E voi avete letto qualche romanzo ambientato a Bologna? Conoscete qualche film? Un libro di storie misteriose, sconosciute o vere e proprie scoperte che si leggono con il fiato in gola. Cultura valeriaantonioli.. Con Carlo Lucarelli. Si parla della presentazione di mortediunantiquario domani da geb. Uno studio di criminologia completo: dal profilo psicologico e comportamentale, Alle scene del delitto fino alle tracce criminali.
Una bellissima scrittura liscia e accattivante che incuriosisce pagina dopo pagina nel rispetto delle vittime. Repost mystfest Made by Image. Nelle durissime condizioni imposte alla Germania risulta evidente il contrasto tra l'ideale di una pace democratica, sostenuto soprattutto dal presidente americano Wilson, e l'obiettivo francese di una pace punitiva, che impedisca alla Germania di riprendere un ruolo significativo sullo scacchiere europeo. Una straordinaria prima serata per il MystFest!! I video della serata saranno visibili prossimamente sul mio canale YouTube travis E poi?
Pensi davvero che sia bella? E che ne sai? Che cosa sanno i critici, giornalisti, tu e il pubblico? Non ti arrendi. Sei del mestiere, lavori di mestiere. Ma nel frattempo, potrebbe non succedere niente. Non hai nulla da dire. Conversazione che ho avuto con Constance, figlia numero tre, anni: sedici. E dopo i nostri spettacoli, un paio di drink in un angolo solitario di un qualsiasi bar.
Non perdono mai un colpo, una battuta. Mostrami la tua energia! Queste ballerine, cantanti. Sono giovani, forti, agili. Energiche, ambiziose, affamate. Qualcuno ci riesce, ma molti si perdono per strada. Issano la bandiera bianca, suona la campana sul ring — mi arrendo.
Fai di me quel che vuoi. Ad un certo punto il sogno svanisce, muore, rimane un patetico ricordo polveroso. Niente da portare a casa, mettere sulla scrivania, o scaffale. Nessun premio, riconoscimento, trofei, niente soldi, nessuna gloria solo il rammarico di aver speso parte della mia vita a rincorrere futili sogni. Non ho finito. Ho vissuto e sono diventato vecchio.
Avevi ragione. Cosa, saltando dalla finestra, andrai a risolvere? Non voglio vivere il resto della mia vita a rimpiangere quello che non ho fatto. Mi dispiace. Per te, per amore. Non voglio sentire la tua mancanza. Non voglio essere cattiva. Per dare la colpa a me, ed uscirne martire, vittima; invece, avrai soltanto me sulla tua coscienza. Albertine era una mia grande insegnante di danza. Mi ha costretto a stare negli schemi, mi ha insegnato gli stessi schemi; mi metteva in uno stampo, legato, costretto ad eseguire ogni suo passo, obbedire ogni suo commando; io, materia grezza, ero per lei una forma da martellare, cesellare, lustrare con cura ed attenzione.
Sta cambiando anche mentre parliamo. Esercita il tuo potenziale. Mente, corpo, anima. Difficilmente mi riconosce, ma vado a visitarla quando posso. Le uniche volte che i suoi occhi si illuminano, come una volta, sono quando la porto indietro negli anni, mettendomi in piedi davanti a lei, come un ragazzino, e comincio a chiedere istruzioni. Io sempre il solito buffone, ma, in questo caso, per una buona causa. Tammy ed io eravamo in viaggio per le strade del continente, tanto e a lungo. Un milione di miglia attraverso le montagne rocciose, le pianure, le praterie, la tundra ed i campi di grano.
Abbiamo attraversato deserti di argilla, di sabbia e roccia. Cactus e lucertole, serpenti e stregoni, sciamani e guru, compagni di viaggio come gli stessi imbroglioni, banchieri, avvocati, imprenditori il cui unico desiderio era quello di fornirti un servizio, prendersi cura di te, assicurarsi che andasse tutto bene, che tutto fosse semplicemente perfetto. Louis came to visit, then stayed to work.
Below, his Happy Days Nos. Above, my most recent paintings, Girls Rock being the last of , and The Winters my latest work, a throwback to my days in Montreal. Neither, however, have been illustrated. The original idea was, indeed, to illustrate them myself.
The first was only meant to be a one-episode self-contained story; a second episode followed, then a third, etc. I debated deep and long about what to do; if I did the art work one script page at a time, it would take me a year. I have managed to find an artist who is considering whether to do the illustrations; she does very nice work, and I think it would be perfect for the job. Meanwhile, I am surprised I have started writing again, in a big way; and my visual work has translated and transformed my writing — the scripts, at least.
And a gallery, of course. Even two, or three, but one would suffice, as would a collector who actually buys a painting. February 3, Molotov, a metropolis riddled by corruption and crime, where mobsters, bankers, and city officials collude to run the city, clean the streets of the poor, the derelict, the petty criminals, and make themselves rich by manufacturing, distributing, and selling from drugs to body parts, and everything in between.
In the midst of this dark city where the aflluent live well, isolated from the burroughs across the river, two honest cops in a guttersnipe world. Miles, ace driver, top-notch shooter, is a relic from the Disco Era, the music playing from their patrol car; his partner, Pogo, an unreformed punk. They patrol the streets where the poor snatch pedigreed dogs from the rich for food, where FUN drugs are sold at concert stadiums to pacify the fans, where protest marches are quickly quelled, where petty criminals are brutally handled or killed by the police, while Banks, Organized Crime, and a new power-hungry Mayor, manage Big Business as a Team, or Consortium, to eradicate any and all opposition or rivals.
Successful in transporting arms, drugs, vital goods from war zone to war zone, he has now returned to Molotov to expand his business on a local. He is making waves, growing increasingly ambitious, powerful, so the Consortium makes several attempts on his life after warning Pogo to speak to him, have him cooperate. Pogo is, in fact, from the same old neighbourhood of the de facto heads of the Consortium: Johnson, Santantonio, Liebovitz. Pogo and Miles patrol, intervene on crime: the homeless nabbed from the street by Sanitation Dept and sold for body parts, in collusion with the Consortium; students marching for the cancellation of student loans, with police cracking down hard; a teacher made redundant holding up a class;.
There is also a sniper, more than one; some dressed like Pogo, the intention being he will by shot by mistake, or even intentionally, by his own colleagues in a cover-up. And Miles. Big, slow, placid Miles, who reads philosophy, after yet another unjust incident, shoots an arch-criminal, released, unconvicted, by a corrupt jury and judge. But he, too, folds; throughout, they two cops are reminded they, too, are vulnerable; Miles has a daughter, and two grandchildren; Pogo, his daughter, and brother, Leo, with whom, as several scenes depict, has little reason to be loved by Pogo.
Miles folds, goes along, while Pogo takes beatings, literally and morally, from all sides. Louise he discovers for the art fraud; she has her reasons he seems to accept. Natascha, a power-hungry Young woman he calls a monster, is pushing for the increased militarization of the Police Department, and the Mayor is soon infatuated with her beauty, her brains, her naked ambition. He proposes to her. Everywhere, the mad dash for money, power, more money; and all Pogo wants to do is play his music, walk the streets, a punk with a badge, and a mission: survival in a guttersnipe run by rats.
At the end of , that all changed radically. I started painting. I painted incessantly, from morning to night, day after day. A month ago, however, I began work on a comic strip. I started with its two main characters, two cops in a guttersnipe world, and finished an episode.
I ought to illustrate one episode at a time, but this first script has already spawned a second part with characters to develop, subplots to expand, questions to answer. January 20, Below, my most recent work. It has been quite a while since my last post. I have been busy painting. I take frequent breaks for tea, prepare lunch and dinner, teach five hours a week, try to go for a walk in the evening on the seaside promenade literally steps from my house, and go to bed thinking about what might my next painting be.
And I need to sleep. I suppose I should go out a bit more. Yes, there is a world out there, as real or fictitious as these, each a stage wherein you play your part. Today, though, I am taking a little break. I sketched my next painting, but instead of putting on my work clothes, I put on my running gear and went jogging on a sunny beach. No podcast, music. Just the sound of the sea and a northerly breeze.
I ran on, this sea monster impressed upon me, a possible feature of a future painting in another country of the mind, one with its own mythologies I may create one day. December 11, Clearly, attending art school serves a purpose. No, no. You are not supposed to strike back, counter-attack, volley verbal even physical violence on all assailants, but rather defend your work in a pacific, if impassioned, argumentative, reasonable, even-handed, cordial, gentlemanly civilised fashion. You strike flesh, bone, muscle and nerve beneath flesh, bone, muscle, nerve, rage and frustration — oh, the sweet, anarchic, bloodlustful freedom that comes with vengeance!
Yes, okay. A club, cane, umbrella, a tome, bottle a well-aimed kick, or slew of bare-knuckled punches, applied like strokes to a brigjt, witty, now darkening, wistful face. A happening which continues when Ignoramus is wheeled into the hospital, tubes sticking from his arms and nostrils, contraptions beeping and blinking, nurses wailing for more blood. Tell that to Signor Gallerista, says this artist, cutting short, putting on the mask of Caravaggio, tomorrow Chris Marlowe, the day after…. This is simply how I feel when I am not painting. A stormy sea, a ship on the horizon that appears to be afloat, but for how much longer?
I feel the same. Not being in a gallery, not getting attention, not drawing a handful of collectors, journalists, curators is beginning to weigh heavily on me. Now I do sail. Notwithstanding my own malaise, spleen, ennui, listlessness, deep frustration for the above mentioned reasons, to be expected, a feeling shared by many artists, writers, poets, and I happen to be all three, there is at least one other interpretation to this picture. November 30, The Pygmalion, a Family Portrait, was not the original title, but on its completion, I sat down exhausted at the end of the day, and glanced at the picture.
And then I fell in love with the woman standing on the right. Now, as a student, I was decidedly on the side of Plato. The idea of form, the ideal of Beauty, Beauty as Truth, were all so stunningly real to me — me in a class of rough-and-ready DYI Aristoteleans, teacher included. Likewise, Evil, Ugliness, Falsehood — one had no doubts when you saw, experienced, suffered them.
When you came across Beauty — a girl, a woman, a novel, a poem, a song, a cityscape — it hit you hard, plain and simple. No lingering doubts, no room for debate, nothing to explain, declaim, describe. At the same time, sane time, I loved Fellini movies, went to the Seville Theatre to see art and cult films on a regular basis, and read Jane Austen, George Eliot, Charles Dickens, and the Russian classics also on a pretty regular basis, simply because they did something for me, to me.
They blew my mind. Visually, too, the works of Michelangelo, paintings and sculpture, were of Platonic Perfection; whatever it was he wanted to portray, there were no doubts he got it absolutely right -and why he Towers above all else. Picasso turned things on its head, why he is a great, but there are, too, the small more intimate delights, luminiscent beings in poetry, or lines of poetry, and we each have our favourites. Now what do you do? Fortunately, life is grand, life is beautiful and rich because, in the end, we know deep down what makes it all worthwhile, why, in fact, we keep on dancing and painting to our favourite Tunes.
A new movement. Its manifesto: fantasy, imagination, lies, mythologies, currents and undercurrents of desire, fears, ambitions, aspirations, anxieties, and the vast range of human emotions contribute to creating the work of visual art. Hm, not much of a manifesto, but rather a description of the process that may or may not lead to the production of a work of art, great or poor that it may turn out to be. Not for the first time, but less frequently than I presumably ought to, I sat in an armchair on completing La Chinoise.
I sipped my tea and looked at the painting. I just stared. The more I looked, the more I was drawn into the picture, into the room, onto the bed, the women. I smelled the perfumes, scents, incense, the body odour. I could hear the noise from the Street outside the wooden storm Windows. I could see the curtains move and reading the ancient proverbs inscribed on the walls. I touched the bodies of the two women, and saw myself with the pale Chinoise lying naked and pearly White on the stark black satin sheets.
I tasted the absinthe, smoked the opium.
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A flicker, then darkness, silence. November 24, I spent the last week in London. Every image is available via our smartphones and computers. No bus, train, taxi to take. No braving the rain, snow, sleet, heat and smog, nor the crowds. I went to the aforementioned museums and galleries because I love walking and it gave me a sense of purpose. Of course, some art had me wondering why my own work was not on exhibit in any number of galleries, and since no answer was forthcoming, I concentrated less on my own work, and tried to understand and enjoy the work I was seeing.
I was not blown away. Grand in scale, they filled the immense walls of the Academy and could not but impress. And viewers or spectators gazed in silence or, at most, whispered commentary, which leads to my next question:. Maybe anything we might say would sound trite, stupid, pretentious, misplaced, and few of us want to sound uneducated, especially after spending so much money on becoming schooled. I dropped out of the Classics Programme at Concordia U, Montreal, so I qualify as seriously ignorant, and why, presumably, have no answers, why I appeal to you, reader, for commentary here or at my Facebook page.
You stand apart from the hordes. I mean, what are these guys on to write all that bullshit on a white hole of nothingness. Evidently, I lack most, if not all, of the above. And I probably abound in ignorance. I do what I do, paint, in the safety of my own grounds, oblivious to much, and ignored by all, grateful to the Muses and McFate for granting me this space and time to create, bring to fruition the odd mixture of components and elements of which I am composed. You were dressed as above, with black-framed glasses, at the National Gallery, November; me, Mr Miserable, bearded, thunderstruck:.
What is your experience? In my previous life as a poet, I wrote a poem entitled Heroes, the narrator asking where had they gone to, the punks, mods, hippies, rockers, disco dolls.
And the like. The poem I transformed to song and it was improved because during the recording I improvised and ad-libbed a few rather inspired lines. The tone, or timbre, were also perfect — a denigrating sneer. My acoustic guitar-playing capacity amounted to nil, but the overall performance was satisfactory. Their stock in trade is rebellion against the status quo. Were everything fine and good, nothing would ever be improved, invented, changed.
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Not one second. Open your cupboards — full. Last Rebel is making itself richer, me poorer, and the more we buy, the higher they rise in social status, the greater their economic power, while ours diminishes day after day. Pardon me — mine does. And plenty of people, too. We conform. We settle down. Change might mean disaster. But the Colossus grows ever-more powerful, its scope wider, broader, deeper, and it governs. It governs, and we are governed, pleased with feeding in crumbs, and left alone on the Sabbath. But all this is fine and good. We can choose and we can decide. We are responsible, sentient beings with a capacity for thought and foresight.
We regularly make investments with our limited resources in time, energy, affections, cash.
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Long ago, wanting to be a writer, a poet, I chose to cut back. I needed time, a lot of time to write a novel, plays, poems, and I could not afford regular job; granted, I taught for over 25 years, but not usually on a full-time basis, leaving me plenty of time to writing. Of course this meant less money, but there were increasingly less things I wanted to buy or do: going to bars, ristos, movies, for starters.
Walking, running, swimming, cycling are free. As is talking, but outside a tiny circle of friends and relatives, this past year, since reneging The Word, writing, and turnedbinward upon myself, imploded and started to paint, I speak to very few people. Though married, sometimes it feels like I open my mouth only to eat, sip tea, answer direct questions, fail to respond to a phone ringing. It can wait. I re-read books, mostly thick classics from Ancient, English, Russian and French Literature, and walk to wherever it is I have to go when, of course, I do have to go anywhere outside the house past the gate.
And in emergencies, I do have a large motorcycle. I stand, ineffectual brush at the ready against intruders: strangers who come calling because they want something from you. When the painting is right, you feel it, you know. And little else matters. Michelangelo, and lesser artists, are easily found out even by the layman; so, too, Bach, or Shakespeare, or a David Hockney. And so, we have another 16 Chapel Rd, but we are in Suite II, what might have been Helter Skelter at the Babylon, a collection, or album of people summoned to perform and act their fates before a live audience: you.
Getting out of bed is a quest. You have got to have a reason. The rough business at hand is for you to sort, clients to please, customers to satisfy, the opposition to appease or quell, relations to provide for — an endless list of chores dealing with persons and things which require intervention: yours, ours, mine.
We have them.
We might choose to feign harboring none, the cynic, the disaffected, the moody melancholic, and those too cowardly to raise that castle in the air, erect, build and establish their dreams and expectations. Large or small, bright or gloomy, morning dawns with expectations. In this painting, time was short, and there was an abundance of energy, an overflow that sundered the restraints of time, and carried over from Expectations to Oracle, the next painting.
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Guarded, cool, unsmiling, bared of faith, but his own self-confidence, and strength. Master of his Castle. To his left, a woman, disproportionately large, attractive; prophecy, distraction, or more earthly: a mistress, a mother? Comedy because it ends happily. He kills nobody, marries Ophelia, currently expecting a child, and Gertrude is at peace, Uncle having died of old age. Or perhaps attacked and killed by a pack of boars.
And in any case, Gertie resigned to playing off-center stage, with Hamlet and the Mrs clearly in command. But all is not well in the Danish realm. Ophelia will bear triplets: envy, jealousy and violence. November 8, Yesterday, work on the house had me assisting the bricklayer and plumber, and so I was on call for errands, cleaning, and moving furniture back and forth.
Nothing heavy, nor tiring, and with small talk, the morning passed by easily enough. So, too, dinner and after, a quiet evening of dull despair and emptiness failed to bring deliverance. Meditations is the second painting of Year Two, the first lengthily and superficially described in the previous post below.
I painted Meditations outdoors in my garden. Maybe so. In a week, I shall be in London with no set purpose. As for Meditations, a curious or striking aspect are the artworks within the artwork. My Classics education kicks in inopportunately, still upset I dropped out like a Golden Ass. The Ages as commentary: ours is which of the four represented, or have I left ours out: silicon? Art within art, books within books, bios within alternative biographies, is an old trick, a game of labyrinths, Russian dolls, Borgesian parables, but here nothing more than a bare wall with a couple of holes that need to be covered.
Since, I have built up a considerable body of work, as anyone can see at the Paintings link:. A year has gone by, almost entirely dedicated to painting. No pressure, but my own solitary pursuit of some insubstantial ideal transformed via my rough hands into icon. From idea to icon. Irreligious, no; nor sacred, but for the blind faith and almost stupid devotion to a need to bring order, pattern, expression and color to an inner vision, an ethereal plan made concrete.
Or painterly. Today, Monday, Year Il, I will celebrate by starting a new painting, one I have already harped upon, and I already know what my next will be after that. Yes, of course, there is much more to be said, and I may return to elaborate on this post, but I hear the approach of a fast-falling object….
The fast falling object was exactly what I expected, and as I suspected, facile, a toss, or throwaway, the picture of a man falling from a dry dam. I painted over it, and it was transformed into an abstract impressionist painting of a downpour in blue, the pictorial rendering of a late night in Dublin, on my way home from a club. Rain, blue night, and lamp posts. That, then, might be what this year actually represented: head down, shoulders hunched, hands sometimes fretful or shaking from the cold, an adventure in the dark, an unhoped for companion, and a bit of old-fashioned gallantry for my lady muse in the dark, but for a luminous orb overhead.
Oh, how one might want to change, but can you really change? Or really want to? Nor can I act up for any significant amount of time without feeling emptied, despoiled, made to feel like a clown when succesful, or a fool when it fails. And is it worth it, being unable to work because of talks, meetings, chats, everything necessary to get your work seen, talked about?
A short time, yes. Then I may fail. And location does not help, being as I am, in a small town. Who, by chance, might see my paintings and show interest? Few and unlikely. Hence, an ulterior fault preventing my self from achieving any amount of success, large or small. No reason for optimism, little room for hope that anything outside the walls will affect or be affected. The sole consolation is in the work itself. On earth as it is in heaven. And perhaps you learn to do what it takes, and with a little luck and persistence, the alchemic composite formulated by Fat Chance and McFate, there may come a calling from afar — a collector, curator, critic, journalist — with a word to spend, and some cash, because in the end, even after reading two excellent biographies of Picasso and Matisse hoping to gain some insight, what I most learned is what I already knew as as a poet and writer: all we want is some bread to create and run our own circus.
The above painting, Genesis, is not a painting I would have conceived or, once conceived, wanted to paint. Compared to the previous most recent work, Genesis would not be the first to hang on my walls. No use describing it; the picture is posted for you to see, judge, dismiss, revile. In fact, on the back of this painting, is another piece I had started sketching, near completed, a wholly different painting, one that would have been much less exhausting, and aesthetically pleasing, conceptually gratifying, the literal expression of a profoundly felt sentiment, but not one I plan on acting upon for the time being.
But Genesis, too, was a vision, not one that appeared in a dream, but in my waking hours — at that twilight zone of time of 3 am when I first awake, only to resume my journey towards the dawn. Curled fingers, fingers, eyes, heads and legs generated themselves from nothing, or to be honest, the natural tones of pressed unsand-papered wood. Not being a neuroscientist, nor a psychotherapist, I have no idea, but I do prescribe to the idea of Muses and visitations and divine intervention; that is often exactly how it feels, a curtain pulled aside, a tap on the shoulder, a word whispered, and everything is suddenly clear, not for nothing are they called illuminations, epiphanies, inspiration — to inspire, breathe in — what?
The universe, human history, tragedy, comedy, melodrama, all of it, the human very personal condition. Enthusiasm follows fast on the heels of inspiration, enthusiasm, being one with the gods, hence creation, Genesis. Of course, there are electro-chemical actions, flux and reactions, a neural primordial soup, more like a swamp, full of life, one that would have remained a swamp breeding pestilence, no doubt, but for a new and external agent, an accidental spark, a freak bolt of lightning, and the given normal state is upset, disturbed, altered, the elements now in motion, reacting, twisting and gyrating, transforming and reshaping itself into a new body, new stuff, an entirely new thing, but not being gods, all we can do is create art.
Me, I am just happy my beautiful muses come knocking; a slap to the head, a shout to the ear, a French kiss to the mouth, however they wish to spark life in this primordial mud of bone, gut and blood held together by pale sack, I welcome and take what comes. October 31, I started this painting with the idea of using the colors green and cream. And depicting a woman at a table. A simple outline, but my eyes zoomed to one corner, followed the edges of another figure, and I set to tracing the personage waiting there, fully existent and cleary defined.
I drew my pencil over the head and torso, fingers and hands, an annotation, or more a reminder to myself, or a fear that turning away I would lose it, the character off to some netherland, a character in search of an artist. And so, my mythological muscular figure is firmly in place, cast in lines drawn by a pencil, no more than faint lines tying down such a powerful figure. The gentleman on the left, he entered from the wings, in fact, unannounced.
Mr Mythos has come and gone in a number of paintings, is indeed a member of an ongoing series entitled The Afterlife of Romans — I say ongoing now, only at his insistance, but the gentleman? The large portrait in what is a painting in a painting in, possibly, a painting, eyed me bashfully from behind the wall I had already built, that is, drawn. After I poured myself a cup of tea, and stood ready to begin, in jumps our little painter. A bald guy, barechested, not unlike me, for I shaved my skull for years, but my hair, albeit short, has long grown back, and I wear my usual autumn beard, so it is not me, but another imp of a man who has leaped centerstage.
And, I suspect, is showing off for our Mona Lisa. With no one paying attention, not even the very clear object of his desire. And Mythos, what is he raging about? Clenched fists, and bone-breaking strength, and unrequited love, a terrible mix! And jealous, too. I have no idea why he is upset and I am not going to stay to ask, in case he finds me guilty of being, well, guilty.
On finishing this painting, I cried. Or more accurately, my eyes watered. It depicts the parish festivals that would take place at the local park. It featured a bandstand with brass band, cyclists before a race, a boxing match, hot dog vendor, and in the foreground, a man in his Sunday best, Borsalino hat and Clark Gable moustache my feather wore; at his side, a woman sottobraccio. Also highlighted, a young man climbing a greasepole, an effort to claim his prize.
There is meaning in the struggle, senseless to us and our stuffed refrigerators, but in a time when food was scarce, a whole prosciutto, a string of salamis, and other foods and goods would more than supplement the household. The painting can be seen below, or at: Www. Chemical Romance, on the other hand, was not so much about its meaning, or fondly held re-evocations, but a significant technical progress.
I had been struggling hard with its composition and actual painting, but as if by alchemy, it all came together. My mother was a seamstress. I pored through fashion magazines, still do, awe struck by the beautiful women, clothes, setting, photography. As for the males, I wish I was built like the Bronzi di Riace. And a bit of a mystery. I was sure of this during my nocturnal discomfort and amblings.
The setting. A factory, of sorts. My father worked in a steel mill all his life. A bit Victoriana, what with the copper and round boilers. I was going to obliterate the setting. It had been fine in a couple of previous paintings, three to be exact, no use for a revisitation. Or maybe I could rework the background, a chiarioscuro, and place my couple in a club, a disco. Hm, I am going to reserve a place or two for that when I go to London in mid-November. I worked at it, literally face to the board. I often make this mistake. I simply forget, absorbed as I am into and by the characters and place as if I am plodding away after and through them with the aid of a walking cane, my brush.
I feel like I know them, always have. I feel like I am their father. October 27, Through works, Salvation, the credo. But instead of dying in bed with Flora or Florence du Mal, I started staring at a new panel, unprimed, a different approach, one I had not used in awhile ie instead of starting with an arbitrary Vision, or vision, or an equally arbitrary plan, I waited for the blank panel to swirl and swarm; lo and behold:.
Oh, I have studied art history, but did not read reviews nor specialized mags. The title included a large number of early works, but I had the need to step out of bounds and paint other pleasures. I assumed a new identity painting bright geometric Abstracts as Seymour Snowe. I could run with Snowe, to answer the question: what next?
Also, Urban Air Suits, spacesuit-like outfits for surviving the 21st Century Metropolis, and its deadly germs, viruses — Ebola anyone? The suits would be brightly-colored — pink, orange, yellow, highly visible and happy! But for some persons and purposes, you might want to be less visibile, undistiguishable from pure dark night, hence more like Batgirl or Batman, of course. And water is strictly bottled at home. Food is hermetically sealed and not exposed to the elements — impregnated with interbreeding viral pollutants that food so readily absorbs.
Intimate relations would be restricted to intimate relations. Books, alas, would be banished, paper being absorbant, and so reading would be on our mobile devices, as would most everything else. No more suburbs. We would all live and work in one huge building, combo mall, office building, post-industrial park with no or little need to commute, hence huge savings in time and energy resulting in increased efficiency and productivity.
We are all connected into this one System, one big bright System we feed and are ourselves replenished. And all is well. I can see it all. Another utopia, dystopia, we already inhabit — except for the suits. But for the piece, the oeuvres, we have to sharpen the edges, and round or flatten others, augment contrasts, and delete differences altogether. These are the measures, parameters, prescriptions wherein we rise and fall, from dawn to dusk, day after day, until we are deleted.
October 25, With little money to spend, I would sit reading or writing poetry, talk to the owners or the regulars, sometimes meet somebody new, order another espresso, and then head home to dinner in the suburbs only to often return downtown to what were my favorite clubs: the Beat, Glace, Vog.
I liked the music, the crowd, the ambience. I would be out most of the week, often staying home Friday or Saturday for semi-philosophical talks with a friend or two. Of that time, the poems have all been forgotten, except Le Pont Mirabeau, novels and poems all but lost; yet, the curiosity remains, the thirst, hunger and lust to read, write, see, and understand more remain alongside the anxiety that time is never enough; hence, I paint to the exclusion of all else.
Relations are reduced to a minimum, the phone goes largely unanswered, and the idea of hanging out in the local bars holds little interest. Eve tempting Adam to the pleasures of absinthe — notice her green glass — and other pleasures, friendship, love, conversation, a relationship, a walk in the park, dancing, breakfast at noon.
Our man remains seated, but for how much longer? And yet, he too must write, produce, make something of himself, and not be a mere idler; idler, no, he will be the bon vivant, rush off for alcool and love and… life. October 24, On the table before our threesome, a teapot and only two teacups. I called it Hm, a hm of many thoughts, meditations, reflections, decisions, mostly murky.
All interpretations welcome, and not for me to explain — unless asked. As I always do on completion, I forward the picture of the painting to my oldest and dearest friend, an established artist based in LA, wait for feedback, and start fidgeting about what I am to do next. It was already late afternoon. The same construction method was also used in the older Mariakerk now demolished in Utrecht and later used in the Onze Lieve Vrouwekerk in Maastricht. When the three sections of the nave were completed in , a solid enclosing wall was built at the end of the third section.
This third section was not yet then vaulted and in , the thatched roof was replaced by tiles. Later in the twelfth century, the exact date is not known, a fourth section was built and the church extended further westwards. Originally, this would have consisted of a middle section on which the tower now stands and two lower side aisles.
The tower extended no further upwards than the ledge that can be seen on the outside under the gothic windows. The westwork would originally have been much lower and compacter than now. The church was completed and consecrated in Prior to , the crypt was extended westwards, the stem of the cloverleaf, as it were, being made longer. The choir above it was consequently raised along the same length. This raised section, in the crossing, likewise cut the transepts in two.
In the sixteenth century, in line with the fashions of the time, the Romanesque trimmings were removed from the crypt and the choir and replaced with Gothic designs. The two side recesses of the crypt and choir were demolished and the circular windows replaced with perpendicular ones. In the mid-eighteenth century, the crypt was plastered in rococo style. The choir stalls were installed on the crossing in the choir in the seventeenth century. Their carvings are simple but powerful in design.
A tower was constructed on the westwork in and in , its stone steeple was replaced by one made in timber with slates. In , the young architect, P. Cuypers, was commissioned to restore the crypt and to reinstate as much as possible the original Romanesque fabric. The first restoration projects were also carried out on the church at the same time. Restoration of the church was resumed in , including the reconstruction of the side recesses in the cloverleaf layout.
As faithful as possible a reconstruction of the old chancel was carried out on the basis of the old foundation plans that had been found. The frescoes were painted between and by the Aachen-based priest, Goebbels. The tombstones of the abbots in the side aisles were removed and placed vertically outside the church and against the walls in the transept. From both inside and outside, they give an impression of grandeur, reflecting to some extent the status of the abbots, who had been rewarded with the right to wear the mitre ever since the time of van der Steghe.
The quadrangle, which housed a courtyard surrounded by the cloisters to the north of the church show little of the original form which was less elevated than today. The western side is more or less original, but the other sides have been raised and altered in the course of time. The eastern wing, which looks directly onto the gardens, was built by Moretti, an Aachen-based architect between and The splendid library which it houses has plasterwork designed in late eighteenth century rococo style.
To the south of the main complex is a farmstead dating from the end of the eighteenth century. For a long time it remained in private hands, but was bought back by Rolduc in and restored. The southern wing, on the right-hand side when you are facing the church, was built in as a school. Between and , the building that make up Rolduc, including the crypt and the church with their frescoes, underwent major restoration work. In , Rolduc received the Europa Nostra Award, a prize awarded in recognition of projects that contribute to the upkeep of the European cultural heritage.
Die Krypta wurde fertig gestellt. Nach Uneinigkeiten mit Embrico zog Ailbertus weg. Er starb im Jahr in Sechtem bei Bonn. Die Abtei wurde Kloosterrade genannt. Walram III von Limburg. Sein Grab befindet sich im Mittelgang der Kirche. Mitte des Jahrhundert reichte. Die Abtei von Ludingakerke war die wichtigste. Im Jahrhundert erlebte die Abtei eine lange Periode des geistigen und materiellen Verfalls. Das letztendliche Internat wurde geschlossen. Dadurch entstanden die so genannten Pseudo-Querschiffe.
Im Jahr war die Kirche fertig und wurde sie eingeweiht. Im sechzehnten Jahrhundert wurden Krypta und Altarraum dem Zeitgeist entsprechend der gotischen Bauweise angepasst, wobei die romanischen Elemente beseitigt wurden. Die zwei Seitenschiffe der Krypta und des Altarraums wurden abgerissen, die runden Fenster durch spitze Fenster ersetzt. Mitte des achtzehnten Jahrhunderts wurde die Krypta mit Stuckarbeiten im Rokokostil versehen.
Sie sind mit einfachen und ausdrucksvollen Schnitzereien versehen. Auch an der Kirche wurden erste Restaurationsarbeiten vorgenommen. Jahrhundert auf.
Sorry we still under construction!
Es war lange in Privatbesitz. Sai a cosa mi riferisco, ammettilo…. Come tu non hai capito me…. Quando mi avvio ad una azione verso il mio ambiente, non trovo il vuoto, ma un mondo vivo di persone, fatti, storia. Da un pezzo abbiamo capito che le emozioni hanno le loro buone ragioni, che la mente razionale non solo non sa cogliere, ma oltre una certa soglia, non riesce proprio a fermarle. Significa che le mie emozioni mi alleno fin da piccolo a sentirle, discriminarle, esserne consapevole, e soprattutto mi alleno a contenerle, filtrarle, trasformarle in energia che posso gestire, con la quale posso progettare gettare avanti me in un mondo esterno che include altri Io, altri Noi.
Ecco la prima. Per dirla proprio tutta, la nostra epoca sembra avere un rapporto proprio strano con le emozioni. E mancano parole che esprimono affetti ed emozioni. Voglia di raccontarsi La generazione emo ha i suoi strumenti per esprimersi. Il corpo innanzitutto, dicevamo, con la sua ritrovata esasperata? Attivazioni anche viscerali, ma molto emozionate. Per capire le emozioni ci vuole coraggio.
Le parole per dirlo Parole con la P maiuscola: parole che sappiano cogliere le sfumature. Ecco la prima lezione. Dal campo del biologico, degli istinti, delle pulsioni, al territorio del sociale, delle relazioni, dei valori. Facciamo una prova, adesso, qui. E ancora: quale filo, quale storia posso concatenare oggi con queste parole? Quali piccoli o grandi contrasti ho vissuto oggi? Come la ho manifestata, o nascosta? Ce ne sono alcune che mi accorgo di non aver mai sperimentato? E a questo piccolo elenco di parole per dirlo e di domande, cosa posso aggiungere di proprio mio?
Gli spazi, i tempi, i rituali Benedette emozioni, come sono delicate, ed esigenti! Uno spazio calmo, senza troppi stimoli. Ha bisogno di situazioni e momenti, di rituali, quasi, di celebrazioni. O al contrario mentre fingiamo di voler ascoltare voi e invece vi rovesciamo addosso come un torrente le nostre, di emozioni, senza spazi di punteggiatura per il dialogo. Ci siamo posti un obbiettivo, sicuramente non semplice: fare prevenzione.
I giovani che esprimono disagio, malessere, che abusano di alcool, di sostanze stupefacenti, che si comportano in modo violento e autolesionista, soffrono? Forse questi ragazzi sono psicologicamente anestetizzati, quindi non sentono. Permetteteci una parentesi etimologica, prendiamo in esame due parole.