Trouble travels fast when you're specially designed for crash testing.
Seems I am.
I though about Tomas Hirshchorn today while trying to figure out - again- what am I doing here, what the fuck am I doing here, like the guy of 'I (love) Huckabees.' So I like Jack Johnson. And walking. I hate lies and Dalí. I love my job. I've been to India three times and haven't found my zen, just half-naked kids with the sadness of a grown up in their eyes. I hate putting up with guys who gossip and gals who indulge in drama. I love dark chocolate and white roses. I admire philanthropy and my favourite causes are the Red Cross and Amnesty International. I love kids, specially talking to them. I am concerned about Mexico and the mediocrity that makes us take just the burnt toast, the leftovers of what we really deserve. I dislike foreigners that are rude to 'less educated' locals. My favourite building is Bellas Artes. Dadá Siegt! I am reading philosophy, and get kinda bored but learn a lot. I dream with a good calligrapher who is a bad lover, or with a good lover who doesn't give a damn for calligraphy. I dated a sailor for a wee bit, and he said about Avedon: 'Why do you buy a book with such ugly people portrayed?!'. But I almost marry a MENSA member who wouldn't get Avedon either, hence he wouldn't get me. I have been deeply in love and failed miserably, yet I am up to be that stupid again.
So Tomas Hirshhorn is like putting all of the above in walls. His 'installation' (does he call it that way?) are three rooms with the walls full of ideas, just like being inside of some one's brain. Then furniture is fixed to the walls and covered with tape. There are also very aggressive carton cylinders full with morbid pictures of war. I had to look away. Why putting that in the middle of his 'brain'? Touching, moving, real, yet frankly unbearable. I think he meant that we cannot have art without understanding beauty is a temporary impression and out there are cold-blooded murders as commonly as the rising of the sun.
The only corner I liked was this bunch of giant pills (or soap bars) reading 'you, you, you, you, you...' I though about obsession and how one might have a whole world built up and then somebody reaches every corner without us even being conscious to do something about it.
Let's see where I manage to crash again.
Wednesday, 2 April 2008
Je me réveillée en me sentant fatiguée...
Je n'ai pas d'excuse,
C'est inexplicable,
Même inexorable,
C'est pas pour l'extase, c'est que l'existence,
Sans un peu d'extrême, est inacceptable...
Je suis excessive,
J'aime quand ça désaxe,
Quand tout accélère,
Moi je reste relaxe...
Je suis excessive,
Quand tout explose,
Quand la vie s'exhibe,
C'est une transe exquise
Y'en a que ça excède, d'autres que ça vexe,
Y'en a qui exigent que je revienne dans l'axe,
Y'en a qui s'exclament que c'est un complexe,
Y'en a qui s'excitent avec tous ces "X" dans le texte
-Carla Bruni, 'L'excessive'
C'est inexplicable,
Même inexorable,
C'est pas pour l'extase, c'est que l'existence,
Sans un peu d'extrême, est inacceptable...
Je suis excessive,
J'aime quand ça désaxe,
Quand tout accélère,
Moi je reste relaxe...
Je suis excessive,
Quand tout explose,
Quand la vie s'exhibe,
C'est une transe exquise
Y'en a que ça excède, d'autres que ça vexe,
Y'en a qui exigent que je revienne dans l'axe,
Y'en a qui s'exclament que c'est un complexe,
Y'en a qui s'excitent avec tous ces "X" dans le texte
-Carla Bruni, 'L'excessive'
Tuesday, 1 April 2008
Carpe bloody diem
So I did it JB, I told you what the 'shaman' said about you and me.
Say one word and I trade this reality... what about a life where the cosmic voices lead the way?
(Peace though. Forsee tons of Rops-and-Baudelaire-alike discussions to come rather than living in a house/a very big house in the country/watching afternoon repeats/and the food he eats in the country.)
Say one word and I trade this reality... what about a life where the cosmic voices lead the way?
(Peace though. Forsee tons of Rops-and-Baudelaire-alike discussions to come rather than living in a house/a very big house in the country/watching afternoon repeats/and the food he eats in the country.)
Something old, something blue...
This is something old because I wrote it a long time ago.
This is something borrowed because who knows what was true in that cold Dutch winter - it could well be the story of the friend of a friend.
This is something blue because is a tale of dreams and goodbyes.
Guy meets girl and they see each other each day of each month of a year. Their lives never touch; reality builds parallel ways.
Girl meets guy again right after she stopped dreaming. They find out that it is extremely easy to speak their lives out, to switch from reality to the place of their hearts where all the fears are. They talk about how it hurts and where it hurts, about hope (not together, but hope) and feel this world is not meant for people who do not believe.
And then sex becomes a bedtime story. They both knew that searching the other’s body was just an excuse to sleep with the weight of an arm on his shoulder or her feet sheltered between the warmth of his legs.
Time went fast that week.
Then we talked again and I couldn’t avoid telling you my life, from the big to the small, from the certain to the relative. You let your heart feel, and dared to tell your friends that sometimes the weight of loneliness is too heavy for you to bare it alone.
After the night when you drove South and I borrowed your world, love happened as life. I cannot really explain how from talking we switched to listening, from kissing to holding, from staring to believing. Perhaps it was the music (my music, which ran into your head as a universe you’d never met), perhaps your fingers running slowly across my back, or your lips that knew the exact place where I keep the dreams.
But that day we made love. It was not only about our bodies that happen to fit as if they had only that purpose. It was not on the space we filled with patience and time, or in our scared hearts happy to find some rest.
Love happened when we realised that there was not an ‘after’, but there was a before, and struggled to freeze that moment and to make the last caress stay for the lonely nights ahead.
Girl left guy next morning, when reality hit and there was a plane to catch. They keep telling each other their fears and send kisses that sometimes mean the world and sometimes fade on the notion that there is no perhaps. Yet perhaps.
This is something borrowed because who knows what was true in that cold Dutch winter - it could well be the story of the friend of a friend.
This is something blue because is a tale of dreams and goodbyes.
Love (the making of)
Guy meets girl and they see each other each day of each month of a year. Their lives never touch; reality builds parallel ways.
Girl meets guy again right after she stopped dreaming. They find out that it is extremely easy to speak their lives out, to switch from reality to the place of their hearts where all the fears are. They talk about how it hurts and where it hurts, about hope (not together, but hope) and feel this world is not meant for people who do not believe.
And then sex becomes a bedtime story. They both knew that searching the other’s body was just an excuse to sleep with the weight of an arm on his shoulder or her feet sheltered between the warmth of his legs.
Time went fast that week.
Then we talked again and I couldn’t avoid telling you my life, from the big to the small, from the certain to the relative. You let your heart feel, and dared to tell your friends that sometimes the weight of loneliness is too heavy for you to bare it alone.
After the night when you drove South and I borrowed your world, love happened as life. I cannot really explain how from talking we switched to listening, from kissing to holding, from staring to believing. Perhaps it was the music (my music, which ran into your head as a universe you’d never met), perhaps your fingers running slowly across my back, or your lips that knew the exact place where I keep the dreams.
But that day we made love. It was not only about our bodies that happen to fit as if they had only that purpose. It was not on the space we filled with patience and time, or in our scared hearts happy to find some rest.
Love happened when we realised that there was not an ‘after’, but there was a before, and struggled to freeze that moment and to make the last caress stay for the lonely nights ahead.
Girl left guy next morning, when reality hit and there was a plane to catch. They keep telling each other their fears and send kisses that sometimes mean the world and sometimes fade on the notion that there is no perhaps. Yet perhaps.
Monday, 31 March 2008
I saw the light(ing)
I plan to see Wolfgang Tillmans' exhibition next Sunday just to feel again in a space where each picture is a window on a dimension where the spectator can go from the abstract amazement to the intimacy of the photographer's friends. How to describe Tillmans? Okay, from the technical point of view he can do studio, journalism, landscapes, portraits, and uses all possible angles. He uses black and white, filters, natural light, flash light, reflectors... not an Annie Lebovitz who is specialized in one thing and is very good at it, he gets stimulated by almost everything and succeeds to put it together in a close-to-random 'order'. I want to be inside of his head just once more, to see if I get to understand mine.
The B word, revisited
Renée Flemming (opera singer) is just... divine. Now tell me something I have not heard; she has won Grammies and recorded for The Lord of the Rings soundtrack. Yet being there, at Bellas Artes, watching her all dressed in red and surrounded by a symphonic orchestra made me think how much beauty there was in the way she felt all the songs.
Once my brother told me about a Russian violinist we were watching: 'He is really good', I asked why and he said: 'Can't you see how he feels the music and closes his eyes, how he is passionate about what he's playing?'
So Renée Flemming was beyond 'really good', she made people feel like crying, even (or specially) when she sang something in Czech - a very sentimental tune of Dvorak on God knows what. My friend Alex also thought the song was amazing; needless to say neither of us speaks Czech (well... I can say 'Ahoj!'...). How does the collective art appreciation reach an agreement on what is beautiful?
I went with JB once to this exhibit on pictures taken by a very aesthetic photographer at the morgue; there was one I particularly liked of a lady who died on her sleep and looked as if she were asleep, just that she had the 'Y' of the autopsy across her shoulders and all the way down. You could buy original prints at the Museum and they were priced differently - I found out that the one I liked was exactly the most expensive.
So coming back to my opera evening, the collective agreement on beauty resembled my own. And Mrs Flemming will always be worth to watch as passion transformed in musical notes flowing through the air to the very core of the spectator's soul.
Once my brother told me about a Russian violinist we were watching: 'He is really good', I asked why and he said: 'Can't you see how he feels the music and closes his eyes, how he is passionate about what he's playing?'
So Renée Flemming was beyond 'really good', she made people feel like crying, even (or specially) when she sang something in Czech - a very sentimental tune of Dvorak on God knows what. My friend Alex also thought the song was amazing; needless to say neither of us speaks Czech (well... I can say 'Ahoj!'...). How does the collective art appreciation reach an agreement on what is beautiful?
I went with JB once to this exhibit on pictures taken by a very aesthetic photographer at the morgue; there was one I particularly liked of a lady who died on her sleep and looked as if she were asleep, just that she had the 'Y' of the autopsy across her shoulders and all the way down. You could buy original prints at the Museum and they were priced differently - I found out that the one I liked was exactly the most expensive.
So coming back to my opera evening, the collective agreement on beauty resembled my own. And Mrs Flemming will always be worth to watch as passion transformed in musical notes flowing through the air to the very core of the spectator's soul.
The perfect day
There's this fixed section in Vanity Fair where they ask certain celebrities about their favourite gadget, hair-care product, underwear brand... and their description of a perfect day. Since I am not a celebrity can also indulge from/into perfection from time to time and move freely between the world where nobody is looking and the one where everybody is.
-So, Miss Linares, what is for you a perfect day?
A perfect day for me is the one where I am overwhelmed by beauty and there is somebody there to see how I am the real me.
I am thrilled to find out on this Sunday night that I had three awesome days in a role and a couple of perfect hours. Perfection came when yesterday there was Eurojazz all over and then there was him smiling when he found me, and sat close to talk. He got the happiest me. And I got to see him happy too. What an unexpected allure.
-So, Miss Linares, what is for you a perfect day?
A perfect day for me is the one where I am overwhelmed by beauty and there is somebody there to see how I am the real me.
I am thrilled to find out on this Sunday night that I had three awesome days in a role and a couple of perfect hours. Perfection came when yesterday there was Eurojazz all over and then there was him smiling when he found me, and sat close to talk. He got the happiest me. And I got to see him happy too. What an unexpected allure.
El colorista
Andrés Mérida es un malagueño a veces cubista que puede tomar un azul y darle forma, textura, volumen, propóstio, hasta hacerlo parte de una escultura en segunda dimensión.Qué hora más bien aprovechada y qué buena idea la de que él pintara el cuadro y el chef (vasco) lo cocinara.
El arte debería transgredir barreras sensibles más frecuentemente - sólo así se parecería a la realidad.
Friday, 28 March 2008
La idiotez de lo perfecto
I found out I have a favourite song. Doesn't matter in which state of mind am I, the deceivement of the week, or the flavour of the ice-cream; the song reaches me.
It is a bit of a guilty pleasure to say I heard it on a mixed CD that Rasmusmyex mailed me. Almost everybody liked Jeff Buckley when he drawned (+2 million copies of 'Grace' sold post-mortem), and as happens with García Márquez, one should sometimes surrender to the massive demonstrations of common sense.
So my idiotic perfection is 'Hallelujah'. I got chills this morning on my borrowed car when I heard that love is not a victory march, it's a cold and it is a broken hallelujah. From the 15 verses that supposedly L.Cohen interchanged, just some of them have made it to the washout of the covers by practically anyone with a guitar and a voice with an ample register. I just love the song in all colours and shapes - Old Testament, sex, and the holy dove was moving too.
Now I've heard there was a secret chord
that David played and it pleased the Lord,
but you don't really care for music, do you?
It goes like this: the fourth, the fifth
the minor fall, the major lift;
the baffled king composing Hallelujah!
Your faith was strong but you needed proof.
You saw her bathing on the roof;
her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you.
She tied you to a kitchen chair
she broke your throne, she cut your hair,
and from your lips she drew the Hallelujah!
Baby I have been here before
I know this room, I've walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you.
I've seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah
There was a time you let me know
What's real and going on below
But now you never show it to me, do you?
And remember when I moved in you
The holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah
Maybe there's a God above
But all I've ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya
And it's not a cry that you hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah
http://www.lastfm.es/music/Jeff+Buckley/_/Hallelujah
It is a bit of a guilty pleasure to say I heard it on a mixed CD that Rasmusmyex mailed me. Almost everybody liked Jeff Buckley when he drawned (+2 million copies of 'Grace' sold post-mortem), and as happens with García Márquez, one should sometimes surrender to the massive demonstrations of common sense.
So my idiotic perfection is 'Hallelujah'. I got chills this morning on my borrowed car when I heard that love is not a victory march, it's a cold and it is a broken hallelujah. From the 15 verses that supposedly L.Cohen interchanged, just some of them have made it to the washout of the covers by practically anyone with a guitar and a voice with an ample register. I just love the song in all colours and shapes - Old Testament, sex, and the holy dove was moving too.
Now I've heard there was a secret chord
that David played and it pleased the Lord,
but you don't really care for music, do you?
It goes like this: the fourth, the fifth
the minor fall, the major lift;
the baffled king composing Hallelujah!
Your faith was strong but you needed proof.
You saw her bathing on the roof;
her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you.
She tied you to a kitchen chair
she broke your throne, she cut your hair,
and from your lips she drew the Hallelujah!
Baby I have been here before
I know this room, I've walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you.
I've seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah
There was a time you let me know
What's real and going on below
But now you never show it to me, do you?
And remember when I moved in you
The holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah
Maybe there's a God above
But all I've ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya
And it's not a cry that you hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah
http://www.lastfm.es/music/Jeff+Buckley/_/Hallelujah
Wednesday, 26 March 2008
General Theory of Relativity (for blondes)
So I have been wanting to take a shower for the last two hours and am hooked up reading about Julian Barbour, then Mach, then Einstein, then the black holes (small break to see when Scrubs stopped being aired). Time is relative. Uh-huh, we know. But I like the idea of measuring life by changes.I have decided to better count my success in life by the instants when I've said 'mmmmhhhh', the number of non-necessary things learned, the smiles back, the cakes baked, the minutes spent seeing one flower out of the bunch, the skies I have photographed, the kisses with eyes closed... the kisses...
But still Einstein is Einstein. I like.
You like too: http://whyfiles.org/052einstein/
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