L Shaped Corner Windows

ART HISTORY AS LITERATURE


Between 9 and 12 March, the Faculty of Fine Arts in Salamanca, celebrating the Historical Consciousness Course II and Contemporary Art, the subtitle of this year is "Art History as literature "and Víctor del Río headed and I, with the invaluable help of Beneitez Rosa, Juan Albarran and Elena Santos.

Speakers: Juan Albarran, Federico Carvajal, Dario Corbeira, Agnès Delage. Olga Fernandez, Rodrigo Fresán, Llanos Gómez, Domingo Hernández Sánchez, Jorge Luis Marzo, Irene Montero, Antonio Notario Ruiz, Victor del Rio, Julián Rodríguez, Fernando Rodríguez de la Flor, Javier San Martín, Israel Sanmartin, Alberto Santamaria and Manuel Vilas.

I nformation here: www.concienciahistoricayartecontemporaneo.com

Registration: 60 € (reduced for students) / / 90 € (registration ordinary)

registration and registration: http://campus.usal.es/web-usal/Estudios/CExtraordinarios/

Duration: 30 hours

Credits: 3 credits of free choice

Why Are Indian Women So Conservative?

FRAGMENT OF A POEM "? NEW AND FUTURE BOOK

Each effect is preceded by a cause. Although, truth be told, that's only part of the story. From the other side's perspective changes, mutates, goes awry, as in one of those songs where the battery loses pace and try to recover soon and feel stupid and slow puffs and see the sweat on the run draws a circle around his face. Explaining is not my thing, you see. I simply returned to view. I simply returned, no rhythm, completely disrupting the rhythms, to see what was left half. You know that was not the right time for my death. Or so I imagined. Or so I imagined all. You can guess I was not prepared. Although it is true, someone said, death does not require preparation, is not a football game, not a fucking opposition, not a birth, death is just waking up after a bad night, his mouth and a heavy paste metallic taste in the mouth, stumbling walk, and then go out and find your car among thousands of parked cars, is to search your car after a bad night in a maze, and is, of course, never find your car to get out. Is all that. And something else. Or maybe something less. Or maybe none of that. I do not know. He returned a short while ago the gas station. I have seen how the incidence of disaster is pinned on the air, invisible, but beyond that, the last glimpse fades. Perhaps someone, somewhere remembers sporadic conversation here on the floor tiles and greasy yellow, found the waitress and there on that table, the writer that we all-know-who-fled-of-something with two bullets in the head. Beyond that reality quickly returns to its spherical shape and hollow. Not to say that before were otherwise. No. The only true and no less ironic is the fact that someone who has spent his short life to write about chance and finished dying in a gas station in silence, nowhere.