I squealed with excitement, darted away from my companions and checked out Bob, the dog.

He was thinking it over, contemplating a long-term commitment and generally savoring life, music, wine and all while also keeping a watchful eye on smoke-belching factories that seemed to pop up in the windows of his life.

I’ve loved Bob, the dog, since I met him a couple of years ago during an art gallery tour in Sacramento. He was out again on Saturday night, bold, bright, and vibrant as ever. Rod Swenson is Bob’s prolific creator. Haven’t met him, although I’m sure, in a way, I have. And I adore what I know.

My companions weren’t into Bob or Swenson the way I was. A couple remarked on the cartoon-quality of his work. But, to me, that’s what gives it power. It’s whimsical, fun, in the moment but also has a serious undercurrent flashing behind the vibrancy. To me, it harkens to George Rodrigue (met him as a sidewalk artist in Washington D.C.’s Union Station) and his Blue Dog. And, for me, channels one part Fernando Botero’s rotund portraits and another Diego Rivera and his peasant portraits during the Mexican Revolution.

Anyway, if you get a chance, stop in for a visit to see Bob, the dog at the 20th Street Art Gallery in Sacramento, Calif.. I think you’ll like him. Meanwhile, here’s a video that features Fernando Botero Angulo’s work. If you're ever in the Los Angeles area, you can see several of his paintings in the Museum of Latin American Art. Enjoy…

 -Christy

Letizia Tassinari

Você homem, ficaria com uma mulher assim? Sua resposta deve ter sido um imediato SIM! Entretanto, ao saber que essa mulher esta 20kg acima do seu peso, a resposta já mudou, não foi mesmo?

É incrível como o ser humano - salvo raras exceções- consegue ser manipulado, influenciado pelo meio.

Há algum tempo eram as gordinhas que os homens desejavam. Caçadores desenhavam suas mulheres nas paredes das cavernas com curvas sinuosas, tempos depois a preferência continuou, afinal a gordura era sinal de um alto poder aquisitivo. Atualmente não se vê isso. Os homens se sentem atraídos por mulheres com outros padrões: magras, esguias... Padrões estes que não podem ser exigidos das brasileiras, já que são mulheres naturalmente cheias de curvas.

A música do Rei Roberto, Coisa Bonita, que fala da beleza da gordinha ainda ecoa nos nossos ouvidos, as pinturas do Botero ainda estão registradas nos nossos olhos... Infelizmente de nada adiantou a tentativa deles de minimizar o preconceito contra o “look alternativo”, ele continua gritante.

Muita gente vai aparecer aqui e dizer que estou equivocada, que com eles não existe isso. Tenham certeza: não estou! Já cansei de ver homens desejando mulheres fora dos tais padrões e que não tiveram coragem de tentar alguma coisa com vergonha de aparecer em público com ela imaginando o que os outros falariam!

Impressiona a forma como o ser humano denigre sua imagem!! É uma pena...

But by all means, I like many of the works such as A stroll by the lake and Bishop. He insisted that his works are completely Colombian.

C'est massif ! Quelques articles ici, là et là ...


Plus d'images sur google.

The City

With just over 8 million people in the metro area, Bogotá is slightly smaller than Chicago. Throughout the city, skyscrapers shoot into the skyline in front of a backdrop of green, tree-covered mountains. The elevation is over 8500 ft, so it is another city more than 50% higher than Denver. In fact, the mountains behind our hostel were often partially submerged in clouds. Although it is close to the equator, it is not hot because of the altitude. Also because it is so close to the equator, the city does not experience seasons. They have one climate year-round, which is relatively temperate but it does rain often.

Our hostel was in a neighborhood called "La Candelaria." It is the oldest part of town with one-lane streets and old buildings. It is the hipster neighborhood, if such a thing exists in Colombia, where all the artists live. The personality of the people, the restaurants, the bars, and the architecture captivated me. Almost every wall on every block was covered in graffiti or a painted mural – lots of political statements. The neighborhood was packed with degenerates, bums, and generally sketchy people. It felt a little dangerous sometimes. But if I move to Bogotá, I will probably reside in the Candelaria.

Zona Rosa is the high-end part of town where we ended up drinking every night. Zona Rosa is so nice I couldn't believe I was in South America. Since my Latin American experience is limited to four cities – Recife, Rio de Janeiro, Arequipa, and Bogotá – I may be going out on a limb here at the risk of inaccuracy. But none of those cities have any area as nice as Zona Rosa. Most American cities, including my hometown of St. Louis, have nothing even close to the size and scale of such a high-end area of consumption. Zona Rosa features high-end bars and restaurants one after the other interrupted by Hugo Boss, Bang & Olufson, Gucci, and other stores I don't shop at. Drinks in Zona Rosa, after accounting for the current exchange rate, cost about the same as an average big city in America. Even outside of Zona Rosa, I constantly noted how nice and developed everything in Bogotá was. Again, I was constantly wondering out loud if I was in South America. I could have taken pictures of the streets and passed them off as Florida. That is how run-down Bogotá is not. On the other hand, nowhere in Arequipa could pass for the bad parts of LA or Albuquerque.

The only downside to this excellent city is the aggressive panhandlers. We were approached with a hard sell our first afternoon and the pitches never ceased. If a bum speaks any English whatsoever, that bum will make sure to pitch people who look like us. The Candelaria was crawling with them and it seems as if we always had some loser walking behind us, unwilling to give up the sales pitch that never stood a chance given his prospects.

The Play by Play

I touched down in Bogotá at 8:30 pm. I arrived at the hotel at 9:30 and actually met Elkin before Dennis did. Dennis has a Colombian co-worker in DC who set us up with a buddy to show us around. After introducing each other and reuniting with Dennis, we hopped in Elkin's shiny black Benz. We told him we weren't interested in any sites or views our first night; we just wanted to start eating and drinking. Luckily for Dennis, Elkin spoke fluent English. However, something was lost in translation as we shared a delicious dinner and discussed what we would do that night. Elkin knew of a special party, but should we get some girls first? That sounded like a great idea to me and Dennis. He said he knew some girls at this place that we could get before we go to the club. So we hopped back in his shiny black Benz and headed to a discreet bar on a side-street. We got inside to find a dim bar packed with model-quality women in skimpy clothes. Barely a second passed before Dennis and I looked at each other and realized we were in a brothel. Communication breakdown? The three or four dozen models who were staring at us outnumbered the male patrons at least 5 – 1. MODELS. We told Elkin that we misunderstood him and that we wanted to go to a bar where there might be girls who let us touch them for free.

He took us to a liquor store to pound some Red Bull and scotch before we hit the party. The party was a techno-club featuring one of Colombia's most famous DJs: DJ Fruto. The place was packed with beautiful, well-dressed people – a scene as cosmopolitan as anything you could find in New York, Chicago, LA, London, Amsterdam, Rio de Janeiro, etc. You couldn't put together a crowd as beautiful in a smaller city like St. Louis. Unfortunately, they were playing techno and I was looking forward to salsa and a more authentic Colombian experience. I became more and more disappointed that I would have to dance to techno this night. I am a staunch capitalist, but I started to ponder one of Karl Marx's predictions in the Communist Manifesto: the homogenization of culture. He predicted that in a global economy where money rules, we will see the erasure of languages, values and overall national identities. This is happening as English dominates the language front and techno conquers the dance floor. Why would I come to Colombia to see this party? I have been to this same party on three different continents in five or six different countries. I decided to get really drunk so maybe I could have a good time. I bought a pint of aguardiente ('firewater', an anise-flavored Colombian liquor) and started chasing it with beer.

My strategy worked well enough that I started dancing. Dennis made out with a fat girl and then escaped her. He and I started dancing with a different group of girls. I put in some time dancing with one in particular - the hottest one with huge breasts and a cute face. I patiently waited three or four songs before I started touching her. Then Dennis started making out with a girl who was not fat. We all went out to the beautiful patio for some air. There was a bonfire, another bar, and jazz music under the beautiful night. I met some gay guys who passed me their joint. I indulged. I started making out with the short hottie I had been dancing with. We made out the whole night. It came time to leave around 3 or 4am. Elkin, Elkin's roommate, Dennis and I wanted these four girls to come back to Elkin's apartment in Zona Rosa. The girls were skeptical. Elkin explained we could all fit in his car. The girls became more skeptical. Elkin was losing the sale so I held my short hottie close to me and told Dennis to not let Elkin talk. Dennis was helpless without Spanish. Elkin disappeared and reappeared behind the wheel of the aforementioned shiny black Benz. The girls were no longer skeptical and we piled in, me in the front seat with my hottie on my lap. In similar style of the techno club and the Benz, Elkin's posh apartment is smartly decorated and overlooks Zona Rosa. We drank scotch and danced to reggaeton until dawn. At one point, Dennis lied down on the couch and went to sleep. I pulled him up and pointed out the window to the beautiful view of Bogotá in the morning. He admired it and returned to his couch. We passed out on Elkin's couches that night.

The second day, after a meal with Elkin, Dennis and I went to this museum district which featured the Botero museum, the gold museum, and a few others. I had never heard of Fernando Botero, but have learned that he is the painting pride of Colombia and still alive at 76. I must say I didn't think much of his painting. He had some kind of fat fetish and only painted images of not just fat, but obese people. Several paintings of naked fat women reclining on a bed and a few of naked fat women from behind. He re-created famous paintings with fat people (e.g., a fat Mona Lisa). You get the point. He had one or two interesting paintings – one of a house in which a mob had interrupted a party to shoot everybody up. The characters in this painting were still roundish, but not cartoonishly obese. I asked some of the employees of the museum and learned that, in fact, Botero is not fat. Go figure. In old Botero's defense, his art can't be that bad if it has provoked this much commentary from me.

Then we toured the Gold Museum with a handful of Colombian girls we met – to be described in better detail in the section devoted to Colombian women. We were thoroughly bored with the Gold Museum despite its being the most famous museum and the only one I had heard of before arriving. All of the gold work was small and simple, made by the indigenous tribes of the region pre-Columbus. We hit some more museums and took goofy pictures of ourselves in front of paintings, statues, and whatnot. I am glad we saw the museums, but I was generally unimpressed as I have been spoiled by museum experiences in Amsterdam, New York, Chicago, San Francisco, etc.

After the museums, Dennis and I went for a coffee in the Candelaria because it seemed like we had to drink coffee while in Colombia – like getting robbed in Detroit or getting drunk in Ireland. The coffee was nothing special. There were two girls and an old guy at the table next to us. The girls were casually stealing glances at us the whole time. We finished our coffees and went out in search of food. About a block from the coffee shop, we saw one of the girls walking with the old man. I asked them to recommend a restaurant in the neighborhood. She told us about a great place and that we could walk with them as it was on their way. We made introductions and started the walk. I don't remember what we talked about because we arrived at the restaurant in minutes and said goodbye. After ordering a couple beers and lunch, that girl came into the restaurant – without the old man. She came back to tell me that she is returning to the coffee shop and that we should join her and her friend after we finish our lunch. After she left, I proclaimed "I love this country!" and the bartenders laughed. After lunch, we didn't go to the coffee shop because the girl wasn't gorgeous and we wanted to take naps and get drunk.

We took naps and arranged to meet Elkin in Zona Rosa. He had a party to go to. We suffered another communication breakdown in the kind of place we would go to that night. However, this breakdown was not a language failure but rather Elkin not following directions. I specifically told him many times that I wanted to dance to salsa that evening and that I absolutely did not want to hear techno. Furthermore, I explained we wanted to dance salsa in a cheaper place with sleazy women. A more authentic Colombian experience. So Elkin took us to another high-end nightclub. It was even pricier and more posh than the first one. Dennis and I agreed that Elkin probably wanted to show off the best of Bogotá as well as show off to his friends that he knows gringos. La Alma was three-stories. The top floor was open-air with techno and the second floor was reggaeton / hip hop.

I was initially annoyed that Elkin had taken us to another kind of place that I can find anywhere in America or Europe. And I had already paid the exorbitant cover so we wouldn't be leaving anytime soon. The place was crowded so it wouldn't even be easy to dance. So I decided to drink myself retarded again. I ordered a pint of Smirnoff with some chasers. Dennis and I put down the bottle in about thirty minutes. He expressed concern for how fast I was drinking. I went to the bar for beers. I didn't tell Dennis until the next day, but I did a shot of scotch at the bar every time I ordered a beer. After some time, my strategy worked again. I got drunk enough to enjoy myself in this place. I knew the words to more reggaeton songs than Elkin and his friends. Then the DJ played House of Pain's "Jump Around," to which I always show off how high I can jump for the entire song. After one jump I landed into a ledge and knocked over three or four drinks. I didn't really feel sorry and the song wasn't over so I kept jumping. I met some gringo at the next table (we were in VIP). He and the other gringos worked for the American embassy. I started dancing with a couple girls from their group. Then Dennis and I took these two girls upstairs to the techno and fresh air. At some point, Dennis made out with somebody in this bar who I didn't see. He told me she was smoking hot but a bad kisser. I left to get a drink and Elkin's roommate was dancing with the girl I had been dancing with and I left it alone. Back downstairs and extremely drunk, the bouncer wouldn't let me near the American embassy gringos' table. I didn't really care. I met some new people – two guys and a girl. I made particularly good friends with one of the guys who seemed to be the girl's boyfriend. He told me we should go to this other club. I agreed. I can't understate how drunk I was at this point. I don't remember this happening, but Dennis filled in the details the next day. Apparently, Dennis found me outside and I told him that we are hopping in this taxi and going to a different club. He told me that he has a group of five girls that want to hang out with us. I was so drunk I insisted we go to this other club. According to Dennis, he firmly demanded to know why I was cock-blocking him. "WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU COCK-BLOCKING ME?!" He reiterated that he has five girls with him – one of which he had already made out with and one that was interested in me.

I managed to win the debate and we hopped into the taxi with these new friends headed for the next club. Although he may have been angry that I accidentally cock-blocked him, Dennis conceded the next day that this second club was worth the trip. It was on the top floor of a 41-story building. I don't remember much of what happened at the club, but apparently Dennis made out with another girl and I drank more alcohol. I only remember admiring the view of downtown Bogotá from the balcony high above the city. It was dawn and the skyscrapers, mountains, and lush green foliage looked great in the early blue sky. We left around 6am and got to sleep around 6:30.

Sunday was the day I hoped to see the modern art museum of Bogotá. It was far from the Candelaria but we made the trek on foot anyway. When we got there, we learned it is closed Sundays. We weren't mad because it was in this huge park that was pretty cool. We took some pictures. We returned to the Candelaria on a different street – I think it was called Carrera 9. It was a major thoroughfare with sidewalks completely packed with poor people selling cheap, worthless stuff. There were lots of seemingly sketchy people around as well. Dennis didn't like these people. At one point, we heard a loud whistling and three cops took off running toward the sound. Against Dennis' objections, I insisted we go check out what was going on. There was a punk rock concert in a medium-sized venue. It seemed to be getting out of control inside. Twenty or thirty cops mobbed up outside in anticipation of this concert letting out. We started to notice all the punks in the street with mohawks and torn denim jeans. The cops were preparing to give these punk rockers beatings with batons that they desperately deserved. I agreed it would be a good idea to leave before the concert let out. We went back to the hotel to take naps.

Sunday night was my last night and I had high hopes for a good time. We went out with these two guys from our hostel – Tom from England and Scott from Scotland. We ate dinner at a Mexican restaurant and drank at a microbrewery called Bogotá Beer Company. Dennis was sick so he wasn't drinking. I drank for him by taking a double shot of aguardiente every half hour or so in addition to the three foot pitcher of beer I shared with the Brits. I had a great time drinking with these guys and kept trying to find common ground by drawing similarities between America and the UK. I have often heard Americans and Brits, grouped together, being complained about in Europe because we both share a culture which drinks a lot, drinks fast, and is loud and obnoxious in the process. I hadn't drank in such Anglo-Saxon fashion since March so it was fun. We were the rowdiest table in the place and I imagine we annoyed all the other patrons on the patio. We made inappropriate and politically incorrect comments. Dennis is a good-natured guy who doesn't mind making fun of himself for making out with fat chicks. Scott explained that Equatorial Guinea was rated to have one of the worst human rights records in the world. And then he toasted to never having felt safer in all of Africa. Tom told a story of how drunk he was in Amsterdam's Red Light District one night. After visiting a prostitute, he stumbled out for more money or booze or whatever. After deciding to visit another prostitute he was embarrassed beyond belief to get undressed and find he still had a condom on his dick. For some reason, the jokes are funnier when delivered in English / Scottish accents and slang. (I still had the old Johnny on!) And then he toasted to how cool she was about replacing the used one with a new one. There was a group of girls at a table next to us and we kept talking about one of the girls' giant breasts, which Dennis insisted were real. We don't know if they spoke English, but Scott made cup shapes over his chest with his hands a few times so I'm sure they knew what we were talking about. Plus, after a restroom break she came out of the bar with her arms crossed over a newly zipped-up jacket.

Dennis had enough and took a taxi home while Scott, Tom, and I hit an Irish bar for a shot and a beer. Then the Irish bar, the last bar open in Zona Rosa, closed at 1am. We walked around for at least a half hour in search of a bar but the streets were dead. I still don't understand how a city of over 8 million can completely close down because it is Sunday. We got a taxi. The taxi driver told us the only places open were brothels, which the Brits weren't "in the mood" for. We got back to the hostel to look for people – empty. Even worse, the office didn't have cold beer. Only room temperature beer, which I drank but this prompted Tom and Scott to go to bed. And so I sent for a taxi and went to a brothel. And this brings us to the section of the article completely devoted to Colombian women.

The Women

This is an email exchange between Dennis and I before he arrived in Bogotá.

Dennis to me:

"it sounds like the nicer part of town is in the north (our hostel is downtown). my friend actually suggested we try to find a hostel up in the north, my only problem with that is that all the hostels seem to be downtown so we have a much better chance of finding other travellers (aka easy white girls) but the north sounds like thats where all the locals party. what do you think?"

Me to Dennis:

"easy white girls would be nice, but i wouldn't get your hopes up for them. the kind of white girls i see here in arequipa are NOT the kind of girls that want anything to do with guys like us. they are the type that are here to see go backpacking in outdoors gear, climb mountains and ponder the injustices of the world and shit. we want to meet colombian women! just remember: deep inside of every latina is a very special person that needs - no CRAVES - a tall gringo, his penis and intellectual prowess."

This email is obviously a joke and I'm being silly. However, it is funny because there is a hint of truth in it. We were stared at everywhere we went. Dennis told me a group of girls were staring at us on the dance floor the first night. We dismissed it more or less and kept moving to find space to dance. When we found space, Dennis told me that the girls followed us. This was the group that ultimately came back to Elkin's apartment. I put in a considerable amount of time dancing with her, being patient because I sensed this one might get scared off. I don't remember how we started kissing, but she was an excellent kisser. We made out all night. Dennis was surprised I didn't get her phone number. Honestly, it didn't occur to me. Claudia was very beautiful and very short with huge breasts. I was surprised to learn that she was thirty. I was also surprised when she told me her boyfriend was out of town. I was disappointed at Elkin's apartment when she said she didn't want to go lay on a bed with me. I don't remember saying goodbye or anything. I just remember waking up on Elkin's couch alone.

And we got stared at the next day at the Otero Museum while observing (not admiring) some of Otero's bizarre fat-fetish art. I noticed a group of five girls taking turns staring at me - and maybe at Dennis a little bit on accident. I told Dennis that five hot girls are staring at us. He didn't care. It got even more obvious and I told him again. He didn't seem to care. Then the ringleader of the group came up to me with a camera and said, "¿Foto?" I assumed she wanted me to take a picture for them and I agreed. Then she gave one of her friends the camera while she and the others jumped in line with me and Dennis to take a picture with us. I was thrilled because they were really hot and clean-looking. Dennis wasn't thrilled because he thought they were too young. They didn't think I spoke Spanish so we parted ways. We ran into them later at this big statue of a hand and took more pictures together. They still didn't know I spoke Spanish so we parted ways again. I insisted to Dennis that two of them had to be at least 21 years old. He sort of agreed.

Outside the Gold Museum, we ran into them again as I caught a glimpse of the ringleader. She was my favorite with a slim physique and an innocent, gorgeous face without a blemish or wrinkle on it. She wore plaid pants that accentuated her beautiful, round bottom. This time she came up to me with paper and pen and said, "Mays-aing-yair?" Messenger? I answered her in Spanish and wrote down our email addresses. Her friends appeared and I proposed we all see the Gold Museum together. They agreed and I started to talk with the ringleader while the others listened. Dennis moped around thinking these girls were too young and wishing he spoke Spanish. I asked the girls if they were students. They told me they were all studying to be teachers. I relayed this to Dennis. At least they're in college, right? He agreed and started to believe they might be in their twenties after all. The word for "we study" and "we studied" is the same in Spanish – "estudiamos." I told them that we studied business but assumed they believed that we study business (as in we are still students, as opposed to MBAs). Then someone's dad showed up. Well, we don't know if he was a dad or who he was, but an older guy came out of nowhere and had a brief conference with the ringleader. He saw us and apparently didn't have a problem with the girls talking to us, but it did made us feel like pedophiles again. They were from some small town hours away, so it was probably a family trip. I assume they were part of the tiny educated, upper-class scene in their rural Colombian town. We all said goodbye after the Gold Museum and I occasionally thought about the ringleader from time to time throughout the weekend. I am a sucker for sweet girls. I remember thinking I could be happy forever with a clean sweetheart like her with her beautiful, caramel-colored face and apple butt.

On Sunday, our last day, I found myself in the lobby of our hostel talking to another hot Colombian. She was telling me Dennis and I should go to Zona Rosa with her and her friend at around 4 or 5 pm. She was really short with huge breasts and a beautiful face (we met several like that). While she was talking, she laid back in this hammock and got comfortable. She seemed so relaxed reclining in this hammock. She looked like a girl you have been with for a while who is ready to be cuddled and spooned to sleep. I wanted to jump into the hammock with her and kiss her all over her face. Before I arrived the first night, she asked Dennis to walk her to a store down the street and he did. She doesn't speak any English so they couldn't talk. But ever since then she was always asking me what he and I were doing and trying to coordinate hers and her friends' plans with ours. Dennis insisted we ditch them all weekend because neither one spoke English and her friend was ugly. I think she hooked up with this Swiss sissy later that night.

So this should bring us to where I left for the brothel. Your favorite hapless romantic had been dreaming and drooling over the women all weekend long and this was my last night and there was only one kind of place open. Plus, Dennis had made out with four women by this time. If we were playing this game that my Brazilian buddy plays, I would be losing 4 – 1. A perfect storm developed of my insecurities in losing the game combined with desire for these Colombian women combined with the fact that I probably wouldn't have been able to go to bed at 2 am after two nights drinking until dawn. The taxi took me to the curb and pointed out the door. A man dressed in a suit came to the car and opened the door for me, gesturing me in very politely and confidently. This mustached man came to be my primary caretaker in my time here. He ushered me into the place, sat me down at a booth, and brought me a Heineken.

I surveyed the field and took a liking for a slim black girl with huge butt and breasts. I took her to a bedroom downstairs within twenty minutes of arriving. It was OK, I was finished in ten minutes or so. She didn't really seem into it but we got the job done. She did have a body as good as God makes them. When I got back upstairs, I realized this was the only bar open and I still wanted to get drunk. So I sat down in the same booth and ordered a shot of aguardiente and another Heineken from my mustached caretaker that looked like a Latino version of Borat. He told me to move from my current table to a table where three girls were sitting. I obliged but focused on my precious booze. The girls left soon and I drank alone for twenty minutes or so. I noticed another girl walking down the aisle with her coat on. She said goodbye to a few people around the place and then saw me. She sat down and started a conversation with me. She asked me how I liked the negrita. I asked her if she wanted a drink as I ordered another shot and a beer. She wanted scotch - the most expensive shot on the menu. I don't remember what we talked about but it must have been nice and time-consuming because I found myself wanting to be alone with this one. I consulted my caretaker to see if I could use my credit card for a room if I felt the desire, which he told me I could. We were downstairs soon after. While this one didn't have as much of a brickhouse body, she was hot with wide hips and a cute, brown face. She was the type whose bodily architecture needs to be on top in order to achieve orgasm. In my experience, I have found that this type gets the job done pretty quickly once they are up there. So she was on top, but not sitting up straight because she was also the type that needs constant clitoral stimulation. Her head was right next to mine while she ground herself into my pelvic bone and rode me at the same time. This is a somewhat painful for me. However, I enjoyed her persistence and tenacity in finishing herself off, which must have taken more than twenty minutes. After her hard work, she stopped altogether and laid her cheek against mine, her hair was wet with sweat on my face. We put in a little more effort for my sake, but those twenty minutes left me relatively content and relaxed. Some guy started knocking on the door to let us know my time was up.

We went upstairs, said goodbye and she went home. It must have been 4:30 and I still wanted to get drunk. I ordered another shot and a beer. This is when drunk irrationality tells me that I had already broken out my credit card. And there were no other bars open. Might as well have a good time on my last night, right? My caretaker asked me if I wanted a girl to join me. NO! Thank you, but I am fine. Well taken care of, thank you. He brought me more aguardiente and I noticed a girl eyeing me. She was lighter-skinned (think Italian or Spanish complexion) and very beautiful. She sat down with me and we started to talk. She was very sweet and had something magnetic about her. I usually dislike the personalities of prostitutes and even strippers. They are generally cold and completely transparent about only being interested in money. This one refused a drink. She was drinking club soda with lime. I insisted she drink with me. She didn't want anything. My caretaker offered me a pint of aguardiente for 150,000 pesos (about $95). I refused and made a face like he was hurting my ears. I really didn't need that much liquor anyway. He had a conference with the bartender and I went back to talking with this new whore who I had no intention in having sex with, but was admittedly charmed by her. Then my caretaker came back and offered the pint for 100,000 pesos (about $63). I refused, I really didn't want a whole bottle! I turned my attention back to my little buddy sitting next to me. She asked me if I liked those two girls. I told her the first one wasn't that cool but the second one and I had some kind of chemistry. She shook her head at me. Then the caretaker came back and offered the bottle for 60,000 pesos (about $37.50). His price has come down a full 60%. I finally agreed and he brought the bottle. I already broke out the plastic. Might as well have a good time, right? The girl and I took a shot together. I told my caretaker to bring a shot glass for himself, for this cop that was working and for this fat guy that seemed like he worked there. We had a big toast. My caretaker took two shots. Then the cop took another shot. I drank a lot, too. I noticed it was dawn outside and decided I should not go to bed before my 1pm flight back to Perú.

The girl sitting with me didn't come off like a prostitute at all. She came off like a girl who really likes to have sex. She told me one of her favorite activities: "fumar la marihuana y tener sexo - es RICO." She really loves to smoke weed and have sex. Really? What a coincidence! I also enjoy smoking weed and having sex! A wonderful aprhodisiac. It's amazing we have so much in common. I managed to come up with the idea that it might be fun to smoke weed and have sex together. She agreed that it was a good idea. I asked my caretaker if he could get me some weed. He told me he can't and I wouldn't be able to smoke it in the bar anyway. Plus, they were closing soon. However, he would have this little fat dude take care of anything I need from now on. But I would need to pay 50,000 ($31) to the house to take my new honey with me. I agreed and the three of us - me, the hot honey, and the little fat man - hopped into a taxi for an ATM. After getting money, the taxi took us to a disgusting motel not far from the whorehouse. The hourly rate was like 15,000 ($9) which I would pay afterwards. The little fat man took care of all my arrangements and showed us our room. The dingy room had nothing but a bed. The hardwood floors were in need of replacing and the paint on the walls was peeling. He told us he would come back with the weed. We got in bed and couldn't wait for it. We were naked and I was inside before I even paid her. From the moment I started touching her until the end of our episode, she was moaning and breathing hard and looking at me with those pleasure eyes. She was on fire. ¡Viva Colombia!

Ten or fifteen minutes after starting, there was a knock on the door. I opened the door wide-open wearing nothing but a condom to find the surprised little fat dude. He had two joints for me for 10,000 pesos ($6). My girl, motionless on her back, didn't bother covering up. I fumbled through my wallet only to find 50,000 peso bills. I gave him the 50 and told him it was for the motel and the weed. I told him to leave and I don't want any change (100% tip). I got back inside my girl and we lit a joint. We passed it back and forth while I slowly rocked from up top. After smoking most of it and deciding she had enough, she carelessly tossed it aside on the floor and grabbed a hold of my shoulders. This may have been my most amazing sexual experience of my life. I pulled out every trick in my book of how to get a girl off. I went down on her for at least ten minutes while she pulled my head into her pelvis. Before doggystyle, I dove into her butt with my tongue and she said "¡Oooh, me gusta!" At one point while on top, she was squeezing my chest muscles and shoulders so hard that her nails dug in and hurt. Nobody beats me up. So I grabbed her neck with both hands, choking her while pounding away. For about five full minutes, I was strangling her with both hands, only easing up to allow her a breath every 30 seconds or so.

She started to hurt after a while so we began to relax. Her eyes started to tear up and she began to sob a little. I asked her what was wrong. She told me she has only had sex like that with one other guy - her ex-boyfriend who she had a kid with. Then she started getting hysterical and worried. She said it was so late and she was a mess and I hadn't even paid her yet. I cuddled her and kissed her on the cheek and told her not to worry. I paid her and she started to come back to reality mentally. She seemed to realize that I am not her boyfriend and she is a whore and this is her job and she has things to do and I would go back to Perú and we would never see each other again. I assumed we would share a taxi to her house and then my hostel. We stepped outside to a bright sun and rush hour traffic. We walked together and talked more. Before I knew it, we were back at the brothel. She said she lived there. "¿Vives aca?" I asked in disbelief. She said she has only been in Bogotá two weeks. Then she asked for a tip. I made a disgusted face and said "No seas fría." Don't be cold, and then I disappeared into the pedestrian traffic. I bought a beer, lit the second joint, and took a taxi back to the hostel.

The Aftermath

I got back to the hostel at 9:30 am. Dennis, Tom, and Scott were already awake and laughing at me. I told them an abbreviated story. I kept drinking. At the airport a woman at security waved in front of her nose, implying that I reeked of liquor. I asked a lady at my gate if I had time to get a beer before it was time to board. She told me I shouldn't drink any more because it was against regulations. I went for one anyway. On board, I fell asleep before the plane had backed away from the terminal. I didn't wake up until the violent landing in Lima three and a half hours later. I started to become overwhelmed with shame - that shame you feel when you leave Amsterdam. Did I really do all that? Smoke all that? Spend all that? Am I a degenerate piece of shit? Yes, I am.

Then I realized I would talk to Charo soon and felt even more shame. Did I miss you? Of course I missed you. Mucho. What did we do? Not much. I saw some museums. We ate some good food. It was really good to see Dennis again, you know I hadn't seen him in over a year. I met some British guys who were pretty cool. That was about it.

Dennis' illness got worse. An email I received from him late Tuesday night while he was in Lima:

"I'm doing a tour of the city tomorrow (if i feel ok) so i should get to see enough to judge but so far i dont think so.

here are my symptoms by day:

Sunday – light-headed, cough, some nausea
Monday – vomiting, fever, I felt so hot i couldn't even sleep with a sheet
Tuesday – uncontrollable shivering, congestion, BAD fever, runny nose, diarrhea

i think ive covered all the bases so tomorrow i should be good!"

He arrives in Arequipa Thursday and we do it all over again. God help us.

Ha encontrado el Duende un pretexto para no caer hoy en varios lugares comunes. A saber, la victoria de España ante Rusia en el campeonato de Europa de fútbol, la desdichada huelga del transporte por carretera, los hallazgos lingüísticos de la ministra Bibiana Aído, el ilusionismo semántico de Pepín Blanco y José Antonio Alonso (por cierto, ¿no se han dado cuenta ustedes de que no hay crisis?) y la bronca de Zapatero al BCE por la irresponsabilidad de no ponerle bridas al euribor. Tiembla, Trichet... No más de quinientos o seiscientos editoriales/ artículos de fondo/ columnas/ comentarios en televisión o en tertulias  radiofónicas se van a dedicar en un par de días a estos asuntos. Aparte de poca originalidad, qué  osadía hubiera demostrado el Duende si los tratara con su ligereza habitual.

 El pretexto para la fuga se lo ha dado doña María. Hoy comentaba en la radio la absurdidez (sic) del cuadro contemporáneo que ha alcanzado más alto precio en una subasta. No era un paisaje amable, ni una composición abstracta de originales efectos cromáticos, ni un hombre extraño de Bacon, que por lo menos resulta intrigante. Ha sido una silueta de lo más vulgar: una  señora aún más gruesa que ella, completamente desnuda, reposando en el diván. La gorda fue pintada por Lucien Freud, y fue rematada en Christies por el magnate ruso Abramovich a cambio de treinta y tres millones y medio de dólares.  A este paso don Sigmundo será más reconocido como padre del pintor que como padre del psicoanálisis. Mientras que su hijo habrá conseguido que el psicoanalista pase a ser, sobre todo, el padre del pintor.

 Lo mismo que las gordas de Botero, ya te digo...-pesaba doña María en voz alta- Toda la vida sacrificándonos pa no engordar y haciendo toda clase de sacrificios y luego te enteras que lo que más desean los millonarios es una como nosotras. Si lo llego a saber a tiempo, hace dietas su tía, ¿no te fastidia?...

 Qué contradicción, admirar tanto a tipazos juncales como el de Carla Bruni y colgarse en el salón un océano carnal como la modelo de don Lucien. Sin embargo, esta curiosa paradoja que, grosso modo, plantea doña María puede ser una buena terapia contra el complejo de gordo o gorda.. Los psicoanalistas y psiquiatras ya no tendrán que recurrir al odio al padre, al  complejo de Edipo o a la represión de la líbido para justificar tanto desarreglo del alma como genéricamente se ampara bajo el concepto freudiano. Sabemos que los desmadres curvilíneos del cuerpo deprimen bastante, y sobre todo a las damas. Hasta ahora, claro, porque a partir de este momento bastará que recordemos lo que se cotizan sus kilos cuando son retratados por un artista para que recupere su buen tono vital.

 Sursum corda, gordos y gordas de todo el mundo.  Freud ha muerto: ¡viva Freud!.

With an average wage of around €20.000 per year then thats over €2.000.000 on wages alone - wow! I bet even Damien Hirst doesn`t get close to that sum for the people he employs. Anyway - to pay out so much money (and I would suggest that that sum could be doubled in relation to purchase of bronze and traveles and exhibition expenses etc) Mr Fernando Botero obviously has to generate quite a tidy sum of cash each year. I would suggest that it might be around USD $10-20.000.000. Big business indeed.

So . . . . . .

What Does Botero Do With All His Money?

Well he obviously has a very enjoyable lifestyle, but just recently it was revealed that Botero actually gives a lot of cash away. He is a philanthropist. Not perhaps in the league of Gates or Buffet but he is actually very generous with his cash.

Let me list a few items:

• Botero Prize for Art (annual) : USD $50.000
• He set up a Senior Home for older poor elder people in Bogota:Est. $300.000
• He set up a system to pay for children's food in the poor Choco province :Est. $20.000 / year
• He donated $200.000.000 worth of artwork to Colombia for its people to enjoy.

Botero's philanthropy, in fact, was often low-profile and most Colombians, apart form his museum donation and art prize would not be aware of his other philanthropic work. He most truly is a most wonderful person.

You can read more about this story and an interview by Daniel Chang with Botero at the link below.

Botero Interview on his Philanthropy

************************************

Find out more on Botero:

The Art of Fernando Botero

************************************

Bueno, mañana les cuento algo más.

This time around Rufino Tamayo has emerged as the leader for the sale of his works "Trovador" (sold for $7.2 M) and "El Comedor de Sandìas" ($3.625M).

Representing Colombia as ever was Botero and a "new" rising star to the art auction scene Omar Rayo.

Locally Rayo`s work have been getting much more difficult to get a hold of and prices have been strongly rising which is now being well reflected in international auctions. His work "Pijao" from 1970 (100cm x 100cm - acrylic / canvas) was sold for more that its estimate and made USD $18,000.

The Colombian sculptor Eduardo Ramirez Villamizar (RIP) also had works for sale which more than exceeded expectations: an acrylic scupture estimated at $4000 sold for $13,000!!!!

An Ana Mercedes Hoyos bronze also did well and reached its price estimate of $16,000.

All in all, a good night at the auctions for Colombian art.

What is really interesting to note is that in 1979 when Sothebys started selling Latin American art at auction they sold a total of $1M. Now, just 30 years later their total sales tops $50M which does show how the the market has expanded. And I believe will continue to expand when it is considered that the Latin American economies are growing strong despite a blip in the US economy this year. So, start visiting your local galleries and get yourself up to date on the local Latin American art scene if you think it is time to make you money count!

If you would like some tips on where to invest in the colombian art scene you are welcome to write to:

art (at) artcolombia.com

Speyer ist wirklich eine sehr schöne Stadt!

Und die Farbe kann man auch verändern :-)

Und wie fügt man Bilder ein?

Hat auch funktioniert! Diese Botero-Bilder finde ich einfach wunderschön ...

These are the posts to come, of course mixed in with the usual other ruminations...if there is any ultra hankering for any of these topics, let me know; it's hard to know where to start..

1. The Dogs of Spain - done

2. Dali's Teatro Museu in Figueres

3. Fundacio Joan Miro (and the Chinese Art exhibition)

4. Chinese Photography Exhibition

5. Boqioera: the Barcelona open air food market

6. Eating in Barcelona

7. Gaudi -partly done

8. Domenech and perhaps Puig

9. Barcelona television, hair, fashions

10. Streets of Barcelona

11. Barcelona Graffiti

12. And things to be dredged up that presently are not at hand..

El IVAM presenta una gran colección de Fernando Botero, un artista colombiano considerado uno de los principales artistas latinoamericanos aún vivos, esta exposición contiene dos series: Circus consta de 27 pinturas y 25 dibujos mientras que la llamada Abu Grahib cuenta con 24 pinturas y 22 dibujos.

En la serie Circus Botero nos traslada al mundo del circo, en ella retrata a los personajes que forman parte de este peculiar mundo; en la otra serie, el pintor trabajó a lo largo de un año a raíz de la lectura de un artículo crítico publicado en el New Yorker acerca de las condenas a las que fueron sometidos muchos prisioneros de la guerra de Iraq por parte de soldados estadounidenses.

Fernando Botero ha trabajado durante más de 50 años y actualmente es uno de los artistas latinoamericanos con más éxito y más reconocido.

Los animales fueron
imperfectos,
largos de cola, tristes
de cabeza.
Poco a poco se fueron
componiendo,
haciéndose paisaje,
adquiriendo lunares, gracia, vuelo.
El gato,
sólo el gato
apareció completo
y orgulloso:
nació completamente terminado,
camina solo y sabe lo que quiere.

El hombre quiere ser pescado y pájaro,
la serpiente quisiera tener alas,
el perro es un león desorientado,
el ingeniero quiere ser poeta,
la mosca estudia para golondrina,
el poeta trata de imitar la mosca,
pero el gato
quiere ser sólo gato
y todo gato es gato
desde bigote a cola,
desde presentimiento a rata viva,
desde la noche hasta sus ojos de oro.

No hay unidad
como él,
no tienen
la luna ni la flor
tal contextura:
es una sola cosa
como el sol o el topacio,
y la elástica línea en su contorno
firme y sutil es como
la línea de la proa de una nave.
Sus ojos amarillos
dejaron una sola
ranura
para echar las monedas de la noche.

Verla completa en Pasosperdidos

Oggi ho voluto dedicare a tutte le mamme questa bellissima e toccante poesia di Pier Paolo Pasolini,  straordinario poeta, scrittore e regista che ha vissuto la sua infanzia nella mia terra, tra Casarsa e Sacile (PN).

Come madre mi sento di dare un unico suggerimento: rispettate sempre i vostri genitori, qualunque siano le loro colpe o i loro difetti.

Spesso amo ripetere: "Per amare davvero i propri genitori dobbiamo diventare a nostra volta genitori". Credo infatti che solo avendo figli comprendiamo i sacrifici che hanno fatto e quanti pensieri e problemi possiamo aver dato loro!

Sento molti giovani mancare di rispetto ed educazione verso la propria madre o il proprio padre. Fino a pochi anni fa, e ancora oggi, in alcune famiglie, questo era ed è inaccettabile!

Siate educati e rispettosi verso i vostri genitori e non vergognatevi di amarli, qualunque sia la vostra età! Rispettateli sempre perché loro vi hanno creato, accudito e cresciuto! Essere madre o padre non è cosa facile!

Molti genitori, si separano, alcuni non conoscono nemmeno i loro figli, ma non sono i loro errori che devono cambiare ciò che siete voi, il vostro comportamento e la vostra dignità!

Amate sempre e comunque la vostra mamma, che vi ha tenuto in grembo e che con dolore vi ha partorito!

Auguri a tutte le mamme!

Anna Ciriani

Supplica a Mia Madre

E' difficile dire con parole di figlio
ciò a cui nel cuore ben poco assomiglio.
Tu sei la sola al mondo che sa, del mio cuore,
ciò che è stato sempre, prima d'ogni altro amore.
Per questo devo dirti ciò ch'è orrendo conoscere:
è dentro la tua grazia che nasce la mia angoscia.
Sei insostituibile. Per questo è dannata
alla solitudine la vita che mi hai data.
E non voglio esser solo. Ho un'infinita fame
d'amore, dell'amore di corpi senza anima.
Perché l'anima è in te, sei tu, ma tu
sei mia madre e il tuo amore è la mia schiavitù:
ho passato l'infanzia schiavo di questo senso
alto, irrimediabile, di un impegno immenso.
Era l'unico modo per sentire la vita,
l'unica tinta, l'unica forma: ora è finita.
Sopravviviamo: ed è la confusione
di una vita rinata fuori dalla ragione.
Ti supplico, ah, ti supplico: non voler morire.
Sono qui, solo, con te, in un futuro aprile…

Pier Paolo Pasolini 

Cuando Joca empezó con su blog a los 9 años, en blogspot (chanchosquevuelan.blogspot.com), al inicio fue como un juego, como cuando alguien tiene un libro nuevo leyéndolo y releyéndolo varias veces, con animo de escribir de las cosas que le gustaban y además por dominar temas para compartir temas de conversación con sus amigos de Cinencuentro, pero poco a poco fue creciendo su interés por informarse más del formato, buscando tutoriales y herramientas para mejorar su blog. (como le digo en ocasiones "la mole esta creciendo")
Bueno, en conclusión podría afirmar que Joca es un enano empeñoso y super inteligente!!

Aquí les muestro las fotos y video de las entrevistas de Joca: El chancho Volador

• En Impagable.com





• En El Comercio

Joca en Vida y Futuro de El Comercio

(Escrito total y específicamente para la chica "Hechizo de piel morena").

Borré el filo de una navaja de afeitar sobre las paredes húmedas y orgánicamente fétidas de mis antebrazos, en un ir y venir musical de sollozos, gritos ahogados y lágrimas corroídas en los surcos de mi juvenil senectud, y ahí estabas tu, sepultada; los cabellos hechos nudo sobre tus labios poseídos por el furor del torrente y los ojos cerrados, con dirección hacia el cementerio de estrellas y polvos del cosmos.

Descocí de tajo la línea punteada que marca el inicio y el fin de mis ideas, empapadas en tintura de yodo, mientras ellas morían al contacto más mínimo y quizás también más íntimo con el viento. Con sus cuerpecitos apenas existentes, deslice en un frenético espiral, ejerciendo presión, hasta que sus masas internas se volvían la combinación del todo perfecto, el tono negro del vacio que jamás lo estuvo, y ahí estabas tu, escondida; la línea de tu espalda se posaba sobre mis lienzos surreales cual paloma en el horizonte, en la alborada de mis salvajes ideales, envuelta de misticismo y brillo del acero.

Apague la luz de mis ojos entre espinas de maguey hervidas en alcohol etílico con un chorrito de ausencia, remojadas en recuerdos y placeres jamás vividos, entre aromas enervantes de flores recién molidas, con la vida entre los pistilos y el odio sobre los pétalos, al son del rock and roll de los 50's, y ahí estabas tu, desvanecida; tus huellas prominentes entre fango y sangre molida de mortal decepcionado levantaban vapores aislados de tu espíritu, quizás el detalle mas intangible de tu paso, pero el mas lindo detalle de tu existencia, una simple sonrisa al ras del suelo que destruye el mundo todos los días.

Y totalmente destrozado, vuelto un bulto, un simple traje sin dueño, la plena destrucción del hombre que deja a su paso sus emociones, sus sentimientos y sus alegrías regadas cual basura inconsciente del mal ajeno, me vuelvo un girasol con aroma, el hecho tangible de que al encontrarte sembrada en la carne, unida a los destellos de la mente y sobre los hombros como ángel embriagador de la realidad y realidad del mundo de los sueños, me basta tu vida vuelta noticia para molerla y pasarla por mi nariz, cocaína pura que respira por mi, en la legalidad de los demás y en la nuestra.

Que no sean mis palabras las que se derramen sobre tu piel desnuda, sino mi cuerpo vuelto viento entre los dedos del infinito.
Y ya no siento los golpes, sino la fuerza perdida fuera de tu causa.

Saludos azules.

PS. Espero dibujar constelaciones sobre tu espalda al ritmo que me fundo en tus concavidades y convexidades, o al menos ver tus ojos por un minuto para ofrendar mi vida vuelta ríos furiosos de paz corriendo entre tus pies.

His first solo exhibition at the Leo Matiz gallery followed after only five months. After his studies at the 'Academia San Fernando' and the 'Prado' museum in Madrid, the artist went to Italy, where he studied art history from 1953. For a long time he studied the technique of fresco painting and copied works of Giotto and Anrea del Castagno. Two years later Botero returned to Bogotá. An exhibition of the artist's works form Italy flopped. In 1956 he married Gloria Zea and moved to Mexico with her, where he found his own style under the influence of the Mexican mural painting of Diego Rivera. The artist was appointed professor for painting at the Bogotá art academy and gradually became the most important young artist in Colombia. In 1960 Botero moved to New York and won the Guggenheim National Prize for Colombia. In the same year he split up with his wife. In 1965 Botero's fully developed plastic style of painting first became visible in his painting 'The Pinzón Family'. In 1966 the painter traveled to his first important European exhibition at the 'Staatliche Kunsthalle Baden-Baden', followed by his first exhibition at a US museum at the Milwaukee Art Center in December, which lead to his breakthrough in the US.

Botero spent the following years in Colombia, New York and Europe. Since the birth of his son, Pedro, from his second marriage in 1970, the artist captured all phases of his son's life in his art. After the four-year-old died in a car accident, Botero often returned to the motif. In 1973 Botero moved to Paris, where he produced his first sculptures. He only worked on sculptures for some time until he returned to painting in 1978. In 1983 Fernando Botero moved to Tuscany, where he only painted bullfighting scenes for two years. These were shown at the Malborough Gallery in New York in 1985. Today Botero's works are still exhibited in numerous international museums and exhibitions. Fernando Botero lives and works in New York and Paris.