31 agosto 2005

Estratégia Oblíqua para hoje

Give the game away

Helen Levitt

New York, 1981 (shoes on sidwalk), 11 x 14" gelatin silver print.

Helen Levitt born August 31, 1913, New York, New York, US.

30 agosto 2005

Estratégia Oblíqua para hoje

Do something boring

Jacques-Louis David

The Death of Socrates, 1787. Oil on canvas, 51 x 77 1/4 in. (129.5 x 196.2 cm). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

Jacques-Louis David was born 30 August 1748 in Paris, France.

29 agosto 2005

Emil Schumacher

Salangan. Öl/Holz, 170 x 250 cm. Städelsches Kunstinstitut, Frankfurt.

Emil Schumacher. Born in Hagen, Nordrhein Westfalen, Germany, 29 August 1912.

28 agosto 2005

Un certain regard


Edward Coley Burne-Jones

The Golden Stairs, 1876-1880. Oil on canvas, 105 7/8 x 46 inches (269 x 117 cm). Tate Gallery, London.

Edward Coley Burne-Jones was born in Bennetts Hill, Birmingham, U.K., the 28th August 1833.

27 agosto 2005


You may ask where economic growth is going, if it isn't showing up in wages. That's easy to answer: it's going to corporate profits, to rising health care costs and to a surge in the salaries and other compensation of executives. (Forbes reports that the combined compensation of the chief executives of America's 500 largest companies rose 54 percent last year.)
Paul Krugman, Summer of Our Discontent, The New York Times

Man Ray

Tears, 1930 - 1933. Gelatin silver print, 9 x 11 3/4 in. J.Paul Getty Museum.

Emmanuel Radnitzky was born on August 27 1890 in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

26 agosto 2005

Estratégia Oblíqua para hoje

Abandon normal instruments

Édouard Dantan

Fastening the Nets, 1885. Oil on canvas, 61 3/8 x 95 5/8 inches (156.2 x 243.2 cm).

Édouard Joseph Dantan was born on 26 August 1848 in France.

25 agosto 2005

Wayne Shorter

b. 25/08/1933

Estratégia Oblíqua para hoje

Simple subtraction

Jacob Maris

A View of a Harbor Town. Oil on canvas, 26 3/8 x 49 3/4 inches (67.2 x 126.4 cm).

Jacobus Henricus Maris. Born August 25, 1837, Den Haag, Netherlands.

24 agosto 2005

Estratégia Oblíqua para hoje

Use filters

Graham Sutherland

Crucifixion, 1946. Oil on board, 908 x 1016 mm.

Graham Vivian Sutherland was born August 24, 1903, in London, England.

23 agosto 2005

No prato

Terje Rypdal, b. 23/08/1947

Hunger's Brides

Estratégia Oblíqua para hoje


Jack Butler Yeats

Morning after Rain, 1923. Oil on canvas,610 x 914 mm.

Jack Butler Yeats was born August 23, 1871, in London, England.

22 agosto 2005

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

S`io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening.
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains.
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys.
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me.
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all--
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all--
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep. . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: " I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"--
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor--
And this, and so much more?--
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow, or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

T. S. Eliot

Claude Debussy

b. 22/08/1862

a dois:

A Educação de Max Bickford. A não perder, às 23:30.


E talvez saia assim a flor mais bela; o meu jardineiro afirma que as violetas, para terem um cheiro superior, hão mister de estrume de porco.

in Dom Casmurro, de Machado de Assis.

Estratégia Oblíqua para hoje

Try faking it!

Henri Cartier-Bresson

Hyeres, 1932

Henri Cartier-Bresson was born on August 22, 1908 in Chanteloup, Seine-et-Marne, France.

21 agosto 2005

Santo Agostinho

Ama et quod vis fac.

233rd day of the year

in Deng Ming-Dao, 365 Tao Daily Meditations.

Count Basie

b. 21/08/1904


Insensatez, de António Carlos Jobim e Vinícius de Moraes, por Robert Wyatt.

Jean-Baptiste Greuze

La malédiction paternelle: le fils ingrat, 1777. Peinture à l'huile sur toile, 130 x 162 cm. Musée du Louvre, Paris.

Jean-Baptiste Greuze, né le 21 août 1725 à Tournus en Saône-et-Loire, France.