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English to Romanian: Cat's Eye General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: Poetry & Literature
Source text - English Miss Stuart likes art. She has us bring old shirts of our fathers from home so we can do messier art without getting our clothes dirty. While we scissor and paint and paste, she walks the aisles in her nurse’s mask, looking over our shoulders. But if anyone, a boy, draws a silly picture on purpose, she holds the page up in mocking outrage. “This lad thinks he’s being smarrut. You’ve got more between the ears than that!” And she flicks him on the ear with her thumb and fingernail.
For her we make the familiar paper objects, the pumpkins, the Christmas bells, but she has us do other things, too. We make complicated floral patterns with a compass, we glue odd substances to cardboard backings: feathers, sequins, pieces of macaroni garishly dyed, lenghts of drinking-straw. We do group murals on the blackboards or on large rolls of brown paper. We draw pictures about foreign countries: Mexico with cactuses and men in enormous hats, China with cones on the heads seeing-eye boats, India with what we intend to be graceful, silk-draped women balancing copper urns, and jewels on their foreheads.
I like these foreign pictures because I can bellieve in them. I desperately need to believe that somewhere else these other, foreign people exist. No matter that at Sunday School I’ve been told such people are either starving or heathens or both. No matter that my weekly collection goes to convert them, feed them, smarten them up. Miss Lumley saw them as crafty, given to the eating of outlandish or disgusting foods and to acts of treachery against the British, but I prefer Miss’Stuart’s versions, in which the sun above their heads is a cheerful yellow, the palm trees are clear green, the clothing they wear is floral, their folk-songs gay. The women chatter together in quick incomprehensible languages, they laugh, showing perfect, pure-white teeth. If these people exist I can go there sometime. I don’t have to stay here.
Today, says Miss Stuart, we are going to draw what we do after school.
The others hunch over their desks. I know what they will draw: skipping ropes, jolly snowmen, listening to the radio, playing with a dog. I stare at my own paper, which remains blank. Finaly, I draw my bed, with myself in it. My bed has a dark wooden headboard with curlicues on it. I draw the window, the chest-of-drawers. I colour in the night. My hand holding the black crayon presses down, harder and harder, until the picture is almost entirely black, until only a faint shadow of my bed and my head on the pillow remains to be seen.
Miss Stuart likes art. She has us bring old shirts of our fathers from home so we can do messier art without getting our clothes dirty. While we scissor and paint and paste, she walks the aisles in her nurse’s mask, looking over our shoulders. But if anyone, a boy, draws a silly picture on purpose, she holds the page up in mocking outrage. “This lad thinks he’s being smarrut. You’ve got more between the ears than that!” And she flicks him on the ear with her thumb and fingernail.
For her we make the familiar paper objects, the pumpkins, the Christmas bells, but she has us do other things, too. We make complicated floral patterns with a compass, we glue odd substances to cardboard backings: feathers, sequins, pieces of macaroni garishly dyed, lenghts of drinking-straw. We do group murals on the blackboards or on large rolls of brown paper. We draw pictures about foreign countries: Mexico with cactuses and men in enormous hats, China with cones on the heads seeing-eye boats, India with what we intend to be graceful, silk-draped women balancing copper urns, and jewels on their foreheads.
I like these foreign pictures because I can bellieve in them. I desperately need to believe that somewhere else these other, foreign people exist. No matter that at Sunday School I’ve been told such people are either starving or heathens or both. No matter that my weekly collection goes to convert them, feed them, smarten them up. Miss Lumley saw them as crafty, given to the eating of outlandish or disgusting foods and to acts of treachery against the British, but I prefer Miss’Stuart’s versions, in which the sun above their heads is a cheerful yellow, the palm trees are clear green, the clothing they wear is floral, their folk-songs gay. The women chatter together in quick incomprehensible languages, they laugh, showing perfect, pure-white teeth. If these people exist I can go there sometime. I don’t have to stay here.
Today, says Miss Stuart, we are going to draw what we do after school.
The others hunch over their desks. I know what they will draw: skipping ropes, jolly snowmen, listening to the radio, playing with a dog. I stare at my own paper, which remains blank. Finaly, I draw my bed, with myself in it. My bed has a dark wooden headboard with curlicues on it. I draw the window, the chest-of-drawers. I colour in the night. My hand holding the black crayon presses down, harder and harder, until the picture is almost entirely black, until only a faint shadow of my bed and my head on the pillow remains to be seen.
Translation - Romanian Domnisoarei Stuart ii place arta. Ne-a pus sa ne aducem de acasa camasi de-ale tatilor, pt a putea sa ne murdarim in voie in timpul actului de creatie, fara teama ca ne stricam hainele. In timp ce decupam cu foarfecele, vopsim si lipim, ea se plimba printre randuri cu boneta ei de guvernanta, uitandu-se peste umarul fiecaruia. Daca daca cineva, vreun baiat, deseneaza un desen prostesc in mod intentionat, d-ra ridica pagina si o tine in sus spunand cu o enervare batjocoritoare: “Flacaul asta crede ca e destept foc. Ai ceva mai mult pe umeri decat atat!”. Si ii da un bobarnac peste ureche cu degetul mare si unghia.
Pt ea confectionam obisnuitele obiecte din hartie, dovlecii, clopoteii de Craciun, dar ne pune sa facem si alte lucruri. Desenam cu un compas complicate modele florale , lipim materiale ciudate pe bucati de carton: pene, paiete, bucati de macaroane vopsite strident, paie de baut. Facem fresce de grup pe tabla sau pe rulouri mari de hartie maro. Desenam imagini din tari straine: Mexicul cu cactusii sai si oamenii cu palarii enorme, China cu locuitorii sai cu palarii tuguiate pe cap si barci ascutite si strapungatoare, India cu ceea ce noi vrem a fi niste femei gratioase, imbracate in matase, cu giuvaieruri pe frunte, care isi leagana ulcioarele de arama.
Imi plac aceste desene exotice, deoarece pot crede in ele. Am nevoie cu disperare sa cred ca undeva, departe, acesti oameni diferiti, straini, exista. Nu conteaza ca la Scoala de Duminica ni s-a spus ca acesti oameni ori mor de foame, ori sunt pagani, ori ambele. Nu conteaza ca banii mei de buzunar se duc in fiecare saptamana pe donatii pt a-i converti, a-i hrani, a-i face mai inteligenti. D-ra Lumley crede despre ei ca sunt vicleni, inclinati sa manance lucruri bizare sau dezgustatoare si sa tradeze Imperiul Britanic, dar prefer versiunea d-rei Stuart, in care soarele de deasupra capetelor lor este de un galben jucaus, palmierii – de un verde limpede, vesmintele pe care le poarta sunt inflorate, cantecele lor – vesele. Femeile palavragesc laolalta in niste limbi repezite si de neinteles, rad, aratandu-si dintii perfecti, de un alb pur. Daca acesti oameni exista, candva pot pleca acolo. Nu voi fi nevoit sa raman aici.
“Astazi, spune d-ra Stuart, vom desena ce facem dupa orele de scoala.” Ceilalti se apleaca deasupra pupitrelor. Stiu ce vor desena: ca sar cu coarda, ca fac oameni de zapada zambitori, ca asculta radioul, ca se joaca cu cainele. Ma uit in tacere la propria mea foaie, care ramane alba. Intr-un final, imi desenez patul, cu mine culcat in el. Patul meu are o tablie de cap intunecata, de lemn, impestritata cu parafe. Desenez fereastra, apoi scrinul . Colorez cum e la caderea noptii. Mana mea, care tine creionul negru, apasa tare, tot mai tare, pana ce desenul e aproape in intregime negru, pana se vede doar o palida umbra a patului si a capului meu pe perna.
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Translation education
Other - Certificat de traducator engleza stiinte juridice
Experience
Years of experience: 21. Registered at ProZ.com: Jun 2009.
English to Romanian (Romanian Ministry of Culture - Central Commission for Granting Translator Certificates) English to Romanian (Romanian Ministry of Culture - Central Commission for Granting Translator Certificates) Romanian to English (Romanian Ministry of Culture - Central Commission for Granting Translator Certificates)
Memberships
N/A
Software
Adobe Acrobat, Adobe Photoshop, Microsoft Excel, Microsoft Word, Powerpoint, Trados Studio
Although I have a BA in Arts, I have a rich experience as a translator and an interpreter from and to English and French. Ever since I finished college, Modern Languages Section, I've taught English and French to different categories of people, I've translated technical papers and management projects for students in Politechnics and Economics, I've also translated a book about the science of numbers and parts from a children's book for a publishing house in development(unfortunately, the project failed). In 2002 I worked for the French Cultural Center as a Media Host Assistant. In 2004 I translated a booklet about Omfturra Moulding Machines for the Manager of Pro Mac Prod Com Impex. As an Assistant Manager at Cheque Dejeuner I spoke French every day, because my boss was a Frenchman.
Expertise