Thu, May 31st - 6:19AM

(dedicated to)

you are the sun
the sweet breeze
of a calm
afternoon,
the sweet splendor
of a falling summer
made with dreams
from some child's
inspirations,
you are above
the colours of all skys
and all the spleens of souls
of all intentions
you are the sun
a beautiful golden
bird of
paradise
flying above all
the oceans
of time,
one rare guru of love
and warm
surrenders.

Maria**

Wed, May 30th - 6:47AM

It's raining this morning
clouds are grey and dark
and above the sky
not even a little piece of sun
is floating.
Boats are waiting,
stoped in the bay
and people walk fast
under dancing umbrellas.
We can only ear the rain
and some childs crying
(we cannot know why...)
Maybe her mother
beat her
or maybe she doesn't like
the sound of water falling.
It's raining
and i'm here quite alone
wondering
if love can survive to this day
where temperatures
are falling too.
Like if the heart of Summer
was dying.

Mon, May 28th - 2:10AM

I do belive
in poetry,
ther we have all those spaces
of musical sounds
where words can
bring us
inside a world of ours.

What can a poem
do wrong
in people's life?
Can a poem destroy,
or hurt
or in any way
create pain and suffering?

Can a poem kill
a beautiful existence
as a gun
a knife
or some really acid
syllabes coming out from a dark
mouth?

If so im sorry;but I still believe in poetry

 no matter what you say 

And anyway

I do believe
in those kind forms
of expression
that touches our
spirit with leafs
of soft
colours.

So what
if a poem can kill?
I do belive in poetry
and that is my
bright
and peaceful style
of life.

Maria**

Mon, May 28th - 2:02AM

You said, "I will go to another land, I will go to another sea.
Another city will be found, better than this.
Every effort of mine is condemned by fate;
and my heart is -- like a corpse -- buried.
How long in this wasteland will my mind remain.
Wherever I turn my eyes, wherever I may look
I see the black ruins of my life here,
where I spent so many years, and ruined and wasted."

New lands you will not find, you will not find other seas.
The city will follow you. You will roam the same
streets. And you will age in the same neighborhoods;
in these same houses you will grow gray.
Always you will arrive in this city. To another land -- do not hope --
there is no ship for you, there is no road.
As you have ruined your life here
in this little corner, you have destroyed it in the whole world.


Constantine P. Cavafy (1910)

Comment (0)

Mon, May 28th - 1:57AM

(I will never forget you Love )

i cant describe how the light of the day
touches my mind
in that moment in wich i see you smiling,
how magic the perfume is
how perfect love
inspires me in every single day of my life.
you are
like a beautiful bird
trying to fly
to the highest point
of the horizon
and i cannot forget how your heart
touches the deepest point of my desire

if i would forget you love
if i would fall
into those black holes of memories
forgeting how i feel about your soul
and all the magic moments of our life
and if you forget me love,
if you would leave me
without a single word
of attention
should i'de be killed
in the very same instant dying
as a butterfly dies far from your magic.


Maria**

lagos 12.12.02

Sun, May 27th - 6:52AM

Nothing like a
good Jazz into the night
to feel
the rythm of life.

Stars
blues
bright darkness
and all those stars above.

Sounds touching me
singing
dancing all the way
around.Bodies moving
trough that music.

Touching the insanity
playing
with the spirit
of love.

Above.

Maria**

Sun, May 27th - 6:48AM

a rose grows
in places where
people don't look
to close,
they like to show themselves
but not be spied.
Petals,leafes,tones
and perfumes
love freedom and soft breezes...
Roses and words,
like poems.
Borning to be free.

Maria**

Sat, May 26th - 4:52AM

* sexus nexus lombar plexus treasure tender anxious lexicons f e e l i n g special precious and autonoumus. our body sweat dancing anonymous.

Maria**

Sat, May 26th - 4:48AM

Your smile
is like a plant
growing with a poisoned green tone.
Those feelings
poisoning my world.
I would love to
see you
going out
of my dreams
because your green
smile is killing me.But in another hand
your touch makes me
think
about some other rich
vibrant colors,
some blues shinning
above, some yellows touching
some rosed petals reminding me lovers smiles.
What can I do about
you and your form
of growing
like a plant
inside my soul
devouring all
my inner places?
I would love
to see you becoming
a different tone;
a yellow perhaps
touching
some other forms,
but you don't
and I must live
with you inside my home
showing me that
green growing form
of touching souls.

What a misery
to be forced to live
with your green tone growing
like a carnivorous plant  inside my
form of life.

Maria**

Sat, May 26th - 4:46AM

Feathers
are nothing
but feathers,they dont
dream like us.They fly.
Little
blue birds and
smiling faces.
Summer vacations
Your hand
aprouches
And the day finally awakes
im inside of you my vision.

Silence around,
one single word of his.
And joy would smile.

Maria**

Wed, May 23rd - 2:09PM

André Derain was born in Châtou, a suburb of Paris. Excellent scholar that he was, Derain had first planned to become an engineer before suddenly deciding to study art at the Académie Julian. He shared a studio with his friend Vlaminck, painted with Matisse at Collioure near Marseilles, and was a frequent visitor to the ramshackle studios on the rue Ravignan, known as the Bateau Lavoir, where his friends Braque and Picasso worked. As a Fauve Derain was principally concerned with line and color and enjoyed squeezing tubes of bright color on his canvas, particularly pinks, blues, and violets. In and around 1908, Derain turned to the study of form and structure, and experimented with Cubism, Impressionism, and the styles of van Gogh, Gauguin, and Cezanne, in an effort to find a style that pleased him.

An early interest in the Renaissance masters led him to a further study of paintings of the past and he went as far back as the Italian primitives and the Gothic masters. During his years of study he worked as a wood-engraver and illustrated many famous books, like Rabelais' "Pantagruel", a work indicative of his sensitivity to and understanding of the past. He also executed a great many sets and costumes for the Ballet Russe. In the later years of his career, after 1920, he painted brilliant still lives, classical landscapes, and some of the finest portraits of his day, although none of these were ever exhibited. Derain was a strange, moody, highly intellectual man who disliked the painting produced during his own lifetime to the extent that he retired to the country to live in almost complete solitude and seemed almost determined to be forgotten. Early in 1954, when Derain showed symptoms of eye trouble and mental incapacity, he was treated at a clinic near Paris until he became well enough to return home. Shortly thereafter he was hit by a car on his way home from a nearby garage. Derain died a few weeks later from shock.

Wed, May 23rd - 2:04PM

The New 7 Wonders of the World in Lisbon

Thursday, May 10 2007, 3:34am


On July 7, 2007, you can view history in the making as the New 7 Wonders of the World are announced in Lisbon, Portugal. The New 7 Wonders initiative began in 2001, with people from around the world nominating sites to rival ancient wonders like the Hanging Gardens of Babylon and the Colossus of Rhodes. The New 7 Wonders of the World will be announced on July 7, 2007, at a spectacular gala event broadcast via satellite from the Official Declaration ceremony in Lisbon Portugal. Which sites will take the top honors? The Acropolis? Machu Picchu? Stonehenge? The world will know on July 7, and you can be there.

http://news.bigg.net/n57212-Celebrate_the_New_7_Wonders_of_the_World_in_Lisbon.html

Tue, May 22nd - 8:19AM

Tue, May 22nd - 7:59AM

"Give me a museum and I'll fill it."

- Pablo Picasso (1881-1973)

By Robert Hughes - TIME magazine art critic To say that Pablo Picasso dominated Western art in the 20th century is, by now, the merest commonplace. Before his 50th birthday, the little Spaniard from Malaga had become the very prototype of the modern artist as public figure. No painter before him had had a mass audience in his own lifetime. The total public for Titian in the 16th century or Velazquez in the 17th was probably no more than a few thousand people--though that included most of the crowned heads, nobility and intelligentsia of Europe. Picasso's audience--meaning people who had heard of him and seen his work, at least in reproduction--was in the tens, possibly hundreds, of millions. He and his work were the subjects of unending analysis, gossip, dislike, adoration and rumor. He was a superstitious, sarcastic man, sometimes rotten to his children, often beastly to his women. He had contempt for women artists. His famous remark about women being "goddesses or doormats" has rendered him odious to feminists, but women tended to walk into both roles open-eyed and eagerly, for his charm was legendary. Whole cultural industries derived from his much mythologized virility. He was the Minotaur in a canvas-and-paper labyrinth of his own construction. He was also politically lucky. Though to Nazis his work was the epitome of "degenerate art," his fame protected him during the German occupation of Paris, where he lived; and after the war, when artists and writers were thought disgraced by the slightest affiliation with Nazism or fascism, Picasso gave enthusiastic endorsement to Joseph Stalin, a mass murderer on a scale far beyond Hitler's, and scarcely received a word of criticism for it, even in cold war America. No painter or sculptor, not even Michelangelo, had been as famous as this in his own lifetime. And it is quite possible that none ever will be again, now that the mandate to set forth social meaning, to articulate myth and generate widely memorable images has been so largely transferred from painting and sculpture to other media: photography, movies, television. Though Marcel Duchamp, that cunning old fox of conceptual irony, has certainly had more influence on nominally vanguard art over the past 30 years than Picasso, the Spaniard was the last great beneficiary of the belief that the language of painting and sculpture really mattered to people other than their devotees. And he was the first artist to enjoy the obsessive attention of mass media. He stood at the intersection of these two worlds. If that had not been so, his restless changes of style, his constant pushing of the envelope, would not have created such controversy--and thus such celebrity. In today's art world, a place without living culture heroes, you can't even imagine such a protean monster arising. His output was vast. This is not a virtue in itself--only a few paintings by Vermeer survive, and fewer still by the brothers Van Eyck, but they are as firmly lodged in history as Picasso ever was or will be. Still, Picasso's oeuvre filled the world, and he left permanent marks on every discipline he entered. His work expanded fractally, one image breeding new clusters of others, right up to his death. Moreover, he was the artist with whom virtually every other artist had to reckon, and there was scarcely a 20th century movement that he didn't inspire, contribute to or--in the case of Cubism, which, in one of art history's great collaborations, he co-invented with Georges Braque--beget. The exception, since Picasso never painted an abstract picture in his life, was abstract art; but even there his handprints lay everywhere--one obvious example being his effect on the early work of American Abstract Expressionist painters, Arshile Gorky, Jackson Pollock and Willem de Kooning, among others. Much of the story of modern sculpture is bound up with welding and assembling images from sheet metal, rather than modeling in clay, casting in bronze or carving in wood; and this tradition of the open constructed form rather than solid mass arose from one small guitar that Picasso snipped and joined out of tin in 1912. If collage--the gluing of previously unrelated things and images on a flat surface--became a basic mode of modern art, that too was due to Picasso's Cubist collaboration with Braque. He was never a member of the Surrealist group, but in the 1920s and '30s he produced some of the scariest distortions of the human body and the most violently irrational, erotic images of Eros and Thanatos ever committed to canvas. He was not a realist painter/reporter, still less anyone's official muralist, and yet Guernica remains the most powerful political image in modern art, rivaled only by some of the Mexican work of Diego Rivera. Picasso was regarded as a boy genius, but if he had died before 1906, his 25th year, his mark on 20th century art would have been slight. The so-called Blue and Rose periods, with their wistful etiolated figures of beggars and circus folk, are not, despite their great popularity, much more than pendants to late 19th century Symbolism. It was the experience of modernity that created his modernism, and that happened in Paris. There, mass production and reproduction had come to the forefront of ordinary life: newspapers, printed labels, the overlay of posters on walls--the dizzily intense public life of signs, simultaneous, high-speed and layered. This was the cityscape of Cubism. Picasso was not a philosopher or a mathematician (there is no "geometry" in Cubism), but the work he and Braque did between 1911 and 1918 was intuitively bound to the perceptions of thinkers like Einstein and Alfred North Whitehead: that reality is not figure and void, it is all relationships, a twinkling field of interdependent events. Long before any Pop artists were born, Picasso latched on to the magnetism of mass culture and how high art could refresh itself through common vernaculars. Cubism was hard to read, willfully ambiguous, and yet demotic too. It remains the most influential art dialect of the early 20th century. As if to distance himself from his imitators, Picasso then went to the opposite extreme of embracing the classical past, with his paintings of huge dropsical women dreaming Mediterranean dreams in homage to Corot and Ingres. His "classical" mode, which he would revert to for decades to come, can also be seen as a gesture of independence. After his collaboration with Braque ended with his comment that "Braque is my wife"--words that were as disparaging to women as to Braque--Picasso remained a loner for the rest of his career. But a loner with a court and maitresses en titre. He didn't even form a friendship with Henri Matisse until both artists were old. His close relationships tended to be with poets and writers. Though the public saw him as the archetypal modernist, he was disconnected from much modern art. Some of the greatest modern painters--Kandinsky, for instance, or Mondrian--saw their work as an instrument of evolution and human development. But Picasso had no more of a Utopian streak than did his Spanish idol, Goya. The idea that art evolved, or had any kind of historical mission, struck him as ridiculous. "All I have ever made," he once said, "was made for the present and in the hope that it will always remain in the present. When I have found something to express, I have done it without thinking of the past or the future." Interestingly, he also stood against the Expressionist belief that the work of art gains value by disclosing the truth, the inner being, of its author. "How can anyone enter into my dreams, my instincts, my desires, my thoughts ... and above all grasp from them what I have been about--perhaps against my own will?" he exclaimed. To make art was to achieve a tyrannous freedom from self-explanation. The artist's work was mediumistic ("Painting is stronger than me, it makes me do what it wants"), solipsistic even. To Picasso, the idea that painting did itself through him meant that it wasn't subject to cultural etiquette. None of the other fathers of Modernism felt it so strongly--not Matisse, not Mondrian, certainly not Braque. In his work, everything is staked on sensation and desire. His aim was not to argue coherence but to go for the strongest level of feeling. He conveyed it with tremendous plastic force, making you feel the weight of forms and the tension of their relationships mainly by drawing and tonal structure. He was never a great colorist, like Matisse or Pierre Bonnard. But through metaphor, he crammed layers of meaning together to produce flashes of revelation. In the process, he reversed one of the currents of modern art. Modernism had rejected storytelling: what mattered was formal relationships. But Picasso brought it back in a disguised form, as a psychic narrative, told through metaphors, puns and equivalences. The most powerful element in the story--at least after Cubism--was sex. The female nude was his obsessive subject. Everything in his pictorial universe, especially after 1920, seemed related to the naked bodies of women. Picasso imposed on them a load of feeling, ranging from dreamy eroticism (as in some of his paintings of his mistress Marie-Therese Walter in the '30s) to a sardonic but frenzied hostility, that no Western artist had made them carry before. He did this through metamorphosis, recomposing the body as the shape of his fantasies of possession and of his sexual terrors. Now the hidden and comparatively decorous puns of Cubism (the sound holes of a mandolin, for instance, becoming the mask of Pierrot) came out of their closet. "To displace," as Picasso described the process, "to put eyes between the legs, or sex organs on the face. To contradict. Nature does many things the way I do, but she hides them! My painting is a series of cock-and-bull stories." There seems little doubt that the greatest of Picasso's work came in the 30 years between Les Demoiselles d'Avignon (1907) and Guernica (1937). But of course he didn't decline into triviality. Consistently through the war years and the '50s, and even now and then in the '60s and '70s, he would produce paintings and prints of considerable power. Sometimes they would be folded into series of variations on the old masters and 19th century painters he needed to measure himself against, such as Velazquez and Goya, or Poussin, Delacroix, Manet and Courbet. In his last years particularly, his production took on a manic and obsessive quality, as though the creative act (however repetitious) could forestall death. Which it could not. His death left the public with a nostalgia for genius that no talent today, in the field of painting, can satisfy.   TIME art critic Robert Hughes is the author of The Fatal Shore and American Visions Article from the TIME 100 - The Most Important People of the 20th Century