ERASURE ART – GIVING PRAISE TO EMILIO ISGRO

 

 ITALIAN ARTIST EMILIO ISGRO and UNEXPECTED DEVELOPMENTS: 

THE RONAWEAVE REVOLUTION

by Rosanna Albertini

 

 

Emilio Isgrò, GRANDE DIZIONARIO ENCICLOPEDICO / GREAT ENCYCLOPEDIC DICTIONARY, 1969, Indian ink on printed book in box of wood and plexiglas 100x41x67 cm  Photo: Cristian Castelnuovo Courtesy Studio Guastalla Arte Moderna e Contemporanea, Milano

Remaining words: “passando da  312.000 a 314.000″ ” going from 312.000 to 314.000″

“riprendendo le dottrine platoniche della reminiscenza e della trasmigrazione delle anime” “bringing back the platonic doctrines of reminescence and transmigration of the souls”*

Words, and the arts, he says, are the essence of democracy. Emilio Isgrò started erasing printed pages and images around fifty years ago. Lines and lines obnubilate the words that had covered the paper like legs of insects, calligraphic bodies of the most movable and fleeting of human activities: thinking and writing thoughts to reach other people who are not in the room, and never will be. 

A few words remain. Some fragments of images still visible. “A word is a petal of the soul”, wrote Jabès. Isgrò saves very few of them in his garden. He plays with them and with language, art needs space, renovation, a long way of discoveries: words and images testing their limits, replacing each other, hiding, sometimes pretending an imaginary game: if you have two red squares, in which one is Trotsky going to fall, when he wears a red suit? 

Emilio Isgrò, MANIFESTO COMUNALE / MUNICIPAL POSTER 1974, Indian ink on printed poster in box of wood and plexiglas, 100×76 cm Photo: Cristian Castelnuovo Courtesy Studio Guastalla Arte Moderna e Contemporanea, Milano

 

Emilio Isgrò, DOVE CADE TROTSKIJ / WHERE TROTSKY FALLS 1974, Acrylic on canvas mounted on wood, 59,7×104,5 cm  Photo: Cristian Castelnuovo  Courtesy Studio Guastalla Arte Moderna e Contemporanea, Milano

IN WHICH ONE OF THE TWO SQUARES DOES LEV DAVIDOVIC TROTSKIJ FALL WEARING A RED SUIT?

I have never met Emilio Isgrò, I wish I could. I want to talk to him.  If, inspired by him, I erase the enormous volume of words and voices that try to describe and reasonably explain what’s happening today all over the world, I’d like to stop the flood, but I can only see something that is terrifying and spellbinding. A potential of liberation … spread by the ronaweave. And I am not able to send away the image of a gigantic specter made with numbers of sick or dead real humans. My daydreaming has the lightness of unreal things. When I see doctors at work in emergency rooms, and I am face to face with them, then I am in the belly of the monster. Nobody expected that nature herself might start erasing. “Natura matrigna,” wrote my grandchild from Pisa, determined to become a doctor. But your erasure is different, dear artist, it opens space for thinking as the art of desire, and art as the desire of a journey beyond codified ways of thinking.                                                            

Emilio Isgrò, HENRICUS KISSINGER, EX 1974  Emulsified canvas  125×160 cm Photo: Cristian Castelnuovo Courtesy Studio Guastalla Arte Moderna e Contemporanea, Milano

“HENRICUS KISSINGER, EX URBE PECHINO ADVENIENS, EX AEROPLANO DESCENDIT. SUB VESPERUM PRAESIDEM NIXON CUNCTA EDOCEBIT”

 

Emilio Isgrò, NEGLI OCCHI DI BEATRICE / IN THE EYES OF BEATRICE 1979 Acrylic on canvas
79×79 cm  Photo Cristian Castelnuovo  Courtesy Studio Guastalla Arte Moderna e Contemporanea, Milano

 

Emilio Isgrò, PURGATORIO XXVI /PURGATORY XXVI 1983 Acrylic on printed book in box of wood and plexiglas 40×50 cm  Photo: Cristian Castelnuovo  Courtesy Studio Guastalla Arte Moderna e Contemporanea, Milano

“SODDOMA E GOMORRA!”; “VACCA”      “SODDOMA AND GOMORRA!”;  “COW”

 

Emilio Isgrò, BERTRAND BARERE DE VIEUZAC 1979, Acrylic on canvas 80×80 cm Photo: Cristian Castelnuovo  Courtesy Studio Guastalla Arte Moderna e Contemporanea, Milano

“Bertrand Barère de Vieuzac, detto l’Anacreonte della ghigliottina, muove un dito nel rosso vestito di rosso, con molta nostalgia del verde. Tarbes, 1841.”   “Bertrand Barère de Vieuzac, called the Anacreon of the guillotine, moves a finger in the red wearing red, with acute nostalgia for the green. Tarbes, 1841.”

 

The past is a quite recent shadow, a pillow left after the night, we can still feel it touching the skin. As I go out my steps are counted, I say hello to the dogs, my face is covered. Cars are back, two fire engines scream like red elephants, birds still fly in formation. Humans avoid contacts. Smog. The careless freedom of going and doing has been erased. It was nice to be spensierati. No equivalent in English. More or less: out of the cage of thoughts, bipeds with wings. 

We live under the tyranny of not being too puzzling, both to ourselves and others … But above all it is when the pressure to understand is taken off that the most valuable words are spoken or written; the act, the struggle to make oneself intelligible must therefore be some kind of distraction; in psychoanalityc terms, some kind of defense. The words that matter most are the words we don’t understand. ADAM PHILLIPS

When you mentioned Pasolini, dear Isgrò, and it was about revolution: “Only the revolution can save the past,” and you added that today there is no past anymore because we don’t have a real revolution of habits, customs, of the living, you were right… a few years ago!  Here we are, a revolution is happening, so far rather a scarecrow with shredded clothes, but the wind blows.

Democracy, al least in the US, where I live, has become the home of institutions fermenting on their foundations, desperately trying to respond to this natural challenge of life or death. I call it ronawave like the chicano members of the LA community. It’s a word with flesh. The whole country quivers with emotion once more dipping fingers into fundamental, violated, human rights. No more quietly appeased. 

Erased, erased, erased is the silence. 

Every day brings new yellow butterflies on a small tree with yellow flowers. 

Los Angeles is home to me. So are Milano, Pisa, Napoli, Venezia, Paris, whose smell I can feel at the distance, just while thinking of them. The ronawave erased borders with no ambiguity: there are none in our souls. History, maybe, could be pushed aside. If a future remains, this present will be a revered past.

 

Emilio Isgrò, SPINOZA 2002, Acrylic on canvas 120×190 cm  Photo: Cristian Castelnuovo
Courtesy Studio Guastalla Arte Moderna e Contemporanea, Milano

A RED STORY     by Silvia Guastalla

Heart, imagination, reason. Let’s ask for their help in this time of uncertainty. They’ll listen to us.

This red story by Emilio Isgrò reminds us that life is a space in which anyone can write, with the signs of one’s imagination, and that imagination is a faculty that frees the power of existence and makes us masters of ourselves. For Spinoza, the philosopher who Isgrò makes appear and disappear in this large red color field, imagination is a virtue, not a defect in our minds, if accompanied by analysis. 

Imagination, as capacity to think about what doesn’t exist, and reason, that is awareness of reality, are the two poles between which our freedom to be human beings moves. And red is the potent color that symbolizes our ability to use our hearts.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

EMILIO ISGRO – LA CANCELLATURA E ALTRI PARTICOLARI, Opere 1966-1993, Catalogue Studio Guastalla Arte Moderna e Contemporanea, Editions Graphis Arte, Milano, 2012

ADAM PHILLIS, Equals. Published by Basic Books, © 2002 by Adam Phillips

*It’s a funny coincidence that precisely these doctrines are an irreverent disguise for the eighteenth century intelligence in a small book written by Montesquieu, L’Histoire véritable. The first (and unique) Italian edition was translated by me, with some words about transmigrations at the end of the book. Elvira Sellerio, A Sicilian publisher, made the book exactly as I asked, and published it in the Blue collection. I was thrilled. The Blue collection was my favorite among very many.

CHARLES-LOUIS DE MONTESQUIEU, Storia vera, Translation and note by Rosanna Albertini, ©Sellerio Editore, Palermo, 1983, 1992.

EDMOND JABES, Le Livre des Questions, © Editions Gallimard, 1963

BEAUTY AS A LIVING FORCE N.2

BIRDS FOR A WHILE   by Rosanna Albertini

 

Images by JEAN-LOUIS GARNELL 

 

“Like the Druzes, like the moon, like death, like next week, the distant past forms part of those things that can be enriched by ignorance. It is infinitely supple and yielding; it offers itself to us much more than the future and poses fewer problems. One knows, moreover, that it is the chosen spot of mythology.”   Jorge Luis Borges

 

THE DAY THAT TIME GOT LOST AND FOUND

Lines and a six foot distance to buy bread, salad, whatever. Like flocks of birds? We move as a bunch, as if obeying, to whom is not important. Birds do better when they fly away from a power line, all together, and draw regular, movable forms in the sky. They migrate and cover continents of distance. They seem to know where they go. We didn’t move for about three months, and don’t know anymore where the future goes. Bipeds without wings.    

Do you think birds have a sense of time? ‘Just the difference between day and night,’ Peter answers. ‘Do you know what day it is?’ he asks me. ‘I am not sure, I thought it was Saturday. No, it is Wednesday.’ I am nailed to a wish of coordinates as empty as the page of a calendar. 

Printemps 2020 VUES n. 1   67 x 100 cm, © JEAN-LOUIS GARNELL

Printemps 2020 VUES n.2   67 x 100 cm © JEAN-LOUIS GARNELL

Printemps 2020 VUES n.3  67 x 100 cm ©JEAN-LOUIS GARNELL

Printemps 2020 VUES n.4 67 x 100 cm ©JEAN-LOUIS GARNELL

Printemps 2020 VUES n.5 67 x 100 cm ©JEAN-LOUIS GARNELL

         

Maybe I’m becoming free from counting and squeezing into an infinite grid of little windows the pleasure of looking at the sky, following the clouds, or smelling a peach. Imaginary volumes of time become hurdles, and I jump and jump to keep the schedule in order. Time? We make it, paint it, frame it, only to end up with a strange deception: I don’t have time!  And my watch has disappeared.

Like my ancestors from the Renaissance, I keep dearly in mind the illusion that, when I think, I touch something despite the distance. As my mind saves the immediate sensations of walking, or stroking my ankles disturbed by neuropathy, a careful register of my aging, she saves as well past sensations I hide somewhere, maybe behind my ears. For no reason my hands search through a pile of dusty papers I saved for decades. At the very end, underneath photocopies and magazines, a page cut from a newspaper appears, spiteful like a squirrel: the first important long article I wrote in Italy about contemporary art. I could write about the light going dim at the end of the day and the shadows stroking my yellowish piece of paper, but I don’t. Virginia did it in such a sublime way that I can just keep my words clean and poor. Without thinking, I decide to scan the article, frame it and put it on the wall. 

Tiptoing and creeping up from the marsh of the old habits sinking underwater, time comes back: it is a body of eight minutes and forty-six seconds, the time Floyd was deprived of life nine days ago. An online chain of messages offers the idea of a peaceful action, at home. “All we need to do is to go outdoors (rooftop, front yard, back yard, street, any place outdoors) and turn on a flashlight, or emergency light, and point it to the sky for exactly 8 min and 46 seconds starting at exactly 9:oo pm.” The full moon kept her face modestly behind the fog. Our lights hit the top of the palms. Floyd’s death felt as a long, very long time.

Back in the house I put the article on the wall, and saw my lost watch.

 

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Borges, a Reader, Edited by Emir Rodriguez Monegal & Alastair Reid, New York, E. P. Dutton, 1981

BEAUTY AS A LIVING FORCE N.1

IMAGES by YVES TREMORIN

The artist took a picture every day during his home isolation, and sent them by e-mail to his friends.

SPRINGTIME  by Rosanna Albertini

“This is a time when it is frightening to be alive, when it is hard to think of human beings as rational creatures. Everywhere we look we see brutality, stupidity, until it seems that there is nothing else to be seen but that—a descent into barbarism, everywhere, which we are unable to check. But I think that while it is true there is a general worsening, it is precisely because things are so frightening we become hypnotized, and do not notice—or if we notice, belittle—equally strong forces on the other side, the forces, in short, of reason, sanity and civilization. … We have the ability to observe ourselves from other viewpoints.” 

 Doris Lessing, Prisons We Choose to Live Inside, 1987

Lessing’s words drove me to the very far past of humankind, when we hardly knew the difference between humans, plants and the other animals. And opening my primitive instincts I saw each written page like a beehive, buzzing and humming movements of words, fonts, and ideas pressing the tools of language, asking to become honey.

reread Doris Lessing outside in the sun after six days of rage, fires, shouting—God undoing his week of creation. Yet the garden is still around me, screaming the beauty of spring. Not very far away, in the city, there is a wave of despair exasperated by the repeated, callous harm of a human to another human. As likely as not, frustration was already simmering before the killing that became a burning stamp into the soul of everyone. Maybe there is more, a sort of irrational response to the artificial, although useful, quiet, imposed on our daily lives in contrast to the virulence of the ronawave.

My honey, today, is the mysterious strength of friendship among humans, my uninterrupted friendship with two French artists that neither distance nor time can scratch: Yves Tremorin and Jean-Louis Garnell.  In this post and the next post the three of us will be together despite the ocean between us, inviting the readers/viewers to our table.

Homer, and Spinoza, are honey for sure. Compared with them, we work at a tiny scale, releasing blood drops. My Milanese friend Silvia’s e-mails regularly changed my spring days. She is a gallerist now, and a mother, a while ago one of my students of philosophy. Her short messages announced: BEAUTY WILL SAVE US. She sent one image of an art piece, and a few lines disclosing her take on it, a personal attachment to that work.  Because Silvia can only reduce her anxiety reading Greek poems and philosophical classics, her words are not about aesthetics, she digs them from within, asking heart, imagination and reason to give us help in this suspended time: “they will listen to us,” she says. I listen to her. 

Her six year old son is more concerned with action, not to say practical decisions. After a long day of online schooling at home, from 8.30am to 4pm, slouched in his chair, or disappearing under the table, or desperately asking for friends, he is finally in bed as his mother reads the Iliad to him. After listening,  “I’ve decided mamma,” he says, “I will offer myself in sacrifice, so the Gods will understand they have to send the virus away.” In a few minutes he will turn into Zorro, looking for a mask. 

Strange to tell, Ed Moses used to paint his abstract pieces with a similar sequence in mind: in 2001 I wrote an imaginary conversation between him and his paintings of that year. “Please forget nature. Thoughts and feelings are my true mine. When I project them onto a physical surface they become God’s fingers awakening dull pieces of matter.” Then mumbling, “God? Let’s say Zorro, he is perhaps a more popular character.” I read this to Ed sitting with him on the bench near his front door, he approved. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Doris Lessing, Prisons We Choose to Live Inside, ©1987 Doris Lessing, New York, Harper & Row, Publishers

Arthur Schnitzler, Relations et Solitudes, Aphorismes, Translation from German by Pierre Deshusses, Paris,  Rivages poche Petite Bibliothèque, 1988

Ernst Cassirer, Individuo e cosmo nella filosofia del Rinascimento, 1927. Translation from German by Federico Federici, Firenze, La Nuova Italia editrice, 1974

Homer,The Iliad, Translated by Robert Fagles, Penguin Books, 1990

Rosanna Albertini, White OwlsArtists I found In Los Angeles 1994-2011, Los Angeles, Oreste & Co. Publishers, 2011

Border ball : JOEL TAUBER IN FRONT OF THE WALL

WAITING FOR THE geese/swans

by Rosanna Albertini

I see Joel in trouble and I like him there. Because his journey on the same road back and forth for 40 days has the same distinct property of a religious ritual,  including the dress of a baseball player, the big glove and the white ball. If such is the case, the roots of his journey are as ancient as those of the migrants’ peregrination, driven by their overconfident heart despite all the obstacles that a human mind can conceive in advance. 

A primitive desire moves them both toward an uncertain goal, against safety or reasonable solutions. All the Indo European fairytales contain the same kind of quest: go, says the little sister to her brother, and bring me the fountain of the silver water. The boy goes, and helped by the vision of an old man, he succeeds. Now the girl wants the white parrot, who can only be grabbed when his eyes are open, which means he is asleep. If the boy fails, his body will be petrified. And so he is.

Ahead of themselves, the questers do not know what will meet them during the quest. The artist could feel the spell spread by the wall and have a moment of stillness, hoping that the white geese/swans in the sky would lift his soul.

I’m translating this contemporary journey into the words of a timeless story: 

“my geese, little swans, 

take me on your wings…”

Wait for those that are coming behind us” answer the birds.  Same request to another flock, and same answer, “Wait for those behind us.” At this point the artist prays. He becomes exactly like the hero of another story, about to die in the castle of nothingness. After failing to hit the target twice, he closes his eyes and whispers: “May no one miss the goal of his life as I have done!” It is then that his arrow hits the white parrot. Old interpreters knew the white parrot was nothing but his soul, and the journey was spiritual.*

I don’t have any doubt that this is the nature of Joel Tauber’s quest. Collecting  stories from migrants, border patrol officers, passing people, he builds the wings of flying bodies for visions or pages. And he breaks the spell of the stalled hopes: “Now, tell me who you are now, give me your heart wounded by offenses.”

He is building a future memory that will not say: “I can’t pick you up, ask somebody else.” It is simple, as Viktor Sklovskij wrote:

A person can’t lift herself by herself alone, and she asks to all her forebears who thought and dreamed, those who got indignant, those who have been reprimanded; the person talks to them, when reading [or watching a movie]: bring me with you!” 

Animals disappeared, words changed, but the big electric machine of human self awareness, a thinking machine, shakes the sky with multiple wings, humans are part of that. A writer is the apprentice among humans. Writing is impossible without working, without reading, without looking at the flocks of geese and swans that, population after population, school after school, fly over you and in the end will bring you on their wings.”** 

  • Marie-Louise Von Franz, Individuation in Fairy Tales, Shambhala Publications, Boston & London, 1977, 1990.
  • Viktor Sklovskij, C’era una volta,(Zili-byli )Trad. it by Sergio Leone, Milano, Il Saggiatore, 1968, 1994.

 

By Joel Tauber

I’m continually confronted by the Border Wall. I walk alongside it everyday, while making my 40-Day Pilgrimage from the Otay Mesa Port of Entry to the Otay Mesa Detention Center, and then back again.

The Wall seems most imposing to me from the easternmost point of my 7 mile route before I head north towards the Detention Center. The towering metal barricade marches seemingly forever east, past the horizon line. I stare at The Wall, but I cannot touch it. I face it behind a second shorter metal fence and a restricted buffer zone of highly patrolled land.

I stand at this spot, tossing a ball and thinking about The Wall. I interview people about the border and about baseball, and I toss a ball with them. I talk to Border Patrol agents nearby. Then, I toss a ball to myself some more.

And I wonder. What does The Wall do to us? Psychologically? Ethically? Spiritually? What happens when we emphasize, so clearly, the boundaries between us? When we heighten them with steel, rebar, and concrete? Does The Wall make it harder to recognize that we’re all connected to each other? That we’re all on the same team?

I continue to toss a ball, over and over again. As a ritual. As a meditation. As a prayer. I think about our teammates who are suffering. The hungry. The homeless. The refugees who we turn away. And all those we lock up in detention centers.

Then, I declare:

Walk with me along the border. Play catch with me in front of the wall. Share some hot dogs and salsa. I don’t care what part of the world you’re from. Let’s root, root, root for teamwork. If we don’t find some, it’s a shame. For it’s one, two, three strikes, we’re out at the old ball game.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Border Ball : THE ROUTE e auguri di buon viaggio

Border-Ball is a 40-day pilgrimage along the U.S. - Mexico border, a movie, and an art installation by Joel Tauber.

Joel Tauber is undertaking a 40-day pilgrimage along the U.S. – Mexico border to build community through baseball.

Growing up, Tauber went to Fenway Park to watch baseball. He dreamed of playing professionally. Baseball, for him, stands for openness and a belief in a welcoming, diverse America. He hopes to encourage conversation and togetherness rather than division and separation.

The journey will begin on Oct. 29. Tauber will start at the Otay Mesa Port of Entry in San Diego, California, and will walk along the border wall before heading north two and a half miles to the Otay Mesa Detention Center. He will travel there and back again each day – a seven mile journey that connects legal entry to the U.S. with the border wall and the detention center holding those who might be in the country without all legal permits. While walking, he will be declaring, in English as well as some Spanish, an adaptation of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame”:

Walk with me along the border. Play catch with me in front of the wall. Share some hot dogs and salsa. I don’t care what part of the world you’re from. Let’s root, root, root for teamwork. If we don’t find some, it’s a shame. For it’s one, two, three strikes, we’re out at the old ball game.

Tauber will be wearing a custom vintage baseball uniform and backpack in blue, white and red. He will be tossing a baseball as he walks along and inviting people who walk along with him to play catch.

As part of the border walk, Tauber will be filming people he meets and gathering personal reflections and stories related to baseball, immigration and the U.S. He will produce a film and art installation, called Border-Ball, about the experience.

Schedule

Oct 31; Nov 2, 5, 7, 9, 11, 13, 15, 17, 19, 21, 23, 25, 27, 29; Dec 1, 3, 5, 7: Meet at the Otay Mesa Port of Entry pedestrian bridge at noon. Share stories (on camera) about baseball, immigration, and the United States until 1 pm. Walk along the border wall from 1-1:30. Rest from 1:30 – 1:45 pm. Walk to the Otay Mesa Detention Center from 1:45 – 2:45 pm. Share stories (on camera) about baseball, immigration, and the United States until 3:45 pm. Walk back to the Otay Mesa Port of Entry from 3:45 – 4:45 pm.

Nov 1, 3, 6, 8, 10, 12, 14, 16, 18, 20, 22, 24, 26, 28, 30; Dec 2, 4, 6: Meet at the Otay Mesa Port of Entry pedestrian bridge at noon. Walk along the border wall from 12:15-12:45. Share stories (on camera) about baseball, immigration, and the United States until 1:45 pm at the eastern end of the Via De La Amistad section of the route. Walk to the Otay Mesa Detention Center from 1:45 – 2:45 pm. Share stories (on camera) about baseball, immigration, and the United States until 3:45 pm. Walk back to the Otay Mesa Port of Entry from 3:45 – 4:45 pm.

Nov 4: Joel Tauber is walking alone with a cinematographer

There are no places to get food or water after leaving the Port of Entry area, so please make sure to bring water with you, and either eat before the walk or bring some food with you as well.

Also: if you have any trouble finding Joel Tauber, you are welcome to call or text: +1 626-399-7746.

 

Tauber was born in 1972 in Boston, Massachusetts, USA and comes from a long line of rabbis. His work focuses on generating conversation and facilitating change. Most recently, the Vintage International Film Festival in Kolhapur, India, named Tauber’s “The Sharing Project” movie “Best International Documentary Film.” He lives and works in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, USA; where he is Associate Professor of Art at Wake Forest University.

 

 

JOEL TAUBER : the BORDER BALL begins

The Tree is gone!!! Replaced by concrete

The Tree is gone!!! Replaced by concrete. And, I’m beyond devastated.

At the same time, I’m trying to focus on all of the Tree Babies that are thriving.

So, I went to visit the USC Tree Baby to try to cheer up.

Many thanks to all the Tree Baby parents!

I will always love The Tree, and I will always miss The Tree. Sick-Amour.

And, now I must move forward; because tomorrow, I start Border-Ball: a 40-Day pilgrimage along the U.S. – Mexico border

TOMORROW, OCTOBER 29, the pilgrimage begins. This blog will follow and publish Joel Tauber’s journey every time he will send  documents and stories.  The editor, RA

 

Alberto Albertini : A GLIMPSE OF AFTER LIFE

ALBERTO ALBERTINI  from MILAN, Italy  

A letter to Eugenio Scalfari, December 2018 

and photographic Self-Portraits 

This  letter is addressed to a man, Eugenio Scalfari, who is one of the founders of La Repubblica, one of the most popular Italian newspapers, more or less equivalent to the New York Times, and  L’Espresso, a weekly magazine. Scalfari has recently become a good friend of Pope Francesco, it is not clear if also having some religious turns of mind. From his apartment in Milan, Alberto has always been an acute observer of Italian political life, and sometimes in crucial moments he sent his thoughts to those in charge, to the president of the Republic Giorgio Napolitano, for instance. Feeling the candle burning the tail, this time Alberto’s considerations about end of life and the attempt at finding meaning in the inscrutable, has rather an existential quality. But no complaints.  RA (editor)

 

 

Caro Eugenio,

mi permetto questo tono confidenziale non tanto perché sono stato un lettore de “L’Espresso” della prima ora ma perché, in conseguenza di quel fatto, non posso che essere vecchio ( 91 ), vicino alla tua età e pervaso dall’idea che comunque è bene pensare alle operazioni di chiusura. Forse mi manca ancora qualche anno per giungere a conclusioni mistiche perché al momento, anche se la cosa infastidisce, sono convinto che tutto si chiuda, finisca. È irritante pensare che dopo aver lavorato, progettato, desiderato, immaginato, costruito la mia vita, la vita dell’umanità che ci ha dato Prassitele, il Bernini, Galileo e Umberto Eco, l’umanità tutta, abbia il medesimo destino. Eppure non può essere che così. L’energia, questo è il vero grande mistero! L’energia che prende calorie per il nostro cervello viene a mancare, non c’è più trasmissione, è finita. Non possiamo più nemmeno dolercene. So che quando arriveranno le prime avvisaglie, non sarò più così lucidamente logico, forse anche questo fa parte della procedura di atterraggio. Comincio a guardare gli oggetti che mi circondano, che amo, come se potessi goderli di più o forse fissarli nella memoria per portarli inutilmente con me. Mah. Sono però certo che se noi potessimo uscire dal mondo, dall’universo e vedere laggiù come stanno le cose, rideremmo di come sono semplici e comprensibili. Già ma se l’universo è infinito come potremmo uscirne? Anche l’infinito è cosa poco chiara.

aa

Dear Eugenio,

I dare to use this confidential tone not so much because I’ve been a reader of L’Espresso since the first day, but because of that fact it follows that I can only be old (91), close to the age you are and pervaded by the idea that it’s anyway good to think of the ending procedures. Maybe in a few years I will reach mystic conclusions; at the moment I am convinced, although frankly annoyed, that everything has a conclusion, and ends. It’s irritating to think that after having worked, made projects, desired, imagined and build my life, the humans’ life that gave us Prassitele, Bernini, Galileo and Umberto Eco, the entire human race has the same destiny. And yet, this is how things must be. Energy, that’s the real big mystery!  When the energy that provides calories to the brain is missing, transmission is gone, finished. We can’t even be sorry about it.

I do know that, when the first warnings will come, I won’t be so clearly logical anymore, maybe this is also part of the landing procedure. I’m starting to look at the objects around me, objects I love, as if I were able to enjoy them more, or to fix them in my memory hoping to bring them with me, pointlessly. Mah. I am sure nevertheless that, if we could get out of this world, out of the universe, and see from afar how things are down there, we would laugh about how simple and understandable they are. But, if the universe is infinite how could we get out of it?  Infinity as well is not such a clear thing.

aa

Alberto is the oldest member of the Albertini family, my father’s brother. He is one of the pillars of this blog. Four years of on line collaboration produced a number of posts in which our family life is intermingled with our experiences in the art world, since childhood, sharing passion and life with his father Oreste the painter, my unforgotten grandfather.

MORE CHALLENGES for Alberto

MORE CHALLENGES, AROUND THE WORLD (Fragments of memory)

by ALBERTO ALBERTINI

Photos: Alberto Albertini

The seventies were a time of violent events in our country, and because I traveled a lot, it wasn’t difficult for me to find coincidences between my movements and those episodes. It’s also true that such coincidences are easier to remember than all the other travels that went smoothly.

Philips was a technological company: manufacturing, selling, researching; it was not by accident that the CD was born from the Philips-Sony collaboration. But earlier Philips big commercial success was the magnetic tape audio cassette. Born as a small portable recorder with battery, the tiny Philip cassette entered into the high fidelity circuit among builders who produced recorders/players with unexpectedly high quality.
The pioneers in the commercial distribution of audio cassettes had started to duplicate tapes using banks of consumer recorders and at real speed. Considering the demand, someone started to produce machines able to duplicate at high speed. Very quickly cassettes became more popular than the 45 record. It was also market in which the production of audio cassettes was not always legitimate.
One of my clients had made enough money, thanks to “his” productions, to address his mind towards building a recording studio in order to complete the production cycle: from the singer to the finished cassette. This client was so incompetent, and not only in the details of production, that to explain to him the quality of my machines seemed to me not only an impossible task, but also a pointless one. And yet my competitor, who had the advantage of providing duplication machines, had infinite patience trying to introduce data into my client’s brain! My tactic was: to also have a lot of patience, so much so that one day I brought my client to London, to visit a fabulous studio and see a recording console that was the best at the time . It was the winning move. A challenge, always!
The studio for him was completed and I was on vacation at the beach, reading the newspaper under a big umbrella. On the inside pages I saw the picture of a person who looked familiar to me, yes, for sure! it was him, my client. But his presence in the paper was also certifying his absence from our world: he had been killed by a gun shot! Uncertain gossip told me that it hadn’t been a story of jealousy, rather a failure to reimburse the expenses to his wife’s lover, which he had agreed to pay if he would end the affair.
Mah!

PARIS

March 14 1972, coming back from Munich (Germany), I was struck by the news that a corpse had been found underneath a tower carrying high voltage electric cables: it was Giangiacomo Feltrinelli, the publisher. I had met him at TTC in 1969.

The chief exists but is invisible. Only in some rare occasion he shows up, and not for lack of time, just because this is required by his role. So was the founder of Fonoroma, and so was Willie Studer, the creator of the Studer factory. I don’t believe Studer was formal, he seemed to me a reserved man, maybe a little shy, not very communicative for sure, and probably aware he had created the biggest and more perfect factory producing magnetic tape audio recorders.
He had two lines of production: REVOX semiprofessional for amateurs and the professional A80 for recording studios. In a few words, the construction was “Swiss.”
The factory I visited several times was a model: the labs for planners-technicians filled with instruments, and with automatically precise production machines.
The coffe pause was at ten, canteen and gardens. They, the Swiss, had the industrial zone separate from the residential zone… and their taping machines could record on magnetic tape, the text could be corrected and only at the end one or more copies were printed.
Gas was self-service and paid by Bancomat. It was 1970! All that because the personnel was scarse, those available were used in production, everybody produced, the factory couldn’t afford non-productive people. The Italians employed also did produce, and in order to learn the language they had a small blackboard with a written sentence to be learned every day.

 

SWITZERLAND

On September 5, 1972, eight members of Black September, a movement connected to Yasser Arafat’s Organization for the Liberation of Palestina, entered into the Olympic village quite easily, helped to cross the surrounding wall by a group of athletes who had drunk too much and didn’t realize what they were doing. From where had I returned? I don’t remember exactly, probably from a sleeping coach on the train from Monaco!

I had a long technological relationship with RAI (Italian Radio-Television), at every level, because they needed audio equipment for their radio and television programs. I introduced for the first time Studer audio recorders; the representative’s function as a mediator is quite interesting. From my previous experiences I knew the existence of synchronized audio recording system using a pilot tone (NAGRA), and RAI needed to have that kind of system. I convinced Studer to produce such recorders to provide them to RAI. Later on, RAI gave me the job of building a truck equipped for audio recording outdoors. The project had been developed by RAI technicians, and I was providing equipment and following the preparation. It was the occasion for me to introduce my design for the air conditioning diffusion, distributed by large surfaces in such a way that one couldn’t detect from where the air was coming, or the noise.

Air conditioning was my specialty: everywhere clients complained of the cold air blowing on their backs, or the lack of cold air. My system for recording studios consisted of using large surfaces with small holes, or long vents, in such a way that the air was moving at a low speed, but the change of air was fast and complete. Even the smoke —people used to smoke in the studios— immediately disappeared. I was also paying a lot of attention to the noise sent through the air conduits.

 

UK

May 17, 1973. Another return, another accident: the attack in front of the police headquarters Fatebenefratelli, organized by Gianfranco Bertoli. Four people passing by were killed, and forty five wounded.

London, the gray and foggy city. Absolutely not. I went there many times: the air was always clear and windy, in the winter the climate is often mild. The London I saw was lively and colored, music overflowing from houses and stores, maybe on the wave of the Beatles success sales grew, or maybe the Beatles were a great opportunity to export an impressive professional audio production.
Beatles, cockroaches, is there a relationship to carpets? Carpets everywhere, with cockroaches underneath? The empire has left its marks: big marvelous parks with benches that are not flimsy, consistently made with cast iron; marble palaces and red brick houses around a little square with a garden that becomes a small park.

A festive Heathrow. Meadows and hills by the freeway spread with people in groups, isolated, laying on the grass as if participating in a gigantic picnic organized by a national treasure hunt, waiting for a historic event:  the inaugural flight of the Concorde!

They were better off, the English people, under the benevolent eye of the Queen, yes the Queen, “the better sold product”, my client used to say, a perfect gentleman. Although he had a  slight limp, his style was impeccable. Perfect connoisseur of high society, he knew all the most “in” places to bring his guests. He never told me he could speak Italian until one day, suddenly, in perfect Italian he asked me how sales were going. What own earth? We were only beginning. Later I earned a champagne party and a gold record. At the toast, he lifted his goblet exclaiming: “the Queen!!!!” Perbacco, he really believed it.

November 2, 1975. I arrive to Rome for a fair of my equipment: they had murdered Pier Paolo Pasolini!

 

ALTRE SFIDE, FRAMMENTI DI MEMORIA

di ALBERTO ALBERTINI

Anni 70. Quei tempi erano ricchi di episodi di violenza in casa nostra e io, viaggiando molto, non avevo difficoltà a trovare coincidenze con alcuni di questi episodi. Naturalmente si ricordano le coincidenze e non tutti gli altri viaggi andati lisci.

Philips era veramente un serbatoio di tecnologia, fabbricava, vendeva studiava, non a caso il CD nasce dalla collaborazione Philips-Sony. Prima però il grande successo commerciale di PHILIPS è stata la cassetta a nastro magnetico. Nata come piccolo registratore portatile a batteria, la minuscola cassetta Philips era riuscita ad entrare nel circuito dell’alta fedeltà con costruttori che avevano prodotto registratori/lettori dalle qualità inaspettate.
I pionieri del commercio cassette avevano cominciato a copiare nastri su batterie di registratori consumer e a velocità reale, poi vista la richiesta, qualcuno cominciò a produrre macchine per la duplicazione ad alta velocità, in breve la casetta divenne più popolare del 45 giri. Nell’ambito di questo mercato sorsero produttori di cassette registrate un po’ ovunque con produzioni legittime e anche non.
Ebbi un cliente che con le “sue” produzioni aveva guadagnato a sufficienza per pensare di fare uno studio di registrazione per completare il ciclo produttivo: dal cantante alla cassetta finita. Questo cliente era totalmente incompetente in materia, e non solo quella specifica, cosicché spiegargli i pregi delle mie macchine pareva impresa non solo impossibile ma anche inutile, eppure il mio concorrente, fornitore delle macchine di duplicazione e che per questo si trovava avvantaggiato, aveva una pazienza sconfinata nell’inserire i dati in quel cervello! La mia tattica era: se resiste lui, io non posso essere da meno ed ho avuto anch’io tanta pazienza, tanta che un giorno l’ho portai a Londra in uno studio favoloso per vedere una console come si deve e questa fu la mossa vincente. Sempre una sfida!
A studio completato, mi trovavo in vacanza al mare sotto l’ombrellone a leggere il giornale. Nelle pagine interne vidi la foto di una persona che mi sembrava familiare, ma si, certo! Era lui! Il mio cliente, solo che la sua presenza sul giornale certificava le sua assenza nel nostro mondo: era stato ucciso con un colpo di pistola! Indiscrezioni non confermate mi dissero che non era stata una storia di gelosia ma di un mancato rimborso spese del marito all’amante della moglie per fine rapporto! Mah.

14 marzo 1972, al ritorno da Monaco di Baviera la notizia del ritrovamento di un cadavere sotto un traliccio: era Giangiacomo Feltrinelli! ( l’avevo conosciuto nel 69 in TTC! )

Il capo esiste ma non si vede, si concede solo in qualche rara occasione, non perché non ne abbia il tempo ma perché il ruolo lo richiede, così era il fondatore della Fonoroma, così era il creatore della Studer, Willy Studer. Non credo che Studer fosse così ligio al ruolo, mi sembrava un uomo schivo, forse un po’ timido, certamente poco espansivo, probabilmente consapevole di aver creato la più grande e perfetta fabbrica di registratori audio a nastro magnetico.
Aveva due linee di produzione: REVOX semiprofessionale per amatori e A80 professionale per studi di registrazione. In poche parole, la costruzione era “SVIZZERA”. La fabbrica che ho ripetutamente visitato era un modello: i laboratori dei tecnici progettisti erano colmi di strumentazione, le macchine per la produzione automatiche di precisione.
Pausa caffè alle dieci, mensa e giardinetti. Loro, gli svizzeri, avevano la zona industriale separata da quella abitativa…poi avevano le macchine per scrivere che registravano su nastro magnetico, si facevano le correzioni e solo a controllo finale si stampava in una o più copie.
La benzina era self service e si pagava col bancomat. Era il 1970! Questo perché mancavano le persone, quelle che c’erano erano in produzione, tutti producevano, non potevano permettersi uscieri portieri, gente improduttiva. Anche gli italiani producevano e per imparare la lingua, c’era una lavagnetta sulla quale veniva scritta una frase da imparare ogni giorno.

Il 5 settembre 1972, alle 4 del mattino, otto membri di Settembre nero, un movimento affiliato all’Organizzazione per la Liberazione della Palestina di Yasser Arafat, entrarono senza troppe difficoltà nel villaggio olimpico, aiutati a scavalcare la recinzione da un gruppo di atleti che avevano bevuto e non si resero conto di quello che stavano facendo. Da dove ero tornato? Non ricordo, mi pare in vagone letto proprio da Monaco!

La RAI è stata oggetto di un lungo rapporto a tutti i livelli tecnici perché necessitava delle apparecchiature audio per i programmi da trasmettere. Ho introdotto per la prima volta i registratori Studer e quello che può essere interessante è la funzione mediatrice del rappresentante. Dalle mie precedenti esperienze, avevo la conoscenza di un sistema di registrazione sincronizzata a mezzo frequenza rete ( NAGRA ) e la RAI televisione aveva bisogno di un sistema simile. Riuscii a far produrre a Studer, registratori con questa possibilità e fornire quindi la RAI TV. Più avanti, la RAI mi affidò l’appalto per la costruzione di un autocarro attrezzato per le riprese audio esterne. Il progetto era stato sviluppato dai tecnici RAI ed io fornivo le apparecchiature e seguivo i lavori di allestimento. In quell’occasione introdussi i miei criteri di diffusione aria condizionata, distribuita da ampie superfici in modo che non se ne rilevasse la provenienza e nemmeno il rumore.

L’aria condizionata era una mia specialità. Ovunque i clienti lamentavano il classico fastidio dell’aria condizionata che, arrivava gelida nella schiena, o non si avvertiva affatto. Il mio sistema, nella progettazione degli studi di registrazione consisteva nell’utilizzare ampie superfici con piccoli fori, o fessure lunghe, in modo che la velocità dell’aria fosse bassa ma il ricambio rapido e completo, anche il fumo, allora si fumava negli studi, scompariva immediatamente. Grande attenzione per la trasmissione dei rumori attraverso i condotti dell’aria.

17 maggio 1973. Altro ritorno, altro accidente: l’attentato davanti alla questura Fatebenefratelli da parte di Gianfranco Bertoli. Morti 4 passanti e feriti altri 45.

Londra, la grigia e nebbiosa. Assolutamente no. Ci sono stato innumerevoli volte: sempre limpido e un po’ ventoso, spesso d’inverno il clima è mite. Londra mi era apparsa vivace, colorata, le case, i negozi che traboccavano musica, forse sull’onda del successo dei Beatles vendevano tutto ma soprattutto, forse, i Beatles sono stati l’opportunità per una imponente produzione di audio professionale da esportare.
Beatles, scarafaggi, forse c’è una relazione con le moquettes, ovunque moquettes, non ci si accamperanno sotto gli scarafaggi? l’impero aveva lasciato le sue tracce. Meravigliosi grandi parchi con panchine costruite senza economia fatte di consistenti fusioni di ghisa, palazzi marmorei e caseggiati di rossi mattoni, a quadrilatero in modo di farci stare un giardino che è un piccolo parco.

Heatrow in festa. I prati, i dossi che fiancheggiavano l’autostrada, cosparsi di gente, a gruppi, isolati, accomodati sull’erba come partecipanti ad un gigantesco picnic organizzato da una caccia al tesoro nazionale o in attesa di un evento messianico imminente: attendevano il decollo inaugurale del CONCORD!

Come stavano bene, gli inglesi, sotto l’occhio benevolo dalle regina, si la regina, il prodotto più venduto, diceva il mio rappresentato, perfetto gentleman. Zoppicava un pochino ma riusciva a contenersi in uno stile impeccabile, perfetto conoscitore dell’alta società sapeva tutti i posti più “in” dove portare i suoi ospiti e non mi aveva mai detto di conoscere l’italiano finché un giorno, improvvisamente, in perfetto italiano mi chiese conto dell’andamento delle vendite. Diamine eravamo solo agli inizi. In seguito mi sono meritato un party a champagne e un disco d’oro, al brindisi levò il calice esclamando: “the queen!!!!” Perbacco, come ci crede!

2 novembre 1975, arrivo a Roma per una fiera di settore: avevano assassinato Pier Paolo Pasolini!

 

Laurel Doody : DEJEUNER SUR L’HERBE

Déjeuner sur l’herbe – Garden Lunch  
February 28, 2016

Los Angeles, 3632 Grand View Boulevard, LA 90066

Lucie Fontaine’s employees hosted the thanksgiving lunch of Laurel Doody, Fiona Connor’s non-profit art space that has been active in Los Angeles for about a year. March 2015-March 2016.

 

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FIONA CONNOR, plates   Photos: Fredrik Nilsen

The gallery was also Fiona Connor’s small apartment. Often she moved her bed downstair during the day and brought it back for the night. The exhibition space was rigourously empty. The table for the ritual dinner at each exhibition was improvised and built at the moment. Laurel Doody was not only a whimsical initiative of a single person. Values were at stake. Exhibition by exhibition, it became an offering to the art makers, and their friends. By choice, not a commercial experience. Cooking and eating were parts of the ritual. A little like the Maori who offer hot soup to the stars, sitting on the seashore. Curators, writers, gallerists, designers, photographers, filmakers, performers were part of the collaborative group.

Many people in Los Angeles can say they were there, In Laurel Doody’s space, experiencing sincerity, honesty, passion for art and joyful time. Fiona Connor is an artist who likes displacements of objects and of their common meanings. She brought from her apartment to the Garden Lunch materials for the table: a small cupboard and two doors. The table setting was displayed on the doors. The artist set the table with ceramic plates made by her and with old white and blue Ginori 1900.

 

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Photos: Peter Kirby

As Claude Lévi-Strauss  would say, “The same mind which has abandoned itself to the experience becomes the theater of mental operations which, without suppressing the experience, nevertheless transform it into a model to release further mental operations. In the last analysis, the logical coherence of these mental operations is based on the sincerity and honesty of the person who can say, like the explorer bird of the fable, ‘I was there; such and such happened to me; you will believe were you there yourself,’ and who in fact succeeds in communicating that conviction.”

Fiona’s plates are made by pressing clay on architectural surfaces and the ground, then peeling them off and letting them dry over moulds. They were fired at Laurel Doody. At the end of the garden lunch, the friends of the project received their plate as a present.

EDGAR PISANI: REBEL and MASTER

EDGAR PISANI: REBEL and MASTER in the art of politics

        C’est beau la politique! There is beauty in politics!

  in memoriam                by Rosanna Albertini

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Photograph by Peter Kirby

Twelve years ago. The old man has flown back to France. Los Angeles was the Pacific edge of his life, one more seashore after his native dunes in Tunis and after the Atlantic, flinging its rage against Normandie and Bretagne. I still see his silhouette on the sidewalk, his legs walking steady and brisk. Arms and shoulders don’t move, a walking statue. Even the long sleeves of his shirt look dignified. I don’t know if history or simply age, made him exiled from decades of active political life, among other things serving France as a minister for two presidents, Charles De Gaulle and Francois Mitterand. He knows what he was and still is: first of all, “serviteur de l’Etat.” The two leaders, in his words, became political artists (plasticiens): De Gaulle like a Rodin “travaillant le marbre a grand coups de ciseaux,” working the marble with strong strikes of chisel, and Mitterrand “caressant indéfiniment la glaise,” endlessely fondling the clay.*

His eyes barely contain the urging of thoughts and the pressure of projects he needs to achieve before his feet are pointed to the sky, I hope without socks. So far his eighty seven years move on his feet back and forth through a Los Angeles sculpture garden, populated by a number of bronzes by Auguste Rodin and some by Bourdelle. There he feels at home. Not so much among contemporary geometries or textures emptied of figures, or Mel Bochner’s interrupted lines: language is not transparent. Far from me the idea of guiding his mind through LACMA’s meanders, we both know too well that art and politics can speak only to unpredictable motions of a personal sensitivity. He connects instantly to Gerhard Richter’s abstractions, though: a tormented embrace of greens and reds, as if the canvas had absorbed an informal density, completely earthly. The viewer could wonder whether the sky had ever existed, not to mention the humans.

Outside, in the garden, a full size bronze emerges from the bushes, the legs are hidden. Look at that figure, “It’s enough to look at,” says the old man, “this is solitude.” My eyes follow his feeling. Yes, life is heavy on that man’s sculpted shoulders, it is a dress he/we wear every day, it gets heavier and heavier, and yet the person is the core, the kernel of the story: instead of being put down, the person keeps light, and resilient. I turn myself, staring at the face of the old man: the statue is his mirror, that’s him. “Poor Bourdelle!” — he says — “Il a la même énergie, pas le même génie.” Rodin comes first.

The old man runs the clock backward repeating thoughts he does not want to forget, writing in the air the wisdom he has distilled from the vapors of power. Democracy, he truly cares about it. Food for everybody, he cares even more. We walk for almost an hour and he doesn’t look tired. If I suggest to take the bus, “Don’t treat me like an old,” he replies promptly, dropping a smile into his throat. He likes to talk sitting on the benches by the ocean.

What are you doing here?” he asks me for no reason. “I keep myself Italian, and partially French: here everything I’ve learned makes more sense.” As a matter of fact, in a couple of months the old man has turned on in me strings I had kept silent during a decade spent adapting to American life, trying to. Observing his struggle to keep his life active and interesting, for the first time I look at my own aging, still an odd thing, hard to believe that everything will stop, and one day, a day that I will not be able to see, I will not be here or there, where?

So far, my heart is pumping well: it sends me to see friends and grandchildren, other people older than I, animated by a ridiculous energy like a sonata by Ludwig Van Beethoven. I wear a red shirt from my husband’s collection and look at myself in the mirror: It fits me well, I burst out laughing! although they had told me when I was eleven or twelve that red was not a good color for my complexion. I suspect they had in mind the untold idea that red is too appealing, maybe suggests illicit sex, but then, what about Santa Claus? I was five when I learned that Garibaldi’s shirt was red. Garibaldi Giuseppe, of course, like most of my family members bearing the same name, on his feet in an oval frame. This was the way children learned history: Romolo and Remo, Nero, Napoleon, Garibaldi, pictures of famous humans in an oval frame.

We were sure they were truly dead like all the people looking at us from the gravestones in pictures with the same kind of oval. Mysterious that the twins were represented as babies nursed by a mother wolf, as if they had never grown up. A short sentence about each of them…. done, we knew that ancestors had prepared the life we are in. Garibaldi was l’eroe dei due mondi, the two worlds hero: meaning Europe and South America, or the deeply parted Northern and Southern Italy. The red shirts invaded Sicily. They killed, robbed, raped, only one hundred and fifty years ago. Why should Sicilians feel proud of being Italians. Of course they don’t. I wish I could grow my legs in a Munchausenian fanfaronnade and put one foot in Naples, and the other in Los Angeles, which is as far from being a truly American city as Naples from being an Italian one. Displacement is my favorite habit. Will I be a displaced ghost in the afterlife? I wonder. Will I stop dreaming?

 

A NOTE on POLITICS, by Edgar Pisani

Politics is the refusal to be resigned to fate and fatalism, but also brings a wish to fight, build, and negotiate. A luxury for the affluent, politics is a necessity for everybody else. Giving rise to free examination, politics gives meaning to what appears to be inevitable.” (Translation R.A.)

As it is human, politics does not only obey laws of ‘reasoning reason” and it is not only subject to the rhythm of the moments. It sanctions the importance of a “sentient reason,” and of duration. It is based on a philosophy of the world and the species, it tries to be prophetic by bridging the present that is known and the future that is negotiable; it is a poetics, for it sings the human adventure out of dramas and catastrophes; it is an ethics, for it identifies the rules that make it possible and good to live together; it is a pedagogy, for it help us to read and understand; it teaches us curiosity and method; it also teaches us responsibility. Politics is an ethics, for it teaches mutual respect and encourages learning. It helps us to understand that liberty can only exist if linked to responsibility. It is wisdom and courage for, when it has to confront forces and passions, it does not claim to stop them through decisions, but to tame them by mediation.

Edgar Pisani, A Personal View of the World, Utopia as Method, New York, Ottawa, Toronto, LEGAS, 2005 Translated and edited by Paul Perron
*This quotes were reported in Patrick Roger, Mort d’Edgar Pisani, résistant et ancient ministre de De Gaulle et de Mitterrand. LE MONDE 21.06.2016