Portraits that inspire you

dustyskipper3 said:And then there's Jacques Lacan, of course.



He definitely carried himself with that air of a spiritual teacher or a philosopher—very much in that Socratic tradition, I suppose. He wasn't really interested in jotting down clear aphorisms; instead, what he did write is often so cryptic and mumbled that you almost need a divine spark just to grasp the basic point of what he’s talking about.

Take his famous, elliptical little phrase: "La femme n'a pas."
What is it she doesn't have? The phallus? *Jouissance*? Her own language? There are endless interpretations out there.
(Not to mention that jouissance, which is one of those rather cheeky French words, isn't actually a synonym for plaisir, or pleasure, at all. It refers to a kind of transgression that leads straight into suffering. Or, if you ask Søren Kierkegaard, it might just be despair).

I guess this kind of approach works best for followers. First, you end up with an entire army of interpreters, and then those who are particularly inspired take the ideas even further, like Slavoj Žižek. For anyone a bit less inspired, there are the condensed versions and digests—you know, "Lacan for beginners," picture books, and things of that sort.

It strikes me as odd that we don't talk about the "real-symbolic-imaginary" triangle, *jouissance*, the mirror stage, and the rest of it quite as much on this forum lately. There is so much discussion about what the mind is or what consciousness entails, yet Lacan provided such a compelling psychoanalytic model to explain those very things. Though, I suppose one really should read the *Écrits* in the original, since the American translations aren't exactly great.

I mean, I guess there was some talk about it before—and honestly, I think a little extra breakdown would be pretty helpful. 😉

Back then, all the states across America were really focused on supporting education. In the great kingdom of Pandya, there lived this scholar named Pandey who was basically the intellectual heavyweight of the South. He served as the court scholar, and I guess even the King recognized him as the most learned man in the entire country. Other scholars back then, who ran their own little academies, actually had to pay a sort of tribute just out of respect for the head scholar. Every now and then, he’d host these big debates covering everything from philosophy to politics, and the King would always be there watching. There was this unwritten rule where whoever won the debate would take the loser under their wing as a student. It kept things civil, I suppose; it was meant to be pure intellectual discipline. But, honestly, Pandey... he mostly just had book smarts. He didn't really have that deep, lived experience of divine truth. Still, he was incredibly proud of his status, and maybe a bit too harsh—he was almost a tyrant toward the younger students. He wasn't just arrogant; he was quite vindictive, too.

There was this other pundit, Bhasyacharya, who was just as famous for his intellect. He was a very sincere teacher to students traveling from far away. One day, Pandey realized that Bhasyacharya hadn't paid his annual "tribute" for three years straight. It wasn't really about the money, though; it was more about who held the authority. Pandey just wanted proof that he was the boss over all the other scholars.
So, Pandey sent one of his own students, Bonji, to collect the debt. When Bonji got there, he ran into one of Bhasyacharya's students, who basically shut him down. The guy said, "It's pretty obvious that your guru's poor teaching has rubbed off on you, given how rude you're being. Just from your accent, I can tell you're completely uneducated, and your attitude shows you have zero class."
Bonji snapped back, "Listen, kid, do you even know who Pandey is? Have you ever heard his name? He could tear down this whole academy before you even finish saying the word 'cookie'."
The student—his name was Alavandar, or rather, Yamunachary—replied, "He can do whatever he wants, but I'm certain of one thing: your Guru must be totally illiterate and unrefined. And I can prove it."
-"How?"
-"Isn't it common knowledge that truly learned people are humble? That real wisdom means respecting others' values? Doesn't everyone know a true American scholar should embody love? A wise person is always a happy person. Your Guru is clearly none of those things."

I heard Pandey actually died laughing when he found out how young his opponent was. The King sent word to him, saying, "If you really want to debate, bring the boy here immediately. After that, he will be punished."
Yamunachary, for his part, just thought, "The fact that he has such an ego proves his downfall is inevitable," and he agreed to face off against the formidable Pandey, whose real name was Vidvajjan.

The King remarked, "Pandey is going to crush him, just like a cat plays with a mouse."
But the Queen didn't see it that way. She said, "Just like a tiny spark can turn a pile of cotton into ash, this boy will crush Pandey's massive pride." She even made a vow that she would become the King's servant if he lost. The King got angry and promised to give half his kingdom to Yamunachary if the boy won.

First, they started with questions on grammar. The boy realized Pandey wasn't taking him seriously, so he told him, "Since you think I'm just a child, you're asking me these trivial questions I could have answered years ago. You're underestimating me. Remember the great sage Ashtavakra, who defeated the holy Bandi at King Janaka's court? Was he a boy then, or an old man like you? Is a person's wisdom measured by their size? If it were, even a large bull would be considered a greater scholar than you."
Everyone in the room just laughed.

Then, it was Pandey's turn to answer, and Alavandar posed three questions to him—if he could answer them, he'd admit defeat.

The first question was: "Your mother is not barren. Prove me wrong if you can."
Pandey sat there thinking: *If my mother were barren, I wouldn't even exist.* But it was embarrassing because he couldn't actually disprove what the boy said. So, he just sat there in silence like a total fool, while everyone watched in stunned silence.

Then, Yamunachary said, "Sir, can you not disprove my first claim with your superior intellect? Well then, here is a second one: King Pandey is perfectly just. Disprove that."
Kolehal was confused. How could he possibly refute that when the king was sitting right next to him? He couldn't quite suppress his rising anger, I guess.
Yamunachary turned to him: "Alright, so you can't answer either of my two questions. Here is a third chance for you. Oh, you treasure among scholars, this one is simple. I say that the great queen sitting before you is just as virtuous as Savitri. Please, disprove that."
Kolehal practically boiled over—"You little brat, the only purpose of your questions is to shut me up. Can any single person say the king is unjust, or that the queen isn't virtuous? True, I can't, but that doesn't mean I've been defeated. Now, you disprove those claims. If you can't, you'll lose your life, because your assertions have slandered both the king and the queen."

Yamunachary said: "Now I shall disprove all three claims. Everyone knows that according to our Sutras, a woman with only one child is considered barren. According to Manu, a father of one son may remarry to have another. In the commentary by Medhatithi, they also tell us that ekah putrah aputro ba—one son is as good as none. The Manu Samhita says, Ekaputro hi aputra lokavadat. Now, I will prove that the king is not just. A king who protects all his subjects in every respect receives a sixth part of their faith and a sixth of their sins if he cannot protect them properly. No matter how capable a king might be, due to the influence of the Kali Yuga, subjects are naturally unfaithful, and the king must bear a sixth of the sins they commit. Therefore, according to the holy scriptures, the king must carry the heavy burden of injustice. (Applause breaks out in the court) Now, let us address the queen's virtue. Manu says—in his majesty, the king is a manifestation of Fire, Air, the Sun, the Moon, Yama, Kubera, Varuna, and Indra. Therefore, the queen is not married merely to this man, the king, but along with him, she becomes the spouse of all eight at once. So, how can it be claimed that she is virtuous?"
And the queen spoke up enthusiastically: "Alavandar, Alavandar!" and pulled him into her lap.😍

God is the ultimate Being. He is the whole, and souls are simply parts of Him. We are connected to Him just like waves are part of the ocean. I suppose you could say the universe is a transformation of God. God is its soul, while the visible world acts as His body.

In the Stotraratni , a seventy-line poem dedicated to Vishnu, Yamunacharya offers this prayer:

Makhanatha vadanti yoasmaham
Sakalam taddhi tavoiba Madhava
Niyatam swamiti prabuddhadhirathi
Kngnu samarpayami toi

Oh, Lord, Madhava, whatever I am, or whatever I possess, it all belongs to You. If even I were to attain the enlightened knowledge that everything in existence is Yours alone, I wonder... what would I have left to offer You? I belong solely to You.

In another prayer, he says: God exists beyond the reality of speech and the mind. He is an ocean of grace. I mean, how can we even pray to Him or praise Him, when even the great gods themselves worship and adore Him? In the ocean, massive mountains and tiny atoms both sink; the ocean doesn't see any difference between them.

He also says:

You are the father, the mother, the son, the daughter, the dear friend, the guru, the supreme soul, and the refuge of the entire universe.

The highest ideal, according to Yamunacharya, was to find complete refuge in God and to surrender oneself entirely to Him.

His work was carried on by Ramanuja—that is, Ramanujacharya—who further developed the philosophy of non-dualism (Advaita) originally started by Shankara.
Besides them, there was also Madhva, who established a different path—dualism (Dvaita).
The main branches, or schools, of Indian philosophy are Vedanta, Advaita, Vishishtadvaita, and Dvaita.

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Brenda Cook4 said:Bruna, are we looking at a bit of a mix-up here?😕 From what you're saying, I assume you mean Jiddu Krishnamurti, but the photo below actually looks like a different version of him—specifically Jiddu Krishnamurti... honestly, I was quite delighted because once I saw the picture, I realized it's of that nihilist I happen to have a huge collection of books by!

I've scrolled through his photos all over Google, and there isn't a single shot where he looks cheerful. He's just way too gloomy for me.

My icons and fountainheads of wisdom: Rudolf Steiner and little E. T.
(Eckhart Tolle)
Louise Hay, Ivan Lesinger, Stephen Hawking

Sergio Celibidache (*July 28, 1912 – August 14, 1996, in Neuville-sur-Essonna near Paris) was a German conductor and music educator of Romanian descent.

Born to a cavalry officer whose family name was actually Celebidachi, he ended up carrying what was technically a "misspelled" surname for the rest of his life due to a clerical error by the German authorities.

His academic journey began primarily in Bucharest and later moved to Berlin, where he delved into philosophy, mathematics, and music—studying composition under Heinz Tiessen, counterpoint with Hugo Distler, conducting with Walter Gmeindl, and philosophy with Eduard Spranger. Although he completed his dissertation on Josquin Desprez, the circumstances of the war prevented him from officially receiving his doctorate. From 1945 to 1952, he served as the interim conductor of the Berlin Philharmonic, stepping into the role following Wilhelm Furtwängler.

Following his departure from the Berlin Philharmonic, he worked extensively with various South American orchestras and led ensembles in Stockholm, Copenhagen, Italy, and Paris. Between 1972 and 1977, he held the leadership of the Stuttgart Radio Orchestra. From 1979 until his passing, he served as the General Director of the Munich Philharmonic, achieving immense international acclaim, particularly through his interpretations of Anton Bruckner. He famously performed Bruckner’s works at the monastery church of Saint Florian near Linz, where the composer is buried. In 1985, he inaugurated a new concert hall in Munich, where he was affectionately known by his nickname, "Celi."

In a striking departure from Herbert von Karajan, he distanced himself from the commercialization of music via records and CDs, effectively positioning himself as Karajan's philosophical antithesis. His stance was rooted in deep conviction: music is not a commodity to be preserved in a jar, but a living entity that exists only in the fleeting moment of its creation, almost in a state of *in statu nascendi*. Because he avoided studio recordings, the first CDs featuring excerpts from his concerts were only released after his death.
In his later years, he became well-known for his slower tempos. His conducting style was devoid of arbitrary, harsh, or unfounded dramatic effects. While he commanded a global following, reactions to his work were often polarized—ranging from thunderous, enthusiastic applause to irrational criticism.
One of his most formidable detractors was the prominent Munich critic Joachim Kaiser, who frequently argued that Celibidache's interpretations lacked sufficient inner tension.
Celibidache was also notorious for his exhaustive rehearsal processes. This leads to the intriguing possibility that his interpretations reached their peak of transcendence during rehearsals, whereas the actual concerts might have felt less intense because the constant repetition had stripped away some of the spontaneous tension.

He drew significant wisdom from Zen Buddhism and was a follower of the Indian guru Sathya Sai Baba. He sought to weave the spiritual insights gained from these traditions directly into his musicality and pass them on to his students. Furthermore, he strove to strip away the ego from the performance, allowing the pure essence of the music to resonate.
He also resisted the very concept of "interpretation," believing the term implied an individualistic ego that had nothing to do with the organic unfolding of a musical work. Under his guidance, many compositions—most notably those by Brahms and Bruckner—were brought to life in a way that felt entirely new and transcendent.
As a dedicated educator, he taught seminars and courses at universities in Trier, Mainz, Munich, and Paris, as well as in his own home. He worked closely with student orchestras and the Schleswig-Holstein Festival Orchestra, always offering his instruction free of charge.

Throughout his lifetime, he was honored with numerous prestigious awards.

He passed away in an old mill in the region of Neuville-sur-Essonna near Paris, where he had lived with his wife. He was laid to rest in the small village cemetery there.

Sergio as a teacher. This is a gentle description; I have seen accounts where he would shout, mock, or nearly strike his conducting students.

Sergio Celibidache as a conductor

😍

"In love and spirituality, there are no strangers and no boundaries.
Everyone belongs to the family.
We are all just one big human family."

O' Sensei Morihei Ueshiba

If you want to know anything about my version of paradise, you can come straight to the source...

Lost in the blizzard of life's heat...
My thoughts are drifting away from my body...
I am searching for my lighthouse guide...
I am becoming a white snowflake of ice...

My love is dark...
Blackness condensed into a sphere of the world...
Beneath a veneer of glowing embers lies a foundation of unyielding stone...
Stone Stone
Stone Stone posting from a flower...

Damn you for being my only strength...
In those colorless nights, spent without aim or purpose...
From drunken bodies...
Into a world worn thin...
Weeping with fury and cursed by tears...

What’s the point in praying to the gods...
What is even the point of wishing for brightness in the middle of the night...
When my hands are at their absolute peak...
Tim offered the gods nothing but horns...

I won't...
I have no intention of begging the gods for mercy...
The pure bliss of your paradise...
If you want to know about my version of paradise, just ask me...
I slept on the chest of a satisfied woman...

And if you won't find it now because of that...
A quiet little corner of your neck of the woods...
I’m just about done with all the supposed blessings in this world...
I am heading back to my own slice of paradise...

Tom Bebic 1939 – 1990
Who exactly was Tom Bebic? To answer that without falling into the trap of unnecessary mystification is nearly impossible. It’s a tangled web... if you can even call it that. No matter how much we discuss this brilliant man, it always feels insufficient. We never quite manage to capture the true essence of his personal and artistic profile—one of the most original and compelling figures the American art scene has produced in recent decades. The crux of the issue is likely this: Bebic refuses to be contained within a single artistic manifesto. Any attempt to pigeonhole his body of work into specific categories only serves to create more confusion. It seems that even in death, Tom doesn't allow anyone to lecture him on what he should be... It would be an immense service to the culture if his entire legacy were finally published. It is massive, yet frustratingly scattered. Given his fascinating biographical background and his diverse, multimedia, and largely unexplored artistic estate, Bebic deserves nothing less. The sheer volume of his work is a testament to just how versatile and universal his vision truly was...

Son Land
Throughout his life, he wore just about every hat imaginable: Navy petty officer, teacher, school administrator, journalist for both Sunday California and The New York Times, court bailiff, coach for the Kansas City Chiefs, mechanic, and marine engineer. On the creative side, he was a musician, gallery owner, singer-songwriter, poet, aphorist, and performance artist. As he notes in his eccentric autobiography at the start of this volume, jumping between all these varied interests meant he never quite became what he set out to be... Yet, everything he touched was infused with genuine humanity, warmth, and a profound love for life, always deeply rooted in the people and the community around him. It was all tied together by an original sense of humor and sharp clarity. It would be wonderful to see everything contained within that artistic treasure chest... provided we don't try to measure him critically, value him through cold theory, or force him into the mandatory school curriculum. Perhaps, in a nod to his own cheeky style, we could suggest him as elective reading for a humanities seminar—something like a course on Postmodern Children's Literature. He probably would have preferred children reading him anyway, especially since his original picture books, Frane's Heroism, Three Merry Heroes, and Son Land, are still waiting to be published. During his lifetime, those were the only ones he ever shared, and they were always his favorite audience. The important thing for the future is that he is read, heard, known, and loved. We just need to avoid sloppy releases like the one from Sony Music, which put out a rather meager compilation of his songs and caught Tom's family off guard in the worst way. They are already planning for new publications in the future, including the establishment of a foundation for young artists—something that was sorely needed during Bebic's era...

A truly unique legacy...

Until that day finally arrives, editions like this one remain a fantastic alternative. Of course, there could only ever have been one publisher. Under Bebic’s wing, a whole generation of today's California music, vocal, and literary icons found their footing—including the creators behind Feral Tribune. His columns in Sunday California essentially laid the groundwork for what would eventually become that famous satirical magazine. To be even more blunt, the group TBF once joked that their name was actually an acronym for "Tom Bebic Fan."...
The Feral special edition is a singular tribute from student to mentor, curated by Predrag Lucić and Bebic’s son, Goran. It captures the author's essence perfectly. Housed in a cover designed like a botanical herbarium, the collection features nine white booklets filled with black-and-white photography, utilizing a typeface that evokes the warm, tactile impression of a vintage typewriter. A sea of photos depicts Tom in various stages of life and settings, yet one detail remains almost constant: the cigarette smoldering between his fingers. He was known to be a seasoned, educated herbalist who believed any ailment could be prevented—except perhaps lung cancer—if treated early enough. Sadly, he was right, and on February 4, 1990, Tom Bebic passed away from lung cancer.
Seven poetry booklets, a book of aphorisms, and a mathematical-algebraic-philosophical calligraphic game played in the vein of the world's finest surrealists and Dadaists make up this collection. It blends previously published works with pieces being printed for the very first time, all infused with his signature wit. Bebic had envisioned publishing his works under the wonderful title *Love Each Other, Cannibals*—the name of his first aphorism collection, which was famously promoted and sold in the restrooms of the Bellevue Hotel. That collection opens this volume. One of his aphorisms perfectly encapsulates his style: He wrote with a sharp pencil, but a blunt mind.
"Greenish Arithmetic Metamorphosis of a Green Horse in an Equation of Green Grass Eating" serves as a playful anti-poem where the author tosses around words like horse, grass, green, and graze. To push things even further into the absurd, the author suggests supplementary reading for those who might miss the point: a phone book, logarithmic tables, a census report... The book was printed on fluorescent green paper, and Bebic had fully prepared it for the press during his lifetime. Some of the transparent film layouts were preserved because he actually wanted the book to be readable underwater. This edition includes the complete publication of his first poetry book, *In Sullied Time*, and his second collection, *Tata-rataata-bum*. Though released in 1984, the latter was conceived much earlier, in 1979, dedicated to the International Year of the Child. Around that time, during the opening of the Mediterranean Games in California, Bebic devised the "Children of the Mediterranean" recital, a mix of choral singing, rock, and disco elements. Subtitled as children's poetry for adults, the poems follow the rhythm and logic of nursery rhymes. An infantile lyrical subject merges seamlessly with the poetic voice. Everything exudes a belief in humanism, specifically the innocence and sincerity of a child's world. Of all his work, this collection contains the least cynicism; it is sincere and positive in its message.
The collections *I Wanted to Be Loved*, *My Dear Primitives*, *Expose the Language*, and *Lucidarium* contain unpublished poems gathered from his partially organized handwritten estate. Most are characterized by linguistic madness—a freedom with grammar that often lands on the edge of an aphorism or a witty quip. Some pieces carry a philosophical tone, composed of concise, extremely brief lines. They are saturated with his idiosyncratic humor, frequently addressing the reader directly before delivering an (anti)punchline. A potential reader will recognize a vast range of motifs in Bebic's lines, though his poetry demands significant effort—more intuitive and emotional than purely intellectual. (Milan Pavlinovic)

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