Ideas in Progression

A digital space where music, travel, and storytelling converge.

Tag: goodreads

  • Ars Gratia Artis: Where to Start From

    Ars Gratia Artis: Where to Start From

    Maurizio Nannucci – Where to Start From

    If you’re anything like me and constantly find yourself staring at a blank canvas (or screen, or wall, or life itself) wondering where the hell to begin, this book is worth keeping nearby. It’s not a how-to guide in the traditional sense, which is probably why it works so well.

    Nannucci, as those in the know, has spent decades wrestling with questions that artists quietly ask themselves in the middle of the night: What comes before the work? Can starting point ever truly exist? The answers aren’t neat, and thank for that.

    My one-line comment on Goodreads was “Visual freedom” – which sounds like lazy shorthand until you sit with this book for a bit. What Nannucci offers isn’t permission to do whatever you want (that’s too easy). It’s something sharper: a framework for thinking about beginnings without being paralysed by them. The text is spare, the images do the heavy lifting, and the whole thing moves with a quiet confidence that most art books lack.

    I won’t pretend this is light reading. But it’s also not the kind of book that treats you like you need explaining. There’s an honesty to it – a refusal to oversell the process of creation or wrap it in inspirational bullshit. That alone earns respect.

    For anyone working in visual arts, design, or just trying to make sense of their own practice, this sits comfortably on the shelf alongside the books that actually stay relevant.

    Five stars, hands down.

    Til next time!

    e.

  • Ars Gratia Artis: Moebius

    Ars Gratia Artis: Moebius

    Moebius drew entire universes, and I’ve got some of them on my shelf

    Right, let’s get something straight from the off: Jean Giraud — better known as Moebius, or “Gir” when he felt like slumming it drawing cowboys — is easily one of the finest illustrators who ever picked up a pen, and I will hear no arguments. I have several of his books at home, and every single time I open one I find something I’d swear wasn’t there the previous time. It’s not magic, it’s just a man so obscenely talented that his linework apparently keeps evolving between readings.

    Where it started (for me, not him)

    I used to think Moebius was “that bloke who did the weird French space stuff” and that his western work was the “boring” warm-up act. Then I actually sat down with Blueberry — the series he drew as “Gir” alongside writer Jean-Michel Charlier from 1963 — and had to eat every word. It’s gritty, atmospheric, and real, decades before “gritty” became shorthand for grimdark nonsense. The man could draw a wind-swept face like nobody’s business. What surprised me was how restrained it is compared to his science fiction — proof that his wild imagination was a choice, not a lack of control.

    The good stuff, i.e. all of it

    Then there’s the other side of his brain. Arzach (1976) — a wordless saga about a bloke on a flying pterodactyl that manages to say more than most trilogies. Le Garage hermétique (The Airtight Garage) — dreamlike, unhinged, and brilliant. The Long Tomorrow, his noir-parody collaboration with Dan O’Bannon (yes, the bloke from Alien), which basically handed a visual blueprint to half of cyberpunk. And The Incal, his 1981 collaboration with Alejandro Jodorowsky, is still one of the great cosmic lunacies of the ninth art. My personal soft spot is The World of Edena (started 1983), which he wrote and drew himself — it begins as two spacemen and a Citroën and drifts into something quasi-philosophical about dreams and gender. It shouldn’t work. It absolutely does.

    Oh, and he drew Silver Surfer: Parable for Marvel in 1988, scripted by Stan Lee. Two issues. Legendary. That’s the kind of flex most artists can only dream about.

    The films (because you can’t avoid it, nor should you want to)

    Here’s the part that genuinely rewired my appreciation. Moebius’s fingerprints are all over cinema: Alien (1979) — those iconic spacesuits? His. Tron (1982) — that whole luminous digital world? He shaped it. Time Masters with René Laloux, Masters of the Universe, Willow (1988), The Abyss (1989), and Luc Besson’s The Fifth Element (1997) — the flying cars, the cityscape, all of it soaked in Moebius. There’s even Star Wars-connected territory via the ill-fated Jodorowsky Dune project, which, having failed spectacularly, quietly fertilised half of modern sci-fi anyway. Heavy Metal carried his work to the States, and Hollywood came calling shortly after.

    This is where I changed my mind about him: I used to file him under “comics artist.” He’s really a world-builder who occasionally took jobs in comics because the pay was nearby. Every time you watch an alien hive, a neon grid, or a taxi weaving through a vertical future, you’re looking at ideas he drafted first.

    My humble opinion on Moebius works:

    Ten out of ten. Buy the books. If you see an Edena collection going cheap, buy two and send me the spare — no, I’m joking. Mostly. He died in 2012, but unlike a lot of legends, he never stopped drawing, and it shows: the man produced so much that new collections keep surfacing like archaeological finds.

    My reading list recommendation if you fancy starting: Blueberry to see the craftsman, The Incal to see the madman, The World of Edena to see the philosopher. Same pair of hands, three completely different brains.

    Enjoy!

    e.

  • Prisoners of Geography – My Review

    Prisoners of Geography – My Review

    Prisoners of Geography: Ten Maps That Tell You Everything You Need to Know About Global Politics

    A Little Tale of Maps and Masters

    Imagine, if you will, a peculiar librarian who insists that every war, treaty, and trade deal was written not in ink, but in stone, river, and mountain range long before any politician ever drew breath. That, dear friend, is the charming premise of Tim Marshall’s Prisoners of Geography.

    In essence: Nations aren’t shaped by ideology alone—they’re bound by their borders, terrain, and neighbours. Geography is the silent puppeteer pulling the strings of global power.

    I must confess, I approached this book expecting dry cartography lectures. Instead, I found myself laughing aloud at Marshall’s wit—like when he describes Russia’s endless frustration with lacking warm-water ports (a geopolitical case of winter blues, indeed), or how China’s yellow rivers literally run through their foreign policy. Each chapter unfolds like a detective story, revealing why nations do what they do, not because leaders are brilliant or foolish, but because mountains don’t move and seas don’t shift.

    Marshall writes with the precision of a cartographer and the charm of a storyteller who knows his secrets are better shared over tea than shouted from podiums. It’s the kind of book that makes you glance at your wall map with newfound respect—and perhaps a touch of suspicion.

    A perfect companion for anyone who’s ever wondered why Pakistan and India remain locked in their Himalayan stare-down (to mention just one example).

    I had fun with it. Highly recommended.
    e.

  • Books: The Meek One

    Books: The Meek One

    Review: The Meek One – Dostoyevsky’s Devastating Portrait of Guilt

    In 1876, Fyodor Dostoyevsky produced one of his most psychologically harrowing works: “The Meek One” (Кроткая), alternatively translated as A Gentle Creature. Though overshadowed by monumental novels like Crime and Punishment, this novella stands as concentrated genius—a claustrophobic monologue dismantling the human psyche under pressure of irreversible loss.

    Written as stream-of-consciousness confession, the piece unfolds over mere hours following the suicide of the narrator’s young wife. An unnamed pawnbroker, pacing alone while her body lies waiting removal, attempts frantically to reconstruct how their marriage collapsed into tragedy. The subtitle—”A Fantastic Story”—suggests psychological extremity rather than supernatural embellishment, marking territory where rational explanation fails and emotional truth reigns supreme.

    This structural choice proves essential. We receive nothing but the narrator’s version of events—an unreliable voice increasingly desperate to justify itself even as evidence mounts against him. His memories contradict, his logic spirals, his proclamations of love curdle into accusations. By denying readers any objective vantage point, Dostoyevsky forces us to inhabit the same suffocating isolation gripping our protagonist.

    The work explores interconnected themes: guilt that refuses acceptance, emotional alienation reducing marriage to transactional coexistence, masculine pride preventing acknowledgment of error until irrevocably too late, and despair born from crushing social conditions combined with personal failure.

    Furthermore, Dostoyevsky anticipates developments in psychoanalytic theory regarding repression and projection. Our narrator deflects blame onto external factors rather than confronting actions leading inexorably downward. Readers witness exactly how denial operates until complete breakdown ensues.

    For anyone willing grappling with darkness without lanterns lighting path forward, seek this text diligently. Prepare to brace impact lingering long after final page turned.

    “He insists he loved her. He reads her as submissive because it suits him. But the longer he speaks, the more that label starts to fall apart.”

  • Alberto Burri: The Tar-Smeared Rebel

    Alberto Burri: The Tar-Smeared Rebel

    Born: 12 March 1915, Città di Castello, Perugia, Umbria, Italy
    Died: 15 February 1995, Nice, France

    Let’s be honest: most artists play it safe. They paint pretty pictures, frame them nicely, and hope someone buys them. Alberto Burri? He didn’t paint. He violated canvas.

    Alongside Lucio Fontana and Piero Manzoni, Burri stood as one of the pre-eminent Italian multimedia artists of the twentieth century. But here’s where it gets interesting: while the American avant-garde was busy flinging paint across walls in their “Action Painting” circus, Burri took a different route. He didn’t just throw things at the wall—he studied the wreckage.

    The Tar Revolution

    Burri first hit the post-war art world like a sledgehammer with his Catrami (Tars) series. Tar resins weren’t just his medium—they were his weapon. Black, viscous, industrial. He used tar as both base and colour, turning the very substance of decay into art.

    While other post-war abstract painters chased spontaneity and self-expression like teenagers at a mosh pit, Burri worked with surgical precision. His approach was methodical, almost clinical. He was the first to explore organic decay and hazardous destruction of materials—not as accident, but as intention.

    These sculptured canvases were so bloody innovative that he made friends with two seminal American artists: Cy Twombly and Robert Rauschenberg. Creative ideas flowed between them like electricity.

    “The Words Don’t Mean Anything”

    Here’s the thing about Burri: he didn’t trust critics. Not one bit.

    “The words of the critics don’t mean anything to me; they talk around the picture… what I have to express appears in the picture. For the rest, I have nothing to add.”

    In Burri’s view, an artwork must speak for itself. No commentary needed. No explanation required. Just the raw, scarred truth staring back at you.

    The Influence

    His preference for raw materials carried the unmistakable influence of Jean Dubuffet and the Art Brut movement. Burri combined painting and relief sculpture into something entirely new—something that refused to be categorised.

    Great Read Warning !!!

    Book: Burri; Maestri del XX Secolo
    A must-have if you dare. It’s not for the faint-hearted, much like Burri’s work itself.

    Bottom line: Burri didn’t make art for comfort. He made art that demanded you look at what others tried to hide—the decay, the damage, the beautiful mess of existence. And that, mate, is punk as hell.

    What do you think? Should art comfort us or confront us? Drop your thoughts in viaminimal@gmail.com

  • Books That Matter: Branson’s LOSING MY VIRGINITY (and his mind)

    Losing My Virginity isn’t a polite memoir; it’s a riot. Branson goes from scrappy zine-pusher to balloon-hopping tycoon, proving that branding is king and his spine is made of reinforced steel. Forget the headmaster’s threat of prison—he chose the millionaire route, and he didn’t wait for permission.

    His rule? “Say yes to the impossible, figure out the rest later.” In a world of cowards, that’s the only manifesto you need. It’s raw, it’s useful, and it’s exactly what we need right now. Read it. Then go break something.