Socotra, la isla de los genios

Socotra, la isla de los genios, Jordi Esteva, Atalanta, 2011

Why I Love Christmas, by John Waters

Being a traditionalist, I'm a rabid sucker for Christmas. In July I'm already worried that there are only 146 shopping days left. "What are you getting me for Christmas?" I carp to fellow bathers who haven't even decided what to do for Labour Day. As each month follows, I grow more and more obsessed. Around October I startle complete strangers by bursting into my off-key rendition of "Joy to the World." I'm always The Little Drummer Boy for Halloween, a grouchy one at that, since the inconsiderate stores haven't even put up their Christmas decorations yet. November 1 kicks off the jubilee of consumerism, and I'm so riddled with the holidays season that the mere mention of a stocking stuffer sexually arouses me. By December I'm deep in Xmas psychosis, and only then do I allow myself the luxury of daydreaming my favourite childhood memory: dashing through the snow, laughing all the way (ha-ha-ha) to Grandma's house to find the fully decorated tree has fallen over and pinned her underneath. My candy-coloured memories have run through the projector of my mind so many times that they are almost in 3-D. That awful pause before my parents rushed to free her, my own stunned silence as I dared not ask if Granny's gifts to us had been damaged, and the wondrous, glories sight of the snow semi-crooked tree, with balls broken, being begrudgingly hoisted back to its proper position of adoration. "O Christmas tree! O Christmas tree!" I started shrieking at the top of my lungs in an insane fit of childhood hyperventilation before being silenced by a glare from my parents that could have stopped a train. This tableau was never mentioned again, and my family pretended it never happened. But I remember—boy, do I remember! If you don't have yourself a merry little Christmas, you might as well kill yourself. Every waking second should be spent in Christmas compulsion: career, love affairs, marriages, and all the other clutter of daily life must take a backseat to this holiday of holidays. As December 25 fast approaches, the anxiety and pressure to experience "happiness" are all part of the ritual. If you can't maintain the spirit, you're either a rotten Communist or badly in need of a psychiatrist. No wonder you don't have any friends. Of course, You-know-who was supposed to have been born on Christmas, but the real Holy Trinity is God the Father, the Son and the Holy Santa Claus. You don't see fake Josephs and Marys in department stores asking kids what they want, do you? Face it, mangers are downwardly mobile. True, swiping a sheep or a wise man for your apartment from a local church is always good for a cheap thrill and invariably gets you in the paper the next day. And Madalyn Murray O'Hair (the publicity-crazed atheist saint) always gets a rise by successfully demanding in court the removal of Nativity scenes from her state capital on Christmas Eve. But we all know who the real God is, don't we? That's right, the Supreme One, Santa Claus. But if you think about it, Santa Claus is directly responsible for heroin addiction. Innocent children are brainwashed into believing the first big lie their parents ever tell them, and when the truth finally hits, they never believe them again. All the stern warnings on the perils of drugs carry the same credibility as flying reindeer or fat men in your chimney. But I love Santa Claus anyway: All legends have feet of clay. Besides, he's a boon to the unemployed. where else can drunks and fat people get temporary work? Of course, to many, Santa is an erotic figure, and fore these lucky revelers, the Christmas season is a smorgasbord of raw sex. Some people just go for a man in a uniform. Inventive entrepreneurs should open a leather bar called the Pole where dominant wrinkle fetishists could dress like old St. Nick and passive gerontophiliacs could get on all fours and take the whip like good reindeer. Inhaling poppers and climbing down mock chimneys or opening sticks 'n' stones from the red-felt master could complete the sex-drenched atmosphere of the first S&M Xmas bar. You could even get fancy about it. Why hasn't Bloomingdale's or Tiffany's tried a fancy Santa. Deathly pale, this never-too-thin-or-too-rich Kris Kringle, dressed in head-to-toe unstructured, over-size Armani, could pose on a throne, bored and elegant, and every so often deign to let a rich little brat sit near his lap before dismissing his wishes with a condescending "Oh, darling, you don't really want that, do you?" Santa has always been the ultimate movie star. Forget White Christmas, It's a Wonderful Life and all the other hackneyed trash. Go for the classics: Silent Night, Bloody Night, Black Christmas or the best seasonal film of all time Christmas Evil ("He'll sleigh you"). This true cinematic masterpiece only played theatrically for a few seconds, but it's now available on videocassette and no holiday family get-together is complete without it. I t's about a man completely consumed by Christmas. His neurosis first rears its ugly head as he applies shaving cream to his face, looks in the mirror, hallucinates a white beard and begins to imagine that he is Santa Claus. He gets a job in a toy factory, starts snooping and spying on the neighbourhood children and then rushes home to feverishly make notes in his big red book: "Jimmy was a good boy today," or "Peggy was a bad little girl." He starts cross-dressing as Claus and lurks around people's roots ready to take the plunge. Finally, he actually gets stick in a nearby chimney and awakens the family in his struggle. Mom and Dad go insane when they find a fat lunatic in their fireplace, but the kids are wild with glee. Santa has no choice but to kill these Scroogelike parents with the razor-sharp star decorating the top of their tree. As he flees a neighbourhood lynch mob, the children come to his rescue and defy their distraught parents by forming a human ring of protection around him. Finally, pushed to the limits of Clausmania, he leaps into his van/sleigh and it takes off flying over the moon as he psychotically and happily shrieks, "On Dancer! On Prancer! On Donner and Vixen!" I wish I had kids. I'd make them watch it every year and if they didn't like it, they'd be punished. Preholiday activities are the foreplay of Christmas. Naturally, Christmas cards are you first duty and you must send one (with a personal, handwritten message) to every single person you ever met, no matter how briefly. If this common courtesy is not reciprocated, never speak to the person again. Keep computerized records of violators and hold the grudge forever; don't even attend their funeral. Of course, you must make your own cards by hand. "I don't have time" you may whine, but since the whole purpose of life is Christmas, you'd better make time, buster. We Christmas zealots are rather demanding when it comes to the basic requirements of holiday behaviour. "But I can't think of anything . . . ." is usually the next excuse, but cut those people off in mid-sentence. It's easy to be creative at Christmastime. One year I had a real cute idea that was easy to design. I bought a cheap generic card of Joseph and Mary holiday the Baby Jesus and superimposed Charles Manson's face in the place of the homeless infant's. Inside I kept the message "He is born". Everybody told me they loved it and some even said they saved it. (For the record, I'm against donating your cards to nursing homes after Christmas. One would think that after all these years on earth, senior citizens would have had a chance to make a friend or two on their own. Don't do it!) This season, I'm dying to produce my dream card that I've wanted for years. I'll be sitting in a Norman Rockwell-style Christmas scene, dressed in robe and slippers, opening my gifts moments before I notice a freak fire that has begun in the tissue paper and is licking and spreading to the tree. Go deeply in debt over Christmas shopping. Always spend in exact correlation to how much you like the recipient. Aunt Mary I love about $6.50 worth; Uncle Jim—well, at least he got his teeth fixed—$8. If your Christmas comes and goes without declaring bankruptcy, I feel sorry for you—you are a person with not enough love inside. You can never buy too many presents. If you said "Excuse me" to me on a transit bus, you're on my list. I wrap gifts for nonexistent people in case somebody I barely know hands me a present and I'm unprepared to return this gesture. Even though I'm the type who infuriates others by saying "Oh, I finished my shopping months ago," as they frantically try to make last-minute decisions. I like to go into the stores at the height of Christmasmania. Everyone is in a horrid mood, and you can see the overburdened, underpaid temporary help having nervous breakdowns. I always write down their badge numbers and report them for being grumpy. If you're a criminal, Christmas is an extra-special time for you and your family. Shoplifting is easier and cars in parking lots are loaded with presents for your children. Since everyone steals the checks you must leave for the mailman and garbagemen, I like to leave little novelty items, like letter bombs. Luckily, I live in a bad neighbourhood, so I don't have to worry; the muggers live in my building and go to the rich neighbourhoods to rob. If you're quick, you can even steal the muggers' loot as they unload the car. Every child in my district seems to get rollerskates for Christmas, and it's music to my ears to hear the sudden roar of an approaching gang on skates, tossing back and forth like a hot potato a purse they've just snatched. "Santa Claus Is a Black Man" is my favourite Christmas carol, but I also like The Chipmunks' Christmas Album, the Barking Dogs' "Jingle Bells" and "Frosty the Snowman" by the Ronettes. If you're so filled with holiday cheer you can't stand it, try calling your friends and going caroling yourself. Especially if you're old, a drug addict, an alcoholic or obviously homosexual and have a lot of effeminate friends. Go In packs. If you are black, go to a prissy white neighbourhood. Ring doorbells, and when the Father Knows Best-type family answers, start screeching hostilely your favourite carol. Watch their faces. There's nothing they can do. It's not illegal. Maybe they'll give you a present. Always be prepared if someone asks you what you want for Christmas. Give brand names, the store that sells the merchandise and, if possible, exact model numbers so they can't go wrong. Be the type who's impossible to buy for so that they have to get what you want. Here was my 1985 list and I had checked it twice; the long-out-of-print paperback The Indiana Torture Slaying, the one-sheet for the film I Hate Your Guts and the subscription to Corrections Today, the trade paper for prison wardens. If you owe someone money, now is the time to pay him back, mentioning at the same time a perfect gift suggestion. If you expect to be receiving a Christmas stocking as a forerunner to a present, tell the giver right off the bat that you don't go for razor blades, deodorants or any of the other common little sundries but anticipate stocking stuffers that are original, esoteric and perfectly suited to you and you alone. It helps to be a collector, so the precedent is set on what to expect as a gift. For years friends have treated me to the toy annually selected by the Consumer Affairs Committee of Americans for Democratic Action as the "worst toy" to give your child at Christmastime. "Gobbles, the Garbage-Eating Goat" started my collection. "That crazy eating goat" reads the delightful package, and in small print, "Contains: One realistic goat with head that goes up and down. Comes complete with seven pieces of pretend garbage." This Kenner Discovery Time toy's instructions are priceless. "Gobbles loves to eat garbage when he's hungry, and he's ALWAYS hungry. (1) Hold Gobbles mouth open by the beard. Stuff a piece of pretend garbage straight into his mouth and (2) pump the tail until the garbage disappears." It ends with an ominous warning, "Feed Gobbles only the garbage that comes with the toy," and in even smaller print "If you need additional garbage, we will, as a service, send it to you direct. For 14 pieces of garbage send $1 (check or money order; sorry, no C.O.D.) to . . . . " I can't tell you the hours of fun I've had with Gobbles. Sometimes when I'm very bored, Gobbles and I get naked and play-play. Over the years my collection has grown. There's "My Puppy Puddles" ("You can make him drink water, wet in his tray and kiss you"). "Baby Cry and Dry" about whom the watchdog group warned: "Take her out of the box and she smells, the odor won't go away" and "Baby Cry for You." ("The tears don't just drop out, they whoosh out in a three-foot stream.") Of course, I still cover the winner of the first annual prize (before my collection began)—a guillotine for dolls. "Take that, Barbie." "Off with your head, Betsy Wetsy!" No matter what you think of your presents, each must be answered with an immediate thank you note. Thinking of what to write can be tricky, especially for distant relatives who send you a card with two crisp $1 bills inside. Be honest in your reply—"Dear Uncle Walt. Thank you for the $2. I bought a pack of Kools and then put the change in an especially disgusting peep show, it was fun!" or "Dear Aunt Lulu, I was thrilled to receive your kind gift of $5. I immediately bought some PCP with it. Unfortunately, I had a bad reaction, stabbed my sister, set the house on fire and got taken to the hospital for the criminally insane. Maybe you could come visit me? Love, Your nephew." I always have an "office party" every year and invite my old friends, business associates and any snappy criminals who have been recently paroled. I reinforce all my chairs, since for some reason many of my guests are very fat, and after a few splintered antiques, I've learned my lesson. I used to throw the party on Christmas Eve, but so many guests complained of hideous hangovers I had to move up the date. No more moaning and dry heaving under their parents' tree the next day as their brothers and sisters give them dirty looks for prematurely ejaculating the Christmas spirit. I usually invite about a hundred people and the guest know I expect each to get everyone else a present. Ten thousand gifts! When they're ripped open at midnight, you can see Christmas dementia at its height. One thing that pushes me off the deep end is party crashers. I've solved the problem by hiring a door many who pistol-whips anyone without an invitation, but in the old days, crashers actually got inside. How rude! At Christmas, of all times, when visions of sugarplums are dancing orgiastically through my head. One even brought her mother—how touching. "GET OUT!" I snarled after snatching out of her hand the bottle of liquor that she falsely assumed would gain her (and her goddamn mother) entry. I always show a film in one room: Wedding Trough (about a man who falls in love with a pig and then eats it) or Kitten with a Whip (Ann-Margret and John Forsythe) or What Sex Am I? (a clinical documentary about a sex-change operation). When it's finally time for the guests to leave, I blatantly get in bed and go to sleep; they know they better get home. Santa is on his way. Christmas day is like an orgasm that never stops. Happiness and good cheer should be throbbing in your veins. Swilling eggnog, scarfing turkey and wildly ripping open presents with your family, one must pause to savor the feeling of inner peace. Once it's over, you can fall apart. Now is the time for suicide if you are so inclined. All sorts of neuroses are permitted. Depression and feelings that it somehow wasn't good enough would be expected. There's nothing to do! Go to a bad movie? You can't leave the house between now and January 1 because it's unsafe; the national highways are filled with drunks unwinding and frantically trying to get away from their families. Returning gifts is not only rude but psychologically dangerous—if you're not careful you might glimpse the scum of the earth, cheap bastards who shop at after-Christmas sales to save a few bucks. What can you look forward to? January 1, the Feat of the Circumcision, perhaps the most unappetizing High Holiday in the Catholic Church? Cleaning up that dirty, dead, expensive Christmas tree that is now an instant out-of-season fire hazard? There is only one escape from post-Christmas depression—the thought that in four short weeks it's time to start all over again. What're ya gonna get me? from Crackpot by John Waters, 1986

Dissection of Snail

"Dissection of snail. T., Short horn; TT., long horn with eye; N., cerebral ganglia; S.G., salivary glands on the crop; F., foot; M., columellar muscle; V.C., visceral coil; O.T., ovotestis; V., ventricle of heart; R. rectum; U., ureter; B.V., blood vessels returning to the auricle from the mantle; A., pulmonary aperture; MA., edge of the mantle."

Thomson, J. Arthur Outlines of Zoology (1916)

Christmas in 1962

President Kennedy and First Lady Jackie Kennedy are pictured together in front of their ornately decorated tree a few weeks before Christmas in 1962

The quest for the higgs boson

Karajan's Christmas

Eliette and Herbert von Karajan

Μήδεια

Maria Callas in Medea, by Pier Paolo Pasolini, 1969.

Pirelli by Michelangelo Antonioni

Grattacielo Pirelli, Gio Ponti (Architetto), Pier Luigi Nervi (Ingegnere), Milano, 1960

La notte, Michelangelo Antonioni, 1961

Urlicht. Sehr feierlich, aber schlicht

Gustav Mahler (1860-1911)

Symphony No. 2 in C minor, "Resurrection": Mov. 4, "Urlicht. Sehr feierlich, aber schlicht"

Conducted by Leonard Bernstein

Sheila Armstrong, soprano

Janet Baker, mezzo-soprano

Edinburgh Festival Chorus

London Symphony Orchestra

Le Soliloque de l'empailleur

"Tout est mort, ici, vous ne craignez rien. Parfois, Madame, les clients ont peur dans ma cave. Ma maison date du Moyen-Age, elle est plus vieille que le château. On l'a construite en bordure de la forêt, à la frontière du village, contre le rideau du brouillard. Un jour, après moi, on pourra la transformer en musée. Vous êtes encore plus jolie que ce que m'avait dit M. le conservateur. Asseyez-vous sur mon pied d'éléphant."

Le soliloque de l'empailleur, d'Adrien Goetz et Karen Knorr, édition Le Promeneur, 2008

Jacopo, Gentile, Giovanni

Jacopo Bellini (1400–1470), Madonna and Child Blessing, 1455.

Gentile Bellini (1429–1507), Madonna and Child Enthroned, late 15th century.

Giovanni Bellini (1430–1516), Madonna and Child, 1480

Poulenc

Francis Poulenc, Paris, 1899-1963

Concerto for Two Pianos and Orchestras with Francis Poulenc, Jacques Février and Orchestra National de la RTF conducted by Georges Prêtre.

Castells

Tres de nou amb folre i manilles

Dos de vuit amb Folre

Pilar de vuit amb folre i manilles

City of Jiaohe

Jiaohe 108BC-13th Century, Yarnaz Valley, Xinjiang.

Taken with Nikkormat FT, 2011

Teach me to dance, will you?

Anthony Quinn, at Zorba the Greek, 1964

Fish skin / building Structure

Gehry/SOM, Barcelona

Barcelona olympics diving pool

Great Birnam wood

"Macbeth shall never vanquished be until

Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill

Shall come against him.

Turpan.

Emin Minaret in Turpan along the ancient Silk Route..

Velazquez meets Guercino

In his first trip to Italy, Diego Rodriguez de Silva y Velazquez meets Giovanni Francesco Barbieri at Cento in 1629...

Morte di Didone, Guercino, 1629

Velazquez en Chicago y Dublin

National Gallery de Dublín, Dublín, Irlanda, Diego Rodríguez de Silva y Velázquez, 1618 - 1622

Art Institute of Chicago, Chicago, Estados Unidos, Diego Rodríguez de Silva y Velázquez, 1618 - 1622

"La cofia de la mujer, anudada en su parte superior con un mayor número de pliegues, y un más minucioso estudio de las luces y las sombras, como se advierte también en el papel arrugado en primer término, junto con la incidencia de la luz sobre los objetos, particularmente en la jarra de cerámica vidriada que la sirvienta tiene en la mano, en la que se puede apreciar el brillo del barniz craquelado y las huellas del torno, confirmarían la superioridad de la versión del Art Institute de Chicago, que podría explicarse como una vuelta de Velázquez al mismo motivo que había abordado poco antes con afán de superarse a sí mismo, insistiendo en el estudio de los valores táctiles, que son los que le interesaban primordialmente en este momento, y prescindiendo del motivo religioso."

Lagrimas de San Lorenzo

San Lorenzo, por Domenikos Theotokopoulos, el Greco,1578

Chloroplast

6 CO2 + 6 H2O + light ->C6H12O6 + 6O2

Classic Mies

Mies Van der Rohe, Epidaurus theater 1959.

Tea house

Takasugi-an, Tea House by Terunobu Fujimori 2003-2004

Jacques-Yves Cousteau

Annelides, crustaces et arachnides

Tableau d'Histoire Naturelle: Annelides, Crustaces, Arachnides, etc., Henri Duval 1834

Great Lord Hidetora Ichimonji

Great Lord Hidetora Ichimonji:

"Three individuals are weak and can easily snap. Three together, however, are strong, and can withstand any amount of pressure."

Akira Kurosawa, Ran (1985)

Sears tower, Skidmore Owings and Merrill, 1973

Tres animales soñados

Un Animal Soñado por Kafka

Es un animal con una gran cola, de muchos metros de largo, parecida a la del zorro. A veces me gustaría tener su cola en la mano, pero es imposible; el animal está siempre en movimiento, la cola siempre de un lado para otro. El animal tiene algo de canguro, pero la cabeza chica y oval no es característica y tiene algo de humana; sólo los dientes tienen fuerza expresiva, ya los oculte o les muestre. Suelo tener la impresión que el animal quiere amaestrarme; si no, qué propósito puede tener retirarme la cola cuando quiero agarrarla, y luego esperar tranquilamente que ésta vuelva a atraerme, y luego volver a saltar.

Franz Kafka: Hochzeitsvorbereitungen auf dem Lande, 1953.

Un Animal Soñado por C. S. Lewis

...El canto era fuerte ya, y la espesura muy densa, de manera que no podía ver casi a un metro delante de él, cuando la música cesó súbitamente. Oyó un ruido de maleza que se rompe. Se dirigió rápidamente en aquella dirección, pero no vio nada. Había casi decidido abandonar su búsqueda cuando el canto recomenzó un poco más lejano. De nuevo se dirigió hacia él; de nuevo el que cantaba guardó silencio y lo evadió. Llevaría más de una hora jugando a esta especie de escondite cuando su esfuerzo fue recompensado.

Avanzando cautelosamente en dirección a uno de estos cantos fuertes, vio finalmente a través de las ramas floridas una forma negra. Deteniéndose cuando dejaba de cantar, y avanzando de nuevo con cautela cuando reanudaba el canto, la siguió durante diez minutos. Finalmente tuvo al cantor delante de los ojos, ignorando que era espiado. Estaba sentado, erecto como un perro, y era negro, liso y brillante; sus hombros llegaban a la altura de la cabeza de Ransom; las patas delanteras sobre las que estaba apoyado eran como árboles jóvenes, y las pezuñas que descansaban en el suelo eran anchas como las de un camello. El enorme vientre redondo era blanco, y por encima de sus hombros se elevaba, muy alto, un cuello como de caballo. Desde donde estaba, Ransom veía su cabeza de perfil; la boca abierta lanzaba aquella especie de canto de alegría, y el canto hacía vibrar casi visiblemente su lustrosa garganta. Miró maravillado aquellos ojos húmedos, aquellas sensuales ventanas de su nariz. Entonces el animal se detuvo, lo vio y se alejó, deteniéndose a los pocos pasos, sobre sus cuatro patas, no de menor talla que un elefante joven, meneando una larga cola peluda. Era el primer ser de Perelandra que parecía mostrar cierto temor al hombre. Pero no era miedo. Cuando lo llamó se acercó a él. Puso su belfo de terciopelo sobre su mano y soportó su contacto; pero casi inmediatamente volvió a alejarse. Inclinando el largo cuello, se detuvo y apoyó la cabeza entre las patas. Ransom vio que no sacaría nada de él, y cuando al fin se alejó, perdiéndose de vista, no lo siguió. Hacerlo le hubiera parecido una injuria a su timidez, a la sumisa suavidad de su expresión, a su evidente deseo de ser para siempre un sonido y sólo un sonido, en la espesura central de aquellos bosques inexplorados. Ransom prosiguió su camino; unos segundos más tarde, el sonido empezó de nuevo detrás de él, más fuerte y más bello que nunca, como un canto de alegría por su recobrada libertad...

Las bestias de esta especie no tienen leche, y, cuando paren, sus crías son amamantadas por una hembra de otra especie. Es una bestia grande y bella, y muda, y hasta que la bestia que canta es destetada vive entre sus cachorros y está sujeta a ella. Pero cuando ha crecido se convierte en el animal más delicado y glorioso de todos los animales y se aleja de ella. Y ella se admira de su canto...

C. S. Lewis: Perelandra, 1949

El Animal Soñado por Poe

En su Relato de Arthur Gordon Pym de Nantucket, publicado en 1938, Edgar Allan Poe atribuyó a las islas antárticas una fauna asombrosa pero creíble. Así, en el capítulo xviii se lee:

Recogimos una rama con frutos rojos, como los del espino, y el cuerpo de un animal terrestre, de conformación singular. Tres pies de largo y seis pulgadas de alto tendría; las cuatro patas eran cortas y estaban guarnecidas de agudas garras de color escarlata, de una materia semejante al coral. El pelo era parejo y sedoso, perfectamente blanco. La cola era puntiaguda, como de rata y tendría un pie y medio de longitud. La cabeza parecía de gato, con excepción de las orejas, que eran caídas, como las de un sabueso. Los dientes eran del mismo escarlata de las garras.

No menos singular era el agua de esas tierras australes:

Primero nos negamos a probarla, suponiéndola corrompida. No sé cómo dar una idea justa de su naturaleza, y no lo conseguiré sin muchas palabras. A pesar de correr con rapidez por cualquier desnivel, nunca parecía límpida, excepto al despeñarse en un salto. En casos de poco declive, era tan consistente como una infusión espesa de goma arábiga, hecha en agua común. Éste, sin embargo, era el menos singular de sus caracteres. No era incolora ni era de un color invariable, ya que su fluencia proponía a los ojos todos los matices del púrpura, como los tonos de una seda tornasolada. Dejamos que se asentara en una vasija y comprobamos que la masa del líquido estaba separada en vetas distintas, cada una de tono individual, y que esas vetas no se mezclaban. Si se pasaba la hoja de un cuchillo a lo ancho de las vetas, el agua se cerraba inmediatamente, y al retirar la hoja, desaparecía el rastro. En cambio, cuando la hoja era insertada con precisión entre dos de las vetas, ocurría una separación perfecta, que no se rectificaba en seguida.

(Del Libro de los seres imaginarios, Jorge Luis Borges, 1957)

ieeessssss

Michael Jackson and Bubbles, Jeff Koons 1988

Le martyre de Saint Sébastien

Saint Sébastien, Boticelli, 1474.

"Et maintenant je me désarme!

Je suis l'Archer certain du but. Voici l'arc double, le carquois fourni

de dix-sept sagettes ailées

et le brassard oú est gravée

la figure zodiacale

du Sagittaire criblé d'astres.

Je te les comments. Je les offre

á mes élus de la cohorte

d'Emése. Voici.

Je suis libre! "

La cour des Lys, Le martyre de Saint Sébastien (1911), Claude Achilles Debussy. Texte de Gabriele D'Annunzio.

(Le martyre de Saint Sébastien is forbidden in the Index of the Vaticano)

Teatro del Mondo

Teatro del mondo, Venice, Aldo Rossi 1979

"The emergence of relations among things, more than the things themselves, always gives rise to new meanings" - Aldo Rossi