Monday, December 12, 2011
Thursday, December 8, 2011
I was at the acupuncturist's.
It was my first time.
She put the needles in as I told jokes
to the ceiling. She put more needles in.
I tensed up and let out a demented clown laugh.
It made her stop for a second.
There was a gentle gong-and-bell track
piped in via hidden speakers.
"The speakers are in the jade plant," she said.
I tensed up again. I was golden brown.
I felt like one of those bad clowns.
The kind that hide in the sewers.
The acupuncturist was trying to help me.
Craig uses simple language to describe a single moment that seems to speak of something more poignant. What I really find beautiful is Craig's ability to use a seemingly vague phrase such as "bad clowns" to create an image and feeling that connects with readers. The description of "the kind that hide in the sewers" is enough to create a picture of the "demented clown laugh" and the awkward moment created in the situation. Craig's ability to say so much in such few words adds to the beauty of the poem.
This is called something like "Two Breton Women in the Road." I think the plain surety of the texture and repetition of color in swatches is beautiful, especially when those colors are so vibrant and the most delicate, visually drawing part of the painting is not the hills or trees or women's bodies or clothes, but the careful attention on the one peasant's face as she listens to the other. This painting compels me and confuses me by its ability to do so.
Millhauser's "Dangerous Laughter" is one of the most beautiful collections of short stories that I have encountered. He artfully takes metaphors to the levels of fantastic stories, but at the same time grounds the fantasy in a language that argues for their reality. The reader is simultaneously amused by the impossibility of it all and fighting the strong desire to check if some of the events described have actually occurred. This collection walks a fine line between reality and fantasy and in exploiting the division creates some incredibly rich metaphors.
In the course of time, Babette wins the French National Lottery (her nephews(?) enter her every year), and she elects to spend all the money on one luxurious, perfect meal that slowly, inexorably breaks down the divisions between the people in the community, their understanding of the demands that their religion places on them change entirely in the face of the incredible beauty of this feast and the act of generosity on the part of Babette. This has got to be one of the most beautiful films I have ever seen, not so much because of its cinematography or mise-en-scene, but because of the feeling of absolute warmth it projects.
This is the feast scene itself, broken into two parts. Important background information: the members of the community, used to self-denial, have sworn not to enjoy the decadent and, in their minds, decidedly Catholic meal.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
In all seriousness, I do believe that there is some form of pleasure that we derive from something beautiful upon encountering it. I personally don't believe that pleasure is a completely separate reaction that diverges from experiencing true beauty, the way some of our philosophers have stated. Setting aside sensual attraction for a moment, our attraction to certain objects like paintings or concepts like math equations creates some type of response, whether to act fair and just as Scarry would have us believe, or to try to recreate it or share it with others.
Although some may say that sensual attraction has no validity in the argument of things that are beautiful, I do not find our tendency to find certain people "beautiful" as being a misuse of the word. I find a tremendous amount of beauty in the concept of attraction and what it takes for an individual to bond with another in a very personal way. Stemming from these ideas, I would like to argue that although humans derive pleasure from sex, I am certain that many individuals would find the act and the experience to be beautiful nonetheless.
In the first place, let me treat of the nature of man and what has happened to it; for the original human nature was not like the present, but different. The sexes were not two as they are now, but originally three in number; there was man, woman, and the union of the two, having a name corresponding to this double nature, which had once a real existence, but is now lost, and the word "Androgynous" is only preserved as a term of reproach.
In the second place, the primeval man was round, his back and sides forming a circle; and he had four hands and four feet, one head with two faces, looking opposite ways, set on a round neck and precisely alike; also four ears, two privy members, and the remainder to correspond. He could walk upright as men now do, backwards or forwards as he pleased, and he could also roll over and over at a great pace, turning on his four hands and four feet, eight in all, like tumblers going over and over with their legs in the air; this was when he wanted to run fast.
Now the sexes were three, and such as I have described them; because the sun, moon, and earth are three; - and the man was originally the child of the sun, the woman of the earth, and the man - woman of the moon, which is made up of sun and earth, and they were all round and moved round and round: like their parents. Terrible was their might and strength, and the thoughts of their hearts were great, and they made an attack upon the gods.
Doubt reigned in the celestial councils. Should they kill them and annihilate the race with thunderbolts, as they had done the giants, then there would be an end of the sacrifices and worship which men offered to them; but, on the other hand, the gods could not suffer their insolence to be unrestrained.
At last, after a good deal of reflection, Zeus discovered a way. He said: "Methinks I have a plan which will humble their pride and improve their manners; men shall continue to exist, but I will cut them in two and then they will be diminished in strength and increased in numbers; this will have the advantage of making them more profitable to us. They shall walk upright on two legs, and if they continue insolent and will not be quiet, I will split them again and they shall hop about on a single leg."
After the division the two parts of man, each desiring his other half, came together, and throwing their arms about one another, entwined in mutual embraces, longing to grow into one, they were on the point of dying from hunger and self - neglect, because they did not like to do anything apart; and when one of the halves died and the other survived, the survivor sought another mate, man or woman as we call them, being the sections of entire men or women, and clung to that. They were being destroyed, when Zeus in pity of them invented a new plan: he turned the parts of generation round to the front, for this had not been always their position and they sowed the seed no longer as hitherto like grasshoppers in the ground, but in one another; and after the transposition the male generated in the female in order that by the mutual embraces of man and woman they might breed, and the race might continue; or if man came to man they might be satisfied, and rest, and go their ways to the business of life: so ancient is the desire of one another which is implanted in us, reuniting our original nature, making one of two, and healing the state of man.
Each of us when separated, having one side only, like a flat fish, is but the indenture of a man, and he is always looking for his other half. Men who are a section of that double nature which was once called Androgynous are lovers of women. The women who are a section of the woman do not care for men, but have female attachments; the female companions are of this sort. But they who are a section of the male follow the male. And when one of them meets with his other half, the actual half of himself, whether he be a lover of youth or a lover of another sort, the pair are lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy, and would not be out of the other's sight, as I may say, even for a moment: these are the people who pass their whole lives together; yet they could not explain what they desire of one another. For the intense yearning which each of them has towards the other does not appear to be the desire of lover's intercourse, but of something else which the soul of either evidently desires and cannot tell, and of which she has only a dark and doubtful presentiment. And the reason is that human nature was originally one and we were a whole, and the desire and pursuit of the whole is called love.
My words have a wider application - they include men and women everywhere; and I believe that if our loves were perfectly accomplished, and each one returning to his primeval nature had his original true love, then our race would be happy. And if this would be best of all, the best in the next degree and under present circumstances must be the nearest approach to such an union; and that will be the attainment of a congenial love. Wherefore, if we would praise him who has given to us the benefit, we must praise the god Love, who is our greatest benefactor, both leading us in this life back to our own nature, and giving us high hopes for the future, for he promises that if we are pious, he will restore us to our original state, and heal us and make us happy and blessed.
Zoos are a strange place for me. They make me both wildly ecstatic and very sad at the same time. The prospect of going to see wolves "in the fur" is ridiculously exciting, but once I go and see the reality and the poor pups are cooped up in an enclosure that is tiny compared to what they would have in the wild, I get very sad. The same goes for the polar bear who swims in the same little pool and climbs up the same little rocks for every day of his life, and the tiger who naps in the same spot of sun on the same boulder every day. The animals themselves still look beautiful and majestic, its just when their surroundings are factored in, the beauty saps away. I think this feeling might be universal- those who stand in awe when they hear a chorus of wolves howling in Yellowstone might only be a fraction as excited when hearing wolves howling in an enclosure. I'm wondering whether this is true for inanimate beautiful things as well as the animate ones. I have a picture that can illustrate my point as well- a beautiful peacock in a crummy enclosure.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
I hope this old train breaks down
Then I could take a walk around
And, see what there is to see
And time is just a melody
All the people in the street
Walk as fast as their feet can take them
I just roll through town
And though my windows got a view
The frame I'm looking through
Seems to have no concern for now
So for now
I need this
Old train to breakdown
Oh please just
Let me please breakdown
This engine screams out loud
Centipede gonna crawl westbound
So I don't even make a sound
Cause it's gonna sting me when I leave this town
All the people in the street
That I'll never get to meet
If these tracks don't bend somehow
And I got no time
That I got to get to
Where I don't need to be
But you cant stop nothing
If you got no control
Of the thoughts in your mind
That you kept in, you know
You don't know nothing
But you don't need to know
The wisdoms in the trees
Not the glass windows
You cant stop wishing
If you don't let go
But things that you find
And you lose, and you know
You keep on rolling
Put the moment on hold
The frames too bright
So put the blinds down low
I love to Jack Johnson, especially around finals time since his songs are super relaxing, and happy-go-lucky. This is by far one of my favorite songs by him just because the lyrics remind me to slow down in life and appreciate the things around me. Usually, i'm so focused on where i need to go that i forget to appreciate the ride along the way, or the journey towards my goal. I think this is beautiful because it inspires me to change my ways, and live my life differently.
Song link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y4O7ufx9D_s
Monday, December 5, 2011
"I am drawn to humble, yet evocative materials; in this case, crushed beer cans from the streets of New York - every one of them once raised to someone’s lips. My process of “recycling” them into images of butterflies is a quiet physical meditation, a yoga of tin snips and files and fingers. As the butterflies alight on the walls of my studio, they lead into an exploration of formal, painterly issues. Often, they want to gather into a certain shape, or fly off on a particular tangent, and I let them. They function both as marks in these abstract, three-dimensional “paintings,” and as actors in curious narratives. Some pieces develop a quirky, magic-realist quality, as if a strange child has trained the insects to perform some ritual dance we are not usually privy to. Finally, the butterflies operate symbolically, and I try to develop a conceptual unity between materials, process, and imagery: metamorphosing littered beer cans into flocks of butterflies mirrors the act of transformation and rebirth that butterflies symbolize across all cultures…."
I feel like art is so enchanting to us because as humans we have the ability and opportunity to recreate the things we find in nature into more meaningful patterns and showcases. Again, I believe it is remarkable how some people have the vision to take ordinary objects like beer bottles, records, crack cocaine vials (see artwork on bottom left corner of photograph) and transform them into something beautiful.
George Orwell’s essay, Politics and the English Language, is beautiful because
he focuses on the importance of communication rather than the impression that
one’s writing makes on others. Therfore,
he does not write to impress others or create a hierarchy of intelligence
between him and the reader, but to benefit the reader by opening his or her
mind to his point of view. I believe
this is where the power of the English language lies, not in complex sentence
structures or big words.
Listen at about 1:35. That's Roy Goodman, making what I take to be one of the most beautiful sounds a person can make. Goodman later hit puberty and his voice broke - obviously, I never heard him in person, but a friend played this recording for me a while ago, and I find myself going back to it again and again.
This is a permanent exhibit in the Phoenix Art Museum by a Japanese artist named Yayoi Kusama. This picture is the best I could find though it doesn't really do the artwork justice.
For me, Douglas Gordon’s Play Dead; Real Time is a good example of art in which I am more attracted to the conceptual underpinnings, as opposed to the actual subject matter. So I’m not suggesting that this particular elephant is beautiful (even though she might truly be so; who is to say?) or that training elephants is beautiful (which can in fact be seen as somewhat ghastly and cruel). I’m more interested in what the video is doing for me. I like how the screens attempt to present the elephant as life-size as possible, as if it is in the room with us, filling our world like the elephant belongs to it. We can only work with what we’re given, so maybe our reaction is meant to be specific. By continually falling, the elephant on the screen would seem to anticipate our sensitivity to its struggle to get up. We’re momentarily invested in the animal’s effort, as if we’re somehow implicated in the action and called to respond. Only after we might remind ourselves that it’s not "real"— the elephant is trained and is probably doing just fine. I’m amazed by art that can produce those kinds of reactions in viewers.
I originally saw the video in a series that I cannot now find and which would be too long to post on here anyways. Sorry I couldn’t really find a good video without commentary that was just strictly on the installation.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
An old man sits
In the shadow of a pine tree
He sees larkspur,
Blue and white,
At the edge of the shadow,
Move in the wind.
His beard moves in the wind.
The pine tree moves in the wind.
Thus water flows
The night is of the color
Of a woman's arm:
Night, the female,
Fragrant and supple,
A pool shines,
Like a bracelet
Shaken in a dance.
I measure myself
Against a tall tree.
I find that I am much taller,
For I reach right up to the sun,
With my eye;
And I reach to the shore of the sea
With my ear.
Nevertheless, I dislike
The way ants crawl
In and out of my shadow.
When my dream was near the moon,
The white folds of its gown
Filled with yellow light.
The soles of its feet
Its hair filled
With certain blue crystallizations
Not far off.
Not all the knives of the lamp-posts,
Nor the chisels of the long streets,
Nor the mallets of the domes
And high towers,
What one star can carve,
Shining through the grape-leaves.
Rationalists, wearing square hats,
Think, in square rooms,
Looking at the floor,
Looking at the ceiling.
They confine themselves
To right-angled triangles.
If they tried rhomboids,
Cones, waving lines, ellipses --
As, for example, the ellipse of the half-moon --
Rationalists would wear sombreros.
Not only does the star carving through the grape-leaves remind me of Scarry's palm tree epiphany, but also Stevens' creation of his own phenomenological experience (the strangeness of the wind and water in the first part, being taller than the tree because he can reach the sun or the shore with eye and ear, etc.) as the content of the poem often seems to distract readers and critics from what is really at stake aesthetically. How is what Stevens put to paper controlling our perception? When we talk about the beauty of this poem, for instance, are we talking about his absurd system of rationale in the last part or the way he compares the movement of water over weeds to the movement of a pine tree in the wind and why? Are we really concerned with Stevens' system of cognition and theory? Or are we talking about our experience of reading those lines, separate from what one may assume to be Stevens philosophical, aesthetic position? Or is it some difficult combination of the two?
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
"The Laughing Heart"
your life is your life
don't let it be clubbed
into dank submission
be on the watch;
there are ways out
there's light somewhere
it may not be much light,
but it beats the darkness
be on the watch
the gods will offer you chances;
know them . . . take them
you can't beat death, but you can
beat death in life . . . sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be
your life is your life
know it while you have it;
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight in you
I am breaking one of the rules I set for myself as a beauty blogger in this post. I told myself that I would only post pictures of paintings, sculptures, buildings, etc. that I had witnessed in person but I couldn't help myself. I love Dali and I was moved to share this work. The piece itself is owned by the William Bennett Gallery in New York. It is an illustration (of a series of illustrations) created by Salvador Dali to accompany Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland. This particular one is titled "Advice from a Caterpiller."
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
I couldn’t think of an example during class, but I’ve remembered an instance when I made one of the errors that Scarry discusses—the recognition that something which deserved to be called beautiful had been previously withheld that attribution. I had always hated Louise Bourgeois’ sculpture “Maman,” which I had only ever seen in pictures, mostly because I abhor bugs and couldn’t find anything interesting or acceptable about a giant spider. It wasn’t until I actually saw one of the sculptures in Ottawa that I found them to be beautiful. It’s just one of those situations where you have to experience it in person. I found it somewhat humorous when, in a press release by the Tate, Bourgeois says that spiders are “helpful and protective” as they “eat mosquitoes.” I didn’t come to see the sculpture as beautiful as a result of background info I learned about the artist’s wish to make allusions to a mother’s protectiveness. This was all very poignant and, of course, central to the meaning behind the sculpture. What was more profound for me was the moment when being in the presence of this art work changed my impression of something I had always thought of as ugly.
My noon had come, to dine-
I, trembling, drew the table near
And touched the curious wine.
'T was this on tables I had seen
When turning, hungry, lone,
I looked in windows, for the wealth
I could not hope to own.
I did not know the ample bread,
'T was so unlike the crumb
The birds and I had often shared
In Nature's dining-room.
The plenty hurt me, 't was so new,--
Myself felt ill and odd,
As berry of a mountain bush
Transplanted to the road.
Nor was I hungry; so I found
That hunger was a way
Of persons outside windows,
The entering takes away.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Early September I was walking home at night through an alley (no, I was not alone, in case you were worried) and actually had a moment where I stopped walking to witness how mesmerized I was by the ground beneath me. For about thirty feet or so in front of me lay a dust of miniscule diamonds embedded in the cracks of the asphalt and shimmering under the artificial light of a streetlamp. No, they were not real diamonds, but of course tiny shards of glass from broken liquor bottles that must have been there for quite some time. The shards seemed to be dug into the ground by tires from cars, deceptively serving as one of the materials used to pave the road. For someone who just wanted to get home as quickly as possible on an unusually cold fall night, I remember that alleyway quite vividly and how I deliberately stopped walking to take a better look. I still recall how amused I was at something as familiar as broken glass that seemed to serve an aesthetic purpose for an otherwise bland backdrop. I have realized that I enjoy being fascinated by objects that aren't by themselves supposed to be beautiful. If put in the right place, an ordinary object becomes anything but. Perspective is everything.
...from the collection of the Louvre. Michelangelo's slaves are all about muscular torsion, the body restricted and bound. They are violently homoerotic and look forward to something like Mapplethorpe's sadomasochistic photography. In more extreme examples, the figures struggle to break free of the blocks of stone they're carved from.
the sleeping worm
of the apple
"any life saved in this place
is magic" Frank said
"it's life coming back to you"
This short, untitled poem is from a collection called The Book of Frank, comprised of many untitled, less-than-a-page-long poems revolving around a sexless, gender-less persona, Frank.
This poem has a haiku-like, imagistic clarity at the start. The reader is offered a glimpse of a specific situation; the lines are precise, almost uncomfortable in their handling of the situation as inherent or normal. (The worm is of the apple.) Then the speaker provides an aphoristic quotation, at first seemingly unrelated to the image which preceded it. The delay in connection amplifies the impact. Plus the ambiguity of the aphorism (Is the saving of life the preservation of the worm by the apple and its hibernation inside it or the sparing of its life by the human's careful eating?) allows the short poem to move beyond its limitations. The content and organization of the poem as well as its almost inextricable place within a larger work violates expectation. What sort of poem is this, one may ask. Certainly steeped in traditions of Japanese poetry, American imagism, and English epigrammatic verse, it is simultaneously outside these genres. Is this reverent emulation or something else? How sincere is the poem, given its positioning as part of The Book of Frank within literary history?
Let's get a drink
It's too muddy
to take a walk
Let's get a drink
Or you could bring some wine over
and some flowers
Because the bars are closed
even if you bang on the doors
The rain is beautiful
for about 5 minutes
and then it is annoying
your red lips
making a circle
replace the sun
If I'm lucky
In the mail yesterday, I found an envelope from Wave books. In it were about 15 printer pages stapled together. The cover page says TRANSLATIONS FROM HAFIZ. On each page is a short ghazal translated by Matthew Rohrer. There are 10 poems total. It doesn't come across here, but when you read several of the poems in succession, a distinct pattern emerges. This kind of lean musicality underpins what appear to be completely casual speech-acts. It's as though everyday-ness assumes a decalmatory posture in the poem. The effect is at once urgent and deliberate.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
I’ve already posted on one of her films recently, but I will single out Keira Knightley specifically here by saying that I think she has one of the most beautiful faces. I’m not sure if this is over-generalizing, but it seems somewhat similar to what Elaine Scarry calls a “clear discernibility” or “wordless certainty” about beauty. It’s not something I have to even think about—Keira is beautiful, and it doesn’t seem like a situation where I’ll one day say, “No, I was wrong.” I understand that human beauty especially allows for a great variability of responses and judgments. But, to me, it just feels like her beauty is self-evident, as if no one could deny it.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
This is a picture of a little pond in my favorite forest preserve. When my friends and I walk through the prairie part of the preserve to get to the forest there is one pond on each side of the trail, and they mark the half-way point (also that we took the right trail), so we're always happy to see them. On this particular day when we finally stumbled upon the twin ponds the way the light hit the water and the water reflected the sky was just breath-taking. It's almost as though I was looking at two skies, or an arch of heavily forested land that cuts through the sky... there's just so many ways to look at this picture. There's a different thing to see in the differently angled pictures, but I just felt that this one inspired my imagination the most, so I chose it to represent that moment. I guess this means that for me illusions like this in ordinary scenery that cause you to take a second glance and set your imagination soaring definitely fit the bill for beautiful.
I love this series of men in classic pin-up poses. This is supposedly one of the most popular, probably because of the straight-seeming masculinity as a starker contrast to the pose than some of the other men who look a little more queer or ambiguous about their orientation or gender performance.
Unfortunately the image is really small so here's the text of the poem:
from Love in the Time of War
Hand-to-hand: the two hugged each other
into a naked tussle, one riding the other's back,
locked into a double embrace. One
forced the other to kiss the ground,
as he cursed & bit into an earlobe.
They shook beads of dew off the grass.
One worked his fingers into the black soil,
& could feel a wing easing out of his scapula.
That night, the lucky one who gripped
a stone like Mercury weighing the planet
in his palm, who knew windfall
& downfall, he fell against his darling
again & again, as if holding that warrior in his arms,
& couldn't stop himself from lifting off the earth.
I think broadsides are a type of replication, celebration, or renewal of the poem. You stamp each letter onto thick paper and an artist draws or paints an image alongside the poem. The poem, which is often already published elsewhere, is renewed and changed at the same time. It turns the piece of paper into an entirely different kind of art work. The poem, which previously existed simply as language and letters on a page, is now part of a much more visual work, or at least more self-consciously visual.
Monday, November 21, 2011
This is a great painting by Frank Stella (nominally a Minimalist, but we could get into why I don't think it makes sense to call him one). The title comes from a colloquial Spanish expression meaning something like "from life nothing to death nothing." The shaped canvas sets up an interesting tension between extreme, literal flatness and the optical impression of dimensionality, which I think is key to the way this painting works. If my experience is any judge, you can't seriously look at it without being made profoundly aware of its visual, autonomous presence - you can see for yourself at the Art Institute of Chicago - but what I mean is this: it manages to collapse its shape (its thingly character?) into a total, optical experience.
I really admire Hollie Chastain for her ability to create extraordinary paper collages using old book covers, photographs, and construction paper. The bright colors accent the yellowed and worn book cover pages so well, giving more life and movement to the images as a whole. Creating something fresh and bold out of discarded and otherwise bland material is truly inspirational. Here is a link for more of her work: http://holliechastain.com/
Banksy, a British political activist and painter, has an incredibly interesting way to manifest his thoughts through mockery of controversial situations. For example, he painted the above picture on walls in Bethlehem, which was made to separate the Palestinians from Israelis. This wall is about 4x larger than the Berlin wall and is spurring even more hatred between the two heated groups. Banksy's paintings are interesting because he painted such a light-hearted carefree picture of a girl with balloons on a wall that represents hatred and separation. I personally think his bold statements are beautiful because it allows the people who live there to look at the wall in a different way, and it forces them to open their eyes. It also reminds the citizens daily about how ridiculous the wall actually is.
A citizen's opinion that explained this idea further:
"Banksy also recounts that an old man came up to him and told him that he was making the wall look beautiful. Banksy thanked him. The old man replied, “We don’t want it to be beautiful. We hate that wall. Go away.”
For some more of Banksy's pictures, check out:
This is the opening to Philip Glass’s Glassworks. I know you could probably find another almost identical video on YouTube, but the reason I decided to post a video of myself playing it has to do with something Elaine Scarry says in On Beauty and Being Just. Beauty necessitates replication, an “unceasing begetting…the perpetual duplicating of a moment that never stops.” The reason why we stare at something beautiful is so fundamentally obvious—a face, palm trees, a statue. We don’t want the beautiful thing to go away. We’re satisfied if we can continue to stare. I guess the same can apply to sound. With this song, I could practice it for hours and never tire of it. To say the least, the song is repetitive, which some people might hate, and if you’ve listened to the first two minutes or so, it would almost be as if you’ve heard the whole thing. But I think Glass understood Scarry's notion when he wrote the piece—I might speak only for myself, but it’s like I don’t want the sound to go away. I want it to be repeated over again and am glad it was written that way.
(It’s a poor substitute, but this is for someone to whom I had said I’d play this “next time there’s a piano…” Sorry we haven't found one.)
Thursday, November 17, 2011
This is a canto from Pound's Pisan Cantos, written while detained in an outdoor cage on the plains outside of Pisa, Italy. In what way is this concealed and unconcealed? In what way is this declaration and image coupled with the indecipherable or impenetrable personal as well as historical? How much do we need to know, and how does that affect the judgment of the Canto as good art?
(As a note, the blog obliterated Pound's indentations, which add a lot to the poem. Sorry for that.)