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19 Feb

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MY PAINTINGS

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the master

The Master – Collage and acrylic on paper – 2013

Annunci

L’albero di Carnot (Carnot’s Tree)

28 Gen

WP_000274

 

collage, acrylic and coffee on paper 31,5×37,5 cm 2012

Happy New Bomb (?)

29 Dic

***

“Hell Broke Luce”

I had a good home but I left
I had a good home but I left, right, left
That big fucking bomb made me deaf, deaf
A Humvee mechanic put his Kevlar on wrong
I guarantee you’ll meet up with a suicide bomb
Hell broke luce Hell broke luce
Big fucking ditches in the middle of the road
You pay a hundred dollars just for fillin’ in the hole
Listen to the general every goddamn word
How many ways can you polish up a turd
Left, right, left, left, right
Left, right
Hell broke luce Hell broke luce Hell broke luce
How is it that the only ones responsible for making this mess
Got their sorry asses stapled to a goddamn desk
Hell broke luce Hell broke luce
Left, right, left
What did you do before the war?
I was a chef, I was a chef
What was your name?
It was Geoff, Geoff
I lost my buddy and I wept, wept
I come down from the meth
So I slept, slept
I had a good home but I left, left
Pantsed at the wind for a joke
I pranced right in with the dope
Glanced at her shin she said nope
Left, right, left
Nimrod Bodfish have you any wool
Get me another body bag the body bag’s full
My face was scorched, scorched
I miss my home I miss my porch, porch
Left, right, left
Can I go home in March? March
My stanch was a chin full of soap
That rancid dinner with the pope
Left, right, left
Kelly Presutto got his thumbs blown off
Sergio’s developing a real bad cough
Sergio’s developing a real bad cough
Hell broke luce Hell broke luce Hell broke luce
Boom went his head away
And boom went Valerie
What the hell was it that the president said?
Give him a beautiful parade instead
Left, right, leftWhen I was over here I never got to vote
I left my arm in my coat
My mom she died and never wrote
We sat by the fire and ate a goat
Just before he died he had a toke
Now I’m home and I’m blind
And I’m broke
What is next?

TOM WAITS – KATHLEEN BRENNAN (ANTI – Records)

***

post scriptum

Questa canzone antimilitarista è probabilmente dedicata al soldato americano Jeff Lucey che si tolse la vita dopo che tornò in patria dall’Iraq . Il titolo è un gioco di parole costruito sull’idioma “all hell broke loose” , cioè “si è scatenato un putiferio” (scoperto dopo una estenuante ricerca, spero positiva – qualunque smentita è ben accetta).

Raoul Hausmann

6 Nov

Raoul Hausmann (1886-1971)

Portraits

1 Nov

Marlene Dumas – Pasolini

Sakamoto – forbidden colors

***

Nicholas Cristiakov – il ritratto nero

Terjie Rypdal – charisma

***

Andy Warhol -Ritratto di Jean Michel Basquiat

Thelonious Monk – round midnight

Saramago + de Kooning

30 Ott

Se non ho altra voce per doppiare
in echi d’altri suoni il mio silenzio,
parlerò, parlerò, fino a scovare
la parola celata che mi esterni.

E la dirò, contratto, tra sterzate
di freccia che avvelena anche se stessa,
o alto mare ostruito di vascelli
dove il braccio annegato ci fa cenno.

E spingerò in fondo una radice
se la pietra perfetta la via sbarra
e lancerò in alto quanto dice
che é più albero il tronco che é più solo.

E lei dirà, parola ora scoperta,
tutti i detti del vivere consueto:
quest’ora che sconforta e che conforta,
il non vedere, il non avere, il quasi essere.

***

If I have no other voice that doubles me,
This silence of echoes of other sounds,
It is to speak, speak again, until I flay
The hidden speech of what I believe.

It is, shattered, the said between detours
From the arrow that has poisoned itself,
Or a high sea coagulated with ships
Where the drowned arm beckons us.

It’s to force a root to its base
When the rigid stone cuts off the way,
It’s to hurl all that one says
Because the more a tree is a stump—the more lonely.

It will tell, its words discovered,
Tales of the habit of living,
This hour that tightens and loosens,
The not seen, the not had, the almost being.

Willem de Kooning

Paatos – Gasoline

Edvard Munch

29 Ott

Quando dipingo non penso mai alla vendita. La gente non capisce che noi dipingiamo al fine di sperimentare e sviluppare noi stessi poiché ci sforziamo per altezze superiori.

When I paint, I never think of selling. People simply fail to understand that we paint in order to experiment and to develop ourselves as we strive for greater heights.

Edvard Munch

Pubertà – 1895

Edvard Munch

Agata

22 Ott

The Cure – the love cats

Elton John – Honky Cat

Fred Penner – the cat came back

photos by  ©Antonio Occulto

Mario Sironi

19 Ott

Nudo con albero 1930 Olio su tela 80×60 cm 

Mario Sironi (Sassari 1885 – Milano 1961)

Incarnate devil – Dylan Thomas

16 Ott
Il diavolo incarnato in un serpente parlante,
Le pianure dell’Asia centrale il suo giardino,
 Nel tempo in formazione il cerchio punse e svegliò,
In forme di peccato inforcò e trasse la mela barbuta;
E là Iddio passeggiava, sviolinante guardiano,
 E suonava perdono dalla celeste collina.
Quando eravamo estranei alla guida dei mari,
 La luna manufatta semi-sacra in una nuvola,
I saggi raccontano che gli dèi del giardino
Bene e male intrecciarono a un albero orientale;
E quando la luna come vento mutevole sorgeva
Era nera come la bestia, e pallida più della croce.
Nel nostro Eden conoscemmo il guardiano segreto
In acque consacrate che nessun gelo potrebbe indurire,
E nei possenti mattini della terra;
L’inferno in un corno di zolfo e in un mito bisulco,
E tutto il paradiso in una mezzanotte del sole,
Un serpente sviolinava nel tempo in formazione.

***

 Incarnate devil 

Incarnate devil in a talking snake,
The central plains of Asia in his garden,
In shaping-time the circle stung awake,
In shapes of sin forked out the bearded apple,
And God walked there who was a fiddling warden
And played down pardon from the heavens’ hill.

When we were strangers to the guided seas,
A handmade moon half holy in a cloud,
The wisemen tell me that the garden gods
Twined good and evil on an eastern tree;
And when the moon rose windily it was
Black as the beast and paler than the cross.

We in our Eden knew the secret guardian
In sacred waters that no frost could harden,
And in the mighty mornings of the earth;
Hell in a horn of sulphur and the cloven myth,
All heaven in the midnight of the sun,
A serpent fiddled in the shaping-time.

Piet Mondrian – L’arbre gris

***

Rolling Stones – Sympathy for the Devil

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