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A lover's war

Yesterday I had a look at what I posted Blog in the past two years. I realized one thing which I had not thought of, a common feature to post the first period. I state that I am passionate about politics since I was in school and I sempre seguita con molto interesse. Mi sembra anche che si sia capito che non sono una simpatizzante dell'attuale Capo del Governo Italiano (che razza di stupido eufemismo, vabbe', sorvoliamo). Insomma, il succo e' che ho notato una serie di post che adesso mi sembrano esageratamente polemici, tuttavia sembra che nell'ultimo anno mi sia data una calmata.

Credo che la vis polemica (che non mi e' mai mancata) dei post del primo anno sia dovutra al fatto che quello era anche il mio primo anno all'estero e che per la prima volta mi rendevo conto di cosa davvero stesse succedendo in Italia e dell'immagine miseranda che il mio Paese offre di se. Quei post, nutriti di rabbia, frustrazione e impotenza, anche quando erano particolarmente duri nascevano by a deep sadness. I mean, if I do not give a damn about Italy, so I do not get excited 'time.

I remember the words of James Baldwin:

"Societies never know it, But The War Of An Artists With His society is a lover's war, and he does at His Best what lovers do, Which Is to reveal the beloved to Himself, and With That revelation, to make freedom real. "

Now, I'm not an artist, but I recognize it in these very words. For example, when I say that sometimes I am ashamed to be Italian, in my words there is' suffering, not arrogance. But then, what should I do when my Prime Minister from the kapo 'to a German MEP, uncork a bottle?

short, a bit 'of time now it seems to me that my polemic has faded, maybe I'm finally able to channel my frustration into something more' constructive. In my little I try to work on my "flaws" character (which are many, I have water on all sides), do not always succeed, but at least I try.

Peace

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Vivian Maier

A French nurse who lives in Chicago. An extraordinary photographer died alone and in poverty 'a couple of years ago. Little else is known about Vivian Maier.

What I know and I 'that the blog of John Maloof who collected his work has kept me glued to the screen for more' than an hour. Why 'photos of Vivian speak,' cause they have an intensity ' a una forza non comuni, perche' mi hanno commosso profondamente. Ma soprattutto perche' mi hanno fatto riflettere sull'inutilita' di certa tecnologia che ha ormai colonizzato la fotografia. Puoi avere i software piu' fantascientifici, i macro piu' incredibili, ma se dietro alla macchina non c'e' l'occhio del vero artista non ne caverai mai nulla.

Queste sono solo alcune delle foto di Vivian. Enjoy!

http://vivianmaier.blogspot.com/

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Seduti sul Confine

Sometimes there are on the border, watching the trains pass by in life that paws. There are days when swinging his legs like innocent children, with a smile on his mouth, his hands under his thighs, sitting on a bough hanging. There are days when we huddled on their knees, hug the shoulders, head down. When Diluvial drops, or when the icy wind whip the east there ears. Attempt to repair, and from there we look at life on the move. The life that screams, shudders, sleep, exploding and soon subsides. Life moves, while we are still, still on that branch. Still, watching. Foreign spectators. Alienated viewers.

Sometimes it is also a great view from up there. Panorama, great mountains, beautiful rivers, yes, but nothing else. There is a fragrance that is glimpsed, a sound that s'assapora. There's a Something-Of-The more that goes there. Beyond "what" I can not say. I sense that something just has the courage to go further, to break that thin crusted skin damp aura of the world. And it is beautiful, wonderfully nice to be able to see him in passing. And then miss it, let him slip to search for it in the faces of children, a blossoming flower, the smile of a woman. Have it slip through our hands, and chase in the streets, in homes, where life takes shape.

We can only do a Jump, Jump a little big to go down from that branch. Go down and start chasing the Life glimpsed, but hidden. Not è una roba così semplice, così immediata: si ha paura di farsi male, a gettarsi dall’alto. Alla fine è comodo restarsene sul ramo, a guardare la Vita da lontano. E’ come stare un’intera esistenza a guardare film, su film, su film. Miliardi di storie passerebbero da quegli occhi sognanti, ma mai nessuna volerebbe via dalle dita della mano, attraverso linee curve d’inchiostro. Una gran tristezza.

Ma non sempre si ha la forza, l’audacia di andare a ri-cercare quella Vita smarrita. Ci vuole faccia tosta, incoscienza per mettersi a correre come bambini in una via che pullula di persone. E lì cercarla spasmodicamente, guardare dietro sorrisi, dietro coni di gelato che grondano liquefatti, behind a scoop bigger than the hand of a blond girl.

Sometimes you prefer to stay on the boundary line, on a bough hanging between life and death, between Life and Non-Living. You can stay a pampered life to ever planted seeds, to see the potential of a sublime spirit unresolved. We can contemplate our shadow behind him, just for fun. You can talk to the clouds with the elegance of the wisdom of the subjunctive and conditional, but there will never be an honor to present tense to make us who we are and not what we might be. You can not live a life potentially, for fear of jumping off. For fear of scratching the consciousness and do not sleep at night. For fear of seeing drain shin on a thick stream of blood.

Life lives even the bad. In fact, maybe just likes to hide in there. There, in that troubled dialectic of joy and pain, fullness and bitterness. It 's all a dynamic mixed into a single moment that smacks of the eternal. And the eyes, the eyes cry with pride. The eyes that have raced, struggling, panting up to the extreme and now rest in a corner to lick their wounds. That's Real Life, Life uncontrolled, free from chains. That's conscious life, able to accept the romance and fall in the mud.

Life, for us who watch it from that branch suspended between heaven and earth, it's just a gray film of others. Do not know Other, belongs to others. Not to us, to others. It is not a "more" but a "them." It would be enough to jump down, cursing the pain of landing, to realize that from that branch can only watch, never live.