arte de rua?!

Veja o resto no site do caboclo: http://www.banksy.co.uk/outdoors/horizontal_1.htm

Quer entender do que estou falando? http://pt.wikipedia.org/wiki/Banksy

Quer mais? Google no nome “Banksy”

apoio: henriquinho du punk

Jurnal de bord, data stelara acum cateva zile. Dupa cum probabil ati vazut deja, tov. Edy a binevoit a se prezenta la datorie in Albion. Iata povestea:

Ziua 1 (Joi): Tren de navetisti englezi: costume de sute de lire, cate un iPhone si un Blackberry de caciula, un laptop-doua, multe dosare… Ajung la aeroport, astept, ma uit pe pereti… Apare Edy! Eu agit ca un disperat pancarda verde pe care am scris cu pixul “Elbu Dinero”. “Nu era nevoie”, zice Edy. Ne indreptam spre gara Paddington, de unde o sa ne incepem expeditia in Oras. Edy e surprins cand i se cere sa declare ca nu are arme. In fine, ajungem la Catedrala St. Paul, unde urcam ‘jdemii de trepte pana in varf (va aduceti aminte filmuletul nostru?); dupa o scurta incursiune (la toaleta) sub catedrala, pornim iar la drum. Obiectivul? Un loc in care sa mancam. In ciuda zecilor de gazilioane de Pret A Manger care ne asteapta cu bratele deschise, ne tot cacaim pana Edy proclama ca intram intr-un restaurant italienesc… vizavi de British Museum, unde altundeva? Pollo Cacciatore? Neah. Mergem la Muzeu. Ce e piatra asta? Ce e statuia asta? Ce cauta chinezul asta acolo? Nenorocitii de englezi ne cer bani pentru o expozitie care altadata era gratis. Bah, humbug. Macar ne alegem cu niste instrumente muzicale de la magazinul pentru copii. Fugim catre metrou, ca vrem sa ajungem si la Parlament. E insa noapte, ne incurcam, si nici nu putem face poze mai cu mot. Hopa! Mai avem doar juma’ de ora sa ajungem la gara pentru trenul de 18:30! Dar metroul nu tine cu noi… Incurcaturile ne preseaza sa luam trenul de 19:00, unde abia daca gasim un loc sa ne asezam (iar Edy trebuie sa parcurga tot trenul in cautarea bagajului sau). Trecem pe langa Bath, dar degeaba, ca e bezna. Bristol, in sfarsit! Edy isi ia in primire hotelul, apoi face o prima incursiune intr-un Tesco. Edy isi despacheteaza bagajul, eu astept jumatate de ora autobuzul si cu asta, ziua se incheie…

Ziua 2 (Vineri): Dis-de-dimineata, il iau pe Edy la curs. Planul nostru de a sta in spate, sa nu fim (adica sa nu fie) observati intampina o problema: jumatate din studenti nu au catadicsit sa vina. Stam in fata. Proful Eric nu e amuzant ca de obicei, Edy vede o gramada de “tocilari”, aflam cum sa rapesti un pinguin de la zoo. Curs scurt, mergem sa mancam. Panini! O vizita la Forbidden Planet, apoi la caminul meu, unde vedem South Park. Edy nu e impresionat de cimitir. La muzeu… la muzeu. Un latte la Starbucks, Banksy la Fopp, Lacoste la FootLocker. Mama, ce mult am mers! Hai sa mancam ceva – Pizza Hut vrea Edy. La ora 18:00, mergem la festivalul de scurtmetraje, ca e seara romaneasca, ce naiba! Filme romanesti – plictisitoare, deprimante, pe alocuri ciudate. Trebuie sa limpezim cu ceva, si ce poate fi mai bun decat mini golf? Edy 51 – Mihai 61. Sunt penibil, stiu. Hm, Jack White a facut 38 pe traseul asta, impresionant. Astept iar juma’ de ora autobuzul. S-a terminat si ziua asta.

Ziua 3 (Sambata): Iar panini la micul dejun. Pe ploaie si vant, cu crengile la pamant, ne plimbam prin port. Corabii, pirati de bronz, lebede, dar nici urma de Banksy. Pacat. Edy vrea la film – la “A Christmas Carol 3D”, mai exact. Ajungem la mall, ne facem loc printre fetele batute in cap fanii Twilight si intram la cinema – asta daca nimereste Edy usa. Pentru el, e primul film 3D. Pentru mine, e o ocazie buna sa trag un pui de somn – dar numai 10 minute. Altfel, mie mi se pare meh filmul. Care parte din acest film pentru copii v-a placut cel mai mult? Partea cand Moartea il trage intr-un cosciug in iad sau partea cu fantomele torturate in plina strada? Apoi shopping. Ce ti-ai luat, Edy? Pulover, camasa, manusi… am uitat ceva? Masa la Bella Italia (iar cu mancarea italieneasca???), unde mi-a placut sosul alb, recunosc. Ne mai prostim un pic, ne mai uitam la TV (Simpsons! Futurama! Iar Simpsons! Iar Futurama!). Astept jumatate de ora autobuzul. Ajuns acasa, iau o decizie critica: nu mai mergem la Cardiff sa votam. Motive? Consulatul e la mama naibii de Cardiff, trenurile circula aiurea din cauza inundatiilor si, pana la urma nu merita atata efort, atata timp, atatia bani. Un vot in minus pentru Antonescu, unul in minus pentru Oprescu (chiar asa, Edy? chiar asa?) Cortina cade peste a treia zi.

Ziua 4 (Duminica): Marea evadare! Mergem cu trenul in orasul pe care Edy il confunda mereu cu un supermarket. Frig de dardai, vant puternic, coafura rezista, dar englezii sunt in tricou cu maneca scurta. “Ce i-as bate!”, remarca Edy. Observ ca pe camp sunt oi tunse. “Aici, chiar si oile stau in tricou.”, zice Edy. True dat. La Salisbury, ne intalnim cu Vlad si Drago. Cautam cabluri, cautam harti, ne caram cu masina lui Vlad (care, in mod ciudat, nu e cea cu numarul de inmatriculare T52 SUG), parcata depaaaaarte rau. “Puneti-va centurile!” Cum sa desfacem cutia de la cablul de jack? Bricheta? Nu, bre, pixul, uite cine are idei! Ajungem la Stonehenge. Ce, astia cer bani? Ne luam bilete de studenti (mai putin Vlad ), halim sandvisuri (ca altceva nu au aia de la S’henge de mancare), trecem pe sub autostrada si ajungem la pietre. Eu cu laptopul, Drago cu mosul cu cocosul rosu, pe scurt, fiecare cu ce il doare. Am terminat aici, hai sa ne intoarcem in oras – pe o coloana sonora romaneasca, evident. In Salisbury, nu apucam un 2012, dar apucam cate o cafea la Costa. Mergem la gara, ne despartim de Vlad si Drago si ne caram spre Bristol. La sosire, aflam rezultatele alegerilor. Brusc Willis. Mergem pe straduta cu restaurante si ne oprim la… unul italienesc, deloc surprinzator. Apoi… astept autobuzul o jumatate de ora, hai, ca v-ati obsinuit. Cortina.

Ziua 5 (Luni): Eu am patru ore de curs. Edy are panini si Fopp. Ne urcam in autobuzul supraetajat si ne indreptam spre mallul de la Cribbs Causeway. Urias, dar cam naspa. Ne intoarcem, iar eu adorm in mod penibil. In centru, alegem sa mergem la Pizza Hut (deja va plictisim), unde desenam harti si dormim pe noi (adica eu). Un pic de shopping de final pentru Edy, o turta dulce de la romanca din Germania (“I want two of those…” “What? Doua?” “Da, doua!”), un pic de quiztime la TV, apoi… Nu, nu mai astept autobuzul, urc dealul pe jos. Cortina se lasa din nou.

Ziua 6 (Marti): Treziti dis-de-dimineata, ne grabim spre gara. Cautam bilete, cautam pungi, cautam ursuleti. La 8, Edy trece de poarta. Pa pa, Edy! See you soon! (mai departe, ar trebui sa va povesteasca el)

Last Summer there was an eye-catching piece of street graffiti that sprang up in the neighbourhood. A cleverly painted silhouette falling like an exact shadow from one of those iron bollards that line the main streets and can catch you unawares right in the groin if you’re not careful. The shadow was that of a policeman with a semi-erect truncheon. A discreet and amusing reminder of the presence that hovers over us daily.

Recently local government inaugurated a project to send mounted police to patrol Lavapies. During a vacuous news report on a local television station, where the female reporter dashed around under the horses and officer’s feet, mostly asking dumb questions about poo, elderly locals expressed approval at the scheme, the police stated that they could better observe the goings-on from up there, and drivers expressed irritation at being stuck behind the horses on narrow streets. The most enthusiastic seem to be the small children who play with their families in the playground in the plaza – several times I have seen a group of toddlers daring each other to approach the nonchalant horses in small groups, only to return to their mothers squealing with mock fear and delight when one of them shifts a foot or twitches a tail at them. These are not the only modes of transport for today’s copper on the beat, however. There are also police on motorbikes, who can be seen hanging around posing like extras from C.H.I.P.s, smoking fags and gossiping while adjusting their balls. Also there are many patrol cars sliding through the streets like silent sharks on the hunt for prey. Regularly they also pull up in batches of three or four cars, so all the officers can stop and have a chat. And police on foot. In fact, let’s face it, Lavapies is a veritable constables tea-party. What are they all doing here, then? Why so many of them? And what are their relations with my neighbours, the locals?

I, of course, have never had a brush with the Spanish police so have no opinion based on experience. I say ‘of course’ not because I am an upright and law-abiding citizen, but because my profile makes me appear to be one. I am a white, blond woman, and not a particularly young one. Therefore, according to airport security guards, police, doormen etc, I am no threat at all. So I am indifferent to their presence in my neighbourhood- they never ever bother me. On the other hand, if you are African, Arab, Indian, or in any way ‘foreign’ (especially ‘foreign’ and ‘dark’) you are likely to be stopped on sight and asked for your papers. There are many illegal immigrants here who barely leave the house for fear of being stopped and deported. African residents and street hawkers demonstrated twice recently against alleged racism and police raids; it subsequently emerged that police in the capital had been given weekly quotas for arresting illegal immigrants.

And there is a darker side to police relations with the locals, fuelled by mutual antipathy and antagonism. Sometime last year there was actually a full-scale riot just up the hill on the border of the neighbourhood, in Plaza Tirso de Molina. The origin of the riot was the choice of the plaza by a group of far right protesters who had organised a rally here. It was considered as provocation by their anti-fascist counter-parts, as it is the site of Nationalist raids on Republicans during the Civil War, so they retaliated by organising disturbances. The police responded in typical heavy-handed fashion, and chaos erupted. Garbage containers were overturned and burnt, cars smashed up, stones, bricks and other blunt objects thrown at police, who retaliated by firing rubber balls back and smoke canisters. On the retreat, rioters damaged urban furniture, shop-fronts, banks and cashpoints. I knew nothing of the riots until I tried to withdraw money the next day and walking from cashpoint to cashpoint, discovered all of them had smashed-in screens. When I was told about the rioting I thought it was a joke, but as you can see for yourself in this one-minute video footage this was no joke. It was a real riot.

That explains why this sport is one of the entries for the Lavapies Olympics. I must confess I have never, ever seen police batter anyone with a truncheon in full daylight on the mean streets of Lavapies, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. If I wasn’t white and a blond female, with a passport, blue eyes and big knockers, (thus protecting me from racism of one sort, but exposing me to sexism of another sort) I might feel more intimidated. I am not afraid of the police, as I am sure most of my illegal neighbours are. A policeman is more likely to flirt with me than ask me for my papers. I am not a congenital cop-hater either. However, it would really, really amuse me if Banksy could come over here and paint this mural on one of our walls. Now that would get a reaction and amuse the locals no end.

Hace unas semanas quería escribir sobre un tema que me deja bastante impresionada: los grupos de facebook. He visto que varias personas ya han hablado de ello, como susinteractivos o metacomunicación (enfocándolo como lugar dónde encontrar potentes “insights”). Pero el enfoque que le voy a dar a mi comentario a día de hoy, va ha ser bastante distinto que hace unos días.

Como el nombre de mi blog indica, soy una adicta y entre mis adicciones podemos destacar la red de contactos Facebook. La verdad es que es una revolución, pero en este post no voy a hablar de esto. Podríamos escribir lo inimaginable sobre cómo ha cambiado Facebook nuestras vidas. Pero yo me voy a centrar en una aplicación: los grupos. Estos son páginas que proclaman un lema y los usuarios se unen o se “hacen fans”, compartiendo intereses, aficiones, pensamientos…

Por lo que he visto, un factor muy importante de los grupos es que crean unión. La unión de una serie de personas con cosas comunes, es muy fuerte que personas que jamás ha conocido y que seguramente viven a miles de kilometres de ti tengan tanto en común contigo.

Se trata de una revolución de la libertad y la confianza. Uno se siente orgulloso de ver como hay muchas personas que piensan o que hacen las mismas que tú. Y en realidad, hace un par de años, a nadie se no se nos hubiese pasado por la cabeza decir abiertamente nuestras excentricidades más ocultas. Pero la verdad es que te sientes comprendido y no te da ningún apuro compartirlo con el resto… Todo muy bien.

Pero la cosa no queda ahí. Yo era pro-grupos del Facebook. (Sí, he dicho era). Desde hace un par de semanas era de esas personas que se unían a los grupos que le parecían originales, distintos, graciosos…

Pero no todos consideran unirse a un grupo por esos motivos. Gran parte de los usuarios de Facebook se sienten tan comprendidos por los miembros de un grupo, que deciden unirse sin pensar en que puede que a sus contactos no les interese saber información tan intima de ellos. Un ejemplo son los grupos de “SI” al sexo anal entre hombre y mujer, previene el embarazo, Me gusta hacerlo en la ducha, He enseñado las tetas en una discoteca, Me gusta “El Polvo Mañanero”…

Y digo yo a todos los que se unen a estos grupos: ¡Oye! ¡Que me dan igual tus preferencias sexuales! ¿Tú te crees que tengo que ver que a mi hermana le gusta hacerlo en la ducha? Por no decir nada de los tests que dicen barbaridades de las cuales, muchos de mis contactos están orgullosos y publican sus resultados: que si eres una loba en la cama, que si te gusta que te hagan “esto” o “aquello”… ¡y todo esto cuando abres inocentemente tu página de inicio de Facebook para hablar con tus amiguitos del cole!

Pero claro, Facebook es un ejemplo de web 2.0, creada por todos y dónde hay cabida para las opiniones de todo el mundo. Nos hace sentir comprendidos a todos, pero hay que tener en cuenta que puede que a tus contactos del Facebook les de un poquito igual saber tus preferencias sexuales…

Nos hemos convertido en marujas internautas alimentadas por facebook, pero hasta un punto ¿no creéis?

Mikesy?

A little tribute to the stencil artist Banksy…

Últimamente no escribo casi nada por aquí, estoy pasando una de esas fases en las que parece que voy a cámara lenta cuando el resto del mundo sigue a ritmo normal, así que me he propuesto retomar la diligencia como leitmotiv, a ver si consigo que me vuelva a funcionar… Y es que no es ya que tenga cosas sin terminar, es que tengo cosas ¡sin empezar!

De momento la cosa va mal, porque desde ayer tengo una contractura en el pecho (¡yupi!) que me tiene bastante incómoda, así, sentadita, con la mariquita caliente, amodorrándome yo sola…

Y como lo suyo es plantearse objetivos a corto plazo, sin más dilación me voy a recoger el coche al taller (dolor para mi bolsillo) y de camino al supermercado a hacer la compra. Y si las cosas salen como tienen que salir, algo más publicaré antes de acostarme

¡Ah, las fotos! Las fotos son del primer intento de pintar algo en tela. Como se puede ver el dibujo no es mío (aquí el original, de Banksy) y además no es que esté muy fino, pero yo, la verdad, estoy encantada con el resultado. Me gusta especialmente el globo de fieltro, que como además es un broche, si un día me apetece que la niña lo tenga en la mano, lo cambio de sitio y a correr.

El truco para tener una prenda resultona pintada por nosotros mismos es ponérsela exclusivamente por la noche, y moverse lo más rápido posible cuando la oscuridad no acompañe. xD

Y bueno, ahora sí, ¡me voy a por el coche al taller!

I discussed in this older post some of the problems related to the measurement of human rights violations, and to the assessment of progress or deterioration. One of the problems I mentioned is caused by improvements in measurement methods. Such improvements can in fact result in a statistic showing increasing numbers of rights violations, whereas in reality the numbers may not be increasing, and perhaps even decreasing. Better measurement means that you now compare current data that are more complete and better measured, with older numbers of rights violations that were simply incomplete.

The example I gave was about rape statistics: better statistical and reporting methods used by the police, combined with less social stigma etc. result in statistics showing a rising number of rapes, but this increase was due to the measurement methods (and other effects), not to what happened in real life.

Precision Bombing by Banksy

I now come across another example. Collateral damage - or the unintentional killing of civilians during wars – seems to be higher now than a century ago (source). This may also be the result of better monitoring hiding a totally different trend. We all know that civilian deaths are much less acceptable now than they used to be, and that journalism and war reporting are probably much better (given better communication technology). Hence, people may now believe that it’s more important to count civilian deaths, and have better means to do so. As a result, the numbers of civilian deaths showing up in statistics will rise compared to older periods, but perhaps the real numbers don’t rise at all.

Of course, the increase of collateral damage may be the result of something else than better measurement: perhaps the lower level of acceptability of civilian deaths forces the army to classify some of those deaths as unintentional, even if they’re not (and then we have worse rather than better measurement). Or perhaps the relatively recent development of precision-guided munition has made the use of munition more widespread so that there are more victims: more bombs, even more precise bombs, can make more victims than less yet more imprecise bombs. Or perhaps the current form of warfare, with guerilla troops hiding among populations, does indeed produce more civilian deaths.

Still, I think my point stands: better measurement of human rights violations can give the wrong impression. Things may look as if they’re getting worse, but they’re not.

More Banksy. More on ius in bello. More on measuring human rights.

Thanks BANKSY http://www.banksy.co.uk/

UNA RELAZIONE PER UN’ACCADEMIA. [Prima versione nel quaderno in ottavo D, aprile 1917; traduzione secondo l’edizione definitiva curata da Kafka in Ein Landarzt, Kurt Wolff Verlag 1919, uscito in realtà il 12 maggio 1920

Eccellenti signori dell’accademia!

Voi mi fate l’onore di chiedermi per la vostra accademia una relazione sulla mia precedente vita di scimmia.

In questo senso purtroppo non posso adempiere all’invito. Quasi cinque anni mi dividono dalla condizione di scimmia, un tempo forse breve se misurato sul calendario, ma infinitamente lungo da attraversare al galoppo come ho fatto io, a tratti accompagnato da uomini eccellenti, da consigli, consensi e musica d’orchestra, eppure fondamentalmente solo, perché tutto l’accompagnamento si manteneva, per rimanere nell’immagine, lontano dalla barriera. Questo risultato sarebbe stato impossibile se mi fossi ostinato a voler rimanere attaccato alla mia origine e ai miei ricordi di gioventù. Una piena rinuncia a ogni ostinazione è stato il primo comandamento che mi sono imposto; io, che ero una scimmia libera, mi sono adattata a questo giogo. A loro volta, però, i ricordi in questo modo mi si rifiutavano sempre di più…

… Nel senso più limitato tuttavia posso rispondere alla vostra domanda, e lo faccio persino con gioia. La prima cosa che ho imparato è stata la stretta di mano; una stretta di mano dimostra franchezza; ora che sono al vertice della mia carriera, possa anche una parola franca raggiungere quella prima stretta di mano. Una tale parola non aggiungerà novità essenziali per l’Accademia, e rimarrà molto al di sotto di ciò che mi si richiedeva, ma deve mostrare quale sia la linea di sviluppo di chi, un tempo scimmia, è riuscito a entrare e a stabilirsi saldamente nella comunità umana. Non potrei tuttavia dire io stesso quel poco che seguirà se non fossi pienamente sicuro di me stesso e se la mia posizione su tutti i palcoscenici di varietà del mondo civilizzato non fosse ormai incrollabile.

Sono nato nella Costa d’Oro. Di questo sono stato informato da estranei dopo la mia cattura. Una spedizione di caccia della ditta Hagenbeck – con la sua guida fra l’altro ho poi vuotato diverse bottiglie di buon vino rosso – si era appostata nei cespugli sulla riva, quando la sera insieme al branco mi avvicinai di corsa per bere. Spararono; io fui l’unico a essere colpito; mi raggiunsero due colpi.

Uno nella guancia; questo era lieve; mi lasciò però una grossa cicatrice rossa spelacchiata, che mi è valsa il nome di Rotpeter, un nome che odio, del tutto inappropriato, che sembra proprio inventato da una scimmia, come se solo questa macchia rossa sulla guancia mi distinguesse da quella scimmia addomesticata che chiamano Peter, crepata di recente, famosa soltanto qua e là. Ma questo, sia detto di sfuggita.

Il secondo colpo mi raggiunse sotto l’anca. Questo era grave, è colpa sua se ancor oggi zoppico un poco. Ultimamente, nel lavoro di uno dei diecimila fanfaroni che straparlano di me sui giornali, ho letto che la mia natura di scimmia non sarebbe ancora del tutto soppressa, e lo dimostrerebbe il fatto che provo piacere a togliermi i pantaloni davanti ai visitatori per mostrare il foro d’entrata di quel colpo. A questo bel tomo bisognerebbe far saltare ogni singolo ditino della mano con cui scrive. Io, io posso togliermi i pantaloni davanti a chi mi pare; là sotto non troveranno altro che una pelliccia ben curata e una cicatrice dovuta a un – scegliamo qui per uno scopo definito una parola definita, che però non vuol essere equivocata – la cicatrice dovuta a un colpo scellerato. Tutto è alla luce del sole; non c’è niente da nascondere; quando un uomo di alti principi si avvicina alla verità mette da parte i modi raffinati. Se invece fosse quel giornalista a calare i pantaloni davanti ai visitatori, la cosa avrebbe un aspetto diverso e ammetterò che sarebbe ragionevole se non lo facesse. Ma allora che non rompa le scatole a me con le sue delicatezze!

Dopo quei colpi mi risvegliai – e qui cominciano pian piano i miei ricordi personali – in una gabbia, sul ponte mediano del vaporetto Hagenbeck. Non era una gabbia a quattro pareti; piuttosto si trattava di solo tre pareti saldamente appoggiate a un baule; il baule formava così la quarta parete. Il tutto era troppo basso per stare in piedi e troppo stretto per stare seduti. Perciò mi accoccolai sulle ginocchia piegate e un po’ tremanti e, poiché probabilmente in un primo tempo non volevo vedere nessuno ma preferire rimanermene al buio, mi voltai verso il baule, mentre dietro di me le sbarre della gabbia mi entravano nella carne. Custodire nei primi tempi in questo modo gli animali selvatici è considerato vantaggioso, e dopo la mia esperienza non posso negare che, in un senso umano, è proprio così.

Ma allora non ci pensavo. Per la prima volta nella mia vita non avevo vie d’uscita; per lo meno non ne avevo davanti a me; davanti a me c’era il baule, un’asse stretta contro l’altra. Fra le assi c’era sì un’apertura che le attraversava, e quando la scoprii la prima volta la salutai con l’urlo felice di chi non comprende, ma questa apertura era di gran lunga insufficiente anche per infilarci la coda, e tutta la forza di una scimmia non era sufficiente ad allargarla.

Come poi mi hanno detto, ero insolitamente poco rumoroso, e da questo se ne concluse che o sarei crepato presto oppure, se superavo il primo periodo critico, sarei stato molto adatto a essere addomesticato. Superai questo periodo. Un sordo singhiozzo, un doloroso spulciarsi, lo stanco leccare una noce di cocco, battere con la testa la parete del baule, mostrare la lingua all’avvicinarsi di qualcuno – ecco le prime occupazioni della mia nuova vita. Ma in tutto ciò un solo sentimento: nessuna via d’uscita. Naturalmente ciò che allora sentivo come scimmia posso descriverlo oggi solo con parole umane e perciò manco il bersaglio, ma anche se non posso più raggiungere l’antica verità di scimmia questa è per lo meno sulla linea della mia descrizione, su questo non ho dubbi.

Fino ad allora avevo avuto tante via d’uscita, e ora neppure una. Ero saldamente in trappola. Se mi avessero inchiodato, la mia libertà di movimento non sarebbe stata minore. E questo perché? Puoi anche grattarti la pelle fra le dita dei piedi, ma non troverai il perché. Non avevo vie d’uscita, dovevo però procurarmele, altrimenti non avrei potuto vivere. Sempre attaccato a questa parete di baule – sarei senza dubbio crepato. Ma da Hagenbeck le scimmie devono stare contro la parete del baule – e così smisi di essere una scimmia. Una linea di pensiero chiara e bella, che devo avere in qualche modo covato in pancia, dato che le scimmie pensano con la pancia.

Temo di non essere capito quando parlo di via d’uscita. Uso questo termine nel suo senso più completo e abituale. E’ con intenzione che non dico libertà. Non alludo a questo grande sentimento della libertà in tutte le direzioni. Come scimmia forse la conoscevo, e ho incontrato uomini che ambiscono ad essa. Ma per quanto mi riguarda, non desideravo la libertà allora come non la desidero oggi. Fra parentesi: parlando di libertà gli uomini si ingannano un po’ troppo spesso. E come la libertà va annoverata fra i sentimenti più sublimi, così anche il corrispondente inganno è dei più sublimi. Spesso nei varietà, prima del mio numero, ho visto qualche coppia di artisti darsi da fare lassù sotto il tendone sul trapezio. Si lanciavano, si altalenavano, saltavano, si libravano abbracciati, uno teneva l’altro per i capelli con i denti. “Anche questa è libertà umana”, pensavo, “un movimento padrone di sé.” O derisione della sacra natura! Non c’è costruzione che resterebbe in piedi per le risate delle scimmie di fronte a un tale spettacolo.

No, non era la libertà che volevo. Solo una via d’uscita; a destra, a sinistra, era lo stesso; non avevo altre pretese; la via d’uscita poteva anche essere un inganno; la pretesa era piccola, l’inganno non poteva essere più grande. Avanti, avanti! Pur di non restare fermo a braccia sollevate, schiacciato contro la parete di un baule.

Oggi vedo con chiarezza; senza la più grande tranquillità interiore non avrei mai potuto venirne fuori. E in effetti forse devo tutto ciò che sono diventato alla tranquillità che mi invase, là nella nave, dopo i primi giorni. Ma la tranquillità a sua volta la devo all’equipaggio della nave….

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Non posso postare tutto lo stupendo racconto di Franz Kafka, ma sia chiaro, concittadini, siete perentoriamente invitati a terminare la lettura sul sito The Kafka Project.

La conferenza ha troppe attinenze con il nostro mondo, con la nostra sur-realtà per non essere la cifra con cui sono felice di dare il battesimo alla nuova collocazione “TOPOGRAFICA” della “repubblica indipendente”.

Nulla cambia nella natura della nostra repubblica.

Solo, conquistiamo spazi  più ampi, nuovi territori.

Colonizziamo nuove regioni.

Conquistiamo una libertà più ampia, pagine in più per  i nostri progetti, strumenti più efficaci per esprimere le nostre idee.

Per questo ci spostiamo dall’albero che ci ha ospitato fin dall’inizio della nostra evoluzione.

Per questo ci spostiamo a questo nuovo albero, più verde e confortevole.

Da qui potremo scrutare meglio l’orizzonte aperto dei nostri ideali.

Da qui potremo orientarci meglio nel viaggio cominciato poco più di un anno fa.

L’albero di questa nave è più alto e da quissù potremo scrutare meglio la nebbia che ci separa dal mondo delle nostre utopie ideali, quel mondo lontano ma reale, per il quale riteniamo di spendere le nostre energie del sogno e della coscienza.

Quel mondo ideale, libero e nobile, è il nostro mondo.

Quel mondo è la “REPUBBLICA INDIPENDENTE”.

Quel mondo è la nostra patria.

Concittadini !

Un grande benvenuto a tutti nella nostra nuova patria !

So the blog has been down again for the last few days because I’ve been in London again, but anyway I’m back but here’s what I got up to.

So first day I arrived we went to the UCAS fair, and I got to chat to people from the London College of Fashion and Central St.Martins and I have decided I definitely want to go to one of those Unis!

Then it was back to the Generator Hostel in Russel Square, which wasn’t as bad as I thought it was, The drinks were cheap there so I was up late getting drunk!

Anyway Next day (Slightly hungover) we went to see the Pop Art Exhbit in the Tate. Photography was banned otherwise I would have some awesome pictures to show you. But anyone who can should check out Pop Life at the Tate Modern if they get the chance.

Then on the tube to Old Street to see a Banksy and do some shopping!

So we found this Banksy piece on the wall, and I had a picture with it. I had to fight with that bloody bush though, who the fuck puts a bush in front of a Banksy!? And I know I look a mess, It was windy and I was soo tired!

Anyway there are some good vintage shops around the area so we went to check them out, the first we came accross and probably my fave was Paper Dress.

It was cute inside, it was like I was in the 1950’s even the lady behind the counter was dressed like she was from the 50’s and the best part was most definitely the Vintage cash register!

After theere we headed up to find Beyond Retro. Apparently its where the likes of Kate Moss, Beth Ditto and Noel Fielding like to shop. I remain un-impressed, there was a few nice things in there but everything smelt of old people, it just wasn’t for me, but if you are into second hand shopping it is definitely one of the best places to visit.

Then it was off to Oxford street and probably my favorite shop ever…Digitaria!

The other side of the window display is currently by Gemma Slack but the photos didn’t take properly. I went in again but had no money to buy anything I just love to look at the clothes in there, and oggle at the Katie Eary shoes I craaavvee!! Unfortunatly there is no Gallery downstairs at the moment.

Anyways further Down oxford street I finally got to check out the Jimmy Choo for H&M, I only Had time to look at the menswear though because I was the only one in the group interested in seeing it. But here’s some blurry pics I managed to snap including a picture of the boots I almost bought but they didn’t have them in my size

After that it was back to the Generator and another slightly drunk night, which is why there are no pictures from yesterday, because I was dying and ate dodgy Thai food. FYI if you’re ever around Tottenham Court Road and you see a place called Joi Buffet, DO NOT go inside, it tastes like vomit!

This is a re-post of Total Rewall’s blog. WOAH! Plagiarism I hear you rant. But it’s okay, as I write that too. So calm down.

Total Rewall, along with the marvelous chaps from arts, music and culture site The 405, went along to the opening night of The Thousands Art Exhibition on a windy East London street last night – The Village Underground in Shoreditch to be precise.

Freash-faced 18 year old RJ Rushmore of Vandalog put the whole shindig together – an in-depth interview you can read courtesy of The 405 here. A plethora of street artists work was on offer, including: Faile, WK Interact, Adam Neate, Swoon, Banksy, Know Hope, Herakut, Elbow-Toe, and many more talented fuckers on display.

The 405 really went to town on some cracking interviews with the street artists involved – check the following out: Nick Walker, Rowdy and Armsrock

The goal of The Thousands was to attempt to show the art world and the public that there are great works of art within the sphere of “street art,” and that street artists deserve a place in art history at least equal to that of The Young British Artists or the great pop artists; And hells yes, that was indeed achieved. An added bonus was the free, taste-bud-shattering Japanese Ale on offer. Sadly, we can’t remember the name – much was consumed.

You have until this Sunday (22nd November ) to check it out, make sure that you do.

Here are some exclusive photos, from Tim Boddy

Total Rewall, along with the marvelous chaps from arts, music and culture site The 405, went along to the opening night of The Thousands Art Exhibition on a windy East London street last night – The Village Underground in Shoreditch to be precise.

Freash-faced 18 year old RJ Rushmore of Vandalog put the whole shindig together – an in-depth interview you can read courtesy of The 405 here. A plethora of street artists work was on offer, including: Faile, WK Interact, Adam Neate, Swoon, Banksy,  Know Hope, Herakut,  Elbow-Toe, and many more talented fuckers on display.

The 405 really went to town on some cracking interviews with the street artists involved – check the following out: Nick Walker, Rowdy and Armsrock

The goal of The Thousands was to attempt to show the art world and the public that there are great works of art within the sphere of “street art,” and that street artists deserve a place in art history at least equal to that of The Young British Artists or the great pop artists; And hells yes, that was indeed achieved. An added bonus was the free, taste-bud-shattering Japanese Ale on offer. Sadly, we can’t remember the name – much was consumed.

You have until this Sunday (22nd November ) to check it out, make sure that you do.

Here are some exclusive photos, from Tim Boddy

It’s two months ago, and I’m meeting American street art collector and tour guide RJ Rushmore, known online as Vandalog, at the Bean in Shoreditch. I’m late, as usual, so we’ve texted, he’s gone to run a few errands and will meet me in a few. I want to meet him because I read about his Street Art Tours and I think they’re worth promoting.

RJ is 18, from the Chicago suburb of Wilmette, just 20 minute drive from Palatine, my own John Hughes (RIP) suburban home town. He’s been here for 4 years. That means he started here when he was a freshman. I get a kick out this. I get a coffee and sit down on the bench outside, guessing at which hoodie or hipster will walk in to educate me on the Urban Art Scene in London.

Cool dude after cool dude saunter past, none stop, none are RJ.

Then, a skinny guy neither hoodie nor hipster approaches and asks if I am Jessica. Sure enough I catch that Midwestern accent…RJ asks me if I’d like anything else to drink, he’s just going to grab an Earl Grey tea.

It takes my eyes a minute to adjust to the crumbling of my expectations – this guy isn’t the cool dude I am expecting. He really is a young, high schooler… Well, I’ll have a chat with him, it’ll be nice to reminisce with someone from Chicago for a bit, I think to myself.

RJ knows he’s not what people expect.  “I like golf,” he offers. “I considered studying computer programming,” he continues. He’s still considering it even,  though he might minor in Art History.  This whole leap into the street art scene, in fact, started when his dad brought home a piece of street art ‘to seem cool’, and continued as a way to get out of taking an art class at his American High School in London. His task was to organise an educated tour of graffiti in East London for his fellow students. They ate it up. Their moms wanted tours. Suddenly, the tours were in thelondonpaper and everyone wanted them.

So how does RJ know so much about street art? He and his dad collect street art together, he explains, and it becomes clear that they have a much closer relationship than one normally has with their dad at 18. The interest turned into a shared passion, and RJ started his blog – Vandalog, which led to an internship at the Black Rat Pres Gallery (where he later takes me).

The longer I listen to RJ tell his story, my impression shifts from one of a bit of shock and disappointment to one of absolute awe. I’m really enjoying hanging out with him, he’s one of the most genuine and intelligent guys I have met in a long time.

He educated me on the history of the street art movement in great details, all the while namedropping pieces he has bought or artists he knows personally and has even done some work with.

I learn that some street art I’ve always been partial to is by Shepherd Fairey – world famous, in part for his Obama poster fame.  Yet another, albeit slight, Chicago connection. He can show me Fairey’s latest piece, he says, it’s just gone up at Cargo down the road. We’ll head there after he finishes his tea.

In fact, he can introduce me to Sarah, over at Black Rat Press, who’s the real expert, he says. Without her and his internship work at Black Rat, he’s never be able to run the exhibition he is curating at the Village Underground.

Stop. Reverse. Huh? Did an 18 year old just casually and self-depreciatingly drop into the conversation that he is curating his own urban art exhibition at one of the coolest locations in London?

Oh, yes, he tells me, at the Village Underground. In November. It’s called The Thousands. It’s going well, he says, it’s mostly just a challenge to get that and the book finished at the same time. The book is called The Thousands: Painting Outside, Breaking In. He’s launching it at the exhibition.

Who’s your favourite artist, I ask him? His all-time fav would have to be Swoon for what she does outdoors and in the gallery, though he’s loving Burning Candy in London, in New York City, Skewville, The ADHD Kids and Booker are all being very innovative and you can’t ignore Banksy, he adds.Banksy is always pushing things to the next level and staying fresh

I try to be cool, I ask him if these large scale exhibits, like the Banksy vs Museum in Bristol and even his exhibit are not turning street art into the mainstream, negating the very spirit behind the work. Isn’t that selling out, I cleverly ask…

RJ sees nothing wrong with it all. Street Art on the outside of the Tate Modern or exhibitions like his, he explains, could be seen as selling out or as gentrifying the art-form, but that is a necessary side effect of something much more important. Promoting street art to a wider audience, getting it in museums and generally making sure that the larger art community accepts it are all part of making sure that this art-form is preserved for future generations.

Work on the street is ephemeral and only lasts in photographs. If MoMA buys work by Banksy, future generations will be able to see it, and street art is an important enough movement that some of it deserves preservation. And as for Banksy versus The Bristol Museum, he adds, that show got 300,000 from around the world to visit a city museum in just a few months! Banksy did something that had a massively positive impact on the city of Bristol and got a bunch of people interested in art.

That’s quite a lot of notches for his belt, and all accomplished in his gap year before he heads off to study at liberal arts Haverford College in Pennsylvania.

Watch out college. RJ’s coming to town. His self-depreciating and genuine style will knock you off your feet. I know I’m smitten.

The Thousands starts tonight and runs through Sunday. Check out http://thethousands.wordpress.com for details and make sure to check out http://vandalog.wordpress.com for RJ’s online Street Art nuggets of knowledge.

Buy the book  here: www.dragolab.com/en/books/catalogue/the-thousands

Imagem: Banksy

I’m home, and hard at work already on a bunch of commissions and prep work for new projects, trying to get my studio space sorted out and stay ahead of the game…many many deadlines coming quicker than I’d like!

While I was in London I got a chance to paint at Cargo. They gave me a really nice spot on the wall, Banksy to my right, Netta to my left and Obey just steps away. Thanks to Remi Rough for the introduction and to James and Charlotte from Cargo for being so lovely! Oh, and thanks muchly to Mickey Mook for the flicks! By the time I was done painting it was too dark to take any of my own…and it’s always a bit unnerving having to leave the country without even one photo of a piece like this…

This was the third and last time that I will paint this particular piece.  I tried something a bit different with the background this time, quite happy with how it turned out.

Still trying to catch up with posting work from my trip, more pics from Amsterdam to come soon!

I saw this wicked graffiti on a pub wall in East London tonight.  The one below must be an original Banksy as it’s covered in perspex to protect it.  Unless they’ve covered it to make it LOOK like an original Banksy, mmm, clever.  Quite annoyingly it’s also covered by a stupid fern, why would you do that?

Original Banksy?

Maybe she's born with it, Maybelline