My husband has been amazing and his business approach is invaluable.  He seems to set aside the emotions and helps me focus.   Another angel.

My sisters are so different from one another but the one thing that we did growing up in our home was to take care of each other and give each other the love that was lacking from our parents, at least from my perspective.  As dysfunctional as our parents were, we managed to cook for one another and look out for each other.  I wouldn't trade in my sisters for a new set even if give the opportunity.  I donned my second daughter's middle name after one sister,Katie, and interestingly enough, she looks just like Katie as a little girl.  But the reason to naming her after Katie speaks more than words that I can put down on this blog. 

My friends that were at the launch party were all angels in my small house in Orange County.  Many of them that came weren't petite but they were there for me, friends from book club and business groups.  Two of my friends Patti and Kim whose lives are just as busy with work and family made the time to offer their support and advice, and have been angels from the day that we became friends.  

In a world that can be mean and ugly, there is also a stronger force that I have chosen to surround myself with as we all can.  There are angels here on earth and they are truly superhuman.  Their love and support that surrounds me has kept all the demons in disguise away from truly hurting me.  Down any path, there lies road blocks and boulders that may get in the way but as long as there's angels around, I know that I will make it along the path safely.  I thank you for everything.    

The sitting-room had been partly modernized by the late Mme. Sechard; the walls were adorned with a wainscot, fearful to behold, painted the color of powder blue. The panels were decorated with wall-paper --Oriental scenes in sepia tint-- and for all furniture, half-a-dozen chairs with lyre shaped backs and blue leather cushions were ranged round the room. The two clumsy arched windows that gave upon the Place du Murier were curtainless; there was neither clock nor candle sconce nor mirror above the mantel-shelf, for Mme. sechard had died before she carried out her scheme of decoration; and the 'bear,' unable to conceive the use of improvements that brought in no return in money, had left it at this point.

Wainscotting/ etymology. Murier, blackberry bush.

Boris Akunin: Türkisches Gambit
Edgar A. Poe: The Gold Bug, The Fall of the House Usher, The Tell-Tale Heart, Ligeia
Honoré de Balzac: Glanz und Elend der Kurtisanen

Mit dem Buch von Balzac bin ich erst zu 2/3 fertig, aber es ist doch erstaunlich was man für Schätze in seinem Büchergestell findet. Das Buch mit vielen von Poe's Geschichen, habe ich vor etwa ein bis zwei Monaten gekauft, aber die zwei anderen liegen schon ein paar Jahre hier herum. Das Buch von Akunin, ein Kriminalroman, hat mir meine Mutter irgendwann um 2001 mitgebracht. Zwei Bücher von Balzac konnte ich gratis von der Bibliohek meines Gymnasium haben. Nur will mir bis heute nicht einleuchten, wieso man einen Schriftsteller wie Balzac aussortiert. Mittlerweile finden sich dort nur noch die französischen Originale, an die ich mich auch einmal heran trauen werde. Von Balzac konnte ich damals auch "Das Mädchen mit den Goldaugen" ergattern, was ich wohl als nächstes lesen werde. Naja, jetzt bin ich wieder am Lernen. Nix mit Lesen.

Ansonsten habe ich ein neues Handy. Mein Vater konnte mit seinem Abo ein Neues gratis beziehen und hat es mir netterweise gegeben. Ausgesucht habe mir das W910i in den Farbe "Hearty Red". Seit ich das Gerät zu ersten Mal in der Werbung gesehen habe war ich sicher, dass es das sein muss. Endlich ein Handy, dass zu meinem Lippenstift passt! Habe ich das gerade so gesagt?

Ich telefoniere eigentlich nie und soviele SMS bekomme ich jetzt auch nicht, aber das W910i ist vor allem ein Walkman Handy, und ich bin ja ziemlich Musik vernarrt. Momentan habe ich eine 1GB Speicherkarte, werde mir aber sicher mal noch die 4GB Karte zulegen. Wenn schon ein neues Gerät in meine Wohnung einzieht muss auch gleich eines den Geist aufgeben. So dachte sich wohl mein Staubsauger als er montags mit einem jämmerlichen Seufzen langsam aber sicher zu saugen aufhörte. Entsetzen, anders kann man wohl meinen Gesichtsausdruck nicht beschreiben...Küche und Bd kann ich mit Kehren und Wischen einigermasen sauber halten, aber in meinem Wohnzimmer habe ich Teppich. Zwei Katzen ohne Staubsauger ist wirklich toll...Momentan ist meine Mutter auch in den Ferien und kann mir nicht helfen das dumme Ding vorbei zu bringen. Ich bin sicher da ist nichts mehr zu machen, abgesehen davon ist die Garantie im Februar abgelaufen...

A nossa infância foi diferente, até demais, da de hoje. Hoje é tudo muito rápido, dinâmico. Nós temos lembranças que nos fazem dar risada e lembrar até do gosto, ou de histórias sobre nossas coisas de criança.

Particularmente, eu usei muito essas fichas telefônicas. Costumava conversar com a minha melhor amiga na época nos bons e velhos telefones públicos (quando não estavam depredados), e passar horas colocando fichas a cada 10 minutos. Eu gastava trilhas e trilhas dessas aos finais de semana. E ainda tenho umas duas ou três guardadas. E tenho a amiga também, que reencontrei no orkut no ano passado. Uma boa recordação...

Balas Soft... quem não se engasgou com uma dessas? Eu tenho uma história sobre isso! Uma vez, na escola, eu pus uma dessas na boca... que foi sem pestanejar direto pra garganta! Que sufoco. Eu sei que a fabricante depois mudou o formato para que não tivesse mais engasgos entre os consumidores, mas ela sumiu do mercado, assim como as balas de framboesa mastigáveis da Kids que eu adorava... era docinha e viciante!

Quem não fazia pesquisas na Enciclopédia Barsa? Muitos volumes, conteúdo de A á Z de tudo quanto é jeito. Eu usava também aquela enciclopédia Conhecer, da Editora Abril. E adorava um capítulo que tinha só falando de mitologia greco-romana. Andava pra todo lugar com aquele livro.

E aí, no primário eu usei essa cartilha! Só não sei que fim levou a minha, deve ter sido passada a alguma prima minha, ou ter ficado na escola... não lembro se era comprada ou se a escola fornecia.

Tinha figuras grandes e era o básico para alfabetizar uma pessoa. Mal sabia a autora que se transformaria num ícone da nossa infância...

Eu sei também que ela foi usada até o final. Que cartilha será que é usada nas escolas de hoje? Deve ser a Wikipedia...

Meu primeiro contato com a informática foi com esses disquetes, que pareciam uma "bolacha cream cracker" super desenvolvida.

Inclusive o primeiro micro que tive no serviço tinha entrada para esse disquete. E foi rapidamente substituído pelo disquete de 3 1/2 polegadas, que cabia 1,44 Mb.

Hoje, usamos Cds, com 700 Mb de espaço e DVDs, com 4 Gb e os duplos, com 9 Gb de espaço. E os pen drives, que variam de 1 à 4 Gb.

E pensar que eu tinha arquivos com esses disquetões...

Chicletes Ping Pong. Com uma merreca você comprava um monte. E tinham figurinhas para completar os álbuns que vinham, mas não lembro se você comprava o álbum na banca ou mandava uma carta pedindo... acho que o chocolate Surpresa era assim, lembram?

Quanta coisa!

E olha que ainda não acabou, tem muitas memórias para tirar o mofo. Guardei algumas propagandas para postar depois. Escrevendo esse post, desarquivei muita coisa na minha memória... valeu a pena, alegrou a sexta feira!

OBS: O tema do post de hoje era outro, mas a história é tão bonitinha que resolvi ilustrá-la e escrever com calma. Vocês verão. :-)

Not having read anything by Balzac before, the book's title didn't exactly jump off the shelves at me, but a friend's recommendation is all I need as an excuse to dive into another book.  Interestingly, at the last writer's conference I attended, I learned that the number one reason why women purchase books is because of a recommendation. 

The story is set in a time that I knew little about, during the Cultural Revolution in China, specifically in 1971.  The two main characters are bourgeois boys sent to the countryside for "re-education," which basically means that they were to forget all the city bred culture they knew and replace it with backwoods country ways.  This also meant that all Western elements were banned, especially books.  When the boys come across a cache of forbidden books, including several works by Balzac, their world is expanded, and they are nourished by their worldview and lessons.  The Little Chinese Seamstress is a simple country girl that the boys meet who is also transformed by these Western books and ideas.

Anyone who has read the high school classic Fahrenheit 451 can recognize the horror of a culture without books.  Whereas Bradbury's book imagines future without books, Dai Sijie's novel looks back to a time and place where the unthinkable actually happened. 

The boys risk their lives to read these forbidden books.  They devise clever ways of copying the writing, most notably on the inner lining of their clothing.  I've read about a thirst for words like this before, and it occurs to me that stories that most closely resemble them are from missionaries who travelled across the Iron Curtain (Brother Andrew's God Smuggler is the prime example). Today, missionaries in the 10/40 window also face similar obstacles.  Underground churches meticulously copy Bible verses, so the one Bible in the congregation can be shared more effectively. 

Do you ever notice how you only recognize the value of something once it's taken away from you? If you're anything like me, you have a bookshelf or two crammed with books, many of which you don't read.  Most believers probably have several Bibles kicking around their homes. There's also a public library in your town that you might not have visited in the past year, or 10.

But what if a new government stepped in, one that banned these books and ideas.  Wouldn't their worth be of greater value to you?  Would you sit up late at night, reading them, searching them for the hidden, secret wisdom that was banned and forbidden?

Sometimes, I wonder if banning books makes people read them more.  For example, in the small town where I grew up, our high school assigned Jane Smiley's book A Thousand Acres to one of the English classes.  A parent got wind of the assignment and sounded the alarm that there were profanities and some sex scenes.  Would you believe it, the book flew off the shelves in our area?  It was mostly church people buying it to read it, so they could join in denouncing it.  It was sold out everywhere.  But bookstores were quick to catch on, and they restocked quickly.  There's a copy on my bookshelf too.

I'm not saying that we should ban the Bible. Heaven forbid. But I am saying, maybe we're a little too comfortable in our freedoms.  Stepping into these stories, where we read about others who don't have it so easy, who would love to have the access we have, maybe we'd recognize the precious treasure we have available to us any time we want it. 

And we too can be transformed (Romans 12:2).

Depuis le 17 octobre et jusqu'à aujourd'hui, chaque mercredi je m'ai plongé en France. C'était, chaque fois, un vrai voyage qui allait d'un côté à l'autre de la porte de la salle 302 de l'Institut Français de Barcelona.

Dehors, les voitures, les ambulances, le bruit et le froid et l'odeur d'urine sur les rues. Dedans, pas du silence, mais de la tranquillité. Au moins ça. On y entrait peu à peu, mot a mot. Il y avait des fois où on se plongeait dans les textes: peu a peu et mot à mot. Mais il y en avait d'autres où on tombait dans les phrases et encore d'autres où les mots nous frappaient sans pitié, en nous laissant étourdis pendant des heures, ou des jours.

J'ai pleuré avec Phèdre mais j'ai ris jusqu'aux larmes avec Balzac et son Lys dans la vallée. Une seule phrase de Racine m'a sauvé de la folie. Je l'ai répété pendant des jours sans m'arrêter, pour n'y penser pas. Pendant tout ce cauchemar, je demeurais longtemps errant dans Césarée.

J'ai changé d'une semaine à l'autre pendant neuf mois. Et elle était toujours là, en France. J'y entrait les mercredis à 8 heures 30, je laissais tout dernière moi. Cette heure et demi me laissait une sensation douce que durait jusqu'au matin suivant, quand jeudi commençait.

Et si quelque semaine, mercredi était trop loin, je prenais mes photocopies et je lisais pour le plaisir de sentir les mots rouler dans la bouche, en se coulant par les lèvres. J'étais déjà un peu là.

Quando lavora non ha bisogno dei denti
ma le unghie quelle sì e le affila con la lima
che userebbe per evadere se non fosse di cartone
e la sua prigione il corpo grasso e capiente

Le si è imbizzarita la dolcezza
e ora non sa più che farsene

Una parola gentile al vedovo habitué
che le vuole baciare i polsi chissaperché
Un analgesico al macellaio che ha la cefalea da rimorso
e i baci risparmiati al figlio di Marianne che ha diritto a labbra piu fresche

Tutto in lei si fa strada e accorre
rabbia, sentimenti e lussuria

e mentre nella sua stanza batte il sole
lei batte i marciapiedi e fuma senza sosta

Vede, signora, a me piacciono le poesie

Ha un anello con una pietra azzurra e un reggipetto nero che occhieggia dalla scollatura,
Cerca nella borsa e pesca un quadernino, sceglie una pagina:

A Jeanne, l’amore mio del sabato

"L'amour n'est pas seulement un sentiment,
il est aussi un art"

- Honoré de Balzac -

Ora il sorriso irradia lampi ed i suoi occhi riconoscono
i giorni buoni e quelli d’archiviare.

Chiude la borsa, è tempo di rientrare.

Forse ho capito, le baciava i polsi perché sua moglie si tagliò le vene.

La strada diventa larga e il traffico scorre come il tempo.

macellaio:
perdonami signore, se ho molto peccato.

signore: peccato.
XX

[audio http://www.rapida.typepad.com/filosofia/files/02_que_restetil_de_nos_amours.mp3]

La vita non ci chiede di esser perfetti, ci chiede lungimiranza e sacrifici senza sangue.
XX
XX

Agora, um monumento que visitávamos pela sua complexa arquitetura feita nos antigos tempo, não é nada mais que um cemitério. O Stonehenge, um monumento megalítico da Idade do Bronze, "foi utilizado como cemitério desde a sua construção até ao seu abandono final, por volta de meados do terceiro milénio a.C.. Os restos de cremações da época em que Stonehenge foi construído são apenas parte do que foi encontrado e pertenceriam a este período tardio demonstrando que este local foi um sítio reservado aos mortos muito mais tempo do que aquele que julgávamos”, comenta Parker Pearson, que liderou, com a National Geographic, o chamado Stonehenge Riverside Archeological Project.

Contudo, as "celebridades" encontradas neste "cemitério" correspondem a uma única família pertencente à elite da época e seus descendentes, naquilo que poderia constituir uma autêntica linha dinástica, segundo a opinião de Andrew Chamberlain, colega de Parker Pearson na Universidade de Sheffield e perito em demografia da antiguidade. Um dos indícios que Chamberlain aponta é o contraste entre o pequeno número de enterramentos das primeiras fases da jazida e o aumento considerável dos mesmos nos séculos seguintes, o que significaria um natural aumento da descendência. Outro dos elementos que sustentam esta teoria é o carácter monumental da jazida. Nas palavras de Parker Parson “é muito difícil pensar que as pessoas comuns fossem enterradas em Stonehenge. Pelo contrário, tudo aponta para a existência de uma elite. Assim, os chefes de uma tribo do Neolítico não só seriam os responsáveis por erigir o monumento como teriam inclusivamente sido enterrados ali”.

Um belo lugar para descansar. Por que depois da morte, mesmo assim, no fim, nos colocam nestes lugares de grande e inspirada beleza, como o Cemitério do Père Lachaise ou, o recentemente descoberto cemitério, o monumento Stonehenge? Por que o ser humano, no seu fim, precisa descansar em paz e beleza? Digo nós, imaginando-nos reis ou grandes celebridades da cultura mundial. O resto de nós, mortais, nos contentamos com um lugarzinho espremido no cemitério do Caju se tiver espaço, ou, então, não morrer, levando em conta a falta de sepulturas aqui no algarve português.

Para Ler sobre "Arte, História, Turismo e Lazer Nos Cemitérios Da Cidade de São Paulo".
Para Ler Mais sobre Novas Descobertas no Stonehenge em Ciência Hoje.

Foto: Grant Faint

J’ai une drôle d’histoire avec ce livre. Je l’avais commencé il y a plus de deux ans pour en abandonner curieusement la lecture 60 pages avant la fin. Et je ne me souviens même plus pourquoi. J’ai donc recommencé Modeste Mignon du début.

Modeste Mignon est une jeune fille du Havre qui donne son nom au roman de Balzac.  Son père, ancien colonel de l’armée de Napoléon reconverti dans le commerce, a récemment perdu toute sa fortune. Il quitte la maison familiale en laissant comme consignes à ses proches amis de ne laisser aucun prétendant séduire sa fille âgée de 20 ans. C’est sans compter la volonté de Modeste qui va contre toute prudence et en secret écrire des lettres à un poète parisien dont elle admire les poèmes : Monsieur de Canalis. Or ce poète reçoit de nombreuses lettres de fans comme on dirait aujourd’hui. Il va donc suggérer par jeu à son secrétaire, Ernest La Brière, de répondre à sa place pour tourner en ridicule cette admiratrice. Or les lettres de La Brière font mouche dans le cœur de Modeste. Elle-même parvient à séduire son interlocuteur bien qu’elle utilise un pseudonyme pour rester anonyme. L’un et l’autre cachent donc leur identité véritable mais tombent amoureux à travers cet échange épistolaire. Le secret de Modeste finira par être découvert par ses proches. Mise au pied du mur par son père revenu de son long voyage, elle devra choisir entre Canalis et La Brière, sans compter un troisième prétendant qui est membre d’une des plus grandes familles de la noblesse française.

Modeste Mignon se déroule ainsi comme une pièce de théâtre en plusieurs temps jusqu’au dénouement.Les personnages nous sont présentés en détail, ce qui est toujours l'occasion pour Balzac de dresser le portrait des Français de son époque (Modeste Mignon fait partie des Scènes de la vie privée de la Comédie Humaine). J'aime beaucoup le fait que Balzac donne au lecteur son avis sur ses personnages entre les lignes. Il est rarement tendre avec eux et n'hésite pas à souligner leur ridicule et leur fatuité, autant les provinciaux que les parisiens, les bourgeois que les nobles. L'échange de lettres entre Modeste et La Brière donne lieu à de très beaux passages, très riches, dans un langage châtié et maîtrisé. Enfin la confrontation entre les trois prétendants et Modeste est tout simplement savoureuse. En refermant mon livre, je me suis dit : quel talent ce Balzac ! Tout y est dans ce livre : une histoire intéressante, une narration de haute volée, des personnages bien rendus. Modeste Mignon vient me rappeler pourquoi j’aime lire et que la langue française est belle quand elle est utilisée par un auteur de talent.

I am awake but somehow affected by whatever it was that my body was doing to stay awake (adrenaline?). I can't stop DOING STUFF. Yesterday I made muffins. I don't really eat muffins- my son and husband kind of like them... I mean, muffins are not a standard purchase... I don't know what came over me...

My neighbor dropped off some surplus fruit they were worried they would not eat in time... I got to work. I had initially planned on making banana muffins. I made those: 12 cute little banana muffins. Then I thought a bit and started in on cherry oatmeal muffins (my own recipe that I came up with spur-of-the-moment): 6 very large ones. I moved on to apple cinnamon with a crumb topping- about 8 medium ones. I finished up with orange-vanilla muffins (another twelve to the pile). I had no idea what happened. I didn't even consult a recipe. The muffins just came (and came, and came, and came).

Then it was sun tea. I started filling bottles and setting them out on the porch. Yesterday scares me a little bit when I think about it. I need to reign in my strange productive modes and focus on things that will be more of a help to me. A huge pile of muffins (of varying fruit flavors) does not really mean much to me today.

Next item of business: search for drink recipes. Know any good ones? I am compiling a drink cookbook as a wedding gift but will also make a smaller, cheaper version to distribute among my friends. Send me a drink recipe and get your name right under it. Do this!

If anyone ever does want to email me: lemoncreme at gmail.com. That is sort of my 'business' email (as in the one that can afford to get spammed a little bit without making me bonkers). It is the post-able one that doesn't include my name!

Speaking of contributions: I want to know what people are listening to. I want music recommendations. Once in a while I want to know what other people are getting into. It is good to start on something new. If you read this blog please comment and include some things that you have been listening to lately. I am pretty open, genre-wise, lately.

I guess it is time to go to the park. My body aches (hey! I went running last night) and I don't think I will ever be caught up on sleep but the sunshine awaits us. Time to pack up the bubble-stuff and the Balzac novel and get out of here.

"Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress"
by Dai Sijie
(France)

Amazing work by Chinese-French novelist Dai Sijie! I love the story and I became a lot emotional as symbolisms and important events reveal itself.

The book revolves around two teenage guys who were sent outside of the city to be re-educated in a rural village as ordered by the Chinese Government when Communism was at its strongest grip in the early 1970s. They didn't have any hope to be released from the re-education because of the fact that their parents were among the so-called "enemy of the people", a label that the Chinese Government gave to them because of being either immoral or being reactionary against the preachings of the power-hogging government. But as they stayed in the re-education process, they found a beautiful girl from next town and a suitcase filled with banned books which brought change to the lives of Luo and the unnamed narrator. These events started to change the lives of the two to the point that they felt freedom from re-education.

This book deals a lot about learning. We learn as we experience life as it progresses in many ways. It doesn't matter if it's a sensational experience - going to university for the very first time, going to another country, meeting new friends, having a new hobby, playing a new game, studying a new subject, even reading books - all of these can bring forth new ideas that will make a person wake up into a new world. In the novel, the encounter between them and the little seamstress as well as the event when they read a banned book for the very first time since the time which gave them the opportunity brought Luo and especially the narrator into many reflective moments which then became a coming-of-age story for them. They learned about love, sex, romance and freedom in a world which tries to tame them from even thinking about those notions.

It acknowledges the existence of teachers. The villagers, the books and their experiences have become a great source of learning for the main characters...

Yet there is a line in the story that have drawn me to what the whole deal is all about: "Dancing is not something that could be taught... The same is true of diving and writing poetry, for the best divers and poets are self-taught. Some people can spend their lives having lessons and still resemble stones when they hurtle into the air. They never achieve the lightness of dropping fruit."

Learning will always take place. But in the end, it's all about us - the self. Learning is quite distant from the person. The only way to learn really isn't from the outside but from the inside. It involves how we understand life and how we can approach it so that it can work for us - so that we can learn easily - and so that we can benefit to our surroundings as well. We are taught to be reflective. We are encouraged to show empathy.

Through the tenacity of all the forces that our minds absorb, we then find a way to learn for ourselves.

But here's another thought that I made... No one can control those forces - not even a government who may have all the power to kill anyone who is devious in the social or political order.

In the end, we are all individuals - we have minds, we have souls, we have individual aspirations, we have good and bad traits, we are all hypocrites and opportunists, we are all caring and loving, we are all desiring, we are all needing; all of these in certain levels among us... in the end... we are all... "unique"...

And that uniqueness is what we should respect and understand.

It has forgotten art's lofty mission: instead of raising the crowd to its level, it has lowered itself to the crowd's.

So says Honoré de Balzac, referring to the populist nature of the Italian music contemporary to the looming titular character in his Gambara. It's an interesting sentiment, and one which I can well see defining the age-old question: what is art?

I like that it's referring to music, for a start. This is something I can get my teeth into. And it segues nicely from the preceding Unknown Masterpiece in my edition, apparently Balzac's desire. Both deal with the private madness and obsession of art, with perspective and opinion as central themes. I love the way that the mission of art is described here, not to dumb itself down to meet the simple tastes of the great unwashed proletariat, but to raise their level of expectation higher, to improve them. Art should make people better, should make them more aware and give them more desire to grow and become better.

Such was Balzac's opinion, or at least that of Count Andrea Marcosini. And I'm inclined to agree. Art, in all it's forms, should not be lowest common denominator. Though those in the book conducting this conversation were derided, sometimes I think it's acceptable to take a subjective, hardline approach to this sort of thing. Music that is made to appeal to as large a demographic as possible is barely music any longer - that's why X-Factor, American Idol et al, while entertaining, are essentially pointless. Music doesn't have to be elite: witness deep southern soul, the music of the people (as Joey 'The Lips' Fagan would probably have it), but it's still wracked with emotion, with no edges shorn off to prevent certain subgroups getting upset.

Music shouldn't be made for an elite, either, that's just as bad as trying to appeal to any market area. Music should be made for its own sake, never dumbed-down or diluted, it is what it is and you have to make yourself better to appreciate it. I guess in essence that's why hardcore music fans inevitably narrow their outlook so far that they can dismiss great things because they are more interested in searching out the better and the best, the Platonic ideal in their own chosen sphere. And that's fine. It's great. Art was never meant for the morons, the morons were meant to attain to the art, and that's where the best work succeeds, and why I remain happily committed to slating sell-outs and frauds and Simon Cowell and faceless suits who churn out vacuous sounds for vacuous minds. I'm happy to remain pretentious, aloof and proud of the music I listen to, just like Marcosini, just like Gambara, just like Balzac.

The west end's latest fringe fosterling, That Face, is a spunky little warning about the parallel perils of extreme parental attachment and abandonment. Penned by embryonic prodigy Polly Stenham, it features consummate pro Lindsay Duncan as a slummy mummy drowning in one part Waitrose gin to two parts lustful, leonine love for her not-so-little soldier Henry (the extraordinary Matt Smith), a gorgeously earnest, arty, fragile nearly-man who is equally intoxicated with amniotic fluid but struggling to save them both.

The play is not the divine birth that most critics are claiming. With Henry's father the epitome of an emasculated, egocentric Englishman, and his younger sister Mia a quietly violent deliquent full of middle-aged ennui, the characters are all so damaged that the action is just one steady, unsurprising slope to destruction. But it is witty, waspy and yes, prematurely wise, and Jeremy Herrin's production boasts acting as good as anything I've seen this year.

As I left the theatre, swaddled in thought, Balzac tapped me on the shoulder, grubby-fingered and beady-eyed. 'A mother who is really a mother is never free', said he, and shuffled off into the night. Ah, Honore, lad. Freedom's overrated.

Come to mama, honey.

De curând am recitit Vrajitorul, prima zvâcnire creatoare a subiectului din Lolita. În acest micro-roman Nabokov e la începutul drumului său. Dar se simte în el  acea voluptate a descrierilor care va exploda în Ada sau ardoarea. Se aud cuvinte preferate, metafore îndrăgite şi comparaţii structurate magistral. De asemenea se întrezăreşte încă de aici obsesia lui pentru structură, pentru construcţia romanescă. Structura şi stilul sunt singurele aspecte după care putem recunoaşte un scriitor mare, crede el. De fapt, sunt singurele aspecte după care putem deosebi scriitorii între ei în genere. Iată ce scrie el într-un eseu cu titlul Despre o carte intitulată Lolita: "Pentru mine, opera de ficţiune există în măsura în care îmi produce ceea ce aş numi grosso modo bucurie estetică, adică sentimentul de a fi oarecum conectat undeva cu alte stări existenţiale unde norma este arta (curiozitate, tandreţe, bunăvoinţă, extaz). Nu sunt multe cărţi de acest fel. Celelalte reprezintă fie maculatură de actualitate, fie aşa-numita literatură de idei, care este foarte adesea maculatură de actualitate, livrată în uriaşe ambalaje de ipsos ce se transmit de la epocă la epocă, până când vine cineva cu un ciocan şi le trage lui Balzac, Gorki sau Mann o lovitură zdravănă şi-i sparge." (trad. rom. H.-F. Popescu, Ed. Polirom, 2003, 393-384).

Nabokov face cu literatura cam ceea ce a făcut Heidegger cu Metafizica: îi distruge conceptele, o reînvie, o îmbogăţeşte, îi redă viaţa autentică. Comparaţia nu este deplasată. R. Rorty, într-un studiu  magistral, arată pe larg înrudirile dintre metodele celor doi. Dar, trecând peste intenţiile generale ale lui Nabokov, trebuie să observăm că ele au fost realizate în act încă de la primele sale scrieri. Iar Vrăjitorul (Humanitas, 2005) nu este decât sămânţa din care vor rodi mai târziu Lolita,  Foc palid şi Ada. Adesea, dacă vreau să mă liniştesc şi să mă conving că merită să citim, deschid la întâmplare un roman de Nabokov şi încerc să văd cu ochii mei, dar ajutat de cuvintele lui, un peisaj insolit, o coapsă din care se naşte un vis sau, chiar, să ating "textura timpului", a unui timp minunat printre clipele căruia ne putem întrezări fericirea.

Abstract

Three Beautiful Troublemakers (da qui in poi denominato 3BT) è un trittico fotografico di dimensioni variabili (indicativamente 140x90 cm. la singola foto), avente come tema il racconto di H.d.Balzac: Il Capolavoro Sconosciuto.

Qui, come nel libro, il soggetto centrale è il corpo e l’identità di una modella e quindi l'ottimale era ricreare una serie di scatti con pose volutamente accademiche e dal sapore ottocentesco. Il numero di scatti è stato subordinato al numero di pagine del racconto, in quanto ogni pagina dell'originale sarebbe stata implementata con una foto del set.

Usando le parole del testo ho ricreato visivamente quel velo che Balzac descrive come attributo del quadro di Frenhofer, alterando le identità delle protagoniste/a con altrettanti caratteri commutando i characters in caractère e poi per ricaduta in fonts come i Caslon, i Bodoni e i Garamond.

La prima fase del progetto è stata eseguita con tecnologia analogica: camera 6×4,5 e pellicola ortocromatica, la post produzione è invece di matrice digitale.

L’opera, dato l’ingombro fisso delle stampe in bianco & nero è, come detto, di dimensione variabile per quanto riguarda un possibile allestimento.

L’intero progetto è stato eseguito con il supporto della modella FranzB.

3BT: il progetto

Chiunque si avvicini a Le Chef-d’œuvre inconnu sa di entrare in territorio minato.

La complessità di quelle poche pagine ha dato vita ad una letteratura ad hoc, a opere d’arte, come nel caso di Picasso od alla completa identificazione come successe a Cezanne.

È quindi con rispetto che prendo a prestito le parole di Balzac per farne “carne da cannone”, ma al contempo nutro la speranza di renderle ancora una volta vive ed al centro di un prova di arte visiva.

Dal momento che tutto o quasi è stato scritto rispetto a quella che Henry James definisce una “terrible little tale”, ho spostato il punto di vista dal contenuto alla sostanza stessa del racconto scritto.

Usando la narrazione come una traccia ho preso a prestito le parole, le lettere, i caratteri di stampa e gli spazi che compongono questa meravigliosa novella e con essi ho creato una barriera fisica alla percezione delle immagini originali.

La versione francese in mio possesso constava di almeno di 60 pagine, ho poi ridotto il testo a 15 pagine che nella fase di post produzione sono andate a sostituire quella sostanza pittorica (il muro di colore...nda) che fa da diaframma allo svelarsi del ritratto.

Balzac per tutto il racconto sembra omettere qualcosa, ci fa baluginare una prospettiva con una mano e con l’altra la fa scomparire lesta ai nostri occhi. Forse sta veramente qui il fascino misterioso del Capolavoro Sconosciuto.

La scelta del trittico come forma finale dell'opera è stata dettata dalla ricorrente e contemporanea presenza di due terne di protagonisti.
La parte maschile riservata agli artisti: Porbus, Poussin, Frenhofer e  quella femminile a cui Balzac assegna i ruoli di modelle, soggetti, muse.
Esse sono: Maria Egiziaca, Gillette e la più enigmatica Catherine Lescault, la bella scontrosa.
Di tutte Catherine è sicuramente quella maggiormente nascosta all'interno del congegno sia narrativo che pittorico, ma al contempo è anche quella meglio preservata, protetta da sguardi indiscreti .
La modella invisibile di Frenhofer non ha corpo né nel racconto né nel dipinto, ma solo nel ricordo fittizio di un personaggio immaginario. Un fantasma che si nasconde prima nelle parole poi nel quadro del vecchio maestro e che alla fine, libero, sconvolge la vita dei personaggi portandoli ognuno ad un grado diverso e sempre più accentuato di crisi d’identità.

Per concludere citerò le parole che Calvino ha speso su questo capolavoro davvero sconosciuto: “…le visioni polimorfe degli occhi e dell’anima si trovano contenute in righe uniformi di caratteri minuscoli o maiuscoli, di punti, di virgole, di parentesi; pagine di segni allineati fitti fitti come i granelli si sabbia rappresentano lo spettacolo variopinto del mondo in una superficie sempre uguale e sempre diversa, come le dune spinte dal vento del deserto.”

cp.Rindler

links facoltativi:

• versione francese del testo
• versione inglese del testo
• jan gossaert detto mabuse
• frans porbus il giovane
• nicolas poussin
• s.maria egiziaca
• la belle noiseuse-the movie
• testo di arnaldo picchi
• picasso vs frenhofer
• articolo di giovanni nicolosi
• picasso vs frenhofer #2

Un ringraziamento speciale va agli autori della versione italiana edita da BUR, Giovanni Greco & Davide Monda.

3BT: realizzazione

Qui di seguito alcune immagini di particolari dell'opera 3BT, più una maquette per una ipotetica esposizione.

esempio della pag. 1 de: Il Capolavoro Sconosciuto

esempio part. della implentazione con font Bodoni

part. finito con font Bodoni

maquette

Immagini

gallery delle foto in risoluzione web per il trittico 3BT

Bodoni variation

Caslon variation

Garamond variation

"3BT On Paper "

Per il momento solo un manifesto, non un proclama, un vero poster con cui poter comunicare il mio progetto ed il mio lavoro verso l'esterno.

Non sottovalutando le potenzialità di un blog, ho deciso di creare un mirror cartaceo per raggiungere gallerie, amici, critici e tutti quelli che sono interessati ai progetti Rindler.

Dal momento che Three Beautiful Troublemakers è il primo lavoro a firma cp.+ch.Rindler il primo manifestino 35x50 sarà ad esso dedicato, insomma la classica versione on paper.

Per adesso è ancora in fase di revisione per l'out put digitale, ma ho deciso di postare una Versione Beta dello stesso per il download in formato PDF.

ch.Rindler.

link al PDF: 35x50_balzac-web

In principio era il nome che avevo dato al mio nuovo studio, uno spazio finalmente all'altezza delle mie aspettative. Un luogo riservato ma abbastanza grande da potermi permettere di seguire più lavori contemporaneamente, inoltre molto vicino alla mia abitazione e nel centro della città. Amo lavorare e risiedere nel centro di qualche cosa.

Quindi con parenti ed amici ho iniziato a designare il mio atelier con il nome di Rindler. Nessuno mi ha mai chiesto perché o cosa volesse dire questo nome e non mi aspetto che nessuno lo faccia adesso, in ogni caso due o tre informazioni di ordine filologico le metterò in calce a questa presentazione.

Avevo il mio spazio, mi ero rimesso in salute, ora mancavano il lavoro, i progetti; sentivo che dovevo riempire questo accogliente vuoto con qualcosa di nuovo rispetto alle mie produzioni precedenti.

Fu allora che per una necessità archivistica iniziai a protocollare idee, bozze e progetti con la sigla Rindler.

Mi accorsi fin da subito che iniziavo ad identificare sia il mio lavoro che me stesso sotto questo nome: io + il mio studio+ i collaboratori + il mio lavoro = Rindler. Era una cosa buffa, ma non volevo che divenisse il solito pseudonimo, collettivo, o associazione culturale, né che fosse uno schermo dietro il quale nascondermi, sentivo il desiderio di proteggermi non dietro qualche cosa, ma dentro qualcosa di nuovo. Un bisogno di inclusione e l'idea che questo spazio (sia mentale che fisico) fosse in grado di accogliere anche altri soggetti. Tutti quelli che per un motivo o per un altro avessero condiviso la progettazione e la produzione del lavoro erano Rindler.

Quindi Rindler divenne ed è oggi a maggior ragione, una piattaforma di progettazione e realizzazione di opere d'arte, dove il peso più consistente , o l'accento se preferite, va a cadere sul prodotto finito considerando il progetto come, ma non solo, un sentiero tracciato su di una mappa che necessariamente deve portare a qualcosa o da qualche parte.

Ovviamente ci sono alcune cose che rimarranno fuori da questa breve descrizione, non è mia consuetudine anticipare troppo, o fare proclami che poi devo smentire. Per ora mi limito a ri-creare un ambiente accogliente sia per mè che per i miei occasionali collaboratori e a comunicare tramite questo blog ed altri strumenti con l'esterno, nella speranza di aver fatto qualche cosa di buono.

A proposito, una parte del Rindler, prima di essere stata una falegnameria, era adibita negli anni della guerra a rifugio antiaereo

Se non altro là sotto staremo al sicuro.

cp.Rindler

Piccole note a margine.

Rindler è il cognome di un noto fisico. Wolfgang Rindler lavora nell'ambito della teoria della relatività generale ed è forse più famoso per avere coniato il termine: Orizzonte degli Eventi.

link: pagina wiki su w. rindler

Rindler è anche il nome dato ad una stazione spaziale che compare nel racconto di Sci-Fi Schild's Ladder di Greg Egan.

link: sito dello scrittore g. egan

woke up this morning and went to the doctor. I won't bore or disgust anyone with the details of my internal strife. Let's just leave it with this: it is not life threatening, it is only life annoying. Yay for that. Really, I mean it.

The trip to the hospital was very exciting. I don't really mean that in a good way. The registration department gave me lots of details about MY HUSBAND'S medical history... yeah. See, it's not really a big deal since I know the ins and out of that guy anyway but that is a violation of HIPAA, right? I think so. Interesting. Later, in the waiting room a woman FLIPPED OUT. She looked pregnant and very miserable and I guess she just couldn't take it anymore. She was escorted out huffing and puffing and swearing. That left me with my little Balzac model and my empty urine cup that was given to me for the wrong test. The nurse came to get me (for the wrong test).... yikes.

What is the best way to celebrate a non-life threatening diagnosis? Maybe bubble tea. I went with my sister and my son. My son does love those steamed buns. It was a lovely time... but of course, today is one of those mixed blessing/so-so days so on the way home there was a little incident. I met up with my neighbor on the corner and while I was speaking to him to men got into a fight across the street. The fight got worse and worse until I decided to get my cell phone out. One guy was going to KILL the other by braining him with a cement planter. Yes. My son was asleep in the stroller and but fifteen feet away a man was apparently trying to end the life of another with a large cement object. I did call 911 but the man missed, the bloody men parted and went their separate ways to get stitches, press charges... I don't know.

So now I have the rest of this day to do whatever. I have pretty much done all I mean to do today. That means it is time for Balzac and (actually, I have no idea what my son will be reading/doing).

Happy Tuesday.