O grande mundo de Andy Warhol em Paris
5 de Agosto de 2017, 16:25
“Eu queria pintar o nada. Estava em busca de algo que fosse a essência do nada, e lá estava.”
Andy Warhol
A pop art decolou nos Estados Unidos em 1962, lançada marcadamente pelas pinturas de Andy Warhol de anúncios de latas de sopa. As muito conhecidas e sempre reproduzidas obras com a sopa Campbell. Com essas citações inusitadas, não obstante brilhantes, brandas e sem qualquer ênfase – logo depois produzidas pela nova técnica de serigrafia –, e com suas exposições de latas simuladas do produto domestico Brillo, Warhol parecia ter levado o questionamento do papel do artista a um ponto crucial, jamais visto na história da arte.
Uma personalidade extremamente carismática fez de Warhol uma peça – chave na cena de Nova York nos anos 60, e um gancho adequado para suportar e mesmo orientar uma mudança cultural radical – a transição da autenticidade calorosa para a indiferente despreocupação “da…
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In the Age of Neymar, what can We Learn from Socrates?
5 de Agosto de 2017, 16:19The premier league starts again in a week’s time, and I am still agonising and tweaking The Supermodifieds. It goes without saying that I would love Kane in my team, but with him being the most expensive player, I would lose strength in the midfield. After many revisions I am finally settling into this final squad, which does give me room to bring in Jesus if need be, as well as swapping out Rooney if he fails to live up to his potential having made the move to Everton. What do you think?

To reduce the tension somewhat chez Robinson, I am also currently reading the new biography of Socrates, the legendary Brazilian footballer by Scottish writer and journalist Andrew Downie. Downie is a foreign correspondent based in Brazil, whose political, social, cultural and historical knowledge of Brazil has enabled him to penetrate deeply into the psyche of a sportsman…
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What Happened When Frank Died: Jak
5 de Agosto de 2017, 12:34
Frank died.
A bug looked down at him. No–not a bug, bigger, with lips; sickly fat ones.
“Frank? Are you with us Frank?”
Frank focused on the bug, the room, his own skin. He looked down at his own naked body.
“What?”
The Bug sighed, as much as a bug can sigh.
“Death number forty-two is a success. Frank, what do you remember?”
Frank tried to sit up. But, he couldn’t. He noticed thick white straps holding down his arms and legs.
“What is going on here!”
The Bug stepped back, looking hurt.
“Frank? It’s me.” As a sign of good faith the bug unstrapped Frank and stepped back. If bugs could manage a hurt frown, this one sure could.
“What, what do you mean it’s you?” Frank stared the bug up and down. It’s body was mostly human.
“We–we’ve been working together for years.”
Frank almost laughed but instead…
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