How Long Will Titanium Last

The voiceover

The first line said that a tear flowed from my eyes and began to mourn without knowing why or knowing it did not matter to know why and soon the bar was full of elbows and smoke and drink with my tears were grooves that drew a flashback in which I was talking to her in the alley and his smile and dialogue:

"When I think of you all full of love.

And the statement continued smiles and complicity, lunches and tours, desires and whys, boredom and farewells.

"Each does what he thinks you have to do.

And then there were more days and she chose that city to let go and I did not listen to his love, but he felt every second until once again the voices of the bar and the noise and a voice in third person told me what he had to say.

The waiter asked if I wanted another and I looked at him and understand his English and told him of course but what I wanted was to walk out, voice-overs, but the night was cold in Prague and wanted to take a little longer before they feel that even the cold was already completely mine.

A blue-eyed Slav licked me with his eyes and smiled, "English?, And I smiled," Erasmus?, And she laughed and drank my drink and licked my tongue and I said yes in Barcelona and I said, you speak very well, and I said, the nipple better, and the two laughed and laughed with voiceover and the waiter brought two glasses more or maybe three and we all lamimos and talked and laughed. Maybe it was a trio.

The bar closed and the three walked through the streets of Prague and arrived at the Hradcany and there between the two beat me up and took away all the money and I was huddled under a tree and wanted to die, but I just fell asleep and woke up in a hospital bed without remembering exactly what had past. With great effort I got up and found my clothes in the closet. I found that the sheet of paper with the poem was in the back pocket of my jeans and dressed as I could. After five minutes of travel corridors was on the street without anyone asking me anything.

In the fourth paragraph had been six months and the seventh nearly two years. I was living again in Barcelona and I made a living painting could street portraits in El Borne. One September afternoon those eyes turned to lick me and asked me, I do not remember, I smiled and licked her tongue, she stroked my cheek, "I did a lot of damage?, We sat in silence while drawing on the canvas the traces of their hours and the voice got a few clouds and a few drops and some umbrella opened. One of the drops fell on his cheek and I drew well.

- How do you wish to call? He had collected the hair to fuck and I liked to see her resting on every minute between my fingers caressing and rhythm of a clock that reminded us that time is an invention.

- Do you want to call Elba? "His face was that of a boy resting before the next prank, and I wanted to love it and the voice told me and I call it Elba Sara had wanted to call but I called and drew Elba Elba name on her thighs with my saliva .

- Why did you go to Prague? "I asked him as if he knew the answer perfectly, as if it were a finding that was not going to lie.

"I was looking for something, I lied.

- What?

"A dream with both hands grabbed my head and pulled his eyes to mine until it turned into four.

"You're lying. You wanted to stick you. Were you looking for death because you know she died of grief for you, "His voice was so sweet, so fingers caress her breath as my life, I thought for a moment that no line imprisoned us.

"I just did what the voice told me, licked my eyes with a smile, tickled with his tongue, pinched my lips with his teeth and he recited the poem in a whisper.

Then the voice began to narrate in his deep voice and unhurried, confident, and the walls became night and stars and Sara and I were walking down the alley of gold and we kissed and talked of a girl who had a birthday and I wrote a story that talked about a girl who had lost his name to read it someday when I grew up and his mother kissed me softly on the lips and asked me to close my eyes and look like when we met with her long brown hair, and to cogiera hand, to hug strong, very strong, because he was afraid of that voice-overs.

And the voice Sara went on talking off and Elba was gone and got her tongue in my ear and I laughed while crying and she said she was not afraid of death, you're just a character, and the voice said and put a final FIN.

Have we ever discussed Vetusta Morla ? We will.

Subscribe to my feed

Wots Good For Gall Attacks

Lala Martin

Some time ago I found the photographs of Martin Lala on the network. I could not avoid the surprise and immediate captive by images that I had as textures, landscapes and portraits of an identity that is folded upon itself in a fragmented space where the horizon is reached only by choosing the proper angle, a density still where the presence of model and photographer was as hard as all that remained to complete.

Do - Her Eyes Are Closed (I am)

images Lala are maps that mark us all that no glimpse of their world, their terra incognita, are roads themselves arrested in a turn of the road, waiting for someone to pass and stop to watch and stay stuck there, watching, as a part of the portrayed.

In the Faceless Crowd / No Name Face (I am)

What is portrayed Lala, her face, insert body become fragmented and that map is not his body or his face or his portrait, but an earthy landscape that makes us lattice and we entered our own strangeness of looking so deep, so far, so need to catch that absentee sounds like the sea shell in our eyes.

Your identity is banished, exiled from itself and only emerges as a drowned man's hand marks a milestone in his absence, a gesture that becomes a sign, in language so tenuous, but firm, points out the frontiers between two folds of his physicality, his stay in the picture on the map in the world.

Every New Beginning Comes From Some Other Beginning's End (Colorless Tiara)

His photographs are crossed by lines are plowed land in which the traces of a collapsed time seem to beat, seem to want to rescue him, wanting to wake up and make it walk. Are textures that form a gauze veil entremuestra the remaining distance to reach a certainty.

Disparate (I am)

Lala's photographs are landscapes a wait.

Lala Interview with Martin :

Who's Lala Martin?

Lala Martin is a girl who began writing and then moved to photography.

is a person who was always clear that what it was going through some branch of art and in fact tried them all. Is someone who can do any job offered, the only explanation that it is only going to be completely happy with a pen or a camera in hand.

Remember the first time you thought the composition of a photo before it?

I am not someone think of the compositions before taking the pictures, not I plan what I want, let it be presented alone. I work a lot with space and that what they usually do is take a good look at the place that I have available and see what I can do with it, but I am a firm believer that the best composition is that surprises you liking it without you need to do anything, the surprise in the end result is a factor not resign in the hands of some advance planning. If we talk about fashion sessions made for companies or individuals, and here we are talking in other words, for there you have a production at your disposal that will simplify many things - like the location, costumes, and there is a conceptual idea campaign you have to respect - of course with their freedoms.

Can you See my Vision

What material resources do you use for your photos?

Everything is close at hand adds, if known choices. For more than not to plan my compositions I can tell very well in the environment those elements that were not in the picture and try to work on it but I'm not picky, anything will do. No tripod work, I like to use what has available at the time to work the different heights and distances, I always saw the tripod as an element that helps but I do not like being subject to it.

Would telling us the whole process that leads from your idea of \u200b\u200ban image to that vision?

Very occasionally I have ideas before conception of a picture. What I most often happens is to have a concept in mind and do not know which image to take to capture it. That's what I like, part of the challenge and decision, of course, trial and error. And always take more than a different image that can be covered by the original concept - The decision on what show and does not respond to several criteria, but I always try to consolidate what the public expects to see with what I actually want to show. In that sense, let alone earn me what people want to see my work, but knowing. We take the image digitally currently working with my home camera, a HP Photosmart M627 (it's a personal matter, I know that at some point I'll have to use a reflex for the same work demands and their issues, but the now I see no reason to change my camera) and then are selected which are and which are not ends in the subsequent edition is usually done in Photoshop or as say my recent work in Lightroom.

Follow You

A very important part of your work has to do with editing in photoshop, with the creation of textures. Could you explain that conceptual impact these interventions have after the shot? Do you use other tools besides photoshop?

I think the picture has two interrelated moments quite independent of each other - making the image and post-production thereof. When using programs like Photoshop or Lightroom, to name the ones I use, one can get as good a picture not look much better but is just that, one can not sell the spirit of his work. The contribution it can make a Photoshop action is merely a matter of colorization, a Lightroom preset can solve issues such as light exposure, a texture may emphasize a composition or add an extra element to assist in the matter of aesthetics but the sense the image, its meaning and if significant can not ever come of post-processing. And I strongly believe that because you can do a cut and choose which part of reality is going to communicate or can merge two images, but this fusion going from the concept of the image as a whole, can not depend merely stylistic issues, aesthetics have to reinforce something that has existence independent of it. To put it more concretely: the touch is a great tool that can give us many possibilities - it is able to improve an image if used properly or create an aesthetic aberration if used indiscriminately, but if an image says nothing, if it is unable to transmit anything per se, change the tone or apply a texture will not do the miracle.

In one comment you make to the caption, you talk about the many ways you can take the same image, just combining with others or editing it. In fact, in your series Fusionary Imaginary play with this idea using the photo collage. Do you think we can still use the term goal refers to the reproduction of an image by the photographic apparatus?

Of course, if you do not believe it would not take pictures! I think, as I said before, an image can be meaningful in itself or can generate a whole new meaning by applying another image (that is what Imaginary Fusionary my series of photographs to achieve a union of whether leaflets, brochures, etc. generating a new concept that arises from the union of these images metonymically working, part of the whole). Many times I see that some people may use this technique to generate Leopard (which it seems that everything changes and everything is renewed so that in reality everything remains the same), are mere personal choice, me personally I like to have something to say.

As to the multiplicity of the photo message, it is best and is perhaps the magic of it all: a text can be interpreted in many ways but the possibility is lower and we are always in the dilemma of whether we understand what we have said or not. Instead the image is an anchor in itself, and everyone chooses where to anchor and how - Feelings can be aroused by the image itself may be a phenomenon fully evocative and it is a projection that makes the person on a moment of your life or experience that the picture reminds him, is a wonderful process of empathy. And the camera is always there, the camera is the pair of eyes that are choosing what shows you - is you can discover why it is showing you.

Share a Little Piece of your Blue

Has passed away analog photography?

I think not, but be very careful when talking about these issues. I personally feel in debt to analog photography because I so far I've only worked in digital form, and I think you have to get to the very essence of this art that only you can give the analogy. In this last period I have purchased several analog cameras and I'm actually looking forward to a trip I have planned for October to try. But she said we must be very careful about these issues because, as yet there is genuine interest fashion, and lately has had a good analogy of a genuine interest, but also being used as a fad by many.

Many of your favorite photos yourself meddle as a model. What function does this intervention? Are you the one that is within the fragmented body?

always me who is inside the body fragmented, it is evident from the case, even though some of my pictures of myself using other women's names are merely stylistic issues - but could not never deny my own person in what I do.

I often use myself as a model for the need for urgency: many times I feel the urge to take pictures for me is a particular concept and obviously, I have a staff of models in my house so I ended up being posing because I know if I postpone the case then you will not have the same meaning. Also many times it is a matter of fidelity to the original idea: even if it is the work of the photographer to guide the model to achieve the pose you want, many times the model is close but does not achieve 100% by the simple reason you can not see the images that one has on the brain then, in those cases where I know nobody would be able to do that I need, I do.

The Voice Unheard

Contemplating your work gives the impression that the treatment of space in your images is very specific: no limits and, simultaneously, perhaps for the density gives with your textures, takes on a personality, a kind of identity which overlaps with the identity, in turn diluted by the fragmentation and the glimpses of your figure. Are we talking about a landscape or a portrait?

A landscape. I like to think that everything is a landscape, portrait or even a macro, everything is subject to change, and everything has a story, even the pores in skin. That's why for me everything is landscape, even the most elaborate ideas. Everything that I tell a story from the picture drawn to a close-up of an eye shows me a field of things that are there for a reason, a reason, and that I can consider beautiful or not. Everything is a large sign that unfolds before our eyes, we like what we see or not.

Your images, that kind of push your body in an area that seems to have been settled yet, give a sensation of tenderness sheltered weak to be protected to avoid being trampled. There is a kind of fragility strengthened, the dignity of what is shown. Lala, how what we are talking about your photos? If his intention to tell us about something, of course. And, if it were not, what is so silent your photographs?

mine not only the images that give us most of the people living on this count and keep quiet. Photography, painting, drawing, whatever it tells us something. And if they are empty images, images that the creator did not say anything, the good thing is that maybe someone else if they can be saying something. In the case of my pictures I did not explain or talk about what I say or what to tell because I think it's like grab some scissors and cut them into pieces, and if I did that not only would be limiting my work but would also fail, and not allow them to take their own life according to the aspect with which they look. All I can say is that my pictures tell you what you want to tell you, and to be silent so that you do not want to hear.

More information:

http://kumulonimbus.blogspot.com/

http://www.flickr.com/photos/lalamartin

Subscribe to my feed

Difference Between Thermocol And Polystyrene

The insert body dissector

's father Juan entire life had rolled around souls. First, by vocation, sponsored children in their childhood infidels to gain salvation of their souls, then, by profession, was ordained to ensure that souls could be saved or not, meet every Sunday with his parishioner status, then passion , lost his reason and his own soul for the soul of eyes, and finally up to the present, his obsession was to steal, dissect and collect souls.

extract it to a living body, his soul is not as difficult as it may seem, but it does require a certain degree of skill and, above all, a sufficient perseverance. It is true that sometimes someone without the slightest intention preparation or even the soul and brings you no longer see them again, nor the thief or the stolen, but this only happens on rare occasions.

That morning was one more in May and Juan walked losing steps and other days also some thought lost and distracted. Always walking up the two and the two took the wine in the tavern and joked and talked about football and bloody abortion and times in general were no longer faiths or beliefs. The bar was full of souls, but none of those interested. Souls were second or third that looked at him without wanting to see him, unwilling to speak only of those things you always said with a laugh without saying anything and waivers to feel the laughter or sorrow. Nor was his soul and he lived, but had learned to live with her the days the same and molded to feel almost feel the absence of his soul stolen.

wine After two blocks and a first floor with sunny little street noise seeping through windows and not close properly or fully opened to let out the smell of books walled numbing afternoon for fear that one of those noises again be a gypsy song or that any full moon mocked from the window. Ate the stew yesterday and put on latex gloves before entering the room of souls.

had more than five thousand souls perfectly classified and documented. His collection was the result of over ten years of work, ten years ago that he had stolen the soul for the last time was ten years since that night when walking without a soul looking for his soul was faced a man who after kissing a woman walked into a portal with all your soul made smile and dream and tomorrow in his face and John was so easy to feel envy and anger and pain and love that soul to be the hollow gourd loss.

turned on the powerful, white light in the room of souls and approached the table where dissected. It squeezed both temples with their index fingers in his mouth until he began to opt for a rectangular white gelatinous porridge. When he stopped throwing lumps that remained engrossed watching thick liquid that was solidifying while its surface succeeded in thousands of pictures narrating the story of the soul. After five minutes he wrote in a tab all the data identifying their latest dissection and, whenever a new soul added to his collection, took the photograph of the woman's face as he took the soul was ten years ago. It was a woman's face with his eyes looking as knowing and surprised at once, with blue clouds that seemed to background, darkroom where reality ceases to be a woman stretched and learn to play the game. He went back to his latest acquisition and compared the picture with the image showing the mold with the soul. Proved once again that soul could not be that of the woman and put it in the cabinet he belongs. He closed his eyes and all images of women were screened in his heart. He knew that one day I would find her soul, her soul, did not matter that I had to dissect one hundred thousand souls.

Thinking it shivered in a cold sweat. What soul would find it? Souls are being replaced each other and each lost forever to the last. People do not realize it, but then his young soul has been stolen and another substitute, one that is not so spontaneous, so vivid, and so on until one day the old soul who has been living with he no longer wants anyone and not stolen because it has no life or excitement and the people that called maturity. The souls are of a being to another in an endless carousel until stiff one day in the sternum of some being that is almost, but John took these thoughts in mind and rinsed his face before the cassock and go to church to officiate Mass at seven.

Subscribe to my feed

Metalic Taste In Mouth Hydrocortizone

souls and days Dreams

I passed on the same street of the canal, the abandoned factory with three piles closing the road, with its noise at night and it sank stoned lantern in the darkness around it, in the dark just ran over that the same streets of that child one day and not wake up.

saw nothing and saw it all mixed up with the future humiliated past, the past perverted by his not wanting to be or have been wanting to play in the future. The weather was hiding in doorways and stick his tongue out at me every step. A coated tongue teasing and long as life. I walked in the shadows and crevices of that old neighborhood. I was not afraid or if I had and that was fear. Your smile.

factory complained and were with her cats. It was a sweet noise factory grandmother, life retracted backwards, as if waiting for what came lingered. Were black cats with their tails tread life and bruised around the rubble of the industrial chimney. The factory had long since been demolished. In its place was now a community center, a cultural container called him to not call anything.

The channel was not already, but I followed her, balancing, playing to tread the line not to fall, not to think about themselves or not. My friends were in the usual place with his teeth pressing talks and believe blindly groping want, understand the thousands. They played the tobacco and put names to things. I approached them and wanted to chat, play games, but each of them looked at me and said one word of those who swim underwater without hearing anything, without saying anything, and each of them turned, smiled, left, left me with the word submerged in the water and came up to my neck and my head swam in their words Boobies fish, blind and dumb, tickling me in the eyes and swallowed hard not to mourn. They all went. I felt cold and anxiety and an arcade all the fishes rose out of my mouth. Fell into the ditch and remained there without saying anything. They were just words.

After the canal was a wall of medium height and the wall behind the railroad tracks. The wall was full of Masons and requetés painted. Also one that said: "Bartolo Carmen fucks the "and another saying," Why I can not be with the one I want? "and I thought it was a very sad and full sentence of west, which is to say that" or " mate and son. I jumped the ditch and I climbed the wall to get right to "or" me. I touched it with his knuckles and the little one opened. Come in.

Within the "o" was still darker than outside, so that the second bump on the head I decided to kneel and crawl with the utmost care. Smelled hollow buzzing or echoing everywhere. Was in a tunnel too narrow and very long. In the background loomed a trickle of light. I changed in that second position and spent more than three hours of crawling as the light grew larger until it was light and the "o" or the tunnel no longer existed and I fell into a very white light and sticky to me covered up to swallow a kind of porridge with a strange taste of vanilla. In the bottom of that huge gap as a platform jutting land. I swam with great difficulty over there and when I got to it. It was as infinite as the white lagoon, as black as the infinite and so full of words like love to come. Words clitoris licking each other, piled intertwined and lascivious moans of pleasure calling to accompany their fake orgasms. I realized I had to bathe in semen of letters and felt a little sick.

I started kicking the words, to trample until their pain and moaned moans one, burst on the inside, he said: "Literature can not be distracted," and I gave him reason and I kept kicking until stopped moaning and continued making my way to the platform, kicking and reading a book upside down, where I could read: "The allomorph in my view is reflected in yours" and took a misstep and fell through a hole of blue eyes cliff and fell with the book is tightly holding the flaps and dropped all my life falling down and moaning and begged not know who to wake up when it reaches the bottom, you wake up and I woke up and kept falling to the book grabbed by the lapels, I kept falling and I woke up and kept falling down and the bottom there was nothing, just over the ditch, my friends back to me, the factory in ruins, life upside down. I wanted to wake up. Sleep. Power to dream again.

I begged a few grams
shadows of darkness.
And the crowd
borrowed a bit more solitude. Shouting
asked quietly,
calm to the city. Calling by name
sleep,
it came quickly.

had seventeen broken mirrors above the altar. Reflecting

that part of ourselves we try to hide.
was an imaginary map,
a book without end.
The path was already traced
and something kept us from walking. I can not remember ever

how just dreams. After waking

fade and lose them.
I can not remember. I can not remember ever
...
dreams. Dreams. How
just dreams.
on ashes and broken promises
stained dawn.
My sorrows and my bones float
between paper airplanes. Seventeen

teddy bears are looking for something to believe.
graves Seventeen Seventeen clouds
try, but I can not run. I can not remember ever

how just dreams. After waking

fade and lose them.
I can not remember. I can not remember ever
...
dreams. Dreams. How
just dreams. I can not remember ever

how just dreams. After waking

fade and lose them.
I can not remember. I can not remember ever
...
dreams. Dreams. How
just dreams.

(091: "I just dreams")

Subscribe to feed me