#5cosas por las que ha merecido la pena estar vivo esta semana (72)



La vuelta (¡después de ocho años!) de las conversaciones literarias, rumberas y barísticas de los amigos Darío Rodríguez y Rubén Higuera. En este nuevo vídeo se ocupan de «Temporal», la novela del antioqueño Tomás González.



La obra de Noah Davis, «1975 (8)» [2013].





El tema «Mono retriever», del grupo californiano Dummy, .



El artículo de Miranda Mazariegos para npr Gordon Park´s photography masterfully captured the range of Black life in America. Aquí.

Un extracto:

«In the late 1940s, Life magazine published a multipage photo spread titled «Harlem Gang Leader,» depicting the gang wars that had taken control of the New York neighborhood. Through contemplative, yet often violent portraits of the gangs, photographer Gordon Parks captured the complexity and nuance of an area that was often misjudged.

The photo essay also landed Gordon Parks a full-time position at the magazine, making him the first Black photographer to be hired on staff. This work solidified what would become his lengthy and prolific career not only as a photographer, but also as a filmmaker, novelist, musician and poet.

Parks grew to be one of the country’s most celebrated photographers. He was best known for photographs of American life, but mostly of the Black experience. With his camera he captured the cruelties he saw in society and used photos as means for protest. His photos of segregated America are part of an imperative documentation of the racial divide in the country.»

El poema de Thom Gunn «On the move».
Dice así:

«The blue jay scuffling in the bushes follows

Some hidden purpose, and the gust of birds
That spurts across the field, the wheeling swallows,
Has nested in the trees and undergrowth.
Seeking their instinct, or their poise, or both,
One moves with an uncertain violence
Under the dust thrown by a baffled sense
Or the dull thunder of approximate words.
On motorcycles, up the road, they come:
Small, black, as flies hanging in heat, the Boys,
Until the distance throws them forth, their hum
Bulges to thunder held by calf and thigh.
In goggles, donned impersonality,
In gleaming jackets trophied with the dust,
They strap in doubt – by hiding it, robust –
And almost hear a meaning in their noise.
Exact conclusion of their hardiness
Has no shape yet, but from known whereabouts
They ride, direction where the tyres press.
They scare a flight of birds across the field:
Much that is natural, to the will must yield.
Men manufacture both machine and soul,
And use what they imperfectly control
To dare a future from the taken routes.
It is a part solution, after all.
One is not necessarily discord
On earth; or damned because, half animal,
One lacks direct instinct, because one wakes
Afloat on movement that divides and breaks.
One joins the movement in a valueless world,
Choosing it, till, both hurler and the hurled,
One moves as well, always toward, toward.
A minute holds them, who have come to go:
The self-defined, astride the created will
They burst away; the towns they travel through
Are home for neither bird nor holiness,
For birds and saints complete their purposes.
At worst, one is in motion; and at best,
Reaching no absolute, in which to rest,
One is always nearer by not keeping still.»


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