Book of Correlations




The Book

Break into a window.
Caught a glimpse inside.
Slip in through the splinter.
I am wondering what's inside the house.
Hopeless interest in nothing
a new book that I found.
I'm finding it hard to read it.
Still I'm happy for what I found
I'm happy for what I found
I'm happy for what I found

The porcupine parable - La parabole du porc-épic.



"A number of porcupines huddled together for warmth on a cold day in winter; but, as they began to prick one another with their quills, they were obliged to disperse. However the cold drove them together again, when just the same thing happened. At last, after many turns of huddling and dispersing, they discovered that they would be best off by remaining at a little distance from one another. In the same way the need of society drives the human porcupines together, only to be mutually repelled by the many prickly and disagreeable qualities of their nature. The moderate distance which they at last discover to be the only tolerable condition of intercourse, is the code of politeness and fine manners; and those who transgress it are roughly told — in the English phrase — to keep their distance. By this arrangement the mutual need of warmth is only very moderately satisfied; but then people do not get pricked. A man who has some heat in himself prefers to remain outside, where he will neither prick other people nor get pricked himself.” 

Arthur SCHOPENHAUER, Parerga et Paralipomena (1851)


«Par une froide journée d’hiver, un troupeau de porcs-épics s’était mis en groupe serré pour se garantir mutuellement contre la gelée par leur propre chaleur. Mais tout aussitôt ils ressentirent les atteintes de leurs piquants, ce qui les fit s’éloigner les uns des autres. Quand le besoin de se chauffer les eut rapprochés de nouveau, le même inconvénient se renouvela, de façon qu’ils étaient ballottés de çà et de là entre les deux souffrances, jusqu’à ce qu’ils eussent fini par trouver une distance moyenne qui leur rendit la situation supportable. Ainsi, le besoin de société, né du vide et de la monotonie de leur propre intérieur, pousse les hommes les uns vers les autres ; mais leurs nombreuses qualités repoussantes et leurs insupportables défauts les dispersent de nouveau. La distance moyenne qu’ils finissent par découvrir et à laquelle la vie en commun devient possible, c’est la politesse et les belles manières. En Angleterre, on crie à celui qui ne se tient pas à distance : Keep your distance ! - Par ce moyen, le besoin de chauffage mutuel n’est, à la vérité, satisfait qu’à moitié, mais en revanche on ne ressent pas la blessure des piquants. - Celui-là cependant qui possède beaucoup de calorique propre préfère rester en dehors de la société pour n’éprouver ni ne causer de peine.» 

Arthur SCHOPENHAUER, Parerga et Paralipomena (1851)

Art suggestion: "Une élégante" by Georges Seurat.




Georges Seurat (French, 1859 - 1891)
Woman Strolling (Une élégante), about 1884, Conté crayon on Michallet paper
31.8 x 24 cm (12 1/2 x 9 7/16 in.)
The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles




Suggested reading: Petrarch.




There are still a couple of hours to be spent this week so, here is a reading suggestion: Sonnets from Petrarch.
Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch in English) was an Italian poet born in 1304 admired for the quality of his sonnets.


On a non related subject, Petrarch is also known for his ascent of Mont Ventoux (Vaucluse, France) in 1336. The writer is considered by many as the father of mountaineering, or the activity that consist of climbing a mountain for the only purpose of reaching its summit and eventually enjoying the view.

Enjoy!


The monotony of our words.




L’amour est si délicat et si pur
que l’on ne devrait pouvoir ni le nommer, ni même en parler,
de peur de réduire l'immensité de nos âmes 
au quotidien de nos mots.
_____________

Love is so delicate and so pure
that none should name it, not even talk about it,
for fear of reducing the vastness of our souls
to the monotony of our words.



The lesser known Van Gogh



Vincent Van Gogh is known for masterpieces featuring beautiful skies, vibrant colors and mirific lights. This drawing opens us to a lesser know area of his work.

Van Gogh was a prolific writer. He wrote numerous letters to his brother Theodorus, an art dealer, communicating progress on his work, and would often slip a few drawings in the envelope. Living on meager means, the envelope itself was from time to time also used as a support for additional drawings. Those sketches were occasionally the base for paintings.

Created in Nuenen, The Netherlands, this particular drawing representing pollard birches is part of a series of sketches that Vincent sent to his brother Theo in April 1884. 


Pollard birches, 1884Pencil, pen in black ink on paper
39 x 54 cm
Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam

Does it matter...




The day had started slowly. There was an imperceptible but yet present cloud cover, very thin and even. The air was crisp, almost misty and already I felt I was looking at a promising day. I was wandering in the heart of Belgrade enjoying the beautiful historic buildings. The smell of the freshly roasted chestnuts floating in the cold air gave me, for a brief moment, a very pleasurable Proustian experience.
I wanted to discover this city that was completely new to me. I was looking for culinary findings, maybe visit something, and probably take some photos. I took this picture: a gate. It is the entrance of the Belgrade Fortress, an impressive military complex first developed around 3rd century BC. It has then been extended, improved and fought over by many civilization, many times since then. This masterpiece of military engineering does not leave anyone indifferent.

So, for no apparent reason, I took a picture and went on spending a few hours in the city before catching a flight that would bring me home. This was a transcontinental flight so I had a lot of forced free time on my hands. Aboard the aircraft, I started to review my photo harvest of the day, sipping a gin as we were flying over Ireland. A few photos, maybe ten, caught my eye. They just stood out of the pack as it always happens.
I say no reason, but one never takes a photo for no reason. This one photography you are looking at was amongst them. It was not better framed, didn’t display better lights nor exciting subject but I was captivated by this image.  I could remembered everything about it: the location, the misty air and the smell of roasted chestnut, everything excepted why at that very moment, right there on the boundaries of the fortress I decided to press the shutter. Had I ever knew known?
I kept staring at this photo. The more I was looking at it, the more something was bothering me. I could not figure out if it represented a place and time filled with joy or hopelessness. I could not decide if the message I, or the image, intended to convey was hope or despair.

The light in the room is soft, I am sipping a beautiful whisky from North West of Scotland. A live album of Stacey Kent is playing in the living room. I am home, still looking at this same picture, and several questions are ineluctably seeping into my mind.

The first one: does it matter?
This is probably the most fundamental question about this picture. Does it matter? I am here, sitting on my chair, looking at a photo trying to understand all the ins and outs, the whys and how’s.
What if I was just trying to create meaning where there is none? Is there something to understand here? Is it possible that we could just look at a photo and enjoy the composition, the light, the texture of the materials and subject depicted without thinking about meaning and the story of the picture? Would it be ethically wrong not to go beyond the graphical aspect of an image and just take it for what it is: an image? Even if the answer is yes. Even if we ought to find the meaning, the origin, the conditions and reasons of the creation of a picture, or any piece of art for that matter; even if...what if we are wrong and construct an entire theory, build the wrong story and even worse, give a meaning to art that is diametrically opposed to what the artist had in mind. Prior to trying to answer this question, we must look at an underlying, probably preceding question, a preconditional question: does an image, a sculpture, have intrinsic meaning? If the answer to this question is no, then there is no point wondering if it is worth and if it matters discovering that meaning.

Does it matter? I don't know but it's probably worth asking ourselves.

The second: does this picture convey hope or despair?
Can a photograph, in essence bear joy or sorrow? Of course I cannot. A photo, a piece of music, a painting has not no more meaning than a log or a concrete slab. The only fragments of meanings we see are the ones we project on its surface. Our Fears, our hopes and desires give us the illusion we will find meaning, an answer in various forms of expression.

When I look at this picture, I see a gate, a door open to the light. Am I looking forward to a better world, leaving the darkness of an inner prison, accessing knowledge? Am I walking towards a brighter future and a more promising and attractive land?
Or maybe, I am looking back at a life that after all was not too bad. I look at the happiness that was shedding light on my days. I am now heading towards a darker place.
If I had to answer our question, does it convey hope or despair, I would go with the latter.

The third and original: why did I take this photograph?
I thought about this for a long time. I know that somewhere lies a reason. There is always a reason. I can think of two: life and aesthetic. Maybe, this gate unconsciously triggered something in my brain, a memory, an emotion. Or maybe there is none of my personal background came into play. I just noticed an interesting object, interacting in an aesthetic fashion with the light and wanted to capture this sight to be able to enjoy it again in the future, which is the primary purpose of photography.

Why did I take this photography and decided to published it? What does it mean? I don't know and to be honest, I think it does not matter at all. What matters is the action. Take a photo, share, think. What matters is not the meaning itself but maybe the search of it. What matters is the reflection, and maybe along the way we will discover a little piece of our identity, a fragmentof our true self.