The title of this article is taken from that of the lecture that Luis Antonio de Villena will deliver on November 19 at 7 p.m. in the CaixaForum auditorium in Tarragona, part of the series programmed around the major exhibition dedicated to the German artist George Grosz. Drawings imbued with acidic social criticism, ironic, or astonishingly cubist, as seen in the Dada engravings, with clear influences from the Bauhaus school. They depict the interwar period of the Weimar Republic. At times they seem cheerful, rarely pleasant or joyful, or only superficially so; at their core, they contain profound pain. The pain of one capable of clear sight, from the battlefields of a lost war to the fairground stalls and the cabarets of legendary Berlin nights. The irony, and the shiver evoked by the character licking an SS soldier’s boot, and the erotic perversion of another character gleefully running his tongue over a military officer’s imposing saber. A certain degree of anguish, a contagious unease, pervades the visitor as they delve into the exhibition and explore the work. Perhaps because it imposes the historical consciousness of a brilliant era, yes. Even amusing. But murky, very murky, an era preceded by the tragedy of the First World War and which served as the breeding ground for the second.
Luis Antonio de Villena, poet, novelist, translator, literary critic, and essayist. One of the most brilliant prose writers in the Castilian language, since his first publications in the 1970s, he also had the courage during that same period to learn Catalan, in order to read Josep Carner’s poetry in its original tongue. . Titles such as , <Fleeing Winter>, , , ,<Caravaggio, Exquisite and Violent> and , and many others published, as well as his articles in newspapers such as El Mundo or El País, or in the magazine Bonart, directed by our mutual friend Ricard Planas, position him at the forefront of the Hispanic literary landscape. At times, and with due respect, he reminds me of Arthur Rimbaud, because his entire body of work opens doors and windows to introspection, analysis, and personal truth, at times extreme, and to salvation through the path of art.
A few years ago, I asked him to write the foreword for my book “Lorca, la incògnita visita,” as he knew and maintained a close friendship with some of the Andalusian poet’s personal friends, who are now deceased. This makes him one of the most suitable voices to convey the poet’s intimate essence, and I will again impose upon his trust when the second edition is ready. Berlin was a party, the bustling and marginal atmosphere of the 1920s, depicted by Grosz and commemorated in Villena’s words. And to conclude as I began, by making a literary digression. A quote from his book, from the chapter Olga Rudge (1985): << Shout when everything collapses. But do not invent the written tear. Everything that does not intoxicate and disturb (do not doubt it) is shit. Shit! Pure shit!
The title of this article is taken from that of the lecture that Luis Antonio de Villena will deliver on November 19 at 7 p.m. in the CaixaForum auditorium in Tarragona, part of the series programmed around the major exhibition dedicated to the German artist George Grosz. Drawings imbued with acidic social criticism, ironic, or astonishingly cubist, as seen in the Dada engravings, with clear influences from the Bauhaus school. They depict the interwar period of the Weimar Republic. At times they seem cheerful, rarely pleasant or joyful, or only superficially so; at their core, they contain profound pain. The pain of one capable of clear sight, from the battlefields of a lost war to the fairground stalls and the cabarets of legendary Berlin nights. The irony, and the shiver evoked by the character licking an SS soldier’s boot, and the erotic perversion of another character gleefully running his tongue over a military officer’s imposing saber. A certain degree of anguish, a contagious unease, pervades the visitor as they delve into the exhibition and explore the work. Perhaps because it imposes the historical consciousness of a brilliant era, yes. Even amusing. But murky, very murky, an era preceded by the tragedy of the First World War and which served as the breeding ground for the second.
Luis Antonio de Villena, poet, novelist, translator, literary critic, and essayist. One of the most brilliant prose writers in the Castilian language, since his first publications in the 1970s, he also had the courage during that same period to learn Catalan, in order to read Josep Carner’s poetry in its original tongue. . Titles such as , <Fleeing Winter>, , , ,<Caravaggio, Exquisite and Violent> and , and many others published, as well as his articles in newspapers such as El Mundo or El País, or in the magazine Bonart, directed by our mutual friend Ricard Planas, position him at the forefront of the Hispanic literary landscape. At times, and with due respect, he reminds me of Arthur Rimbaud, because his entire body of work opens doors and windows to introspection, analysis, and personal truth, at times extreme, and to salvation through the path of art.
A few years ago, I asked him to write the foreword for my book “Lorca, la incògnita visita,” as he knew and maintained a close friendship with some of the Andalusian poet’s personal friends, who are now deceased. This makes him one of the most suitable voices to convey the poet’s intimate essence, and I will again impose upon his trust when the second edition is ready. Berlin was a party, the bustling and marginal atmosphere of the 1920s, depicted by Grosz and commemorated in Villena’s words. And to conclude as I began, by making a literary digression. A quote from his book, from the chapter Olga Rudge (1985): << Shout when everything collapses. But do not invent the written tear. Everything that does not intoxicate and disturb (do not doubt it) is shit. Shit! Pure shit!
The title of this article is taken from that of the lecture that Luis Antonio de Villena will deliver on November 19 at 7 p.m. in the CaixaForum auditorium in Tarragona, part of the series programmed around the major exhibition dedicated to the German artist George Grosz. Drawings imbued with acidic social criticism, ironic, or astonishingly cubist, as seen in the Dada engravings, with clear influences from the Bauhaus school. They depict the interwar period of the Weimar Republic. At times they seem cheerful, rarely pleasant or joyful, or only superficially so; at their core, they contain profound pain. The pain of one capable of clear sight, from the battlefields of a lost war to the fairground stalls and the cabarets of legendary Berlin nights. The irony, and the shiver evoked by the character licking an SS soldier’s boot, and the erotic perversion of another character gleefully running his tongue over a military officer’s imposing saber. A certain degree of anguish, a contagious unease, pervades the visitor as they delve into the exhibition and explore the work. Perhaps because it imposes the historical consciousness of a brilliant era, yes. Even amusing. But murky, very murky, an era preceded by the tragedy of the First World War and which served as the breeding ground for the second.
Luis Antonio de Villena, poet, novelist, translator, literary critic, and essayist. One of the most brilliant prose writers in the Castilian language, since his first publications in the 1970s, he also had the courage during that same period to learn Catalan, in order to read Josep Carner’s poetry in its original tongue. . Titles such as , <Fleeing Winter>, , , ,<Caravaggio, Exquisite and Violent> and , and many others published, as well as his articles in newspapers such as El Mundo or El País, or in the magazine Bonart, directed by our mutual friend Ricard Planas, position him at the forefront of the Hispanic literary landscape. At times, and with due respect, he reminds me of Arthur Rimbaud, because his entire body of work opens doors and windows to introspection, analysis, and personal truth, at times extreme, and to salvation through the path of art.
A few years ago, I asked him to write the foreword for my book “Lorca, la incògnita visita,” as he knew and maintained a close friendship with some of the Andalusian poet’s personal friends, who are now deceased. This makes him one of the most suitable voices to convey the poet’s intimate essence, and I will again impose upon his trust when the second edition is ready. Berlin was a party, the bustling and marginal atmosphere of the 1920s, depicted by Grosz and commemorated in Villena’s words. And to conclude as I began, by making a literary digression. A quote from his book, from the chapter Olga Rudge (1985): << Shout when everything collapses. But do not invent the written tear. Everything that does not intoxicate and disturb (do not doubt it) is shit. Shit! Pure shit!
The title of this article is taken from that of the lecture that Luis Antonio de Villena will deliver on November 19 at 7 p.m. in the CaixaForum auditorium in Tarragona, part of the series programmed around the major exhibition dedicated to the German artist George Grosz. Drawings imbued with acidic social criticism, ironic, or astonishingly cubist, as seen in the Dada engravings, with clear influences from the Bauhaus school. They depict the interwar period of the Weimar Republic. At times they seem cheerful, rarely pleasant or joyful, or only superficially so; at their core, they contain profound pain. The pain of one capable of clear sight, from the battlefields of a lost war to the fairground stalls and the cabarets of legendary Berlin nights. The irony, and the shiver evoked by the character licking an SS soldier’s boot, and the erotic perversion of another character gleefully running his tongue over a military officer’s imposing saber. A certain degree of anguish, a contagious unease, pervades the visitor as they delve into the exhibition and explore the work. Perhaps because it imposes the historical consciousness of a brilliant era, yes. Even amusing. But murky, very murky, an era preceded by the tragedy of the First World War and which served as the breeding ground for the second.
Luis Antonio de Villena, poet, novelist, translator, literary critic, and essayist. One of the most brilliant prose writers in the Castilian language, since his first publications in the 1970s, he also had the courage during that same period to learn Catalan, in order to read Josep Carner’s poetry in its original tongue. . Titles such as , <Fleeing Winter>, , , ,<Caravaggio, Exquisite and Violent> and , and many others published, as well as his articles in newspapers such as El Mundo or El País, or in the magazine Bonart, directed by our mutual friend Ricard Planas, position him at the forefront of the Hispanic literary landscape. At times, and with due respect, he reminds me of Arthur Rimbaud, because his entire body of work opens doors and windows to introspection, analysis, and personal truth, at times extreme, and to salvation through the path of art.
A few years ago, I asked him to write the foreword for my book “Lorca, la incògnita visita,” as he knew and maintained a close friendship with some of the Andalusian poet’s personal friends, who are now deceased. This makes him one of the most suitable voices to convey the poet’s intimate essence, and I will again impose upon his trust when the second edition is ready. Berlin was a party, the bustling and marginal atmosphere of the 1920s, depicted by Grosz and commemorated in Villena’s words. And to conclude as I began, by making a literary digression. A quote from his book, from the chapter Olga Rudge (1985): << Shout when everything collapses. But do not invent the written tear. Everything that does not intoxicate and disturb (do not doubt it) is shit. Shit! Pure shit!
