Art

Picasso in the pool / Picasso en la piscina

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The Swimmer. Picasso. 1929.

Picasso in the pool 

The cap tugs my thin hair, pulling it at the roots, right near where I have my goggle strap. It really hurts, but is nothing compared to the ice cold water that awaits. There is no easy way to get into a pool and get it over with. I’ve tried all the options and attest, nothing works to assuage the bloodcurdling jolt it gives your heart on entry.

I scan the poolside. The serious set is here. One broad shouldered amazon does her arm swings. She twirls from the shoulder blades like a whipper snipper.

I place my kick board at the slow lane as a swimmer shoots off from the wall end, gliding beneath the surface of the water in pursuit of the next lap. That is the thing I paddle and splash for. That kick-off from the wall. Even in the slow lane, you never feel slow doing that.

*

Picasso en la piscina

El gorro de nadar hala mis cabellos delgados desde sus raíces, muy cerca de donde el caucho de las gafas se ubica, realmente duele, pero no se compara con el agua congelada que me espera. No hay una manera más sencilla de entrar a una piscina y terminar de una vez, sin embargo después de agotar todas mis opciones e intentos, nada funciona para reducir los espantosos escalofríos del primer contacto con el agua.

Al revisar la orilla veo que la bañista elite está presente, hombros anchos y poderosos sacuden sus brazos haciéndola girar como una guadaña.

Esto sucede mientras ubico mi tabla de patear sobre el muro que marca la línea destinada para los nadadores lentos. En la siguiente vuelta se que esta es la razón por la que remo y salpico en el agua al notar que pronto me alejo de la pared inicial. Sin importar que te encuentres en la línea lenta, nunca te sientes lento haciendo esto.

Translation: Fabian Rodriguez

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Mesmerised by… Reindeer Herders / Cautivada por… Tsaatan Reindeer Herders

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All Tsaatan Reindeer Herder Images, Copyright by Jimmy Nelson http://www.beforethey.com / Todas las imágenes estan protegidas por el derecho del autor Jimmy Nelson. Visite la página http://www.beforethey.com

Jimmy Nelson has travailed the globe, snapping images of remote tribal life. Here are his reindeer herders. Just one voyage to capture an archaic way of life. See his website: http://www.beforethey.com for scintillating imagery and cameos of a seemingly ethereal, mystical and utopian life.

Nelson has embarked on 13 journeys to date, roaming through Ethiopia, Indonesia & Papua, Kenya & Tanzania, Mongolia, Siberia, Nepal, China, Vanuatu, Argentina & Ecuador, Namibia and India  in search of the tribal mystique that may soon be wiped off the map.

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Jimmy Nelson ha viajado por todo el mundo para tomar fotos acerca de la vida en tribus remotas. Aquí podemos observar a los pastores de renos.

Solamente es un viaje para plasmar una forma arcaica de vivir. Visite su página de internet: http://www.beforethey.com para apreciar las imagenes asombrosas y camafeos de una forma de vivir que nos puede parecer etèrea, mística y utόpica.

Hasta la fecha; Nelson se ha embarcado en 13 travesias; atravesando por Ethiopia, Indonesia & Papua, Kenia y Tanzania, Mongolia, Siberia, Nepal, China, Vanuatu, Argentina & Ecuador, Namibia & India en busca de tribus misteriosas que muy pronto pueden desaparfecer del mapa.

Translation: Fabian Rodriguez

In the depths of the Pine Forest / En las profundidades del bosque de pinos

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Dance with the Pine Tree. Roberto Manetta.
Dance with the Pine Tree. Roberto Manetta. Available from http://www.saatchionline.com

The pine tree is heaving  its last perfumed sigh. Lying, spoiled with its trunk severed, the tree looks forlorn on our hardwood floor. Weeping resin.  Viscous amber. My breath catches. Not only due to the crisp, woody scent of the fir tree, but also for the end of a splendid reign in our living room. Its jewels, Christmas baubles, lie scattered around it. Needles are browning, they are brittle now and snap with the slightest pressure. The only sign of our tree’s former glory is the heady perfume that fills the room and upstages our freshly brewed coffee.

The tree is taken out and hurled into the skip bin.

But the scent lingers. If you close your eyes, you could be deceived that there is a pine forest in our living room.

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El árbol de pino exhala su último suspiro perfumado.  Sin esperanza alguna, con su tronco seccionado y con un aspecto melancólico, se encuentra yacente en nuestro piso de madera mientras descarga lagrimas de resina   y ámbar viscoso.  Mi aliento se detiene  no solo por el aroma de madera fresca del abeto, sino también por ser el final de su esplendido reinado en nuestra sala. Sus Joyas  y adornos navideños reposan a su alrededor. sus agujas frágiles ahora de color marrón sucumben con facilidad,  el único trazo de su antigua gloria es su embriagador perfume que inunda nuestro aposento y a la vez eclipsa nuestro café recién preparado. El pino es exilado y arrojado al contenedor de basura pero su fragancia permanece  Si cierras los ojos, podrías creer que hay un bosque de pinos en nuestra sala.

Translated by Fabian Rodriguez.

Bolero and Ochre

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I have in my possession a little tin jar whose contents, once opened, storm the senses whilst weaving and dancing through my cuisine with the stamp of smoky feet. It burns the floor red and bites the tongue. This little tin receptacle contains pimentón dulce (sweet, spicy paprika) first sourced from a Spanish Vendor in Borough Markets London. I’d spotted it while meandering past the dry and fleshy jamones as they slid and fell into hefty mounds, trophies of the cheeky butchers that carved them in constant secession. 

I’ve learnt that where your pimentón dulce hails from is important. In fact there are even Denominations of Origin for paprika the most esteemed being the southeastern Spanish coastal province of Murcia.

My little tin is old worldly labelled Bolero and boasts a dancing couple posturing with the whisper of ruffling crimson and petticoats. It sits beside me as I write. Admiring its label, I pick it up and with clumsy fingers, drop the tin with a clunk to the floor. Cursing my fate and tendency to drop and break whatever dainty article comes my way, I instead look to my lap and below and there it lies, like vermillion ochre, coating my seat and painting the floor like in ceremonious ritual. I can’t help but breathe deeper, inhaling through my nose as the air grows in dimension- sweet and smoky. I am reminded of paellas and the sizzle of chorizo that claims my husband’s breath after huevos rancheros. There allover the hard wood floor of our little art deco apartment here in Melbourne, lies the earth of Murcia, the ochre of Murcia.

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Singer to the Moon

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Painter to the Moon. Chagall. 1917-1919?
Painter to the Moon. Chagall. 1917

The moon, that opalescent orb, is above me at rising and by night at resting. I’m looking to it now. Just think, it’s the same moon Chagall looked at. Now isn’t that cause for inspiration? What did he see? What do I see? But more importantly, what will I create?

Mesmerized by… Daisy Balloon’s Rie Hosokai Pattern Dresses

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Pattern Dress 1. Rie Hosokai. 2013.
Pattern Dress 1. Rie Hosokai. 2013.

Think Dior’s New Look on latex.
Introducing balloon artist Rie Hosokai’s creations.

Ibid.
Ibid.
Pattern Dress 2. Rie Hosokai. 2013.
Pattern Dress 2. Rie Hosokai. 2013.
Ibid.
Ibid.

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Dalí, the Sea & Me

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Woman at Window. Salvador Dáli. 1925.
Woman at Window. Salvador Dalí. 1925.
This morning I was looking at a painting by Salvador Dali- Woman at Window. Elbows on the window frame her physique is clear beneath the drape of the light worn cotton. We see her back. Is she too engrossed to notice us?
The colours are reminiscent of what meets my eye now. I too am looking through a window at a simmering bay with boats skimming on the surface. Bobbing.  I’ve been thinking about this painting all day as it startled me while flicking through art on my morning train ride. I’d never seen it before and I’d never have spotted it as a Dali, it is closer to a Magritte in the subject matter.
As I sit gazing at the bay, I’m reminded of my morning reverie and then I do a most expected thing. Especially after being cooped all day in my clinic room.
The door is flung open. I want to feel the view, to see the air blow my cape. Sometimes it’s not enough to survey the panorama, it’s better by far to be a part of it. It seems seagulls run by the same maxim and not only in terms of scavenging for fish and chips. What a nice little life philosophy. Instead of being the voyeur, better to enter the view. Feel the view. Be the view.
If you ask me what I came into this life to do, I will tell you: I came to live out loud
– Emile Zola
Yours truly
Yours truly

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Those Gulls
Those Gulls

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