Giardini Dipinti, il giardino nella pittura Europea dal Medioevo al primo Novecento. Iconografia storica della provincia di Palermo - Mappe e vedute dal all' Benemeriti , sicurezza ieri oggi sempre- Storie, tradizioni, funzioni e organizzazioni delle polizie in Europa. Artists contemporary paintings sculptures graphics engravings panoramic art NEW.
Teatro morale domenicale festivo vangeli tomo primo edizione seconda veneta Trucco giunta tanquerey compendio di teologia ascetica e mistica costola lisa. Rivista i siciliani di Pippo Fava completa numeri in buone discrete e ottim. Gazzetta degli Ospedali gennaio dicembre manca annata La Siciliana, rivista mensile illustrata di storia, archeologia e folklore Anno I del Magna Grecia, l'italia meridionale dalle origini leggendarie alla conquista romana. Pensato e Mangiato, il cibo nel vissuto e nell'immaginario degli italiani del XXI secolo.
Mito Storia e Tradizione, Diodoro Siculo e la storiografia classica, 2 copie presenti. It is very important to study works of Marcello Guido to understand his architecture, not only with regard to the complexity of these spaces, but also to understand what is the inventive process: Lines drawing invade the nearby space, hooking it and dragging it toward himself.
Abstract views join togheter, and so it is impossible to find the subject. An architectural detail appears to the centre of a plan, so it looks like a piece of a huge structure. Lines are ferociously manipulated, color patterns shade off into sky, then into a glass wall, in the end an earthwork merges itself with a remote facade.
Search lucalfa's books
Sections get independence from other draw from other drawings: Era- sures and cleanings become instrument to explore the form. These drawings are propaedeutic to buildings, encouraging an irreverent attitude: But is even more interesting that Laura Thermes uses two images of Romanticism as comparison: The destructive and plastic action of Marcello Guido drink from source of the sublime. Of these ideas, according to Dennis, none is more terrible than that which reveals the wrath and vengeance of an angry God. In this sense, Guido expresses the destructive and self-destructive trend of the seventies protests.
In fact, he has experienced first hand the two sides of the coin: It is no coincidence that the Toscano Square project has generated so much confusion: The comparison with the Romanticism is made even more evident from the nature of this work: Toscano Square is a place that, before the intervention of Guido, is not born of a project, it is not an area planned and designed to encourage the meeting. The ground collapses on the weight of the re-emerged tragedy, which has opened itself from the breaking the terrain seal, crumbles itself into a myriad of sharp glass plates, it loses the opportunity to reconfigure its own coherent unit, and therefore also the possibility of peace.
The structure, which supports the scales of a monstrous past, threatens to erode the few remains of the ancient structures, on which they are suspended. The buildings, that surround and protect the square, open wide the door to a dizzying descent into the underworld of the subsoil, from which the structure is desperately trying to escape, climbing on each ledge available, clawing at each wall where is not possible find support, wriggling furiously with indescribable fervor.
If we pass through the spaces of Tuscan Square, we are entering the battlefield where the devil has been recalled and defeated, but at higher price: This is the dimension that reaches Marcello Guido: Euristica e disegno di architettura, Gangemi, Roma , p. Il male e la sofferenza, Einaudi, Torino , p. Una forma che non si esaurisce nella propria manifestazione: Una cultura distante dalla nozione aristocratica di haute culture, ma intesa nel suo valore diffuso.
Considerando la pesante influenza della controriforma, non poteva essere altrimenti: Le linee vengono violentemente mani- polate, le campiture di colore sfumano a formare un cielo, poi una vetrata, infine la base di un terrapieno che si fonde ambiguamente con il prospetto di un palazzo che si percepisce da lontano. Rimozioni e cancellature diventano strumenti di esplorazione della forma. La struttura stessa, che sorregge le squame di un mostruoso passato, minaccia di erodere i pochi resti delle antiche strutture scomparse, su cui sono sospese. This is a basic theme of classical philosophy.
In the arts, there had already been movements with omniscient ideas such as Futurism , the Dada Manifesto , the creation of the Bau- haus by Gropius Moreover, the Psychoanalytic Society was taking form in Vienna and a little later C. Jung was elaborating the Collective Subcon- scious. Most likely, Psychology and Ethnography were positively influencing a century that was destined to produce great fruits; and one that was also destined to be later refuted and proved wrong by the very ideologies, such as Fascism, Communism and Nazism that were then emerging and that ferociously brought on, only a few decades later, the utmost degradation.
Everything departed from there, from the Great Unified Theory, which supposedly was giving sense to human existence and which, with an eagle flight, could dominate the world. The sense of power was unlimited and brought on great goals but the explosion of the Atomic Bomb zeroed the world of that period with its immense roaring of death. At that point of a crisis, a new critical sensibility was forming. It had already been instilled in the most sensitive spirits by the literature of senseless wanderings of the Ulysses by Joyce and of The Trial by Kafka.
From then on, the poles of attraction for all human activities appeared to be a need for unity on one hand, and, on the other hand, a need to break away from structured hierarchies. It is in this context that both the concepts of Modern and Post-Modern insert themselves. However, an underlying uneasiness remained and there was more and more talk about unity while a new search for recovery in the tribal and in the particular started to emerge.
And this was to happen in all fields. There was for instance the Unity of the Nation as opposed to Federalism. Therefore, the manual aspects of painting and design of the old educational system was lost and the Architect no longer needed to know how to paint. A good example of this is given by Jeanneret, who was a cubist painter using the pseudonym of Le Corbusier. It is here that the first schism started to take place: In recent times, this made Renzo Piano to state: This is a clear indi- cation of his request to go back to an operational and conceptual unity.
The atom too had been split into two, three and then four. Now we are looking for the soul of God the Unity in the subatomic particles the Bosons. In the Arts, there has been a transition from schools such as those of the Impressionists to the Avant- Garde movements like the Cubists, the Futurists, the Dadaists, the Surrealists and then to the great personalities like Picasso, Matisse, Kandinskji, Mondrian, Malevic, Fontana, Giacometti and so on.
Therefore, at a first glance and in terms of a structure, it seems that this drive of his comes from a declared liking for an art that makes its own identity out of a de-structuring, destructive concept, like the Dadaist idea of art. Marcello Guido is then looking for his Zeitgeist when he wonders, in an interview conducted by Giovanni Damiani: Do connections exist between events chronologically distant that ex- press the same cultural tensions? To present date, this is the question that has torn all contemporary art.
It is an art wherein figurative and abstract painting coexist, as well as all the efforts to conju- gate both forms. This has become an ordinary server of our soul, or historical conscience, however we want to call it. In other words, in order to make ourselves clear, a man chooses what bears affinity to him. If the historical distance that separates him from the initial events is too big, his experiences will be similar; for sure, he will meet a thought that had been thought, as Adorno was saying.
A thought that will give him tranquility or, better, that will confirm his own existence and social communion. He uses the triangles in a centrifugal way but they are placed in a swirling whirl that wraps them or that at least gives a sense in the paper of a complex and articulated figure made out of the centripetal action. In these maps or graphic plates, he is closer to Kandinskji, while he still keeps the curvilinear Borrominian trait, since everything fluctuates in a-dimensional space, at least on the paper. As a reader, as I am, of comics and of popular scientific magazines, the 11th dimension, called of the stripes, tells us that space has other dimensions and that, therefore, also the construction of the physical space is altered by our psychological percep- tions.
So, Marcello Guido has another counter-altar besides Borromini: This attitude of his underlies a technical operational need in order to achieve a sense lost in the planning realizations. Especially, the work will appear complete in the eyes of those who look at it Duchamp. Is not for this reason that Architecture is made? I would say that he keeps a unity of thought like a humanist although he deconstructs the tree of the architectural science in Millepiani Mille Plateaux.
Disconnected in an horizontal thought, they give democratic weight to his work as it is considered, always and in any case, in its togetherness. As if he had not built many works and residential units but rather a unique model that although changes with the time it remains faithful to itself. It is a rhizome-type operation connected to the subterranean routes of history more than to the present and to the fashions of the moment.
His architectural work appears, therefore, in such a way, unified and diversified, through his graphic-artistic production. La Grande Teoria Unificata: Teoria del Campo Unitario Ein- stein, ; sia in politica: E in questo contesto si inserisce il concetto di Moderno e Post-moderno. Jeanneret, pittore cubista e, pseudonimo di Le Corbusier. Egli cita il Dadaismo come uno dei suoi primi amori in quanto come Tristan Tzara sostiene e sottende al medesimo imperativo: Esiste un legame tra eventi tempo- rali distanti nel tempo, ma che esprimono le stesse tensioni culturali?
Arte in cui coesistono pittura figurativa e pittura astratta e tentativi di coniugare entram- be le forme. Ma da lettore, quale sono, di fumetti o di riviste scientifiche popolari la undicesima dimensione detta delle stringhe ci dice che lo spazio ha altre dimensioni e pertanto anche la costruzione dello spazio fisico viene alterata dalla nostra percezione psicologica.
At that time, the most significant en- deavor to regenerate the City, since the Kingdom of Naples annexation to the Savoy crown, had just been deployed. One must remember that the administrative experience to which I partially con- tributed should be set in the cultural context of those years.
In this particular case, the expression indicates a bold return of politics to its origin, i. In turn, this common feeling had also brought forth some legislative changes to local autonomy, thereby enhancing stability and a more real capacity to effectively take action. At that time, in the so called Mezzogiorno Southern Italy , there was indeed a succession of Mayors. There were new and rapidly ascending famous Mayors in the cities of Naples Antonio Bassolino during his first term , Palermo Leoluca Orlando and Catania Enzo Bianco , to name just a few. Moreover, the experiences of urban revival of those years were not carried out because of a real political strategy, but rather in response to the pressures of a common civic passion.
People were once again falling in love with their own City, a love which, like all true loves, brought with it a strong aesthetic dimension. Therefore, the architectural and urban development that took place in the town of Brettio must be put in this framework. In turn, this very framework must be put in the context of the cyclical courses of decline and revival of the forms of urban life.
A few examples here are worth mentioning. The town-countryside relationship eventually assured Cosenza all those traits of a real sovereignty, beginning with their resources of food and energy. The power of the City could paradoxically be seen with the fact that there were no defense walls or ramparts. As a matter of fact, the safety of the City was guaranteed by its network of casali.
It suffices to think of the idea for a light subway, of the conurbation of the casali through the reactivation of the techni- cally impeccable railroad layout, originally completed at the beginning of the XXth Century, the recovery of the ghetto on the ancient consular road, the Roman Via Popilia, as well as the restoration and pedestrian setting of the Piazza del Duomo, Corso Telesio and the small Piazza Toscano.
Moreover, there were similar representations of extinct animals and the now lost acts of religious cults. These buildings had been derelict for a long time due to a lack of responsibility on the part of their owners. In such a way, we plunge, for a second longer than a whole day, into another sense of time and another perception of space. It is a temporality that has the rhythm of inner events, a spatiality which is calmed by the acceptance of gravity, satisfied in itself, soberly euclidean, where the recognition of limits has become the secret of power.
This way, a simple stroll through Piazza Toscano is similar to acting on stage. Through Piazza Toscano, Cosenza shows its history to a disenchanted eye, as it is written upon a vertical stratifica- tion. With just one look, this unveiling allows for the full collection of the authen- tic truth of urban society in its tender and unharmed nakedness.
It is an animal community that is always trying to fulfill self-realization in aiming at the good life, at a common sense that may give legitimacy to laughter and consolation to tears. For this reason, the square gives the idea of a geologic core drilling and sampling. Similarly, the Earth is dug in order to bring to daylight what has happened in the past so that we can understand what we once were.
To cross the square brings up spontaneous questions regarding the sense and meaning of the city. In many ways, Toscano square adequately interprets the spirit of the decade of which I spoke before: After all, what does the common questioning about the civil life in Cosenza really amount to? Long-lasting decades of deadly desires to become wealthy in a hurry had pushed away any sense of responsible urban living and civic virtues from the public con- science. It is not difficult to see that the prerequisite for the exercise of a public questioning is, in reality, the pride of belonging to a place and to care for it.
These feelings, which were in hiding for a good part of the postwar period, reemerged as a waking up from a sleep without dreams, at the beginning of the nineties of the last century. It was in a state of degradation, for sure, but with a considerable extension, if we compare it to other cities of the Mezzogiorno. As a matter of fact, the negligence and lack of care had protected the historical downtown from being ruined by real estate speculations and from the deadly pouring of concrete.
This has always followed the transformation of the metropolis recognizing it, for sure, but often mystifying it or making it utopian. It is ruled by the ideology of transparency light materials, linear figures, predominance of glass, etc. Architectural industry thus reveals its relationship with the fashion and movie industries.
This project extends itself to all sectors of architectural production. It deconstructs and recomposes them according to a logic that, in reality, hides the will to shatter every possible antagonism between subjects and knowledge. It inundates with artificial light all spaces where exploitation and pain cannot be exposed and seen. Rationalism and functionalism have become soft, but nonetheless effective in the attempt at mystification.
Books list
Here is the post-modern cynicism rightly opposing the hypermodern reformism […] Post-modernism assaults history but it is historicizing. There is a cruelty that the post-modern succeeds in showing in an exemplary way: Is post-modernism also a declaration about the incapability to escape this reality? Therefore, according to Negri, there are two ways of conceiving postmodernism.
On one side, there is a technological hyper-modernism, the new frontier of global capitalism, the space for profit, modernity brought to the extreme. The buildings made by this architectural trend ignore the specificity of the places on which they rise; they are like rockets ready to take off and they display a desire to avoid the limits that the terrestrial gravity heavily imposes.
There is, however, another postmodernism, which intends to carry to a conclusion a conscious criticism of modernity, of its cognitive illusions, of its mental chain, of its bad abstraction and malicious universalism. Piazza Toscano is a way of reading an unrepeatable place. Art and social violence I must here clarify, in order to avoid misunderstandings, that to conceive the ar- chitectural work as a reimbursement of the common memory and a commemora- tion of the genius loci, is not something that can be committed to the artist so that he realizes it surreptitiously, without tears and blood.
Opening the memory means to make more present time available, to live here and now the dimension of the long duration. It is not enough to know the truth. Above all, it is necessary to know how to communicate it and make it recognizable as a common good. It is through this way that collective and social violence legitimately breaks into the scene.
Violence is not the fastest way to win, as unfortunately some generous begriffi3 think as they practice political killing. On the contrary, it has often been demonstrated that this is the surest way to lose, exactly on this ground. Social violence is an utmost form of cooperation in the sense that its realization has the cathartic function of associating those who inflict it as those that suffer it.
This happens because social violence putting to risk the human body for a col- lectively shared idea and sacrificing concreteness for abstraction , among all pos- sible urban behaviors, is the one that communicates the highest semantic value, allowing to give sense to things and to rearrange time. In an ultimate analysis, the realization of the collective potentiality for violent acts is just a repossession of the common good.
It is a power granted by nature and congenital to living and inhabiting, to sharing together the same place. In short, it is a public declaration of sovereignty, whose legitimacy is not given by an agreement but by the effectiveness with which it interprets the general will of the city, that is, indeed, the genius loci. Social violence does not have an external purpose to its own expression.
It is realized in itself, it is a tool and a purpose at the same time. Its protagonists, more than changing the world, change their ideas about the world and they free Piazza Riforma, competition, , Cosenza, model themselves from their mental chains, from that slave ideology of idle waiting that prevents them from seeing that the future is already here as it hides itself in the wrinkles of the eternal present.
All this is to say that art, and the architecture that represents it, is not a guar- antee of salvation. It can announce or celebrate but also it calms down and it cohabits with the most inhuman aspects of dominion, with the most heart break- ing forms of alienation. There was not only Nazi art; even the artists who were opposing without success were themselves accomplices, despite everything.
Only when the artistic fact enters in communication with the common sense enhancing it, it appear in its violent dimension and real transformative power. Architecture is certainly, among all the arts, well over music itself, the most compromised with common sense. The monumental themes are slogans turned into stones that com- municate with the distracted passer-by before just as much as with the cultured visitor. This is what happens to Guido with the restoration of the Toscano Square. There is, on the right side, looking towards the Crati river - the name itself resonates ancient Greek -, tall and lonely, inserted in the attic of a XVI century building, an enormous metallic stinger.
It was always a matter of restoring the righteous and good that existed since the origins, a kind of return to truth or a new revelation of it. There, in the womb of Mother Earth, physically separated from evil, in a nocturnal, Dionysian place, the waiting finally ends and it is possible to live in a community as in the salvation announced by the Gospel. By dying, Jesus had carried out his mission and all were saved. The fullness of those simple and hidden lives was possible through the organic solidarity among the members of a sect, and espe- cially through the autonomy of the sect itself; that is through an exodus ability which was not so much geographical as it was semantic, from the inauthentic condition in which the other world finds itself.
It is the world of evil, the one that remains unfairly in the light, above the catacombs. I could dare say here, incidentally, that even the Piazza Toscano places itself in the track of heresy, that is of a heresy that is still pursuing its reasons. In order to go back to the topic of discussion and to bring forth other more secular examples, it must be noted that Western Republicanism was inspired by the Rome of the ancient republican period.
It happened also with Medieval municipalities, with the French Revolution, with the Paris Commune and even with the Russian Revolution. This ascertainment, besides, is the same that led Marx and Engels to introduce the concept of primitive communism, that is: Marx stated, not without a certain sarcasm, that we must refuse to design pots for the soups of the future. Together with Engels, he showed a keen interest in other forms of life that anthropology was discovering in the second half of the XIXth century, thanks to L. Marx, however, mature and free of any adoles- cent futurism, in his late writings about the Asiatic way of production, without hypocrisy and reservation, says that there are more elements of communism in the Mir - the self-governing farming village of Russian serfdom - than all those contained in the program or behavior of the German Social Democracy, which he himself inspired.
The same aura that arte povera generates can be perceived by walking through the square, which indicates that this return to reality is not a hero pre- rogative. The evil is not satanic, it does not have the divine nature of punishment for original sin.
Small Batch Brewing - Oakshire Brewing
Rather it possesses a phony nature: The evil, when identified, can be lead back to a minimal dimension, thus creating the possibility for the appearance of good, as when we learn from our mistakes. There is nothing in that perplexed architecture that hints to the new man, or to the humanity of the future. The reference is to another kind of man, an- other kind of humanity that sleeps in hiding among the ignored possibilities of the present.
In short, the square is not conceived for parking cars, but for welcoming neighborhood associations, where the local dialect resonates, filled with words that come from Greek and Latin. In the ancient city, the squares are the sites of direct democracy. In order to close without concluding, I like to think, in these times of cold and bureaucratic celebrations for the Italian Unity, that there are ur- ban works that evoke the collective memory of the city, that of a lasting memory.
Since it is in these places that we must try to confront the malaise, on the Right and on the Left, in which Cosenza and its casali today find themselves immersed. Piazza Toscano is an objective reflection about the question of urban sovereignty within post-modern civilization. Piazza Antonio Toscano, , Cosenza, rooftop footbridge to rooftop general plan of lower level Notes: Dunque gli esperimenti architettonici ed urbanistici che si sono svolti in quegli anni nel comune brettio vanno collocati in questo quadro, che per altro, a ben guardare, va a sua volta inserito nei corsi e ricorsi storici di decadenza e rinascita delle forme di vita urbana.
Esso ha sempre seguito la trasformazione della metropoli riconoscen- done la trasformazione, certo, ma spesso mistificandola o rendendola utopica. Dunque, secondo Negri, sono due i modi di concepire il postmodernismo. Cosa sarebbero state le strade, le piazze, gli edifici della Berlino anni trenta, quelle spettacolari parate delle SS, senza i Nibelunghi immaginati da Wagner? Solo quando il fatto artistico entra in comunicazione con il senso comune facendo- lo lievitare, solo allora essa appare nella sua dimensione violenta, vera e propria potenza trasformativa.
Piazza Antonio Toscano, , Cosenza, view of the footbridge section of the inclined glass planes Note: If we talk the contemporary world, as matter of fact, we cannot ig- nore the notion of plurality. Within it, an architect in the Southern hemisphere can make a contri- bution to a debate on external context unrelated to his reality, thereby enlarging the theoretical perspective on the subject. These observations will be developed in the analysis of a special project realized by Marcello Guido: This choice has very specific reasons.
At that time, I had the opportunity to be acquainted with his work, and we started a debate sharing our reciprocal views on architecture and history. We are both aware of being architects with a different vision of the recovery and integration concepts. We have taken different roads in our lives and many different profes- sional opinions separate us. Because of the intensity that we both share in our choices, I owe to Marcello this text, being sure of the fact that the choices that divide us are really the ones that enrich our spirit.
How to participate to a program in which architectures from different ages have a leading role? These are questions that arise right when the need of inserting a new architecture within an historical context is disclosed. To better define this particular issue, a wide range of historical examples can be used. I think that -and I am sure that I have the approval of many architects on this - the architectural masterpiece that best integrated itself in an established context, is the baroque church of Saint Ivo alla Sapienza - by Francesco Borromini As in all masterpiec- es, here also two essential ingredients perfectly blend together: As matter of fact, Borromini embedded, within a Renaissance cloister, a Baroque six-pointed gem.
With it, with a simple compositional operation, he was able to sew together two hundred years of architectural history. It was perceived as a too strong breaking away, a sort of spatial variation too difficult to accept. In order to understand that work, the initial refusal and the subsequent unanimous approval, it is important that I first express my appreciation about the architect and his geometry.
I believe that every architect is born with an innate geometric culture. This is, with no doubt, something ancestral that dwells in each of us. It is through this special feeling that we begin to understand the space that surrounds us; it is through it that we can develop our own personal language and sense of proportion. No architect, who is worth to be called so, can escape his own intimate spirit of geometry.
I think that this is the condition that marks, invariably, our differences. It is that same imprint that shapes the identity of a person, even more than the culture to which that person belongs. I believe that the geometry that I just described fully anticipates, like a sort of genetic determinism, the operative process of our work, our tendencies and our language, defining our way to perceive space. It is through this intimate characteristic and through the innate sense of propor- tion that Marcello Guido elaborates and proposes his own project for Piazza To- scano, in , for the city of Cosenza.
He opposes his own personal geometries to a deeply rooted and highly different historical urban texture. His elements of fracture overlap the existing architectural system. Guido goes out of the boundaries defined by the underlying lines preserved in that spatial context, and he does it on purpose. These gestures, and this approach be- wilder me, of course, but is worth to remember that this attitude was there also in in these pages: The various approaches to the recovery and integration of an historical architec- ture reveal the different ways of feeling geometry, in the full sense of the term.
I think that these are the real contributions to the timeless and placeless spirit of geometry that has enhanced the architectural creativity. For this reason, this way of reading architecture, this almost eschatological analy- sis of composition, can justify the complexity of the approaches which I men- tioned several times. In such a way, we can go beyond the mere linear reading of the historical processes. In his strokes, it is possible to seize the unique opportunity that we, as architects, have in letting out the spiritual value of a project. If our recovery interventions have such a broad range, this is mainly due to that inner feeling capacity of us, that I already mentioned, that reveals itself both in the graphical output of a simple draft and in the execution of a full architecture.
Manual drawing is the only means that can show the geometric consciousness that lies in our spirit, and to express it. Marcello Guido transmitted to me, with his words, this way of conceiving the process. Observing the images presented by Guido, I personally thought that those architectural interventions could not be achieved without manual drafting; they could not be achieved not even by means of modern digital design technology.
The geometric spirit that resides in us comes out when we use fewer tools to represent it: In addition, I think that every architect has a personal way to solve and create space through drafting. As I believe that there is a predominance of the idea over the subject, each drawing that Marcello Guido showed me, gave me more ideas about his particular way of working, independently from the accompanying photographs and text.
After all, photographs and words betray us when we have to judge or explain an architectural work. On the contrary, the draft is contemplative, in the geometric sense that we have explained. The drawing is the best manifestation of the architectural idea, and this idea is just the connection between the innate sense of geometry and the realization of an architectural opera.
Through them, he showed me the honesty of his words and I saw his personal path to- wards the conception of building. Time will judge Piazza Toscano as it will judge other more conventional schemes. In order to try to anticipate my opinion, I am drawing up some thoughts in conclu- sion.
Christian Norberg-Schulz points out and illustrates, with different typologies from those used by Marcello Guido, that regional architecture will survive the passing of time only if it has two attributes: The action of revealing, which allows to show and disclose a culture, is perhaps the easiest achievement to obtain in architecture.
On the other hand, the theme of architectural restoration is inherently complex. It is necessary to try to contaminate the compositional knowledge with the op- erating context and with heterogeneous schemes, sometimes new, that, in most cases, can be risky. It must indeed be seen through a historical and critical mastery that includes his geometrical approach, the depth of which must be recognized.
It leads me to wonder about the meaning of our time and the validity of our representations of space. Without them, it is known, the essence of architecture is lacking. Without them, it is not possible to entirely support our ideas and principles. We have only the tools that modernity provides us for evaluating architectural works. It may be possible that we share much more than geometric patterns in our work. Perhaps, between Marcello Guido and me, there is much more in common than formal appearance, and I think that, culturally, this is the most important thing.
Son tiempos que obligan y comprometen a miradas diversas sobre los oficios creativos. Por la intensidad manifiesta de ambos, es que debo a Marcello este texto con la certeza de que, los caminos que se bifurcan, son los que verdaderamente enriquecen. En ella, como en toda obra maestra, se conjugan dos ingredientes indispensables: Es como una marca de nacimiento y una cualidad espiritual profundamente enraizada. Con ese sentido particular comenzamos a comprender in these pages: Se suma al palimpsesto con un trazo de ruptura. Son gestos que me mueven y me provocan desconciertos.
La foto y la palabra nos traicionan a la hora de juzgar y de explicar las obras. Her moment gone with theirs already? Years back an elder brother of his did the same and like then now suddenly blossomed from a wall of clay back along the line of the dead a hand convulses us. Di sole spoglie estive ma trionfali. Strappalo quel foglio bianco che tieni in mano.
Questo era il dato invogliante. Era in principio solo canne polverose e, dalla foce, mare da carboniere. Nella sere di polvere e sete iii A Holiday Place i A day at various levels, of high tide —or in the one sphere of the blue. Never does the blank or less clean page entice for itself only, and specially here between river and sea. Airs came on card from the far shore: There were no papers or cards to play, true. Empty-handed, from this side the ferryman returned without word of reply. That was the enticing datum.
It was only dusty reeds at the start and, from the mouth, coal-trading sea. Instead that voice returns to tempt me many years a record, it was from over there, the far shore. Ma uno di sinistra di autentica sinistra mi sorprendevo a domandarmi come ci sta come ci vive al mare? Certe volte—dissi col favore del buio—a sentire voi parlare si sveglia in me quel negro che ho tradotto: In darkness among reeds and leaves of the far shore they were debating: But how does anybody of the left, the true left I caught myself wondering how can he, how does he live by the sea?
Even if they were not all stronger swimmers and oarsmen than me. There are times—I said under cover of darkness— to hear you speak stirs in me that Negro I translated: Still benumbed with war, with that war, only this made me a part of those talking talking and still talking on the wave of liberty. Pare non ci sia altro: Vorrei, io solo indiziato, vorrei che splendessero come prove—io una tra loro.
One in fact comes alight at a late hour the scornful moon intact still inviolate on the black drift, the scurry of waters. The heat will return. Allacciati o disgiunti da anni li vedo passare danzanti nel riverbero e nel vento. E quasi niuna di queste cose stata fosse, torna lei quello che stata era: Memory forges desires then is left alone to bleed over these multiple mirrors. But look —voices come back from the estuary—from one hour to another look how colors change: Che fosse in ansie per Angeliche fuggenti o per tornanti Elene? You might just suppose.
He wore himself out on a color in fact or better on the name of a color to extend over the absent, the missing, nothingness: Pensavo, niente di peggio di una cosa scritta che abbia lo scrivente per eroe, dico lo scrivente come tale, e i fatti suoi le cose sue di scrivente come azione.
Che fosse e sia un passaggio obbligato? Nothing worse, I was thinking, than something written with the writer for hero, I say the writer as such, and his own business, his writing life as action. That it were or may be a necessary step? Painters would nestle amid branches at one time today disappeared with part of the reeds: Someone turning out copies of riverside hours, the turbulence and stasis of the sea? Ci pensa un poco su: Oracolare ironico gentile sento che sta per sparire. Non sapevo, non so niente di queste cose. A quegli esperti avrei voluto dire delle altre ombre e colori di certi attimi in noi, di come ci attraversano nel sonno of somebody who, after years at one time in a place and disowning it, for an hour by chance reappears: But even you loved this place if you said: With those who cut and sew?
It echoes in the depths, in the grayness, the weather now, the no longer tender season. I would like to understand them by instinct, just being among them, living them, and not for diversion: But —the sea gone gray in an hour, in an hour rediscovers its own youth— say the voices come over in the tail of the storm. A stone, they explain, is not as simple as it seems.
The one branches into its own cathedral. A paradise on earth, the other. Above them both a Himalaya di vite in movimento. Nei giorni di sole di un dicembre. On the reverse of summer. Were it not quite so late. Sospesa ogni ricerca, i nomi si ritirano dietro le cose e dicono no dicono no gli oleandri mossi dal venticello. Resta dunque con me, qui ti piace, e ascoltami, come sai. Rammenda reti, ritinteggia uno scafo. Cose che io non so fare. Ogni eccedenza andata altrove. All search abandoned, the names withdraw behind things, and say no, they say no, the oleanders stirred by the breeze.
So stay with me, you like it here, and heed me, you know how. From me to him nothing more: All excess gone elsewhere. Di quali torti quali colpe ancora? In the day that shines above the crushed evening its threshold of agony. Or trembling on the track of those dust-covered strides that raise a spring behind them. For what wrongs still what blame?
It says Allah is great and at this hour of night in this dead hour I believe it. Valle delle Regine, iv villaggio verticale Fresco di un passaggio recente al dubbio di un disguido risponde il villaggio verticale: Valley of the Queens, iv vertical village Fresh from a recent journey to the doubt of a misdirection the vertical village responds: A risarcire vecchi danni anni di prostrazione il bacio cadde sulla ferita.
Presto persino a me fu chiaro che mi si premeva contro un giuda o piuttosto una taide travestita da boschiva rosa. To repay old damages, years of prostration, the kiss fell onto the wound. Soon even to me it was clear that a Judas pressed against me or rather a Thais disguised as a rose of the wood.
Ne prendo nota—sorrise—te lo dico la prossima volta. The Roman summer stood before us with its own most vaporous, most deadly calcination. For him this evening the invisible soloist cicada in the last hour of light inhabitant of leaves burnt by an overlong day replies: Requiem Flattened the irony, washed out the courage, the courage done for, gaiety injured. Oh i paramenti della bellezza, gli addobbi della morte. E nel dirlo mi avvedo che a me solo sto parlando.
Ma non serve, non serve. Da solo non ce la faccio a far giustizia di me. Nel dire il mio nome non enumera i miei torti, non mi rinfaccia il passato. Con dolcezza Vittorio, Vittorio mi disarma, arma contro me stesso me. Oh the vestments of beauty, the adornments of death. On my own I cannot bring myself to justice. With tenderness Vittorio, Vittorio it disarms me, is arming me myself against me. Siamo passati come passano gli anni. We went by as the years go by. Here there is nothing of us but the specimen or rather the imago self-perpetuating for nothing— and waters contemplate us and windows, think of us in the future: Proprio non ha senso se non per certi trapassanti amari quando si stampano per sempre in loro interi pezzi di natura with unswerving aim where it most stings and burns.
Come near to me, speak to me, tenderness, —I say turning back towards a life until yesterday close to me today so remote—drive out from me the insistent thorn, the memory: That comic dialogue descended an alleyway or two downhill towards the sea. It has no sense at all unless for some bitter passersby when entire pieces of nature are stamped in them forever gelandosi nelle pupille.
Ma ero io il trapassante, ero io, perplesso non propriamente amaro. Il poggio Quel che di qui si vede —mi sentite? But I was the passerby, it was me, perplexed though not exactly bitter. The Knoll What there is to see from here —you hear me? Con infuocate allora ragioni. Allora incorrisposte tu che senza vedermi passi. Avrebbe avuto voce se fossi te anche per me una mia sera a Parma e non accovacciato nella mente un motivo odoroso di polvere e pioggia tra primavera e estate.
Che a me un altro di me parli In Parma with A. Like to be you. With passionate reasons then.
- Beauty Without The Beast-Secrets To Ageless Beauty Book;
- Books list | theranchhands.com?
- Featured Beer.
- HAT CREEK STATION.
- Sermons sur la Genèse (I) - La Volonté de la Sainte Trinité pour les Êtres Humains (French Edition)!
- Ditched?
- Growing a Spiritually Strong Family (Family First).
At that time unrequited you who pass not seeing me. Even for me my evening in Parma would have had voice were I you and not crouched over in the mind a theme of scented dust and rain between spring and summer. And were it a door in sight of other doors as far as that one walled up down there which sooner or later will open? The old tramway descended from Marzolara to Parma whistled a long time grazing the Baccanelli greeting you not there uttered the certainty, horror of the end and that great summer sky grew convinced. To this shadow the horror of that emptiness returns. Hold it dear to you—he says—this green shadow and this ache.
Evasive, moving aside he covers it with one of his acacia leaves— invitation to a feast which is prepared for us shifting as a cloud upon the back of the Apennines. Autostrada della Cisa Ten years more, not even that, before my father dies again in me rudely he was lowered down and a bank of fog divided us forever. From tunnel to tunnel, bedazzlement to blindness I extend a hand. I reach out an arm, embrace a shoulder of air.
Rimbaud written on a wall Come for an instant the sting of his name the trickling drop from his name inscribed in clear letters on that scorching wall. Then he would despise me the man with soles of wind for having believed it. Sgusciato nella sua casa di sassi di sabbia franante quando il deserto ricomincia a vivere ci rilancia quel nome in un lungo brivido. Illumined at a stroke beside her the city is empurpled, colored topaz, emerald.
His aura has formed itself among the aspects that surround him: His is above all a receptive sensibility: But in him essentially this is what it is, and enviably so. Is he any less mysterious for this?
I think of certain houses in the country where the quiet is instantaneously disturbed by the rustle of a curtain, by the slamming of a door, and the brief animation that follows quickly turns into something faintly obsessive. Bertolucci is spectator and interpreter at one and the same time of an analogous, barely perceptible event. You want an example?
Listen to these very recent, not yet collected, lines: Once I was a narrow lane. Invaded by grass, easeful and rending silence is my dying, bitter if even from a high bough the cicada takes up once more its own midday song. This will perhaps clarify better for you what I was saying with regard to that mystery of his, somewhat domestic, accessible.
As for me, I think of the summer getting ready to come this way: He can hardly bear it, I imagine; but bear it he does, as you see. There were units in formation or in transit for various fronts, but most of all people gazed, with apprehension and pity, at the poor furlined overcoats of the Armir. My memory is of many snowstorms and, even more, of the mud and the puddles around a barracks in Pontelungo. Without appearing to, the stay in Bologna prepared us for the disaster to come and, aside from the events that precipitated our posting, there was more than a presentiment in the air to sadden Bologna that springtime.
Ljubliana August The troop train is stopped at a station under a ferocious sun. A convoy of cattle trucks, sealed with lead, is slowly shunted onto the line parallel to ours and comes to a stop between us and the station building. All the more sinister in the dog days of summer, carabinieri in black helmets are escorting it.
They are heading for Italy. Nothing other than human eyes. But for us only those staring eyes exist. But better, better that they take them away. We would end up hating them in turn. Out of self-defense, damn it! I look at the sky and say to myself: Dubious like its sunny name among the clouds, greenery becoming gray, whiteness becoming ashes.
As a boy, hearing its name after Vittorio Veneto, I imagined it like this. I was forgetting that Ljubljana has belonged to Italy this past year. We wander round the town, buy things, drink enormous mugs of beer. In the street nobody looks at you, everyone avoids you. But the churches, a mix of baroque and rococo, give a foretaste of the Orient. In front of the Military Headquarters are posted, one on each side, two grenadiers armed to the teeth. A heavy atmosphere, in short, whose causes not one of us wants to go into, though everyone vaguely knows.
We look around astonished. All the same, each feels human enough to expect to be looked at as himself, irrespective of the grouping he represents. But here that way back is blocked in all directions. We take a walk round the park of the enemy city. Boys stop their game for a moment as we pass.
They exchange a few looks. Then they go back to their play. We head back towards the station. The city closes itself behind us, in its dubious name. Or are some learning the art of collaboration? Here we are on the troop train. The tracks run a while along avenues on the outskirts of the city. My looking, in defeat, with the eyes of the victor. Just so a loved woman gone on to another: It was a period of initiation into the game of death. To compile the sorrowful, dismayed inventory of new losses, eyes erred here and there, some moistened by a secret instinct—not of disorientation, not of fear— brutally laid bare.
With the signal sounding the end of the raid, a voice seemed to linger, more saddened and commiserating than anxious, calling for someone very dear and lost: Someone very dear and lost. And the evenings, the evenings, and the lamps and ice cream carts between vanished crowds relaxing towards the furthest wharves of Italy, and the chatter in clear weather and the seaside audience outside that theater, now in ruins with its rows of seats and boxes.
Now not even the illusory phantoms of love were anymore at hand, and all that shimmered through the gashes was the incredible blue of the summer afternoon. Two hours of absolute silence, in the blackness punctuated by the brief glows of cigarettes, and higher up, by the few stars that trickled through the foliage. That could have been an evening among friends in the North: The sense, in all its ambiguity, being absolutely clear, and hence dear to their recalcitrant hearts. Perhaps at this thought came a rush of anger: It happened as after certain dreams.
A lost love, or another you thought impossible, or grievous, appear. Everything between those walls was dusty and torpid and on one of them, as elsewhere in the villa, the words stood out: Often, day and night, his duties had taken him into that room and each time, waiting for the communications, his glance had played across the cuttings. One, in particular, attracted his attention. An anonymous face appeared there against an uncertain background: Alone, hanging on the wall, the familiar picture. A breath of air from the open window chillingly animated the pin-up.
What did it mean, that silent conversation between the man standing there in uniform and helmet and the girl on the hillside?
Each sheet carries the same headings: Forces reporting for duty in the morning—Sick—Fallen in combat, etcetera. Understandable though, given such a war. The men worked for hours in the burning sun digging antitank trenches, outposts, dugouts, worked overtime for this. Likely the day after they had to scrap it all because the calculations were wrong or someone had changed his mind, had to start all over again. And nothing ever happened. Died following the unexpected explosion of a grenade with which he was imprudently playing. Laid to rest in the cemetery of the Marina at T.
This is what was written. Perhaps he would have wished to say something else, to commemorate something else, who can say. And patiently collect our notes for a work on Sicily during the Second World War. Chanting in the afternoons among low hills and pools. We watch crouched down or half-reclining in the grass.
Look at the extraordinary elegance of M. At least once a night the cold or damp inevitably forces us to the latrines. I was walking half-asleep. More newspapers, with increasingly detailed information, came in over the following days. A daring cameraman had him in focus. Realizing it proudly, he tried to claim his place in history, and ended up breaking cover. Saint-Cloud, July A high wooded hill in the shape of a truncated cone, like the Purgatorial Mountain, rises above the new camp.
The heat is intense. The area is always the same, in the outskirts of the same town: I mean Camp , at Sainte-Barbe. I was back there from June to July along with a few convalescents discharged from the camp hospital. I was anxious to be reunited with my tentmates who I knew had been transferred with all the others to Saint-Cloud.
The tents were still there at , almost deserted by now and half-dismantled. Even the tents remaining were unsteady, some pegs gone, some canvas torn, the drainage canals all but worn away. That night when a concertina serenade moved through the camp awaking us, and I heard Remo softly crying in the next bunk. The same oil lamp from Sidi-Chami today guides a memory of a memory carrying me back to Sainte-Barbe. Sidi-Chami, November Odd how our captivity already has a history within us and we are already able to say: The victim was a person of regard, he was the poet— call him the vates even—of the prisoner-of-war camp.
And it is no surprise that the dead man is more widely mourned here than any other mortal would have been. Because here the poet, like the philosopher, like the mathematician, seems to have had restored to him the dignity of a communal function, a lost high-priestly splendor. To this extent the gradual progress of concrete relations and practical organization towards an ever more modern state, tending to reproduce the aspects of so-called civil life, is accompanied by the respect and near-veneration with which the community continues to regard the poet, the philosopher, the mathematician.
Here everybody reads, writes, makes notes; we have even got so far as to organize a regular pseudouniversity course. But there is, there must be, a more subtle, less stated reason: Above all, though, what tends to give substance to them contributes to the illusion of a solidity, an inner fullness. From this unconscious presumption the interest is born. And that somebody should say certain things in all our names is socially worthwhile, bringing fame and authority to whoever takes upon himself that function.
They were all the more worthwhile, therefore. To the extent that they suggested a voluntary expiation on the part of someone who, so long enclosed in a sort of turris eburnea, had decided to make contact—intimate contact, ideal and practical at the same time—with the anonymous crowd. Perhaps a more gregarious writer, more prompted by a human interest, would not have been able to achieve it: They evidently refer to earlier, though always with recognizable place and time. This man must have been tormented by memories, he had the habit of always putting the date and place name at the foot of every single lyric.
Faces, people, bygone landscapes. Yes, but these memories are not poetically felicitous: Quite, a sickness had crept into these verses. I can see now, in the light of this overall failure, with what gravity the poet had entrusted himself to the verses he had copied onto the paper from the wall. An inordinate faith in life I mean in its ability to transform itself directly into poetry at the point of highest tension must have presided over this work: The familiar question arises: If anything, it will be the accusation of obscurity in another, almost diametrically opposed sense: Which is fought on two fronts: Certainly, brutal and undiscriminating feelings impose themselves these days.
And the dictionary reduces itself to a few words obvious to all. And style is no longer—except for the very few— a problem. Because this has taken place: External events have therefore taken over from men who seem more than ever before the victims of their destinies. And yet, by a curious paradox, it is not rare that they feel greater and more animated, the greater and more brutal the extraneous force that lives them.
Perhaps a centuries-old debate reaches a height of real itchiness during periods like these: The struggle—we all know—has never produced, nor ever will produce, a decisive victor. It may simultaneously be a hypothesis but only that about work being done by everyone else thrown headlong into other experiences.
The time has come for me to say something about what The Lost Weekend meant to me. There he is, the actor Ray Milland, part good-looking youth, part handsome man, who gets drunk, sees various forms of Paradise in the bottom of a glass, laughs oddly at the squeak of a mouse, and the laugh becomes a scream as a bat hurls itself upon the mouse and the wall is lined with blood. And, meanwhile, via the actor, an interdependence was being created between the writer and the alcoholic.
Pity for the man reached the writer via the alcoholic: In the uncontrollable, the shameless vice of drinking—as it happens, alcoholism, but it could have been something else—I felt the presence of another vice, more deeply rooted within him, an even more intractable, ruinous error. And perhaps a great deal could be said about the objective conditions of life today, not ones that accommodate or encourage these qualities and gifts, which are exquisitely human qualities and gifts, to grow and prosper in the context of human relations. Philosophers might explain this to us, or perhaps—taking them with the necessary pinch of salt—politicians.
Now his self-doubt and doubt about his presumed vocation have become dramatic, and what remains—the artist unable to write and nauseated by cre ative work—is the stimulus towards those states, emotions, delights, those poisons that are often deadened by the practice, ambition and illusion of art. Towards it, he had pointed exclusively so as to get from it personality and freedom, a human face: This was the error; this the vice.
And this the conclusion: This, for goodness sake, is not the story of The Lost Weekend. We went looking for stories told intensely and transparently, restoring the sense of the most direct forms of creativity, a taste for characters, for action. These were characteristics that novels seem all the more to have abandoned. I was saying something earlier about coherence, about an intimate continuity, something decidedly spiritual. With Wilder, the cinema has, in this sense, moved terribly quickly.
It has reached its own autobiography: There are not many examples of it yet, not to be confused with the many cases where intentions, self-evident in the contents, barely keep pace with the formal expertise, and vice versa; so that one intention too plainly stands out from the others, has too evidently been superimposed. The city is staging a peace conference. Our country knows almost nothing about wars, except for the refugees and spies to whom it has on many occasions provided hospitality. This evening I have an appointment with G. In a deserted alleyway I run into O.
He introduces me to his son, aged twelve, dressed like a sailor, a throwback, whistle in his pocket, high collar and anchors, hair neatly parted. On the apron of the service station forecourt, no sign of G.
Index of / project18.ru Books
I take a few more steps and am about to leave when a neon sign beckons me towards the entrance to the Music Hall. The seats are all taken, a few spectators standing, along the sides or at the back. The sounds spreading among the archways, the echoes and rumbling are those of a crowded ballroom, a huge nighttime gala: I follow a handrail to one side of medium height. Ecstatic, absorbed, moved to tears, looking at each other, smilingly, knowingly, discrete, like the expressions of believers at mass or during other religious ceremonies. I see inspired, adoring faces.
I also see G. Now the music changes, no longer evokes dancing and its sanctuaries. Then there are paddle steamers on an even bigger river and the snow on this river or gusting against the windows of a chalet halfway up the mountain. More than the church? More than a party conference? More than a public holiday?
More than Labor Day? More than the Conservatory? One tune ends and another starts up, the clapping gets muddled with the music. With us are two rather plain girls that G. Something must have gone down the wrong way for G. Here, I have a dream. The separation is intolerable already. My train is now traveling over the plain. I raise my eyes to the mountain. I follow it with my eyes as far as I can. If waking means this: You look down and plainly see the outlines of the players in the stadium.
If you like you could watch it from up here, the action plainly visible. They stand or sit, commenting vaguely on the game. Where the hell are you lot? The orchestra and public, trading on the ecstasy and excitement, stayed where they were. So word got out about this extraordinary concert that shows no sign of ending.
People have come from far and wide. Then on the night between Good Friday and Saturday I could swear I hear my name pronounced in a normal voice in the street below. How come it never happens that lightly touching a girl in the street, instead of the usual compliment, anybody says: Here we are at the dregs, the pretentious solos, dessicated pieces, the cold and lonely sounds, the dry bravura doodles. Here I am with G. I notice with horror that O. Under a spotlight the Negro singer holds the sailor boy by the hand and asks him to sing a duet.
The lights of the Exhibition are already back on and those of the funicular railway again show the height of the hill. The peace conference has ended too. No progress, he says. But those lights, who are all those lights staying on for? This is what the smartest and perhaps most vital among the young or those approaching maturity show they feel.
The specialized discourse of poetry as such irritates the more it tends to place itself on the terrain of comparative or oppositional poetics at the expense of natural reader-writer relations. And it irritates the more it tends, beyond poetry itself, to propose as its ultimate and exclusive aim a more-or-less new idea of itself, one not the less abstract for that. Others, less young, have learned this to their cost. Today once more we expect the poet to tell us what is really important for us, to face crucial questions, to return to giving us, behind its fugitive appearance, the real nature of things.
De re mea agitur. Can poetry still exercise its grip upon the world? It was always thought that artistic expression raised questions and at the same time found answers; or that it was in its fortunate nature to coincide almost unconsciously with questionings in the air, clarifying and perhaps even dissolving them. Here those averse to any and every ideology shudder when confronted by the enforced direction, a thick diaphragm of one-way streets and no-entry signs, and are on the point of throwing in the towel. And it is part of the horoscope of immediate destinies that discourse on culture with all its implications be assumed as the object and concrete content of poetry, in particular as the toll that poetry must pay to become a citizen within the circle of culture.
Do we want to see in this an attempt to sabotage the naturalness of the poetic act? Something warns us that in this fear, in this touchiness, lies the irrefutable evidence of weak spirits. Came the war, and everything was ruined. Without understanding that it was precisely in this way that the dictatorship carried out its work in you, ignorant of it, so much so that you still bear its mark.
Allow it to speak for itself, if it has the force. The people called by name in that poem, by their actual names, are alive and real. If I really had to add a few words, I would say that I hope the poem does not seem merely a homage to friendship or to an uneasy love for a place. Nor a complaint about the progressive mechanization of customs and ways of life, nor nostalgia for simpler forms called—falsely, among other things—the primitive. Highly autobiographical, as can be seen. If that is so, no matter, no matter at all.
Perhaps this is an example of how some risks must be taken—or of how you are tempted to take them. From this point on, the discussion could become less episodic, could be enlarged. The humiliation of complaining about it, of the anxiety that it provokes, the shameful spectacle one makes of oneself by confessing this anxiety.