Without further rhetoric or utopian scheming, I have a simple suggestion that if followed would begin to bring wilderness, farmers, people, and the economies back. That is: don’t move. Stay still. Once you find a place that feels halfway right, and it seems time, settle down with a vow not to move any more. Then, take a look at one place on earth, one circle of people, on realm of beings over time, conviviality and maintenance will improve. School boards and planning commissions will have better people on them, and larger and more widely concerned audiences will be attending. Small environmental issues will be attended to. More voters will turn out, because local issues at least make a difference, can be won—and national scale politics too might improve, with enough folks getting out there. People begin to really notice the plants, birds, stars, when they see themselves as members of a place. Not only do they begin to work the soil, they go out hiking, explore the back country or the beach, get on the Freddies’ ass for mismanaging Peoples’ land, and doing that as locals counts! Early settlers, old folks, are valued and respected, we make an effort to learn their stories and pass it on to our children, who will live here too. We look deeply back in time to the original inhabitants, and far ahead to our own descendants, in the mind of knowing a context, with its own kind of tools, boots, songs. Mainstream thinkers have overlooked it: real people stay put. And when things are coasting along ok, they can also take off and travel, there’s no delight like swapping stories downstream. Dont Move! I’d say this really works because here on our side of the Sierra, Yuba river country, we can begin to see some fruits of a mere fifteen years’ inhabitation, it looks good.

I almost never feel that I am doing enough, unless I’m burying my body in sand at the beach or paddling over a set with my mouth full of salt or building electric fence for sheep (which I have only done twice) or performing. But I have spent my entire adult life and most of my childhood defining myself by what I do: I’m a writer, I’m an artist, I’m an activist, I’m an environmental justice worker, etc., etc., etc. And as it turns out I have done kind of a lot of things even though of the 3 books I have written I haven’t published a single one; and I still don’t manage a flock of sheep, let alone any land; and I haven’t done a performance since like the beginning of last year; and I’m on some kind of weird hiatus from surfing while I do a bunch of work (namely, environmental justice advocacy and writing and training as a shepherd and figuring out how I am going to have a long-term relationship to land I care about) and now that my job is not getting the Environmental Protection Agency grant we put in so much work to apply for last fall I am back on the job market again (if you have any leads on environmental communications jobs I might be a fit for, please send them my way; thank you!) and that too takes time. But in the course of getting a lot of things done, I’ve sacrificed a lot. I’ve sacrificed stability. I still don’t have a retirement account even though I’m in my mid-30s. I’ve lived in a few different countries and many different towns and cities. My close friends are all over the place. I just moved yet again, and I still don’t have a dining table. Most of all, I’ve sacrificed time with loved ones. I’m an energetic person by nature. I half-joke that it runs in my family (the other half of me is dead serious). I can’t stand to see a goal unfulfilled. And what I am recognizing, at this historical moment that we are all living through whether we like it or not, is that that means I need to reorient my goals a little. So that they are less about doing, and more about being. About being stable. About being outside. About being around those I love.

[I]t may be wiser to try to cre­ate the place you want to live, rather than to keep try­ing to find it.

Este lunes 23 de enero se cumplieron cinco años de la muerte de Nicanor Parra, y en conmemoración a la fecha La Tercera estrena el último de cuatro capítulos de una serie en la que distintas personas que formaron parte de la vida del poeta -que van desde su hija Colombina y su nieta Cristalina a amigos y editores- intentan, cada uno a su manera, explicar su Parra más personal. El último de los cuatro actos de la serie “Cinco Años sin Parra” se estrena por las distintas plataformas de La Tercera. Este cuarto capítulo se titula “Izquierda y derecha unidas...” y aborda la relación de Nicanor Parra con la política y las ideologías. Con anécdotas e historias que van desde cómo hizo esperar más de tres horas al expresidente de la República Ricardo Lagos, hasta cómo hubiese visto la llegada de Gabriel Boric al poder. También quienes formaron parte de la serie se refieren a qué habría pensado el antipoeta sobre del estallido social, la pandemia y el proceso constituyente, todos sucesos que no logró observar en vida. Asimismo, se aborda la defensa a Allen Ginsberg en La Habana, que lo alejó de Fidel Castro y por qué se autodefinió ecologista treinta años antes de que fuera un tema real a nivel global. En esta “antiserie” hablan sobre el escritor desde su hija Colombina a su nieta Cristalina. Desde Patricio Fernández a Rafael Gumucio, pasando por Matías Rivas, César Cuadra y Adán Méndez, todos cuentan su propia versión de un hombre que dejó un legado diverso, complejo, sombrío, divertido y, la mayoría de las veces, encantadoramente desconcertante. En la primera entrega de la serie se intenta localizar a Parra. Al menos a su fantasma. Y aunque este ejercicio, el viaje, nos diga que probablemente nunca vamos a dar con él, sí queda una frase suya que su amigo, el filólogo César Cuadra, resucita en este primer capítulo: Muerte sí. Funerales no. En el segundo capítulo: Neruda, el punk y los presidentes colgados, se aborda su relación de competencia y admiración con Pablo Neruda; de cómo la academia lo fue hastiando hasta cambiarla por una actitud más punk (y más pop también); de cómo su instalación de los presidentes colgados (llamada “El pago de Chile”) pasó de ser una grave ofensa a la institucionalidad hace poco más de 15 años a volver a la misma Moneda dentro del recientemente inaugurado salón Parra. En tanto, en el tercer capítulo de la serie: Dinero y amor, Nicanor, aborda el porqué para Nicanor Parra era importante cobrar bien y tener dinero en la cuenta bancaria. Asimismo, la relación de atracción, influencia y conflicto del poeta con las mujeres que cruzaron su vida. La sueca que lo convenció de quedarse en una comida, por ejemplo.

“A tribute to the unimportant daily life objects and their valuable meaning for our memory and connection with time lost.” Nobel laureate Orhan Pamuk delves into the deeply personal and intricate world of his Museum of Innocence, both the novel he published in 2008 and the museum he opened in Istanbul in 2012. Blurring the lines between fiction and reality, Nobel laureate Orhan Pamuk shows us around his Museum of Innocence in Istanbul. It is a physical manifestation of his protagonist Kemal’s unfulfilled love and longing, embodied in everyday objects meticulously collected and a personal reflection of life in Istanbul in the late 20th century. Orhan Pamuk originally wanted to be a painter but failed, he says. Instead, at the age of mid-forties, he realized that he “wanted to create an artwork combined with literature, and this is my first attempt at combining the two.” Pamuk began collecting everyday objects for the museum and writing the novel at the same time, the objects inspired the novel and vice versa: “It’s not that I had a collection, then I thought about a home for my collection. I collected and wrote and wrote and collected.” When planning the museum, Orhan Pamuk wanted the visitors who had not read the novel to “have a sense of the quality of the surface of the objects, the texture of life of Istanbul between 1970s and early 2000s, and also the visual atmosphere of Istanbul.” Pamuk did not write for six months but was busy composing one by one glass vitrines, boxes, and units in the manner of Joseph Cornell, Robert Rauschenberg, and Juan Gris: “This museum is based on the things that this generation of surrealistic artists developed with the concept of ready-mades.” Throughout the interview, Pamuk reveals his lifelong fascination with objects as vessels of memory and nostalgia. “Objects have the power to trigger our memories,” he notes, comparing his work to Marcel Proust’s exploration of involuntary memory. He believes that even the smallest items have the power to transport us back in time: “A movie ticket found in a jacket can be the only reason you remember the film 20 years later”, Pamuk reflects, highlighting the profound relationship between memory and material objects. At the museum, Orhan Pamuk’s manifesto for museums is written as he believes, he says, that museums “should not be a safe or heaven for precious things only. The museum should honor the objects of daily. Museums should not only dramatize the history of a nation, or a group, or a gender, or a Chinese army but should also go and explore the dramas of individual beings.” Pamuk argues that “the future of museums should be inside our own personal homes.” Orhan Pamuk concludes: “I am inviting you to a new artificial space which will envelop you and will make you ask questions about being, time, remembering attachment, love, jealousy, anger, and these objects are there to generate these things or make you ask these questions about your life”. Orhan Pamuk, born in Istanbul in 1952, is one of Turkey’s most acclaimed writers. Known for novels like My Name is Red, Snow, and Istanbul: Memories and the City, his work examines themes of identity, memory, and the cultural tensions between East and West. In 2006, Pamuk received the Nobel Prize in Literature for his contributions to world literature. Orhan Pamuk was interviewed by Christian Lund in Istanbul in September 2024. Camera: Rasmus Quistgaard Edited by Roxanne Bagheshirin Lærkesen Produced by Christian Lund Copyright: Louisiana Channel, Louisiana Museum of Modern Art, 2024

Since 1987, Karin and Lennart watched and recorded the weather every third hour, day and night, seven days a week, every day of the year, from their station by the lighthouse in Falsterbo, Sweden. Earning “a lousy salary, and a fantastic life” they remained steadfast through childbirth, illness and snowstorms—not missing a single observation in 36 years—while thousands of stations around the world fell to automation. Told through the eyes of their daughter Maja, this extraordinary and heartwarming love story shows lasting happiness exists in profound connection with nature and everyday rhythms.