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Down Below
Black Swan Press 1983 Surrealist Editions Paperback.
56 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1945
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About the author
Leonora Carrington
71 books932 followersLeonora Carrington was an English-born Mexican artist, surrealist painter, and novelist. She lived most of her adult life in Mexico City, and was one of the last surviving participants in the Surrealist movement of the 1930s. Carrington was also a founding member of the Women’s Liberation Movement in Mexico during the 1970s.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 431 reviews
August 25, 2020
La primera parte es una memoria narrada por la autora sobre su experiencia cuando estuvo encerrada en un manicomio, con lucidez va contando un brote de locura, suyo, o de quienes la rodeaban. La segunda parte es un relato que se llama El Pequeño Francis, una historia surrealista sobre un chico y su tío. Una historia que puede emparentarse con todo lo que he leído de Katchadjian, quien me encanta, pero ahora veo de donde viene el ambiente que crea en sus libros, qué loco, porque todo el tiempo tenía la sensación que tengo cuando leo libros suyos.
Bueno, un parentesco paralelo, de otra época, o Katchadjian es primo de los surrealistas, y yo no lo sabía.
Bueno, un parentesco paralelo, de otra época, o Katchadjian es primo de los surrealistas, y yo no lo sabía.
August 10, 2014
Surrealist painter and writer Leonora Carrington is going sort of insane. Also happening is the beginning of World War 2. Her partner, one Max Ernst, is sent to a concentration camp, and she begins to perform strange rituals (both visible to others and only visible to her interiority) and make strange connections.
Worse than this though for Leonora, is the anguish of being institutionalized shortly thereafter. She doesn't know where she is, she is not told, after being abducted by her captors, but she assumes she is in a concentration camp. She dreams of "Down Below', a land of both deliverance and torment which is literally below the floor where she is being held. This short book ends ambiguously and one must know about the author's backstory and career living as a successful and magically innovative Surrealist expatriate in Mexico to know that she made it out more or less OK
Props to Ms. Carrington for vocalizing the nearly unspeakable in her unique and connected way. She is a brave artist, and in this, the first of her texts I've read, also a brave writer. Her madness is very metaphysically and magically informed, so it should be noted that not all madness proceeds as such. Still it is a robust and thoughtful foray into the terrible terrain of insanity.
Worse than this though for Leonora, is the anguish of being institutionalized shortly thereafter. She doesn't know where she is, she is not told, after being abducted by her captors, but she assumes she is in a concentration camp. She dreams of "Down Below', a land of both deliverance and torment which is literally below the floor where she is being held. This short book ends ambiguously and one must know about the author's backstory and career living as a successful and magically innovative Surrealist expatriate in Mexico to know that she made it out more or less OK
Props to Ms. Carrington for vocalizing the nearly unspeakable in her unique and connected way. She is a brave artist, and in this, the first of her texts I've read, also a brave writer. Her madness is very metaphysically and magically informed, so it should be noted that not all madness proceeds as such. Still it is a robust and thoughtful foray into the terrible terrain of insanity.
May 19, 2021
Antra skaityta Carrington knyga po Hearing Trumpet, mažutė (vos 70 psl be įvado), smūginė, bet, kaip ir "Hearing Trumpet", abi perskaičius apima jausmas, kad pamatei tik dalį paveikslo, kad dar daug liko už rėmų (knygos viršelio), ir išvis neaišku, ar teisingai sufokusavai žvilgsnį, ar pamatei visus dalykus, kurie ten buvo. Kaip Boscho paveiksle (kaip tik šitoj knygoj rašė, kad jis ją smarkiai paveikė): formaliai lyg yra centras, rėmai, bet realiai tai veiksmas vyksta visur, niekaip nesubendrinamas į jokią Didžią Mintį.
Antra vizuali asociacija skaitant Carrington, ypač "Down Below", - Elvyros Kairiūkštytės piešiniai, neįtikėtinio dydžio, judėjimo dokumentai, į kuriuos žiūri ir galvoji, kad medžiaga (popierius) jai buvo tik taip sau, gerai jei yra, o patys piešiniai liejosi neįtikėtinu dydžiu bet kur, kur tik vietos buvo, išeidami už bet kokių ribų.
Ratais suku aplink pačią knygą, kurioje - 1943 metais per kelis kartus užrašytas ir ištranskribuotas pasakojimas, kaip 1940-ais 23-ejų Carrington, netekusi Gestapo suimto mylimojo (+ aplink siaučia karas), blaškosi po kelias šalis ir nuo vieno žmogaus prie kito, paskui yra paguldoma į psichiatrijos ligoninę ir ten yra žiauriai gydoma. Ir visą laiką yra apimta beprotybės: žmonės jai rodosi mediniai, ji mato paralelinius pasaulius, Egiptą ir Jeruzalę, vienas vyras staiga ima įkūnyti visą blogį ir tada tai jo akis, tai kitus jo ženklus ji mato nesvarbu kurion pasaulio šalin nuvažiuotų. Skaityti visa tai šiurpu; Carrington po 3 metų pasakoja taip ramiai, taip tarsi dėliotų vieną faktą po kito, be dramos ir be įtampos, kad tą trūkstamą įtampą ir tų nesuvokiamų pasaulių baugumą tu imi jausti pati. Ar ji tikrai atsiminė viską, kiekvieną žodelį, kurį tada ištarė? Kol to nepatiri (tfu tfu), tol nesupranti, tol baugina ir darosi nejauku, bet omg, kad taip pavyktų ir nepatirt niekada.
Mintis 1. Labai gražus viršelis, kuriame - fragmentas pačios Carrington paveikslo su besiblaškančiom būtybėm, piktom dvasion, velniais, išlendančiais iš..jos tėvų namų. Paskui įvade paskaičiau, kad ir senelių globos namai "Hearing Trumpet", ir net beprotnamis Ispanijoje - visur jos kūryboje tas šiurpus namas, kurio viduje vyksta mistinės praktikos, laužančios žmogų, manipuliuojančios žmogumi, reiškia tą patį. Liūdna.
Mintis 2. Didelė dalis įvado paskirta pasakojimui, kad išprotėjusios moters vaizdinys siurrealizme buvo šioks toks fetišas, tarsi tik šita figūra gali pažinti įvairius pasaulius, būties paslaptis ir pan. Ir kad tik Carrington gyvenime patyrė tai, apie ką Bretonas, Ernstas ir kiti tik fantazavo. Turbūt taip ir buvo, turbūt Freudo ir Charcot ir panašios mados dar yra gajos su visom savo pasekmėm, bet nu blemba.
Čia keli fragmentai iš jos.. negali sakyt vizijų, nes tai nebuvo kažkas, kas jai užeidavo, tiesiog tokiam pasauly ji tuo metu keletą mėnesių gyveno:
Kažkaip siurrealizmas univere buvo keistas ir visai įdomokas, bet tikrai ne mano arkliukas (išsk. kokį Magritte'ą), atrodydavo truputį išskaičiuotas, tos išartikuliuotos metaforos, kurias turi išmąstyti, kaip Man Ray'aus filmuose. Bet skaitydama Carrington visai naujai jį pamačiau. Jos siurrealizmas pasirodė ne dirbtinis, ne išskaičiuotas, o baugus; baugu galvoti, kad štai žmogus žiūri į tave ir akimis matuoja tavo planetų sistemą, kad tavo žodžiai jam aidi keliuose pasauliuose, juose turi visai kitas reikšmes... galiu sugalvot tik ribotus palyginimus, remdamasi Carrington pasakojimu, bet variantų turbūt yra neįmanomai daug. Net nežinau, ar korektiška vadinti tai beprotybe. Tiesiog viskas labai intensyvu, vargina net skaityti ir apie tai galvoti, o kaip reikėtų su tuo gyvent - neįsivaizduoju.
Antra vizuali asociacija skaitant Carrington, ypač "Down Below", - Elvyros Kairiūkštytės piešiniai, neįtikėtinio dydžio, judėjimo dokumentai, į kuriuos žiūri ir galvoji, kad medžiaga (popierius) jai buvo tik taip sau, gerai jei yra, o patys piešiniai liejosi neįtikėtinu dydžiu bet kur, kur tik vietos buvo, išeidami už bet kokių ribų.
Ratais suku aplink pačią knygą, kurioje - 1943 metais per kelis kartus užrašytas ir ištranskribuotas pasakojimas, kaip 1940-ais 23-ejų Carrington, netekusi Gestapo suimto mylimojo (+ aplink siaučia karas), blaškosi po kelias šalis ir nuo vieno žmogaus prie kito, paskui yra paguldoma į psichiatrijos ligoninę ir ten yra žiauriai gydoma. Ir visą laiką yra apimta beprotybės: žmonės jai rodosi mediniai, ji mato paralelinius pasaulius, Egiptą ir Jeruzalę, vienas vyras staiga ima įkūnyti visą blogį ir tada tai jo akis, tai kitus jo ženklus ji mato nesvarbu kurion pasaulio šalin nuvažiuotų. Skaityti visa tai šiurpu; Carrington po 3 metų pasakoja taip ramiai, taip tarsi dėliotų vieną faktą po kito, be dramos ir be įtampos, kad tą trūkstamą įtampą ir tų nesuvokiamų pasaulių baugumą tu imi jausti pati. Ar ji tikrai atsiminė viską, kiekvieną žodelį, kurį tada ištarė? Kol to nepatiri (tfu tfu), tol nesupranti, tol baugina ir darosi nejauku, bet omg, kad taip pavyktų ir nepatirt niekada.
Mintis 1. Labai gražus viršelis, kuriame - fragmentas pačios Carrington paveikslo su besiblaškančiom būtybėm, piktom dvasion, velniais, išlendančiais iš..jos tėvų namų. Paskui įvade paskaičiau, kad ir senelių globos namai "Hearing Trumpet", ir net beprotnamis Ispanijoje - visur jos kūryboje tas šiurpus namas, kurio viduje vyksta mistinės praktikos, laužančios žmogų, manipuliuojančios žmogumi, reiškia tą patį. Liūdna.
Mintis 2. Didelė dalis įvado paskirta pasakojimui, kad išprotėjusios moters vaizdinys siurrealizme buvo šioks toks fetišas, tarsi tik šita figūra gali pažinti įvairius pasaulius, būties paslaptis ir pan. Ir kad tik Carrington gyvenime patyrė tai, apie ką Bretonas, Ernstas ir kiti tik fantazavo. Turbūt taip ir buvo, turbūt Freudo ir Charcot ir panašios mados dar yra gajos su visom savo pasekmėm, bet nu blemba.
Čia keli fragmentai iš jos.. negali sakyt vizijų, nes tai nebuvo kažkas, kas jai užeidavo, tiesiog tokiam pasauly ji tuo metu keletą mėnesių gyveno:
Coming down to Catherine's room, I begged her to look at my face; I said to her: "Don't you see that it is the exact representation of the world?" (p. 15)
TRIGGER WARNING'as savanoriškas vėmimas
This was the first stage of my identification with the external world. I was the car. the car had jammed on account of me, because I, too, was jammed between Saint-Martin and Spain. I was horrified by my own power. At that time, I was still limited to my own solar system, and was not aware of other people's systems, the importance of which I realise now. (p. 7)
Kažkaip siurrealizmas univere buvo keistas ir visai įdomokas, bet tikrai ne mano arkliukas (išsk. kokį Magritte'ą), atrodydavo truputį išskaičiuotas, tos išartikuliuotos metaforos, kurias turi išmąstyti, kaip Man Ray'aus filmuose. Bet skaitydama Carrington visai naujai jį pamačiau. Jos siurrealizmas pasirodė ne dirbtinis, ne išskaičiuotas, o baugus; baugu galvoti, kad štai žmogus žiūri į tave ir akimis matuoja tavo planetų sistemą, kad tavo žodžiai jam aidi keliuose pasauliuose, juose turi visai kitas reikšmes... galiu sugalvot tik ribotus palyginimus, remdamasi Carrington pasakojimu, bet variantų turbūt yra neįmanomai daug. Net nežinau, ar korektiška vadinti tai beprotybe. Tiesiog viskas labai intensyvu, vargina net skaityti ir apie tai galvoti, o kaip reikėtų su tuo gyvent - neįsivaizduoju.
July 29, 2021
Svojim manjim delom napisan u tradiciji nadrealističkog uzdizanja ludila kao puta romantizovanog oslobođenja, svojim većim delom napisan kao suptilno preispitivanje iste tradicije, „Down below” su oslobađajući i lucidni, kratko sročeni, memoari Leonore Karington o boravku u mentalnoj instituciji u Španiji 1941. godine. U simbolu vere nadrealizma važna stavka je pripadala mitu o femme-enfant, muzi-devojčici, intuitivnoj, iracionalnoj, pa i ludoj devojci, koja će poput medijuma povezati stvaraoca sa višim sferama i osloboditi ga. Postojalo je više književnih inkarnacija ove figure (hajmo da mahnemo najpoznatijoj – ćao Nađa), a nadrealistički uspaljeni satiri su ovakve nimfe imali i pored sebe. Karingtonova je imala 20 godina kada je upoznala skoro pedesetogodišnjeg Maksa Ernsta. Sigurno je da su u početku mogli radosno da glume ludilo u dvoje - da seckaju gostima kosu dok spavaju i ubacuju dlake u omlet za doručak, kako bi jaja imala ukus gosta i slično. Ipak, imati performans „s uma sišavšeg“ i biti stvarno u svađi sa razumom nije isto, i to je Karington spoznala već u 23. godini kada je Ernst bio deportovan u koncentracioni logor, a ona se kao izbeglica povlačila do neutralne Španije gde su je ubrzo i zatvorili u mentalnu ustanovu. I baš zato što je Leonora ludilo doživela, nije iimala potrebu da ga domaštava i premaštava poput drugih nadrealista, već je na jedan racionalni, smiren pa i jednostavan način ispripovedala ono čega se sećala iz tog perioda.
Ako se memoari uporede sa njenim slikarskim platnima, pa i njenim pričama, stil jeste suvlji i diskretniji, a, opet, tu je u sadržaju i dalje sva barokna-makabr vašarska lucidnost koju vezujemo za Leonoru Karington. Ovde je balansirala pipavo, ali ubedljivo, između oštrih psiholoških opservacija i totalnog rolekostera iracionalnog. Nekako sve ima svoj tok, lucidan, ali koji teče samostalno svojim putem – bulimija kao želja da se očisti ogledalo želudca, pa iz toga proizilazi doživljaj Madrida kao obolelog želudca sveta, a onda u španskoj prestonici fiksacija na holandskog Jevreja čije bi uklanjanje bilo rešenje za gastroentrološke probleme Evrope itd. sve do konačnog bega iz ludila u razum. Leonorini memoari dele sa njenim fikcionalnim tekstovima i diskretni humor – i to onu vrstu vica koju izgovara osoba mrtvo ozbiljnog lica, bez i najamnjeg traga grimase koji bi trebalo da oda ironiju– koji se meša sa pravim užasima, a ovde užasa baš ima: od grupnog silovanja do toga kako je danima bila vezana za krevet oblivena znojem i sopstvenim urinom dok su je ujedali komarci koje je doživljavala kao zasluženu kaznu jer još uvek nije spasila svet od lošeg varenja. Ton je bez trunke samosažaljenja, krivice, ogorčenost ili bilo kakvog popovanja.
I super mi je kako je Leonora na kraju uspela da pobegne tako što je uspela da iskoristi snobovštinu britanske više klase, kojoj je rođenjem pripadala a koju je duboko prezirala. Naime, kada se malo otreznila i došla sebi, njen otac, bogati industrijalac, platio je da se Leonora premesti iz Španije u mentalnu instituciju u Južnoafričku Republiku (jer, pobogu, ajde da zabludelu ćerku umetnicu skolonimo i zatvorimo što dalje da nas više ne bruka). Dok su se spremali u Portugaliji za daleko putovanje brodom, Leonora je rekla da želi rukavice. Pratnja se oduševila što zabludela umetnica želi da bude dama. Kada su je odveli u kupovinu, Leonora je iskoristila prvu priliku i pobegla. Priča je dalje poznata, otplovila je za Meksiko i postala jedno od najvećih slikarskih imena druge polovine dvadesetog veka. I stvarno ne znam da je iko ovako sažeto izrekao objašnjenje zdravog bega od patrijarhata kroz umetnost kao Leonora u završnom pasusu svojih memoara: What is terrible is that one’s anger is stifled. I never really go angry. I felt I didn’t really have to. I was tormented by the idea that I had to paint, and when I was away from Max, and first with Renato, I painted immediately. I never saw my father again.
Ako se memoari uporede sa njenim slikarskim platnima, pa i njenim pričama, stil jeste suvlji i diskretniji, a, opet, tu je u sadržaju i dalje sva barokna-makabr vašarska lucidnost koju vezujemo za Leonoru Karington. Ovde je balansirala pipavo, ali ubedljivo, između oštrih psiholoških opservacija i totalnog rolekostera iracionalnog. Nekako sve ima svoj tok, lucidan, ali koji teče samostalno svojim putem – bulimija kao želja da se očisti ogledalo želudca, pa iz toga proizilazi doživljaj Madrida kao obolelog želudca sveta, a onda u španskoj prestonici fiksacija na holandskog Jevreja čije bi uklanjanje bilo rešenje za gastroentrološke probleme Evrope itd. sve do konačnog bega iz ludila u razum. Leonorini memoari dele sa njenim fikcionalnim tekstovima i diskretni humor – i to onu vrstu vica koju izgovara osoba mrtvo ozbiljnog lica, bez i najamnjeg traga grimase koji bi trebalo da oda ironiju– koji se meša sa pravim užasima, a ovde užasa baš ima: od grupnog silovanja do toga kako je danima bila vezana za krevet oblivena znojem i sopstvenim urinom dok su je ujedali komarci koje je doživljavala kao zasluženu kaznu jer još uvek nije spasila svet od lošeg varenja. Ton je bez trunke samosažaljenja, krivice, ogorčenost ili bilo kakvog popovanja.
I super mi je kako je Leonora na kraju uspela da pobegne tako što je uspela da iskoristi snobovštinu britanske više klase, kojoj je rođenjem pripadala a koju je duboko prezirala. Naime, kada se malo otreznila i došla sebi, njen otac, bogati industrijalac, platio je da se Leonora premesti iz Španije u mentalnu instituciju u Južnoafričku Republiku (jer, pobogu, ajde da zabludelu ćerku umetnicu skolonimo i zatvorimo što dalje da nas više ne bruka). Dok su se spremali u Portugaliji za daleko putovanje brodom, Leonora je rekla da želi rukavice. Pratnja se oduševila što zabludela umetnica želi da bude dama. Kada su je odveli u kupovinu, Leonora je iskoristila prvu priliku i pobegla. Priča je dalje poznata, otplovila je za Meksiko i postala jedno od najvećih slikarskih imena druge polovine dvadesetog veka. I stvarno ne znam da je iko ovako sažeto izrekao objašnjenje zdravog bega od patrijarhata kroz umetnost kao Leonora u završnom pasusu svojih memoara: What is terrible is that one’s anger is stifled. I never really go angry. I felt I didn’t really have to. I was tormented by the idea that I had to paint, and when I was away from Max, and first with Renato, I painted immediately. I never saw my father again.
February 3, 2021
I’m not a big fan of the modern trend for memoirs. They always seem polished to within an inch of their lives, constructed as carefully as novels, but without recourse to the drama and freedom of fiction. In general, I’m not a big fan of the whole confessional non-fiction thing, whether in articles or books.
This is no modern memoir, and I liked that about it. On one level, it’s probably woefully inadequate. The reader has to fill in what isn’t on the page with what he or she knows about Leonora Carrington. It’s impossible to know what’s true and what isn’t. There’s no backstory, little in the way of future reveal.
But since this is a memoir of madness, the confusion is all part of the deal, and since Carrington is a famous surrealist, so is the hallucinatory tone. It’s a brief, disturbing look at what a madwoman is, compared to what a madwoman in art and culture may seem to represent.
There’s a wonderful introduction by Marina Warner. NYRB intros are usually precursory at best, but Warner’s is an unmissable companion to the main text.
This is no modern memoir, and I liked that about it. On one level, it’s probably woefully inadequate. The reader has to fill in what isn’t on the page with what he or she knows about Leonora Carrington. It’s impossible to know what’s true and what isn’t. There’s no backstory, little in the way of future reveal.
But since this is a memoir of madness, the confusion is all part of the deal, and since Carrington is a famous surrealist, so is the hallucinatory tone. It’s a brief, disturbing look at what a madwoman is, compared to what a madwoman in art and culture may seem to represent.
There’s a wonderful introduction by Marina Warner. NYRB intros are usually precursory at best, but Warner’s is an unmissable companion to the main text.
June 25, 2021
Short, but very impressive autobiographical book by Leonora Carrington. Yes, that Leonora, the surrealist painter and writer, she depicted and episode of madness of hers together with immediate hospitalization in a cool matter of fact manner, but also with live and beautiful language. I actually expected even more trauma but this was also very moving. And interesting too.
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July 30, 2024Leonora once told me that her favorite story from the Bible was Jacob wrestling with the angel. “We have to hang on,” she said. “Even if the angel cries, ‘Let me go, let me go.’ We don’t listen. No. We have to hang on.”
Da Introdução, por Marina Warner
Quando peguei em Down Bellow sabia que a sua leitura ia ser uma tarefa hercúlea. Primeiro porque se trata de um texto autobiográfico, segundo porque se trata de uma montagem mítica e onírica cuja finalidade é a de alicerçar a carreira de Leonora Carrington num meio onde o culto da loucura é louvado. Logo, Down Bellow é hiperbólico, metafórico e enigmático como se esperaria que uma obra surrealista fosse, e não deve ser interpretado ao pé da letra como um escorreito relato de um episódio de insanidade:
The egg is the macrocosm and the microcosm, the dividing line between the Big and the Small which makes it impossible to see the whole. To possess a telescope without its other essential half—the microscope—seems to me a symbol of the darkest incomprehension. The task of the right eye is to peer into the telescope, while the left eye peers into the microscope.
A narrativa que aqui encontramos é fixada três anos após os incidentes que narra. Vivendo na Provença com Max Ernst (e, a sério, ele não é importante nesta história) e após o internamento deste num campo de concentração aquando da ocupação nazi (Ernst era um inimigo público dos alemães que condenavam aquela que apelidaram de arte degenerada, designação na qual a obra do artista se enquadra), Leonora tem um episódio psicótico — um esgotamento nervoso será mais exato. Sozinha de súbito, todo o mundo parece a Leonora Carrington um enorme acampamento nazi gerido por espiões e agentes secretos. O delírio, coadjuvado pela inanição e fortes trabalhos a que a artista se submete numa tentativa de se imolar, origina uma espécie de afasia social imediata. A confusão que se segue deixa aqueles que a rodeiam sob aviso e, perante a sua derrocada emocional, a família é rápida a enviar Leonora para um hospício em Santander (apanhada em fuga de França, a artista pretendia chegar a Lisboa para partir rumo a Nova Iorque):
(...)the sentence passed on me by society at that particular time was probably, surely even, a god-send, for I was not aware of the importance of health, I mean of the absolute necessity of having a healthy body to avoid disaster in the liberation of the mind.
Todavia, estas andanças não eram já novidade para a pintora. Fugida de casa com um canudo de arte numa mão e um homem mais velho (e casado) na outra, Leonora era uma 'menina de boas famílias", filha de uma família burguesa (de novos ricos industriais), criada em várias escolas católicas. Daí que, à data do seu encarceramento em Santander já fosse uma perita em fintar a vigilância e a contenção. Por isso, até dada altura, a perseguição e o hospital apenas acrescentam mais uma camada a essas experiências:
I soon found myself a prisoner in a sanatorium full of nuns. This did not last long either; the nuns proved unable to cope with me. It was impossible to lock me up, keys and windows were no obstacles for me; I wandered all over the place, looking for the roof, which I believed my proper dwelling place.
Esta experiência, porém, difere das anteriores, pois a sua sensibilidade, aguçada pelo desiquilíbrio mental, tinge cada momento ali vivido de uma aura metafísica e espiritual que entrecruza o passado religioso e bourgeois de Carrington com as suas novas aspirações de quebrar com todas as convenções do passado:
I heard the vibrations of beings as clearly as voices—I understood from each particular vibration the attitude of each towards life, his degree of power, and his kindness or malevolence towards me. It was no longer necessary to translate noises, physical contacts, or sensations into rational terms or words. I understood every language in its particular domain: noises, sensations, colours, forms, etc., and every one found a twin correspondence in me and gave me a perfect answer.
Diferente é também o tratamento a que Leonora é sujeita. Perante as suas divagações — mais as físicas do que as demais — é rapidamente imobilizada pelos métodos mais aberrantes:
I thought it was a soporific and decided not to sleep. To my great surprise, I did not get sleepy. I saw my thigh swell around the puncture, till the bump grew to the size of a small melon. Frau Asegurado told me they had induced an artificial abscess in my
thigh; the pain and the idea that I was infected made it impossible for me to walk freely for two months. As soon as they loosened their grip, I threw myself furiously against Don Luis. I drew his blood out with my nails before José and Santos had a chance to drag me away. Santos choked me with his fingers.
Algures entre a consciência e a inconsciência, ou melhor, entre o consciente e o subconsciente que tanto intrigava os surrealistas, Leonora vai experienciando várias facetas da sua personalidade, vários estádios de consciência, várias forças, vários desdobramentos da realidade:
I tried to understand where I was and why I was there. Was it a hospital or a concentration camp? (...)I never was able to discover how long I had remained unconscious: days or weeks? When I became sadly reasonable, I was told that for several days I had acted like various animals—jumping up on the wardrobe with the agility of a monkey, scratching, roaring like a lion, whinnying, barking, etc.
Confinada, e fortemente drogada, experimenta uma espécie de estase dos sentidos, uma sensação extracorpórea (embora eu — e qualquer pessoa com proximidade com esta doença — não ache que as crises epilépticas, de qualquer espécie, aproximem alguém do plano elevado que Leonora Carrington julga atingir):
Have you an idea now of what the Great Epileptic Ailment is like? It’s what Cardiazol induces. I learned later that my condition had lasted for ten minutes; I was convulsed, pitiably hideous, I grimaced and my grimaces were repeated all over my body. When I came to I was lying naked on the floor. I shouted to Frau Asegurado to bring me some lemons and I swallowed them with their rinds.
O certo é que, ao longo de todo este processo, Leonora sofre novas metamorfoses dos sentidos. E a sua mitologia começa aqui. De uma mescla de misticismo e ateísmo, Leonora faz nascer uma alquimia espiritual na qual o seu papel, central, é o de mártir e salvadora — quiçá uma tábua de salvação para escapar à crueldade que lhe é imposta no hospício:
I believed that I was being put through purifying tortures so that I might attain Absolute Knowledge, at which point I could live Down Below. The pavilion with this name was for me the Earth, the Real World, Paradise, Eden, Jerusalem. Don Luis and Don Mariano were God and His Son. I thought they were Jewish; I thought that I, a Celtic and Saxon Aryan, was undergoing my sufferings to avenge the José for the persecutions they were being subjected to. Later, with full lucidity, I would go Down Below, as the third person of the Trinity. I felt that, through the agency of the Sun, I was an androgyne, the Moon, the Holy Ghost, a gypsy, an acrobat, Leonora Carrington, and a woman. I was also destined to be, later, Elizabeth of England. I was she who revealed religions and bore on her shoulders the freedom and the sins of the earth changed into Knowledge, the union of Man and Woman with God and the Cosmos, all equal between them.
Como vimos, o relato de Down Bellow sucede-se aos eventos que narra. Logo, é uma memória por parte de uma mente sã do tempo em que a sanidade a abandonou. Daí que, à parte a aura surreal, toda a descrição desse tempo assente na racionalidade e na complexidade linguística — e surrealismo e linguística não se podem nunca apartar muito.
Leonora acaba por deixar Santander e rumar efetivamente à América (fugindo engenhosamente da sua chaperone que a devia levar a um exílio em África e acabando por casar com um diplomata mexicano). Eventualmente — sem querer minimizar a sua obra — viverá desta aura de culto da loucura feminina que, a dado momento, lhe abriu as portas de um outro mundo: um mundo sensorial, invisível, mágico. Literalmente, o mundo de down bellow — o inferno, [inferus] o mundo inferior.
De uma Intensidade sofrida e exacerbada pela génese mítica de uma artista que começava a querer ser uma entidade totalmente independente do passado (e das pessoas desse passado), Down Bellow termina com uma nota de realismo e tristeza que humaniza a artista e nos aproxima do mito:
My mother came to Mexico when my son Pablo was born in 1946. But we never talked about this time. It’s the sort of thing English people of that generation didn’t discuss. That was one side of my mother’s peculiar and rather complex character.(...)What is terrible is that one’s anger is stifled. I never really got angry. I felt I didn’t really have time. I was tormented by the idea that I had to paint, and when I was away from Max and first with Renato, I painted immediately.(...)I never saw my father again.
Da Introdução, por Marina Warner
Quando peguei em Down Bellow sabia que a sua leitura ia ser uma tarefa hercúlea. Primeiro porque se trata de um texto autobiográfico, segundo porque se trata de uma montagem mítica e onírica cuja finalidade é a de alicerçar a carreira de Leonora Carrington num meio onde o culto da loucura é louvado. Logo, Down Bellow é hiperbólico, metafórico e enigmático como se esperaria que uma obra surrealista fosse, e não deve ser interpretado ao pé da letra como um escorreito relato de um episódio de insanidade:
The egg is the macrocosm and the microcosm, the dividing line between the Big and the Small which makes it impossible to see the whole. To possess a telescope without its other essential half—the microscope—seems to me a symbol of the darkest incomprehension. The task of the right eye is to peer into the telescope, while the left eye peers into the microscope.
A narrativa que aqui encontramos é fixada três anos após os incidentes que narra. Vivendo na Provença com Max Ernst (e, a sério, ele não é importante nesta história) e após o internamento deste num campo de concentração aquando da ocupação nazi (Ernst era um inimigo público dos alemães que condenavam aquela que apelidaram de arte degenerada, designação na qual a obra do artista se enquadra), Leonora tem um episódio psicótico — um esgotamento nervoso será mais exato. Sozinha de súbito, todo o mundo parece a Leonora Carrington um enorme acampamento nazi gerido por espiões e agentes secretos. O delírio, coadjuvado pela inanição e fortes trabalhos a que a artista se submete numa tentativa de se imolar, origina uma espécie de afasia social imediata. A confusão que se segue deixa aqueles que a rodeiam sob aviso e, perante a sua derrocada emocional, a família é rápida a enviar Leonora para um hospício em Santander (apanhada em fuga de França, a artista pretendia chegar a Lisboa para partir rumo a Nova Iorque):
(...)the sentence passed on me by society at that particular time was probably, surely even, a god-send, for I was not aware of the importance of health, I mean of the absolute necessity of having a healthy body to avoid disaster in the liberation of the mind.
Todavia, estas andanças não eram já novidade para a pintora. Fugida de casa com um canudo de arte numa mão e um homem mais velho (e casado) na outra, Leonora era uma 'menina de boas famílias", filha de uma família burguesa (de novos ricos industriais), criada em várias escolas católicas. Daí que, à data do seu encarceramento em Santander já fosse uma perita em fintar a vigilância e a contenção. Por isso, até dada altura, a perseguição e o hospital apenas acrescentam mais uma camada a essas experiências:
I soon found myself a prisoner in a sanatorium full of nuns. This did not last long either; the nuns proved unable to cope with me. It was impossible to lock me up, keys and windows were no obstacles for me; I wandered all over the place, looking for the roof, which I believed my proper dwelling place.
Esta experiência, porém, difere das anteriores, pois a sua sensibilidade, aguçada pelo desiquilíbrio mental, tinge cada momento ali vivido de uma aura metafísica e espiritual que entrecruza o passado religioso e bourgeois de Carrington com as suas novas aspirações de quebrar com todas as convenções do passado:
I heard the vibrations of beings as clearly as voices—I understood from each particular vibration the attitude of each towards life, his degree of power, and his kindness or malevolence towards me. It was no longer necessary to translate noises, physical contacts, or sensations into rational terms or words. I understood every language in its particular domain: noises, sensations, colours, forms, etc., and every one found a twin correspondence in me and gave me a perfect answer.
Diferente é também o tratamento a que Leonora é sujeita. Perante as suas divagações — mais as físicas do que as demais — é rapidamente imobilizada pelos métodos mais aberrantes:
I thought it was a soporific and decided not to sleep. To my great surprise, I did not get sleepy. I saw my thigh swell around the puncture, till the bump grew to the size of a small melon. Frau Asegurado told me they had induced an artificial abscess in my
thigh; the pain and the idea that I was infected made it impossible for me to walk freely for two months. As soon as they loosened their grip, I threw myself furiously against Don Luis. I drew his blood out with my nails before José and Santos had a chance to drag me away. Santos choked me with his fingers.
Algures entre a consciência e a inconsciência, ou melhor, entre o consciente e o subconsciente que tanto intrigava os surrealistas, Leonora vai experienciando várias facetas da sua personalidade, vários estádios de consciência, várias forças, vários desdobramentos da realidade:
I tried to understand where I was and why I was there. Was it a hospital or a concentration camp? (...)I never was able to discover how long I had remained unconscious: days or weeks? When I became sadly reasonable, I was told that for several days I had acted like various animals—jumping up on the wardrobe with the agility of a monkey, scratching, roaring like a lion, whinnying, barking, etc.
Confinada, e fortemente drogada, experimenta uma espécie de estase dos sentidos, uma sensação extracorpórea (embora eu — e qualquer pessoa com proximidade com esta doença — não ache que as crises epilépticas, de qualquer espécie, aproximem alguém do plano elevado que Leonora Carrington julga atingir):
Have you an idea now of what the Great Epileptic Ailment is like? It’s what Cardiazol induces. I learned later that my condition had lasted for ten minutes; I was convulsed, pitiably hideous, I grimaced and my grimaces were repeated all over my body. When I came to I was lying naked on the floor. I shouted to Frau Asegurado to bring me some lemons and I swallowed them with their rinds.
O certo é que, ao longo de todo este processo, Leonora sofre novas metamorfoses dos sentidos. E a sua mitologia começa aqui. De uma mescla de misticismo e ateísmo, Leonora faz nascer uma alquimia espiritual na qual o seu papel, central, é o de mártir e salvadora — quiçá uma tábua de salvação para escapar à crueldade que lhe é imposta no hospício:
I believed that I was being put through purifying tortures so that I might attain Absolute Knowledge, at which point I could live Down Below. The pavilion with this name was for me the Earth, the Real World, Paradise, Eden, Jerusalem. Don Luis and Don Mariano were God and His Son. I thought they were Jewish; I thought that I, a Celtic and Saxon Aryan, was undergoing my sufferings to avenge the José for the persecutions they were being subjected to. Later, with full lucidity, I would go Down Below, as the third person of the Trinity. I felt that, through the agency of the Sun, I was an androgyne, the Moon, the Holy Ghost, a gypsy, an acrobat, Leonora Carrington, and a woman. I was also destined to be, later, Elizabeth of England. I was she who revealed religions and bore on her shoulders the freedom and the sins of the earth changed into Knowledge, the union of Man and Woman with God and the Cosmos, all equal between them.
Como vimos, o relato de Down Bellow sucede-se aos eventos que narra. Logo, é uma memória por parte de uma mente sã do tempo em que a sanidade a abandonou. Daí que, à parte a aura surreal, toda a descrição desse tempo assente na racionalidade e na complexidade linguística — e surrealismo e linguística não se podem nunca apartar muito.
Leonora acaba por deixar Santander e rumar efetivamente à América (fugindo engenhosamente da sua chaperone que a devia levar a um exílio em África e acabando por casar com um diplomata mexicano). Eventualmente — sem querer minimizar a sua obra — viverá desta aura de culto da loucura feminina que, a dado momento, lhe abriu as portas de um outro mundo: um mundo sensorial, invisível, mágico. Literalmente, o mundo de down bellow — o inferno, [inferus] o mundo inferior.
De uma Intensidade sofrida e exacerbada pela génese mítica de uma artista que começava a querer ser uma entidade totalmente independente do passado (e das pessoas desse passado), Down Bellow termina com uma nota de realismo e tristeza que humaniza a artista e nos aproxima do mito:
My mother came to Mexico when my son Pablo was born in 1946. But we never talked about this time. It’s the sort of thing English people of that generation didn’t discuss. That was one side of my mother’s peculiar and rather complex character.(...)What is terrible is that one’s anger is stifled. I never really got angry. I felt I didn’t really have time. I was tormented by the idea that I had to paint, and when I was away from Max and first with Renato, I painted immediately.(...)I never saw my father again.
May 28, 2019
I've long been interested in Leonora Carrington - her writing, her paintings, her story. Did you know she was a founding member of the Women's Liberation Movement in the 1970s in Mexico? Not a dull moment, that one.
Then she had this whole thing with Surrealist painter, Max Ernst, and I get all twitchy because how many female artists had unfortunate relationships with other artistic sorts who generally get more attention than they did? Most are more familiar with the name Max Ernst than they are with Leonora Carrington and that is so unfair. Not to mention the fact that he ultimately married Peggy Guggenheim and left Carrington high and dry while she was in a psychiatric hospital. I mean, REALLY.
(Okay, to be fair, Ernst was also in a concentration camp prior to all this, but I'm talking about her here.)
This slim book is Carrington's surrealist memoir of her descent into madness. This descent began with Ernst's arrest into the concentration camp which she details in the beginning of this book. The rest involves her hospitalization, some of the visions and hallucinations she had, her experiences (though perhaps as an unreliable narrator because who can say what really happened), and all around surreal story.
Just. Read some freaking Carrington and whenever you see a Max Ernst painting, look up a Leonora Carrington for good measure. Women did stuff too.
Then she had this whole thing with Surrealist painter, Max Ernst, and I get all twitchy because how many female artists had unfortunate relationships with other artistic sorts who generally get more attention than they did? Most are more familiar with the name Max Ernst than they are with Leonora Carrington and that is so unfair. Not to mention the fact that he ultimately married Peggy Guggenheim and left Carrington high and dry while she was in a psychiatric hospital. I mean, REALLY.
(Okay, to be fair, Ernst was also in a concentration camp prior to all this, but I'm talking about her here.)
This slim book is Carrington's surrealist memoir of her descent into madness. This descent began with Ernst's arrest into the concentration camp which she details in the beginning of this book. The rest involves her hospitalization, some of the visions and hallucinations she had, her experiences (though perhaps as an unreliable narrator because who can say what really happened), and all around surreal story.
I had heard about several pavilions; the largest one was very luxurious, like a hotel, with telephones and unbarred windows; it was called Abajo (Down Below), and people lived there very happily. To reach that paradise, it was necessary to resort to mysterious means which I believed were the divination of the Whole Truth. I was meditating on the manner in which I could get there as rapidly as possible when I was warned by the arrival of Moro, the dog, of Don Luis's visit. His expression was so different from yesterday's that it seemed to me that the world had turned backwards; with the night, his usual self-possession had vanished; he was disheveled, dirty, agitated, and behaved like a madman.I have previously read Carrington's The Hearing Trumpet, a novel about an older woman who, with the use of a hearing trumpet, discovers her family is plotting to institutionalize her, which I would say is based on some personal experience. Also a surrealist novel and one I highly recommend.
(p35)
Just. Read some freaking Carrington and whenever you see a Max Ernst painting, look up a Leonora Carrington for good measure. Women did stuff too.
September 29, 2025
The kind of unsettling, swirling, surreal hellscape that commands and confounds in equal measure. This is one I can see myself coming back to again and again. A truly singular experience.
October 13, 2017
I’ve been really enjoying Carrington’s short stories, working my way through them very slowly, but this was a bit of a let-down. I’m all for memoirs of madness— and this is definitely one!— but it just feels too slight; there’s no real meat to it, it’s there and then it’s gone and there’s no real conflict or even movement. At the end it seems to be saying it was dictated to someone, and not actually written by Carrington, which makes sense— it feels like she sat down one afternoon and just told this long crazy story about the time she went crazy, and then it was time for tea and they went their separate ways and none of the depths or crevices of the story were ever investigated. Illuminating in a biographical way but doesn’t hold a candle to the stories (or the paintings!!). Does have a cool cover, though.
March 1, 2021
Τι γυναίκα πρέπει να ήταν αυτή η Λεονόρα Κάρινγκτον, και πόσο ιδιαίτερος χαρακτήρας! Εικαστικός, σουρεαλίστρια ζωγράφος και συγγραφέας, πολίτης τους κόσμου, που γνώρισε ένα σωρό καλλιτέχνες και ζωγράφους, που έζησε ένα κάρο εμπειρίες, και που κέρδισε την εκτίμηση και τον θαυμασμό προσωπικοτήτων του επιπέδου του Μαξ Ερνστ και του Αντρέ Μπρετόν, καταφέρνοντας μάλιστα να ζήσει μέχρι τα βαθιά γεράματα, έχοντας δημιουργήσει και οικογένεια. Όλα τα κατάφερε! Άνετα θα έβλεπα ένα ντοκιμαντέρ ή μια ταινία ή μια σειρά για τη ζωή και το έργο της. Διαβάζοντας την αφήγηση αυτή, που αποτελεί ένα μίνι χρονικό της... τρέλας που έπληξε την Λεονόρα Κάρινγκτον στα νιάτα της (κατά... σύμπτωση με την έναρξη του Β' Παγκοσμίου Πολέμο��) και του εγκλεισμού της σε μια ψυχιατρική κλινική στο Σανταντέρ της Ισπανίας, αλλά επίσης διαβάζοντας την εισαγωγή του μεταφραστή και τα υπέροχα επίμετρα στο τέλος, ένιωσα ότι γνώρισα με σάρκα και οστά μια μοναδική και ίσως λιγάκι ιδιόρρυθμη προσωπικότητα. Η καταγραφή των εμπειριών της από τον εγκλεισμό στην ψυχιατρική κλινική είναι σαφώς παραληρηματική σε πολλά σημεία, αλλά πραγματικά διαβάστηκε απνευστί. Πολύ ιδιαίτερο κείμενο, σίγουρα ούτε για όλα τα γούστα, αλλά ούτε για όλες τις ώρες, πάντως πιστεύω ότι αξίζει να διαβαστεί, ειδικά αν είστε φαν του σουρεαλισμού και του υπερρεαλισμού. Στη βιβλιοθήκη μου έχω εδώ και χρόνια το "Η πέτρινη πόρτα" (αγορασμένο από κάποιο παζάρι βιβλίου), ενώ θα αναζητήσω και τη συλλογή ιστοριών "Η αρχάρια". Και μακάρι να μεταφραστεί μια μέρα το πλέον γνωστό της έργο, το "The Hearing Trumpet". Υ.Γ. Άψογη η ελληνική έκδοση. (7.5/10)
June 4, 2017
Poking about in my favorite bookstore in the city, the small but concentratedly splendid Book Thug Nation, I suddenly struck precisely the sort of unexpected find that keeps me pouring over dense-packed shelves with no idea what I'm looking for in the first place. Leonora Carrington may be my favorite writer of the first, interwar, wave of surrealists, with a deft touch for humor and sensible absurdity. I'm resolved to hunt down whatever I can from her, but she's only got a single book in print (her longer novel, the excellent The Hearing Trumpet), only one collection in the entire circulating New York public library system (House of Fear: Notes From Down Below), and is a tricky quarry on the second hand market.
So this 1983 reprint of her 1943 memoir of insanity, fitted with neat, Ernstian collage-illustrations from Debra Taub, is a fantastic find. I'd read this in the library collection before, but that was a revision to this original text and spotting some of the variations in Carrington's own account is pretty interesting. And it's just good to have such an incredibly strange but lucid account of the experience of being, yes, very very delusional, on hand. There's a bit where she's trying to work out a new relationship between her body, mind, and a mountainside, which is particularly illuminating, as well as later notes of the delirious cosmological implications of ordinary objects. Even completely untethered from ordinary reality, Carrington seems to have been a surrealist through and through.
(Note: reissued in 2017 by the NYRB!)
So this 1983 reprint of her 1943 memoir of insanity, fitted with neat, Ernstian collage-illustrations from Debra Taub, is a fantastic find. I'd read this in the library collection before, but that was a revision to this original text and spotting some of the variations in Carrington's own account is pretty interesting. And it's just good to have such an incredibly strange but lucid account of the experience of being, yes, very very delusional, on hand. There's a bit where she's trying to work out a new relationship between her body, mind, and a mountainside, which is particularly illuminating, as well as later notes of the delirious cosmological implications of ordinary objects. Even completely untethered from ordinary reality, Carrington seems to have been a surrealist through and through.
(Note: reissued in 2017 by the NYRB!)
June 22, 2017
Leonora is SO great. I love her. And this is an incredible account of madness. A lucid(ish) account of madness from the pen of the 'mad'. But jeez. Max Ernst. What a dick.
March 1, 2024
Out of the three books by Leonora Carrington I re-read in 2021, this is by far the one I remember the most of from last time I read it which was back in 2018. ”Down Below”, which is included in most English-language printings of ”The House of Fear”, is a matter-of-fact autobiography of an extremely traumatic time in the author's life... filtered through her unique mystically-inclined worldview where world history is experienced as driven by strange and terrible spiritual forces. In particular, I remember a Dutch Jewish Nazi collaborator named Van Ghent being cast by Carrington in the role of a diabolical figure – the fallen angel ruling as a tyrant over the physical world. The entire juxtaposition of metaphysical supernatural evil with all-too-human evil in the context of a feminine coming-of-age narrative set in Franco's Spain is something I keep wondering if Guillermo del Toro borrowed from ”Down Below” for his film ”Pan's Labyrinth”.
Something important that I did not remember from the first reading of ”Down Below”, but stood out clearer to me when re-reading it, were the joyful memories from Carrington's life she recalled while fleeing from Germany to Spain: The fond memories of her walking around and playing on the rocks of Andorra as well as travelling with a friend in her Fiat through several countries, with in-depth descriptions of beautiful landscapes and architecture. This really does feel like an important vast journey both geographically, culturally and spiritually. The core of ”Down Below” is the harrowing account of Carrington being institutionalised in a Spanish mental asylum, and her attempts to escape. For example, she hallucinates encounters with the ghosts of the ancestors of the doctor in charge of the asylum. She also casts the various people she meets there in corresponding mythological roles and imagines the place itself as a supernatural underworld to which she descends in order to undergo a series of traumatic initiation rituals. Compare to the trials undergone by the Sumerian goddess Inanna or the Greek god Orpheus.
All this is a perfect example of creating a mythological heroic journey out of your own life, where the weirdest and most traumatising episodes become a series of challenges that each require mastering a new faculty of the human mind in order to go forwards. This corresponds to the classic path of initiation as described by both Greco-Roman mystery religions (such as the Orpheus cult) and the Kabbalah. Carrington's 'escape from the Spanish mental asylum then becomes synonymous with the process of returning from the underworld to the daylight world and completing the process of spiritual awakening, her ordeals recast as a process of transcendence. Finding out that this experience became the basis for the mythic narrative and path to spiritual transcendence that Carrington found in her life might explain why she in her short stories, as found in ”The House of Fear” and ”The Seventh Horse”, was so fixated with narratives following a young woman going through a series of cryptic and terrifying challenges posed by demonic or monstrous authority figures.
”Down Below” is not easy reading, but I think any fan of Carrington's work either as an author or painter should read it. As should anyone who is interested in psychological individuation and spiritual transcendence specifically how people living in modern societies can find those things in their own lives. Those are also common subject matter in the books, films and comics of Alejandro Jodorowsky, whose meetings with Carrington are described in one chapter of his book ”The Spiritual Journey”, yet those two artist-mystics got very different works out of those themes. I think there is an important insight in comparing those two, and the fact that Carrington found that process of transcendence in such a horrific chapter of her own life says something important.
Something important that I did not remember from the first reading of ”Down Below”, but stood out clearer to me when re-reading it, were the joyful memories from Carrington's life she recalled while fleeing from Germany to Spain: The fond memories of her walking around and playing on the rocks of Andorra as well as travelling with a friend in her Fiat through several countries, with in-depth descriptions of beautiful landscapes and architecture. This really does feel like an important vast journey both geographically, culturally and spiritually. The core of ”Down Below” is the harrowing account of Carrington being institutionalised in a Spanish mental asylum, and her attempts to escape. For example, she hallucinates encounters with the ghosts of the ancestors of the doctor in charge of the asylum. She also casts the various people she meets there in corresponding mythological roles and imagines the place itself as a supernatural underworld to which she descends in order to undergo a series of traumatic initiation rituals. Compare to the trials undergone by the Sumerian goddess Inanna or the Greek god Orpheus.
All this is a perfect example of creating a mythological heroic journey out of your own life, where the weirdest and most traumatising episodes become a series of challenges that each require mastering a new faculty of the human mind in order to go forwards. This corresponds to the classic path of initiation as described by both Greco-Roman mystery religions (such as the Orpheus cult) and the Kabbalah. Carrington's 'escape from the Spanish mental asylum then becomes synonymous with the process of returning from the underworld to the daylight world and completing the process of spiritual awakening, her ordeals recast as a process of transcendence. Finding out that this experience became the basis for the mythic narrative and path to spiritual transcendence that Carrington found in her life might explain why she in her short stories, as found in ”The House of Fear” and ”The Seventh Horse”, was so fixated with narratives following a young woman going through a series of cryptic and terrifying challenges posed by demonic or monstrous authority figures.
”Down Below” is not easy reading, but I think any fan of Carrington's work either as an author or painter should read it. As should anyone who is interested in psychological individuation and spiritual transcendence specifically how people living in modern societies can find those things in their own lives. Those are also common subject matter in the books, films and comics of Alejandro Jodorowsky, whose meetings with Carrington are described in one chapter of his book ”The Spiritual Journey”, yet those two artist-mystics got very different works out of those themes. I think there is an important insight in comparing those two, and the fact that Carrington found that process of transcendence in such a horrific chapter of her own life says something important.
February 3, 2018
Leonora Carrington. Memorias de abajo. (Down Below).
°
Llego a la vida de Leonora sin tener mucha idea de quien era, tan solo me dejé llevar por "el amor a primera vista" que solemos tener muchos cuando vemos un libro.
En estas Memorias de Abajo Leonora cuenta una época de su vida bastante dura. Su encierro en un psiquiátrico en España. Esta etapa marcará el resto de su vida y también será reflejada en su obra.
°
El prólogo es de Elena Poniatowska y os dejo algunos apuntes sueltos que hace sobre Leonora .
- Leonora había sido una niña habitada por las leyendas celtas de su abuela irlandesa
- A Leonora le gustaba sembrar,fertilizar, ver crecer y cosechar, siempre le atrajo ls sabiduría de la tierra.
-Una vez le pregunté si se había hecho pintora por decisión propia y me respondió: «creo que no he tomado una decisión en mi vida».
°
Sólo puedo decir que caigo rendida a los pies de Leonora y que espero leer pronto el libro de Poniatowska.
°
Llego a la vida de Leonora sin tener mucha idea de quien era, tan solo me dejé llevar por "el amor a primera vista" que solemos tener muchos cuando vemos un libro.
En estas Memorias de Abajo Leonora cuenta una época de su vida bastante dura. Su encierro en un psiquiátrico en España. Esta etapa marcará el resto de su vida y también será reflejada en su obra.
°
El prólogo es de Elena Poniatowska y os dejo algunos apuntes sueltos que hace sobre Leonora .
- Leonora había sido una niña habitada por las leyendas celtas de su abuela irlandesa
- A Leonora le gustaba sembrar,fertilizar, ver crecer y cosechar, siempre le atrajo ls sabiduría de la tierra.
-Una vez le pregunté si se había hecho pintora por decisión propia y me respondió: «creo que no he tomado una decisión en mi vida».
°
Sólo puedo decir que caigo rendida a los pies de Leonora y que espero leer pronto el libro de Poniatowska.
November 22, 2022
Cuando la locura roza la brillantez y el surrealismo deviene sutilmente realidad, brotan estas escalofriantes memorias en forma de delirios que Carrignton recuerda (re-; cor-cordis; \vuelve a pasar por su corazón\) y consigue describir desde afuera con total transparencia. La angustia - la mente - se une dolorosamente al cuerpo de la autora, que vive en un mundo agarrotado del que, en el fondo, solo quiere liberar a todos los seres humanos.
"Sabía que cerrando los ojos podía evitar la llegada del más insoportable de los sufrimientos: la mirada de los demás. Por tanto, los iba a mantener cerrados durante mucho, muchísimo tiempo seguido."
"Sabía que cerrando los ojos podía evitar la llegada del más insoportable de los sufrimientos: la mirada de los demás. Por tanto, los iba a mantener cerrados durante mucho, muchísimo tiempo seguido."
February 18, 2018
"I wondered who would help someone, dressed in a bed sheet and a pencil, to get to Madrid."
December 27, 2023
One of the most fascinating things about the female surrealists is that they all seem in some way to refute the somewhat conformist world of surrealism as dictated by Breton et al. For them the woman was a muse or a figure of exoticism and in some ways an “other”. Very rarely were they given any autonomy, and yet almost every female surrealist probably did more creative work than most of the most fêted surrealists because they absolutely had no constraints or bothered with Breton’s endless, tiresome agendas. Carrington’s art and fiction is almost entirely unrestrained by anything other than wild creativity - she was inspired by the Mexican landscape and her peers like Remedios Varo and did she fuck ever need a muse other than her own imagination. And in these pages she creates a hypnotic, haunting, horrible and occasionally disturbingly beautiful memoir of her breakdown in a way that absolutely eschews metaphor (instead embracing symbolism) and utterly blows away the artistic cliche of suffering being somehow equal to great creativity by suggesting a breakdown in the hands of a brutal regime might, unsurprisingly, be an utterly shit thing to go through. An extraordinary book. Just spellbinding
April 26, 2023
Lo he pensado más veces al reseñar un libro, pero en este en concreto necesito verbalizarlo. Poner aquí cuatro o cinco estrellas no es una valoración de qué tan bueno es el libro, la edición, la historia que sus páginas revelan. Esas cuatro estrellas que podrían haber sido cinco, seis, trece, hablan de cuánto me han tocado las palabras, cuánto de propia he hecho la historia de Leonora según ella me la iba descubriendo. Podrían haber sido cinco estrellas y desde luego que necesitamos estas apuestas editoriales, decisiones que rescaten del olvido nuestra voz y mirada desde nuestras propias vivencias de encierros y torturas, de privación de libertad en razón de nuestra rebeldía o de no plegarnos a sus normas, libros que denuncien medicamentos y otros tratamientos que nunca debieron considerarse tales, que señalen violencias así y apunten hacia otros caminos posibles. Y desde luego este libro es un testimonio valiosisimo de todo ello, por encima de estrellas (denme 6-9-13-18), de valoraciones, de matices, por encima de cualquier observación externa, más si esta se pretendiese objetiva.
Si yo he puesto cuatro estrellas es por lo que hoy mismo al terminar de leer resuena conmigo: estas estrellas hablan de mi tristeza, del ojalá habernos sabido rebelar antes, ojalá detectar desde un inicio cualquiera de las violencias que tantas nos comemos y que Leonora consigue listar en estas páginas, aunque no siempre sea violencia la primera palabra que emplee (y aunque haya quien solo pueda entender estas Memorias como reflejo sin más de un delirio enfermizo).
En fin. Para mí, encontrar en estas memorias cómo compartimos una genealogía loca de esta fuerza, talento, vitalidad, compromiso, valentía... expande el orgullo loco que me anida dentro. Qué bien haber podido leerlas justo tras ver la exposición Leonora Carrington: Revelación, y qué ganas de hablar contigo, saber más, leerte más, acercarnos ahora que cada paso nos hermana un poco más 💜💜💜
Si yo he puesto cuatro estrellas es por lo que hoy mismo al terminar de leer resuena conmigo: estas estrellas hablan de mi tristeza, del ojalá habernos sabido rebelar antes, ojalá detectar desde un inicio cualquiera de las violencias que tantas nos comemos y que Leonora consigue listar en estas páginas, aunque no siempre sea violencia la primera palabra que emplee (y aunque haya quien solo pueda entender estas Memorias como reflejo sin más de un delirio enfermizo).
En fin. Para mí, encontrar en estas memorias cómo compartimos una genealogía loca de esta fuerza, talento, vitalidad, compromiso, valentía... expande el orgullo loco que me anida dentro. Qué bien haber podido leerlas justo tras ver la exposición Leonora Carrington: Revelación, y qué ganas de hablar contigo, saber más, leerte más, acercarnos ahora que cada paso nos hermana un poco más 💜💜💜
May 8, 2021
“The room was papered with painted, silvery pine trees on a red background; a prey to the most complete panic, I saw pine trees in the snow. In the midst of convulsions, I relived my first injection, and felt again the atrocious experience of the original dose of Cardiazol: absence of motion, fixation, horrible reality. I did not want to close my eyes, thinking that the sacrificial moment had come and determined to oppose it with all my strength.”
Like a bad psychedelic trip; I'm not sure if I enjoyed the whole experience enough to say that I like it. But the writing is quite glorious, so I'm left quite confused. Perhaps I prefer her painting/art over her writing. Will write a better review later.
August 30, 2019
The stereotype of the crazy “femme-enfant” of surrealism (the whimsical, mad, childish muse of the artist) seen in Breton’s Nadja, is presented here in a non-romanticized light and humanized. Carrington oscillates between the subjective and the view of the external other to describe her descent into madness and her metaphysical voyage. Her fantastical yet deadpan writings give a voice to the surrealist feminine hysteric while simultaneously criticizing the world of psychiatry and its ideas of normalcy.
May 9, 2017
Vividly, dreamily terrifying.
September 12, 2025
I finally started reading this because at my wokey wokey fierce 40-minute round one interview to be a barista at Erewhon they asked me for a historical hero and I said Leonora Carrington and they were like what? Anyways, Leonora Carrington is likely my favorite artist ever and this further establishes that for me and bouts of mental instability are not just a necessity but a precursor for gorgeous freethinking creative women. Like werk queen you better dump that geriatric French has-been and fuck on some Latin uncut trade to make him jealous!!! Down Below recounts existential apathy and psychosis in a fierce surrealist divalicious horny way, NOT in a petite and fragile self suck Joan Didion The White Album way… no need to pit two queens against each other though! I think this also goes to show that writing is ART and good writers can often be good visual artists and vice versa - a la Joni Mitchell. Who, when asked about being played by taylor swift in a biopic stated, “if she has to sing… good luck.” Swift could simply never produce gorgeous egg tempura portraiture (whilst, of course, the likes of Mitchell and Carrington could…) Not sure why this review is taking such a hateful and misogynistic turn oops! At the end of the day: Spanish people are insufferable, your rich dad is evil and can be blamed for everything, hot girls have every right to say things that don’t make sense, and fierce is fierce huntyyyyy.
June 25, 2025
i found the introduction by marina warner and the postscript by leonora carrington herself to be very helpful as they provided context that is necessary to understand carrington’s account of her institutionalization. i think i was expecting down below itself to encompass more of leonora’s time with fellow artist max ernst and to provide an overall look at that time period in her life during WWII. i was impressed by the level of detail carrington was able to remember about her time in the sanatorium and have no complaints about the almost detached writing style, but feel like this is a case where the book’s slimness worked against it (which is not often a complaint that i have). i was hoping to love this one more than i did!
December 15, 2017
Easily summed up as the summary notes, "its raw evocation of madness." True story, first person account of getting locked away in an insane asylum in World War II by someone who was pals with art collector Peggy Guggenheim and lovers with Surrealism master Max Ernst. She has a nervous breakdown when Max is arrested by the Gestapo leaving her alone, and her parents lock her away in the sanitarium. All of that sounds normal compared to what she goes through mentally when in the insane asylum. In fact, you could easily say she was indeed insane based on what you read about the Down Below and the other worlds within the walls, it's really very out there.
The fact she writes this all in first person in the 1980s when she is in her 70s , and it's not a fictional tale, makes it all the more alarming as she recalls everything that "happened" in such vivid color. Or is it in fact that she was given hallucinogenic drugs and so traumatized by sexual assault and unsanitary conditions that this is just what she experienced there? Either way she comes out of the institution and lives to be 94 as a leading artist of the Surrealist movement, author, and leader of the Women’s Liberation Movement in Mexico.
To me the account of "Down Below" is her artistic nature in true form. I'm reading some of her short stories and this is her voice, the surrealist manipulating the view of the world. Instead of taking this book into consideration as a by-the-letter biographical account of her time in the asylum, it has to be taken into account from her artistic voice because the two coincide here. It's a work of art by an artist who has mastered the surrealist form in print.
The fact she writes this all in first person in the 1980s when she is in her 70s , and it's not a fictional tale, makes it all the more alarming as she recalls everything that "happened" in such vivid color. Or is it in fact that she was given hallucinogenic drugs and so traumatized by sexual assault and unsanitary conditions that this is just what she experienced there? Either way she comes out of the institution and lives to be 94 as a leading artist of the Surrealist movement, author, and leader of the Women’s Liberation Movement in Mexico.
To me the account of "Down Below" is her artistic nature in true form. I'm reading some of her short stories and this is her voice, the surrealist manipulating the view of the world. Instead of taking this book into consideration as a by-the-letter biographical account of her time in the asylum, it has to be taken into account from her artistic voice because the two coincide here. It's a work of art by an artist who has mastered the surrealist form in print.
December 28, 2018
2.5 rounded to a 3.
Carrington's madness screams throughout this brief work. The pages bleed her sickness along with the sickness she endured in the insane asylum.
Eh, it was ok.
Carrington's madness screams throughout this brief work. The pages bleed her sickness along with the sickness she endured in the insane asylum.
Eh, it was ok.
October 30, 2025
Madness and desire, they go hand in hand, don't you think? For the purpose of this review, I don't mean in a sexual way (although that does happen)—but in a desire-to-be-heard type of way.
This morning, after having agonized over what to say about this book for the last week, the ideas and words proliferated in my brain to a rapid degree (at 7am, when I was trying to go back to sleep)—they were a river, flowing fast and furious, pouring out quicker than my sleep-addled brain could type, demanding to finally be set free. It took me a significant bit of time to return to sleep after this deluge, as all of the synapses were firing and making connections as only they can when inspiration strikes—stemming this flow, consider it inconceivable. The harder I tried to sleep, the more the thoughts came.
(Sidenote: I have an affinity for water metaphors as of late.)
So here we are. Hello, madness, my old friend.
I'm going to write this in the way that it was meant to be written—there is no other way that I'm capable of writing it. I've tried. I can't approach this particular review with a clinical or fixed mindset.
It's impossible, and I feel it would be imprudent of me to write this review without showing my vulnerability. I'm not quite ready yet to tell all; I'm not that trusting yet to divulge the entire truth. But (whoa, deep breath), here's the first of my confessions. I have multiple mental health diagnoses, the pertinent and most applicable to this situation being bipolar disorder and C-PTSD. And yes, I've been institutionalized before. Now hear me out before you stop reading to go and unfriend me. Let me start out by saying I'm not crazy—and I'll stop here again, and now I'll say, don't we all say that?
But.
I am friends with madness—just like Leonora was in this book—just like many people in this world we live in are today. We coexist with what we believe to be stable, "normal" people. And what is a definition of normal? Is it being happy all of the time? I think you would be hard-pressed to find someone who truly embodies that 24/7—whose thoughts don't betray them in the darkest of moments.
It is difficult for me to look at madness objectively when I hold it so close to my chest. If you have mental health diagnoses like I do, you see the world through a different lens. Sometimes that lens is clear and bright—allowing positivity and radiance to shine; at other times it appears dark, mirky, and sorrowful, clouding thoughts with only gloom and doom.
Leonora Carrington was a bright star in the surrealist landscape who embraced her madness. Down Below details the time she spent institutionalized during her psychotic breakdown. This occurred following the incarceration of her lover, fellow surrealist Max Ernst, for the 2nd time by the Nazis in 1940 in Germany. She literally lost her mind from the stress and trauma she endured. Being thrown in a psychiatric facility in Spain didn't help, as she was drugged and underwent electroshock therapy, but somehow, miraculously, she pulled herself out of the darkness. It was never confirmed whether she suffered from a "diagnosed" mental illness—there is only speculation. Setting diagnoses aside, she went on to process her trauma through her artwork and writing. What a beautiful way to try and heal yourself.
I doubt if every artist out there is depressed; I would love to know what the actual numbers are on it. It is well known, however, that there is a high correlation between mood disorders and creativity. So many writers and artists are afflicted—so many writers and artists take their own lives.
I can testify to this long-standing theory; I know when I'm depressed, I DO create more. I am able to tap into those reserves easier, and it all just flows. It could be 3am (my most creative time every day is between the hours of 12am and 3am); it could be the middle of the day. Regardless of the situation, when it strikes, I feel it's my responsibility to listen; it helps me to process the chaos. I haven't been listening quite as much the last 5 years, but I'm working on it. (When I was a photographer for my career, I channeled everything through that lens.) I was never much of a writer, especially during all of my 20s into my mid-30s. At that point, I did start journaling. When I went through my divorce, I wrote poetry endlessly. Pain transcends paper.
The best thing I learned from Leonora's autobiographical account isn't even written within its pages. It's what I learned about who Leonora was as an artist. She was able to write and paint and partake in many different types of art forms. While a love of art in all forms has always been a part of my soul, I have always just viewed who I am simply as a photographer. Delving into this book has introduced the understanding that I don't need to be restrained or confined by one artistic boundary.
Much of what Leonora details of her experience has you questioning your reality—resulting in an inability to determine if what she experienced was real. This was the hardest aspect of the book for me to personally identify with—Leonora did hallucinate significantly during this psychotic break. But what is real? Is it something we can physically touch? And if so, what are thoughts and feelings then? Are they not real? Just because we are not seeing and experiencing what Leonora did does not make it counterfeit. I'm sure the pain, confusion, and desire to be heard were very tangible to her at the time.
I say the following sentence more to myself, but you are here, so please read it too (I applaud you if you have read this far; bless your heart for being tolerant of my ramblings)—if you are struggling, try to not grow attached to your misery. I have allowed the misery to overtake me, permitting it to dominate my very existence until all I know is the depression. I have a habit of doing this when the darkness is abysmal. What makes all of this very challenging is knowing that you have had good times, where the bad days weren't so treacherous, and all you can hold onto is the hope of returning to that time again. This is a double-edged sword, though, as it can consume you, preventing you from living during these dark times. If you suffer with the darkness as Leonora did, as I do, the only thing we can do is make a way through—one day at a time. Accepting the darkness is the way through.
I had to listen this morning, to unfetter these words from the locked ward they were encased in until my thoughts quieted to a trickle. It wasn't until this juncture—finally feeling that my consciousness was exsanguinated of all thoughts pertaining to this compelling book—that I was blissfully able to recede back into slumber. I wonder if Leonora listened when these eruptions of inspiration struck? I have a feeling she did. And what beautiful artwork and writing we have been gifted with as a result of her deference to her madness.
This morning, after having agonized over what to say about this book for the last week, the ideas and words proliferated in my brain to a rapid degree (at 7am, when I was trying to go back to sleep)—they were a river, flowing fast and furious, pouring out quicker than my sleep-addled brain could type, demanding to finally be set free. It took me a significant bit of time to return to sleep after this deluge, as all of the synapses were firing and making connections as only they can when inspiration strikes—stemming this flow, consider it inconceivable. The harder I tried to sleep, the more the thoughts came.
(Sidenote: I have an affinity for water metaphors as of late.)
So here we are. Hello, madness, my old friend.
I'm going to write this in the way that it was meant to be written—there is no other way that I'm capable of writing it. I've tried. I can't approach this particular review with a clinical or fixed mindset.
It's impossible, and I feel it would be imprudent of me to write this review without showing my vulnerability. I'm not quite ready yet to tell all; I'm not that trusting yet to divulge the entire truth. But (whoa, deep breath), here's the first of my confessions. I have multiple mental health diagnoses, the pertinent and most applicable to this situation being bipolar disorder and C-PTSD. And yes, I've been institutionalized before. Now hear me out before you stop reading to go and unfriend me. Let me start out by saying I'm not crazy—and I'll stop here again, and now I'll say, don't we all say that?
But.
I am friends with madness—just like Leonora was in this book—just like many people in this world we live in are today. We coexist with what we believe to be stable, "normal" people. And what is a definition of normal? Is it being happy all of the time? I think you would be hard-pressed to find someone who truly embodies that 24/7—whose thoughts don't betray them in the darkest of moments.
It is difficult for me to look at madness objectively when I hold it so close to my chest. If you have mental health diagnoses like I do, you see the world through a different lens. Sometimes that lens is clear and bright—allowing positivity and radiance to shine; at other times it appears dark, mirky, and sorrowful, clouding thoughts with only gloom and doom.
Leonora Carrington was a bright star in the surrealist landscape who embraced her madness. Down Below details the time she spent institutionalized during her psychotic breakdown. This occurred following the incarceration of her lover, fellow surrealist Max Ernst, for the 2nd time by the Nazis in 1940 in Germany. She literally lost her mind from the stress and trauma she endured. Being thrown in a psychiatric facility in Spain didn't help, as she was drugged and underwent electroshock therapy, but somehow, miraculously, she pulled herself out of the darkness. It was never confirmed whether she suffered from a "diagnosed" mental illness—there is only speculation. Setting diagnoses aside, she went on to process her trauma through her artwork and writing. What a beautiful way to try and heal yourself.
I doubt if every artist out there is depressed; I would love to know what the actual numbers are on it. It is well known, however, that there is a high correlation between mood disorders and creativity. So many writers and artists are afflicted—so many writers and artists take their own lives.
I can testify to this long-standing theory; I know when I'm depressed, I DO create more. I am able to tap into those reserves easier, and it all just flows. It could be 3am (my most creative time every day is between the hours of 12am and 3am); it could be the middle of the day. Regardless of the situation, when it strikes, I feel it's my responsibility to listen; it helps me to process the chaos. I haven't been listening quite as much the last 5 years, but I'm working on it. (When I was a photographer for my career, I channeled everything through that lens.) I was never much of a writer, especially during all of my 20s into my mid-30s. At that point, I did start journaling. When I went through my divorce, I wrote poetry endlessly. Pain transcends paper.
The best thing I learned from Leonora's autobiographical account isn't even written within its pages. It's what I learned about who Leonora was as an artist. She was able to write and paint and partake in many different types of art forms. While a love of art in all forms has always been a part of my soul, I have always just viewed who I am simply as a photographer. Delving into this book has introduced the understanding that I don't need to be restrained or confined by one artistic boundary.
Much of what Leonora details of her experience has you questioning your reality—resulting in an inability to determine if what she experienced was real. This was the hardest aspect of the book for me to personally identify with—Leonora did hallucinate significantly during this psychotic break. But what is real? Is it something we can physically touch? And if so, what are thoughts and feelings then? Are they not real? Just because we are not seeing and experiencing what Leonora did does not make it counterfeit. I'm sure the pain, confusion, and desire to be heard were very tangible to her at the time.
I say the following sentence more to myself, but you are here, so please read it too (I applaud you if you have read this far; bless your heart for being tolerant of my ramblings)—if you are struggling, try to not grow attached to your misery. I have allowed the misery to overtake me, permitting it to dominate my very existence until all I know is the depression. I have a habit of doing this when the darkness is abysmal. What makes all of this very challenging is knowing that you have had good times, where the bad days weren't so treacherous, and all you can hold onto is the hope of returning to that time again. This is a double-edged sword, though, as it can consume you, preventing you from living during these dark times. If you suffer with the darkness as Leonora did, as I do, the only thing we can do is make a way through—one day at a time. Accepting the darkness is the way through.
I had to listen this morning, to unfetter these words from the locked ward they were encased in until my thoughts quieted to a trickle. It wasn't until this juncture—finally feeling that my consciousness was exsanguinated of all thoughts pertaining to this compelling book—that I was blissfully able to recede back into slumber. I wonder if Leonora listened when these eruptions of inspiration struck? I have a feeling she did. And what beautiful artwork and writing we have been gifted with as a result of her deference to her madness.
October 30, 2025
Carrington transforma el delirio en arte, la confusión en lenguaje poético y la fractura mental en un espejo de la condición humana. Su prosa, intensa y visionaria, se mueve entre la lucidez y la pesadilla, recordándonos que la mente también puede ser un territorio de resistencia.
El prólogo de Elena Poniatowska es una joya por sí mismo: escrito con una voz cariñosa, llena de respeto y profunda admiración hacia Leonora, nos permite acercarnos a ella desde la empatía, no desde el juicio. Poniatowska ilumina su figura con ternura y comprensión, invitando al lector a mirar más allá del sufrimiento y a descubrir en Carrington a una mujer libre, rebelde y profundamente humana incluso en su delirio.
Leer Memorias de abajo es adentrarse en un viaje desgarrador, pero necesario. Porque allí donde todo parece quebrarse, Leonora encuentra una forma de reconstruirse: con la fuerza que nace del recuerdo, del arte y —sobre todo— del amor, esa chispa que le permite salir de la oscuridad y volver a mirar el mundo con asombro.
El prólogo de Elena Poniatowska es una joya por sí mismo: escrito con una voz cariñosa, llena de respeto y profunda admiración hacia Leonora, nos permite acercarnos a ella desde la empatía, no desde el juicio. Poniatowska ilumina su figura con ternura y comprensión, invitando al lector a mirar más allá del sufrimiento y a descubrir en Carrington a una mujer libre, rebelde y profundamente humana incluso en su delirio.
Leer Memorias de abajo es adentrarse en un viaje desgarrador, pero necesario. Porque allí donde todo parece quebrarse, Leonora encuentra una forma de reconstruirse: con la fuerza que nace del recuerdo, del arte y —sobre todo— del amor, esa chispa que le permite salir de la oscuridad y volver a mirar el mundo con asombro.
March 10, 2023
COMENTÁRIO
⭐⭐⭐⭐
"Em baixo"
Leonora Carrington
Tradução de Carlos Leite e Leonor Castro Nunes
Por vezes lemos textos de dor que são textos de memória. Textos que os autores escrevem na esperança de não esquecer, de relembrar, de criar memória.
Fugida de França, em 1940, a poeta e pintora britânica Leonora Carrington é internada compulsivamente numa hospital psiquiátrico em Santander.
Neste texto ela escreve a memória desses dias, da violência de que foi vítima, antes e durante a hospitalização, criando um texto que permanece como memória das violências de que as mulheres foram algo ao longo do tempo. Se a violência machista é muitas vezes presente nas suas formas mais hediondas. Também a violência da instituição médica é do métodos de tratamento psiquiátrico de outros tempos.
Um texto acompanhado de um longo e informativo prefácio de Marina Warner.
Um texto que vos aconselho a ler pelo carácter documental que precisamos conhecer.
#livro #literatura #leitor #leitores #leitura #literaturabritânica
#book #bookstagram #bookclub #bookstagramportugal #bookworm #booknerd #booklover
(li a 10/03/2023)
⭐⭐⭐⭐
"Em baixo"
Leonora Carrington
Tradução de Carlos Leite e Leonor Castro Nunes
Por vezes lemos textos de dor que são textos de memória. Textos que os autores escrevem na esperança de não esquecer, de relembrar, de criar memória.
Fugida de França, em 1940, a poeta e pintora britânica Leonora Carrington é internada compulsivamente numa hospital psiquiátrico em Santander.
Neste texto ela escreve a memória desses dias, da violência de que foi vítima, antes e durante a hospitalização, criando um texto que permanece como memória das violências de que as mulheres foram algo ao longo do tempo. Se a violência machista é muitas vezes presente nas suas formas mais hediondas. Também a violência da instituição médica é do métodos de tratamento psiquiátrico de outros tempos.
Um texto acompanhado de um longo e informativo prefácio de Marina Warner.
Um texto que vos aconselho a ler pelo carácter documental que precisamos conhecer.
#livro #literatura #leitor #leitores #leitura #literaturabritânica
#book #bookstagram #bookclub #bookstagramportugal #bookworm #booknerd #booklover
(li a 10/03/2023)
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