El tema central de este Blog es LA FILOSOFÍA DE LA CABAÑA y/o EL REGRESO A LA NATURALEZA o sobre la construcción de un "paradiso perduto" y encontrar un lugar en él. La experiencia de la quietud silenciosa en la contemplación y la conexión entre el corazón y la tierra. La cabaña como objeto y método de pensamiento. Una cabaña para aprender a vivir de nuevo, y como ejemplo de que otras maneras de vivir son posibles sobre la tierra.

sábado, 14 de julio de 2012

Sueños de cabaña en Eric Pauwels


« Les Films rêvés, c’est l’histoire d’un homme qui se retire dans la cabane au fond de son jardin. De là, il reçoit des images d’un ami parti en mer, regarde des cartes, reçoit son voisin… Au gré des saisons, il s’abandonne aux voyages, ces voyages que l’on fait autour d’une chambre, en compagnie de souvenirs et d’objets amis. Et surtout, il rêve. Il rêve qu’il fait un film qui contiendrait tous les films qu’il a rêvés de faire. Et tous les voyages. Et chacun de ses rêves est un film, un film rêvé. Évidemment, cette cabane bleue au fond d’un jardin renvoie à un imaginaire enfantin, aux récits que l’on porte depuis le plus jeune âge. Le film est ainsi un va-et-vient entre l’imaginaire du cinéaste et celui du spectateur, entre l’ici et l’ailleurs. Et comme Eric Pauwels situe son cinéma comme un art de la rencontre, l’invitation à prendre place dans le film devient une invitation à prendre place dans le monde. » (Ermeline Le Mezo, Autour de la Terre, 2011)





Eric Pauwels. 180'- Belgique

- Prod: Eric Pauwels (2009)
=======================================

S'il est certain que jamais un coup de dé n'abolira le hasard, il est tout aussi sûr qu'un coup de dé suffit à abolir le réel. Du Mahâbhârata à La Passante de Baudelaire, de Jean Rouch à Edward Curtis, de Christophe Colomb à Magellan, des lueurs de Cuba à la Terre de Feu, des Tahitiennes de Gauguin à la statuaire de l'île de Pâques, de l'Histoire des Indes de Las Casas aux voyages inventés de toute pièce, des baisers volés de Cléopâtre à la Sirène de Copenhague, de l'Odyssée aux chants des peuples du monde catapultés au-delà de la galaxie par la sonde Voyager, Les Films rêvés n'est en aucune façon un inventaire nostalgique des films à faire, ni même un catalogue d'histoires plus captivantes les unes que les autres, mais l'interrogation persistante d'une instance unique à la fois composante essentielle de la personnalité, sans laquelle le regard est aveugle, condition du développement de l'humanité et source de toute création artistique : le rêve -- et son corollaire : le paradis. Pas de voyage autour du monde sans son double préalable dans le songe. L'imaginaire seul crée la vie -- quand il ne la sauve pas. Extraits de films précédents de l'auteur, images empruntées, fragments de fictions et clins d'oeil à Hollywood, on voyage beaucoup dans Les Films rêvés, mais ce sont des voyages en trompe-l'oeil. Tout ici se concocte au fond d'un jardin, dans une cabane bleue, à partir de fiches, de brèves de journaux, de cauris, de lettres conservées au fond d'une boîte à cigares, de photos apposées au mur, de reproductions de peintures, de cartes du rêve, de fossiles -- magique Blue Mary. (Yann Lardeau)

============================================

In the work of the filmmaker, author and director Eric Pauwels (1953), cinema and life are inseparably intertwined. His documentaries, sometimes called 'half-films', take on the role of memory, weaving fiction with ethnography and questioning the spectator's impressions of the subject. Les films rêvés is a poetic exploration of the land of dreams, of voyages into the unknown, whose destination is paradise, the lost garden of Eden. Constantly returning to the small blue shed in his garden, Eric Pauwels traces stories and journeys from history, from myth, from his childhood. Footage from the artist's previous films is combined with borrowed images from other films and other sources, with a soundtrack sampling music from cultures across the globe, from Bollywood to bagpipes and from Polynesia to Patagonia. This work meanders through stories of all kinds, drawing everything together into the idea that to live is to dream.





http://addoc.net/docs-en-partage/rencontre-avec-eric-pauwels-cineaste-et-ecrivain/



jueves, 12 de julio de 2012

‘Romance del molino que no muele’

Ruinas de un molino de agua

‘Romance del molino que no muele’
Gabriel Baldrich (1915 – 1998)

Allí, en la orilla del río,
Mirando a la avanzadilla,
Con tres cárcavos umbríos
Torrando su barriga;
Mirando a Sierra Nevada,
Que es una sábana limpia;
Entre juncos y entre adelfas
Que sus muros acarician,
Triste, solo, abandonado,
Hay un molino sin vida.
Que lo “pararon las balas”,
Me dijo una campesina.
Pero hay algo que habla más,
Algo que el alma domina:
Las ruedas hechas pedazos
Por la metralla enemiga,
Los hierros de sus ventanas
Y sus rejas retorcidas,
Los paredones abiertos
Y su portón hecho astillas.
Y ese silencio redondo
Que en el granero dormita
Y que se asoma temblando
Entre el hollín de las vigas.
¿Dónde estará el molinero?
¿Dónde fue a llorar sus cuitas?
El molino ya no muele
Y el trigo no da su harina.
Por los cárcavos umbríos
El agua corre tranquila.
Las cucarachas del rodezno
No sienten golpes ni heridas.
El polvo cubre la tolva,
La gruesa piedra no gira.
El agua, por el suelillo,
Salta con dolor, perdida.
Entre juncos y adelfas,
Al pie de un monte de divas,
El molino abandonado
Llora sobre sus ruinas.
Que “lo pararon las balas”,
Me dijo una campesina,
Allí, en la orilla del río,
Mirando a la avanzadilla.


Cartas sin respuesta posible (Alfar, 1992), fue escrito en 1937

LANTEIRA (Granada, Spain) Ruinas de un molino - Ojo ciego



http://secretolivo.com/2011/11/15/gabriel-baldrich-la-lucha-por-la-libertad-y-la-pasion-por-las-letras/

La cabane du Highlander





Charles-Augustin SAINTE-BEUVE (1804-1869)


La cabane du Highlander


Elle est bâtie en terre, et la sauvage fleur 
Orne un faite croulant ; toiture mal fermée, 
Il en sort, le matin, une lente fumée, 
(Voyez) belle au soleil, blanche et torse en vapeur !

Le clair ruisseau des monts coule auprès ; n'ayez peur 
D'approcher comme lui ; quand l'âme est bien formée, 
On est humble, on se sait, pauvre race, semée 
Aux rocs, aux durs sentiers, partout où vit un cœur !

Sous ce toit affaissé de terre et de verdure, 
Par ce chemin rampant jusqu'à la porte obscure, 
Venez ; plus naturel, le pauvre a ses trésors :

Un cœur doux, patient, bénissant sur sa route, 
Qui, s'il supportait moins, bénirait moins sans doute... 
Ne restez plus ainsi, ne restez pas dehors !




http://www.academie-francaise.fr/immortels/base/academiciens/fiche.asp?param=385


miércoles, 11 de julio de 2012

La cabaña del té





Chambre du thé from Summitata on Vimeo.


2001: des artisans venus du Japon se rendent à Paris pour ériger un pavillon de thé, "cabane végétale" dans un jardin du musée Guimet. Une architecture pensée pour rapprocher les hommes et la nature, apaiser et nourrir le coeur le temps d'un thé. L'architecte Masao Nakamura nous accompagne dans ces quelques images filmées lors de la construction. 
13th Festival du Docu de Hot Springs (2004 USA), 1er Globians Festival (2005 GER), Auditorium de Musée Guimet (2005)



lunes, 9 de julio de 2012

El vuelo imaginario de Paul Landacre desde su cabaña


Paul Landacre (1893-1963)





Paul Hambleton Landacre (9 July 1893, Columbus, Ohio - 3 June 1963, Los Angeles, California) was one of the outstanding printmakers of the modern era. His distinguished body of work was largely responsible for elevating the wood engraving to an art form in twentieth-century America. Landacre's linocuts and wood engravings of landscapes, still lifes, nudes, and abstractions are celebrated for their technical virtuosity and mastery of design.

Biography

Paul Landacre's indomitable spirit figures prominently in his storied career as an award-winning wood engraver. His early promise as a track and field athlete at Ohio State University was clipped by a debilitating polio-like illness, spurring him to leave Ohio in 1917 for the more healthful climate of San Diego. He soon resettled in Los Angeles where his diligence and good fortune recast his professional prospects as a budding commercial draftsman. In 1925, Margaret McCreery, an advertising copywriter he met a few years earlier, became his lifelong companion and wife, fully complicit in the brilliant realization of his artistic prowess.



Although he took some life-drawing classes at the Otis Art Institute between 1923 and 1925, Landacre largely taught himself the art of printmaking. He experimented with the technically demanding art of carving linoleum blocks and, eventually, woodblocks for both wood engravings and woodcuts. His fascination with printmaking and his ambition to make a place for himself in the world of fine art coalesced in the late 1920s when he met Jake Zeitlin. Zeitlin's antiquarian bookshop in Los Angeles (a cultural hub that survived into the 1980s) included a small gallery space for the showing of artworks, primarily prints and drawings, and it is there in 1930 that Landacre was given his first significant solo exhibition. Zeitlin's ever-widening circle of artists came to include Edward Weston, a photographer who shared the modernist vision that so captivated Landacre. Well-connected to the New York art scene, Zeitlin associated himself with the circle of artists represented by Carl Zigrosser, director of the Weyhe Gallery in Manhattan and, later, curator of prints at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. By 1936 Zigrosser considered Landacre to be "one of the few graphic artists worth watching" in America, and included him among his portraits of 24 contemporary American printmakers in his seminal work, "The Artist in America" (Knopf 1942). Elected a member of the National Academy in 1946, Landacre was honored in 1947 with a solo exhibition of his wood engravings at the Smithsonian Museum, its graphic arts division under the curatorial leadership of Jacob Kainen.


Of national and local appeal, many of Landacre's linoleum cuts and wood engravings were inspired by the American Far West, including the hills and mountains of Big Sur, Palm Springs, Monterey, and Berkeley. "California Hills and Other Wood Engravings by Paul Landacre" (Los Angeles: Bruce McCallister, 1931), a limited-edition folio comprising 15 of Landacre's early works printed from the original blocks, was awarded recognition as one of the "Fifty Books of the Year" for 1931. In rapid succession, three more books illustrated with his wood engravings also garnered such recognition: "The Boar and the Shibboleth" (1933), "A Gil Blas in California" (1933), and "XV Poems for the Heath Broom" (1934). In the 1950s, when the AIGA recognized "A Natural History of Western Trees" (1953) and "Books West Southwest, Essays on Writers, Their Books and Their Land" (1957) as "Fifty Books of the Year", they became the fifth and sixth books Landacre illustrated to win the prestigious award. For "Trees" Landacre contributed more than 200 ink drawings on scratchboard, a multi-year devotion to arboreal beauty.

As his artistry evolved, Landacre developed a singular style lauded for its formal beauty—meticulously carved fine lines, delicate cross hatching, and flecking—elements in white which strikingly contrast with richly blackened areas. He used the finest inks and Japanese papers and, with few exceptions, printed his wood engravings on a Washington hand press—now in the collection of the International Printing Museum in Carson, California. His prints, including the early linocuts, gained early and lasting critical recognition, were awarded numerous prizes, and can be found in more than a hundred and fifty public collections throughout the United States.[1]

In March 1932, the artist and his wife moved to a rustic house in the Echo Park neighborhood, also known as Edendale, near downtown Los Angeles, where they lived for the remainder of their lives. Landacre died in 1963 soon after—and emotionally resulting from—the death of his wife who had been an essential working companion for 38 years, even helping the artist late in his life pull impressions from the formidable Washington hand press. In March 2006, with the growing appreciation of Landacre's artistic significance, their hillside home was declared a City of Los Angeles landmark (Historic Cultural Monument No. 839).
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Landacre)


Paul Landacre

Sultry Day 
Lot Cleaning 
Paul Landacre was the preeminent American wood-cut print artist of the 20th Century. Landacre's work reflected not only the character of the California landscape, but particularly in the 1930s; the character of his own Echo Park neighborhood. His style was clearly influenced by the natural beauty and dramatic quality of light in his own neighborhood. In fact, the neighborhood was often the subject of his work.
Right: Lot Cleaning, 1935, Landacre comments on the City's practice of setting fire to the hillsides for brush clearance. Landacre wrote numerous letters to the local newspapers, presented a petition to City Council and created the prize winning print in protest of the City's policy.
Below: Sultry Day, 1937 depicts wife and cat at his beloved home with the intersection of Modjeska Ave. and Peru St. in the background.
Landacre worked out of his home on El Moran Ave. in the Semi-Tropic Spiritualists' Tract for more than 30 years, until his death in 1963. Landacre's cabin, the grounds around his cabin and the hillside of the tract retain the same rural character that existed when Landacre created his unique works of art. It's a place where the natural beauty and quality of light still inspire artists today.



Paul Landacre Cabin, 2006 El Moran Street, Sept 5, 2005 (photo by Charles J. Fisher)



Paul Landacre Cabin, Los Angeles Historic Cultural Monument #839
Declared March 17, 2006

This house was constructed in the heavily wooded Semi-Tropical Spiritualist Tract in 1909 as a small mountain cabin in the country. The house was purchased in 1932 by modernist landscape artist and woodcarver, Paul Landacre, and his wife, Margaret. It was in this wooded enclave, surrounded by California Live Oaks and other native vegetation, that Landacre produced most of his best work. Using the medium of wood blocks to produce his highly acclaimed black and white prints, Landacre's work is considered the best of his era, as he was acclaimed as the undisputed master of the wood block technique. His many patrons included Mrs. E. L. Doheny and Mrs. Samuel Goldwin. Landacre's work is exhibited at many prominent art museums including the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. 


22 - El Moran - Paul Landacre's House - HCM-839 (E)



Photo: Andrew Sears

(...) Paul Landacre wrote about his life in the Echo Park hills in 1958, not so different from those who live in the Semi-Tropic Spiritualists' Tract today;
"You see, art is practiced here along with various other concerns -pruning trees, repairing the roof, watching and feeding wildlife and so on. Of course, other artists live on wooded hillsides, too, and so do other people, and it must be conceded that to some of us this kind of environment is not only valuable, but absolutely necessary - a degree of seclusion, the life of growing things, awareness that we are a part of nature."



Photo: Andrew Sears

Landacre carved a petrel, his signature bird into the roof vents on each side of his house. He used the petrel as his trademark on his work, often in place of his signature.
Landacre struggled with physical disabilities most of his life. He identified with the petrel since they learn to fly by jumping off a cliff; falling into the raging sea; hurling themselves off the peaks of waves until they learn to fly. They crash into the rocks and waves, beat up, but they learn to fly.




(Paul Landacre escribió sobre su vida en las colinas de Echo Park en 1958, no tan distinta de los que viven hoy en Semi-Tropic Spiritualists' Tract;

"Ves, el arte se practica aquí junto con otras preocupaciones - podando árboles, reparando el tejado, mirando y alimentando la vida silvestre... para algunos de nosotros este tipo de medio ambiente no sólo es valioso, sino absolutamente necesario - un grado de aislamiento, la vida de las cosas y la creciente conciencia de que somos parte de la naturaleza."

Landacre había tallado un petrel, su pájaro de firma en las rejillas del techo en cada lado de su casa. Usó el petrel como su marca registrada para su trabajo, a menudo en lugar de su firma.
Landacre luchó con sus discapacidades físicas la mayor parte de su vida de su vida. Se identificaba con el petrel ya que éste aprende a volar saltando de un acantilado; cae al mar embravecido; choca contra las rocas y las olas pero aprende a volar.)


Paul Landacre Wood Engravings

"Rima" - Paul Landacre - Wood Engraving - 1933

"Rima" - Paul Landacre - Wood Engraving - 1933



"Siesta" - Paul Landacre - Wood Engraving ~1937?



"Anna" - Paul Landacre - Wood Engraving - 1937 




"Sultry Day" - Paul Landacre - Wood Engraving - 1935


"Shell" - Paul Landacre - Wood Engraving - 1935

"Shell" - Paul Landacre - Wood Engraving - 1935


"Campers" - Paul Landacre - Wood Engraving - 1940?

"Campers" - Paul Landacre - Wood Engraving - 1940?


Monterey Hills - Paul Landacre - Wood Engraving - 1931

Monterey Hills - Paul Landacre - Wood Engraving - 1931






http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Landacre
http://redcarproperty.blogspot.com.es/2008/10/semi-tropic-spiritualists-tract-cut-in.html
http://semitropicspiritualiststract.blogspot.com.es/2007/11/landacre-cabin-historic-landmark-839.html


Los escritores y la importancia del lugar para escribir



The Importance of Place: Where Writers Write and Why
THE LITERARY LIFE
March/April 2008
Other writers find busy public spaces more conducive to work. Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir had regular tables and hours at the Café Flore and later the Deux Magots, and knew they would be surrounded by people but not intruded upon. "It's a less lonely way to write," Russo said of writing in diners, in an interview on Barnes & Noble's Web site. "I'm less self-conscious when it's not so quiet.... I've always enjoyed writing in public spaces, because when the phone rings, it's not for you." Poet Catherine Barnett has a favorite booth at her local diner. "It's out of the way and protected. I like writing there because people take care of you." find busy public spaces more conducive to work. Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir had regular tables and hours at the Café Flore and later the Deux Magots, and knew they would be surrounded by people but not intruded upon. "It's a less lonely way to write," Russo said of writing in diners, in an interview on Barnes & Noble's Web site. "I'm less self-conscious when it's not so quiet.... I've always enjoyed writing in public spaces, because when the phone rings, it's not for you." Poet Catherine Barnett has a favorite booth at her local diner. "It's out of the way and protected. I like writing there because people take care of you."
I myself have found the lounge at the Mark Morris Dance Group in New York City, where my daughter takes a weekly class, a very productive space. There, amid the tiny girls in their ballet clothes and the dozing fathers, I am able to tune out the distractions and focus only on the work at hand.
Travel can provide another kind of transitional space. For some, the actual journey—the movement between places—inspires the writing. Poet Tom Sleigh likes to write on trains, which he describes as "meditative, calming, and interesting for the way the scenery keeps flashing by." In her contributor's note for "Mr. Sweetly Indecent," published in The Best American Short Stories 1998, Bliss Broyard wrote that her story "was written virtually in one sitting, while I was traveling from Ann Arbor, Michigan, to Boston." She noticed an unusual greeting between passengers and opened her notebook.
I worked on the story while I waited for my plane, for the entire three-hour flight, and then kept writing in the terminal in Boston until I'd finished.... When I come to think about how the story came to be, it is the circumstances under which it was written that loom largest in my mind. The anonymous, unanchored feeling of being in an airport terminal and flying high above the earth liberated me from some of my normal writing anxieties. I followed the story where it took me, without thinking ahead about plot, character development, or really any thematic concerns. In retrospect I see that some aspects of where the story was written found their way into it: eavesdropping and voyeurism, a sense of traveling between separate worlds, and the feeling I often have while flying of a temporary suspension of my belief in how things are supposed to work.
Others actually take trips in order to write along the way. Erskine Caldwell, author ofTobacco Road (Scribner's Sons, 1932), ran a bookstore in Maine with his wife, photojournalist Margaret Bourke-White; when he needed time to write, he would take a bus from "Boston to Cleveland maybe, and get off at night once in a while to write. I'd do a story that way in about a week's time. Then for a while, I took the night boats between Boston and New York. The Fall River Line, the New Bedford Line, the Cape Cod Line, all going to New York at night. The rhythm of the water might have helped my sentence structure a little; at least I thought it did."
Then there are those like Eudora Welty, who "found it possible to write almost anywhere I've happened to try." (Welty preferred home because it was "more convenient for an early riser.... And it's the only place where you can really promise yourself time and keep out interruptions.") Robert Frost claimed famously to "never write except with a writing board. I've never had a table in my life. And I use all sorts of things. Write on the sole of my shoe." For some, the transitional space is actually more external than internal; they thrive on outside contact. Allen Ginsberg could write poems anywhere, anytime. "He isn't the least bit self-conscious," Creeley said of Ginsberg. "In fact, he seems to be stimulated by people around him."
Being in the world as a writer, to paraphrase Creeley, takes many forms. For me, different stages of a project have always demanded different settings. In the beginning, when an idea is just emerging, I search for the right place to incubate what is coming. Where are the characters going to reveal themselves? Do I want to be alone, or with others? To work in quiet or with background noise? Near the end of my project, these questions will not matter; I will perch wherever I need to. I'll work on the edge of a bathtub, in the car, waiting for my daughter to brush her teeth. Like the moon, the momentum and sheer bulk of my novel will pull me to it. In the middle stages I want something different again. I want a place where work has to be done, a library or office. This long stage is about routine and discipline—it's nice to be surrounded by familiar things because they suggest my life as a writer.
I was in the middle of a novel when, several years ago, my husband, the sculptor Peter Soriano, won a grant to live and work in Alexander Calder's house in the tiny town of Saché, France. The house was enormous—a farmhouse on steroids, we called it—and severely underfurnished. I could not get comfortable in that cavernous house, could not find a spot secure enough to work. I was also a little homesick. My novel was about an island in Maine, a novel in which landscape, and the character's attachment to it, played a big role, and the irony of working on that while feeling distinctly unattached to this place in the beautiful French countryside was not lost on me. Finally I moved a table into a corner of the bedroom. And so, while Peter was out in the studio and our daughter at the village school, I made a boat out of that desk, a bridge that connected me to my own New England landscape, and to the imagined world I was creating. Meanwhile, in the days and weeks that followed, the French landscape outside and its lovely slow spring was seeping in, and in my novel the bright and forceful Maine summer was hurtling out, and there, on that simple pine table pushed up against the bare white wall, I found a way to contain it all.
A destabilizing element in an otherwise secure space may be helpful. Poet Andrew Motion sits at a glass-topped table. "Although the sight of my legs crossing and uncrossing can add to my nervousness when I'm working," he says, "I like the slightly vertiginous feeling it gives me—as if I were staring over the side of a boat." On the other hand, disturbances in the work space can affect the writing negatively. During a time when she was having problems writing, novelist Rachel Cline consulted a feng shui practitioner. When Cline described the pages of old manuscripts stacked up behind the chair in her work space, the practitioner said, "That's the problem—all those papers, one on top of another. Each one's like a little knife ready to stab you."
For some writers, establishing a transitional space means finding a way to be alone but not solitary. "The whole thing about writing is how to be able to withstand solitude," says Francine du Plessix Gray. For years she had a writing room across the courtyard from her husband Cleve Gray's studio, but after his death she found she needed new rituals to stave off the isolation. In warm weather the author now works outside at a weathered wooden table beside a small pool of water. In winter, she sits in the old part of her house, in the library by the fire, which she keeps burning all afternoon long. "The natural elements of fire and water are my best companions," she says. "There's something primal, archaic, shamanistic about being within sight of those elements."
"I always get up and make a cup of coffee while it is still dark—it must be dark—and then I drink the coffee and watch the light come," Toni Morrison told Elissa Schappell in a 1993 Paris Review interview. "And I realized for me this ritual comprises my preparation to enter a space I can only call nonsecular.... Writers all devise ways to approach that place where they expect to make the contact, where they become the conduit, or where they engage in this mysterious process. For me, light is the signal in the transition. It's not being in the light, it's being there before it arrives. It enables me, in some sense."
Many writers choose libraries, intermediate spaces that aren't totally isolated but are quiet, protected, and controlled. Herman Melville and Willa Cather wrote at the New York Society Library; Virginia Woolf, George Eliot, and George Bernard Shaw all worked in the famous Reading Room at the British Museum. Shaw described his ritual in his diary:
When I lay too late in the mornings (which is most often the case) I did not go to the museum until after dinner.... I made a stand against late rising by using an alarm clock and actually succeeded in getting up regularly at eight every morning until the end of the year, when the clock broke and I began immediately to relapse. I got a new clock, but did not quite regain my punctuality, which, by and by, made me so sleepy in the afternoon that I got into the habit of taking a nap in the Museum over my books.



Novelist Anne Landsman is a member of the Writers Room in New York City, a nonprofit organization that offers desk space to writers who prefer to work in a shared environment. "I work best in situations around other people who are creating," says Landsman, who's been a member since 1994. "Everyone's a writer. There's nothing aberrant or unusual or out of place. It says Writers Room on the door. It allows you to be what you are. I'd be happy if they provided work clothes with Writer on the back. I love the signing in, the routine. It gives you permission to take a deep breath, to realize that writing happens the way everything else happens. Writing makes me feel sufficiently vulnerable and it helps to be with other people. Another comforting thing is you see people having different kinds of days."
Preparing to work, deliberately and intentionally, can help build the bridge between inner and outer worlds, whether a writer leaves the house or not. Landsman says her preparations begin with reading on the train to the Writers Room. "By the time I'm at the Writers Room, have set up the desk, maybe made a phone call, or a cup of tea, I'm ready. You know how cats and dogs circle in their beds at night? It takes me between five and twenty minutes. Then I turn on the computer. It's like taking an elevator down; I've gone to that other place."
Other writers find busy public spaces more conducive to work. Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir had regular tables and hours at the Café Flore and later the Deux Magots, and knew they would be surrounded by people but not intruded upon. "It's a less lonely way to write," Russo said of writing in diners, in an interview on Barnes & Noble's Web site. "I'm less self-conscious when it's not so quiet.... I've always enjoyed writing in public spaces, because when the phone rings, it's not for you." Poet Catherine Barnett has a favorite booth at her local diner. "It's out of the way and protected. I like writing there because people take care of you."
I myself have found the lounge at the Mark Morris Dance Group in New York City, where my daughter takes a weekly class, a very productive space. There, amid the tiny girls in their ballet clothes and the dozing fathers, I am able to tune out the distractions and focus only on the work at hand.
Travel can provide another kind of transitional space. For some, the actual journey—the movement between places—inspires the writing. Poet Tom Sleigh likes to write on trains, which he describes as "meditative, calming, and interesting for the way the scenery keeps flashing by." In her contributor's note for "Mr. Sweetly Indecent," published in The Best American Short Stories 1998, Bliss Broyard wrote that her story "was written virtually in one sitting, while I was traveling from Ann Arbor, Michigan, to Boston." She noticed an unusual greeting between passengers and opened her notebook.
I worked on the story while I waited for my plane, for the entire three-hour flight, and then kept writing in the terminal in Boston until I'd finished.... When I come to think about how the story came to be, it is the circumstances under which it was written that loom largest in my mind. The anonymous, unanchored feeling of being in an airport terminal and flying high above the earth liberated me from some of my normal writing anxieties. I followed the story where it took me, without thinking ahead about plot, character development, or really any thematic concerns. In retrospect I see that some aspects of where the story was written found their way into it: eavesdropping and voyeurism, a sense of traveling between separate worlds, and the feeling I often have while flying of a temporary suspension of my belief in how things are supposed to work.


Others actually take trips in order to write along the way. Erskine Caldwell, author ofTobacco Road (Scribner's Sons, 1932), ran a bookstore in Maine with his wife, photojournalist Margaret Bourke-White; when he needed time to write, he would take a bus from "Boston to Cleveland maybe, and get off at night once in a while to write. I'd do a story that way in about a week's time. Then for a while, I took the night boats between Boston and New York. The Fall River Line, the New Bedford Line, the Cape Cod Line, all going to New York at night. The rhythm of the water might have helped my sentence structure a little; at least I thought it did."
Then there are those like Eudora Welty, who "found it possible to write almost anywhere I've happened to try." (Welty preferred home because it was "more convenient for an early riser.... And it's the only place where you can really promise yourself time and keep out interruptions.") Robert Frost claimed famously to "never write except with a writing board. I've never had a table in my life. And I use all sorts of things. Write on the sole of my shoe." For some, the transitional space is actually more external than internal; they thrive on outside contact. Allen Ginsberg could write poems anywhere, anytime. "He isn't the least bit self-conscious," Creeley said of Ginsberg. "In fact, he seems to be stimulated by people around him."
Being in the world as a writer, to paraphrase Creeley, takes many forms. For me, different stages of a project have always demanded different settings. In the beginning, when an idea is just emerging, I search for the right place to incubate what is coming. Where are the characters going to reveal themselves? Do I want to be alone, or with others? To work in quiet or with background noise? Near the end of my project, these questions will not matter; I will perch wherever I need to. I'll work on the edge of a bathtub, in the car, waiting for my daughter to brush her teeth. Like the moon, the momentum and sheer bulk of my novel will pull me to it. In the middle stages I want something different again. I want a place where work has to be done, a library or office. This long stage is about routine and discipline—it's nice to be surrounded by familiar things because they suggest my life as a writer.
I was in the middle of a novel when, several years ago, my husband, the sculptor Peter Soriano, won a grant to live and work in Alexander Calder's house in the tiny town of Saché, France. The house was enormous—a farmhouse on steroids, we called it—and severely underfurnished. I could not get comfortable in that cavernous house, could not find a spot secure enough to work. I was also a little homesick. My novel was about an island in Maine, a novel in which landscape, and the character's attachment to it, played a big role, and the irony of working on that while feeling distinctly unattached to this place in the beautiful French countryside was not lost on me. Finally I moved a table into a corner of the bedroom. And so, while Peter was out in the studio and our daughter at the village school, I made a boat out of that desk, a bridge that connected me to my own New England landscape, and to the imagined world I was creating. Meanwhile, in the days and weeks that followed, the French landscape outside and its lovely slow spring was seeping in, and in my novel the bright and forceful Maine summer was hurtling out, and there, on that simple pine table pushed up against the bare white wall, I found a way to contain it all.
Alexandra Enders is the author of the novel Bride Island (Plume, 2007). She lives in New York City.

Poets & Writers




La cabaña del Rev. Robert Stephen Hawker en Cornwall



Rev. Robert Stephen Hawker's Hut

ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER at his vicarage door. Illustration from Life and Letters (p.84). Drawn in lithography by T. R. Way from a photograph by S. Thorn, circa 1858.


Robert Stephen Hawker (3 December 1803 – 15 August 1875) was an Anglican priest, poet, antiquarian of Cornwall and reputed eccentric. He is best known as the writer of The Song of the Western Men with its chorus line of And shall Trelawny die? / Here's twenty thousand Cornish men / will know the reason why!, which he published anonymously in 1825. His name became known after Charles Dickens acknowledged his authorship of "The Song of the Western Men" in the serial magazine Household Words.

Biography

Morwenstow Vicarage
Hawker was born in the vicarage of Charles Church, Plymouth, on 3 December 1803, He was the eldest of nine children and grandson of Robert Hawker, vicar of Charles Church. When he was about ten years old his father, Jacob Stephen Hawker, took Holy Orders and left Plymouth to become curate of Altarnun, leaving him in the care of his grandparents. By this time Hawker was already reading and writing poetry. He was educated at Liskeard Grammar School and Cheltenham Grammar School. As an undergraduate, aged 19, he married Charlotte Eliza I'ans, aged 41. The couple spent their honeymoon at Tintagel in 1823, a place that kindled his lifelong fascination with Arthurian legend and later inspired him to write The Quest of the Sangraal. This marriage, along with a legacy, helped to finance his studies at Pembroke College, Oxford. He graduated in 1827 and won the 1827 Newdigate Prize for poetry.
Hawker was ordained in 1831, becoming curate at North Tamerton and then, in 1834, vicar of the church at Morwenstow, where he remained throughout his life. When he arrived at Morwenstow there had not been a vicar in residence for over a century. Smugglers and wreckers were apparently numerous in the area. A contemporary report says the Morwenstow wreckers "allowed a fainting brother to perish in the sea without extending a hand of safety."[citation needed]
Hawker's first wife, Charlotte, died in 1863 and the following year, aged 60, he married Pauline Kuczynski, aged 20. They had three daughters, Morwenna Pauline Hawker, Rosalind Hawker and Juliot Hawker. Robert Hawker died in August 1875, having become a Roman Catholic on his deathbed. He was buried in Plymouth's Ford Park Cemetery. His funeral was noteworthy because the mourners wore purple instead of the traditional black.

Accomplishments

Hawker was regarded as a deeply compassionate person giving Christian burials to shipwrecked seamen washed up on the shores of the parish, and was often the first to reach the cliffs when there was a shipwreck. Prior to this, the bodies of shipwrecked sailors were often either buried on the beach where they were found or left to the sea. The figurehead of the ship the 'Caledonia', which foundered in September 1842, marks the grave in Morwenstow churchyard of five of the nine-man crew. Hawker described the wrecking in his book Footprints of Former Men in Far Cornwall. Nearby stands a granite cross marked "Unknown Yet Well Known", close to the graves of 30 or more seafarers, including the captain of the Alonzo, wrecked in 1843.
Hawker's Hut
The Harvest Festival that we know today was introduced in the parish of Morwenstow in 1843 by Hawker. He invited his parishioners to a Harvest service as he wanted to give thanks to God for providing such plenty. This service took place on the 1 October and bread made from the first cut of corn was taken at communion. "Parson Hawker", as he was known to his parishioners, was something of an eccentric, both in his clothes and his habits. He loved bright colours and it seems the only black things he wore were his socks. He built a small hut, that became known as Hawker's Hut, from driftwood on the cliffs overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, He spent many hours there writing his poems and letters. This driftwood hut is now the smallest property in the National Trust portfolio. Many of the more fantastic stories told about Hawker are based on an unreliable biography published by the Reverend Sabine Baring-Gould in 1876, only a few months after Hawker's death. Other eccentricities attributed to him include dressing up as a mermaid and excommunicating his cat for mousing on Sundays. He dressed in claret-coloured coat, blue fisherman's jersey, long sea-boots, a pink brimless hat and a poncho made from a yellow horse blanket, which he claimed was the ancient habit of St Padarn. He talked to birds, invited his nine cats into church and kept a pig as a pet.
He built himself a remarkable vicarage, with chimneys modelled on the towers of the churches in his life: Tamerton, where he had been curate; Morwenstow and Welcombe; plus that of Magdalen College, Oxford. The old kitchen chimney is a replica of Hawker's mother's tomb.
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Stephen_Hawker)

Hawker's Hut has built by Robert Stephen Hawker at Morwenstow, Cornwall


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Robert Hawker (poeta)


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Robert Stephen Hawker (1864)

Robert Stephen Hawker 1869
Robert Stephen Hawker (1803-1875), fue un sacerdote anglicano , poeta, anticuario de Cornwall y de renombre excéntrico . Es mejor conocido como el escritor de " La canción de los hombres occidentales " con su coro de "¿Y morirá Trelawny? / ¡Aquí hay veinte mil hombres de Cornualles / sabrá la razón!", Que publicó anónimamente en 1825. [ 1] Su nombre se conoció después de que Charles Dickens reconoció su autoría de "La canción de los hombres occidentales" en la revista serial Household Words .

Biografía 

Hawker nació en la casa del clero de Charles Church, Plymouth , el 3 de diciembre de 1803. Era el mayor de nueve hijos y nieto de Robert Hawker , vicario de Charles Church. Cuando tenía unos diez años, su padre, Jacob Stephen Hawker, tomó las órdenes sagradas y dejó Plymouth para convertirse en cura de Altarnun , dejándolo al cuidado de sus abuelos. Para entonces, Hawker ya estaba leyendo y escribiendo poesía. Fue educado en Liskeard Grammar School y Cheltenham Grammar School (ahora Pate's Grammar SchoolComo estudiante universitario, de 19 años, se casó con Charlotte Eliza Ians, de 41 años. La pareja pasó su luna de miel en Tintagel en 1823, un lugar que encendió su fascinación de por vida con la leyenda artúrica y luego lo inspiró a escribir The Quest of the Sangraal . Este matrimonio, junto con un legado, ayudó a financiar sus estudios en el Pembroke College, Oxford . Se graduó en 1827 y ganó el Premio Newdigate de poesía de 1827 .
Hawker fue ordenado en 1831, se convirtió en cura en North Tamerton y luego, en 1834, vicario de la iglesia en Morwenstow , donde permaneció durante toda su vida. Cuando llegó a Morwenstow no había habido un vicario en residencia durante más de un siglo. Los contrabandistas y los destructores eran aparentemente numerosos en la zona. Un informe contemporáneo dice que los destructores de Morwenstow "permitieron que un hermano desmayado pereciera en el mar ... sin extender una mano de seguridad". [2]
La primera esposa de Hawker, Charlotte, murió en 1863 y al año siguiente, de 60 años, se casó con Pauline Kuczynski, de 20 años. Tenían tres hijas, Morwenna Pauline Hawker, Rosalind Hawker y Juliot Hawker. Robert Hawker murió el 15 de agosto de 1875, habiéndose convertido en católico romano en su lecho de muerte. Fue enterrado en el cementerio Ford Park de Plymouth Su funeral fue notable porque los dolientes llevaban morado en lugar del negro tradicional.

Logros 

Naufragios 

Hawker era considerado como una persona profundamente compasiva que daba entierros cristianos a marineros naufragados en las costas de la parroquia, y a menudo era el primero en llegar a los acantilados cuando había un naufragio. Anteriormente, los cuerpos de los marineros náufragos a menudo fueron enterrados en la playa donde fueron encontrados o abandonados en el mar. El mascarón de proa del barco Caledonia , que se hundió en septiembre de 1842, marca la tumba en el cementerio Morwenstow de cinco de la tripulación de nueve hombres. Hawker describió la destrucción en su libro Footprints of Former Men in Far Cornwall . Cerca se encuentra una cruz de granito marcada "Desconocido pero bien conocido", cerca de las tumbas de 30 o más marinos, incluido el capitán del Alonzo , naufragado en 1843.
Martha Quayle de Liverpool ocasionó otro notable esfuerzo de rescate el 4 de diciembre de 1863. Este barco fue visto desmantelado frente a Hennacliff con la tripulación haciendo lo mejor de su situación; dos barcos fueron bajados del lado de los cuales uno fue conducido hacia el norte por los mares pesados, mientras que el otro llegó a tierra sin tripulación. El primer bote fue visto por Hawker siendo remado por cinco hombres, pero no aterrizó hasta Clovelly.Un intento de lanzar el bote salvavidas de Bude o llevarla por la tierra fracasó, pero cabalgando a lo largo de la costa hasta Clovelly Hawker encontró a la pareja y a cuatro tripulantes a salvo. No logró convencer a los hombres de Clovelly para que lanzaran un bote, pero un oficial de aduanas de Bideford estaba allí y pudo enviar un mensaje a los botes salvavidas de Appledore para que lo ayudaran. El Martha Quayle no estaba iluminado por la noche del sábado. El domingo envió a un hombre hacia Clovelly y en algún momento más tarde ese hombre trajo gracias por su liberación del capitán y la tripulación de regreso a Hawker. Un bote de remos tripulado por 19 hombres se dirigió hacia el norte y, junto con los botes salvavidas de Appledore que habían traído su bote por tierra, consiguieron el Martha Quayle en tierra listo para ser vendido en subasta al día siguiente. [3]

Innovación ritual, excentricidad; cabaña y vicaría 


Vicaría de Morwenstow
El Festival de la Cosecha que hoy conocemos fue presentado en la parroquia de Morwenstow en 1843 por Hawker. Invitó a sus feligreses a un servicio de Cosecha, ya que quería agradecer a Dios por proporcionar tanta abundancia. Este servicio tuvo lugar el 1 de octubre y el pan hecho con el primer corte de maíz se tomó en comunión .
"Parson Hawker", como era conocido por sus feligreses, era algo excéntrico, tanto en su vestimenta como en sus hábitos. Le encantaban los colores brillantes y parece que las únicas cosas negras que usaba eran sus calcetines. Él construyó una pequeña cabaña, que se conoció como Hawker's Hut , de madera flotante en los acantilados con vista al Océano Atlántico. Pasó muchas horas allí escribiendo sus poemas y cartas. Esta cabaña de madera flotante es ahora la propiedad más pequeña en la cartera de National Trust . Muchas de las historias más fantásticas contadas sobre Hawker se basan en una biografía poco confiable publicada por la reverenda Sabine Baring-Gould en 1876, solo unos meses después de la muerte de Hawker. Otras excentricidades atribuidas a él incluyen vestirse como una sirena yexcomulgando a su gato por pasar el ratón los domingos. Se vistió con un abrigo color clarete, un jersey azul de pescador, largas botas de mar, un sombrero rosa sin ala y un poncho hecho con una manta de caballo amarilla, que según él era la antigua costumbre de San Padarn . Habló con pájaros, invitó a sus nueve gatos a la iglesia y mantuvo un cerdo como mascota.
Se construyó una vicaría notable, con chimeneas inspiradas en las torres de las iglesias de su vida: Tamerton, donde había sido cura; Morwenstow y Welcombe; más el de Magdalen College, Oxford . La vieja chimenea de la cocina es una réplica de la tumba de la madre de Hawker.
De su vida interesante, el propio Hawker escribió: "Qué vida sería la mía si todo estuviera escrito y publicado en un libro". [4]
El poeta estadounidense Joyce Kilmer lo describió como "un salvavidas costero en sotana" y en cierta medida fue influenciado por la poesía de Hawker. [5]

Obras 


Placa para Hawker en la arruinada Iglesia de Charles, Plymouth , nació en la vicaría de la parroquia de Charles
  • 1821: zarcillos
  • 1832: Registros de la costa occidental de Oxford
  • 1840: Ecclesia: un volumen de poemas Oxford
  • 1843: Cañas sacudidas por el viento
  • 1846: Ecos del viejo Cornwall
  • 1864: The Quest of the Sangraal: Chant the First Exeter (parte de un poema de Arthurian inacabado )
  • 1870: Huellas de ex hombres en Cornwall (una colección de documentos)
  • 1908: Baladas de Cornualles y otros poemas , introducción de CE Byles
  • 1975: Poemas seleccionados: Robert Stephen Hawker . Ed. Cecil Woolf

Referencias y bibliografía 

  • Las obras poéticas de Robert Stephen Hawker (1879); ahora primero recogido y arreglado por JG Godwin; [incluye Aviso , págs. vii – xviii]. Londres: C. Kegan Paul
  • La vida y las letras de RS Hawker (en algún momento Vicario de Morwenstow) (1906) por CE Byles. Londres: Bodley Head
  • "Passon" Hawker de Morwenstow ([1959]); HR Smallcombe. Plymouth: [el autor]
  • The Wreck at Sharpnose Point (2003) por Jeremy Seal, Picador. ISBN  0-330-37465-6
  • Hawker of Morwenstow (2002) por Piers Brendon , Random House. ISBN 0-224-01122-7 
  • La tierra cerca del oscuro mar de Cornualles (2004) por A. Hale, Journal for the Academic Study of Magic, número 2, páginas 206–225
  • "Reverendo Hawker de Morwenstow" por 3 Daft Monkeys. Del álbum "de piedras y huesos"

Referencias 

  1. ^ "Una guía de campo para el clero inglés 'Butler-Gallie, F p6: Londres, publicaciones de Oneworld, 2018 ISBN 9781786074416 
  2.  Baring-Gould , 1882 , p. 115)
  3. ^ Hawker, RS (1879) "Aviso preliminar" por JG Godwin, en: Las obras poéticas de Robert Stephen Hawker de Hawker ; [ed.] por JG Godwin. Londres: C. Kegan Paul; pp.vii-viii (incluida en esta es una carta que Hawker dirigió a Godwin sobre este accidente, pp. xiv-xvi
  4. ^ Brendon, muelles (2002). Hawker of Morwenstow: retrato de un excéntrico victoriano . Londres [ua]: Pimlico. ISBN 9780712667722.
  5. ^ Hillis, John. Joyce Kilmer: una bio-bibliografía . Tesis de maestría en ciencias. Universidad Católica de América, Washington, DC; 1962; pags. 19

Bibliografía 


File:Hawker's Hut, Vicarage Cliff, Morwenstow - geograph.org.uk - 1369016.jpg

Hawker's Hut










Reverend Hawker's Hut, Morwenstow, Cornwall. 9th July 1913
A man inside Hawker's Hut on the cliffs close to Sharpnose Point, about a mile from Morwenstow. It was built by the eccentric clergyman, poet and antiquarian Robert Stephen Hawker (1803-1875). He was known to rescue shipwrecked sailors and also recovered the bodies of the dead washed onto the shore, for a Christian burial. He composed the well known Cornish anthem 'The Song of the Western Men', also known as 'Trelawney' in 1824. Photographer: Herbert Hughes.


http://www.robertstephenhawker.co.uk/?p=292
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Stephen_Hawker
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