from the StudioGaleria Observatory

Source: Unknown (Unfortunately!)

On Advise, from the Terra Logic Observatory

Interesting how life works…

Those whose advise I don’t  want, can’t stop dishing them out, and those few whose advise I would need and respect, are too busy to hear the sporadic questions…

in celebration of the 101 International Women’s Day /
en celebracion del 101 Dia Internacional de la Mujer…

acrylic on paper, 30x40cm AB135
$150.00

I much prefer this angle… :)

Amanece con pelo largo el día curvo de las mujeres
Por: Gioconda Belli

“Cuando las mujeres no tengan un día especial, sólo un día, que recuerde su marginalidad e inferioridad de reconocimiento y oportunidades, festejaremos el Día de la Humanidad”.

¡Qué poco es un solo día, hermanas,
qué poco, para que el mundo acumule flores frente a nuestras casas!
De la cuna …donde nacimos hasta la tumba donde dormiremos
-toda la atropellada ruta de nuestras vidas-
deberían pavimentar de flores para celebrarnos
(que no nos hagan como a la Princesa Diana que no vio, ni oyó las floridas avenidas postradas de pena de Londres)
Nosotras queremos ver y oler las flores.
Queremos flores de los que no se alegraron cuando nacimos hembras en vez de machos,
Queremos flores de los que nos cortaron el clítoris
Y de los que nos vendaron los pies
Queremos flores de quienes no nos mandaron al colegio para que cuidáramos a los hermanos y ayudáramos en la cocina
Flores del que se metió en la cama de noche y nos tapó la boca para violarnos mientras nuestra madre dormía
Queremos flores del que nos pagó menos por el trabajo más pesado
Y del que nos corrió cuando se dió cuenta de que estábamos embarazadas
Queremos flores del que nos condenó a muerte forzándonos a parir a riesgo de nuestras vidas
Queremos flores del que se protege del mal pensamiento
obligándonos al velo y a cubrirnos el cuerpo
Del que nos prohíbe salir a la calle sin un hombre que nos escolte
Queremos flores de los que nos quemaron por brujas
Y nos encerraron por locas
Flores del que nos pega, del que se emborracha
Del que se bebe irredento el pago de la comida del mes
Queremos flores de las que intrigan y levantan falsos testimonios
Flores de las que se ensañan contra sus hijas, sus madres y sus nueras
Y albergan ponzoña en su corazón para las de su mismo género
Tantas flores serían necesarias para secar los húmedos pantanos donde el agua de nuestros ojos se hace lodo;
arenas movedizas tragándonos y escupiéndonos,
de las que tenaces, una a una, tendremos que surgir.
Amanece con pelo largo el día curvo de las mujeres.
Queremos flores hoy. ¡Cuánto nos corresponde,
el jardín del que nos expulsaron!

“Julia”  acrylic on paper, 9×11.5″

Julia was my maternal great grandmother. I only recall having heard some “in depth” talk about her a couple of times. I do not recall her being mentioned at all otherwise. I don’t recall having seen a photo of her either…

Sometime, I don’t remember when, my grandmother mentioned she had worked in the kitchen of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in New York… after I praised her of her culinary abilities.

Regardless of the lack of information, it was enough for me to hear in my mid 20′s that she was not too fond of false teeth and preferred to chew with her gums.  While, all along she had season ticket’s to the theater (!) and, would travel to the dances in the neighboring villages… what she found annoying about it was the train passengers that kept on asking her how old she was – to the dismay of the family that was unaware of this particular practice.

In my 30′s,  a cousin told the story of when great grandmother Julia was 92, on a trip to a hot springs pool with her 85 year cousin visiting from Argentina they had forgotten their bathing suits at home.
It turned out, there was one bathing suit and one bikini left in the rental shop… she happily wore the bikini!!!

Years later, for the 4oth anniversary of my grandmother leaving Hungary with her family to emigrate to Argentina she returned for the first time to visit her.
They found , with my mother, that she had died a week prior to their arrival. No one had the heart to tell them when it happened… She died 3 weeks short of 100.

I have at home, a now framed oil painting she had thumb-tucked to her summer home’s kitchen door (she spend each season with a different daughter/relative, except summer) that, my grandfather had purchased in 1929, the year  he spent Cuba.

Each time I suspect someone might be thinking critically  or, makes a remark about  what I am about to do or, I am doing, I think of her and her integrity to do as she saw fit.
I do feel this knack  for the “personal choice” has also come down through the genes.
I like to think of her as a remarkable, independent, self-sufficient woman.

Photo: Francesco Scavullo, 1990

The very first person I have any recollection of admiring was Italian Journalist Oriana Fallaci.

What a joy it was to hear about her stories, her… Not that I had any solid ideas as a girl child of what was really going  on in the grown up world nor the scope of her persona but, I knew I wanted to be like her.

I felt an “ecxitement” generated by her that vibrated to my core that I unknowingly identifyied with. How extraordinary it is to have such perception during formative years… And yes, I  did grow up to want to be a journalist! I still want to be a journalist…
Of course, my family was addamantly against it. They had other plans for me.

Then, life began “happening” and I moved from one country to another and things somehow unraveled for a few decades and were good during others. I all but forgotten in Canada about Ornella Fallaci and her passions until I found myself in the international section of the the Vancouver Main Library.

There, in front of my own eyes a familiar name; a flood of emotions, memories takes me back in a split second to a distant time, without looking at the content I take it home with me.
It was a copy of “A Man” which, ended up having a tremendous impact on me. I can still easily sob if I allow myself to think about Alekos Panagoulis… and her …

The book had long since been out of print. I chased “around the world” and found one mint condition copy. I treasure it. I caress it, from time to time.

I never became a proper journalist, it was not meant to be. What has not changed was the passion for telling the story, for sharing it with all. So, eventually I focused radio. Was taught, learned from he best and was ready for it all, even had a famous mentor! Was not to be either… always to early in the game.
I had a slight accent they said, we can’t hire someone with an accent. (look at it now!!!) Anyway, I did “get my jollies” if you care in two large stations in two different cities. Loved the brief opportunities I got on the air, and the positive feedback too. However, radio was not meant to be either.

But, here I am today, not working for a paper nor a radio station yet, I am telling the story the same, through my writing and my painting!

http://it.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oriana_Fallaci

Photo source: unknown

There is nothing like visuals for me!

“The world is working together for humanity! Another world is possible…”

In 2009 I was invited to participate in the “Contemporary International Artist II” Exhibit

at the Museum of the Americas in Miami, Florida USA.

I prepared this following work: Intermezzo Giocoso

The diptych measures 80cm X 160cm

Altogether,  I invested approximately 300 hours into this work. Most of it was painting!!! It definitely was my way of becoming an acrylics “expert” of sorts, as I tediously, persistently toiled to achieve my vision of tonalities and colour nuances as well as a smooth blending/flow… airiness…

I have used acrylics rather sporadically  in the past, as I was not fond of the results. I began working with oils and when I resumed painting a couple of years back, was strictly working with watercolors, of course as they would be jam … Had not much experience nor much knowledge of the medium; however, it was the best choice given the time frame the piece was to be finished.  There is much to be said about having a deadline and having accepted to create and produce a work worthy of a “Contemporary International Artists” event!

After the exhibit was taken down in Miami, the works were (with my permission) moved by its curator to Argentina where, it took part of a 4 city itinerant exhibit. At the same time, a life size reproduction of the same was shown in Mexico City and Cancun for the AvisArte Expo by invitation of the Mexican Cancer Society’s 50th Anniversary … I was elated with its journey, not to mention, the pride I felt for having sufficiently conquered the acrylics beast!

I had a hard time getting back my work due to extensions that were beginning to frustrate me as I had a clear plan for this painting. It had a home for it and it needed to get it there ASAP. It was going to be given to a friend, one of those whom do  favors than one can never repay… This entire “waiting” time was full of angst, did not feel right!
Well, after a lot of follow -ups and prepaying its mailing cost I was given word it was on its way.

There were a lot of secret expectation and anticipation on my part as I was looking forward to a good inspection and send it, with love and gratitude,  to where it belonged…

When I opened the tube and felt the solid rigidity of the tightly rolled canvas – as heavy and cool as a rod of steel – my hear skipped a beat… two?  In disbelief I tried to unroll the tight coil , hardly managing to breathe as I pulled to unfold the single double sheet. The diptych was now a fused layer of thick, solid canvas. Nausea rolled around my core. I stopped breathing again. Certainly this is not real… I tried to pull it apart,  it was fused solid – I couldn’t no matter how much I pulled. I have been in a state of disbelief since. I simply cannot accept the reality of its loss.

The is only one explanation for something like this,  and it is not “accident” the word I would use. The apology sounded hollow. How can an artist and curator of a mayor exhibit have a faux pas like this!? The rules stated that the organizers were not responsible for any damage. I had no recourse at all. The deception and loss, as well as feelings I have not allowed to surface, which are still being held back until today – almost a year later (give or take a few days) as thankfully, the FiberFusion mural organizing required my attention,  I could not mourn  the destruction, the assassination of my work . A friend suggested it was a destruction, not damage that had occurred… I should look  into compensation . (Castration, more like it!…)

I have been as nauseous today while I have been sharing this experience, as much as, I have been fighting back the tears. Time has come for me to deal with this horror and figure out how to proceed. I will actually get up from the computer and see how I can document the its state today. (Sometime in the summer, I managed to pull the of corners apart until my wrists hurt….)

These are photos I took minutes ago, after once more attempting to pull apart the fused sides…

I will add that these fused roll came back in a tube not quiet half the size of the ones I used to individually mail each work… loosely rolled with protection. Needles to say, the careful handling of the work was requested from the curator… (At what point he suggested I was “anxious” when following-up)

As I said, there was an uneasy feeling all along…. which began almost immediately after the Miami show.
NOW… WHAT?

Balogh Sándor

A war hero: my hero

My grandfather, a survivor … of a war  from a long time ago. A time most of us know through grainy black and white photographs  and skipping film footage yet, a time like all times, carried on  in our cellular makeup/memory – I am sure also our DNA – as the ravages of those experiences are sitll lived out by his great grandchildren whom he never got to know. Wars don’t end… the continue on, they permeate the lives of generations to come, directing their destiny in each and every household.

It does not matter that the railroad in Siberia was completed, that Auschwitz and other camps are closed, that Vietnam still a raw subject and troops are withdrawing from Iraq and Afghanistan… because each person that experienced it brought with him or her experiences, these are lived out in everyday life and will forever be lived out in the lives of generations to come… We are not able to “shake” the pain, sorrow, loss, sacrifice, brutality, madness of it. NO. We pass it on so, the war is never “over” it is just only that the participants change….

Balogh Sándor – Un heroe de guerra: mi heroe

Mi abuelo, un sobreviviente… de una gerra, da hace mucho, mucho tiempo. La mayoria de nosotros la concemos por fotos en blanco y negro y  peliculas de noticiero que “saltan”, de un tiempo como todos los tiempos, el cual traemos en nuestro nivel/memoria celular – seguro que hasta en la ADN – en cuando los biznietos de el viven los estragos de su expericia, sin siquiera haberlo conocido. Las guerras no terminan,  inpregnando las vidas de generacionesa a venir, dirigiendo el destino de cada hogar.

No importa que las vias del ferrocarril de Siberia esten en sitio, que Auschwitz y otros ampamentos hayan cerrado, que Vitnam todacia sea una heriada, que las tropas vayan abandonando Iraq y Afghanista… porque cada persona que ha tenido las expeiencias, ellos y ellas, las viven a diario y seran para siempre cotidianas por generaciones en venir… NO tenemos la capacidad de absolvernos de este dolor, pena, perdida, sacrificio, brutalidad, locura. NO. La compartimos, la guerra nunca “acaba” solamente los participantes cambian…