«Sixty is like the blow of a stone»

by Giuseppina Pieragostini*

Sixty is like the blow of a stone. A sort of lapidation with sixty big stones which go straight to the target. In case you’re a lucky woman, a sharp blow with no warning, while you’re thinking that everything is still to happen, love too, maybe. But, I mean, did you ever take a look at yourself?

Susan Sarandon durante la conferenza stampa di presentazione del Premio Kinéo svoltasi all’Hotel Excelsior di Venezia lo scorso 3 settembre. All’attrice americana è stato assegnato il Kinéo International Award. Nata a Jackson  Heights NY il 4 ottobre 1946, compie oggi 71 anni. Congratulations! Susan Sarandon attending a press conference at the Excelsior Hotel, during Venice Film Festival last september. Foto con il cellulare di Luca Bartolommei.

Above all, you walk as if you don’t have anything interesting left between your legs; then your forms, they stick with stubbornness to the most inappropriate areas of your body, so you’ll find those hips gone up to the armpits, to say nothing of the knees, which look more and more like stone-posts, your arms enlarged in the wrong part and your cheeks which thrive at their own convenience.

And it wouldn’t be over, but phenomenology has limits, too.
Pushing and clawing, present women in their fifties, gained a place, if not amorous, a bit winky al least, in the collective imagination and gave rise to an army of new Amazons in their shining armour, which look others right in the face.

You spent that period at a steady pace, showing off your mottled mop as if you got back to being that prepuberal girl with her head full of dreams; while Portia, again and again, my lifetime’s best enemy, never got off her spike heels and was changing, each three days, the shape and colour of her hair.

Approaching the end of the decade, a certain anxiety creeps in; if the colonization of the fifties has moved farther nobody’s land’s boundaries, that feeling keeps spreading itself, unknown and relentless and, unless you luckily die earlier, you must deal with it.
It’s useless to hang on to the last bits of age, dig in your heels on the edge of the abyss; once lost their arrogance, women get into the sixties dazed and disbelieving. Just an instant, and age, which was a grace to hide or show depending on the game, becomes an implacable master.

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Annunci

Buio a New York

a cura di Paola Ciccioli

Craigie Horsfield, “Broadway, 14th day, 18 minutes after dusk, September 2001, 2012” (https://www.luganolac.ch/it/933/craigie-horsfield)

Ho visto questo arazzo di Craigie Horsfield a Lugano, al Museo d’arte della Svizzera italiana. C’era anche l’artista inglese, quel giorno, perché si inaugurava la sua mostra “Of the Deep Present”, con quelle opere, a volte grandi quanto un’intera parete, che sono “dipinti fotografici” di fortissimo impatto. Come questa scena della distruzione delle torri gemelle di New York, realizzata su un “tessuto” di lana, cotone, seta e filato sintetico 11 anni dopo l’attacco terroristico dell’11 settembre 2001. Lascio la parola alla critica d’arte statunitense Nancy Princenthal e a quel che scrive nel sontuoso catalogo:

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A prisoner’s diary in our hands, responsibility and memories in our hearts

by Angela Giannitrapani*

A picture of Angela Giannitrapani in Marsala, her birthplace, where she told about her book “Quando cadrà la neve a Yol – Prigioniero in India” (Tra le Righe Libri, 2016) making the audience touched about how the novel was born and the events of the story

What shall we do when we find a letter, a card, the diary of a person who’s no longer alive? We peep up at it, of course. Then we read it again more carefully and it happens that we might keep or break some ancient links. At least we wonder what to do: should we keep it aside, give it to someone else, or bury it again where we found it? I had all these sorts of thoughts. It happened with my father’s diary about his captivity during World War II. My sister found it and didn’t hesitate to show it to me. She read it immediately but it took me ten years before doing it. Continua a leggere

Padri, madri, figli e dubbi

di Luca Bartolommei

Ecco un altro brano da ascoltare con i nostri figli. Il titolo, Father and son, è molto chiaro e non lascia dubbi sulle figure che animano la canzone. Due parole sull’album che la contiene. È il 1970 quando Steven Demetre Georgiou, questo il vero nome di Cat Stevens, pubblica il suo quarto LP, Tea for the Tillerman, che contiene, oltre a Father and son, altri brani di successo. Un disco gentile ed equilibrato, acustico e sognante.

harold-and-maude

“Harold e Maude” è un film del 1971 diretto da Hal Ashby. La colonna sonora è di Cat Stevens, autore di “Father and son”, canzone sugli incontri e gli addii ai quali la vita ci chiede di prepararci

Alcuni brani dell’album furono inseriti nella colonna sonora di Harold e Maude, tenerissimo film del 1971 di Hal Ashby, insieme ad altre canzoni di Stevens, diventando parte integrante del film stesso. Per inciso, la pellicola narra dell’incontro tra un ragazzo di diciotto anni e una signora di settantanove, della loro amicizia che si trasforma in amore, e pur finendo in maniera drammatica, rimane un tenerissimo inno alla vita. Da vedere, magari anche questo, insieme.

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Figli e padri a scuola di sogni

di Luca Bartolommei

siria-bambini

Aleppo. Bambini. Quasi sorridenti. Potremo mai insegnargli a nutrirsi dei nostri sogni? Chissà quali saranno i loro. Foto http://www.BBC.com

È quasi Natale e siamo tutti buonissimi, quindi pensiamo a cose belle, carine, anche tenere.

Questa canzone è da cantare insieme, con le amiche e gli amici del liceo, allora eravamo figli, ora qualcuno è genitore, e tocca lavorare. Le acustiche, Roberto Nespoli con la 12 corde, la versione di 4 way street, le tre voci, insomma, era un inno. Ma non dimentichiamoci i ragazzi, i bambini, eh no, anche loro devono partecipare al “Teach your children” di Natale, cerimonia che si ripete annualmente, nelle case di qualche nostalgico… così com’era per il “Blue Monk” di fine anno.

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Sabati “blues”

a cura di Luca Bartolommei

in_the_wake_of_poseidon

The 12 Archetypes or The 12 Faces Of Humankind (I dodici archetipi o i dodici volti dell’umanità). Tammo de Jongh (1967). Copertina del secondo LP dei King Crimson, In the Wake of Poseidon

BOOK OF SATURDAY

If I only could deceive you
Forgetting the game
Every time I try to leave you
You laugh just the same

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Hillary, commander in chief of all stereotypes

by Roberta Valtorta

ct-hillary-clinton-through-the-years-2016-029

Hillary Clinton and her double. The democrat candidate President of the United States of America, here attending “Saturday Night Live” on NBC, together with actress Kate McKinnon, her imitator                                       (from http://www.chicagotribune.com/)

Is it possible to write a few reflections about a political candidate apart from your personal opinion? I’ll try to.

My intention on this post is to put any kind of ideology apart: I neither want to guess who will be the winner between Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump, nor shoot zero about who’s better or worse. The final aim is to share some observations which this long, unusual and sometimes grotesque campaign inspired me, nothing more, nothing less, but let’s start from the beginning.

A few weeks ago, during the second presidential debate, Hillary Clinton was in the middle of answering one of Anderson Cooper‘s questions when a fly landed on her face. She didn’t instinctively react, didn’t flinch and continued speaking, and shortly after landing the bug flew away.

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