26.1.12

 

 

 

António Júdice Bustorff Silva (de pé), Lisboa c. 1950

 

 

 

 

Obituário de The Times,  3 de Janeiro de 1980:

 

The distinguished lawyer, Dr Antonio Judice Bustorff Silva, who died in Lisbon on Dec­ember 17, aged 84, will be affec­tionately remembered by many of the older generation of British entrepreneurs in Portu­gal.

 

He was at one time or another chairman, director or legal adviser of many important British enterprises, including the Tramways of Lisbon and the Telephones of Lisbon and Oporto, both of which until a few years ago were operated by British Concessionary Com­panies.

 

Born in 1895 on the island of Sao Tome, where his father had big plantations, Dr Bustorff, as he was always known, took his law degree at Coimbra Uni­versity. His youth was spent in the turbulent times of the end of the monarchy and the birth of the First Republic. He was an ardent monarchist, and it must have been with a sense of relief that he saw the Generals take over in 1926, after a suc­cession of more than 40 Repub­lican Governments in 16 years.

 

Bustorff was the legal repre­sentative of the Royal Family, and when the Generals called in Dr Salazar (himself a crypto-monarchist) it was in dealing with the affairs of the Royal Family that the friendship and confidence between the two men began and later became of such value to his clients, Portu­guese or foreign.

 

Bustorff was a steadfast admirer of Salazar and his general policies, but he was never a toady and his advice to the Prime Minister, on behalf of his clients, was invariably what he thought to be compat­ible with the interests of the client and of the Portuguese State.

 

One of the most important services rendered by Bustorff to his own country and to the Allied cause during the Second World War concerned the ex­ploitation of uranium. The Portuguese Government was approached by Britain, and Salazar decided that Bustorff would represent the Portuguese Government in the company which was to carry out the work.

 

He was also legal adviser to the British-owned Panasqueira Mines, the largest source of wolfram available to the West and a constant source of dispute between the economic warriors of each side. After the war Bustorff was made honorary CBE, a decoration of which he was immensely proud.

 

A man of enormous energy Bustorff frequently represented Portugal at international con­ferences. He had great devotion to his Church and a true sense of humour. His Germanic name is from a Swiss ancestor who came to Portugal in the 17th century to escape the persecu­tion of Roman Catholics.

 

He spoke several languages fluently but, in his bubbling enthusiasm, not always cor­rectly. «Come and see my Charolais veals», he would say to an English guest at his estate near Setubal, «they are beau­ties". He entertained lavishly and the food and wines were always Portuguese and usually produced by him.

 

The passion of his leisure time was building, especially restoring old houses. He built or restored one for each of his five children and for each pair of his 24 grandchildren.

 

When the Second Republic came in 1974 Bustorff was already virtually retired, but he was summoned to Brazil, where more legal work awaited him and he went in 1975, aged 80. He suffered a stroke there and was brought home. Lucid and able to speak, he struggled bravely for two years, as presi­dent of the Bragança Founda­tion and supervising proper­ties which had not been seques­trated.

 

It can be postulated that the «Blue Monkey» Marques de Soveral, of Edward Vll's time, and Bustorff Silva, were the most steadfast and most influ­ential Portuguese friends of Britain in the 20th century.

 

 

 

Sir Peter Norton-Griffiths

in "The Times"  3 January 1980

 

 

Notas:

 

 

António Júdice Bustorff Silva formou-se em Direito em Lisboa e não em Coimbra como afirma o autor do artigo.

 

 

Foto e perfil do Marquês de Soveral aqui 



 

 

 

link do postPor VF, às 15:21  comentar

21.1.12

 

 

  

Véra Obolensky, São Petersburgo, 2010

  Foto: Jean-François Blézot

 

 

 

uma entrevista com Véra Obolensky aqui

 

link do postPor VF, às 14:31  comentar

18.1.12

 

 

 

 

 

Fernanda de Castro, Lisboa c. 1942

Foto: Cecil Beaton

Revista Panorama nº 12 ano II 1942

Um blog sobre Fernanda de Castro aqui
link do postPor VF, às 13:57  comentar

13.1.12

 

 

 

 

Eleonor and Giles Robertson, Edinburgh, 1987

foto: Thomas Struth

 

até 29 de Janeiro de 2012 aqui 

 

 


 

link do postPor VF, às 11:19  comentar

10.1.12

 

 

 

 

Fritz Lang and Thea von Harbou in their Berlin apartment. (Circa 1923)

 

foto: Waldemar Titzenthaler in Berliner Interieurs,Enno Kaufhold (Berlin 1999)


  

veja a série "Home Is Where the Heart Is" aqui

 

 

link do postPor VF, às 12:00  comentar

5.1.12

 

 

 

 

A Tuna Académica da Universidade de Coimbra em 1910-1911

(digressão por Ciudad Rodrigo, Salamanca, Valladolid e Zamora)

Foto: J.M. dos Santos, Coimbra.

 

Esta fotografia vem da minha família paterna, mais precisamente da família materna de meu pai. António Correia Caldeira Coelho (1888-1977) - irmão da minha avó Rosita - está sentado na terceira fila. É o terceiro a contar da direita. Formou-se em Direito em Coimbra, em 1913, e na sua juventude participou em iniciativas recreativas e culturais, como atestam fotografias e documentos que as suas irmãs conservaram e assim me chegaram às mãos. Não creio que tocasse um instrumento musical. Na margem inferior direita da fotografia é identificado como 'Delegado'.
Leia aqui um artigo que me esclareceu sobre as digressões da Tuna Académica da Universidade de Coimbra por terras de Espanha:
Fundada em 1888, surge da popularidade da actividade musical entre os escolares na 2ª metade do Século XIX, que com a extinção da orquestra do teatro académico e com a passagem da Estudantina de Santiago de Compostela por Coimbra sentiram a necessidade de criar um agrupamento musical semelhante não só para retribuir a visita aos estudantes espanhóis mas também para levar Coimbra representada musicalmente a outros centros de Portugal.

 

 

 

Outra fotografia de António Caldeira Coelho, uns anos antes, aqui. 

 

Tuna Académica da Universidade de Coimbra aqui

 

 

 

 

link do postPor VF, às 23:57  comentar

31.12.11

 

 

 

e votos de um Bom 2012.

 

 

 

Imagem: Mercado de Belém do Pará, 2009

 

 

 

 

 


29.12.11

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thomas Struth: Fotografias 1978-2010

até 29 de Janeiro de 2012 aqui

 

A exposição Thomas Struth: Fotografias 1978 – 2010, no Museu de Arte Contemporânea de Serralves, reúne mais de uma centena de obras e passa em revista a obra de Struth ao longo de três décadas. Inclui grupos alargados de cada uma das séries que constituem o corpo da obra do artista: fotografias a preto e branco de cidades europeias, asiáticas e americanas, retratos de família e impressões a cor em grande escala realizadas em selvas e florestas densas, no interior de alguns dos maiores museus do mundo e em locais de culto como templos e catedrais. Culmina com um importante conjunto de novos trabalhos. 

 

 

  

Entrevista com o fotógrafo aqui 

 

 


 

link do postPor VF, às 23:34  comentar

28.12.11

 

 

 

 

 

Anúncio da Mobil
contracapa de Panorama, Revista Portuguesa de Arte e Turismo

nº 4 - IV Série - Dezembro de 1962

 

 

 

Outro anúncio da Mobil aqui e mais sobre a campanha da Mobil nas tags design e publicidade

 

 

 

link do postPor VF, às 00:06  comentar

25.12.11

 

 

 

 

cartão de Boas Festas

de uma série, pintado por Vasco Luís Futscher Pereira (1922-1984)

 

Edição Papelaria Progresso, Lisboa, 1965

 

 

 

Mais sobre a Papelaria Progresso aqui e aqui

 

link do postPor VF, às 00:57  comentar

22.12.11

 

 

 

 

 

Postal de Boas Festas c. 1957

Foto Casa Jorge Lourenço, Cascais, Portugal

link do postPor VF, às 14:58  comentar

20.12.11

 

 

 

 
© Inês Gonçalves

 

 

 


in Sabor de Goa

© Maria Fernanda Noronha da Costa e Sousa, Inês Gonçalves

© Assírio & Alvim 2004

esgotado mas disponível para consulta aqui

 

 

Mais fotografias de Inês Gonçalves na Galeria Pente 10 aqui


 
link do postPor VF, às 21:54  comentar

18.12.11

 

 

 

 

 

A Virgem e o Menino

Ângelo da Fonseca (1902-1967)

 

 

 

Também em Goa, pobres e ricos, muito portuguêsmente, fazem presépio. Certas famílias, com alguma antecipação, semeiam nachiniru, cereal que grela rapidamente, em terra espalhada sobre uma pequena tábua. Quando as folhinhas começam a aparecer, formam um tapete verde sobre o qual é armado o presépio de palha.

 

*

 

Os preparativos iniciam-se com grande antecedência, principalmente com a confecção de certos doces típicos, que não faltam em nenhuma mesa, como os mandarês, hóstias grandes feitas de abóbora, secas ao sol e fritas em óleo de coco no momento de servir, assemelhando-se a bolachas muito finas, de excelente paladar. Outro doce peculiar a esse dia é o dodol, preparado com farinha de trigo, sumo de coco, jagra, castanha de caju e manteiga. O dodol ocupa sempre na sua confecção duas ou mais pessoas, que se revezam, pois cansa muito mexê-lo continuamente. De resto, a maioria dos doces goeses é feita por esse processo, como o doce de grão, o doce  bagi, a mangada, a cocada, e outros. [...] E não podemos esquecer os neureus, semelhantes a rissóis mas recheados com coco ralado, cozido em mel de açúcar ou lentilhas, sendo tudo frito em óleo de coco ou assado no forno. E ainda os oddés (lê-se ores), feito- de farinha de trigo amassada em agua e sal, redondos e fritos também em óleo de coco a ferver.

 

*

 

Outro elemento digno de menção especial é a iluminação das casas. Desde as vésperas de Natal até aos Reis, todos os lares católicos irradiam externamente uma luz suave proveniente de lanternas chinesas de diversos formatos e desenhos, com velas de cera acesas. [...] Um elemento, porém, é comum a todas: a estrela! É feita de bambu e forrada de papel de seda, branco ou de cores, e presa a um pau comprido espetado no chão. À noite, quando iluminada, dá-nos a impressão de uma estrela suspensa no céu límpido, evocando a que surgiu aos Reis Magos, assinalando o caminho de Belém.

 

*

 

E a véspera de Natal termina com a Missa do Galo. Todos voltam lentamente para casa, cheretas a servir de lanternas, abrindo buracos na noite. Os doces ficam à espera, pois a consoada é a 25, no próprio dia de Natal, em puro convívio familiar, regalando-se então todos com a boa comezaina, variada e gostosa.

E a meio do dia surgem os farazes.

Os farazes são talvez a classe mais baixa, sem casta, descendente dos primitivos habitantes dravídicos. Vivendo em comunidade mais ou menos tribal e dedicando-se à manufactura de utensílios de bambu, constituem uma das camadas populacionais de Goa mais sinceramente católicas, desprezados como são pelos brâmanes e pelas outras castas arianas. Isso recorda-me palavras que o grande poeta Paulino Dias, na sua narrativa dramática Os párias, põe na boca de um faraz:

 

Os nossos maiores, Pralada, Ravana, Hiraniaxipú, Bali, bateram os Árias e comeram a sua carne. É a vingança, ó Jiubá, dos crimes das eras, os crimes de defender a sua choupana, a sua mulher e os seus filhos. Hoje o estrangeiro os devora com garganta de cobre aquecido. Eu sei que num país depois do mar os Árias são expulsos, feridos, sem poderem passar pelas ruas, entrar nos Dharmasadas e nas pousadas. Pagam pelo que nos fazem, ó Jiubá. Nós temos ainda os deuses deles, Shivá, Rama e Parvati, e eles não nos deixam pisar o degrau do seu templo. Mil vezes melhores os cristãos e muçulmanos que nos aceitam como irmãos.

 

 

Vimala Devi

in "Natal de Goa"

Panorama Revista de Arte e Turismo nº 24-III Série-Dezembro de 1961

Edição do SNI Lisboa

 

 

Notas:

 

Vimala Devi, Paulino Dias e outros autores da literatura indo-portuguesa  aqui

Angelo da Fonseca aqui

 

 

Museum of Christian Art, Goa aqui 

 

 

 

link do postPor VF, às 00:18  comentar

15.12.11

 

 

 

 

Maquineta Adoração dos pastores*

Século XIX, início

 

 

 

Maquineta de autoria desconhecida, mas que traduz de modo eloquente o gosto pelo presépio no século XVIII português. Nesta tripla Adoração – as Sagrada Família, dos Anjos e dos Pastores – podemos observar que remetem para um certo arcaismo, como a posição das mãos e os cabelos soltos da Virgem, evocação das imagens de Dionísio e António Ferreira, ou a indumentária de dois dos músicos, memória de figurinos seiscentistas.  

 

 

 

* Presépio da Fundação Ricardo do Espírito Santo Silva

 

  Imagem e texto encontrados aqui

 


 


link do postPor VF, às 11:36  comentar

12.12.11

  

 

 

 

Capa de Panorama, Revista Portuguesa de Arte e Turismo 

nº 4 - IV Série - Dezembro de 1962

 

 

 

 

 

Imagem: Presépio - Trecho — Josefa de ÓbidosMuseu Nacional de Arte Antiga, Lisboa

 


Sobre a revista Panorama leia aqui

Outras imagens do Natal na pintura portuguesa aqui

 

 

 

 

link do postPor VF, às 20:40  comentar

11.12.11

 

 

 


página de Panorama, Revista Portuguesa de Arte e Turismo

nº 4 - IV Série - Dezembro de 1962

 

 

Notas:


Os esquiadores estão junto à imagem de Nossa Senhora da Estrela, a dois quilómetros da Torre, identificada aqui

 

Foto: A. Santos d'Almeida Jr.  

 

 

link do postPor VF, às 10:52  comentar

9.12.11

 

 

 

 

 

Capa de Panorama, Revista Portuguesa de Arte e Turismo

nº 24 - IV Série - Dezembro de 1967

 

 

Imagem: Presépio de madeira policromada que preenche o relicário de Santa Catarina de Sena.

Século XVII. Museu de Grão Vasco, Viseu.

 

Sobre a revista Panorama leia aqui

 

 

 

 

Museu de Grão Vasco aqui

Visita virtual aqui

 

 

 


link do postPor VF, às 00:59  comentar

4.12.11

 

 

 

Guilherme Pereira de Carvalho e Hugo Belmarço 

 

 

 

 

Verso:

Bilhete postal: Photographia Vasques, Lisboa


link do postPor VF, às 11:25  comentar

1.12.11

 

 

 
José Alvellos, Maria José e Hugo Belmarço

foto A.Linares- Alhambra,64 Granada

link do postPor VF, às 16:58  comentar

28.11.11

 

 

 

Portugal, c. 1915

 

 

 

Ao centro os meus tios avós Hugo Celso Navarro de Andrade Belmarço (1894-1963) e Maria José Barros da Costa Belmarço (1896-1956), atrás dele. Reconhecem-na? 


 
link do postPor VF, às 16:21  comentar

20.11.11

 

 

 

Portugal, 1913


Ao centro, Maria José de Barros Pinto Rodrigues da Costa Belmarço


link do postPor VF, às 11:09  comentar

15.11.11

 

 

 

Anonymous (17th Century)

 

 

 

  

Dear Readers,

 

Today we celebrate the blog's third anniversary. Having reached an average of 30 daily hits, I keep an eye on the stats to get a sense of what my visitors are looking for. Most visitors from Portugal seem to be looking for people, places and curiosities from the past, some of which are half forgotten but still deserving of an extra fifteen minutes. After all, there’s not such a great deal of Portuguese material on the web.

 

Many visitors, and perhaps the majority of those who come from abroad, reach Retrovisor via a google search. Some reach it via a few other blogs, which I take this opportunity to thank. I’m also proud to announce that Retrovisor was recently nominated for a “Versatile Blogger Award" (details here). My sponsor describes it as “a blog which has morphed from an antique photo blog into a collection of literary quotes from different sources”. As for me, I see it as a “cabinet de curiosités”. I strive to keep it versatile within the remit of its main themes, which are visible in the tag cloud on your right.

 

Thank you for your visit!

 

 

 

Image:  Cabinet de curiosités  here

 

 


5.11.11

 

 

 

What I had discovered that day in New York was the personal photo collection, one might say "family" albums, of Susanna, a professional female impersonator—as her business card glued to one of the album covers attested. The pictures show Susanna and a group of her male friends who would gather at a house in upstate New York to dress up and live for the weekend as typical, middle class suburban women, complete with tacky furniture and a Scrabble board. Their style of dress alternated between conservative, proper outfits and cheap but glamorous fashions. […] There is no "political correctness" in these pictures—they show women basically as housewives who know how to dress up for a night out, and certainly don't mind having a mid-afternoon drink at home. 

[…]

Another collection of photographs such as these may well be out there somewhere, but I wonder if we will ever see it. After all, these pictures were nearly "tossed to the wind" in an old box in an outdoor parking lot. Fortunately, in this case, the parking lot was an urban flea market where the remnants of our culture are constantly recycled for our curiosity and, I hope, your pleasure.

 

Robert Swope

in Casa Susanna

Edited by Michel Hurst and Robert Swope

powerhouse Books New York, NY

© 2005 Michel Hurst and Robert Swope

 

 

 

Sobre a fotografia vernacular leia aqui  


link do postPor VF, às 18:51  comentar

31.10.11

 

 

You don't even know what sophisticated means!

My mother turned on me sharply. I should repeat that she was twenty-one when I was born. I have never been much younger than her and she has never been much older than me. Another school run: Swansea, in the late Fifties.

— Ooh I do know what sophisticated means!

No you don't. Not what it really means.

— Yes I do.

— Go on then. What does it mean?

I now see my mother's profiled face, lightly frowning in concentration as she listed some of the more attractive attributes that went hand in hand with being sophisticated - all of them worth the aspiration of a bashful country-girl from Berkshire. I said,

— That's not what it really means.

— All right then. What does it really mean?

Corrupt.

My mother was innocent. Then experience came, and she experienced it. And then she got her innocence back again. I have always wondered how she did that.

 

Martin Amis

in Experience  p.106

Vintage Books, London

© Martin Amis  2000

 

 


link do postPor VF, às 23:26  comentar

27.10.11

 

I remember one day long ago driving down Park Avenue on the way to Penn Station with a sheaf of notes for a Harvard lecture in the right-hand pocket of my raincoat, and in the left, a celluloid packet containing twelve photographs, with accompanying text, of one girl model spanking another on her bare bottom with a hairbrush. Given a choice, I would far rather have jettisoned the contents of the right-hand pocket: with this dichotomy I have spent my life. (Note the fearless candour of this amazing revelation.) (And note, too, the self-deprecating irony — 'fearless candour', 'amazing revelation' — with which I have phrased it, thereby showing what a self-critical person I am.) (And if you think that sounds self-congratulatory, let me answer you that I am well aware of my faults, which are numerous.) (And if that implies too much self- knowledge, may I add that, in fact etc. etc. etc.) Such is the art of autobiography.

 

Kenneth Tynan

in The diaries of Kenneth Tynan edited by John Lahr 

Bloomsbury Publishing, Plc, London

©2001 by Tracy Tynan

 

 

 

 

 

link do postPor VF, às 22:03  comentar

20.10.11

 

 

I like to hole up in hotel suites. I like to turn off the lights and crank the AC. I like temperature-controlled and contained environments. I like to sit in the dark and let my mind race. I was set to meet Bill Stoner the next morning. I ordered a room-service dinner and a big pot of coffee. I turned out the lights and let the redhead take me places.

I knew things about us. I sensed other things. Her death corrupted my imagination and gave me exploitable gifts. She taught me self-sufficiency by negative example. I possessed a self-preserving streak at the height of my self-destruction. My mother gave me the gift and the curse of obsession. It began as curiosity in lieu of childish grief. It flourished as a quest for dark knowledge and mutated into a horrible thirst for sexual and mental stimulation. Obsessive drives almost killed me. A rage to turn my obsessions into something good and useful saved me. I outlived the curse. The gift assumed its final form in language.

 

 

James Ellroy

in My Dark Places, An L.A. Crime Memoir  p.206

© 1996 James Ellroy

 

 

 

 

 

 

Leia este excerto em português no blog Traduções aqui

 

 


13.10.11

 

Every night when I was a boy, I sat and read in our living room, listening to my father writing letters. He wrote on his lap in longhand, with the letter paper backed by one of his long yellow legal pads, and the scratch and swirl of his black Waterman pen across the page sounded like the scrabblings of a creature in the underbrush. There were no pauses or crossings out, and in time I realized that I could even identify the swoosh of a below-the-line “g” leaping diagonally upward into an “h” and the crossing double zag of an ensuing “t,” and, soon after, the blip of a period. When he reached the bottom of the page, the sheet was turned over and smoothed down in a single, back-of-the-hand gesture, and the rush of writing and pages went on, while I waited for the declarative final “E” or “Ernest”— the loudest sound of all — that told me the letter was done. When the envelope had been addressed, licked, and sealed with a postmasterish thump of his fist, he would pluck a Lucky Strike out of its green pack and whack it violently four times against his thumbnail, like a man hammering a spike, then damply tongue the other end before lighting up. By the time the first deep drag appeared as a pale upward jet of smoke, another letter was in progress. I went back to my book. Sooner or later, the letters would be over, and he would be ready to read aloud to me. “Finished,” he would announce, picking up “Oliver Twist.” “Now, where were we?”

 

 

Roger Angell

in The King of the Forest

 

The New Yorker, Fevereiro de 2000 (The King of the Forest na íntegra aqui )

e em Let Me Finish © 2006 by Roger Angell

 

 

 



link do postPor VF, às 16:42  comentar

9.10.11

 

 

 

 

 

veja também aqui 

 

link do postPor VF, às 12:39  comentar

1.10.11

 

 

My mother would have liked to go to art school, but on Bankbottom nobody had heard of such a thing. She applied for a clerical job by competitive exam, but it went to a girl called Muriel; poor Muriel, she got all the questions wrong, my mother said, but you see her uncles had pull. Thwarted, unhappy, she stayed in the mill and earned, she said, a wage as good as a man's. The work was hard and took a painful toll on immature muscle and bone. It would be many years before the effects showed; then, with energy to spare, she danced and sang through her evenings, in amateur shows and pantomimes. Cinderella was her favourite part. Her favourite scene: the Transformation. She asked herself, could she really be the child of her parents? Or some changeling princess, dropped into Bankbottom by accident?

For the whole of my childhood I worried about the glass slipper. It is such a treacherous object to wear: splintering, and cutting the curved, tender sole of the dancing foot. The writer Emily Prager once said that she had rewritten, as a child, the second half of the story; Cinderella gets to the ball and breaks her leg. My own feelings were similar; the whole situation was too precarious, you were too dependent on irresponsible agents like pumpkins and mice, and always there was midnight, approaching, tick-tock, the minutes shaving away, the minutes before you were reduced to ashes and rags. I was relieved, as an adult, when I learned that the slipper was not of verre, but of vair, which is to say, ermine. The prince and his agents were ranging the kingdom with a tiny female organ in hand — his ideal bride, represented by her pudendum. Never mind her face: he had not raised his eyes so far. All he knew was that the fit was tight.

 

Hilary Mantel

in Giving up the ghost, a memoir  p.50-51

© Hilary Mantel 2003 

 

 

 

 

 

link do postPor VF, às 12:12  comentar

27.9.11

 

 

Ma sœur la vie, ma sœur mon amie. Sœur à jamais jeune et enjouée, sœur lunatique, amie fougueuse, imprévisible, tantôt prodigue, tantôt avare. Sœur frondeuse, amie fugueuse. Mais la mort, elle, comment la qualifier? Quelle sœur est-ce là, quelle amie effarante ?

Elle n'a pas d’âge, celle-là, et aucune saute d'humeur; elle n’est ni avare ni prodigue, et jamais elle ne fugue, Elle marche dans les pas de la vie, depuis le tout premier. Pas à pas, avec grande minutie, et une totale discrétion. Et un jour, à un instant donné que nul ne peut prévoir, elle accomplit un brusque saut, elle prend la place de proue — elle prend toute la place. Le rapt qu'elle commet est radical, irrévocable. Irréparable.


 

 

Sylvie Germain

in Le monde sans vous  p. 31

© Éditions Albin Michel, 2011




 
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