Although the law of reason is common, the majority of people live as though they had an understanding of their own.
The thoughtless man understands the voice of the deity as little as the child understands the man.
It pertains to all men […] to learn self-control. Self-control is the highest virtue […].
Eu am trecut prin cenzură, ştiu ce înseamnă utopia asta egalitaristă în care nu te poţi exprima. N-am să uit că nişte oameni au murit ca eu să mă caţăr pe perete. Era comunismul, se vedea că e prost, era şedinţă la partid şi nu spuneai nimic. Toată lumea cu nasu-n bancă acolo, tăceau şi înghiţeau… Îi masacrau la Timişoara şi lumea se făcea că nu se întâmplă nimic. O săptămână am jucat un teatru cumplit toţi. Am o mare datorie ca artist, pentru că mi se dau zidurile astea.
Nu desenez pe orice zid şi în orice revistă. Eu am încercat să-mi ţin desenele la 22, sau pe un site Tiuk, al moldovenilor mei. Nu le-am împrăştiat. E nu am călcat niciodată la MNAC, pentru că e în parlament şi e făcut de Năstase. La Antene nu voi da niciodată nici un interviu. Eu sunt un artist care-mi pot permite să fac lucruri de genul ăsta.
Dan Perjovschi – Interviu in Rev. 22
I went to your door and rang the bell. You had always answered. You’d usually say: yes…? – in a questioning but kind tone. One time I’d pushed the knob twice, one shortly after the other. Once you answered I could hear you mumbling why so impatient?! as the buzzer went off.
I would walk up the stairs, two flights of stairs, in a windy cold wet modern half-open Dutch design staircase of an impractical Dutch design apartment building in a middle class Dutch design neighbourhood. Your door would always open and ring with the sound of those kitschy wind chimes hung just above it. The waiting room was small and sterile, always so neat and clean, but the bookshelves were fascinating. The books and the notes you’d pasted on the wall next to them. Little jokes (like: is there wifi after death?!”), newspaper clippings, yoga positions and indications on correct breathing. There were two etchings on the wall. Not very good ones, I would say. And in the room itself, there was a piano (a white piano), an Indonesian toy and a Buddha statue. There must have been a Buddha – or was it just a huge Buddha’s hand?! There’s always a Buddha in Western countries’ female decor – as if a remote religion no one here can understand will bring tranquillity and happiness or something. Such bullshit. There was also a sculpture of a hand hanging onto a rope, hanging from the ceiling. I liked that best. You would sip your tea and never offer me any, but that’s ok. I didn’t really mind.
One day, I went and rang the bell. You didn’t open. I was afraid of ringing it again, remembering your comment about my impatience. Some minutes passed. I rang again. Someone came out of the building and I snuck in. Went up the stairs. The staircase and doors were freshly painted and all nametags taken off the doors and stuck with tape to the walls, a little pleasantly surprising chaos in the sterile interior. The smell of fresh grey paint. Your door was locked. No wind chimes. No handshake. Nothing, just the Buddha statue inertly staring into the void of your room. Just the sound of wind creeping through the half-open staircase. Drops dripping off my navy raincoat. No you left.
Es geht mir nicht um Wohllaut, es geht mir um Wahrheit… / I am not concerned with euphony, I am concerned with truth.
„Reachable, near and not lost, there remained in the midst of the losses this one thing: language. It, the language, remained, not lost, yes in spite of everything. But it had to pass through its own answerlessness, pass through frightful muting, pass through the thousand darknesses of deathbringing speech. It passed through and gave back no words for that which happened; yet it passed through this happening. Passed through and could come to light again, „enriched” by all this.”
” There is nothing in the world for which a poet will give up writing, not even when he is a Jew and the language of his poems is German.”
Todesfuge, unul dintre cele mai puternice poeme scrise despre Holocaust, a fost publicat prima data în limba română – în Contimporanul, mai 1947 – tradus din germană de prietenul Lui Celan din Cernăuți, Petre Solomon.
Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken sie abends
wir trinken sie mittags und morgens wir trinken sie nachts
wir trinken und trinken…
imi tot aminteam de versurile astea in ultimele luni, si am inceput sa-i citesc toata cartile de poezie, in germana, cu dictionarul… e impresionant cum reuseste sa (re)inventenze cuvinte pt a se exprima.
„Enlarge Art. … No. Rather go with Art into that strait which is most your own. And set yourself free.”
To interpret is to impoverish, to deplete the world – in order to set up a shadow world of „meanings”. It is to turn the world into this world. The world, our world, is depleted, impoverished enough.
Susan Sontag – Against interpretation
„…that suggests that we have a choice over whether to interpret or not. I don’t think we do. We’re condemned to be interpreters. The only question is whether we do it well or badly: do we interpret in an original manner or in the way others have already interpreted? Will we simply follow the authority of others, or are we strong enough to establish our own?”
„Bruce Davidson’s powerful and affecting late 1960s photography on East 100th Street (Harlem, New York) remains a classic documentation of the American ghetto.”
„For two years in the 1960s, Davidson photographed one block in East Harlem. He went back day after day, standing on sidewalks, knocking on doors, asking permission to photograph a face, a child, a room, a family. Through his skill, his extraordinary vision, and his deep respect for his subjects, Davidson’s portrait of the people of East 100th Street is a powerful statement of the dignity and humanity that is in all people.”