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Originaire de Crête, Costa décrit l’exil comme un déchirement, une perte de repères – « Ce départ brutal a marqué ma vie pour toujours » – mais confie que l’envie de vivre l’a emporté. C’est dans une série de sacs et de valises qu’il a choisi de projeter ses doutes et ses espoirs
Arrivé en Belgique, en 1970, Costa Lefkochir livre tout d'abord des dessins d'inspiration symboliste qui trahissent une souffrance existentielle. Progressivement toutefois, son oeuvre s'apaise et se libère de la figuration. Lefkochir s'attache alors à exprimer plastiquement un état d'apaisement spirituel et moral, sans tomber dans un quelconque sentiment religieux. La couleur et ses mouvements intérieurs retiennent alors toute son attention.Attentif à l'évolution de l'artiste, depuis de nombreuses années, le critique belge, Claude Lorent écrivait : "La tentation de Costa Lefkochir, en vrai méditerranéen pétri d'une culture plus byzantine qu'occidentale sur un fond de spiritualité cependant commune, a toujours été d'évacuer l'image directement référentielle au profit, soit d'une totale abstraction, soit de formulations au caractère nettement symbolique. Jusqu'à présent, la lumière, en appel lointain ou en rayonnement attractif diffus et sous-jacent, a, en ce type de langage animé tant par l'émotion personnelle profonde que par des aspirations spiritualisées, joué un rôle primordial. (...) En osant la rupture actuelle, l'artiste ne renie pas ce qui a précédé, bien au contraire, il y puise la force d'une attention désormais focalisée sur des signes plus précis, comme, justement, nombre d'éléments aujourd'hui se révélaient enfin au regard."
Né à Héraklion (Crète), le 30 août 1952.En 1976, termine ses études (1er Prix) à l'académie royale des Beaux-Arts de Liège. Depuis lors, vit et travaille en Belgique et a la double nationalité grecque et belge.
Originally from Crete, Costa describes exile as a heartbreak, a loss of bearings – “This brutal departure marked my life forever” – but confides that the desire to live prevailed. It is in a series of bags and suitcases that he has chosen to project his doubts and his hopes
Arrived in Belgium in 1970, Costa Lefkochir first produced symbolist-inspired drawings that betray existential suffering. Gradually, however, his work calms down and frees itself from figuration. Lefkochir then endeavors to plastically express a state of spiritual and moral appeasement, without falling into any religious sentiment. Attentive to the evolution of the artist, for many years, the Belgian critic, Claude Lorent wrote: "The temptation of Costa Lefkochir, in true Mediterranean steeped in a culture more Byzantine than Western on a background of spirituality however common, has always been to evacuate the directly referential image in favor, either of a total abstraction, or of formulations with a clearly symbolic character. Until present, light, in distant appeal or in diffuse and underlying attractive radiance, has, in this type of language animated as much by deep personal emotion as by spiritualized aspirations, played a primordial role (...) By daring the current rupture, the artist does not deny what preceded, quite the contrary, he draws from it the strength of an attention now focused on more precise signs, as, precisely, many elements today finally revealed themselves to the gaze.
Born in Heraklion (Crete), August 30, 1952. In 1976, finished his studies (1st Prize) at the Royal Academy of Fine Arts in Liège. Since then, lives and works in Belgium and has dual Greek and Belgian nationality.
explore 6 may 2008
so here's the thing. our old internet router broke. the new router doesn't work with the old computer (holding all my pics), so if i want to upload, i have to drag everything onto a memory stick, and transfer it over...blah, blah, blah... so i begin questioning the VALUE of the pictures... and quickly pirouette into existential angst about THE MEANING of it all. then i get my holga film developed, and i'm liking the randomness and mechanics of film again. SO i've just bought a new lens for my old, manual nikon... and am about to take a deep breath and explore what may happen. anyone else hit the photographic wall...?!
“Tell me not in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou are, to dust thou returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each tomorrow
Find us farther than today.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, - act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints
on the sand of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solenm main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us then be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.”
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Two days ago, I did something that five years ago I never would have dreamed, or conceived of, and ran an ultramarathon in the Chuckanut mountains of Bellingham. Thirty-one miles (on my 31st birthday!) and 5,000ft of elevation gain later my quads are shredded but my spirit feels alive. It was both terrible and wonderful, full of pain and elation, sadness and hope. I dug deep at times to find the will to keep moving, which is exactly the challenge I wanted, no matter how much my body fought otherwise in the moment. I did what seemed impossible to me, especially with multiple set backs that postponed training, and finished alive and well, smiling wide, happy to have finished and be finished.
Five years ago this month I started running, with the goal to run a mile without stopping. I had never really run at that point. I developed a love for it, over time, and completed a marathon, but I didn't find a passion until I discovered trail running, while on vacation on the Oregon coast. There had been a trail race, a 30k and 50k, the weekend before and the course looked stunning. The next year I decided to sign up for the 30k, not really knowing what I was getting into. By the end of it, I was beat, and questioning if I would ever do something like that again...but I found it has a way of seeping into your bones and subconscious. Despite the suffering, you ultimately want more trails, more beauty, more challenge...
Some will and do call me crazy, and maybe I am (probably!). But what I've learned is that truly challenging yourself is one of the best ways to feel alive, connecting and engaging to something much deeper inside, as you peer into the unknown. And in the end, you find yourself back amongst family and friends, cheering on your little existential journey, welcoming you back to a life where high-fives, hugs, and a chair are the best things in the world.
This photo was taken on the Amanda Trail in Yachats, Oregon, part of the course on my first trail race.
Feel free to interpret the photo [what does it mean?] in comments left below. Or feel free not to. Whatever you do, remember that you will be defining your essence by the way in which you respond. If you ignore the issue while being aware of it, you will enter a state of bad faith.* It's all up to you.
*in a state of bad faith one denies one's own consciousness or awareness in the face of changing reality
I tried, a new step forward, but I guess it isn't the right time, or maybe the step is just too big.
I felt lost. Existential doubts. It took a while to get myself back on track again. Still not there.
So I took this, just to do something, it's not good enough, but I needed to let you know I think of you flickr friends and I miss you.
I need a project, but my head is empty, no pictures, no ideas, no concepts. I guess two projects (365&52) took a lot of my inspiration. Please get back quick.
Colors have been an existential crisis lately.
Lately I've been on a film emulation kick, and it feels like everything I touch ends up all filmulated, and way too trendy. I'm wondering if there's a way to buck this.
This photograph is somewhere in the middle. While I definitely shot for something a little more vintage, but at the same time I wanted an extreme effect.
I've been realizing the thing I love the most is innovation. I really want to do everything in a new way, even colors.
I tend to prefer good endings.
Without trials and challenges life would be boring.
Seeing people overcome trials and challenges is inspiring.
I try to avoid long existential melodramas that end in bleak sadness.
Not sure of the story here, but it doesn’t look good.
The abandoned, stripped down remains of a trailer in close vicinity of the abandoned building I showed in the last shot. This part of Salton Sea Beach doesn’t look happy.
There are what appear to be occupied homes a block away.
Can’t imagine what this area would be like in the Summer heat.
Without air conditioning and lots of fresh water one couldn’t survive.
Left click on the photo and/or the two way arrows in the upper right corner for a larger view.
Thank you, your views, favs and comments are greatly appreciated!
What am I?
(May or may not be related to my existential crisis! Really.)
Shot with a Sony 90mm macro lens (at f/2.8) on Sony a7r iii. A tripod held the camera gear for this long (0.125 seconds) exposure made with natural light available.
Colors/tones adjusted in Lightroom, then cropped and saved as JPG file in Photoshop.
Best viewed in lightbox
My other half is a doctor, which means the effects and consequences of his work are tangible. It's a bad day when someone in his charge dies; it's a better day when, given limited time and resources, he's able to give his patients something approaching decent care. This palpability, this definiteness, was among the factors which led me to have a mini existential crisis about the value of my own career and work to the wider world.
I've written before that the educational choices I've made in my life were driven by the literally selfish desire to understand who I am and what it means to be me. This led me to interests and studies in psychology, philosophy and - the subject of my degree - literature. I discovered that I learned much more about myself by reading stories about other people. These choices disappointed my teachers in mathematics and the sciences, and my career in photography has surprised old schoolmates who assumed I would become a lawyer or else justify their designation of me as 'most likely to be elected to parliament.'
When I was around eleven I saw Dead Poets Society, and was so moved by a monologue delivered by Robin Williams' character that it imprinted on me a love and appreciation for the value of art. "We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race, and the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering: these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love: these are what we stay alive for."
It's easy to forget art's value, difficult to feel it day to day, even for - perhaps especially for - those who work in the arts. The first moment of doubt that I remember with any vividness was in a literature tutorial at university when, as we sat round a table discussing a novel by C.S. Lewis, the thought struck me: "What are we doing? Why the fuck are we sitting here talking about a children's book like this!?" And although I consider some small parts of my studies to have been pseudo-intellectual nonsense, I knew on a deeper level that what we were doing was important.
I don't even consider my work to be 'art': it certainly doesn't set out to challenge anyone or anything, or even to convey any deep meaning or message. Like this little essay, it's self-indulgent. I photograph the things that move me, surprise me and interest me, and if that can make someone think or discover something new - or even if they just enjoy looking at it - then that makes me happy. I'm encouraged by the occasional emails I receive from people I don't know which tell me of how my work has inspired their own, or of how it has made them realise the beauty of a city they've lived in for years; or, very occasionally - and most surprising and even frightening of all - of how it has affected the decisions they've made about their own lives.
And this is what art is for: to teach us how to be human beings, to teach us how to be here. In Other Colours, Orhan Pamuk writes about the importance of reading novels, but his words can be applied to other arts: "Reading was central to my efforts to make something of myself, elevate my consciousness, and thereby give shape to my soul. What sort of man should I be? What was the meaning of the world?…With the knowledge I gathered from my reading, I would chart my path to adulthood."
Glasgow, 2012.
About Me | My Best Work | FAQ | Twitter | Facebook
It is better to conquer yourself than to win a thousand battles. Then the victory is yours. It cannot be taken from you, not by angels or by demons, heaven or hell.
- Buddha
Soundtrack : www.youtube.com/watch?v=1a76FeV2-Dw
SHE TALKS TO ANGELS by BLACK CROWES
FALLEN ANGELS ARE FOREVER YOUNG, BUT MORTALS RETURN TO EARTH
A short work of fiction telling the story of a fallen angel who fell in love with a mortal ... They lived a Bohemian existence and roamed the world together like romantic gypsies, but mortals grow old, but not always and fallen angels may or may not return to heaven … This is their ambiguous story … I am just the story teller. The interpretation is for you to decide … ; 0))
He told me he was just a simple man,
ever since the rib of Eve when life began
I found him as he wrote his Book of Ancient lore
and he caught me as I tumbled to the wine-stained floor
In retrospect, it still looks like that's all there was
A simple uncluttered, unfettered life, a rebel writer without a clause
on the outside Bohemian existence; on the inside existentially rife
I was his girl and together we lived a single life
by that I mean as one; not in any sense apart
the unspoken knowledge lived quietly
hidden deeply within our hearts
we moved from town to town on the outskirts of other human lives
avoided the lies of smallville shame-hooded scorn-filled eyes
We hitched the Dartmoor pony to the single wooden trap
I hitched my skirts and petticoats up so as to avoid the wrap
of shackles that would keep me earthward bound
and heckles that would rise from less than solid ground
shackled every long dark Winter's night to him
his heckles rose with each newly anticipated breaking dawn
so why did it take me so long to realise
the disconnection from my seemingly contented gypsy life
was it something I couldn't even fathom it ran so deep
as the deepest ocean bed, even though I was his wife
in every sense except in law but then
we never followed that straight and narrow line
the confines of suburban self-made men
never bothered us or crossed our minds
he called me his little angel; I called him my prince of men
he said I talked to angels so I must have been like one of them
I thought he talked to crows; he had them in his power
he taught them tricks and they obeyed;
but he could never teach me the hours
he said I was far beyond the ways of men
that time had somehow left me alone
escaped it's notice, freed my bones
so wings could grow and I could fly
that's why he tied me to the night
by day there was nothing he could do but cry
he kept to the shadows as that was his due
the sun would raise him down if he stepped into view
he knew I knew what he was all about
no longer simple swings and roundabouts
he knew that it was only now a small matter of time
before I flew out of sight and was gone far from him and away
it just so happened one bright and glorious sun-drenched day
the shackles rusted right through in the storm-sodden night
and his heckles began to rise
but dissipated with the morning dew
the light burned out in his dark and solemn eyes
and he could see where I was at
and I could see that he was resigned
I guess he knew this day would come
as he stepped into the blistering sun that rendered him now blind
I tried to stop him, told him not to follow me
but he insisted there was nothing left for him now to be
as he freed himself from the shadows where he had clung so long
and crumbled slowly into the dust from whence he came
I shed a tear for what might have been
but I had to follow my destiny and leave him to his fate
I flew up into the blue abyss on newly formed wings as white as mist
but always safe within my heart,
the memory of another life and love exist
- AP - Copyright remains with the author
'copyright image please do not reproduce without permission'
The capacity to be alone is the capacity to love. It may look paradoxical to you, but it is not. It is an existential truth: only those people who are capable of being alone are capable of love, of sharing, of going into the deepest core of the other person—without possessing the other, without becoming dependent on the other, without reducing the other to a thing, and without becoming addicted to the other. - Osho
One of my favourite artists. The original background was gallery white. I have always been fascinated with his existential sculptures....."conveying a sense of disorientation and confusion in the face of an apparently meaningless or absurd world"
These violent melodies we create
where we lie asleep we're dreaming
taken by this existential existance. a predetermined fate which captures our imagination, when imagination is all we have.
can you picture the moment;
you're blissfully alone. friends surround you, but they're elsewhere, and you're free. every slight shift of your weight creates a rustle amongst the leaves beneath you. your toes are dipped in water, as you lie by the lakeside. occasionally you swirl your feet just to watch the ripples. it's a hot night. your entire body is just warm; the last dregs of sunlight have soaked your bones, as they light the sky in an almost crimson hue, but they're gone now. it isn't dark, to your eyes at least. yet the stars are already out. maybe you know the constellations. maybe you don't. but you lie there and watch them anyway, as they shift and glitter, some lost a thousand years in history, yet still lighting our sky.
what are you thinking of? are you deliberating existance; how they formed, why you're here? are you debating your mindset; pondering your happiness, allowing yourself to enjoy the moment? are you considering the nature of chocolate moose? or just moose? or the nature of such a word, where the expected plural is entirely wrong - you're most certainly not deliberating 'meece', yet that's what you'd anticipate it to be.
are you thinking?
this is for you. this is for the dreamers. this is for all of those creative souls; the ones that consider. we quantify our emotions. we strive for perfection but meet imperfection like an old friend, because we aren't afraid to be wrong. we long to be remembered; our failures in print while our masterpieces lie unwritten, uncreated, still the very seeds of an idea. we allow others in to share our world, but they never quite understand. we sleep amidst a sea of nightmares and creation, and we aren't afraid to be afraid. we've run through so many nights with adrenaline pounding our veins and all those fields, all those trees we've climbed, and all those times we feel like we've lived
already. because we know that there's so much more ahead.
but the nature of our nature means we're damned by this existential existance. will we always be searching for what else is out there, unable to settle to anything that could resemble a reality? will we spend too long wondering what happiness is and forget to just allow ourselves to get lost in the emotion? will we question our relationships with others, and query ulterior motives to the extent that we distance ourselves from the ones we'd like to let closest?
will we ever know who we are? does it really matter?
I've been pondering life, the universe, and everything (well, mostly flickr). I'm wondering what comes next. Not that I don't love flickr... I have seen so many beautiful things, learned so many new skills, been inspired by so much creativity. I'm curious to know from my contacts... what do you do photographically aside from flickr. Is it purely a hobby? Do you photograph events for friends? Do you sell your prints or art online? Do you submit your photos to juried exhibitions or show your work? Do you take photos every day or maybe a couple days a week? Do you like to stick to one genre or do you prefer a variety of subjects? What's next. Is there life after flickr?
It is a very old trunk.
And in the end, there is no difference between it and us.
Our skin, sooner or later,
will become the same:
etched, hardened, marked.
It is not decay.
It is experience settling in.
A form of awareness no youth can yet afford.
È un tronco vecchissimo.
E alla fine non c’è alcuna differenza tra lui e noi.
La nostra pelle, prima o poi,
diventerà così:
incisa, irrigidita, segnata.
Non è decadenza.
È esperienza che si deposita.
Una consapevolezza che nessun giovane può ancora permettersi.
Two nights ago I was pulling an all-nighter at the student halls of residence. Well, I am a night owl but this has been getting extreme of late. It was in the wee hours of the morning when I noticed myself staring at a Word document in the glass reflection and had a moment of thesis-writing-induced existential crisis...
... and stared blankly at the warm lighting from the pavement outside that was beckoning vs. the cold fluorescent lighting in the study room that seemed to hint that I was overstaying my welcome...
... and took a selfie with my phone.
A description of existentialism I found was "concerned with the nature of human existence as determined by the individual's freely made choices."
First of all, the desire to dress en femme, to present myself as a woman, is engrained in me. I did not choose for that desire to exist.
Where I do freely make a choice is to actually do something about that desire, especially going out-and-about. In a sense I am baring my soul every time people see me.
And I am happier for it!
I close my eyes and see
a seagull in the desert,
high, against unbearably blue sky.
There is hope in the past.
I am writing to you
all the time, I am writing
with both hands,
day and night.
— Franz Wright, “P.S.,” Walking to Martha’s Vineyard
When you tend towards sleep
and sound with clogs and singing
and I'm lingering bewildered at your crossroads
you kindle for me in the dark of a square
a light of calm, a window pane
— Vittorio Sereni
The Timeless Tragedy of a Universe of Gods and Men - The Anthropocentric-Theocentric Theory Versus Animism by Daniel Arrhakis (2026)
The Timeless Tragedy of a Universe of Gods and Men
The Anthropocentric-Theocentric Theory Versus Animism
Greek Mythology: The Cycle of Cronus and Zeus
In Greek mythology, Cronus, fearing a prophecy that foretold him as a victim of his own children, devoured the descendants he had with Rhea: Hestia, Demeter, Hera, Hades, and Poseidon. Only Zeus escaped this fate, growing up and forcing Cronus to regurgitate his siblings. With this, Zeus led a revolt that culminated in Cronus's imprisonment in Tartarus (*).
Humanization of the Gods: Soul and Feelings
The gods, despite their immortality and extraordinary powers, possessed a soul similar to that of humans. They felt forgiveness, benevolence, justice, but also pride, fury, and vengeance—feelings that justified the need for sacrifices in their name by men.
The Existential Dilemma of Man
Even if a god created man in his image, the dilemma remains: man feels himself to be the master of a mortal world, while depending on a creator who supports him and also dictates his destiny. With this, a timeless existential and civilizational dilemma arose, revealing itself as a tragedy for human existence itself.
Anthropocentrism, Theocentrism, and Animism
The tragedy lies in the tension between the centrality of the human (anthropocentrism) and the sovereignty of the divine (theocentrism), but this can be mediated by an animistic perception, in which everything possesses a soul.
The text captures the "Gordian knot" of the human condition: we create (or are created by) giant mirrors in the sky that amplify both our nobility and our monstrosity.
The Cosmic Error and the Legitimacy of Tyranny
By attributing faces and passions to the gods, we condemn ourselves to live in a cosmos where error is not only human, but also cosmic. If the gods are driven by fury and vengeance, man feels legitimized to act despotically.
Key Points of Reflection
- The Mirror of Tartarus: The imprisonment of Cronus symbolizes the attempt of order (Zeus) to repress primitive chaos and devouring time. However, by acting with the same violence as his father, the "civilizing god" reveals that divinity is merely the human ego on a monumental scale.
- The Paradox of Imitation: Man seeks the immortality and power of the gods (hubris or arrogance), but upon achieving them, replicates divine tyranny. The vassalage demanded by the gods becomes demanded by the "deified" kings, perpetuating the cycle of conflict.
- The Bridge of Animism: The vision of a soul in everything was the first attempt at balance. If trees and rivers have souls, sovereignty is not exclusive to man nor to a distant god, but to a vital web. Abandoning animism in favor of rigid theocentrism isolated man in his own dilemma.
The Mythical Repetition of Humanity
This dynamic transforms the history of humanity into a tragic and mythical repetition: we defeat our internal "Titans" only to become the new tyrants of Olympus, always under the shadow of a Tartarus that we ourselves have built.
(*) - In Greek mythology, Tartarus is the deep, dark abyss beneath Hades (Underworld) used as a dungeon of torment for the wicked and a prison for Titans. It represents the lowest region of the underworld, often described as a place of inescapable, divine punishment, distinct from the main realm of the dead.
________________________________________________________________________________________________
A Tragédia Intemporal De Um Universo De Deuses E Homens
A Teoria Antropo-Teocêntrica Versus Animismo
Mitologia Grega: O Ciclo de Cronos e Zeus
Na mitologia grega, Cronos, temendo uma profecia que o anunciava como vítima de seus próprios filhos, devorou os descendentes que teve com Reia: Héstia, Deméter, Hera, Hades e Poseidon. Apenas Zeus escapou desse destino, crescendo e obrigando Cronos a regurgitar os irmãos. Com isso, Zeus liderou uma revolta que culminou no aprisionamento de Cronos no Tártaro.
Humanização dos Deuses: Alma e Sentimentos
Os deuses, apesar de sua imortalidade e poderes extraordinários, possuíam uma alma semelhante à humana. Sentiam perdão, benevolência, justiça, mas também orgulho, fúria e vingança, sentimentos que justificavam a necessidade de sacrifícios em seu nome por parte dos homens.
O Dilema Existencial do Homem
Mesmo que tenha sido um deus a criar o homem à sua imagem, o dilema permanece: o homem sente-se dono de um mundo mortal, enquanto depende de um criador que o ampara e também dita o seu destino. Com isso, surgiu um dilema existencial e civilizacional intemporal, revelando-se uma tragédia para a própria existência humana.
Antropocentrismo, Teocentrismo e Animismo
A tragédia reside na tensão entre a centralidade do humano (antropocentrismo) e a soberania do divino (teocentrismo), mas que pode ser mediada por uma perceção animista, na qual tudo possui alma.
O texto capta o "nó górdio" da condição humana: criamos (ou fomos criados por) espelhos gigantes no céu que amplificam tanto nossa nobreza quanto nossa monstruosidade.
O Erro Cósmico e a Legitimidade da Tirania
Ao atribuir rosto e paixões aos deuses, condenamo-nos a viver num cosmos onde o erro não é apenas humano, mas também cósmico. Se os deuses são movidos por fúria e vingança, o homem sente-se legitimado a agir despoticamente.
Pontos Fulcrais da Reflexão
- O Espelho do Tártaro: O aprisionamento de Cronos simboliza a tentativa da ordem (Zeus) de reprimir o caos primitivo e o tempo devorador. Contudo, ao agir com a mesma violência do pai, o "deus civilizador" revela que a divindade é apenas o ego humano em escala monumental.
- O Paradoxo da Imitação: O homem busca a imortalidade e o poder dos deuses (húbris ou arrogância), mas ao alcançá-los, replica a tirania divina. A vassalagem exigida pelos deuses passa a ser exigida pelos reis "divinizados", perpetuando o ciclo de conflitos.
- A Ponte do Animismo: A visão de alma em tudo foi a primeira tentativa de equilíbrio. Se árvores e rios têm alma, a soberania não é exclusiva do homem nem de um deus distante, mas de uma teia vital. O abandono do animismo em favor do teocentrismo rígido isolou o homem em seu próprio dilema.
A Repetição Mítica da Humanidade
Essa dinâmica transforma a história da humanidade numa repetição trágica e mítica: derrotamos nossos "Titãs" internos apenas para nos tornarmos os novos tiranos do Olimpo, sempre sob a sombra de um Tártaro que nós mesmos construímos.
(*) - Na mitologia grega, o Tártaro é o abismo profundo e escuro por baixo do Hades (Submundo), usado como masmorra de tormento para os ímpios e prisão para os Titãs. Representa a região mais baixa do submundo, frequentemente descrita como um lugar de castigo divino inescapável, distinto do reino principal dos mortos.
Such existential questions are waiting to be answered, and I tremble at the thought.
You and I, secret-keepers, hide meanings within words within hearts within people.
(Please do not weep over this, for you are not alone.)
I have realised the following:
Memories romanticized and sleep lost, time has this way of changing everything.
I long for violin bows and red roses. Spells and double-moons and midnight.
Encounters with foxen have left me shaken.
It is these thoughts that cause my bones to turn to dust.
Translucent under bath-water, I wither, I wither.
Growing tiny, some days a disappearance is welcomed.
What lies in yesteryear's Dreams?
Steven Wright quote.
➊ Blog: Doña Chaulafanita y sus recetas ✔
If you wish to use any of my images for any reason/purpose please contact me (Chaulafanita@photographer.net ) or send me a flickr mail so I'll make them available for sale.
I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you - Nobody - too?
Then there's a pair of us!
Dont tell! they'd banish us - you know!
How dreary - to be - Somebody!
How public - like a Frog -
To tell your name - the livelong June -
To an admiring Bog!
In a world full of narcissistic frogs croaking about how great they are, it is a blessed relief to sit back and allow life to wash over us. The river of life flows from a distant past to an undetermined future and we exist to share in it. Our time in the river is but a blip, meaningless in itself, but at least we can say (with all extinct species that have preceded us) once we were here.
Our uniqueness as humans (as far as we can tell, though I wouldn't discount the intelligence of all sentient creatures to some extent) is that we face existential questions about our fate. We know that we are going to die. Our creative endeavours have been suggested as responses to this reality - we seek a kind of immortality through our works, hoping against hope that when we are gone we might be remembered.
That's true to some degree, we all know of the works of Bach, Mozart and Beethoven, Leonardo Da Vinci, Rembrandt and Vincent Van Gogh. But there is no one alive who can tell us exactly WHO these artists were in themselves. Long gone, and forgotten. Geniuses might delay the truth of oblivion by centuries or even millennia, but no one can tell the name of the proto-realist artist who painted the animals on the cave walls of Lascaux 30,000 years ago (and even that time is but a blip for a planet that is 4.5 billion years old).
One day soon we will ALL be forgotten. The poet Shelley put it starkly when he wrote of the great Egyptian Pharoah, Ramesses II (using his Greek name of Ozymandias).
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
The last two years have given me much pause for thoughts like this. I used to feel invincible - never a sick day - tall and strong. And then one after another my physical being starts to show signs of serious wear. I've already told how there are two conditions I have right now that at some point in my future will probably steal my life away (it's not a matter of if, but when).
Both those particular conditions in themselves can be controlled through medication or even surgery when the time arises, but it's the flow on effect that is truly debilitating. My recent lay off from Flickr is a good illustration of this. Last year I was struck down with the Respiratory syncytial virus (RSV). It attacked my lungs in a way I've never experienced before, and sadly it has led to a further weakening of my entire respiratory and cardiovascular system.
So when a little over two weeks ago I started getting the flu (ironically I was to have my vaccination the next week), I got much sicker than I would normally. There were several times when I thought the congestion in my lungs would necessitate being hospitalised. Only today (the sun is shining beautifully outside) have I felt well enough to get back on Flickr, though even that leads to some trepidation.
The lack of energy is one thing, but the real issue for viewing the computer screen has been my hypersensitive eyes. It takes time following cataract surgery to adjust to the artificial lenses in the eyes. Even with eyedrops prolonged screen viewing (even TV) causes serious irritation. The flu virus has probably exacerbated it.
But look, as Emily Dickinson reminds us, whatever our sufferings (and mine are minor compared to many), we are in good company. At the very least our sufferings make us realise that life is real, and it is what we make of it. So late last week I ordered a new stock of film for my cameras (it should be delivered today actually), and I am already planning to get out and shoot again. Why waste a minute in the river of life? We can't tell what's around the next bend, but enjoy it while we can.
Yesterday, a couple of inspiring photobooks that I'd ordered, finally arrived from the UK. They are outstanding works by someone regarded by many as one of the true geniuses of the camera, Sir Don McCullin. He is 91 now, and at the end of what may well be his last book, The Stillness of Life (GOST, 2025) he writes:
"My photographic passion may be waning - the darkroom days are numbered - the deadly chemistry is too much and the place has become like a decayed tooth in need of extraction. Or rather it is most certainly me that has to be extracted - blessed after seventy years floating in that time capsule like an astronaut in space, suspended in the warm cocooning glow of the red light of what has been my life's main purpose and an extraordinary adventure."
Life an extraordinary adventure. It sure is, the good, the bad and the ugly. We can't take any of our material goods and achievements with us when we die (I love that ultimate irony that the richest and most powerful people on earth die with nothing like the rest of us - Nature is communist after all!). We are all "Nobody" and the sooner we recognise that fact the sooner we will suck the marrow out of whatever life we have remaining.
Here's a great article on the legacy of Don McCullin. Note the title. I'll review his books in due course:
www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/ng-interactive/2025/oct/...