Leçons d'anachronisme - Sargent, Meisel, Kidman

Parce qu'un anachronisme ne sert à rien.

Parce qu'il ne peut rien montrer.

Parce qu'il ne peut être au mieux qu'inesthétique, si ce n'est absurdement inesthétique.

Et finalement inesthétiquement absurde.

 

 

Ici Nicole Kidman, par Steven Meisel, reprenant des tableaux de John Singer Sargent.

 

 

Izme Vickers, 1907

 

 

Lady Agnew, 1893

 

 

Mme X, 1884

 

 

Mme Carl Meyer et enfants, 1896

 

 

Mme Charles E. Inches, 1887

 

 

Mme George Swinton, 1897

 

 

Mme John Chapman, 1893

 

La mort baudelairienne

 

Photo edited from original by Noelia Hobeika

 

La Mort des pauvres

C'est la Mort qui console, hélas! et qui fait vivre;
C'est le but de la vie, et c'est le seul espoir
Qui, comme un élixir, nous monte et nous enivre,
Et nous donne le coeur de marcher jusqu'au soir;

À travers la tempête, et la neige, et le givre,
C'est la clarté vibrante à notre horizon noir
C'est l'auberge fameuse inscrite sur le livre,
Où l'on pourra manger, et dormir, et s'asseoir;

C'est un Ange qui tient dans ses doigts magnétiques
Le sommeil et le don des rêves extatiques,
Et qui refait le lit des gens pauvres et nus;

C'est la gloire des Dieux, c'est le grenier mystique,
C'est la bourse du pauvre et sa patrie antique,
C'est le portique ouvert sur les Cieux inconnus!

— Charles Baudelaire

 

Photo edited from original by Noelia Hobeika
Recolorisation Jana Hobeika

 

The Death of the Poor

It's Death that comforts us, alas! and makes us live;
It is the goal of life; it is the only hope
Which, like an elixir, makes us inebriate
And gives us the courage to march until evening;

Through the storm and the snow and the hoar-frost
It is the vibrant light on our black horizon;
It is the famous inn inscribed upon the book,
Where one can eat, and sleep, and take his rest;

It's an Angel who holds in his magnetic hands
Sleep and the gift of ecstatic dreams
And who makes the beds for the poor, naked people;

It's the glory of the gods, the mystic granary,
It is the poor man's purse, his ancient fatherland,
It is the portal opening on unknown Skies!

— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)

 

Photo edited from original by Noelia Hobeika
Recolorisation Jana Hobeika

 

The Death of Paupers

It's Death comforts us, alas! and makes us live.
It is the goal of life, it brings us hope,
And, like a rich elixir, seems to give
Courage to march along the darkening slope.

Across the tempest, hail, and hoarfrost, look!
Along the black horizon, a faint gleam!
It is the inn that's written in the book
Where one can sleep, and eat, and sit and dream.

An Angel, in magnetic hands it holds
Sleep and the gift of sweet ecstatic dreams,
And makes a bed for poor and naked souls.

It is God's glory and the mystic grange:
The poor man's purse and fatherland it seems,
And door that opens Heavens vast and strange.

— Roy Campbell, Poems of Baudelaire (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952)

 

Photo edited from original by Noelia Hobeika
Recolorisation Jana Hobeika

 

The Death of the Poor

Death? Death is our one comfort! — is the bread whereby
We live, the wine that warms us when all hope is gone;
The very goal of Life. That we shall one day die:
This is the thought which gives us courage to go on.

Clear on the black horizon, through the blinding sleet,
That beacon burns; — oh, Death, thou inn of wide renown!
Is it not written in the book: "Here all may eat;
Here there is rest for all; here all may sit them down?"

Thou hovering Angel, holding in thy magic hand
Slumber and blissful dreams; thou Glory overhead;
Mysterious attic, filled with treasures manifold;

The poor man's purse, and his remembered fatherland;
Thou, that remakest nightly the beggar's crumpled bed;
Thou only door ajar, pledge of the peace foretold!

— Edna St. Vincent Millay, Flowers of Evil (NY: Harper and Brothers, 1936)

 

Photo edited from original by Noelia Hobeika
Recolorisation Jana Hobeika

 

La Mort des pauvres

'tis Death that helps us live, 'tis Death consoles;
Death is life's goal; 'tis the one hope that cheers,
and, like a cordial, spurs our slackening souls,
bestowing strength to march till night appears;

through snow and hoar-frost, where the tempest rolls
toward the black hills, Death's leaping fire veers;
Death is the famous Inn the Book extols,
where we shall dine and rest among our peers;

Death is an angel, with his fingers full
of magic sleep and dreams most wonderful,
— who smoothes the bed whereon the beggar lies;

Death is the glory of the gods, the gold
all poor folk hoard, their fatherland of old,
Death is the portal wide to unknown skies!

— Lewis Piaget Shanks, Flowers of Evil (New York: Ives Washburn, 1931)

 

Source : http://fleursdumal.org/poem/198

L'aube baudelairienne

Photo edited from original by Tamara Spitzer-Hobeika

 

L'Aube spirituelle

Quand chez les débauchés l'aube blanche et vermeille
Entre en société de l'Idéal rongeur,
Par l'opération d'un mystère vengeur
Dans la brute assoupie un ange se réveille.

Des Cieux Spirituels l'inaccessible azur,
Pour l'homme terrassé qui rêve encore et souffre,
S'ouvre et s'enfonce avec l'attirance du gouffre.
Ainsi, chère Déesse, Etre lucide et pur,

Sur les débris fumeux des stupides orgies
Ton souvenir plus clair, plus rose, plus charmant,
À mes yeux agrandis voltige incessamment.

Le soleil a noirci la flamme des bougies;
Ainsi, toujours vainqueur, ton fantôme est pareil,
Ame resplendissante, à l'immortel soleil!

— Charles Baudelaire

 

Photo edited from original by Tamara Spitzer-Hobeika
Recolorisation Jana Hobeika

 

Spiritual Dawn

When debauchees are roused by the white, rosy dawn,
Escorted by the Ideal which gnaws at their hearts
Through the action of a mysterious, vengeful law,
In the somnolent brute an Angel awakens.

The inaccessible blue of Spiritual Heavens,
For the man thrown to earth who suffers and still dreams,
Opens and yawns with the lure of the abyss.
Thus, dear Goddess, Being, lucid and pure,

Over the smoking ruins of stupid orgies,
Your memory, clearer, more rosy, more charming,
Hovers incessantly before my widened eyes.

The sunlight has darkened the flame of the candles;
Thus, ever triumphant, resplendent soul!
Your phantom is like the immortal sun!

— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)

 

Photo edited from original by Tamara Spitzer-Hobeika
Recolorisation Jana Hobeika

 

Spiritual Dawn

When in the company of the Ideal
(That gnawing tooth) Dawn enters, white and pink,
The rooms of rakes — each sated beast can feel
An Angel waking through the fumes of drink.

For downcast Man, who dreams and suffers still,
The azure of the mystic heaven above,
With gulf-like vertigo, attracts his will.
So, Goddess, lucid Being of pure love,

Over the smoking wreck of feasts and scandals,
Your phantom, rosy and enchanting, flies
And still returns to my dilated eyes.

The sun has blackened out the flame of candles.
So your victorious phantom seems as one,
O blazing spirit, with the deathless Sun!

— Roy Campbell, Poems of Baudelaire (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952)

 

Photo edited from original by Tamara Spitzer-Hobeika
Recolorisation Jana Hobeika

 

L'Aube spirituelle

when to the drunkard's room the flushing East
comes with her comrade sharply-clawed, the Dream,
she wakens, by a dark avenging scheme,
an angel in the dull besotted beast.

deep vaults of inaccessible azure there,
before the dreamer sick with many a phasm,
open, abysmal as a beckoning chasm.
thus, deity, all pure clear light and air,

over the stupid orgy's reeking track
— brighter and lovelier yet, thine image flies
in fluttering rays before my widening eyes.

the sun has turned the candles' flame to black;
even so, victorious always, thou art one
— resplendent spirit! — with the eternal sun!

— Lewis Piaget Shanks, Flowers of Evil

(New York: Ives Washburn, 1931)

 

Photo edited from original by Tamara Spitzer-Hobeika
Recolorisation Jana Hobeika

 

Source : http://fleursdumal.org/poem/141

Prière à Jésus et à la Trinité - Jean Paul II

 

Prière de Jean Paul II pour la préparation du grand Jubilé (1997)

 

Jésus, origine et accomplissement de l'homme nouveau, tourne vers toi nos coeurs, pour nous faire abandonner les sentiers de l'erreur et marcher à ta suite, sur la voie qui conduit à la vie.

Permets que, fidèles aux promesses du Baptême, nous vivions pleinement notre foi et que nous rendions témoignage de ta parole avec courage, afin que, dans nos familles et dans la société, resplendisse la lumière vivifiante de l'Evangile.

Jésus, puissance et sagesse de Dieu, fais naître en nous l'amour de la sainte Ecriture, où résonne la voix du Père, qui illumine et qui embrasse, qui nourrit et qui console.

Toi, Parole du Dieu vivant, renouvelle l'élan missionnaire de l'Eglise, afin que tous les peuples parviennent à te connaître, Toi, vrai Fils de Dieu et vrai Fils de l'homme, unique Médiateur entre l'homme et Dieu.

Jésus, Fils unique du Père, plein de grâce et de vérité, lumière qui illumine tout homme, à ceux qui te cherchent d'un coeur sincère, donne ta vie en abondance.

A toi, Rédempteur de l'homme, commencement et fin du temps et de l'univers, au Père, source inépuisable de tout bien, à l'Esprit Saint, sceau de l'amour infini, tout honneur et toute gloire pour les siècles des siècles.

Amen.

 

Jean Paul II (1920-2005)

 

L'autoroute la nuit - Delerm

 

Crédits photographiques Karim Hobeika

 

Extrait de La première gorgée de bière, 1997, Philippe Delerm, Gallimard :

 

L'autoroute la nuit

[...]

Dehors, dans le faisceau des phares, entre le rail à droite et les buissons à gauche, c'est la même inquiétude. Mais on ouvre la vitre d'un seul coup, et le dehors vient gifler la demi-somnolence : c'est la vitesse crue qui resurgit. Dehors, cent vingt kilomètres à l'heure ont la densité compacte d'une bombe d'acier lancée entre deux rails.

[...]

Cafétéria dix kilomètres. On va s'arrêter. Déjà on aperçoit la cathédrale de lumière toute plate au loin, et de plus en plus large, comme le port s'avance à la fin d'un voyage en bateau. Super + 98. Le vent est frais. Cet assentiment mécanique du bec verseur, le ronronnement du compteur. Puis la cafétéria, une épaisseur vaguement poisseuse, comme dans toutes les gares, tous les havres nocturnes. Expresso - supplément sucre. C'est l'idée du café qui compte, pas le goût. Chaleur, amertume. Quelques pas gourds, le regard vague, quelques silhouettes croisées, mais pas de mots. Et puis le vaisseau retrouvé, la coque où l'on se moule. Le sommeil est passé. Tant mieux si l'aube reste loin.

 

Crédits photographiques Karim Hobeika

 

 

Se procurer l'ouvrage :

La première gorgée de bière

Philippe Delerm

1997

Coll. L'Arpenteur, Gallimard

91 pages

http://www.amazon.fr/Premi%C3%A8re-Gorg%C3%A9e-autres-plaisirs-minuscules/dp/2070744833/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1357131613&sr=1-1

 

Rêve blanc

 

Crédits photographiques : Marc Kandalaft

 

 

Les rêves qui sommeillent en nos cœurs

Au creux de la nuit,

Habillent nos chagrins de bonheur

Dans le doux secret de l'oubli.

 

 

Ecoute ton rêve, et demain le soleil brillera toujours

Même si ton cœur a l'âme en peine,

Il faut y croire quand même,

Le rêve d'une vie, c'est l'amour.

 

 

... L'auteur dévoilé demain

 

Ange, connaissez-vous - in Englishes please

Crédits photographiques Elie Mehdi

 

Réversibilité

Ange plein de gaieté, connaissez-vous l'angoisse,
La honte, les remords, les sanglots, les ennuis,
Et les vagues terreurs de ces affreuses nuits
Qui compriment le coeur comme un papier qu'on froisse?
Ange plein de gaieté, connaissez-vous l'angoisse?

Ange plein de bonté, connaissez-vous la haine,
Les poings crispés dans l'ombre et les larmes de fiel,
Quand la Vengeance bat son infernal rappel,
Et de nos facultés se fait le capitaine?
Ange plein de bonté connaissez-vous la haine?

Ange plein de santé, connaissez-vous les Fièvres,
Qui, le long des grands murs de l'hospice blafard,
Comme des exilés, s'en vont d'un pied traînard,
Cherchant le soleil rare et remuant les lèvres?
Ange plein de santé, connaissez-vous les Fièvres?

Ange plein de beauté, connaissez-vous les rides,
Et la peur de vieillir, et ce hideux tourment
De lire la secrète horreur du dévouement
Dans des yeux où longtemps burent nos yeux avide!
Ange plein de beauté, connaissez-vous les rides?

Ange plein de bonheur, de joie et de lumières,
David mourant aurait demandé la santé
Aux émanations de ton corps enchanté;
Mais de toi je n'implore, ange, que tes prières,
Ange plein de bonheur, de joie et de lumières!

— Charles Baudelaire

 

Crédits photographiques Elie Mehdi
Recolorisation Jana Hobeika

 

Reversibility

Angel full of gaiety, do you know anguish,
Shame, remorse, sobs, vexations,
And the vague terrors of those frightful nights
That compress the heart like a paper one crumples?
Angel full of gaiety, do you know anguish?

Angel full of kindness, do you know hatred,
The clenched fists in the darkness and the tears of gall,
When Vengeance beats out his hellish call to arms,
And makes himself the captain of our faculties?
Angel full of kindness, do you know hatred?

Angel full of health, do you know Fever,
Walking like an exile, moving with dragging steps,
Along the high, wan walls of the charity ward,
And with muttering lips seeking the rare sunlight?
Angel full of health, do you know Fever?

Angel full of beauty, do you know wrinkles,
The fear of growing old, and the hideous torment
Of reading in the eyes of her he once adored
Horror at seeing love turning to devotion?
Angel full of beauty, do you know wrinkles?

Angel full of happiness, of joy and of light,
David on his death-bed would have appealed for health
To the emanations of your enchanted flesh;
But of you, angel, I beg only prayers,
Angel full of happiness, of joy and of light!

— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)

 

Crédits photographiques Elie Mehdi
Recolorisation Jana Hobeika

 

Reversibility

Angel of gaiety, have you known anguish,
Shame and remorse, tears, boredom, and dismay,
Vague horrors of the nights in which we languish,
Which crumple hearts like papers thrown away?
Angel of gaiety, have you known anguish?

Angel of kindness, have you met with hate?
Fists clenched in gloom, eyes running tears of gall,
When Vengeance beats his drum to subjugate
Our faculties, the captain of them all?
Angel of kindness, have you met with hate?

Angel of health, have you beheld the Fevers?
Across pale walls of wards they limp and stumble,
Like exiles wan, with agues, chills, and shivers,
Seeking the scanty sun with lips that mumble.
Angel of health, have you beheld the Fevers?

Angel of beauty, do you know Old Age,
The fear of wrinkles, and the dire emotion,
In eyes we've pierced too long, as on a page,
To read the secret horror of devotion?
Angel of beauty do you know Old Age?

Angel of goodness, radiance, and delight,
The dying David would have begged to share
The emanations of your body bright.
But all I wish to ask of you is prayer,
Angel of goodness, radiance, and delight.

— Roy Campbell, Poems of Baudelaire (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952)

 

Crédits photographiques Elie Mehdi
Recolorisation Jana Hobeika

 

The Angelic One

Spirit of happiness, hast thou heard tell of woe?
Hast thou heard tell of anguish, and remorse, and care —
Of those long nights when in the black fist of Despair
The heart is crumpled up like paper? Dost thou know,
Spirit of happiness? Hast thou heard tell of woe?

Spirit of kindliness, hast thou heard tell of hate,
The clenched hands in the darkness, the silent bitter tears,
With Vengeance beating in the arteries of our ears
Its dogged tom-tom, irresistible as fate?
Spirit of kindliness, hast thou heard tell of hate?

Spirit of health, hast thou heard whisper of Disease,
Whose pallid children, in the courtyard gray with soot
Of the bleak hospital, go dragging a slow foot
To find a patch of sunlight? Host thou heard of these?
Spirit of health, hast thou heard whisper of Disease?

Spirit of beauty, hast thou heard of ugliness,
Of the long secret torment of growing old — above
All else, the pain of reading in the eyes we love
A wordless horror, even while the lips say "yes?"
Spirit of beauty, hast thou heard of ugliness?

Spirit of joy, spirit of beauty, spirit of light,
David, grown old, would have thought nothing to implore
Thy healing touch, thy warm young presence in the night;
But, spirit, I only ask of thee thy prayers, no more —
Spirit of joy, spirit of beauty, spirit of light!

— George Dillon, Flowers of Evil (NY: Harper and Brothers, 1936)

 

Crédits photographiques Elie Mehdi
Recolorisation Jana Hobeika

 

 

Reversibility

Angel, teeming with gaiety, do you know grief,
Anguish, remorse and shame, their ravages and blights,
And the vague terrors of those panic-stricken nights
Which squeeze the heartstrings dry as a sere crumpled leaf?
Angel, teeming with gaiety, do you know grief?

Angel, teeming with kindliness, do you know hate,
Fists tight-clenched in the shadows, scalding tears of gall,
When Vengeance roars with his infernal battle-call,
Making himself the captain of our acts and fate?
Angel, teeming with kindliness, do you know hate?

Angel, teeming with healthfulness, do you know Fever
Who like an exile lopes with dragging step towards
The wan stark walls of hospitals and public wards,
Mumbling, seeking rare sunlight for a brace or lever?
Angel, teeming with healthfulness, do you know Fever?

Angel, teeming with loveliness, do you know wrinkles,
The fear of growing old, and, like a poisoned potion,
The dread of seeing love turn into fond devotion
In eyes adored, once blue and pure as periwinkles?
Angel, teeming with loveliness, do you know wrinkles?

Angel, teeming with happy, blithe, luminous airs,
David upon his deathbed would have craved for power
From the suave emanations of your body's flower,
But I, angel, beseech of you only your prayers,
Angel, teeming with happy, blithe, luminous airs!

— Jacques LeClercq, Flowers of Evil (Mt Vernon, NY: Peter Pauper Press, 1958)

 

Source : http://fleursdumal.org/poem/139