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Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath 'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual. This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting. In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset. Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'. This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant Tali Tamir August 2010
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
Thanks to Doctor Syntax for for spotting the flaw in the previous version of this.
Coming down Hartsop Dodd was airy, spectacular & knee-crunching in equal measures.
This was a particularly fine autumnal day & one I was beginning to think wouldn't arrive, given this October's prolonged damp spell.
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
Howl
Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997)
For Carl Solomon
I
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls,
incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping towards poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,
who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's floated out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,
a lost batallion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
whose intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,
suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark's bleak furnished room,
who wandered around and around at midnight in the railway yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,
who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night,
who studied Plotinus Poe St John of the Cross telepathy and bop kabbalah because the universe instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels,
who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain,
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,
who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving nothing behind but the shadow of dungarees and the larva and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago,
who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets,
who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism, who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed,
who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,
who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,
who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love,
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may,
who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword,
who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman's loom,
who copulated ecstatic and insatiate and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but were prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake,
who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver—joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses' rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,
who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hungover with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices,
who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open full of steamheat and opium,
who created great suicidal dramas on the appartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of the Bowery,
who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music,
who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts, who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology,
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,
who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom,
who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,
who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for an Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade,
who cut their wrists three times successfully unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried,
who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,
who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steamwhistles,
who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other's hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch Birmingham jazz incarnation,
who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity,
who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,
who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other's salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,
who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz,
who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave,
who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury,
who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturerson Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with the shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy,
and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia,
who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,
returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East,
Pilgrim State's Rockland's and Greystone's foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon,
with mother finally *****, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger on the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination—
ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you're really in the total animal soup of time—
and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipse the catalog the meter & the vibrating plane,
who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soulbetween 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus
to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head,
the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death,
and rose incarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America's naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio
with the absolute heart of the poem butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.
II
What sphinx of cement and aluminium bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination?
Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable dollars! Children screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks!
Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men!
Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgement! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stunned governments!
Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!
Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovas! Moloch whose factories dream and choke in the fog! Moloch whose smokestacks and antennae crown the cities!
Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the Mind!
Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!
Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light streaming out of the sky!
Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisable suburbs! skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral nations! invincible madhouses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!
They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pavements, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is everywhere about us!
Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstacies! gone down the American river!
Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!
Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs! Ten years' animal screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time!
Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street!
III
Carl Solomon! I'm with you in Rockland
where you're madder than I am
I'm with you in Rockland
where you must feel strange
I'm with you in Rockland
where you imitate the shade of my mother
I'm with you in Rockland
where you've murdered your twelve secretaries
I'm with you in Rockland
where you laugh at this invisible humour
I'm with you in Rockland
where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter
I'm with you in Rockland
where your condition has become serious and is reported on the radio
I'm with you in Rockland
where the faculties of the skull no longer admit the worms of the senses
I'm with you in Rockland
where you drink the tea of the breasts of the spinsters of Utica
I'm with you in Rockland
where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the harpies of the Bronx
I'm with you in Rockland
where you scream in a straightjacket that you're losing the game of actual pingpong of the abyss
I'm with you in Rockland
where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul is innocent and immortal it should never die ungodly in an armed madhouse
I'm with you in Rockland
where fifty more shocks will never return your soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a cross in the void
I'm with you in Rockland
where you accuse your doctors of insanity and plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the fascist national Golgotha
I'm with you in Rockland
where you will split the heavens of Long Island and resurrect your living human Jesus from the superhuman tomb
I'm with you in Rockland
where there are twentyfive thousand mad comrades all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale
I'm with you in Rockland
where we hug and kiss the United States under our bedsheets the United States that coughs all night and won't let us sleep
I'm with you in Rockland
where we wake up electrified out of the coma by our own souls' airplanes roaring over the roof they've come to drop angelic bombs the hospital illuminates itself imaginary walls collapse O skinny legions run outside O starry-spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is here O victory forget your underwear we're free
I'm with you in Rockland
in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Mosque_of_Mahdiya
The Great Mosque of Mahdiya (Arabic: الجامع الكبير في المهدية) is a mosque that was built in the tenth century in Mahdia, Tunisia.
Located on the southern side of the peninsula on which the old city was located, the mosque was built in 916 CE (303-304 in the Islamic calendar), after the founding of the city within the walls built by the Caliphate on an artificial platform "reclaimed from the sea" as mentioned by the Andalusian geographer Al-Bakri.[1] The other buildings erected nearby at that time have since disappeared.
History
The first Fatimid imam, Abdullah al-Mahdi Billah, founded Mahdia in 909. He chose to build the mosque in an area of the walled city near to his palace.
The fortified appearance of the monument shows the pioneering spirit of religious architecture built in Ifriqiya in the early centuries of the Arab conquest. Mahdia was also designed as a city of refuge from the growing hostility of the Sunni population towards the imposition of Shia Islam by the Fatimids. However, the two large corner towers of the mosque are not designed for defense, but as tanks for collecting rainwater. It is likely that, at least for some time, they were fed by the water line that served the al-Mahdi palace from underground sources at Miyyanish, six kilometers from the city.
The mosque was originally clad in marble, but much of this was removed during episodes when it was reduced to ruins and later rebuilt.[2] It is possible that the Pisan church of San Sisto was built using marble that had been stripped from the mosque.[3] The building underwent several changes over the centuries, especially during the Ottoman period, after the destruction of the city by the Spanish in 1554.
Between 1961 and 1965 the mosque was completely renovated by the French architect Alexandre Lézine, while respecting the overall layout and structure of the tenth century building. The monumental access gate and portico in the north are preserved from the original structure, while the rest is the result of previous reconstructions.[4]
Architecture
Outdoor spaces
The building consists of a large irregular quadrilateral, about 85 by 55 metres (279 by 180 ft). The south side, which houses the mihrab, is slightly longer than the north side. Seen from the exterior, the mosque looks like a fortress because of its massive walls without openings except in the facade, the extensive use of stone and especially the presence on the facade of the two truncated square towers at the northeast and northwest corners. Since the mosque does not seem to have ever included a minaret, it is likely that the call to prayer was from one of the towers.
The main entrance, located in the center of the north wall and flanked by two small apertures, is marked by a large arch resting on piers and crowned by an Attic style pilaster. The solemnity of the portal is reinforced by the simplicity of moldings on the surfaces, the blind arcade and horseshoe arches in the lower level and the niches in the upper level of the archivolt, reflecting the motif of the cornice.[5]
Inside there is a large courtyard surrounded by arcades on all four sides. The north portico still retains its original ogival arches supported by stone pillars, while the other arcades have arches on Corinthian columns. The columns are single in the east and west arcades, twinned in the south arcade and along the facade of the prayer hall.[citation needed] There are some similarities between the straight-arris design of the groin vaults that cover the western portico and the groin vaults at Cluny, Autun, Monte Cassino and Sant'Angelo in Formis which could be due to Burgundian influence. Mahdia was captured by Crusaders in 1088.[6]
Prayer hall
The great hypostyle hall, dotted with Corinthian columns, consists of nine aisles perpendicular to the qibla and four bays. The central nave, much higher and wider than the others, is flanked by a row of thick twin arches, supported by groups of four columns instead of the twin columns used in the aisles. The central nave thus defines an axis within the hypostyle structure that leads to the mihrab. The intersection with the transept, of equal magnitude and parallel to the qibla wall, results in a T-shaped plan, an architectural feature whose central point is the intersection of transept and nave in front of the mihrab niche.
Open to the axis of the nave through a horseshoe arch, the central area is defined by pillars and half-pillars in angles and bundles, formed of groups of columns, on which rests a hemispherical dome. It is an octagonal tholobate pierced with 24 windows in green glass. The load is carried by pendentives. A band of black marble decorated with inscriptions from the Quran marks the transition between the two complex structural forms. This focal point of the architectural composition is plunged into darkness but bathed in a soft light green (the color of Islam) passing through the windows of the dome.
The mihrab has the shape of a horseshoe, in white stone from Keddāl, and is supported by two columns of dark green marble. Inside is a rich sculptural decoration with two separate levels separated by a band of white marble covered with Qur'anic verses in Kufic characters. The lower level has nine vertical grooves ending in shell-shapes at their upper ends, above which are decorations of clover in high relief. Above the white marble band, curving grooves converge at the top to a single point at the top of the arch. The unusual presence of a second and smaller mihrab - a simple undecorated niche - in an eccentric position on the west wall of the prayer hall, is explained by the controversy between Shiism and Sunnism on the correct direction of Mecca.[a]
Architectural innovations[edit]
The mosque draws heavily in its plan and other architectural elements from the ninth century Great Mosque of Kairouan, a monument that served as a model for Muslim religious architecture in Ifriqiya.
However, the large portal, reserved for the caliph and his entourage, is a major turning point in Islamic architecture because it gives for the first time an aesthetic and symbolic entry to a place of worship, which previously had been totally anonymous even in the case of prestigious monuments. Inspired by the triumphal arches of Rome, but also by the entrances of the Umayyad desert castles, the monumental gate marks the beginning of a journey of honor into the mosque, ending at the back of the prayer hall. Indeed, from the main entrance, an unusual covered corridor once bisected the court and then led through the nave to the mihrab, where the Fatimid caliph exercised his functions as imam of the community.
The basilica structure of the prayer hall, divided into naves perpendicular to the qibla, with emphasis on the symbolic axis and "nave - mihrab" direction, marked by a dome on the front but already revealed through the focus on the central arch (large, with a combination of pillars and columns instead of the usual double columns, etc..), was successfully tested at the Great Mosque of Kairouan a century earlier. However, the syntax of complex architectural elements - exceptional in the case of the portal and covered corridor - is unique to the Great Mosque of Mahdia.
Influence
The al-Hakim Mosque in Cairo, started in 990 and completed between 1003 and 1013, borrows from the Mahdiya mosque's design, with the wide and tall central aisle that leads to the mihrab.[8] The al-Azhar mosque in Cairo seems to have had a similar projecting entrance.[9] The mosque built by Baibars in 1266-1269 in Cairo has some external similarities, with its long wall, corner butttresses and projecting gates.[10] The mosque at Ajdabiya in Libya had a similar plan, although it did not have the same monumental entrance. Like it, for the same ideological reasons, the Ajdabiya mosque did not have a minaret.
A Mobile Frame Zero frame using only the bricks currently available from the Lego stores Pick A Model bins for this quarters Pick A Model.
C&C solicited as always!
SHIDtember's back, baby!
5yrs ago today I posted The 8-Belle. Today I give you the Jovian Confederation ship JCS New Belfast, light tactical carrier.
Dual hangar bay with control tower, quad engine nacelles, main bridge, and multiple sensor systems.
108 studs (Duplo studs!), 67.5"/171.5cm. 100% Duplo; all SNOT is Duplo: no System or Toolo bricks, all parts are connected via studs (no "gravity connections"). She's mostly stable sitting on the table, but she wants to collapse under her own weight (she's a big girl); NOT swooshable. The stands are not built into the ship.
It took about 20hrs to build. No preplan, just a huge pile of Duplo and go!
More pics in my Duplo album.
The discovery of Mecha-Cubits (metallic Tribe-Cubits with a single black wedge) by a group of Nixels deep within the caverns of the Mixel Moon allowed a single Nixel to Max with a tribe of Mixels to form a powerful, technologically advanced mecha. A sentient working/fighting machine where the unique powers and creativity of a Mixel tribe are combined with the technology and military structure of the Nixels resulting in a union much more capable than the sum of its parts. Many other Nixels have formed teams providing needed maintenance and technical support for the Mecha-Max’s during their explorations of Mixel Land.
The Mecha Mixel-Nixel Expeditionary Force (MMNEF) is beginning to understand the secret origins of Mixel Land’s vast technological underpinnings. Initial discoveries suggest an unknown mutual enemy of Mixel/Nixel-kind that somehow disrupted a previous civilization and created the two disparate worlds of Mixel Land and Nixels Land. Mysterious remnants of this society can be seen in the giant Rainbow Cubit of Mixel Mountain, the extensive pipe network, and the unexplained Large Rock where Mixels inexplicably gather.
Meanwhile, the un-Mecha-Maxed Mixel tribes and Major Nixel both see the MMNEF as a threat to their status quo. Can the MMNEF solve the mystery of Mixel Land’s origin or will they succumb to the continuous threat from both Mixels and Nixels? Is the origin of Mixel Land something that should even be revealed?
These are all Mixel Max models (alt models) using only the pieces that come in the three sets from the respective tribes. This started as a slight departure from my usual mecha alt models of individual Mixel sets for Mobile Frame Zero when I built the first one from the Orbitons sets after being inspired by two fellow builders: Ezra Wibowo (Cragster Max and Glorp Corp Max) and Dvdliu (Wiztastics Max).
I wanted to make mecha Mixel Max's for the Nixel that comes with the tribe and set myself some conditions: build as many different types of mecha as possible, the Nixel must fit into the mecha and be removable without modification and have a well defined cockpit, and incorporate the Mixel tribe theme into an armed/military look. I knocked these out over about three weeks and had so much fun doing so that I'm kind of sad I'm done. I so can't wait for Series 5 and 6!
More pics in my Mecha-Max album.
I will be entering one of the Series4 Mecha-Max builds into the Brickset Series4 competition if I can ever decide which one to enter.
Dionysos's discovery of Ariadne on Naxos [3rd-4th C AD] - Syria - Kyoto, Japan, Miho Museum - wm; Kimon Berlin
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Surrounded by a running wave pattern that may allude to the island setting of the story, the main scene is framed on each side by a long, rectangular border with a central figural vignette. To the sides of the vignettes are three-dimensionally rendered meanders. In the corners are figural busts. From the orientation of the main panel, the vignettes above and below it, and the busts, the best vantage point for viewing the composition was from the bottom of the central composition. The two vignettes on the sides are oriented so that the bottom of their scenes is turned outward from the central panel. The vignette at the top, in which the central figure is a replacement, shows three men in a canopied boat, perhaps on the Nile or Orontes River. The scene to the right, also heavily restored, features a shepherd, his right leg covered by a himation. He sits on a rocky outcrop, playing his panpipe as a pair of horned cattle search for grass. Along the bottom is an offering scene, in which a veiled woman extends a pair of lighted torches toward a man who is about to slit the throat of an animal before a fire. The sacrifice takes place in front of a temple-like structure with a pedimented facade that sits on a three-tiered platform. On the left side is another bucolic scene, of a shepherd sitting on the ground as a pair of goats graze nearby.
Three of the figures in the corners wear wreaths that identify them as members of Dionysos's retinue. In the upper left corner is Bakche, who personifies the frenzied female followers of Dionysos. In the upper right is Pan the half-goat, half-human son of Hermes, a god of pastures, whose bestial abandon is characterized here by his wildly askew hair. In the bottom right corner is a bust of Lyde, who wears gold fibulae, or pins, at her shoulders. In the lower left is Thiasos, who personifies the entire group of maenads, thyiads, satyrs and silenoi that Dionysos's retinue comprises. The setting of the central panel in a hilly landscape; the smaller outdoor scenes, three of them among hills; and the presence of the rustic deity Pan may allude to the pastoral setting of Dionysiac revels, where delirious maenads were often pursued by lustful satyrs, or to the countryside of the Syrian province the mosaic came from, which was largely farmland.
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Inscribed between Ariadne and Satyros is >Pamphilos Agroikos Ergasato< “Pamphilos made this [image of] Agroikos”, making this one of the rare instances in which a mosaic was signed. Based on the choice of syntax and the conventional nature of the scene, it has been suggested that this inscription, which also appears on another mosaic, identifies the executor of the mosaic rather than the author of the design. It has been further argued that the use of the adjectival noun, Agroikos, and the likeness of the similarly inscribed mosaic to another known to have come from Antioch, in which Dionysos is labeled Agros, may well indicate a common source for the works.
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The wall did not ask to be read.
It asked to be bled into.
Every line is a scar rehearsing its own disappearance,
every curve a stutter in the syntax of obedience.
This is not writing; this is pressure escaping flesh disguised as concrete.
The city exhales through vandalized throats,
through sprayed vowels and amputated consonants.
Meaning collapses here,
not from chaos,
but from excess of control.
These signs were never meant to say.
They were meant to interrupt.
A broken alphabet chewing on surveillance,
a dialect born where cameras blink too slowly.
The wall remembers what the archive deletes:
the tremor before submission,
the itch before silence becomes law.
Night rewrites the grammar.
Light fractures into permission and threat.
Smoke becomes a temporary god,
curling around the wound to keep it open.
This corridor is a throat.
This graffiti, a cough that refuses diagnosis.
Here, language is no longer a tool; it is a symptom.
And somewhere beneath the paint,
beneath the gesture,
beneath the fear of being seen,
the city confesses:
it was never mute; it was strangled.
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
La Zeiss Ikon Contax S és una camara molt important en la historia de la fotografía. Tot i que hi ha certa discusió, sembla que aquesta càmara o en tot cas els seus prototipus molt similars, foren la primera reflex de visió directa amb pentaprisma, exactament el mateix model que encara avui segueixen les DSLR. A Italia la Rectaflex potser va sortir a la venda uns mesos abans, però s'ha de reconeixer que fou Zeiss Ikon durant la SGM que desenvolupà el pentaprisma en prototipus ara perduts com la Syntax.
L'origen de la Contax S és dramatic, tot i això. Dresden era una ciutat aniquilada per la guerra, i Zeiss Ikon fou saquejada massivament pel sovietics com a botí de guerra (per fer les Kiev, Moskva i altres). El que en quedà miraculosament produí la càmara més moderna del món només 3 anys després del final de la guerra.
Aquesta Contax S que podeu veure aquí és la variant coneguda com "small D", produida entre 1950 i 1951. Es veu clarament ja que no porta cap "d" al front, ni en petit sota la marca ni en gros al costat del nom. Per tant es un dels models més inicials. Tant que ni tan sols compta amb l'indicador numeric del dors, només el nº de serie intern (curiosament alt, per altra banda). Funciona aparentment bé, però no sé si suficentment com per a obtenir fotos acceptables. L'objectiu Tessar prové d'una altra càmera.
=============================================
The Zeiss Ikon Contax S is one of the most important cameras in history, being probably the first eye-level SLR (or pentaprism SLR). There's some discusion that the Italian Rectaflex was the first being sold, but arguably the first prototypes and ideas were Zeiss, like the wartime Syntax.
In 1948-49, with Dresden burnt to the ground and most of the machinery and personel of Zeiss Ikon taken by the soviets as war reparations (to built the Kiev and Moskva cameras), it looks almost miraculous that Zeiss Ikon produced the most advanced camera of its era.
This one here is an early original Contax S, produced in from 1950 to 1951. It's easy to distinguish from later models as it lacks any "d" letter in the front of the prism block or in the name. It even lacks the factory number in the back of the body, only the inside serial number.
www.praktica-collector.de/089_Contax_S_variant_C.htm
camerapedia.wikia.com/wiki/Contax_S
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
A company of Veyman Genesis frames for Mobile Frame Zero.
Equipped systems L to R:
Rh, Y, B, G8, SSRx2
Ra, Y, Y, B
Rd, Y, B, G, SSR
Rd, Y, B, G
Systems: M2c carbine (Rd), A25s shoulder-integrated howitzer (Ra), H1 battlefield chainsaw “ripper” (Rh), S2 EMP shield (B), Mk1 comm’s pack (Y), Battlefield360 sensor mast (Y), J2 jump pack, R1 single-use rockets (SSR)
A VV using only the bricks currently available from the Lego stores Pick A Model bins for this quarters Pick A Model.
Comments & criticism solicited as always.
I added this to the LDD File I've been maintaining for all my 2016 Q4 PaM mecha builds if you're curious.
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
August 2010
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
August 2010
Since I can't start on my build for SHIPtember yet, I thought I'd make some little escort craft for it in the meantime. These are trying to look like the Pulsar Gunships from Homeworld 2.
A big shout out to my buddy Bryon for helping me refine the shape.
I love words.
The written word, the spoken word. Poems. lyrics, puns. Books, crossword puzzles, jokes, banter. I even love the mechanics of language -- grammar, syntax, linguistics. Heck, in school I used to enjoy diagramming sentences. That's how much I love words.
Luckily, words come easily to me. Want someone on your team for word games? Ooooh, pick me! Need someone to proofread your paper or check your spelling? I'm your girl. Enjoy endless stupid puns? Stick around, you'll be groaning soon.
But ironically, at those times when I really need the perfect word ... moments of intense emotion, when I'm angry or deeply hurt or profoundly moved ... those are the times when my limbic system completely sabotages the language center of my brain, leaving me mute and stupid and teary and grasping for something, anything, to say. It is one of the biggest frustrations of my life ... when I need them the most, words fail me.
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
August 2010
Ahh such a painful morning. 3 hours of sleep and a day of class/meetings.
Well here are the daffodils that I stole :P
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
My interpretation of dark_syntax's Veyman, an inspired mashup of the Vega Genesis & Layman by Aardvark17_
A full Mobile Frame Zero company of RU15-2's. The Stations are the same C6+ designs I've used before.
My 22nd Mecha Mixel-Nixel Expeditionary Force (MMNEF) mech; this one from the MCFD tribe.
For more on the MMNEF click here.
C&C solicited as always!
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
August 2010
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
A company of Veyman Genesis frames for Mobile Frame Zero.
Equipped systems L to R:
Rd, Y, B, G
Rh, Y, B, G8, SSRx2
Ra, Y, Y, B, SSR
Rd, Y, B, G
Rd, Y, B, G
Systems: MG4b shoulder-integrated Gatling gun “brrrt” (Rd), M1d shoulder-integrated sniper rifle (Ra), P38 combat rotary saw “can opener” (Rh), S3c EMP shield (B), Mk3 comm’s pack (Y), Quad-spectrum targeting array (Y), J5 jump pack, R2b single-use rockets (SSR)
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
Here is the Agamemnon with stickers applied and micro Starfury fighters flying formation.
This micro Starfury design was created by my buddy Dark_Syntax after he found out that I was building the Omega Class Destroyer for SHIPtember. Huge thanks to him for a really cool design that only uses 12 parts! They are scaled just a little too big for the ship, but I still think they look totally awesome!
My other buddy ZKaiser helped me out by printing the custom made stickers that I designed. He did a really nice job, especially on getting the perforations on the letter "A" to come out so cleanly. Huge thanks to him as well!
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath 'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual. This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting. In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset. Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'. This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
My 16th Mecha Mixel-Nixel Expeditionary Force (MMNEF) mech; this one from the Weldos tribe.
For more on the MMNEF click here.
This syntax is used for import libraries in Java and ActionScript
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Library_(computing)
Model Valentina Gribkova
Avant d'aller en Sicile, il faut lire Andrea Camilleri, je suis fan de Montalbano, le Maigret sicilien de Vigata, des romans du même auteur décrivent parfaitement l'âme sicilienne.
Before going to Sicily, you have to read Andrea Camilleri, I'm a fan of Montalbano, the Sicilian Maigret of Vigata, novels by the same author perfectly describe the Sicilian soul.
Andrea Camilleri, né le 6 septembre 1925 à Porto Empedocle (la Vigàta de ses romans) et mort à Rome le 17 juillet 2019, est un metteur en scène et un écrivain italien.
Il connaît un énorme succès en Italie comme ailleurs, notamment grâce à ses romans mettant en scène le commissaire Montalbano. Traduit en trente langues, il est l'auteur de plus de cent ouvrages littéraires et a vendu vingt-six millions de livres rien qu'en Italie. Ses livres sont entrés dans la collection des « I Meridiani », la « Pléiade » italienne.
Andrea Camilleri se plaît à jouer sur la langue, mêlant italien et sicilien, à la fois par le vocabulaire et la syntaxe, n'hésitant pas à utiliser des termes inconnus de tous ceux qui ne sont pas des Siciliens de la région d'Agrigente, mais dont le sens pourra être compris aisément grâce au contexte. Cela donne une langue à consonance exotique, étrangère, même pour les Italiens, une re-création personnelle de la langue de son père, truffée de particularismes, qui ajoute au charme de l'intrigue . Il n'hésite pas non plus à faire découvrir au lecteur toutes les spécialités savoureuses de la cuisine sicilienne au hasard des repas du commissaire Montalbano ; il évoque également tout l'attachement qu'éprouvent les Siciliens pour la terre et la famille.
La préface de Mario Fusco au roman Le Roi Zosimo, ainsi que la postface de Dominique Vittoz à La Saison de la chasse (prix de traduction Amédée Pichot) donnent de précieux éclaircissements sur la langue de Camilleri et le défi qu'elle pose à ses traducteurs.
Son traducteur attitré en français, Serge Quadruppani essaie de rendre sa langue en mêlant tournures siciliennes et emprunts au parler marseillais.
Salvo Montalbano est un personnage récurrent de l'œuvre d'Andrea Camilleri. C'est un commissaire de police de la bourgade (fictive) de Vigàta (en fait Porto Empedocle), en Sicile. Le héros tirerait son nom de celui de l'auteur espagnol Manuel Vázquez Montalbán, dont Camilleri appréciait le personnage de Pepe Carvalho.
Andrea Camilleri, born September 6, 1925 in Porto Empedocle (the Vigàta of his novels) and died in Rome July 17, 2019, is an Italian director and writer.
He was a huge success in Italy as elsewhere, especially thanks to his novels featuring the Commissioner Montalbano. Translated into thirty languages, he is the author of more than one hundred literary works and has sold twenty-six million books in Italy alone. His books have entered the collection of "I Meridiani", the Italian "Pleiade".
Andrea Camilleri likes to play on the language, mixing Italian and Sicilian, both by vocabulary and syntax, not hesitating to use terms unknown to all those who are not Sicilians from the Agrigento region, but whose meaning can be easily understood thanks to the context. This gives an exotic, foreign-sounding language, even for Italians, a personal re-creation of his father's language, full of peculiarities, which adds to the charm of the intrigue. He also does not hesitate to do discover to the reader all the tasty specialties of Sicilian cuisine at random from the meals of Commissioner Montalbano; it also evokes all the attachment that the Sicilians feel for the land and the family.
The preface by Mario Fusco to the novel Le Roi Zosimo, as well as the afterword by Dominique Vittoz to La Saison de la chasse (Amédée Pichot translation prize) provide valuable insights into Camilleri's language and the challenge it poses for his translators .
Its official translator in French, Serge Quadruppani tries to make his language by mixing Sicilian turns and borrowed from the Marseilles language.
Salvo Montalbano is a recurring character in the work of Andrea Camilleri. He is a police superintendent of the (fictitious) village of Vigàta (in fact Porto Empedocle), in Sicily. The hero would take his name from that of the Spanish author Manuel Vázquez Montalbán, whose Camilleri appreciated the character of Pepe Carvalho.
While painting is about communicating the artist inner world, photography could be conceived as a means of communicating the artist's perception of the outer world.
Within this frame of thought, I interpret my photographic activities as an effort to communicate selected visual fragments of my surroundings. In addition, I perceive the act of taking pictures as equivalent to the implicit formulation of an existential statement such as: "I exist, therefore this is the way I see the world".
This concept is perhaps not exclusive to photography but also applicable to other forms of art. The artist is implicitly within his/her work (Artifex in Opere). Creating the artwork then becomes an elliptical way of corroborating the artist's own existence, either through his/her own contemplation or fundamentally from the feedback received from other individuals.
If we assume that there are few casual elements within a picture and most elements within have been chosen either consciously or unconsciously, there must be another meaning associated with photographs that goes beyond the esthetics of the composition. This underlying hermeneutics adds an occult symbolic layer to the images that transcend the boundaries of individual fragments of work to step into the emotional and spiritual world of the photographer. The overall resulting pattern is clearly greater than the summation of its parts (gestalt).
I am very much attached to my cameras, I think that this feeling stems in part from my fascination with their precise mechanics, but nonetheless from the executive role they play in the process of image creation. The camera is an approximation of what the brush is to painting (Photography: from the Greek: φωτός (phōtos), genitive of light and γραφή (graphé) representation by means of lines), literally the photographic camera is the instrument that allows us to draw with light.
However, there are some caveats with this analogy, since there is no complete transparency during the process of image creation, the results are always inseparable from the syntax superimposed by the media and the camera. For example, a black and white picture represents the colors of a scene as gradations of grey but because we have the ability to see in color, we would never interpret this as being a literal depiction of reality.
Another example of image related syntax can be found on images produced with early photographic processes, in those days emulsions had a low sensitivity to light. A consequence was that most portraits taken during that period had to be done outdoors under harsh sunlight, having the subjects hold static postures for a long time. Understanding this syntax allows us to interpret why people looked so serious or event upset, their solemn appearance deriving from their stiff postures and hard shadows under their facial features.
I do not think it is essential to understand the underlying photographic syntax of an image in order to enjoy viewing a picture, but being acquainted with it could add valuable context to its interpretation.
Regardless of which technology is used, a photograph domain will always lay within the space where the artist composition intersects with the mechanical action of the camera, which will capture, without restrictions, everything that exists within its field of view. Including those elements that the artist never perceived, consciously or unconsciously, before pressing the shutter button.
Claudio Valdés
My 20th Mecha Mixel-Nixel Expeditionary Force (MMNEF) mech; this one from the Medivals tribe.
For more on the MMNEF click here.
I tried to get the most of the castle theme with a walking medieval castle turret/tower body and a good array of period weapons. Not my best arms/legs (I was going for armored knight), but this tribe was more limited than most in the mixels joint and clip/bar options.
C&C solicited as always!