Something to Write Home About

Now what is semiotics needed for when symbols don't even bother to embelish the beast?

De um lado estão os primeiros, os exploradores, os donos do território, os toureiros, os dealers, os accionistas, os presidentes de conselhos fiscais, os performers, os artistas, os sonhadores nocturnos, os brancos, os homens, os ocidentais, os médicos, padres e druidas, os fingidores, os multiplicadores de lados. Do outro os que não sabem que há só dois lados, os touros, os enfermos, os crentes, os apreciadores de vinhos, os consumidores de tudo, os átomos de rebanhos, os recicladores de cozinha, os cosmólogos de salas de visitas, os arquéologos de gavetas, os parlamentares de esplanadas, os críticos de anúncios televisivos, os domadores de mosquitos, os dançarinos de iPod.

...and did you cook dinner?

The anthropologist Theo Rak is famed amongst a certain London milieu as an inspirational figure. To borrow his own style of presenting guest speakers, words will always fail to encapsulate the conceptual clarity and groundbreaking vision offered by the brilliance with which Professor Rak architectures cultural events in this cosmopolitan cultural underground. In the capital of the empire where once the sun would never set, night time comes at 4 o'clock in the afternoon. Most people retire earlier to their familial shelters, find comfort in blankets stolen from British Airways airplanes and parallelize their gazes to the infinite meeting point of television screens. Prof Rak invests his energy in intersecting eyes and voices to share thoughts and weave new ideas to the new century. Past events included two fantastic symposia on different perspectives on Love. On Saturday, taking advantage of a rare presence in London of Greek anthropologist and filmmaker Konstantinos Kostakis, and o

Sigmund Freud's clothes hanging from Jacques Lacan's window; St Paul's rope hooked to Zigmunt Bauman's wall; Richard Sennett walking alongside Shylock, the Jew in the streets of Venice

As the day gets up I follow the wavy lines of darkness that disappear into the stone. I try to imagine its heart and the colours yet to be revealed. Are there any colours inside the stone? How can there be colours if there is no light? The only way to look into the heart of a stone is to wait for its slow erosion. But as soon as it happens, as soon as its surface is scratched by water and hard rubbing, a new surface emerges and pushes the limits inside. Is there anything behind the mask? As soon as you peel it off the skin, the emerging layer becomes a new mask. Faces are masks. What's inside can only be imagined, dreamed of, fantasised.