Monday, 7 October 2013

the sheltering sky

“How fragile we are under the sheltering sky. Behind the sheltering sky is a vast dark universe, and we're just so small.” 
― Paul BowlesThe Sheltering Sky

Are you lost ?

yes I am lost 

seeing the film again and after 20 years

what is left of me ?

after 30 years when I dreamed to be another

the way we punish ourselves

for wanting to escape

the white women

versus the latin women

the latin women versus the african one

but we where all just one alone

I just know that I felt ( was this a once more burgueoise dream?)

That it was possible

it was possible

I cry now

from a desk on english lands

as an alien


and I remember who I was

the mint tea

the market lights

and the kisses of the men

that crossed my path

as they where travellers standing

kissing lips after lips of men and women alike

their gazelle eyes

their musk oiled skin

travelling and loving

escaping for ever

the drums under the stars

and my split been called Nedjma

Hotel at Rabat 1986 picture Jorge Esteva 

Saturday, 21 September 2013

on this alienation
what can we say ?
it is
it is lonely
with a lightened screen
that brings people
to me
they come
they go
they masturbate
they fuck
mean wile
from here
hidden ?
I can feel its all
there are particles of sound
this voices that are
only text
every day
the fiction
but is so real
its so real
it makes me
want to swim
for ever
for ever
its pitch black
we are all this tiny stars
we are alone
we are alone
its online
liquid sky

Saturday, 14 September 2013

the spleen repeats 1980 a poem from 2013

of the limbo  like life of a girl /women on a burgueoise  society from a fascist country ( the only one remaining ) where all is a grid :

in Spanish :

El miedo
siempre presente

y el aburrimiento
muy muy
me aburro !!

menciono muchas veces
a través de 1980

soy una mierda !


y a el
ya no lo veré más

in English

That fear
present always

and the spleen
very very
I am bored!

I mention many times
trough out 1980

I am shit !

I announce

and him
I will never see him again

Sunday, 8 September 2013

Annette Messager ( found images and self etnographic exercise )

I have just found this works , I heard about Annette but never seen what she did in those times......
again , I find a woman questioning her self , her identity , another Nadja . And the context , the map and the territoire for doing so, its her body again another female asking her self asking her body , using her self using her  own body . But it is not precisely this being used to use our body , to test constantly the vessel of our soul , the feminine envelope that has been made up for us ? either covered in pink , rose tissues and fabrics , or pierced for small earrings ........ a body that seems to envy to not have a prominent organ wile it actually has a deep warm hole /cut . I can say that we experiment with our selves on the small room closed inside , we imagine and test . But naked is also important , because it is a claim of how we feel , maybe devoid of real nakedness ? maybe too cover up by signifiers of the feminine ? so here we are , using the camera always the eye of a machine that capture "that us" that we don't know we are .  

Saturday, 7 September 2013

She ( a new women on my research , that worked on a similar line , and that like me was not easy to define or classify )


She Creates Herself in Multitudes

Eleanor Antin’s Selves at Columbia University

Private collection

"The Two Eleanors" (1973), a work in which Eleanor Antin plays with identity.

    Courtesy the artist and Ronald Feldman Fine Arts
    Eleanor Antin as the King of Solana Beach in 1972.

    A difficult-to-categorize figure whose career veered from art into theater and back again, she is best known for her 1972 performance/photography piece “Carving: A Traditional Sculpture,” a visual diary of her naked body as it was diminished by a 37-day diet. That somber, almost classical work is such a staple of early feminist art that it’s strange to discover, in this exhibition, that it was just one of her many theatrical and provocative self-transformations.
    For three weeks in 1980, for instance, she went out in public dressed as a fictional historical figure of her invention: Eleanora Antinova, a black ballerina in Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes. (Ms. Antin, who is white, darkened her skin with makeup; she could not do much about her short-limbed, un-dancerlike build.) She recorded her experiences in a “memoir,” “Being Antinova,” adding to an already substantial archive of photographs and drawings made in character.
    A few years earlier she pasted a beard onto her face, donned a cape and wide-brimmed hat and made the rounds of San Diego as the King of Solana Beach, a figure with a distinct resemblance to the 17th-century monarch in portraits by Van Dyck. Trailed by bemused locals, the King shops for groceries, goes to the post office and perches regally on an old sofa that’s been left at the curb.
    With an assortment of photographs, videos and set pieces, “Multiple Occupancy” examines Ms. Antin’s major selves — some of them female (ballerinas, nurses) and some male (the King and an exiled Russian film director). These characters may not seem to have much in common with one another, or for that matter with Ms. Antin, but they are all, in their way, frustrated outsiders. The King struggles to govern a Vietnam-era populace that’s deeply suspicious of authority; Antinova aspires to play Giselle, but keeps getting cast as Pocahontas.
    “I deliberately gave Antinova a traditional art form because I was already at odds with one, traditional Conceptual Art,” Ms. Antin tells the show’s curator, Emily Liebert, in an illuminating catalog interview. (Ms. Liebert, a Ph.D. candidate in the art history department at Columbia, is working on a dissertation about the selves.) Conceptual Art, as Ms. Antin saw it in the 1970s, was a boys’ club; it was also intellectually rigid, with little room for narrative, biography or fantasy.
    The first stirrings of the selves have the narcissistic sensibility of other early video and performance art (by, say, Bruce Nauman and Vito Acconci). In two videos that open the exhibition, Ms. Antin can be seen sitting before a mirror applying makeup (in “Representational Painting”) and a beard (in “The King”). But by the time the first ballerina appears, in serial photographs and a video from 1973, it’s clear that Ms. Antin is bringing feminism and some element of personal experience into the mix.
    This stumblebum of a dancer — a precursor to Antinova — struggles to hold various ballet positions, shouting at a photographer to take the picture before she loses her footing. Like an even more cruelly realistic version of Degas’s dancers at the barre, she reminds us that not every little girl in a tutu can become a real ballerina (and makes us wonder why so many still want to).
    Not all of the selves are equally compelling. Sometimes they become a kind of shtick: Little Nurse Eleanor, for instance, suffers a repetitive series of indignities that highlight stereotypes of the “scapegoat, nurturer, servant, sex object and fantasy”; Ms. Antin represents this hapless figure with a paper doll, turning her into a sort of female Mr. Bill. (Fortunately, the nurse “self” evolves into a more complex character, Nurse Eleanor Nightingale, whose Crimean War back story allows Ms. Antin to comment, elliptically, on the carnage of Vietnam.)
    But in at least one case they come across as sincere homage, like the film Ms. Antin made as Yevgeny Antinov, a film director exiled from Russia for supposed Trotskyite sympathies. Released as a feature-length independent movie, “The Man Without a World” chronicles life in a Polish shtetl and is closely modeled on silent films of the 1920s. Ms. Antin has called it a tribute to her mother, who had been an actress in Poland’s Yiddish theater.
    Even the weaker selves, however, exist in a fascinating and mysterious realm between mediums. They bridge photography and performance, film and literature, paper dolls and live humans. Often one type of representation will sabotage another; the ballerina is convincing enough in stills, but on video she falls apart.
    The way Ms. Antin develops her selves, over years and sometimes decades, is just as interesting. She will add chapters or “discover” lost works — for instance, “archival” footage of Antinova’s late, desperate years on the vaudeville stage. She will also revisit performances, as she did this year when she reinterpreted her 1979 play “Before the Revolution,” casting an African-American actress in the role of Antinova.
    “Multiple Occupancy” should endear Ms. Antin to an art world fixated on aliases, alter egos and falsified archives. (See the Atlas Group, Otabenga Jones & Associates, Henry Codax and the painter who may or may not be Bob Dylan,) Her “selves” may have been invented in the 1970s, taking their identities from the distant past, but they are undisputably a part of the present.

    “Multiple Occupancy: Eleanor Antin’s ‘Selves’ ” runs through Dec. 7 at the Miriam and Ira D. Wallach Art Gallery at Columbia University, 1190 Amsterdam Avenue, near 119th Street; (212) 854-7288,

    Sunday, 25 August 2013

    Who am I ????

    Who am I ? asked Nadja ,
    Nadja , the spirit of guidance ..the Diotima of monsieur André Breton , the surreal ultimate real muse, Nadja is the predated Daemon of Guy Ernest Debord too , the Situacionist implementor .

    Nadja is Derive and Drift ..and its also the anima of Charles Baudelaire talking to André , that even if polarised on his maleness found an Eve for his walkings around Le Paris he has given to us on his novella with the same name and title : Nadja

    To be Nadja , is not to exist at all but also been a kind of female is when Esther enters centre stage .

    To wander floating like and to not know who one is ..........Esther = Nadja

    Nadja = you

    you = Nadja

    Djin = Nadja

    decessed ghost of female Charles Baudelaire
    post-Socratic Diotima
    post- Platonic Wisdom

    Foucauldian truth

    This Female that is on permanent crisis .................
    Because of her Ethereal existence ... her just been an image a channelling force .......
    a male invention ....

    Thursday, 8 August 2013

    women that work with what's so called their selves as territoire

    list of women working with their own body as territoire

    that influenced me :

    Ana Mendieta

    Francesca Woodman

    Cindy Sherman

    found later kindred spirits :

    Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven 

    Yayoi Kusama 

    Esther Ferrer 

    Angels Ribé

    María Llopis 

    found now :

    Annette Messager 

    Eleanor Antin 

    Sunday, 7 July 2013

    waiting for the signal ( a work essay inspired on Kathy Acker/Cindy Sherman) 1985 - Published at V.O. magazine-

    During the spring of 85 in Barcelona, I decided I wanted to become a character , a role and archetype , to rehearse how to actually become some one on my mind for a series of pictures representing a doomed woman, an addict and prostitute, inspired as well by the area of Barcelona where I used to live , next to so many other artist, the sort of downtown for our little mediterranean city... El Raval, Las Ramblas and el Born...
    I had seen the pictures of Cindy Sherman posing as a film actor on a series of stills and I thought
    this could be an interesting departure point for me, at the time working as a dancer/ actress and editing a magazine V.O.
    A sequence of this pictures went published at the last issue of V.O.
    Next to a text from a song by Sergio Makaroff , a song writer and musician based in Barcelona
    from Argentina.
    From the perspective that time gives, I can see how this attraction to represent doomed feminine characters is rooted in my poetic and life real experiences.
    Seems much more special and deep a woman who loses..a lost woman.. or girl..
    I know why...but this I will tell always subliminally inside my work.
    And if you feel like , then try to guess..

    Monday, 1 July 2013

    Failure ( a very known feminine feeling )

    The Art of Failure: On the Films of Chris Kraus

    Kraus has publicly and frequently labeled her films — eight in total made between 1983 and 1996 — failures. Roughly produced on shoestring budgets and often concerned with complex political and theoretical issues, Krauss’s films don’t subscribe to cathartic emotionalism, rigorous formalism, or pure visual pleasure. They’re not quite at home in conceptual, documentary, or narrative genres; they work with a wide aesthetic palette that accommodates stagy performativity, pointed gender critique, and highbrow textual sources. In “Foolproof Illusion” (1986), Kraus interjects footage of herself complaining about her violent husband and building a snowman in her underwear with readings of work by French playwright Antonin Artaud. For “How to Shoot a Crime,” 1987, Kraus collaborated with then-husband, literary theorist Sylvère Lotringer, to create a film consisting of both gruesome crime-scene footage and Lotringer’s interviews with dominatrices. Her films promise cerebral complexity without strictly catering to a theoretical mindset — they’re funny, disconcerting, and at times, outraged.
    Yet Kraus’s films found audiences only in fellow artists or friends; curators and critics ignored them. As she declaratively told an audience at Montreal bookstore Drawn and Quarterly, last fall, she will never make films again. Kraus’s repudiation of her film work marked a split in her career. In 1997, Kraus published her well-known autobiographical epistolary novel "I Love Dick," and from that point on, sculpted out a niche as a fiction writer and art critic with an increasingly devoted fanbase and increasingly influential body of work. In novels like "Summer of Hate" (2012) and "Torpor" (2006), or criticism anthologies "Video Green" (2004) and "Where Art Belongs" (2011), Kraus established an authorial voice that nimbly navigates genres of confessional autobiography, academic essay, and savvy art writing. Kraus’s fiction has arguably overshadowed her criticism, yet in her work on modern and contemporary art, Kraus established a writerly paradigm that took as its starting point the interweaving of personal experience, aesthetic evaluation, and sociopolitical history. The interest in Kraus’s writing in turn nourished a rekindled interest in her film work: since 2008, her films have (officially) been shown in Berlin, Vienna, London, Melbourne, and New York.
    Canada’s only introduction to Kraus’s films may have occurred just this week, with Montreal’sCentre des arts actuels Skol’s screening of “Gravity and Grace,” part of a summer’s worth of programming curated by the Centre for Feminist Pedagogy (CFP), a mobile collective led by writers Jen Kennedy and Ania Wroblewski. “Gravity and Grace” takes its name from a mystical screed by French philosopher Simone Weil, a figure who appears often in “Aliens & Anorexia,” Kraus’s autobiographical yet ambitiously interextual chronicle of the production story of “Gravity and Grace,” the lives and deaths of Paul Thek and Ulrike Meinhof, and a re-telling of “Gravity” itself. As CFP noted, in "Aliens & Anorexia," Kraus writes on her film: “But ‘Gravity and Grace’ was just so unappealing. It was an amateur intellectual’s home-video expanded to bulimic lengths’.” Thus Skol and the CFP’s challenge was to make palatable a film that until recently had only been regarded by critics and its creator, alike, as a failure to be forgotten.
    It’s easy to take either position, to see “Gravity and Grace” as the washed-up finale of a stunted career move, or as the early exploration in a body of work that too quickly dropped off. In “Aliens,” Krauss documents in painful detail the catastrophic filming process and funding situation behind “Gravity,”­ Kraus’s own relative lack of training joined with an erratic co-producer and inflated budget. And it shows: shots careen in and out of focus, questionable dubbing replaces much of the recorded dialogue, and the acting at times remains ambiguously convincing.
    Yet the film's appeal is arguably found precisely in the layers of failure operating throughout: it’s an unsucessful film about failure in a book largely about failing. Or, to gloss the film’s plot: Gravity and Grace are two college students in New Zealand (where Kraus grew up), turning tricks with wealthy tourists for both titillation and profit. Grace comes across a group of average-yet-slightly-pathetic suburban New Zealanders, who effectively operate as a cult. They're holding out for messages from a mysterious deity, who will rescue them from an immanently approaching apocalyptic flood. Gravity remains skeptical, while Grace ingratiates herself.
    On the prophesized night of reckoning, the group, already taunted by neighbors and having quit all real-life obligations, notices their devotion has come to naught. Initially devastated, they then believe that they have in fact saved the world, redeeming themselves as the deity's champions. They burst into ecstatic cheer, Grace included. Disgusted with the group's delusion, Gravity flees New Zealand to make it as an artist in New York, where she soon finds herself teaching English while trying to show work. The film ends after a disappointing meeting with a caricaturish New Museum curator, played by Kraus herself, who excessively spouts so much empty art theory (“The sublime has always been on the side of shit. Face it, Gravity, your work just isn’t shitty enough. It’s illustrative of the peripheral conditions of shit.”). The film ends with the curator’s rejection of Gravity’s exhibition, who leaves and looks into a desolate New York skyline as credits roll.    
    As Kraus herself noted, the film’s length overstays its welcome. The two sections feel like two separate conjoined films, harsh in their contrast of tone and style. Yet the lingering ending opens up the film’s thematic concerns. As Gravity receives more bad career news, the film poses the question: when faced with the collapse of your hopes, better to spin failure into more naïve fantasy or come to terms with its deadening consequences? Despite the halted doomsday, Gravity perpetually hears of Grace’s career successes as the former toils in her studio; Gravity’s realism earns her no more than Grace’s optimism. Kraus equates the cult’s blind faith with the New York artworld’s narcissistic cluelessness. Yet the film is never moralizing or entirely resentful: when the New Zealanders cheer their new status as saviors on the thwarted night of destruction, Ceal, the group’s privileged communicator to their deity and recent recruit, walks away in stunned desolation, her hopes in a genuinely new form of living shattered. Failure and success replace each other with confusing alacrity.
    Such a dynamic has long motivated Kraus’s work both on the page and screen. Critics in bothArtforum and the New York Times praised the 2011 exhibition, acknowledging but refusing Kraus’s self-deprecatory evaluation. But to identify the film’s technical holdups seems besides the point: “Gravity and Grace” places its flaws on center stage not simply for practical reasons, but also to dramatize the act of failing itself. The films blurs and confuses the binary of “success” and “failure,” opening up an art-making that is personal without being indulgent, and risky without being sensationalist. 
    In this sense, Kraus’s filmmaking mirrors her criticism, which has gained so much currency among a younger generation precisely because it disavows a clinically evaluative way of looking at art. As CFP's Jen Kennedy told ARTINFO CanadaIn many ways, Kraus's films are a first attempt to do what she later accomplishes in her writing: to actualize a mode of performative criticism that breaks down the separation between ideas and emotions. This is a powerful mode of operating and it's what made us want to show 'Gravity and Grace' in the context of the CFP.” Kraus's work confuses, trips-up, and confounds the attempts we make to separate art from the personal and the political. Art, in “Gravity and Grace,” “Aliens & Anorexia,” and the rest of Kraus’s output, seems to mirror such a perspective, claiming responsibility for articulating, answering, and accelerating the oscillations of success and failure