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luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

The Hardest Button to Button

An extract from Wayne McGregor's Chroma, featuring Laura Morera and Eric Underwood dancing to The Hardest Button to Button by The White Stripes. Find out more at http://www.roh.org.uk/chroma


Wayne McGregor's Chroma explores the drama of the human body and its ability to communicate extremes of thought and emotion. The score, drawn from original music by Joby Talbot and his arrangements of music by American rock band The White Stripes, is combined with stark, minimalist designs by architect John Pawson. Against this backdrop is set the inventive and energy-driven choreography of McGregor. Chroma had its premiere in 2006 at the Royal Opera House and in 2007 received an Olivier Award for Best New Dance Production.

Max Freeman - Virgil's Tattoo

Virgil got his tattoo in Megara

Around the time he knew that his great poem

Must be destroyed. A reckless decision.

In Rome, he would have to hide it always.

The shop was tidy, the tattoo artist

A barbarian who spoke Greek badly.

The poet had secretly wanted one

For years. When he passed gladiators

In public places with their masters’ names

Branded on their cheeks, Virgil burned with love

And envy. Same goes for the criminals

Wearing those indelible records of crime

And young slaves with faces reading, Stop me,

I’m a runaway! or simply Tax paid.

 

That morning, he reread the description

Of Achilles’ shield in the Iliad

Which made him laugh until his lungs hurt.

None of that. An eagle would have made sense,

Once, or the name Augustus, but not now.

Disappointment had ruined his heart.

He got his tattoo in Greece, not Rome,

So the scribblers couldn’t guess at its meaning

In their imperfect meters. He was cured

Of the insanity that makes one think

It important how many syllables

Are locked into a line. On the shop’s walls

Had been etched images of what he’d called,

Sneering, every kind of monster god,

Anubis and others he didn’t know.

 

While Virgil waited, a slave was tattooed.

The Latin he used to plead with his lord

Dried up the moment the needle touched skin,

Replaced with curses in some other tongue.

His injured face was smeared with blood and tears.

Smiling, the artist turned to the poet

And on his flabby, hairless chest pricked out

The pattern with a needle, then applied

The ink, a caustic blend of pine wood, gall,

Vitriol and bronze. No anaesthetic. 

 

Virgil gritted his teeth. His mind went back

To Athens and Octavian, for whom

He reinvented poetry. Anger

Wasn’t the right word for what he felt,

It was vaster and colder and darker.

Virgil had settled on something Roman

And ambiguous: a black lightning bolt. 

 

A fever hit him after they set sail.

The stinky wound turned yellow and leaked pus.

Wrapped in a blanket, he sat on the deck,

Staring at the sea, speaking to no one.

Words seemed a betrayal of existence,

But reality seemed a betrayal

Of something he couldn’t name. A wind rose

Against the prow. The seamen bunched the sail

To the mast and swung the yardarm around.

The deck tilted and shook as the sail

Snapped full of air, the ship teetered. This was

Standard procedure. Very soon Virgil died.

CJ Clarke - Magic Party Place

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“... it is middle England territory, a town dominated by skilled manual workers ... whose values, habits and preferences are believed by both left and right to hold the key of electoral success.”

Magic Party Place takes you to the heart of BREXIT England. It is a series of intimate encounters documenting contemporary England through the paradigm of the new-town of Basildon, in Essex. Located 25 miles outside London, it was built as part of a massive urban renewal program following the devastation of London in the Second World War. As a constructed community, the town is statistically close to the national average, which makes it the perfect paradigm through which to explore the state of the nation. 

Published by Kehrer Verlag, the book will be released in July 2016. To purchase a copy, visit the shop

Skateboarding on Frozen Sand

NORTHBOUND | Skateboarding on Frozen Sand 4K from Turbin Film on Vimeo.

Please click the CC button in the lower right hand corner for English subtitles.

See the full length documentary about the project here: https://vimeo.com/ondemand/onthinice


Ice, driftwood, foamy waves and … skateboards? Four skaters head north to the cold Norwegian coast, applying their urban skills to a wild canvas of beach flotsam, frozen sand and pastel skies. The result is a beautiful mashup — biting winds and short days, ollies and a frozen miniramp.

Skaters:
Hermann Stene
Didrik Galasso
Henrik Lund
Karsten Kleppan

Director: Jørn Nyseth Ranum
Producer: Anders Graham
Cinematography: Lukasz Zamaro
Editors: Marta Sæverud and Jørn Nyseth Ranum
Sound Engineer: Ole Richard Korsan Stuwe
Music: Erlend Elvesveen

Make sure to follow us on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/NorthboundSkate/

See more information about the film on www.northboundfilm.com

This film was shot using RED Dragon with Zeiss Ultra Primes.

Northbound is produced by Turbin Film www.turbinfilm.no

See the directors previous film "North of The Sun" here: https://vimeo.com/ondemand/northofthesun

Muriel Rukeyser - Effort at Speech Between Two People

:  Speak to me.          Take my hand.            What are you now?

   I will tell you all.          I will conceal nothing.

   When I was three, a little child read a story about a rabbit

   who died, in the story, and I crawled under a chair    :

   a pink rabbit    :    it was my birthday, and a candle

   burnt a sore spot on my finger, and I was told to be happy.

 

:  Oh, grow to know me.        I am not happy.        I will be open:

   Now I am thinking of white sails against a sky like music,

   like glad horns blowing, and birds tilting, and an arm about me.

   There was one I loved, who wanted to live, sailing.

 

:  Speak to me.        Take my hand.        What are you now?

   When I was nine, I was fruitily sentimental,

   fluid    :    and my widowed aunt played Chopin,

   and I bent my head on the painted woodwork, and wept.

   I want now to be close to you.        I would

   link the minutes of my days close, somehow, to your days.

 

:  I am not happy.          I will be open.

   I have liked lamps in evening corners, and quiet poems.

   There has been fear in my life.          Sometimes I speculate

   On what a tragedy his life was, really.

 

:  Take my hand.          Fist my mind in your hand.          What are you now?

   When I was fourteen, I had dreams of suicide,

   and I stood at a steep window, at sunset, hoping toward death   :

   if the light had not melted clouds and plains to beauty,

   if light had not transformed that day, I would have leapt.

   I am unhappy.          I am lonely.          Speak to me.

 

:  I will be open.          I think he never loved me:

   He loved the bright beaches, the little lips of foam

   that ride small waves, he loved the veer of gulls:

   he said with a gay mouth: I love you.          Grow to know me.

 

:  What are you now?          If we could touch one another,

   if these our separate entities could come to grips,

   clenched like a Chinese puzzle . . . yesterday

   I stood in a crowded street that was live with people,

   and no one spoke a word, and the morning shone.

   Everyone silent, moving. . . . Take my hand.          Speak to me.