Marc-Édouard Nabe discusses his latest book (L'homme qui arrêta d'écrire)
which I blogged about and ordered
but am still waiting for it to arrive...
Marc-Edouard Nabe face à Taddeï 1/3
envoyé par prince_de_conde. - L'actualité du moment en vidéo.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
I dedicate this humble translation - which doesn't even begin to do justice to the original - to all the men and women who have dedicated their lives (and paid the highest price) to social justice and equality.
This song was written during the dictatorship in Brasil (1964-1984), under censorship, which might explain the lyrics' allusive quality. It sketches the life of many men and women who went underground, changed identity many times, and ended up getting killed resisting tyranny.
(A.C. Jobim/Paulo César Pinheiro)
No jardim das rosas
De sonho e medo
Pelos canteiros de espinhos e flores
Lá, quero ver você
Olerê, Olará, você me pegar
In the garden of roses
of dream and fear
Through the thorn and flower ridden plots
There, I want to see you
Catch me
Madrugada fria de estranho sonho
Acordou João, cachorro latia
João abriu a porta
O sonho existia
Cold night of strange dream
Awoke John, a dog was barking
John opened the door
The dream existed
Que João fugisse
Que João partisse
Que João sumisse do mundo
De nem Deus achar, Ierê
That John would run away
That John would leave
That John would vanish in the world
That not even God would find him
Manhã noiteira de força viagem
Leva em dianteira um dia de vantagem
Folha de palmeira apaga a passagem
O chão, na palma da mão, o chão, o chão
Gloomy morning forcing the voyage
Bringing it further, a whole day ahead
Palmtree leaf erases the trail
The ground in the palm of a hand, the ground, the ground
E manhã redonda de pedras altas
Cruzou fronteira de servidão
Olerê, quero ver
Olerê
Full morning of tall mountains
Crossed the frontier of servitude
I want to see
E por maus caminhos de toda sorte
Buscando a vida, encontrando a morte
Pela meia rosa do quadrante Norte
João, João
Through the luckiest bad paths
Searching for life, finding death
In the North quadrant of a compass rose
John, John
Um tal de Chico chamado Antônio
Num cavalo baio que era um burro velho
Que na barra fria já cruzado o rio
Lá vinha Matias cujo o nome é Pedro
Aliás Horácio, vulgo Simão
Lá um chamado Tião
Chamado João
A certain Frank called Anthony
On a bay horse that was an old donkey
Who by the cold shoal having crossed the river
There came Mathias whose name was Peter
Also known as Horace, sometimes called Simon
Now a man named Sebastian
Called John
Recebendo aviso entortou caminho
De Nor-Nordeste pra Norte-Norte
Na meia vida de adiadas mortes
Um estranho chamado João
Warned, detoured
From north-north-east to north-north
In the half-life of postponed deaths
A stranger called John
No clarão das águas
No deserto negro
A perder mais nada
Corajoso medo
Lá quero ver você
In the waters' clarity
In the dark desert
Nothing more to lose
Brave fear
There I want to see you
Por sete caminhos de setenta sortes
Setecentas vidas e sete mil mortes
Esse um, João, João
E deu dia claro
E deu noite escura
E deu meia-noite no coração
Olerê, quero ver
Olerê
Through seven paths of seventy chances
Seven hundred lives and seven thousand deaths
This one John, John
And the day shone
And the night fell
And it was midnight in his heart
I want to see
Passa sete serras
Passa cana brava
No brejo das almas
Tudo terminava
No caminho velho onde a lama trava
Lá no todo-fim-é-bom
Se acabou João
Passing the mountain range
Passing the wild sugarcane
On the heath of souls
Everything ended
On that old path where the mud brakes
There where all ends are good
Ended John
No Jardim das rosas
De sonho e medo
No clarão das águas
No deserto negro
Lá, quero ver você
Lerê, lará
Você me pegar
In the rose Garden
Of dream and fear
In the waters' clarity
In the dark desert
There, I want to see you
Catch me
iHasta la Victoria, Siempre!
Obrigada, Maestro.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Yesterday we finally went to this museum where I've been wanting to go since last year. In fact what I really wanted was to go to Morocco and see what Delacroix saw while he was there but... realizing this is more complicated and expensive to arrange, the museum became a suitable alternative.
The building by itself is already worth the visit. It is one of the places where Delacroix lived in Paris; there is an intimate feel in there. I stood in the bedroom where he slept. Looked out the window, onto the little courtyard with a small garden, next to his atelier. There were few people visiting so the experience became more intense.
Unfortunately they don't allow us to take photos inside the museum. I wanted to photograph not the paintings, but the rooms, a few decorative details, and a bust of Dx right at the entrance, at the top of the stairs. Nevertheless, I took a few photos of the outside, because the house is off a very calm street in the 6th arrondissement (rue Furstenberg) which gives the place an aura of old provincial bourgeoisie. Instead of intimidating, it's inviting and impressive at the same time.
Everything impressed me: the paintings, the drawings, the decoration, the texts explaining some of the studies, especially the ones in his atelier (study on muscles- delicate, precise).
Still, what struck me the most was the overall feeling that particular collection gives off. Room after room, the sequence of paintings-- with its apex in the atelier-- tells us a great deal about raw violence and sexuality. Physical power, untamable, intense unconscious beauty. There is also something slightly cruel in the depiction of these themes. It's almost as if we're being told that no matter how much we try, we can only hope to be civilized, because an unspeakable force lives in us which can't be totally silenced.
Horse Attacked by Tiger surprised me by its size; it's very small, the size of a paperback book, and yet its theme is huge, violent, unapologetic. It invaded my brain like the light of day invades one's eyes in the morning. The thinnest slit lets in a universe of brightness.
I wish I had known this man.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Hoje
Eu quero escrever e escrever. O tempo todo. Mas sobre o que? Não quero falar de mim como mais uma estrela cadente, decadente, pos-moderna, auto-centrada.
No entanto, tudo que escrevemos é um reflexo de quem somos. Então pra' quê fingir?
A sutileza da metafora... as camadas sobrepostas são mais poéticas, certo, do que a luz do dia brilhando na cara da gente, nos fazendo fechar os olhos à la Clint Eastwood, fazer careta pra não queimar a retina.
Não é ser vago querer ser menos brutal. É querer ascender uma vela pra iluminar calmamente a realidade ao invés de ligar o holofote.
E ainda assim...
Ha' coisas que não resistem à clareza. Ser aberto e direto é mais dificil, mas libera. Liberta.
E de quê falo?
Isso pode se aplicar à muita coisa, não somente questões pessoais mas também à apreciação artistica, literaria... Porém, talvez sobretudo às relações humanas, tanto amigaveis quanto amorosas e/ou familiares.
Ser direto é mais difìcil, mais doloroso às vezes.
Mas liberta.
Ser oblìquo é menos egoìsta, mas mais trabalhoso. Requer mais memoria, mais maquinação. Mas poupa. O outro, à si proprio; todos. E porque cargas d'agua terìamos que dizer TODA a verdade o tempo todo? Temos a liberdade de pensar e de querer, porquê não de agir também, até certo ponto, sem que ninguém saiba?
O que os olhos não vêm o coração não sente.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Spring Comes To Murray Hill
I sit in an office at 244 Madison Avenue
And say to myself You have a responsible job havenue?
Why then do you fritter away your time on this doggerel?
If you have a sore throat you can cure it by using a good goggeral,
If you have a sore foot you can get it fixed by a chiropodist,
And you can get your original sin removed by St. John the Bopodist,
Why then should this flocculent lassitude be incurable?
Kansas City, Kansas, proves that even Kansas City needn't always be
Missourible.
Up up my soul! This inaction is abominable.
Perhaps it is the result of disturbances abdominable.
The pilgrims settled Massachusetts in 1620 when they landed on a stone
hummock.
Maybe if they were here now they would settle my stomach.
Oh, if I only had the wings of a bird
Instead of being confined on Madison Avenue I could soar in a jiffy to
Second or Third.
Ogden Nash
Friday, March 19, 2010
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Culture vs Art
These two concepts have always seemed antithetical in my mind.
Perhaps what distinguishes them the most for me is the inherent quality of a piece (of music, sculpture, painting, etc.) objectively speaking. Because there is such a thing as objectivity in assessing beauty in art. Just as there are rules in mathematics (not a hard science), so there are in music, painting, and all the fine arts.
I'd hate to give the impression that I hold the truth, but here my desire is to share a few thoughts about how culture, generally speaking, and "pop" culture in particular (read: postmodernism, broadly; the end of structuralism) effectively means there is no standard anymore, no canon of beauty, no yardstick.
I'd also hate to give the impression that the issue is a simple one, that anyone with a brain can agree with me after careful consideration, so I'll try my best to explain why I believe art has been displaced by culture, using political and economic ideology/concepts in order to do so.
My opinion about contemporary (or postmodern) "art" is that it's mainly a collection of soulless objects, whose main purpose is to convey a message, political or societal, and not an authentic emotional/spiritual experience. The emphasis on originality (as opposed to authenticity) is a clear indication of this. One isn't merely required to produce something which attempts to elevate the mind or soul of human beings. No. One is required to produce something which will make people think -- which is fine -- but more often than not, this process already has within it the conclusions at which one is suppose to arrive. The message IS the piece. There is no escaping it, no room for debate (intellectual or emotional); to not like contemporary art becomes almost a cultural crime. Barbaric. Because it is the embodiment of contemporary mores, so disliking it means one's either reactionary, not very bright, or a bigot. Or all three!
The way contemporary art is financed is another indication of its lack of substance. By and large, it is money made off of money which finances it. It's money made from ether, not linked to any actual production, creation, utility; no real economic growth comes from it, merely artificially bloated Mickey Mouse 'growth'.
It's the perfect marriage: vacuous pseudo-art financed by make-believe, virtual money.
This is merely the setting for a more subtle structure.
People have been working more and more since the 1970s; perhaps not more hours but certainly they've been dedicating a lot more energy to their jobs, while their real wages stagnate at best, fall in most cases.
Everyone knows that All Work and No Play makes Jack a Dull Boy; when workers are too unhappy, they tend to rebel, so something has to be done about it.
Enters culture and its "democratization".
Something which can be consumed in the time it takes most Western workers (especially the Anglo-Americans) to eat their pre-packaged lunches, so half an hour at the most. One can't in all honesty argue that art can be prepackaged in such a way. It isn't that one must be stupendously well-educated in order to appreciate beauty, no. But it does take a certain dedication to it in order to recognize it when we see it. It's rare that someone can become an accomplished classical pianist for example without putting in the work-- i.e. several hours every day. Talent alone does not suffice.
Similarly, a bit of talent or sensibility alone do not provide all the tools an average person needs to be able to spot and fully appreciate art. But it's enough to grasp culture.
Culture, then, is ersatz art. It's pseudo-art for "the wo/man on the go". For the "upwardly mobile professional" who has no time to dedicate to something which will not get him/her closer to the top. For the average worker, who has no time either -- and when s/he does, s/he's too tired to spend it thinking, learning, reading anything which will require an effort-- culture gives one the impression of spending time on themselves. It's "me time", but it rarely is because it does not do what art does.
And what is that?
Well, I think art leaves one with a clear sense of having internalized something new and different, something authentic and enriching. It doesn't enter the category of "guilty pleasures". Whichever -- whether it's written, played, or built, it changes one's outlook (even if it's in a small way), makes the world seem bigger and more powerful, and usually it makes one feel lighter. It's time spent trying to become a better listener, reader, critic, person, friend. To me, it improves at the same time as it entertains. But the kind of entertainment provided by art is not mindless; it's engaged and aware. Its essential quality is it makes us forget ourselves, even if it's for a fraction of a second. It does not promote navel-gazing. Rather, it opens windows, eyes, and hearts to the world, to other humans, to nature, to philosophy, and so many other things I will spare you now because I have gone on far too long and there isn't a single joke in this post!
PS Of course there is nothing wrong with liking something one knows to be objectively bad. I do!
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Yesterday Evening
We went to a Chopin recital at the Saint Julien-le-Pauvre church, near the Notre-Dame. This is the oldest church in Paris; its main nave dates back to the XII century. Most interesting about this church is the fact it's a Greek Catholic church, something one doesn't see often (outside of Greece, presumably...I don't know because I've not been to Greece.)
It's a charming little nave with reasonably good accoustics and the setting is just perfect for a recital of this kind.
One hiccup: they overheated the place so much that I heard people not wanting to sit nearer the piano because of it. Being used to stupid heat myself, I didn't mind it too much once I removed my coat.
The Recital
Was gorgeous. But of course I wouldn't be happy if I didn't find at least one thing wrong with it, so... She (Junko Okazaki) opened with Ballade op. 23 (v good indeed) then moved on to two waltzes, the first of which was "Minute" and here I thought she went far too fast during the more delicate bits. The second to last piece she played was Berceuse and I was enchanted to hear it, because it was the first time I noticed something: it's jazz! Sacré Chopin! Clearly enunciates the theme, then improvises the rest while maintaining theme consistently with left hand! Obviously it isn't really improvised, but it sounds like it is. I'd probably be shot down in flames and burnt at the stake if a classical music or jazz purist read this but...it's how I heard it. The first encore was Tristesse op. 10 which thoroughly melted me, especially as I wasn't expecting it.
So I was most satisfied and feeling light when I left.
Art's role.
Yesterday
Was an exceptionally beautiful, crisp day. This is the view from my window at 7am. As I sipped my first cup of coffee and looked outside to see if the café was open so I could buy some cigs, I saw this modern picturesque composition. The purpose of these lines of smoke some airplanes make escapes me, and I've a nagging suspicion it's probably not Something Good. Still, it's very pretty!
Monday, March 15, 2010
Paris(ian) Love(r)
Take, say, a rainy day.
While the sun is kept away
by clouds, one can still glimpse
that fiery beauty hidden behind
if only through the odd glints
of light, concealing a clandestine if bright
desire,
To see oneself reflected in
those places, these faces--
at times marching sternly, quickly;
inexorably though calmly
betraying daily the need to persuade
that they are you and you they
fraternally.
Paris, Lutèce, come what may-
Eternal! You'll convey
The light which feeds the soul
of the young, middle-aged or old
in a timeless way
when it's hot or too cold
in perfect symmetry.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
I feel like another Larkin poem today, after thinking and talking about having children. Not everyone was born to accomplish this most thankless task, and I think I'm one of the people who should not have children.
Here it is:
This Be the Verse
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Confess
For some reason I feel the need to go to confession this weekend. It's something I haven't done since ... 1992, the first and only time I did it. Perhaps it has something to do with my having gone to the Sacre-Cœur Thursday and seeing the confessionary there. Empty, lonely, forgotten. Pristine. Christine. --
I'll do the next best thing -- seeing it is 8AM on a Saturday. I'll share a poem which is considered by Christopher Hitchens (whose atheist activism precedes him) to be the most beautiful one in the English language.
by Philip Larkin
Friday, March 12, 2010
Anybody there?
Paris or any big city has something tremendously cruel about the life one ends up leading in the pursuit of cosmopolitan open-mindedness and exciting kultural life.
We've had a relative of mine over this week and they were supposed to go back home tonight. They left it too late and ended up arriving at the airport after check-in had closed. So now they're on their way back, the reason why I'm still up at 20 past midnight. Not that I fear turning into a pumpkin, no, but I want to be asleep after being up for 19 hours.
Another, secondary reason why I'm still not asleep -- and wouldn't have been even if the relative in question had managed to board his flight -- is due to one of my next door neighbours (NDNs).
About 3 hours ago I heard a really loud knock on a door and thought it was my cousin at my door, so I went and opened it. It turned out to have been the 4th floor neighbour knocking frantically at my NDN's door because the radio or television or god-knows-what had been left on really loud for the last 24 hrs. I hadn't noticed it at all, but that might have something to do with the fact I've been listening to my iPod really loud for a week, even when I'm in the flat, so I've been a bit disconnected from the world.
Anyway - my point is... How sad that someone can be dead in his flat for days and if he doesn't have the impoliteness to leave the music/tele on really loud no one notices. I don't know his first name. We've exchanged a few words on occasion (rarely) and I know he's a researcher at some appalling (but necessary) bureaucracy; I know he wears glasses and lives in Bordeaux with his family, and only spends a few nights in Paris per month, hence the 9 sq-metre garçonnière.
The 4th floor neighbour finally called the police. They showed up and knocked and knocked and still no answer. I half-expected (and could almost see it in my mind's eye) them to shout "little pig little pig let me in" but they didn't. The 2nd door neighbour, a cheerful but deeply unpleasant woman in her 60s-- perhaps the only specimen that shows this particular combination of traits--, giggled when one of the police officers asked us to be quiet so she could hear the noise coming from inside the flat, and at that very moment of suspense her partner's radio went off.
They called the fire department. So at 11PM on a Thursday evening, already in my pyjamas, I go out onto the landing and see several (necessarily) good looking firemen going up a ladder trying to peek into this poor man's flat. They all interview us tiresomely (we said the exact same thing to all of them and yet they kept asking the same questions) and when I notice this is going to go on forever I decide to come back inside where at least it's warm(er).
All's well that ends well. He wasn't in. He'd left his radio on. It wasn't even playing music, it was a dull talk radio.
I had this image in my mind for a few hours that this poor man was going to be found in his cold flat, listening to mediocre talk radio and then... the horror... I remembered I listen to it, too, most mornings. The shame. The fatal shame!
How sad...
No one would have known anything about him and his dreams or where exactly he worked, apart from his family back in Bordeaux, but why would they care to inform us, his unknown neighbours, about it? We didn't even bother to find out his name.
He didn't bother to find out our names either.
City cruelty.
I'm going to buy him a cake next time I see him, and ask him about his family and his job. He will think I've gone bonkers and might end up getting a restraining order against me.
City irony.
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