In a cocoon of light across the vast, darkened space, Katie Couric, behind a desk, reports breaking news. A technician runs a lavaliere wire up your jacket and clips the mic to your lapel. Exploding, falling — whatever! A former Turkish Airlines pilot, downsized two years ago.

He wants you to know, so that you can tell the media — he assumes you have their ear — that these planes were flown by expert pilots, highly trained, brilliant. This was a professional job. Speaks with quiet authority. Seems to have adapted successfully to piloting a Lincoln Town Car. You saw it hit, and in the instant thought: Elizabeth and Jonathan have offered your family refuge for the weekend. Katie will cook brisket. September 15 Katie and Gwen join Elizabeth, Jonathan and their boys on a strawberry picking expedition.

The woman who looks after E. Now the evidence is thrust before you: Not a heavy book, not flimsy either. He almost whoops with glee. Elizabeth gives you eucalyptus to add to your bathwater. You lie recumbent in their huge limestone tub — whose shape suggests a Roman sarcophagus — and breathe the steam. September 19 When you and Eric B. September 24 — Midafternoon Falencki diagnoses walking pneumonia. Fire in the towers. Water in the lungs. You walk to Washington Square Park and he poses you in front of an impromptu shrine — the chain-link fence surrounding the arch bedecked with flags and flowers.

Then he sits you on the stone ring that encircles the fountain. Nearly fifty years ago, in your second summer, your mother took a snapshot of you playing in the center of this very fountain. A toddler, dirty-kneed and delighted in the water spray, wearing only a diaper, and that off-kilter. Sick as a dog you may feel, but the man in the pictures looks strong as a horse.

September 28 — Midafternoon Between phone interviews with a Philadelphia radio station and a Brazilian business journal, you sit in the kitchen and eat the matzoh ball soup Katie brought back from Fairway. For some reason she brings up the Gotham Restaurant, how it specializes in towers of food. You went there once with Elizabeth for drinks. Looked over from the bar toward a table where the diners were being served plateful of vertical cuisine — formidable structures that required demolition before they could be consumed.

October 3 — Le G. His waxy complexion glows with vigor. One report has him racing toward the bunker when the south tower fell, forcing him back to City Hall. The whole of WTC7, bunker and all, disintegrated that afternoon.

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But what matters that now? Begin where the interviewers do: So you settled on: Several lazy minutes before you shift your eye to focus on its source. Take in the diagonal, orange gash glowing in Tower One. What the hell did that, an explosion? Not to worry, the Port Authority rebuilt it last time — they can just sell some more bonds.

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A year from now, no one would ever guess…. Finally you open your mouth. The second plane hooks round, soundlessly hits, and the billow of flame. Think for the first time: Damn, there are people inside that sculpture. Then the Hindenburg flashback — Ah the humanity! But the Hindenburg was in black and white.

Roberto Avaria

This is in color. And anyway, the Hindenburg already happened. So this must be happening now. Supposed to have landed an hour before. She feels relived by that and so do you, but why?


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Paul disbands us, each to our separate ways. You walk down the corridor with M. E train comes right away. When you reach 34th Street, you find yourself amazed that the subways are still running that far south. The doors open at 23rd Street and you get out. Take the elevator to your apartment on the 20th floor, facing south. In the auditorium, the principal speaks to a knot of parents. You and Katie stroll to Le Gamin, order take-out iced cappuccinos, perch on a stoop across the street from school.

The kids are lined up in a double row outside the classroom. Roll the clock back to a building with fire escapes. Tides of humanity surge both ways on the Eighth Avenue sidewalks, spill into the street, unsure where to go.

As you near 14th Street, you consider veering off to St. Frank opens the window and throws down the key. Walk back up to Chelsea. Just as you close the apartment door, the phone rings. Leave Katie and Gwen? Can Mario see them from up there? The ladder shakes but holds. Out of your mouth comes the classic New York Yo!

Oopses and embarrassed looks. Mario climbs down and, gracious as ever, opens the door for them. Still out of whack.

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Fall right into it. Start to jam on what might be done besides rush to war. How the city, even now, could reach out to the world — use the horrors just experienced to make a bold step forward. What if New York became the starting point for a futuristic railway, a magnetic Groove, that would run through Canada, across the Bering Straits, span Asia — a new silk route — with trunk lines connecting to Europe and Africa?

Your talk grows animated as you build, in your minds, a massive, international public works project, linking a host of autonomous, yet interdependent localities. The energy stirred up by this terrible aggression has to go somewhere. Why not transform the retaliatory bombs into the Groove? Cecil Rhodes built a railway, equally ambitious in its day, to further his own fortunes and the might of the British Empire. Why not create an infrastructural world-link to benefit all six-point-something billion of us? Besides which, people seem to want to stay closer to the ground these days.

In the near term, New York should relearn how to build good ships. After all, the harbor is still there. He tells you that as he walked along 21st Street that day and saw a fire engine heading crosstown. Smashed windshield — memos, letters, invoices stuck to the front and sides — paper plastered to the plaster. And the truck kept going, no siren, driving west, toward the Chelsea Piers, leaving in its wake that smell. Translation - Spanish De Las cosas caen juntas, Vol. Ella lleva una camiseta negra con una brillante bandera estadounidense, roja, blanca y plateada, atada a la altura del pecho.

Los muros de la vida social, sostenidos por tirantes de miedo para evitar su colapso. Llega Juan, uno de tus favoritos Gaministas, aunque sea uno ocasional. Juan examina la primera plana y sacude su cabeza. Se espera para marzo. Luego, eventualmente, a Barcelona. Temprano en la tarde, Katie tiene una cita en el Upper East Side. Nadie llevaba cascos de bicicletas. El cielo tan cristalino como ayer.

Hora de buscar a Katie. Wolfgang hace un chiste siniestro —quiere asegurarse de que tu sentido del humor sigue intacto. Las cosas se acaloran en el frente de los medios. Respuestas, ellos exigen respuestas, ahora que es demasiado tarde. Mira hacia La Quinta Avenida. Tantos lugares desde los cuales no ver las torres. Pero nunca le has mentido. Pero no estabas seguro.

Enciendes la luz en la mesa de noche y te levantas para irte. Ella te llama, estira la mano para estrechar la tuya, dice: Dentro, alrededor del monitor del ordenador todo tipo de souvenirs. Al Roker, querido hombre del tiempo, pasa vistiendo un impermeable amarillo brillante. Muchas llamadas de la prensa. Detienes a uno de los productores asociados. Este fue un trabajo profesional. Habla con serena autoridad. Parece haberse adaptado bastante bien a pilotear un Lincoln Town Car. Su prioridad es la misma que antes: Lo viste impactar, y en ese instante pensaste: Elizabeth y Jonathan le han ofrecido a tu familia refugio por el fin de semana.

La tos cada vez peor. La mujer encargada de cuidar el refugio palladiano de E. No es un libro pesado, tampoco endeble. Jonathan se conecta a la web para ver el progreso de Divided en Amazon. Fuego en las torres. Agua en los pulmones. Te puedes sentir cansado como un perro, pero el hombre en las fotos parece fuerte como un caballo. Comienza por donde lo hacen los entrevistadores: Toma en diagonal, una brecha naranja brillando en la Torre Uno. Esos son los significantes a los cuales nos aferramos cuando no podemos procesar lo que vemos. Piensas por primera vez: Pero lo del Hindenburg fue en blanco y negro.

Esto es a color. Miras el reloj otra vez. Caminas por el corredor con M. El tren E llega de inmediato. Cuando llegas a la Calle 34 te ves sorprendido porque el metro siga funcionando tan al sur. El tiene cascos y una radio. Por encima de tu hombro: No mires a tu derecha por la Octava Avenida.

Toma el ascensor a tu piso en la planta 20, con vista al sur. A la hora concertada, subes a la planta de Gwen, saludas a otros padres que se han agrupado en el pasillo. A medida que te acercas a la Calle 14, consideras virar hacia St. Vincent para donar sangre. Frank abre la ventana y lanza la llave. Caminar de vuelta hacia Chelsea. El productor de Tom Brokaw. Ya ha dejado un mensaje en la contestadora. Simplemente di que no. La escalera tiembla pero resiste. Ays y miradas avergonzadas. Pero nuestra visibilidad no ha mejorado en nada. Sigue fuera de foco. Y la sangre de la ciudad siempre fue el mar.

El parabrisas roto —memos, cartas, facturas pegadas al frente y a los lados— papel pegado al yeso. A Theater for Everyone General field: Journalism Source text - English Michelangelo Pistoletto: Very much a child of the of the s, Pistoletto started with an art that actively includes his audience; his mirror paintings, begun in and made with a tissue-paper image fixed onto a polished, stainless steel surface, reflect the viewers who make their way into the reflecting surface to look at the image.

Basically an improvisatory artist whose efforts reflect, literally and figuratively, the actions of himself and others, Pistoletto has created an art that maintains a dialogue implying a radical communication—albeit a conversation that does not directly entertain a leftist view of art. Indeed, unlike the late Marxist sculptor Mario Merz, who along with Pistoletto is one of the best-known Arte Povera Poor Art practitioners, Pistoletto has seen fit to produce a stance more politically invisible in nature.

His art often depends on a staged performance, in which chances are taken to enhance a fluid spectrum of activities. These actions do not challenge the status quo so much as they encourage a dialogue in which conventional values are questioned in favor of a living theater, which Pistoletto hopes will result in a common ground of thought and activity. The shared attention his artworks demand turn on the notion of a democratized theater, one that involves the audience both physically and metaphysically.

The relations between artist and audience are essentially syncretic and mutually supportive, in ways that contrast with Minimalism, the American sculptural movement that was taking place at the same time in the s and s. This embrace must be regarded as a leap of faith as well as a political act. Pistoletto has not deliberately politicized his art, although the mirror paintings document the free will of those seen on their surface, and the productions of Lo Zoo took theater into the streets. This, then, is an inspired improvisation, a theater for everyone.

One of his most interesting works is Quadro da pranza Lunch Painting , done in , which consists of a skeletal wooden frame almost a foot and a half wide, in which simple right-angled seats and a table, made of the same wood, form the image in its entirety. The frame extends just far enough from the wall to allow actual participants to have lunch while sitting on the seats. The work is not only a magical case of viewer interaction, it also possesses a remarkable graphic virtuosity, and we remember that, at the age of twenty in , Pistoletto enrolled in an advanced school of advertising in Turin.

But beyond the sheer ingenuity of the piece, it is also a call to action, if only to so simple a recreation as eating lunch. While it is true that the Arte Povera movement reacted against corporate values and used materials of humble origins, it also sought a far-reaching transformation of art itself. Yet its position was just as synthetic as it was confrontational, in the sense that it posited art activity as the next best thing—that is, as what would follow an inherently open position in regard to culture.

I do not mean to minimalize the importance of political opposition in Arte Povera, whose very name projects a democratic rather than elitist understanding of art. Italy in and was a volatile place, part of a concerted, nearly global effort to realize a world of greater equality.


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    • Theater was one way of transforming social roles by erasing difference, with the sharp awareness that history, both as esthetic form and political reality, projects from the past into the present. Here the plastic orange encircling the work acts as a scrim through which we see the wooden piece from a decidedly contemporary point of view. Yet the Plexiglas container encompasses only the lower half of the sculpture, which is also allowed a meaningfulness in a historical sense.

    The object is found, but its housing is constructed from a highly contemporary material. The contrast is just and also essentially descriptive—Pistoletto creates a juxtaposition of materials to relate a juxtaposition of kinds of mind. The young woman is literally worn down by time, while the orange Plexiglas shows no signs of wear. Scultura linea has been damaged by the centuries, yet it remains capable of engaging us. By including the audience in the painting, Pistoletto shows us how we participate in both an actual and an imagined reality, with the latter acting as a support but also a critique of real life.

    The mirror paintings give access to a measured participation, whereby the viewer commands part of the reality of the artwork. This suggests that the artist has been interested in democratic values from the start, intending to widen the audience for his paintings, sculptures, and actions. Like the other Poveristi, Pistoletto finds truth in an informality that emphasizes the moment, and its communication, over a sense of formal completion.

    But I do not mean to say that Pistoletto is primarily a process artist—his sense of the object as a discrete thing is very strong and highly imaginative. It was in that Pistoletto found himself looking at a heavily varnished background of an unfinished painting, which reflected his image back to himself. He then understood that he could copy his likeness not by looking into a mirror but by gazing at himself directly in the canvas. This led to the exciting event of The steel background inevitably reflects its surroundings, in and out of which actual people move.

    A self-portrait Pistoletto began his career with a series of self-portraits on polished stainless steel shows the artist squatting, wearing a blue shirt, brown pants, and brown shoes in a cm-square format. Posing on the left side of the painting, Pistoletto has kept the rest of the steel untouched, lacking other figures so that it would be easy for a viewer to find himself in its surface.

    Thus, one becomes complicit with the overall composition; in this work, one takes on a physical if imaginary relationship with the artist himself. This is a kind of poor theater, in which presence fulfills the implicit wish of the artist to have his image seen and the social implications of its partial completion realized. In a way, the drama is ironic; we understand from the start that an actual interaction between the painted-tissue image and the viewer is impossible. Even so, it is important to recognize that self-awareness may be generated by the passerby, who, on seeing himself in the mirrored surface, is challenged to record the details of the scene.

    Here the drama exists in two parts: So the mirror painting acts as a theater partially devised by its audience, and as a challenge to the participant to acknowledge the actuality and unspoken responsibility of his presence. The image is transformed into a dramatic freedom, giving its audience the power to remain on or leave the stage. Why would Pistoletto make art of this kind? For one, it shifts responsibility onto his viewers, who are active participants in the painting—in a radically democratic world, everyone is responsible for change. The artist tends to record facts rather than change them, even when he edits the photos responsible for his figures, leaving some people in and taking some people out as his vision demands.

    Other images insist on participatory awareness, as happens in Cage , a very large silkscreen on polished stainless steel, in which a man in blue sweeps an area behind bars. In the final analysis, his politics are not so much topical as existential, referring back to the freedom he allows himself—and his viewers—in his art. This freedom may be likened to the ability to make choices in actual life—Pistoletto, like many good, exploratory contemporary artists, is at pains to bridge the gap between art and life, and one way of doing that is through the participation of his spectators.

    In Deposizione Deposition , a large, vertically aligned sheet of stainless steel stands with the image of a young woman and young man silkscreened on the lower left. Wearing a ribbed shirt and short dress, she is trying to lift the man, who is clothed in blue jeans. In Deposizione, he contemporizes an actual set theme. We become the actual audience of a spurious Christ, who wears modern clothing but affects us for historical reasons. It can be argued that the mirror paintings are somewhat passive, made complete only by the activities of those who pass by.

    But that is to miss his very public, political point—namely, that the consequences of our behavior belong not only to the individual but also to the social realm, where one affects others as well as oneself. In the interaction with the many, the one begins to disappear. Pistoletto showed the sculptures in his studio in ; a first impression would most likely include the recognition that each work has little formal relation to the other. It is as if a group show had taken place instead of the exhibition of a single artist. In a way, these objects, which include a large globe of newspapers encircled by a spheric cage, a cement sarcophagus, and a cube of six mirrors turned inward and tied with spring, act as props for a theater as yet unrealized.

    Pistoletto has managed to project his absence—not his presence—into objects whose reason for being is oddly but powerfully self-contained. As discrete objects, the works are marvelously sculptural Scultura lignea, mentioned above, is part of the Minus Objects array. They invent possibilities for dialogue, such as the sculpture Struttura per perlare in piedi Structure for Talking while Standing , which consists of welded and painted iron pipe.

    It serves as a support on which people in discussion could easily lean; it appears that the artist is intending some sort of meeting, some gathering of people the pipe creates a small stage as well as a brace. The marvelous painting, or low relief, called Mica , consists of mica coating a square canvas. Interestingly, there is nothing that joins the works, either formally or thematically. One might see them, and the other Minus Objects, as one-off solutions to problems that do not demand a coherent style. In fact, the diversity facing us with regard to such work shrugs off the notion of a single attribution in favor of a more existentially conceived understanding of art.

    Sculpture may be the most profound of media because it suffices unto itself; it is not dependent on a fictional three-dimensional space—as so much of painting has been. Pistoletto does not consciously efface himself or his public responsibility toward his creations; rather, his objects assume a formal and thematic self-sufficiency that speaks to all manner of social interaction.

    The group rolled the ball on the street and drove it around in a car; the piece was called Scultura da passeggio Walking Sculpture.


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      • The artist himself is anxious not to commit himself to the leftist, street-fighting spirit of the time—but that does not mean he stands outside the pale of history during the period this exhibition covers. The valise emphasizes portability—it is a metaphor for improvised travel as well as a kind of home for the Minus Man. The Minus Man functions as an alter ego of Pistoletto; it points out, in humorous fashion, the vulnerability of someone whose existence is to be doubted.

      But if the objects and actions begin with absurdity, they also embrace its social consciousness; the art points to performance as emptiness, or the loss of explicable meaning. Hence the appearance of improvisatory theater, which manifests itself in the quotidian as a an intervention of a particularly social sort.

      We cannot say with certainty that Pistoletto turned his back on the politics of his time. In this piece, topical awareness shares the stage with the simple but striking decision to clothe the bricks with cloth. The piece is in fact impoverished in a physical sense, but nonetheless effective. In general, the works created with rags manage to connote the masses and poverty in general, in ways that are startlingly imaginative. It is hard not to see this piece as a confrontation between the privileges of beauty and the mute demands of the lower classes.

      Pistoletto, who rejects such privilege, turns to an art whose very materials question the possibility of a continuing aristocracy of taste. His audience understands his Venus as being overwhelmed by refuse—bits of cloth that possess no meaning on their own but communicate an unspoken need when gathered into a pile. The Venus belongs to the past, while the rags belong to the future; the point of their intersection represents the meeting of both in the present moment.

      This meeting is political, but it is also an expression of the absurd, in the sense that the rags remain symbols of need, untouched by the vision of historical beauty which they embrace.

      Atrapados en el Más Allá [novela de ángeles y demonios] (Spanish Edition)

      For this writer the other remarkable image is the sculpture named Rosa bruciata Burnt Rose. Its large size x x centimeters makes it absurd, although the transformation of its materials--corrugated cardboard painted red with spray paint—into an object of unseemly beauty is memorable in the extreme. His spectators may be amused by the incongruity of his images, even though the rags strikingly record the quotidian for display.

      It becomes clear that his actions and materials are based on a present tense that lacks both past and future. The burnt rose of his imagination shows us that something beautiful can indeed be forged by contingency of the many rather than by the artist alone. His art takes place on a stage where the script ends not with a whimper but with a bang. Un teatro para todos El notorio arte de Michelangelo Pistoletto abarca muchos medios: La joven se ve, literalmente, gastada por el tiempo, mientras que el Plexiglas anaranjado no demuestra mayores signos de desgaste.

      Un tipo radical de democracia se hace disponible en el arte de Pistoletto, el cual hace de puente para sortear la brecha entre artista y comunidad. El fondo de acero inevitablemente refleja sus alrededores, del que la gente real entra y sale. En las pinturas-espejo en general, las actividades del visitante generaban un teatro impredecible cuyos eventos eran mejor observados y entendidos por aquellos quienes los realizaban.

      Resulta, pues, que en las pinturas-espejo la audiencia de Pistoletto nunca llega a ser un observador inocente —son entes necesarios para completar la obra de arte. En este sentido, el drama existe en dos dimensiones: El dilema al que se enfrenta la audiencia de Pistoletto es simple pero, al fin y al cabo, irresoluble: Vestida con una camisa asurcada y un vestido corto, ella trata de levantar al joven, quien lleva vaqueros. Una barrera vial portable, hecha en , se reduce a lo absurdo cuando Pistoletto cubre ladrillos individuales con harapos: En general, los trabajos hechos con harapos logran remitirnos a las masas y a la pobreza en general de maneras que son impresionantemente imaginativas.

      Pistoletto, quien rechaza tales privilegios, busca un arte cuyos materiales mismos cuestionen la posibilidad de que perdure una aristocracia del gusto. La Venus pertenece al pasado, mientras que los harapos pertenecen al futuro; el punto de cruce entre los dos representa el encuentro de ambos en el presente. Para el autor de este texto, la otra imagen extraordinaria es la escultura de , titulada Rosa brusciata Rosa quemada.

      Jonathan Goodman Spanish to English: Poco a poco aparecieron esas damas: Ya son mayores, hay que salir a la vida, a la luz. En los cascos o en el recuerdo. Lejos del pop, lejos de Warhol. La mejor de todas, tan rara y hermosa, es la imagen del demonio. Ahora son otra cosa, tienen otra vida, otra memoria. Otra vez el viaje. One day he saw a happy man with butterflies flying around his head, stole this image, make it his own, wanted to shape it and the head of the artist became crowded with fantasies of birds, butterflies, leaves and grass accompanied by its particular angels and demons.

      Little by little these ladies begin to appear: The artist as a demiurge started his work from the imagination and evocation. And said, nymph, solitary, dreamer, wanting, wanted, leave, three, bird, butterfly, hat, comb or hair blown by the wind. From the imagination to drawing, from there to the form, from desire to reality where been born from his study in New York. After visiting the artist at his study I remembered a Duchamp image hidden with his. They where born very close to that studio in 14th street in Manhattan where it emerged that first Machine Ceibataire that went from been a secret to become a universal nourishment for the voyeurism.

      Born to be seen, exposed to the sight in public parks, he soon imagined that, when they grew, after the fire and torment, after the wait and the journey, after hell, they would be wet by all rains, moist by mists, caress by suns, sheltered in shadows, covered by snow and hit by the winds.

      They would guests at the most ancients gardens in New York, admired new girls in the city that will stay a few months between the Eden and its demons. They bid farewell to Madrid hangars, to the pounding of their forger, to the flames, the noise, the fury and the caress. They bid farewell to those months where all future seamed uncertain. The creator, the artist, the father of the creatures, in company of other man, increases them, dominates them, sublimates them.

      Already grown up, they must go out to live, to the light. Out of that industrial space, were they grew surprisingly, they bid farewell forever to their doll been, the reverse of angels, according to Rilke. They disembarked in Baltimore — a young man, from another times, would have enjoyed and be unsettled by these figures of delight and mystery — and again on the road, among cranes and trucks that guide them to their first steady destiny of figures willing to be seeing.

      A wonderful public garden, north of the city, where they were conceived, waits for them. Nights and days, in a place in New York, as humid and dry creatures that we would want to touch, caress. Static, unsettling, mysterious ladies from old, imaginary and real companions of our strolls through the gardens of the girls in bloom, after spy them among dead leaves. Reborn creatures of the New York spring that have accompanied each other through their solitary and insomniac nights of the birds slumber, of the kind rumour of the city woods, of the moon light, the sun light.

      Proud, installed stepping on the dubious day light, watching the afternoon fading, satisfied by the pleasures of the days and nights in a garden in the Bronx. Yankee stadium is left behind, up the popular neighbourhoods of Jazz and Son, close to Rap, where the city has vocation of end, of the frontier between the town that it was and the countryside that remained hidden. You must stop at Bedford Park, walk down and come to some gardens that I recommend to enter with the music that Vivaldi composed for The four season, on the headphones or in your in memory. They are disguised as statues, but they could be strange fruits sung by Billie Holiday, trees grown in milky woods, born out of sweet dreams of some drunken poet.

      They are an uncertain age and are of a different condition and character. Some remind of unmarried celibate, other look like young widows, also flirty and novices. All of them in the silent dialog of a repent Carmelit, like they escaped some convent, although they could well be simulating libertines, secluded repented or young dreamers imagining their prom night. Imposing girls in bloom that will never be again those semi dolls that where born in a Manhattan studio and grew up in a Madrid of flames, irons and the memory of meninas.

      Far away from Pop, from Warhol. Other times, other chronicles. A city delighted by its shapes, faces, and sizes. The hieratic faces are compensated by the baroque or geometrical hats born out of their arboreal imagination. They seam daughters of fables that coexist as companions, friends of trees and freed by their heads of birds, by their imaginary flight of angels with sex, among other inhabitants of the woods. They live in a place in Manhattan — near where Melville used to write, Hopper used to paint or Dylan Thomas used to drink- and they will be for ever young, timeless, New Yorkers, crossed by an uncertain past, Spanish and Mediterranean, washed up in Madrid, raised near Museo del Prado, Borbonic palaces, with the memory of past chronicles looking into the future, heard of around the fire of the night, the skies and hells.

      Some artificial paradises are worthwhile. There, among the trees, beasts, music, children, parents, flowers, ponds and mysteries, the fascinated boy remembers, in front of these kings, generals and other imposing characters that nor divert their sight nor their gestures.

      Frozen lives, unsettling mysteries of those familiar creatures, common, that seam absent from life around them.

      Mysterious group, silent solitude life of those rigid creatures. Not all of them are stiff, some of them seam long to flight, to fall to escape, to get out of there. The best of all, so strange and beautiful, is the image of the devil. The fair Lucifer, the , taken from his hell and transported to that garden in Madrid.

      Many think that statues, all statues, of all parks, of all squares, have a secret and mobile life when no one is looking. It is possible that from this solitude of aluminium and bronze, between rusty lattice, of noble or recycled irons, of simulated captivity, they become free at nightfall and happens what Alberto Savino told about what did the most famous statue do to give a well deserved lesson to an impertinent visitor: These endless silence styled solitudes, these sculptures so still, so alive, that make pictures until the sunsets, that wake up to the breeze of New York false down, listen to the birds sing, amused by the peacocks.

      They might visit close neighbourhoods, they might go to Harlem and wake up in Bronx, where the. They also enjoyed the masculine beauty of their neighbourhood boys. There's a problem loading this menu right now. Get fast, free shipping with Amazon Prime. Get to Know Us. English Choose a language for shopping. Amazon Music Stream millions of songs.

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