What is art?

When our hands give voice to the thought and to the emotions, they also give voice to the concept of “creativity” that always includes the unforseeability.

Falls down

the exiled petal

of an ancient

and forgotten rose.

Wild,

the desire of resewing them,

the velvel companions

slandered by the silence.

Dies

the eternal regret

of a red-hot sky,

burnt by beating hearts

and closed eyes.

Asking ourselves what effectively art is could be compared to asking ourselves what life is, considering the endless conceptual interpretations and the practice of the activities that work under the denomination of artistic activity. I think that nowadays, in this tecnological era, trying to explain what art is could be even more difficult.

A timely remark should be focussing our attentions on the result of these activities, especially on the artistic product: it is generated with the idea of a creator, the artist, who submits it to the opinion of some users who will consequently attribute some value judgments to such a product.

The artist products are born to outlive their creator, and in every artistic realization is contained an eternal and spiritual value, which came from the personal experience of the artist, especially as regards the social reality in which he has lived, he lives or will live.

Let’s try to think about another point of view of art.

Art doesn’t concern just the cultural sphere, but it lives with us in daily life (i.e. our clothes, the objects that we use for our works...), in our thoughts and basically in our mind. The artist possesses that strange ability to produce an object from nothing, an object (or simply a mental abstraction) that now exists and before that moment was never thought, fruit of an idea of the artist itself that has been born in a dark and mysterious place of his mind.

Being creative means using a thinking process that totally escapes from the obvious, and this process really influences the concept of “modern beauty” which is totally different from the platonic or idealistic one.

In my opinion, beauty is what we consider spontaneous, original and also what is able to produce individual answers. “Beauty” is what we clearly find in those artistic products that become the meaning of art itself.

Art is not just what we can see. Art is what we consider useful to let our concept of beauty grow. Art is catching the falling petal of an ancient and forgotten rose. Art is giving voice to the velvet companions slandered by the silence. And it is also the eternal regret of a red-hot sky, burnt by beatings hearts and closed eyes.

D.D.

Destino - Salvador Dalì

Destino is a short animated cartoon released in 2003 by the Walt Disney company. Destino is unique in that its production originally began in 1945, 58 years before its eventual completion.The project was a collaboration between American animator Walt Disney andSpanish painter Salvador Dalí, and features music written byMexicansongwriter Armando Dominguez.

Destino (the Galician, Spanish, Portuguese and Italian word for "destiny") was storyboarded by Disney studio artist John Hench and artist Salvador Dalí for eight months in late 1945 and 1946; however, financial concerns caused Disney to cease production. The Walt Disney Company, then Walt Disney Studios, was plagued by many financial woes in the World War II era. Hench compiled a short animation test of about 18 seconds in the hopes of rekindling Disney's interest in the project, but the production was no longer deemed financially viable and put on indefinite hiatus.

[...] Destino premiered on June 2, 2003 at the Annecy International Animated Film Festival in Annecy, France. The six-minute short follows the love story of Chronos and the ill-fated love he has for a mortal female. The story continues as the female dances through surreal scenery inspired by Dalí's paintings. There is no dialogue, but the sound track features a song by the Mexican composer Armando Dominguez.

From Wikipedia

Under the moonlight

Under the moonlight

sparkling and perfect

memories grow up,

kissed by those pearls

that here, on the Earth,

people call stars.

Thoughts fly

in order to hide

themselves;

then they crop up again,

shy,

in the sweet madness

of the night

that bewitch the sounds

so that

they don’t make noise.

D.D.

Homonyms - Alan Cooper's

A

	acts	things done
	ax	chopping tool
	ad	short for advertisement
	add	short for addition
	adds	performs additions
	ads	more than one advertisement
	adze	axe-like tool
	ade	fruit beverage
	aid	to assist
	aide	an assistant
	aerie	eagle's nest
	airy	breezy
	aero	of aircraft
	arrow	slender, pointed shaft
[...]

Hope you'll enjoy!

From http://www.cooper.com/

The little prince - Chapter 1

[...] The grown-ups' response, this time, was to advise me to lay aside my drawings of boa constrictors, whether from the inside or the outside, and devote myself instead to geography, history, arithmetic and grammar. That is why, at the age of six, I gave up what might have been a magnificent career as a painter. I had been disheartened by the failure of my Drawing Number One and my Drawing Number Two. Grown-ups never understand anything by themselves, and it is tiresome for children to be always and forever explaining things to them.

So then I chose another profession, and learned to pilot airplanes. I have flown a little over all parts of the world; and it is true that geography has been very useful to me. At a glance I can distinguish China from Arizona. If one gets lost in the night, such knowledge is valuable.

In the course of this life I have had a great many encounters with a great many people who have been concerned with matters of consequence. I have lived a great deal among grown-ups. I have seen them intimately, close at hand. And that hasn't much improved my opinion of them.

Whenever I met one of them who seemed to me at all clear-sighted, I tried the experiment of showing him my Drawing Number One, which I have always kept. I would try to find out, so, if this was a person of true understanding. But, whoever it was, he, or she, would always say:

"That is a hat."

Then I would never talk to that person about boa constrictors, or primeval forests, or stars. I would bring myself down to his level. I would talk to him about bridge, and golf, and politics, and neckties. And the grown-up would be greatly pleased to have met such a sensible man.

Antoine de Saint Exupéry

How to write a Synopsis by Marg Gilks

One Step at a Time

Rather than being daunted by the enormity of such a task, break it down. Do it step by step.

The first step, of course, is realizing that you're going to have to write a synopsis -- if you intend to market your novel, that is. The best time to realize this is just before you sit down with your manuscript for the final reading preparatory to declaring the thing completed.

Sit down to that final reading with a pen and paper beside you. As you finish reading each chapter, write down a one- or two-paragraph summary of what happened where, and to which character, in that chapter.

Notice any themes running through your chapters as you're reading? Symbolism you didn't realize you'd woven through the story while you were slogging away at the computer for all those months? (The subconscious mind is a wonderful thing.) Take note of themes, too. You may just discover your one-line story summary that agents and editors like so much, if you didn't know what it was before. Or even if you thought you knew what it was, before (surprise, says the Muse, you were wrong).

What you will have when you are done is a chapter-by-chapter novel outline, what I call my author's outline. This is pretty dry reading, and since chapter-by-chapter outlines seem to have fallen out of favor with editors and agents, this will likely remain one of your most valuable writing tools, and that's about it. Don't throw this away when you've done your synopsis, either. You may know the story intimately now, but you do forget details over time. You may decide to revise the novel in the future, and this outline will help you. I've used mine to make sure I'm not duplicating character names from one project to the next. (The subconscious mind can also booby-trap you.) Reading an outline is much easier than leafing through or rereading an entire novel.

Anyway. There is an immediate use for that outline. What you are doing, basically, is distilling the story down into smaller and more manageable packages, step by step. So, you pinpoint the most important plot points in that outline, and you put them into a synopsis.

Notice I said the most important points. We're talking about only those events and motivations that moved the story forward in a major way. We're talking about only the most important characters, the ones your reader will ultimately care about, not the bit players. Right now, we are striving for bare-bones.

"Yup," you say, "that's bare-bones, all right, and just as boring as ever."

Yes, it is. It's also probably still too long, but don't worry about that right now.

From http://www.writing-world.com/publish/synopsis.shtml

Momix

MOMIX is a company of dancer-illusionists known internationally for presenting work of exceptional inventiveness and physical beauty. For 25 years, MOMIX has been celebrated for its ability to conjure up a world of surrealistic images using props, light, shadow, humor and the human body.

Under the direction of founder Moses Pendleton, MOMIX has performed throughout the United States, Canada, Portugal, Spain, Greece, Italy, France, Germany, Russia, Denmark, England, Austria, Ireland, Holland, Argentina, Mexico, Brazil, Chile, Japan, Taiwan, Singapore, Australia and New Zealand. The company is based in Washington, Connecticut.

From Wikipedia

Bjork - Cocoon

Who would have known

That a boy like him

Would have entered me lightly

Restoring my blisses

Who would have known

That a boy like him

After sharing my core

Would stay going nowhere

Who would have known

A beauty this immense

Who would have known

A saintly trance

Who would have known

Miraculous breath

To inhale a beard

Loaded with courage

Who would have known

That a boy like him

Possessed of magical

Sensitivity

Would approach a girl like me

Who caresses cradles his head

In a bosom

He slides inside

Half awake, half asleep

We faint back

Into sleephood

When I wake up

The second time

In his arms

Gorgeousness

He's still inside me

Who would have known

Who ahhh

Who would have known

A train of pearls

Cabin by cabin

Is shot precisely

Across an ocean

From a mouth

From a

From the mouth

Of a girl like me

To a boy

To a boy

To a boy

Bjork - Cocoon

Waiting for the sun

Alone.

Chained to the reflection of a sky

that has your taste.

It has your taste

when it kisses the sea, slowly,

fearing the emotion

of a confused wave that

runs away,

and doesn’t turn back.

Alone.

Trying to catch a thought,

in the race against the clock

of those spoilt clouds,

looking at my reflection in a glow

that is also yours.

Alone.

And I tremble,

while the simple

and perfect light falls,

revealing the enchantment

of your face,

stealing the memory of a soul

that is still mine.

Alone.

Waiting for the sun.

D.D.

Dreaming about being there

I’m just telling you this, so that you don’t forget how great it could be if there were a river for every sea that is waiting for us.

Things will not hurt, but they will come nearer, brought by the current. We could be able to brush and touch them, and so at the end let ourselves being touched.

I just wanna live, even though it will hurt like hell!

We should be able to understand, just let ourselves be carried away by our imagination, forgetting everything we know in order to let our fantasy roam.

Our soul is not always a diamond, but sometimes it is a silken and trasparent ribbon.

Everything around us coul tear it up, just only a glance.

D.D.

Snow - Maxence Fermine

and they loved each other

suspended on a thread of snow

A zen fable of love and haiku.

‘Yuko Akita had two passions.

Haiku.

And snow.’

On coming of age, Yuko is expected to become either a monk or a warrior. He decides instead to become a poet. And to write poems about snow. But to become a master poet he must also master the arts of painting, and of music, and of calligraphy. And lastly, the art of love…

Autechre - Dropp

The eternal regret

Falls down

the exiled petal

of an ancient

and forgotten rose.

Wild,

the desire

of resewing them,

the velvet companions

slandered by the silence.

Dies

the eternal regret

of a red-hot sky,

burnt by beating hearts

and closed eyes.

D.D.

Fire dancing with poi

Does the exercise ennoble a man?

We're rotten fruit

We're damaged goods

What the hell we've got nothing more to lose

One gust and we will probably crumble

We're backdrifters

This far but no further

I'm hanging off a branch

I'm teetering on the brink

Oh! honey sweet

So full of sleep

I'm backsliding

You fell into our arms

You fell into our arms

We tried hard but there was nothing we could do

Nothing we could do

All evidence has been buried

All tapes have been erased

But your footsteps give you away

So you're backtracking

Ah ah ah

You fell into our arms

You fell into our arms

We tried hard but there was nothing we could do

Nothing we could do

You fell into our, ah

You fell into a

We're rotten fruit

We're damaged goods

What the hell, we've got nothing more to lose

One gust and we will probably crumble

We're backdrifters

Video's soundtrack: Backdrifts - Radiohead

Such a great Universe

This is really what i just wanted to avoid.

Every single time i allow my soul to let itself go, I am wrong. I am like a very famous bird, the phoenix, but i don' t want to be burnt again, because I’ve started seeing tons of wounds all over my body and even if they are scars by now, there is always a breeze which teases them and they hurt like hell.

I feel so small, like a lonely planet, which cannot even trust its satellites. I don't have any stars around and this makes me so sad and defeated, since stars keep me in good company- they can light my nights and they watch me as I fall asleep, blinking from above. I want to get back to my primal essence, all the things which made me smile in my short past.

I don't want to be emotionally exploited; I just want to be loved as I am, no need to tie myself down, I want to be free to give and to receive and to make my stars enjoy their promenade along the universe, so they won't feel alone and will keep on hugging me from above...

Assessment task 1

A short story

Once upon a time,

there was a never-read story. It dealt with the silence of a mother and the imperceptible shout of her son. She never realized how much love he felt for her. Sure, he was blind, and dumb: a sweet heritage which made him stronger than all the other people in the world.

She had never heard her son’s voice, but she used to talk to him, at every single moment of the day, to make him acquainted with the sounds of the world. Especially during the night, when she used to tell him tales, she felt so proud watching her son’s eyes dancing with delight. In this way, she realized he was happy. And she was happy too.

You won’t know anything about his father, in this story. You will just know that he threw away the choice to live with them, when he knew about his son’s handicap. And he ran away, moving to Colombia. He just sent them a postcard, for his son’s 7 birthday, attaching a box full of cigars. “Take care of everything. John”. The most pathetic postcard they had ever received.

The mother worked really hard during the years to pay for her son’s “Braille” lessons. She worked night and day in an iron factory, just to let her son’s fingers flow across the papers. And she was able to discover such a great happiness, in the sweet eyes of her son. After five years of lessons, he was able to write stories, he loved writing stories and his mother was so proud of him.

She left the earth during the Thanksgiving Day in 1979. From that point on of his life, the son started writing everything concerned with the beauty of life, becoming one of the most important writers of his country, ending all his books with this sentence: “Thank you, mum, to have tought me how to see life”.

He felt alone. He felt like a child, without his favourite toy. He felt like the sea without his marvellous waves. This is why he decided to start writing a never-read story. A story that deals with the silence of a mother and the imperceptible shout of her son.

And how much love he felt for her.

D.D.

The perfect human - Jorgen Leth

Onironautica

A lucid dream is a dream in which the sleeper is aware that he or she is dreaming. When the dreamer is lucid, he or she can actively participate in and often manipulate the imaginary experiences in the dream environment. Lucid dreams can seem extremely real and vivid depending on a person's level of self-awareness during the lucid dream.

The term was coined by the Dutch Psychiatrist and writer Frederik van Eeden (1860-1932).

A lucid dream can begin in one of three ways. A dream-initiated lucid dream (DILD) starts as a normal dream, and the dreamer eventually concludes that he or she is dreaming, while a wake-initiated lucid dream (WILD) occurs when the dreamer goes from a normal waking state directly into a dream state with no apparent lapse in consciousness. A mnemonic-initiated lucid dream (MILD) can happen when the dreamer intentionally affirms to himself or herself that he or she will become lucid during the upcoming sleep. Reaching lucidity can sometimes occur due to dream-signs or spontaneously upon remembrance.

Lucid dreaming has been researched scientifically, and its existence is well established. Scientists such as Allan Hobson, with his neurophysiological approach to dream research, have helped to push the understanding of lucid dreaming into a less speculative realm.

From Wikipedia