Duelo Alex / Le Pen

Àlex: El seu partit canvia i vostè també. El Le Pen que parlava de l'Holocaust com "un detall de la història" i que va afirmar que l'ocupació alemanya "no va ser particularment inhumana" forma part del passat?

Le Pen: Dir-ho em va costar 150 milions de francs, o sigui que ja no en parlo més. És un tabú a la societat francesa i, pel que es veu, hi ha certs temes que no són compatibles amb la llibertat de pensament. Com que el meu patrimoni no té dimensions indefinides, m'he prohibit prendre posicions sobre aquests temes.

Hashem al Madani

No es que la exposición del Caixafòrum sea brillante...

Pero un pequeño detalle sobre una fotografía:

Una mujer acude al estudio de Al Madani en Sidón (sur del Líbano) para hacerse un par de retratos sin que su marido, extremadamente celoso, lo sepa. Al poco, aparece el marido en el estudio de Al Madani y le obliga a rayar los negativos.

Años más tarde, la mujer decide quemarse viva harta de soportar a su opresivo marido...

Entonces el marido, apenado, vuelve al estudio de Al Madani para que recupere las fotos de su esposa muerta.

+ sobre la belleza

[escena de bronca entre Kiki y Howard]

"I don't feel I even know you any more... it's like after 9/11 when you sent that ridicolous e-mail round to everybody about Baudry, Bodra-"
"Baudrillard. He's a philosopher. His name is Baudrillard."
"About simulated wars or whatever the fuck that was... And I was thinking: What is wrong of that man? I was ashamed of you. I dind't say anything, but I was. Howard", she said, reaching out to him but not far enough to touch. "This is real. This is life."


(pd. La foto es de Baudrillard)

La lección de anatomía de Zadie

Here they all were, Howard's imaginary class. Howard indulged in a quick visual catalogue of their interesting bits, knowing that this would very likely be the last time he saw them. The punk boy with black-painted fingernails, the Indian girl with the disproportionate eyes of a Disney character, another girl who looked no older than fourteem with a railroad on her teeth. And then, spred accross the room: big nose, small ears, obese, on crutches, hair red as rust, wheelchair, six foot five, short skirt, pointy breasts, iPod still on, anorexic with that light downy hair on her cheeks, bow-tie, another bow-tie, football hero, white boy with dreads, long finger-nails like a New Yersey housewife, already losing her hair, striped tights - there were so many of them that Smith couldn't close the door without squashing somebody. So they had come, and they had heard. Howard had pitched his tent and made his case. He had offered them a Rembrandt who was neither a rule breaker nor an original but rather a conformist; he had asked them to ask themself what they mean by "genius" and, in the perplexed silence, replaced the familiar rebel master of historical fame with Howard's own vision of a merely competent artisan who painted whatever his wealthy patrons requested. Howard asked his students to imagine prettiness as the mask that power wears. To recast Aesthetics as a rarefied language of exclusion. He promised them a class that would challenge their own beliefs about the redemptive humanity of what is commonly called "art". "Art is the Western myth", announced Howard, for the sixth year in a row, "with which we both console ourselves and make ourselves". Everybody wrote that down.