Jorge Luis Borges ~ Paradise
“I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.”
Jorge Luis Borges
Javier Aliste ~ Painter Of Magical Subconsciousnesses
The artist Javier Aliste searches for the syncretism of our current cultural identity. To find his answers he has been researching the Andean world and the idiosyncrasies of the Amazonian people since 1997. In his work of art he uses sacred chromatic and sacred symbolism, which is inspired on the way people live in South America typically Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia and Chile.

Using his heritage of the South American continent - Javier was born in Chile and living in Buenos Aires - where art has always been a mixture of Andean symbols and a medieval European concept he evolved and managed to create his own unique style; a typical palet of colors combined with different materials such as plastic tablecloths, synthetic enamel, plaster and clothes. The result is a expressive vivid art form that tributes the South American culture.

The first time I saw the works of Javier Aliste I was struck by its happiness it gave me… I loved the colorful, bright three dimensional image it represented because of the material he uses. It is totally different from what I saw before working as an art dealer and I was surprised by its symbolic details. His works are in some way reminding me of my childhood innocence in which I appreciated art just by looking at it without having the necessity to explain why I like it. Just looking at it and knowing that I like it.  The naive art of Javier Aliste is provoking this same sensation.

It seems to me that Javier gets part of his creative inspiration from the combination of materials he utilizes and applies. The artistic excitement seems to lie most of all in its preoccupation with the invention and use such materials, colors, and surfaces.  I can see the influence of his childhood, it is pure art, pure thoughts…where the subconscious plays an important role.

Its like capturing the beauty of landscape rather than focusing on a single detail.

This is exactly what I see in the works of Javier, it is not the image per se which is asking our attention but the work as a whole with the underlying message within that shows details by looking at its whole. Understanding the works of Javier by undergoing his South American identity, we can hear the whispers of the Gods, we look at his works and we can feel them…

What I can clearly see as well is the medieval European cultural influences and religion combined which has evolved into a true spiritual South American style. Those color mixtures and symbolic combinations allows him to represents a reality that surrounds him, but he is also expressing strong feelings that come from inside. Of course Javier himself is a part of his South American cultural heritage and he is mixing this heritage with his experience he gained in Europe. He studied in Art in Germany and traveled through Europe before he returned to his home place.

An Andean concept mixed with this strong European influence. It is almost if we can hear the ancestors voices coming out of his artworks.

Then of course there is always the question, does this art really need to be explained or should we just enjoy en let our subconscious take over allowing each of its viewers to experience and explore Javier Aliste's subconscious works of art.

Monique Lucy Weberink -  President My Passion For…
Julio Cortazar ~ The Future/el Futuro
The Future
And I know full well you won't be there.
You won't be in the street, in the hum that buzzes
from the arc lamps at night, nor in the gesture
of selecting from the menu, nor in the smile
that lightens people packed into the subway,
nor in the borrowed books, nor in the see-you-tomorrow.

You won't be in my dreams,
in my words' first destination,
nor will you be in a telephone number
or in the color of a pair of gloves or a blouse.
I'll get angry, love, without it being on account of you,
and I'll buy chocolates but not for you,
I'll stop at the corner you'll will never come to,
and I'll say the words that are said
and I'll eat the things that are eaten
and I'll dream the dreams that are dreamed
and I know full well you won't be there,
not here inside, in the prison where I still hold you,
nor there outside, in this river of streets and bridges.
You won't be there at all, you won't be even a memory,
and when I think of you I'll be thinking a thought
that's obscurely trying to recall you.
EL FUTURO
Y se muy bien que no estaras
No estaras en la calle, en el murmullo que brota de noche
de los postes de alumbrado, ni en el gesto
de elegir el menu, ni en la sonrisa
que alivia los completos en los subtes,
ni en los libros prestados ni en el hasta manana.
No estaras en mis suenos,
en el destino original de mis palabras,
ni en una cifra telefonica estaras
o en el color de un par de guantes o una blusa.
Me enojare, amor mio, sin que sea por ti,
y comprare bombones pero no para ti,
me parare en la esquina a la que non vendras,
y dire las palabras que se dicen
y comere las cosas que se comen
y sonare los suenos que se suenan
y se muy bien que no estaras,
ni aqui adentro, la carcel donde aun te retengo,
ni alli fuera, este rio de calles y de puentes.
No estaras para nada, no seras ni recuerdo,
y quando piense en ti pensare un pensamiento
que oscuramente trata de acordarse de ti.
JULIO CORTAZAR
Dora Maar ~ The Ultimate Muse
"Dora Maar in her Studio"
Paris, 1946 by Brassai
She was born Henriette Theodora Markovitch in Tours, Western France to a Jewish family. Her father, Josip Marković, was a Croat architect, famous for his work in South America; her mother, Julie Voisin, was from Touraine, France. Dora grew up in Argentina.
Before meeting Picasso, Maar was already famous as a photographer. She also painted. She met Picasso in January 1936 on the terrace of the Café les Deux Magots in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, Paris, when she was 29 years old and he 54. The famous poet Paul Éluard, who was with Picasso, had to introduce them. Picasso was attracted by her beauty and self-mutilation (she cut her fingers and the table playing "the knife game"; he got her bloody gloves and exhibited them on a shelf in his apartment). She spoke Spanish fluently, so Picasso was even more fascinated. Their relationship lasted nearly nine years.
Source Wikipedia
Julio Cortazar ~ The Brief Love/el Breve Amor
THE BRIEF LOVE
How smoothly and how sweetly
she lifts me from the bed where I was dreaming
of profound and fragrant fields,

she runs her fingers over my skin and sketches me
in space, suspended, until the kiss
alights curved and recurrent

a slow flame kindling
the rhythmic dance of the bonfire
weaving us together in flashes, in spirals,
going and coming in a storm of smoke...

(So why is
what's left of me, afterwards,
just a sinking into ashes
without a goodbye, with nothing more than a gesture
of letting our hands go free?)
Julio Cortazar

EL BREVE AMOR
Con qué tersa dulzura
me levanta del lecho en que soñaba
profundas plantaciones perfumadas,
me pasea los dedos por la piel y me dibuja
en le espacio, en vilo, hasta que el beso
se posa curvo y recurrente
para que a fuego lento empiece
la danza cadenciosa de la hoguera
tejiédose en ráfagas, en hélices,
ir y venir de un huracán de humo-
(¿Por qué, después,
lo que queda de mí
es sólo un anegarse entre las cenizas
sin un adiós, sin nada más que el gesto
de liberar las manos ?
JULIO CORTAZAR
Jorge Luis Borges ~ The Sum
The silent friendliness of the moon
(misquoting Virgil) accompanies you
since that one night or evening lost
in time now, on which your restless
eyes first deciphered her forever
in a garden or patio turned to dust.
Forever? I know someone, someday
will be able to tell you truthfully:
‘You’ll never see the bright moon again,
You’ve now achieved the unalterable
sum of moments granted you by fate.
Useless to open every window
in the world. Too late. You’ll not find her.’
We live discovering and forgetting
that sweet familiarity of the night.
Take a long look. It might be the last.
Jorge Luis Borges

Painting is "Moon light over the Seine"
Henry Pether (1828-1865)
Lighthouse In The Night ~ Poem By Alfonsina Storni
The sky a black sphere,
the sea a black disk.

The lighthouse opens
its solar fan on the coast.

Spinning endlessly at night,
whom is it searching for

when the mortal heart
looks for me in the chest?

Look at the black rock
where it is nailed down.

A crow digs endlessly
but no longer bleeds.


Alfonsina Storni
The Tango ~ Music Of Passion And Malinconia
SENSUALITY IN MUSIC
THE TANGO
"A Sad thought dancing" that migrated from the brothels of Buenos Aires to the European dance halls.

Several great writers have written tango songs, but the greatest and most profound lyricist is Enrique Santos Discepolo.
The man who defined the tango as "a sad thought dancing" , "a mixture of anger, pain, faith, and absence" sings of love, death and paradise lost in radically pessimistic poems that express the despair of the thirties, that "infamous decade" where hopes of democracy gave way to coups l'etat and electoral fraud.

Faced with stattered dreams, "All is a lie, nothing is love/the world buggers you about as it turns." Love is always at punishment: "Why was I thought to love/If to love is to cast all your dreams into the sea".

Painting
Kees Van Dongen [1877 – 1968]
Tango or Tango of the Archangel
1922 – 1935
Leonor Fini ~ Surreal Woman Painter
La Confiserie (1932)

Leonor Fini (August 30, 1907 – January 18, 1996) was an Argentine surrealist painter.
Life and work
Born in Buenos Aires, Argentina, she was raised in Trieste, Italy. She moved to Milan at the age
of 17, and then to Paris, in either 1931 or 1932. There, she became acquainted with, among many
others, Paul Éluard, Max Ernst, Georges Bataille, Henri Cartier-Bresson, Picasso, André Pieyre
de Mandiargues, and Salvador Dalí. She traveled Europe by car with Mandiargues and
Cartier-Bresson where she was photographed nude in a swimming pool by Cartier-Bresson. The
photograph of Fini sold in 2007 for $305,000 - the highest price paid at auction for one of his
works to that date.
She painted portraits of Jean Genet, Anna Magnani, Jacques Audiberti, Alida Valli, Jean
Schlumberger (jewelry designer) and Suzanne Flon as well as many other celebrities and wealthy
visitors to Paris. While working for Elsa Schiaparelli she designed the flacon for the perfume,
"Shocking", which became the top selling perfume for the House of Schiaparelli. She designed
costumes and decorations for theater, ballet and opera, including the first ballet performed by
Roland Petit's Ballet de Paris, "Les Demoiselles de la nuit", featuring a young Margot Fonteyn.
This was a payment of gratitude for Fini's having been instrumental in finding the funding for
the new ballet company. She also designed the costumes for two films, Renato Castellani's Romeo
and Juliet (1954) and John Huston's A Walk with Love and Death (1968), which starred 18 year old
Anjelica Huston and Moshe Dayan's son, Assaf.
She once said,
Marriage never appealed to me, I have never lived with one person. Since I was 18, I've
always preferred to live in a sort of community - A big house with my atelier and cats and
friends, one with a man who was rather a lover and another who was rather a friend. And it has always worked.
… Sick Of Being A Man ~ By Victor M. Alonso
Borges said that “beauty is a physical sensation, something we feel in the whole body”; and must be so. The feelings impact us in the solar plexus, the heart, the chest. Now I do not intend to enter into the eternal dispute about the ideal of beauty, I always imagined that it is subjective, despite the canons that the influential mass media seek to impose. What is beautiful to me might be found mediocre by you.
However I do believe that there is a meeting point. At that point is where enters into action the genius, those few creators that have the privilege of getting you and me, irrespective of our different points of view, to feel the impact of beauty there, at that part of our bodies that alert us that what we see, smell, touch or read is beyond any possible definition and that conforms to what our dear Borges called "the aesthetic fact", something that makes universal the sense of beauty.
Something like that happens to the poem by Pablo Neruda, Walking Around. I guess this is because we tackle some verses that touch the depths of our being, something which highlights our deepest frustrations and our most candid desires. “I am sick of being a man”, "the smell of barbershops makes me brake into hoarse sobs", although "still it would be marvelous / to terrify a law clerk with a cur lily, / or kill a nun with a blow on the ear." I think that these lines reflect the essence of Neruda's poem, which is essentially beautiful, full of metaphors deeply forged in the fires of helplessness, images carved in the round of sadness, which unravel the guts of this world of shit which we live.
I do not pretend to analyze the poem. It would be a futile effort. Above all poetry is written just to be loved, to feel it on guts and heart, to be lived in the same way that we would live a tender and sensitive lover. Poetry is like a beautiful woman who offers us a breath of hope.
My sole intention is to bring to the memory of those who want to read these words a beautiful poem written by Pablo Neruda around year 1930, while living in Spain and rubbing elbows with the Spanish poets of the 1927 generation (Rafael Alberti, Federico García Lorca and others), those comrades that were very influenced by him.
My intention is to also evidence the character of Neruda, rebel, restless fighter. I just want the reader to understand how poetry in Spanish at that time opened its doors to allow the entry of the influence of the avant-garde poetry to a language that was in need to breath fresh air and that, perhaps, was stucked in the great classics of the Golden Age of Spaniard Literature. To make the jump contributed this good-natured Chilean, this enormous man whose genius is unquestionable and the vastness of his work left over to get the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1971.
WALKING AROUND is just one of the poems included in the Segunda Residencia, which in turn is part of a larger work entitled Residencia en la Tierra. Neruda's poetic cosmology reached maturity by these exquisite years, when he wrote this collection of poems, full of many influences, many of them dragged from their origins in South America as well as the Spanish literature, and other new ones coming from la France del surrealisme, and the Europe that wanted to change the aesthetic world with the power of dreams.
I do not want to bother anymore. I leave you with the reading of this beautiful building of desires and regrets called WALKING AROUND, which will hopefully help us all to appreciate the excellence of beauty, and to remember that beyond the dismal daily life in which "That’s why Monday, when it sees me coming with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline" where "there are mirrors / that ought to have wept from shame and terror”, we have always even the option to mourn as they should make those mirrors, but mourn with rage, fury, because we believe in a better world, because we are poets, artists, crazy dreamers of hope.
VICTOR M. ALONSO (APRIL 2011)
Walking Around by Pablo Neruda
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie
houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.
The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse
sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.
It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.
I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.
I don't want so much misery.
I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.
That's why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the
night.
And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist
houses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.
There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical
cords.
I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic
shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling