{Catherine L. Addington}
Agosto 28, 2014

Tú me quieres alba,
Me quieres de espumas,
Me quieres de nácar.
Que sea azucena
Sobre todas, casta.
De perfume tenue.
Corola cerrada.

Entonces, buen hombre,
Preténdeme blanca,
Preténdeme nívea,
Preténdeme casta.

-Alfonsina Storni

La casa del ángel
dir. Leopoldo Torre Nilsson, 1957

When I sat down to watch a black-and-white movie from 1957 in 360p on YouTube for my Argentine film class, I didn’t expect to be particularly emotionally affected. The scene wasn’t exactly set. And though I got lost in their Italianate accents, the dreamlike camera movements, and the scarcely drawn characters, I felt a great deal. This movie is sad but not in the way it is supposed to be. It goes on and on about repressive Catholic sexual morality, a social class at its tapering, this supposedly tragic unraveling of a supposedly tragic status quo. But that is not its sadness. That is barely even its intention.

No, what kills me about this thing is its starkness. Even in a tale of expected liberation and romance, where the repressed girl looks to be right to disobey, where a happy ending of righteously dueled honor and love-at-first-sight turned wedding looks possible once free from religious expectation, even in that then-revolutionary trajectory, everything ends in violation. The girl who allows herself to feel love and attraction, who reclaims joy, who does not accept her caretaker’s witchlike musings on hell, is not wanted freely. The man wants to take her, and he does. And she has no one to believe anymore. The forbidden romance felt right, the forced intimacy undeniably wrong. 

Everyone is a repressor and the rulemakers are right and wrong at the same time: it’s the fifties in Argentina and moral confidence is not an option anymore.

That level of resignation to a moral abyss of female pain is not what I expected out of seventy-six minutes in our tiny Recoleta library. And it’s not what they expected in that Cannes cinema of only thirty vaguely curious spectators in 1957, either.

Agosto 27, 2014

matthit:

Kanye West - Black Skinhead vs. Tame Impala - Elephant

(vía stupidly-american)

Agosto 26, 2014

(1) Street scene at twilight, Centro Habana, 2009

(2) Street scene near the Marché de Fer, Cap-Haïtien, Haiti; 2012

(3) Saturday night on Bourbon Street, French Quarter, New Orleans, 2013

Richard Sexton photographs the Creole diaspora

Agosto 25, 2014
books0977:

Ida in an Interior with Piano (1901). Vilhelm Hammershøi (Danish, 1864-1916). Oil on canvas.
The piano, normally associated with room-filling sound, stands silent in the stillness, the player’s stool empty. Ida appears absorbed in her handiwork or reading, concealed by the side table. The painting is a  ‘symphony’  in white and grey, the whole illuminated by the soft directional light from the window as in the paintings of Vermeer which Hammershøi so admired. 

books0977:

Ida in an Interior with Piano (1901). Vilhelm Hammershøi (Danish, 1864-1916). Oil on canvas.

The piano, normally associated with room-filling sound, stands silent in the stillness, the player’s stool empty. Ida appears absorbed in her handiwork or reading, concealed by the side table. The painting is a  ‘symphony’  in white and grey, the whole illuminated by the soft directional light from the window as in the paintings of Vermeer which Hammershøi so admired. 

Agosto 25, 2014

lobisfemme:

Things I love about Buenos Aires: the cafes. There’s nothing like stopping by to have a cup of coffee before night classes or after them or before going to a morning meeting at work in one of these cafés porteños. I love the classy waiter in white uniform greeting me with a smile, I love the pessimist comments of the old men in the table next to mine, always talking about the economy and the shitty politics, I love seeing the group of old lady friends getting together at 5 o’ clock to celebrate with their friends having outlasted their husbands another day. I love sitting in old wooden chairs that have probably seen my grandparents’ asses flirting with each other back in the forties. 

(vía fotosdebuenosaires)

Agosto 25, 2014

ryan-mcstunna:

i can’t wait to shamelessly force my sports teams into my children’s hearts

same

(but for real every time my cousins buy their kids lil football jerseys it just makes my heart soar) (Y’ALL)

(vía benolsens)

Agosto 25, 2014
IDK Magazine, Issue 1

elsilvero:

New poem in brand spanking new mag. Footnotes + pop punk and good book quotes = “On The Subway - For John Bartlett,” page 55-56.

Agosto 25, 2014
matshummelz:

livejustliketheuswnt09:

PREACH Mr. Hanks!

YES

No kidding. And not that the cost should matter, but it’s not like this is economically unreasonable. World Cup athletes play on grass, for pete’s sake.

matshummelz:

livejustliketheuswnt09:

PREACH Mr. Hanks!

YES

No kidding. And not that the cost should matter, but it’s not like this is economically unreasonable. World Cup athletes play on grass, for pete’s sake.

Agosto 24, 2014

(Fuente: vintageanchorbooks, vía elsilvero)

9:22pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/Z1tNPx1P7fCwh
  
Archivado en: books best 
Agosto 24, 2014

awesomefrench:

Vous vs. Tu, French “you”. 

Chart from the LA Times.

Can we get one of these for Spanish, but regionalized and including el voseo?

(vía solongasitswords)

6:54pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/Z1tNPx1P6zzht
  
Archivado en: pls thanks 
Agosto 24, 2014

todaysdocument:

The Burning of Washington

Two hundred years ago on August 24 and 25, 1814, British troops occupied Washington, DC and burned the Capitol, the President’s house, and other public buildings during the War of 1812.

  1. "Capture of the City of Washington," August 1814
  2. The Taking of the City of Washington… by the British Forces Under Major General Ross on August 24, 1814… the public property destroyed amounted to thirty Million of Dollars. Copy of engraving, 1814

Agosto 24, 2014

(Fuente: d-a-l-t-o-n-i-s-m-o, vía apesoformythoughts)

Agosto 22, 2014

The women of Asghar Farhadi’s (اصغر فرهادی) films

(Fuente: accordions)

Agosto 21, 2014
"

It is not a journalist’s job to protect us from the ugly facts. Neither is it his job to protect the sensitive from the painful truth or anyone, really, from anything.

In fact, speaking more broadly, it is not a journalist’s job to make the world a better place, to ensure our right thinking, or to defend the virtuous politicians that sophisticates like himself voted for while excoriating the evildoers elected by those country rubes on the other side. It is not his job to do good or be kind or be wise. The idea that any of this is a journalist’s job is a fallacy that seems to have infected the trade in the 1970s, when idealistic highbrows began to replace the Janes and Joes who knew a good story when they heard one.

Because that’s the journalist’s job: the story. His only job: to tell the whole story straight.

In the greater scheme of things, Williams’ suicide is a small story, but it is part of a bigger story: the story of our country and our world. That story unfolds only slowly, and no one knows what wisdom it will ultimately reveal. The best we can do is tell each chapter whole and true, without piety or fear or favor.

"

Andrew Klavan, “Report the truth — the whole truth — on Robin Williams’ death” (via wesleyhill)

I would just like to take this moment to say that that is the biggest bunch of self-serving, self-aggrandizing, falsely noble bullshit I have read in a long time. “The story of our country and our world” my eye.

The details of Robin Williams’s suicide are no more relevant to “our country and our world” than the details of anyone else’s suicide. If journalists have some moral obligation to “tell each chapter whole and true,” they’re leaving a great many chapters wholly untold, and indeed unacknowledged.

But that’s the nature of the beast, isn’t it? All the stories can’t be told, so all of us who are in the business of writing have to choose. And when journalists like Klavan choose to write about exactly how Robin Williams took his own life, are we really supposed to believe that he does so out of some high-minded devotion to “the story of our country and our world”? People have a perverse and often malicious interest in the sufferings of celebrities and will pay to read about them. They won’t pay to read about a worn-out junkie who deliberately overdoses in a cheap apartment in the San Fernando Valley. Let’s at least be honest about that.

If Klavan wants to write “without piety,” then he should start by ceasing to be so piously sanctimonious about his own motives. (via ayjay)

Well said, ayjay — and you hit on something there that is so important. Choice. Curation of detail is literally what journalism is. Anyone can sit around with a microphone, it’s asking the right questions and piecing together relevant answers into a narrative that constitutes the creation of, you know, news. “Telling the story straight” is not a thing. (Have we not collectively grown out of that yet?) But regardless, it’s not even a good thing to strive for. It removes human judgment, as if inclusion of details on suicide were a neutral choice in a field where there are fundamentally no neutral choices.

(vía pegobry)

Agosto 21, 2014
Parque de la Memoria, Buenos Aires

Parque de la Memoria, Buenos Aires