Picasso and Dali discuss life

They are speaking in A Century is Nothing.

"Have you thought of a name for your new work my friend?” asked Dali.

   “Guernica comes to mind,” Pablo said.

   “How appropriate,” Dali replied, stroking his exquisite mustache. “It will become a classic. It will connect the wild subconscious and rationality. It’ll make you famous, old boy.”

   Picasso’s Guernica commemorated the small Basque village of 10,000 in northern Spain. It was market day on Monday, April 27, 1937. In the afternoon waves of planes from the Condor Legion, Heinkel 51s and Junker 52s piloted by Germans blasted Guernica. Survivors found 1,660 corpses and 890 wounded people in the rubble.

   “Be that as it may,” Pablo replied. “Art historians and critics will have their say hey kid. It will shock supporters of social realism and propaganda art in France and Spain.”

   “How did you do it?” Dali queried.

   “From May 1st to June 4th in 1937 I made forty-five drawings on blue or black paper. I incorporated the bull, the horse, classic bullfighting figures and the lantern from my 1935 Minotauromachy. I used the weeping Dora Maar because she has always been a woman who weeps. Guernica is a bereavement letter saying everything we love is going to die. And that is why everything we love is embodied in something unforgettably beautiful, like the emotion of a final farewell.”

   “I still think your vision aspires to greater heights,” said Dali. “Your work contains your fantasies meeting the objective violence of history.”

   “You are too kind my dear Dali. People are talking about your work. Your intentional dreams, so strangely manifested, in the way you masterfully allowed your subconscious free rein on the canvas. Most amazing, your Persistence of Memory.”

   “You are too generous Pablo. I merely reflect the ongoing crisis in society, the surreal absurd nightmare, with shall we say, a twisted rather sordid but truthful elusive creative beast we must acknowledge to allow our perverse authenticity freedom wherever it leads us.”

   “So true my friend, for we are only the conduit of the magic,” said Pablo. “We paint what we see with our innermost senses, born by authentic inner visions.”

   “We are the mysteries speaking through the mysteries,” said Salvador. 

The skin I Live in

A film by Pedro Almodovar.

All the thematic elements your little heart desires.  A meditation on memory, grief, violence, degradation, and survival.

words: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Skin_I_Live_In

images: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EolQSTTTpI4

Metro Woman

Namaste,

He saw her through a window when the metro pulled in.

Alone and cold, she waited for the green metro door to open.

It was late. She wore a thin black sweater and long gray skirt.

She was slight...olive pale skin, black hair pulled back, around 45. 

She limped into the car dragging her right foot. Her left foot was normal. Her right foot looked like a case of elephantiasis. She sat twenty feet away. 

She bent over and slowly raised her skirt from around her ankles. The burned and bloody skin damage ran three inches across and ten inches high. Either first or second degree burns. A layer of skin was exposed, red, lined with white. Bare and exposed. She needed medical attention.

Two men across from her stared and diverted their eyes.

She sat, fingered a phone and grimaced. No tears, just a stoic face. 

The metro rolled through night. It passed a river, a neon bright Everest furniture store, fast food emptiness and an expensive private hospital filled with antiseptics, bandages, lotions and potions and patients with money.

She inspected her ankle, touching an edge of fried skin with a white tissue. Clear cold air sent shivers through her central nervous system shutting down pain receptors. 

Metta.

Root word

Greetings,

One illuminating little story about humans and their very short tribal life is carved on this Sumerian clay figment with someone's imagination.

It describes, in flowing vivid ecstatic gripping elusive detail, using as few reed strokes as possible given the parameters of clay space, their adventures wandering here and there across fertile plains, scorching deserts, through valleys, up and down mountains, along rivers and making camp. They carried water and chopped wood.

They domesticated wild horses. They memorized animal sounds, trails, tracks, smells and scat. They ate, wove clothing, traded shells, feathers and simple possessions, played music, danced, meditated, shared stories and rested. 

The female shaman dreamed. She dreamed visions of their journey. She transmitted her dreams to the tribe through poetry, drama, music and art.

Metta.

The Pitch

Greetings,

The buzzer buzzed. Yes? Your 11 o'clock is here, said a voice. Send them in. 

The door opened. My secretary entered. This is Mr. Red Shirt and Mr. Yellow Shirt, she said. Thank you that'll be all, I said. I shook hands with the men. Welcome. I am Mr. Chandler. Have a seat please. Mr. Red looked at Mr. Yellow with distrust and suspicion. It's ok, I said. They put their machetes away and sat down.

You have five minutes, I said. Give me your pitch. Neither spoke. They were waiting for the other one to open his mouth. You have four and 1/2 minutes, I said. They stared at each other. You first, said Mr. Red. No, you first, said Mr. Yellow. I waited. 

You have four minutes, I said. Mr. Red Shirt broke the silence. Ok, he said, here's the pitch. It's a split fingered fastball over the inside of the plate. That's a metaphor. We propose a weekly...NO! screamed Mr. Yellow Shirt, not a weekly, a daily soap opera drama.

Ok, said Mr. Red Shirt, a daily drama. Whatever. It's a series about money, power, control, greed, corruption, love, betrayal, and political and social issues in a country with a king. The king is very old. Younger people behind the scenes with everything to lose and nothing to gain run the show.

Yes, said Mr. Yellow Shirt, that's good, so far. It's a docudrama about the conflict between rich and poor people. Stupidity vs reason.

I listened. You have two minutes. Mr. Red Shirt said, Yes. It's about a Red Shirt hero who works for an ambulance company. He rescues a Yellow Shirt woman who's been attacked by a group of Red Shirts in an urban jungle war zone.

Yes, and then? I asked. Mr. Yellow Shirt said, She comes from a very wealthy and influential family. She has a change of heart because of the violence. Through the daily drama she comes to empathize with the plight of her hero. They fall in love. This creates new conflicts.

You have one minute. Wrap it up, I said. You go first, said Mr. Yellow Shirt. No, you go first, said Mr. Red Shirt.

You have thirty seconds, I said. One said, It's a struggle for equality. We've got the girl, the hero, soldiers, politicians, the Red Cross, millions of extras and direct distribution of television and film rights for Asia.

Good. Anything else? I said. Mr. Red Shirt and Mr. Yellow shirt looked at each other. Just one question, they said, When can we start shooting?

Our people will call your people. Thanks for coming in, I said. After arguing who'd take the first step they left.

The buzzer buzzed. Your 11:10 is here. Show them in. 

Metta.