Wednesday, December 28, 2011


"I'm out of repair 
but you are tall in your battle dress 
and I must arrange for your journey. 
I was always a virgin, 
old and pitted." 

Text by, (Anne Sexton (1928-1974), U.S. poet. "Moon Song, Woman Song.") 

Monday, December 19, 2011

Her gift to the sea

   She held the symbol from town to town.  Her fingers smoothed over the crystal that displayed the other side, and on the back the scratches of a fictional woman long forgotten.    She wore the symbol as she hung her limp body over the edge one day, her wrist swam in the enormity of it as her small fingers leapt to catch it from the fall.   It was a delicate thought of him at the final release,  her gift to the sea,  knowing the truth of how it would never be.  She had a quiet death that day as she watched the silver turn to black with thoughts of birds and Kerouac.   But this is the melodrama of a fictional woman you see who held symbols too close in a land of reality  


Tuesday, December 13, 2011

Forms of Politeness

Forms of Politeness


Taking advantage of the relationships and interaction, which actually exist between what happens
to her and her desire, she creates some metaphors both obvious and opaque, as screens of rays crisscrossing
the landscape in which herself and what she expected from you in the way of support coincide,
so that I and you resemble each other, now. The way they light the land like infrared without a trace
on film, really, part of your image was linked so closely to my desire, it remained inside my body.
It never reached the emotions, which tend to damage the body, but which memory requires.
Thus a formal device was discovered for detailing information that was intimate and largely unacceptable
to what I thought I required from you, regarding beauty in idea and form. She expected distress
to automatically bring about this beauty, like a woman’s theft of fire rope from your house,
but not her hanging in the orchard by the house. She was a stranger to you.
She was never in your consciousness. Hence she was never forgotten.
She is in you the way direct experience generates consciousness, adding the energy of its materialization.  

To live another person’s biography is not the same as to live his or her life.
She constructs a story line or cluster of anecdotal details, like clothes around the body,
instruments of both defense and expansion, which give meaning to fluctuations, such as in pleasures
occurring between herself and you. Her sunglasses swathed in feathers express
the contingency of a light and a space, so that the anecdote of a hanging could be utilized
as colorist or combinatory data, instead of her instinct for the imaginary in which what she imagines
represents what happens, whether or not it misrepresents it.

Sometimes it happens during a routine she represents by evenness of light on the land
or when things usually mean nothing, like harmony in light, what happens and something to mean
join accidentally. The thing isn’t what it is, but it is like what it is.
Like a fake, it doesn’t mean anything, although there is something to mean,
so that her solitude is the guise of unending repetition of a hanging or her relationship with you,
in which all that is to be included will find a place. This is empathy or sharing her intuition with her.
You look into someone’s eyes as if you were seeing through the face.


Because it’s not possible to absorb more than one insight at a time,
there seems to be a contradiction between the visual or space, and the context or meaning.
She felt deep uneasiness with the image of this sunset of unnatural energy, its sinister expression
of an order of impossible beauty we thought we lost, accounting for the intensity of yellow light on the hill,
which is not a thing, and it is not a metaphor, the way your life is not a metaphor to her, or
the way intense light on the hill is a recollection en plein air, in the sense that it happened.
Soon the background turns gray and the hill regains its natural color, but there are three dimensions of gray.
This is a metaphor for the fact that the hanged woman actually made contact with you, although you never knew her.

There is a link with her appearance, as with sex, or the way a name is attached to something
after naming it, by the occurrence of its name, in this case linking with the appearances
or biographies of a whole parade of lovers, so what she thinks of as human help from him
is no longer dependent on changing her desire for him in the present, but is a substitute for it.
The landscape is empty and it is immanent. The context of the woman in its reality
may differ from the context in which the viewer thinks about her, the element of transparency.
The way the viewer thinks about her is the way low clouds extend a landscape. The viewer
is acting on the landscape in consideration that the context of the viewer distinct from the context
of general human help could be a metaphor for itself.

There were yellow-leaved trees behind a screen of green ones at the edge of the orchard.
They are not a border between organization and decay of autumn trees, which are organized.
The yellow leaves around your feet have an impossible beauty that was achieved and then lost.
A way you can define a woman is to remember everything the woman is not.
If you move your head fast enough, you can all of a sudden discern the whole structure
of the surface of each leaf, and it links in your stomach, as with sex.
If you remember not desiring her fast enough, you can all of a sudden discern her whole body.
You can feel in your stomach the way any moment that happened and in which you think about her goes
a long way toward convincing you of the autonomy and pre-existence of her form.


Her concentration became a direct experience of his life, an erotic concentration.
Her biography of her persistently locates the point of impact of one’s own system of representations,
insofar as vision itself is a representative operating on what she sees,
and for which a particular light can represent an initial condition. Even the slightest movement
of a hand or a finger is controlled and emphasized as by a spotlight of this sensitiveness,
the way repetition is a cessation of the potential for conscious experience, or death,
visiting the same places during the same seasons, at almost the same hour,
so that landscape could be a simple repetition, which thrives on reproduction,
in order to resolve what is happening into its own combination or name of words in the form of its time,
and in order to defer the story.

In a way, her memory is a theory about how the hanged woman looked to her in the orchard,
which she has to respect, in the sense that the landscape’s immanence is an organically developing
failure of its language to speak its content. The connection between word and idea corresponding
to the landscape is retained, but the connection between the word and the landscape is lost,
so the shadow of a hill stays dark during lightning. How she sees the lightning
is a time lapse into the planar dimension, a hierarchy of grammar or deference
by way of the word belonging to her such as lady suicide or woman suicide,
because the woman doesn’t die in her own absence or in effigy, so that
no existing philosophy and no philosopher will know soon, enough points with enough speed
to handle the richness of her reconstruction of her or him for long. He starts to see
patterns in the words and the patterns are pretty to him and distract him.

It is well known that lightning is attracted to body heat, a person on horseback
or a large saguaro, the way a racket of birds in the morning is a kind of empathy for two people.
If we retain the belief that her image of him or her, let’s say him, is a pre-requisite for
gaining consciousness of the unknown person, we suppose there is no direct channel of communication
to the unknown person, with the result that facts about him or her must exit into the world,
before a life can be perceived between the light and dark of function or the object, and desire or the image.
At any time one can turn into its opposite, like desire or a screen, and the object
or her story and him, who does not so much convey an image as a background
to the biography. So, he says, she must emphasize references and conditions of her own life
over its memories, or what she sees of the landscape by the manner of its illumination,
unless she says it is illuminated within the arms of a great cottonwood, yellow or green,
a faith of imaginary or real connotation repeating itself from him, like alternating current
or radioactive dirt being turned up that registers on her without marking her.


Her persistent observation, even after the frost, is of each leaf coinciding with its luminousness,
because of its structure as a lighted space and which shows brightness in idea and form,
so you have to maintain your own consciousness in order not to be unconscious with me.
Even if we can uniquely bridge the gap between the fact of a frost and the value
of luminousness, and even though these intrinsic properties of the plant may not be what it feels.
What it feels may be a space with pillars, so with light the space extends, as in what you believe
to live with. A belief is a word-like object. You can focus your attention on it down to a point,
like desire or memory of a strong feeling. You have a certain amount of control over your feeling
about general human help by changing what you believe, which embodies the memories
your speech is empowered to represent, she says.

Space is material, but seems to open up a beyond, which is thought to defy material in its failure
to speak its content. It still cues this content by links or desires, as to a form of physical appearance.
To the extent that she can reconstruct a context or pornography in her body suitable for a hanged woman,
a contingency is beaten back, critically. In the sense that events happening at the same time are
meaningful, but not connected, there are events which mean nothing, though there is something to mean.

This is an easy way to expect with desire from moment to moment, while the woman was hanging herself,
as if consistency and the quest for certainty were not emotional,
as when a person begins telling a story, leaves move.
He believed that when a life is valuable, there is further value when it is responded to
as valuable, but this could occur through evaluative judgement, without his attendant emotion.
The product is in one case consistent manners, in the other, beautiful manners.

Mei-mei Berssenbrugge, "Forms of Politeness" from I Love Artists. Copyright © 2006 by Mei-mei Berssenbrugge.  Reprinted by permission of University of California Press.

I am my own circle

Wednesday, November 9, 2011



Like the Earth
She is necessary
Love her

Vesna VD

Congratulations dear friend!

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

O Do Not Love Too Long

O Do Not Love Too Long

Sweetheart, do not love too long,
I loved too long and long
And grew to be out of fashion
Like an old song.

All through the years of our youth
Neither could have known
Their own thought from the other's,
We were so much at one.

But O, in a minute she changed-
O do not love too long,
Or you will grow out of fashion
Like an old song.

W.B. Yeats

I visited Yeats' grave yesterday and today I found a closed door...
a single Magpie in the road,
deep within a Killarney abode
the language of birds says nevermore...

Friday, September 30, 2011

i will see you in November

Photograph by Cindy Sherman


Out through the fields and the woods
And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
And looked at the world, and descended;
I have come by the highway home,
And lo, it is ended.

The leaves are all dead on the ground,
Save those that the oak is keeping
To ravel them one by one
And let them go scraping and creeping
Out over the crusted snow,
When others are sleeping.

And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
No longer blown hither and thither;
The last lone aster is gone;
The flowers of the witch hazel wither;
The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question "Whither?"

Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?

Robert Frost

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Of beetles, sweetbreads and shards

"I looked for a sign and found myself no where." 

Blue Moles

They're out of the dark's ragbag, these two
Moles dead in the pebbled rut,
Shapeless as flung gloves, a few feet apart ---
Blue suede a dog or fox has chewed.
One, by himself, seemed pitiable enough,
Little victim unearthed by some large creature
From his orbit under the elm root.
The second carcass makes a duel of the affair:
Blind twins bitten by bad nature.

The sky's far dome is sane a clear.
Leaves, undoing their yellow caves
Between the road and the lake water,
Bare no sinister spaces. Already
The moles look neutral as the stones.
Their corkscrew noses, their white hands
Uplifted, stiffen in a family pose.
Difficult to imagine how fury struck ---
Dissolved now, smoke of an old war.
Nightly the battle-snouts start up
In the ear of the veteran, and again
I enter the soft pelt of the mole.
Light's death to them: they shrivel in it.
They move through their mute rooms while I sleep,
Palming the earth aside, grubbers 
After the fat children of root and rock.
By day, only the topsoil heaves.
Down there one is alone.

Outsize hands prepare a path,
They go before: opening the veins,
Delving for the appendages
Of beetles, sweetbreads, shards -- to be eaten
Over and over. And still the heaven
Of final surfeit is just as far
From the door as ever. What happens between us
Happens in darkness, vanishes
Easy and often as each breath.

By Sylvia Plath

John Dugdale - Photographer

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Muestra Fotoperformance

***E x h i b i t i o n*** 

  September 27, 2011
 October 31, 2011

Photo by, Karine Burckel

Simona Desio
Buenos Aires, Argentina
Obra: “plegaria al orgasmo”

M.Fernanda Najera Buenos Aires, Argentina
Obra: "Lumiè "

Natalia Meskutavicius
Buenos Aires, Argentina

Melisa Cañas
Obra: “pies”
Cordoba, Argentina

Diane Powers
California U.S.A.
Obras: “Spells and Wishing Wells” 

Karine Burckel
París, Francia

Juana Mauri
Buenos Aires, Argentina

Leticia Martinez
Buenos Aires, Argentina
Obra: “ella es”

Fabiana Barreda
Buenos Aires, Argentina
obra:Chica Plastica : Eva 

Elisabeth Gardner. Nuevo Mexico U.S.A.
obra: last dance slice shifter shifter 5 

Talìa Guntern
Obra: “Viaje al cielo”
Talìa Guntern
Introducción a mi Viaje al Cielo

Magali Costa
Obra: "Cada ciudad puede ser otra"

Mariana Copello
Buenos Aires, Argentina
Obra: “ALMAnaque fotopoético”

Marisa Salinas
Mendoza, Argentina
Obra: “Asalto al Tiempo”

Ana Sandra Caldas Franco de Lisboa, Portugal
Obra: “Photomaton”

Inauguración martes 27 de septiembre 19hs.
Alvarez Thomas 1533

21 hs Charla Mujeres autoras directoras
con: Fabiana Barreda-Andrea Servera-Agustina Gatto
bar de comida rica y refrescos

Muestra Fotoperformance
by the
Granate Galería

Sunday, September 25, 2011

late September


"That was the house where you asked me to remain
on the eve of my planned departure. Do you remember?
The house remembers it – the deal table
with the late September sun stretched on its back.
As long as you like, you said, and the chairs, the clock,
the diamond leaded lights in the pine-clad alcove
of that 1960s breakfast-room were our witnesses.
I had only meant to stay for a week
but you reached out a hand, the soft white cuff of your shirt
open at the wrist, and out in the yard,
the walls of the house considered themselves
in the murk of the lily-pond, and it was done.

Done. Whatever gods had bent to us then to whisper,
Here is your remedy – take it – here, your future,
either they lied or we misheard.
How changed we are now, how superior
after the end of it – the unborn children,
the mornings that came with a soft-edged reed of light
over and over, the empty rooms we woke to.
And yet if that same dark-haired boy
were to lean towards me now, with one shy hand
bathed in September sun, as if to say,
All things are possible – then why not this?

I’d take it still, praying it might be so."

© 2008, Julia Copus
Publisher: The Spectator, London, 2008

Saturday, September 24, 2011

of expectations

"To expect too much is to have a sentimental view of life and this is a softness that ends in bitterness."
Flannery O'Connor

Art by Florian Süssmayr.

Friday, September 23, 2011

do you climb mountains? do you cross oceans?

Some day Tori he will climb mountains for you and for that I say," never let go."

Monday, September 12, 2011

circle of women / fotopreformance

Collective Exhibition:
September 27, 2011 to October 31, 2011

"(Auto)Retratar, abrir, usar, abusar, mirar: dentro-fuera.
Penetrar, explotar, reflejar.
No dejar ir lo que está hacerlo fuerte, crear hacia los lados del reflejo que crea y recrea materia luz y sombra, visibilidad, visión, vista.
El ojo es un otro.
Comunica subjetividad en una otra retina y para adentro.

Yo es otro.
Soy más acá y allá."

este statement ha sido escrito con la colaboración de elisabeth gardner y paula castagnetti

A yearning for art and nostalgia.  The Spells and Wishing Wells look toward an intuition of oneself through the notion of fate and fable.  Perceptions of a mask of secret longings and delicate exploitations leads to the haunting questions of destiny and a time lost.
 -- Diane Powers

"We invite you to participate in open discussions that will take place in theatrical space within the Garnet women writers-directors cycle. These talks will be focused on the artistic and professional work of Gatto Agustina, Andrea Servera and Fabiana Barreda. The coordination of the table will be by Natalia Fernandez Acqui.
I ncluirá fotoperformance a collective exhibition in the Gallery , and its theater program works, " Paris in America "by Paula Herrera, Saturday at 20.30hs from 17 / 9 and" Brick "Camilla Fabbri, Saturdays 23hs from the 3 / 9"

granate galería

Al Di Là Del Vetro - Ludovico Einaudi

Thanks to Beate

Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Monday, August 29, 2011


"There is something in the air,
something prevent me to see you.
I feel you are distant
even if just few centimeters far from me...
I hold out my hand.
No, there is nothing in the air...just tears in my eyes..."

Written for this photo by,
Rosa Nastro

Sunday, August 28, 2011

Do you remember me...

I was the one who held you in my dreams.

Léon Spilliaert - Painter

Thanks to Natalia 

Friday, August 19, 2011

Frank Horvat - Photographer

When I rushed to tell you the news...
you were nowhere to be found...

Wednesday, August 3, 2011

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Summer Solstice

"I wanted to see where beauty comes from
without you in the world, hauling my heart
across sixty acres of northeast meadow,
my pockets filling with flowers.

Then I remembered,
it’s you I miss in the brightness
and body of every living name:
rattlebox, yarrow, wild vetch.
You are the green wonder of June,
root and quasar, the thirst for salt.
When I finally understand that people fail
at love, what is left but cinquefoil, thistle,
the paper wings of the dragonfly
aeroplaning the soul with a sudden blue hilarity?
If I get the story right, desire is continuous,
equatorial. There is still so much
I want to know: what you believe
can never be removed from us,
what you dreamed on Walnut Street
in the unanswerable dark of your childhood,
learning pleasure on your own.

Tell me our story: are we impetuous,
are we kind to each other, do we surrender
to what the mind cannot think past?
Where is the evidence I will learn
to be good at loving?
The black dog orbits the horseshoe pond
for treefrogs in their plangent emergencies.
There are violet hills,
there is the covenant of duskbirds.
The moon comes over the mountain
like a big peach, and I want to tell you
what I couldn’t say the night we rushed
North, how I love the seriousness of your fingers
and the way you go into yourself,
calling my half-name like a secret.
I stand between taproot and treespire.
Here is the compass rose
to help me live through this.
Here are twelve ways of knowing
what blooms even in the blindness
of such longing. Yellow oxeye,
viper’s bugloss with its set of pink arms
pleading do not forget me.
We hunger for eloquence.
We measure the isopleths.
I am visiting my life with reckless plenitude.
The air is fragrant with tiny strawberries.
Fireflies turn on their electric wills:
an effulgence. Let me come back
whole, let me remember how to touch you
before it is too late."

All photography by Laurie Coppedge