September 2011
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“What reconciles me to my own death more than anything else is the image of a...”
– John Berger, from and our faces, my heart, brief as photos
via VIC!!!
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“No story is like a wheeled vehicle whose contact with the road is continuous....”
– John Berger and Jean Mohr, Another Way of Telling (cited in Eric Santner, Friedrich Hölderlin: Narrative Vigilance and the Poetic Imagination)
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Reviving the lost art of the piropo →
An American journalist describes the poetic, nostalgic, Argentinian version of the chat up line.. "I met Oscar, a vaguely creepy street artist and tango dancer. Handsome and aging, he absolutely dripped with Argentinity beneath a pale fedora and worn blazer. My question about what time the art stalls opened prompted the first piropo of my trip: For a woman as beautiful as I, he said, the stalls...
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ambedo
via dictionaryofobscuresorrows n. a kind of melacholic trance in which you become completely absorbed in vivid sensory details—raindrops skittering down a window, tall trees leaning in the wind, clouds of cream swirling in your coffee—which leads to a dawning awareness of the haunting fragility of life, a mood whose only known cure is the vuvuzela.
August 2011
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“At a certain moment, if you don’t decide to abandon a drawing in order to...”
– John Berger describes drawing seven irises in Bento’s Sketchbook (London: Verso, 2011) I think of learning tango: that after looking and copying and doing it like this and like this’ your dance ‘stops being a heap of signs and becomes a presence. Uncouth, but a presence.’...
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