28-12-14

Öyvind Fahlström, Antoine Bodar, Morris Rosenfeld, Erich Köhler, Alfred Wolfenstein, Édouard d’Anglemont, Antoine Furetière

 

De Zweedse kunstenaar, dichter en schrijver Öyvind Axel Christian Fahlström werd geboren op 28 december 1928 in São Paulo. Zie ook alle tags voor Öyvind Fahlström op dit blog.

Uit: The Invisible Painting, 1960

« To create new conventions, context, shapes that interpret what is sensed as crucial to our inner situation and our relationship to the world. To create a new visual language in which "form" and "content" collaborate unconditionally in order to convey this experience, which is neither purely "literary" nor musically "formal", but is somewhere between these extremes, though presumably closer to "content" than "form".

 

 
Nights, Winters, Years, 1975

 

Since, in accordance with our usual habits, we tend to interpret visual form (at least in the case of more complex form), the visible forms can never constitute such a contained and precise system as musical notation. By means of this interpretive experience we also distance ourselves from the object — the appetizing daubs of color on the wall — and approach a new spirituality in art (in a richer sense than Kandinsky's) and the invisible painting. »

 

 
Öyvind Fahlström (28 december 1928 - 9 november 1976)

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28-12-13

Öyvind Fahlström, Antoine Bodar, Morris Rosenfeld, Erich Köhler, Alfred Wolfenstein, Édouard d’Anglemont, Antoine Furetière

 

De Zweedse kunstenaar, dichter en schrijver Öyvind Axel Christian Fahlström werd geboren op 28 december 1928 in São Paulo. Zie ook alle tags voor Öyvind Fahlström op dit blog.

Uit: The Invisible Painting, 1960

“Nowadays it is possible to make and reproduce exact copies of paintings, in which even the tactile values, to some extent, are retained. Taking the opposite approach: to create directly on a "negative" which is then reproduced is another matter, but this is something that must be possible to achieve in an age when neither push-button annihilation nor moon rockets are inconceivable.

 

 
World Map, 1972

 

The painting as a handmade object would then decrease in significance compared with a painting that exists for the experience, the content, that it can convey. Become invisible painting.
The way to this kind of painting, which offers the most powerful and deepest possible experience, does not, of course, lie at our feet. For me, it is largely a question of making the painting take hold as a never completely graspable, definable, but riveting vehicle of content. To differentiate visual material, creating a pictorial world as richly and clearly conceived as the art of the past but a world that is without either conventional form or meaning.”

 

 
Öyvind Fahlström (28 december 1928 - 9 november 1976)

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28-12-11

Öyvind Fahlström, Manuel Puig, Antoine Bodar, Morris Rosenfeld, Erich Köhler, Guy Debord, Alfred Wolfenstein, Édouard d’Anglemont, Antoine Furetière

 

De Zweedse kunstenaar, dichter en schrijver Öyvind Axel Christian Fahlström werd geboren op 28 december 1928 in São Paulo. Zie ook mijn blog van 28 december 2010.

 

Uit: The Invisible Painting, 1960

 

„Very generally:
The future of art, if it is to have any future, must be based on a synthesis. I regard most modern art as an experimental field for separate discoveries and solutions, the unity of composition and form, color composition, illusions of time and space, poetic content, automatism and gesture, experimentation with material. A growing number of artists end up in a technical idiocy of style, cultivating a particular halfway solution.

The future: an attempt to create complete works of art. Fewer — bigger — more important — more worked through. That it's natural for an artist to make a few such works, in the same way a composer or writer does. Natural to plan and "think through" a work to a greater extent and, if possible, to use technology and science, as has been done most significantly in music. See, for example, Schöffer's cybernetic mobiles.

 

 

Öyvind Fahlström, Column no. 2 (Picasso 90), 1973

 

Less generally:
In one particular respect I think that collaboration with technology is imminent.

Painting is lagging behind the other art forms because of its limited opportunities to reach its audience. By "reach" I mean to "own" a work of art, to possess it, to take it out when you want to, have it on display or not — like a book or a record — so that as many people as possible can experience an original, as they can with film and theater. By this I mean that the fetishism connected to handmade and signed originals would never exist; instead there would be a multitude of equally valuable copies. When art is bought today, it happens, as we know, only partly for the same reasons that books or records are purchased — and it is bought by an extremely limited group of people. Those to whom works of art mean the most have the least means to acquire them. This is an incredibly warped situation, to which many artists are oddly resigned.“

 

 

Öyvind Fahlström (28 december 1928 - 9 november 1976)

 

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28-12-10

Morris Rosenfeld, Erich Köhler, Édouard d’Anglemont, Antoine Furetière

 

De Amerikaanse dichter Morris Rosenfeld (eig. Moshe Jacob Alter) werd geboren op 28 december 1862 in Boksze in Polen. Zie ook mijn blog van 28 december 2008 en ook mijn blog van 28 december 2009.

 

 

Again I Sing My Songs

 

Once again my songs I sing thee,

  Now the spell is broken;

Brothers, yet again I bring thee

  Songs of love the token.

Of my joy and of my sorrow

  Gladly, sadly bringing;—

Summer not a song would borrow—

  Winter sets me singing.

 

O when life turns sad and lonely,

  When our joys are dead;

When are heard the ravens only

  In the trees o’erhead;

When the stormwind on the bowers

  Wreaks its wicked will,

When the frost paints lying flowers,

  How should I be still?

 

When the clouds are low descending,

  And the sun is drowned;

When the winter knows no ending,

  And the cold is crowned;

When with evil gloom oppressed

  Lie the ruins bare;

When a sigh escapes the breast,

  Takes us unaware;

 

When the snow-wrapped mountain dreams

  Of its summer gladness,

When the wood is stripped and seems

  Full of care and sadness;

When the songs are growing still

  As in Death’s repose,

And the heart is growing chill,

  And the eyelids close;

 

Then, O then I can but sing

  For I dream her coming—

May, sweet May! I see her bring

  Buds and wild-bee humming!

Through the silence heart-appalling,

  As I stand and listen,

I can hear her song-birds calling,

  See her green leaves glisten!

 

Thus again my songs I sing thee,

  Now the spell is broken;

Brothers, yet again I bring thee

  Of my love the token.

Of my joy and of my sorrow

  Gladly, sadly bringing,—

Summer not a song would borrow!—

Winter sets me singing.

 

 

 

Vertaald door Rose Pastor Stokes en  Helena Frank

 

 

 

 

Morris Rosenfeld (28 december 1862 – 22 juni 1923)

 

 

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