person:francis bacon

  • Couloir sans fin n°9 au pays du pourtour romain

    COULOIR SANS FIN 9 au pays du pourtour romain

    Météo cosmique

    et entretien avec Kang Byung ki

    autour de l’oeuvre de Francis Bacon

    Exposition collective à Barcelone jusqu’au 6 Juin 2019

    Playlist :

    Man in the planet – Red Zepoarin


    BrianEno – Glitch

    The stranglers – MenInBlack



    CabaretVoltaire- Black Mask

    Zack de la rocha – digging for windows here

    the prodigy – invisible sun

    Wheelchair killer truthsayers

    trunks – easter eggs any1

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  • Who Was Shakespeare? Could the Author Have Been a Woman? - The Atlantic

    On a spring night in 2018, I stood on a Manhattan sidewalk with friends, reading Shakespeare aloud. We were in line to see an adaptation of Macbeth and had decided to pass the time refreshing our memories of the play’s best lines. I pulled up Lady Macbeth’s soliloquy on my iPhone. “Come, you spirits / That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here,” I read, thrilled once again by the incantatory power of the verse. I remembered where I was when I first heard those lines: in my 10th-grade English class, startled out of my adolescent stupor by this woman rebelling magnificently and malevolently against her submissive status. “Make thick my blood, / Stop up th’ access and passage to remorse.” Six months into the #MeToo movement, her fury and frustration felt newly resonant.

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    Pulled back into plays I’d studied in college and graduate school, I found myself mesmerized by Lady Macbeth and her sisters in the Shakespeare canon. Beatrice, in Much Ado About Nothing, raging at the limitations of her sex (“O God, that I were a man! I would eat his heart in the marketplace”). Rosalind, in As You Like It, affecting the swagger of masculine confidence to escape those limitations (“We’ll have a swashing and a martial outside, / As many other mannish cowards have / That do outface it with their semblances”). Isabella, in Measure for Measure, fearing no one will believe her word against Angelo’s, rapist though he is (“To whom should I complain? Did I tell this, / Who would believe me?”). Kate, in The Taming of the Shrew, refusing to be silenced by her husband (“My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, / Or else my heart concealing it will break”). Emilia, in one of her last speeches in Othello before Iago kills her, arguing for women’s equality (“Let husbands know / Their wives have sense like them”).
    I was reminded of all the remarkable female friendships, too: Beatrice and Hero’s allegiance; Emilia’s devotion to her mistress, Desdemona; Paulina’s brave loyalty to Hermione in The Winter’s Tale; and plenty more. (“Let’s consult together against this greasy knight,” resolve the merry wives of Windsor, revenging themselves on Falstaff.) These intimate female alliances are fresh inventions—they don’t exist in the literary sources from which many of the plays are drawn. And when the plays lean on historical sources (Plutarch, for instance), they feminize them, portraying legendary male figures through the eyes of mothers, wives, and lovers. “Why was Shakespeare able to see the woman’s position, write entirely as if he were a woman, in a way that none of the other playwrights of the age were able to?” In her book about the plays’ female characters, Tina Packer, the founding artistic director of Shakespeare & Company, asked the question very much on my mind.

    Doubts about whether William Shakespeare (who was born in Stratford-upon-Avon in 1564 and died in 1616) really wrote the works attributed to him are almost as old as the writing itself. Alternative contenders—Francis Bacon; Christopher Marlowe; and Edward de Vere, the 17th earl of Oxford, prominent among them—continue to have champions, whose fervor can sometimes border on fanaticism. In response, orthodox Shakespeare scholars have settled into dogmatism of their own. Even to dabble in authorship questions is considered a sign of bad faith, a blinkered failure to countenance genius in a glover’s son. The time had come, I felt, to tug at the blinkers of both camps and reconsider the authorship debate: Had anyone ever proposed that the creator of those extraordinary women might be a woman? Each of the male possibilities requires an elaborate theory to explain his use of another’s name. None of the candidates has succeeded in dethroning the man from Stratford. Yet a simple reason would explain a playwright’s need for a pseudonym in Elizabethan England: being female.
    Who was this woman writing “immortal work” in the same year that Shakespeare’s name first appeared in print?

    Long before Tina Packer marveled at the bard’s uncanny insight, others were no less awed by the empathy that pervades the work. “One would think that he had been Metamorphosed from a Man to a Woman,” wrote Margaret Cavendish, the 17th-century philosopher and playwright. The critic John Ruskin said, “Shakespeare has no heroes—he has only heroines.” A striking number of those heroines refuse to obey rules. At least 10 defy their fathers, bucking betrothals they don’t like to find their own paths to love. Eight disguise themselves as men, outwitting patriarchal controls—more gender-swapping than can be found in the work of any previous English playwright. Six lead armies.

    The prevailing view, however, has been that no women in Renaissance England wrote for the theater, because that was against the rules. Religious verse and translation were deemed suitable female literary pursuits; “closet dramas,” meant only for private reading, were acceptable. The stage was off-limits. Yet scholars have lately established that women were involved in the business of acting companies as patrons, shareholders, suppliers of costumes, and gatherers of entrance fees. What’s more, 80 percent of the plays printed in the 1580s were written anonymously, and that number didn’t fall below 50 percent until the early 1600s. At least one eminent Shakespeare scholar, Phyllis Rackin, of the University of Pennsylvania, challenges the blanket assumption that the commercial drama pouring forth in the period bore no trace of a female hand. So did Virginia Woolf, even as she sighed over the obstacles that would have confronted a female Shakespeare: “Undoubtedly, I thought, looking at the shelf where there are no plays by women, her work would have gone unsigned.”

    A tantalizing nudge lies buried in the writings of Gabriel Harvey, a well-known Elizabethan literary critic. In 1593, he referred cryptically to an “excellent Gentlewoman” who had written three sonnets and a comedy. “I dare not Particularise her Description,” he wrote, even as he heaped praise on her.

    All her conceits are illuminate with the light of Reason; all her speeches beautified with the grace of Affability … In her mind there appeareth a certain heavenly Logic; in her tongue & pen a divine Rhetoric … I dare undertake with warrant, whatsoever she writeth must needs remain an immortal work, and will leave, in the activest world, an eternal memory of the silliest vermin that she should vouchsafe to grace with her beautiful and allective style, as ingenious as elegant.

    Who was this woman writing “immortal work” in the same year that Shakespeare’s name first appeared in print, on the poem “Venus and Adonis,” a scandalous parody of masculine seduction tales (in which the woman forces herself on the man)? Harvey’s tribute is extraordinary, yet orthodox Shakespeareans and anti-Stratfordians alike have almost entirely ignored it.

    Until recently, that is, when a few bold outliers began to advance the case that Shakespeare might well have been a woman. One candidate is Mary Sidney, the countess of Pembroke (and beloved sister of the celebrated poet Philip Sidney)—one of the most educated women of her time, a translator and poet, and the doyenne of the Wilton Circle, a literary salon dedicated to galvanizing an English cultural renaissance. Clues beckon, not least that Sidney and her husband were the patrons of one of the first theater companies to perform Shakespeare’s plays. Was Shakespeare’s name useful camouflage, allowing her to publish what she otherwise couldn’t?
    Shakespeare’s life is remarkably well documented—yet no records from his lifetime identify him unequivocally as a writer.

    But the candidate who intrigued me more was a woman as exotic and peripheral as Sidney was pedigreed and prominent. Not long after my Macbeth outing, I learned that Shakespeare’s Globe, in London, had set out to explore this figure’s input to the canon. The theater’s summer 2018 season concluded with a new play, Emilia, about a contemporary of Shakespeare’s named Emilia Bassano. Born in London in 1569 to a family of Venetian immigrants—musicians and instrument-makers who were likely Jewish—she was one of the first women in England to publish a volume of poetry (suitably religious yet startlingly feminist, arguing for women’s “Libertie” and against male oppression). Her existence was unearthed in 1973 by the Oxford historian A. L. Rowse, who speculated that she was Shakespeare’s mistress, the “dark lady” described in the sonnets. In Emilia, the playwright Morgan Lloyd Malcolm goes a step further: Her Shakespeare is a plagiarist who uses Bassano’s words for Emilia’s famous defense of women in Othello.

    Could Bassano have contributed even more widely and directly? The idea felt like a feminist fantasy about the past—but then, stories about women’s lost and obscured achievements so often have a dreamlike quality, unveiling a history different from the one we’ve learned. Was I getting carried away, reinventing Shakespeare in the image of our age? Or was I seeing past gendered assumptions to the woman who—like Shakespeare’s heroines—had fashioned herself a clever disguise? Perhaps the time was finally ripe for us to see her.

    The ranks of Shakespeare skeptics comprise a kind of literary underworld—a cross-disciplinary array of academics, actors (Derek Jacobi and Mark Rylance are perhaps the best known), writers, teachers, lawyers, a few Supreme Court justices (Sandra Day O’Connor, Antonin Scalia, John Paul Stevens). Look further back and you’ll find such illustrious names as Ralph Waldo Emerson, Walt Whitman, Mark Twain, Henry James, Sigmund Freud, Helen Keller, and Charlie Chaplin. Their ideas about the authorship of the plays and poems differ, but they concur that Shakespeare is not the man who wrote them.

    Their doubt is rooted in an empirical conundrum. Shakespeare’s life is remarkably well documented, by the standards of the period—yet no records from his lifetime identify him unequivocally as a writer. The more than 70 documents that exist show him as an actor, a shareholder in a theater company, a moneylender, and a property investor. They show that he dodged taxes, was fined for hoarding grain during a shortage, pursued petty lawsuits, and was subject to a restraining order. The profile is remarkably coherent, adding up to a mercenary impresario of the Renaissance entertainment industry. What’s missing is any sign that he wrote.

    From January 1863: Nathaniel Hawthorne considers authorship while visiting Stratford-upon-Avon

    No such void exists for other major writers of the period, as a meticulous scholar named Diana Price has demonstrated. Many left fewer documents than Shakespeare did, but among them are manuscripts, letters, and payment records proving that writing was their profession. For example, court records show payment to Ben Jonson for “those services of his wit & pen.” Desperate to come up with comparable material to round out Shakespeare, scholars in the 18th and 19th centuries forged evidence—later debunked—of a writerly life.

    To be sure, Shakespeare’s name can be found linked, during his lifetime, to written works. With Love’s Labour’s Lost, in 1598, it started appearing on the title pages of one-play editions called “quartos.” (Several of the plays attributed to Shakespeare were first published anonymously.) Commentators at the time saluted him by name, praising “Shakespeare’s fine filed phrase” and “honey-tongued Shakespeare.” But such evidence proves attribution, not actual authorship—as even some orthodox Shakespeare scholars grant. “I would love to find a contemporary document that said William Shakespeare was the dramatist of Stratford-upon-Avon written during his lifetime,” Stanley Wells, a professor emeritus at the University of Birmingham’s Shakespeare Institute, has said. “That would shut the buggers up!”
    October 1991 Atlantic cover

    In 1991, The Atlantic commissioned two pieces from admittedly partisan authors, Irving Matus and Tom Bethell, to examine and debate the argument:
    In Defense of Shakespeare
    The Case for Oxford

    By contrast, more than a few of Shakespeare’s contemporaries are on record suggesting that his name got affixed to work that wasn’t his. In 1591, the dramatist Robert Greene wrote of the practice of “underhand brokery”—of poets who “get some other Batillus to set his name to their verses.” (Batillus was a mediocre Roman poet who claimed some of Virgil’s verses as his own.) The following year, he warned fellow playwrights about an “upstart Crow, beautified with our feathers,” who thinks he is the “onely Shake-scene in a countrey.” Most scholars agree that the “Crow” is Shakespeare, then an actor in his late 20s, and conclude that the new-hatched playwright was starting to irk established figures. Anti-Stratfordians see something else: In Aesop’s fables, the crow was a proud strutter who stole the feathers of others; Horace’s crow, in his epistles, was a plagiarist. Shakespeare was being attacked, they say, not as a budding dramatist, but as a paymaster taking credit for others’ work. “Seeke you better Maisters,” Greene advised, urging his colleagues to cease writing for the Crow.

    Ben Jonson, among others, got in his digs, too. Scholars agree that the character of Sogliardo in Every Man Out of His Humour—a country bumpkin “without brain, wit, anything, indeed, ramping to gentility”—is a parody of Shakespeare, a social climber whose pursuit of a coat of arms was common lore among his circle of actors. In a satirical poem called “On Poet-Ape,” Jonson was likely taking aim at Shakespeare the theater-world wheeler-dealer. This poet-ape, Jonson wrote, “from brokage is become so bold a thief,”

    At first he made low shifts, would pick and glean,
    Buy the reversion of old plays; now grown
    To a little wealth, and credit in the scene,
    He takes up all, makes each man’s wit his own

    What to make of the fact that Jonson changed his tune in the prefatory material that he contributed to the First Folio of plays when it appeared seven years after Shakespeare’s death? Jonson’s praise there did more than attribute the work to Shakespeare. It declared his art unmatched: “He was not of an age, but for all time!” The anti-Stratfordian response is to note the shameless hype at the heart of the Folio project. “Whatever you do, Buy,” the compilers urged in their dedication, intent on a hard sell for a dramatist who, doubters emphasize, was curiously unsung at his death. The Folio’s introductory effusions, they argue, contain double meanings. Jonson tells readers, for example, to find Shakespeare not in his portrait “but his Booke,” seeming to undercut the relation between the man and the work. And near the start of his over-the-top tribute, Jonson riffs on the unreliability of extravagant praise, “which doth ne’er advance / The truth.”

    From September 1904: Ralph Waldo Emerson celebrates Shakespeare

    The authorship puzzles don’t end there. How did the man born in Stratford acquire the wide-ranging knowledge on display in the plays—of the Elizabethan court, as well as of multiple languages, the law, astronomy, music, the military, and foreign lands, especially northern Italian cities? The author’s linguistic brilliance shines in words and sayings imported from foreign vocabularies, but Shakespeare wasn’t educated past the age of 13. Perhaps he traveled, joined the army, worked as a tutor, or all three, scholars have proposed. Yet no proof exists of any of those experiences, despite, as the Oxford historian Hugh Trevor-Roper pointed out in an essay, “the greatest battery of organized research that has ever been directed upon a single person.”
    Emilia Bassano’s life encompassed the breadth of the Shakespeare canon: its low-class references and knowledge of the court; its Italian sources and Jewish allusions; its music and feminism.

    In fact, a document that does exist—Shakespeare’s will—would seem to undercut such hypotheses. A wealthy man when he retired to Stratford, he was meticulous about bequeathing his properties and possessions (his silver, his second-best bed). Yet he left behind not a single book, though the plays draw on hundreds of texts, including some—in Italian and French—that hadn’t yet been translated into English. Nor did he leave any musical instruments, though the plays use at least 300 musical terms and refer to 26 instruments. He remembered three actor-owners in his company, but no one in the literary profession. Strangest of all, he made no mention of manuscripts or writing. Perhaps as startling as the gaps in his will, Shakespeare appears to have neglected his daughters’ education—an incongruity, given the erudition of so many of the playwright’s female characters. One signed with her mark, the other with a signature a scholar has called “painfully formed.”

    “Weak and unconvincing” was Trevor-Roper’s verdict on the case for Shakespeare. My delving left me in agreement, not that the briefs for the male alternatives struck me as compelling either. Steeped in the plays, I felt their author would surely join me in bridling at the Stratfordians’ unquestioning worship at the shrine—their arrogant dismissal of skeptics as mere deluded “buggers,” or worse. (“Is there any more fanatic zealot than the priest-like defender of a challenged creed?” asked Richmond Crinkley, a former director of programs at the Folger Shakespeare Library who was nonetheless sympathetic to the anti-Stratfordian view.) To appreciate how belief blossoms into fact—how readily myths about someone get disseminated as truth—one can’t do better than to read Shakespeare. Just think of how obsessed the work is with mistaken identities, concealed women, forged and anonymous documents—with the error of trusting in outward appearances. What if searchers for the real Shakespeare simply haven’t set their sights on the right pool of candidates?

    Read: An interview with the author of ‘The Shakespeare Wars’

    I met Emilia Bassano’s most ardent champion at Alice’s Tea Cup, which seemed unexpectedly apt: A teahouse on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, it has quotes from Alice in Wonderland scrawled across the walls. (“off with their heads!”) John Hudson, an Englishman in his 60s who pursued a degree at the Shakespeare Institute in a mid-career swerve, had been on the Bassano case for years, he told me. In 2014, he published Shakespeare’s Dark Lady: Amelia Bassano Lanier, the Woman Behind Shakespeare’s Plays? His zeal can sometimes get the better of him, yet he emphasizes that his methods and findings are laid out “for anyone … to refute if they wish.” Like Alice’s rabbit hole, Bassano’s case opened up new and richly disorienting perspectives—on the plays, on the ways we think about genius and gender, and on a fascinating life.

    Hudson first learned of Bassano from A. L. Rowse, who discovered mention of her in the notebooks of an Elizabethan physician and astrologer named Simon Forman. In her teens, she became the mistress of Henry Carey, Lord Hunsdon, the master of court entertainment and patron of Shakespeare’s acting company. And that is only the start. Whether or not Bassano was Shakespeare’s lover (scholars now dismiss Rowse’s claim), the discernible contours of her biography supply what the available material about Shakespeare’s life doesn’t: circumstantial evidence of opportunities to acquire an impressive expanse of knowledge.

    Bassano lived, Hudson points out, “an existence on the boundaries of many different social worlds,” encompassing the breadth of the Shakespeare canon: its coarse, low-class references and its intimate knowledge of the court; its Italian sources and its Jewish allusions; its music and its feminism. And her imprint, as Hudson reads the plays, extends over a long period. He notes the many uses of her name, citing several early on—for instance, an Emilia in The Comedy of Errors. (Emilia, the most common female name in the plays alongside Katherine, wasn’t used in the 16th century by any other English playwright.) Titus Andronicus features a character named Bassianus, which was the original Roman name of Bassano del Grappa, her family’s hometown before their move to Venice. Later, in The Merchant of Venice, the romantic hero is a Venetian named Bassanio, an indication that the author perhaps knew of the Bassanos’ connection to Venice. (Bassanio is a spelling of their name in some records.)

    Further on, in Othello, another Emilia appears—Iago’s wife. Her famous speech against abusive husbands, Hudson notes, doesn’t show up until 1623, in the First Folio, included among lines that hadn’t appeared in an earlier version (lines that Stratfordians assume—without any proof—were written before Shakespeare’s death). Bassano was still alive, and by then had known her share of hardship at the hands of men. More to the point, she had already spoken out, in her 1611 book of poetry, against men who “do like vipers deface the wombs wherein they were bred.”

    Prodded by Hudson, you can discern traces of Bassano’s own life trajectory in particular works across the canon. In All’s Well That Ends Well, a lowborn girl lives with a dowager countess and a general named Bertram. When Bassano’s father, Baptista, died in 1576, Emilia, then 7, was taken in by Susan Bertie, the dowager countess of Kent. The countess’s brother, Peregrine Bertie, was—like the fictional Bertram—a celebrated general. In the play, the countess tells how a father “famous … in his profession” left “his sole child … bequeathed to my overlooking. I have those hopes of her good that her education promises.” Bassano received a remarkable humanist education with the countess. In her book of poetry, she praised her guardian as “the Mistris of my youth, / The noble guide of my ungovern’d dayes.”
    Bassano’s life sheds possible light on the plays’ preoccupation with women caught in forced or loveless marriages.

    As for the celebrated general, Hudson seizes on the possibility that Bassano’s ears, and perhaps eyes, were opened by Peregrine Bertie as well. In 1582, Bertie was named ambassador to Denmark by the queen and sent to the court at Elsinore—the setting of Hamlet. Records show that the trip included state dinners with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, whose names appear in the play. Because emissaries from the same two families later visited the English court, the trip isn’t decisive, but another encounter is telling: Bertie met with the Danish astronomer Tycho Brahe, whose astronomical theories influenced the play. Was Bassano (then just entering her teens) on the trip? Bertie was accompanied by a “whole traine,” but only the names of important gentlemen are recorded. In any case, Hudson argues, she would have heard tales on his return.

    Later, as the mistress of Henry Carey (43 years her senior), Bassano gained access to more than the theater world. Carey, the queen’s cousin, held various legal and military positions. Bassano was “favoured much of her Majesty and of many noblemen,” the physician Forman noted, indicating the kind of extensive aristocratic associations that only vague guesswork can accord to Shakespeare. His company didn’t perform at court until Christmas of 1594, after several of the plays informed by courtly life had already been written. Shakespeare’s history plays, concerned as they are with the interactions of the governing class, presume an insider perspective on aristocratic life. Yet mere court performances wouldn’t have enabled such familiarity, and no trace exists of Shakespeare’s presence in any upper-class household.

    And then, in late 1592, Bassano (now 23) was expelled from court. She was pregnant. Carey gave her money and jewels and, for appearance’s sake, married her off to Alphonso Lanier, a court musician. A few months later, she had a son. Despite the glittering dowry, Lanier must not have been pleased. “Her husband hath dealt hardly with her,” Forman wrote, “and spent and consumed her goods.”

    Bassano was later employed in a noble household, probably as a music tutor, and roughly a decade after that opened a school. Whether she accompanied her male relatives—whose consort of recorder players at the English court lasted 90 years—on their trips back to northern Italy isn’t known. But the family link to the home country offers support for the fine-grained familiarity with the region that (along with in-depth musical knowledge) any plausible candidate for authorship would seem to need—just what scholars have had to strain to establish for Shakespeare. (Perhaps, theories go, he chatted with travelers or consulted books.) In Othello, for example, Iago gives a speech that precisely describes a fresco in Bassano del Grappa—also the location of a shop owned by Giovanni Otello, a likely source of the title character’s name.

    Her Bassano lineage—scholars suggest the family were conversos, converted or hidden Jews presenting as Christians—also helps account for the Jewish references that scholars of the plays have noted. The plea in The Merchant of Venice for the equality and humanity of Jews, a radical departure from typical anti-Semitic portrayals of the period, is well known. “Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions?” Shylock asks. “If you prick us, do we not bleed?” A Midsummer Night’s Dream draws from a passage in the Talmud about marriage vows; spoken Hebrew is mixed into the nonsense language of All’s Well That Ends Well.
    Stephen Doyle

    What’s more, the Bassano family’s background suggests a source close to home for the particular interest in dark figures in the sonnets, Othello, and elsewhere. A 1584 document about the arrest of two Bassano men records them as “black”—among Elizabethans, the term could apply to anyone darker than the fair-skinned English, including those with a Mediterranean complexion. (The fellows uttered lines that could come straight from a comic interlude in the plays: “We have as good friends in the court as thou hast and better too … Send us to ward? Thou wert as good kiss our arse.”) In Love’s Labour’s Lost, the noblemen derisively compare Rosaline, the princess’s attendant, to “chimney-sweepers” and “colliers” (coal miners). The king joins in, telling Berowne, who is infatuated with her, “Thy love is black as ebony,” to which the young lord responds, “O wood divine!”

    Bassano’s life sheds possible light, too, on another outsider theme: the plays’ preoccupation with women caught in forced or loveless marriages. Hudson sees her misery reflected in the sonnets, thought to have been written from the early 1590s to the early 1600s. “When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes, / I all alone beweep my outcast state, /And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, /And look upon myself and curse my fate,” reads sonnet 29. (When Maya Angelou first encountered the poem as a child, she thought Shakespeare must have been a black girl who had been sexually abused: “How else could he know what I know?”) For Shakespeare, those years brought a rise in status: In 1596, he was granted a coat of arms, and by 1597, he was rich enough to buy the second-largest house in Stratford.

    Read: What Maya Angelou meant when she said ‘Shakespeare must be a black girl’

    In what is considered an early or muddled version of The Taming of the Shrew, a man named Alphonso (as was Bassano’s husband) tries to marry off his three daughters, Emilia, Kate, and Philema. Emilia drops out in the later version, and the father is now called Baptista (the name of Bassano’s father). As a portrait of a husband dealing “hardly” with a wife, the play is horrifying. Yet Kate’s speech of submission, with its allusions to the Letters of Paul, is slippery: Even as she exaggeratedly parrots the Christian doctrine of womanly subjection, she is anything but dutifully silent.

    Shakespeare’s women repeatedly subvert such teachings, perhaps most radically in The Winter’s Tale, another drama of male cruelty. There the noblewoman Paulina, scorned by King Leontes as “a most intelligencing bawd” with a “boundless tongue,” bears fierce witness against him (no man dares to) when he wrongly accuses Queen Hermione of adultery and imprisons her. As in so many of the comedies, a more enlightened society emerges in the end because the women’s values triumph.

    I was stunned to realize that the year The Winter’s Tale was likely completed, 1611, was the same year Bassano published her book of poetry, Salve Deus Rex Judæorum. Her writing style bears no obvious resemblance to Shakespeare’s in his plays, though Hudson strains to suggest similarities. The overlap lies in the feminist content. Bassano’s poetry registers as more than conventional religious verse designed to win patronage (she dedicates it to nine women, Mary Sidney included, fashioning a female literary community). Scholars have observed that it reads as a “transgressive” defense of Eve and womankind. Like a cross-dressing Shakespearean heroine, Bassano refuses to play by the rules, heretically reinterpreting scripture. “If Eve did err, it was for knowledge sake,” she writes. Arguing that the crucifixion, a crime committed by men, was a greater crime than Eve’s, she challenges the basis of men’s “tyranny” over women.

    “I always feel something Italian, something Jewish about Shakespeare,” Jorge Luis Borges told The Paris Review in 1966. “Perhaps Englishmen admire him because of that, because it’s so unlike them.” Borges didn’t mention feeling “something female” about the bard, yet that response has never ceased to be part of Shakespeare’s allure—embodiment though he is of the patriarchal authority of the Western canon. What would the revelation of a woman’s hand at work mean, aside from the loss of a prime tourist attraction in Stratford-upon-Avon? Would the effect be a blow to the cultural patriarchy, or the erosion of the canon’s status? Would (male) myths of inexplicable genius take a hit? Would women at last claim their rightful authority as historical and intellectual forces?

    I was curious to take the temperature of the combative authorship debate as women edge their way into it. Over more tea, I tested Hudson’s room for flexibility. Could the plays’ many connections to Bassano be explained by simply assuming the playwright knew her well? “Shakespeare would have had to run to her every few minutes for a musical reference or an Italian pun,” he said. I caught up with Mark Rylance, the actor and former artistic director of the Globe, in the midst of rehearsals for Othello (whose plot, he noted, comes from an Italian text that didn’t exist in English). A latitudinarian doubter—embracing the inquiry, not any single candidate—Rylance has lately observed that the once heretical notion of collaboration between Shakespeare and other writers “is now accepted, pursued and published by leading orthodox scholars.” He told me that “Emilia should be studied by anyone interested in the creation of the plays.” David Scott Kastan, a well-known Shakespeare scholar at Yale, urged further exploration too, though he wasn’t ready to anoint her bard. “What’s clear is that it’s important to know more about her,” he said, and even got playful with pronouns: “The more we know about her and the world she lived in, the more we’ll know about Shakespeare, whoever she was.”
    Related Stories

    Such Ado: The Fight for Shakespeare’s Puns
    Shakespeare in Love, or in Context

    In the fall, I joined the annual meeting of the Shakespeare Authorship Trust—a gathering of skeptics at the Globe—feeling excited that gender would be at the top of the agenda. Some eyebrows were raised even in this company, but enthusiasm ran high. “People have been totally frustrated with authorship debates that go nowhere, but that’s because there have been 200 years of bad candidates,” one participant from the University of Toronto exclaimed. “They didn’t want to see women in this,” he reflected. “It’s a tragedy of history.”

    He favored Sidney. Others were eager to learn about Bassano, and with collaboration in mind, I wondered whether the two women had perhaps worked together, or as part of a group. I thought of Bassano’s Salve Deus, in which she writes that men have wrongly taken credit for knowledge: “Yet Men will boast of Knowledge, which he tooke / From Eve’s faire hand, as from a learned Booke.”

    The night after the meeting, I went to a performance of Antony and Cleopatra at the National Theatre. I sat enthralled, still listening for the poet in her words, trying to catch her reflection in some forgotten bit of verse. “Give me my robe, put on my crown,” cried the queen, “I have / Immortal longings in me.” There she was, kissing her ladies goodbye, raising the serpent to her breast. “I am fire and air.”

  • Je monte au plomb
    Une revue d’astrologie
    Désordre dans les caractères

    Désordre dans les caractères
    Les signes se mélangent
    Grand désordre dans les astres

    Le désordre dans le salon
    Après la répétition d’hier soir
    Je pousse le vidéo proj pour boire le café

    Un peu de musique
    Et c’est parti
    Je travaille tous azimuts

    Je tente de prendre contact
    Avec les personnes célèbres croisées
    Dans Frôlé par un V1

    Dans ma boîte de réception
    Je reçois des mails
    De musiciens, de quoi faire de beaux trios

    Jean-Luc Guionnet
    Sarah Murcia
    Régïs Boulard

    Chouette échange par mail
    Avec Régïs
    Découverte d’un ami commun

    Mail de B.
    Allons massacrer
    Quelques innocents !

    Ancien sillon
    Ruban Nord
    De la A86

    Sur la pelouse devant le château
    Une famille de quatre personnes
    Se fait prendre en photo

    Et je ris qu’ils ne sont que quatre
    Je pense au gang de mes cousins
    Sur la même pelouse, années 80

    Exposition du massacre des innocents
    De Poussin, le tableau point de départ
    Qui ne trouve pas grâce à nos yeux

    En revanche sa gravure préparatoire
    Toute petite mais grand moment
    De même un tableau plus petit

    Etonnante répétition de ces scènes
    De massacres, ici une tête coupée
    Là une main, des cadavres et tant de beauté !

    L’exposition passe sans souplesse
    Du XVIIIème pompeux, un peu
    Au XXème à Berlin

    Ernest Pignon-Ernest
    Se regarde peindre
    Tellement plus beau in situ

    Picasso convoqué
    Parce que Picasso
    Mais pas vraiment innocents

    Un tout petit tableau de Francis Bacon
    Et c’était presque sur la foi de ce seul nom
    Que nous étions venus : beau malgré tout

    Jérôme Zonder
    Tente un exercice difficile
    Collage pas entièrement réussi

    La partie des jardins anglais
    Du château tellement chaleureuse
    Des arbres en liberté, et quelle !

    Marchant dans les lumières d’automne
    Nous échangeons avec B.
    À propos de la Catalogne

    À peine rentrés nous nous jetons
    Sur le programme de l’Utopia
    Et partons en courant, juste à temps

    Logan Lucky de Steven Soderbergh
    Devrait être remboursé par le CPAM
    Thérapie par le rire tellement efficace

    Les soles de B.
    Gratin de potiron

    Belle discussion
    Difficile de s’en aller
    Envie de rester


    Je rentre à la maison
    Et vais me coucher
    Sans allumer une seule lampe

    Massacres d’innocents
    Logan Lucky
    Soles farinées


  • Zoë Lucider. L’arbre à Palabres : La fin du mâle dominant ?

    Nous sortons de la préhistoire et les #femmes libérées de la charge d’une famille pléthorique et accédant grâce à l’éducation à l’indépendance économique ne sont plus du tout disposées à subir la violence et le mépris dont elles étaient traditionnellement les cibles. Bien entendu, dans le camp des mâles contestés dans leur #suprématie, ça renâcle. Quoi ! On n’a plus le droit de mettre des mains aux fesses, de faire des réflexions fines sur les jolis nichons des pépettes qui passent à portée, on ne peut plus les soumettre au #chantage pour leur sauter dessus en toute impunité ! Mais alors que va devenir la très fameuse « drague » (toujours détesté ce terme), comment faire savoir qu’une femme nous fait bander ? On va devoir passer par toutes ces lourdeurs : leur parler, les inviter à dîner, leur faire la cour, tous ces trucs qui prennent du temps, sont si ringards, leur demander la permission quand on se servait sans vergogne, les femelles n’étant guère plus intelligentes qu’un barreau de chaise.

    #domination #patriarcat

  • Le mois dernier, avec Mosquito, on a livré l’installation « 7 Reece Mews Expérience » au Grimaldi Forum de Monaco, qui accompagne l’expo consacrée à Francis Bacon.

    L’installation se compose d’une fausse cabine Photomaton (l’écran est en fait un iPad avec mon appli Web dedans…), qui permet aux visiteurs de se prendre en photo, d’appliquer des filtres à la photo, puis d’expédier le résultat vers une grande table tactile interactive, qui regroupe toutes les photos prises pour l’occasion. Et toutes ces images, depuis la table interactive, sont affichées sur deux immenses pans de mur. L’idée est d’évoquer le bazar qui régnait dans l’atelier de Bacon.

    Une présentation de l’installation sur le site de Mosquito :

    La vidéo qui va bien :

    L’annonce officielle de l’expo :

    Étape finale, les images sont simultanément postées sur une page Facebook :

    Mon job là-dedans a été de réaliser l’application Web qui prend les photos et qui applique des filtres graphiques. Et tout ça installer sous forme d’appli dans un iPad. L’appli Web est, comme d’hab, un site #SPIP (allez : je stocke tout de même les images dans la table spip_documents, tu peux pas dire que SPIP ne me sert à rien…), et pour les filtres je les ai conçus en ligne de commande dans ImageMagick.

    J’ai fabriqué 12 filtres très typés.

    (en fait, la plupart des filtres sont en couleur, alors cette image avec Bacon jeune n’est pas idéalement choisie…)

  • L’éveil des années 1980 à Londres #st

    Après la seconde guerre mondiale, la capitale de l’#art se déplace de Paris à New York. La scène anglaise, elle, végète dans son isolement insulaire — à quelques exceptions près, comme Francis Bacon et David Hockney, puis Lucian Freud ou Frank Auerbach. Tout change au tournant des années 1980. S’ouvrent les chantiers de la Tate Liverpool (1988) et de la Tate St Ives (1993) ; M. Anthony d’Offay, galeriste fameux et grand collectionneur, fait une annonce fracassante : « Nous déclarons que nous sommes dans le monde plutôt qu’à Londres », et expose l’avant-garde internationale. La Royal Academy of Arts présente en 1981 « A New Spirit in Painting », où l’on voit pour la première fois dans le pays des artistes allemands comme Gerhard Richter ou Georg Baselitz. via Le Monde diplomatique

  • Notes sur la lecture de "L’invention de la science" de Guillaume Carnino. -5-

    Partie 1 :
    Partie 2 :
    Partie 3 :
    Partie 4 :

    Ch. VII.
    Le sens de « technologie » à changé au cours de l’histoire avec la science et l’industrie. Le terme servait d’abord a désigner et collecter l’ensemble des moyens permettant d’agir sur la matière. Il incluait aussi bien les métiers, les procédés techniques, que les machines. Les métiers en ont été exclus, les machines y sont resté mais procédés d’une collection et classification sas expérimentation ni causologie (connaissance des causes), et au cœur de ce grand ensemble se trouvait la « science des machines » proprement dite avec entre autre la cinétique.
    Cette modification sémantique est aussi pratique , puisque les manières de produire suivent aussi cette évolution , dans le vocabulaire d’une part, dans des descriptions de procédé qui devient de plus en plus précis et chimique, dans les lieux de production (qui de fabrique deviennent usine, industrie), et enfin dans le remplacement final du savoir faire artisanal par un ensemble de machine et procédé mécanique qui visent a obtenir scientifiquement la production (Carnino prend l’exemple de la fabrique de la bière, et plus loin celle de la pisciculture).
    Changement dans l’organisation du travail . Apparaît aussi l’incitation à la division en tâches et travaux, là ou l’artisan gérer ses pauses et pouvait être lié à sa vie familiale. Par ailleurs les machines sont valorisées en comparaison de la main d’œuvre susceptible d’être irrégulière ou de se composer en rapport de force. Plus besoin de travailleuses et travailleurs qualifiée, il suffit de suivre les manuels.
    [Des propositions qui cette fois relève plus clairement d’une politique qui à travers l’économie veux se faire passer pour science. Mais l’auteur enchaîne cette disposition aux précédentes puisque elles apparaissent dans les mêmes publications.
    Notons par ailleurs, que le remplacement des humains par les machines dans certaines activités n’est pas un problème en soi, cela pourrait nous libérer du temps si nous avions les moyens matériels à côté pour vivre… Autrement dit, à part les questions qualitatives, et de santé (pollution, mais aussi parfois psychologique [le travail aliénant existe avec ou sans machine]), la machine pose problème surtout à cause de l’organisation capitaliste. Celles-ci réclament un accroissement infini du capital, quel qu’en soit les moyens, et le plus rapidement possible.]
    Changement dans le marché et sa législation . L’auteur rappelle aussi plus tard que le train a pour ainsi dire forcé pratiquement « aux transformations légales et douanières, achève de faire pénétrer les règles du marché international au sein des régions les plus éloignées de la capitale. »
    [Je me permets de préciser sur ce point, qu’effectivement, Paris, à longtemps considéré les autres régions de la France comme ses colonies, ou elle allait puiser des ressources, y compris culturelle originale, qui furent mis en stéréotypes sous la forme du folklore. Cet extension de l’administration est aussi une occasion nouvelle de l’imposition autoritaire de la langue française].
    Science et industrie un même objectif et démarche . Ce que veux montrer Carnino c’est que « les postures scientifique et industrielle coïncident, non seulement dans leur objectif, mais bien dans leur démarche même. » La science se met pour ainsi dire à disposition de la réalisation industrielle, elle épouse ses difficultés pour tenter de les résoudre.
    Il ose même cette proposition : « L’exigence de reproductibilité, que les épistémologues ont toujours présentée comme étant l’apanage de la scientificité, est en réalité une dimension industrielle de la science elle-même : <citant Pasteur> « l’industrie a besoin de plus de stabilité et d’uniformité, soit dans la production, soit dans l’écoulement de ses marchandises » ». [Mais es-ce que cela veut dire qu’il peut existe une science sans reproductibilité ? Car c’est aussi une condition d’un savoir certains que de pouvoir vérifier les propositions d’autres chercheurs ? Cette corrélation n’implique pas à mon avis que toute science qui l’emploi travaille pour l’industrie… Carnino pense que cet argument de la science peux faire vitre pour l’industrie… mais aujourd’hui que voit-on ? Des brevets, un « secret industriel », ce n’est pas la reproduction publique ou comparative que veux l’industrie, c’est sa stabilité privée.]
    Le problème de l’invention scientifique . Semble complexe, d’un côté localement, avec des savoirs locaux, non-théorisés certain-e-s peuvent aboutir à une production originale, de l’autre des théoriciens voit la possibilité, mais pas sa mise en œuvre et vont in fine, recourir aux savoirs locaux pour ensuite mettre au point sa production industrielle.
    [Dans le cadre du capitalisme, les coopérations de ce genre ne sont peu appréciés, et l’on va chercher QUI est l’auteur de l’invention. Selon on récompensera les théoriciens, ou les pratiquants locaux, qui après tout, produisait aussi, mais juste pas avec une méthode industrielle… Le capitalisme va seulement reconnaître ce qui participe à son extension, alors qu’il serait possible de voir qu’il s’agit ici de deux types de savoirs, l’un théorique et l’autre pratique d’une part, mais aussi de deux types de possibilité quantitative de production, l’une artisanale, l’autre industrielle. Si on voit ces types de productions concurrentielles, parce que l’on cherche a produire « plus » et « plus vite » inévitablement on va en évincer une, pour reconnaître l’autre. Alors que si les besoins différents peuvent apporter des productions différentes et qu’ils sont satisfaits par elles, pourquoi chercher à en choisir un, au lieu d’apprécier au contraire l’inventivité de chacun-e qui permettrai de répondre à des besoins différents].
    Nous assistons au début de l’exploitation industrielle du vivant avec une forme particulière de pisciculture, mais surtout l’institution, le 10/02/1854 de la Société zoologique d’acclimatation (qui sera réformé en 1910 pour devenir la Société de protection de la nature et d’acclimatation de France) qui réuni différents acteurs, économique, gouvernementaux et scientifique pour organiser une nouvelle reproduction et exploitation du vivant.
    Carnino, insiste plutôt sur l’idée que c’est dans ce type de structure que naît pratiquement ce qu’on appelle la techno-science, ou plutôt la technologie. En tant que « alliance des pouvoirs politiques de la science et de l’industrie, c’est-à-dire en tant qu’association des macrosystèmes techniques et de rationalisation scientifique des processus productifs » [Toutefois je n’y vois pas quelque chose qui serait « plus science » que politique. Pour moi, il s’agit juste plutôt de politiciens qui enrôle a leur fin des scientifiques, qui par ailleurs ne demande pas mieux parce qu’ils en partagent une partie, si ce n’est totalement les objectifs. Ce que je veux dire, c’est que cette pratique me semble plus nécessaire à cause de l’objectif capitaliste, qu’à cause de la structure même de la science. Même s’il est clair que c’est une structure particulière de la science qui va alors être mis en avant, et prise comme si elle était « la science ». De même l’Histoire ne va alors retenir comme scientifique que les personnes qui, et Carnino le relève, vont se faire connaître ou légitimer.
    Il existe plusieurs modalités du savoir différentes (avec aussi des qualités différentes) qui co-existes, mais on ne retiendra, pas que les « vrai », mais que ceux qui correspondent au type de mode et de qualité de production exigé par le capitalisme. Ce n’est pas pour moi, contrairement à ce que dit Carnino, une science qui dépossède l’artisanat à des fins économiques [1], mais les fins économiques, qui légitimes un savoir contre un autre.
    Au final, mon impression profonde est que l’on se retrouve, comme c’est souvent le cas avec la critique des techniques et/ou des sciences, avec un axe qui est fondamentalement plus écologique que social, et qui donne priorité critique à des idées comme la croissance, le productivisme, l’extractivisme, la prédation, le remplacement du vivant par des machines, l’hybridation, la rationalisation au lieu d’une critique du capitalisme (ou anarchiste complète, c’est-à-dire pas seulement écologique, mais aussi sociale), qui par ailleurs peu comprendre les autres critiques (ou en écarter) mais qui dans tous les cas, les organisent et les reconnaîts différemment]
    [Carnino, relève cette citation fameuse : « Le pisciculteur doit étudier les lois biologiques, observer les faits naturels comme le voleur étudie le code pénal et observe le gendarme pour savoir jusqu’où et comment les défier sans trop de danger » (AN, F10 2630, conclusion de la troisième conférence de Chabot-Karlen.) Ce qui me permet de voir que le discours à évoluer, puisque Francis Bacon disait qu’il fallait « violer » la nature par les sciences, Descartes, s’en rendre comme maître et possesseurs, ici on parle de voler, aujourd’hui il me semble que l’on parle de connaître et mimer.]
    Toujours est-il que l’on passe de nombreux savoirs, et sciences, à l’idée qu’il existerai « La science » unique, produite en partenariat avec les différentes industries et gouvernements. Et ce changement semble bien avoir lieu aux alentours de 1850. [Mais il me semble important dès lors de ne pas rentrer dans une logique d’idéalisation de avant 1850, ni dans un dégoût de l’activité scientifique en général, mais bien de considérer que d’autres formes de production du savoir existes, dont certains peuvent répondre tout autant a une exigence de vérité, et ne pas servir que les moyens et les ambitions capitalistes].

    [1] Ch. VII, Les mutations de la technologie, §La technologie : du discours sur les techniques à la techno-science.

    #science #industrie #savoirs_locaux #technologie #inventions

  • Vingt mille lieux sur les mers

    « Un vieux rêve de l’humanité est de se réfugier sur une île pour y refaire sa vie, voire le monde, ­inventer une société meilleure, expérimenter des voies nouvelles pour l’humanité. C’est sur une île que Thomas More situait Utopia (1516), sa société idéale  ; au cœur d’une île encore que Tommaso Campanella imaginait la Cité du ­Soleil (1602) ou Sir Francis Bacon La Nouvelle ­Atlantide (1624). »

    #Géographie #Mers_et_Océans #Géographie_des_Mers_et_des_Océans #Îles #Géographie_des_Îles #Îles_Artificielles #Atlantide #Habiter #Habiter_les_Mers #Utopie #Utopies_Urbaines

  • Art Is Hard to See Through the Clutter of Dollar Signs -

    Le tryptique de Francis Bacon vendu aux enchères pour 142 millions de dollars. Un nouveau record. Est-ce que cela a encore du sens ?

    As our troubled age becomes ever more gilded, art auction prices soar with bone-numbing regularity. A new high-water mark was reached on Tuesday, when 1969 triptych by the British painter Francis Bacon sold for $142 million while the Christie’s auction in which it was featured took in $692 million. Both figures exceeded recent highs also at Christie’s: One arrived in spring 2012, when Edvard Munch’s “Scream” sold for $119 million; the other came last spring, when an auction total reached $492 million. It seems that people really, really like art these days.

  • Robert Deutsch - foxylounge

    ... des univers fantaisistes, pop, très colorés et rocambolesques dans des espaces composés de plans mal définis, entre ceux de Francis Bacon et ceux de Giorgio De Chirico. Tout comme chez Motohiro Hayakawa on retrouve chez Deutsch ces perspectives cavalières légèrement bancales et ces espaces morcelés, contenant chacun un univers particulier faisant echo aux différents niveaux de certains jeux vidéo.


  • Brrrrrrr :-)

    Does the ghost of Francis Bacon haunt The Gatehouse pub?

    Ghost hunters in Highgate claim to have made contact with the spirit of the Renaissance philosopher Francis Bacon - in the basement of a pub. A group of paranormal investigators spent a late night probing the supernatural at the Gatehouse pub, in Hampstead Lane, where he says he made contact with the ghost of the 17th Century scholar.

    #Bacon #ghostbusters #UK