Thursday, 22 February 2018
Saturday, 17 February 2018
Monday, 12 February 2018
Each of us is a world. The original universe, with its look, experiences, fears, albeit often similar. We experience pain, feel the taste in different ways - each with its depth of perception. Our physical characteristics are individual. And that's beautiful. In fact, we are alone, enclosed within ourselves. Lonely universes, which may be in some way in contact. Sometimes, they happen to feel each other very strongly and interpenetrate: rejoicing together and empathizing. And sometimes it happens that our universes accept each other. And then they begin to feel what is happening in the soul of the other...Through the intimacy of bringing our universe closer to the other, we grow deeper and open up to ourselves.
© Elin Vidoff
Sunday, 11 February 2018
"It was the strangest book that he had ever read. It seemed to him that in exquisite raiment, and to the delicate sound of flutes, the sins of the world were passing in dumb show before him. Things that he had dimly dreamed of were suddenly made real to him. Things of which he had never dreamed were gradually revealed.
It was a novel without a plot and with only one character, being, indeed, simply a psychological study of a certain young Parisian who spent his life trying to realize in the nineteenth century all the passions and modes of thought that belonged to every century except his own, and to sum up, as it were, in himself the various moods through which the world-spirit had ever passed, loving for their mere artificiality those renunciations that men have unwisely called virtue, as much as those natural rebellions that wise men still call sin. The style in which it was written was that curious jewelled style, vivid and obscure at once, full of argot and of archaisms, of technical expressions and of elaborate paraphrases, that characterizes the work of some of the finest artists of the French school of Symbolistes. There were in it metaphors as monstrous as orchids and as subtle in colour. The life of the senses was described in the terms of mystical philosophy. One hardly knew at times whether one was reading the spiritual ecstasies of some mediaeval saint or the morbid confessions of a modern sinner. It was a poisonous book. The heavy odour of incense seemed to cling about its pages and to trouble the brain. The mere cadence of the sentences, the subtle monotony of their music, so full as it was of complex refrains and movements elaborately repeated, produced in the mind of the lad, as he passed from chapter to chapter, a form of reverie, a malady of dreaming, that made him unconscious of the falling day and creeping shadows"
(Oscar Wilde, "Picture of Dorian Gray" about "A rebours" by Joris-Karl Huysmans)
Saturday, 10 February 2018
"The most moving stories are created by cynics." Three more minutes of the morning, then player in the ears, shoelaces, frosty day, meetings, meetings, meetings... Souls unbuttoned. - As easier to attract, hug and absorb another soul, swirl it in a string of pictures, lead with a whirlwind dance, fill, charge, give yourself eventually and just live! Yes, so to live, to shine and warm, to turn monochrome hearts into a colouring, to go on, to go further, to become stronger, to share happiness, to be real...
© Elin Vidoff
Monday, 5 February 2018
Sunday, 28 January 2018
Oshima nodded.“Sure, that can happen. We have an experience—like a chemical reaction—that transforms something inside us. When we examine ourselves later on, we discover that all the standards we’ve lived by have shot up another notch and the world’s opened up in unexpected ways. Yes, I’ve had that experience. Not often, but it has happened. It’s like falling in love. Without those peak experiences our lives would be pretty dull and flat. Berlioz put it this way: "A life without once reading Hamlet is like a life spent in a coal mine”.
"A coal mine?"
"Just a typical nineteenth-century hyperbole" ".
― Haruki Murakami,
Friday, 26 January 2018
The ability to see the story in everything that surrounds you is rather the companion of those who read a lot. You walk along the street, you look at the pharmacy, a yellow stain of light falling from the window onto the pavement that has just become covered with frost, traces of a dog and several passers-by, crossing this spot and a story is born in your head. Or the autumn grapes over the entrance to the book cafe, the lamps are lost in them and the light is again the same yellow as was in the childhood. Are you a writer, photographer, artist, designer, muse? Something is happening in your head and so in this heap of information inspiration is born... Recently I was a guest of the talented artist, so everything was permeated with the sources of this Energy: the grid on the floor, the courtyard with holes in the brick walls, where pigeons live, an ashtray on the marble window sill, a door from the yard, reminiscent of the entrance to an unknown magical dimension... My hand did not want to let go when parting. It seemed if you let go, the magic will disappear, the personality will evaporate, and with it all the fruits of creativity and miracles. We live by touch. To feel this is such a rarity. To appreciate this is priceless luck.
© Elin Vidoff