Winged Figure

Barbara Wepworth, Winged Figure, 1962

Joan e Marguerite

Joan Mitchell, The Bluets, 1973

"Le véritable lieu de naissance est celui où l'on a porté pour la première fois un coup d'œil intelligent sur soi-même"

Marguerite Yourcenar, Mémoires d'Hadrien

William Egglestone

William Egglestone, Mississippi, 1971

I believe in kindness. Also in mischief. Also in singing, especially when singing is not necessarily prescribed.

Mary Oliver

CT, Objectos do Céu Profundo, 2017

Paul Strand

Paul Strand, Rebecca, New York, 1921

Saul Leiter

Saul Leiter, Snow, 1960

Saul Leiter, Subway Car 4435, 1950

Sze Tsung Leong

Sze Tsung Leong, Dead Sea II, 2007

Kunié Sugiura

Kunié Sugiura, After "Electric Dress", 2001 

Robert Mapplethorpe

I am obsessed with beauty. I want everything to be perfect, and of course it isn't. And that's a tough place to be because you're never satisfied.(Robert Mapplethorpe)

R.M., Rose, 1989 
























R.M., Ken Moody and Robert Sherman,1984

Joan Mitchell

Joan Mitchell, Few Days II (after James Schuyler), 1985

Frederico

FMG, Água-tinta, 2017

A mais bela Elisabeth Bishop

One Art

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Oh, Ellsworth Kelly

Ellsworth Kelly, Blue Disk, 1963

Marianne Moore (e E.K.)

Para Uma Ave de Presa


Convéns-me, pois nem sequer te tomo a sério,
e não ficas cega pela palha que rodopia
    ao ser trazida de uma meda pelos ventos.

Sabes pensar e o que pensas dizes
com muito orgulho e fria firmeza
    de Sansão, e ninguém ousa deter-te.

O orgulho assenta-te bem, tão empertigada, ave colossal.
Nenhuma capoeira te faz parecer absurda;
   as tuas garras atrevidas são fortes, contra a derrota.


Poemas de Marianne Moore e Elisabeth Bishop (trad. Mª de Lourdes Guimarães) 

Ellsworth Kelly

um buraco na noite
subitamente invadido por um anjo


Alejandra Pizarnik

CT, Objectos do Céu Profundo, 2016

M

Matisse, 1952

Henri Matisse

Não habitamos a terra 
ela habita-nos

Anise Kolz, Cantos de Recusa

Matisse

um anjo

Um anjo segue-me
como a minha sombra

Habituado à sua presença
esqueço-o
como ele me esquece.

Anise Kolz, Cantos de Recusa

Matisse