Posts Tagged: This Side and Beyond

Hommage aux Gueules cassées d’Aline Bourdiol-Deloche

On 11 June 2017 by Margot Krebs Neale - Uncategorized

Aline Bourdiol-Deloche a conçu une exposition de céramiques autour des Gueules cassées, un hommage à son père, Poilu de la Grande Guerre. Son travail est l’expression de forces qui l’habitent. Les gueules cassées se sont imposées à elle. Elles font partie de son histoire personnelle. Ses œuvres naissent du pétrissage de l’argile, elle sculpte la terre et la cuit.
Sophie Girard pour LA DÉPÊCHE.fr

Éloi est le premier d’une série de visage qui précède les Gueules cassées. Il m’a vraiment plu avec son air à la fois jeune et primitif, entre visage et masque.

Éloi

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Ascension Day

On 25 May 2017 by Margot Krebs Neale - Uncategorized

Ascension

We saw his light break through the cloud of glory
Whilst we were rooted still in time and place
As earth became a part of Heaven’s story
And heaven opened to his human face.
We saw him go and yet we were not parted
He took us with him to the heart of things
The heart that broke for all the broken-hearted
Is whole and Heaven-centred now, and sings,
Sings in the strength that rises out of weakness,
Sings through the clouds that veil him from our sight,
Whilst we ourselves become his clouds of witness
And sing the waning darkness into light,
His light in us, and ours in him concealed,
Which all creation waits to see revealed .

Malcolm Guite.

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Wisława Szymborska – Portrait from memory

On 12 April 2017 by Margot Krebs Neale - Uncategorized

PORTRET Z PAMIĘCI

Wszystko na pozór się zgadza.
Kształt głowy, rysy twarzy, wzrost, sylwetka.
Jednak nie jest podobny.
Może nie w takiej pozie?
W innym kolorycie?
Może bardziej z profilu,
jakby się za czymś oglądał?
Gdyby coś trzymał w rękach?
Książkę własną? Cudzą?
Mapę? Lornetkę? Kołowrotek wędki?
I niechby co innego miał na sobie?
Wrześniowy mundur*? Obozowy pasiak?
Wiatrówkę z tamtej szafy?
Albo – jak w drodze do drugiego brzegu –
po kostki, po kolana, po pas, po szyję
już zanurzony? Nagi?
I gdyby domalować mu tu jakieś tło?
Na przykład łąkę jeszcze nie skoszoną?
Szuwary? Brzozy? Piękne chmurne niebo?
Może brakuje kogoś obok niego?
Z kim spierał się? Żartował?
Grał w karty? Popijał?
Ktoś z rodziny? Przyjaciół?
Kilka kobiet? Jedna?
Może stojący w oknie?
Wychodzący z bramy?
Z psem przybłędą u nogi?
W solidarnym tłumie?
Nie, nie, to na nic.
Powinien być sam,
jak niektórym przystało.
I chyba nie tak poufale, z bliska?
Dalej? I jeszcze dalej?
W najzupełniejszej już głębi obrazu?
Skąd, gdyby nawet wołał,
nie doszedłby głos?
A co na pierwszym planie?
Ach, cokolwiek.
I tylko pod warunkiem, że będzie to ptak
przelatujący właśnie.

(Krakow, 2009.)

PORTRAIT FROM MEMORY

Everything seems to agree.
The head’s shape, the features, the silhouette, the height.
But there’s no resemblance.
Maybe not in that position?
A different colour scheme?
Maybe more in profile,
as if looking at something?
What about something in his hands?
His own book? Someone else’s?
A map? Binoculars?A fishing reel?
And should he be wearing something different?
A soldier’s uniform in ‘39? Camp stripes?
A windbreaker from that closet?
Or – as if passing to the other shore –
up to his ankles, his knees, his waist, his neck,
deluged? naked?
And maybe a backdrop should be added?
For example a meadow still uncut?
Rushes? Birches? A lovely cloudy sky?
Maybe someone should be next to him?
Arguing with him? Joking?
Drinking? Playing cards?
A relative? A chum?
Several women? One?
Maybe standing in a window?
Going out the door?
With a stray dog at his feet?
In a friendly crowd?
No, no, all wrong.
He should be alone,
that suits some best.
And not so familiar, so close up?
Farther? Even farther?
In the furthermost depths of the image?
His voice couldn’t carry
even if he called?
And what in the foreground?
Oh anything.
As long as it’s a bird
just flying by.

Translation Clare Cavanagh

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À qui d’autre que toi apparaissent-ils en rêve ?

On 6 February 2017 by Margot Krebs Neale - Uncategorized

Cette nuit, j'ai rêvé de mon père, nous étions tous les deux avec beaucoup d’autres gens dans une grande farandole.
Il ressemblait à l’homme qu’il était quand il avait entre 40 et 50 ans. Moi, je n’avais pas d’âge, il n’était pas près de moi mais j’étais contente de le voir et que nous soyons ensemble parmi tous ces gens heureux dans un grand champ.

KONSZACHTY Z UMARŁYMI

W jakich okolicznościach śnią ci się umarli?
Czy często myślisz o nich przed zaśnięciem?
Kto pojawia się pierwszy?
Czy zawsze ten sam?
Imię? Nazwisko? Cmentarz? Data śmierci?

Na co się powołują?
Na dawną znajomość? Pokrewieństwo? Ojczyznę?
Czy mówią, skąd przychodzą?
I kto za nimi stoi?
I komu oprócz ciebie śnią się jeszcze?

Ich twarze czy podobne do fotografii?
Czy postarzały się z upływem lat?
Czerstwe? Mizerne?
Zabici czy zdążyli wylizać się z ran?
Czy pamiętają ciągle, kto ich zabił?

Co mają w rękach – opisz te przedmioty.
Zbutwiałe? Zardzewiałe? Zwęglone? Spróchniałe?
Co mają w oczach – groźbę? Prośbę? Jaką?
Czy tylko o pogodzie z sobą rozmawiacie?
O ptaszkach? Kwiatkach? Motylkach?

Z ich strony żadnych kłopotliwych pytań?
A ty co wtedy odpowiadasz im?
Zamiast przezornie milczeć?
Wymijająco zmienić temat snu?
Zbudzić się w porę?

Wisława Szymborska, Ludzie na moście (1986)

COMPLICITÉS AVEC LES MORTS

En quelles circonstances rêves-tu des morts ?
Penses-tu souvent à eux avant de t’endormir ?
Qui t’apparaît le premier ?
Est-ce toujours le même ?
Nom ? Prénom ? Cimetière ? Date de la mort ?

À quoi en appellent-ils ?
À l’amitié lointaine ? La parenté ? La patrie ?
Est-ce qu’ils disent d’où ils viennent ?
Qui se cache derrière eux ?
À qui d’autre que toi apparaissent-ils en rêve ?

Leurs visages ressemblent-ils à leurs photos ?
Ont-ils vieilli avec les années ?
Sont-ils frais ? Pâles ?
Les tués ont-ils eu le temps de soigner leurs blessures ?
Se souviennent-ils encore qui les a tués ?

Qu’ont-ils dans leurs mains – décris ces objets.
Pourris ? Rouillés ? Carbonisés ? Vermoulus ?
Que lit-on dans leurs yeux – la menace ? La prière ? Laquelle?
Vous ne parlez que de la pluie et du beau temps entre vous?
Des oiseaux ? Des fleurs ? Des papillons ?

De leur part nulles questions gênantes ?
Et toi, que leur réponds-tu alors ?
Au lieu de prudemment te taire ?
De passer évasivement à un autre sujet de rêve ?
De te réveiller à temps ?

Wisława Szymborska.

Traduction d’Isabelle Macor-Filarska avec la participation de Grzegorz Splawinski.

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Myśli nawiedzające mnie na ruchliwych ulicach / Thoughts That Visit Me on Busy Streets

On 1 February 2017 by Margot Krebs Neale - Uncategorized
In this video, Wisława Szymborska reads Myśli nawiedzające mnie na ruchliwych ulicach from Tutaj 2009 accompanied by Tomasz Stańko on trumpet. I have associated some of my photographs to the poem. Photos of Wisława Szymborska and Tomasz Stańko are not by me.

Myśli nachodzące mnie na ruchliwych ulicach

Twarze.
Miliardy twarzy na powierzchni świata.
Podobno każda inna
od tych, co były i będą.
Ale Natura - bo kto ją tam wie -
może zmęczona bezustanną pracą
powtarza swoje dawniejsze pomysły
i nakłada nam twarze
kiedyś już noszone.

Może cię mija Archimedes w dżinsach,
caryca Katarzyna w ciuchu z wyprzedaży,
któryś faraon z teczką, w okularach.
Wdowa po bosym szewcu
z malutkiej jeszcze Warszawy,
mistrz z groty Altamiry
z wnuczkami do ZOO,
kudłaty Wandal w drodze do muzeum
pozachwycać się trochę.

Jacyś polegli dwieście wieków temu,
pięć wieków temu
i pół wieku temu.

Ktoś przewożony tędy złoconą karetą,
ktoś wagonem zagłady.

Montezuma, Konfucjusz, Nabuchodonozor,
ich piastunki, ich praczki i Semiramida,
rozmawiająca tylko po angielsku.

Miliardy twarzy na powierzchni świata.
Twarz twoja, moja, czyja -
nigdy się nie dowiesz.
Może Natura oszukiwać musi,
i żeby zdążyć, i żeby nastarczyć
zaczyna łowić to, co zatopione
w zwierciadle niepamięci.

z tomu Tutaj, 2009
Wisława Szymborska

Thoughts That Visit Me on Busy Streets

Faces.
Billions of faces on the earth's surface.
Each different, so we're told,
from those that have been and will be.
But Nature—since who really understands her?—
may grow tired of her ceaseless labors
and so repeats earlier ideas
by supplying us
with preworn faces.

Those passersby might be Archimedes in jeans,
Catherine the Great draped in resale,
some pharaoh with briefcase and glasses.
An unshod shoemaker’s widow
From a still pint-sized Warsaw,
The master from the cave at Altamira
Taking his grandkids to the Zoo,
A shaggy Vandal en route to the museum
To gasp at past masters.

The fallen from two hundred centuries ago,
Five centuries ago,
Half a century ago.

One brought here in a golden carriage,
Another conveyed by extermination transport.

Montezuma, Confucius, Nebuchadnezzar,
Their nannies, their laundresses, and Semiramida,
Who only speaks English.

Billions of faces on the earth's surface.
My face, yours, whose—
you'll never know.
Maybe Nature has to shortchange us,
and to keep up, meet demand,
she fishes up what's been sunk
in the mirror of oblivion.

In Tutaj, 2009
Translation Clare Cavanagh

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What will you do, God, when I die?

On 3 January 2017 by Margot Krebs Neale - Uncategorized

Was wirst du tun, Gott, wenn ich sterbe?

Was wirst du tun, Gott, wenn ich sterbe?
Ich bin dein Krug (wenn ich zerscherbe?)
Ich bin dein Trank (wenn ich verderbe?)

Bin dein Gewand und dein Gewerbe,
mit mir verlierst du deinen Sinn.

Nach mir hast du kein Haus, darin
dich Worte, nah und warm, begrüßen.
Es fällt von deinen müden Füßen
die Samtsandale, die ich bin.

Dein großer Mantel lässt dich los.
Dein Blick, den ich mit meiner Wange
warm, wie mit einem Pfühl, empfange,
wird kommen, wird mich suchen, lange -
und legt beim Sonnenuntergange
sich fremden Steinen in den Schoß.

Was wirst du tun, Gott? Ich bin bange.

Rainer Maria Rilke, 26.9.1899, Berlin-Schmargendorf

What will you do, God, when I die?

What will you do, God, when I die?
I am your pitcher (when I shatter?)
I am your drink (when I go bitter?)

I, your garment; I, your craft.
Without me what reason have you?

Without me what house
where intimate words await you?
I, velvet sandal that falls from your foot.
I, cloak dropping from your shoulder.

Your gaze, which I welcome now
As it warms my cheek,
Will search for me hour after hour
And lie at sunset, spent,
On an empty beach
Among unfamiliar stones.

What will you do, God? It troubles me.

Rilke, The Book of Hours I, 36

photo Margot Krebs Neale

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And draw us near, And bind us tight… with Leonard Cohen

On 11 November 2016 by Margot Krebs Neale - Uncategorized

 


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These are the words of Leonard Cohen to introduce If It Be Thy Will

"It was a while ago faced with some obstacles that I wrote a song, well it’s more of a prayer and I’ll give you the first few lines and then Neil Larsen on the NNB3 and the Webb sisters will unfold the song
If it be your will that I speak no more
And my voice be still as it was before,
I will speak no more
I shall abide until I am spoken for
If it be your will,
If it be your will that a voice be true
From this broken hill, I will sing to you
From this broken hill, all your praises they shall ring
If it be your will to let me sing"

My voice be still as it was before is in a way where we are, Leonard Cohen's voice is now still but in this song he already invited others to unfold his prayer for him, now is the time he was spoken for and that we pick up his prayer with our own true voice from our own broken place let us unfold the prayer...
"...If it be your will
If there is a choice
Let the rivers fill
Let the hills rejoice
Let your mercy spill
On all these burning hearts in hell
If it be your will
To make us well

And draw us near
And bind us tight
All your children here
In their rags of light
In our rags of light
All dressed to kill
And end this night
If it be your will"

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Love-Laden Keening: All Souls Day

On 2 November 2016 by Margot Krebs Neale - Uncategorized

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"We sing for a moment, not only with the angels, but with those whom we have loved and see no longer, those with whom we are still bound together in the communion of saints..."

Read more here: the sonnet and introduction by Malcolm Guite that have inspired me to create this picture Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus: A Requiem Sonnet for All Souls Day.

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Numbers, a song by Malcolm Guite

On 20 October 2016 by Margot Krebs Neale - Uncategorized

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From the album Dancing through the fire
Cambridge Riffs Records
www.cambridgeriffs.co.uk/records

Lyrics:
Numbers ©Malcolm Guite 2011

It took two loving bodies,
Bringing comfort through the night,
And two hearts beating faster
To bring Billy to the light,
Around a thousand kisses
Saw that baby on the way,
But it only took one finger
To blow it all away

It took a mother’s labour pains
It took a skillful midwife too,
Two grandmas knitting double-time
Those suits of baby blue,
It took years of love to raise him right
With room to grow and play
But it only took one second
To blow it all away

Chorus:
We cannot count the multitude
Who made us what we are
The many friends who formed us
And who carried us this far;
A hundred acts of kindness
That no one can repay
One finger, and one trigger
Can blow it all away

It took that teenage boy a while
To find his own two feet
So he took his best friend with him
On that sixteenth birthday treat
And the two boys took a shortcut
Down a darkened alleyway
And they walked into the crossfire
That took Billy’s life away

I don’t know how the gunman
Tells the story of that day
He was ‘taking care of business’
When some kid got in the way
We make it hard to grow up right
And hard to make things pay
But we sure make it easy
To blow everything away

It took forty-seven minutes
For the funeral to pass
Though it felt like we were crawling
Over miles of broken glass
And I saw it all in front of me
When I closed my eyes to pray:
The finger, and the trigger
And the life they took away

Malcolm Guite Vocals.Guitar.

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Holy Cross Day

On 14 September 2016 by Margot Krebs Neale - Uncategorized

I am borrowing Malcolm Guite's description of Holy Cross Day and one of his poems from the Sonnets of the Cross in Sounding the Seasons; seventy Sonnets for the Christian Year Canterbury Press 2012

"Today, is Holy Cross day. It originally commemorated the day when Helena the Mother of Constantine was believed to have found the true cross, astonishing the inhabitants of Jerusalem by searching the rubbish tip of Golgotha and, on unearthing this discarded sign of shame, exalting it as the greatest treasure on earth. But this festival has become since then a day when any of us can again find the cross, still a discarded sign of shame, and find in it the greatest treasure and the source of grace."

The painting is by Alexandra Drysdale

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A sonnet by Malcolm Guite on Holy Cross Day

I JESUS IS GIVEN HIS CROSS

He gives himself again with all his gifts
And now we give him something in return.
He gave the earth that bears, the air that lifts,
Water to cleanse and cool, fire to burn,
And from these elements he forged the iron,
From strands of life he wove the growing wood,
He made the stones that pave the roads of Zion
He saw it all and saw that it is good.
We took his iron to edge an axe’s blade,
We took the axe and laid it to the tree,
We made a cross of all that he has made,
And laid it on the one who made us free.
Now he receives again and lifts on high
The gifts he gave and we have turned awry.

p1030799smMalcolm Guite, the poet and Alexandra Drysdale, the painter. Michaelhouse, Cambridge, Easter 2011

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