An exhibition rich of masterpieces that tell about the relationship between the Barbizon school of France and the diffusion of realism and naturalism in Central and Eastern Europe brings together from museums all over the world 134 works by Manet, Monet, Renoir, Degas, Van Gogh and many others who can be compared with the main painters of countries of Central and Eastern Europe. If you happen to be in Udine, visit The Age of Courbet and Monet at the majestic ensemble of Villa Manin in Passariano until March 7, 2010.
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When I was in France as an exchange student all those years ago I wasn’t only an idiot obsessed with letting off fireworks and arguing with Jean-Louis. There was a part of me which was utterly entranced by the fact that I could travel for a couple of hours across a stretch of sea and find myself immersed in a radically different culture. In short, I loved France, which is why I signed up to go back and spend more time with Jean-Louis the following year. He and I might not have got along too well but he dug England when he came to stay with me, I dug France when I was there so it made sense to take the opportunity to go again.

One of the reasons I was keen to return was Paris although, as I will explain, Paris was one of the reasons my school might not have wanted me to go on the following year’s exchange. I’d got myself into a bit of trouble in the French capital, you see. It was all going spendidly well in the morning. Jean-Louis’ mum dragged me out of bed at some ungodly hour so that I could get washed and dressed in time to make the coach. It was barely light as we pulled out of Caen and began trundling 120 miles towards Paris. It was about half nine by the time we spilled out of the coach, hot and bothered and already full of brie and baguettes. As is probably customary with all exchange students, we were first taken to the Eiffel Tower. Either because of cost or because of time, we did not go to the very top but still got an amazing view from the second level. I know London a little because my father worked there and I used to take a train and he’d meet me at Paddington Station whenever I went to stay with him. Usually he’d take me to his place of work – a huge building close to Blackfriar’s Bridge – and he’d shown me around Westminster and Fleet Street and the like when time allowed. But Paris seemed like another world from the tower. Up there where the exhaust fumes did not reach, where the only sounds were of bickering seagulls, squabbling children and harrassed teachers, I fell in love with a place for the first time in my life.

Notre Dame

Our next stop was Notre Dame but I could not get the image of Paris from above out of my head. I didn’t want to stay in some scary old church, I wanted to explore the city. So I did. I edged towards the door while the guide was telling our group about the cathedral and walked out. For reasons I am not entirely sure, I was followed by one of the swottier boys from my class. At first I thought he’d been sent by a teacher to tell me to come back in, but it turns out there was a slightly rebellious streak in him after all. He had already been to Paris twice, he said, and didn’t want to trudge around Notre Dame again so he thought he’d hang around outside until they were done. “Where are you going?” he asked.”No idea,” I replied. “What do you mean?” he wanted to know. So I tried to tell him what I’d felt when we were up the Eiffel Tower and that I just wanted to lose myself in the streets and discover it all for myself. Not sure if he got quite what I meant but he reminded me of when and where the coach was leaving from that evening. “What if you get lost and miss the coach?” he suddenly thought. “No idea,” I said again and walked away. Moments later he was there alongside me and it seemed I’d found an unlikely accomplice for possibly the most idiotic spot of truancy I ever indulged in.

Actually, he didn’t last long. We’d been heading vaguely North (I now know, at the time I was just wandering wherever I liked, soaking up the sounds of the traffic and the conversations people seemed to be having at break-neck speeds), and began walking down a thinning street. On either side were women in short skirts with tiny handbags, cigarettes dangling from too-red lips. “Oh my god, they’re…” said Swot-Boy. “Hookers,” I completed his sentence. The further we walked along the street, the older and less attractive the women seemed to become. Near the other end one of them winked at my friend. He freaked out, as though a prostitute winking at him was the same as having paid her for services we were not even particularly ready for at that age. “I’m going back.” was all he said. So I let him head off and continued in the direction we’d been going.

Montmartre Steps

I did not know at the time that I was entering Montmartre. All I knew was that the chain stores had disappeared from the streets to be replaced with smaller shops, cafes, tobacconists, and murky looking antique places. Pavement artists seemed to be on every corner bugging the better dressed tourists to have their portrait sketched. This was the Paris I’d imagined from films and television. I had no idea that Montmartre was traditionally the bohemian quarter and down the years had been home to the likes of Picasso, and Renoir and even American writers such as Langston Hughes. All I knew was that this was MY Paris, I’d discovered it all on my own. Nobody had shown me the steps or the side roads: they were all new and all mine.

Feeling thirsty, I stopped in a cafe on the corner of a main street, pretended I could read more than ten words of the French newspaper which was lying on my table when I sat down, and beheld my new domain. I dreamed the normal dreams of impressionable teenagers who read too much Kafka and Orwell and who have stumbled into Paris as if guided by the hand of Fate. In other words I dreamed that one day I would return and live here, in this part of the city, and forget that I ever spoke English at all. And when I rounded another corner on continuing my explorations, I found yet another reason to come and live in Montmartre: The Sacre Coeur.

One of the reasons I adored the film ‘Amelie‘ so much was because of the scenes around the Sacre Coeur. I don;t know what it was that drew me to it as I was not and am not religious. But it was this glorious white building on top of a hill with inviting steps leading up to it. So I climbed the steps and went inside what suddenly seemed like some magical temple. There was a peace and stillness inside, despite the fact of it being quite full with tourists and worshippers, that made sense to me in a way that years of sermons and religious instruction at school had never done. Many people were buying candles and setting them on a specially provided stand, lighting them and, presumably, whispering a silent prayer. I put three Francs into the box, lit my candle and put it with the others. Rather than praying I became somewhat serious and realised that I was going to be in an awful lot of trouble with my teachers. I decided to wander round for ten minutes, drink in as much as I could of the Sacre Coeur, and then make my way back to the meeting point.

On the way back I tried telling myself I’d probably be fine. We were going to have sandwiches wherever after Notre Dame and then the students were going to be allowed to explore anyway. They’d probably not even missed me. I;d only skipped off an hour early after all. How wrong I was. My teachers were apoplectic with rage and also quite shaken with fear. Anything could have happned to me, they said. What the hell was I thinking, they said. The police were looking for you, they said. So I had to apologise to the teachers, and to the gendarme who they’d spoken to and who had alerted some of his colleagues by radio. I was sorry that they’d been so worried, sorry that I had caused disruption and trouble. But I was not sorry at all to have discovered Paris for myself that day. The memories will stay with me forever, even if I never did end up living the life of a bohemian in Montmartre. It’s probably all commercial these days anyway.

Hace una semana vi Julie & Julia, la nueva película de Nora Ephron y que además es la primera “major motion picture” que gira en torno a un blog.

Lo primero que hice, naturalmente, fue recomendársela a quienes habitan y dan forma al espacio murciano y que por esta condición (que puede pasar por gratuita o inofensiva y que en realidad es todo lo contrario) nos hemos hecho muchas de las preguntas que el personaje de Amy Adams se hace con respecto a la labor de dar vida y alimentar un blog: la necesidad, la realidad, el compromiso. Estas preguntas, hay que decirlo, no tienen respuesta. Pero esta falta de salidas (o de salidas fáciles) no afecta a la película que, contra todos los pronósticos, se logra sostener y cerrar después de haberse abierto como cola de globo. Lo que quiero decir es que la película ni sale volando ni se escurre. Más bien como que se congela. Y creo que ésa es su mayor virtud: evitar el hervidero. El entusiasmo que me provocó esa muestra de contención o profesionalidad narrativa me llevó a calificar la dirección de Ephron como “precisa” y al guión como “intimidante”. Ahora, es evidente que exagero.

Lo que es cierto es que la película de Ephron revela una forma muy particular, que además me gusta mucho, de hacer cine y coloca definitivamente a Ephron en el equipo de Spielberg. Es una forma que recuerda más a un campo de refugiados o a un campamento de sobrevivientes o a un grupo de soldados rasos que se juntaba en la noche a contar historias mientras esperaban el amanecer y que, al final, terminaron hablando en un código que fue producto del aislamiento. Un día estos sobrevivientes regresaron a sus países y fueron recibidos como héroes y la reintegración fue feliz. Entre ellos están o Giuseppe Tornatore o Billy Wilder o Guy Ritchie, y es ahí en donde Spielberg es la gran ballena blanca y en donde Scorsese se mueve como un submarino y en donde David Fincher es un buzo a la deriva y en donde Christopher Nolan o Jean-Pierre Jeunet amenazan con convertirse en huracán. También aquí está Alfonso Cuarón. No hay tiburones.

Por otra parte, están los directores que siguen en el campo de batalla. Ellos, salvo algunas excepciones, nunca saldrán de ahí. Tampoco tienen un código sino que aprendieron a vivir en soledad. Unos viven huyendo constantemente. Otros, como Fellini, se revuelven y saltan en el lodo frente al enemigo porque saben que son inmortales. Lars von Trier, en cambio, está herido y sus últimas fuerzas están destinadas a acribillar a quien se acerque, ya sea por traidor o por cobarde o porque sí. Hitchcock entendió el secreto de esta guerra eterna y Kubrick lo reformó. Kurosawa fue un suicida nato. Lo que más hay son fantasmas, pero con una particularidad: estos fantasmas primero fueron fantasmas y después, a fuerza del horror, se convirtieron en personas (o en algo que simulaba personas; nunca lograron perder su calidad espectral). Entre ellos están Bergman, Welles o Jean Renoir.

Todo esto, claro, es a grandes rasgos y no es verdad.

Dom Mingo

I was looking back at some of the flower photos I’ve taken this year – and realized that there were several photos of various Asiatic Lilies that I’ve never gotten around to posting. I just love all the colors that these lilies come in. Here are a few of the pink ones I’ve photographed in the past few months.

Samur Lily

Samur Lily (c) 2009 Patty Hankins

Canaletto Lily

(c) 2009 Patty Hankins

Baywatch Lily

(c) 2009 Patty Hankins

(c) 2009 Patty Hankins

Renoir Lilies surrounded by yarrow

Renoir Lilies (c) 2009 Patty Hankins

And finally the Presidente Lily – I know – I’ve posted this one before – but it’s my favorite pink lily

Presidente Lily (c) 2009 Patty Hankins

E’ iniziata il 26 settembre e terminerà il 7 marzo 2010 la mostra firmata da Marco Goldin a Villa Manin (Udine).
Tema centrale è il rapporto tra la nascita della cosiddetta scuola di Barbizon in Francia è la diffusione del Realismo e del Naturalismo nei Paesi dell’Europa centrale ed orientale.
120 sono le opere esposte e suddivise n quattro distinti capitoli: Villaggi, Acque, Ritratti e Figure. Quindi si il percorso espositivo inizia da celebri artisti quali Courbet, Corot, Millet, Rousseau..poi si avvicina al periodo impressionista con opere di Manet, Monet, Bazille, Caillebotte, Sisley, Renoir, Pisarro, Degas, Cèzanne. Sono inoltre presenti tre opere di Van Gogh provenienti dal museo di Amsterdam.

Yesterday (Tuesday) night I went to a political meeting.

It was a meeting of a campaign group to get stand-up and sketch comedy recognised by Arts Council as proper (ie fundable) art, and it’s gaining momentum…more on that later.

Anyway. On the way to that meeting – to get in the mood – I stopped in at the National Gallery to see some ‘real’ art. And I fucking love it there – I still find it amazing that you – anyone – can just walk in off the street and for no money at all be looking at some of the greatest paintings in history. You just walk in, you go up a few steps to the right, and you’re looking at Van Gogh’s Sunflowers.

Or if you’re me, you’re looking at Renoir’s Umbrellas.

I hadn’t seen it in a few years and as soon as I saw the young woman in it I cursed myself for not visiting more recently. I’m totally in love with her. I think perhaps I always have been; she’s just so calm, so assured, so stylish, relaxed, beautiful – so brunette. It’s either been raining or it’s just about to: everyone else, in their out-of-date clothes (because Renoir painted them four years earlier) has umbrellas. But they’re wrong – they must be wrong because the brunette has no umbrella, not even in that empty basket. And she is too beautiful to be wrong.

She’s so different from that little blonde girl on the right with her petulant blonde face. I know that face - it was still there in grown-up petulant blonde women I’ve known (and occasionally fallen for); I know what that face looks like when it gets older…but I still want it in the painting so I can watch how far above and beyond it my brunette is; that soft, clear, rounded face just sails away from all of them…

I also saw a Picasso painting – I think it’s just called ‘Child’.

It always looked somehow familiar to me, but I didn’t know why until recently when my mother told me she had a copy of that picture with her when she gave birth to me. Someone had suggested she should take the most beautiful thing she could find and look at it while giving birth. I don’t know if my mother was hoping that by doing that, I might be as beautiful as the boy in the picture; I think she’d be disappointed if she was. I mean, there are similarities I guess: he has blue eyes, and I have blue eyes; he has a ball at his feet and I do quite like football; for a short while in my teens I was into cross-dressing. And biting the heads off small birds…

Anyway, so after that I went to this campaign meeting. The vibe was pretty good, and people were coming up with lots of suggestions for ways in which we could get the Arts Council to recognise comedic artforms as art. There were a few brief moments of tension, when (as I understood it) there was disagreement over whether this could be done straightforwardly through letter/petition/civil society-style campaigning or whether the whole artistic establishment needs to be taken apart and put back together again with a different mindset and a different kind of aesthetic language. (It’s pretty normal, I think, for progressive campaigns to face tensions between revolutionaries and practical gradualists. As usual, I fell on the side of cautious gradualism because, as discussed before, I am an anarchist but I’m a pretty conservative one…)

Anyway, any tensions gave way in the end to some really good practical things we can do to get Arts Council England to have another look at their position, which is pretty exciting. I got the job of drafting the initial letter to the chair of Arts Council England, asking for a full explanation of why nothing funny ever gets funding. Which I’ve done. You can see it here.

And if you’ve got nothing else to do and you agree with the cause, join the facebook group. It’s got 800-odd members now – and I can sense (r)evolution in the air…

Mrs Malaprop was right – comparisons are, indeed, odorous. Bluntly, they stink. But. And ‘but’ again. They’re almost inevitable – and even sometimes indispensable.

Since childhood, I’ve loved Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass. The absurdity of an inverted world, with its crazed patterns based on underlying logic, is something that many children instantly grasp and appreciate. And Sir John Tenniel’s illustrations contribute so much to the overall experience – so much so that I can hardly bear to look at anyone else’s visual interpretation.

So it was with a mite of trepidation that I went along to the Galerie des Ponchettes in Nice to see an exhibition of Dutch graphic artist Pat Andrea’s interpretation of the Alice stories designed for a new version of the works. Entitled Projet Alice, the show consists of large mixed media works based on line drawings and mounted on wooden panels. The colours are rich, glowing – echoing at times the combination of clarity with a pearly glow of Renoir’s palette, but the gloss Andrea puts on Alice and her adventures is firmly post-Freudian. Erotic imagery abounds, ranging from the vaguely menacing to the outright frightening. Male genitalia are vigorously, even forcefully, depicted while female attributes are hidden or alluded to – gestured towards – in a manner designed to titillate. I was reminded of the work of Balthus, a painter favoured by the Parisian intellectual-creative élite when I was a girl. Even at the time I recall his paintings made me shudder with distaste so obviously, creepily did they involve voyeuristic pleasure at the sight of discomfited female children.  Echoes, too, of the current mob’s rush to support Roman Polanski, I suppose. But revenons à nos moutons – back to the Andrea exhibition, the ‘Projet Alice’.

Pat Andrea: Alice falls in the water

My overall reaction? I was mostly repelled, partially impressed.  Of course, I’m not such an innocent as to assume that children’s books are invariably whited sepulchres of morality, devoid of the murkier aspects of humanity in all its animal forms and guises – any more, in fact, that children themselves are. And even the most cursory glance through a collected volume of the works of the Brothers Grimm or of H C Andersen (as the Danes know him) would immediately dispel any such delusion.

Bruno Bettelheim in The Uses of Enchantment was right, in my view: kids not only enjoy but also need these fictional warnings about very real and present dangers. If only as a rehearsal for how they will approach such things in later life. So-called ‘fairy stories’ taken as a group are often an illuminating metaphorical guide to certain aspects of life.

All of Andrea’s pictures were ravishing to the eye, though. Such is Andrea’s mastery of draughtsmanship and so fresh and vivid his use of colour that there is plenty to admire if not enjoy. One of his large-scale illustrations struck me as especially beautiful, and it does serve to show the scope of his superb technique. In profile, Alice is rowing the boat, with the ewe opposite and a beautifully-detailed drawing of a crab worthy of Albrecht Dürer hovering above her. The sheep is drawn with tenderness – although shorn, the fleece is wrapped around the silhouette of the animal, as if for warmth and protection. The boat is rendered in strips, painted to look like wood markings – from a distance it looks like the unpainted planks that form a clinker-built rowing boat (as in the illustration above). But this Alice is far closer to the Tenniel original. Rather than the lush, pouting Alice of Andrea’s other pictures, this one is severely proto-adult: demure yet determined, head down in concentration and rowing powerfully – a true Victorian child-heroine. Here, Alice is – uniquely in this exhibition – much closer to the sturdily sensible,  practical and resourceful child portrayed in the books (and a major part of their appeal). Albeit obviously surreal, the scene has a calm charm lacking in all the other works on show. What a shame. A waste, almost.

Will these illustrations appeal to children? They might. But I’m inclined to doubt it – most kids would stop to sneer or snigger, thus breaking the spell, cutting the connection so crucial to reader involvement in any form of fiction. In any case, the illustrations are liable to detract from the story rather than support it (as did Tenniel’s lovely assured lines) while the narrative rattles and bounces on its purposefully erratic way.  In these pictures, a self-consciously adult knowingness has intervened to pervert the subject matter for its own, rather dubious ends. Lewis Carroll as seen by Freud, perhaps – a curiously dated viewpoint, whereas the original illustrations ring true to their era.

But my opinon  is – naturally – based on comparisons.  And are those comparisons noxious? Do they reduce enjoyment and prevent full understanding? Not always; not necessarily. Sometimes, as in this case, they’re not only inescapable but necessary.  What do you think?

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Cuando la fórmula de las grandes exposiciones parece agotada y los museos ven cada vez más mermados sus presupuestos, llega la hora de recurrir al fondo de armario. Rentabilizar las propias colecciones de cada museo. Algo que en los casos del Prado, el Metropolitan de Nueva York o el vienés Albertina, se presenta en este arranque de temporada como un recurso idóneo. Pero no el único. Los museos británicos, con un 40% de su gasto sufragado por el Estado, son de los pocos que se agarran a la vieja fórmula de las exposiciones estrella con un alarde de marketing y publicidad para encontrar ofertas que logren epatar. ¿Una tercera posibilidad? Ampliar las sedes del propio museo, como el Louvre, que está a punto de abrir una franquicia en Abu-Dhabi. La estrategia no es nueva: recuerda a la política de franquicias del Guggenheim.

Miguel Zugaza, director del Museo del Prado, tiene clara su elección: rentabilizar sus propias colecciones. La exposición recién presentada, dedicada a esa joya oculta del barroco que es Juan Bautista Maíno (1581- 1649), es un buen ejemplo. “Creo que el plato fuerte de un museo debe ser su propia colección y las actividades temporales, apoyarse en lo que constituye la base del centro”.

Nicholas Penny, director de la sede londinense de la National Gallery, defensor del conocimiento frente al espectáculo en los centros artísticos, se suma al coro de los que no ven rentable conseguir visitantes a base de extravagancias. Pese a ello, Xavier Bray -conservador jefe de los siglos XVII y XVIII de la National Gallery, que ha creado una verdadera conmoción en la temporada londinense con su exposición de escultura barroca española The sacred made real-, explica que la muestra es producto de la búsqueda de temas que con la sorpresa atraigan al público. “Seguimos las leyes del marketing y la publicidad más agresivos. No podemos permitirnos perder ni un solo visitante”.

¿Tienen que ver la crisis y la reducción de presupuestos en estos planteamientos? Zugaza opina que no. “Las partidas son más limitadas, pero eso no hace que varíe el tipo de exposiciones que queremos para el museo”. Este invierno, el Prado dedicará una muestra a la pintura holandesa en sus colecciones. Se presentará el catálogo razonado acompañado de una selección de los grandes maestros representados en la pinacoteca. “El Prado es un fondo inagotable”, añade Zugaza. “La exposición de Sorolla, la más visitada después de la histórica de Velázquez, no es sino otro ejemplo. Contaba con piezas maestras que pertenecen a este museo y que ahora están en las salas permanentes dedicadas al XIX”.

Acaso ése sea un lujo sólo al alcance de los grandes centros. El Albertina de Viena es uno de esos afortunados. Sus propios fondos andan sobrados de relumbrón. Con 65.000 dibujos y un millón de grabados de todas las épocas, sus colecciones de Durero, Leonardo da Vinci, Miguel Ángel, Manet o Klimt dan para varias temporadas consecutivas de éxito. De momento, el Albertina ha iniciado ésta con Impresionismo en las colecciones del museo. Courbet, Caillebotte, Manet, Monet, Renoir, Cézanne, Pissarro, Signac y Van Gogh son algunos de los autores que componen una exposición deslumbrante.

El panorama cambia al adentrarnos en el más resbaladizo terreno del arte contemporáneo. Vicente Todolí, director de la Tate Modern de Londres, opina que el recurso al “fondo de armario” sólo sirve para los museos de arte antiguo. Y va más allá. Es “el mismo caramelo con otro envoltorio. Vestir la misma colección de otra manera”. Como ejemplo recurre a esas muestras que giran en torno a un tema determinado y que, dice, aburren al espectador más pintado. “Hay fórmulas que ya no se pueden repetir más: ‘la nieve en el impresionismo’ o ‘el sol en el impresionismo’, como hace el Museo de Orsay”, bromea, “Ya no sirven. Hay que buscar conceptos nuevos y muy atractivos”. Tras esa reflexión, quizá sorprenda saber que su gran apuesta para la primavera será Gauguin fabulador.

“La Tate Modern ha reducido la programación porque la esponsorización no existe en estos momentos y con sólo el 40% del presupuesto [aportado por el Estado] no abrimos. Tenemos que conseguir visitantes que vengan y además consuman”, continúa. Y en ese consumo está una de las mayores fuentes de ingresos de la Tate: las tiendas y los puntos de restauración dependen directamente del museo. No funcionan como concesiones a empresas subsidiarias.

¿Qué opina Todolí de los museos que comparten o venden su marca como el Guggenheim o el Louvre? “Nos negamos a las franquicias porque entendemos que es imperialismo cultural. El museo tiene que nacer en un entorno propio, no puede haber colonización. No somos los únicos que nos hemos opuesto. El MOMA [neoyorquino] ha hecho lo mismo. Otra cosa es asesorar, pero los modelos no se exportan”.

Manuel Borja-Villel, director del Reina Sofía, es contrario también a negociar con la marca. “El nuevo paradigma no debe consistir meramente en reducir gastos a la espera de que la tormenta amaine. Tampoco podemos insistir en aquello que no ha funcionado, esto es, la sustitución de la cultura por el espectáculo, la disneyzación de los museos basada en un sistema de franquicias por el que cada museo repite aquello que ya se ha hecho en otro sitio, en el que el espectador se dedica al reconocimiento de marcas o eslóganes y no al conocimiento de territorios desconocidos”.

El responsable del Reina Sofía opina que “es necesario volver a aquello que es esencial en todo museo: a la investigación y a la educación, a que el público se convierta en agente activo, haga suyos y transforme los relatos del museo para que éstos dejen de ser miméticos del mercado y las modas. Es imprescindible que se generen otros modos de colaboración y relación basados en el trabajo en red y no en las franquicias”.

Es evidente que ésa no es la forma en la que los responsables del Louvre ven las cosas. Por un millón de euros, la capital de los Emiratos Árabes contará desde 2012 con una lujosa sucursal del museo parisiense construida por Jean Nouvel. Será todo un parque temático museístico en el que la metrópoli francesa se ocupará de las exposiciones temporales. Contará con un espacio dedicado al arte contemporáneo que, con la marca Guggenheim, construye actualmente Frank Gehry. Los préstamos procedentes de las sedes-madre servirán para que gracias a los petrodólares se dé a conocer el arte antiguo a nuevas audiencias.

A estas alturas, ya queda claro que hay soluciones para todos los gustos. Incluso las basadas en el deseo. Guillermo Solana, responsable artístico del Thyssen desde hace cuatro años, confesó públicamente durante la presentación de Las lágrimas de Eros que la idea de montar esta exposición  le vino a la cabeza hace año y medio, en el momento más bajo de su carrera, al borde de la depresión más absoluta… El erotismo se le apareció como una fórmula mágica de insuflar vida al espacio. Una fórmula tan criticada por algunos como aplaudida por los muchos visitantes que estos días se agolpan en las salas del Thyssen.

Fuente: El País – ÁNGELES GARCÍA - Madrid – 28/10/2009

Aceasta aplicatie vine preinstalata pe unele modele de Renoir in Germania  SURSA

Instalarea se face ori intrand aici wap.skobbler.de din telefon ori descarcand fisierul acesta dar trebuie sa fi conectat la Wi-Fi sau WAP pentru a putea lua aplicatia. Cat despre functionalitate nu am ce sa spun pentru ca nu am testat si nici nu sunt tentat sa o fac deoarece la fel ca majoritatea aplicatiilor Java pentru GPS necesita o permanenta conexiune la net. Deci raman la We-Travel.

ATENTIE – Se face backup la NV si se foloseste EFS Explorer – ATENTIE

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I like a painting which makes me want to stroll in it.

~Renoir

La Grenouille, 1869

Be a good craftsman; it won’t stop you being a genius.

~Renoir

I have posted four videos on the art works of Pierre-Auguste Renoir with YouTube on the Channel: A PRONK STUDIO VIDEO:

 http://www.youtube.com/user/raymondpronk

I hope you all enjoy them, as I did making them.

Enjoy your summer.

The music is from various works of Johann Strauss, Jr.

Renoir Part 1 of 4

Renoir Part 2 of 4

Renoir Part 3 of 4

Renoir Part 4 of 4

Work lovingly done is the secret of all order and all happiness.

~Renoir

The Reading, 1890

A Luncheon at Bougival, 1880-1881

One must from time to time attempt things that are beyond one’s capacity.

~Renoir

Background Articles and Videos

The Impressionists BBC (Part 1)

The Impressionists BBC (Part 2)

The Impressionists BBC (Part 3)

Related Posts On Pronk Paintings

Mary Cassatt–Videos 

Paul Cezanne–Videos

Edgar Degas–Videos

Paul Gauguin–Videos

Winslow Homer–Videos

Edouard Manet–Videos

Claude Monet–Videos

Berthe Morisot–Videos

Camille Pissarro–Videos

Frederick Remington–Videos

Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec–Videos

Georges-Pierre Seurat–Videos

Vincent Van Gogh–Videos

Johannes Vermeer–Videos

Art Videos on youtube.com Channel: A PRONK STUDIO VIDEO–Videos

We live in a country graced with freedom. It’s as lovely as a Renoir flower.

But do we feel the wild surge of freedom pulsating through our days? … our thoughts? … our emotions?

When is the last time your spirit felt truly free?

My messy mop

•I feel it when I am in water: the ocean, a rainstorm, a bathtub, a chlorinated pool, a puddle.

Se passate da Rimini in questa stagione NON PERDETEVI LA MOSTRA “DA REMBRANDT A GAUGUIN A PICASSO” presso la Rocca Malatestiana, detta anche Castel Sismondo.

E’ una mostra molto ben fatta (finirà il 14 marzo prossimo) e vi spiego il perchè.

Pochi ma ottimi i dipinti (circa una cinquantina) e ordinati in modo originale (almeno per me, che non sono uno specialista): in una sala ci sono i soggetti religiosi (il Veronese, il Bassano, Murillo, El Greco, Zurbaran), in un’altra i ritratti (Tintoretto, Velasquez, Van Dick, Rembrandt, Degas, Picasso), e poi i paesaggi (Constable, Corot, ancora Degas, Monet, Renoir, Van Gogh, Gauguin), le nature morte (Braque, Gris, Matisse), gli interni, ecc.

Si resta a bocca aperta. Credetemi. Prima che la sindrome di Stendhal vi faccia del male, sedetevi in uno dei tanti divani.

Per trovare la Rocca (che già di per sé è uno spettacolo), chiedete al navigatore di portarvi in Piazza Malatesta. In mancanza del navigatore, vi consiglio di puntare sulla parte nord del centro storico.

Dite pure che vi ho mandato io.

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La Marsellesa

AÑO 1938
DURACIÓN 135 min.
DIRECTOR Jean Renoir
GUIÓN Jean Renoir, Carl Koch
MÚSICA Joseph Kosma
FOTOGRAFÍA Jean-Paul Alphen, Jean Bourgoin, Alain Douarinou (B&W)
REPARTO Pierre Renoir, Lise Delamare, Louis Jouvet, Léon Larive, Aime Clariond, Maurice Escande, Pierre Nay, Jacques Castelai, Edmond Ardisson, Nadia Sibirskaïa
PRODUCTORA Société d’exploitation et de production

La Revolución Francesa vista a través de los ojos de sus participantes directos (desde los campesinos hasta el propio Luis XVI) es el tema de este drama de época dirigido por el maestro Jean Renoir. (FILMAFFINITY)

VO. Subtitulos

http://rapidshare.com/files/105741796/MARSELL.SUBS.REV.FRAN.part01.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/105743752/MARSELL.SUBS.REV.FRAN.part02.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/105745717/MARSELL.SUBS.REV.FRAN.part03.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/105747707/MARSELL.SUBS.REV.FRAN.part04.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/105749615/MARSELL.SUBS.REV.FRAN.part05.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/105751707/MARSELL.SUBS.REV.FRAN.part06.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/105753631/MARSELL.SUBS.REV.FRAN.part07.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/105755597/MARSELL.SUBS.REV.FRAN.part08.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/105756055/MARSELL.SUBS.REV.FRAN.part09.rar

Il CSBNO – Consorzio Bibliotecario Nord Ovest ha acquistato i dvd della prestigiosa collana Ermitage Cinema: dieci di questi classici del grande schermo sono ora “in tour” nella biblioteca di Baranzate e rimarranno a disposizione dei nostri utenti per un paio di settimane, in attesa di ripartire per altre biblioteche.

I dieci film ora in biblioteca non sono che un assaggio della collezione di 54 capolavori del cinema d’autore che gli utenti del Csbno potranno guardare online, gratuitamente, grazie al nuovo servizio MediaLibrary – in sperimentazione da pochi giorni – e all’accordo stipulato con Ermitage.

Clicca qui per saperne di più su MediaLibrary

I titoli presenti a Baranzate sono in prestito locale, solo per chi si reca qui in biblioteca, e per ora non sono prenotabili dal catalogo del Csbno. Venite quindi a trovarci!

• Matrimonio in quattro - di Ernst Lubitsch, 1924. Un professore spera che il flirt che la moglie ha intrecciato con un uomo, gli permetta di ottenere il sospirato divorzio e di poter sposare un’altra. In questa girandola di sentimenti, alla fine, le coppie si ricostituiranno in una maniera completamente diversa.
• Il ladro di Bagdad - di Raoul Walsch, 1924. Celeberrima versione tratta da un racconto de Le mille e una notte, il film nacque dall’incontro tra due grandi personalità, il regista Raoul Walsh e l’attore Douglas Fairbanks, che lo produsse e lo cosceneggiò, seppur sotto pseudonimo. Tra i film più costosi dell’epoca, soprattutto a causa di effetti speciali stupefacenti, Il ladro di Bagdad è una favolosa combinazione di avventura, esotismo e fantasia.
• Metropolis – di Fritz Lang, 1927. Nel Ventunesimo secolo, una gigantesca metropoli è governata in modo dittatoriale da un monopolista che vive con il figlio e i propri collaboratori in un paradisiaco giardino. Gli operai vivono, invece, in fabbriche sotterrane esortati alla rassegnazione.
• Il Fantasma dell’Opera – di Rupert Julian, 1925. Un musicista sfigurato, che vive nei sotterranei del Teatro dell’Opera di Parigi, si innamora di una giovane cantante dalla voce bellissima e la rapisce.
• L’uomo del Sud – di Jean Renoir, 1945. Ritenuto il miglior film del breve periodo americano di Jean Renoir, da molti critici avvicinato al cinema di Robert Flaherty, “L’uomo del Sud” – che si avvale del contributo alla sceneggiatura di William Faulkner e come aiuto regista dell’allora ventottenne Robert Aldrich – si aggiudicò nel 1946 un premio alla Mostra di Venezia, pur uscendo in Europa solo nel 1950. In questo film Renoir introduce il dirompente conflitto tra uomo e natura – quasi vi si sente l’odore della terra smossa dall’aratro, battuta dalla pioggia o riscaldata dal sole – ma non è solo la natura il grande ostacolo da rimuovere, anche i difficili rapporti umani giocano un ruolo determinante nella vicenda.
• La leggenda di Liliom – di Fritz Lang, 1935. Imbonitore di fiera, fannullone violento e ladro, Liliom seduce e mette incinta la cameriera Lily e la maltratta finché, dopo una rapina mancata, si uccide. Dal Cielo, dopo sedici anni di purgatorio, ottiene il permesso di tornare per un giorno sulla Terra a conoscere la figlia. Seconda versione  del poema scenico dell’ungherese Ferenc Molnár, fu per F. Lang – uscito l’anno prima dalla Germania e in attesa di emigrare negli USA – un film su commissione con C. Boyer che gigioneggia a tutto vapore. Antonin Artaud e Viviane Romance in due particine. Ma nell’irriverente descrizione del Cielo con la sua burocrazia mette a frutto con arguzia le lezioni di Molnár e di Lubitsch che, a sua volta, si ricorderà di lui in Il cielo può attendere.
• Cani arrabbiati – di Mario Bava, 1974. Tre balordi rapinano le paghe settimanali di un’industria farmaceutica: per fuggire salgono, con una donna in ostaggio, a bordo di un’auto guidata da un uomo che sta portando il figlioletto in fin di vita all’ospedale. Presto la tensione sale, con conseguenze inaspettate.
• Il bandito della Casbah – di Julien Duvivier, 1937. Uno dei più famosi cult-movie del cinema francese, che consacra la stagione del ‘realismo poetico’, debitore in parte ai gangsters movie americani (Scarface di Hawks), ma con un sottofondo di romanticismo e di esotismo esaltato da complessi movimenti di macchina e da ricchi contrappunti sonori. Un’autentica romantica tragedia moderna segnata da una pesante sconfitta umana e dall’impossibilità di una qualunque forma di riscatto sociale.
• Il gobbo di Notre Dame – di Wallace Worsley, 1923. Nel XV secolo a Parigi la bella gitana Esmeralda ama il capitano delle guardie Phoebus. Circuita da Jehan, fratello di don Claude, arcivescovo di Notre Dame, e condannata per un crimine non commesso, viene salvata dal deforme campanaro Quasimodo.
• Le sue ultime mutandine – di Frank Capra, 1927. Il timido sognatore Harry (Harry Langdon), dopo aver finalmente indossato i suoi primi pantaloni lunghi, viene irresistibilmente attratto dal fascino di Bebe (Alma Bennett), legata alla malavita, che seguirà con ostinazione persino in carcere. Solo dopo svariate peripezie, Harry riuscirà a tornare alla sua famiglia e alla sua fidanzata Priscilla. Ancora diretto con mano sicura da Frank Capra, che ne asseconda l’innocente comicità con gag costruite su misura per lui, Long Pants (tradotto bizzarramente in Italia) ripropone il tema del conflitto tra sprovvedutezza e cinismo condendolo con numerosi sottintesi sessuali. Il successo del film portò alla rottura del proficuo sodalizio tra Capra e Langdon.

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ATENTIE NETESTAT !

INSTRUCTIUNI

Questo è il quadro di cui parlavo nell’altro articolo; Colazione dei canottieri di Renoir. Ha un vero e proprio ruolo nel film francese “Il favoloso mondo di Amelie”. Ogni anno il burbero personaggio soprannominato “l’uomo di vetro” riproduce il dipinto famoso, facendolo diventare quasi una metafora del mondo e degli uomini, in una visione indurita e immutabile della vita. Il quadro nel film ha il ruolo di un’immobile istantanea di una società stereotipata, ma sul finale… Anche il più vitreo cuore si scioglie e l’ingiallito quadro si colora di nuovo!

Aplicatii pentru Viewty care merg si pe Renoir :

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Women combing their hair has always been a magnificent and revealing image for me.

I start with a solemn piece by Munch, who opens this small collection of pictures. I love the red, the fiery orange and dark yellows, in contrast with the cool colors of the window. There is a sense of transience in the picture, the young woman is ready to do something else, go out and enjoy life, open the window for good, this little ceremony is like the last thing she does before delivering herself to the world. She is ready to enjoy life, she does not have much time for brooding and contemplation, she gets the job done as required, but this is about it!  The sure sign of this psychological posture is the fact that the woman is fully dressed when she is combing her hair, and she is standing.

Edward Munch - Woman combing her hair

It may be the length of the hair (οι βοστρυχοι στα ελληνικα) it may be the serenity of the process, it may be the curved body parts, it may be the fact that in the process the woman is reflecting upon her appearance or something else.

Whatever it is, this type of  image speaks to me.

Rossetti’s Lady Lilith (1863) is combing her hair and watching herself on the hand held mirror. The first wife of Adam has a lot to think about and to contemplate while watching her own beauty on the mirror. The atmosphere of the picture is gloomy and totally inward. Lady Lilith is not interested in anything really, but herself. This morbid narcissism is totally captivating in the picture. It is after all, a picture of vanity. The simple act of combing the hair becomes an open door to the woman’s personality. Her naked shoulder is escaping from the gown and is a clear sign of the intense carnal aspect of the picture. Although she is not naked or half dressed, this may be even more powerful.

Renoir is here painting the innocence and quite anticipation of the young girl in a fantastic way! The contrast of the browns and the beige with the flesh and the white night gown is startling. The purity and magnificence of the innocent is portrayed in the picture. Here, we see that this is really a portrait, not just a portrayal of the act.

Young girl combing her hair

The subliminal Titian is here painting the wife of one of his clients, who emerges triumphant from the act of combing her hair, and is helped by the servant who humbly looks down. She is not primarily a sexual agent, she is primarily a woman in charge. Her sight is full of determination, whether this refers to the hair or something else. She is a woman who means business and nothing else.  The posture of the servant is exemplifying the power as virtue that the picture radiates. The colors of the gown and shirt of the lady are not accidental. She is a creature of black and white.

Titian

Let me now move to pictures that are made by Edgar Degas in the last decade of the 19th century. One of the reasons I fell in love with Degas was his mastery of this subject.

Edgar Degas: Combing the hair (1892-6)

Here we have an orgy of reds, oranges, mixed with pink and the combing is done by a domestic helper. The young woman is totally left to the hands of her servant, maybe asleep, maybe dreaming. In stark contrast, the helper is awake, alert, and diligent in performing the task. The only sign that she may be awake is the posture she makes with her left hand.

This is a similar picture of Degas, but the combing here is done most likely by the sister of the young girl. The most beautiful part of the picture is the bent hand that supports the hair.

What a change when we move to the endlessly fascinating Balthus and his Alice! Alice is practically naked, and exhibits her beauty unashamedly. And why not?

She is young, she is beautiful, there is nothing to worry about, but the extent to which she will enjoy the pleasures of life. The room is empty, there is only one chair, we cannot make out her social class or status. Does it matter? I believe this is one of the points made by Balthus.

Cathy’s Toilette is a violent vibrating picture of domestic life gone on the rocks.

As I go through a period of preparation for my long anticipated trip to Japan, I include a serene picture from Japan.

Onna

In closing, I would like to show another Degas picture, whose colours I love.