Arizona and Utah. See: http://www.scaruffi.com/monument/sw13.html
Tatiana Plakhova (1981, Russia)
More art: www.scaruffi.com/museums/
I uploaded a new expanded edition of A Visual History of the Visual Arts - Part 3: The Age of Globalization http://www.scaruffi.com/art/history
Excerpts from Charles Sevilla’s hilarious book “Disorder in the Court: Great Fractured Moments in Courtroom History” (1999) which are exchanges that actually took place in court as documented by court reporters:
ATTORNEY: What was the first thing your husband said to you that morning?
WITNESS: He said, ‘Where am I, Cathy?’
ATTORNEY: And why did that upset you?
WITNESS: My name is Susan!
ATTORNEY: What is your date of birth?
WITNESS: July 18th.
ATTORNEY: What year?
WITNESS: Every year.
ATTORNEY: How old is your son, the one living with you?
WITNESS: Thirty-eight or thirty-five, I can’t remember which.
ATTORNEY: How long has he lived with you?
WITNESS: Forty-five years.
ATTORNEY: This myasthenia gravis, does it affect your memory at all?
ATTORNEY: And in what ways does it affect your memory?
WITNESS: I forget..
ATTORNEY: You forget? Can you give us an example of something you forgot?
ATTORNEY: Now doctor, isn’t it true that when a person dies in his sleep, he doesn’t know about it until the next morning?
WITNESS: Did you actually pass the bar exam?
ATTORNEY: The youngest son, the 20-year-old, how old is he?
WITNESS: He’s 20, much like your IQ.
ATTORNEY: Were you present when your picture was taken?
ATTORNEY: So the date of conception (of the baby) was August 8th?
ATTORNEY: And what were you doing at that time?
WITNESS: Getting laid
ATTORNEY: She had three children , right?
ATTORNEY: How many were boys?
ATTORNEY: Were there any girls?
ATTORNEY: How was your first marriage terminated?
WITNESS: By death..
ATTORNEY: And by whose death was it terminated?
WITNESS: Take a guess.
Excerpts from Charles Sevilla’s hilarious book “Disorder in the Court: Great Fractured Moments in Courtroom History” (1999) and are exchanges that actually took place in court as documented by court reporters.
ATTORNEY: Can you describe the individual?
WITNESS: He was about medium height and had a beard
ATTORNEY: Was this a male or a female?
WITNESS: Unless the Circus was in town I’m going with male.
ATTORNEY: Doctor , how many of your autopsies have you performed on dead people?
WITNESS: All of them. The live ones put up too much of a fight.
ATTORNEY: ALL your responses MUST be oral, OK? What school did you go to?
ATTORNEY: Do you recall the time that you examined the body?
WITNESS: The autopsy started around 8:30 PM
ATTORNEY: And Mr. Denton was dead at the time?
WITNESS: If not, he was by the time I finished.
ATTORNEY: Doctor, before you performed the autopsy, did you check for a pulse?
ATTORNEY: Did you check for blood pressure?
ATTORNEY: Did you check for breathing?
ATTORNEY: So, then it is possible that the patient was alive when you began the autopsy?
ATTORNEY: How can you be so sure, Doctor?
WITNESS: Because his brain was sitting on my desk in a jar.
ATTORNEY: I see, but could the patient have still been alive, nevertheless?
WITNESS: Yes, it is possible that he could have been alive and practicing law.
A dizzy wind had risen from all sides
and its pangs kept us awake all night.
At first we didn’t read it as a key
to decipher the inexplicable order
of the desert.
After all, we knew where we were and why we had come;
the wind didn’t. It collided and fought
with swarms of wingless grains of sand,
a spiral of spirals shouting to itself
relentlessly, a vertigo of vertigoes shaping
dunes and oases while shattering the trail.
was that impassive Moon, deaf and mute,
rising high over the mountain, a wandering stain
in the fictional landscape of the unfinished sky,
pointing the way through the flaming canyon,
mixing light and darkness like an alchemist,
its shadow slipping silently past my steps,
indifferent to the shivering spiderweb of moments and places
that nails our scattered reality to a persistent memory,
stalling as if time and space finally coincided;
like a divine compass; a direction without reverse;
a geometry not of distances but of proximities;
an irrefutable theorem.
Someone else’s mirror reflected a multitude
of eyeless beasts, with roots in the crumbling edifice
of a cathartic dream, galloping into the dead-end of life;
relieving humanity of one enigma.
Land flung before and after me, i reply without replying,
just like i have asked without asking, to an echo’s echo,
an utterance that is neither an answer nor a question:
it is only the Sun playing with my mortality,
mocking life’s failure to colonize the dunes,
revealing an avalanche of lustful vampire horizons
where i thought that nothing had ever existed,
and behind them, nestled in countless concentric halos,
the gloomy face of the summit stretched to infinite
amid the rambling colors of this timeless dawn.
Death Valley, 26 May 2013, 08:30
The whole book: http://www.bibliotecapleyades.net/ciencia/esp_ciencia_manuscrito07.htm#top
and an interesting discussion: http://proto57.wordpress.com
(Unfortunately on Wordpress, so likely to disappear as everything else hosted on other people’s platforms, including this tumblr of mine but here the full set on my website: http://www.scaruffi.com/museums/voynich/index.html )
From my friend Kelley Watts:
These two were shot with one take without any post-production special effects;
1) Lucas – “Lucas With the Lid Off” – Michel Gondrey
2) Kylie Minogue - Come Into My World – Michel Gondrey
(Here’s how he shot it, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qw9FAxywDJ8)
These two do some interesting stuff with reverse playback;
1) Cibo Matto – “Sugar Water” – Michel Gondrey
2) The Pharcyde – “Drop” - Spike Jonze
(Here’s how he shot it, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8CBsxCUhNu0)
Best of San Francisco Artmrkt 2013
Full set of pictures: http://www.scaruffi.com/museums/artmrkt/index.html
More art: http://www.scaruffi.com/museums
(Translation by Eliot Weinberger)
that devours faces and names,
Time is a mask with no face.
The Buddha did not teach me how to die.
He tells us that faces dissolve,
that names are empty sounds.
But at death we have a face,
and we die with a name.
In the borderland of ashes
who will open my eyes?
I go back to my scriptures,
to the book of the knight read badly
in a sunlit youth
that shared much of its violence:
the gashed plains,
the battles of wind and dust,
the wild pear tree, green fountain of shadow,
the nape of the sierra, stubborn
against clouds pregnant with chimeras,
the rigorous light that portioned out
the living body of space:
geometry and sacrifice.
I buried myself in my reading,
surrounded by wonders and disasters:
to the south, the two volcanoes
made of time, distance, and snow;
the barbarian characters of fire
on the pages of stone;
the terraces of vertigo;
the hills, almost blue and scarcely drawn
with invisible hands by the air;
noon, the icon-maker
making sculptures out of all that it touches,
in distanm; where the eye learns
the duties of birds and architect poets.
High plains, terrace of the zodiac,
circus of the sun and its planets,
mirror of the moon,
high tide turned to stone,
that the dawn, barely light, climbs,
and solemn evening descends,
lava garden, house of echoes,
thunder drum, shell of the wind,
theater of rain,
hangar of clouds, pigeon coop of the stars.
Seasons turn and days turn,
the heavens turn, fast or slow,
the wandering fables of the clouds,
the fields of play and the fields of battle
for unfounded nations of reflections,
the kingdoms of wind dissolved by the wind:
on peaceful days space is throbbing,
sounds are transparent bodies,
echoes are visible, silence listens to itself.
Source of presences,
the day flows vanished in its fictions.
On the plains the dust is asleep.
Bones of centuries ground by the sun,
time turned to thirst and light, ghostly dust
that rises from its stony bed
in brown and reddish spirals,
dust, masked and dancing,
under the diaphanous domes of the sky.
Eternities in an instant,
vast, timeless pauses;
each hour is tangible,
forms think, stillness is dance.
Pages more lived than read
in the ﬂuvial afternoons:
the horizon, fixed and changing
from Ajusco the purple storm
hurled down to the plains
with a crash of stones and hoofs
and broke up into peaceful waves;
the bare feet of the rain
on that red-brick patio;
the bougainvillaea in the decrepit garden,
crimson ardor …
My feelings at war with the world:
reading was a fragile truce.
Memory invents another present.
As it invents myself.
What has been lived
blurs with today.
With eyes closed I read the book:
returning from his madness
the knight returns to his name and studies himself
in the still water of a timeless moment.
It dawns, a dubious sun
in the mist of the mirror, a face.
It is the face of death.
In such trances,
he says, man must not mock the soul.
And he looks himself in the face:
thaw of reﬂections.
(Greatest poets of all times: http://www.scaruffi.com/fiction/bestpo.html )