The Amazing Art of Cartoonist Richard Thompson

Richard Thompson is one of the greatest cartoonists of our time. This short video presentation celebrates the work of this extraordinary artist whose wit, sharp eye for detail and in depth understanding of children's and adults' behavior in the world we live in, will never cease to amaze and entertain us.  

The Art of Richard Thompson from GVI on Vimeo.

The Damascene Collar of the Dove by Mahmoud Darwish

In Damascus - في دمشق from Waref Abu Quba on Vimeo.

Waref Abu Quba has managed in this short, 4 minute film, to reflect beautifully, in weathered celluloid, some of the verses of this eternal poem by Mahmoud Darwish about Damascus. There is certainly a nostalgia in these poetic glimpses of the city of Damascus. The city that was the jewel of the east. And it is with a fair amount of fear and sadness that at the end of this short film we see two fighter jet planes passing above the blue sky of the city. They take with them, in a way, the cobblestones, the narrow side streets, the voices of the oud and the busy market, the doves that fly behind the silk fence. But they can never take away the essence of this city because it has been forever captured in the verses of this poem and the hearts and minds of its people.       

The Damascene Collar of the Dove
By Mahmoud Darwish
(Translated in English by Fady Joudah)

A.
In Damascus,
the doves fly
behind the silk fence
two . . .
by two . . .

B.
In Damascus:
I see all of my language
written with a woman’s needle 
on a grain of wheat,
refined by the partridge of the Mesopotamian rivers

C.
In Damascus:
the names of the Arabian horses have been embroidered,
since Jahili times
and through judgment day,
or after,
. . . with gold threads

D.
In Damascus:
the sky walks
barefoot on the old roads,
barefoot
So what’s the poet’s use 
of revelation
and meter
and rhyme?

E.
In Damascus:
the stranger sleeps
on his shadow standing
like a minaret in eternity’s bed
not longing for a land
or anyone . . .

F.
In Damascus:
the present tense continues
its Umayyad chores:
we walk to our tomorrow certain
of the sun in our yesterday.
Eternity and we
inhabit this place!

G.
In Damascus:
the dialogue goes on
between the violin and the oud
about the question of existence
and about the endings:
whenever a woman kills a passing lover
she attains the Lotus Tree of Heaven!

H.
In Damascus:
Youssef tears up, 
with the flute,
his ribs
Not for a reason,
other than that 
his heart wasn’t with him

I.
In Damascus:
speech returns to its origin,
water:
poetry isn’t poetry
and prose isn’t prose
And you say: I won’t leave you
so take me to you
and take me with you!

J.
In Damascus:
a gazelle sleeps
besides a woman
in a bed of dew
then the woman takes off her dress
and covers Barada with it!

K.
In Damascus:
a bird picks
at what is left of wheat
in my palm
and leaves for me a single grain
to show me my tomorrow
tomorrow!

L.
In Damascus:
The jasmine dallies with me:
Don’t go far
and follow my tracks
Then the garden becomes jealous:
Don’t come near
the blood of night in my moon

M.
In Damascus:
I keep my lighthearted dream company
and laughing on the almond blossom:
Be realistic
that I may blossom again
around her name’s water
And be realistic
that I may pass in her dream!

N.
In Damascus:
I introduce myself
to itself:
Right here, beneath two almond eyes
we fly together as twins
and postpone our mutual past

O.
In Damascus:
speech softens
and I hear the sound of blood
in the marble veins:
Snatch me away from my son
(she, the prisoner, says to me) 
or petrify with me!

P.
In Damascus:
I count my ribs
and return my heart to its trot
Perhaps the one who granted me entry
to her shadow
has killed me,
and I didn’t notice . . .

Q.
In Damascus:
the stranger gives her howdah back
to the caravan:
I won’t return to my tent
I won’t hang my guitar,
after this evening,
on the family’s fig tree . . .

R.
In Damascus:
poems become diaphanous
They’re neither sensual
nor intellectual
they are what echo says
to echo . . .

S.
In Damascus:
the cloud dries up by afternoon,
then digs a well
for the summer of lovers in the Qysoon valley,
and the flute completes its habit
of longing to what is present in it, 
then cries in vain

R.
In Damascus:
I write in a woman’s journal:
All what’s in you
of narcissus
desires you
and no fence, around you, protects you
from your night’s excess allure

S.
In Damascus:
I see how the Damascus night diminishes
slowly, slowly
And how our goddesses increase
by one!

T.
In Damascus:
the traveler sings to himself:
I return from Syria
neither alive
nor dead
but as clouds
that ease the butterfly’s burden
from my fugitive soul


NOTES

“The Collar of the Dove” is a famous manuscript on beauty and the art of love, written in the 11th century by Ibn Hazm, a renowned Andalusian Muslim scholar.

Barada is a small river that runs through Damascus, and Qysoon valley is one of the city’s suburbs.

Oud is a stringed instrument resembling the lute.

The Lotus Tree of Heaven, Sidrat al-Montaha (the highest degree of attainment) is a fantastic tree that arises form the Seventh Heaven and reaches God’s throne.

Youssef: son of Jacob.

The Harmonica of Junior Wells

On the album cover of Junior Wells' "Hoodoo Man Blues", the great bluesman recalls how he got his first harmonica, back in 1948. The instrument that would make him famous as one of the best blues instrumentalists of all time.

This is what he said:

 "I went to this pawnshop downtown and the man had a harmonica priced at $2.00. I got a job on a soda truck... played hookey (*) from school ... worked all week and on Saturday the man gave me a dollar and a half. A dollar and a half! For a whole week of work. I went to the pawnshop and the man said the price was two dollars. I told him I had to have that harp. He walked away from the counter -- left the harp there. So I laid my dollar-and-a-half on the counter and picked up the harp. When my trial came up, the judge asked my why I did it. I told him I had to have that harp. The judge asked me to play it and when I did he gave the man the 50 cents and hollered "Case dismissed!" 

There was only one condition for Junior Wells' court case dismissal. He would have to send a copy of his first album to the Judge. 

(*) "Playing hookey": Skipping school or work.

Listen to:
Junior Wells - Help the Poor (Live in Hambourg 1975)

"I White" vs "I Black"

Stephan Zweig in his "Schachnovelle" (or "Chess Story" or "The Royal Game" as it has been translated in english) tells the story of an Austrian lawyer captured by the Nazis and subjected to a torture depriving him of all stimuli. He manages to maintain his sanity only through the theft of a book of past masters' chess games which he plays endlessly, voraciously learning each one until they overwhelm his imagination to such an extent that he becomes consumed by chess. He starts playing chess against himself, splitting his personality into an "I White" and "I Black" chess player in an effort to ward off insanity.

Bobby Fischer, the great American Chess player also played chess against himself when he was a child. "Eventually, I would checkmate the other guy", he joked later in life. 

"Impasse" - A short film by Bram Schouw

Without words, we're left to consider whether love and attraction can break through the impasse of human intolerance. 

IMPASSE, is the second short film of Dutch filmmaker Bram Schouw. It had its world premiere at the Tokyo International Film Festival 2008 and was selected at renowned film festivals in New York, Sarajevo and Paris. Impasse got a Special Mention at the International Amsterdam Film Festival and won the NFTVM VERS AWARD for young Dutch filmmakers. As part of the feature film STORIES ON HUMAN RIGHTS, composed out of 22 short films by directors as Hany Abu-Assad, Marina Abramovic and Sergei Bodrov, IMPASSE still travels around cinemas worldwide.

"Black Maps" - A poem by Mark Strand

Black Maps

Not the attendance of stones,
nor the applauding wind,
shall let you know
you have arrived,

nor the sea that celebrates
only departures,
nor the mountains,
nor the dying cities.

Nothing will tell you
where you are.
Each moment is a place
you’ve never been.

You can walk
believing you cast
a light around you.
But how will you know?

The present is always dark.
Its maps are black,
rising from nothing,
describing,

in their slow ascent
into themselves,
their own voyage,
its emptiness,
the bleak temperate
necessity of its completion.
As they rise into being
they are like breath.

And if they are studied at all
it is only to find,
too late, what you thought
were concerns of yours

do not exist.
Your house is not marked
on any of them,
nor are your friends,

waiting for you to appear,
nor are your enemies,
listing your faults.
Only you are there,

saying hello
to what you will be,
and the black grass
is holding up the black stars.

Bry Webb' s second solo album "Free Will"

Constantines' frontman Bry Webb, has released his second solo album last month. It's called "Free Will". The album was recorded at Toronto's 6 Nassau Recording Studio, with Webb producing alongside Jeff McMurrich (Constantines, Jennifer Castle, Owen Pallett). It finds Webb backed by his band the Providers, which includes Nathan Lawr of Minotaurs on drums, Anna Ruddick of Ladies of the Canyon on bass, Aaron Goldstein of Lee Harvey Osmond on pedal steel, and Rich Burnett on guitar and lap steel. Guests include Jennifer Castle, Will Kidman of Constantines and others.

According to the record company Idée Fixe Records, this is a record about responsibility, love, work, desire, art and above all, will. Webb possesses a beautiful voice and this record contains some fine and subtle song making. In "Fletcher", Bry Webb states "What I need I carry with me" and it's in this sparse and organic way that this record has been recorded. 

"The Last Question" (1956) A Science Fiction short story by Isaac Asimov

"Canoe" A poem by Keith Douglas

Probably no other poem conveys the feeling of forthcoming loss, in this subtle, beautiful and immobile way, as this poem written by Keith Douglas in the summer of 1940. In Oxford, where Douglas was studying, the harrowing sounds of the drums of impending war were starting to pound on the hearts and minds of the students. They all knew that their lives would soon be changed forever. Douglas presumably wrote this poem while idling near the Thames on a beautiful summer day. He tries with all of his senses to capture this magical, shared moment which, he is very well aware, may never return. But memory can elevate a fleeting moment's experience into something almost sacred, reproducing it into eternity. And this moment will live on, even when the voice is silenced, even when what remains is but a shadow or a shade. Keith Douglas was killed, at the age of 24 on the 09/06/1944, four years after the writing of this, alas, eerily prophetic poem. But the beauty and the poise of these words, scribbled on a sheet of paper, will always evoke that precious stillness of a moment locked in a cycle of eternal return.  

Canoe by Keith Douglas (1940)

Well, I am thinking this may be my last
summer, but cannot lose even a part
of pleasure in the old-fashioned art
of idleness. I cannot stand aghast

at whatever doom hovers in the background:
while grass and buildings and the somnolent river,
who know they are allowed to last forever,
exchange between them the whole subdued sound

of this hot time. What sudden fearful fate
can deter my shade wandering next year
from a return? Whistle and I will hear
and come again another evening, when this boat

travels with you alone toward Iffley:
as you lie looking up for thunder again,
this cool touch does not betoken rain;
it is my spirit that kisses your mouth lightly.

 

The Young Watchmaker and the Center of the Universe

 

He must have been at the age of five or six. He could remember vividly the first time he actually, consciously, saw this strange “thing”. It was a shiny, round shaped object at the end of a gold chain which fitted nicely in the palm of his father’s hand. His father would take it out from time to time, press a secret little button which would flip the cover. He would look at it and instantly pronounce “The Time”. Then it would quickly disappear in the pocket of his waistcoat. It was certainly a magical object. After all, it gave its owner the authority to know and to tell “The Time". And everybody knew that everything you did had to be understood in terms of time. Late for school, not enough time for that, too early for this, it was all a question of time. And time and again he thought that he should get to the bottom of this, find this object and examine it carefully. By now he knew that this object was called “the watch”. And in his young mind this “watch” became an obsession and took mythical proportions. 

Evidently, it had eyes because watch meant also "to see”. That made sense to him because time seemed to be everywhere. Nothing could escape time. You could not hide from time. Time would find you and when it did, you realised that time knew all along where you were because it had not stopped. It had seen you. The un-blinking eye of "the watch” was terrifying and fascinating at the same time. 

And then one day, he found an old watch lying in a drawer, among dusty papers and old envelopes. He decided to open it up, to operate. He had to see what made this un-blinking eye work. What was the force that moved the hands of time transforming caterpillar into butterfly, seconds into minutes, hours into days, days into months and years. 

 

With a fairly blunt breadknife, he prised open the back of the watch and saw for the first time “the center of the universe inside”.

Douglas (2011)

Ξαναδιαβάζοντας Γιώργο Σεφέρη

"Πότε θα ξαναμιλήσεις;
Είναι παιδιά πολλών ανθρώπων τα λόγια μας.
Σπέρνουνται γεννιούνται σαν τα βρέφη
ριζώνουν θρέφουνται με το αίμα.
Όπως τα πεύκα
κρατούνε τη μορφή του αγέρα
ενώ ο αγέρας έφυγε, δεν είναι εκεί
το ίδιο τα λόγια
φυλάγουν τη μορφή του ανθρώπου
κι ο άνθρωπος έφυγε, δεν είναι εκεί." 

«Επί σκηνής», ΣΤ΄, 1-10. Τρία κρυφά ποιήματα, 1966. Ποιήματα. Ίκαρος, 1974. 

Carpe Diem in the form of a poem

"Happy The Man" by John Dryden (1631-1700)

Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He who can call today his own:
He who, secure within, can say,
Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.
Be fair or foul or rain or shine
The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine.
Not Heaven itself upon the past has power,
But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour. 

"Sonny Boy" by Mick Harvey (based on a demo by Jeffrey Lee Pierce)

A forgotten cassette found in an attic. Nascent musical sketches, demos and ideas recorded on the go by Jeffrey Lee Pierce of Gun Club fame. Enter Nick Cave, Mick Harvey, Debbie Harry & Chris Stein, Lydia Lunch, The Jim Jones Revue, Kid Congo Powers, Tav Falco’s Panther Burns, Mark Lanegan and Isobel Campbell, Youth’s Vertical Smile, Steve Wynn (Dream Syndicate), Warren Ellis, Barry Adamson, Bertrand Cantat & Pascal Humbert, Thalia Zedek & Chris Brokaw, Hugo Race, Dom Beken and Kris & Michelle Needs who take these fragments and turn them into songs. Songs that fit in a tribute album to the man himself, Jeffrey Lee Pierce. Mick Harvey's "Sonny Boy" is certainly a standout track in the album. It brings to mind timeless classic rock songs sung by either Patti Smith or Marianne Faithfull in their prime. The sparse arrangement of the song is all that is needed to bring out the haunting melody. It's as if someone (certainly Jeffrey Lee Pierce) has tapped the very soul of America and extracted only the best and essential ingredients that are needed to make a classic song.

A pinch of rock n' roll, a little blues, a few grams of punk and there you have it. Jeffrey Lee Pierce would certainly be proud of this one.

Listen to:

Mick Harvey - Sonny Boy

The song can be found in the album "The Journey is Long: The Jeffrey Lee Pierce Sessions Project" under the Glitterhouse Label.

Rino Stefano Tagliafierro's subtle animation of classic paintings

B E A U T Y - dir. Rino Stefano Tagliafierro from Rino Stefano Tagliafierro on Vimeo.

Το κείμενο της Ειρήνης

Το κείμενο που ακολουθεί γράφτηκε, λίγο πριν ξεσπάσει η κρίση, από μια κοπέλα 18 χρονών τότε, την Ειρήνη Τριανταφύλλου. Πέντε χρόνια αργότερα η κοπέλα αυτή δυστυχώς έχασε τη ζωή της σε ένα τραγικό δυστύχημα. Οι σκέψεις της όμως, όπως είχαν γραφτεί στο χαρτί τότε, θα συνεχίσουν να διαβάζονται και να ακούγονται καίριες όσα χρόνια και αν περάσουν... 

"Τα όνειρά μου είναι η προϋπόθεση ή η βάση - αν θέλετε – της επανάστασής μου. Αφήστε με λοιπόν, να ονειρεύομαι.. Εξάλλου η πραγματικότητα που μου προτείνετε δεν είναι και τόσο δελεαστική.

Όλοι μας, αλλά κυρίως όλοι σας, παγιδευμένοι στις υπερβολικές απαιτήσεις των καιρών, στις υπέρμετρες φιλοδοξίες, στον υπερκαταναλωτισμό, έχουμε ξεχάσει την αξία και την δύναμη που κρύβει μέσα του το χάδι, ο ζεστός λόγος, η κουβεντούλα με το φίλο. Πότε επικοινωνήσατε τελευταία φορά με ένα φίλο σας; Πότε ήταν η τελευταία φορά που μιλήσατε χωρίς ενδοιασμούς για όσα σας απασχολούν; Ανθρώπους που νοιάζονται για σας δεν μπορεί παρά να έχετε, όμως επιστήθιους φίλους που μπορείτε να τους εκμυστηρευτείτε τις ανησυχίες σας, τα προβλήματά σας, δεν έχετε. Πολλές φορές - και έχετε δίκιο σ' αυτό - η διάθεση να μοιραστείτε μυστικά έχει αποβεί εις βάρος σας. Οι σύγχρονοι ρυθμοί δεν επιτρέπουν τέτοιου είδους ανοίγματα, όχι μόνο λόγω έλλειψης χρόνου αλλά κυρίως γιατί η εμπιστοσύνη "επερίσσευσε".

Γίνατε εσωστρεφείς, θέλοντας να προφυλαχθείτε από τα προβλήματα τρίτων, γιατί είναι τόσα τα δικά σας, που δεν μπορείτε να σηκώστε κι άλλο βάρος. Γίνατε ένα μοναχικό άτομο που ψάχνετε φιλίες μέσω ηλεκτρονικών δρόμων. Η φιλία απόκτησε το δικό της e-mail στο ίντερνετ!

Εργασία και εγκλεισμός στο σπίτι κατά τις εργάσιμες ημέρες και διασκέδαση με φορτσαρισμένη ιλαρότητα το Σαββατόβραδο, αυτό είναι το πρόγραμμά σας. Α, ξέχασα, θέλετε να βελτιώσετε την εξωτερική σας εμφάνιση και καταφεύγετε σε γυμναστήρια και ινστιτούτα αδυνατίσματος, αυτοαναιρώντας την προσπάθειά σας με υπερκατανάλωση φαγητού και οινοπνευματωδών ποτών.

Δεν χαρακτηρίζεστε από συνέπεια και αλληλεγγύη απέναντι σε φίλους και συγγενείς. Παγιδεύεστε στον απομονωτισμό του προσωπικού σας συμφέροντος, ζώντας μόνοι ακόμα και μέσα στις συντροφιές. Έχετε περιορίσει τις πολιτικές και συνδικαλιστικές σας δραστηριότητες, στις αναγκαίες και ωφελιμιστικές.

Και μέσα σ' όλη αυτή τη σύγχυση, βρίσκετε χρόνο και διάθεση παίρνοντας και το κατάλληλο ύφος να μας κριτικάρετε, με την «αγωνία» και το «ενδιαφέρον» ζωγραφισμένο στο πρόσωπό σας.

Για σας είμαστε οι καλοπερασάκηδες, οι οκνηροί, οι χωρίς προβληματισμούς νέοι, το δυσοίωνο αύριο στα χέρια του οποίου δεν θέλετε να παραδώστε τον κόσμο (από πότε γίνεται παράδοση και παραλαβή του χάους;).

Για σας αγνοούμε την ιστορία μας, δεν έχουμε ιδανικά αλλά έχουμε βαπτίσει ιδανικό τον υλικό ευδαιμονισμό μας. Για σας δεν αντιμετωπίζουμε με τον δέοντα σεβασμό τις εθνικές επετείους, δε γνωρίζουμε τα ιδανικά της γενιάς του Πολυτεχνείου ή τα γνωρίζουμε τυπικά και θεωρητικά, για να γράψουμε καλή έκθεση, αν και όταν μας ζητηθεί από σας.

Μέσα σ' αυτό το κλίμα και τις λιβελογραφικές κορόνες σας, επιτρέψτε μου να ονειρεύομαι.

Ονειρεύομαι μια γειτονιά, στενό δρομάκι και ζεστοί άνθρωποι. Χαμόγελα και πίκρες και χέρια που σ' αγκαλιάζουν και κάνουν περισσότερα τα πρώτα και λιγότερες τις δεύτερες.

Ονειρεύομαι να «μάθω γράμματα, να γίνω άνθρωπος» όπως λέει και η γιαγιά μου. Να μάθω γράμματα, για να ανοίξει το μυαλό μου και τα μάτια της ψυχής μου και μ' αυτά να αντικρίζω τον κόσμο και τον άνθρωπο.

Ονειρεύομαι να ασκήσω το επάγγελμα που μ' αρέσει, χωρίς να χρειαστεί να «φιλήσω κατουρημένες ποδιές» ή να περάσω από γραφεία πολιτικών, πολιτευόμενων, γραμματέων και γραμματικών.

Ονειρεύομαι να φτιάξω τη δική μου οικογένεια και να μεγαλώσω τα παιδιά μου με τις αρχές και τις αξίες που οι δικοί μου γονείς έδωσαν σε μένα, για να στηρίξω πάνω σ' αυτές την ψυχή μου, το μυαλό και τη ζωή μου.

Ονειρεύομαι να έχω δίπλα μου ανθρώπους αληθινούς, που θα μ' αγαπάνε και θα τους αγαπώ ελεύθερα και κατ' επιλογήν μου.

Ονειρεύομαι να μην ντρέπομαι ως πολίτης, να μη σκύβω το κεφάλι, αλλά να φιλοκαλώ μετ' ευτελείας και να ζω άνευ καχυποψίας.

Ονειρεύομαι να χρησιμοποιώ τη γλώσσα για να λέω «τα σύκα - σύκα και τη σκάφη - σκάφη» και όχι να «κρύβω λόγια».

Ονειρεύομαι μ' αυτές τις συντεταγμένες να δημιουργήσω το δικό μου κόσμο, τον μικρό και μέγα.

Έχω κλείσει τα αυτιά μου στα κατηγορώ, στη δήθεν συμπάθεια, στη δήθεν επαναστατική διάθεση και ειλικρίνεια και ανιδιοτέλεια και δουλεύω - δουλεύω, για να κάνω τα όνειρά μου πραγματικότητα.

Η επανάστασή μου έχει αρχίσει...Την ακούτε;;"

The article in the Guardian newspaper

When Frederick Exley met the parents

Frederick Exley's best known book is called "A Fan's Notes" and it was first published in 1968. It's a singular book mostly about Exley's own experiences and failures from asylums to YMCAs, to failed relationships, to alcohol addictions and American football. Exley's writing is at it's best, when in a dramatic context, with a few words he turns the situation on it's head and makes the whole thing sound hilarious. Take for example this excerpt from the book when he is somehow forced to meet the parents of his girlfriend.   

"... In the end Bunny even insisted that I make the trip to the suburbs to face her parents. It was this meeting that ended everything.
   The Allorgees lived in a suburb of a suburb, their particular little suburb being Heritage Heights. It was a suburb that had apparently never caught on. The streets were all there, but there was only one house, Allorgees' Acres, a great, white, one-storied, rambling ranch-type place in which everything from garage to game room to hot-water heater was found on the single story that shot out in all sorts of clapboard arms, like the spokes of a wagon wheel. "The Heights" was not on any height at all; this was the American Midwest at its most grotesque, treeless and cold-looking as far as the eye could see, so that it only seemed set on high ground. There was only one thing that broke the endless blue monotony of the heavens - a television aerial that rose so high that it dizzied one to look up at it, an aerial which, I was proudly informed, put the Allorgees on certain clear days in contact with all parts of the Republic. It was a touching monument to their isolation. In answer to my question about its astounding height, Chuck (or Poppy) - as the father was interchangeably designated - said only that he liked "good reception".
  That was the only thing I remember Chuck, or Poppy, saying for the entire weekend. The rest of his communication with me consisted of an outrageous wink, a wink that distressed me so much that after a time I began to wonder if I ought not to pop Chuckie, or Chuck Poppy..."

"Duel" - A song by Brigitte Fontaine (feat. Jacques Higelin)

Brigitte Fontaine has been at the forefront of the french avant-garde from the early 1960s until today. During her long career she has mostly divided her talent between theatre and music. Her latest album (dating March 2011) consists mainly of duets. It is entitled "L'un n'empêche pas l'autre". From that album allow me to propose an extraordinary track which she sings with her old pal Jacques Higelin. The name of the song is "Duel".

When I first listened to this song I was captivated by the very theatrical atmosphere that slowly builds into the theme. From the lyrics, one understands that this song is about a duel. The two duelists, a man and a woman, meet under the orange tree blossoms and cautiously measure each other whilst at the same time trying to intimidate and destabilize their opponent. Almost at once, I had this image of samurai warriors circling each other while orange blossoms are falling all around them. It could very well have been a scene by the famous Japanese director Kurosawa. Then, you realise that it's not samurai warriors but a magician and a witch locked in mortal combat. A Merlin against a Morgana duel to the death, bronze against steel. The fight begins and the duelists change forms and exchange insults and threats. But soon we discover that there is an admiration and even a secret love between these two, for when the battle reaches its peak, the insults are transformed into erotic words and the two warriors are consumed not by their weapons or their magic tricks but by their passion for one another. So after all, not samurai warriors, not witches and magicians, but just a man and a woman and their erotic passion. In eight minutes, Brigitte Fontaine manages to combine music and theatre in one truly beautiful song.              

Listen to:

Brigitte Fontaine (featuring Jacques Higelin) - Duel