martes, 15 de diciembre de 2009

Little girl with balloons




A haven



This garden belongs to a famous Argentine botanist, which I didn't know when I took the photos.   There are many native species of plants which attract rare birds and insects to this garden in particular... a haven... the garden is magical, and the best part is it's sandwiched between neat and tidy houses with neat and tidy gardens.

domingo, 15 de noviembre de 2009

Retrato impreso sobre vinílico / Portrait on vinyl


Although this little girl has the loveliest blue eyes, I decided to use this portrait as I like the delicate lighting which highlights her softness and ´little girl´qualities.

I had the image printed on vinyl and stretched over a frame.



viernes, 6 de noviembre de 2009

Araucaria

Si la selva es un paraguas que protege
y tu cuerpo a una copa se asemeja
yo no puedo presentir que estés ausente
sin la imagen de una lágrima o una queja

Andrés Bosso

miércoles, 28 de octubre de 2009

Agua Sagrada


Dicen del agua de selva
Que nace de la enramada
Que es sagrada y que en el monte
Recibe brillos de plata.

Silenciosa y cristalina
Limpia la roca encajada
Entre musgos y vasijas
De culturas olvidadas.

Es la hostia del paisano
Que en el obraje se agacha
Y es la luz en noche abierta
Que con sonidos te ampara.

Dicen del agua de selva
Que nace de la enramada
Que llega hasta el caminante
Para sentirle su cara.

Por eso siempre que puedo
Probar del agua sagrada
Hincado sobre rodillas
En medio de las picadas
No dudo en rezar de a sorbos
A esta selva enmarañada
Para sentir que en mi cuerpo
Su verde se hace esperanza.


Andrés Bosso

martes, 27 de octubre de 2009

Robert Burns 1759 - 1796


"Whatever mitigates the woes or increases the happiness of others, this is my criterion of goodness; and whatever injures society at large, or any individual in it, this is my measure of iniquity".

Robert Burns



"Basically Burns was a humanitarian. Thus he was was a libertarian and equalitarian. Overall his sympathies were with the poor, the oppressed; and his sympathies extended to the animal kingdom, to the mouse, the auld mare, the wounded hare... "

Burns´love for his fellowmen, for humanity, is all-embracing and despite the fact... he is nothing of a sentimentalist. He also loved women in particular. He loved many women in his lifetime. Of his fifteen children, nine were born in ´lawful wedlock´, but in no sense was Burns a libertine. Burns was supremely conscious of the glory of parenthood - legitimacy or illegitimacy were meaningless words to him: he spat the morality that begot them out of his mouth.

Certainly Burns is not for those who mourn, are faint-hearted, lack faith in humanity, or put their trust in legislators; who love without passion and who hate without compassion; who belittle the struggle of man against the Unknown and who blaspheme against the gift of life and put their trust in party politicians. Burns´poems and songs sing of the richness and strangeness and wonder of life. He did not write for those of little faith. Above all, he wrote for those who know that;

"The heart ay´s the part ay that makes us right or wrong."

James Barke
Introduction to Poems and Songs of Robert Burns
Collins ed 1955







lunes, 19 de octubre de 2009

Tango, mensaje de la selva de cemento

Gardel, Troilo, Pugliese, Piazzolla.

Nostalgias, amores, desengaños. Vieja, barrio, puñalada, percal, truco. Esquina gris. Tarde gris. Alma gris.

Y bandoneón. Arrugado resoplido reo de la noche arrabalera. Noche pinzada con estrellas de nácar. Farol sibilante de Buenos Aires.

El tango es negro.
Usina de acordes negros que agitan la savia negra de las calles del barrio. Savia negra que nutre el árbol canyengue. Con raíces de adoquín que crecen enredándose en el taconeo zigzagueante de guapos y mireyas. La noche va y viene y el baile le da su lustre de luna al charol ya brilloso.

Y la savia fluye negra por el encaje negro. Y escala el cuerpo ciñendo la figura de mujer, moldeada en humus exquisito, y brota en ojos negros, pelo negro, traje negro. Farol negro.

El tango brilla.
Brilla el charol, brilla el cuchillo. Brilla la vía acerada del tranvía lejano.

El tango es guapo.
Quizá compadritos orilleros despojados de su honor por la daga de una luna creciente, se desangraron sobre las trochas y tiñeron el suelo, antes negro, del color que es en la selva. Y chillantes tranvías repartieron con su vaivén el mensaje primitivo, pretérito, herrumbroso, por toda la ciudad. Y nació la selva de cemento. Violencia, bravura, hidalguía, guerrilla, malevaje.

Y entre el humo de una Buenos Aires ya turbia, entre el vapor de la olla del convento, el bandoneón nos sigue dando su respiración jadeante. Y el jadeo es también una resistencia al silencio; y el baile quebrado una bocanada refrescante para el ambiente.

Tango.
Que siempre se extingue, que siempre resurge. Es el alma de Buenos Aires. La savia pasional del río de la Plata.

Andrés Bosso

jueves, 8 de octubre de 2009

Liquid light

....liquid light, bathed in light, a pool of light.....children chasing shadows chase light ... and at night when the wind sways the branches of the trees outside and the shadows creep like treacle through the window, onto the bedspread, over the walls and ceilings... the lamp, next to their pillow promises to chase the shadows away...

..

sábado, 3 de octubre de 2009

A collection of pencils


When there were more than a few of us we would eat in the dining room at my grandfather´s house, but when the meal was finished the dining room would revert to silence... silence punctuated by the rhythmic tick tock from the mantlepiece. I suspect that´s why my grandfather put his desk there; in the silence. The desk was placed by the large window which looked out onto the garden, the apple tree, the hydrangea and the thrush looking for his worm.

The typewriter and the telephone were side by side on the desk, occasionally competing with the clock, but the clock always won.

There was only one window in the room, that one. My grandfather as he worked was bathed in natural light. The various items on the desk reflected or absorbed the light. The curves of the black Bakelite sculpted the light. The collection of pencils on his desk, rough wooden pencils, hewn but not varnished drank the light in thirstily.

viernes, 2 de octubre de 2009

escuchar

"..Cada latido de tu corazón es una historia.." William "..más grande la cama, más grande el miedo.." Isla

jueves, 1 de octubre de 2009

De Claros del bosque, María Zambrano



MÉTODO

H ay que dormirse arriba en la luz.

Hay que estar despierto abajo en la oscuridad intraterrestre, intracorporal de los diversos cuerpos que el hombre terrestre habita: el de la tierra, el del universo, el suyo propio.

Allá en "los profundos", en los ínferos el corazón vela, se desvela, se reenciende en sí mismo.

Arriba, en la luz, el corazón se abandona, se entrega. Se recoge. Se aduerme al fin ya sin pena. En la luz que acoge donde no se padece violencia alguna, pues que se ha llegado allí, a esa luz, sin forzar ninguna puerta y aun sin abrirla, sin haber atravesado dinteles de luz y de sombra, sin esfuerzo y sin protección.



MARÍA ZAMBRANO nació el 25 de abril de 1904 en Vélez-Málaga, provincia de Málaga. Profesora Ayudante de Filosofía en la facultad de Filosofía y Letras de Madrid, el 28 de enero de 1939 partió hacia el exilio. Residió en Cuba -profesora de la Universidad de La Habana, México-invitada por la Casa de España (después Colegio de México) como profesora de Filosofía de la Universidad de Morelia-, y Puerto Rico, donde fue profesora en la Universidad de San Juan. Residió asimismo en París y en Italia, y desde 1964 vivió en una pequeña aldea del Jura francés, con frecuentes viajes a Roma, hasta su regreso a Madrid en 1984. Su obra, una de las más altas del pensamiento español contemporáneo, galardonada con el premio Príncipe de Asturias, comprende los libros siguientes: Horizonte del liberalismo (1930), Pensamiento y poesía en la vida española (1939), Filosofía y poesía (1939), El pensamiento vivo de Séneca (1944), La agonía de Europa (1945), Hacia un saber sobre el alma (1950), El hombre y lo divino (1955), Persona y democracia (1959), La España de Galdós (1960), España: Sueño y verdad ( 1965 ), El sueño creador (1965), La tumba de Antigona (1967). En 1971 apareció la Primera entrega de sus Obras reunidas

H A Y que dormirse arriba en la luz.

Hay que estar despierto abajo en la os los diversos cuerpos que el hombre terrestre habita: el de la tierra, el del universo, el suyo propio.

Allá en "los profundos", en los ínferos el corazón vela, se desvela, se reenciende en sí mismo.

Arriba, en la luz, el corazón se abandona, se entrega. Se recoge. Se aduerme al fin ya sin pena. En la luz que acoge donde no se padece violencia alguna, pues que se ha llegado allí, a esa luz, sin forzar ninguna puerta y aun sin abrirla, sin haber atravesado dinteles de luz y de sombra, sin esfuerzo y sin protección.

miércoles, 30 de septiembre de 2009

In my grandfather´s garden there was an apple tree


and there hung a swing from one of its branches. The apples were sweet and delicious and my grandfather would place them a few inches apart on a shelf in his workshop so they would ripen fully if they fell early. The aroma in the workshop combined fruit and coal tar creosote which he used to maintain his garage at the bottom of the garden, where the Triumph was kept. He would stew the apples and give them to us with the thick cream which formed inside the top of the milk bottles, which came out of the ice chest icy cold.

Also in his garden he grew hydrangea and he told us they could change colour if you buried a rusty key by the roots. He liked to take our photograph in front of the hydrangea, in our school uniform all pressed and new.

In our school uniform all pressed and new we could volunteer to collect for charity, door to door. I volunteered always. My motives were not necessarily altruisic. It meant I had a chance to fill my lungs with the smell of home cooking and catch a glimpse of a domestic evening unfolding, just for a few moments while the person who opened the door turned to open her purse and then place the pennies in my collection box. The scene was suggested; lit by the yellow glow from the lamp on the hall table or the shaft of light beckoning from the kitchen door not quite pulled to.



lunes, 28 de septiembre de 2009

It rained on Buenos Aires

This Sunday it rained on Buenos Aires. Relentless rain and cold, which meant we had the city practically to ourselves. I saw behind the scenes of a city I´ve inhabited for the last three years. "Esto es Argentina".... Caballito... preparing for customers who will pass through on their way to family gatherings. I´ll take a photograph to them. The windscreen of a Fiat 600 reflecting the grey clouds enveloping the city; the guard dog languishing in the doorway of the parking lot; a car wash, apparently abandoned, but just waiting for the rain to stop.







sábado, 26 de septiembre de 2009

Postcards from my grandfather


As a girl I attended a boarding school in Scotland. My grandfather was an important figure in my life. He would send me postcards every week, sometimes more than one a week, even though he lived a few miles from the school. I would see him every Sunday. He would sometimes take my sister and I out for drives around the Ayrshire countryside in his brown Triumph. We would learn a little more each time about his beloved Scotland.