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in The words that make sense... brilliant writings by writers... by

“These days, my notion of the fantastic is closer to what we call reality.” —Julio Cortázar


in The words that make sense... brilliant writings by writers... by

“I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.”
Jorge Luis Borges


in Passion Of Art by
Javier Aliste reviewed on

The artist Javier Aliste searches for the syncretism of our current cultural identity. To find his answers he has been researching the Andean world and the idiosyncrasies of the Amazonian people since 1997. In his work of art he uses sacred chromatic and sacred symbolism, which is inspired on the way people live in South America typically Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia and Chile.

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in Poetry of Art by

The Future

And I know full well you won’t be there.

You won’t be in the street, in the hum that buzzes

from the arc lamps at night, nor in the gesture

of selecting from the menu, nor in the smile

that lightens people packed into the subway,

nor in the borrowed books, nor in the see-you-tomorrow.

You won’t be in my dreams,

in my words’ first destination,

nor will you be in a telephone number

or in the color of a pair of gloves or a blouse.

I’ll get angry, love, without it being on account of you,

and I’ll buy chocolates but not for you,

I’ll stop at the corner you’ll will never come to,

and I’ll say the words that are said

and I’ll eat the things that are eaten

and I’ll dream the dreams that are dreamed

and I know full well you won’t be there,

not here inside, in the prison where I still hold you,

nor there outside, in this river of streets and bridges.

You won’t be there at all, you won’t be even a memory,

and when I think of you I’ll be thinking a thought

that’s obscurely trying to recall you.


Y se muy bien que no estaras

No estaras en la calle, en el murmullo que brota de noche

de los postes de alumbrado, ni en el gesto

de elegir el menu, ni en la sonrisa

que alivia los completos en los subtes,

ni en los libros prestados ni en el hasta manana.

No estaras en mis suenos,

en el destino original de mis palabras,

ni en una cifra telefonica estaras

o en el color de un par de guantes o una blusa.

Me enojare, amor mio, sin que sea por ti,

y comprare bombones pero no para ti,

me parare en la esquina a la que non vendras,

y dire las palabras que se dicen

y comere las cosas que se comen

y sonare los suenos que se suenan

y se muy bien que no estaras,

ni aqui adentro, la carcel donde aun te retengo,

ni alli fuera, este rio de calles y de puentes.

No estaras para nada, no seras ni recuerdo,

y quando piense en ti pensare un pensamiento

que oscuramente trata de acordarse de ti.



in Muses in a Surreal World by

“Dora Maar in her Studio”
Paris, 1946 by Brassai

She was born Henriette Theodora Markovitch in Tours, Western France to a Jewish family. Her father, Josip Marković, was a Croat architect, famous for his work in South America; her mother, Julie Voisin, was from Touraine, France. Dora grew up in Argentina.

Before meeting Picasso, Maar was already famous as a photographer. She also painted. She met Picasso in January 1936 on the terrace of the Café les Deux Magots in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, Paris, when she was 29 years old and he 54. The famous poet Paul Éluard, who was with Picasso, had to introduce them. Picasso was attracted by her beauty and self-mutilation (she cut her fingers and the table playing “the knife game”; he got her bloody gloves and exhibited them on a shelf in his apartment). She spoke Spanish fluently, so Picasso was even more fascinated. Their relationship lasted nearly nine years.

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in Poetry of Art by


How smoothly and how sweetly

she lifts me from the bed where I was dreaming

of profound and fragrant fields,

she runs her fingers over my skin and sketches me

in space, suspended, until the kiss

alights curved and recurrent

a slow flame kindling

the rhythmic dance of the bonfire

weaving us together in flashes, in spirals,

going and coming in a storm of smoke…

(So why is

what’s left of me, afterwards,

just a sinking into ashes

without a goodbye, with nothing more than a gesture

of letting our hands go free?)

Julio Cortazar


Con qué tersa dulzura
me levanta del lecho en que soñaba
profundas plantaciones perfumadas,

me pasea los dedos por la piel y me dibuja
en le espacio, en vilo, hasta que el beso
se posa curvo y recurrente

para que a fuego lento empiece
la danza cadenciosa de la hoguera
tejiédose en ráfagas, en hélices,
ir y venir de un huracán de humo-

(¿Por qué, después,
lo que queda de mí
es sólo un anegarse entre las cenizas
sin un adiós, sin nada más que el gesto
de liberar las manos ?



in A Mysterious Encounter with the Moon/Poetry of Art by

The silent friendliness of the moon

(misquoting Virgil) accompanies you

since that one night or evening lost

in time now, on which your restless

eyes first deciphered her forever

in a garden or patio turned to dust.

Forever? I know someone, someday

will be able to tell you truthfully:

‘You’ll never see the bright moon again,

You’ve now achieved the unalterable

sum of moments granted you by fate.

Useless to open every window

in the world. Too late. You’ll not find her.’

We live discovering and forgetting

that sweet familiarity of the night.

Take a long look. It might be the last.

Jorge Luis Borges

Painting is “Moon light over the Seine”
Henry Pether (1828-1865)


in Poetry of Art by

The sky a black sphere,
the sea a black disk.

The lighthouse opens
its solar fan on the coast.

Spinning endlessly at night,
whom is it searching for

when the mortal heart
looks for me in the chest?

Look at the black rock
where it is nailed down.

A crow digs endlessly
but no longer bleeds.

Alfonsina Storni


in The Melody of Art by


“A Sad thought dancing” that migrated from the brothels of Buenos Aires to the European dance halls.

Several great writers have written tango songs, but the greatest and most profound lyricist is Enrique Santos Discepolo.
The man who defined the tango as “a sad thought dancing” , “a mixture of anger, pain, faith, and absence” sings of love, death and paradise lost in radically pessimistic poems that express the despair of the thirties, that “infamous decade” where hopes of democracy gave way to coups l’etat and electoral fraud.

Faced with stattered dreams, “All is a lie, nothing is love/the world buggers you about as it turns.” Love is always at punishment: “Why was I thought to love/If to love is to cast all your dreams into the sea”.

Kees Van Dongen [1877 – 1968]
Tango or Tango of the Archangel
1922 – 1935


in Art & the Unconscious Mind/Leonor Fini ~ Painter of the surreal by

La Confiserie (1932)

Leonor Fini (August 30, 1907 – January 18, 1996) was an Argentine surrealist painter.

Life and work

Born in Buenos Aires, Argentina, she was raised in Trieste, Italy. She moved to Milan at the age

of 17, and then to Paris, in either 1931 or 1932. There, she became acquainted with, among many

others, Paul Éluard, Max Ernst, Georges Bataille, Henri Cartier-Bresson, Picasso, André Pieyre

de Mandiargues, and Salvador Dalí. She traveled Europe by car with Mandiargues and

Cartier-Bresson where she was photographed nude in a swimming pool by Cartier-Bresson. The

photograph of Fini sold in 2007 for $305,000 – the highest price paid at auction for one of his

works to that date.

She painted portraits of Jean Genet, Anna Magnani, Jacques Audiberti, Alida Valli, Jean

Schlumberger (jewelry designer) and Suzanne Flon as well as many other celebrities and wealthy

visitors to Paris. While working for Elsa Schiaparelli she designed the flacon for the perfume,

“Shocking”, which became the top selling perfume for the House of Schiaparelli. She designed

costumes and decorations for theater, ballet and opera, including the first ballet performed by

Roland Petit’s Ballet de Paris, “Les Demoiselles de la nuit”, featuring a young Margot Fonteyn.

This was a payment of gratitude for Fini’s having been instrumental in finding the funding for

the new ballet company. She also designed the costumes for two films, Renato Castellani’s Romeo

and Juliet (1954) and John Huston’s A Walk with Love and Death (1968), which starred 18 year old

Anjelica Huston and Moshe Dayan’s son, Assaf.

She once said,

Marriage never appealed to me, I have never lived with one person. Since I was 18, I’ve

always preferred to live in a sort of community – A big house with my atelier and cats and

friends, one with a man who was rather a lover and another who was rather a friend. And it has always worked.

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