Unus Mundus

"Art Brut" - A Décima Dimensão

BAYA, Algerian nationality
Born in Bordj el-Kiffan, Kabylia, in 1931
Dies in November 1998

Baya’s parents die when she is five years old. She starts painting and drawing as a young adolescent. When she turns sixteen in 1947, her French adoptive mother helps her in getting her watercolors exhibited at the Galerie Maeght. André Breton admires her work, and in 1949, as in a fairy tale, she meets Braque and Picasso. At the age of twenty, she marries a much older man who is a music teacher. Throughout the war, she takes care of her children. After the independence of Algeria in 1962, she has another exhibition. Baya’s husband dies in the mid 70s and she sinks into a depression.

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Gaston Chaissac
"Sans titre"
1960, Huile sur souche de bois 54 x 29 x 11, 5 cm
Collection du Musée de l'Abbaye Sainte-CRoix, Les Sables d'Olonne,Vendée (Pays de Loire).

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Van Genk

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Madge Gill

The tremendous creative outpourings of the mediumistic artist Madge Gill began after her only daughter died at birth in 1919 and a subsequent illness during which she lost the sight in one eye. Her early life had been no less traumatic. Born in london to an unmarried mother, at the age of nine she was placed in an orphanage and subsequently sent to Canada as a farm servant. Gill returned to london when she was nineteen and before her marriage lived with an aunt, who introduced her Spiritualism. Gill's discovery of drawing was a direct result of attempts to contact her daughter and one of her sons, who had died during the influenza epidemic of 1918, the other side. She maintained that she was guided by a spirit she called Myrninerest and often signed works in that name. Her oeuvre ranges from postcards, produced after another in all-night sittings, to drawings covering immense rolls of calico, which she finished incrementally, earlier parts of the drawing becoming hidden as the fabric was rolled to reveal a new blank surface. At times Gill exhibited work at amateur art exhibitions in the East End of london, but rarely sold her creations, insisting that the belonged to her spirit guide.

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Cheik Ledy

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Alfonso Ossorio

For Alfonso Ossorio and Jean Dubuffet 'the art of the insane and the tormented, the art of the institutionalized and imprisoned, became an art of liberation representing freedom in a claustrophobic world. The 'formlessness' of Raw Art was as much a confirmation for them, at mid-century, as the traditional formality of African art had been for the Cubists at the end of the [previous] century.'

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Si le soleil me revenait by Louis Soutter 1937

The work of Louis Soutter, the tragic and 'alien' Swiss artist who died in a mental institution, was recently exhibited in Paris. The exhibition was divided into periods under titles like "And if the Sun returns to me again", "The Godless", ...

In his letter to Le Corbusier, his cousin and supporter, he wrote: "The godless" are dolorous beings, a caste purified and elevated by the tortuous pain of isolation."

Let's imagine a verse from a god-less scripture through which I communicate with Louis Soutter's spirit and his 'godless' ones:

Our so-called involvement with reality really detaches us from reality. Our preoccupations, goals, joys and sorrows, really detach us from the ultimate reality which is the irreversible march toward oblivion. Confinement is one of the worst punishments because it exposes you to nothing but waiting. Intelligence becomes our enemy when it exposes us to the truth and doesn't show us how to escape it. Therefore, the most stupid weapon, courage, is our unique and ultimate weapon. Courage is what makes us take care of our daily preoccupations as if they really mattered. Courage is an arm for the so-called defeated as joy is an arm for the so-called victorious. Buddhism, which tells us that all is illusion, still doesn't explain what this knowledge is useful for*. Dress yourself in your courage as in a dirty shirt because there is no clean one at your disposal. Courage is a virtue and faith exists to justify the existence of virtues.
..........
*It may be a warning: beware that your dreams don't turn toward obsessions which become a prison.

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August Wall

Born in 1936 in Klosterneuburg. Walla already began working artistically in his youth. He produced drawings, painted, photographed, was a calligrapher and lettrist, and set signs and symbols in the landscape. He decorated his surroundings by leaving his mark on houses, streets and trees and created his own mythology using known and self-invented gods and creatures. The figures of his polytheistic philosophy are to be found in all of his works. August Wall has lived in the House of Artists since 1983 and was one of today's most versatile Art Brut artists. He died at the age of 65 in July 2001.

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Carlo Zinelli, known as Carlo
Italian nationality
Born in San Giovanni Lupatoto on July 16th, 1916
Dies in Verona in 1974

Carlo’s mother dies when he is two years old. His father, a carpenter, is unable to take care of him (Carlo has seven brothers and sisters) and sends him to work on a farm away from his family. Carlo is on his own; his only companion is his dog. At the age of eighteen, he becomes a butcher’s apprentice and soon develops a passion for music and painting. Enlisted to fight on the front during the war, he endures several shocks from which he will never recover. He has to be institutionalized in 1947 at the psychiatric hospital of San Giacomo near Verona because he suffers from hallucinations and fears of persecution. For the next ten years, Carlo has to put up with terrible hospital conditions of those times such as eighty patients packed in a twenty square meter ward; men who have never known silence or solitude; only moans, crisis, quarrels, strong arm interventions of male nurses. In 1957, the Scottish sculptor Michael Noble convinces Professor Mario Marini to open a workshop for artists. Carlo is forty-one years old. His life is forever linked to this workshop.

Quinta dimensão

Não consigo escrever
Detesto páginas lentas
Estética
Estética
Estética
Envolvente suplicia
Arte sarcástica…
Rebentar com os miolos
Antes que eles rebentem comigo
Rebentar os miolos
Antes que eles me façam explodir
Elogios
Utopia
Metáforas
Metáforas
Perdidas
Metáforas
Metáforas
Vendo relento
Feito por mágicos
Em analogia narcótica
Claro
Escuro
Adorar
O excitar
Língua
Lín – gua
Não consigo escrever
Não consigo
Não

THE ARTISTS

http://the-artists.org/index.cfm

Site mto nice :D
quem estiver curioso faça o favor d fazer copy, pq isto na deu pa por como link, vá se lá saber pq.

A vida é doce, e eu sou um grão de açúcar.

As minhas 4 estações

Folhas Bolhas Outono Inverno Céu aberto Luz estrelar Incerta Dispersa Sobre a terra Incrédula Inconvicta Pirata Cego E coxo O mocho Grita Uivos De sabedoria Pela noite Fria A melodia Conversa Sobre O estado Da alegria Num prado Inundado De papoilas mil Dentes-de-leão Rodopiam De mão em mão O vento Transpira Suores Orvalhos De prazeres Inconfundíveis Imprevisíveis Maravilhas Vidas De algodão-doce Balões Ao longe Soltam Uma canção O sol É o dó maior Murmúrio De confusão Alusão A noite Cai de Inverno Frio que brilha Estrelas Que tecem Mundos de fantasia Instrumentos Coerentes Carregados De melodia Impressionista Contorcionista.

Folhas bolhas primavera verão, céu azul, mar translúcido sobre a terra aluada, a guitarra liberta uivos de melodia pela noite morna, a cigarra fala sobre a cantiga esperada, numa moita seca e árida. O vento mal se sente e o suor escorre pela fronte. O amanhã ensolarado traduz o clarear do abraço, o beijar dos lábios, o traço do horizonte em espasmos, sobre a areia que escorrega por entre as veias, flores de papel de mil cores invadem a atmosfera, o sol do meio-dia cobre os poros de magenta, enquanto a gota de água lenta desce pela bainha até se desfazer no chão do céu e torna-se numa estrela que bóia no infinito.

"Love knows no virtue, no profit; it loves and forgives and suffers everything, because it must. It is not judment that leads us; it is neither the advantages nor the faults wich we discover, that make us abandon ourselves, or that repel us.

It is a sweet, soft, enigmatic power that drives us on. We cease to think, to feel, to will, we let ourselves be carried away by it..."

Venus in Furs, Masoch

O amor morreu! Acho que realmente nunca existiu. É como Deus. Nunca ninguém o conheceu.

...BR...

"Foi o tempo que perdeste
com a rosa
que tornou a rosa
tão importante para ti."

(O principezinho,
de Saint-Exupéry)

...idiota! quem mandou?

Cravo - Vermelho - amor vivo/amor incompreendido

e a liberdade assim é. será o amor um desejo eterno dele mesmo? se assim o for, a liberdade jamais poderá ser conhecida.

LOL

Estou cá desde o início e vim do infinito. Criei civilizações, inventei religiões, destruías e voltei inventa-las, vezes sem fim. Criei costumes, morais e razões. E no fim do início, e no início do fim, apesar de tudo ter experimentado, de tudo conhecer, e de tudo um pouco ter feito, continuo sem compreender uma única coisa: o amor, a origem, o inicio…

"A mente verdadeiramente criativa em qualquer campo não é mais que isto: uma criatura humana nascida anormalmente, inumanamente sensível.

Para ele...um toque é uma pancada, um som é um ruído, um infortúnio é uma tragédia, uma alegria é um extase, um amigo é um amante, um amante é um deus e o fracasso é a morte.

Adicione-se a este organismo cruelmente delicado a subjugante necessidade de criar, criar, criar - de tal forma que sem a criação de música ou poesia ou literatura ou edifícios ou algo com significado, a sua respiração é--lhe cortada. Ele tem que criar, deve derramar criação. Por qualquer estranha e desconhecida urgência interior, não está realmente vivo a menos que esteja criando" - Pearl Buck

:D

Absinto a bebida dos poetas malditos.
Maldita, sou eu por ter nascido.
Por me ter embebido em vida.
Nasci e morri.
Senão o tivesse feito,
Para sempre seria eterna,
Morri quando nasci.
De morte feita
E de mal feita a vida
Absinto, absinto, absinto,
Aos molhos,
Por causa de ti choram os meus olhos.
Antes fosse uma vaga ideia
Que deambula na cabeça da eternidade.
Mal somos concebidos, começamos a morrer lentamente, tão lentamente
Que qualquer caracol pareceria demasiado rápido.
E porque não escrever sobre a morte?
Afinal ela é a única dádiva da vida.
Esperamos por ela toda a vida.
Iludidos pelo o tempo que parece correr devagar.
Mas ele não anda devagar.
Parecemos produtos embalados, prontos para a derradeira reciclagem.
Face a isso, apenas absinto me resta.
Pois amaldiçoada para sempre serei.
Em vida por ter fugido dela
Na morte pois apenas a ela pertenço…
Absinto, absinto, absinto,
Aos molhos,
Por causa de ti choram os meus olhos…
Aí, amor quem te disse a ti que a flor do campo não desfalecia?

MÁGOA – MÁ – GOA – M-À-G-O-A – A-O-G-À-M – AOGÁM

Chove, chove. Não chove só lá fora, chove aqui e agora.
Nuvens espartanas invadem-me a memória.
Consomem-me de dentro para fora.
Desilusão, confusão, desgosto,
Aglutinam-se na memória da retina.
Desgosto, desgosto, desgosto.
Dor, dor, dor.
Sentir, sentir, sentir.
Sentir demais, tão vorazmente, que apenas a mágoa sobressai.
Pressa, presa, persa, surpresa.