About a woman - Loving expressionism

There are days in which you feel so free...

Laura Tedeschi - About a woman, oil on canvas 

Hope and life's dreams

Painting by Laura Tedeschi

Painting by Laura Tedeschi

And now we are living in half season,

crushed and hurt for days in agony and despair,

where we turn the world without history,

seeking only a moment sincere

with the unconscious desire to get deeper

to be more true.

from "Le pioggie d'aprile - April's rains" Francesco Guccini

The forty years woman

Painting by Laura Tedeschi

Painting by Laura Tedeschi

... does not always tell how it goes

our lady of forty years ...

is not here that

we would have committed the heart

Considerations on color and texture

Colors, like features, are following the changes of emotions. (Pablo Picasso)

I colori, come i lineamenti, seguono i cambiamenti delle emozioni. (Pablo Picasso)

Painting by Laura Tedeschi

Painting by Laura Tedeschi

For ever yours, Cyrano!

Cyrano - Paint by Laura Tedeschi

The last song os Sir Cyrano (Cyrano) - Francesco Guccini

Come on all ye, come on, my paint’d ladies all
so prettie and snooty, come on, I can’t bear ye any more,
my pen it will be driven into your boundless pride
for with this brand o’ mine I can kill ye at my ease.
Come on all ye, come on, ye all paltry poetasters,
ye uselesse singers of this calamytous time
ye fools who live on your spineless verses
ye have gold and glory, yet ye are big nothings.
Enjoy your success, ye fools, get the most out of it,
ye certaynlie will not feare your sheepe-like audience,
God only knoweth where ye flee to escape taxes
so arrogant, as if ye were the tops of the class,
hearken! I’m only a poore cadet o’ gascoyne
but I swear I can’t stand those who have no dreams
I won’t be taken in your nerve and tinselries
and, to end my licence, no pardon and I touch ye,
no pardon shall ye have and I touch ye!
hearken! Let’s break it off, so come on ye alle,
ye foole rabble-rousers, the leaders of our time,
come on all canvassers and second-rate poolitickers,
you alle cruel masters of false ceremonies,
who have so often turn’d laissez-faire into art,
come on, out with the truth and don’t cheat any longer,
ye know that some one will burden all expenses
In this most bless’d land ravaged by nonsense,
I know I’m always wrong, but I don’t give a damne,
displeasing is my pleasure, I love to be hated,
with bullies and slyboots have I play’d my whole life,
and, to end my licence, no pardon and I touch ye!
No pardon shall ye have and I touch ye!
But when I am alone, with my nose down to my feet,
that walks ten yards befor’ me since I came to light,
my anger it does abate, I remember with payne
that heaven it forbade me the sweet dream of love,
How many I did love, how many I did have,
I don’t know, I lost them alle by my fault or by fate,
but when I feel the burden of always being alone,
I shut my door and write, writing’s my solace.
And yet I feel, I do feel that life’s love it exists
with no sin do I love, I am so sad yet I love,
my Roxanne she’s so fair, but, alas! we’re so diff’rent
I can’t talke with her, I'll speake with my verses!
I'll speake with my verses!
Come on all ye, vacuous people, let’s break it off right now,
Ye priestes, who sell us alle the dreame of the other world,
If there’s, as ye do say, a God in the endless heaven
then look into your heart, ye’ve betrayed him!
And ye material people, ye who never give up saying
that God is dead and man is alone in this abysme,
ye looke after your truth on the ground like swines,
ye may keepe your acornes, but please leave me my winges,
go back home, ye dwarfes, get out of my way,
for mine immense rage I need ettins and giantes,
I’ve never been caught in any reveal’d truth,
and, to end my licence, no pardon and I touch ye!
No pardon shall ye have and I touch ye!
With my nose and my brande my enemies I do touch.
But nowe in mine Life I cannot find my way,
I should not give up and resign to my badness,
thou only canst me save, thou only and I do write it.
I do feel it must be a place in heaven or on earthe,
where we any more won’t suffer and all it will be right,
don’t laugh, I beg thee, don’t laughe att my wordes,
for I am only a shadow, and thou art the sun, Roxanne!
Yet I wat thou’rt not laughing, I wat, my sweetest lady,
and I won’t hide my selfe under your balcony,
for I do feel it right now, my pain’s not been in vain
If you love me as I am,
and I remain your servant, for ever yours, Cyrano!

My photographic tribute to the great James Ensor

Il mio omaggio fotografico al grande James Ensor

Shot by Laura Tedeschi - Ramatuelle, september 2010

Paint by James Ensor - Les masques fantastiques

Paint by James Ensor - Self Portrait and the masks

Paint by James Ensor - La mort et les masques

We, who in the 80 were kids

painting by Laura Tedeschi

We, who were playing hide and seek at all times.
We, who the roller skates had four wheels and stretched when the foot was growing.
We, who those of us who left the longest trail in the braking with the bike was the coolest.
We, who went on the bike in two.
We, who thought to had secrets.
We, who really had secrets.
We, who were doing a competition to see who chewing more chewing gum at the same time.
We, who adopted stray cats and dogs that we were never attacked any fatal disease although later, after have caressed them, we put our fingers in our mouth.
We, who did not know to read the fever thermometer.
We, who break off fever thermometers, and balls of mercury were wandering through the house.
We, who the Rubik's cube, we never finished, at least without cheating...
We, who exchanged with each other stickers before the lesson (and during and after)...
We, who with a willow branch did bow to feel like Orzowei.
We, who had the "secret place"with the "secret passage".
We, who in the meadows in the dark between the chirping of cicadas can still see the fireflies (and we did not know were the latest).
We, who sometimes quarreled.
We, who five minutes after it was all forgotten...
We, who "if you do this you are no longer my friend".
We, who the tape player ate the music cassette , and we had to rewind the tape with the pen.
We, who had the black and white TV.
We, who watched on TV "The little House on the Prairie " Even if this put sadness.
We, who looked at Christmas "Little Lord Fauntleroy", because it gave fixed on TV.
We, who laughed if a friend was laughing.
We, who our new shoes remained clean only an hour!
We, who are so excited for a kiss on the cheek.
We, who phoned in secret.
We, who did not have the mobil-phone to go talk in private on the terrace.
We, who write short messages on bits of paper to pass to the class partner.
We, who there was the Polaroid, and we waiting to saw the photo.
We, who when, pick up the photos from the photographer, were curious to see them.

Powerful Vienna - Graben, Ring and Opera House

Paintings of Laura Tedeschi

Vienna - Graben 

Vienna - Ring and Opera House

The winter outside - L'inverno fuori

From the window of a bohemian studio

Paintings of Laura Tedeschi

The first frosts - Le prime gelate

Oh days, oh months that went away forever, like you is always this my life.
Every year different, but every year the same...

Paintings of Laura Tedeschi

Solitude and silence - Solitudine e silenzio

Paintings of Laura Tedeschi

Horizon - Orizzonte

Painting of Laura Tedeschi

Blue flowers

Painting of Laura Tedeschi

Inside the eyes - Dentro gli occhi

Look inside my eyes, those were child's eyes   

Paintings of Laura Tedeschi

 Guardami dentro gli occhi, gli occhi che erano bambini

The flowers chair is old now, and the tear is to sewing - La poltrona a fiori é vecchia ormai, e lo strappo é da cucire

The grass is high now, I know,
and i should to prune the apple tree...
how much dust it is,
inside the house is all a veil.
The kitchen, look, what it is...
how many dirty dishes to wash
and my mother always here
repeat, do not let go.

And people around me
want to look at me, like an owl,
but what is so strange?
This house has seen love
Today sees a woman who dies,
Today sees a dying woman.

The flowers-chair is old now,
the tear is sewing.
I have no make-up as you like...
and I want to die.

A sandwich, a beer and then...
your mouth to kiss
and the flame rises still inside of me
this house is all to burn,
this house is all to burn,
this house is waiting to be burn.

Vendo Casa, Lyrics of Lucio Battisti, voice of Ornella Vanoni

Painting of Laura Tedeschi

L'erba è alta ormai, lo so
e dovrei potare il melo...
quanta polvere c'è,
dentro casa è tutto un velo.
La cucina, guarda, che cos'è
quanti piatti sporchi da lavare
e mia madre sempre qui
che ripete, non lasciarti andare.

E la gente intorno a me
come un gufo vuole guardare
ma di strano cosa c'è.
Questa casa ha visto amore
oggi vede un uomo che muore,
oggi vede un uomo che muore.

La poltrona a fiori è vecchia oramai,
quello strappo è da cucire.
Sono senza trucco come tu mi vuoi
ed ho voglia di morire.

Un panino, una birra e poi
la tua bocca da baciare
e la fiamma si alza ancora dentro me
questa casa è tutta da bruciare,
questa casa è tutta da bruciare,
questa casa è tutta da bruciare.

Vendo Casa, Lyrics of Lucio Battisti, voice of Ornella Vanoni

Winter sea - Il mare d'inverno

... this wind also stirs me

Paintings by Laura Tedeschi

...  questo vento agita anche me

...you smiled, and you knew how to smiling,... with your twenty years taken so, like wearing a formless sweater on a old jeans

... "you smiled, and you knew how to smiling... with your twenty years taken so, like wearing a formless sweater on a old jeans"

from: Farewell, Francesco Guccini

Laura Tedeschi's Paintings

... "e sorridevi e sapevi sorridere..coi tuoi 20 anni portati cosi'...Come si porta un maglione sformato su un paio di Jeans"

da: Farewell, Francesco Guccini

Viennese atmosphere - Atmosfera viennese

Paintings by Laura Tedeschi

Flowers at my window

“I am following Nature without being able to grasp her"...

"Seguo la natura senza poterla afferrare"...

Claude Monet

Paintings: Laura Tedeschi

The pain that sets in motion the desire to searching for - La pena che mette in moto il desiderio di cercare

It's be as if I had seen this scene.

Instead I have read it a while ago.

On a Paris's street, the adult Francoise Truffaut is following, from a few distance steeps, an old jew.

The old one stopped himself, Truffaut stopped ihmself too. Then the old man begins to walk again, and Truffaut do the same, the old man is his father, the natural father.

Francois has never known him in person, and he will do not ever know.

Maybe he just wants to see him from away. This is their first and last time...

I can remember, I have already tought that maybe if in Truffaut's life there had not this wound, perhaps we would not known Jules et Jim and La femme d'a côté.
Maybe the idea that suffering make up an artist is too romantic , but I think if not there were  something to repair, a pain to heal, an unfulfilled love, a man or a woman would not search inside themselves, finding sometimes treasures.
If there would not be a lack, a void asking to be fill, a strange kind of needing to search, we will end up with very small emotion.
To know that we must die, awareness of the stigma of the human condition, should be enough as carburetor of our lives. We need a kind of meditation and the pain that sets in motion the desire for life and make uns trying to fill this pain with art, is a kind of possible meditation.
I know many parents who have fear that their children have to suffer even just a bit'.
Propensity to fill all their empty, to prevent possible failure, to numbness in an unnatural fullness...
Is that really what we desire for them?
A life without the longing and suffering of desire, isn't this the poorer life that we can imagine?

Laura Tedeschi's painting

È come se l'avessi vista, questa scena. 
E invece l'ho letta qualche anno fa. 
In una strada di Parigi un ormai maturo Francois Truffaut segue a qualche passo di distanza un anziano signore ebreo. Il vecchio si ferma, lui si ferma. Poi riprende a camminare e cosí Truffaut. 
Il vecchio é suo padre, il padre naturale. 
Francois non l'ha mai conosciuto, non lo conoscerá. 
Forse non gli interessa altro che guardarlo, vederlo da lontano. 
È la loro prima e ultima volta. 
Ricordo di aver subito pensato che se nella vita di Truffaut non ci fosse stata questa ferita, Jules et Jim e la signora della porta accanto probabilmete non li avremmo mai conosciuti. Forse l'idea che sia la sofferenza a fare l'artista é un po' troppo romantica. 
Ma credo che se non ci fosse qualcosa da riparare, un dolore da risanare, dell'amore inappagato, l'uomo e la donna non cercherebbero come cercano, trovando in qualche caso tesori inestimabili. 
Se non vi fosse una carenza, un vuoto che chiede di essere colmato, una specie di invidia radicale a muoverci, finiremo per accontentarci di poco. 
Dovrebbe bastare sapere di dover morire, consapevolezza che é lo stigma della condinzione umana, a carburare le nostre esistenze, é il vuoto piú vuoto di tutte, e per quanto uno faccia, incolmabile. 
Servono delle meditazioni, il dolore, che mette in moto il desiderio di vita, che ci fa provare a colmare l'arte é una meditazione possibile. 
Conosco molti genitori che han paura che i proprio figli soffrano anche solo un po'. 
La propensione a riempire tutti i loro vuoti, a prevenire ogni possibile mancanza, a intorpidirli in una innaturale sazietá. 
È davvero questo che volgiamo per loro? 
Una vita senza carenze, senza dolore senza lo struggimento del desiderio? Non é la vita piú povera che si possa immaginare?