why do i always have to find a title for the post? do not know. never mind!
where does time fly? have been working, then went to see the paintings that later in the afternoon were sold in the auction house, then worked some more, came home, looked on the web trying to find some references about the huge rubens/van dyck painting – found none – just something, perhaps a cutout (again) of a larger work that seems to have similar traits. the color would still not match though… then went running, then made a salad and now it’s already almost 11 pm.
at work i started figuring out a different way of saving the paintings i find on the internet. until now it was a matter of copy and paste in a word document. now i save them in picasa (which gives me instant access to image editing – zooming, controlling sharpness, color, brightness, etc.) and then, publishing them locally as a web page for quicker indexing and storing. hope it’s going to become standard.
k said he keeps dreaming of his mother lately. he, who never dreams! he dreamed he sold the most expensive painting in the whole world and his mother told him – too bad… he cannot enjoy his success as he has to come to her.
are you afraid of death?
why should i be afraid? i die every day. every time when i go to sleep, i die. i do not know if i will wake up in the morning or not. i die every day!
then, he said he dreams of his mother wearing her wedding dress, crouched on her side of the bed. his father trying to convince her to take out her clothes. his parents were together for 60 years, he said.
bits and pieces – not much to make sense.
in the underground i kept reading from paler’s eul detestabil. it’s a weak book. i should stop reading it! a few biographical events (something that is more or less general knowledge) pushed to explain a whole being and a painting manner and the history of western art. well, that’s a bit too much. that is not to say – nothing! but, i guess, for the underground might still work. i hope my country-men (trying to cheer up the crowds in the underground) would not glimpse through the lines and guess i’m one of theirs and will greet me generously, tapping me on the shoulder and shaking their mcdonalds paper cups for some (friendly) change…
i have been reading some stuff someone said once about some stories i wrote. yeah! they are light, they tend to be predictable and juvenile. it might be true. perhaps i should stop thinking about writing altogether. what would that bring me? i never seem to find the time for it anyway. i could say – well, that was it! but the trouble is, i cannot. i just cannot leave the thought of only writing. one day… someday… being imbued with the work in the gallery or with whatever is i am doing to earn money lately, i seem to get detached from the world of possibilities, a world i so much liked, perhaps, even adored. possibilities in ricoeur’s sense but also potentiality, as in aristotle. the world seems to become smaller and thus, leaving me very little place to act in it. a world which is elbow room deficient. but what about the things i see everday on the computer screen? the paintings? the people i meet? that’s way too little!
orhan pamuk’s writing is rather awkward. it does not have beauty, so as i expect from a text to be beautiful. but i cannot say it’s bad writing, or not aesthetic. it has sinew! that’s for sure. but of another kind. it comes slowly and stays with me, but does not blow me! does not make me want more. it’s not moralizing but it has something of a predic. it’s so much different than what i read before. why do i keep reading it? is it because of the explanations? of the stories? i think it’s because i’m feeling it growing and i’m expecting it to burst at some point and make a lot of noise.