El tema central de este Blog es LA FILOSOFÍA DE LA CABAÑA y/o EL REGRESO A LA NATURALEZA o sobre la construcción de un "paradiso perduto" y encontrar un lugar en él. La experiencia de la quietud silenciosa en la contemplación y la conexión entre el corazón y la tierra. La cabaña como objeto y método de pensamiento. Una cabaña para aprender a vivir de nuevo, y como ejemplo de que otras maneras de vivir son posibles sobre la tierra.

sábado, 14 de julio de 2012

Sueños de cabaña en Eric Pauwels


« Les Films rêvés, c’est l’histoire d’un homme qui se retire dans la cabane au fond de son jardin. De là, il reçoit des images d’un ami parti en mer, regarde des cartes, reçoit son voisin… Au gré des saisons, il s’abandonne aux voyages, ces voyages que l’on fait autour d’une chambre, en compagnie de souvenirs et d’objets amis. Et surtout, il rêve. Il rêve qu’il fait un film qui contiendrait tous les films qu’il a rêvés de faire. Et tous les voyages. Et chacun de ses rêves est un film, un film rêvé. Évidemment, cette cabane bleue au fond d’un jardin renvoie à un imaginaire enfantin, aux récits que l’on porte depuis le plus jeune âge. Le film est ainsi un va-et-vient entre l’imaginaire du cinéaste et celui du spectateur, entre l’ici et l’ailleurs. Et comme Eric Pauwels situe son cinéma comme un art de la rencontre, l’invitation à prendre place dans le film devient une invitation à prendre place dans le monde. » (Ermeline Le Mezo, Autour de la Terre, 2011)





Eric Pauwels. 180'- Belgique

- Prod: Eric Pauwels (2009)
=======================================

S'il est certain que jamais un coup de dé n'abolira le hasard, il est tout aussi sûr qu'un coup de dé suffit à abolir le réel. Du Mahâbhârata à La Passante de Baudelaire, de Jean Rouch à Edward Curtis, de Christophe Colomb à Magellan, des lueurs de Cuba à la Terre de Feu, des Tahitiennes de Gauguin à la statuaire de l'île de Pâques, de l'Histoire des Indes de Las Casas aux voyages inventés de toute pièce, des baisers volés de Cléopâtre à la Sirène de Copenhague, de l'Odyssée aux chants des peuples du monde catapultés au-delà de la galaxie par la sonde Voyager, Les Films rêvés n'est en aucune façon un inventaire nostalgique des films à faire, ni même un catalogue d'histoires plus captivantes les unes que les autres, mais l'interrogation persistante d'une instance unique à la fois composante essentielle de la personnalité, sans laquelle le regard est aveugle, condition du développement de l'humanité et source de toute création artistique : le rêve -- et son corollaire : le paradis. Pas de voyage autour du monde sans son double préalable dans le songe. L'imaginaire seul crée la vie -- quand il ne la sauve pas. Extraits de films précédents de l'auteur, images empruntées, fragments de fictions et clins d'oeil à Hollywood, on voyage beaucoup dans Les Films rêvés, mais ce sont des voyages en trompe-l'oeil. Tout ici se concocte au fond d'un jardin, dans une cabane bleue, à partir de fiches, de brèves de journaux, de cauris, de lettres conservées au fond d'une boîte à cigares, de photos apposées au mur, de reproductions de peintures, de cartes du rêve, de fossiles -- magique Blue Mary. (Yann Lardeau)

============================================

In the work of the filmmaker, author and director Eric Pauwels (1953), cinema and life are inseparably intertwined. His documentaries, sometimes called 'half-films', take on the role of memory, weaving fiction with ethnography and questioning the spectator's impressions of the subject. Les films rêvés is a poetic exploration of the land of dreams, of voyages into the unknown, whose destination is paradise, the lost garden of Eden. Constantly returning to the small blue shed in his garden, Eric Pauwels traces stories and journeys from history, from myth, from his childhood. Footage from the artist's previous films is combined with borrowed images from other films and other sources, with a soundtrack sampling music from cultures across the globe, from Bollywood to bagpipes and from Polynesia to Patagonia. This work meanders through stories of all kinds, drawing everything together into the idea that to live is to dream.





http://addoc.net/docs-en-partage/rencontre-avec-eric-pauwels-cineaste-et-ecrivain/



jueves, 12 de julio de 2012

‘Romance del molino que no muele’

Ruinas de un molino de agua

‘Romance del molino que no muele’
Gabriel Baldrich (1915 – 1998)

Allí, en la orilla del río,
Mirando a la avanzadilla,
Con tres cárcavos umbríos
Torrando su barriga;
Mirando a Sierra Nevada,
Que es una sábana limpia;
Entre juncos y entre adelfas
Que sus muros acarician,
Triste, solo, abandonado,
Hay un molino sin vida.
Que lo “pararon las balas”,
Me dijo una campesina.
Pero hay algo que habla más,
Algo que el alma domina:
Las ruedas hechas pedazos
Por la metralla enemiga,
Los hierros de sus ventanas
Y sus rejas retorcidas,
Los paredones abiertos
Y su portón hecho astillas.
Y ese silencio redondo
Que en el granero dormita
Y que se asoma temblando
Entre el hollín de las vigas.
¿Dónde estará el molinero?
¿Dónde fue a llorar sus cuitas?
El molino ya no muele
Y el trigo no da su harina.
Por los cárcavos umbríos
El agua corre tranquila.
Las cucarachas del rodezno
No sienten golpes ni heridas.
El polvo cubre la tolva,
La gruesa piedra no gira.
El agua, por el suelillo,
Salta con dolor, perdida.
Entre juncos y adelfas,
Al pie de un monte de divas,
El molino abandonado
Llora sobre sus ruinas.
Que “lo pararon las balas”,
Me dijo una campesina,
Allí, en la orilla del río,
Mirando a la avanzadilla.


Cartas sin respuesta posible (Alfar, 1992), fue escrito en 1937

LANTEIRA (Granada, Spain) Ruinas de un molino - Ojo ciego



http://secretolivo.com/2011/11/15/gabriel-baldrich-la-lucha-por-la-libertad-y-la-pasion-por-las-letras/

La cabane du Highlander





Charles-Augustin SAINTE-BEUVE (1804-1869)


La cabane du Highlander


Elle est bâtie en terre, et la sauvage fleur 
Orne un faite croulant ; toiture mal fermée, 
Il en sort, le matin, une lente fumée, 
(Voyez) belle au soleil, blanche et torse en vapeur !

Le clair ruisseau des monts coule auprès ; n'ayez peur 
D'approcher comme lui ; quand l'âme est bien formée, 
On est humble, on se sait, pauvre race, semée 
Aux rocs, aux durs sentiers, partout où vit un cœur !

Sous ce toit affaissé de terre et de verdure, 
Par ce chemin rampant jusqu'à la porte obscure, 
Venez ; plus naturel, le pauvre a ses trésors :

Un cœur doux, patient, bénissant sur sa route, 
Qui, s'il supportait moins, bénirait moins sans doute... 
Ne restez plus ainsi, ne restez pas dehors !




http://www.academie-francaise.fr/immortels/base/academiciens/fiche.asp?param=385


miércoles, 11 de julio de 2012

La cabaña del té





Chambre du thé from Summitata on Vimeo.


2001: des artisans venus du Japon se rendent à Paris pour ériger un pavillon de thé, "cabane végétale" dans un jardin du musée Guimet. Une architecture pensée pour rapprocher les hommes et la nature, apaiser et nourrir le coeur le temps d'un thé. L'architecte Masao Nakamura nous accompagne dans ces quelques images filmées lors de la construction. 
13th Festival du Docu de Hot Springs (2004 USA), 1er Globians Festival (2005 GER), Auditorium de Musée Guimet (2005)



lunes, 9 de julio de 2012

El vuelo imaginario de Paul Landacre desde su cabaña


Paul Landacre (1893-1963)





Paul Hambleton Landacre (9 July 1893, Columbus, Ohio - 3 June 1963, Los Angeles, California) was one of the outstanding printmakers of the modern era. His distinguished body of work was largely responsible for elevating the wood engraving to an art form in twentieth-century America. Landacre's linocuts and wood engravings of landscapes, still lifes, nudes, and abstractions are celebrated for their technical virtuosity and mastery of design.

Biography

Paul Landacre's indomitable spirit figures prominently in his storied career as an award-winning wood engraver. His early promise as a track and field athlete at Ohio State University was clipped by a debilitating polio-like illness, spurring him to leave Ohio in 1917 for the more healthful climate of San Diego. He soon resettled in Los Angeles where his diligence and good fortune recast his professional prospects as a budding commercial draftsman. In 1925, Margaret McCreery, an advertising copywriter he met a few years earlier, became his lifelong companion and wife, fully complicit in the brilliant realization of his artistic prowess.



Although he took some life-drawing classes at the Otis Art Institute between 1923 and 1925, Landacre largely taught himself the art of printmaking. He experimented with the technically demanding art of carving linoleum blocks and, eventually, woodblocks for both wood engravings and woodcuts. His fascination with printmaking and his ambition to make a place for himself in the world of fine art coalesced in the late 1920s when he met Jake Zeitlin. Zeitlin's antiquarian bookshop in Los Angeles (a cultural hub that survived into the 1980s) included a small gallery space for the showing of artworks, primarily prints and drawings, and it is there in 1930 that Landacre was given his first significant solo exhibition. Zeitlin's ever-widening circle of artists came to include Edward Weston, a photographer who shared the modernist vision that so captivated Landacre. Well-connected to the New York art scene, Zeitlin associated himself with the circle of artists represented by Carl Zigrosser, director of the Weyhe Gallery in Manhattan and, later, curator of prints at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. By 1936 Zigrosser considered Landacre to be "one of the few graphic artists worth watching" in America, and included him among his portraits of 24 contemporary American printmakers in his seminal work, "The Artist in America" (Knopf 1942). Elected a member of the National Academy in 1946, Landacre was honored in 1947 with a solo exhibition of his wood engravings at the Smithsonian Museum, its graphic arts division under the curatorial leadership of Jacob Kainen.


Of national and local appeal, many of Landacre's linoleum cuts and wood engravings were inspired by the American Far West, including the hills and mountains of Big Sur, Palm Springs, Monterey, and Berkeley. "California Hills and Other Wood Engravings by Paul Landacre" (Los Angeles: Bruce McCallister, 1931), a limited-edition folio comprising 15 of Landacre's early works printed from the original blocks, was awarded recognition as one of the "Fifty Books of the Year" for 1931. In rapid succession, three more books illustrated with his wood engravings also garnered such recognition: "The Boar and the Shibboleth" (1933), "A Gil Blas in California" (1933), and "XV Poems for the Heath Broom" (1934). In the 1950s, when the AIGA recognized "A Natural History of Western Trees" (1953) and "Books West Southwest, Essays on Writers, Their Books and Their Land" (1957) as "Fifty Books of the Year", they became the fifth and sixth books Landacre illustrated to win the prestigious award. For "Trees" Landacre contributed more than 200 ink drawings on scratchboard, a multi-year devotion to arboreal beauty.

As his artistry evolved, Landacre developed a singular style lauded for its formal beauty—meticulously carved fine lines, delicate cross hatching, and flecking—elements in white which strikingly contrast with richly blackened areas. He used the finest inks and Japanese papers and, with few exceptions, printed his wood engravings on a Washington hand press—now in the collection of the International Printing Museum in Carson, California. His prints, including the early linocuts, gained early and lasting critical recognition, were awarded numerous prizes, and can be found in more than a hundred and fifty public collections throughout the United States.[1]

In March 1932, the artist and his wife moved to a rustic house in the Echo Park neighborhood, also known as Edendale, near downtown Los Angeles, where they lived for the remainder of their lives. Landacre died in 1963 soon after—and emotionally resulting from—the death of his wife who had been an essential working companion for 38 years, even helping the artist late in his life pull impressions from the formidable Washington hand press. In March 2006, with the growing appreciation of Landacre's artistic significance, their hillside home was declared a City of Los Angeles landmark (Historic Cultural Monument No. 839).
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Landacre)


Paul Landacre

Sultry Day 
Lot Cleaning 
Paul Landacre was the preeminent American wood-cut print artist of the 20th Century. Landacre's work reflected not only the character of the California landscape, but particularly in the 1930s; the character of his own Echo Park neighborhood. His style was clearly influenced by the natural beauty and dramatic quality of light in his own neighborhood. In fact, the neighborhood was often the subject of his work.
Right: Lot Cleaning, 1935, Landacre comments on the City's practice of setting fire to the hillsides for brush clearance. Landacre wrote numerous letters to the local newspapers, presented a petition to City Council and created the prize winning print in protest of the City's policy.
Below: Sultry Day, 1937 depicts wife and cat at his beloved home with the intersection of Modjeska Ave. and Peru St. in the background.
Landacre worked out of his home on El Moran Ave. in the Semi-Tropic Spiritualists' Tract for more than 30 years, until his death in 1963. Landacre's cabin, the grounds around his cabin and the hillside of the tract retain the same rural character that existed when Landacre created his unique works of art. It's a place where the natural beauty and quality of light still inspire artists today.



Paul Landacre Cabin, 2006 El Moran Street, Sept 5, 2005 (photo by Charles J. Fisher)



Paul Landacre Cabin, Los Angeles Historic Cultural Monument #839
Declared March 17, 2006

This house was constructed in the heavily wooded Semi-Tropical Spiritualist Tract in 1909 as a small mountain cabin in the country. The house was purchased in 1932 by modernist landscape artist and woodcarver, Paul Landacre, and his wife, Margaret. It was in this wooded enclave, surrounded by California Live Oaks and other native vegetation, that Landacre produced most of his best work. Using the medium of wood blocks to produce his highly acclaimed black and white prints, Landacre's work is considered the best of his era, as he was acclaimed as the undisputed master of the wood block technique. His many patrons included Mrs. E. L. Doheny and Mrs. Samuel Goldwin. Landacre's work is exhibited at many prominent art museums including the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. 


22 - El Moran - Paul Landacre's House - HCM-839 (E)



Photo: Andrew Sears

(...) Paul Landacre wrote about his life in the Echo Park hills in 1958, not so different from those who live in the Semi-Tropic Spiritualists' Tract today;
"You see, art is practiced here along with various other concerns -pruning trees, repairing the roof, watching and feeding wildlife and so on. Of course, other artists live on wooded hillsides, too, and so do other people, and it must be conceded that to some of us this kind of environment is not only valuable, but absolutely necessary - a degree of seclusion, the life of growing things, awareness that we are a part of nature."



Photo: Andrew Sears

Landacre carved a petrel, his signature bird into the roof vents on each side of his house. He used the petrel as his trademark on his work, often in place of his signature.
Landacre struggled with physical disabilities most of his life. He identified with the petrel since they learn to fly by jumping off a cliff; falling into the raging sea; hurling themselves off the peaks of waves until they learn to fly. They crash into the rocks and waves, beat up, but they learn to fly.




(Paul Landacre escribió sobre su vida en las colinas de Echo Park en 1958, no tan distinta de los que viven hoy en Semi-Tropic Spiritualists' Tract;

"Ves, el arte se practica aquí junto con otras preocupaciones - podando árboles, reparando el tejado, mirando y alimentando la vida silvestre... para algunos de nosotros este tipo de medio ambiente no sólo es valioso, sino absolutamente necesario - un grado de aislamiento, la vida de las cosas y la creciente conciencia de que somos parte de la naturaleza."

Landacre había tallado un petrel, su pájaro de firma en las rejillas del techo en cada lado de su casa. Usó el petrel como su marca registrada para su trabajo, a menudo en lugar de su firma.
Landacre luchó con sus discapacidades físicas la mayor parte de su vida de su vida. Se identificaba con el petrel ya que éste aprende a volar saltando de un acantilado; cae al mar embravecido; choca contra las rocas y las olas pero aprende a volar.)


Paul Landacre Wood Engravings

"Rima" - Paul Landacre - Wood Engraving - 1933

"Rima" - Paul Landacre - Wood Engraving - 1933



"Siesta" - Paul Landacre - Wood Engraving ~1937?



"Anna" - Paul Landacre - Wood Engraving - 1937 




"Sultry Day" - Paul Landacre - Wood Engraving - 1935


"Shell" - Paul Landacre - Wood Engraving - 1935

"Shell" - Paul Landacre - Wood Engraving - 1935


"Campers" - Paul Landacre - Wood Engraving - 1940?

"Campers" - Paul Landacre - Wood Engraving - 1940?


Monterey Hills - Paul Landacre - Wood Engraving - 1931

Monterey Hills - Paul Landacre - Wood Engraving - 1931






http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Landacre
http://redcarproperty.blogspot.com.es/2008/10/semi-tropic-spiritualists-tract-cut-in.html
http://semitropicspiritualiststract.blogspot.com.es/2007/11/landacre-cabin-historic-landmark-839.html


Los escritores y la importancia del lugar para escribir



The Importance of Place: Where Writers Write and Why
THE LITERARY LIFE
March/April 2008
Other writers find busy public spaces more conducive to work. Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir had regular tables and hours at the Café Flore and later the Deux Magots, and knew they would be surrounded by people but not intruded upon. "It's a less lonely way to write," Russo said of writing in diners, in an interview on Barnes & Noble's Web site. "I'm less self-conscious when it's not so quiet.... I've always enjoyed writing in public spaces, because when the phone rings, it's not for you." Poet Catherine Barnett has a favorite booth at her local diner. "It's out of the way and protected. I like writing there because people take care of you." find busy public spaces more conducive to work. Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir had regular tables and hours at the Café Flore and later the Deux Magots, and knew they would be surrounded by people but not intruded upon. "It's a less lonely way to write," Russo said of writing in diners, in an interview on Barnes & Noble's Web site. "I'm less self-conscious when it's not so quiet.... I've always enjoyed writing in public spaces, because when the phone rings, it's not for you." Poet Catherine Barnett has a favorite booth at her local diner. "It's out of the way and protected. I like writing there because people take care of you."
I myself have found the lounge at the Mark Morris Dance Group in New York City, where my daughter takes a weekly class, a very productive space. There, amid the tiny girls in their ballet clothes and the dozing fathers, I am able to tune out the distractions and focus only on the work at hand.
Travel can provide another kind of transitional space. For some, the actual journey—the movement between places—inspires the writing. Poet Tom Sleigh likes to write on trains, which he describes as "meditative, calming, and interesting for the way the scenery keeps flashing by." In her contributor's note for "Mr. Sweetly Indecent," published in The Best American Short Stories 1998, Bliss Broyard wrote that her story "was written virtually in one sitting, while I was traveling from Ann Arbor, Michigan, to Boston." She noticed an unusual greeting between passengers and opened her notebook.
I worked on the story while I waited for my plane, for the entire three-hour flight, and then kept writing in the terminal in Boston until I'd finished.... When I come to think about how the story came to be, it is the circumstances under which it was written that loom largest in my mind. The anonymous, unanchored feeling of being in an airport terminal and flying high above the earth liberated me from some of my normal writing anxieties. I followed the story where it took me, without thinking ahead about plot, character development, or really any thematic concerns. In retrospect I see that some aspects of where the story was written found their way into it: eavesdropping and voyeurism, a sense of traveling between separate worlds, and the feeling I often have while flying of a temporary suspension of my belief in how things are supposed to work.
Others actually take trips in order to write along the way. Erskine Caldwell, author ofTobacco Road (Scribner's Sons, 1932), ran a bookstore in Maine with his wife, photojournalist Margaret Bourke-White; when he needed time to write, he would take a bus from "Boston to Cleveland maybe, and get off at night once in a while to write. I'd do a story that way in about a week's time. Then for a while, I took the night boats between Boston and New York. The Fall River Line, the New Bedford Line, the Cape Cod Line, all going to New York at night. The rhythm of the water might have helped my sentence structure a little; at least I thought it did."
Then there are those like Eudora Welty, who "found it possible to write almost anywhere I've happened to try." (Welty preferred home because it was "more convenient for an early riser.... And it's the only place where you can really promise yourself time and keep out interruptions.") Robert Frost claimed famously to "never write except with a writing board. I've never had a table in my life. And I use all sorts of things. Write on the sole of my shoe." For some, the transitional space is actually more external than internal; they thrive on outside contact. Allen Ginsberg could write poems anywhere, anytime. "He isn't the least bit self-conscious," Creeley said of Ginsberg. "In fact, he seems to be stimulated by people around him."
Being in the world as a writer, to paraphrase Creeley, takes many forms. For me, different stages of a project have always demanded different settings. In the beginning, when an idea is just emerging, I search for the right place to incubate what is coming. Where are the characters going to reveal themselves? Do I want to be alone, or with others? To work in quiet or with background noise? Near the end of my project, these questions will not matter; I will perch wherever I need to. I'll work on the edge of a bathtub, in the car, waiting for my daughter to brush her teeth. Like the moon, the momentum and sheer bulk of my novel will pull me to it. In the middle stages I want something different again. I want a place where work has to be done, a library or office. This long stage is about routine and discipline—it's nice to be surrounded by familiar things because they suggest my life as a writer.
I was in the middle of a novel when, several years ago, my husband, the sculptor Peter Soriano, won a grant to live and work in Alexander Calder's house in the tiny town of Saché, France. The house was enormous—a farmhouse on steroids, we called it—and severely underfurnished. I could not get comfortable in that cavernous house, could not find a spot secure enough to work. I was also a little homesick. My novel was about an island in Maine, a novel in which landscape, and the character's attachment to it, played a big role, and the irony of working on that while feeling distinctly unattached to this place in the beautiful French countryside was not lost on me. Finally I moved a table into a corner of the bedroom. And so, while Peter was out in the studio and our daughter at the village school, I made a boat out of that desk, a bridge that connected me to my own New England landscape, and to the imagined world I was creating. Meanwhile, in the days and weeks that followed, the French landscape outside and its lovely slow spring was seeping in, and in my novel the bright and forceful Maine summer was hurtling out, and there, on that simple pine table pushed up against the bare white wall, I found a way to contain it all.
A destabilizing element in an otherwise secure space may be helpful. Poet Andrew Motion sits at a glass-topped table. "Although the sight of my legs crossing and uncrossing can add to my nervousness when I'm working," he says, "I like the slightly vertiginous feeling it gives me—as if I were staring over the side of a boat." On the other hand, disturbances in the work space can affect the writing negatively. During a time when she was having problems writing, novelist Rachel Cline consulted a feng shui practitioner. When Cline described the pages of old manuscripts stacked up behind the chair in her work space, the practitioner said, "That's the problem—all those papers, one on top of another. Each one's like a little knife ready to stab you."
For some writers, establishing a transitional space means finding a way to be alone but not solitary. "The whole thing about writing is how to be able to withstand solitude," says Francine du Plessix Gray. For years she had a writing room across the courtyard from her husband Cleve Gray's studio, but after his death she found she needed new rituals to stave off the isolation. In warm weather the author now works outside at a weathered wooden table beside a small pool of water. In winter, she sits in the old part of her house, in the library by the fire, which she keeps burning all afternoon long. "The natural elements of fire and water are my best companions," she says. "There's something primal, archaic, shamanistic about being within sight of those elements."
"I always get up and make a cup of coffee while it is still dark—it must be dark—and then I drink the coffee and watch the light come," Toni Morrison told Elissa Schappell in a 1993 Paris Review interview. "And I realized for me this ritual comprises my preparation to enter a space I can only call nonsecular.... Writers all devise ways to approach that place where they expect to make the contact, where they become the conduit, or where they engage in this mysterious process. For me, light is the signal in the transition. It's not being in the light, it's being there before it arrives. It enables me, in some sense."
Many writers choose libraries, intermediate spaces that aren't totally isolated but are quiet, protected, and controlled. Herman Melville and Willa Cather wrote at the New York Society Library; Virginia Woolf, George Eliot, and George Bernard Shaw all worked in the famous Reading Room at the British Museum. Shaw described his ritual in his diary:
When I lay too late in the mornings (which is most often the case) I did not go to the museum until after dinner.... I made a stand against late rising by using an alarm clock and actually succeeded in getting up regularly at eight every morning until the end of the year, when the clock broke and I began immediately to relapse. I got a new clock, but did not quite regain my punctuality, which, by and by, made me so sleepy in the afternoon that I got into the habit of taking a nap in the Museum over my books.



Novelist Anne Landsman is a member of the Writers Room in New York City, a nonprofit organization that offers desk space to writers who prefer to work in a shared environment. "I work best in situations around other people who are creating," says Landsman, who's been a member since 1994. "Everyone's a writer. There's nothing aberrant or unusual or out of place. It says Writers Room on the door. It allows you to be what you are. I'd be happy if they provided work clothes with Writer on the back. I love the signing in, the routine. It gives you permission to take a deep breath, to realize that writing happens the way everything else happens. Writing makes me feel sufficiently vulnerable and it helps to be with other people. Another comforting thing is you see people having different kinds of days."
Preparing to work, deliberately and intentionally, can help build the bridge between inner and outer worlds, whether a writer leaves the house or not. Landsman says her preparations begin with reading on the train to the Writers Room. "By the time I'm at the Writers Room, have set up the desk, maybe made a phone call, or a cup of tea, I'm ready. You know how cats and dogs circle in their beds at night? It takes me between five and twenty minutes. Then I turn on the computer. It's like taking an elevator down; I've gone to that other place."
Other writers find busy public spaces more conducive to work. Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir had regular tables and hours at the Café Flore and later the Deux Magots, and knew they would be surrounded by people but not intruded upon. "It's a less lonely way to write," Russo said of writing in diners, in an interview on Barnes & Noble's Web site. "I'm less self-conscious when it's not so quiet.... I've always enjoyed writing in public spaces, because when the phone rings, it's not for you." Poet Catherine Barnett has a favorite booth at her local diner. "It's out of the way and protected. I like writing there because people take care of you."
I myself have found the lounge at the Mark Morris Dance Group in New York City, where my daughter takes a weekly class, a very productive space. There, amid the tiny girls in their ballet clothes and the dozing fathers, I am able to tune out the distractions and focus only on the work at hand.
Travel can provide another kind of transitional space. For some, the actual journey—the movement between places—inspires the writing. Poet Tom Sleigh likes to write on trains, which he describes as "meditative, calming, and interesting for the way the scenery keeps flashing by." In her contributor's note for "Mr. Sweetly Indecent," published in The Best American Short Stories 1998, Bliss Broyard wrote that her story "was written virtually in one sitting, while I was traveling from Ann Arbor, Michigan, to Boston." She noticed an unusual greeting between passengers and opened her notebook.
I worked on the story while I waited for my plane, for the entire three-hour flight, and then kept writing in the terminal in Boston until I'd finished.... When I come to think about how the story came to be, it is the circumstances under which it was written that loom largest in my mind. The anonymous, unanchored feeling of being in an airport terminal and flying high above the earth liberated me from some of my normal writing anxieties. I followed the story where it took me, without thinking ahead about plot, character development, or really any thematic concerns. In retrospect I see that some aspects of where the story was written found their way into it: eavesdropping and voyeurism, a sense of traveling between separate worlds, and the feeling I often have while flying of a temporary suspension of my belief in how things are supposed to work.


Others actually take trips in order to write along the way. Erskine Caldwell, author ofTobacco Road (Scribner's Sons, 1932), ran a bookstore in Maine with his wife, photojournalist Margaret Bourke-White; when he needed time to write, he would take a bus from "Boston to Cleveland maybe, and get off at night once in a while to write. I'd do a story that way in about a week's time. Then for a while, I took the night boats between Boston and New York. The Fall River Line, the New Bedford Line, the Cape Cod Line, all going to New York at night. The rhythm of the water might have helped my sentence structure a little; at least I thought it did."
Then there are those like Eudora Welty, who "found it possible to write almost anywhere I've happened to try." (Welty preferred home because it was "more convenient for an early riser.... And it's the only place where you can really promise yourself time and keep out interruptions.") Robert Frost claimed famously to "never write except with a writing board. I've never had a table in my life. And I use all sorts of things. Write on the sole of my shoe." For some, the transitional space is actually more external than internal; they thrive on outside contact. Allen Ginsberg could write poems anywhere, anytime. "He isn't the least bit self-conscious," Creeley said of Ginsberg. "In fact, he seems to be stimulated by people around him."
Being in the world as a writer, to paraphrase Creeley, takes many forms. For me, different stages of a project have always demanded different settings. In the beginning, when an idea is just emerging, I search for the right place to incubate what is coming. Where are the characters going to reveal themselves? Do I want to be alone, or with others? To work in quiet or with background noise? Near the end of my project, these questions will not matter; I will perch wherever I need to. I'll work on the edge of a bathtub, in the car, waiting for my daughter to brush her teeth. Like the moon, the momentum and sheer bulk of my novel will pull me to it. In the middle stages I want something different again. I want a place where work has to be done, a library or office. This long stage is about routine and discipline—it's nice to be surrounded by familiar things because they suggest my life as a writer.
I was in the middle of a novel when, several years ago, my husband, the sculptor Peter Soriano, won a grant to live and work in Alexander Calder's house in the tiny town of Saché, France. The house was enormous—a farmhouse on steroids, we called it—and severely underfurnished. I could not get comfortable in that cavernous house, could not find a spot secure enough to work. I was also a little homesick. My novel was about an island in Maine, a novel in which landscape, and the character's attachment to it, played a big role, and the irony of working on that while feeling distinctly unattached to this place in the beautiful French countryside was not lost on me. Finally I moved a table into a corner of the bedroom. And so, while Peter was out in the studio and our daughter at the village school, I made a boat out of that desk, a bridge that connected me to my own New England landscape, and to the imagined world I was creating. Meanwhile, in the days and weeks that followed, the French landscape outside and its lovely slow spring was seeping in, and in my novel the bright and forceful Maine summer was hurtling out, and there, on that simple pine table pushed up against the bare white wall, I found a way to contain it all.
Alexandra Enders is the author of the novel Bride Island (Plume, 2007). She lives in New York City.

Poets & Writers




La cabaña del Rev. Robert Stephen Hawker en Cornwall



Rev. Robert Stephen Hawker's Hut

ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER at his vicarage door. Illustration from Life and Letters (p.84). Drawn in lithography by T. R. Way from a photograph by S. Thorn, circa 1858.


Robert Stephen Hawker (3 December 1803 – 15 August 1875) was an Anglican priest, poet, antiquarian of Cornwall and reputed eccentric. He is best known as the writer of The Song of the Western Men with its chorus line of And shall Trelawny die? / Here's twenty thousand Cornish men / will know the reason why!, which he published anonymously in 1825. His name became known after Charles Dickens acknowledged his authorship of "The Song of the Western Men" in the serial magazine Household Words.

Biography

Morwenstow Vicarage
Hawker was born in the vicarage of Charles Church, Plymouth, on 3 December 1803, He was the eldest of nine children and grandson of Robert Hawker, vicar of Charles Church. When he was about ten years old his father, Jacob Stephen Hawker, took Holy Orders and left Plymouth to become curate of Altarnun, leaving him in the care of his grandparents. By this time Hawker was already reading and writing poetry. He was educated at Liskeard Grammar School and Cheltenham Grammar School. As an undergraduate, aged 19, he married Charlotte Eliza I'ans, aged 41. The couple spent their honeymoon at Tintagel in 1823, a place that kindled his lifelong fascination with Arthurian legend and later inspired him to write The Quest of the Sangraal. This marriage, along with a legacy, helped to finance his studies at Pembroke College, Oxford. He graduated in 1827 and won the 1827 Newdigate Prize for poetry.
Hawker was ordained in 1831, becoming curate at North Tamerton and then, in 1834, vicar of the church at Morwenstow, where he remained throughout his life. When he arrived at Morwenstow there had not been a vicar in residence for over a century. Smugglers and wreckers were apparently numerous in the area. A contemporary report says the Morwenstow wreckers "allowed a fainting brother to perish in the sea without extending a hand of safety."[citation needed]
Hawker's first wife, Charlotte, died in 1863 and the following year, aged 60, he married Pauline Kuczynski, aged 20. They had three daughters, Morwenna Pauline Hawker, Rosalind Hawker and Juliot Hawker. Robert Hawker died in August 1875, having become a Roman Catholic on his deathbed. He was buried in Plymouth's Ford Park Cemetery. His funeral was noteworthy because the mourners wore purple instead of the traditional black.

Accomplishments

Hawker was regarded as a deeply compassionate person giving Christian burials to shipwrecked seamen washed up on the shores of the parish, and was often the first to reach the cliffs when there was a shipwreck. Prior to this, the bodies of shipwrecked sailors were often either buried on the beach where they were found or left to the sea. The figurehead of the ship the 'Caledonia', which foundered in September 1842, marks the grave in Morwenstow churchyard of five of the nine-man crew. Hawker described the wrecking in his book Footprints of Former Men in Far Cornwall. Nearby stands a granite cross marked "Unknown Yet Well Known", close to the graves of 30 or more seafarers, including the captain of the Alonzo, wrecked in 1843.
Hawker's Hut
The Harvest Festival that we know today was introduced in the parish of Morwenstow in 1843 by Hawker. He invited his parishioners to a Harvest service as he wanted to give thanks to God for providing such plenty. This service took place on the 1 October and bread made from the first cut of corn was taken at communion. "Parson Hawker", as he was known to his parishioners, was something of an eccentric, both in his clothes and his habits. He loved bright colours and it seems the only black things he wore were his socks. He built a small hut, that became known as Hawker's Hut, from driftwood on the cliffs overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, He spent many hours there writing his poems and letters. This driftwood hut is now the smallest property in the National Trust portfolio. Many of the more fantastic stories told about Hawker are based on an unreliable biography published by the Reverend Sabine Baring-Gould in 1876, only a few months after Hawker's death. Other eccentricities attributed to him include dressing up as a mermaid and excommunicating his cat for mousing on Sundays. He dressed in claret-coloured coat, blue fisherman's jersey, long sea-boots, a pink brimless hat and a poncho made from a yellow horse blanket, which he claimed was the ancient habit of St Padarn. He talked to birds, invited his nine cats into church and kept a pig as a pet.
He built himself a remarkable vicarage, with chimneys modelled on the towers of the churches in his life: Tamerton, where he had been curate; Morwenstow and Welcombe; plus that of Magdalen College, Oxford. The old kitchen chimney is a replica of Hawker's mother's tomb.
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Stephen_Hawker)



Hawker's Hut has built by Robert Stephen Hawker at Morwenstow, Cornwall

Rev. Robert Stephen Hawker's Hut


File:Hawker's Hut, Vicarage Cliff, Morwenstow - geograph.org.uk - 1369016.jpg

Hawker's Hut







http://www.robertstephenhawker.co.uk/?p=292
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Stephen_Hawker
http://www.mornishapartments.co.uk/image.asp?image=/images/robert-stephen-hawker-hut-
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Hawker's_Hut,_Vicarage_Cliff,_Morwenstow_-_geograph.org.uk_-_1369016.jpg
http://www.oliverscornwall.co.uk/miscellanea.htmllarge.jpg&title=Rev.%20Robert%20Stephen%20Hawker's%20Hut



domingo, 8 de julio de 2012

La cabaña de Jack Leahy, el "poeta de la cordillera de los alces"


Jack Leahy
Jack Leahy stands by his cabin.

Jack Leahy Cabin

Jack Leahy Cabin


Jack Leahy’s Cabin

© Ann Hodges photo 

Looking north from the welcome point, you can see a building that was important to this town. The silver-roofed cabin across the willows is Jack Leahy’s cabin. Jack was the poet laureate of Ashcroft. He came here in the summer of 1880 right when the town was founded. He left in 1930.Jack was a character—to say the least. He used to write fancy script letters for miners to send back east, and he would enclose a poem for a dollar extra. He was a learned man. He read everything he could get his hands on—Plato, Aristotle, Shakespeare, Voltaire. He was the Justice of the Peace in Ashcroft, although he never ran a trial. Lawyers from Aspen used to travel to Ashcroft to get legal advice from Jack. Leahy ran for the Colorado state legislature twice—he lost both times. Jack was also a union organizer in Aspen with the miners there. He stopped a strike once by quoting Voltaire, saying something like —"Anarchy is the death of civilization."


^ This is believed to be Jack Leahy, in the black suit and tie, at Tim Kelleher's Bar (now the Red Onion) in Aspen, c. 1920. 


For all his mental prowess, however, Jack was not a practical man. They think another miner built his cabin. When it was completed, Jack cut a hole in the front door and punched a hole in his wood stove. Jack would feed Aspen trees through the two holes, and, therefore, save himself the trouble of chopping wood save himself the trouble of chopping wood. 




^ Jack Leahy and some of his friends stand in front of the Blue Mirror Saloon, c. 1910. Photo courtesy of the Colorado State Historical Society.



A doctor from Aspen finally came up and got the poet of Ashcroft in 1930. Jack was dying of malnutrition. The doctor took Leahy to California, but Jack made his way back to this area and died in Glenwood Springs in 1939.

Jack’s poetry still survives. Some of it is interesting, some is awful. This one is titled How We Built a Church in Ashcroft. It was written in 1880, and it's signed "Jack Leahy, Poet of the Elk Mountains."

How We Built a Church in Ashcroft.

Come all ye Irish Gentlemen, a story I would tell 
Of St. Tim’s church at Ashcroft and all that there befell.
Since snows did fall and streams run down from lofty Castle Peak,
More witching spot could ne’er be found, or poet man to speak;
Or lovely vales, bestrewn with flowers, or columbine more rare;
Or sparkling waters foaming down, or azure skies more fair.
The faithful met at Paddy’s, with chairman Deacon Perch;
Six trustees were elected and empowered to build a church.
The reason why—the camp was shocked one evening’s stage to meet,
A portly dame, one Madame Nobbs, with six from Holiday Street.
We were all high protectionists, or, as the case may be,
The vote stood ninety-nine to one ‘gainst reciprocity.



Those are the opening two stanzas of a twenty stanza poem. Jack had a very lively sense of humor. This poem is in the format of a joke. The punch-line is that the church was never built in Ashcroft because the townsfolk could not agree where to place the building. With the community divided, the trustees could only raise enough money to build a rough structure. Madame Nobbs and her prostitutes moved into the rough structure and turned the would-be church into a brothel. Finally, Jack had a snow-slide come down from one of these mountains and level the whole affair for poetic justice.
(http://www.heritageaspen.org/acleahys.html)


Hard-Rock Mining:

Covers the history of mining in Aspen, from prospectors, speculators and industrialists to the eventual collapse of silver and the fate of mining during Aspen's "Quiet Years" and beyond.
on-line Flash movie (20.4 MB)
on-line slide show

Postcards from the Past: Covers the history of Aspen from prehistory to the present, Ute Indians to snowboarders.
on-line Flash movie (39.4 MB) updated 8/11/05
on-line slide show



Paisaje y cabaña, lugares de permanencia de Ana María Spagna




I'd grown up in California, in the vast sprawling outer edges of Los Angeles, suburbs of suburbs of suburbs. And I'd come to the North Cascades to escape it..."




Ana Maria Spagna
©Mike Barnhart


Ana Maria Spagna (MA, Northern Arizona University) is a freelance writer and day laborer in Stehekin, Washington. Her first book, Now Go Home: Wilderness, Belonging, and the Crosscut Saw (Oregon State University Press), was named one of the Best Books of 2004 by The Seattle Times.


Ana Maria Spagna



Many of us dream of ditching civilization, of following in the footsteps of Gauguin or Thoreau or Oliver Wendall Douglas (from the old Green Acres sitcom). Gotham Memoir teacher Ana Maria Spagna is one of the few who has actually done it. Ana Maria lives in a remote part of the Pacific Northwest, along Lake Chelan in Washington state, with no roads in or out and no telephone access, landline or mobile.
She grew up in Riverside California, which she calls “the smoggiest city in the whole USA.” As a teenager, she visited the wilds of the Pacific Northwest and caught a whole new view of the world. She fell in love with the green forests, blue sky, and even the continual rain, and vowed “If I ever made it back, I wouldn’t leave.”
Ana Maria on a trail crew with a chainsaw
After 15 years maintaining trails in the wilderness areas of the West,
Ana Maria is as capable with a chainsaw as she is with a pen.
©Mike Barnhart
Ana Maria stayed true to that vow. After college, she got a job with the National Park Service, maintaining trails in the North Cascades. She fit right in. Whenever she ran into a black bear, she’d give a friendly hello with a chainsaw and they’d leave her alone. Eventually she bought a cabin accessible only by boat or float plane, settled down with her partner Laurie, and there she spends her time writing, teaching, and continuing her love affair with the land.
She doesn’t have a TV and claims not to miss much about civilization, with the possible exception of live music and beer on tap. One a typical day, she writes in the morning; spends the afternoon hiking, running, or splitting wood; and devotes her evenings to her students. Nice work if you can get it. Or stand it, depending on your perspective.
A few years back, Ana Maria published Now Go Home, a memoir about her journey into the middle of nowhere. She’s now at work on a kind of sequel, Saw Chips in My Bra, which tells her story of staying put out there. She bristles at being called a “nature writer,” though. Her taste extends to fiction and poetry and she treasures the urbane wit of such writers as David Sedaris and Sarah Vowell.
She also adores teaching. Once or twice a year, she does it the old fashioned way, conducting classes in a one-room schoolhouse for Flick Creek Workshops. And year-round, she does it the 21st century way, teaching online classes for Gotham, where from her cabin outpost she communes with students scattered in the cities and villages all over the globe. What would Thoreau think?

Spanish Translator:

Muchos de nosotros soñamos con abandonar la civilización, de seguir los pasos de Gauguin o de Thoreau o Oliver Wendell Douglas (del viejo de Green Acres comedia de situación). Ana María Spagna es uno de los pocos que realmente lo ha hecho. Ana María vive en una parte remota del noroeste del Pacífico, a lo largo de Lake Chelan, en el estado de Washington, sin carreteras y sin acceso telefónico, fijo o móvil.
Ella creció en Riverside, California, al que llama "la ciudad más contaminada de todo EE.UU.". Cuando era adolescente, visitó las selvas del noroeste del Pacífico y alcanzó una nueva visión del mundo. Ella se enamoró de los bosques verdes, cielo azul, e incluso de la lluvia continua, y prometió "Si alguna vez vuelvo, nadie me lo impedirá".
Ana María se mantuvo fiel a ese juramento. Después de la universidad, consiguió un trabajo en el Servicio de Parques Nacionales, el mantenimiento de senderos en las cascadas del norte... Con el tiempo compró una cabaña que sólo era accesible por barco o hidroavión, se instaló con su pareja Laurie, y pasó su tiempo escribiendo, enseñando y continuando con su historia de amor con la tierra.
No tiene televisor y afirma que no se pierda mucho de la civilización, con la posible excepción de la música en vivo y la cerveza de barril. Un día típico, escribe por la mañana, pasa la tarde caminando, corriendo o cortando madera, y dedica las noches a sus estudiantes. Buen trabajo si puedes conseguirlo...
Hace unos años, Ana María publicó Ahora vete a casa , un libro de memorias sobre su viaje en el medio de la nada. Ahora está trabajando en una especie de secuela, Saw Chips in My Bra, que cuenta su propia historia de quedarse donde está. Ella cerdas en ser llamada "escritora de la naturaleza", sin embargo su gusto se extiende a la ficción y a la poesía, y admira el ingenio urbano de escritores como David Sedaris y Vowell Sarah.
Ella también adora a la enseñanza. Una o dos veces al año, lo hace a la manera antigua, la realización de clases en una escuela de una sola habitación para Talleres Creek Flick. Y durante todo el año, lo hace a la manera del siglo 21, la enseñanza de clases en online, donde desde su puesto de avanzada cabina de ella se conecta con los alumnos repartidos en las ciudades y pueblos de todo el mundo. ¿Qué piensa Thoreau?
(http://www.writingclasses.com/FacultyBios/facultyProfileByInstructor.php/TeacherID/109317)


Stehekin snow
Deep snow in the Stehekin Valley.
©Mike Barnhart 

"I visited the Magic Kingdom thirty-seven times before I turned nineteen, and by then I craved something, anything, that would be the antithesis of Disney, the real thing. That’s what I found on the highway: places you can count on, places where in the morning without fail, there will be coffee at the gas station heading out of town….[and] people who….were honest, if quirky, and unexpectedly generous, and they lived an ethic that the land itself, no matter how pretty, can’t teach…..The Golden Rule.”
 





“These places…wilderness areas, national parks – are supposed to transform us, make us new…..they do not continuously dispense spiritual wowness like a fountain….I stripped myself of everything to be out there–out there!–and the problem with being out there is that then it is not out there anymore. It is more like in here….you can’t be made new at home.”
 Quotes are from Now Go Home: Wilderness, Belonging, and the Crosscut Saw, by Ana Maria Spagna, Oregon State University Press, Corvallis, 2004.
(http://bookscansavealife.com/)


Bio:
"I live in a very remote area of the Pacific Northwest where we do not have telephones, not even cell phones! Don't worry, we’re not some kind of crazy isolationists, and I have not always lived such an insular life. I was born in Bogotá, Colombia where my mom was on a Fulbright scholarship and my dad was working on various social justice causes. After that exotic start, I landed in the suburbs, in Riverside, California, sixty miles east of Los Angeles. A bookish kid who liked sports but knew nothing about the outdoors, I never camped until, as a teenager, I traveled to Oregon and — well, there's no other way to say it — I fell in love. I loved the green forests and the blue sky and even the rain, and I swore that, if I ever made it back, I'd never leave. And that's how it worked. Sort of. After college in Oregon, and a short stint at Canyonlands in Utah, I settled for an unsettled life, working each summer maintaining trails in the North Cascades, and moving every winter.
All this time I was writing. Between trail crew seasons, I returned to graduate school to earn a degree in creative writing at Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff. I started submitting my writing, and my work began to be published, first in small regional journals, then in bigger national magazines. About ten years ago, my partner, Laurie, and I were able to sink some roots. We bought land and built a cabin here in this tiny mountain town. The story of doing so became my first book.
My second book, Test Ride on the Sunnyland Bus: A Daughter’s Civil Rights Journey, was named winner of the 2009 River Teeth literary nonfiction prize. The book explores my father’s involvement in the early civil rights movement, and it’s complicated, in part, by the fact that my dad died when I was eleven. The five-year process of researching and writing the manuscript proved to be an emotional roller coaster, exhausting and ultimately rewarding.
My newest book Potluck: Community on the Edge of Wilderness returns to the Pacific Northwest (with a couple of stops along the way) to explore the ways that our relationships with people and places grow intertwined over time, tangled even. In the very best way.
Because of where I live, I sometimes can't escape the Nature Writer label. But I usually cringe. While, sure, I've been influenced by writers such as John McPhee, Wendell Berry, and Rick Bass, my favorite writers are those from anywhere — everywhere — with razor wits, incisive minds, and generous hearts. I read fiction and poetry. But my first love is nonfiction. I revere Joan Didion and James Baldwin. I follow Henrick Hertzberg in The New Yorker fanatically. And I devour humorists like David Sedaris and Sarah Vowell.
links
About Stehekin
Stehekin is a remote community in the North Cascades in north-central Washington State accessible only by trail, boat, or float plane. We’re surrounded by North Cascades National Park and almost two million acres of federally designated Wilderness (Glacier Peak, Paysayten, Stephen Mather, and Chelan/Sawtooth Wilderness Areas). About a hundred people live here year-round. We get several hundred-degree days each summer and an average of a hundred inches of snow each winter. We have no grocery stores, movie theaters, taverns or churches, but we do have an outstanding bakery, a must-stop for everybody, especially hikers that come through town each year on the Pacific Crest Trail. Come visit. If not for the scenery, for the cinnamon rolls. (...)
Web site Ana Maria Spagna:(http://www.anamariaspagna.com/about.html)

Lake Chelan aerial photo
Stehekin sits at the head of Lake Chelan, a glacier-fed lake
which meanders through the North Cascades Mountains.
©Mike Barnhart


Now Go Home: Wilderness, Belonging, and the Crosscut Saw by Ana Maria Spagna.
Oregon State University Press. 2004.

Now Go Home tells the story of how a quintessential California girl ended up earning her living in the Pacific Northwest with a crosscut saw. Ana Maria Spagna came of age in southern California in the "hot-pink eighties." By the time she turned nineteen, she had visited Disneyland thirty-seven times and was ready to hit the road. In these finely edged essays, she takes her readers along.

With candor, wit, and hard-earned wisdom, Spagna reflects on the journey that took her from a childhood in the suburbs of LA to a trail crew in the North Cascades, where she falls in love with a place and, unexpectedly, with a woman. With days spent laboring as the only woman on a trail crew and evenings in a cabin no larger than Thoreau's, she has world enough and time to wrestle with the compromises and contradictions of making "a life in the woods." From the work she does and the people she meets, she comes to see the nuances, and occasionally the humor, of big ideas like wilderness and environmentalism. And she decides this is the place she must call home.







http://bookscansavealife.com/
http://www.writingclasses.com/FacultyBios/facultyProfileByInstructor.php/TeacherID/109317