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[SOON , A TITLE HERE ] - Page 11

post #151 of 1305
A very interesting concept house (not a rendering, it exists "in real life") that's doesn't look like some sort of weird alien dwelling. Clever interaction between natural lighting (through various opening shapes) and lines used within the design and architecture. A wide variety of shapes and textures throughout as well.

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Edited by cyc wid it - 12/21/11 at 9:48pm
post #152 of 1305
Thread Starter 
Quote:
Originally Posted by Synthese View Post

I guess one of Manet's models did commit suicide at some point; a dubious dedication

The rope as lucky charm thing threw me off, had to look it up to get the ending. I guess it makes sense given the title and was actually implied in the last paragraph /sipangfail
Edited by sipang - 12/21/11 at 11:17pm
post #153 of 1305
I don't know about that; it's pretty obscure
post #154 of 1305
Quote:
Originally Posted by Ivwri View Post

Sipang, who would you say is the current menswear equivalent of Phoebe Philo? I really love what I have seen of her stuff.

It's celine 2011 Fall women's collection. I don't think they have men's ready to wear, I've seen some men's accessories by celine,
post #155 of 1305

 

IT BEGAN BEFORE THAT, TOO, in other cities of the world, with plans hatched at dinner tables or during long-distance calls, plans for time together and saving the world, for corralling AIDS and feeding the famine-stricken and family reunions. What these people held in common at first--these diplomats and scientists and students, these lovers and parents and children--was an elemental feeling, that buzz of excitement derived from holding a ticket to some foreign place. And what distinguished that ticket from billions of other tickets was the simple designation of a number: SR111. New York to Geneva, following the Atlantic coast up along Nova Scotia, then out over Greenland and Iceland and England, and then down finally into Switzerland, on the best Airline in the world. Seven hours if the tailwinds were brisk. There in time for breakfast on the lake.

                In one row would be a family with two grown kids, a computer-genius son and an attorney daughter, setting out on their hiking holiday to the Bernese Oberland. In another would be a woman whose boyfriend was planning to propose to her when she arrived in Geneva. Sitting here would be a world-famous scientist, with his world-famous scientist wife. And there would be the boxer's son, a man who had grown to look like his legendary father, the same thick brow and hard chin, the same mournful eyes, on a business trip to promote his father's tomato sauce.

                Like lovers who haven't yet met or one-day neighbors living now in different countries, tracing their route to one another, each of them moved toward the others without knowing it, in these cities and towns, grasping Airline tickets. Some, like the Swiss tennis pro, would miss the flight, and others, without tickets, would be bumped from other flights onto this one at the last minute, feeling lucky to have made it, feeling chosen.

                In the hours before the flight, a young blond woman with blue, almost Persian eyes said goodbye to her boyfriend in the streets of Manhattan and slipped into a cab. A fifty-six-year-old man had just paid a surprise visit to see his brother's boat, a refurbished sloop, on the Sound, just as his two brothers and his elderly mother came in from a glorious day on the water, all that glitter and wind, and now he was headed back to Africa, to the parched veldts and skeletal victims, to the disease and hunger, back to all this worrying for the world.

                Somewhere else, a man packed--his passport, his socks--then went to the refrigerator to pour himself a glass of milk. His three kids roughhoused in the other room. His wife complained that she didn't want him to fly, didn't want him to leave on this business trip. On the refrigerator was a postcard, sent randomly by friends, of a faraway fishing village--the houses and fences and clotheslines, the ocean and the lighthouse and the green light revolving, revolving. He had looked at that postcard every day since it had been taped there. A beautiful spot. Something about it. Could a place like that really exist?

                All of these people, it was as if they were all turning to gold, all marked with an invisible X on their foreheads, as of course we are, too, the place and time yet to be determined. Yes, we are burning down; time is disintegrating. There were 229 people who owned cars and houses, slept in beds, had bought clothes and gifts for this trip, some with price tags still on them--and then they were gone.

                Do you remember the last time you felt the wind? Or touched your lips to the head of your child? Can you remember the words she said as she last went, a ticket in hand?

 

The Long Fall of One-Eleven Heavy

post #156 of 1305
One of my favorite paintings.
Picasso

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post #157 of 1305
Also, for you non-Francophone readers (like me), here's a translation of what Synth posted:

The Rope
For Édouard Manet

"Illusions," my friend said to me, "Are perhaps as numberless as the relations between men, or between men and things. And when the illusion disappears, that is to say, when we see the being or the fact as it exists outside of ourselves, we experience a bizarre feeling, complicated half by regret for the disappeared phantom, half by agreeable surprise in the face of novelty, in the fact of the real thing. If there is one obvious, trivial phenomenon, a phenomenon the remains always the same and about whose nature it is impossible to be mistaken, it is mother love. It is as difficult to imagine a mother without maternal love as a light without heat. Then isn't it perfectly legitimate to attribute all of the words and actions of a mother to mother love, at least as regards her child? And yet, listen to this little story, about a time when I was singularly mystified by the most natural of illusions.

"As a painter, I am driven to pay close attention to the faces, the physiognomies, that offer themselves to me on the street, and you know what enjoyment we draw from that ability, which in our eyes renders life more alive and more meaningful than it is for other men. In the remote quarter where I live and where vast grassy yards still separate buildings, I often saw a child whose ardent and mischievous physiognomy, more so than all the others, seduced me from the very first. He posed more than once for me, and I transformed him sometimes into a little gypsy, sometimes into an angel, sometimes into a mythological Cupid. I had him hold the vagrant's violin, the Crown of Thorns, the Nails of the Passion, and the Torch of Eros. Indeed, I took such a sharp pleasure in all of this urchin's drollery, that one day I begged his parents, who were poor people, to agree to give him to me, promising to dress him well, to give him some money, and to impose no other labor on him than cleaning my brushes and running errands for me. Once cleaned up, the boy proved charming, and the life he led with me seemed to him a paradise, compared to what he would have been subjected to in his father's hovel. However I must say that this little fellow sometimes astonished me with singular outbursts of precocious sadness, and that he sometimes demonstrated an immoderate taste for sugar and for liqueurs, so much so that one day, after I had ascertained that, despite numerous warnings, he had again committed a theft of this sort, I threatened to send him back to his parents. Then I went out, and my business kept me from home for quite a while.

"You can well imagine my horror and astonishment when, returning to my house, the first thing that struck me was my little fellow, the mischievous companion of my life, hanging from the panel of this armoire! He feet were almost touching the floor; a chair, which he had undoubtedly pushed away with his foot, was overturned next to him; his head lean convulsively on one shoulder; his swollen face and his eyes, wide open and staring with a frightening fixity, at first gave me the illusion that he was still alive. Unhanging him was not as easy a task as one might think. He was already very stiff, and I felt an inexpicable repugnance about letting him fall abruptly onto the floor. I had to hold him up with one arm and with my other hand cut the rope. But that done, I was still not finished: the little monster had used a very cord and it had cut deeply into his skin. It was now necessary for me to use small scissors to draw the rope out from between two swollen rolls of skin, in order to extricate his neck.

"I forgot to tell you that I had called loudly for help, but that all of my neighbors refused to come to my aid, faithful in this to the habits of the civilized man, who never wishes to get mixed up in the affairs of a hanged man, I know not why. Finally, a doctor came and declared that the child had been dead for several hours. When we later had to strip him for his burial, the rigidity of the corpse was so great that, giving up any hope of bending his limbs, we had to tear and cut his clothes in order to get them off.

The police officer to whom, naturally, I had to declare the accident, looked at me oddly and said: "There's something fishy about this!", moved undoubtedly by the inveterate desire and the professional habit of, in all events, scaring the innocent as well as the guilty.

"One final task remained, the very thought of which caused me a terrible anguish: I had to tell his parents. My feet refused to carry me to their house. Finally, I found the courage. But, to my great astonishment, the boy's mother remained unmoved, and not a tear leaked from the corner of her eye. I attributed that strangeness to the very horror she must have been feeling, and I recalled that well-known adage: "The most terrible sorrows are silent sorrows." As for the father, he satisfied himself with saying, half brutishly, half dreamily: "After all, maybe it's for the best -- he would eventually have come to a bad end!"

While the body was stretched out on my sofa and I was occupied with the final preparations, aided by a serving woman, the boy's mother came into my studio. She wanted, she said, to see the corpse of her son. I could not, in truth, stop her from getting drunk on her misfortune and refuse her this final, somber consolation. Afterwards, she asked me to show her the place where her son had hung himself. "Oh! No! Madame," I said, "That would not be good for you." As my eyes turned involuntarily toward the deadly armoire, I noticed -- with a disgust mixed with horror and anger -- that the nail was still stuck in the panel, with a long piece of rope still trailing from it. I quickly darted over and tore down these last vestiges of the misfortune, and as I was about to throw them out of the open window, the poor woman seized my arm and said to me in an irresistable voice: "Oh! Monsieur! Let me have that! Please! I beg you" Undoubtedly, it seemed to me, her despair had driven her so mad that she was now struck with a fondness for that which had served as the instrument of her son's death, and wished to keep it as a terrible and beloved relic. -- And she grabbed the nail and the rope.

"Finally! Finally! Everything was done. Nothing was left to me but to get back to work, more briskly than usual, in order to chase away little by little the tiny cadaver that continued to haunt the corners of my mind, and whose phantom was wearing me out with its great, staring eyes. But the next day I received a whole pile of letters, some from the tenants in my building, several others from neighboring buildings; one from the first floor, another from the second, another from the third, and so on; some written in a half-joking tone, as if to disguise under an apparent playfulness the seriousness of the request, others completely shameless and filled with misspellings, but all asking for the same thing: that is to say, seeking to obtain from me a piece of the deadly and blessed rope. Among the signers there were, I must say, more women than men, but not all of them, believe you me, belonging to the lowest and most vulgar class. I have kept these letters.

"And then, suddenly, a light went on in my head, and I understood why the boy's mother had been so concerned with taking that cord away from me and through what sort of commerce she planned to console herself for her loss."
post #158 of 1305
Tadao Ando

Church of Light

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post #159 of 1305
Thread Starter 

Berlin Neues Museum restauration by architect David Chipperfield



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Quote:
In Berlin, there is a place called Museum Island. With stereotypical Prussian thoroughness, the five great museums and art galleries of the nation were all built together in this one place between 1825 and 1930. Finished in 1855, the Neues Museum was badly damaged and partially burned during the Second World War and was left empty and crumbling for the following 60 years.

Chipperfield – working on a case-by-case basis – excavated every original door, dome and pillar of the fresco-clad original building, refitting each, filling in the gaps as he went, being sure never to imitate the original with his distinctive, high-polished additions. It is a ruin that has been brought back into use. Restored, yes, but not back to its original ornate mid 19th century state.

The bombed parts have been reinstated - but in rough, unfinished brickwork. Where the original surface of the surviving parts has flaked off in large patches, it has not been replaced - you'd never get an exact colour match, says Chipperfield - but the old brick has been coated with a thin mortar slurry so as to make the damage recede. But you can still see the bricks beneath, just as you can clearly see the new bits. That is intriguing if a little puzzling - the place looks a bit flaky even though it isn't. Chipperfield and Harrap have avoided pastiche historical reconstruction while not glorifying the extent of the wartime damage. The marks of damage have made the exterior a lot more interesting but - now as then - it's in the interiors that the real revelations come. [...]

In a way, though, the best part of the revived Neues Museum is an incident, a transition point. Chipperfield has rebuilt the bombed south-eastern corner, complete with a dome to balance the one on the other corner. Inside, the new one is a full-height space, in the same rough new brick, rising from a square room at ground level in a seamless transition to the dome with its oculus skylight far above. It is kept dark. Two white classical statues, male and female, stand in the space, individually lit. This is a totally new section, but it is also a variant of an ancient form - a tholos - which goes right back to the Treasury of Atreus at Mycenae. That was 1300 BC.

Chipperfield, then, is playing architecture's long game. He has learned much from Museum Island about the classical tradition. His brand of modernism is increasingly classically-tinged. He knows about the spacing of columns, the importance of proportion. And he and Harrap both know that, if you're playing the long game, you don't pretend that an incident in a building's history never happened. The best architecture can take damage and be enriched by it.

The Neues Museum is such a rich composition, so carefully, almost obsessively, brought back to life, that it falls into no category. It is of itself, and it is an object lesson in timeless architecture.
post #160 of 1305
This is my favorite Cezanne painting. Very Poe.

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post #161 of 1305
Carved from a stack of books

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post #162 of 1305
Quote:
Originally Posted by Synthese View Post

This is my favorite Cezanne painting. Very Poe.
445

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post #163 of 1305
Thread Starter 
Almost looks like two separate pictures there

Quote:
Originally Posted by Synthese View Post

This is my favorite Cezanne painting. Very Poe.

445

Quote:
I looked upon the scene before me --upon the mere house, and the simple landscape features of the domain --upon the bleak walls --upon the vacant eye-like windows --upon a few rank sedges --and upon a few white trunks of decayed trees --with an utter depression of soul which I can compare to no earthly sensation more properly than to the after-dream of the reveller upon opium --the bitter lapse into everyday life --the hideous dropping off of the veil. There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart --an unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could torture into aught of the sublime.

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post #164 of 1305
263263
post #165 of 1305

^ I own one of those, too :)

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