Archives par mot-clé : oil on canvas

LE SOIR საღამოს Вечером 2013 ZURAB TSERETELI – ზურაბ წერეთელი

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საღამოს
LE SOIR
Вечером
IN THE EVENING

Zurab Tsereteli
ზურაბ წერეთელი
Зураб Константинович Церетели

*Zurab Tsereteli Les champs ensoleillés

Zurab Tsereteli ზურაბ წერეთელი PEINTRE GEORGIEN - PEINTRE GEORGIEN TBILISSI - ნარიყალა
Géorgie
საქართველო

PHOTO JACKY LAVAUZELLE

Zurab Tsereteli ზურაბ წერეთელი PEINTRE GEORGIEN - PEINTRE GEORGIEN TBILISSI - ნარიყალა

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Zurab tsereteli
ARTISTE GEORGIEN
ქართველი მხატვარი





ZURAB TSERETELI
ZOURAB TSERETELI
ლადო გუდიაშვილი
Зураб Константинович Церетели

Né le 4 janvier 1934 à Tbilissi
დაიბადა 1934 წლის 4 იანვარს თბილისში


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საღამოს
Saghamos
LE SOIR
IN THE EVENING
Вечером

იანვარი 17, 2013
17 janvier 2013
January 17, 2013
17 января 2013 г.

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Huile sur toile
Oil on canvas
холст, масло

**
LA BEAUTE DU SOIR
Les airs déshérités des soirs ont désertés les coins noirs des mondes
Il ne reste rien. Que la beauté et les rats !
La beauté n’est pas fragile
Elle longe comme longe la punaise immortelle
Elle est posée sur la table
Au milieu de la table
Croyant être les couverts, la nappe et la table elle-même
Et regarde le monde
La beauté est du soir
Quand les soirs se font attendre
Celui qui dit que la beauté est fragile est un imposteur
Un vaurien
Une misère du monde
La beauté n’a jamais été fragile
Et ne le sera jamais
La vie est fragile, l’équilibre est fragile, le monde est fragile
Quand la belle rose est fragile, c’est la rose qui est fragile, pas sa beauté.
C’est de porter la beauté qui tue la rose.
La beauté n’est pas malheureuse ni ne souffre.
La beauté est hautaine, capricieuse, violente, tyrannique.
C’est une salope qui  assomme la nuit et nous avec.
C’est une salope qui pompe l’énergie de la vie, qui rompt les équilibres et la face du monde.
Qui ne se damnerait pas pour un peu plus de beauté
Qui ne tuerait pas pour que la beauté illumine à nouveau un peu de notre vie
Et s’il ne reste que la beauté et les rats
J’ai si peur pour les rats
Que j’en ferme les yeux

**

Poème de Jacky Lavauzelle

**

The beauty of the evening

The disinherited tunes of the evenings have deserted the black corners of the worlds
There is nothing left. Only beauty and rats!
Beauty is not fragile
She runs along like the immortal stink bug
She is sitting on the table
In the middle of the table
Believing to be the cutlery, the tablecloth and the table itself
And she look at the world
The beauty is the evening
When the evenings are waiting
Whoever says that beauty is fragile is an imposter
A rascal
A misery of the world
Beauty has never been fragile
And never will
Life is fragile, balance is fragile, the world is fragile
When the beautiful rose is fragile, it is the rose that is fragile, not its beauty.
It is to wear the beauty that kills the rose.
Beauty is not unhappy or suffering.
Beauty is haughty, capricious, violent, tyrannical.
It’s a bitch who knocks the night and we with.
It is a bitch who pumps the energy of life, which breaks the balance and the face of the world.
Who would not be damned for a little more beauty
Who would not kill so that beauty illuminates again a little of our life
And if there is only beauty and rats
I’m so scared for rats
That I close my eyes

Jacky Lavauzelle

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A BELEZA DA NOITE
As músicas deserdadas das tardes abandonaram os cantos negros dos mundos
Não há mais nada. apenas beleza e os ratos!
A beleza não é frágil
Ela corre como o percevejo imortal
Ela está sentada na mesa
No meio da mesa
Acreditando ser a cutelaria, a toalha de mesa e a mesa em si
E olhe para o mundo
A beleza é a noite
Quando as noites estão esperando
Quem diz que a beleza é frágil é um impostor
Um patife
Uma miséria do mundo
A beleza nunca foi frágil
E nunca será
A vida é frágil, o equilíbrio é frágil, o mundo é frágil
Quando a bela rosa é frágil, é a rosa que é frágil, não sua beleza.
É a beleza que mata a rosa.
A beleza não é infeliz nem sofredora.
A beleza é arrogante, caprichosa, violenta e tirânica.
É uma cadela que bate a noite e nós com.
É uma cadela que bombeia a energia da vida, que quebra o equilíbrio e a face do mundo.
Quem não seria amaldiçoado por um pouco mais de beleza
Quem não mataria para que a beleza ilumine novamente um pouco da nossa vida
E se houver apenas beleza e ratos
Estou com tanto medo de ratos
Que eu fecho meus olhos

*****
საღამოს
LE SOIR
Вечером
IN THE EVENING

Zurab Tsereteli
ზურაბ წერეთელი
Зураб Константинович Церетели

*Zurab Tsereteli Les champs ensoleillés

Zurab Tsereteli ზურაბ წერეთელი PEINTRE GEORGIEN - PEINTRE GEORGIEN TBILISSI - ნარიყალა
Géorgie
საქართველო

LE CHAMP ENSOLEILLE – THE SUNNY FIELD – ZURAB TSERETELI – ზურაბ წერეთელი

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CHAMP ENSOLEILLE

Zurab Tsereteli
ზურაბ წერეთელი
Зураб Константинович Церетели

*Zurab Tsereteli Les champs ensoleillés

Zurab Tsereteli ზურაბ წერეთელი PEINTRE GEORGIEN - PEINTRE GEORGIEN TBILISSI - ნარიყალა
Géorgie
საქართველო

PHOTO JACKY LAVAUZELLE

Zurab Tsereteli ზურაბ წერეთელი PEINTRE GEORGIEN - PEINTRE GEORGIEN TBILISSI - ნარიყალა

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ARTISTE GEORGIEN
ქართველი მხატვარი





ZURAB TSERETELI
ZOURAB TSERETELI
ლადო გუდიაშვილი
Зураб Константинович Церетели

Né le 4 janvier 1934 à Tbilissi
დაიბადა 1934 წლის 4 იანვარს თბილისში


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მზიანი ველი
Mziani veli
LE CHAMP ENSOLEILLE
Солнечное поле
THE SUNNY FIELD

1979

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Huile sur toile
Oil on canvas
холст, масло

Zurab Tsereteli – Le champ ensoleillé – 1979
Zurab Tsereteli – Le champ ensoleillé – 1979 – Détail

J’ai brûlé tant de matins tristes que des ombres sont venues
Avant j’admirai les étendues des légèretés des lieux
Avant les lèvres s’appelaient des lèvres
Et les fleurs se nommaient des fleurs
Maintenant les fleurs envahissent le dernier coin de mon monde
Où jamais aucun pas n’est passé
Quand nait la pluie
Le thé servi attend froid sur la table froide
La belle se contemple et mêle son âme aux choses les plus laides qui soient
La toison à foison dans les fonds des tréfonds s’enfonce
Mais les fleurs sont là qui poussent dans mes membres
Les gouttes pendues à sa jambe tendue
Se pendent après s’être pendues dix fois
Quand vient la nuit
Des fleurs encore des fleurs
Les lanternes se fanent aussi vite que le cri qui dans le fond s’attarde
Les lumières rendues à un ciel fendu
Quand vient l’ennui
Les maisons écrasées par le poids d’un pétale
Une goutte tombe et retombe sans cesse
Une larme nue pendue à l’embrasure
Quand vient l’envie
La belle à l’éventail retourne se coucher auprès de la montagne
Du charme cru qu’a connu la première fleur inconnue
Que couvrait le petit sentier
Nu comme un ver

Jacky Lavauzelle

I burned so many sad mornings that shadows came
Before I admired the expanses of the lightness of places
Before the lips were called lips
And the flowers were named flowers
Now flowers are invading the last corner of my world
Where ever no step has passed
When the rain begins
The tea served cold wait on the cold table
The beauty is contemplating and mixing her soul with the ugliest things that are
The fleece abundant in the depths deep sinks
But the flowers are there growing in my limbs
The drops hanging from his outstretched leg hang out after hung ten times
When comes the night
Flowers and flowers and more flowers
The lanterns are fading as fast as the cry that in the background lingers
The lights go to a destroyed and unbridled sky
When comes the boredom
Houses crushed by the weight of a petal
A drop falls and falls again and again
A naked tear hanging at the doorway
When comes the desire
The beautiful with feathers of fire goes back to sleep near the mountain
From the raw charm of the first unknown flower
What was covered by the small path
Nude as a worm

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CHAMP ENSOLEILLE
მზიანი ველი

Zurab Tsereteli
ზურაბ წერეთელი
Зураб Константинович Церетели

*Zurab Tsereteli Les champs ensoleillés

Zurab Tsereteli ზურაბ წერეთელი PEINTRE GEORGIEN - PEINTRE GEORGIEN TBILISSI - ნარიყალა
Géorgie
საქართველო

PHOTO JACKY LAVAUZELLE

VINCENT 1 & 2 – Peintures de Zourab TSERETELI -ზურაბ წერეთელი- ვინსენტი 1 & 2

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VINCENT 1 & 2

Zourab Tsereteli
ზურაბ წერეთელი
Зураб Константинович Церетели

*

Zourab Tsereteli ზურაბ წერეთელი PEINTRE GEORGIEN - PEINTRE GEORGIEN TBILISSI - ნარიყალა
Géorgie
საქართველო

PHOTO JACKY LAVAUZELLE

Zourab Tsereteli ზურაბ წერეთელი PEINTRE GEORGIEN - PEINTRE GEORGIEN TBILISSI - ნარიყალა

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ARTISTE GEORGIEN
ქართველი მხატვარი





ZOURAB TSERETELI
ლადო გუდიაშვილი
Зураб Константинович Церетели

Né le 4 janvier 1934 à Tbilissi
დაიბადა 1934 წლის 4 იანვარს თბილისში


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ვინსენტი 1 & 2
VINCENT 1 & 2
Винсент 1 & 2

1969

 

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Huile sur toile
Oil on canvas
холст, масло

VINCENT

J’ai la sensation bizarre qu’un parfum me porte
J’ai voyagé dans un corps le long d’une éternelle fièvre
Comme une ombre ivre porte les soirs du monde
J’ai entendu les noires hirondelles et j’ai regardé
Cette eau limpide qui s’échappait des ailes
Longtemps j’ai bu quelques mesures et de rares paradoxes
J’en ai oublié les amours passagers gémissants
J’ai rêvé de rameaux desséchés et de jaune d’abord
Plus brutal que le ciel dans un soleil craquant
Mon charmant asile est jaune et je le vois jaune ainsi
Douce liqueur flottant et mêlant des traces profondes
Une voix me porte aussi qui portait l’hirondelle
Je me suis assis sous cet arbre qui me fait tant mourir
Je ne me peigne plus
Depuis si longtemps déjà
Je couche ma dernière couche ridicule en me brisant les doigts
Je ris et je danse
Sur la rampe de la nuit
Dans ce corps plus léger qu’une dernière fièvre emporte

Poème Jacky Lavauzelle

 

Zourab Tsereteli Vincent 1 MOMA de Tbilissi

I have the strange feeling that a perfume is wearing me
I traveled in a body along an eternal fever
Like a drunken shadow wears the evenings of the world
I heard the black swallows and I looked
This limpid water escaping from the wings
For a long time I drank a few measurements and rare paradoxes
I forgot the groaning passenger loves
I dreamed of dried branches and yellow first
A yellow more brutal than the sky in a crackling sun
My charming asylum is yellow and I see it yellow as well
Sweet floating liquor with deep traces
A voice also carries me who carried the swallow
I sat under that tree that made me die so much
I do not comb myself anymore
For so long already
I put my last ridiculous layer breaking my fingers
I laugh and dance
On the ramp of the night
In this body lighter than a last fever carries off

Zourab Tsereteli Vincent 2 MOMA de Tbilissi

Eu tenho a estranha sensação de que uma fragrância me apoia
Eu viajei em um corpo ao longo de uma febre eterna
Como uma sombra bêbada perdura as noites do mundo
Eu ouvi as andorinhas negras e olhei
Esta água límpida escapando das asas
Durante muito tempo bebi algumas medições e raros paradoxos
Eu esqueci os gemidos de uma noite
Eu sonhei com galhos secos e amarelo primeiro
Um amarelo mais brutal que o céu em um sol escaldante
Meu encantador asilo é amarelo e eu o vejo amarelo também
Licor flutuante doce com traços profundos
Uma voz também me carrega que carregava a andorinha
Eu sentei debaixo daquela árvore que me fez morrer tanto
Eu não me penteio mais
Por muito tempo já
Eu coloquei minha última camada ridícula quebrando meus dedos
Eu rio e danço
Na rampa da noite
Neste corpo mais leve que uma última febre carrega

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MOMA
MUSEE D’ART MODERNE ZOURAB TSERETELI
Museum of Modern Art Zurab Tsereteli
27 Rustaveli Avenue
Tbilissi, Géorgie
რუსთაველის გამზირი 27
თბილისი, საქართველო

*****
VINCENT 1 & 2

Zourab Tsereteli
ზურაბ წერეთელი
Зураб Константинович Церетели

*

Zourab Tsereteli ზურაბ წერეთელი PEINTRE GEORGIEN - PEINTRE GEORGIEN TBILISSI - ნარიყალა
Géorgie
საქართველო

PHOTO JACKY LAVAUZELLE

Zourab Tsereteli ზურაბ წერეთელი PEINTRE GEORGIEN - PEINTRE GEORGIEN TBILISSI - ნარიყალა

THE DEATH OF COLORS & THE PAINTER OF THE NIGHT – JACKY LAVAUZELLE

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 The God Vagabond
THE DEATH OF COLORS & THE PAINTER OF THE NIGHT of Jacky Lavauzelle


Jacky Lavauzelle Poetry
*
Family of peasants (oil on canvas, 1914) Colors Jacky Lavauzelle
Pavel Filonov, Павел Николаевич Филонов, Family of peasants, oil on canvas, 1914

*

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THE GOD VAGABOND
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THE DEATH OF COLORS & THE PAINTER OF THE NIGHT
******
POEMS
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*
The colors, the colors flowed. The colors flowed constantly.
The colors of the legends. And around the legends, the painters had gathered. The world was losing its colors.
Black was progressing and enveloping the universe.
All the wise men were gone.
They had found no solution.
All the philosophers were gone. Philosophers did not understand the root cause.
Politicians were expected. They never came. It seems they are gathering near the border of the world.
The painters were there. Last bulwark against total darkness and eternal night. They pulled out brushes and brushes again. They came out of the tubes of colors. Of all the tubes, only came out of the black.
Arrived the Painter of the Night! Nobody invited him. He only painted black! Nobody needed him. He alone saw lights in his darkness and in the night that devoured everything. The others laughed and laughed at him.
The Painter of the Night then took his finest brush. And traced a thin line in the night, without worrying about the few colors that remained.
Behind the black, a light of the most beautiful intensity, magic, only asked to go out and join the peaks.
It was a new light that no longer covered the objects. She started from the sap and the essence of things …
The Night Painter finishes his work before dumbfounded humans.
But the men were so afraid that we took his brush and broke it. The crack closed and since then men have all become blind in this world.
At the bottom of a cave, one man, one, still smiles and traces long sarabandes of light that illuminates his heart …

 

*
 The God Vagabond
THE DEATH OF COLORS & THE PAINTER OF THE NIGHT of Jacky Lavauzelle


Jacky Lavauzelle Poetry