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جوری که دنیا رو میبینم. Contact : @Dimitte
حالا، در این صبح ساکت و عجیب، برگشته‌ام به این فیلم و این تِرَک که چهارده سال پیش، صدای غمگینِ پس‌زمینه‌ی روز و شبم بود.
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زنی‌ست نشسته نیمه‌برهنه، بر لبه‌ی زمان.
نه به تمامی زن است، نه به تمامی مرد. آزاد شده از قالب جنسیت. چهره‌اش آرام است، ولی چشم‌هایش خواب را نمی‌فهمند.
دستی از بالا آمده. نه برای نوازش، و خشونت؛ بلکه برای ساکت‌کردنِ حقیقت. دهانش را لمس می‌کند، انگار که زبانش، واگیرترین بیماری جهان است. او سال‌هاست که صدا ندارد، اما صدایش هنوز در آجرهای دیوارها پیچیده. پستان کوچکش در سکوتی کامل نمایان شده. خالی از بند شهوت و شیر. تنها نشانه‌ای‌ست از انسانیتی که دیگر در ما نیست. او آخرین حاملِ غریزه است، پیکر نیمه‌مقدسِ زنی که می‌توانست در آغوش اسطوره زنده بماند. ولی مدرنیته از راه رسید. با نورهای سفید، سقف‌های کاذب، و زبانی که همه‌چیز را تعریف کرد. او را هم تعریف کردند: زن، همسر، مادر، فاحشه، فرشته.. و از آن پس، دست‌ها همیشه از بالا آمدند و نور مقدس ِخفه‌کننده همیشه روی سرش سایه انداخت.
زنی‌ست نشسته. خالی از میل و کینه.
با اوست آن چیزی که هزاران سال در تهی‌ترین خلأها جان گرفته: امر مقدس شوم.
Panting by Dino Valls.
Daniele Sartori: A Guy sitting at the Window and Lighting up a Cigarette in the Neighbourhood of Montmartre, Paris, 2010.
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Fransisco de Goya - War Scene - ca. 1808/12. It lives in the National Museum of Fine Arts, Argentina.
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Skeletons Fighting over a Hanged Man is an Expressionist Oil on Canvas Painting created by James Ensor in 1891. It lives at the Royal Museum of Fine Arts Antwerp in Belgium.
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The Assassination is an Expressionist Oil on Canvas Painting created by James Ensor in 1890. It lives at the Columbus Museum of Art in the United States.
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Christ's Entry into Brussels in 1889 is an Expressionist Oil on Canvas Painting created by James Ensor in 1888. It lives at the The J. Paul Getty Museum in the United States.
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Ensor was a classically trained painter, graduating at age 20 from the Académie Royale des Beaux-Arts in Brussels, but his work immediately and powerfully swerved nasty. While contemporary painters like Pierre-Auguste Renoir painted girls practicing piano, and Cézanne meditated on apples and pears, James Ensor painted skeletons fighting over the corpse of a hanged man. Ensor’s work is scary even now, almost seventy years after his death. Livid colors, grotesque expressions, and unstable composition, and those damn masks. Always with the masks.Читать полностью…
Ensor is a tough personality to read. He lived and worked in the attic of his parent’s home in Brussels, so it’s tempting to label him a shut-in. But in 1883 he co-founded Les XX, a liberal art collective of twenty Belgian artists. Les XX held an annual show, where Ensor exhibited alongside artists like, Paul Gauguin, Paul Cézanne, and Vincent van Gogh. This social and national exposure isn't the behavior of a hermit, and later in his life Ensor gave speeches introducing artists and writers for exhibition openings.
It’s these public addresses that hint at the motivation behind Ensor’s wild, crude and alarming work. MOMA curator Anna Swinbourne describes Ensor as having a ‘wicked sense of humor’ and a ‘deep interest in carnival and performance’—and there it is. James Ensor loved to entertain, to shock, horrify, confound. He cross-dresses in self portraits, paints kings shitting on the commoners, and the human heads served for dinner, all with the morbid grin of his favorite skull.
تنها دروغی که دلم می‌خواهد باور کنم، جمله‌‌ایست که زن و مرد توی فیلم، در هر بار زندگی به یکدیگر می‌گویند؛ "Together we will live forrever". بخاطر این جمله‌ی غمگین، می‌توانم شبانه روز آسمان‌ها و زمین را غرق در اشک کنم.
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Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
The Violin Concerto No. 3 in G major٫ K. 216٫ in 3 Movements
Herbert von Karajan and (BPO)
Yes, I’m thinking about him. But I recognize the self who has just done something horrible like a sister I’ve casually met on the street! Hello, Sister.
It’s like there’s two sisters of Faith and.. Chance..
My Faith can’t exclude Chance, but my Chance.. Well, it’s like there’s two sisters of Faith and Chance.. My Faith can’t exclude Chance, but my Chance can’t explain Faith.
My Faith didn’t allow me to wait for Chance, and Chance didn’t give me enough Faith..
And then I read that private life is a stage, only I’m playing in many parts that are smaller than me, and.. yet I still play them, I suffer, I believe, I am!
But at the same time I know there’s a third possibility, like cancer, or madness..The possibility I’m talking about pierces reality..
You’re looking at me as if to tell me that I need you to fill me up, as if I’m an empty space.
Well, I love you too, but what makes me go on is to know he’ll return, and I’ll make him suffer.. I’ll hurt him.. I’m betraying him, but this brings me small rewards.
I can’t exist by myself because I’m afraid of myself. Because I’m the maker of my own evil. Because I’m … Goodness is only some kind of reflection upon evil."
– A monologue from Anna, Possession, 1981.
We are all deranged, we take for real what is not so. A living man as such is mad and blind both: Incapable of discerning the illusory aspect of things, he sees solidity, fullness, everywhere. If by some miracle he happens to see the truth, he lays himself open to vacuity and flourishes there. Richer than the reality it replaces, vacuity takes the place of everything without everything; it is basis and absence, abyssal variant of being. But to our misery, we regard it as a deficiency; whence our fears and our failures. What is vacuity for us after all? At most a diaphanous impasse, an impalpable inferno.
– Emil Cioran, The New Gods.
Thomas Burke, The nightmare after Fuseli, published in London by R. J. Smith, 1783.
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آه ستاره‌ی صبح! همیشه تو را در غروبهایی کاذب دیده بودم. نمی‌دانستم که به سکون می‌نشستی و غروب را نگاه می‌کردی تو هم و زل می‌زدی به این خستگی‌ها. خورشید می‌رفت اما تو نظاره‌گر این جانها بودی که خسته‌تن بودند و خسته‌دل به بسترشان برمی‌گشتند. تمام روز از خسته‌دلیشان با خسته کردن تن می‌گریزند و آخر که با خودشان تنها می‌شوند آوار بلا و غم که رد پایشان را بو کشیده، دنبالشان می‌کند؛ انگاری اِرینی‌هایی‌‌اند که رخت تمدن را هنوز به خود ندیده‌اند و سراسیمه به دنبال انتقام‌اند. انتقام اما از چه؟ زندگیِ نکرده و فرارهای دائم از خواهش دل، انتقام از تمام دقایقی که از تن به تن مردمان خود را دور کرده‌اند تا مگر با روی آوردن به انزوا زخمِ دیگران را نبینند، و دیگر، انتقام از کارهایی که فقط به اجبار میکنند تا فقط بیکار نباشند و شب شود. اما هر شب تو می‌دیدی که چه سخت به بستر می‌روند و چه سخت می‌خوابند چون تمام روزشان تنها فرار بوده و هر چه که از آن فرار کرده‌اند را با چاقویی تیزتر بالای سر می‌بینند.
اینک اما در شرق، ایستاده‌ای تا آمدن سپیده‌دمی با انگشتانی پشت‌گلی را نوید دهی.
من که از شب پیش بیدار نشسته‌ام میدانم که آمدن روز تنها انداختن جبّه‌ی نوریست بر تمامی این غم‌ها و سرکوبشان؛ تنها موکول کردن غم است تا تاریکی. فقط در این زمان‌ست که میدانم چرا تو همان «بد بیوه‌گرگِ قحبه‌ی بی‌غمی» و بالاترین نفرینها را برایت میفرستم تا هیچ گاهِ دیگری «شاهد عهد شباب» من نباشی. دیگر نمیخواهم تو را با لباسی لاجوردی و لبخندی به لب ببینم که گوشواره‌ی طلایی گوش راستت نشانی از صبح کاذب به من و نشانی از پگاهان من بدهد.
Death and the Masks is an Expressionist Oil on Canvas Painting created by James Ensor in 1888. It lives at the The Museum of Modern Art, New York.
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Man of Sorrows is an Expressionist Oil on Canvas Painting created by James Ensor in 1891. It lives at the Royal Museum of Fine Arts Antwerp in Belgium.
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The Dangerous Cooks is an Expressionist Oil on Panel, Gouache and Pencil Painting created by James Ensor in 1896. It lives in a private collection.
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The Intrigue is an Expressionist Oil on Canvas Painting created by James Ensor in 1890. It lives at the Royal Museum of Fine Arts Antwerp in Belgium.
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Only insofar as we do not know ourselves is it possible for us to realize and to produce ourselves. Fruitful is the man who is mistaken as to the motives of his actions, who resists weighing his qualities and defects, who foresees and dreads the impasse into which the exact view of our capacities leads us. The creator who becomes transparent to himself no longer creates: to know oneself is to smother one’s endowments and one’s demon.
– Emil Cioran, The New Gods.
"Contentment" by maxfield parrish, 1927.
[A dear friend of mine has sent this image to me and said: "That's how l imagine you and your mom." I am blessed.]
She has no body as others have. People have no meaning to her. She has no answer for them. Her mind steps into emptiness, alone.
– Virginia Woolf, The Waves.
The Conqueror Worm
Edgar Allan Poe
Lo! ’t is a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly—
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Wo!
That motley drama—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see, amid the mimic rout,
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.
Out—out are the lights—out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”
And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.