Novo Pátio de Ribeirão Preto, Vista Parcial em 01/1964 / Estação Ferroviária Ribeirão Preto, Ribeirão Preto, São Paulo, Brasil

 

Novo Pátio de Ribeirão Preto, Vista Parcial em 01/1964 / Estação Ferroviária Ribeirão Preto, Ribeirão Preto, São Paulo, Brasil
Ribeirão Preto - SP
Fotografia

Vista Parcial, 1965, Porto Velho, Rondônia, Brasil

 

Vista Parcial, 1965, Porto Velho, Rondônia, Brasil

Porto Velho - RO

Fotografia

Rótulo "Fiambre", 1952, Perdigão, Brasil

 

Rótulo "Fiambre", 1952, Perdigão, Brasil
Rótulo

Fiambre em Portugal é um tipo de carne fria obtido pela cozedura de carne de porco curada. 

No Brasil também se usa esta palavra para o conjunto dos alimentos frios, geralmente de carne, que se preparam para uma viagem, ou a carne condimentada e cozida de outros animais, como galinha e peru, ou mesmo para produtos de origem vegetal que se podem considerar comparáveis a um fiambre.

Fiambres, sejam simples ou processados, se servem frios, fritos à milanesa, em sanduíches ou cortados em fatias finas.
Em Portugal são regulados pela Portaria nº 1086/82. No Brasil está regulado pela Instrução Normativa Nº 20, de 31 de Julho de 2000.
Fiambre é uma palavra adotada do espanhol, onde significa qualquer tipo de produto de carne preparado para ser consumido frio; nessa acepção, inclui todos os produtos de carne curada, incluindo o próprio presunto, os enchidos e outros produtos de salsicharia (equivalente a frios ou carnes frias).

Chafariz da Carioca e Imprensa Nacional, Rio de Janeiro, Brasil

 

Chafariz da Carioca e Imprensa Nacional, Rio de Janeiro, Brasil
Rio de Janeiro - RJ
Fotografia

Chafariz da Carioca, 1904, Rio de Janeiro, Brasil

 

Chafariz da Carioca, 1904, Rio de Janeiro, Brasil
Rio de Janeiro - RJ
Fotografia

As Três Versões do Chafariz da Carioca, Rio de Janeiro, Brasil

 

As Três Versões do Chafariz da Carioca, Rio de Janeiro, Brasil
Rio de Janeiro - RJ
Fotografia


A primeira foto mostra o terceiro Chafariz da Carioca. A segunda foto mostra outro ângulo ainda deste terceiro chafariz projetado pelo arquiteto Grandjean de Montigny e que ficou pronto em 1834.
Este chafariz foi demolido na década de 20 do século passado, por Alaor Prata, para facilitar o tráfego da Rua Uruguaiana para a Rua 13 de Maio.
A terceira imagem mostra o primeiro Chafariz da Carioca, construído à beira da Lagoa de Santo Antônio, onde fica atualmente o Largo da Carioca. O rio Carioca, cujas nascentes estão nas Paineiras, na Serra do Corcovado, era um rio de águas fartas e perenes que desaguavam na Baía da Guanabara. Descia ao longo do Vale das Laranjeiras, recebendo pequenos afluentes como o Silvestre e o Lagoinha. Um dos braços desemboca em frente à atual Rua Paissandu e o outro, em frente ao Outeiro da Glória. O rio Carioca foi desaparecendo aos poucos por força dos aterros. O primeiro Chafariz da Carioca foi construído no Governo Aires Saldanha (1719-1725) com 16 bicas de bronze. Os escravos e apanhadores de água aí se aglomeravam para exercer o seu mister diário. Este chafariz foi demolido em 1829.
O segundo Chafariz da Carioca foi construído pelo Intendente Geral da Polícia Luís Paulo de Araújo Bastos. Era provisório, de madeira imitando granito, com 40 torneiras. Durou pouco, arruinando-se com rapidez.

Chafariz da Carioca, Largo da Carioca, 1893, Rio de Janeiro, Brasil

 

Chafariz da Carioca, Largo da Carioca, 1893, Rio de Janeiro, Brasil
Rio de Janeiro - RJ
Fotografia


O Largo, defronte do Morro de Santo Antônio, foi o ponto central de abastecimento de água da cidade, sendo o monumental chafariz da foto o terceiro ali construído. Fazia lembrar uma casa de pedra lavrada, com colunas e escadarias. Tinha 35 bicas de latão brunido pelas quais a água jorrava em abundância, sobrando para os tanques próximos das lavadeiras e o bebedouro dos cavalos, e mais os carros-pipas dos bombeiros antigos, criados em 1856.
Foi demolido na década de 20 pelo prefeito Alaor Prata.
Este chafariz datava de D. João VI e embora atribuído exclusivamente a Grandjean de Montigny, teve como seu autor principal João Candido Guilhobel.
A Igreja da Ordem Terceira da Penitência, ao lado do Convento de Santo Antônio, foi concluída em 1744. Uma das mais ricas de todo o país, não teve suas torres terminadas em razão de demandas entre os irmãos da Ordem Terceira e os frades do convento vizinho.
À direita, vê-se parte da fachada do Hospital da Ordem da Penitência, demolido em 1905. Foi o primeiro da cidade a incluir a homeopatia nos seus serviços médicos. A seu lado ficava o Chope dos Mortos ou o Bar do Necrotério, de nome assim tão impressionante, como de novela dostoievskiana, porque nele os boêmios bebiam e riam à vista dos enterros que passavam.
O nome "Carioca" para esta região veio por causa da água do rio que, a começar de 1723, veio alimentar o chafariz ali mandado instalar pelo Governador Aires de Saldanha.

Obras de Demolição do Chafariz da Carioca e Ampliação do Largo da Carioca, Rio de Janeiro, Brasil

 

Obras de Demolição do Chafariz da Carioca e Ampliação do Largo da Carioca, Rio de Janeiro, Brasil

Rio de Janeiro - RJ

Fotografia

A Ponte Japonesa, Giverny, França (Le Pont Japonais) - Claude Monet

 

A Ponte Japonesa, Giverny, França (Le Pont Japonais) - Claude Monet
Giverny - França
Coleção privada
OST - 73x100 - Circa 1918-24


Of the twenty-four versions that Monet painted of Le pont japonais, sixteen are in public institutions, including Musée Marmottan, Paris; Kunstmuseum, Basel; Museu de Arte de São Paulo Assis Chateaubriand; Kunsthaus Zürich; Museum of Fine Arts, Houston; Philadelphia Museum of Art; Minneapolis Institute of Art and The Museum of Modern Art, New York.
During 1918-1924, Claude Monet painted a sequence of 24 canvases featuring the Japanese footbridge that spanned the western banks of the oval lily pond on his property in Giverny (Wildenstein, nos. 1911-1933). All are identically titled Le pont japonais, save one, more descriptively documented as La passerelle sur le bassin de nymphéas, which is the sole picture in the series that Monet signed and dated—1919—when he sold it to Bernheim-Jeune in November of that year (no. 1916; Kunstmuseum, Basel). This was also the only picture in the series exhibited in the artist’s lifetime, at Bernheim-Jeune in 1921.
Monet had already embarked on the majestic Grandes décorations, the suite of large lily-pond compositions that his friend Georges Clemenceau, the noted statesman and twice the Prime Minister of the Third Republic, had commissioned for the French state. Because Monet persisted, at the same time, in painting smaller easel pictures—such as the Japanese bridges—Clemenceau complained to the artist that he had been attending to them as an excuse to put off the deadline that had been set for the completion of the Grandes décorations.
The Pont japonais sequence of paintings all focus on the simple structural element of the arching, wooden Japanese footbridge, completed during 1894-1895. Monet first painted the bridge under an early April snowfall in 1895 (Wildenstein, no. 1392) and later that year in the full brilliance of summer (nos. 1419-1419a). When Monet created his very first paintings of the water-lily pond during the summer of 1899—once the plants had matured and spread out across the pond—he included in each of them the Japanese bridge, resplendent in its pale blue-green paint (nos. 1509-1520). Monet had an overhanging, metal trellis installed during 1904-1905. Both the balustrade and the new framework were draped in wisteria, which quickly engulfed the bridge, appearing to absorb it within the masses of foliage along the banks of the pond and the dangling branches of the large willow on the southern end of the bridge, at right in the present painting.
The curving rise of the bridge marked the culmination of a line of sight from the front door of the artist’s large house at the northern end of the property, down along the garden-lined, pergola-covered grande allée, and across the road and railway track into parcel of land that enclosed the pond. Monet intended the Japanese bridge to serve as the connective, harmonizing motif, as well as the most elevated vantage point within his artfully designed and painstakingly cultivated garden landscape. Although barely recognizable as the original bridge amid the profusion of nature in the 1918-1924 series, the line of this graceful arabesque centers and provides breadth to the horizontal aspect of the pondscape, in counterpoint to the vertical cascades of foliage and the reflections of shadow that appear to rise up from the surface of the water.
While notable as an exotic feature in the traditional Norman landscape, the Japanese footbridge is more importantly Monet’s tribute to the general cultural phenomenon of japonisme as a transformative influence on the arts of France, his own included, since the 1860s. By late in his life, Monet’s collection of Japanese prints numbered over two hundred examples, by Utamaro, Hokusai, and Hiroshige—a “Japanese Impressionist,” Monet called the latter—among others. In 1921, Monet received at Giverny a succession of Japanese artists and collectors, who came with Clemenceau to admire the painter’s gardens. Foremost among them was Kojiro Matsukata, the son of a former Prime Minister of Japan and a personal friend of the emperor, who purchased 15 canvases from Monet at this time for his planned museum of modern Western art, including a 4.25-meter-wide Nymphéas mural originally destined for the Grandes décorations (Wildenstein, no. 1971). “I’m especially flattered that the Japanese understand me,” Monet explained, “since they are the masters who have felt and represented nature so profoundly” (quoted in R. King, Mad Enchantment: Claude Monet and the Painting of the Water Lilies, New York, 2016, p. 246).
In addition to having become a desirable feature in Japanese gardens since the 12th century, classical Heian Period, the arching bridge form appears in numerous woodblock, ukiyo-e prints of travelers and traders. “Last autumn I was a sad dreamer, and suddenly I imagined myself walking in a picturesque landscape passing innumerable bridges,” Katsushika Hokusai captioned his brush drawing A Dream of a Hundred Bridges, 1832. “I found myself so happy that I took up my brush right away and drew this landscape, before it got lost in my imagination.” As a symbol of passage, of crossing over from one stage in life to the next, the poetry of the bridge resonated with special urgency in Monet’s mind during the years 1918-1924.
News of events of the day in early 1918 were as discouraging as they had been for most of the previous three and a half years of the murderous Great War. The stalemate on the Western Front appeared unbreakable as neither the Allies nor Germany could gain the upper hand. A grim struggle of attrition was draining the will, material resources, and manpower of both sides. Realizing that the entry of America into the war in November 1917 must eventually result in an Allied victory, in March 1918 Germany unleashed its all-out, last-ditch offensive to crush the French and British armies on the Western Front.
Still grieving at the passing of his beloved wife Alice in 1911, and the death his eldest son Jean in early 1914, Monet feared terribly for the safety of his sole surviving son Michel and stepson Jean-Pierre Hoschedé, both in harm’s way on the battle lines. Monet—then in his mid-70s—might only find meaning in the transient nature of all things as he contemplated the rhythms of growth and decay, life and death in the serenity of his water garden sanctuary. This palpable evocation of abundant nature had been for the past two decades his pride and joy, his personal corner of the world, where he could retreat into an environment that he had created as a work of art, for the sake of his art, and which became a universe unto itself.
This development marked in his oeuvre the emergence of the late period, a final decade of visionary transfiguration in his art. But as in the personal histories of other great masters who painted to the very end of their lives, Monet confronted formidable trials and tribulations during this period, in his case stemming from news of the most horrifying kind, especially for a painter. He had been diagnosed in 1912 with cataracts, far more advanced in his right eye than his left, and he understood that he was in danger of losing his sight. The ordeal that ensued would have defeated a spirit less courageous and indomitable than his own. In the end he triumphed, completing his final magnum opus, the twenty-two panels of the Grandes décorations, to be installed in the Musée de l’Orangerie, Paris, which had been specifically redesigned and dedicated to receive them. To appreciate, however, the artist’s agony and feelings of despair, and then the qualities of the patience and strength he summoned to confront this challenge, one should turn to the paintings of le pont japonais.
Monet sought to avert surgery for as long as possible by trying alternative treatments that were proposed to him, and which, for a while at least, appeared to offer some relief. It was not until 1919 that his cataracts again began to give him trouble. Although he admitted being able to see “less and less,” as he told a journalist in early 1921, “I always paint at the times of day most propitious for me, as long as my paint tubes and brushes are not mixed up” (quoted in P. Tucker, Monet in the 20th Century, exh. cat., Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, 1998, p. 80). Monet typically painted the footbridge in the early morning hours—he was an inveterate early riser—and in the late afternoons, near dusk.
The present pont japonais renders the blue-green tonality of the foliage, with touches of violet, in the early morning, when the cool, silvery white vapors of a mist had settled on the pond. The artist had situated himself at the western tip, along the channel that drains the water back into the Ru river. Gazing through the shadowy form of the bridge, he beheld the gathering light at the eastern end of the pond. Late in the day, Monet would place his canvas on the opposite, eastern bank, and look westward through the bridge into the reddish light at sunset, giving rise to the fiery colors that characterize this portion of his bridge production, also found in the concurrent L’allée de rosiers series, the seven paintings which depict the garden path under the rose-covered arches (Wildenstein, nos. 1934-1940).
By 1922, however, it became clear to Monet that only surgery, hazardous as it might be, could sufficiently ameliorate his condition and allow him to continue painting, as he knew he must, for the sake of completing the Grandes décorations. Apprehensive as ever, Monet had the first date postponed, but then between January and July 1923, Dr. Charles Coutela performed three operations which restored the artist’s sight, but with the side effect of adversely altering his perception of color.
Various corrective lenses were tried—one set rendered things too blue, another, too yellow. In early October Monet received a special pair of glasses from Germany. “Much to my surprise the results are very good,” he wrote Dr. Coutela on 21 October. “I can see green, red, and at last an attenuated blue” (Letter no. 2664). Trials with other lenses led to further improvement. On 20 November the artist wrote Joseph Durand-Ruel, “I’ve plunged into my work again and am having to make up for so much lost time… I’m working hard so that my Decorations will be ready on time” (Letter no. 2543; both quoted in R. Kendall, ed., Monet by Himself, London, 2004, p. 185). To André Barbier on 17 July 1925, he declared, “I am working as never before, I am satisfied with what I do…my only request would be to live to one hundred” (Letter no. 2609).
“The new Le pont japonais pictures were a throwback to his first engagement with this aquatic paradise, but now on radically different terms,” Paul H. Tucker has explained. “Completely disregarding artistic decorum, Monet lathered the surfaces of these canvases with thick, wet paint, making the liquid medium appear to seethe and dance as if fired by some unseen power. These paintings are cauldrons of cacophonous color, trumpeting Monet’s daring and abandonment, while asserting the value of the unknown over the secure, the reckless over the refined” (Claude Monet, Late Work, exh. cat., Gagosian Gallery, New York, 2010, p. 36).
Jean-Pierre Hoschedé, Monet’s stepson, “noted that the Bridges with their ‘perfect tonalities’ had been produced a long time after the operation thanks to the ‘appropriate glasses’” (D. Wildenstein, cat. rais., op cit., 1996, vol. 4, p. 912). The surfaces of the Pont japonais series have been heavily worked, probably over a lengthy period of time, as Monet felt the need to put them aside and then take them up again, perhaps repeatedly, at times working from memory, and in the end brought them to the state in which we now know them, once the artist had the “appropriate glasses,” as Hoschedé described. And indeed, it has turned out, on account of this densely layered facture, the seething matière, the insistent palpability of these structures formed in paint—as much as for the emphatic color in these works—that artists of the post-Second World War generation were drawn to these compelling late canvases, including practitioners of pure painting associated with American Abstract Expressionism, European Tachisme and Art Informel, and turning eastward to Japan, the Gutai group.
Monet’s late work manifests the searching inwardness, the contemplation and acceptance of darkness and light in confronting the world and one’s fate within it, that are evidence of a profound personal struggle during which he attained the ultimate measure of mastery we now appreciate in his life and art. “The truth is simple,” he stated in conversation with Roger Marx. “My only virtue consists in subordination to instinct: because I have discovered the hidden powers of intuition and given them priority, I was able to identify with Creation and merge with it… Interpreters of my painting think that, in connection with reality, I have achieved the highest degree of abstraction and imagination. I would prefer it if they recognized in this the abandonment of my self” (“Les Nymphéas de M. Claude Monet,” Gazette des Beaux-Arts, June 1909; in K. Sagner-Düchting, ed., Monet and Modernism, Munich, 2001, p. 29).

Palazzo Dario, Veneza, Itália (Le Palais Dario) - Claude Monet

 

Palazzo Dario, Veneza, Itália (Le Palais Dario) - Claude Monet
Veneza - Itália
Coleção privada
OST - 56x66 - 1908


Of the four versions that Monet painted of the Palais Dario, two can be found in public institutions, including The Art Institute of Chicago and The National Museum of Wales, Cardiff.
In September 1908, when Monet and his wife Alice received an unexpected invitation to visit Venice, the 68-year-old artist had scarcely strayed from his home at Giverny since his London campaigns at the turn of the century. Utterly absorbed in his visionary Nymphéas series, Monet was reluctant at first to accept the invitation, which came from their friend Mary Young Hunter. Alice, though, was eager to travel, and the accommodations on offer—at the opulent Palazzo Barbaro, where Mrs. Hunter was then staying—were most tempting. The lagoon city, moreover, was an aesthetic Mecca—the place where colore had prevailed over disegno during the Renaissance, and a prime destination ever since for colorists seeking to experience the gloriously effulgent environment that had nurtured their venerated predecessors. In the end, the allure of Venice proved too strong for Monet to resist. He arrived there with Alice on 1 October and worked intensively for ten weeks, returning to Giverny in December with 37 canvases underway.
The art historical legacy of La Serenissima weighed heavily on Monet during his first few days in the city. “Unrenderable,” he declared. “Too beautiful to be painted” (Monet quoted in, exh. cat., op. cit., 1997, p. 49). By the second week of his stay, however, he had selected his motifs and picked up his palette. Rather than recording the changes in light on a given subject from morning to evening, as he had in London, he now opted to paint each site at a single moment in the day, eliminating time as a variable in order to isolate the kaleidoscopic effects of the famous Venetian haze. By 8:00 a.m., he set himself up on the island of San Giorgio to observe his first motif, the Doge’s Palace; mid-morning, he reversed his viewpoint and painted the church of San Giorgio. After lunch, he stayed close to his lodgings, looking across the Grand Canal toward the church of Santa Maria della Salute or—as here—a group of Renaissance palazzi on the south bank, their ornate, polychrome façades seeming to float mirage-like on the water.
The present canvas is one of four paintings that Monet made of the Palazzo Dario, named for the patrician merchant family that lived there in the late 15th century and a favorite of later travelers to Venice—John Ruskin and Henry James, most notably—for its florid, marble-encrusted oculi (Wildenstein, nos. 1757-1760; The Art Institute of Chicago, and National Museum of Wales, Cardiff). Monet also painted two views each of the nearby Palazzo Contarini and Palazzo da Mula, for a total of eight canvases in this sub-series (nos. 1764-1767; National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C., and Kunstmuseum, Saint-Gall). While the remaining palazzo pictures all show signs of extensive re-working back in Monet’s studio at Giverny, the present version preserves all the freshness and vigor of the artist’s initial encounter with the motif, suggesting that it was completed on site in Venice, as the afternoon sun dipped low to the right of the scene (G. Seiberling, op. cit., 1981, pp. 210-211).
Monet painted the Palazzo Dario head-on, setting up his easel directly across the Grand Canal near the Prefecture building, some two hundred meters east of the Palazzo Barbaro and only slightly farther from the Hôtel Britannia, where he and Alice moved in mid-October. From this vantage point, the view resolved into a nearly abstract formal configuration of two parallel, planar bands: the irregular stone mass of the palace above and its ever-shifting aqueous echo below. “Ignoring romantic clichés,” William Seitz has written, “Monet affixed the truncated façade to the top of his composition, square with the frame and exactly parallel to the canvas surface. Its rhythmic horizontal and vertical architectural divisions reinforce the sparkle of light and shadow on the lapping water” (exh. cat., op. cit., 1960, p. 43). The contrasting, curvilinear shape of a gondola moored at the main portal articulates the boundary between the façade and its reflection, and evokes a human presence within the hauntingly unpeopled vista.
At Giverny, Monet had narrowed his vision to comprise only the tilted plane of the water garden, with nothing more firm to paint than the floating lily pads. Venice provided an invigorating alternative to this radically condensed repertoire, offering the artist an enriched dance of light over the solids and voids of the architecture as well as the surface of the water with its fractured reflections. Here, Monet treated the façade of the Palazzo Dario as a screen for the play of color, capturing the blue-tinged light that bounced off the canal and the jewel-like touches of violet and ochre that enlivened the loggias and decorative disks, while avoiding the detailed description that he bemoaned in traditional vedutiste renderings of Venice. “Monet had no interest in ‘imitating’ the glorious aspects of these rich façades,” Joachim Pissarro has written. “His goal was to rival them pictorially, to create an image in pigment that would be as rich as the façades were in stone. This was perhaps Monet’s ultimate challenge while in Venice” (exh. cat., op. cit., 1997, p. 164).
In thrall to his motifs and “always further into the enchantment of Venice,” as he wrote to Georges Clemenceau, Monet repeatedly pushed back his intended departure date (quoted in ibid., p. 52). On 7 December, their eventual last day in the city, he and Alice made plans to return the next year, but Alice’s deteriorating health precluded it; she died in May 1911, leaving Monet devastated. When he was again able to take up his brushes in October, his first goal was to ready the Venice paintings for exhibition—“souvenirs of such happy days passed with my dear Alice,” he told the Bernheim brothers, with whom he had contracted for the show (quoted in exh. cat., op. cit., 1998, p. 57). The present canvas is one of the few from the series that Monet did not release to the dealers, keeping it for himself instead as a timeless and deeply personal commemoration. “For Monet,” Pissarro has concluded, “Venice could not be the mirror of history, it could only be the mirror of his soul—or its closest equivalent, his palette of colors” (exh. cat., op. cit., 1997, p. 179).