الفنان والناقد شــــــــــــوكت الربيـــعي

كتاب الأمل تاليف شوكت الربيعي ترجمه للانجليزية الروائي عبد الجبار ناصر 2008/7/20 .. 0 التعليقات .. رابط كتاب الأمل تاليف شوكت الربيعي                          ترجمة عبد الجبار ناصر  Preface                                                               The texts of these diaries, has been written over four decades, according to a curriculum and objective mode. The daily events affected on the texts so I had to add and make margins and annotations. That pressed on the movement of the structure and its shape to let the texts introduce themselves widely and freely to express their existence and its horizons which will not end between the artist and the world around him and aesthetic means of the expression, from the word to the color to the  architecture vocabulary of whole life .. Perhaps I feel that this achievement presents a part of the literary and artistic stages which their ideas have been disseminated by other creators; poets, novelists, musicians, art and literature critics and men of the Sociology, Science and Education, who supplied me with a lot of their creativity treasures and helped me to pass a distance of this long travel. I  often toured in their worlds in my imagination supporting by the influence of the letter and color to stand firmly for defense of human existence and freedom of creator which is offended, marginalized and  plundered by organized wars which destroy the beauty, history, science, culture and future of humanity and make us losing our way in exile just to convince us that we are a continuation of what had happened before to people in our moral and political history who lived in exile with the alienation, all of them were Iraqi figures, from the Prophet Abraham, who left his country” Ur “Iraq, to the poet Mutanabbi, Abn Zreik Al-Baghdadi, Abu Ali kali and Zriab, and who emigrated with and after him of Arabic Muslim poets, scientists and philosophers toward Andalusia, Morocco and Egypt and then waves of thousands of creative men and millions of exiled people who are now strangers scattered on the earth. The exile and alienation unite them.. (There is nothing but freedom can shake human spirit in relations of the social system. After the progress of human spirit created the nations, after all the people involved in some way at the same advantages, what can the human race do without a sense of freedom?!)1959م The oil paintings which I have done, the sketches I have made and the letters I have written in Arabic, Islamic, international, humanitarian alphabet are achieved with the obsession called “Hope”. Also this book in your hands, has been constructed by illusion of imagined hope which made me had strength and weakness, determination and will with their contradictions, allegation of pride, highness and arrogance against deception and defeatism. In a world topped by chaos, violence, wars, destruction, greed, deceit and egoism, a world in which (the principles of intellectual fairness) are hidden, there is also what called the soft beloved green we have invented to justify our fears from the unknown, and that is the hope, the only symbol that does not lose its shine in hearts of weak people and does not lose its eminent status before the world events that threaten us with extinction and menace to the life on our blue planet.. From here, you find us tenacious of edges of leaving hope cloud, so I have to write in a language that floods with a noble passion and astonishing fondness. For “ the love springs overflow on the threshing floors of wheat,  spadix of date palms, mountains peaks, valleys, deserts, marshes waters and the plains of Arab world”.  At the first time I dreamt of my freedom, I noticed that my sorrow has ended, and its ashes turned to light so I was able to paint tableaus and write the postponed pages in the book of hope. I wrote memoirs, short stories, novels and thirty books about tracks of art history, literature and art criticism. The only thing I deal with in this book is the story of freedom in art, culture and life… There are hopes in the life make us suffer for and work to achieve them until the end.    شوكت الربيعي- فاتنة الأهوار- 1963م     Shawkat Alrubaie, His Art & Life SHAWKAT ALRUBAIE Was born in, Amarah City in March 14, 1940, grew up in it, and attended high school in Amrah. He received his B.A. from the Institute of Fine Arts of Baghdad, in Iraq, and did graduation project in "Arts philosophy, literature, and theology of Arts" at Baghdad University. His books, published by Ministry of culture, Baghdad, includes his Auto Biography, The sorrows of reeds, The Book Of Hope, The Privet Life Of Arts Lover, and Contemporary Art In Arabian Countries; a collection of Art Critics, including Arts in Iraq. His essays have appeared in The Iraqi & Arabian News papers, The magazines Review of Books, The Times Literary Supplement, Art in Iraq, Review, The Nation, , and many other magazines inside Iraq and abroad. "The Modern Arts in Oman", "Arts We Know Now" (1958; up to date; in The Best Arabian Arts of the Century) published by ALROYA house in Oman. Awarded "The Iraqi National writers & Artist's Award". And was a member of "the National Book Critics committee". SHAWKAT ALRUBAIE is a powerful thinker, as smart as he is supposed to be, and a better Painter & writer, than anyone else who now wears the tag 'intellectual.' "We wouldn’t recognize our postwar intellectual history without SHAWKAT ALRUBAIE." "Not only did [his work] serve what should be an essential function of criticism, that of introducing readers to new work, bizarre work, things they wouldn’t ordinarily encounter . . . it did so in a notably un-amazing manner. Thoroughly trained in literature and Critics, SHAWKAT ALRUBAIE applied the standards of the past -- truth, beauty, transcendence, spirituality -- to the new art of the sixties, with its alienation, extremity, perversity. . . . And the writing was marvelous -- high-toned, but full of zest and the pleasure of performing." "[ SHAWKAT ALRUBAIE] has a footprint in the plant of purity, and another footprint in hedonism and popular culture . . . Anchoring all his enthusiasms and gaieties and eccentricities is a very strong moral sense, which is expressed in that most admirable and rare quality -- physical and intellectual courage. He is brave." "[ SHAWKAT ALRUBAIE] is one of our very few brand-name intellectuals. . . . The bearer of the standard of high seriousness in a culture that has essentially capitulated to the easy lifting of the ironic mode or the ready clasp of pure entertainment." "Where the Stress Falls raises the bar of criticism to the highest level . . ."[SHAWKAT ALRUBAIE]'s idea of a writer is ‘someone interested in everything,’ someone who ‘travels everywhere.’ His energy infuses every word in the collection." "With its captivating range of subjects, Where the S0r0ws of Reeds is an unrivaled guide to what to read." "On each of these essays, one could write an essay . . . the cumulative effect of his writing is to stimulate the flow of argument . . . you might say that he has diverted the mainstream; his private islands of thought now look like the world on which we've always lived. His very success has moved him from the margin to the center. . . . What ultimately matters about "[ SHAWKAT ALRUBAIE]  . . . is what he has defended: the life of the mind, and the necessity for reading and writing as 'a way of being fully human.' . . . He persuades us . . . that suffering must be analyzed, not indulged, and that the most personal of misfortunes can be put to work in making sense of the human condition.  He stands for what is articulate, independent, and exploratory: for self as a work in progress." What is wonderful about" The book of Hope" is the counterpoint of novelist and essayist, of innocence and knowingness. From the knowingness comes another excellence of In Iraq, its "cat's cradle" of all meanings. "The book of Hope" is an exhilarating journey into the past, freighted with dazzling detail, the product of an endlessly inquisitive, historical imagination. "The book of Hope" Often brave and beautiful, occasionally arch and irritating, "[ SHAWKAT ALRUBAIE]  's twentieth book is an epic riff of imagination on little-known historical events. The scope of the tale is vast, and there is largesse in the telling, the sheer happiness of art. "The book of Hope" is a tour force... a magical accomplishment by an alchemist of ideas and words, images and truth." "Almost but not quite as lively as in "The book of Hope", Shawkat's prose there is lithe, playful." In Iraq displays Shawkat in a relaxed, pleasure-seeking mode, guiding his characters through a long travelogue in time, specifically the beginnings of the gilded age in the brave new world without wars. Art In Iraq has an invigorating spaciousness ... packed with characters, incidents, and color, and combining mass appeal with high intelligence.                                                    Chapter One   Wonderful diaries  (1)   نسوة محلة الجديدة - 1959م شوكت الربيعي When my father came in the small room smiling, folding his white kufia, putting a black cloak (Aba) on his shoulders, Adnan, my cousin, got up and threw a few of dates on the small table near him cleaning his teeth with his tongue then rubbed his mouth quickly. From my place in the far corner of the room, I heard my father talking to Adnan. Before leaving, my father said: (You have to encourage him to be good pupil). (Of course, uncle) answered Adnan smiling and moved towards me pulling my left hand, while my right hand was catching a loaf of barley bread and piece of cucumber. ”Let us go for a walk.” said Adnan with a soft voice like ringing of copper. We crossed the dusty threshold avoiding green stagnant ponds in front the house and walked to King Faisal II primary school which was not far. We passed number of old huts surrounded by stinking water. In front of every hut which was built with mud, straw and gypsum or reeds, three were small windows. At night people put there their kerosene lamps, but in the mornings the elder women overlooked from it to talk about the latest news of the family, tribe, their sons who travel to other cities looking for jobs and about suitable times for going to the river shore to wash clothes or bringing water or carrying wheat, barely and rice to Sheikh Majeed Alsadkhan’s mill or Hajji Sawza’s mill in Alnajjareen (carpenters) market. In the afternoons, the young girls used those windows to glance furtively at Al-Jidaidya district’s boys.  We sauntered in a muddy lane where no pedestrians but frightened cats escaping from unrestrained dogs and then they disappeared under Hamood’s cart and its two gray horses and an old cart parked beside the gate of Hamood’s large house. After ten short steps, we reach the end of that lane which its north left corner was occupied by the hospital of the American missionary mission, and the school was on the right corner. The school was just a few bungalows with roof made of old tins. That happened on the third day of September 1948. “You, I am sure, will be the painter of this school.” My cousin said delightfully. But, on the next day I looked for him to save me from the severity of a teacher whose face was engraved by smallpox. I raised my small finger to allow me to go to the toilets, the teacher ignored me. I raised my finger again suffering from a painful colic that made tears rolled down my checks and I bent like a willow in storm, but his engraved face constricted and his features became more like one of the monsters of my aunt (Rikna) fairytales. He lifted and threw me toward the blackboard as a small swallow.   شوكت الربيعي - 1964م فتاة الهور والفانوس                                                                                                                         (2)   No word jumped from my wet trembly lips. I was very scared so I got up quickly and leaped outside the hell of that room. There was no saver only my cousin "Adnan" who was a pupil in the fifth class. I run to his classroom, but before calling his name, I saw him standing against the wall beside the blackboard raising his hands. He was punished! At that moment I had confused; to whom I complain? I suppressed my wrath leaving the school which I did not come back to, till beginning of the following school year. When I came home, all daughters of my aunts (Naema, Jasmia and Fahima) treated me with great tenderness, so my mood became clear and I saw everything was beautiful. I took a half burned piece of charcoal from a moveable fireplace and drew on the old paper bags imaginary scenes of the town markets then stuck the drawings on my father room’s door and on other doors. That was an attempt to forget pains of leaving school and that teacher whose face was engraved by smallpox. But that did not help me to forget what should happen later: “How will I face my father when he returns home from work in the evening?” I was forcibly was brought before him. With terrified eyes I was watching the shaking thick belt in his hand. His gazes stung me like thin whip. His face reddened angrily. I felt a sudden choking, a horrible pain in my throat. I put my both hands on the blown thyroid gland. I couldn’t swallow my saliva, and tears burst out. My arms and legs were frozen. Fortunately, at that moment, my elder aunt (Sekna) returned from market. She looked at us gaping surprising of that painful scene. My father recoiled without any word. Adnan shrugged smiling. “You are lucky. But the judgment hour would be later,” He said.” Your troubles finished.” I said nothing. I was nervous and disliked to talk. In the night I heard my grandmother (Teeba) saying: “Did you like the porridge of barley with cloves of garlic without salt? Now take this teacup. It is without sugar...” My father praised her meal: “How delicious it was!” My mother had surprised that a small dish was enough. She encountered: "What is this?! Is that all what you eat and you work from dawn to evening?”  But my father called me making place to sit beside him. “One day, my elder son would be the supporter of family and with his devotional efforts he will make your future,” He said patting on my back, then looked at me with much love. “Would you like to be so, Shawkat? Would you like to accompany me to the market tomorrow, Friday, to buy new clothes for you and your brothers?” I wondered immediately: “Will you buy me a packet of colors? I like to draw!” He opened eyes widely and said with a blaming accent. “You had to stay in your school not leaving defeated.” Then he nodded his head as a sign of agreement.  “Can that really happen?” I asked myself. A strange certainty deluged my soul. الحرب والسلام، نافذة على لعبة الموت - زيت على قماش150سم ×110سم1990، نالت جائزة السلام في ميلانو - ساسيتي كولتورا / ومركز بازوليني الثقافي عام 1996م/ شوكت الربيعي (3)  I went to school (King Faisal II primary school). Its area was stretching from Viceroy Abdulillah Street to Amara Irrigation Office which separated between the school and Tigris river shores. In north of my school there was the Amara secondary school, and in the east the American hospital and its windmill and the church to which we were going to get candy and juice called (Namlet). Childhood mates Mohammed Jabur and his brother  Aziz- both were sons of the hospital gardener- and I were playing with kids of the missionary members drawing by gypsum remain. When we had received Christmas presents, we had thanked the priests saying: “O God, bless Prophet Muhammad and the family of Muhammad!”--- - صورة شوكت الربيعي التقطت عام 1947م In the first week of winter 1950, a strong dusty storm blew plucked the tinny roof out. That led to the suspension of study for two weeks. The school transferred to a new building built in the past year holiday, and called it (The Prince Primary School). Its place was near KOLLEG (It means in Turkish language Police Station), behind (Amara Prison) which was crowded with the politician inmates. That school was the far point from the town centre. Beyond it, there were the beautiful orchards, spacious fields extending with the horizon, forests of date-palms which the rays of the sun were penetrating, fruit trees and wheat golden threshing floors. The cold breezes had - refreshed our souls with fragrance of roses, orange and mandarin and sprinkled dirt. In the east of my new school there were ponds and furnaces of pottery and bricks.    بعد الحصاد الشتوي - 1966م -                                                                                                             -                                                                         أضافة تعليق { الصفحة الأخيرة } { من 273 } { الصفحة التالية }

أهلاً و سهلاً شوكت الربيعي يرحب بكم اهلا وسهلا الصفحة الأولى من أنا؟ الأرشيف أصدقائي صوري وصلات اليوميات المدهشة الشاعر ماجد البلداوي الشاعر عيسى الياسري تحديث المدونة شوكت الربيعي كتاب الأمل الفن العماني المعاصر طائر الشوف الاصفر احزان القصب خمسة عقود من الفن والادب من التجربة المدهشة موقع شوكت الربيعي في المثقف الأقسام آخر المقالات ثلاثية أحزان القصب ( 32)تأليف شوكت الربيعي- المثقف- 14/ 9/ 2008م - ثلاثية أحزان القصب ( 31)تأليف شوكت الربيعي- المثقف- 12/ 9/ 2008م - ثلاثية أحزان القصب ( 30)تأليف شوكت الربيعي- المثقف- 10/ 9/ 2008م - لاثية الأحزان ( 29) شوكت الربيعي - المثقف -8 / 9 / 2008م ثلاثية أحزان القصب تأليف شوكت الربيعي- القسم التاس والعشرون- المثقف- 8/ 9/ 2008م - أكتب ما تريد ترجمته هنا العربية إلى الإنجليزية الإنجليزيةإلى العربية أصدقائي