volumes in all – more than enough for a writer. By the age of 22, I had perhaps not read them all, but I was familiar with each book – I knew which were important, which were light but easy to read, which were classics, which an essential part of any education, which were forgettable but amusing accounts of local history, and which French authors my father rated very highly. Sometimes I would look at this library from a distance and imagine that one day, in a different house, I would build my own library, an even better library – build myself a world. When I looked at my father’s library from afar, it seemed to me to be a small picture of the real world. But this was a world seen from our own corner, from Istanbul. The library was evidence of this. My father had built his library from his trips abroad, mostly with books from Paris and America, but also with books bought from the shops that sold books in foreign languages in the 40s and 50s and Istanbul’s old and new booksellers, whom I also knew. My world is a mixture of the local – the national – and the West. In the 70s, I, too, began, somewhat ambitiously, to build my own library. I had not quite decided to become a writer – as I related in Istanbul, I had come to feel that I would not, after all, become a painter, but I was not sure what path my life would take. There was inside me a relentless curiosity, a hope-driven desire to read and learn, but at the same time I felt that my life was in some way lacking, that I would not be able to live like others. Part of this feeling was connected to what I felt when I gazed at my father’s library – to be living far from the centre of things, as all of us who lived in Istanbul in those days were made to feel, that feeling of living in the provinces. There was another reason for feeling anxious and somehow lacking, for I knew only too well that I lived in a country that showed little interest in its artists – be they painters or writers – and that gave them no hope. In the 70s, when I would take the money my father gave me and greedily buy faded, dusty, dog-eared books from Istanbul’s old booksellers, I would be as affected by the pitiable state of these second-hand bookstores – and by the despairing dishevelment of the poor, bedraggled booksellers who laid out their wares on roadsides, in mosque courtyards, and in the niches of crumbling walls – as I was by their books.

As for my place in the world – in life, as in literature, my basic feeling was that I was ‘not in the centre’. In the centre of the world, there was a life richer and more exciting than our own, and with all of Istanbul, all of Turkey, I was outside it. Today I think that I share this feeling with most people in the world. In the same way, there was a world literature, and its centre, too, was very far away from me. Actually what I had in mind was Western, not world, literature, and we Turks were outside it. My father’s library was evidence of this. At one end, there were Istanbul’s books – our literature, our local world, in all its beloved detail – and at the other end were the books from this other, Western, world, to which our own bore no resemblance, to which our lack of resemblance gave us both pain and hope. To write, to read, was like leaving one world to find consolation in the other world’s otherness, the strange and the wondrous. I felt that my father had read novels to escape his life and flee to the West – just as I would do later. Or it seemed to me that books in those days were things we picked up to escape our own culture, which we found so lacking. It wasn’t just by reading that we left our Istanbul lives to travel West – it was by writing, too. To fill those notebooks of his, my father had gone to Paris, shut himself up in his room, and then brought his writings back to Turkey. As I gazed at my father’s suitcase, it seemed to me that this was what was causing me disquiet. After working in a room for 25 years to survive as a writer in Turkey, it galled me to see my father hide his deep thoughts inside this suitcase, to act as if writing was work that had to be done in secret, far from the eyes of society, the state, the people. Perhaps this was the main reason why I felt angry at my father for not taking literature as seriously as I did.

Actually I was angry at my father because he had not led a life like mine, because he had never quarrelled with his life, and had spent his life happily laughing with his friends and his loved ones. But part of me knew that I could also say that I was not so much ‘angry’ as ‘jealous’, that the second word was more accurate, and this, too, made me uneasy. That would be when I would ask myself in my usual scornful, angry voice: ‘What is happiness?’ Was happiness thinking that I lived a deep life in that lonely room? Or was happiness leading a comfortable life in society, believing in the same things as everyone else, or acting as if you did? Was it happiness, or unhappiness, to go through life writing in secret, while seeming to be in harmony with all around one? But these were overly ill-tempered questions. Wherever had I got this idea that the measure of a good life was happiness? People, papers, everyone acted as if the most important measure of a life was happiness. Did this alone not suggest that it might be worth trying to find out if the exact opposite was true? After all, my father had run away from his family so many times – how well did I know him, and how well could I say I understood his disquiet?

So this was what was driving me when I first opened my father’s suitcase. Did my father have a secret, an unhappiness in his life about which I knew nothing, something he could only endure by pouring it into his writing? As soon as I opened the suitcase, I recalled its scent of travel, recognised several notebooks, and noted that my father had shown them to me years earlier, but without dwelling on them very long. Most of the notebooks I now took into my hands he had filled when he had left us and gone to Paris as a young man. Whereas I, like so many writers I admired – writers whose biographies I had read – wished to know what my father had written, and what he had thought, when he was the age I was now. It did not take me long to realise that I would find nothing like that here. What caused me most disquiet was when, here and there in my father’s notebooks, I came upon a writerly voice. This was not my father’s voice, I told myself; it wasn’t authentic, or at least it did not belong to the man I’d known as my father. Underneath my fear that my father might not have been my father when he wrote, was a deeper fear: the fear that deep inside I was not authentic, that I would find nothing good in my father’s writing, this increased my fear of finding my father to have been overly influenced by other writers and plunged me into a despair that had afflicted me so badly when I was young, casting my life, my very being, my desire to write, and my work into question. During my first ten years as a writer, I felt these anxieties more deeply, and even as I fought them off, I would sometimes fear that one day, I would have to admit to defeat – just as I had done with painting – and succumbing to disquiet, give up novel writing, too.

I have already mentioned the two essential feelings that rose up in me as I closed my father’s suitcase and put it away: the sense of being marooned in the provinces, and the fear that I lacked authenticity. This was certainly not the first time they had made themselves felt. For years I had, in my reading and my writing, been studying, discovering, deepening these emotions, in all their variety and unintended consequences, their nerve endings, their triggers, and their many colours. Certainly my spirits had been jarred by the confusions, the sensitivities and the fleeting pains that life and books had sprung on me, most often as a young man. But it was only by writing books that I came to a fuller understanding of the problems of authenticity (as in My Name is Red and The Black Book) and the problems of life on the periphery (as inSnow and Istanbul). For me, to be a writer is to acknowledge the secret wounds that we carry inside us, the wounds so secret that we ourselves are barely aware of them, and to patiently explore them, know them, illuminate them, to own these pains and wounds, and to make them a conscious part of our spirits and our writing.

A writer talks of things that everyone knows but does not know they know. To explore this knowledge, and to watch it grow, is a pleasurable thing; the reader is visiting a world at once familiar and miraculous. When a writer shuts himself up in a room for years on end to hone his craft – to create a world – if he uses his secret wounds as his starting point, he is, whether he knows it or not, putting a great faith in humanity. My confidence comes from the belief that all human beings resemble each other, that others carry wounds like mine – that they will therefore understand. All true literature rises from this childish, hopeful certainty that all people resemble each other. When a writer shuts himself up in a room for years on end, with this gesture he suggests a single humanity, a world without a centre.

But as can be seen from my father’s suitcase and the pale colours of our lives in Istanbul, the world did have a centre, and it was far away from us. In my books I have described in some detail how this basic fact evoked a Checkovian sense of provinciality, and how, by another route, it led to my questioning my authenticity. I know from experience that the great majority of people on this earth live with these same feelings, and that many suffer from an even deeper sense of insufficiency, lack of security and sense of degradation, than I do. Yes, the greatest dilemmas facing humanity are still landlessness, homelessness, and hunger … But today our televisions and newspapers tell us about these fundamental problems more quickly and more simply than literature can ever do. What literature needs most to tell and investigate today are humanity’s basic fears: the fear of being left outside, and the fear of counting for nothing, and the feelings of worthlessness that come with such fears; the collective humiliations, vulnerabilities, slights, grievances, sensitivities, and imagined insults, and the nationalist boasts and inflations that are their next of kind … Whenever I am confronted by such sentiments, and by the irrational, overstated language in which they are usually expressed, I know they touch on a darkness inside me. We have often witnessed peoples, societies and nations outside the Western world – and I can identify with them easily – succumbing to fears that sometimes lead them to commit stupidities, all because of their fears of humiliation and their sensitivities. I also know that in the West – a world with which I can identify with the same ease – nations and peoples taking an excessive pride in their wealth, and in their having brought us the Renaissance, the Enlightenment, and Modernism, have, from time to time, succumbed to a self-satisfaction that is almost as stupid.

This means that my father was not the only one, that we all give too much importance to the idea of a world with a centre. Whereas the thing that compels us to shut ourselves up to write in our rooms for years on end is a faith in the opposite; the belief that one day our writings will be read and understood, because people all the world over resemble each other. But this, as I know from my own and my father’s writing, is a troubled optimism, scarred by the anger of being consigned to the margins, of being left outside. The love and hate that Dostoyevsky felt towards the West all his life – I have felt this too, on many occasions. But if I have grasped an essential truth, if I have cause for optimism, it is because I have travelled with this great writer through his love-hate relationship with the West, to behold the other world he has built on the other side.

All writers who have devoted their lives to this task know this reality: whatever our original purpose, the world that we create after years and years of hopeful writing, will, in the end, move to other very different places. It will take us far away from the table at which we have worked with sadness or anger, take us to the other side of that sadness and anger, into another world. Could my father have not reached such a world himself? Like the land that slowly begins to take shape, slowly rising from the mist in all its colours like an island after a long sea journey, this other world enchants us. We are as beguiled as the western travellers who voyaged from the south to behold Istanbul rising from the mist. At the end of a journey begun in hope and curiosity, there lies before them a city of mosques and minarets, a medley of houses, streets, hills, bridges, and slopes, an entire world. Seeing it, we wish to enter into this world and lose ourselves inside it, just as we might a book. After sitting down at a table because we felt provincial, excluded, on the margins, angry, or deeply melancholic, we have found an entire world beyond these sentiments.

What I feel now is the opposite of what I felt as a child and a young man: for me the centre of the world is Istanbul. This is not just because I have lived there all my life, but because, for the last 33 years, I have been narrating its streets, its bridges, its people, its dogs, its houses, its mosques, its fountains, its strange heroes, its shops, its famous characters, its dark spots, its days and its nights, making them part of me, embracing them all. A point arrived when this world I had made with my own hands, this world that existed only in my head, was more real to me than the city in which I actually lived. That was when all these people and streets, objects and buildings would seem to begin to talk amongst themselves, and begin to interact in ways I had not anticipated, as if they lived not just in my imagination or my books, but for themselves. This world that I had created like a man digging a well with a needle would then seem truer than all else.

My father might also have discovered this kind of happiness during the years he spent writing, I thought as I gazed at my father’s suitcase: I should not prejudge him. I was so grateful to him, after all: he’d never been a commanding, forbidding, overpowering, punishing, ordinary father, but a father who always left me free, always showed me the utmost respect. I had often thought that if I had, from time to time, been able to draw from my imagination, be it in freedom or childishness, it was because, unlike so many of my friends from childhood and youth, I had no fear of my father, and I had sometimes believed very deeply that I had been able to become a writer because my father had, in his youth, wished to be one, too. I had to read him with tolerance – seek to understand what he had written in those hotel rooms.

It was with these hopeful thoughts that I walked over to the suitcase, which was still sitting where my father had left it; using all my willpower, I read through a few manuscripts and notebooks. What had my father written about? I recall a few views from the windows of Parisian hotels, a few poems, paradoxes, analyses … As I write I feel like someone who has just been in a traffic accident and is struggling to remember how it happened, while at the same time dreading the prospect of remembering too much. When I was a child, and my father and mother were on the brink of a quarrel – when they fell into one of those deadly silences – my father would at once turn on the radio, to change the mood, and the music would help us forget it all faster.

Let me change the mood with a few sweet words that will, I hope, serve as well as that music. As you know, the question we writers are asked most often, the favourite question, is; why do you write? I write because I have an innate need to write! I write because I can’t do normal work like other people. I write because I want to read books like the ones I write. I write because I am angry at all of you, angry at everyone. I write because I love sitting in a room all day writing. I write because I can only partake in real life by changing it. I write because I want others, all of us, the whole world, to know what sort of life we lived, and continue to live, in Istanbul, in Turkey. I write because I love the smell of paper, pen, and ink. I write because I believe in literature, in the art of the novel, more than I believe in anything else. I write because it is a habit, a passion. I write because I am afraid of being forgotten. I write because I like the glory and interest that writing brings. I write to be alone. Perhaps I write because I hope to understand why I am so very, very angry at all of you, so very, very angry at everyone. I write because I like to be read. I write because once I have begun a novel, an essay, a page, I want to finish it. I write because everyone expects me to write. I write because I have a childish belief in the immortality of libraries, and in the way my books sit on the shelf. I write because it is exciting to turn all of life’s beauties and riches into words. I write not to tell a story, but to compose a story. I write because I wish to escape from the foreboding that there is a place I must go but – just as in a dream – I can’t quite get there. I write because I have never managed to be happy. I write to be happy.

A week after he came to my office and left me his suitcase, my father came to pay me another visit; as always, he brought me a bar of chocolate (he had forgotten I was 48 years old). As always, we chatted and laughed about life, politics and family gossip. A moment arrived when my father’s eyes went to the corner where he had left his suitcase and saw that I had moved it. We looked each other in the eye. There followed a pressing silence. I did not tell him that I had opened the suitcase and tried to read its contents; instead I looked away. But he understood. Just as I understood that he had understood. Just as he understood that I had understood that he had understood. But all this understanding only went so far as it can go in a few seconds. Because my father was a happy, easygoing man who had faith in himself: he smiled at me the way he always did. And as he left the house, he repeated all the lovely and encouraging things that he always said to me, like a father.

As always, I watched him leave, envying his happiness, his carefree and unflappable temperament. But I remember that on that day there was also a flash of joy inside me that made me ashamed. It was prompted by the thought that maybe I wasn’t as comfortable in life as he was, maybe I had not led as happy or footloose a life as he had, but that I had devoted it to writing – you’ve understood … I was ashamed to be thinking such things at my father’s expense. Of all people, my father, who had never been the source of my pain – who had left me free. All this should remind us that writing and literature are intimately linked to a lack at the centre of our lives, and to our feelings of happiness and guilt.

But my story has a symmetry that immediately reminded me of something else that day, and that brought me an even deeper sense of guilt. Twenty-three years before my father left me his suitcase, and four years after I had decided, aged 22, to become a novelist, and, abandoning all else, shut myself up in a room, I finished my first novel, Cevdet Bey and Sons; with trembling hands I had given my father a typescript of the still unpublished novel, so that he could read it and tell me what he thought. This was not simply because I had confidence in his taste and his intellect: his opinion was very important to me because he, unlike my mother, had not opposed my wish to become a writer. At that point, my father was not with us, but far away. I waited impatiently for his return. When he arrived two weeks later, I ran to open the door. My father said nothing, but he at once threw his arms around me in a way that told me he had liked it very much. For a while, we were plunged into the sort of awkward silence that so often accompanies moments of great emotion. Then, when we had calmed down and begun to talk, my father resorted to highly charged and exaggerated language to express his confidence in me or my first novel: he told me that one day I would win the prize that I am here to receive with such great happiness.

He said this not because he was trying to convince me of his good opinion, or to set this prize as a goal; he said it like a Turkish father, giving support to his son, encouraging him by saying, ‘One day you’ll become a pasha!’ For years, whenever he saw me, he would encourage me with the same words.

My father died in December 2002.

Today, as I stand before the Swedish Academy and the distinguished members who have awarded me this great prize – this great honour – and their distinguished guests, I dearly wish he could be amongst us.

Translation from Turkish by Maureen Freely

Izvor: Nobelprize.org

Сликарство Жан-Мишела Баскијата

Jean-Michel Basquiat, Self-Portrait

Жан-Мишел Баскијат, Аутопортрет, 1982.

Жан-Мишел Баскијат рођен је 1960. године у Њујорку где се испрва афирмисао као улични уметник (street artist) потписујући своје графите са „САМО“ (Same old Shit). Ево како Пол Веб (Paul Webb) opisuje njegove stvaralačke početke:

He earned a living by selling painted postcards and T-shirts, and at this time was making assemblages from scrap metal. He soon caught the attention of the New York art scene. Basquiat met Keith Haring and Kenny Scharf, both of whom had found their inspiration in the graffiti scene.

Већ почетком осамдесетих година, захваљујући чланку „The Radiant Child“ критичара Ренеа Рикарда, Баскијат скреће пажњу јавности на себе, која додатно бива наглашена познанством са Ворхолом (које је трајало све до Ворхолове смрти, 1987. године). Већ 1988. Баскијат умире од хероинског овердоуза. У међувремену уметник је излагао заједно са многим чувеним уметницима нашег времена, у неким од најзначајнијих њујоршких галерија.

In late 1981 he joined the „Annina Nosei“ gallery in SoHo, Manhattan. By 1982, Basquiat was showing regularly, and alongside Julian Schnabel, David Salle, Francesco Clemente and Enzo Cucchi, and was involved with the Neo-expressionist movement. He was represented in Los Angeles by the „Gagosian Gallery“, and throughout Europe by Bruno Bischofberger.

У контексту ове теме вреди цитирати шта је у интервјуу за „Париску ревију“ амeричка нобеловка Тони Морисон рекла о боји. Њен се одговор имплицитно може повезати са једном од основних одлика Баскијатовог сликарства. Боја, нападна и у комбинацији са другим бојама потпуно некомплементарна, једна је од основних одлика његовог сликарства. Како Баскијат није био само графити уметник, већ је поетику графита пренео на платна, боја на тој подлози добила је сасвим другачији интезитет. Боја доминира. После ње ту је јединствен потез руке, линија која је међу најособенијим у савременом сликарству. Америчка књижевница Тони Морисон подвлачи разлику између доживљаја и афирмације боје у делима белих и црних аутора, али и у свакодневном животу. На новинарево питање „Зашто се већина људи плаши боје?“, америчка списатељица даје следећи одговор:

They just are. In this culture quiet colors are considered elegant. Civilized Western people wouldn’t buy bloodred sheets or dishes. There may be something more to it than what I am suggesting. But the slave population had no access even to what color there was, because they wore slave clothes. For them a colored dress would be luxurious; it wouldn’t matter whether it was rich or poor cloth… just to have a red or a yellow dress. I stripped Beloved of color so that there are only the small moments when Sethe runs amok buying ribbons and bows, enjoying herself the way children enjoy that kind of color. These were people marked because of their skin color, as well as other features. So color is a signifying mark. Baby Suggs dreams of color and says: „Bring me a little lavender“. It is a kind of luxury. We are so inundated with color and visuals. I just wanted to pull it back so that one could feel that hunger and that delight. *

Боја на Баскијатовим платнима нема као код немачких експресионистичких сликара узнемиријуће дејство, нити као код Марка Ротка симболички потенцијал. Она не превазилази границе речи, црвена је на његовим платнима само црвена. Баскијатов визуелни колаж резултат је употреба различитих техника, али и традиција које су га обликовале: урбаног окружења, али и афричког и карипског визуелног и колористичког наслеђа.

Jean-Michel BasquiatJean-Michel BasquiatJean-Michel BasquiatJean-Michel BasquiatJean-Michel BasquiatJean-Michel BasquiatJean-Michel BasquiatJean-Michel Basquiat

Сексуалне персоне Чарлса Буковског

lola1

Последњих година визуелни уметници који своја дела излажу на друштвеној мрежи TUMBLR су феномен виртуелних галеријских простора. Захваљујући тим сајтовима излагачки простор максимално је либерализован и доступан. Уметност свако може да излаже, конципира или реципира, али тешко да свако може да одвоји популарно од елитног, чија дистинкција у нашем времену губи смисао, конвенционално од оригиналног, уметност од егзибиционизма, баналност новог од естетски релевантног новог, које, такође, у нашем времену губи на значају. Преведено са језика поезије: има много палпа (eng. pulp) у контексту савремене уметности. То ме је вратило поезији, мојој преокупацији, па сам подвукла аналогију између сликара чије би теме могле бити блиске циклусу Сексуалне персоне и одређених примера из популарне поезије.

Веома омиљен песник међу конзументима друштвених мрежа и почетницима у читању поезије (односно онога што бисмо могли назвати „изрази кроз редове“, упорно погрешно називаним „стихови“), Чарлс Буковски етаблирано је име књижевности, но поставља се, и увек ће се постављати, питање о уметничкој вредности његовог израза. Искреност никоме није потребна када говоримо о уметности, оно што желимо јесте униврзалност истине коју би једно уметничко дело требало да подразумева. Нема никакве универзалности у делу Чарлса Буковског, у тим редовима нема никакве естетске истине већ једино врло патетично представљене искрености, емоције просуте као вода из кесе у којој кружи златна рибица. Дакле, потенцијал лепоте остаје једино у домену потенцијала, али не до краја искоришћеног, јер би и он бивао просут са висине, одакле тресак воде звучи пискавије него иначе што би. Тематски одабир Чарлса Буковског далеко је од проблематичног али оно што је заиста вредно преиспитивања (и у контексту поменутог америчког песника и у контексту сваког другог уметника) јесте начин на који су те теме преобликоване у естетски израз. Ту ја имам велики проблем са прихватањем поменутог песника, краља дилетаната и палпа. Величанственост патње, попут палате огледане у бари, дилетантски је самоуверено представљена а, заправо, веома је патетична.

LOL* је име савремене колумбијске сликарке чија дела више волим од песама Буковског. У њима сам пронашла нешто што је учинило да те исте песме, ипак, још једном прочитам. То ме је вратило мојој тези да једно уметничко дело огледано у другом може да надограђује своје потенцијале. Када се два дела користе као заједнички одрази истих мотива тај поступак може оба дела да обогати. Аналогије су добри демони, генији откривања. Теме сексуалног чина и фантазија везаних за тело жене честе су код Буковског. Директна представа коитуса присутна је на Лолиним сликама. Кроз афирмацију пурпурне боје којом су представљена тела, чије се појединачне границе не могу распознати, љубавници изгледају као неуобличана маса меса. Нагласак на месу, на огољено телесном, присутан је и у књижевности Чарлса Буковског. Простор и атмосфера на Лолиним сликама подсећају на Буковског, нарочито на следећу песму.

ТУШ

волимо да се туширамо после
(ја више од ње волим врућу воду)
њено лице је увек благо и спокојно
и она прво опере мене
насапуња ми муда
дигне их
стисне,
затим ми пере киту:
„еј, овај је још крут!“
онда сапуња све оне длаке доле –
па трбух, леђа, врат, ноге,
ја се кезим кезим кезим
а онда перем њу…
прво пицу, ја
стојим иза ње, кита ми је уз њено дупе
и нежно сапуњам пицино руно,
перем је мазним покретима,
отежем можда више него што је неопходно,
затим прелазим на задњи део ногу, дупе,
леђа, врат, окрећем је, љубим,
сапуњам сисе, сисе и стомак,
предњи део ногу, чланке, стопала,
а онда пицу, још једном, за срећу…
нови пољубац, и она излази прва,
брише се, понекад пева док сам ја унутра
и пуштам врућу воду
уживајући у чуду љубави
а онда излазим…
обично је поподне и тихо је,
облачећи се, разговарамо шта би можда
требало да се уради,
али то што смо заједно решава већи део тога,
у суштини, решава све,
јер докле год су те ствари решене
у историји жене и
мушкарца, сваком од њих је друкчије
сваком је боље и горе –
за мене, довољно је лепо да памтим
мимо војски што марширају
и коња што касају улицама
мимо сећања на бол, пораз и несрећу:
Линда, ти си ми то донела,
и када то узмеш
учини то нежно и полако
као да умирем у сну уместо у
свом животу, амин.

Икаров пад

Peter Paul Rubens,

Питер Пол Рубенс, „Икаров пад“, 1636.

Раније сам чешће одлазила у Земун, мој пријатељ је тамо становао. Ретко смо остајали у затвореном простору, а и када бисмо, тема Икара била би индиректно присутна, „високо“ и „ниско“ преплитали би се – правили бисмо сендвиче и причали о Љоси, јели бисмо и пуних уста о сумирали утиске о Маркесу. Nastavite sa čitanjem