terça-feira, março 06, 2007

"The Price of Art"

"Information preserved about the lives of the Dutch painters is sparse. They belong to that species of artists who leave works behind them, not complaints and laments. Really there are no dramatic stories, unhealthy blushing, or sensational scandals. Their entirely earthly existence can be summarized in a few dates: birth, qualifications as a master, marriage, children’s baptism, and finally death.
They can only be envied. Whatever their greatness and miseries, the disillusionments and failures of their careers, their role in society and place on earth were not questioned, their profession universally recognized and as evident as the profession of butcher, tailor or baker. The question why art exists did not occur to anyone, because a world without paintings was simply inconceivable.
It is we who are poor, very poor. A major part of contemporary art declares itself on the side of chaos, gesticulates in a void, or tells the story of its own barren soul.
The old masters – all of them without exception – could repeat after Racine, “We work to please the public” Which means they believed in the purposefulness of their work and the possibility of interhuman communication. They affirmed visible reality with an inspired scrupulousness and childish seriousness, as if the order of the world and the revolution of the stars, the permanence of the firmament, depended on it."

Zbigniew Herbert, Still Life with a Bridle
(Translated by John and Bogdana Carpenter)

3 Comments:

Anonymous alexandra said...

"The old masters – all of them without exception – could repeat after Racine, “We work to please the public” Which means they believed in the purposefulness of their work and the possibility of interhuman communication. They affirmed visible reality with an inspired scrupulousness and childish seriousness, as if the order of the world and the revolution of the stars, the permanence of the firmament, depended on it."

este parágrafo é um altar, um avião, uma ópera.

quarta-feira, março 07, 2007 12:00:00 da tarde  
Blogger JSB said...

OS ANTIGOS MESTRES



Os antigos mestres prescindiam
de assinar as suas telas

as suas marcas eram
os brancos dedos da Madona

ou as torres rosadas
di città sul mare

e também as cenas da vida
della Beata Umiltá

diluíam-se
in sogno
miracolo
crocifissione

encontravam refúgio
sob as pálpebras de um anjo
por detrás das colinas de nuvens
na espessa erva do paraíso

naufragavam sem deixar rasto
em áureos firmamentos
sem gritos de terror
sem evocarem uma lembrança

a superfície dos seus quadros
é lisa como um espelho

não são espelhos para nós
são espelhos para os eleitos

eu vos invoco Velhos Mestres
nos duros momentos da dúvida

fazei que de mim caia
a escama de réptil do orgulho

que fique surdo
à tentação da fama

eu vos invoco Antigos Mestres

Pintor da Chuva de Maná
Pintor das Árvores Bordadas
Pintor da Visitação
Pintor do Sangue Sagrado


Zbigniew Herbert (trad. Jorge Sousa Braga)

sexta-feira, março 09, 2007 4:40:00 da tarde  
Blogger JMS said...

Não é dos meus poemas preferidos do grande Herbert, mas gosto da tradução. Obrigado.

sexta-feira, março 09, 2007 5:34:00 da tarde  

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