DA BELEZA NA QUEBRADURA DAS COISAS

 IN THE BEAUTY OF THE BROKEN THINGS

INVISIBLE STONE CITIES OF THE BARDO

AS CIDADES INVISIVEIS DA ROCHA DO BARDO


SUNSET/ POR DO SOL

THE CRYSTAL MOUNTAINS/ AS MONTANHAS DE CRISTAL

THE ABYSS/ O ABISMO

TEXTILES & MARKETS/TECIDOS E MERCADOS

THE GAP/ O CORTE

THE HEAVENS/ OS CEUS

THE CRYSTAL/ O CRISTAL

THE JOURNEY TO THE MOUNTAINS/ A JORNADA AS MONTANHAS

BY THE FULL MOON/ ILUMINADA PELA LUA CHEIA

HOME/ O LAR



 

THE STAIRCASE to the waters/ A ESCADARIA das aguas










 

THE DRUNKEN IDYLLIC MATING OF THE BLUES

O idílio inebriado das borboletas azuis

Minha busca das borboletas Morpho azuis começou por volta de 2010 mas elas sempre me eludiram. Até agora.

 

Quando e onde: Na “Passarada”, uma terra mitológica no alto, na neblina da Mata Atlântica, perto do arraial do Pião, perto da cidadezinha de Piracaia, perto da megalopolis de São Paulo, Brasil. Num domingo de manhã perto da aroeira, no quintal da frente.

As borboletas morpho azuis são criaturas solitárias que vivem nas florestas, buscando alimento no chão.  Não sugam do polen das flores mas gostam de frutas fermentadas, detritos e fezes. Dizem que seu vôo é lento pois andam por ai embriagadas.

E só aparecem nas clareiras em busca de parceiros.

 

The drunken idyllic mating of the blues

My search for the blue Morpho butterfly started around 2010 but they

have eluded me, until now.

The place and time: “Passarada”, a mythical land way up in the mist of the Mata Atlântica, near the village of Pião, near the town of Piracaia, near the megalopolis of São Paulo, in Brasil.  

A sunny Sunday morning, near the “aroeira tree”, in the front yard.

The blue morphos are solitary creatures that live deep inside the forests, in search for food.  They do not drink pollen but like to suck on fermented fruit, detritus and feces.  Some say their flight is so slow because they float about constantly drunk.

The only time they leave the forest is to find mates.

 

  

Morpho facts

Facts for kids about the morpho from the Rainforest Alliance:

Fatos interessantes para os meninos e meninas sobre as Morpho azuis da Rainforest Alliance:

http://www.rainforest-alliance.org/kids/species-profiles/blue-butterfly

Life Cycle: The life cycle of the Blue Morpho Butterfly lasts for about 115 days from egg to butterfly. The female lays a cluster of tiny, green eggs that hatch in about nine days. The caterpillars are brown with large green spots. They have prickly hairs that irritate birds that try to eat them. The caterpillar will progress through four to six instars (periods of time between molting) before forming its jade-green chrysalis and beginning metamorphosis. Inside the chrysalis, the caterpillar will actually become liquid that reorganizes into a butterfly. The chrysalis emits a repulsive, ultrasonic sound when touched by predators.

 

 

 

 

ANA AND THE MARKETPLACE

In between, all this time, there was the city of Mbale.

And the market place.

The marketplace where Ana searched and found the best Calvin Klein shirts on earth for twenty cents. The best Liz Claiborne, best name this side of the valley. The best dried fish wholesale, best groundnut paste and sesame, best cloth. Dainty white hands touched the greenish silver of antelope home-made from Zambia, a tingling sensation, smooth fingers lingering over merikkani cloth of Zanzibar, maybe the yellow lions of Kenya touched on a coffee cup. Blue eyes delighted in the raised texture of gold trim surrounding cloth of indigo. Protection cloth, she was told, for the young girls who did not know "what to do with themselves". She was told, the best plastic colanders ever made from China. Sculptured airplanes out of tin, oil can into airplane lamp, the best she had seen engineered and thought out so far. Exquisite sense of gadgetry, the tiny, the large, wear ever forever in there for the flow of their lives.

Benediction of Edward Abbey

“Benção:

Que teus caminhos sejam tortuosos, ambíguos, solitários, perigosos e te levem as paisagens mais surpreendentes. Que tuas montanhas se ergam até e além das nuvens.  Que teus rios fluam sem fim, circulando pelos vales pastorais ao som de sinos, pelos templos e castelos e as torres de poetas até a floresta primária onde os tigres gritam e os macacos berram, através de pântanos miasmáticos e misteriosos, ao deserto de rocha vermelha, aos planaltos azuis, montes e cumes e grutas de rocha infindos, e mais uma vez ao vasto abismo desconhecido e ancestral onde fachos de luz se incendeiam na face do precipício, onde os veados caminham nas praias de areia branca, onde as tempestades vão e voltam com os raios explodindo pelas frestas do alto, onde algo estranho e mais maravilhoso e lindo, maior que o teu sonho mais profundo te espera – ali na próxima virada da esquina das paredes do penhasco.”  Edward Abbey

 

 

 

 

“Benedicto:

May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view. May your mountains rise into and above the clouds. May your rivers flow without end, meandering through pastoral valleys tinkling with bells, past temples and castles and poets towers into a dark primeval forest where tigers belch and monkeys howl, through miasmal and mysterious swamps and down into a desert of red rock, blue mesas, domes and pinnacles and grottos of endless stone, and down again into a deep vast ancient unknown chasm where bars of sunlight blaze on profiled cliffs, where deer walk across the white sand beaches, where storms come and go as lightning clangs upon the high crags, where something strange and more beautiful and more full of wonder than your deepest dreams waits for you -- beyond that next turning of the canyon walls.”

Edward Abbey

 

 

A ARTE VISIONARIA DE RANCHINHO

Madrugada/ Dawn

A ArteVisionaria de Ranchinho, edição bilíngue com reproduções da extensa obra de Ranchinho, textos do curador de arte espontânea Roberto Rugiero, jornalista Oscar d’Ambrosio e ensaísta e poeta Antonio Fernando de Franceschi, tradução para o inglês de Erica Weick, São Paulo, 2012.

"Sebastião Theodoro Paulino da Silva, apelidado Ranchinho, viveu no interior de São Paulo, onde faleceu pouco antes de completar 80 anos. Deficiente físico e mental, produziu cerca de 3.000 trabalhos em sua comovente existência, de forma espontânea, sem ter tido contato com o fazer artístico até começar a se manifestar numa linguagem de inusitada beleza, espiritualidade e significado. Um dos grandes artistas brasileiros."

 

O ninho/ The nest

The Visionary Art of Ranchinho, bilingual edition with reproductions of paintings by the artist and texts by spontaneous art curator Roberto Rugiero, journalist Oscar d’Ambrosio and essayist and poet Antonio Fernando de Franceschi, English translation by Erica Weick, São Paulo, 2012.

"Sebastião Theodoro Paulino da Silva, nicknamed Ranchinho lived in the countryside in the state of São Paulo where he died shortly before turning eighty.  Physically and mentally handicapped, he spontaneously produced about 3000 works during his poignant life - with no contact with the world of art until he started to express himself in a language of uncommon beauty, spirituality and meaning.  One of the great Brazilian artists."

 

Lobisomen chegando/ Werewolf arriving

A Guerra das pipas/ The war of kites

O trem noturno/ The night train

 

 

 

THE HAPPY BRAZILIAN VAN GOGH

 

Ranchinho, great Brazilian master painter, the happy Van Gogh.  Mentally and physically challenged, with no contact with the artistic milieu, he manifested himself in a language of uncommon beauty, spirituality and meaning.

In the words of Roberto Rugiero da Galeria Brasiliana, "he is an essential Brazilian artist. Authentic and detached, and as it happens with sad frequency, so much so, that he is not recognized by the media nor by the majority of critics, focused obsessively on the fads of the New York twilight.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ranchinho, grande mestre da pintura brasileira, o Van Gogh feliz. Sem nunca ter tido contato com o fazer artístico, acometido de deficiência física e mental, começou a manifestar-se numa linguagem de inusitada beleza, espiritualidade e significado.

Nas palavras de Roberto Rugiero da Galeria Brasiliana, "é um dos artistas brasileiros essenciais. E tão despojado e autêntico, que, como ocorre com desalentadora frequência, nem a mídia, nem a maior parte da crítica, obcecada pelo luscofusco novaiorquino, logrou perceber.”

 

 

 

THE SCIENTIST PHILOSOPHER

O cientista pensante

 

Sufocante, atrofiante,

impossível,

inexorável filósofo

amante da praxis

de nosso futuro

improvável.

 

 

The thinking scientist

 

Suffocating, atrophying,

impossible,

inflexible philosopher,

praxis lover

of our improbable future.

 

 

 

TIN CAN/ MARMITA

Imagine.

Today, at noon, at the Flower Market, among the orchids, the bromeliads, the succulents, the bonsai and the garden bamboos, I saw a most amazing thing. 

A city worker, dressed in a red uniform, placed a tiny slab of round wood on the sidewalk, as a base. 

He then filled an empty can of sardines with paraffin and placed it on top of the wooden base. 

He lit a match and set the can of sardines filled with paraffin on fire. 

On top of the fire, he balanced a tiny tin pot with his lunch. 

On a rainy cool day, he was going to have a hot meal… 

(I could not bring myself to take photos)

Hoje, no Mercado das Flores, entre as orquídeas, as bromélias, as suculentas e os bambus de jardim, vi uma coisa impressionante. 

Um trabalhador da prefeitura, vestido de uniforme vermelho colocou uma base pequena redonda de madeira na calçada.

Encheu uma latinha vazia de sardinhas com parafina.
Riscou um fosforo e acendeu a chama.

Na chama equilibrou uma marmita pequena com seu almoço. 

Num dia frio de chuva, ele ia comer comida quente. 

(Sem fotos, pois nao tive nenhuma vontade de invadir.)

CARTAS DE AMOR

 

 

Os mistérios do correio lento...

 

Até parece as vezes que enxergo caravelas

navegando nas calmarias dos céus

carregadas de cartas de amor

pacotes que resolvem

tudo

extraviados todos

 

 

 

NORTH AND SOUTH

Red dust

Cannot go south, I am told,
or I will fall prey to the diseases, the choleras,
the mosquitoed dengues, the leeches,
the embedded dangers
the pickpocket
the schizophrenic madnesses,
of my families from the south.

And I ask of you, what then?
If I stay in the north?
Where my words barely touch the edges of my meanings?

When will I win this daily raffle?
Lemmings and lemmings to the seas
of my changes?

When will the rain lullabye me?

When will the dirt, this dust, once again
red orange

bring me home?


Erica Weick
many years ago