Noscere Audere Velle Tascere Ire: rifts on Arts, music, photography, history, literature, poetry, science, the paintings, visual arts, the dance and ultimately to the living spaces of nature by Nosauvelta. This is a look for the space between thinking, knowing, seeing, understanding and listening well, reading stories and thoughts of what was, what is, and what has to be as told by the wise through blogs, photos, video, and music blogs.
If There Is Much In The Window There Should Be More In The Room
This video of a Rube Goldberg musical device in a forest that is spectacularly large will both astound and give you a sense of serenity and bliss as you watch and listen. The music kicks in at about 35 seconds into the clip. Okay, so it is technically a commercial for a unique wooden cellphone case, but they only flash that element at the very end for a few secs. The beginning of the video shows some of the setup and process, but once you see the ball start rolling down this device and the music begins - WOW! The Feed would like to take a moment to honor the creators of this amazing video - we salute your genius! This is an incredible ad for the Touch Wood SH-08C, a limited edition wooden phone byDOCOMO. Although it is not a great ad from a branding perspective, it is a pretty phenomenal achievement, not to mention visually stunning. The ad was created by using an insane quantity of wooden pieces to build a long downhill track/Xylophone that was able to reproduce Bach’s Cantata 147, Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring. Concept by Invisible Designs Lab’s Kenjiro Matsuo.
Malone Dies is a novel
by Samuel Beckett. It was first published in 1951, in French, as Malone Meurt,
and later translated into English by the author.
The second novel in
Beckett's "Trilogy" (beginning with Molloy and ending with The
Unnamable), it can be described as the space between wholeness and
disintegration, action and total inertia.
Along with the other
two novels that compose the trilogy, it marked the beginning of Beckett's most
significant writing, where the questions of language and the fundamentals of
constructing a non-traditional narrative became a central idea in his work. One
does not get a sense of plot, character development, or even setting in this
novel, as with most of his subsequent writing (e.g., Texts for Nothing, Fizzles,
and How It Is). Malone Dies can be seen as the point in which Beckett took
another direction with his writing, where the bareness of consciousness played
a huge part in all his subsequent writings.
Malone Dies contains
the famous line, "Nothing is more real than nothing",
--Wikipedia
Samuel
Beckett - Malone Dies - Extract - Read by Sean Barrett Malone
Dies (Extract) by
Samuel Beckett (1906-1989)
I shall soon be quite
dead at last in spite of all. Perhaps next month. Then it will be the month of April
or of May. For the year is still young, a thousand little signs tell me so.
Perhaps I am wrong, perhaps I shall survive Saint John the Baptist's Day and
even the Fourteenth of July, festival of freedom. Indeed I would not put it
past me to pant on to the Transfiguration, not to speak of the Assumption. But
I do not think so, I do not think I am wrong in saying that these rejoicings
will take place in my absence, this year. I have that feeling, I have had it
now for some days, and I credit it. But in what does it differ from those that
have abused me ever since I was born? No, that is the kind of bait I do not
rise to any more, my need for prettiness is gone. I could die today, if I
wished, merely by making a little effort, if I could wish, if I could make an
effort. But it is just as well to let myself die, quietly, without rushing
things. Something must have changed. I will not weigh upon the balance any
more, one way or other. I shall be neutral and inert. No difficulty there.
Throes are the only trouble, I must be on my guard against throes. But I am
less given to them now, since coming here. Of course I still have my little
fits of impatience, from time to time, I must be on my guard against them, for
the next fortnight or three weeks. Without exaggeration to be sure, quietly
crying and laughing, without working myself up into a state. Yes, I shall be
natural at last, I shall suffer more, then less, without drawing any
conclusions, I shall pay less heed to myself, I shall be neither hot nor cold
any more, I shall be tepid, I shall die tepid, without enthusiasm. I shall not
watch myself die, that would spoil everything. Have I watched myself live? Have
I ever complained? Then why rejoice now? I am content, necessarily, but not to
the point of clapping my hands. I was always content, knowing I would be
repaid. There he is now, my old debtor. Shall I then fall on his neck? I shall
not answer any more questions. I shall even try not to ask myself any more.
While waiting I shall tell myself stories, if I can. They will not be the same
kind of stories as hitherto, that is all. They will be neither beautiful nor
ugly, they will be calm, there will be no ugliness or beauty or fever in them
any more, they will be almost lifeless, like the teller. What was that I said?
It does not matter. I look forward to their giving me great satisfaction, some
satisfaction. I am satisfied, there, I have enough, I am repaid, I need nothing
more. Let me say before I go any further that I forgive nobody. I wish them all
an atrocious life and then the fires and ice of hell and in the execrable
generations to come an honoured name. Enough for this evening.
Reading
Plath's poetry is always a gut-wrenching experience, but it's
rewarding,
too, in its own way. 'Graphically macabre, hallucinatory in their
imagery,
but full of ironic wit, technical brilliance, and tremendous emotional
power',
'poetry of this order is a murderous art'.
Today's
offering is all the above and more. As a poem it's astonishingly vivid
and
powerful: the single, insistent rhyme, the almost hysterical repetitions of
phrase,
the multiple layers of meaning and metaphor, and above all, the passion
driving
each and every word - all of these combine to make it an emotional
tour-de-force.
Sylvia
Plath reads her poem Daddy
Daddy by
Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)
You do not do, you do
not do Any more, black shoe In which I have lived
like a foot For thirty years, poor
and white, Barely daring to
breathe or Achoo.
Daddy, I have had to
kill you. You died before I had
time — Marble-heavy, a bag
full of God, Ghastly statue with
one grey toe Big as a Frisco seal
And a head in the
freakish Atlantic Where it pours bean
green over blue In the waters off
beautiful Nauset. I used to pray to
recover you. Ach, du.
In the German tongue,
in the Polish town Scraped flat by the
roller Of wars, wars, wars. But the name of the
town is common. My Polack friend
Says there are a dozen
or two. So I never could tell
where you Put your foot, your
root, I never could talk to
you. The tongue stuck in my
jaw.
It stuck in a barb
wire snare. Ich, ich, ich, ich, I could hardly speak. I thought every German
was you. And the language
obscene
An engine, an engine Chuffing me off like a
Jew. A Jew to Dachau,
Auschwitz, Belsen. I began to talk like a
Jew. I think I may well be
a Jew.
The snows of the
Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna Are not very pure or
true. With my gypsy
ancestress and my weird luck And my Taroc pack and
my Taroc pack I may be a bit of a
Jew.
I have always been
scared of you, With your Luftwaffe,
your gobbledygoo. And your neat mustache And your Aryan eye,
bright blue. Panzer-man,
panzer-man, O You —
Not God but a swastika So black no sky could
squeak through. Every woman adores a
Fascist, The boot in the face,
the brute Brute heart of a brute
like you.
You stand at the
blackboard, daddy, In the picture I have
of you, A cleft in your chin
instead of your foot But no less a devil
for that, no not Any less the black man
who
Bit my pretty red
heart in two. I was ten when they
buried you. At twenty I tried to
die And get back, back,
back to you. I thought even the
bones would do.
But they pulled me out
of the sack, And they stuck me
together with glue. And then I knew what
to do. I made a model of you, A man in black with a
Meinkampf look
And a love of the rack
and the screw. And I said I do, I do. So daddy, I'm finally
through. The black telephone's
off at the root, The voices just can't
worm through.
If I've killed one
man, I've killed two — The vampire who said
he was you and drank my blood for
a year, Seven years, if you
want to know. Daddy, you can lie
back now.
There's a stake in
your fat, black heart And the villagers
never liked you. They are dancing and
stamping on you. They always knew it
was you. Daddy, daddy, you
bastard, I'm through.
La Bayadère (The Temple Dancer) (Russian: Баядерка - Bayaderka) is a ballet, originally staged in four acts and seven tableaux by the Ballet Master Marius Petipa to the music of Ludwig Minkus. It was first performed by the Imperial Ballet at the Imperial Bolshoi Kamenny Theatre in St. Petersburg, Russia, on February 4 [O.S. January 23] 1877. A scene from the ballet, known as The Kingdom of the Shades, is one of the most celebrated excerpts in all of classical ballet, and it is often extracted from the full-length work to be performed independently. La Bayadere is most famous for its "white act," commonly known as the Kingdom of the Shades. It is one of the most celebrated excerpts in all of classical ballet. The dance begins with 32 women in white, all making their way down a ramp in unison. The dance is exquisite, and often performed by itself. As is the case for most of Marius Petipa’s ballets, La Bayadère remained unknown in the West because the 1950 s’ «Iron Curtain» put a halt to all cultural exchanges. The revelation came about in 1961, when the Kirov Ballet was on tour in Paris and London.. It was at the Palais Garnier that Act III of La Bayadère (The Kingdom of the Shades) unfolded its hypnotic procession of 32 bayadères in white tutus and veils – turned into ghosts (Shades) - as they slowly descend - one by one in a series of arabesques penchées - a slope that symbolizes their appearance from the netherworld. « The procession deploys its sinuous line across the stage before ending in four parallel rows, an impressive effect achieved with very little means. This scene marked the beginning of the symphonic ballet », wrote Vera Krassovskaya, a Russian Dance Historian.
Kingdom of the Shades La Bayadere Paris Opera Ballet Choreography by Rudolph Nureyev after Marius Petipa 1992
La Bayadere (The Temple Dancer) is a ballet in four acts and seven scenes, choreographed by Marius Petipa. It was first performed by the Imperial Ballet in St. Petersburg in 1877. Plot Summary of La Bayadere: La Bayadere takes place in the Royal India of long ago. As the ballet begins, we learn that Nikiya, a beautiful temple dancer, is in love with a young warrior named Solor. However, Solor is engaged to the Rajah's daughter. During the betrothal, Nikiya is forced to dance, after which she receives a basket of flowers from the Rajah's daughter. The basket contains a deadly snake and Nikiya dies. Solor dreams of reuniting with Nikiya in the Kingdom of the Shades. He then awakens, remembering that he's still engaged. At his wedding, however, he sees a vision of Nikiya. He mistakenly says his vows to her, instead of his bride-to-be. The gods become infuriated and destroy the palace. Solor and Nikiya reunite in spirit, in the Kingdom of the Shades.
Marianela Núñez (born in San Martín, Buenos Aires 1982) is an Argentine dancer. She is a principal dancer with the Royal Ballet, London. Of her performance one leading critic commented “every gesture sings, every step is luminous with emotion. The result is sublime“. Marianela Nuñez as Gamzatti - La Bayadere
