Apropriação reversiva em louvor de uma "noite de Natal"


Luminosa era a hora que passava
E breve o sinal que nos fazia.
Mas como um não sei quê nos demorava
A hora que passava ia vazia.

Que aceno levaria a nossa vida
Um pouco mais além? - Hesitantes
Invocadores de céus! Constantes
Amadores de terra estremecida.

Não vamos nem ficamos todavia.
A uma vaga saudade nos prendemos
Entre a pedra do chão e a noite fria
Entretidos a amar o que não temos.

João Maia, in Jorge de Sena, op.cit. p.103

A minha versão seria ;)

Luminosa era a hora que passava
E auspicioso o sinal que nos fazia.
Mas como um sabemos quê nos apressava
A hora que passava ia cheia.

Que aceno levará a nossa vida
Muito  mais além? - Firmes
Moradores de céus! Constantes
Amadores da estrela estremecida.

Fomos e ficamos em harmonia.
Ao "tempo do coração" nos prendemos
Entre as mantas da cama e a noite fria
Entretidos a amar tudo quanto temos somos.


Surrealist texts by surrealist women: Eileen Agar

Eileen Agar, Cerimonial hat for eating bouillabaisse (1936), from

You see the shape of a tree, the way a pebble falls or is formed, and you are astounded to discover that dumb nature makes an effort to speak to you, to give you a signe, to warn you, to symbolize your innermost thoughts. Chance is not a neutral but a distinctly positive force; the surrealists believe that you can get on good terms with chance by adopting a lyrical mode of behavior and a open attitude.


My own method is to put myself in a state of receptivity during the day. I sit about sometimes for a quarter or an hour or more, wondering what on eart I am doing, and then suddenly I get an idea for something. Either it is the beginning of a title or just the germ of a visual image. Later on, if I am stuck with a half-finished painting, I might take a snooze and after that comes together quite simply. It may well be that we hunt to much when we are completely on the alert. Too much awareness can be as inhibiting as too little. [...]

Eileen Agar, "Am I a surrealist?" in Penelope Rosemont (ed), op. cit. p.91
Interesting Eileen portraits and photos of her works here


A surrealist woman portrait by a surrealist painter

René Magritte, Portrait d'Irène Hamoir (1936)
"I want to run but cannot move. Horror congeals me to the paving stones. A large black sun closes down the landscape.”
Irène Hamoir


Surrealist texts by surrealist women: Joyce Mansour (3)

Tu as jeté mes yeux à la mer
Tu as arraché mes rêves de mes mains
Tu as  déchiré mon nombril bleuté
Et dans les algues vertes de mes cheveux flottant
Tu as noyé l'embryon.


You threw my eyes in the sea
You tore my dreams out of my hands
You cut out my bluish belly button
And in the green seaweeds of my floating hair
You drowned the embryo.

Joyce Mansour



For sale




Um desapego íntimo de tudo
Me sobrepõe ao mundo e ao dia.
No mistério da luz, o olhar mudo
Lentamente se estende e apascenta
De pura nostalgia.

Fico imóvel, sem ver,
Sentido o nada e o ser,
Até que a flor do tempo
Efémera desperta
E ondula dentro de mim.

João Maia, in Jorge de Sena, Líricas Portuguesas, (Lisboa, Ed. 70, 1983), II vol. pp.96-97


Surrealist texts by surrealist women: Mary Low (2)

The companion

Albrecht Dürer, The large Turf, (1503)

You are my companion.

I know the ripe fruit of your rashness,
your turbulent cascades
and the hazel waters of joy.

I know the strength of your bastions,
and those walls where a breach can be made.
You have twelve Achilles'hells and a triple-edged sword.

You taste green  like the freshness of the morning,
or hot and acrid
like aloes in the sun.
You smell like moist moss,
young fur among the pines
or a newly honed sickle dipped in hay.

You walk like haughty Indians
and you speak like harps.
You think along an arrow-line
or down voiceless wells.
You are deep with tangible tenderness,
but hard as malachite.
Your words and your thoughts
shine like polished shields.

You are my companion.

Mary Low, in Penelope Rosemont, op.cit. p.409

Albrecht Dürer, Pine, Collection of the Britsh Museum

Couples d'artistes (3) Dorothea Tanning & Max Ernest

Dorothea Tanning and Max Ernst, Honolulu Photograph by Kay Bell 1952

Lee Miller, Max Ernst and Dorothea Tanning

"The photo appeared in the September 14, 1942 issue of LIFE magazine, page 44, and the credit identifies this woman as "Pat Sanchez, daughter of a wealthy Cuban sugar." See comment below, by Pam Johnson Director, The Dorothea Tanning Collection and Archive  
Dorothea Tanning, Birthday, oil on canvas
At first was only one Picture, a self-portrait. It was a modest canvas by present day standards. But it filled my New York studio, the apartment’s back room, as if it had always been there. For one thing, it was the room, I had been struck, one day, by a fascinating array of doors ─ hall, kitchen, bathroom, studio ─ crowed together, soliciting my attention with their antic plants, light, shadows, imminent openings and shuttings. From there  it was a easy leap to dream of countless doors. Perhaps in a way it was a talisman for the things that were hapening, an interaction of quiet event,  line densities wrought in a crystal paperweight of time where nothing was expeted to appear except the finished canvas and, later a few snowflakes, for the season was Christmas1942, and Max was my Christmas present.
It was snowing hard when he rang my doorbell.  Choosing pictures for a show to be called "Thirty Women." (...) We moved to the studio, a livelier place in any case in any case, and there on an easel was my self-portrait, not quite finished. He looked, while I tried not to. At last, "What do you call it?" I really haven't a title. "Then you can call it 'Birthday.'" Just like that. He had come to stay. That we were both painters, visionaries, did not strike me at the time as anything but the happiest of coincidences. It was so unbelievable, I told myself, "Yes. If it only lasts three weeks, it is still alright."
Dorothea Tanning, Birthday, (Santa Monica, San Francisco, The Lapis Press, 1986), p.14.

Surrealist texts by surrealist women: Françoise Sullivan

"Dance is above all a reflex, a spontaneous expression of vividly emotions. In dance humankind has found a means of satisfying his desire for tangency withe the universe."

Françoise Sullivan, in Penelope Rosemont, op.cit., p. 208