Московски метро

Kiyevsskaya Station, Moscow, Russia, 2015Arbatskaya Metro Station, Moscow, Russia, 2015Mayakovskaya Station, Moscow, Russia, 2014Prospekt Mira Station, Moscow, Russia, 2015Taganskaya Metro Station, Moscow, Russia, 2015 Novoslobodskaya Metro Station, Moscow, Russia, 2015Komsomolskaya Metro Station, Moscow, Russia, 2015Belorusskaya Station, Moscow, Russia, 2015

Све станице које сте могли видети на приложеним фотографијама налазе се у Москви. Називи станица су:

1. Ки́евская
2. Арба́тская
3. Маяковская
4. Проспе́кт Ми́ра
5. Тага́нская
6. Новослобо́дская
7. Комсомо́льская
8. Белору́сская

Фотографије начинио Дејвид Бурдени током 2014. и 2015. године. Овај фотограф рођен је у Канади 1968. године. Студирао је архитектуру и унутрашњи дизајн, што је судећи према његовим фотографијама уочљиво. Интересовање за форму и архитектуру не изостаје у његовом прецизном и строгом формалном приступу.

Метро станице нисмо навикли да гледамо као палате, оне су производ модерног доба, касног 19. века, са великим развојем у 20. веку. Московски метро у том смислу, упркос својој непорецивој лепоти, изгледа анахроно јер производи осећај као да је грађен крајем 18. или током 19. века. У питању је неокласицистички архитектонски образац из тридесетих година 20. века.

Московски метро отворен је 1935. године. Дужина тадашњих линија износила је 11 километара, метро је имао 13 станица. До 2018. године московски метро имао је 224 станице и руту дугу 381 километар. Овај метро спада у пет најдужих на свету. Најдубља возна секција је 84 метра под земљом. Московским метроом дневно се превезе у просеку 6.99 милиона људи а 26. децембра 2014. године метроом се превезло чак 9.71 миллион људи!

Николај Васиљев, историчар архитектуре, у интервјуу за онлајн магазин City Lab, на питање о неокласицистичком изгледу московског метроа рекао је следеће: 

The first order of construction was primarily designed in a Soviet version of Art Deco, with some remains of avant-garde forms. Parts of the second and third orders, which opened in 1938 and 1943, are like this as well. Stations built from that point until the end of the 1950s can be described as Neoclassical with Empire-style motifs, usually for post-war projects treated as war memorials. These make up a little less than a quarter of the total stations in the system, but they are the most visited ones in the center and main line interchanges. Only 44 of total 214 stations are listed as historical monuments, including a few from the ‘50s and nothing since.

O delima Anselma Kifera

Among the artists whose work I know, Kiefer is perhaps the most talented, ambitious and literary of them all, and maybe that is why his universe appeals to me so strongly. – Orhan Pamuk

Ne sećam se kada i gde sam prvi put videla slike (reprodukcije) Anselma Kifera ali su mi se odmah dopala monumentalna dela, skulpture, knjige, fotografije. U eri „dematerijalizacije“, u eri „digitalnog“, u eri „koncepta“, Anselm Kifer je pravi primer romantičarskog umetnika. On ne odustaje od slike, od reči, od mita, od preispitivanja, on ne odustaje od materije i metafizike. Njegove slike (smemo li napisati platna?) teške su nekoliko stotina kilograma. Na njima je puno boje, puno slame, stolica, metalnih predmeta. Kifer stvara materijalnost, sliku, konkretno, čulno, istovremeno bivajući brutalan prema materijalnosti.

Na putovanjima sam se dva puta srela sa Kiferovim delima. Prvi put u Veneciji, u „Pegi Gugenhajm“ muzeju gde sam videla platno na kojoj je arhetipska slika, veoma važna za moju ličnu mitologiju, život, pisanje, a to je opustošena njiva. Nad njom se nadvijala kosa plave Margarete, slama, i stihovi ispisani rukom, prelepim rukopisom samog slikara, koji su iz pesme „Fuga smrti“ Paula Celana.

Tvoja kosa od zlata Margreto
Tvoja kosa od pepela Sulamko

Drugi put je to bilo u Briselu kad sam u „Muzeju lepih umetnosti“ kupila tri knjige među kojima je jedna bila posvećena radu Anselma Kifera. Razmišljala sam kako je njegovo delo blisko književnosti, i ne samo po upotrebi jezičkih elemenata, već u celini. Ono nije narativno ali poziva čitaoca da pejsaž dopuni prošlim i budućim. Delo je uvek tu, u sadašnjem, u zamrznutom, u trenutku koji je istovremeno i večnost. Večna sadašnjost.

Naišla sam na nekoliko zanimljivih tekstova i video zapisa o Kiferu. Jedan je tekst Kristofa Ransmajera, drugi je Orhana Pamuka, savremenog turskog pisca, jednog od Kiferovih umetničkih pandana. Njegov citat sledi u nastavku. Takođe, pored dokumentarnog filma „Remembering the Future“, naišla sam i na tri videa nastala povodom Kiferove izložbe u bečkom muzeju „Albertina“. Svi ovi tekstovi i filmovi mogu biti, uz moje upravo predočeno sećanje, početni impuls i uvid u dalje istraživanje ovog umetnika.

I found myself thinking once again that perhaps the reason why I loved these paintings so much was the artist’s ability to demonstrate the kinship of words and images, legends and landscapes. All these words, letters, trees, mountains, frail flowers and forgotten roads were part of a single text, and shared a common texture. All I wanted was to be able to read these paintings and the forceful brushstrokes that had formed them.

Izvor citata: The Guardian

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,
Is a little lonely child
Lost in Hell, – Persephone,
Take her head upon your knee;
Say to her, „My dear, my dear,
It is not so dreadful here.“

 

CECILIA WOLOCH: HADES

Where we go when he closes my eyes
and under what country:
some blue darkness, farther than hell;
a landscape of absence and root and stone.
There are no bodies here,
we dream shapeless dreams –
a constant, cloudless storm.

Mother, I’ll never wake up from him,
I have already traveled too far.
My mouth is the color of his mouth
and his arms are no longer his arms;
they’re mute as smoke, as my first white dress,
and the spear of his name, once ferocious,
dissolves on my tongue
like sugar, like birdsong, I whisper it:
Hades.

 

NIKITA GILL: CONVERSATIONS WITH PERSEPHONE

I asked Persephone,

„How could you grow to love him?
He took you from flowers to a kingdom
where not a single living thing can grow.“

Persephone smiled,

„My darling, every flower on your earth withers.
What Hades gave me was a crown
made for the immortal flowers in my bones.“

 

LOUISE GLÜCK: A MYTH OF DEVOTION

When Hades decided he loved this girl
he built for her a duplicate of earth,
everything the same, down to the meadow,
but with a bed added.

Everything the same, including sunlight,
because it would be hard on a young girl
to go so quickly from bright light to utter darkness

Gradually, he thought, he’d introduce the night,
first as the shadows of fluttering leaves.
Then moon, then stars. Then no moon, no stars.
Let Persephone get used to it slowly.
In the end, he thought, she’d find it comforting.

A replica of earth
except there was love here.
Doesn’t everyone want love?

He waited many years,
building a world, watching
Persephone in the meadow.
Persephone, a smeller, a taster.
If you have one appetite, he thought,
you have them all.

Doesn’t everyone want to feel in the night
the beloved body, compass, polestar,
to hear the quiet breathing that says
I am alive, that means also
you are alive, because you hear me,
you are here with me. And when one turns,
the other turns.

That’s what he felt, the lord of darkness,
looking at the world he had
constructed for Persephone. It never crossed his mind
that there’d be no more smelling here,
certainly no more eating.

Guilt? Terror? The fear of love?
These things he couldn’t imagine;
no lover ever imagines them.

He dreams, he wonders what to call this place.
First he thinks: The New Hell. Then: The Garden.
In the end, he decides to name it
Persephone’s Girlhood.

A soft light rising above the level meadow,
behind the bed. He takes her in his arms.
He wants to say I love you, nothing can hurt you

but he thinks
this is a lie, so he says in the end
you’re dead, nothing can hurt you
which seems to him
a more promising beginning, more true.

 

JO WALTON: HADES AND PERSEPHONE

You bring the light clasped round you, and although
I knew you’d bring it, knew it as I waited,
Knew as you’d come that you’d come cloaked in light
I had forgotten what light meant, and so
This longed for moment, so anticipated,
I stand still, dazzled by my own delight.

I see you, and you see me, and we smile
And your smile says you are as pleased as me
With everything and nothing still to say
All that we’ve saved and thought through all this time
Boils down to affirmation now as we
Stand here enlightened in my realm of grey.

Cerberus wags his solitary tail,
And though the dust of Hell lies round our feet
Your flowers are already sprouting through.
“You came,” “I said I would,” “You didn’t fail,”
“And you’re still here,” “Of course. We said we’d meet.”
“Yes,” “Yes!” “You’re really here! “And so are you!”

We don’t say yet that you will have to go
And Hell return inevitably black
Your flowers fade when parted from your tread
Though this is something we both surely know,
As certain as you come, you must go back,
And I remain alone among the dead.

They say I snatched you from the world above
Bound you with pomegranates, cast a spell
Bribed you with architecture. It’s not so.
Friendship is complicated, life is, love,
Your work the growing world, my task is Hell
You come back always, always have to go.

But here and now, this moment, we can smile,
Speak and be heard, this moment we can share
And laugh, and help each other to be great,
And talk aloud together, all worthwhile,
Our work, our worlds, and all we really care,
Each word shines golden, each thought worth the wait.

And Hell’s poor souls whirl round us as they glide
Off up to Lethe to begin again,
On to new lives, new dawns beyond Hell’s night.
We walk among your flowers, side by side,
Such joys we share are worth a little pain.
You come back. And you always bring the light.

 

RITA DOVE: PERSEPHONE, FALLING

One narcissus among the ordinary beautiful
flowers, one unlike all the others! She pulled,
stooped to pull harder—
when, sprung out of the earth
on his glittering terrible
carriage, he claimed his due.
It is finished. No one heard her.
No one! She had strayed from the herd.

(Remember: go straight to school.
This is important, stop fooling around!
Don’t answer to strangers. Stick
with your playmates. Keep your eyes down.)
This is how easily the pit
opens. This is how one foot sinks into the ground.

Izvor poezije: Pinterest, Poetry Foundation

Slika: Mermerna sklptura Kore (devojke), 6. vek pre nove ere, Atina.

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 ovog proizvođača moći će da dobiju knjigu, u kojoj sam i ja participirala jednim tekstom. Antologija je nazvana Somehow i sadrži dvanaest priloga koji su na engleskom jeziku.

Na preporuku prijateljice napisala sam esej o holandskoj mrtvoj prirodi, slikarskom fenomenu 17. veka. Ponosna sam, zahvalna i srećna! Već osećam energiju svog nepoznatog, dalekog čitaoca. Esej ću uskoro objaviti i na blogu, na srpskom jeziku, u okviru serije tekstova pod nazivom Barok nedeljom.

Isprva sam za potrebe antologije napisala dva eseja, od kojih je jedan prihvaćen. Drugi je, takođe, o holandskoj umetnosti 17. veka, s tim što je u fokusu tog rada prikaz egzotičnih ptica na platnima nekoliko holandskih i flamanskih slikara toga doba. Taj rad ću objaviti, isto tako, u okviru serije objava pod nazivom Barok nedeljom

Zamislila sam četri eseja kao četri različita platna u tamnoj sobi. Bio je to moj mali, privatni muzej. U formi tetraptiha bih holandsku umetnost zlatnog doba povezala sa istorijskim, ekonomskim i građanskim tekovinama koje su je uslovile i oblikovale. Posmatrač bi u tu sobu ušao i, krenuvši s leva na desno, kretao bi se ovako: prvo krilo tetraptiha su Rembrantovi ženski portreti, preciznije haljine Rembrantovih portretisanih. Drugo krilo su egzotične ptice u izmaštanim vrtovima koje su na ogromnim platnima bile deo enterijera prve moderne evropske građanske klase. Treće krilo je ovo o kome je reč: mrtva priroda, mnoštvo hrane i predmeta na stolovima u tamnim sobama. Četvrto krilo, još uvek „nenaslikano“, biće esej o kabinetima kurioziteta, o sobama i škrinjama mnogobrojnih ličnosti koje nalikuju Šekspirovom Prosperu. To su sobe putnika, kolekcionara i ezoterika, sakupljača, fetišista, zaljubljenika u materijalno, u predmete, ali ne u onakve kakve viđamo na platnima mrtve prirode, već bizarne, neobične, „kuriozitetne“. Sobe pune prepariranih životinja, korala, lobanja, predmeta iz prirode, ali odvojenih iz svog prirodnog staništa i stavljenih u potpuno novi kontekst.

Esej o haljinama Rembrantovih portretisanih je objavljen na blogu A . A . A. Sledeći na redu za objavljivanje, u okviru pomenute serije Barok nedeljom, jeste esej o egzotičnim pticama. Zatim ću objaviti ovaj esej o mrtvoj prirodi (na srpskom jeziku, samo za ovu priliku je objavljen na engleskom) i, najzad, esej o kabinetima kurioziteta koji ću, u međuvremenu, napisati. On će se poklopiti sa mojim doktorskim istraživanjima koja se tiču nekih Šekspirovih drama, naročito „Bure“.

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Intervju: Silvija Plat i Ted Hjuz (BBC, 1961)

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 Owen Leeming. U nastavku slede dva citirana odgovora.

Prvi odgovor dala je Silvija Plat na pitanje o vezi svog deteinjstva i potrebe za stvaranjem:

I think I was happy up to the age of about nine — very carefree — and I believed in magic, which influenced me a great bit. And then, at nine, I was rather disillusioned — I stopped believing in elves and Santa Claus and all these little beneficent powers — and became more realistic and depressed, I think, and then, gradually, became a bit more adjusted about the age of sixteen or seventeen. But I certainly didn’t have a happy adolescence — and, perhaps, that’s partly why I turned specially to writing — I wrote diaries, stories, and so forth. I was quite introverted during those early years.

Drugo pitanje koje ovde izdvajam odnosilo se na Teda Hjuza. Engleski pesnik dao je odgovor na pitanje kako vidi vezu između njega i Silvije Plat, između dva snažna stvaralačka bića. Da li je konfliktna ili je, naprotiv, usklađena.

We’re very alike — we like the same things, live at the same tempo, have the same sort of rhythm in almost every way. But obviously this is a very fortunate covering for temperaments that are extremely different. But they lead secret lives, you see — they content themselves in an imaginative world, so they never really come into open conflict.

O FOTOGRAFIJAMA

Dajana Midlbruk (Diane Middlebrook), autorka knjigeHer Husband: Hughes and Plath – A Marriage“, objavljene 2003. godine, piše da su ove fotografije nastale u trenutku kada je par imao raspravu pa su rezultat prekinutih čarki kojima je prisustvovao fotograf Hans Beacham. Fotografije su nastale 25. jula 1960. godine, u okviru projekta za portfolio koji je trebalo da predstavi savremene britanske autore. Fotograf je kasnije čitav susret ovako prokomentarisao:

They were sullen. Hughes was rude. He was going to get more attention than she, and she didn’t like that while he did. He invited me outside and told me I needed to know that he loathed photographers. Hughes particularly wanted to keep Plath out of the way. His wish, of course, forced me to photograph them together.

Inače, Hans Beacham se ponovo susreo sa Hjuzom kojim mu je priznao da su oboje tom prilikom bili poprilično zlovoljni, a da se on sam ponašao „svirepo“.

Izvor: Brain PickingsLoving Sylvia

Tilda Svinton o romanu „Orlando“ Virdžinije Vulf

Engleska glumica Tilda Svinton u filmu „Orlando“ rediteljke Sali Poter, snimanom po motivima istoimenog romana Virdžinije Vulf, odigrala je nekoliko uloga po kojima će biti upamćena kao jedna od ikona sedme umetnosti. U tekstu objavljenom na internet sajtu magazina Telegraph ona evocira svoje impresije o ovoj knjizi:

A tourist guide to human experience, the best of wise companions. At least, it was my first: a message in a bottle from an imaginary friend.

I reread it now, 35 years later, and I am struck by its capacity to change like a magic mirror. Where I had originally seen it as a book about writing, about becoming a writer, I now see it as a book about reading, about taking one’s place in the chain. Where I once assumed it was a book about eternal youth, I now see it as a book about growing up, about learning to live.

For five years I was privileged to work alongside Sally Potter’s development of her feature-film adaptation of this book. I played the part of Orlando. Twenty years later, Orlando is still the name by which I am best known in Russia, to which I readily answer on streets throughout the world. In my attic is a box containing two of the costumes Orlando wore in the film. One day, I know my son will find them and try them on. One day – soon, I expect – my poetry-writing daughter, his twin, will pick up Woolf’s book and try it on for size.

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.

Na sajtu The British Library piše:

Professor John Bowen considers Emily Brontë’s combination of fantasy and reality in Wuthering Heights and the way in which fairy tale and Gothic elements „haunt the edges“ of the novel.

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

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

T. S. Eliot o Ezri Paundu

Intervju sa umetnikom je relevantan književni žanr. On nam može poetički i biografski, stvaralački i na nivou dnevnih rituala približiti pisca. U nastavku sledi odlomak iz intervjua koji je T. S. Eliot dao za magazin The Paris Review. Iz njega sam izdvojila deo koji se odnosi na intervenciju Ezre Paunda nad Eliotovom poemom Pusta zemlja.

INTERVIEWER

Do you remember the circumstances of your first meeting with Pound?

ELIOT

I think I went to call on him first. I think I made a good impression, in his little triangular sitting room in Kensington. He said, “Send me your poems.” And he wrote back, “This is as good as anything I’ve seen. Come around and have a talk about them.” Then he pushed them on Harriet Monroe, which took a little time.

INTERVIEWER

You have mentioned in print that Pound cut The Waste Land from a much larger poem into its present form. Were you benefited by his criticism of your poems in general? Did he cut other poems?

ELIOT

Yes. At that period, yes. He was a marvelous critic because he didn’t try to turn you into an imitation of himself. He tried to see what you were trying to do.

INTERVIEWER

Does the manuscript of the original, uncut Waste Land exist?

ELIOT

Don’t ask me. That’s one of the things I don’t know. It’s an unsolved mystery. I sold it to John Quinn. I also gave him a notebook of unpublished poems, because he had been kind to me in various affairs. That’s the last I heard of them. Then he died and they didn’t turn up at the sale.

INTERVIEWER

What sort of thing did Pound cut from The Waste Land? Did he cut whole sections?

ELIOT

Whole sections, yes. There was a long section about a shipwreck. I don’t know what that had to do with anything else, but it was rather inspired by the Ulysses canto in The Inferno, I think. Then there was another section which was an imitation Rape of the Lock. Pound said, “It’s no use trying to do something that somebody else has done as well as it can be done. Do something different.”

INTERVIEWER

Did the excisions change the intellectual structure of the poem?

ELIOT

No. I think it was just as structureless, only in a more futile way, in the longer version.

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.

San Albrehta Direra

In 1525, during the night between Wednesday and Thursday after WhitsuntideI had this vision in my sleep, and saw how many great waters fell from heaven. The first struck the ground about four miles away from me with such a terrible force, enormous noise and splashing that it drowned the entire countryside. I was so greatly shocked at this that I awoke before the cloudburst. And the ensuing downpour was huge. Some of the waters fell some distance away and some close by. And they came from such a height that they seemed to fall at an equally slow pace. But the very first water that hit the ground so suddenly had fallen at such velocity, and was accompanied by wind and roaring so frightening, that when I awoke my whole body trembled and I could not recover for a long time. When I arose in the morning, I painted the above as I had seen it. May the Lord turn all things to the best.

San Albrehta Direra, nemačkog renesansnog slikara, nisam uspela da pronađem na srpskom jeziku, ali jesam pronašla jedno tumačenje, ili ako ne tumačenje, onda zanimljiv komentar. U pitanju je stanoviše Margerit Jursenar koje sam pročitala u knjizi intervjua „Širom otvorenih očiju“. Ona je i sama više puta isticala značaj snova za njenu umetnosti, a 1938. godine je objavila knjigu „Snovi i sudbine“ u kojoj čitaocima predočava nekoliko svojih snova. Posedujem tu knjigu, pročitala sam je i smatram je veoma dobrom, jarkih boja i veoma ekspresivnih opisa, uglavnom košmara. Pročitajte tu knjigu, vredi. Evo odlomka o Direrovom snu, preuzetog iz razgovora sa Matje Galejem:

U snovima magičnog tipa ne čujemo sebe kako govorimo, već nešto vidimo. Na primer, Direrov san, san o kome nam je Direr ostavio zapis, skicu načinjenu odmah pošto se probudio u noći između 7. i 8. juna 1525. To je bio san slikara, naravno. Ali, to je i san u pokretu. Video je, neću reći kraj sveta, jer već preterujem, ali video je kraj mesta na kojem se nalazio prouzrokovan jakim kišama. Video je pijavice kako se sručuju i uništavaju kraj; potrudio se da naslika taj kraj. To dosta liči na lombardijsku ravnicu koju je morao poznavati, pošto je često dolazio u Italiju. Pojedinosti koje prikazuje su izvanredne; nastoji da izmeri koliko se daleko nalazio od nesreće. Veoma je uzbudljivo gledati kako deluje u snu duh čoveka koji je veliki posmatrač. U snu koji ga je prilično pogodio, jer ga je odmah zapisao i nacrtao.

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 –

 

I started early, took my dog,
And visited the sea;
The mermaids in the basement
Came out to look at me,

And frigates in the upper floor
Extended hempen hands,
Presuming me to be a mouse
Aground, upon the sands.

But no man moved me till the tide
Went past my simple shoe,
And past my apron and my belt,
And past my bodice too,

And made as he would eat me up
As wholly as a dew
Upon a dandelion’s sleeve—
And then I started too.

And he—he followed close behind;
I felt his silver heel
Upon my ankle,—then my shoes
Would overflow with pearl.

Until we met the solid town,
No man he seemed to know;
And bowing with a mighty look
At me, the sea withdrew.

 

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

Source: Poetry Foundation  |  Preporuka: Robin Ekiss

Pesma pod rednim brojem 520.

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

Prazan tron: Van Gog i sudbina umetnika 19. veka

Vinsent van Gog, "Vinsentova stolica", 1888.

Vinsent van Gog, „Vinsentova stolica“, 1888.

Vinsent van Gog, "Gogenova stolica", 1888.

Vinsent van Gog, „Gogenova stolica“, 1888.

U nastavku slede dva odlomka Inga F. Valtera, nemačkog istoričara umetnosti, rođenog 1940. godine u Berlinu, koji je poznat zahvaljujući izdavačkoj kući Taschen čija su se izdanja mogla pronaći u ovoj zemlji. U prvom odlomku, koji je na srpskom jeziku, možete pročitati Valterovo posmatranje dve čuvene Van Gogove slike koje su priložene u ovoj objavi. Drugi citat, koji je na engleskom, smešta Van Goga u istorijski kontekst i posmatra poziciju umetnika u 19. veku.

Na Vinsentove oči nestaje san o umetničkoj komuni koju je želeo da ostvari sa Gogenom. Slike njegove i Gogenove stolice (desno) iz decembra su simboli usamljenosti. Obe stolice su prazne, kao metafora odsustva umetnika i nemogućnosti međusobne komunikacije. Skromna Van Gogova stolica, sa luloom i duvanskom kesicom kao njegovim osnovnim simbolima, u kontrastu je sa nešto raskošnijom Gogenovom naslonjačom na kojoj stoje sveća i knjiga, simboli učenosti i ambicije. Van Gog je naslikao svoju stolicu žutim i ljubičastim bojama, koje su u to vreme bile znak svetlosti i nade. Nasuprot tome, Gogenovu stolicu je naslikao crvenim i zelenim kontrastima, znacima tame i beznađa. Dan i noć stoje jedan naspram drugog, kao i dva umetnika, kao predskazanje njihove budućnosti.

U nastavku sledi odlomak iz monografije posvećene delima i životu Vinsenta van Goga na osnovu koga se može obaviti pokušaj razumevanja pozicije, uloge i karakteristika mnogih umetnika 19. veka.

Yet van Gogh naturally remained a child of his age. He grew up in a century when people for the first time saw their own existence as everything, with no transcendental support system – a century that produced many odd and even self-destructive characters.

The Austrian art historian Hans Sedlmayr gives the title ‘The vacant throne’ to the final chapter of his essay in cultural criticism, „The Loss of the Centre“ [Verlust der Mitte]. Sedlmayr writes: „It must be added that the artists have been among those who suffered the most in the 19th and 20th centuries, the very people whose task it has been to render the Fall of Mann and of his world visible in their terrible visions. In the 19th century there was an altogether new type of suffering artist: the lonely, lost, despairing artist on the bank of insanity. It was type that previously only occured in isolated instances, if that. The 19th century artists, great and profound minds, often have the character of sacrificial victims, of victims who sacrifice themselves. From Hoelderlin, Goya, Friedrich, Runge and Kleist through Daumier, Stifter, Nietze and Dostoyevky to van Gogh, Strindberg and Trakl there was a line of solidarity in suffering at the hands of the times. All of them suffered frim the fact that God was remote, and ‘dead’, and Man debased.“

Van Gogh’s chairs constitute a metaphor of the crisis of the entirs century, a metaphor that correspondents to the somewhat forced pathos of Sedlmayr’s account. We cannot graspvan Gogh’s own via dolorosa, through to his fits of madness and final suicide, in isolation from the century he lived in. Van gogh’s ailment was maladie du siecle, the self-fulfilling Weltschmertz, that Sedlmayr attempts to explain by the loss of belief in God.

Izvor: Ingo F. Walther, „Van Gogh“ (Complete Paintings), Tashen, Koln, 2006.

Trag puža: O slikarstvu Frensisa Bejkona

Peter Beard, 1972.

Peter Beard

Peter Beard

Dva su povoda da pišem o engleskom slikaru Frensisu Bejkonu. Prvo su na sajtu „Not Shaking The Grass“ objavljene ove neobičene fotografije Pitera Berda. Zatim, na sajtu Dangerous Minds objavljen je tekst o Bejkonovom radu, uticaju i stvaralačkim motivima.

Nezavisno od svega toga, ovaj slikar postao je moja inspiracija onoga trenutka kada je jedan beogradski student istorije umetnosti napisao svoj diplomski rad na temu Bejkonovog slikarstva, Artoovog pozorišta i Kronenbergovih filmova. To bi bilo zanimljivo pročitati.

Neke lokalne gradske novine koje su se mogle besplatno preuzeti po kafeima i klubovima pisale su o tome, ali kao da se i na tome zavšilo (ili sam ja nedovoljno upućena u dalja objavljivanja rada). Za početak, to je dovoljno. Reprodukcije će uslediti u nekom od narednih objava.

I would like my pictures to look as if a human being had passed between them like a snail, leaving a trail of the human presence, a memory trace of past events, as the snail leave its slime.

Between birth and death it’s always been the same thing, the violence of life. I always think [my paintings] are images of sensation, after all, what is life but sensation? What we feel, what happens,what happens at the moment.

Jedno pismo Hajnriha fon Klajsta

Hajnrih von Klajst

Hajnrih von Klajst

Hajnrih fon Klajst, jedan od najznačajnijih predstavnika nemačkog romantizma, ostao je najviše upamćen po pripovetci Mihail Kolhas i drami Pentesileja. Krajem jula 1801. Klajst je upitio pismo prijateljici Vilhelmini fon Cenge, koje ovde prenosim u prevodu na engleski jezik, gde piše o pojedincu i njegovom položaju nasuprot nužnosti(ma) života. Deset godina kasnije Klajst je sa Henrijetom Fogel izvršio samoubistvo.

Kleist’s letter to Vilhelmine von Zenge:

Whoever loves life excessively, he is already morally dead; for his highest vital power, namely his ability to sacrifice it, molders even as he cultivates it. And yet—O, how incomprehensible the will that rules over us! This enigmatic thing that has been given to us, we know not from whom; that leads us on, we know not whither; that belongs to us, we do not know with what rights of possession; a property that is worth nothing if it is worth anything at all; a thing paradoxical, shallow and deep, barren and rich, honorable and contemptible, meaningful and inscrutable, a thing that anyone might throw aside like an unintelligible book: are we not obligated by a law of Nature to love it? We must tremble at annihilation, which could not be the torment that existence often is; and while many a man bewails this sad gift of life, he must nourish it with food and drink, and protect the flame, although it affords him neither heat nor light. That sounded rather dark? Patience—it will not be always thus, and I long for the day as the stag for the river at the heat of noon, to plunge myself into it. But patience!—Patience? Can Heaven ask it of its creatures, having itself given them such hearts? *

„Nadahnuće da otvoriš oči“: Tomas Transtremer i Onore de Balzak o kafi

Tomas Transtremer

Espresso

Crna kafa koju služe u bašti
sa stolovima i stolicama sličnim insektima

To su skupocene destilovane kapljice
ispunjene istom moći kao Da i Ne.

Iz tamnih kafana je doneta
i ne trepćući u sunce gleda.

Na dnevnom svetlu tačka dobro zgotovljenog crnila
što se brzo razliva u ubledelom gostu.

To liči na one kapi crne dubine
kojih se ponekad dočepa duša,

podarujući dobro pripremljeni udar: Kreni!
Nadahnuće da otvoriš oči.

Koliko je kafa značajna za istoriju literature? Više nego što bi to ikome palo na pamet. Ona je neophodan pokretač misli, sredstvo da se ostane budan tokom noći, mogućnost da se um probudi. Ispijanje kafe deo je jutarnjeg rituala miliona ljudi. Miris, vrelina, uticaj na um, na pokretanje volje neosporan je uticaj ove biljke porklom iz istočne Afrike. No, ovde je reč o ritualu, ne o ukusu.

Sa druge strane, oba umetnika koje se pominju u tekstu – Onore de Balzak i Tomas Transtremer – podvukli su uticaj ove tečnosti.  Švedski pesnik ustoličio joj je moć istakavši da su njene kapljice ispunjene istom moći kao da ili ne. Balzak, opsesivac i radoholik, koristio je ogromne količine kafe kako bi ostao budan i pisao. Baš kao i kretanja i fenomene društvenih događanja, Balzak je tako i kafi pripisao uticaj epskih razmera.

Honoré de Balzac on Coffee

Coffee is a great power in my life; I have observed its effects on an epic scale. Coffee roasts your insides. Many people claim coffee inspires them, but, as everybody knows, coffee only makes boring people even more boring. Think about it: although more grocery stores in Paris are staying open until midnight, few writers are actually becoming more spiritual.

But as Brillat-Savarin has correctly observed, coffee sets the blood in motion and stimulates the muscles; it accelerates the digestive processes, chases away sleep, and gives us the capacity to engage a little longer in the exercise of our intellects. It is on this last point, in particular, that I want to add my personal experience to Brillat-Savarin’s observations.

Coffee affects the diaphragm and the plexus of the stomach, from which it reaches the brain by barely perceptible radiations that escape complete analysis; that aside, we may surmise that our primary nervous flux conducts an electricity emitted by coffee when we drink it. Coffee’s power changes over time. [Italian composer Gioacchino] Rossini has personally experienced some of these effects as, of course, have I. „Coffee,“ Rossini told me, „is an affair of fifteen or twenty days; just the right amount of time, fortunately, to write an opera.“ This is true. But the length of time during which one can enjoy the benefits of coffee can be extended.

For a while – for a week or two at most – you can obtain the right amount of stimulation with one, then two cups of coffee brewed from beans that have been crushed with gradually increasing force and infused with hot water.

For another week, by decreasing the amount of water used, by pulverizing the coffee even more finely, and by infusing the grounds with cold water, you can continue to obtain the same cerebral power.

When you have produced the finest grind with the least water possible, you double the dose by drinking two cups at a time; particularly vigorous constitutions can tolerate three cups. In this manner one can continue working for several more days.

Finally, I have discovered a horrible, rather brutal method that I recommend only to men of excessive vigor, men with thick black hair and skin covered with liver spots, men with big square hands and legs shaped like bowling pins. It is a question of using finely pulverized, dense coffee, cold and anhydrous, consumed on an empty stomach. This coffee falls into your stomach, a sack whose velvety interior is lined with tapestries of suckers and papillae. The coffee finds nothing else in the sack, and so it attacks these delicate and voluptuous linings; it acts like a food and demands digestive juices; it wrings and twists the stomach for these juices, appealing as a pythoness appeals to her god; it brutalizes these beautiful stomach linings as a wagon master abuses ponies; the plexus becomes inflamed; sparks shoot all the way up to the brain. From that moment on, everything becomes agitated. Ideas quick-march into motion like battalions of a grand army to its legendary fighting ground, and the battle rages. Memories charge in, bright flags on high; the cavalry of metaphor deploys with a magnificent gallop; the artillery of logic rushes up with clattering wagons and cartridges; on imagination’s orders, sharpshooters sight and fire; forms and shapes and characters rear up; the paper is spread with ink – for the nightly labor begins and ends with torrents of this black water, as a battle opens and concludes with black powder.

I recommended this way of drinking coffee to a friend of mine, who absolutely wanted to finish a job promised for the next day: he thoughthe’d been poisoned and took to his bed, which he guarded like a married man. He was tall, blond, slender and had thinning hair; he apparently had a stomach of papier-mache. There has been, on my part, a failure of observation.

When you have reached the point of consuming this kind of coffee, then become exhausted and decide that you really must have more, even though you make it of the finest ingredients and take it perfectly fresh, you will fall into horrible sweats, suffer feebleness of the nerves, and undergo episodes of severe drowsiness. I don’t know what would happen if you kept at it then: a sensible nature counseled me to stop at this point, seeing that immediate death was not otherwise my fate. To be restored, one must begin with recipes made with milk and chicken and other white meats: finally the tension on the harp strings eases, and one returns to the relaxed, meandering, simple-minded, and cryptogamous life of the retired bourgeoisie.

The state coffee puts one in when it is drunk on an empty stomach under these magisterial conditions produces a kind of animation that looks like anger: one’s voice rises, one’s gestures suggest unhealthy impatience: one wants everything to proceed with the speed of ideas; one becomes brusque, ill-tempered about nothing. One actually becomes that fickle character, The Poet, condemned by grocers and their like. One assumes that everyone is equally lucid. A man of spirit must therefore avoid going out in public. I discovered this singular state through a series of accidents that made me lose, without any effort, the ecstasy I had been feeling. Some friends, with whom I had gone out to the country, witnessed me arguing about everything, haranguing with monumental bad faith. The following day I recognized my wrongdoing and we searched the cause. My friends were wise men of the first rank, and we found the problem soon enough: coffee wanted its victim.