Google+ Followers

Monday, 5 December 2016

He Who Has Seen

He Who Has Seen – Budapest, 29th of November 2016, and still the 5th, the 5th 5th of November

Monday, 21 November 2016

- 10: My sandtimer broke. Of Departures and New Paths

Yesterday night i was coming back home from a very special day, after a very special week.
On Monday i practiced Reiki on someone else for the first time, and yesterday i gave my first actual Drawing Workshop, which will continue on next Sunday, ending into a little exhibition of the works done with the participants, and my little goodbye to Budapest, after more than one year here.


Lots of things happen and change, and i feel marvelously tranquil and at ease. I'm being surrounded by many amazing and lovely people, and i feel incredibly lucky. At the same time, i do know clearly that for me it's totally time to move, once again, for my new chapters.

The workshop gave me a wonderful time and at the end of the day i was extremely tired, in the best way, like after a very good and rewarding physical activity. So, when i finally got in the tram after some glasses of wine and it was already after midnight, i didn't despise the seat, and i let my back rest against the backpack. I moved slowly, carefully, as it was still all full of the painting equipment which gave so much fun to the participants of the workshop. But, well, after all the inks in the glass were in the bag i was holding in my arms, so i knew it wouldn't have been a big dangerous. Right? BOOM. No, silent boom. None could hear that around me (or maybe some spiders, they can everything), but i did feel massively a little explosion from my backpack. I had this minuscule jump on the seat, and i felt like a giant who's holding a mini planet where a war is going on. Or like something exploded in another dimension just next to me. I knew exactly what it was, what it broke.

Like, time running out?

I bought these two sand timers in February, launching #VideoCallSketching, a series of portraits i make via webcam in 15 minutes. I always felt like this project can potentially keep staying on going for ever, and i still imagine that i'll be doing this also elsewhere, but the way i lived it so far is certainly intertwined with my Hungarian life, with the apartment where i've been living and the big desk where i could set such an always-ready working desk. My dear friends photographer Caterana Tonnē Fleur and Isabel Val Sanchez took some photographs of this world, through these months.


Portraying my father, March 2016 – Photo by Caterana Tonnē Fleur
Portraying my father, March 2016 – Photo by Caterana Tonnē Fleur
Portraying my father, March 2016 – Photo by Caterana Tonnē Fleur

ortraying Isabel Val Sanchez while she portrays me via webcam, March 2016
 Photo by Isabel Val Sanchez for her new portraits series, while i portray her, November 2016

I had two sand timers, for #VideoCallSketching, and everybody was finding fun and interesting that i was opening my drawing time turning such an object. I would have liked to bring them away, but moving is always tricky, and once again i'll leave an apartment heading a traveling time, as i did after Utrecht, therefore i have to reduce my luggage as much as i can. They were kind of extra, i suppose, and while they were fun, they didn't have a special story behind, as most of the objects i bring around do. I had two sand timers, for #VideoCallSketching, one of 10 minutes and one of 5 minutes. I was first turning the 10 minutes one, and knowing i had to hurry up when only the last 5, red, minutes were starting. Now the 5 minutes are gone, their red sand is weirdly still mostly into the glass, but half of the sand timer broke. I have left only the 10 minutes sand timer. And this happened just after the midnight, when the 20th start. My flight will be on the 30th.

- 10.

Before to leave: i will read Felice in English, at open air and then at Café Zsivágó, on Tuesday night, (loving that the name of this lovely café is also the name my grandma's horse had), i will give the second half of the workshop, and, if hopefully, i'll make it to pack properly.

Anyway, no fears about how to continue my portraits via webcam with one sand timer only (or none); tonight i already had the pleasure of trying, and sharing all this story with Livia, the beautiful soul who knocked at my Skype a few hours ago, from Panama.


#VideoCallSketching 094 - Livia Valera


- 9


Saturday, 5 November 2016

Remember Remember ⊙ V


Remember Remember ⊙ V ⊙ Sacred Constellation   



Sunday, 9 October 2016

The time to tell, the time to live; happy birthday, my blog, thanks for letting me write down some notes.

(This meaningful day to me, the 9th of October. So many things connected to it. Today is Polly Jean Harvey's birthday, who's been such a companion through my darkest years, and who still does projects meeting my view, in a way or another. Also, today is my blog's birthday: 8 years. Less and less i'm writing here, despite my desire and despite how often i do it in my mind. I remember when, once upon a time, i was used to drop here my confusion and my crisis, my tales about just a one-day-trip somewhere near by. Now i can cross Oceans and i hardly mention it here (nor much on other social networks, actually). The way i tell about my life changed, i'm even more open now than during my early 20s, but my life is so full that i'd need a parallel life just to tell about my life. It is like hardly find the time to do back-ups because you're always up to create. (What? Oh, yes, i totally need to make my back-ups more regular, that's extremely right.) One thing, one important thing before to go in the shower and leave my nest on Buda, to celebrate another nest in Pest: storytelling is not anymore an obsession, already since 2012. There's still the pleasure of doing it, the awareness of its importance, yet now i'm free by the desperate need. I remember how i was used to think about the border between living and telling, and i remember that for me before living was a source of tales, and i was feeling all fucked up regarding this. There was a filter, i was always living life through a camera, a mind camera or a real one. Now i'm in the moment, i'm in the here and now, and that's basically why i sketch less around and that's why i write here less. Plus, because i focus my energies on some other projects that often require longer time to get realized. I'm just sorry that i update about them more on micro-blogging platforms such as, guess, facebook, or twitter, or instagram (the links are there because so you follow me, yes, hahaha), while i would have loved to keep updating my blog as a continuous archive of my path. But this doesn't seem possible, posting on just two social networks takes me already too much. But i'm so glad this blog is always here anyway, ready to welcome other flows. There's much i'd like to tell here, stuff i don't say much elsewhere, perhaps, but i don't blame myself for not doing yet much: maybe i'm not doing it yet because i'll re-elaborate these thoughts in art projects instead of blog posts. And, after all, doesn't sound bad, right? Still, thanks Eta dorme sui pesci volanti, for being here. I remember when i was about to delete you, and some-ones asked me to keep it.

Love.

PS. Well, the better organized archive, now, is supposed to be my website. And i love that very much! Still i need to update it again, though!

PPS. I see there's a way not to counterpose living and telling life, as telling is living too – to hold this concept, i think of storytelling around the fire and how that's essential. It can seem different when, in order to tell, you have a screen on the way, or paperwork to solve. But that's like taking care of your house. We can enjoy all these practical things.
Before enlightenment, chop the wood, carry the water.
After enlightenment, chop the wood, carry the water.)

Monday, 11 July 2016

"Il fungo e la strega"




Inquietudine odierna sorella dell'inquietudine che avevo a tredici anni, sorella di miliardi di inquietudini, ora, nel Medioevo, sempre, ovunque.
Un po' di paura. Ma molta più speranza.
Per forza.


15 agosto 2002



Eta



Dedicato a tutte le donne che hanno sentito

un sasso nel sesso





Il fungo e la strega









Un giorno qualsiasi,

mentre spostavo

fatti e sogni annacquati

dal sapore del passato,

scovai le parole

di una creatura sporcata.



Nella vana speranza

d’un sonno tranquillo

e d’un risveglio voluto

per il sale delle donne,

adesso trascriverò

i giovani pensieri

della fanciulla spezzata:







«Solo oggi riacquisto

Il mio corpo schiavo

Dei tuoi distorti ordini.

Lo sguardo del paese

È schivo e crudele.

Nessuno comprende la mia storia.

(Terrore).



Conosco i loro giudizi

(spade e sacerdoti),

il mio destino bruciato

è stato firmato

dai loro santi inventati.



Era sole, nuvole candide,

fratelli e sorelle,

e frutti di bosco,

sarta o cuoca.

O forse illusioni:

l’infanzia sorride.



Sotto il ciliegio,

crescevano i funghi:

a seconda del giorno,

una sorella li coglieva

e sabato era il mio turno.

Insieme ai funghi,

scuri capelli,

sorriso malizioso

(mi sembrò gentile).

Carne scoperta:

placido e sciolto,

spugna imbevuta.

Colsi un avviso

nel mio strano e recente

sconosciuto intestino:

un sasso nel sesso.

Percepii opposte reazioni,

ambigue sensazioni.

Troppo presto

Il segreto mi fu svelato:



fosti violento,

insaziabile e contento…

sudore e fango…

schifoso fungo…

il tuo sudicio piacere…

il mio spaventato imbarazzo…

il fungo in uno stagno…

piansi (angoscia)…

respiro

(ansia)

Rosso sangue

Fradice croste

Viscere

Viscido

(Occhio) spalancato…

(Lo spazio) nelle lacrime…

Scalza tra i chiodi…

Ma senza fiatare…



Grosse mani

e il fungo di sugo

La mia testa in un sacchetto

E la salsa nei miei orifizi

Una salsiccia nei capelli.

La serpe (morta), il fungo.





E poi venne smisurato il ventre:

- Guai se non ti sposi

- Chiese e streghe

non vanno assieme

(- Ma l’odore suino?)

(- Ma il fungo spoglio?)





E fu eclisse di luna di sole di stelle.

Solo Cielo negro e nuvole grigie.





Sedie di fumo

E riposo trasparente.

Lavoro e spine.

(- E il fungo che sbava?)

Moglie e serva

(Madre distrutta)

Sguattera dell’intolleranza.



Mi togliesti la vita,

scopi e sapori buoni,

Mi tolsi bambina,

ma mi sbarrai la donna.



Condannata e sospesa

sospesa e condannata.





(Il maschio morto

Fungo e rami secchi).





Se non conoscerò mai

la sana sorpresa,

o un’esistenza pacata,

non ne voglio una falsa.



E se non ho diritti,

scoprirò la vendetta,

un sangue più bello.



Ma se ho ucciso

Il tuo malato respiro,

la gente ucciderà la strega.



(- Mamma dove sta?)

Ma i suoi fianchi

e il suo caro seno

sono i segni

d’un’altra voce nascosta

schiacciata

soppressa.

Ma mamma mi sussurra

che col fuoco non si soffre

(Una nenia silenziosa

sano crepitio).

(Dolci consolazioni)…



Babbo

(voce sommessa)

è un baule con la serratura.

Gli occhi stanchi.



Sento il calore,

le fiamme esasperate,

(soffici bugie:

il fuoco fa soffrire),

le mie membra sfumano…

Dopo troppa tristezza,

l’anima svanisce,

lo spirito si è bloccato

nel fungo di rospo…



E se sospiri

E ricordi sperduti

possono continuare

nel mio cadavere non sepolto

(neanche la fossa comune)

resiste solo

la carcassa del fungo,



giacché ogni sera,

s’interrompe il presente

e subito il serpente

si smascherava tormento:

dalla mia testa decomposta

riemergeva il fungo smembrato.

(Spalla a spalla

con quelle immagini prosciugate,

ombra asfissiante).



Soffoco nel fuoco:

il tuo fungo non dà scampo:

nella schiavitù

e tra gli sguardi

taglienti o abbassati

della folla spudorata,

ripenso ai miei nati:

figli spenti in avide carestie

sono arti segati.





Custode del mondo,

chiunque tu sia,

salvami da questo!

Ho subìto il fungo,

la schiavitù del matrimonio,

il severo pregiudizio,

ho attraversato la morte

e superatene le soglie…

Cos’ho commesso

(non sono una strega!)

per scappare a vuoto

da un’immagine stampata

nel fondo dei miei sensi

Quale atroce mostruosità

non può sfuggire

all’eterno castigo?

E perché non riesco

a smettere di rivedere

le mie pene nei sogni?





Fungo marcio e spazzatura…

Se sono morta sono appassiti,

ma quella pasta

molle e insalivata

mi sposserà senza sosta,

sino all’incoscienza…



Sverrò disperata in uno stagno coi fughi.»



Me in 2001, Lizzola (Alps)