Posts Tagged ‘ John Berger ’

John Berger /~ and our faces, my heart, brief as photos ~ (English Version) #208

John Berger /~ and our faces, my heart, brief as photos ~ (English Version) #208

Bela Bela – What Keeps Mankind Alive | IDFA

Marjoleine Boonstra – 2001 – Under the toughest of living conditions, four poets have had to employ their imaginations in order to survive. All four were incarcerated for a long period of time by a dictatorial regime. At the age of eighteen, Nizametdin Achmetov went to jail a virgin, and twenty years later he emerged, still a virgin. The Cuban Maria Elena Cruz Varela was all by herself in a prison environment where anybody could betray her, while the Russian Irina Ratoesjinkaja found that her fellow prisoners could be indispensable allies. Marcea Dinescu gives his view of the disintegration of Communism in Romania. In these stories, shot against the background of mainly desolate landscapes, sensual perception plays an important role. They tell of the smells and sounds in the cells, and one of the poets recalls that, during the first days after her release, her eyes could not stand the vivid colours of freedom.

Source: Bela Bela – What Keeps Mankind Alive | IDFA

John Berger Reads Mahmoud Darwish

Two Books | Art Matters

I promised to review the last two books of John Berger’s work issued before his death, and here you are about to read those reviews. I’ll deal with them chronologically: Landscapes is t…

Source: Two Books | Art Matters

Tilda Swinton on making ‘The Seasons in Quincy’, four short films about maverick artist and thinker John Berger

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John Berger and Tilda Swinton: Born in the same city on the same day, 34 years apart

Swinton on Making 4 Short Films on John Berger

A Longhouse Birdhouse: JOHN BERGER ~

Source: A Longhouse Birdhouse: JOHN BERGER ~

John Berger in conversation with Hans Ulrich Obrist | Vimeo

Heimat ! ¡ by Donna Fleischer & John Berger ~ and our faces, my heart, brief as photos ~ (English Version) #149

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The term home (Old Norse Heimr, High German heim, Greek komi, meaning “village”) has, since a long time, been taken over by two kinds of moralists, both dear to those who wield power. The notion of home became the keystone for a code of domestic morality, safeguarding the property (which included the women) of the family. Simultaneously the notion of homeland supplied a first article of faith for patriotism, persuading men to die in wars which often served no other interest except that of a minority of their ruling class. Both usages have hidden the original meaning.

Originally home meant the center of the world – not in a geographical, but an ontological sense. Mircea Eliade has demonstrated how home was the place from which the world could be founded. A home was established, as he says, “at the heart of the real.” In traditional societies, everything that made sense of the world was real; the surrounding chaos existed and was threatening, but it was threatening because it was unreal. Without a home at the center of the real, one was not only shelterless, but also lost in non-being, in unreality. Without a home everything was fragmentation.

Home was the center of the world because it was the place where a vertical line crossed with a horizontal one. The vertical line was a path leading upwards to the sky and downwards to the underworld. The horizontal line represented the traffic of the world, all the possible roads leading across the earth to other places. Thus, at home, one was nearest to the gods in the sky and to the dead in the underworld. This nearness promised access to both. And at the same time, one was at the starting point and, hopefully, the returning point of all terrestrial journeys. – John Berger

 

the first burst of

upward lashes

lips brow nostril

ear of

transept,

heimat ! ¡

– Donna Fleischer
January 27, 2015

 

 

 

John Berger /~ and our faces, my heart, brief as photos ~ (English Version) #208

 

John Berger / “and our faces, my heart, brief as photos” (English Version)

What reconciles me to my own death more than anything else is the image of a place: a place where your bones and mine are buried, thrown, uncovered, together. They are strewn there pell-mell. One of your ribs leans against my skull. A metacarpal of my left hand lies inside your pelvis. (Against my broken ribs your breast like a flower.) The hundred bones of our feet are scattered like gravel. It is strange that this image of our proximity, concerning as it does mere phosphate of calcium, should bestow a sense of peace. Yet it does. With you I can imagine a place where to be phosphate of calcium is enough. ~ John Berger