#04/1943
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Des soldats roumains à leur poste d'observation – Bataille du Caucase – Kouban – Union soviétique – Avril 1943
#WWII#front est#eastern front#opération fall blau#case blue#bataille du caucase#battle of caucasus#armée roumaine#romanian army#kouban#kuban#union soviétique#soviet union#urss#ussr#04/1943#1943
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USAAF 43-49219 / ZK-DAK masquerading as NZ3546, making a low(ish) pass over Dairy Flat.
msn 26480 was constructed as a C-47B-10-DK c. 1942 and was taken on charge by the USAAF as 43-49219 c. 1943.
By April 1959, it had been demobilised and sold to Philippines Airlines and given the c/r PI-C486. It flew with them until April 1970 when it was sold to Papuan Air Transport as VH-PNM. It was sold to Anssett Airlines of Papua New Guinea in July that year.
After bouncing around Queensland for a few years it was exported to Aotearoa with the c/r ZK-DAK in 1987.
Seen in D-Day colours. 6/07/04. It wore these colours from 1986-c. 2006.
In plain white livery. 1/12/06. By 2007 it was in RNZAF colours.
The real 3546 was briefly ZK-AWQ before becoming D6-CAG in the Comoros. It was sold to the RSAF becoming s/n 6863 and converted to a C-47TP by WonderAir c. 1980s(?). It became N81907 in 1998 and in 2001 became ZS-OJL. It was last seen in 2006 at Wonderboom National Aiport (PRY/FAWB) sans engines, wings and rudder.
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David Soul 🖤🖤🖤 28 août 1943, 04 janvier 2024
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At The Christmas Ball: A Vintage Xmas Anthology
01 - At The Christmas Ball - Bessie Smith (1925)
02 - Santa Claus, Bring My Man Back To Me - Ozie Ware (1928)
03 - Papa Ain't No Santa Claus - Butterbeans & Susie (1930)
04 - It's Winter Again - Isham Jones & His Orchestra (1932)
05 - Jingle Bells - Benny Goodman & His Orchestra (1935)
06 - There's Frost On The Moon - Artie Shaw & His Strings (1936)
07 - I've Got My Love To Keep Me Warm - Mildred Bailey (1937)
08 - Christmas Morning The Rum Had Me Yawning - Lord Beginner (1939)
09 - Winter Weather - Fats Waller & His Rhythm (1941)
10 - Santa Claus Is Coming To Town - Bing Crosby & The Andrews Sisters (1943)
11 - Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas - Judy Garland (1944)
12 - Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow! - Connee Boswell (1945)
13 - Boogie Woogie Santa Claus - Mabel Scott (1948)
14 - Baby, It's Cold Outside - Pearl Bailey & Hot Lips Page (1949)
15 - All I Want For Christmas - Nat King Cole Trio (1949)
16 - What Are You Doing New Year's Eve? - The Orioles (1949)
17 - Midnight Sleighride - Sauter-Finegan Orchestra (1952)
18 - Silent Night - Dinah Washington (1953)
19 - White Christmas - The Drifters (1954)
20 - Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer - The Cadillacs (1956)
21 - Warm December - Julie London (1956)
22 - Love Turns Winter To Spring - June Christy (1957)
23 - The Secret Of Christmas - Ella Fitzgerald (1959)
24 - The Christmas Song - Carmen McRae (1961)
25 - A Christmas Surprise - Lena Horne (1965)
26 - Santa Was Here - Lorez Alexandria (1968)
Download: flac / mp3
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Warning: repetitious flashing/pulsing lights
When DJ Cab Calloway drops a fire track and the entire club loses its collective mind on the dance floor:
"[Bring The Noise], Ain't That Somethin' " - a Beastie Boys/Stormy Weather (1943) mashup.
Previous episodes:
15. Beyonce + Cabin In the Sky (1943) 14. Usher + Bye Bye Birdie (1963) 13. Quad City DJs + Nicholas Brothers (1941) 12. Ginuwine + The Pirate (1948) 11. Benny Benassi + Seven Brides For Seven Brothers (1954) 10.Post Malone + Fred Astaire (1970) 09. House of Pain + Singin’ In the Rain (1952) 08. Missy Elliott/Ludacris + Sound of Music (1965) 07. Dr. Dre + Thoroughly Modern Millie (1967) 06. Missy Elliott + Singing in the Rain (1952) 05. Missy Elliott + Sound of Music (1965) 04. Jay-Z/Kanye + Mary Poppins (1964) 03. Flo Rida + The King and I (1956) 02. Kstylis + Darling Lili (1970) 01. DJ Khaled/Rihanna + My Fair Lady (1964)
#my mashups#old hollywood#black hollywood#Stormy Weather (1943)#musical film#my mashup#video mashup#beastie boys#Bring the Noise#tw: flashing lights#tw: pulsing lights#cw: flashing lights
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1945 02 04 The blond knight - Robert Taylor
It is a record likely to stand for all time, and to complete the Three Hundred Club Portfolio, Robert Taylor pays tribute to the Ace of Aces – Erich Hartmann.Posted to JG52 over Russia in August 1942 his new Kommodore, Dieter Hrabak, placed the novice pilot under the guidance of ‘Paule’ Rossman, one of the unit’s most experienced and respected Aces. However during his very first combat Hartmann became so disorientated that he got lost in cloud and ran out of fuel. His undoubted skill as a pilot enabled him to survive the inevitable crash-landing, but a few days later and just minutes after scoring his first-ever victory, he was shot down – again crash-landing. This time he only just escaped from his burning aircraft before it exploded.Any other new pilot might have succumbed but Hartmann was made of sterner stuff and, with Rossman’s help and guidance, it wasn’t long before everyone in JG52 realised that he possessed exceptional skill.By the summer of 1943 ‘the Blond Knight’ and his colleagues were flying up to six missions a day and having now perfected his technique, it was unusual for him to finish a day without a victory. Never claiming to be an expert marksman, his approach, which took nerves of steel and great flying skills, was to get as close to his enemy as possible before opening fire at the last minute. Often flying ‘head on’, the risks of collision and damage were great – of the sixteen times Hartmann was brought down, eight were as a result of flying into the debris of his victim!Hartmann’s 352 victories were achieved with JG52 – all except one. It happened during a brief two week spell at the beginning of February 1945 when the top Ace was placed in temporary command of I./JG53. His new unit were based in Hungary where German Army Group South was in bitter retreat and the fighting was as tough and relentless as ever.Following up on HUNTERS AT DAWN this is the second release in the pair of limited editions and Robert Taylor’s atmospheric painting portrays Erich Hartmann climbing out of his Bf109 G-6 at Weszperem’s snow-covered airfield after returning from another arduous mission leading Stab I./JG53 with whom, on 4 February he downed a Yak-9. It was his 337th victory.
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The Wizard
Creator(s): Edd Ashe Jr, Will Harr
Alias(es): Blane Whitney
1st Issue w/Uniform: Shield-Wizard Comics #10
Year/Month of Publication: 1943/04
pdsh.fandom.com/wiki/Wizard_(MLJ_1)
NOTE: Features the villain lifting up The Wizard in the air with a hand on the superhero’s crotch & flinging him away to the other henchmen!
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All I Want Is To Feel Good
let’s ignore that i said i wouldn’t be posting today, it’s 05:04 at the time of writing this and i turned 19 three hours ago so i’m having my fun writing! i also got tattooed yesterday as a little early birthday present for myself and i am i looooove with it!!
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Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader
Warnings/Content: sleazy!joel (kinda), petnames (“darlin’”, “little bird”, “babydoll”, “baby”, “honey”), inexperienced reader, mentions of bad sex (not with joel), badly-written foreplay (idk, my ex’s friend literally told me about foreplay the other week), able-bodied reader, AFAB reader, reader wears a dress, reader is also a little silly and leaves her friends at the bar without letting them know, alcohol consumption (not a lot, like one drink), aftercare is implied (again, my ex’s friend taught me about aftercare)
Word Count: 1943
—
The term thrilled is a vast overstatement to what you’re feeling. After all, what is so thrilling about standing alone in the corner of some up-and-coming club while watching your friends revel in the attention they receive from being charismatic and outgoing? You watch as their bodies mix with other’s, shining with sweat and glitter as they sway to the rhythm of the too-loud song that’s blasting from the speakers. You’re happy for them, you are, but you know that this night out was never meant to include you — the only reason you’d been invited was because your friends, bless their hearts, had picked up on the ever-swirling cloud of despair that lingered around you.
So, with a sigh, you take a sip of the peculiar blue concoction that your friend had insisted would be perfect for you. Despite the wince your face scrunches in as it slides down your throat, you can’t help but to agree with her. Truthfully you trust her opinion more often than not, so if she tells you that you’ll enjoy something you know that you will. Although she also told you that you’d enjoy yourself tonight and you can’t help but to wonder how right she is; here you are, resigned to a corner with a strange blue drink in a club you hardly know.
“You’re lookin’ awful lonely over here,” somebody to your right says. It sends you tumbling from the comforting confines of your mind and back into the present, where everything is much too loud, vibrant, and simply unpleasant on your eyes. A bitterness creeps down your throat and takes root in your stomach and you frown, furrowing your brows, when you get a glimpse of the man who interrupted your thoughts. It isn’t his business at all — it shouldn’t be his business — but with the ever-changing lights providing very little opportunities to get a proper look at him, catching the greys of his scruffy beard just-so and drawing your attention to his broad frame that pulls his t-shirt tight over his torso, you figure there’s not much harm in indulging him. He leans forward and speaks again, into your ear this time, with such a low tone of voice you’re sure you can feel it reverberating and rumbling through the air between the two of you, “Didn’t feel like dancin’, little bird?”
You bring your free hand over the top of your cup, shrugging. His body slightly bounces to the beat of the song, clearly enjoying himself while he talks to you.
“Easy, darlin’,” he brings his hands up, palms-out, in a gesture meant to placate you. “Ain’t got a need for things like that; I don’t have any trouble gettin’ a girl to leave with me.”
“Charming,” you tell him with a sneer, narrowing your eyes. “And humble.”
He imitated your earlier gesture and shrugs in response before he brings his right hand up to scratch his beard, continuing, “Just sayin’, s’not my fault girls climb me like a tree when they see me. Reminds me, you don’t happen to be a Koala, do you? I got a tree right here you can—“
“Wow,” you mutter, eyebrows raised now. With as much energy you can muster you glare at him. “You just keep getting better, don’t you?”
“S’what the ladies tell me,” you think he winks when he says that but the lights really don’t give much away. “Anyway, that don’t answer my question, little bird.”
His breath ghosting over the expanse of your neck and the rumble of his voice so close to your ear sends an involuntary shiver down your spine.
“Dancing isn’t my thing,” you say before tilting your head back and draining the last of your drink from the glass, coating your top lip with the bitter-sweet drink. A little bit leaks from the corner of your lip and, with a freakish ease behind his movement, the man used his thumb to swipe it away before it drips onto your pretty dress — one that you never would have worn over the past year, so red and downright dangerous — and takes you by surprise by slowly slipping his thumb against his lips, tasting the barely-spilled drink.
“You as sweet as that drink, babydoll?” He asks. You’re not sure why you’re as accepting of this strange question as you are, but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t awaken some hungry sort of beast inside you that had lain dormant for quite some time. It nestles in your lower belly, seeping dangerously close to another lower region, as you stare at him with wide eyes.
“How about you find out?” You’re not sure where that came from, but now it’s been said you can’t take it back. You don’t want to take it back.
He grins and leads you out in no time, whispering some of the foulest phrases you’ve possible ever heard in that sweet, sweet drawl of his. Then, when you get out into the street, you get a proper look at him under the streetlights; he’s on the older side - at least a few years older than you - and his hair curls around his ears, greying just like the scruffy beard. His eyes are curiously taking you in and it makes you shuffle under his gaze before he leads you to his car, opening the passenger side door for you and closing it once you’re in. Then he climbs into the driver’s side and starts the car.
“Y’wanna head to your place, little bird?”
You nod, mumbling your name as you fasten the seatbelt across your chest, struggling with the fabric of your dress that rides up your thigh in this new position; without looking, he guides his hand down to your thigh and pulls the fabric just so to ensure you’re covered. He keeps his hand there, easing his thumb in a back and forth motion over your skin.
—
You can’t consider it being too much later when you arrive at your house after giving him the best directions to ensure you’re there soon. There’s barely enough time to take off your shoes before you’re pressed against him, unsure of who initiated the first kiss, and travelling awkwardly to your bedroom.
It’s in there that you learn how his hands are far more gentle than his words. He has you both on your bed, in various states of undress, as they trail down your body to come to a stop over the swell of your thighs. With a gentle rub, he meets your lips again. And again. And again.
You learn how he enjoys having your fingers carding through his hair as you press closer to him.
You learn his name: Joel. You try it out on your tongue in a soft, timid way as if you’d just learnt your teacher’s first name. Like that cross between graduating and seeing your old teachers as people too.
You learn your favourite path of kisses, the one he trails down your sternum. The one he pays attention to when your back arches off the bed in an attempt to receive more, and how he eagerly obliges.
Then he’s descending once more and you shift yourself so you’re propped up on your elbows, watching him with a furrowed brow of confusion. You ask, breathlessly, “What’re you doing?”
“Getting y’ready for me,” he tells you, as if it’s obvious.
“Why?”
An incredulous, humourless sort of chuckle leaves his lips and his own brows raise in what you guess is confusion. “Don’t tell me nobody’s never taken the time t’give you some lovin’ ‘fore the main event.”
You remain silent, thinking back to all those times with your ex. How he had always been in such a rush to bury himself inside you that he gave you no proper warning or preparation. How he’d awkwardly intertwine his body with your own in manners that were, quite frankly, always uncomfortable.
“Darlin’,” Joel murmurs with a gentle shake of his head. His voice is a lot more serious than you’d ever expect. “You do know what we’re doin’ here, right?”
You want to feel offended by the insinuation that you were clueless but then the more rational part of you realises that he’s being considerate. He’s not forcing you into anything — he’s asking if you understand what’s happening. With a gentle sigh you look back at him, still lying between your legs. “I know what we’re doing, Joel. It’s just— I’ve never had…”
Joel doesn’t miss the way your sentence dies on the tip of your tongue. The way your lips shut tightly, discolouring slightly with the pressure you put on them. He nods once and kisses his way back up your body, stopping at the expanse of your neck. “We’ll take it slow, okay?”
“Joel—“
“Nuh-uh,” he interrupts, placing a large finger over your lips. “Takin’ it slow, I’ll walk you through it. Okay, baby?”
There’s a moment of silence that’s then broken quickly by the soft wet sounds of the open-mouthed kisses he lays over the expanse of your neck, then the valley between your breasts while his hands palm them greedily. He revels in the sweet sounds you make as he takes his time to know your body, clutching at him desperately when he brushes your most sensitive areas.
“Oh, there you go, honey. There you go. Good.”
—
By the time morning’s come around, you’re both utterly spent; the night had lasted longer than you thought possible in all the right ways. He brought you to a shuddering bliss that you’d rarely ever felt, drawing out your pleasure as he whispered filthy sweet nothings in your ear. He simply allowed you to feel how every nerve came alive under his touch, working your body with more determination and diligence than any other man ever had. And, yes, you know it’s a huge cliché — you don’t care about that, though, when you feel his arms wrap around your bare torso, when you feel his face nuzzle against the back of your neck as he presses a soft kiss to the top of your back, just over your spine.
“Mornin’,” Joel says, voice muffled by the skin of your neck. A bubbly giggle escapes your lips when the scruff of his beard tickles your sensitive morning-body. You roll over to face him, running your hand through his messy bed-head, and grin back at him after seeing his own sleepy smile. His eyes flit over your features with a kindness you wouldn’t attribute to him had you not just spent the night getting to know all of his kindness. He continues, “Did’ya sleep well?”
Your response comes in the form of a nod. You are still very much content from the night’s activities, so you blink slowly and stretch your body out in a lazy sprawl of faintly cracking limbs.
Joel just grins at you and pulls you closer to him, rubbing his nose just under your earlobe. “Told you I ain’t never had any problems with the Lady-Folk.”
“You need humbling,” you tell him as you bite back another giggle. He was right, though, and he knew it — he knew the benefits that came from him being an attentive and kind lover. Despite his rough edges, he didn’t let any of him go to waste. Then, you’re in your own mind again as you think that Joel wasn’t the only one who was right. After all, your friend did tell you that you’d enjoy the night and it certainly wasn’t a letdown. You enjoyed it over. And over… And over.
Perhaps you never should have doubted her in the first place.
—
hopefully y’all enjoyed this!
tags: @endlessthxxghts @strang3lov3 @janaispunk @beefrobeefcal @joelsflower
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Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children (2016, Tim Burton)
04/04/2024
Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children is a 2016 film directed by Tim Burton.
The fantastic film is the film adaptation of the 2011 novel Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children written by Ransom Riggs.
Teenager Jake Portman lives in Florida with his family.
On his birthday he receives an old book from his grandfather in which he finds a postcard addressed to Abe from Cairnholm in Wales and signed by Miss Alma Peregrine, the mysterious director of the home for special children, the protagonist of the stories of when he was little.
Once in Cairnholm, Jake discovers that the house of the specials exists, but is reduced to ruins due to a bomb dropped during the Second World War, and that there were no survivors. Exploring the old building he meets an extravagant group of kids: they are Miss Peregrine's special children, who lead him to a cave which is the entrance to their time loop and, once inside, Jake finds himself in 1943 with the children's house still intact.
The boy has return in 2016 and is accompanied to the cave by Emma, for whom he begins to feel affection; here the two come across a wounded Ymbryne in the form of an avocet and unable to transform, who will be subjected to Miss Peregrine's care; it's Miss Avocet.
Jake, however, is followed by John Lamont, an ornithologist present on the island for a few days, who turns out to be capable of crossing the time loop: first he becomes Doctor Golan and finally reveals his true self: it is Barron, whose peculiarity is in fact that hid his white eyes.
Miss Avocet says that Barron and the Hollows attacked several time loops including her own set in January 2016 near Blackpool, killing all the children with the aim of replicating the failed experiment years ago with many more Ymbrine.
Miss Peregrine lived in Miss Avocet's time loop when she was young and can transform into a peregrine falcon.
Miss Avocet is an elderly woman from the early Victorian era in England. She can transform into an avocet.
The film's budget was $110 million.
The film rights to Ransom Riggs' novel where sold to 20th Century Fox in May 2011.
On July 28, 2014, Eva Green was chosen to play the protagonist of the film; Mischa Barton, Lucy Hale and Alison Sudol were also considered. On September 24, 2014, it was announced that Asa Butterfield had been seen for the second lead role as Burton's choice, but that he had not yet been offered the role at that time. On November 5, 2014, Ella Purnell was offered a role and Butterfield was in final negotiations to join the film; it was also reported that Butterfield was offered the male lead role and was the preferred choice. On February 6, 2015, Saamuel L. Jackson was added to the cast to play Mr. Barron, while Butterfield was confirmed for the second lead role. Terence Stamp, Chris O'Dowd, Rupert Everett, KIM Dickens and Judi Dench were announced as cast on March 12, 2015.
#miss peregrine's home for peculiar children#2016#tim burton#Cinema fantastico#Film adaptation#2011#ransom riggs#florida#wales#world war ii#time loop#Pied avocet#ornithology#Blackpool#peregrine falcon#victorian era#budget#United States dollar#20th century studios#eva green#mischa barton#lucy hale#alison sudol#asa butterfield#ella purnell#samuel l jackson#terence stamp#chris o'dowd#rupert everett#kim dickens
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atelophobia by natasharomanhoffs
Fandom: Harry Potter
Sure enough, not five seconds later, the door cracked open, and a tall boy with green lining on his robes strode into the Hospital Wing. Hermione absent-mindedly noticed his attractive face, but she was more focussed on his uniform.
Lord, that looks stuffy, was her first thought.
At least he knows how to tie a proper Windsor knot, was her second.
Hermione wakes up in 1943 alone, annoyed, and uninformed.
And why the hell was life so determined to pit her against Tom bloody Riddle, anyway?
Hermione Granger x Tom Riddle, 100 - 200k words, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Hermione Granger, Time Travel Fix-It
Ongoing as of 2023 - 04 - 23
Thoughts: This fic has me in an absolute chokehold. The slow burn may actually take a few years off my life.
#tomione#hermione granger#tom riddle#harry potter fanfiction#ao3 fanfic rec#ao3 fanfic#hp fanfic#hp fanfiction
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Des hommes du 2nd Sherwood Foresters avec une mitrailleuse MG 42 – Campagne de Tunisie – Campagne d'Afrique du Nord – Medjez El-Bab – Tunisie – 27 avril 1943
Photographe : Sergent Frederick Wackett - No. 2 Army Film and Photo Section, Army Film and Photographic Unit
©Imperial War Museums - NA 2355
#WWII#campagne d'Afrique du Nord#north african campaign#campagne de tunisie#tunisia campaign#armée britannique#british army#Sherwood Foresters#Medjez El-Bab#tunisie#tunisia#afrique du nord#northern africa#27/04/1943#04/1943#1943
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Beba Loncar (Belgrade, german occuped, Serbia, 28/04/1943).
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Del cuaderno... (VII)
MI SUEÑO DE NUEVA ZELANDA
Anoche tuve un sueño extraordinario, en el que me veía teletransportado a una fantástica Nueva Zelanda. Fastuosos paisajes románticos, al estilo de los lienzos de Caspar David Friedrich, se extendían de pronto ante mí. Majestuosos picos montañosos coronaban los confines; cinemascópicas dehesas se perdían en el horizonte. De los vastos ámbitos surgían ingentes estructuras arquitectónicas que semejaban cruces entre las edificaciones del Antiguo Egipto y los imponentes zigurats amerindios de los que en mi infancia daban gráfica y espléndida noticia, en sus láminas reproducidas en esplendorosa cuatricromía, las antiguas enciclopedias. Inmensos territorios, habitados por el éter, se perdían en verdes lejanías inconmensurables, y yo los contemplaba, a vertiginosa vista de pájaro, alfombrando la superficie de la tierra a mis pies.
Imagen espacial de Nueva Zelanda, tomada por la NASA en octubre de 2002
El sueño no era solo fantástico, sino totalmente imaginario, pues no he estado nunca en esas fabulosas antípodas (si atravesáramos un globo terráqueo con una aguja de hacer calceta, Nueva Zelanda se situaría en la punta de la varilla, y España en su extremo opuesto). Me sentía, en cualquier caso, alzado a las alturas de lo sublime, en alas de un baudelaireano Ideal, cuyo registro consciente podría ser el poema «Elevación», de Las flores del mal, del que recientemente hice una tentativa de versión española (antes de concluir que la del poeta Antonio Martínez Sarrión era perfecta, y que podía ahorrarme ese trabajo). Surcando aquellos espacios infinitos, de la mano de un cicerone que tal vez fuera Berlioz, o Armando Palacio Valdés (las extrañísimas circunstancias de los sueños, como ya sabemos, no tienen lógico parangón), yo me decía: «¡La cámara! ¡Se me ha olvidado la cámara! Bueno… Mañana tendré tiempo de sobra para sacar fotografías». Y aquí, muy de mañana, en la soledad sonora de mi despacho, dejo constancia escrita de algunas de esas imágenes, frescas todavía en el visor de mi memoria onírica inmediata.
Nuevo Mundo; Nuevas Iniciativas; Nuevos Periplos y Epopeyas. Junguianos augurios de gozo venidero e íntima gloria. Mágicas sincronías con el propio ser, en marcha.
ELEVACIÓN
Por encima de estanques, por encima de valles,
De montañas y bosques, de mares y de nubes,
Más allá de los soles, más allá de los éteres,
Más allá del confín de estrelladas esferas,
Te desplazas, mi espíritu, con toda agilidad
Y como un nadador que se extasía en las olas,
Alegremente surcas la inmensidad profunda
Con voluptuosidad indecible y viril.
Escápate muy lejos de estos mórbidos miasmas,
Sube a purificarte al aire superior
Y apura, como un noble y divino licor,
La luz clara que inunda los límpidos espacios.
Detrás de los hastíos y los hondos pesares
Que abruman con su peso la neblinosa vida,
¡Feliz aquel que puede con brioso aleteo
Lanzarse hacia los campos luminosos y calmos!
Aquel cuyas ideas, cual si fueran alondras,
Levantan hacia el cielo matutino su vuelo
—¡Que planea sobre todo, y sabe sin esfuerzo,
La lengua de las flores y de las cosas mudas!
BAUDELAIRE
Versión española de A. Martínez Sarrión
[04/02/24]
Les fleurs du mal, de Charles Baudelaire, en la edición de La Bonne Compagnie (París, 1943), ilustrada con litografías originales de Emilio Grau Sala
SIEMPRE EN DOMINGO
Muy agradable mañana —de once a dos y media— con mi amigo Rafael Sarmentero, por Conde Duque y Malasaña. En Conde Duque he esperado a Rafa en el Moderno, hojeando un ejemplar de bolsillo, tan viejo como yo, de la novela Las llaves del reino, de A. J. Cronin, autor que conozco pero no he leído. Se trataba de una añeja edición —de allá por 1962— del relato en cuestión, procedente originalmente de alguna biblioteca de colegio «internacional» de Madrid, que su anterior dueño había dejado en el Café de la plaza de Comendadoras, donde siempre hay una pequeña selección de libros y revistas de segunda mano a disposición de parroquianos ociosos.
Tras tomarnos un par de cafés con leche en el Moderno, Rafa y yo nos hemos ido paseando hasta el Pepe Botella, en la plaza del Dos de Mayo, y allí, en el umbroso y tranquilo espacio dispuesto a modo de reservado en el interior del vetusto local (en el lugar casi exacto en el que Thomas Canet me retrató magistralmente en 2007), nuestra charla ha continuado durante cerca de hora y media. Más tarde hemos subido caminando a la glorieta de Bilbao, y por la calle Fuencarral hasta Quevedo y Bravo Murillo. Me he despedido de Rafa en Cuatro Caminos, y regresado en metro a casa, haciendo trasbordo en Plaza Castilla.
Café Pepe Botella · Madrid, 4 de febrero de 2024
He llegado a mi domicilio con hambre de caballo, y disfrutado —¡siempre en domingo!— de un excelente arroz con pollo y suculentas especias. Hubiera correspondido siesta, porque hoy me he levantado a las seis de la mañana tras dormir tan solo cinco horas, pero si algo bueno tiene el ir cumpliendo años es que a uno no le hace falta tanto sueño como in illo tempore era el caso, de modo que me he pasado la tarde terminando de leer una breve biografía de Balzac, para luego emprender, sin solución de continuidad, los Contes drolatiques del maestro francés.
Y aquí estamos, devorando páginas todavía, y son ya las once menos veinte de la noche. ¡Ah! ¡Se lo he dicho a Rafa esta mañana! «A Dios o a los hados de nuestra elección demos gracias por el don de la lectura. Si no fuera por ella, quién sabe cómo soportaría uno la vida.» Lo cual es hipérbole de poeta, porque la vida es sagrada como el pan y es criminal desesperar de ella, pero toda hipérbole contiene su germen de verdad. Mejorando lo presente —lo digo curándome en salud, con un freudiano ojo puesto en Venus—, no conozco mayor ni más divino paliativo existencial que el de la lectura. Que no nos falte nunca.
[04/02/24]
ROGER WOLFE
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Starsky et Hutch
L'acteur américano-britannique David Soul, qui avait notamment incarné le policier "Hutch" dans la célèbre série "Starsky et Hutch", est décédé jeudi 4 janvier 2024 à l'âge de 80 ans, a annoncé son épouse ce vendredi.
🖤🖤🖤 28 août 1943 à Chicago, 04 janvier 2024 à Londres
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Robert Capa in Italia
a cura di Beatrix Lengyel
Fond.Fratelli Alinari, Firenze 2013, 192 pagine, 80 fotografie, 23x25cm, Italiano e inglese, ISBN 9788895849256
euro 35,00
email if you want to buy [email protected]
Mostra San Gimignano dal 04/03/2016 al 01/09/2016
Considerato da alcuni il padre del fotogiornalismo, da altri colui che al fotogiornalismo ha dato una nuova veste e una nuova direzione, Robert Capa, pur non essendo un soldato, visse la maggior parte della sua vita nei campi di battaglia, seguendo i cinque maggiori conflitti mondiali: la guerra civile spagnola, la guerra cino-giapponese, la seconda guerra mondiale, la guerra arabo israeliana del 1948 e la prima guerra d’Indocina. Settantamila foto scattate in quasi quarant’anni di vita. E in questo volume una selezione che documenta la guerra in Italia negli anni 1943-44: la resa di Palermo, la posta centrale di Napoli distrutta da una bomba ad orologeria o il funerale delle giovanissime vittime delle famose Quattro Giornate di Napoli. E ancora, vicino a Montecassino, la gente che fugge dalle montagne dove impazzano i combattimenti. E i soldati alleati, accolti a Monreale dalla gente, o in perlustrazione in campi opachi di fumo, fermo immagine di una guerra dove cercano – nelle brevi pause – anche il recupero di brandelli di umanità. Settantotto fotografie per mostrare una guerra fatta di gente comune, di piccoli paesi uguali in tutto il mondo ridotti in macerie, di soldati e civili, vittime di una stessa strage. L’obiettivo di Robert Capa tratta tutti con la stessa solidarietà, fermando la paura, l’attesa, l’attimo prima dello sparo, il riposo, la speranza.
In coedizione con il Museo Nazionale di Budapest.
21/12/23
#Robert Capa#Beatrix Lengyel#photography exhibition catalogue#San Gimignano 2016#fotogiornalismo#guerra in Italia#photography books#fashionbooksmilano
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