|
|
18 of 19 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Melancholia made graphic, March 3, 2002
This is an extraordinarily beautiful book, extraordinarily well produced. Polidori is a graphic poet. But then, what is it all about? No travel book, this. There was a grand city, with grand, refined living, there was a sense of the visual, even in the simplest laying of stone upon a stone. The photographs attest to that. The grace, like the decay, is real. The rich, varied hues are real, if from fraying, unretouched paint, destined to change and pale with each passing day. Polidori's colors are not meant to be restored nor will ever there be a patina to be cleaned. Their destiny is to fade. One would like to think of this Havana as a grand opera set for a Nozze or an Ariadne where protagonists move like ghosts among the ruins, talking of betrayals, regrets and happy loves that are now merely wise. For some of us, that it is. For some of us it is the stones that are real, the peeling paint and the broken down chandeliers. People are the interlopers, people are like things, being where they do not belong. Yet in a grander sense those of us may be self-deceived. For in these pictures there is no real tension between flesh and wall. The grandiloquent decay, like an ever swelling musty velvet cape, gathers crumbling stone to unweeded garden to limpid sky to people ...... all into a deeply bundled melancholic recessional that will swallow everything and leave only moonless night behind. There is no future in this past, perhaps the most melancholy conjecture of all. It seems to me most photographs are lit by the late afternoon sun. The beauty makes one cry, we see our lives in the peeling paint and broken balustrades, the broken window frames, cracked marble, the rusted iron gates ....perhaps nowhere more than in the curious compromises of antiquated artifacts for everyday living pragmatically juxtaposed to broken down rococo splendor or dismembered bourgeois grandeur, trying to make do but never quite. This is brutally the passage of time with no attempt at cosmetic dissimulation or philosophical delay. We are all beyond reflection. Each picture seems to say unequivocally: all this has passed and all this will pass. Perhaps Havana has come to an old preordained denouement, arrived at a culmination old and forgotten, in the event, a summit, an end: Havana as a place never meant to truly be, a creature of our dreams, an incantation..... Wallace Stevens who only visited the Havana of the mind, wrote in "Academic Discourse in Havana" (1936): "This may be benediction, sepulcher, and epitaph......
An infinite incantation of our selves
In the grand decadence of the perished swans."
|
by Robert Polidori
by Michael W. Connors
by Robert Polidori
by Kevin Kwan
by Llilian Llanes
