sábado, 30 de enero de 2021

LA CAMERATA BARILOCHE EN ARGENTINA Y NOTICIAS DE LA EMBAJADA EN ESPAÑA: LA BONDADOSA CRUELDAD.

Jueves 11 de febrero a las 20 hs

 

Camerata Bariloche 

presenta

“Después del silencio”

 

En la plataforma 

Vivamos Cultura 

https://vivamoscultura.buenosaires.gob.ar/

 

 

Grabado en la 

Usina del Arte 

en el mes de diciembre, bajo las normas de distanciamiento social.

PROGRAMA

Antonio Vivaldi (1678-1741): 

Concierto para oboe, orquesta de cuerdas y bajo continuo en re menor  RV454

Johann S. Bach (1685-1750): 

Concierto para violín, cuerdas y bajo continuo en la menor BWV 1041

Antonin Dvorak (1841-1904): 

Dos Valses Op.54

Max Reger (1873-1916): 

Andante Lírico

Ottorino Respighi (1879-1936): 

Suite Nº 3 sobre antiguas danzas y arias para laúd 

Astor Piazzolla (1921-1992): 

Decarisimo 

 

Con el Apoyo de: Mecenazgo Participación Cultural

Patrocinado por: Banco Industrial Banco Santander

CAMERATA BARILOCHE

http://cameratabariloche.org/

 

La Camerata Bariloche es la primera orquesta de cámara argentina en lograr prestigio artístico en las tres Américas, Europa y Asia con más de veinticinco exitosas giras realizadas por treinta y tres países.


Desde su creación, en 1967, ha ofrecido más de dos mil conciertos en las 23 provincias argentinas y en importantes salas y festivales del mundo, tales como Carnegie Hall (Nueva York), Sala Tchaikovsky (Moscú), Musikverein (Viena), Komische Oper Berlin, Salle Pleyel (París), Festival de Salzburgo, NHK (Tokio), Centro Internacional de la India (Nueva Delhi), Sala São Paulo y Teatro Colón (Buenos Aires), entre muchos otros.
 

En este concierto en la Usina del Arte, la Camerata Bariloche interpreta obras del repertorio camerístico desde el barroco hasta Piazzolla: un concierto de Vivaldi para oboe, uno de Bach para violín, unas transcripciones para orquesta de cuerdas de unos valses para piano de Dvorak, una pieza de Reger, una suite sobre pequeñas danzas de Respighi y Decarisimo de Piazzolla. 

 

La Camerata Bariloche tuvo el desafío de disponerse en el escenario, por primera vez en más de 50 años, con una distancia obligatoria entre sus atriles. Esto llevó a un trabajo de investigación sobre el balance entre sus cuerdas. 

 

También ha recibido una infinidad de distinciones, entre las que se destaca el emblemático “Premio Konex de Platino” al mejor conjunto de cámara en la historia de la música en la Argentina.

De la abundante lista de solistas nacionales y extranjeros que actuaron junto a la Camerata pueden mencionarse los nombres de Astor Piazzolla, Gerardo Gandini, Ljerko Spiller, Yehudi Menuhin, Janos Starker, Karl Richter, Nicolás Chumachenko, Maxim Vengerov, Jean Pierre Rampal, Vadin Repin, Cho-Liang Lin, Jean-Yves Thibaudet, Frederica von Stade, Mstislav Rostropovich y Martha Argerich, entre otros grandes artistas.

La crítica especializada siempre ha destacado la calidad del conjunto tanto en sus presentaciones como en los registros discográficos realizados en la Argentina, Estados Unidos y Europa. Pero su llegada al gran público ha sido indiscutiblemente comprobada en el histórico concierto brindado en el Parque Centenario de Buenos Aires, frente a  60.000 personas, y en la inolvidable presentación en el Hipódromo Argentino de Palermo, donde 130.000 espectadores desbordaron sus instalaciones para maravillarse con la unión de los juegos pirotécnicos y la “Música para los Reales Fuegos de Artificio” de Haendel ejecutada por la Camerata.

La Camerata Bariloche también ha incursionado en el cine actuando e interpretando la música de los films: “Argentinísima”, 1972; “El Canto Cuenta su Historia”, 1976; “El Hombre Olvidado”, 1981; “Un Lugar en el Mundo”, 1991; “Vidas Privadas”, 2002; y  “Manuel de Falla, músico de dos mundos”, 2006.

Su primer director fue Alberto Lysy, sucedido luego por Rubén González, Elías Khayat y Fernando Hasaj respectivamente; todos ellos maestros inolvidables para la Argentina y el mundo. Actualmente su concertino y director musical es el violinista Freddy Varela Montero.

 

INTEGRANTES
Violines primeros
Freddy Varela Montero, concertino y director musical
Elías Perlmuter Gurevich, concertino adjunto
Demir Lulja
David Bellisomi
Martín Fava
Violines segundos
Grace Medina, solista
Daniel RobuschiMarta Roca Alonso *
Pablo Sangiorgio
Violas
Marcela Magin, solista **
Gabriel Falconi, solista interino
Adrián Felizia
Violoncellos
Stanimir Todorov, solista
Gloria Pankaeva
André Mouroux
Contrabajo
Oscar Carnero, solista
Clave
Manuel De Olaso, solista
Oboe
Andrés Spiller, solista

Músicos invitados en reemplazo

* Fernando Rojas Huespe, violín

** Denis Golovin, viola

 

Producción General: Arte Producciones / Horacio Ceballos & Damián Rovner 

 

Coordinador Técnico: Sebastián Tarragona

Producción Audiovisual: ZBE Comunicación / Fabio Zabrowski

Grabación: Iván Markovic y Fernando Richard

Mezcla de música: Iván Markovic

Diseño y comunicación: Diseño Mile

Redes sociales: Maña Comunicación Activa

Equipo técnico video: 

Dirección de cámaras: Fabio Zabrowski

Jefe técnico: Miguel Guimerá

Gruísta: Leonardo Gabriel Rocha

Asistente: Juan Ignacio Peralta Álvarez

Camarógrafos: Fernando Bekar, Marcelo Bonomi




 LA BONDADOSA CRUELDAD· León Ferrari

Hasta el 12 de abril

Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofía

Edificio Sabatini. Planta 4. C/Santa Isabel, 2. Madrid


La bondadosa crueldad. León Ferrari, 100 años es un proyecto curatorial colectivo y polifónico que propone un recorrido no lineal por la obra de León Ferrari. Intentando disolver la distinción binaria entre una fase abstracta totalmente diferenciada de otra política, que ha llevado a lecturas estetizadas y distantes de la obra de Ferrari, esta exposición pretende, en cambio, interpretar sus modos de accionar, intervenir y crear a partir de los roces y las continuidades entre experimentación formal y politicidad, como dos polos que se resignifican en distintos momentos de su trayectoria.

Imagen: León Ferrari, Santa María (Carabela, detalle de La justicia / 1492-1992. Quinto centenario de la Conquista), 1992. Instalación


A FATAL THING HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO THE FORUM MURDER IN ANCIENT ROME. EMMA SOUTHON

 

CSI: Ancient Rome - what can everyday killings tell us about the Empire and its people?

In Ancient Rome all the best stories have one thing in common - murder. Romulus killed Remus to found the city; Caesar was assassinated to save the Republic. Caligula was butchered in the theatre, Claudius was poisoned at dinner and Galba was beheaded in the forum. In one fifty-year period, twenty-six emperors were murdered.

But what did killing mean in a city where gladiators fought to the death to sate a crowd? Emma Southon examines real-life homicides from Roman history to explore how perpetrator, victim and the act itself were regarded by ordinary people. Inside Ancient Rome's unique culture of crime and punishment, we see how the Romans viewed life, death, and what it means to be human.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Emma Southon is a Bookshop Manager at Waterstones and the author of Agrippina: Empress, Exile, Hustler, Whore, a Best Book of the Year for the New Statesman. Armed with a PhD in Ancient History, she also co-hosts the History is Sexy podcast. She lives in Belfast, with her cat Livia, and tweets @NuclearTeeth. www.emmasouthon.com

REVIEWS

‘A brilliant idea, brilliantly executed.'

- Tom Holland, author of Rubicon, Dynasty and Dominion

‘Southon brings some great and little-known murder stories to light, revelling in the bizarre and the macabre.'

- BBC History Magazine

'Blood, guts, murder, emperors and a sprinkling of uplifting Latin. A wonderful book on the Roman way of death. Mirabile dictu!'

- Harry Mount, author of Carpe Diem and Amo Amas Amat... and All That

‘Her lively and intermittently potty-mouthed biography of Nero's remarkable mother contains fascinating vignettes of Roman life (what to expect on your wedding day) and explores why Roman authors wrote about women in the way that they did.'

- New Statesman, Best Books of the Year, on Agrippina

‘I love this funny, scholarly, erudite, irreverent book; Emma Southon wears her learning lightly but we never for a moment doubt her authority, and the past arrives with total immediacy from the first page. Reading it is like seeing a classical statue not remote and austere on a pedestal, but painted in all its original bright colours.'

- Sarah Perry, author of Melmoth and The Essex Serpent

AND, IN SPANISH...

AGRIPINA: LA PRIMERA EMPERATRIZ DE ROMA

Escribe tu opinión

Resumen

Esta es la historia de una mujer excepcional, que ha sido malinterpretada y vilipendiada por una Historia y unas fuentes originales escritas por y para hombres. Emma Southon rescata a Agripina la Menor, hermana, sobrina, esposa y madre de emperadores, y le otorga el papel central que durante cuatro generaciones tuvo en la política romana; atreviéndose a pisar esferas de poder reservadas a los hombres, lo que le acabó costando la vida.

TWISTED BRILLIANCE: PATRICIA HIGHSMITH AT 100

 

Author Patricia Highsmith at home, in 1977. Photograph: Liselotte Erben/Sygma/Getty Images

Forbidden desires, strange obsessions and a singular talent for suspense... Carmen Maria Machado on the dark allure of the writer behind Ripley

Read The World’s Champion Ball-Bouncer, an unpublished Highsmith short story

Carmen Maria Machado

There has always been something fundamentally difficult about Patricia Highsmith. And not difficult in the way that most people mean it: ironic, quirky, feminist (“Well-behaved women rarely make history”, and so on). I mean truly, legitimately difficult; a well of darkness with no discernible bottom.

Which is not to say that she wasn’t, in her own way, endearing. She was, after all, a genius, a bona fide eccentric. She loved animals, particularly snails, which she kept by the hundred as pets and took to parties clinging to a leaf of lettuce in her handbag. Writer and critic Terry Castle describes how she once “smuggled her cherished pet snails through French customs by hiding six or eight of them under each bosom”. She was famous for her wit and wicked sense of humour, and she wrote compellingly of loneliness and empathetically about disempowered housewives and children.

And yet she was a hateful person. She was shockingly, unrepentantly racist and antisemitic, even with respect to the era in which she lived. She believed gay people were essentially unfaithful and promiscuous and incapable of true sexual passion; she had a nasty habit of murdering versions of her ex-lovers in her fiction; she believed menstruating women should not be permitted in libraries. This mix of misogyny and homophobia coming from a gay woman might seem surprising; the truth was, while she didn’t like other people, she didn’t much like herself, either.

The Price of Salt (later reissued as Carol) – the lesbian love story Highsmith published under the pen name Claire Morgan in 1952 – is curiously absent of these pessimisms. There are no violent crimes, no sociopathic protagonists. Even though her reasons for distancing herself via a pseudonym have nothing to do with this fact – she had a career to worry about, and she didn’t want to be “labelled a lesbian-book writer” – it feels correct that she might also not want herself associated with such a fundamentally optimistic book. Because it was the opposite – violence, torment, obsession, all bubbling beneath a cool veneer – that was the signature of her fiction.

Here, now, at the centenary of her birth – her canonisation cemented, her complete collected diaries on the verge of publication – readers grapple with this darkness. What does it mean to love the work of an author Castle describes as the “doyenne of the psychological suspense novel, depressive homosexual, mean drunk, and one of the greatest, darkest American storytellers since Poe?” Perhaps they recognise that you don’t come to Patricia Highsmith for goodness or light or comfort. You come to her for uncanny observations about human depravity; you come to her because you’ve forgotten the sour taste of fear.

Highsmith is probably best known for her novels The Talented Mr Ripley and Strangers on a Train. And yet short stories, which she was writing at the age of 15, were her foundation as well as her bread and butter. At the time of her death, she had published no fewer than seven collections, and there was ample material for a volume of uncollected stories to be published posthumously. “Short stories are absolutely essential to me, like poetry: I write a lot of both,” she told one interviewer. “Only a fraction of the stories I have written ever appeared in print.” (This prodigious output is at least partially a result of her surfeit of ideas, which occurred to her, she said, “as frequently as rats have orgasms”.)

In his introduction to her collection Eleven, Graham Greene talks about the way in which Highsmith adapts to the short story: “She is after the quick kill rather than the slow encirclement of the reader, and how admirably and with what field-craft she hunts us down.” In her prickly, misanthropic stories, her obsession with obsession is on display, big feelings and bad habits redirected to gruesome ends.

Sometimes it plays out with her telltale violence. In “The Button”, a father’s disappointment in his life boils over into murder; in “The Snail-Watcher”, her beloved pets become an instrument of body horror and monstrosity. And elsewhere – as with the protagonists of “Not This Life, Maybe the Next” and “The Romantic” – her characters are besieged by a quiet misery; they have to learn to accept, if not prefer, their own company. (Even Highsmith’s love of the third person seems tinged by self-loathing. “I have bogged down twice in first-person-singular books, so emphatically that I abandoned any idea of writing the books,” she wrote in Plotting and Writing Suspense Fiction. “I don’t know what was the matter, except that I got sick and tired of writing the pronoun ‘I’, and I was plagued with an idiotic feeling that the person telling the story was sitting at a desk writing it. Fatal!”)

Rereading Highsmith’s work, I was struck by how much she reminded me of Shirley Jackson. Both wrote in a clean and economical style that often gave way to breathtaking flourishes; both wrote in genres (suspense, horror) in which their gender was a liability. Both wrote characters liberated by the deaths of their difficult mothers; both had cartoonishly challenging relationships with the same. (Having attempted to abort Patricia by drinking turpentine, Mary Highsmith would joke that her daughter loved the smell. She was “demanding, seductive, [and] catastrophically unloving,” according to Castle.) Loneliness was a shared theme; menace, claustrophobia.

But Jackson’s protagonists were predominantly women; Highsmith, on the other hand, preferred the voices of men. With Jackson, you get the sense that she is twitching the curtain for you, the reader, allowing you to see something she can see. With Highsmith, there is a distinct feeling of being chased toward something near and terrible, and not being able to look anywhere but where she wants you to look.

In the last few years, the unbearable nearness of sex and death has blossomed into its own queer meme: “I would let Rachel Weisz run me over with a car.” “I want Sandra Oh to throw me off a building.” “Please, Cate Blanchett, step on my throat.” Jia Tolentino calls this “desiring a sensation strong enough to silence itself”, and with Highsmith this challenge is more literal than most. To read her is to access her desires, her darkness, her difficulties; her loneliness and self-loathing and terrible mother and love of snails.

It feels good to be hunted. If you read the genres of suspense – crime and mystery and horror in its many iterations – you know the sensation of allowing a master of her craft to pursue you through a maze; the tingly energy of the chase, the eroticism of encountering the end of the line. “Murder,” Highsmith wrote in her diary in 1950, “is a kind of making love, a kind of possessing.”

When you read one of Highsmith’s stories, you’ve given her permission to follow you, catch you, take you apart. Get ready to run.

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2021/jan/09/twisted-brilliance-patricia-highsmith-at-100

PRIVATE PAPERS OF THE WORLD’S MOST FAMOUS SINGER AND ART EXHIBITION AND EVENTS 2021

 The tumultuous personal life of the great tenor Enrico Caruso, as dramatic as any opera, is illuminated by a treasure trove of letters and other documents offered for sale at Christie’s

In 1897, a young and little-known tenor called Enrico turned up at composer Giacomo Puccini’s house to audition. It was for the part of Rodolfo in the latter’s new opera, La Bohème. Puccini initially had low expectations, yet within a few bars of the aria ‘Che gelida manina’ stood converted. He asked the singer, ‘Who sent you to me? God?’


Enrico Caruso would go on to have one of the all-time great opera careers. At the height of his fame, after a performance in New York, the bosses at the Metropolitan Opera simply gave him a blank cheque to fill in. Luciano Pavarotti said that ‘when we tenors talk, we always say Caruso first — and then the others’.

Born in Naples in 1873, Enrico was the third of seven children. The Carusos were poor, and from the age of about 10 he apprenticed as a mechanic. A love of song soon manifested itself, though, and he began singing Neapolitan classics in bars and cafés.

Caruso made his operatic debut in his home town’s Teatro Nuovo in 1895. He would steadily go on to conquer the great opera houses of the world, such as London’s Covent Garden, where he sang for eight seasons between 1902 and 1914, and the Metropolitan across the Atlantic, where he sang on more than 850 occasions, including 17 opening nights (a record only surpassed by Plácido Domingo at the turn of the millennium).

He was blessed with a rich, versatile voice, but what set Caruso apart was the way he combined refinement with passion, mixing the old tradition of bel canto singing with the new trend of verismo.

He was also a beneficiary of fortunate timing, coming of age as he did at the same time as the gramophone. His myriad recordings earned him a mass appeal worldwide, in most cases among listeners who never saw him on stage. His 1902 rendition of the aria ‘Vesti la giubba’ from I Pagliacci  became the first record of any kind to sell a million copies.

Not for nothing is Caruso often called opera’s first superstar.

He also had a personal life as colourful and dramatic as any opera he appeared in. Caruso spent lavishly on homes, clothes, hotel suites, jewellery and a string of lovers. He had two children with the singer Ada Giachetti, before starting a long-term relationship with her sister Rina and ultimately marrying the American heiress Dorothy Park Benjamin in 1918. He died three years later, from pleurisy, aged 48.

‘These letters take us inside Caruso’s mind, as he grew from provincial tenor into the world’s most famous singer’ — Thomas Venning

At the insistence of the Italian king, Victor Emmanuel III, Caruso’s funeral was held at the Basilica di San Francesco di Paola in Naples, an honour usually reserved for royalty.

A huge archive of Caruso’s personal documents is currently being offered at Christie’s for private sale. It includes 282 letters and telegrams sent by him, and 423 sent to him, dating from across his career.

‘These letters tell a gripping story,’ says Thomas Venning, head of Books and Manuscripts at Christie’s in London. ‘They take us inside Caruso’s mind, as he grew from provincial tenor into the world’s most famous singer — as well as bringing us the point of view of those close to him, drawn along by this human whirlwind. He seems to have been on a constant emotional rollercoaster.’

The archive — which also includes a host of Caruso’s financial documents, plus a handful of photographs, newspaper cuttings and court papers — was given by the increasingly infirm singer to his friend Antonino Perrone fu Antonio in May 1921. This was shortly before he left the US for the final time, and three months before his death. Perrone, who lived in Boston, was probably chosen as the recipient because he could be trusted with keeping this highly personal archive out of the public eye.

That he certainly achieved. The documents were unknown to Caruso’s 20th-century biographers, including even his own son, Enrico Jr., when writing 1990’s Enrico Caruso: My Father and My Family. They came to light only in 2014, when offered at auction at Christie’s. Now, in the centenary year of Caruso’s death, they come to the market again.

Below we look at five of the archive’s most revealing letters.

Milan, 1897: ‘I’d give my life to get drunk with you on the crazy joy of happiness, of love...’

Caruso began a relationship with the soprano Ada Giachetti during the summer season at the Teatro Goldoni in Livorno in 1897. The pair sang together as Violetta and Alfredo in La Traviata, and at that stage she was the more famous, having built up a reputation in Italy’s regional opera houses. Two years on from his debut, Caruso’s career hadn’t quite taken off yet. It’s thought that he and Ada (who had a husband and child) shared lodgings in Livorno and soon started an affair.................

https://www.christies.com/features/the-private-papers-of-opera-singer-Enrico-Caruso-11492-1.aspx?sc_lang=en&cid=EM_EMLcontent04144B52Section_A_Story_1_0&COSID=42665747&cid=DM440457&bid=250779434.

AND...

Art exhibitions and events 

Our pick of this year’s standout exhibitions and openings, from the Grand Egyptian Museum in Giza to Hong Kong’s spectacular new waterfront arts hub

 


Installation view of Degas at MASP. Photo Eduardo Ortega

Installation view of Degas at MASP. Photo: Eduardo Ortega

MASP’s latest exhibition is showing all 76 together for the first time in 14 years. The accompanying text pays special attention to the sitter for one of his most famous works, Little Dancer. While the subject is traditionally viewed as a chic young girl, Marie van Goethem was in reality the diligent daughter of a working-class mother striving for social mobility. Marie was later dismissed from the Paris Opéra for missing classes, probably because she was forced into prostitution by her mother — a tragic narrative often overlooked in the history of the artist’s work.

The show also includes a series of photos of Degas’s works in the collection shot by the photographer Sofia Borges. The unnatural angles and hyper-zoomed focuses of the images offer a fresh perspective on what some refer to as ‘the first modern sculptures’.