Arxius

Posts Tagged ‘Patti Smith’

L’Apol·lo de Robert Mapplethorpe (1988)

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Much has been said about Robert, and more will be added. Young men will adopt his gait. Young girls will wear white dresses and mourn his curls. He will be condemned and adored. His excesses damned or romanticized. In the end, truth will be found in his work, the corporeal body of the artist. It will not fall away. Man cannot judge it. For art sings of God, and ultimately belongs to him.

Patti Smith
Just kids

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Apollo Mapplethorpe

 

Robert Mapplethorpe, Apollo (1988) 
Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, New York Gift,
The Robert Mapplethorpe Foundation, 1995

Guggenheim.org

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Robert Mapplethorpe’s Photograph of Apollo (1988)

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What’s missing is the body, its nakedness wrapped
in marble. What’s missing is the hair, the floating hair
that falls in chalky tendrils. Only the face, huge
and larval-white, peers into the darkness.
Still, this is perfect youthful manhood, iridescent
against chaos. The eyes, wild and vacant, look
but see nothing. What slaking difference?–
They have known ecstasy, that patina
marble carries everywhere. A suddenness
unwarranted, beautiful. The lips, moistened, part
more to breathe than speak. Such desire,
a poetry. The silk of the moment before him,
the rest becomes salt, memory, history.
There is order here, but passion is its spectacular
disarray. The music turning toward light
shadows. O god of the healing art
where is the beautiful lyre of the body?
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Mark Irwin
Quick, now, always

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El que hi manca és el cos, la seva nuesa embolcallada
en marbre. El que hi manca són els cabells, els cabells flotants
que cauen en circells de guix. Només la cara, immensa
i blanca com una larva, guaita dins la fosca.
No obstant, és perfecta jovenívola masculinitat, iridescent
contra el caos. Els ulls, salvatges i vagarosos, miren
però res no veuen. Quina gratificant diferència?—
Han conegut l’èxtasi, aquesta pàtina
que el marbre duu pertot. Una prestesa
injustificada, bonica. Els llavis, humitejats, més aviat
per respirar que per parlar. Aquest desig,
una poesia. La seda del moment davant seu,
la resta esdevé sal, memòria, història.
Hi ha ordre, aquí, però la passió és el seu espectacular
desgavell. La música girant les ombres cap a la
llum. Oh déu de l’art guaridora
on és la bonica lira del cos?

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Robert & Patti

Robert Mapplethorpe i Patti Simth

Mark Irwin

Mark Irwin

 

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«Mortal infliction», de Gregory Corso. Ulisses i Polifem a la «Beat Generation»

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MORTAL INFLICTION
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I think of Polyphemus bellowing his lowly woe
seated high on a cliff
sun-tight legs dangling into the sea
his fumbling hands grappling his burnt eye
And I think he will remain like that
because it’s impossible for him to die—
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Ulysses is dead
by now he’s dead
And how wise was he
who blinded a thing of immortality?

Gregory_Corso

Gregory Corso
(NYC, New York, 1930 – Minnesota, 2001)

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Gregory Corso

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Gregory Corso, the flower of the beat generation, is gone. He has been plucked to grace the Daddy garden and all in heaven are magnified and amused. I first encountered Gregory long ago in front of the Chelsea Hotel. He lifted his overcoat and dropped his trousers, spewing Latin expletives. Seeing my astonished face, he laughed and said, “I’m not mooning you sweetheart, I’m mooning the world.” I remember thinking, how fortunate for the world to be privy to the exposed rump of a true poet.

And that he was. All who have stories, real or embellished, of Gregory’s legendary mischief and chaotic indiscretions must also have stories of his beauty, his remorse, and his generosity. He took benevolent note of me in the early ’70s, maybe because my living space was akin to his —piles of papers, books, old shoes, piss in cups—mortal disarray. We were disruptive partners in crime during particularly tedious poetry readings at St. Mark’s.

Though we were aptly scolded, Gregory counseled me to stick to my irreverent guns and demand more from those who sat before us calling themselves poets.

There was no doubt Gregory was a poet. Poetry was his ideology, and the poets his saints. He was called upon and he knew it.

Perhaps his only dilemma was to sometimes ask, Why, why him? He was born in New York City on March 26, 1930. His young mother abandoned him.

The boy drifted from foster home to reformatory to prison. He had little formal education, but his self-education was limitless. He embraced the Greeks and the Romantics, and the Beats embraced him, pressing laurel leaves upon his dark unruly curls. Knighted by Kerouac as Raphael Urso, he was their pride and joy and also their most provocative conscience.

He has left us two legacies: a body of work that will endure for its beauty, discipline, and influential energy, and his human qualities. He was part Pete Rose, part Percy Bysshe Shelley. He could be explosively rebellious, belligerent, and testing, yet in turn, boyishly pure, humble, and compassionate. He was always willing to say he was sorry, share his knowledge, and was open to learn. I remember watching him sit at Allen Ginsberg’s bedside as he lay dying. “Allen is teaching me how to die,” he said.

In early summer his friends were summoned to say goodbye to him. We sat by his bedside on Horatio Street in silence. The night was filled with strange correspondences. A daughter he had never known. A patron from far away. A young poet at his feet. On a muted screen, Robert Frank’s Pull My Daisy randomly aired on public television —unaware of its mystical timing. Images of the Daddies, young and crazy, black and white. Snapshots of Allen taped to the wall. The modest room lorded over by Gregory’s chair in all its shabby glory. So many dreams punctuated by cigarette burns. He was dying. We all said goodbye.

But Gregory, perhaps sensing the devotion surrounding him, became a participant in a true Catholic miracle. He rose up. He went into remission just long enough for us to hear his voice, his laughter, and a few welcomed obscenities. We were able to write poems for him, sing to him, watch football, and hear him recite Blake. He was here long enough to travel to Minneapolis, to bond with his daughter, to be a king among children, to see another fall, another winter, and another century. Allen taught him how to die. Gregory reminded us how to live and cherish life before leaving us a second time.

Patti SmithAt the end of his days, he still suffered a young poet’s torment —the desire to achieve perfection. And in death, as in art, he shall. The fresh light pours. The boys from the road steer him on. But before he ascends into some holy card glow, Gregory, being himself, lifts his overcoat, drops his trousers, and as he exposes his poet’s rump one last time, cries, “Hey man, kiss my daisy.” Ahh Gregory, the years and petals fly.

He loved us. He loved us not. He loved us.

Patti Smith

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