terça-feira, 8 de fevereiro de 2011
Mestre QUERUBIM LAPA - affair # 1
I could never forget that affair from years ago. Actually, I can't.
.
The Ceramic Classes had place in huge rooms and took all the mornings long – four, five hours every day, five days a week of my teenage.
Master Querubim, usually inside the atelier, used to welcome us and we start working in the projects in progress. Then, suddenly Master Querubim wasn't there anymore. He had that kind of skill; like by magic works he evaporates as ether from the class room.
In the atelier of Design/Project Classes I used to seat having the door room behind me, just a few steps away from my back.
A couple weeks before we started a new project: create and decorate a plate/dish.
Taking pencils and papers and rubbers and tearing up lots of sketches we started working.
I get satisfied with my design – the shape and proportions… my aesthetic choices… Being true, I was really proud about the results.
Then
it was time for problems, doubts, don't knows what to do. It was supposed to glaze in it a decorative something!
That point made nothing to my nerves that week.
In a desperate act of rebellion, certain morning, quite near of the end of the class, insanely I painted in my paper, using saturated hues of gouache, a hot-green leaf of lettuce or cabbage and two enormous blood dark-red wheels of spicy pork sausage in a glossy sun-yellow fried egg.
I was ready to quit. My plate will be glazed in white, was I deciding when suddenly Master Querubim Lapa gets in the atelier quietly as a kitten.
Behind me I heard him say loudly:
– THAT’S ART! That’s art!
I almost died… the scare and the anger…
I could have killed him. I could swear he was making fun of me. I believed so for 30 years.
Last April, I told him about this affair. We never had talk about it before. With their eyes open wide and shining like a smile (not a smile, more like a laugh) he told:
– You know, my young man, by the 80's I was making a few experiences involving food. I can swear I wasn’t joking that morning. I never did such a thing! You know, one day I found at the windows of a bakery a bread with such a shape… Magnificent! I bought it and took it to a friend for being made a plaster mould and finally could be made bread in terracotta. But my friend wasn't skilful enough…
.
About my plate…
The Ceramic Classes had place in huge rooms and took all the mornings long – four, five hours every day, five days a week of my teenage.
Master Querubim, usually inside the atelier, used to welcome us and we start working in the projects in progress. Then, suddenly Master Querubim wasn't there anymore. He had that kind of skill; like by magic works he evaporates as ether from the class room.
In the atelier of Design/Project Classes I used to seat having the door room behind me, just a few steps away from my back.
A couple weeks before we started a new project: create and decorate a plate/dish.
Taking pencils and papers and rubbers and tearing up lots of sketches we started working.
I get satisfied with my design – the shape and proportions… my aesthetic choices… Being true, I was really proud about the results.
Then
it was time for problems, doubts, don't knows what to do. It was supposed to glaze in it a decorative something!
That point made nothing to my nerves that week.
In a desperate act of rebellion, certain morning, quite near of the end of the class, insanely I painted in my paper, using saturated hues of gouache, a hot-green leaf of lettuce or cabbage and two enormous blood dark-red wheels of spicy pork sausage in a glossy sun-yellow fried egg.
I was ready to quit. My plate will be glazed in white, was I deciding when suddenly Master Querubim Lapa gets in the atelier quietly as a kitten.
Behind me I heard him say loudly:
– THAT’S ART! That’s art!
I almost died… the scare and the anger…
I could have killed him. I could swear he was making fun of me. I believed so for 30 years.
Last April, I told him about this affair. We never had talk about it before. With their eyes open wide and shining like a smile (not a smile, more like a laugh) he told:
– You know, my young man, by the 80's I was making a few experiences involving food. I can swear I wasn’t joking that morning. I never did such a thing! You know, one day I found at the windows of a bakery a bread with such a shape… Magnificent! I bought it and took it to a friend for being made a plaster mould and finally could be made bread in terracotta. But my friend wasn't skilful enough…
.
About my plate…
sexta-feira, 4 de fevereiro de 2011
Florbela Espanca in ENGLISH
I found,
by chance,
that Art Beats is cached in the web of Google's spiders when people search by
FLORBELA ESPANCA IN ENGLISH.
I perceived, that way, that are people interested in English versions of Florbela's poetry.
I perceived, that way, that are people interested in English versions of Florbela's poetry.
Am I right?
[DON'T WORRY! You DON'T need to answer me!]
Let see what I can do…
Let see what I can do…
.painting by VICTOR RIBEIRO
(placed in Lisboa - Restaurante Quinta do Marquês)
Florbela Espanca in ENGLISH #2
O NOSSO AMOR
Livro do nosso amor, do nosso peito...
Abre-lhe as folhas devagar, com jeito,
Como se fossem pétalas de flor.
Olha que eu outro já não sei compor
Mais santamente triste, mais perfeito.
Não esfolhes os lírios com que é feito
Que outros não tenho em meu jardim de dor!
Livro de mais ninguém! Só meu! Só teu!
Num sorriso tu dizes e digo eu:
Versos só nossos mas que lindos sois!
Ah! meu Amor! Mas quanta, quanta gente
Dirá, fechando o livro docemente:
"Versos só nossos, só de nós os dois!..."
OUR BOOK
Book of our love, of our heart…
Open their sheets slowly, with care,
As they were petals of a flower.
Look that another one I can not compose
More saintly sad, more perfect.
Do not strip the lilies that it is made of
For others I don't have in my garden of pain!
Book of no one else! Just mine! Just yours!
In a smile, you say and say I:
Verses just of ours, how beautiful you are!
Oh! My love! How many, many people
Shall say, closing the book sweetly:
"Verses just of ours, just of the two of us!..."
.
*saudade = the feeling one feels for departed love ones or moments or something we no longer posses.
(original Portuguese version)
Livro do meu amor, do teu amor.Livro do nosso amor, do nosso peito...
Abre-lhe as folhas devagar, com jeito,
Como se fossem pétalas de flor.
Olha que eu outro já não sei compor
Mais santamente triste, mais perfeito.
Não esfolhes os lírios com que é feito
Que outros não tenho em meu jardim de dor!
Livro de mais ninguém! Só meu! Só teu!
Num sorriso tu dizes e digo eu:
Versos só nossos mas que lindos sois!
Ah! meu Amor! Mas quanta, quanta gente
Dirá, fechando o livro docemente:
"Versos só nossos, só de nós os dois!..."
.
(by Florbela Espanca in Livro de Soror Saudade, 1923)
OUR BOOK
(English version by Pedro Éme)
Book of my love, of your love.Book of our love, of our heart…
Open their sheets slowly, with care,
As they were petals of a flower.
Look that another one I can not compose
More saintly sad, more perfect.
Do not strip the lilies that it is made of
For others I don't have in my garden of pain!
Book of no one else! Just mine! Just yours!
In a smile, you say and say I:
Verses just of ours, how beautiful you are!
Oh! My love! How many, many people
Shall say, closing the book sweetly:
"Verses just of ours, just of the two of us!..."
.
(by Florbela Espanca in Book of Sister Saudade*, 1923)
*saudade = the feeling one feels for departed love ones or moments or something we no longer posses.
Florbela Espanca in ENGLISH #3
O MEU ORGULHO
(original Portuguese version)
Lembro-me o que fui dantes. Quem me dera
Não me lembrar! Em tardes dolorosas
Eu lembro-me que fui Primavera
Que em muros velhos fez nascer as rosas!
As minhas mãos, outrora carinhosas,
Pairavam como pombas... Quem soubera
Porque tudo passou e foi quimera,
E porque os muros velhos não dão rosas!
São sempre os que eu recordo que me esquecem...
Mas digo para mim: "Não me merecem..."
E já não fico abandonada!
Sinto que valho mais, mais pobrezinha:
Que também é orgulho ser sozinha,
E também é nobreza não ter nada.
Não me lembrar! Em tardes dolorosas
Eu lembro-me que fui Primavera
Que em muros velhos fez nascer as rosas!
As minhas mãos, outrora carinhosas,
Pairavam como pombas... Quem soubera
Porque tudo passou e foi quimera,
E porque os muros velhos não dão rosas!
São sempre os que eu recordo que me esquecem...
Mas digo para mim: "Não me merecem..."
E já não fico abandonada!
Sinto que valho mais, mais pobrezinha:
Que também é orgulho ser sozinha,
E também é nobreza não ter nada.
(by Florbela Espanca in Livro de Soror Saudade, 1923)
MY PRIDE
(English version by Pedro Éme)
with Rudi's most kind correction
with Rudi's most kind correction
I recall what I used to be before. I whish
Not to remember! In painful afternoons
I recall I was spring
That, in old walls, grew (made be born)(?) the roses!
My hands, once tender,
Used to hover as doves do… Who could know
Why everything is gone and was a chimera,
And why don't old walls give roses!?
There are, always, the ones I recall those who forget me…
But I say to myself: "They don't deserve me…"
And I don’t remain that abandoned anymore!
I feel I'm worth more, being poorer:
For there is also pride in being lonely,
And is also nobility not to have a thing!
Not to remember! In painful afternoons
I recall I was spring
That, in old walls, grew (made be born)(?) the roses!
My hands, once tender,
Used to hover as doves do… Who could know
Why everything is gone and was a chimera,
And why don't old walls give roses!?
There are, always, the ones I recall those who forget me…
But I say to myself: "They don't deserve me…"
And I don’t remain that abandoned anymore!
I feel I'm worth more, being poorer:
For there is also pride in being lonely,
And is also nobility not to have a thing!
(by Florbela Espanca in Book of Sister Saudade*, 1923)
*saudade = the feeling one feels for departed love ones or moments or something we no longer posses.
quinta-feira, 3 de fevereiro de 2011
beat beat
A ARTEO AR
O MAR, (O MAR...),
AMAR
AMAR-TE.
VOAR, VOAR ...
ARRUMAR
RUMAR a ROMA
AROMA de TARTE de AMORA
'BORA EMBORA!
VOU VOU, 'VÔ!
VOU IR
VOU RIR...
FUI ANDANDO
FUI AMANDO
FUI FICANDO...
ARTIMANHAS, ARTES MINHAS...
.
.
sábado, 1 de janeiro de 2011
sexta-feira, 31 de dezembro de 2010
quinta-feira, 23 de dezembro de 2010
quinta-feira, 16 de dezembro de 2010
domingo, 28 de novembro de 2010
sábado, 27 de novembro de 2010
sexta-feira, 26 de novembro de 2010
You, me and the Flowers I don’t take
*
I don’t take you flowers.
...You don’t sing me love songs.
...You hardly talk to me anymore,
...when I come through the screen door
...at the end of a day.
.
I remember when
...you couldn’t wait to write me,
...used to hate to leave me…
...Now after forgetting me late at night,
...when it’s good for you, babe
...And you’re feeling alright,
...well you just rollover and turn out the light.
.
And I don’t take you flowers anymore.
.
It used to be so natural
...talking forever.
...But used-to-bes don’t count anymore,
...they just lay on the floor
...until we sweep them away.
.
Babe, I remember all the things you re-taught me.
...I re-learnt how to laugh
...and I re-learnt how to cry.
...Well I re-learnt how to love
...and I re-learnt how to die.
.
So, do you think I could learn how to tell you: goodbye?
.
I don’t take you flowers anymore.
.
Well, you think I could learn how to tell you ‘Goodbye’…
.
You don’t say you need me.
...And you don’t sing me love songs.
.
I don’t take you flowers. Anymore.
I don’t take you flowers.
...You don’t sing me love songs.
...You hardly talk to me anymore,
...when I come through the screen door
...at the end of a day.
.
I remember when
...you couldn’t wait to write me,
...used to hate to leave me…
...Now after forgetting me late at night,
...when it’s good for you, babe
...And you’re feeling alright,
...well you just rollover and turn out the light.
.
And I don’t take you flowers anymore.
.
It used to be so natural
...talking forever.
...But used-to-bes don’t count anymore,
...they just lay on the floor
...until we sweep them away.
.
Babe, I remember all the things you re-taught me.
...I re-learnt how to laugh
...and I re-learnt how to cry.
...Well I re-learnt how to love
...and I re-learnt how to die.
.
So, do you think I could learn how to tell you: goodbye?
.
I don’t take you flowers anymore.
.
Well, you think I could learn how to tell you ‘Goodbye’…
.
You don’t say you need me.
...And you don’t sing me love songs.
.
I don’t take you flowers. Anymore.
quarta-feira, 24 de novembro de 2010
sexta-feira, 19 de novembro de 2010
quinta-feira, 18 de novembro de 2010
... O Soneto Completo AQUI : / ...The Complete Sonnet HERE:
Amor é fogo que arde sem se ver,
É ferida que dói, e não se sente;
É um contentamento descontente,
É dor que desatina sem doer.
É um não querer mais que bem-querer;
É um andar solitário entra a gente;
É nunca contentar-se de contente;
É um cuidar que se ganha em se perder.
É querer estar preso por vontade;
É servir a quem vence, o vencedor;
É ter com quem nos mata, lealdade.
Mas como causar pode seu favor
Nos corações humanos amizade,
Se tão contrário a si é o mesmo Amor?
É ferida que dói, e não se sente;
É um contentamento descontente,
É dor que desatina sem doer.
É um não querer mais que bem-querer;
É um andar solitário entra a gente;
É nunca contentar-se de contente;
É um cuidar que se ganha em se perder.
É querer estar preso por vontade;
É servir a quem vence, o vencedor;
É ter com quem nos mata, lealdade.
Mas como causar pode seu favor
Nos corações humanos amizade,
Se tão contrário a si é o mesmo Amor?
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