My most affectionate and indulgent readers already know that now and then, as they were cycles, I have moments when I interrupt the feverish sequence of my publications. I don't think is the bad conscience, I am rather inclined to think a return of the past. Yes, with the age I realize I know a lot less than wanted, I could even say that the more I get the more realize I know very little, but even worse is the bitter awareness that I haven't learned to live, just to live. Just that letting go at the pace that's within the nature of things, knowing how to accept and adjust ourselves accordingly. At my age I should have learned, but I didn't. I'm looking for images of known and unknown artists, I investigate areas far away from each other, I oscillate between things that tickle the obvious pleasure of someone and concepts so obscure as to be almost incomprehensible. Yet it isn't enough. The man who came out of the Paleolithic had only the necessity to get food to survive, all the rest, of which he was clearly aware, was the unknowable, the imponderable, the one is bordering with death and instinctive idea of the divine. Some tens of thousands of years separate me from him; I am able to put names to all things, and there is no aspect of the phenomenal reality that I do not know, but... there always remains an aspect of reality that escapes me and I cannot fix. The time passing, the need for money, the belief that I have something to communicate to others, the need to receive much from others. Living a life is not like crossing a road. Why does it continue? Why do I continue to publish on a blog that looks not similar to what I would it was? I wanted it to be so: my play inside and outside the proven rules of art criticism, refined, tempting, and unconventional. Yet it isn't enough, and now I wonder whether it still makes sense. Thank you.March 10, 2012
AUGUSTO
My most affectionate and indulgent readers already know that now and then, as they were cycles, I have moments when I interrupt the feverish sequence of my publications. I don't think is the bad conscience, I am rather inclined to think a return of the past. Yes, with the age I realize I know a lot less than wanted, I could even say that the more I get the more realize I know very little, but even worse is the bitter awareness that I haven't learned to live, just to live. Just that letting go at the pace that's within the nature of things, knowing how to accept and adjust ourselves accordingly. At my age I should have learned, but I didn't. I'm looking for images of known and unknown artists, I investigate areas far away from each other, I oscillate between things that tickle the obvious pleasure of someone and concepts so obscure as to be almost incomprehensible. Yet it isn't enough. The man who came out of the Paleolithic had only the necessity to get food to survive, all the rest, of which he was clearly aware, was the unknowable, the imponderable, the one is bordering with death and instinctive idea of the divine. Some tens of thousands of years separate me from him; I am able to put names to all things, and there is no aspect of the phenomenal reality that I do not know, but... there always remains an aspect of reality that escapes me and I cannot fix. The time passing, the need for money, the belief that I have something to communicate to others, the need to receive much from others. Living a life is not like crossing a road. Why does it continue? Why do I continue to publish on a blog that looks not similar to what I would it was? I wanted it to be so: my play inside and outside the proven rules of art criticism, refined, tempting, and unconventional. Yet it isn't enough, and now I wonder whether it still makes sense. Thank you.
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March 9, 2012
March 8, 2012
March 7, 2012
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March 6, 2012
The Cosmatesque style, XII-XIII century
Cosmati like Vassalletto were Roman families which members of several generations worked as sculptors mainly in mosaic floors, pulpits, and decorative panels. They were called marmorari (Roman marble-cutters). Their technique was called opus sectile. It consists of elaborate inlays of small geometric shapes alternated with wide and circular bands, creating abstract patterns, made in marbles, colored stones, glass, and gold. The final effect of luxury and splendor is amazing.
March 5, 2012
March 3, 2012
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DEHMEL
Richard Dehmel (1863-1920). German poet.
Letzte Bitte
Lege deine Hand auf meine Augen,
dass mein Blut wie Meeresnächte dunkelt:
fern im Nachen lauscht der Tod.
Lege deine Hand auf meine Augen,
bis mein Blut wie Himmelsnächte funkelt:
Letzte Bitte
Lege deine Hand auf meine Augen,
dass mein Blut wie Meeresnächte dunkelt:
fern im Nachen lauscht der Tod.
Lege deine Hand auf meine Augen,
bis mein Blut wie Himmelsnächte funkelt:
silbern rauscht das schwarze Boot.
March 2, 2012
March 1, 2012
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