There was a child went forth every day;
And the first object he look’d upon, that object he became;
And that object became part of him for the day, or a certain part of the day, or for many years, or stretching cycles of years.
The early lilacs became part of this child,
And grass, and white and red morning-glories, and white and red clover, and the song of the phoebe-bird,
And the Third-month lambs, and the sow’s pink-faint litter, and the mare’s foal, and the cow’s calf,
And the noisy brood of the barn-yard, or by the mire of the pond-side,
And the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there—and the beautiful curious liquid,
And the water-plants with their graceful flat heads—all became part of him.
The field-sprouts of Fourth-month and Fifth-month became part of him;
Winter-grain sprouts, and those of the light-yellow corn, and the esculent roots of the garden,
And the apple-trees cover’d with blossoms, and the fruit afterward, and wood-berries, and the commonest weeds by the road;
And the old drunkard staggering home from the out-house of the tavern, whence he had lately risen,
And the school-mistress that pass’d on her way to the school,
And the friendly boys that pass’d—and the quarrelsome boys,
And the tidy and fresh-cheek’d girls—and the barefoot negro boy and girl,
And all the changes of city and country, wherever he went.
His own parents,
He that had father’d him, and she that had conceiv’d him in her womb, and birth’d him,
They gave this child more of themselves than that;
They gave him afterward every day—they became part of him.
The mother at home, quietly placing the dishes on the supper-table;
The mother with mild words—clean her cap and gown, a wholesome odor falling off her person and clothes as she walks by;
The father, strong, self-sufficient, manly, mean, anger’d, unjust;
The blow, the quick loud word, the tight bargain, the crafty lure,
The family usages, the language, the company, the furniture—the yearning and swelling heart,
Affection that will not be gainsay’d—the sense of what is real—the thought if, after all, it should prove unreal,
The doubts of day-time and the doubts of night-time—the curious whether and how,
Whether that which appears so is so, or is it all flashes and specks?
Men and women crowding fast in the streets—if they are not flashes and specks, what are they?
The streets themselves, and the façades of houses, and goods in the windows,
Vehicles, teams, the heavy-plank’d wharves—the huge crossing at the ferries,
The village on the highland, seen from afar at sunset—the river between,
Shadows, aureola and mist, the light falling on roofs and gables of white or brown, three miles off,
The schooner near by, sleepily dropping down the tide—the little boat slack-tow’d astern,
The hurrying tumbling waves, quick-broken crests, slapping,
The strata of color’d clouds, the long bar of maroon-tint, away solitary by itself—the spread of purity it lies motionless in,
The horizon’s edge, the flying sea-crow, the fragrance of salt marsh and shore mud;
These became part of that child who went forth every day, and who now goes, and will always go forth every day.
Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass.
quinta-feira, dezembro 29, 2011
sexta-feira, dezembro 23, 2011
Um homem está a matar a mulher e o que acentuas não é a morte mas a faca que ele usa; ou dizes que a ataca violentamente. Esses detalhes tornam a língua viva. Não é o português de escola, é o português de ir às compras. Isso é o papel da pop: registar a efemeridade da língua, a sua importância num determinado momento, antes de ser substituída por uma nova cultura pop que é representativa do que é natural e espontâneo nesse tempo e nesse espaço.
B Fachada. ípsilon/Público, 23/Dez/2011.
quinta-feira, dezembro 22, 2011
O que faz uma linguagem? Kant mostra-o perfeitamente. As sensações vivem num caos e a linguagem ordena-as; o que faz uma síntaxe? Ordena e corta o caos e com isso vai permitir uma expressividade maior da sensação. Uma expressividade outra, dividindo a sensação e a expressão da sensação numa multiplicidade. É como a heteronímia de Pessoa, afinal. Isso significa que nós nos aproximamos da ideia de uma gramática intervalar: o que interessa não são os quadrados nem os círculos, que não são formas, o que interessa mesmo é o que, no mundo do não-objecto que é o mundo ontológico do branco abissal, se desenha como distância espacial intervalar. Chegamos à ideia de uma gramática intervalar, uma sintaxe intervalar e, portanto, uma linguagem que é, em si mesma, intervalar.
José Gil, A Arte como Linguagem (Relógio D'Água, 2010).
quinta-feira, dezembro 15, 2011
Disconnected environments that I equally defined as "home" influenced my emotions, thoughts, and behaviour differently. What resulted was an awareness of apparent divisions in my identity, and accompanying feelings of unease, instability, and impermanence. My homes were separate but equal extensions of my identity, and I began to think as much about their influence on me as my influence on them.
Steven Beckly, Single Rooms.
sábado, dezembro 10, 2011
Just like the many other elements of a night out, being exposed to the camera will offer portraiture and portrayed another twist of the game, in which to invent a way to project their selves according to whatever narrative they may want to contract. Putting the individuals in front of the camera and lights, allows capturing the projection of whatever they want to show.
sexta-feira, dezembro 09, 2011
Mark Romanek, 2010. Com base no romance de Kazuo Ishiguro (2005).
I don't know if the fantasy go beyond that, I can't let it. I remind myself I was lucky to have had any time with him at all. What I'm not sure about, is if our lives have been so different from the lives of the people we save. We all complete. Maybe none of us really understand what we've lived through, or feel we've had enough time.