I'm a writer, a film photographer, and a social activist, translator among other things. This is going to partner up with my flickr, my collaborative photo project, and my blog in Spanish. I am also a co-editor of the literary, art and photo magazine CAST. These are all little things that constitute my little world and portfolio.
I will shoot 35mm film, Medium Format and Digital depending on the occasion. I'll use natural light as much as I can. We can work together, or you can hire me.
I love to translate, and my rates are affordable. Contact me!
la.maga.artwork@gmail.com
Thank you!
Photo reblogged from Loneliness Is A State of Mind with 29 notes
“Yo no sé de pájaros,
no conozco la historia del fuego.
Pero creo que mi soledad debería tener alas.”
de Alejandra Pizarnik
“I don’t know about birds,
nor do I know the history of fire.
But I believe that my loneliness should have wings.”
by Alejandra Pizarnik
by Gonçalo Incendiàrio
Flickr
by Ella Ruth
Thank you for following and submitting to Loneliness. Some interviews to featured artists soon.
Source: lonelinessisastateofmind
Photo reblogged from La fruta más hermosa madura en el espaldar. with 1 note
Oh Yes
there are worse things than
being alone
but it often takes decades
to realize this
and most often
when you do
it’s too late
and there’s nothing worse
than
too late.
Charles Bukowski.
Source: acidhorse
Fact:
Lorca got killed, and Spain lost a line of words that could have saved beauty from a country buried in hate, weakness and ignorance.
© MagaSoto 2009
1/365
“I stay before the trees that give some meaning to my sight,
just in case I lose my mind,
and I decide to become blind.
It would be unfortunate, it would,
If my eyes couldn’t take it anymore,
and decided to join this garden
-without me-,
leaving my body so unsure,
of what it is that makes you cry,
of what beauty is made of, how it looks like.”
Photo reblogged from Of Literary Design with 6 notes
Juan Ramón Jiménez, Spanish Nobel Laureate of Literature (1956), was born Dec. 24, 1881 (d. 1958). An advocate of ‘pure poetry’ Jiménez was awarded the Nobel “for his lyrical poetry, which in Spanish language constitutes an example of high spirit and artistical purity”…
Nonetheless, Jiménez also wrote erotic verse about his poetic alter ego dallying with a number of nuns…
Three verses
Sister! We stripped off our ardent bodies
In endless and senseless profusion….
It was autumn and the sun - don’t you remember?
Added sweet sadness to the white splendour of our abode
Sister Pilar, are your eyes still so black?
And your mouth so fresh and red?
And your breasts…? How are they?Oh, do you recall how you would come into my room late at night, calling to me like a mother, telling me off like a child?
When she fled, in a flight of deranged wimples,
from the impetuous will of my desire
she would seek shelter in a corner, like a cat …
but her nails were sweeter than my kisses.
— Juan Ramón Jiménez
Source: i12bent
Post reblogged from RandomReflections,Photo's and Poems
Dancing with The Ghosts of The Past
Would you dance
With the Ghosts of the past
In those hours
When others are asleep
Would you make small circles
In that room
With roof of Pine and branch
In that room
Hidden deep
Within the forest
Where views of endless trails
Leed nowhere
Would you dance
With the ghosts of the past
Embracing
Empty arms
Reaching out
Though darkened walls
Would you make those small circles
Ever larger
Watching as the ghosts
Parade nearby
Each with a memory
No longer hidden
Each one
Always ready to recite
Past events
To Painfull to recall
Would Daylight find you
Longing once more
For the night
As that dance
Never ending
Becomes Still
Watching as you turn
Against the dawn
////RWFischer
Source: r76mi
the amputated tree that doesn’t sing and the child with the blank face of an egg. With the little animals whose skulls are cracked and the water, dressed in rags, but with dry feet. With all the bone-tired, deaf-and-dumb things and a butterfly drowned in the inkwell.
Post reblogged from draw near the fire with 3 notes
The little mute Boy
This is the first time I see a poem of Lorca in English. And again, I am impressed with the job translators do. Very good job so far.
The little boy was looking for his voice.
(The king of the crickets had it.)
In a drop of water
the little boy was looking for his voice.
I do not want it for speaking with;
I will make a ring of it
so that he may wear my silence
on his little finger
In a drop of water
the little boy was looking for his voice.
(The captive voice, far away,
put on a cricket's clothes.)
The Little Mute Boy - Federico García Lorca by Federico García Lorca
Translated by W. S. Merwin
Source: drawnearthefire
Oh well,
Let me get a little bit comfortable, here.
Let me tell you the truth of all my secrets,
without being scared of your looks,
without being concerned of your words.
Let me act freely, today.
