#pedro rodríguez

[thewindowofthesummerhouse]

Pedro Rodríguez

[cazzyf1]

F1 brothers Ricardo (1942 - 1962) and Pedro Rodriguez (1940 - 1971)

[christiangeistdorfer]

PEDRO RODRÍGUEZ at the 1968 BRITISH GRAND PRIX

[eliotheeangelis]

jo siffert & pedro rodriguez | 1970s

[a-la-rascasse]

1968 // 1974

The drivers pose for a group photo, before taking part in the traditional charity cricket match, held after the British GP 🇬🇧.

[jimclarkposting]

hi! new favourite wreath photo

[intopower]

Pedro Rodríguez Sanchez. IG: @ ikerpedro

[justmuscle4u]

Pedro Rodríguez Sánchez 🇪🇺🇪🇸

[leftistfeminista]

Karin Eitel (or "the cosmetics of torture, on Channel 7 and for all viewers")

The face of a woman in a photograph sometimes has a vaporous atmosphere that poetizes the discovery of her presence retained and immobile on the paper. On the other hand, the face of a woman filmed on television represents a neurotic movement, a trembling image disturbed by the epileptic blinking that continually retouches the cosmetics of her appearance on the screen. And perhaps, that feeling of being in front of an electrified face could be the argument to remember Karin Eitel, to see again, with the same chill, her face shivering on the Channel 7 screen, on the familiar news program for everyone. viewer. Her young face bristled in the luminous glass of the video. Her face was chosen as a lesson, absolutely doped by the drugs that the CNI injected into her so that she could publicly read her letter of repentance. A lying paper, written by them, where Karin denied her past in the Manuel Rodríguez Patriotic Front. Confusingly intoxicated by barbiturates, she was denying the floggings and abuses in the secret prisons of the dictatorship. Those horror barracks on London or Burgundy streets. Those houses with high ceilings where the echo of screams replaced the vision blocked by the blindfold. Old houses in traditional neighborhoods, spread throughout a Santiago intemperate by the bark-metraca of the scare night, the blow night, the crime night, the metallic night of plowing fear in those thorny streets of the eighties.

Karin's appearance on the National Channel that afternoon was intended to deny the complaints about the violation of human rights in dictatorial Chile, which is why the pathetic scene of her televised confession was staged. That's why Karin was reading, and in her narcotized voice, she told a fake movie that the entire country knew by heart. In her calm tone, imposed by the thugs who were behind the cameras, she revealed the beating, the blind fist, the spear in the groin, the fall and the scratch on her face covered with Angel Face powder. In that voice foreign to the televised character, she raised a chorus of nevers and nevers stung by the needles of the current, the electric sting twitching her eyes, leaving them as open as a stiff doll stitched with syringes. Like a doll without will, she was forced to remain with her eyes fixed, wearing whore's makeup. (As she was angry, they threw the blue and black on her eyelids). Her eyes had just opened to the outside of her, after so many days imprisoned in the shadows, after that long night with her eyes unclosed, open to guess the blow openly. Her eyes were tremendously wild at that nothingness, at that flannel, at that rag of the bandage as a mourning curtain also open to the black forest of vexation. And after so much darkness and searching and denunciation, Karin's eyes were expressionless, wide open for the Chilean television, for the Chilean family having tea at that time of the news.

Perhaps, there are few who have in memory this image of high-rated cruelty in the recent past. There are few of us who, from that day on, learned to watch Chilean television with our eyes closed, as if we were tirelessly listening to Karin's statement repenting with lashes of her red militancy, her copihua and spoiled militancy that trembled coagulated in the rouge of her mouth, in the clown scribble they put on her mouth, in the heart scab drawn on her lips by the makeup of fear. her mouth twisted by the never, but that never, anesthetized, exhausted by the times she had to repeat it before filming, that never forced by the blow up her sleeve and off camera, that never fainted by the bottomless daze of the volts, the one never supported by the glass of water they gave her to remain standing, the one never bitten until the tongue was salted with the opaque taste of blood, the one never distributed to the country in the composite image, defaced and dressed as a good girl to deny rage, to fake cosmetically the purplish dark circles and bruises earned in the dark alley of the unforgettable CNI

Perhaps, remembering Karin in the televised calendar of the eighties allows us to now visualize her life ravaged by these events, knowing that she was the only student at the Catholic University who could not return to her career as a translator. As if the punishment were repeated eternally, in an endless movie for the victims of tricolor ridicule. It is possible that the little news I have about Karin, plus the video of Lotty Rosenfeld, the only artist who took on the case to denounce it in her work, does not allow me the serene objectivity to narrate this event, in fact, the reconciled torpor of these days, it alters my pen and I continue to see Karin trembling in the water of the screen, submerged further and further below the story, increasingly clouded by oblivion, slowly moving her mouth in the never-repentant ordeal of her guerrilla flower.

An artistic reproduction inspired by Pedro Lemebel's above article

[thewindowofthesummerhouse]

pedro rodríguez

[cetospandiglia]

I feel no patriotic love for Spain and in fact I yearn for its inevitable demise but when foreigners start dealing with the fact that their family name system heavily favours men's family names I am reminded that not everything about this country sucks lmao

If you don't know what I'm talking about, ever since medieval Castille everyone involved in a marriage has kept their surnames, and the children inherit the father's first family name as their first family name and the mother's first family name as their second. The origin of this practice is in no way feminist, but in modern day Spain it means that there's no debate around keeping your own name because it's always been yours to keep. Children carry both their parent's surnames and it's been a good while now since it was passed into law that even if the default order is Givenname Fathersname Mothersname, that is now optional.

It is not unusual for Spaniards to go by their mother's family name if they just happen to like it. 2 presidents ago we had José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero (José Luis given name, Rodríguez father's family name & Zapatero mother's family name) aka just Zapatero, and his minister of interior and succesor at the front of the main centerleft party in Spain Alfredo Pérez Rubalcaba aka Rubalcaba (he lost the election).

In fact, I remember vividly a moment, shortly after Rubalcaba lost the election if I'm not mistaken, when he was leader of the opposition and as a mark of disrespect he was referd to as "Sr. Pérez" instead of "Sr. Pérez Rubalcaba" or "Sr. Rubalcaba", it was a whole thing with the (parlamentary) left complaining about the fact that the right intentionally used the man's first surname because it sounds less remarkable (Pérez is one of the most common Spanish surnames while Rubalcaba is not, I don't think I've ever heard of other people named Rubalcaba besides the guy in question), and the right calling the left loony because Pérez is literally the guy's first surname and refering to people by the first surname is the normalest thing to do.

Some very famous people you might have heard of that prominently use their mother's family name are Picasso (painter, Pablo Ruiz Picasso, 1881-1973), Velázquez (painter, Diego Rodríguez de Silva Velázquez, 1599-1660), Federico García Lorca (poet, 1898-1936), Javier Bardem (actor, Javier Encina Bardem, 1969-), Antonio Banderas (actor, José Antonio Domínguez Bandera, 1960-)

This is also not exclusive to Spain, I didn't know it but Chile's Pedro Pascal uses his second surname as artistic name, his full name is José Pedro Balmaceda Pascal.

This is not to say all these people are feminists (in fact Picasso was a known misogynistic abuser) or to say Spain is an extremely feminist country (from what I know, nowadays it's a country with a very strong feminist movement but I don't think this has anything to do with it). This is just a historical coincidence probably derived from the fact that noble people sometimes had more important mothers than fathers and they wanted to be able to carry ALL their family names.

(Also, one curious thing is that looking up people who use their mother's surname none of them were women, idk if I just haven't looked hard enough or if it's more common for men to do it.)

I'm not trying to make a point here. End of post.

[christiangeistdorfer]

PEDRO RODRÍGUEZ smoothing out his gorgeous hair at 1970 BELGIAN GRAND PRIX

[dumbbitchhour]

Pedro Rodríguez de Miranda, Encuentro de Agustín Adorno con San Luis Beltrán en Valencia, 1738 x

[a-la-rascasse]

Pedro // 1970

[jimclarkposting]

pedro always had perfect hair

[cozyaliensuperstar7]

Latin Hollywood 🌟

#Repost @staymacro

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