Declaran la nulidad del juicio a Milagro Sala por la sustracción y destrucción de un expediente judicial
#Jujuy #Judiciales | Declaran la nulidad del juicio a #MilagroSala por la sustracción y destrucción de un #expedientejudicial
El Tribunal en lo Criminal Nº 3 de Jujuy declaró la nulidad del juicio por la sustracción y destrucción de un expediente judicial, en el que están acusados Milagro Sala, al abogado Alberto Bellido y al empleado judicial Marcos Romero, desde su inicio el 18 de agosto de 2022, por incapacidad física temporal sobreviviente de Alberto Bellido para estar en juicio; debido a que temporariamente ha…
Guys, this movie is A Lot. Still needs to be talked about at some point….
(Ramón de Vega in one of his colourful Zorro costumes)
Zorro the Gay Blade is a 1981 comedy movie made with the intention of poking fun at the swashbuckling genre. The story starts like most Zorro sequels, with Don Diego’s son (also called Diego) returning home after his father’s death, only to find injustice running rampant. Discovering that his late father was once the legendary outlaw Zorro, he takes up his mantle and his fight for justice…
… only that in this version, he immediately hurts his ankle and is no longer able to continue being Zorro. Luckily his estranged brother, Ramón arrives at that very moment, and it is he who continues being Zorro, with a gay twist on the character.
This movie is a lot. I’m not sure of. I could actually recommend it.
Firstly, I must say that it is genuinely well-made. The world they’re creating is believable, and a lot of the jokes stick the landing. Also, introducing the idea of queerness into such a traditionally masculine universe really allows them to question the fundaments of the genre. That having been said…
Good gay representation it is not.
Ramón is a joke character, with close to no personality beyond “being gay”, a thing this movie associates with being effeminate. Despite being the titular character, it is his straight brother who is the protagonist and who gets to ride into the sunset with a love interest. The gay jokes are all based on (now) outdated stereotypes, and the movie is very clearly aimed at a straight main audience, instead of being by and for queer people.
I don’t know if I can recommend actually watching this movie, but still it is an important glimpse in the past and the way queer men were depicted forty years ago. It is also interesting to compare it with queer action movies today.
Queer Media Monday is an action I started to talk about some important and/or interesting parts of our queer heritage, that people, especially young people who are only just beginning to discover the wealth of stories out there, should be aware of. Please feel free to join in on the fun and make your own posts about things you personally find important!
Significant prehistoric rock art has been discovered in La Febro, in southwestern Catalonia.
The team that discovered the art inside Cova de la Vila described it as “exceptional, both for its singularity and excellent state of conservation.”
In the Cova de la Vila cave in La Febró (Tarragona), in northeastern Spain’s region of Catalonia, more than 100 prehistoric engravings have been found, arranged on an eight-meter panel.
According to experts, it is a composition related to the worldview of agricultural societies and farmers of the territory. One of the singularities of this mural is that it is made exclusively with the engraving technique, with stone or wood tools.
The engravings include shapes that resemble horses, cows, suns, and stars.
Julio Serrano, Montserrat Roca, and Francesc Rubinat were the cavers responsible for the discovery; they collaborated with Josep Vallverd, Antonio Rodrguez-Hidalgo, and Diego Lombao, researchers from the Catalan Institute of Human Paleoecology and Social Evolution (IPHES-CERCA), and Ramón Vias, an expert in prehistoric rock art.
It was in May 2021, during some scans and topographical work by a group of speleologists in the Barranc de la Cova del Corral, that they discovered the Cova de la Vila, a cavity excavated by Salvador Vilaseca in the 1940s and whose coordinates appear to have been lost.
The set is very homogeneous stylistically and presents few overlaps. From the stylistic point of view, the set is part of the post-Paleolithic schematic art. It is an art associated with peasant and livestock communities during the transition period between the Chalcolithic and the Bronze Age, that is, between 5,000 and 3,000 years BC. In Catalonia, these types of ensembles, in underground cavities, are very rare, being the case of the Sala dels Gravats of the karstic complex of Cova de la Vila exceptional for being inside a cave and possibly associated with an archaeological context.
These types of representations are uncommon in Catalan territory, though some examples can be found, such as the Vallmajor Cave in Albinyana, Baix Penedès. In the peninsular area, it would be classified as “underground black schematic and abstract schematic,” which are heterogeneous groups distinguished by their formal or typological, thematic, and technical affinities. La Pileta and Nerja in Málaga, La Murcielaguina in Córdoba, and the Los Enebralejos caves in Segovia, the Galera del Flex in Burgos, or the Maja Cave in Soria are some Andalusian caves with painted (black or red) or engraved representations and similar chronologies.
The engravings are in exceptional condition, but they are extremely fragile due to the instability of the support on which they are found. Because it is a soft and humid surface, changes in the atmospheric conditions in the room may affect the conservation of the panel.
To ensure these climatic conditions, the Department of Culture, the Febró Town Hall, and the IPHES collaborated to close it both outside and inside, ensuring its physical conservation. Similarly, a closure has been installed in the access to the cat flap, which provides direct access to the Sala dels Gravats, to return it to the climatic conditions it had prior to discovery.
A unique set of engravings
The rock art collection of the Sala dels Gravats of the Cova de la Vila karstic complex is completely unique. Despite the fact that its research phase has not yet begun, all indications point to it being one of the best compositions of post-paleolithic subterranean abstract art in the entire Mediterranean region.
On one of the cave walls, a large number of schematic representations have been discovered. The engraving panel is made up of five horizontal lines, one on top of the other, with different engraved figures that each have their own meaning and symbolism.
Various figures such as quadrupeds, zigzags, linear, angular strokes, and circles are represented. There are several zoomorphs (possibly bovids and equines), steliforms (single and/or stars), and reticulates that stand out. There’s also a composition that looks like an ‘eyeballed’ idol. The overall aesthetic is very consistent, with few stylistic overlaps.
The distribution of the various elements suggests that it could be a composition: zoomorphic in the lower part of the panel, reticulated, particularly in the central part, and steliform in the upper part of the group, with an eye in the upper part of the group.
El 2 de mayo de 2024, en el marco de la Feria Internacional del Libro de Buenos Aires, se presentó el libro de Juan-Jacobo Bajarlía, sobre Antonio Di Benedetto, editado por el sello Mil Botellas. Moderaron Natalia Gelós y Ramón D. Tarruella.
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Realización: Diego Arandojo
Música: "Home's church" by Monplaisir (Free Music Archive)
Este álbum de 1969 de Los Íberos es el mejor resumen de lo que fue la movida malagueña de los años 60, en el Torremolinos de la Costa del Sol y de espaldas a la dictadura.
Por aquel Torremolinos pasearon estrellas del cine y de la música, como Brian Jones, Brian Epstein o John Lennon. Mientras tanto, Enrique Lozano, el fundador de la banda, se recorría el circuito de clubs de Francia, Alemania o Reino Unido, coincidiendo en los escenarios con The Rolling Stones. A su regreso a España creó la primera formación del grupo, con Adolfo Rodríguez, Cristóbal de Haro y Diego Cascado.
Los Íberos tuvieron un reinado corto pero fundamental para la música pop y rock de nuestro país, llegando a participar en las películas Un, Dos, Tres, Al Escondite Inglés, de Iván Zulueta y Topical Spanish, de Ramón Masats, con la artista beat Guillermina Motta.
Written especially for @kesskirata - Narcos Fanfiction Exchange 2022
Word count: 3K
I’d never met anyone like him. Which made sense. The planet would likely combust if it had to contend with the rabid, spitfire energy of more than one Ramón Arellano Félix.
David Barrón has spent the last few months “not noticing” Ramón Arellano Félix, but even the will and self-denial of a deeply repressed convicted felon/cartel assassin isn't enough to withstand the fatal charms of the youngest Arellano.
⁂
I leaned over the warehouse railing, trying hard not to pay attention to what was missing from the main floor below. The empty spot in the middle where that tall kid with the crazy hair should be gesturing wildly with an ice pop in one hand, shooting Nestor with his BB gun in the other, laughing every time he winced, fighting with Mín over where the trucks should go once they arrived. That tall kid with the crazy hair was miles away and I was trying hard not to notice.
Mín’s office door slammed and I turned around just in time to see Pancho chuck something in my direction. His throw was short and whatever it was - looked like a balaclava of some kind - ended up plopping half a foot from my shoes. When I picked it up, I was smacked by the smell of latex and formaldehyde. Inspecting it more closely, I realized it was a Halloween mask. A kitschy calavera skull to be exact, black and white with tacky accents of orange and purple lining the eyeholes. Something you’d find at Party City or some scrappy stand on the pier at Pacific Beach. Ridiculous but something else to think about.
“Barrón? Are you coming?”
I held up the mask with two fingers like a pair of dirty socks and looked at Pancho, dubious.
“Que cabrón? Qué pedo?”
I didn’t have to say anything. I wasn’t going anywhere without an explanation. Pancho knew this.
“Pinsh— tu eres el cabrón mas shingada obstinado que he conocido pues. Lo sabes?”
I knew it, but still said nothing. Let silence reverse-engineer the conversation. People like Pancho who were uncomfortable with silence were particularly susceptible to the dangers of filling it with chatter. Sometimes the chatter was useless. But if you held out long enough to convince them that supplying answers might end the noiseless agony, the chatter contained a lot of those too. They’d break, give you something for nothing at all. Friends for years, and still, Pancho fell for it every time.
“Par de independientes,” he relented, raking his hand over his face and sighing, “from your neck of the woods are pushing product, pero no han pagado la pisa. Dina got the bright idea to collect without enough backup. Món and Mín aren’t back from Ensenada yet. Entonces, somos su espaldos.”
My neck of the woods? That couldn’t be right. No one would be that stupid with Ziggy as the Logan Heights llevero. Even if I hadn’t been with the AFO, all work and no play makes Ziggy a cranky boy, sensible ‘ole Ziggy Morenas would never risk all-out war with the Arellanos by sending some back-alley greenhorns down here. Carnales would have his cojones before he could give the order.
“You sure they’re Logan Heights?”
“Pues, no se, it’s what Mín said.”
As discerning as Mín could be, he was blind regarding anything me-related. He must’ve heard the names of one of the other San Diego clickas and mistook it for Barrio LH. Probably only heard the “Heights” in Sherman Heights and thought the worst. All shoot first, questions later. I needed to call Ziggy.
When I didn’t move, Pancho threw up his hands. “Qué pedo pues ya? Qué quieres que te diga?”
“Wanna know the best way to get pinched?”
He scowled at my cross-examination.
“Theatrics. So,” I jiggled the mask, “the fuck are these for?”
“Pues si, pero estos pendejos decided to take advantage of the gabashos in town for Dia de los Muertos. The place we’re going is smack in the middle of the parade route.”
I stood corrected.
“Any more questions?”
All work and no play made Pancho a cranky boy. I always did attract the prickliest of kindred spirits. He and Ziggy should meet one of these days.
I nodded my head, “Listo pues.” But instead of following, I brushed past him patting his shoulder, and headed for Mín’s office. He looked a comical mix of outraged and bewildered but if this call prevented an all-out war, the grumpy fuck would thank me later.
For someone so uptight and particular, it always surprised me how much of a mess Mín’s office was. The file cabinets that lined the wall were covered in half empty Banker’s boxes, loose files, paper clips, and pens. I had to move stacks of papers just to get to the phone. I dialed Ziggy’s home number, hoping I’d get him and not his girl León, or his grandma. This wasn’t something you could have a little old lady jot on a steno pad to pass on later.
“Diga.” Ziggy’s voice was flat bored.
“Zig, it’s me.”
His voice brightened from flat bored to mild disinterest. “Ay, there he is. I heard ‘round the way you were in town a few weeks ago. Hurt you didn’t call.” He oozed disaffected sarcasm but Ziggy always told the truth.
“So you do miss me,” I teased. “Nah, got strapped for time. Had to cut early and get back.”
“Yeah, Tijuana. How’s it going? Gotta be better than mediating for a bunch of wiseass baby cholos.”
“Few months and already sick of being key holder?”
“I was never much for people.”
I laughed, “Shoot, true. But you got sense. Mando knew that. Speaking of sense, you didn’t send some newbie triflers to sling down here without clearing it with the Arellanos, did you?”
He coughed out, “Uh, pardon?” No one can fake that kind of cluelessness.
“Didn’t think so.”
“What the fuck. Who’s saying it was us?”
“Don’t know. Any new beef with the paisas up there, other clickas?”
“I mean. Does the sun rise and set everyday?”
“C’mon fool, I’m serious.”
Zig chuckled, “Not more or less than usual. Shermtown just dropped three of our guys last week. Some kind of family vendetta against one of my gunners. Fue una poca mierda.”
Shermtown. Sherman Heights. I’d called it. Probably.
“Hmm. Alright. Gotta bounce. Gracias, primo.”
“Woah, woah, hold up. You don’t think you should explain this to me? I don’t want any fucking surprises up here.”
“It’s not like that. Someone fucked up, but shit’s going down here. I’ll hit you with what you need to know when I know.”
“Whatever, chiflado.”
“Cool it, cranky. It’s me. I got you.” The sound of Ziggy laughing shrank as I pulled the receiver away and hung up.
Pancho was in the doorway when I turned around, leaning, arms crossed, leg shaking. He wanted to hit me. I could tell.
“Que estás haciendo, cabrón?”
I narrowed my eyes, boring my gaze into his forehead. “Independientes from ‘my neck of the woods?’ Not Barrio LH.”
He kicked off the doorframe like he’d been nodding off and just woke up. “So?”
“So, either Mín fucked up, or someone’s smearing my neighborhood to sell, tax-free, in yours.”
----
We flew down the warehouse’s metal-grated steps so fast and I thought of those homeless tap dancers in Old Town downtown San Diego, peddling little routines for some pocket change and leftover French fries. We piled into the SUV parked outside. I shouted as casually as I could above the engine turnover, “Has hablado con Ramón?”
Pancho rolled his eyes as he checked the mag on his .45, “Supposedly, he’s meeting us there. They were already on their way when I got the call and pinshe menso’s trying to book it. Who knows if he’ll make it in time.”
I wished he wouldn’t. I wasn’t excited. I stared ahead and grabbed hold of the door handle as we pinballed side-to-side with every gaping pothole. Back home, people - well, usually gringos - liked to say the streets of Mexico were paved with blood. That always cracked me up, thinking about all these vigilant little tourists, popping down to Tijuana for a voyeuristic thrill, tip-toeing around the city, whispering words of warning to each other; the Underground Railroad for spring breakers. That is, if they weren’t hammered on the beach at one in the afternoon. Little did they know, the streets of Mexico weren’t fucking paved.
Pancho rolled down the window and stuck his hand out, yelling over the gusts of wind, “That’s why Món told me to bring you. In case he doesn’t make it in time.”
“If he hadn’t? Youd’ve gone without me?” I strained not to sound offended.
“Que shinga no, guey." A devious smile lit up Pancho’s face. "I just thought you’d wanna know you’re in good with him."
I shook my head, and pulled the mask on. It did just the trick even if it made my face sweat from the heat that flooded my cheeks. The smell of latex was stifling and I thanked my lucky stars it wasn’t summer.
The AFO warehouse wasn’t far from Mercado Hidalgo, Tijuana’s oldest, largest open air market and host to the city’s annual Dia de los Muertos celebration. Not five minutes into the drive, we met with the dense crowds of the parade. There wasn’t one blank face among them. Pancho was right, the masks were a good call. Everyone was decked out in the familiar campy, macabre Catrina costumes - a churning sea of black and white under a mist of windswept desert dust and a full, flat, honey-colored moon. It looked just like my memories. I thought of what Cheli’s grandma said how ‘every alley in Mexico has its own ghost.’ Or, maybe I’d read it in a book somewhere.
Pancho directed the driver, “Left here at Calle Zaragoza. Right on Boloyan.”
Finally, we pulled into an alley behind a slummy, rundown apartment building. I started sizing up the exterior. Only one door in the front and one out back but the building was fitted with fire escapes. Handy for us. Handy for the other guys too. I hopped out and walked around back to the open trunk where Pancho was passing everyone their gear.
“Are we going in cold?”
Pancho looked puzzled.
“Anyone do recon? Do we know what we’re wal—” My voice was drowned out by the beefy engine-revving of a Chevy Suburban. It pistol-whipped around the corner into the alley and skid to a halt, bumper nearly grazing my knees. Pancho had shot back so far and so fast he was almost halfway in the trunk. I took aim at the tinted windshield on the driver’s side and took a deep breath in. Three. Two. Exhale, on—
“Que pedo, cabrones! Nice to see you fresitas are awake!”
Just as I was about to get a shot off, that tall kid with the crazy hair rolled down the window and poked his head out, laughing that Evel Knievel laugh of his. Before I knew it, my mouth cocked up in a half smile. Loco. He had that effect on people.
Pancho was livid. “Shingamadre pendejo, nice of you to join us. Are you tryin’ to wake up the whole fucking neighborhood?”
Món hopped out of the SUV and strode over with all the swagger of a frat boy walking into a strip club. “Aaah, no mames. I didn’t want to miss out on all the action. Besides,” he waved in the direction of the parade crowd out on the main street, “no one’s sleeping with all this pinshe noise.” He looked down and locked eyes with me. Then tapped on my mask, “Hey these are cool. Where’s mine?”
Pancho rolled his eyes, “You’re lucky I brought extras.” He dug around in the trunk for another one.
It took a moment for the whiplash rush of adrenaline to ease up, but when it did, I registered what Món was wearing. He showed up to boost a stash house and get his sister out if this jam wearing expensive suede loafers, leather pants, and the loudest, red and yellow silk button-up I had ever seen. It wasn’t just impractical. He stuck out like a sore thumb.
“Dropped off your brother?”
He nodded enthusiastically.
“Didn’t have time to change?”
Món scanned himself from his shirt to his shoes and grinned. “Too much?”
I held up my thumb and forefinger.
“Yeah, you’re probably right. They’d be able to pick me out of a lineup, si cualquiera tuviera los huevos.”
He had a point. I always forgot that this wasn’t the US. Eyewitnesses weren’t worth shit in this backwards-ass town. Suddenly, he pointed his finger in my face. I wondered what he might do if I just leaned forward and bit it.
“But you don’t blend in as well as you think."
Even with my face covered, I was sure he could see how high my eyebrows shot up. "What're you tal–"
"I clocked those pinshe lobo eyes even with that thing on. I'd know those eyes anywhere.”
“Shoot, I almost killed you, fool.”
“Ahuevo, lobo. And I couldn’t think of a sweeter way to go.” He shoved my shoulder and winked, almost giddy. My heart fired off like a Gatling gun. I couldn’t help but think about how right Pancho had been about these masks. I made a mental note to set up some kind of alter or shrine to pay it proper thanks later.
He was in one of those moods. Not the ones that Dina and Mín were always so vexed about, sus humores. I overhead them talking about those once. Apparently, he'd gotten in trouble for stringing up a bunch of tuna from the farmer’s market on a clothesline and lighting them up with an AK at a public park. Ruined some poor kid’s birthday party. I could never relate to the lack of impulse control but I understood the impulse. From what I could tell though, Món had other moods. Worse ones. Moods like the Sun. Moods like today. Today, he was in love with the world. When Món was in love with the world, it was viral. No choice, you just had to love it too. I’d never met anyone like him. Which made sense. The planet would likely combust if it had to contend with the rabid, spitfire energy of more than one Ramón Arellano Félix.
Finished with his trunk excavation, Pancho turned around, “Oye, quit flirting with the help.” I nearly choked on my own tongue. Món just grinned like a loon. “And put this on. You already stick out like a sore thumb.” Pancho shoved the spare at Món, right at the spot between his collarbones where his little gold chain got all kinked, stuck to the sweat on his skin. I started worrying about my heart, pounding too fast. I didn’t notice. I didn’t notice anything.
Món yanked the it over his head, then coughed and pulled a sour face. “Que verga, why does this smell like chemicals?”
I smirked and the mask slid, brushing under my eyes. “Right.”
“Not half as bad as your aftershave, cabrón,” Pancho teased.
Món flipped him the bird, but I could tell by the shine in his eyes he was still grinning. I wished his aftershave smelled that bad. Would’ve helped matters. This once-innocent camaraderie, once-platonic banter, was warping into something messier, something I didn’t know how to handle. I looked over at Pancho, who went back to passing out gear.
Really, all of this was his fault.
At Donovan prison, Pancho earned the nickname, “Rey del chisme,” an elegant title denoting his supreme status as a professional shit-stirrer amongst the other inmates. He could single-handedly incite a cell-block riot after an industrious afternoon spent just gaining and betraying confidences. He did it for sport. He did it because he was bored. And really, what better way to break up an afternoon than watching two vatos beat the tar out of each other because one stole the other’s toothbrush, or fucked their sister, or killed this or that homie. The tedium of prison really brought out the strange in people. But Pancho was effective because he never needed to distort the truth to rock the boat. All it took was a well-timed observation to some already angry güey that such-and-such rival güey seemed to have more pull with the block’s key holder. So, of course that monster, El rey del chisme, was the first to clock the "Món thing,” whatever it was, before I was even aware. I still wasn't. And once he did, he couldn’t let it go.
‘All I'm saying ... existe una vibra entre los dos.’
I was incensed. I could've strangled him and regretted it for the rest of my life. It was the kind of indignation only ignited by the recognition of some hidden truth. Hidden from you, by you. Real, despite your best efforts.
‘Don’t feel bad, carnal. Mira, it makes sense. Growing up, everyone always said Món and Dina look the most alike out of all the siblings.’
Of course, he just had to throw that back in my face too. Perhaps there was some sense to it, though. Maybe this newfound … affection was nothing but an extension of that first crush on Dina. Dina, who wouldn’t give me the time of day, who wouldn't wink at me and talk about my lobo eyes like she spent hours studying them, who didn't have moods like the Sun, who wasn't in love with the world. The more I considered it the more it made sense. Yeah, yeah. That must've been it. Had to be it.
I was sweating. I had to get this mask off. Take a breather. As I slid it off, the blissful feeling of non-stagnant, cool air on my face almost leveled me. I looked over at that tall kid with the crazy hair. Framed by the paper lantern lights in the sky, and bathed in the sinister orange glow of the street lamps, he looked obscene. Beautifully so. He caught me staring. Like some kind of contest, I refused to look away. We locked eyes like our lives depended on it. He shot me the most carefree, daredevil smile then pulled the mask over his face. And I stopped worrying about my heart so much. Some things needed to be understood just for what they were.
The Generation of '27 (Spanish: Generación del 27) was an influential group of poets that arose in Spanish literary circles between 1923 and 1927, essentially out of a shared desire to experience and work with avant-garde forms of art and poetry. Their first formal meeting took place in Seville in 1927 to mark the 300th anniversary of the death of the baroque poet Luis de Góngora. Writers and intellectuals paid homage at the Ateneo de Sevilla, which retrospectively became the foundational act of the movement.
Terminology:
The Generation of '27 has also been called, with lesser success, "Generation of the Dictatorship", "Generation of the Republic", "Generation Guillén-Lorca" (Guillén being its oldest author and Lorca its youngest), "Generation of 1925" (average publishing date of the first book of each author), "Generation of Avant-Gardes", "Generation of Friendship", etc. According to Petersen, "generation group" or a "constellation" are better terms which are not so much historically restricted as "generation".
Aesthetic style:
The Generation of '27 cannot be neatly categorized stylistically because of the wide variety of genres and styles cultivated by its members. Some members, such as Jorge Guillén, wrote in a style that has been loosely called jubilant and joyous and celebrated the instant, others, such as Rafael Alberti, underwent a poetic evolution that led him from youthful poetry of a more romantic vein to later politically-engaged verses.
The group tried to bridge the gap between Spanish popular culture and folklore, classical literary tradition and European avant-gardes. It evolved from pure poetry, which emphasized music in poetry, in the vein of Baudelaire, to Futurism, Cubism, Ultraistand Creationism, to become influenced by Surrealism and finally to disperse in interior and exterior exile following the Civil Warand World War II, which are sometimes gathered by historians under the term of the "European Civil War". The Generation of '27 made a frequent use of visionary images, free verses and the so-called impure poetry, supported by Pablo Neruda.
Members:
In a restrictive sense, the Generation of '27 refers to ten authors, Jorge Guillén, Pedro Salinas, Rafael Alberti, Federico García Lorca, Dámaso Alonso, Gerardo Diego, Luis Cernuda, Vicente Aleixandre, Manuel Altolaguirre and Emilio Prados. However, many others were in their orbit, some older authors such as Fernando Villalón, José Moreno Villa or León Felipe, and other younger authors such as Miguel Hernández. Others have been forgotten by the critics, such as Juan Larrea, Pepe Alameda, Mauricio Bacarisse, Juan José Domenchina, José María Hinojosa, José Bergamín or Juan Gil-Albert. There is also the "Other generation of '27", a term coined by José López Rubio, formed by himself and humorist disciples of Ramón Gómez de la Serna, including: Enrique Jardiel Poncela, Edgar Neville, Miguel Mihura and Antonio de Lara, "Tono", writers who would integrate after the Civil War (1936–39) the editing board of La Codorniz.
Furthermore, the Generation of '27, as clearly reflected in the literary press of the period, was not exclusively restricted to poets, including artists such as Luis Buñuel, the caricaturist K-Hito, the surrealist painters Salvador Dalí and Óscar Domínguez, the painter and sculptor Maruja Mallo, as well as Benjamín Palencia, Gregorio Prieto, Manuel Ángeles Ortiz and Gabriel García Maroto, the toreros Ignacio Sánchez Mejías and Jesús Bal y Gay, musicologists and composers belonging to the Group of Eight, including Bal y Gay, Ernesto Halffter and his brother Rodolfo Halffter, Juan José Mantecón, Julián Bautista, Fernando Remacha, Rosa García Ascot, Salvador Bacarisse and Gustavo Pittaluga. There was also the Catalan Group who presented themselves in 1931 under the name of Grupo de Artistas Catalanes Independientes, including Roberto Gerhard, Baltasar Samper, Manuel Blancafort, Ricard Lamote de Grignon, Eduardo Toldrá and Federico Mompou.
Finally, not all literary works were written in Spanish: Salvador Dalí and Óscar Domínguez also wrote in French. Foreigners such as the Chilean poets Pablo Neruda and Vicente Huidobro, the Argentine writer Jorge Luis Borges, and the Franco-Spanish painter Francis Picabia also shared much with the aesthetics of the Generation of '27.
The Generation of '27 was not exclusively located in Madrid, but rather deployed itself in a geographical constellation which maintained links together. The most important nuclei were in Sevilla, around the Mediodía review, Tenerife around the Gaceta de Arte, and Málaga around the Litoral review. Others members resided in Galicia, Catalonia and Valladolid.
The Tendencies of '27:
The name "Generation of 1927" identifies poets that emerged around 1927, the 300th anniversary of the death of the Baroque poet Luis de Góngora y Argote to whom the poets paid homage. It sparked a brief flash of neo-Gongorism by outstanding poets like Rafael Alberti, Vicente Aleixandre, Dámaso Alonso, Luis Cernuda, Gerardo Diego and Federico García Lorca.
Spanish Civil War aftermath:
The Spanish Civil War ended the movement: García Lorca was murdered, Miguel Hernandez died in jail and other writers (Rafael Alberti, Jose Bergamin, León Felipe, Luis Cernuda, Pedro Salinas, Juan Ramón Jiménez, Bacarisse) were forced into exile, although virtually all kept writing and publishing late throughout the 20th century.
Dámaso Alonso and Gerardo Diego were among those who reluctantly remained in Spain after the Francoists won and more or less reached agreements with the new authoritarian and traditionalist regime or even openly supported it, in the case of Diego. They evolved a lot, combining tradition and avant-garde, and mixing many different themes, from toreo to music to religious and existentialist disquiets, landscapes, etc. Others, such as Vicente Aleixandre and Juan Gil-Albert, simply ignored the new regime, taking the path of interior exile and guiding a new generation of poets.
However, for many Spaniards the harsh reality of Francoist Spain and its reactionary nature meant that the cerebral and aesthetic verses of the Generation of '27 did not connect with what was truly happening, a task that was handled more capably by the poets of the Generation of '50 and the social poets.
Statue:
A statue dedicated to the Generation 27 Poets is now in Seville in Spain. The inscription on the monument translates as 'Seville The poets of the Generation of 27'
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#Jujuy #Turismo | Entrega de certificados a #GuíasdeMontaña
Once prestadores de turismo activo recibieron su certificado de aprobación del “Curso Taller de Guías de Montaña“. La capacitación se extendió entre octubre del 2020 y abril del 2022 con más de 1.000 horas teórico prácticas.El curso taller contó con el aval del Ministerio de Cultura y Turismo de Jujuy mediante Resolución Ministerial N° 306-MCYT/2020 y fue llevado adelante por la empresa “Jujuy…
Cine en San Juan del Río | Espectador, turista, creador.
El día de ayer, Miércoles 20 de Septiembre del año 2023 me encaminé al “1er Encuentro de escritores, poetas, narradores y periodistas culturales” en San Juan del Rio, Qro.
Este es el primer evento de este tipo que se ha realizado en el municipio. Fue con la modalidad de mesa de diálogo, bajo el título “De cine y otros cortometrajes en San Juan del Río”, donde participaron: Renata Torres, Juan Ramón Rios y Diego Soto Martinez, moderada por Abraham Cortés, quienes por un aproximado de dos horas hicieron que mi mente brincoteara emocionada por aprender sobre la relación entre el séptimo arte, la cultura y San Juan.
Se abordaron temas como: la perspectiva del cine y el labor social, la responsabilidad al momento de compartir una historia, la ética del cineasta, así como la manera en que ellos comenzaron su travesía en el mundo del cine y la producción audiovisual, invitando a todo aquel que guste de realizar este tipo de proyectos, primeramente a tomar la iniciativa para llevarlos a cabo y a su vez atreverse a presentarlos ante un público, porque a palabras de los expositores “El cine se hace para compartir y requiere de espectadores”, recomendado tomar en cuenta el utilizar una mirada auténtica y responsable en torno al trabajo que se realiza.
También se abordó el tema sobre el panorama actual para los cineastas sanjuanenses, mencionando que la mayoría de proyectos son autofinanciados pues las convocatorias, festivales, concursos, becas o similares, afines de esta arte, se perciben escasas dentro del municipio.
Ahora bien, ¿recuerdan el primer blog? cuando hablábamos de ser un turista local. Okay, pues he aquí una oportunidad perfecta para comenzar. Interesarse por la cultura y la difusión de la misma considero que es un excelente primer paso para fomentar la actividad turística.
Ya sea que desde la posición de creadores, comencemos a contar historias donde el protagonista sea un destino, o el escenario de las aventuras de nuestros personajes. Tanto como aquellos arcos narrativos en donde invitamos al espectador a indagar más sobre el mudo que vamos creando con nuestros textos. Incluso podríamos llegar a apoyarnos de tipos de turismo como el literario o cinematográfico a manera de generar material que se traduzca en un interés sobre la zona que queremos promocionar y de esta manera también es posible ayudar a la distribución de actividad y foco turístico pues con estas nuevas historias le damos al turista una nueva opción a donde dirigir su atención.
Y si abordamos la situación desde la posición de un espectador, es necesario tomar en cuenta nuestra responsabilidad como turistas responsables, tener presente que será en aquellos proyectos donde nos presentemos y mostremos interés por asistir, presenciar y conocer, los que podremos ayudar a mantener con vida, así como impulsar actividades de un carácter similar pues como escuche de la voz de Felipe Cabello (perteneciente al comité organizador del evento) “A la gente le interesa la cultura, es cuestión de seguir gestionando este tipo de eventos”
Es así que me gustaría animarte a participar de ellos, ya sea como espectador o como participante y tener presente que acciones podemos llevar a cabo para aportar al sector turismo del municipio. Toda acción consciente es de valor.