Grāmata
Mar. 3., 2011 | 05:22 pm
Sarah Bird. The Flamenco Academy.
Domāju, ka nav viegli uzlikt flamenko uz papīra.
Šī grāmata gan pamatā ir par citām lietām - par draudzībām, mīlestībām un vientulībām, par sirdsgudrību. Un flamenko šim stāstam ir ietvars un izteiksmes līdzeklis. Ja nebūtu flamenko, es šo grāmatu vērtētu kā amerikāņu mājsaimnieču romānu, kāds tas īstenībā arī ir (un grāmata nemaz nebūtu pie mani atnākusi). Tomēr es lasīju aizrautīgi, un man patika. Skaisti viņa raksta par flamenko. Lūk, daži piemēri:
"Tragedy in the first person," he said, studying his hands. That's the best definition I've ever come across for flamenco."
/S.B./
"Guitos drew in a deep breath, diving far into himself, then exploded to the surface with his eyes and fists clenched, singing in a full-throated wail. He sang to the stars that had betrayed his dreams and turned his love to dust. Sweat ran down his dark face, pouring into the muffler tied around his neck as he reached even further into himself for notes so laden with despair that not a single person in the hall needed a translator."
/S.B./
"I lifted my arms as slowly as mist rising off a dark lake, and just that, just raising my arms above my head, filled one, two, three compases"
/S.B./
"So, with the memory of his hammering playing through my head, my heels pounded into the earth, reaching down to that place where black thoughts and blacker deeds form, even as my arms became willow branches in the breeze while my hands became geese flying to a cool and green land."
/S.B./
"He struck a B-flat chord that broke every heart in the room because no B-flat would ever be played with such cruel beauty again."
/S.B./
"All we had was the solitary promise flamenco ever makes, the promise of eternity if you can create one moment beautiful enough to be called true."
/S.B./
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(bez virsraksta)
Mar. 3., 2011 | 07:50 pm
Pastaigāju gar upi.
Upe bija pavisam balta un debesis - pavisam pelēkas. Gaiss mitrs.
Liekas, ka māksla ir nerauties ne uz priekšu, ne atpakaļ. Būt tieši tajā gadalaikā, kāds ir.
Upe bija pavisam balta un debesis - pavisam pelēkas. Gaiss mitrs.
Liekas, ka māksla ir nerauties ne uz priekšu, ne atpakaļ. Būt tieši tajā gadalaikā, kāds ir.