tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70276512903641611212024-03-18T22:08:45.662-07:00Um metro quadrado de arte, por favor!Porque sem ela, o que seria de nós?PATRICKÍSSIMOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06336848038239900187noreply@blogger.comBlogger179125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027651290364161121.post-73138637044781064092012-10-12T08:19:00.000-07:002012-10-12T08:19:05.878-07:00Nossa Senhora Aparecida, de Ronaldo Mendes.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIpbDTu4ByL-qTW_Csw-KChXR_7QE8mji_Q2d_VLarAxq1mx_9LwaENG15IWqOM3Dv-0ambHSY_OISRKdcHvHf00G-xBgqxOE_edghH1Vc3vXCpSssy8rOeneYtyeTRX-gqDW2sOGRZmk/s1600/Nossa+Senhora+Aparecida,+de+Ronaldo+Mendes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" nea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIpbDTu4ByL-qTW_Csw-KChXR_7QE8mji_Q2d_VLarAxq1mx_9LwaENG15IWqOM3Dv-0ambHSY_OISRKdcHvHf00G-xBgqxOE_edghH1Vc3vXCpSssy8rOeneYtyeTRX-gqDW2sOGRZmk/s320/Nossa+Senhora+Aparecida,+de+Ronaldo+Mendes.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #cccccc; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Salve o samba</span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #cccccc; font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Salve a Santa</span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #cccccc; font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Salve o manto</span></strong></div>
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<span style="color: #cccccc;"><strong><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">De Nossa Senhora Aparecida!</span></strong></span></div>
PATRICKÍSSIMOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06336848038239900187noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027651290364161121.post-85179284384138284042012-09-01T10:35:00.005-07:002012-09-01T10:37:10.311-07:00Sem título, de Andery Neto.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxoBPVOmweFcsgkR6XZylW-USft1-1WL9g00sY7NXLVlI8L8ktjFF_sTw6MJHM4IXhFft62cLFzFJyUhsndWKQXZbdv9-e0bWDrfPiFr-v3CZ2Ci_oaMpFRIeJDkJptZcoMrBnKHvVrcg/s1600/Sem+t%C3%ADtulo,+de+Andery+Neto..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" fea="true" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxoBPVOmweFcsgkR6XZylW-USft1-1WL9g00sY7NXLVlI8L8ktjFF_sTw6MJHM4IXhFft62cLFzFJyUhsndWKQXZbdv9-e0bWDrfPiFr-v3CZ2Ci_oaMpFRIeJDkJptZcoMrBnKHvVrcg/s320/Sem+t%C3%ADtulo,+de+Andery+Neto..jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #eeeeee; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong>A grande área pintada em preto é interrompida por duas expressivas linhas verticais para, logo em seguida, ser retomada por definitivo. </strong></span></div>
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<span style="color: #eeeeee; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong>A luminosidade emitida por elas é como um ímã, atraindo nossa atenção tanto para cima quanto para baixo. <br /><br />Mais do que singelas cores e dimensões, a pintura enfatiza a ideia de infinito em sua profundidade horizontal e vertical. <br /><br />Austera na maior parte e modernista nas cintilantes linhas, esta obra do Expressionismo Abstrato sugere, em sua simplicidade minimalista, que nem tudo é breu.</strong></span></div>
PATRICKÍSSIMOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06336848038239900187noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027651290364161121.post-28958955011874496662012-06-11T17:28:00.005-07:002012-06-11T17:28:34.139-07:00Through Times, de Cláudio Dantas.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglYO33qvxVmTwpYFYejroOPgtx1fR3xtTxhrrwhhECc324sysKpXawfCgvu8WdOaDySiV3gn1IPH0Xn7FljwiJE1Mlr8lfzdGBgnWuU4iXN3GAtigiVFhLQR8G23PmT2bPh2O1glc4sVQ/s1600/Through+times,+de+Cl%C3%A1udio+Dantas..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" fba="true" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglYO33qvxVmTwpYFYejroOPgtx1fR3xtTxhrrwhhECc324sysKpXawfCgvu8WdOaDySiV3gn1IPH0Xn7FljwiJE1Mlr8lfzdGBgnWuU4iXN3GAtigiVFhLQR8G23PmT2bPh2O1glc4sVQ/s320/Through+times,+de+Cl%C3%A1udio+Dantas..jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #cccccc; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong>Imersas no mundo infantil do qual fazem parte, as duas crianças se divertem tranquilamente brincando com bolhas de sabão. </strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong><span style="color: #cccccc;">A ingenuidade infantil reside justamente em não perceber que a vida incrustada na matéria é tão frágil e efêmera quanto uma <span class="text_exposed_show">bolha de sabão. </span></span></strong></span></div>
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<span class="text_exposed_show"><span style="color: #cccccc; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong>A simbologia das nuvens mostra que o tempo também passará para essas crianças e o que era ingênuo à elas transformar-se-á em donos do sim e do não. </strong></span></span></div>
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<span class="text_exposed_show"><span style="color: #cccccc; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong>Afinal, o tempo é uma grande espiral para qualquer um de nós, independente da idade corporal ou espiritual e de sua posição na sociedade.</strong></span></span></div>PATRICKÍSSIMOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06336848038239900187noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027651290364161121.post-40362731694771715712012-06-08T16:06:00.001-07:002012-06-08T16:06:54.558-07:00Monsieur Hiver, de Marília Fayh.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjWphaNcOblTot6hNfMJjyP-yuNxhxO1ks2_AaMjuPRYO8I5NiME2aZ_s19oTVkzz1Tqu8biIMEaUHy5txbmyvZiZ9HNyT_HB_L9Us2NMF1MXOSoLQHOhWLX_ZEp7AlYqLrEK-woojs90/s1600/Monsieur+Hiver.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" fba="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjWphaNcOblTot6hNfMJjyP-yuNxhxO1ks2_AaMjuPRYO8I5NiME2aZ_s19oTVkzz1Tqu8biIMEaUHy5txbmyvZiZ9HNyT_HB_L9Us2NMF1MXOSoLQHOhWLX_ZEp7AlYqLrEK-woojs90/s320/Monsieur+Hiver.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong><span style="color: #cccccc;">Monsieur Hiver parece que saiu mais do mundo da fantasia, dos contos de fadas do que verdadeiramente do mundo real. Seu próprio nome é mais fabuloso do que humano. </span></strong></span><br />
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<span style="color: #cccccc; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong>Até mesmo seu traje - um elegante casaco de lapela com três botões, um exuberante cachecol e um chapéu em forma de cone - nos remete aos consagrados filmes do estilo, como por exemplo A fantástica fábrica de chocolate e ao clássico O mágico de Oz em que o homem de lata usava um funil na cabeça. </strong></span></div>
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<span style="color: #cccccc; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong>Realmente Monsieur Hiver é um excêntrico personagem de um mundo de magia e fascinação criado pela artista.</strong></span></div>
</div>PATRICKÍSSIMOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06336848038239900187noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027651290364161121.post-1349322975748031152011-11-27T15:10:00.001-08:002011-11-27T15:11:53.319-08:00A crucificação de Jesus, de Jozan.<div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFyPWV3SJSdpFGzPzxBHCUyxR30GcPARa002vbQVej_4ELfArCsvOTRfDSvbIA3iOCZtM2vi3u79OtrylnE8qbfXDF-hCi5WdbAzxSsBDxGghMTYGpKOsxqbs1sIOTmkEu5202zxmFq6s/s1600/Sem+t%25C3%25ADtulo%252C+de+Jozann..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5679817005500866354" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFyPWV3SJSdpFGzPzxBHCUyxR30GcPARa002vbQVej_4ELfArCsvOTRfDSvbIA3iOCZtM2vi3u79OtrylnE8qbfXDF-hCi5WdbAzxSsBDxGghMTYGpKOsxqbs1sIOTmkEu5202zxmFq6s/s400/Sem+t%25C3%25ADtulo%252C+de+Jozann..jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Façamos como Ele nos ensinou:</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>orai e vigiai!</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div>PATRICKÍSSIMOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06336848038239900187noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027651290364161121.post-55997187555684568212011-11-26T10:44:00.001-08:002011-11-26T10:47:01.463-08:00Revoada, de Cláudio Dantas, 2010.<div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggJgbWk3ej6HTz_9_87-CE5gg5A58T0Axw9ZGcG06iOJAXkiwXsox6RngqUvQN86iz1I989X4_OnCygHlSmERmHVaySVE3F_3l27U9FEbh3yhq6rvkJkMQ7raleupG2PGgX-e8OPbJXtk/s1600/Revoada%252C+de+Cl%25C3%25A1udio+Dantas%252C+2010..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 197px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5679377424630260690" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggJgbWk3ej6HTz_9_87-CE5gg5A58T0Axw9ZGcG06iOJAXkiwXsox6RngqUvQN86iz1I989X4_OnCygHlSmERmHVaySVE3F_3l27U9FEbh3yhq6rvkJkMQ7raleupG2PGgX-e8OPbJXtk/s400/Revoada%252C+de+Cl%25C3%25A1udio+Dantas%252C+2010..jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>As crianças e os pássaros comemoram </strong></span></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>a chegada da deusa romana do amanhecer:</strong></span></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Aurora!</strong></span></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div>PATRICKÍSSIMOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06336848038239900187noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027651290364161121.post-25441508742747914292011-10-04T17:44:00.000-07:002011-10-04T17:48:38.715-07:00Violino e Flores, de Carlos Bracher, 1997.<div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRfCxfVJmiirtHpXHNxinh_gKTREItAr0440YKNmHLpAdMqOX8GOBImYBxK5Us-OXp5_hcBuJFaYGqUlrFD99ptbWCm9dlhBbJutHPhJJfaUiNSnDMESWmGLsOlJvOX_qQmTjhdFXT1SI/s1600/Violino+e+flores%252C+de+Carlos+Bracher%252C+1997..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 318px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5659802894328134418" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRfCxfVJmiirtHpXHNxinh_gKTREItAr0440YKNmHLpAdMqOX8GOBImYBxK5Us-OXp5_hcBuJFaYGqUlrFD99ptbWCm9dlhBbJutHPhJJfaUiNSnDMESWmGLsOlJvOX_qQmTjhdFXT1SI/s400/Violino+e+flores%252C+de+Carlos+Bracher%252C+1997..jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="color:#cccccc;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong>Vejo flores em você!</strong></span> </span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="color:#cccccc;"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span><br /></div></span>PATRICKÍSSIMOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06336848038239900187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027651290364161121.post-19475751109644363412011-09-13T15:54:00.001-07:002011-09-13T15:59:34.376-07:00Marina, de Marília Fayh.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrucYTb7_z2PH18cB7WTzRAeDA_tFI_3D9Ns0bAsjwb2D2yBFDRlHHD4bnUNFgZNkY2FIUocFj61fFN3SXpL-u-oJZI2NFQRtqTgH5PbmpqVHCbymIPmSfDMSK57Vx6_k1YT7Hb7YkSE0/s1600/Marina%252C+de+Mar%25C3%25ADlia+Fayh..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 150px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 226px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5651981551525306850" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrucYTb7_z2PH18cB7WTzRAeDA_tFI_3D9Ns0bAsjwb2D2yBFDRlHHD4bnUNFgZNkY2FIUocFj61fFN3SXpL-u-oJZI2NFQRtqTgH5PbmpqVHCbymIPmSfDMSK57Vx6_k1YT7Hb7YkSE0/s400/Marina%252C+de+Mar%25C3%25ADlia+Fayh..jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Marina, morena, Marina</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Você se pintou</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Marina você faça tudo</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Mas faça o favor</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Não pinte este rosto</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Que eu gosto</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Que eu gosto</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>E que é só meu</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Marina você já é bonita</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Com o que Deus lhe deu</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Me aborreci,</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Me zanguei</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Já não posso falar</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>E quando eu me zango, Marina</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Eu não sei perdoar</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Eu já desculpei muita coisa</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Você não arranjava outro igual</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Desculpe, Marina, morena,</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Mas eu tô de mal</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>De mal com você</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>(Música Marina Morena de Dorival Caymmi)</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong></strong></span></div>PATRICKÍSSIMOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06336848038239900187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027651290364161121.post-52577695305646616362011-08-30T17:51:00.000-07:002011-08-30T18:20:31.491-07:00Ouro Preto, de Sérgio Telles, 2008.<div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646816815272781490" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM5SvgK-dGYCU5vwvsADls4iD4f2JPavsDBP9kjAAlkeof9vjuo5VkyT9vOA_16lwwceYvtrsva-7R2ohyphenhyphenrkHdik4ESHpXu2WGHxQcbf8u71JTJaOFa_3Qau-S4UsoOkdJOI9A3xE3NC4/s400/Ouro+Preto%252C+de+S%25C3%25A9rgio+Telles..jpg" />
<br /><p align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Ói, olhe o céu </strong></span></p>
<br /><p align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Já não é o mesmo céu</strong></span></p>
<br /><p align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>que você conheceu</strong></span></p>
<br /><p align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>não é mais</strong></span></p>
<br /><p align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Vê, ói que céu</strong></span></p>
<br /><p align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>É um céu carregado</strong></span></p>
<br /><p align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>e rajado</strong></span></p>
<br /><p align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>suspenso no ar</strong></span></p>
<br /><p align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>(Trechos da música O trem das 7, de Raul Seixas)</strong></span></p>
<br /><p align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong></strong></span></p>PATRICKÍSSIMOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06336848038239900187noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027651290364161121.post-85180141826390897272011-07-13T19:44:00.000-07:002011-07-14T17:17:18.033-07:00Mulher com pombas, de Emiliano Di Cavalcanti, 1962.<div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 328px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629033640875780274" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfDgj4J6jeFB34KuT0aU6-IKcgOVJvSuxgEm_jJ1fvOpzQ24X0zYMEphkhZ8uArenG7Blxd95Km-sRIP2jdzdbgLXooZXE0JhAkffyQbJMxPZYR9IwaRxwXx6rpuQzkxcf12hyphenhyphenxRHMxVA/s400/Mulher+com+pombas%252C+de+Emiliano+Di+Cavalcanti%252C+OST%252C+59x72cm%252C+1962..jpg" /><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="color:#cccccc;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong>...porque também se chamava arte</strong></span> </span></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="color:#cccccc;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong>e arte não envelhece;</strong></span> </span><br /></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="color:#cccccc;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong>...porque também se chamava liberdade</strong></span> </span><br /></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="color:#cccccc;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong>e liberdade basta,</strong></span> </span><br /></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="color:#cccccc;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong>pois de tudo se faz arte,</strong></span></span> </div><br /><div align="center"><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>arte,</strong></span> </div><br /><div align="center"><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>arte,</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><br /><span style="color:#cccccc;">arte...</span></div><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div>PATRICKÍSSIMOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06336848038239900187noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027651290364161121.post-32690229558044385812011-06-11T16:35:00.000-07:002011-06-11T16:52:58.287-07:00O Primeiro Luto, de William-Adolphe Bouguereau, 1888.<div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjHT-Q4xmAlNgFNGLmnfZbIlDW3QiR7Ff8ekrAeAS3pSM6fomC7z4bgiYoprzGUGdVW0Z9CUfaLjX3CJI9Yk-XG2Sgz3Af4Pk0gcEcvEvvmbZpSY6ixjNMvGffRfXdgROENHSsENKIEpM/s1600/O+primeiro+luto%252C+de+William+Bouguereau%252C+1888..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 323px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617110403921782962" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjHT-Q4xmAlNgFNGLmnfZbIlDW3QiR7Ff8ekrAeAS3pSM6fomC7z4bgiYoprzGUGdVW0Z9CUfaLjX3CJI9Yk-XG2Sgz3Af4Pk0gcEcvEvvmbZpSY6ixjNMvGffRfXdgROENHSsENKIEpM/s400/O+primeiro+luto%252C+de+William+Bouguereau%252C+1888..jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>A arte também é pedaços de saudades</strong></span></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Pedaços da mãe e do pai</strong></span></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>A arte também é tormento</strong></span></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Tormentos do pai e da mãe</strong></span></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>A arte também é exílio</strong></span></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Exílio das dores de uma saudade</strong></span></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>A arte também sabe amputar</strong></span></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>sem piedade </strong></span></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Aquilo que mãe e pai já perderam</strong></span></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#000000;"><strong>-</strong></span></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#000000;"><strong>-</strong></span></div>PATRICKÍSSIMOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06336848038239900187noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027651290364161121.post-44122343229865410102011-05-01T14:13:00.000-07:002011-05-01T14:18:07.310-07:00Marinha, de Aldemir Martins, 1970.<div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaCSEzgMrpzKoumykrB2sgOBBW2obN8ZefRzzcpua4ml-c3OOtmmPXyMv4RPr_bFKqNSR4Gy050m-HIGICF58DKfrZbvDciBS1LAC4S_yOnIixOj_FAGgHwCFdNvDNmqWA80YlaPA7Jic/s1600/Marinha%252C+de+Aldemir+Martins%252C+1970..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 206px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5601859173670832034" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaCSEzgMrpzKoumykrB2sgOBBW2obN8ZefRzzcpua4ml-c3OOtmmPXyMv4RPr_bFKqNSR4Gy050m-HIGICF58DKfrZbvDciBS1LAC4S_yOnIixOj_FAGgHwCFdNvDNmqWA80YlaPA7Jic/s400/Marinha%252C+de+Aldemir+Martins%252C+1970..jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Navegar é preciso.</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Viver não é preciso.</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>(Trecho do poema <em>Navegar é preciso</em>, de Fernando Pessoa)</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div>PATRICKÍSSIMOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06336848038239900187noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027651290364161121.post-13816862650373803872011-04-14T17:34:00.001-07:002011-04-14T17:39:15.497-07:00Ceia, de Cláudio Dantas.<div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvXGUA_mthUAjwyYgzhgmD1-mIIslTEfwtuzzke1z5B08Ri4Kzr0UB64-Yzj6YPG59DLCCktlt_2kRIImH-AdqnSRuw_JH7RInw6xMiNOK3CnikUhJjas-h6-38FALErl8eAl9HZFDVAw/s1600/Ceia%252C+de+Cl%25C3%25A1udio+Dantas..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 285px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595602427435186578" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvXGUA_mthUAjwyYgzhgmD1-mIIslTEfwtuzzke1z5B08Ri4Kzr0UB64-Yzj6YPG59DLCCktlt_2kRIImH-AdqnSRuw_JH7RInw6xMiNOK3CnikUhJjas-h6-38FALErl8eAl9HZFDVAw/s400/Ceia%252C+de+Cl%25C3%25A1udio+Dantas..jpg" /></a> </div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>A 12ª taça: o Cordeiro.</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>A mancha no branco: a consequência da traição.</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>O pão repartido: a caridade.</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>A uva e os trigos: os alimentos espirituais.</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Os anjos: a marca da evolução.</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cccccc;"></span></strong></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><br /><div align="center"></div>PATRICKÍSSIMOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06336848038239900187noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027651290364161121.post-85184985416688589502011-03-26T16:40:00.001-07:002011-03-26T18:08:07.317-07:00Sangue Latino<div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>A Prece, de Escola Europeia, século XVIII.</strong></span> </div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 307px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588556737027252738" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSIMXv-ji062kUfJuu1GfHoLAVPggY-uWTAWR7Uyj-Xj0etc_kA6MJWeUPPdLL9ur9N3y_HGE83a21CZsanxf4gKsbxZ-xqdqsgTBTOSOwoy2SLqnSGr90xSOh13lWDiHhLIGLdR5YzfQ/s400/A+prece%252C+Escola+europ%25C3%25A9ia%252C+OST%252C+75x58%252C5cm%252C+s%25C3%25A9c.+XVIII..jpg" /> <span style="color:#000000;"><br /></span><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Jurei mentiras</strong></span><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Homem Caminhando, de Emiliano Di Cavalcanti.</strong></span></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 280px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588537993041699714" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKTuaL6jeXPlkS1m7yS8mPCe9JXH0hgf5Gd3qk2BGo0U5AjtXVXsWdMTzlNiR3sbgkIk8d7thVpPTU0_JGIIrFy5d9PYwcSoptvJ6BMpQERVuwy69KNITFHcOmPFgOTv9cUa0IzzOufdk/s400/Homem+caminhando%252C+de+Emiliano+Di+Cavalcanti%252C+carv%25C3%25A3o%252C+30x21cm..jpg" /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>E sigo sozinho</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>A Tentação, de Gaetano Chierici, século XIX.</strong></span></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 309px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588538123095637698" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQNpRRlpNzPYNBHlUDpmHrj5TK7iqZtPR2kJ-Nd1NpYY8gbOiQqi634fnQfTc0huFAp7b8xcV4Nxr0s6aJvrz_4Rw_MPDn5jbNuQm-BU9cPbk_57A_EqFLeEpotLVe82VstYdU-84zZuY/s400/A+tenta%25C3%25A7%25C3%25A3o%252C+de+Gaetano+Chierici%252C+OST%252C+30x39cm%252C+s%25C3%25A9culo+XIX..jpg" /><br /><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Assumo os pecados</strong></span><br /></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Vento Rosa, de Paul Klee, 1922.</strong></span></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 353px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588541944607200674" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-2dp0laDnGPT9uABU2Fca9VtgUmFOsgALdWHu-YG-2vm-yYBx5z-gEV2TNULLFlwZrsn8tKk9ZUv7eUf6A-bMLKUT1538S8I6JF8-J96cknvhEiUJnlkFt8OiGnO2KS1bJ_D_gD8CQpE/s400/Vento+Rosa%252C+de+Paul+Klee%252C+1922..jpg" /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Os ventos do Norte</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>O moinho, de Harmensz van Rijn Rembrandt, 1650.</strong></span><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 335px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588541650229141794" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQhaH9lttk71CEyctsCmwWilzv9aH8xhVcC0l_YwedzWTk7RQ3dJujOpTQ8xSJGRj6YWTktWkmIUqM0KakGm2lULWYwcNmUA1HPEb9ppGjsJNbxUXwUmd8ZI8-oKoAfMid0ROiSlp9v4Q/s400/O+moinho%252C+de+Harmensz+van+Rijn+Rembrandt%252C+1650..jpg" /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#000000;"><strong>-</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Não movem moinhos</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>E o que me resta é só um gemido</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong><br /></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cccccc;">A idade da Vida, de Camille Claudel, 1898-1913.</span></strong><br /></div><div align="center"></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 361px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588540953940331122" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEahaw6IP3phU9XMUStINOOe7LAJr9-hZKwwGKactQn8W2AkB2gKYO3T-8OmVrYmJhinJRfmq6w1YAmL89gg5xuyoq3y8tlXZCe_9JSyPZTTcwMDw1_qtMtgObxwkU0Z9OSG4EPdSg7Tk/s400/A+idade+da+vida%252C+de+Camille+Claudel%252C+1898-1913..jpg" /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Minha vida</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong><br /></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cccccc;">Letores retornando para Brutos os corpos mortos</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cccccc;">de seus filhos, de Jacques-Louis David, 1789.</span></strong><br /></div><div align="center"></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 303px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588541082038727394" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEapTAnotW1RuneqBY9gaocacRc_PlBby3BzVV3G4nGa47CEC2rWlcxHWFJeYzcRw0osjNZlJ-WbY1vQsgMh3j1-mFR-jxEe3IVQFOTPIEJJcK5HFQEgoROVDykcD0YA76xhVklMyCyL4/s400/Letores+retornando+para+Brutus+os+corpos+mortos+de+seus+filhos%252C+de+Jcaques-Louis+David%252C+1789..jpg" /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Meus mortos</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong><br /></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cccccc;">Estrada para Port-Marly, de Camille Pissarro, 1860.</span></strong><br /></div><div align="center"></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 271px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588541237095703842" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLPf4_kZOP4pVu99ofyUDopoQqvQ9myFxGxoRUbk_V64Yt8tPbw1mbbsgj13XVxiWKi7mJssI4hd8Xa0sZIAtJQYyJmk-qZliq3Ct0qT7kaJ8M-qZ_Oivjad1SdHShP2junyoJgy1qJoU/s400/Estrada+para+Port-Marly%252C+de+Camille+Pissarro%252C+1860..jpg" /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Meus caminhos tortos</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong><br /></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cccccc;">Tiradentes Esquartejado, de Pedro Américo, 1893.</span></strong></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 265px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588538660716059378" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh34WBS4wOjFE-v1wCjl7IKnEXPV3w3PPwL7uwCNjRyPd2jXNhDt-trSszqkfO4rKEIFoiPf2SCT_cL0QaisFACG-Chq09HsdyLtP-jZxUuyDg7rfv1mr1Uy66YWtak94NUNucVjTFJkcU/s400/Tiradentes+Esquartejado%252C+de+Pedro+Am%25C3%25A9rico%252C+1893..jpg" /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Meu sangue latino</strong></span><br /></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong><br /></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cccccc;"></span></strong></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Sem Título, de Paula Batista.</strong></span><br /></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkAq6USVi9MvEQLjlQhmvFlfV9Kcdq0iqZNR-GzYR0YCp52NKsw0IZNjfjFnKDit4TQLzAKm5-Uz-yP3SspM1ozZamY-9mR9oeSYtkAn3e410kzeFH5inK8UurnoAY4aLT6OYPVPTlDlE/s1600/Sem+T%25C3%25ADtulo%252C+de+Paula+Batista%252C+TM%252C+120x80cm%252C+2008..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 224px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 337px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588545458004429842" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkAq6USVi9MvEQLjlQhmvFlfV9Kcdq0iqZNR-GzYR0YCp52NKsw0IZNjfjFnKDit4TQLzAKm5-Uz-yP3SspM1ozZamY-9mR9oeSYtkAn3e410kzeFH5inK8UurnoAY4aLT6OYPVPTlDlE/s400/Sem+T%25C3%25ADtulo%252C+de+Paula+Batista%252C+TM%252C+120x80cm%252C+2008..jpg" /></a><span style="color:#000000;">- </span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Minha alma cativa</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#000000;"><strong>-</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#000000;"><strong>-</strong></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong><br />Ritual, de Sylvio Pinto, 1972</strong></span><br /></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA95t3aprvo2ouhOOz_OGn9UMrwd7b2jKF5XZQTZP-ha7qyYa_0XjsxvXwqra6TdE6LyS_OCViyzYGJQQ-ABQmIEQI00U9DBzBKig2d6DTRP2B42h0p5ddOGdWFkFJPmnKC3PiNOMMV_Q/s1600/Sem+T%25C3%25ADtulo%252C+de+Paula+Batista%252C+TM%252C+120x80cm%252C+2008..jpg"></a><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 318px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588541443495279794" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-XylFm4uVXh7fvezalhDYMZrCSUSNsvn7UKUSewjLYHC0jhHVoOcNgkRMy0NkTFmaIQ2qoY4qOB1_ytrkBOzhrGun70dm2tMlXftEsDYiDJV5XTl6FUeTpjmFnSn3ChMMSE4axiSffwo/s400/Ritual%252C+de+Sylvio+Pinto%252C+1972..jpg" /></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Rompi tratados</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Traí os ritos</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>A rendição de Breda ou As Lanças, </strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>de Diego Rodrigues de Silva y Velazquez, 1634-35.</strong></span><br /></div><div align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 338px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588541548894647970" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVFBvT8soOQzzaq89I85NNDKpB_t7KlpulN1PrxJDFmsXR4YAMnyCoqch0nPm0f6hLycSlwHjZyVn-sFzBPkBJgXl5AUJFVlkFuf138ZDPhfJ7f7gr1UHwuZ-9OFlsGHctoKWMRhGjHPM/s400/A+rendi%25C3%25A7%25C3%25A3o+de+Breda+ou+As+Lan%25C3%25A7as%252C+de+Diego+Rodrigues+de+Silva+y+Velazquez%252C+1634-35..jpg" /></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Quebrei a lança</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Lancei no espaço</strong></span></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong><br /></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cccccc;">O Grito, de Edvard Munch, 1893.</span></strong><br /></div><div align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 319px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588541776966740626" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9nwG5MRQiuIIFMeKH0cMnsmQT-5Sg8QTmcK_u8tHZkBos9PpfYFWePAhZbUdjCFHUKfQR7m4BgZFOJdaLjhC0twofalOeax2LKYZPRkgvnsTIAAqRAP03zVheLcg6mxePg7mcebD3uAk/s400/O+grito%252C+de+Edvard+Munch%252C+1893..jpg" /><span style="color:#000000;">-<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Um grito </strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Um desabafo</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>E o que me importa </strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>É não estar vencido</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Minha vida</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Meus mortos</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Meus caminhos tortos</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Meu sangue latino</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Minha alma cativa<br /></strong></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#000000;"><strong>-</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#000000;"><strong>-</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>(Música <em>Sangue Latino</em>, de João Ricardo e Paulinho Mendonça)</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#000000;"><strong>-</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#000000;"><strong>-</strong></span></div>PATRICKÍSSIMOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06336848038239900187noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027651290364161121.post-3275367193352532752011-02-16T15:54:00.001-08:002011-02-16T16:15:49.101-08:00Primavera, de Nilton Mendonça.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji31IXvq_H-iwRTqYd_sTv_qSab3gmhjPpZ8vuFw-JHNJRkUuMXNHiD5-Wga1lg3_mWaffFYYzHG74FNwHTIF-G6fOo-38_rB7tWcEYXaFDfjCKJyRxfyZ3Xbyo4ITHQ0aQOpuS7kevoc/s1600/Primavera+de+Nilton+Mendon%25C3%25A7a.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 326px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574440178508019698" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji31IXvq_H-iwRTqYd_sTv_qSab3gmhjPpZ8vuFw-JHNJRkUuMXNHiD5-Wga1lg3_mWaffFYYzHG74FNwHTIF-G6fOo-38_rB7tWcEYXaFDfjCKJyRxfyZ3Xbyo4ITHQ0aQOpuS7kevoc/s400/Primavera+de+Nilton+Mendon%25C3%25A7a.jpg" /></a><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Passarim quis pousar, não deu, voou</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Porque o tiro partiu mas não pegou</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Passarinho, me conta então, me diz</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Por que que eu também não fui feliz?</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Me diz o que eu faço da paixão?</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Que me devora o coração</strong></span></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong></strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Passarim quis pousar, não deu, voou</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Porque o tiro feriu mas não matou</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Passarinho, me conta então, me diz</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Por que que eu também não fui feliz?</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Cadê meu amor, minha canção?</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Que me alegrava o coração</strong></span></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cccccc;">Passarim quis pousar não deu</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cccccc;">voou, voou, voou</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cccccc;">(Trechos da música <em>Passarim</em>, de Tom Jobim)</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div>PATRICKÍSSIMOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06336848038239900187noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027651290364161121.post-38914445423835617722011-02-06T04:02:00.001-08:002011-02-06T15:54:41.817-08:00A visão de São Francisco, de Cláudio Dantas, 2006.<div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><div align="justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4vQRAvO_b4nnA-PwljXFBjnPfSirmwMA0BKPb2nzhcq3mKUMHjKJwRKrJlzlf1PsdKdlNQGzXYboY7rdGnfsIVKy2Q50AlvGo3_TNkG7TSThur38tjK2_0PWDWFQJ2v3bt5rjkt-FHn8/s1600/A+vis%25C3%25A3o+de+S%25C3%25A3o+Francisco.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 296px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570546521580914530" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4vQRAvO_b4nnA-PwljXFBjnPfSirmwMA0BKPb2nzhcq3mKUMHjKJwRKrJlzlf1PsdKdlNQGzXYboY7rdGnfsIVKy2Q50AlvGo3_TNkG7TSThur38tjK2_0PWDWFQJ2v3bt5rjkt-FHn8/s400/A+vis%25C3%25A3o+de+S%25C3%25A3o+Francisco.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Ao final da tarde, o jovem frade avistou no interior do mosteiro uma senhora diante da imagem de Francisco de Assis.<br /><br />Ela chorava copiosamente, mas em silêncio. O jovem frade aproximou-se e ofereceu um lenço para secar as lágrimas.<br /><br />A senhora agradeceu a oferta e se restabeleceu.<br /><br />- O que a fez chorar assim tão fortemente em sossego, interrogou o frade.<br /><br />- A pintura, respondeu ela.<br /><br />Por alguns instantes, ele se manteve calado e logo em seguida lhe fez nova pergunta.<br /><br />- A senhora é da comunidade. Nasceu na região, passou sua infância, sua juventude, sua maturidade e, agora, vive sua velhice por aqui. E sempre visitou o mosteiro. Por que se mostrou tão sensibilizada como agora?<br /><br />- Porque foi com o tempo que aprendi o significado da composição – e apontou com o indicador na direção da pintura.<br /><br />O religioso ponderou sobre a arte e verbalizou:<br /><br />- São apenas três imagens. Dois anjos e Francisco de Assis. Não possui nenhum cenário, nenhuma paisagem e muito menos qualquer tipo de objeto. Apenas singelas expressões.<br /><br />A mulher completou com devoção e explicou-lhe o motivo de seu abalo moral:<br /><br />- Além do poderoso contraste entre a luz e a sombra. Chorei porque percebi uma forte mistura entre o espiritual e o terreno, entre o místico e o real. A luz sempre do lado espiritual, próxima aos anjos e as sombras sempre próximas do humano, do terreno, das nossas trevas, frade.<br /><br />- Continuamos com o antigo hábito de caminhar entre as ignorâncias e agora sei o motivo pelo qual o anjo estende a mão para a parte mais escura. Ele renega a escuridão e oferece proteção para o outro anjo conversar com Francisco, refletiu o católico.<br /><br />E a senhora finalizou:<br /><br />- Talvez a visão de São Francisco seja para dizer o quanto todos nós precisamos urgentemente despertar para a evolução espiritual, mesmo que seja de forma atônita, e sair desse maldito hábito que nós criamos ao nosso redor.<br /><br />O jovem tomou-lhe o braço e a convidou para a missa:<br /><br />- Venha. Vamos ouvir os ensinamentos cristãos para que esse desejo de paz interior se expanda a todos por aí afora.</strong></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong></strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div>PATRICKÍSSIMOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06336848038239900187noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027651290364161121.post-27795177323369528812011-01-18T14:38:00.000-08:002011-01-18T14:47:30.077-08:00Madona dos Jangadeiros, de Enrico Bianco.<div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7QUkCVwVoxvFM94TPih00Ze4OrKnzh0cvlvlIzZSO13XwE0e5KYXXnqjrQskBFWaB7NXSd5PqwWgzjKB9B1v1EEwxtzlsiQ9atRItBBTJCVY-ghTxe6PAzL5h9iGFfvNduoxHNYsROkk/s1600/Madona+dos+Jangadeiros%252C+de+Enrico+Bianco%252C+OSE%252C+60x45cm..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 292px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563659215053291330" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7QUkCVwVoxvFM94TPih00Ze4OrKnzh0cvlvlIzZSO13XwE0e5KYXXnqjrQskBFWaB7NXSd5PqwWgzjKB9B1v1EEwxtzlsiQ9atRItBBTJCVY-ghTxe6PAzL5h9iGFfvNduoxHNYsROkk/s400/Madona+dos+Jangadeiros%252C+de+Enrico+Bianco%252C+OSE%252C+60x45cm..jpg" /></a><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Eh! Tem jangada no mar</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Eh! Eh! Eh! Hoje tem arrastão</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Eh! Todo mundo pescar</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Chega de sombra João</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Jovi olha o arrastão </strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>entrando no mar sem fim</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Eh! Meu irmão</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Me traz Iemanjá pra mim</strong></span></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cccccc;">(Trechos da música Arrastão, de Edu Lobo </span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cccccc;">e Vinícius de Moraes)</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div>PATRICKÍSSIMOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06336848038239900187noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027651290364161121.post-49256998195889879282011-01-01T12:53:00.001-08:002011-01-01T12:57:27.372-08:00Frutas Tridimensionais, de Vito Campanella, 1999.<div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr2smpy-d-S4Mx_sIg_KNI_mXs7ecHu_4RnOYrbSc1WErbT-c1W3OELWuSSaJBZO-nouHZoIIIBtep5BJliagc2OoMYCIT9GV2Vk-Za2fj_Sgc4GKpmYxwElY6gFO9AwHAvvHa60Rxxzc/s1600/Frutas+Tridimensionais%252C+de+Vito+Campanella%252C+1999..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 262px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557323701115171426" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr2smpy-d-S4Mx_sIg_KNI_mXs7ecHu_4RnOYrbSc1WErbT-c1W3OELWuSSaJBZO-nouHZoIIIBtep5BJliagc2OoMYCIT9GV2Vk-Za2fj_Sgc4GKpmYxwElY6gFO9AwHAvvHa60Rxxzc/s400/Frutas+Tridimensionais%252C+de+Vito+Campanella%252C+1999..jpg" /></a><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Que 2011 seja assim:</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>com sabores, </strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>perfumes</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>e cores.</strong></span></div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div>PATRICKÍSSIMOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06336848038239900187noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027651290364161121.post-30507721759805161962010-12-25T10:30:00.000-08:002010-12-25T10:54:11.006-08:00Série Amanheceres de natal<div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Vila Santo Antônio II, de Volnei Sant'Ana.</strong></span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSC2CHh9Bssm-PPcf_KuDQaqQXcwHYzradFqWnSdYWoV5alImYhUMMv_CSAsW9ukWT-0i0Ej1xF4YyKHWmpWKVboyC_VztRd38Xq1EHNiS4GVDNpox3opr7Ur1xSIrhutPCijSI14YALU/s1600/Vila+Santo+Ant%25C3%25B4nio+II%252C+de+Volnei+Sant%2527Ana.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 399px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 285px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554691188103574210" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSC2CHh9Bssm-PPcf_KuDQaqQXcwHYzradFqWnSdYWoV5alImYhUMMv_CSAsW9ukWT-0i0Ej1xF4YyKHWmpWKVboyC_VztRd38Xq1EHNiS4GVDNpox3opr7Ur1xSIrhutPCijSI14YALU/s400/Vila+Santo+Ant%25C3%25B4nio+II%252C+de+Volnei+Sant%2527Ana.jpg" /></a><br /><div align="center"><br /><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Paisagem, de José Pancetti.<br /></span></strong></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7A0XoNPn9vLZ6To24S37zNaMKDnChj6MMareCQb5BxFyqJHaohzYXRYltKfSzjXE-dwZB2nf7bLjGWA5ge38ZWU8_cZK4Zq4U9rLOjA2eTV4Jv1s-K-fVwNSj7frIQ5Z5nRIE-JRV57U/s1600/Paisagem%252C+de+Pancetti%252C+OST..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 353px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554690698413704578" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7A0XoNPn9vLZ6To24S37zNaMKDnChj6MMareCQb5BxFyqJHaohzYXRYltKfSzjXE-dwZB2nf7bLjGWA5ge38ZWU8_cZK4Zq4U9rLOjA2eTV4Jv1s-K-fVwNSj7frIQ5Z5nRIE-JRV57U/s400/Paisagem%252C+de+Pancetti%252C+OST..jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Flores Brancas, de Érico Santos, 2005.</span></strong></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 226px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554689974326928162" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg22rCTKXhc794-DfSEQ6FxWk-FKmd9okpVYw6zYwG-Fj9LBkhUQp6J8j2q_B2O-OXbAaUYVrq6xNTtsMcIqzw9ViteGuXr92bKsCHJe5ZZJ3QkMyHuSL0JgqN30ynzMv7GG5SU3oOCLqg/s400/Flores+brancas%252C+de+%25C3%2589rico+Santos..jpg" /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Pátio de uma granja na Normandia, de Claude Monet, 1863.</span></strong></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkKtX7Cv8cWDCsY-5QhAsShiOvjgd0Gk7hVGvcx0r7FdYOmbAFHWYy4iYQIqupRUCtVKJUWi2ae2QVkYBpC0vYXX-u1to8HkeG0Qyks1dVE3q_aIyT-JncyVa5Kg4Xk3EeeOJGDgysUME/s1600/P%25C3%25A1tio+de+uma+granja+na+Normandia%252C+de+Claude+Oscar+Monet%252C+1863..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 309px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554690509457484242" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkKtX7Cv8cWDCsY-5QhAsShiOvjgd0Gk7hVGvcx0r7FdYOmbAFHWYy4iYQIqupRUCtVKJUWi2ae2QVkYBpC0vYXX-u1to8HkeG0Qyks1dVE3q_aIyT-JncyVa5Kg4Xk3EeeOJGDgysUME/s400/P%25C3%25A1tio+de+uma+granja+na+Normandia%252C+de+Claude+Oscar+Monet%252C+1863..jpg" /></a><br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Paisagem, de Jozan.<br /></span></strong><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_XdvpGJLN6dTi8SMMykLEmcxSCjnY_pxx0FpQ8D6xB1j3PGoPQ3z2O5M2l2asYPrFrPvELn2dF1WlldOKPw62Wl1agyyZfG5H10IcuK1lM61zTDtADjKIjJlk-J49FrDkjzKuQnYHNjQ/s1600/Paisagem%252C+de+Jozan..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554690379442712050" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_XdvpGJLN6dTi8SMMykLEmcxSCjnY_pxx0FpQ8D6xB1j3PGoPQ3z2O5M2l2asYPrFrPvELn2dF1WlldOKPw62Wl1agyyZfG5H10IcuK1lM61zTDtADjKIjJlk-J49FrDkjzKuQnYHNjQ/s400/Paisagem%252C+de+Jozan..jpg" /></a><br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Campo verde com montanha, de Inimá de Paula, 1988.<br /></span></strong><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_vKQMKxfW2GQKiBGpZli8kTy1jKsMqJHKJyLYmYgRzRTS7FG49dlko3KvPbqBDIQCIonmBY7KblW_CG2nCqwSKlLCi3A22pMKes0dE6Xk6SfSKN6Mg39ns4VPWQomF-WGeOXP1WBVp_U/s1600/Campo+verde+com+montanha%252C+de+Inim%25C3%25A1+de+Paula%252C+ost%252C+1988%252C+30x40..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 294px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554689886723537490" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_vKQMKxfW2GQKiBGpZli8kTy1jKsMqJHKJyLYmYgRzRTS7FG49dlko3KvPbqBDIQCIonmBY7KblW_CG2nCqwSKlLCi3A22pMKes0dE6Xk6SfSKN6Mg39ns4VPWQomF-WGeOXP1WBVp_U/s400/Campo+verde+com+montanha%252C+de+Inim%25C3%25A1+de+Paula%252C+ost%252C+1988%252C+30x40..jpg" /></a><br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Botafogo vista da Urca, de Ivan Freitas, 1992.<br /></span></strong><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN-_occyOzBhSE3JEJ5fOY0_IrVuZJ3p3JhyGcPquL6UHzi6VDvqXTld_EuG3lokeJdpttbJKUlDRcxroIy8mkpFHfx_vvd1oIGV85GCbHUoy6Y2MGRpG_s0L5CDcZElkHFElvpainovA/s1600/Botafogo+vista+da+Urca%252C+de+Ivan+Freitas%252C+1992..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 327px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554689750466587346" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN-_occyOzBhSE3JEJ5fOY0_IrVuZJ3p3JhyGcPquL6UHzi6VDvqXTld_EuG3lokeJdpttbJKUlDRcxroIy8mkpFHfx_vvd1oIGV85GCbHUoy6Y2MGRpG_s0L5CDcZElkHFElvpainovA/s400/Botafogo+vista+da+Urca%252C+de+Ivan+Freitas%252C+1992..jpg" /></a><br /><span style="color:#000000;">-</span><br /><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Campo de papoulas vermelhas, de Raquel Taraborelli, 2004. </span></strong><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOspHhMW6V8rdTd8zKRGTmL4lJRGsATPxfc-QAo8L6VTHSvTrVNXh3gfFMHxuS60cTftgJwPlo1aDo5VQDvmvstzttOKIQhoEu2BsB3j1RKxgCp8lfuJVkgf4R8UbK8puJ-PvQQ94UngY/s1600/Campo+de+Papoulas+Vermelhas%252C+de+Raquel+Taraborelli%252C+2004..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 399px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554689628522245586" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOspHhMW6V8rdTd8zKRGTmL4lJRGsATPxfc-QAo8L6VTHSvTrVNXh3gfFMHxuS60cTftgJwPlo1aDo5VQDvmvstzttOKIQhoEu2BsB3j1RKxgCp8lfuJVkgf4R8UbK8puJ-PvQQ94UngY/s400/Campo+de+Papoulas+Vermelhas%252C+de+Raquel+Taraborelli%252C+2004..jpg" /></a><br /><br /><span style="color:#000000;">- </span><br /><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">A arte sempre</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">nos mostrará</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">o amanhecer</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">de um lindo dia.</span></strong><br /><span style="color:#000000;">-</span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">-</span> </div>PATRICKÍSSIMOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06336848038239900187noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027651290364161121.post-84762221377016352542010-12-15T14:49:00.000-08:002010-12-18T14:11:45.436-08:00Série Cupidos<div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Cupido e Psiquê, de Jacques-Louis David, 1817.</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM4yLoGRGcCjj38XFgibSk-adQpLSokrf6KVyyrmOlgpo1_W0t8gT6ki9QfV9aSQYlzAaEas5xYa-4BpFaHylrAcsCXA0qdXO_S2moVdjhfv_K3N8XRaAHR0A8XGTwViIAvlUg8L2dlTQ/s1600/Cupido+e+Psiqu%25C3%25AA%252C+de+Jacques-Louis+David%252C+1817..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 292px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551047520813306578" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM4yLoGRGcCjj38XFgibSk-adQpLSokrf6KVyyrmOlgpo1_W0t8gT6ki9QfV9aSQYlzAaEas5xYa-4BpFaHylrAcsCXA0qdXO_S2moVdjhfv_K3N8XRaAHR0A8XGTwViIAvlUg8L2dlTQ/s400/Cupido+e+Psiqu%25C3%25AA%252C+de+Jacques-Louis+David%252C+1817..jpg" /></a><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Cupido e Psiquê, de Antônio Canova.</span></strong></div><br /><br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 178px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 229px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551045455516972514" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVWQrGpyJtgVHjDWj_nYDnmqMdPzVf7mffsPBNZrTXCeiNGzZsH0rZaupdFvwSTrz-AJQX6Ox7ZRR9fHvVY0HnW18ewGRLO2IjbK7VenjC9007ZklYrGoxGQBumVVoIJGGrZRK-zwUzHo/s400/Cupido+e+Psique%252C+de+Antonio+Canova..gif" /> <p align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span> </p><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Psiquê observa Cupido, de Francois Lagreneé.</strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiPMQDYn2bS3Doqm5xiKXcL61mvFey23nEeqxB4sneL-dvDaO0OWZ18AMJ5O2CNwcQCs3I_lNpEt-Sf8ZjzMZkRKHZ1Df0h-bXAnASjEUO6FXwoqigXcMyxpxC36Dtc0K6XOe4iU8rnTI/s1600/Psique+observa+Cupido%252C+de+Fran%25C3%25A7ois+Lagrene%25C3%25A9..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 397px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551045796340958466" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiPMQDYn2bS3Doqm5xiKXcL61mvFey23nEeqxB4sneL-dvDaO0OWZ18AMJ5O2CNwcQCs3I_lNpEt-Sf8ZjzMZkRKHZ1Df0h-bXAnASjEUO6FXwoqigXcMyxpxC36Dtc0K6XOe4iU8rnTI/s400/Psique+observa+Cupido%252C+de+Fran%25C3%25A7ois+Lagrene%25C3%25A9..jpg" /></a><span style="color:#000000;"> - </span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-<br /></span><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Cupido fica encantado com a beleza de Psiquê, de Maurice Denis.</strong></span></div><span style="color:#000000;">-</span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiihHuf7FWuuyN4YAExYzVyYvPID-_iqLY9qZLMbcjuCt3DlCsbMr4AUK_MvqeU12z3mQMWUWhUQRDmK-Om2jCvua2k1f3fJaI_06g1RObCfgVyZV1Zv-s56j_WoFF4al_I8OgxYbRkMIc/s1600/Cupido+fica+encantado+com+a+beleza+de+Psique%252C+de+Maurice+Denis..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 192px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 283px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551045604103401202" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiihHuf7FWuuyN4YAExYzVyYvPID-_iqLY9qZLMbcjuCt3DlCsbMr4AUK_MvqeU12z3mQMWUWhUQRDmK-Om2jCvua2k1f3fJaI_06g1RObCfgVyZV1Zv-s56j_WoFF4al_I8OgxYbRkMIc/s400/Cupido+fica+encantado+com+a+beleza+de+Psique%252C+de+Maurice+Denis..jpg" /></a><br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Era uma vez um Cupido.</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Confundi com um mosquito</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">e o espantei.</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Fim da história.</span></strong><br /><br /><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div>PATRICKÍSSIMOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06336848038239900187noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027651290364161121.post-87068313229346625312010-11-28T11:40:00.000-08:002010-11-28T13:06:02.145-08:00Série Cores abstracionistas<div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Cay, o rio da mata, de Walmir Teixeira.</strong></span></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 278px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544689215059767010" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQjWclbn0YgfdAdOfg7psEqjkEQbs6IakdrQwEw0Lo9H43A_xGPsoqHp7yL8Jo8eIzhzzQhS34JzPTatsxdIbRamMEHbjk-5xDJRtTFrmajlknSHEH4p-eyCtrpGHAdweUs4PNEFrWPpk/s400/Cay+O+rio+da+Mata%252C+de+Walmir+Teixeira..jpg" /><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Abstrato, de Kenji Fukuda.</strong></span><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 333px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544688898112489394" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPqJWCixxPDp-BJMOruUHHkEok-Nku9C_SYAoRgi2eXf7ROal8clqDPB1V3g5ITbV-gVHjQFFZoO85GpCx2hWOfnRjNe0ioHUfOnU8RmHpbVUZzyWUZpmaXpdnnF21lNxgwmNhlc280mc/s400/Abstrato%252C+de+Kenji+Fukuda..jpg" /></div><p align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></p><p align="center">Abstrato em amarelo, de Narciso Conillo.<img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 238px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544695928902976402" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV8EOyZaTJihnCNo_7P49Vy_pMNAFE4dqjVDYUtL82yZ4FWqRLMfPsLbpDBKRfvYovcEH5N9GtUf-C389BSGMiC8rLh-vY7452x1XTk8YkFentj0PW2yRuYtTFVHcVvYg5fMgJ9RMt2lQ/s400/Abstrato%252C+de+Narciso+Conillo..jpg" /> </p><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#000000;"><strong>-</strong></span></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Abstrato, de Osvaldo Cunha.</strong></span><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 251px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544688547710853250" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKHgGKtwX9UNdezk6F0M43u6tgYK5ZNtniHowUTlK99wyK9XXlctZ2EauH1U371IiIT0z_cvjlm06Tmi4yuw71idBt72VBrIhurLhMhQfB3KHp2iNM7rszLGYuUKUvfNMXj3YdJ3ne5Sc/s400/Abstrato%252C+de+Osvaldo+Cunha+2.jpg" /> </div><p align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></p><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Abstrato, de Cláudio Faciolli, 2008.</strong></span></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 282px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544691086197222450" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-n-5Iqqo1REIVl_RMKVBPqjmU1CNZ74am6n4_PF9IxpdikeqTj1-wuDSU_sgdKSyT_atngtFPRvayLC9ZfLpndeMpbRoM0tQrXSBWwx1N-4l17PIp8hc-lN30yNP2ocQocPFNAplLzRs/s400/Abstrato%252C+de+Cl%25C3%25A1udio+Faciolli%252C+AST%252C+99x130cm%252C+2008..jpg" /> <p align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></p><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Abstrato azul, de Wakabayashi, 1974.</span></strong><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 345px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544688243060221010" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGXUUbZQINFSPGqAM5oC-4CtGCYmdmZyBVNyGJMN3yKGTw4yqAbIl5NlJQAXQKFx6HftZMYeNM-PHacegDCTfGW62IGuHLS9WSpbogKVa_zSYIZEyMWicPdb2cGZREn4oT_jnoRFXD07Y/s400/Abstrato+Azul%252C+de+Wakabayashi%252C+OST%252C+101x117cm%252C+1974..jpg" /><br /></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Mais, mais,</strong></span></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>quero mais cores,</strong></span></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>nem que todas as tintas</strong></span></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>retornem às paletas,</strong></span></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>e todos os pincéis</strong></span></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>lancem às telas</strong></span></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>todas as tonalidades</strong></span></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>mais, mais, </strong></span></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>quero mais cores.</strong></span></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;"></span></div>PATRICKÍSSIMOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06336848038239900187noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027651290364161121.post-53331437296928288752010-11-16T07:35:00.000-08:002010-11-16T08:05:18.720-08:00Milhões de girassóis rodantes, rodando, dançando para Patrick, de Fernanda Rodante, 2010.<div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghnm6zUOKD2Mwa6y471XUYLofGR9Nohz623sOh-Z6w5xGp1RyP7E2E4fpneb5W6D06BT9xT286Qa1ClxSmJju_jRgbPkaDSiHjwCJeSv-mHlEjEs96xqXgc_TFO9SmW6Kr284aM8wC4U8/s1600/DSC04818.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 176px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540173817361506786" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghnm6zUOKD2Mwa6y471XUYLofGR9Nohz623sOh-Z6w5xGp1RyP7E2E4fpneb5W6D06BT9xT286Qa1ClxSmJju_jRgbPkaDSiHjwCJeSv-mHlEjEs96xqXgc_TFO9SmW6Kr284aM8wC4U8/s400/DSC04818.JPG" /></a><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Atenção:</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Campos de Girassóis</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Propriedade particular!</strong></span></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Permitida a entrada</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>para quem sabe respeitar</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>a natureza</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>pois há milhões de girassóis</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>rodantes, rodando, dançando</strong></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>.</strong></span></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cccccc;">Não esqueçam o</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cccccc;">bloqueador solar,</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cccccc;">a água e o lanche.</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cccccc;">Tenham todos uma</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cccccc;">ótima caminhada.</span></strong></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div>PATRICKÍSSIMOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06336848038239900187noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027651290364161121.post-64657156195095052152010-11-07T14:42:00.000-08:002010-11-07T14:56:52.727-08:00Série Otimismo<div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#000000;"><strong>-</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Mulheres e Flores, de Érico Santos, 2008.</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9LM1vs-ecULp3zkAXLVKLHckjVuWJVVQP3CaoasbxD1dowfbF1UmOZ0id60q3TtnyKhK23EeOstFRzF1IPq2G2umHVv-t6h9k-nlhwzF2QRiePg_yzJrYczL4ZtvI4Hggtrd7TtPdG9w/s1600/Mulheres+de+flores,+de+%C3%89rico+Santos,+2008..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 398px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536942648097306418" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9LM1vs-ecULp3zkAXLVKLHckjVuWJVVQP3CaoasbxD1dowfbF1UmOZ0id60q3TtnyKhK23EeOstFRzF1IPq2G2umHVv-t6h9k-nlhwzF2QRiePg_yzJrYczL4ZtvI4Hggtrd7TtPdG9w/s400/Mulheres+de+flores,+de+%C3%89rico+Santos,+2008..jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Beija-flor, de Marília Fayh.</span></strong></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy2iNzcJDwOJGPJ4hmQJumfoVhPtPb-FIzK5Gl5N5hDW87X_uVnYVBS9gsyuf3HaZytSmwOjzmq79G8AH5yg1dghjfolgHpQnVuTqAN92ncpQjRcJobZ_tr1FxIbKcbjtL0Bgq03Znbmo/s1600/Beija+flor+1.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 338px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536942430040433890" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy2iNzcJDwOJGPJ4hmQJumfoVhPtPb-FIzK5Gl5N5hDW87X_uVnYVBS9gsyuf3HaZytSmwOjzmq79G8AH5yg1dghjfolgHpQnVuTqAN92ncpQjRcJobZ_tr1FxIbKcbjtL0Bgq03Znbmo/s400/Beija+flor+1.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">De bem com a vida, de Cláudio Dantas, 2010.</span></strong></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU_oCJ5M4ytjv7wLlQnChgOeAjAnGn2pG0dwJ0gFFbTMc5vToM4nvudrURFCGDnKZk-BucpgSTmkqEciiG01ZZGGQ9EuMeVn4jB9oePuepHcKQaZSYnS3v7MFbWAichNm0JZslsqluHKo/s1600/De+bem+com+a+vida,+de+Cl%C3%A1udio+Dantas,+2010..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 396px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536942278288228354" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU_oCJ5M4ytjv7wLlQnChgOeAjAnGn2pG0dwJ0gFFbTMc5vToM4nvudrURFCGDnKZk-BucpgSTmkqEciiG01ZZGGQ9EuMeVn4jB9oePuepHcKQaZSYnS3v7MFbWAichNm0JZslsqluHKo/s400/De+bem+com+a+vida,+de+Cl%C3%A1udio+Dantas,+2010..jpg" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>É a arte que me faz</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>otimista demais<br /></strong></span><br /></div>PATRICKÍSSIMOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06336848038239900187noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027651290364161121.post-52393139818917133112010-10-22T15:45:00.000-07:002010-11-16T16:08:17.591-08:00Série Milagres e Misérias<div align="center"><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Brincadeira de Criança, de Ricardo Ferrari.</strong></span> </div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 232px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531010752247875842" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyWBeog4ZJnNmUxTR_qhm9NW3j0kFvE20MfoedqOGCuDTCoQgq-XBZ9jTvVqi_5gaI0pLNHUt4fncAuRnRd2ChTzXjfpggN_h7youKwIiP32n6ficWXswjI3DcBC3DMMoRbm77PO88usA/s400/Brincadeira+de+crian%C3%A7a,+de+Ricardo+Ferrari..jpg" /></div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong><blockquote><p align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Nossas armas estão na rua</strong></span></p><p align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>É um milagre</strong></span></p><p align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Elas não matam ninguém</strong></span></p><p align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></p></blockquote></strong></span><p align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong></strong></span></p><p align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Os comedores de batatas, de Vincent van Gogh, 1885.</strong></span></p><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cccccc;"></span></strong><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy-bmhCQx5HDD0ErmAVOrfbCz6tiaX1xGkb5AnKS9OpJ4FRCVRIxpqpK7X2O3NGXNb90YuUSxzpigJ19Yz-go9NaX3RrAlfsMq9wbdn4bNUhoAE7QjAexm30EVX5sw1CPLtYd8nnzEWAs/s1600/Os+comedores+de+batata,+de+Vincent+van+Gogh,+1885..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 287px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531010546229100210" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy-bmhCQx5HDD0ErmAVOrfbCz6tiaX1xGkb5AnKS9OpJ4FRCVRIxpqpK7X2O3NGXNb90YuUSxzpigJ19Yz-go9NaX3RrAlfsMq9wbdn4bNUhoAE7QjAexm30EVX5sw1CPLtYd8nnzEWAs/s400/Os+comedores+de+batata,+de+Vincent+van+Gogh,+1885..jpg" /> </p><p align="center"></a><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>A fome está em toda parte</strong></span></p><p align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Mas a gente come</strong></span></p><p align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Levando a vida na arte</strong></span></p><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Favela, de Ida Hannemann Campos.</strong></span></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEiZCB6JhYxCvXzeBGupjphgvJcSuJkuWP_q1cPngDwhizY6ZVO8A12hKLpTdWXIXbADowAbLvm1s4zVHpskwkF8cJdQcBPgGkuPBbe_QqRAX5i-35XmT3gDdsapRkycT5kp5hIB3Yxgs/s1600/Favela,+de+Ida+Hannemann+Campos,+OST,+55x65cm..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 340px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531010396817623730" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEiZCB6JhYxCvXzeBGupjphgvJcSuJkuWP_q1cPngDwhizY6ZVO8A12hKLpTdWXIXbADowAbLvm1s4zVHpskwkF8cJdQcBPgGkuPBbe_QqRAX5i-35XmT3gDdsapRkycT5kp5hIB3Yxgs/s400/Favela,+de+Ida+Hannemann+Campos,+OST,+55x65cm..jpg" /> <p align="center"></a><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Miséria é miséria </span></strong></p><p align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Em qualquer canto</span></strong></p><p align="center"><strong><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></strong></p><p align="center"><br /><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Cena da Corte, de Aldo Affortunati, 1905.<br /></span></strong><br /></p><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBDhM5dMbsPAQb0eiYTdIJdtMwLbteDQ6QB6gWyUCeXjGpuJaHFJe0wKwntOGv0GsExXdVY6rKlHf7lXhOVOWRzSjDwjL6t3rPoJuPalYH2zqYfsTmgjfCPzUK9fUKkttAIiMY7abwtjY/s1600/Cena+da+corte,+de+Aldo+Affortunati,+1906..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 263px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531010223905443330" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBDhM5dMbsPAQb0eiYTdIJdtMwLbteDQ6QB6gWyUCeXjGpuJaHFJe0wKwntOGv0GsExXdVY6rKlHf7lXhOVOWRzSjDwjL6t3rPoJuPalYH2zqYfsTmgjfCPzUK9fUKkttAIiMY7abwtjY/s400/Cena+da+corte,+de+Aldo+Affortunati,+1906..jpg" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Riquezas são diferentes</strong></span></p><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong></p><p align="center"><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Yamiaura, de Élon Brasil, 2002.</strong></span></p><div align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531009801619201458" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLfGkf4-tW_q5Tf1u660S5ixo18t1gb_37usag9qG3Zp5V-8FQtSchcQ3i9o4YPpKGVZbthTryD8upGEXHCgF8Io5MFqhgE4VYm__pkX8xspNvwwNG86-xHXA7rBUOpTDo6SLvETIAJFY/s400/Yamiaura,+de+Elon+Brasil,+2002..jpg" /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Índio</strong></span></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cccccc;"></span></strong></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong></strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Mulato, de Albert Eckhout.</strong></span></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgozbcU5kuunvcwIr_iuSInjAk5n-aqPJe9S5mcmeZftXf07-eOrKds010VhhoAiDN9yahqGt2AIglA4gbxWQA_6RzVmjR585hmE4Rmog0Y1ocqyn00P7vIjHetRhl1u8DsQ3g3zH581-Q/s1600/Mulato,+de+Albert+Eckhout.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 198px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 310px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531009949977433170" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgozbcU5kuunvcwIr_iuSInjAk5n-aqPJe9S5mcmeZftXf07-eOrKds010VhhoAiDN9yahqGt2AIglA4gbxWQA_6RzVmjR585hmE4Rmog0Y1ocqyn00P7vIjHetRhl1u8DsQ3g3zH581-Q/s400/Mulato,+de+Albert+Eckhout.jpg" /></a> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Mulato</strong></span></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Dois Negros, de Harmensz van Rijn Rembrandt, 1661.<br /></strong></span><br /></div><p align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 321px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531009487907316706" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8V-I5WvdCDfe3wYbjgyKZ08rxoVnWc0rZ_aC0dRd3VREmMc06iz40tJjcpk2BTbpfipczzGsml4-K_XeDdpuckcBs53KgfZ_1NpSlzlLJqnuMB6INAtFms7khpKm1dENTGoSY5wipvxc/s400/Dois+negros+de+Harmensz+van+Rijn+Rembrandt,+1661..jpg" /><br /><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Preto</span></strong></p><p align="center"><span style="color:#000000;"><strong>-</strong> </span><br /><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Retrato de Marinela, de Alberto da Veiga Guignard, 1960.</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></strong><br /><br /></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA8rtsYd1ETQoFOTRAlzJFKkfUul8OvDaG9pCBqsjrinEdOhzrdzCMzBug8kSeqYDqq8038kscaBgEWY-tNdteQFuLzLAqwsP8S7v5NLDanSL5WlKk0O2pmlWUcbpJFwfzvniVkWeXvPA/s1600/Retrato+de+Marinela,+de+Alberto+da+Veiga+Guignard,+1960..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 322px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531009634480769154" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA8rtsYd1ETQoFOTRAlzJFKkfUul8OvDaG9pCBqsjrinEdOhzrdzCMzBug8kSeqYDqq8038kscaBgEWY-tNdteQFuLzLAqwsP8S7v5NLDanSL5WlKk0O2pmlWUcbpJFwfzvniVkWeXvPA/s400/Retrato+de+Marinela,+de+Alberto+da+Veiga+Guignard,+1960..jpg" /> <p align="center"></a><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Branco</span></strong></p><p align="center"><span style="color:#000000;"><strong>-</strong> </span><br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Favela, de Orlando Teruz, 1970.</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></strong> </p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_gvQvOGgSjMDfxLbP4LCCqaw_jUHuBR4WRTeRfU1vyU040xleFPdBEUp_RYrEny_hhPZfoZb99AcLH6l9AKeVj0SeqG3IurXZM8niONbWFZ-yepMkC3TrqGRPDdfepg40R5qZQkf7Ddc/s1600/Favela,+de+Orlando+Teruz,+1970..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 322px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531009303435991666" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_gvQvOGgSjMDfxLbP4LCCqaw_jUHuBR4WRTeRfU1vyU040xleFPdBEUp_RYrEny_hhPZfoZb99AcLH6l9AKeVj0SeqG3IurXZM8niONbWFZ-yepMkC3TrqGRPDdfepg40R5qZQkf7Ddc/s400/Favela,+de+Orlando+Teruz,+1970..jpg" /> <p align="center"></a><br /><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Miséria é miséria </span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;"></span></strong><span style="color:#000000;">-</span><br /><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Em qualquer canto</span></strong> </p><p align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span><br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Fábula, de Siron Franco, 1973.</span></strong> </p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYZ8qmQ2gbAw19YmuZ7h9TpqJ7ODcPgxjhDA8jKhYWgC5OQRj8BIT3cJXedQr6zF3RPuxfgC1Z4RVeGY8maGaDm46wjx9yfXr-KCe1N_cyk6EqiQVSDCFLe9jsN8Ecc8ZjpEHB2u-kUGg/s1600/F%C3%A1bula,+de+Siron+Franco,+1973..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 351px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531009141929014530" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYZ8qmQ2gbAw19YmuZ7h9TpqJ7ODcPgxjhDA8jKhYWgC5OQRj8BIT3cJXedQr6zF3RPuxfgC1Z4RVeGY8maGaDm46wjx9yfXr-KCe1N_cyk6EqiQVSDCFLe9jsN8Ecc8ZjpEHB2u-kUGg/s400/F%C3%A1bula,+de+Siron+Franco,+1973..jpg" /> <p align="center"></a><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Todos sabem usar os dentes</span></strong></p><p align="center"><strong><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></strong><br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">A rainha Dona Mariana da Áustria, </span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">de Diego Rodrigues de Silva y Velazsquez, 1652.</span></strong><br /><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></p><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Er7oDj8CZppOXRPMX9qqztpn2xWUKxRK6jgWoiB7aHbMAG9xThPmPu2miYjcHVFJBDsG3Ovc-QJn7gOG8-vVh1i6OjNq6vmsVxWGC3iLx368s4DMiY2Z-iXyUxoe3myFHcezVC9XHec/s1600/A+rainha+Dona+Mariana+da+%C3%81ustria,+de+Diego+Rodrigues+de+Silva+y+Velazsquez,+1652.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 221px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531008948944869282" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Er7oDj8CZppOXRPMX9qqztpn2xWUKxRK6jgWoiB7aHbMAG9xThPmPu2miYjcHVFJBDsG3Ovc-QJn7gOG8-vVh1i6OjNq6vmsVxWGC3iLx368s4DMiY2Z-iXyUxoe3myFHcezVC9XHec/s400/A+rainha+Dona+Mariana+da+%C3%81ustria,+de+Diego+Rodrigues+de+Silva+y+Velazsquez,+1652.jpg" /></a> <strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Riquezas são diferentes</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;"></span></strong></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">- </span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span><br /><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Retirantes, de Sylvio Pinto.</span></strong></div><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnU5Nvye7RQ1GorqvBOIRtkHUW-mCnmn_Y3BWv-4iGCywbtMpqMgTuaCq__z9plwd0g6sBM4pr4C3lqnrtaOgQkwalzexSeLWdAtgiVdqZzgTElVUhgvvDSCNubi3F8k8p1EWNhNZ8I9I/s1600/Retirantes,+de+Sylvio+Pinto..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 329px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531008782647050994" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnU5Nvye7RQ1GorqvBOIRtkHUW-mCnmn_Y3BWv-4iGCywbtMpqMgTuaCq__z9plwd0g6sBM4pr4C3lqnrtaOgQkwalzexSeLWdAtgiVdqZzgTElVUhgvvDSCNubi3F8k8p1EWNhNZ8I9I/s400/Retirantes,+de+Sylvio+Pinto..jpg" /></a><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong> Ninguém sabe falar esperanto</strong></span></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cccccc;"></span></strong></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Miséria é miséria</strong></span></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cccccc;"></span></strong></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Em qualquer canto</strong></span></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cccccc;"></span></strong></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">- </span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Retrato da dama com unicórnio, de Raffaelo Sânzio, 1506.<br /><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></strong></span></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOPMz7pOYUTHSuw-dYhk1PpDw_E3bxmXYZwpe_jfPyo-EOrzQOsGUa_35FvIizdinrVyEcBqoiNWydDRNy-_bGK7idw71uHIPslXlFZvZ6jHfsAjFXPiJa0-ngs5lr2rYiwY9I6Ms3tZw/s1600/Retrato+da+dama+com+unic%C3%B3rnio,+de+Raffaelo+S%C3%A2nzio,+1506..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 306px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531008560416357362" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOPMz7pOYUTHSuw-dYhk1PpDw_E3bxmXYZwpe_jfPyo-EOrzQOsGUa_35FvIizdinrVyEcBqoiNWydDRNy-_bGK7idw71uHIPslXlFZvZ6jHfsAjFXPiJa0-ngs5lr2rYiwY9I6Ms3tZw/s400/Retrato+da+dama+com+unic%C3%B3rnio,+de+Raffaelo+S%C3%A2nzio,+1506..jpg" /></a> <strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Riquezas são diferentes</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;"></span></strong></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">- </span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span><br /><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">São Martin e o mendigo, de El Greco, 1597-99.</span></strong></div><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi74l8tESB9rRmx6OLOePyKMn0YRveeFPdx_Lb3jae4bHO4yPV4yst6H4wj2J06wqx7X-0W2tzwbqR4B7V5bp5R6Fv5RgslBlAleww6nOgQ7WdKzaotEHKdEwKNpSlNoU7Le0t_DivA7NU/s1600/S%C3%A3o+Martim+e+o+mendigo+de+El+Greco,+1597-99..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 208px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531008388879377970" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi74l8tESB9rRmx6OLOePyKMn0YRveeFPdx_Lb3jae4bHO4yPV4yst6H4wj2J06wqx7X-0W2tzwbqR4B7V5bp5R6Fv5RgslBlAleww6nOgQ7WdKzaotEHKdEwKNpSlNoU7Le0t_DivA7NU/s400/S%C3%A3o+Martim+e+o+mendigo+de+El+Greco,+1597-99..jpg" /></a> <strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Miséria é miséria </span></strong></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;"></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Em qualquer canto</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;"></span></strong></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">- </span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span><br /><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Criança Morta, de Cândido Portinari, 1944.<br /></span><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlnnCBuIyiVCUnnLCLQ_eSPAxi8e9OEUI8JPqZlGO3vDlR2VdkU7ldvaWUomH1zSH1A_EfUvKNb1hbWSYhCjt3YzmbDBi-TKx_tEp3PJVm49VQPe6adj4-96wy76qt7yvQjljGpNTvqyA/s1600/Crian%C3%A7a+morta,+de+C%C3%A2ndido+Portinari,+1944..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 380px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531008222002839458" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlnnCBuIyiVCUnnLCLQ_eSPAxi8e9OEUI8JPqZlGO3vDlR2VdkU7ldvaWUomH1zSH1A_EfUvKNb1hbWSYhCjt3YzmbDBi-TKx_tEp3PJVm49VQPe6adj4-96wy76qt7yvQjljGpNTvqyA/s400/Crian%C3%A7a+morta,+de+C%C3%A2ndido+Portinari,+1944..jpg" /></a> <strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">A morte não causa mais espanto</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;"></span></strong></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">- </span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span><br /><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Alvorecer, meio dia, pôr do sol e crepúsculo, </span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">de Salvador Dalí, 1973.<br /></span><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEmBWcsW7r0fW_4cxIH01lB5EGmaiGNk3TG-80rUbAzou43jeoaSVOTrucsrehRl1Zf7aN8hFOU0Dlco7ARIZpBC_ALX9fU2Nbvdr3UoFqbo01wTEzGNiStc9ZDS_xtmeLZiD2Wv2GuOE/s1600/Alvorecer,+meio+dia,+por+do+sol+e+crep%C3%BAsculo,+de+Salvador+Dal%C3%AD,+1979..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 207px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531007968537142226" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEmBWcsW7r0fW_4cxIH01lB5EGmaiGNk3TG-80rUbAzou43jeoaSVOTrucsrehRl1Zf7aN8hFOU0Dlco7ARIZpBC_ALX9fU2Nbvdr3UoFqbo01wTEzGNiStc9ZDS_xtmeLZiD2Wv2GuOE/s400/Alvorecer,+meio+dia,+por+do+sol+e+crep%C3%BAsculo,+de+Salvador+Dal%C3%AD,+1979..jpg" /></a><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;"> O sol não causa mais espanto</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#000000;"></span></strong></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span><br /><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Favela do Túnel Novo, de Inimá de Paula, 1968.<br /></span></strong><br /></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmpDR2nupI86VKUMehQVUi9HTlFTes2hyTi6aXt_lLaZDyE1PYZ4jpTOd3t5mp6ONO8raqr5iQQiyohkauYrtXna_E5-2BoKhhQ-sLzkiDTEUp-ASz1ELQ82retL33CF7IojzOoHOEjVo/s1600/Favela+do+T%C3%BAnel+Novo,+de+Inim%C3%A1+de+Paula,+ost,+1968,+65x81..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531007781939031138" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmpDR2nupI86VKUMehQVUi9HTlFTes2hyTi6aXt_lLaZDyE1PYZ4jpTOd3t5mp6ONO8raqr5iQQiyohkauYrtXna_E5-2BoKhhQ-sLzkiDTEUp-ASz1ELQ82retL33CF7IojzOoHOEjVo/s400/Favela+do+T%C3%BAnel+Novo,+de+Inim%C3%A1+de+Paula,+ost,+1968,+65x81..jpg" /></a><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;"> Miséria é miséria</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;"></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Em qualquer canto</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;"></span></strong></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">- </span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span><br /><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">La Dansa de Blanco, de Vito Campanella.</span></strong></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;"><strong>-</strong><br /></span></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM3jv2oWtdeqe6CIfYGVl56Qymd2jAQtTfjpy_85j8bv_3bp01c_TdP_FHPcv5YrEs6IDa7F_d7gKl3J53YPJIc9aR8QLZmvkNDtnoXHC7HTgr_1n5HYCpS1E8C8P6Z3oMm8cxvfMZ3iw/s1600/La+dansa+de+blanco,+de+Vito+Campanella..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 297px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531007623492504034" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM3jv2oWtdeqe6CIfYGVl56Qymd2jAQtTfjpy_85j8bv_3bp01c_TdP_FHPcv5YrEs6IDa7F_d7gKl3J53YPJIc9aR8QLZmvkNDtnoXHC7HTgr_1n5HYCpS1E8C8P6Z3oMm8cxvfMZ3iw/s400/La+dansa+de+blanco,+de+Vito+Campanella..jpg" /></a> <strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Riquezas são diferentes</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;"></span></strong></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">- </span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span><br /><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Abstrato, de Tikashi Fukushima.</span></strong></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;"><strong>-</strong><br /></span></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6r5i3V9UnSHe-Xu3Ijh9VQEyzn7kRJ7An-FnD25JPEmxufdLRQCDWjmU3G91IqyLiQo620DIkBrsyV-PeolMQthtINmfS9ICrpKXQJ37mHfVyTHdVLHnyMYC-OskmGZAw7naVPscDpOM/s1600/Abstrato,+de+Tikashi+Fukushima..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 398px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531007438549703202" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6r5i3V9UnSHe-Xu3Ijh9VQEyzn7kRJ7An-FnD25JPEmxufdLRQCDWjmU3G91IqyLiQo620DIkBrsyV-PeolMQthtINmfS9ICrpKXQJ37mHfVyTHdVLHnyMYC-OskmGZAw7naVPscDpOM/s400/Abstrato,+de+Tikashi+Fukushima..jpg" /></a><br /><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Cores</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;"></span></strong></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">- </span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-<br /></span><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Raça, de Gisele Ulisse, 2010.</span></strong><br /><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHPlLxq6NTeKu0QYlY2APTgVsCq-n45s88Ma4qHGcRTF2olPwVeV7TTJntU4Hzanr-V85s1dtJfffphXzIemsHu7JTNu9IZDY-7kUhsol-zrCQFYTMm8enyh2OqodO_UxfDNNdxKhiBAU/s1600/Ra%C3%A7a,+de+Gisele+Ulisse,+2010..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 267px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531007118956077074" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHPlLxq6NTeKu0QYlY2APTgVsCq-n45s88Ma4qHGcRTF2olPwVeV7TTJntU4Hzanr-V85s1dtJfffphXzIemsHu7JTNu9IZDY-7kUhsol-zrCQFYTMm8enyh2OqodO_UxfDNNdxKhiBAU/s400/Ra%C3%A7a,+de+Gisele+Ulisse,+2010..jpg" /></a> <strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Raças</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;"></span></strong></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">- </span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span><br /><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">As Caravanas, de Vincent van Gogh, 1888.<br /></span><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5tL7frbAxwNFQGg0-VJ9eu_etKkvJpYlU1M4a65SriTpc25ly-8xXdyTuZINEhSKHoNmtrNBH35fQ5-5shkfOiwOv1Idlw-MbN7OyOA_MD2aAc8TWh-jSB9vWmsG8qVpdYpEw8Q7U0D0/s1600/As+Caravanas,+de+Vincent+van+Gogh,+1888..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 343px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531006930857369074" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5tL7frbAxwNFQGg0-VJ9eu_etKkvJpYlU1M4a65SriTpc25ly-8xXdyTuZINEhSKHoNmtrNBH35fQ5-5shkfOiwOv1Idlw-MbN7OyOA_MD2aAc8TWh-jSB9vWmsG8qVpdYpEw8Q7U0D0/s400/As+Caravanas,+de+Vincent+van+Gogh,+1888..jpg" /></a> <strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Castas</span></strong></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">- </span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-<br /></span><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">A Ciranda de Jesus, de Antônio Eustáquio.</span></strong></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;"><strong>-</strong><br /></span></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvOf8QEVU10gDcXluvs0syeF9xj-YtQY1MBmlCen06P2PURDuEbEfO2Hxf-GsIIfVvCGebhYKWsMS0O_Q9uzM7G9fcX_BczEbcdefdjD9L_MrDvm4Cw1UsKH8rer8rfSnmvuVww7XnD-c/s1600/A+ciranda+de+Jesus,+de+Ant%C3%B4nio+Eust%C3%A1quio..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 350px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531006733072078530" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvOf8QEVU10gDcXluvs0syeF9xj-YtQY1MBmlCen06P2PURDuEbEfO2Hxf-GsIIfVvCGebhYKWsMS0O_Q9uzM7G9fcX_BczEbcdefdjD9L_MrDvm4Cw1UsKH8rer8rfSnmvuVww7XnD-c/s400/A+ciranda+de+Jesus,+de+Ant%C3%B4nio+Eust%C3%A1quio..jpg" /></a> <strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Crenças</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;"></span></strong></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">- </span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span><br /><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Cena da Corte, de Giovanni Panza.</span></strong></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;"><strong>-</strong><br /></span></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4nG26XsWmjokYcZPlqvfrrzaGH-GrGQCuHhWC4EqIdCQlrYzIzGX5WCS1GvAY5g6JVH76OLGI63lZUU7wc4Mh1mrzxHKTsi2mNi23wZxi4MBM3FUVcfkzm9Zd_JZfAXjiQQe3ToFy4rc/s1600/Cena+da+corte,+de+Giovanni+Panza..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 279px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531006375907851346" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4nG26XsWmjokYcZPlqvfrrzaGH-GrGQCuHhWC4EqIdCQlrYzIzGX5WCS1GvAY5g6JVH76OLGI63lZUU7wc4Mh1mrzxHKTsi2mNi23wZxi4MBM3FUVcfkzm9Zd_JZfAXjiQQe3ToFy4rc/s400/Cena+da+corte,+de+Giovanni+Panza..jpg" /></a> <strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Riquezas são diferenças </span></strong></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">- </span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span><br /><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Criança com um chicote, de Pierre-Auguste Renoir, 1885.</span></strong><br /><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE3zr97vZkbpHnVMdhJs8XLk7holOv0Ldk5J5_CeoEdVv8vvTNzRvWyBWA9_kO5w5pl4aESUATDp0Ikkx_9dFsxjtlDVx1RULaxnk0quKvW-aP_VMFUYbX8cdCwkOnWUfyzpAKHgObNVE/s1600/Crian%C3%A7a+com+um+chicote,+de+Pierre-Auguste+Renoir,+1885..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 292px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531006202583083938" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE3zr97vZkbpHnVMdhJs8XLk7holOv0Ldk5J5_CeoEdVv8vvTNzRvWyBWA9_kO5w5pl4aESUATDp0Ikkx_9dFsxjtlDVx1RULaxnk0quKvW-aP_VMFUYbX8cdCwkOnWUfyzpAKHgObNVE/s400/Crian%C3%A7a+com+um+chicote,+de+Pierre-Auguste+Renoir,+1885..jpg" /> <p align="center"></a><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">E as crianças brincam</span></strong></p><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;"></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Com a violência</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#000000;"></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;"></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;"></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;"></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;"></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Viaduto do Chá em 1914 com Teatro Municipal, </span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">de Waldemar Maramgoni, 2008</span></strong><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYrRYIls9HM9AtNYnLFfv9W8hqriErXmh0RgF4SDqJtuPy3ozQOyCYGFEEGQ0TODHuCq21s8_JT24mIvzEcRiX5cYWqABp01JkkGMEyYr4d1Xd5-T6df5gHj2HoeEBB29ShPOET6uPj_c/s1600/Viaduto+do+Ch%C3%A1+-+1914+-+com+Teatro+Municipal,+de+Waldemar+Maramgoni,+2008..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 401px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 244px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531005759494891266" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYrRYIls9HM9AtNYnLFfv9W8hqriErXmh0RgF4SDqJtuPy3ozQOyCYGFEEGQ0TODHuCq21s8_JT24mIvzEcRiX5cYWqABp01JkkGMEyYr4d1Xd5-T6df5gHj2HoeEBB29ShPOET6uPj_c/s400/Viaduto+do+Ch%C3%A1+-+1914+-+com+Teatro+Municipal,+de+Waldemar+Maramgoni,+2008..jpg" /></a><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Nesse cinema sem tela</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Que passa pela cidade</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Ah, que tempo mais</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Vagabundo esse</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;"><span style="color:#000000;">-<br /></span>Que escolheram</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cccccc;">Para a gente viver</span></strong> </div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>(Música Milagres, de Cazuza/Frejat/Denise Barroso e </strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Miséria, de Arnaldo Antunes/Sérgio Brito/Paulo Miklos)</strong></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span><br /></div></strong></span>PATRICKÍSSIMOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06336848038239900187noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027651290364161121.post-46164224140930775762010-10-06T16:59:00.000-07:002010-10-06T17:16:39.689-07:00Natureza morta, de Yara Manier, 1994 e A casa e o cosmo, de Rodrigo Brasil, 2009.<div align="center"><span style="color:#000000;">-</span></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_3pdy24JvZE1gpsQxz-rDF3nACT-TrRk25_0zQPI0goQ84OpRZ9pUdYUYx84RyLvCLKF-MZOKdXMk2c1PfKMySbJOeE3oVs3b9VaydWjZx1TFjNt-_SzM7TuTx9DzEEmH49hwrgNowtY/s1600/Natureza+morta,+de+Yara+Manier,+1994..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 319px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525088821390294194" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_3pdy24JvZE1gpsQxz-rDF3nACT-TrRk25_0zQPI0goQ84OpRZ9pUdYUYx84RyLvCLKF-MZOKdXMk2c1PfKMySbJOeE3oVs3b9VaydWjZx1TFjNt-_SzM7TuTx9DzEEmH49hwrgNowtY/s400/Natureza+morta,+de+Yara+Manier,+1994..jpg" /></a></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#000000;"><strong>-</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>A lua inteira agora</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>É um manto negro</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>São quatro ciclos</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>No escuro deserto</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Do céu<br /></strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWH0a5-dQmVc3aPtu0crkzaIcIb3vAhTyIMJqUi5H9NXxc6ffV3NNnyoUGBnH2-vOUF1wgZjM0S-WfUD8Q3Jq3tzCfzr45p-nQj4XAvazzi0BXUPWtB3ajEB2cbgE2SHuSCmFeCuDgL64/s1600/A+casa+e+o+cosmo,+de+Rodrigo+Brasil,+2009..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 272px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525088604551839202" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWH0a5-dQmVc3aPtu0crkzaIcIb3vAhTyIMJqUi5H9NXxc6ffV3NNnyoUGBnH2-vOUF1wgZjM0S-WfUD8Q3Jq3tzCfzr45p-nQj4XAvazzi0BXUPWtB3ajEB2cbgE2SHuSCmFeCuDgL64/s400/A+casa+e+o+cosmo,+de+Rodrigo+Brasil,+2009..jpg" /></a><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#000000;"><strong>- </strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Sempre estar lá</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>E ver ele voltar</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>O tolo teme a noite</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Como a noite vai temer</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>O fogo</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Vou chorar sem medo</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>Vou lembrar do tempo</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>De onde eu via</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cccccc;"><strong>O mundo azul</strong></span></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cccccc;">(Trechos da música O astronauta de mármore: </span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#cccccc;">versão da banda Nenhum de nós)</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#000000;">-</span></strong></div><blockquote></blockquote>PATRICKÍSSIMOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06336848038239900187noreply@blogger.com4