isn't it time for the birds to sing?

Max Ensor Masks Confronting Death 1888

in memory of the demon

boris leonidovich pasternak

Night after night he came from Tamara's

wrapped in glacier's blue light.

And marked with his wings

where the nightmare should drone and end.

He did not sob, did not bind

the bare whip-scarred arms.

The gravestone's shadow falls beyond

the fence of the Georgian church.

No matter how wicked the hump

his shadow made no face beneath the lattice.

Next to the icon-lamp the lute

breathed no word of the Princess.

Phosphorus lit through his hair

and the Colossus never heard

how the Caucasus

grieved and went grey.

Two steps from his window

he tugged at the hairs of his cloak,

and whispered into the icy crags: "Sleep, little one,

I'll be an avalanche when I come back!"

nostalgia, that black well

Umberto Boccioni States of Mind I : The Farewells 1911

|:|

boris pasternak

My sister-life today floods over

and bursts on everyone in spring rain,

while the monocled folks in the grottoes of fine manners

snap and sting, like snakes in oats.

The grownups, of course, have their reasons.

Most likely, most likely your reason's naive,

that eyes and lawns turn violet in the storm

and the horizons smell of moist mignonette;

Umberto Boccioni States of Mind III : Those Who Stay 1911

so that in May, on the Kamyshin branch-line

the schedule of trains you scan in transit

seems grander than the Holy Script,

even though you've read it before;

only the dusk swarms 

of women crowding onto one platform.

Restless, I hear it's not my stop,

and the sun, setting, takes the seat beside me.

The last bell splashes and floats away

in a prolonged apology: "Sorry ... not yet."

Night smolders under the shutters, and the steppe

stretches from the step to the stars.

They flicker, blink: my love, a mirage,

and somewhere far away others sleep sweetly

while my heart pours onto every platform

scattering coach doors over the endless plains.

Umberto Boccioni States of Mind II : Those Who Go 1911

we're all dreaming

Gustav Klimt Girl With Blue Veil 1902 

trace a line

au revoir simone

Trace a line down

my arm, trace a line

down. You'll be the

end of me. No one's

here and nothing's 

new. Trace a line from

me to you. Getting 

drunk in taxicabs

and writing names on

backs of hands and

figuring how to get

to you. We're making

room for alibis when

something tells me

telling lies is only ever

trying to be true. Will

we never ever learn

that things could go

from bad to worse,

and worst of all we'd

love it if they did?

Knowing what you 

said to me beneath

your breath so blatantly,

be careful now, 

we're camping in the

corner of the room.

You'll be the end of me.

time lost

Rene Magritte Memory of a Voyage 1955

oft in the stilly night

sir thomas moore

when I remember all 

the friends so linked together, 

I've seen around me fall ,

like leaves in wintry weather;

I feel like one 

who treads alone  

some banquet-hall, deserted,

whose lights are fled, 

whose garlands dead, 

and all, but he, departed! 

thus in the stilly night, 

ere slumber's chain has bound me,

sad Mem'ry brings the light,  

of other days around me.

Psychedelic Drugs and Piggyback Rides

On a short break from my dissertation bubble, I indulged myself in a documentary experience about illustrator / comic book artist R. Crumb entitled "Crumb", directed by Terry Zwigoff, who also did the films "Ghost World" and "Art School Confidential", which are equally brilliant.

The documentary itself centers not only on Robert Crumb, but also his family - his two mentally unstable brothers, in particular. Zwigoff eases into the psychoses of each of the family members, a gradual crescendo that plateaus with Robert's brother Charles admitting his homicidal urges and his brother Maxon apathetically sharing his past of molesting women. With an overall morbid narrative, the film explores the mentality of a fringe society, a look at the darker side of the American experience - the relationship between the sexes, the disfunction of the nuclear family, the deterioration of the human condition, a glimpse into mental illness, all with a side of art world politics and capitalist antipathy.

R Crumb himself is almost disturbingly candid, resulting in a plethora of uncomfortable moments that can either be seen as darkly humorous or incredibly offensive, depending on the audience. I was made even more uncomfortable by the fact that Robert seems quite tame in comparison to his reclusive and (even more) mentally unstable brothers. It has been awhile since I have seen a film that has left me so uneasy, but the overall ugliness of the documentary reflects the often times disturbing themes of R Crumb's work, which, if nothing else, provides a basis for some controversy and the asking of difficult questions about society. 

Art critic Robert Hughes, a speaker in the film, pegs R Crumb as "the Brueghel of the last half of the 20th century" due to his bizarre scenes, as well as akin to Daumier for his potent social commentary. R Crumb's work is certainly deliciously controversial, a fact which the documentary superficially explores alongside Crumb's own personal history and artistic motivations. As the film closes, Crumb is moving with his wife and daughter to the south of France, claiming, "France isn't, you know, perfect, or anything, but it's just slightly less evil than the United States." Overall, it remains a perversely fascinating, quintessential portrait of the suffering, twisted artistic-type.

Here is an excerpt from the film, highlighting some of the less controversial moments:

R Crumb's reflections on his work (along with some of my favorite images!):

"I have this hostility toward women, I admit it. It's out in the open. I have to put it out there. Sometimes I think it's a mistake... but somehow revealing that truth about myself is somehow helpful. I hope it is. Maybe I shouldn't be allowed to do it, maybe I should be locked up and my pencils taken away from me."

"My work is full of sweating, nervous uneasiness, which is a big part of me and everybody else. Most people don't want to see that though because it reminds them of inadequate parts of themselves."

"People now don’t have any concept that there was ever a culture outside of this thing that was created to make money. Whatever is the biggest, latest thing, they’re into it. You get disgusted after a while at humanity."

"You must thank the gods for art, those of us who have been fortunate enough to stumble onto this means of venting our craziness, our meanness, our towering disgust . . . "

we are many

Romaine Brooks Le Trajet 1900

weak with the dawn

pablo neruda 

I am alone with rickety materials, 

the rain falls on me, and it is like me, 

it is like me in its raving, alone in the dead world, 

repulsed as it falls, and with no persistent form.

Romaine Brooks White Azaleas 1910

a story of great longing

Edmund Dulac : Illustrations to Stealers of Light by the Queen of Roumania, 1916

"The light she had thought to extinguish had escaped from her dying hands and floated always farther 

across the desert, shedding its marvellous radiance over rock and stone."

"The man had his arm lightly laid across the tall girl's shoulders; they might have been lovers, 

so tender was his touch."