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Murals yes, under no.


A rapid and simple consideration.
The mural painting is a form of more "human", more "simple", more "allaportataditutti. For some reason the cultural front of a painting or work of art "section of the people affected a lot of fear, detachment, as if it were something far away from them.
front of the mural, however, there is no problem if it is accepted as something feasible, practical, yes yes yes that can be done.
Why? Do not you know, I'm not interested.

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The demise of Pino (a)

I am one that my uncle is called Pino. For

lesattezza, Uncle called PinoTeresa, son of Teresa, lan named in order to distinguish collaltro Uncle Pino, PinoRosina, son of Rosina. But he is not here I want to tell Uncle Pino, so questincipit has to be redone.

So, be patient, Rifo.

Sunday 24 in the afternoon, light-hearted, I went to the cemetery. Son lìmpalato below the grave of my dear father and my grandmother did not know and look around.

sudden macchiappa a slight disorientation. Queer is not right? I asked the voice in the cucurbit ill. What I sense is dextran? insists the voice in the cucurbit ill.

I look around, it seems tuttaposto. Tuttaposto. Tuttaposto uncazzo! An

cut Pino!

The Pine! lan sawn!

The Pine! respect for the dead that he too was almost dead for years dry dark looming hill senzalinfa long fingers on the monument number one hundred thirty-nine Pino! skeleton of an unexpected switch to a better fireplace.

Tiè! spit happy allassente tan finally truncated Afar away chips sawdust pellet ah! enjoy! yes I enjoy! I enjoy all right, Pino! my ass! Tiè!

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Identikit cyclist Emilia.


One of the psyche more complicated to understand, after the female, is that the rider Emiliano.
You can define the traits and behaviors but the reasons remain unknown if not totally incomprehensible.
I try to draw a summary of the identikit Ciclista Emiliano hoping to cause a minimum of awareness with respect to a phenomenon unknown but very serious and widespread.

The general feature of EC is due to go to any. From the garage to the house to the garage at home he always goes to the whole. Warm? Macchi. Enjoy the scenery? Mo 'no. The'andare all 'reaches its climax when it happens to' stick ', that is when you meet another rider. No, I must correct you do not 'meet' other cyclists (there is a positive feeling in the meeting), better to say 'put themselves in the crosshairs' other cyclists. Here, in this case the rule is Solta and only one: to go to catch him. Required. Yes yes yes. Inevitable. There is no way. At all.
If you happen to be cyclists, and maybe inform some 'trained and you happen to end up in a bike over here sooner or later you will be chased by a gasp, the sound of a wounded animal, incarognito; proccupatevi is not only a cyclist Emilia fifties who clings to the wheel, elbows wide mouth gaping, face twisted , paunazzo Florescente bike and five thousand euro in the ass.

The Cyclist Emily is divided into two species:
1. CGV (large group of cyclists who come to the summit). Usually leave the city or the surrounding area to the Via Emilia and run almost exclusively with others to form a pack (or large group) of considerable size which can be up to fifty copies. Their main characteristic is that cars and remain even when these mountain bike: keep the same point of view when they are driving from the road (and therefore are in the midst of caraggiata) and compared to those traveling with them (and not next in line). Motorists are obviously totally ignorant of the first rule of cycling safety: a machine behind a few inches and the most dangerous thing there is.
The final aspect to which they differ and do not greet each other. Emilia is a rivalry between cyclists and senseless, insesatamente, widespread practice: greets us with enthusiasm, as if to encourage them. Here are CGV unhealthy. Why? Well maybe I
2. The second type of cyclist Emily is the CPS-GL (cilcisti solitary foot of hills - from around long). Usually come from the foothills of the deep or low. Are solitary or at most have one or two traveling companions. Their laps than a hundred miles away: step-by-house-house. They hate the traffic and then terribly familiar with all the side streets and areas such as GPS sperdure (even their name is derived from this CPS). The big distinction is that large group of cyclists always greet. A strange and incomprehensible occurs when they encounter other cyclists under a certain elevation behave as perfect Cyclists Emiliani, that attach themselves to all, but if the meeting takes place in very mountainous areas, for example, near a step, it changes everything They become good friends, confide in family problems and health, before saying goodbye at the end, rigraziarsi not seeing each other ever again in their lives.

As you see the poturo Catogoria Cyclists Emiliani has made quite ill. Their discomfort can be synthesized and distinguish between the two species in this way: the large group of cyclists for causing social problems while the Solitary Cyclists have social problems.

Photo: Alberto Rocchi, a typical species of the CPS-Reggiano Ciclista GL.

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Perhaps trivial for someone ....
.... perhaps important for someone else
Maybe a waste of time ...
... Perhaps no use ...
Or perhaps ... something that someone else scored.

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him.

"The Catholic came Fiorello, seven hundred and fifty students went to his conference. When presented with a book they are twenty, twenty at most. Do you realize?" I would take all the names of seven hundred fifty boys and when examining the mouth ".
This statement, in a tone of disgust that is directly from a professor of Catholic University.
You can also agree on the content of the sentence but the attitude is completely misplaced. For two reasons.
First. to be in a position of superiority is useless, indeed, does so only because they give and the best way to provoke dialogue and anti-friction. If you want to influence the culture of the boys should lead to dialogue and not repudiate it in this way.
The second is the lack of responsibility. Feeling "'s their fault" by getting all others is the best way to do nothing.
This attitude of superiority is typical of many intellectuals who like to live inside the very cool world of art, literature, philosophy, and completely out of reality.
Those who have to care about culture, not culture.

Why Is The Bottom Of My Heel Numb

It may happen that I have looked without his knowledge, and this too can not speak, since I decided to take in order to guide the conscience of my confusion. Very often, though (too much for my taste) have been photographed, knowing that I was. However, as soon as I feel I looked at the lens, everything changes: I begin with an attitude of "posing", I instantly Fabbrico another body, I transform myself in advance into an image. This transformation is active: I feel that photography creates or mortify my body at will. Posing in front of the goal (ie: knowing place, if only fleetingly), do not risk that much (at least for the moment). It 'obvious that my life I have been given by the photographer only metaphorically. But this dependence has an imaginary bell'essere (it is first pure imaginary): I live in fear of a subsidiary focuses: image - my picture - is about to be born: how will I be? I dislike the look of an individual or that of a <>? Ah, if only I could "succeed" on paper as on canvas of a classic picture, looking noble, looked thoughtful, intelligent, etc..! In short, if only I could be "painted" (Titian), or "designed" (by Clouet)!

ovrrei But as what you received is a delicate texture and not a moral gesture, and as the photo, except in the case of the great portrait painters, is a little thin, I do not know how to act in my skin. Decic then "let it flutter" on my lips and a smile in my eyes that I would like to "indefinite", with which, together with the quality of my nature, I'd read in the knowledge that I have enjoyed all the ceremonial photo: I took to social play, rest, I know I'm putting, I want you to know that, but this additional message must not alter in any way (true squaring of the circle) the precious essence of me: just what I am, outside of any efflige. In short, that I would like my picture, mobile, sballotata according to circumstances, times, among thousands of picture changing, always coincided with my "I" (which as you know is deep), but you ought to say is the opposite: they are "I" never coincides with my image, in fact, is the image that is heavy, motionless, stubborn (which is why the company relies on you), and "I" that is light, divided, dispersed, and that as an imp of Descartes, I'm not ever stop, I acted in my burette: ah, if the photographer could at least give me a neutral body, anatomy, a body that did not mean anything! Instead, alas, are condemned by the photo-do well-which he believes to have always an expression: my body never finds its zero degree, no one gives it to her.

[... ]

imaginary, the photo (the one I assume) is that particular moment when, in truth, is neither an object nor a subject, but rather a person who feels to become an object at that moment I live a micro-death experience (in parentheses): I become truly spectrum. The photographer knows, and he himself is afraid (if only for commercial reasons) of this death in which his action is to embalm.

Nothing would be more funny contortions of the photographers to "make" obvious ideas: make me sit in front of my brushes, they bring me out ("out" is alive "inside"), make me pose in front of a ladder - there are behind me children playing - and then noticed a bench and then immediately (that windfall!) make me sit there. It seems that the photographer, terrified, have to work so much so that the photograph is Death. But I, who are already covered, do not fight. I feel that in this bad dream I'll wake even more brutally, in fact, I do not know what society makes of my photos, what you read, but when ever I find on the product of this operation, that I see is I s ono become All-Immaginem ie Death himself, the other - the other - I divest myself make me, with ferocity, an object, I have them in hand to them, placed in a file, ready for all the subtle manipulations: one day I photographed a great photographer, on that picture I thought I read the sadness of a recent hand: for once I returned to photography myself, but some time later found that same picture on the cover of libel, a print artifice had altered the image: I was left with nothing but a face disinteriorizzato, left, and grim as the picture that the authors of the book wanted to give.

After all, what I perceive in the photo that I am done, it is Death: Death is the eidos of that photo. So oddly enough, when they are photographed, the only thing that I hate that I love, I am familiar with is the sound of the camera. For me, the organ of the Photographer's Eye (I terror strikes), but the toe that is related to the shooting lens, creep of metal plates.

Camera Lucida, Roland Barthes .

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trumpeter in the center, as in shadow