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Yes, the grandstand was full. No, women.
The beast leaned against corrugated iron catching its breath to the chagrin of spectators. The torero was ushered off stage, tail tucked between his legs. Birds glittering above, their little razor blade wings cut sheet music on cerulean dusk.
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Nothing about it was torturous, indeterminate; it was chaines turns and feather steps until the goring. Nobody won. When their bodies came together,. It could be. I confuse sex with what is worthy of worship, but in that museum I ran my tongue along the deckle fringe of the bull's severed tail,.
I was worshipping the arena in which we injure, watch worn partners bleed before us.
Flying witches, mad old men, cannibals: what was going on in Goya’s head? | The Spectator
The moths in the orchard squeal with each pass of the mistral wind. Yet the reapers and their scythes, out beyond the pear trees, slay wheat in sure columns. Christ must have been made of shocks of wheat. When they lashed him, four bundles of fine yellow burst forth from each welt.
Flying witches, mad old men, cannibals: what was going on in Goya’s head?
And the women, tarrying as they do now behind the swing and chuff of the reapers' blades, gathered and plaited the stray pieces of wheat falling from his hips into braids, long braids that would bind a tattered sail- cloth over his yellow mouth, yellow feet. Oh to be bound by one's own blood like a burlap sack cinched around the neck with a leather belt. Father forgive me for the moths shrieking in the orchard of my mouth. Forgive the rattle and clatter of wings inside the blue of my brain.
Even if these iron bars queer a field, queer a woman standing too close to a reaper's blade, a half-moon hung and wholly harsh, even if this woman, burdened like a spine carrying a head and a basket of rocks, forgets the flaw of a well-sharpened tool, let her not mistake my whimper and warning for the honk of a goose in heat. Father, she is not made like our savior, of straw, of a coarse tender. Nothing will stop when her blood runs along a furrow. The sun will not sag with a red scowl.
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The field will not refuse water. Father, I am unsure of what I am— a fragrant mistral wind or a pile of moths' heads at the foot of a pear tree.
Father, give me a scythe. Father, let me decide. Materials for Teachers Materials for Teachers Home. Poems for Kids. Poems for Teens. Lesson Plans. Teach this Poem.
Goya’s Pantheon in Madrid
Goya's drawings always cause amazement. And it is precisely in his drawings where his thinking is exposed. There is a deep existential anguish in them, howls of despair in the face of war, hatred of cruelty, despair and madness. Also an empathy for women, which he shows in a small drawing entitled Spousal Fight in an unequal fight with her husband, a terrifying vision of a beating, the messy bedroom and the urinal overturned in the foreground.
In other, Bad husband , she again feels sorry for the woman who carries her husband on her shoulders while she mistreats her. A feminist Goya? Everyone should answer that question to himself. But it seems clear that Goya captures the horrible truth from the lived and the imagined, from an intellectual construction that positions it. In the heart of the exhibition, exhibited inside a showcase, the so-called album C, where Goya collected everything that worried him, prints that have left the leaves and now hang around him occupying an entire room.
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She was Deputy Head of Conservation and Research at the museum from to and a member of its Board of Trustees from to She has organised and curated countless exhibitions both in Spain and abroad. From to he coordinated the activities of the National Museum of Chalcography, and since the latter year he has been a member of its research department. In he joined the Prado as a conservator in the Department of Drawings and Prints. He became head of the department in , acting in this role until when he became the department's Head of Conservation. In the museum, he runs the comprehensive programme of acquisition, study, publication and exhibition of Francisco de Goya's graphic series.