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Posts tagged “mm

…..em tom de fuga

 

 

India_Ink_on_paper_GuidaAlmeida03_2016
Ink on paper, Guida Almeida – 03 / 2016

 

Vincent_van_Gogh_-_Sunflowers_(Metropolitan_Museum_of_Art)
 Two Sunflowers –  oil on canvas, Van Gogh 1887 

 

enamelRedAndIndiaInkOnPaper_GuidaAlmeida_03_2016
 mixed media on paper, 33,5cm x 42cm, G. Almeida, 03 / 2016

 

Vincent_van_Gogh_-_Bloeiende_pruimenboomgaard-_naar_Hiroshige_-_Google_Art_Project
 Bloeiende pruimenboomgaard  (naar Hiroshige) – oil on canvas, Van Gogh 1887

 

1890-Vincent-Van-Gogh-Amandier-en-fleurs-Huile-sur-Toile-73x92-cm-Amsterdam-Rijksmuseum-Vincent-Van-GoghAlmond Tree Blossoms – Vincent Van Gogh,  oil on canvas,1890

 

blossomsPhotoGuidaAlmeida
photo – G. Almeida
sans titre_parJeanPaulRiopelle1955

 

 (Ink & Watercolour on paper,
Jean Paul Riopelle 1955)

 

 

FuguedPoemGuidaAlmeida___March2016

 

Hapi’s sibling – iseetheriverbeforeme – Flowing in Prayer form : originally posted elsewhere April 2013, by G. Almeida ,
is a ”fugued ” poem  
 for better reading -please click on the image to zoom in

 

 photo___GuidaAlmeida
 photo – G.Almeida

 

 Peacocks_and_Peonies_I_and_II_(LaFarge)JPG
(detail of photo taken by James Steakley, of)  Peacocks and Peonies I and II  – stained glass, John LaFarge  1882

 

monet.wl-clouds
 Water Lilies – oil on canvas, Monet 1903

 

 1225px-Vincent_van_Gogh_-_Banks_of_the_Seine_with_the_Pont_de_Clichy_in_the_Spring_(1887)River Bank in Springtime / Banks of the Seine with the Pont de Clichy in the Spring –  oil on canvas, Van Gogh 1887 

 

Bach
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ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ
ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ
ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ
ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ
ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ
ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ
ᙠɒɔʜ ᙠɒɔʜ
ᙠɒɔʜ
ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ
ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ
ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ
ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ
ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ
ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ
ᗷɐⅽµ ᗷɐⅽµ
ᗷɐⅽµ
ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ
ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ
ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ
ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ
ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ
ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ
ʜɔɒᙠ ʜɔɒᙠ
ʜɔɒᙠ

Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach
Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach
Bach Bach Bach Bach
Bach Bach
Bach
Bach Bach
Bach Bach Bach Bach
Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach
Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach

 

 

IndiaInkOnPaper_GuidaAlmeida_03_2016
ink on paper, 42cm x 33,5cm, G.Almeida, 03 / 2016

 

 Vincent_van_Gogh_-_Sunflowers_(Metropolitan_Museum_of_Art)Two Cut Sunflowers – Van Gogh, oil on canvas, 1887

 

mixedMediaOnPaper_GuidaAlmeida_03_2016mixed media on paper, 33,5cm x 42cm, G. Almeida, 03 / 2016

 

   Bach is a four letter word, as is the word in Portuguese for fugue. As it happens, in Portuguese – fugue, has another meaning. It means ”a leak”, an escape”  or ”to run”, as well.
So, I’ll just leave this post here and make a «fuga», go ouside and smell some flowers while I can.
I hope you have a lovely Spring.

Naturally, the beginning of Spring not only makes one think of flowers (and a ”reawakening” of the planet (that in truth doesn’t sleep, though it may seem to…) as it enters the season), the equinox landing on what during Bach’s time was his birthday brings to mind a poem first written in the end of March of 2013 (I call it  a ”fugued poem” because it reads also from the bottom line up, through every other line, from the centre out, from ”out” to ”centre”, or exchanging the three groups of four lines between themselves).
The days at the end of the month bring to mind what we now call Bach’s birthday, and also other birthdays (one very dear to my heart, and also Van Vogh’s).

How could I make a Spring post and not place Bill Evan’s – ”You Must Believe in Spring”?

 

I can’t.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And as I think of the planet’s apparent  ”reawakening”, as I mention above, and the authors that come to mind (those in this post, and another, who would have also celebrated a birthday at the end of the month..) how could I not include a sample of a new recording called – Gaia ?

I can’t.

 

 

 

 

 

Wishing all a wonderful Spring
♥ Take care.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Pianist(a) – my own personal Mozart

I wish to start this year with a “piano post” so I bring Mozart, some words and an illustration:

no intervalo de cada tecla

sobra uma sombra

um silêncio

É aí que resido

onde..
.. ouço mil risos de criança

onde os silêncios de todos os mundos

que habitam nos intervalos das sombras

 me sussurram o teu nome

onde todo o ruido tem a inocência das gotas de água

(Maria MFA Costa)

 

 

PIANO
By D.H. Lawrence
Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.

In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.

So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.

1918

GA_carlos


Now is the time of Winter’s memory as it has always been and forever shall be.. (Brace thyself)

“Almost Touching”

a constant witness
to misconceived footmen,
galloping shadows within the eyes of Man,
and my murdered body as it leaks upon the sand
sinking.

My quavering voice
lingering through drifts
multitudinous, rampant,
skin tightening with each slowing step
bitten by an ice cold breath.
Aching, parched, and throbbing
I begin to cease.

The cold water upon my hand burns..

I stop.
Immovable.
Impervious to light,
to heat.
A numbness wrapped
in an unyielding frost riddled veil.

Paralysed not by Fear, Hunger, nor Misconception
Nature has no misgiving,
only frailty.

Feeling “all” within pendular actions of
entities mistaken and misconstrued.
“All” is now that fake stillness caressed by Oblivion’s kindness.
The winds eating away, corroding my arteries,
Fading.
A distance, an arm’s length of time, I freeze at the doorstep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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