He Who Has Seen

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

- 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

Remember Remember ⊙ V

Remember Remember ⊙ V ⊙ Sacred Constellation

 

 

 

On going

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.)

"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)

LinFante at Trastevere in Unplugged

LinFante is back breathing, in Rome, and I made a poster for him once again.

 

And we're about to shake you further, again and again, s o o n.

LinFante on Facebook

LinFante's website

The Pangolin: Beauty Of The Armour's Strength

There's a concept of strength very dear to me: the strength of sharing our fragility, and, together with this, our most precious love. That's so much part of the concepts I mean to share through my work, through my life.

It is a kind of lost art, so I feel that it deserves more attention. It is part of the mission of a Rainbow Warrior.

In the last months, though, I had to acknowledge deeply the clear strength of the armour – a type of strength that I had rather disregarded, as it's just the opposite of what I tend to encourage: the armour is a closing action, while my heart hopes for an increasing collective openness.

Yet, yes, the armour does work. I must see this as well. Dangers do exist, and the armour can definitely be a tool. One tool, one of the many we have. There's not one only correct way. I believe in multiple choices and multiple possibilities. I still battle for the flower battle, I still gently fight for the gentle fight, but I do bow to the power of a armour that defends from lion attacks.

Let me introduce to you who shown to me this intriguing technique.

Ladies and gentlemen: The Pangolin.

Oil pastels and waterable pencils on velour paper, 24x17 cm circa

I'll leave here also some sketches made while studying it. The pangolin deserves much study.

* With a delicate eye for pangolins turning 30 on the 19th of May, 2016.

Rappelant Rêveries ☉ 4:VI:XII (Abraço Florecido)

#VideoCallSketching 047: Anonymous Who Requested To Be Described as A Muslim From An Asian Islamic Country

In February I started the #VideoCallSketching project: in 15 minutes, all whispered by my sand timers, I make a portray on a video call. To contact me, the best way is to add me on Skype as etaliparoti, or drop me an email at eta489@gmail.com, or to message me on my Facebook page.

On my website I tell some more about this, and following me online you can see the collection growing. I would like to share more on my blog too, in my mind I type several posts meant for my blog, but I have very little time for this as I'm working a lot on many things and I have no time to follow all the social media, so here I'm reporting only some piece by piece. Also, in all these months I didn't really tell anything about what I'm mainly doing here in Budapest, and I think it's not time yet to do it, but I can tell I've been drawing maybe more than ever, and yet never enough. And that I'm very happy! Much magic, my dear beast, here too.

Anyway, I came back with passion on my lovely and beloved blog pages because I got a very meaningful story to share. Perhaps very little, but still very heartfelt and precious, and peculiar. It came with the 47th #VideoCallSketching; I'm going to copy after its drawing what I shared on Facebook too.

(It might be a story you'd like to share.)

#VCS 047: Anonymous Who Requested To Be Described as A Muslim From An Asian Islamic Country

Is your body the way you express yourself?
Do you feel like nudity is the only way you can actually be who you truly are? Some will think "not all", I suppose, but many may relate, I guess.
What if you live in a place where you might be "stoned to death" or "lynched by a mob" if you are seen even just in shorts?

The night after the attacks in Belgium, on the 23rd of March, I received a new request on Skype on my #VideoCallSketching account. That day, once again, I had spent some thoughts about art's potentiality in politics and ethics. I do believe strongly that as far as humanity tries to get better, we'll need art, and I decided to listen to my call, with all my heart. Yet, sometimes, although I know that's a way of healing too, I just stumble upon the idea that nursing might be something more directly effective, for example, and playing with pastels may be limiting. The attack in France, in November, scared me very much, not because of the physical danger it might represent for me and who I know directly, but because, unfortunately, I knew this can increase the fears that become racism, racism towards exactly those very same ones who are suffering more from the ones who are using a religion to kill and have power and money (and all this out of a situation that Western European Countries generated, from colonialism on). So that's what I was afraid of: observing more and more hate around me, instead of love, and openness. Luckily, I feel surrounded by intelligent people, who mostly share my same ideas, and many who volunteer and work, for real, very directly, to change this world; this help me to keep high the hopes, and makes me very thankful. Yet on that day I still had some extra thoughts about what I can do, and what I should do. And then I received this new request on Skype. "Can i ask something bluntly?", this person soon said. I said "Feel free", and I knew, already, this was going to be again someone looking for sex cam – which is something definitely okay and that calls my attention especially because of the vibrant battle for sex workers' rights, and much much more, but… that is not what my #VideoCallSketching project is about, simply. But then this person asked me instead if I could also draw bodies, or if I do only the face, and if in case I would upload this on Facebook. This, this seemed like something else. Also, I had been waiting for someone not posing with a close up, so I immediately answered appreciating the originality. Then this person asked me if somehow we could making the face not recognizable, and if it was okay if he wasn't wearing anything. He did all this very gently, and carefully. I was still wondering if somehow this was his way to arouse himself, but, even so, it looked like we were already in another kind of territory, respectful, positive and organic. Then we tried to figure out how and when we could do the portray, as he cannot stay naked normally where he lives, because nudity isn't accepted in the Country where he stays, and his family is mostly at home. It was late in the night, almost the morning, in his time zone, so we decided that he could hide in the bathroom and that we could work it out despite the not ideal light condition, because he could hardly find a moment with the sunshine anyway. In the meanwhile, he shared with me some more of his story; from now on I'll call him "my brother", because he is (as we all are) – and because he needs to stay anonymous. He also asked me not to tell the specific Country where he's from, because despite the incredibly small possibility for anyone to identify him, the serious risks in his Country are exaggeratedly high. So we decided to name his Country as an "Asian Islamic Country", hoping to bring some more narrative echoes in the title of what I was going to draw. He told me that he's in his 30s, that the political party he's active with is liberal and they are targeted as "terrorists", and that he feels like he cannot share his true self with almost no one, and that this way I was going to be about to 5th person to know him for real.
I had to share about how I feel that the opposite tendency of the society where I live is really bad too and that can be very much forcing people, especially women, to treat our bodies as commercial products and yet not accepting at all the freedom of nudity. But of course, well, fearing to be stoned to death is quite another thing. I had to think of all the situations where I can join the fight to set free our nature, I thought of my beautiful memories swimming naked in a river in Wales in a Rainbow Gathering, I thought of all the contemporary art, the performances, the Rock'n'Roll and all the fervent subcultures through which this f(l)ight took off in the 20th Century, and I got mesmerized by this specific intersection, where this need that I'm used to hear loud in the Feminist environment meets a man who considers himself a Muslim: such a different reality, still aiming for the same, for love and freedom, and peace. That very moment, realizing that, realizing how much we were just on the same track, felt absolutely essential, and it meant that we are just all going in the same direction: very different people from very different backgrounds are waking up, together, and messing up the world, in a way or another. We are doing that. This is happening. This is happening – so much.
I felt and I feel this connection with him on many details. When he got naked, he typed: "Do you see how hairy my body is? Would it be possible for you to capture this in the sketch? I say this because I feel our body types are our physical identifiers and there was a time when I’d shave my whole body but I’ve realized to own the natural character of my body which is it being this hairy because of me being from this part of the world."
And again, I felt stronger this brotherhood, and laughed cheering at the parallel paths: on the other side of the globe, with the pastels ready in my hand, this woman I happen to be is just through the years in which finally learnt how not to shave my armpits anymore, then not to have nightmares on my "unibrow" anymore, and to enjoy those kind of mustache sometimes darker, and then even not to shave anything else anymore below my belt.
(And enjoying also very very much how my Sicilian features do look from an Arabian Country, especially in Hungary, which reacted to the refugees emergency building a fence with concertina wire on its Southern borders.)
It is sometimes very hard to get people understanding my choice even between other women in Europe, and I got used to some shocked reactions (and to the louder winks and encouragements too, thankfully, or just to the most easy and tranquil indifference). So finding an ally on this in him, with such a different story, has been totally a gift, for me.
The connection that we found gives me many hopes. Ideas are everywhere, they run through the limits of our verbal communication, between all our consciousness. We laughed many times on how much our reactions to the cages make us behave oppositely and yet in the same way. Slowly, all the humanity is waking up. One might ignore how to share what is learning with someone very far, but these ideas will travel anyway, and we find ourselves speaking with the same words, in the same and different heart.

This is a story it had to be shared.

Thanks so much, Brother, for having given to my project an opportunity to be a messenger of something so fragile and important.

Hi, World, we're "Peace Architectures", and we keep dancing.

Thank you for reading.