Everyday Minerals Concealer

Jaime Semprun, Andromache, I think of you!, Encyclopedia of Nuisances 2011


That may be the last book you read as the Jaime Semprun. In any case, the first to be published since the death the founder of the Encyclopedia of Nuisances. A wafer, rather, almost an announcement, 27 pages together scattered pieces of an estate that we are the legatees inconsolable.

The book contains texts of varied nature: a deeply moving elegy written in Paris in 2000 on the occasion of the anniversary of the death of the author's mother, actress Loleh Bellon, an essay on the strange painting, no name artists, such as a valuable post-designer of Guy Debord, and a bunch of arguments against fraud contemporary art.

Of the three, the text is the lowest. By its very form, working notes for a test in Vietnam, which he will forever be that this succession of statements unsurprisingly against small and large merchants Duchamp, Inc.. It lacks the style of these sketches Semprun, which would have transformed these aphorisms twilight flat convictions, and perhaps also a bit of fantasy, this had such glee when Baudrillard was mocking the reality of zero Art said today.

We say that is because Semprun was a pro-situ for the second time, a "political" what, strategist room insurrection which never came, rather than "artist" just missed the Pinot Gallizio.

"Notes on the tables" , the second text of the code, just yet partially contradict this image. Without an example, not a reproduction (too many images distract the viewer?), He recalls the ancient landscapes of "this world yet constructed" by hand ", this " Drowned World " whose memory persists through the magic of this quiet and simple art, painting. And the text ends with a breathtaking celebration - who remembers the text of the SI of the early 1960 - of painting as representation Atlantis landscapes and gestures lost: "The Atlantis, he left us a taste, irreplaceable, but can still be said - although the representation is as effective as words ".

But the real jewel, the treasure that brought tears of rage loss Semprun, these are beautiful pages that open the book, all in long sentences on a melancholy Paris escaping like life. Suddenly, it's a Semprun lyrical and full of emotion that we discover, away from the icy prose writer of the Encyclopedia of Nuisances. And we think the shots Venetian Debord In Girum Imus Nocte ... , this extraordinary text which shares the nostalgia both sweet and sharp. The Aeneid is reborn on the banks of the Seine and the Plaine Monceau, one passes the Square du Vert Galant, lost in reveries of psycho-geographical go where the ghosts of Baudelaire to Breton and that it borrows its title, which is also that this volume in the form of epitaph.

"Up there, in Montmartre, the crowd outside the fairground would begin to live slowly, like water singing in the pan and evaporate. There would still not far from the sludge diamond instead Clichy, the studio in the Rue Fontaine "with a view of the Void," said André Breton in the window showing the cabaret that name, and between Montmartre and the banks, a whole world: the chaos of living cited . "
Jaime Semprun
Andromache, I think of you!

What Do You Capitalize In A Wedding Program

beef with onions

A small Chinese recipe to start the new year Asian!
- 2 nets rump
- 2 large onions
- 1 tablespoon cornstarch
- 1 tablespoon sherry vinegar
- 1 tablespoon sesame oil
- 2 tablespoons soy sauce soup
- 1 tablespoon nuoc mam
- 1 tablespoon of powdered sugar
- 1 teaspoon ground ginger
- 2 tablespoons tablespoons oil

In a bowl, mix cornstarch, soy, vinegar, sesame oil, fish sauce, sugar and ginger, stir well, then add the rump cut into very thin strips. Marinate all between 30 minutes and 2 hours in a cool (depending on your time).

In a skillet or wok, heat oil and add the onions very fine.

When well blended, add the beef and its marinade. Cook, stirring often, until beef is well written but not toasted, garnish with green onions and serve with rice fragrant.

Copter Game Unblocked

Gregor von Rezzori, an ermine Tchernopol, 1958

We have written a damn for once in his life a page similar to the one below - perhaps one of the most perfect introduction to the literature of the twentieth century. And yet, Gregor von Rezzori remains the last unknown in the literature of Eastern Europe. He had resolved to laugh: Do you think it is easy to be the greatest writer in a country that nobody has ever heard - Bucovina (on the border of Transylvania)? He forgot it by the actor in shit Franco-Italian (he had a mouth) and signing scenarios for Louis Malle (Viva Maria).
In the columns of the New Yorker he finally made known to the late sixties by publishing in serial Memoirs of an anti-Semite . An ermine Tchernopol , written in 1958, is part of the cycle of his own memoirs (those of a non- Semitic). But it still remains a text completely rigged. Pure literature - pure shimmer.


"Staggering, a man climbs out of the debauchery of a tavern where the Brays are silent to slip into the uncertain dawn. A
insurance dangerously compromised in its movements, clownish imitation of a deadly seriousness, we recognize that this is a heavy drinker.
His face is a crater that would have left a stray satellite. His senses are heightened
took a bubbling mingling bellowing tavern quarrel philological, pride, humiliation, love, quotes, ribaldry, hatred, loneliness, credulity, purity,
despair ... It can not find the way back home.
So he walks with a sleepwalker until the crossroads nearest cross two snakes that come with hints of masts, the tram rails.
Once there, head up like a blind man, he fumbles with his stick he pushes one of the grooves in the track to be guided as to the end of a pole.
Such waves of stem, the tip of his cane raised moldy leaves and dirt, grit, the mud and manure; his shoes wade in puddles, her ankles twisted on crooked cobblestones, stumble on rails, sink into the gravel, dragging in the dust. The mist moistens his face like a wet cotton ball, the wind pulled the hair protruding from his hat and his fall on the forehead, the dew settles on his lips that gives it a salty taste, is concentrated in small droplets that tickle the palm of both wrinkles hemming his mouth in the towel on his cheeks, too fat, can no longer absorb them. He mumbles, speaks sometimes alone, out loud, sing a song, pauses, laughs, is silent, goes back to mumbling. His eyes wide open lay ahead like the blind, without batting an eyelash, like those of gods.
Thus it crosses the city from one end to another.
The city, located somewhere in a corner lost in Southeastern Europe, called Tchernopol.
He knows nothing of its reality.
He does not notice that it is silvering wake up, do not perceive that the harsh light that falls from the arc lights suspended in the pale sky in a shower of pearls, goes beyond him and that around the houses lining the streets to the right and left open the space to enable them to avoid the darkness to lift them until morning. (...)
No one ever does anything other than going to meet his death.
Also heard it not, far away, throwing their languid complaint, the appeal of trains leaving the city for Tchernopol hurry, lonely, to the desolate countryside and head towards another reality solitary and stubborn nostalgically lost.
Because each comes to his solitude, people like cities. "

Gregor von Rezzori, An ermine Tchernopol ( Ein Hermelin in Tschernopol ) translated from German by Catherine and Jacques Mazellier-Lajarrige Lajarrige, Editions de l'Olivier, 2011

Restoring Rosewood Furniture

Jon Savage Soul Machine, 1993

1993 ... For the summer issue of Village Voice, the great Jon Savage looks ten minutes in the mirror and recounts a decade of electronic music. In twenty-five pages tight, it starts all over again, forget anyone (except Madchester, ironically, deliberately?), Says, describes, lets talk. It is clear as crystal, perfect for those who, eighteen years later, still do not see what "soul" that music is the heart. But for you who go by here as by there, which we assume you already know it all on the tip of the filter, it is there new under the sun rising from the rave? Nothing, except the keen pleasure to read someone write about intelligent techno item also sociological and river historian without being pedantic, and through burning questions that remain: What can the music industry when the technology outweighs the Sharing music to his mercy? From England to Japan, is this then the sound of a global village? What music produced for an audience of stoned?

"At that time, Derrick recorded on analog equipment very rudimentary, "Nude Photo", for example, was recorded directly onto a cassette, which served as a master tape. When you hire this type of material, mixing should be very simple. You can not do overdubs or add too many items at once, and that's why the song is so stripped. Derrick came to see me, a bag of tapes in hand, some did not even have a name, with titles become classics as "Sinister" and "Strings of Life". "

Jon Savage machine Soul, Translated from English by Etienne Menu, Paris, Allia, 201I, 58 pages, 3 euros.

PS: Etienne, big up - & hope you reading here Sooner or Later