“Well, I think Freud’s obsession with sex probably has a great deal to do with the fact that he never gets any, don’t you?”

Ah, rolei de rir. Achei aqui.

“It may be that the suitcase is an ideal metaphor for our times. As never before, people are on the move. ..Carry your world and your possessions with you. Just about as much as you can carry whilst walking. Not just a clean shirt and a new toothbrush and a change but all the information of identity - memories, hopes, anxieties, guilt, foretaste of intention, ambition, wish-fulfillment.”

- WASH & TRAVEL (the bathroom suitcases)
- fotos

palíndromo | adj. | s. m.
do Gr. palíndromos, que corre para trás
adj., diz-se da palavra ou número cuja leitura é a mesma, quer se faça da esquerda para a direita, quer se faça da direita para a esquerda;
s. m., essa palavra ou esse número.

Hollis Frampton was born March 11, 1936 in Ohio. His interest in photography was said to have begun at the age of 9. Frampton’s uncle had given him a present which was a Kodak Brownie box camera and had an influence on the direction of his life.
“Frampton attended Phillips Academy in Andover Massachusetts where his classmates included the future artists Carl Andre and Frank Stella.” (Cosmic Baseball Players) between the years 1954 and 1957 Frampton attended Western Reserve University in Cleveland Ohio. Frampton definitely did a lot of traveling–he did a 6 month car trip from Ohio to Seattle to Mexico, and then he moved to Washington D.C.
In 1958 Frampton decided to move to New York City. While living there had had many different jobs. Frampton worked as an electrician, a commercial photography studio assistant, and as a freelance photographer. Never seeming able to stay still, he went through 19 month period staying at 13 different locations. This occurred during the early 60’s and may tell you a lot about his character.
Clouds Like White Sheep was the name of Frampton’s first film. The film was 25 minutes long, was in black and white, and was shot on a friend’s Bolex 16mm movie camera. Although this film is said to have been destroyed he began to work on projects involving both film making and photography. In the 60s Frampton moved from being primarily a still photographer to the avant-garde film movement known as “New American Cinema”, which flourished in the 1960s and 70s “His Trek from still to moving image making has been transcribed so-to-speak, in his autobiographical film (nostalgia)” (Cosmic Baseball Players) He completed this film in 1971.
During the fall of 1973 Hollis Frampton began teaching at the State University of New York. “He had much to do with the development of the Center for Media Study . . .” (Haussite) This center attracted other famous filmmakers, but this association only lasted until March of 1984, which was a month before he died.

Font: Hollis Frampton Biography

Para o Poeta Morto.

Writing on Water is a collaboration between Peter Greenaway, composer David Land and calligrapher Brody Neuenschwander.

WRITING ON WATER
Shakespeare Coleridge Melville

Red for Coleridge’s Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Blue for Melville’s Moby Dick and Green for Shakespeare’s
The Tempest.

1
Boatswain!

Call me Ishmail.

It is an ancient mariner.
There was a ship.

Speak to the mariners.
Fall to it yarely or we run ourselves aground!
The ship was cheered, washed
by waves.

The harbour cleared.

Blow till thou burst thy wind, if room enough!

The Sun came up upon the left,

Out of the sea came he.

And he shone bright, and on the right
Went down into the sea.
I love to sail forbidden seas.
And now the storm-blast came.

A plague upon this howling!

Have you a mind to sink?
With sloping masts and dipping prow,
The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, the southward aye we
fled.
How the wild winds blow it.
We are less afraid to be drowned than thou
art.

Would thou mighst lie drowning the washing of ten tides!

We split, we split, we split!

2
I would fain die a dry death.
Put the wild waters in this roar.
The Sun now rose upon the right, out of the
sea came he,

Still hid in mist, and on the left, went down into the sea.
A brave vessel dashed all to pieces!

There’s no harm done.

Wipe thou thine eyes.

They hurried us aboard a bark.
A rotten carcass of a butt, not rigged, nor tackle, sail, nor mast.

The very rats instinctively have quit it.

And the good south wind still blew behind,
the breeze to blow.
To cry to the sea that roared to us, to sigh
to the winds.
I have decked the sea with drops full salt
I hear the last of our sea-sorrow.

3

To fly, to swim, to dive into the fire, to ride on the curled clouds.

Now on the beak, now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin,
On the topmast, the yards, and bowsprit.
The most mighty Neptune plunged in the foaming brine,
to fetch dew from the still-vexed Bermudes.
Think it much to tread the ooze of the salt deep.

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,
The furrow followed free.
To run upon the sharp wind of the north, like
a nymph of the sea.
A southwest blow on ye and blister you all over.
We were the first that ever burst
Into that silent sea.

4
Come unto these yellow sands, with its sweet
air.

Stained with grief at ebb, my father wracked.

5
Sea water shalt thou drink.
Drenched in the sea, stained with salt water well fished for.

Full fathom five thy father lies
of his bones are coral made,
those are pearls that were his eyes.

Nothing of him that doth fade,

but doth suffer a sea-change.
Twas sad as sad could be, the silence of the
sea.

This ditty does remember my drowned father.
Glorious and gracious in the wind,
down dropt the breeze.
The baser currents of the sea blow my keeled
soul along.

As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.

See the sun - I’ve oversailed him.

Water, water, everywhere,
Nor any drop to drink.
What strange fish hath made his meal on thee?
Nine fathom deep he had followed us
From the land of mist and snow.

The braced ship sailed hard upon the breeze.
she rechurned the cream in her own white wake
against the wind he now steers.
My bones feel damp within me and from the
inside wet my flesh.

6
Without a breeze, without a tide,

She steadies with upright keel.

With far-heard whisper, o’er the sea,
The stars were dim, and thick the night,

From the sails the dew did drip.

As is the ribbed sea-sand.
Alone, alone, all, all alone,

Alone on a wide wide sea.

Beyond the shadow of the ship,

I watched the water-snakes.
The sails did sigh like sedge
and the rain poured down from one black cloud.
The lightning fell with never a jag.

Till noon we quietly sailed on,
Yet never a breeze did breathe.

Slowly and smoothly went the ship.

I am standing water
I’ll teach you how to flow
Do so.

To ebb
Ebbing men

so near the bottom run
impossible that he’s undrowned

I’ll fish for thee.

7

There’s a soft shower to leeward.

Such lovely leewardings.

The sea mocks, the billows spoke, the winds
did sing it to me.
Will I have eyes at the bottom of the sea?
I’ll seek him deeper that ever plummet sound.

Under the keel nine fathom deep,

I shall no more to sea, to sea,
the master, the swabber, the boatswain and I.

Some men die at ebb tide
some at low water
some at the full of the flood.

Twas night, calm night, the moon was high,

but soon there breathed a wind on me.

Nor sound nor motion made
Its path was not upon the sea.

In ripple or in shade.
A billow that’s all one crested comb obliquely
from the sea
in the rainbowed air, fell swamping back into the deep

and sank in a shower of flakes.

8
Circling surface creamed like new milk

afloat and swimming.
The weltering sea

amid fiery showers of foam.

Swiftly, swiftly,

Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze,

On me alone it blew.

The ship went down like lead.

9
My body lay afloat.

Upon the whirl, where sank the ship,
The boat spun round and round.
The sledge-hammering seas
bale out the pouring water as mountain torrents down a flue.
The approaching tide will shortly fill the
reasonable shore
that now lies foul and muddy.

This soul hath been alone on a wide wide
sea,
and the great shroud of the sea rolled on
as it rolled five thousand years ago.

And I only am escaped to tell thee,

A sadder and a wiser man.

© Peter Greenaway, 2005

Acabei de receber um email adorável de um amigo adorável - aquele amigo de quem eu quero comprar um castelo assombrado na Escócia:

“When I carefully consider the curious habits of dogs
I am compelled to conclude
That man is the superior animal.
When I consider the curious habits of man
I confess, my friend, I am puzzled.”
- Ezra Pound

Nota: Burrice e estupidez me deixam profundamente de mau humor. Como diz um amigo meu: “Dani, é explícito no seu rosto o quanto você detesta quando alguém fala alguma coisa estúpida.”
É, eu sei. Meu rosto nada esconde.
Burrice é incurável.

Certo, não são 9:00 horas. São 10:00.
Odeio horário de verão.

Eu vi essas esculturas de Cornelia Parker e me lembrei do Grito de Munch. Tanto a pintura de Munch quanto as esculturas de Parker me dão a mesma impressão: o tempo paralisado, um segundo antes de algo acontecer. É o segundo congelado que antecede a catástrofe.
Por analogia, lembrei daquela belíssima explosão da casa no filme “Lost Highway”, de David Lynch.

Cornelia Parker, Cold Dark Matter-An Exploded Wiew, 1991

Cornelia Parker - Edge of England (Chalk retrieved from a cliff fall at Beatch Head, South Downs, England), 1999

Cornelia Parker, “Subconscious of a Monument”, (Soil removed from underneath the leaning Tower of Pisa to prevent it from falling), 2003

A artista e uma de suas peças. (foto de Gautier Deblonde)

A música do mundo.

Fragmentos do blog da Lucia:

Vocês têm lido o Poeta Morto? Deveriam.