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!"

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."

i shall not care

Paul Gauguin Be Mysterious 1890

there will come soft rains

sara teasdale

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground, 

And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;  

And frogs in the pools singing at night, 

And wild plum-trees in tremulous white;  

Robins will wear their feathery fire 

Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;  

And not one will know of the war, not one 

Will care at last when it done.  

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree 

If mankind perished utterly;  

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn, 

Would scarcely know that we were gone.

one step backward taken

David Wojnarowicz The Death of American Spirituality 1987

fire and ice

robert frost

Some say the world will end in fire, 

Some say in ice. 

From what I've tasted of desire 

I hold with those who favour fire. 

But if it had to perish twice, 

I think I know enough of hate 

To say that for destruction ice 

Is also great 

And would suffice.

David Wojnarowicz Water 1987

The Manchester Hermit

Anopheles Mosquito

A live performance piece that is both intriguing and unusual has taken root at the Manchester Museum. For 40 days, artist Ansuman Biswas, aka the Manchester Hermit, will live in isolation in the Museum's gothic tower, reflecting and ruminating on the relationship between man, object and nature.  

Biswas states:

"I see this role as a chance to channel the natural feelings of awe and wonder we feel at the incredible diversity that is around us, and a chance to celebrate the small, quiet things that are often forgotten. Amongst the many physical objects in its collection the Museum has chosen to value a spiritual activity. I hope I can live up to this important duty."

Biswas' only interaction with the outside world will be one-way internet communication via his blog, The Manchester Hermit, which holds his meditations on the museum's collections. Furthermore, each day Biswas choose an object from the museum's collection to destroy... that is, if no one steps forward to care for it. Seems a tad drastic, but proves a severe and effective commentary on decay, destruction and extinction... check out his blog for more on his process and how you can involve yourself in the conversation.

And, of course, if you are feeling a bit voyeuristic, be sure to check out his webcam. I've yet to catch a glimpse of the elusive hermit on the cam myself, but he is sure to make an appearance at some point (hopefully in a non-compromising position. awkward.).

activistas feministas

what the stars meant

Francis Bacon, Blood on Pavement, 1988

excerpt from falling water

john koethe

Who cares if life - someone's actual life - is  

Finally insignificant and small. There's still a  

Splendor in the way it flowers once and fades 

And leaves a carapace behind. There isn't time to 

Linger over why it happened, or attempt to make its 

Mystery come to life again and last, like someone 

Still embracing the confused perceptions of  himself 

Embedded in the past, as though eternity lay there - 

For heaven's a delusion, and eternity is in the details,  

And this tiny, insubstantial life is all there is.

Francis Bacon, Two Figures in the Grass, 1954

Sifting Through the Madness for the Word, the Line, the Way

Marlene Dumas, Magdalena 1, 1996

excerpt from begging

charles bukowski

that we were perishable, perhaps didn't occur to  

him 

or  

that greater gods might be 

watching.

talking shit about a pretty sunset.

There is something indescribably sad about the clouds of Manchester at night. The city lights tint the atmosphere with burnt sepia and dull copper tones, a hazy, passionless blaze encompassing, suffocating those bellow. It's eery. Apocalyptic. 

The lack of blackness frustrates me. The logic of darkness at night doesn't hold in the city, with its manufactured neon happiness and superficial streetlight stars. There is no respite behind closed lids. The light remains, taunting, dancing on my eyelids, burning my retinas. It skips like stars, a galaxy etched into my skin, and I float, drifting within my kaleidoscope eyes. Blue, purple, white, orange...

I wish I could sleep.

Rothko, Untitled No. 4, 1964

PS. Birds suck. My head hurts.

fable of the mermaid and the drunks

I keep waiting for his face to show up. Anywhere. Just a jolt, electric, saving me from my revery. (Or does my revery save me from him? I can't figure it out. My revery saves me from THIS.) Detachment. Detachment was never necessary there. He was enough, electric. The only place I wanted to escape to was him. With him. 

Smoke-rimmed eyes under harsh street lamps, painted on smiles hiding fury-clenched teeth. Escape.

My beach, my moon, my rough sands and cool hands and caressing breeze. 

Floating.

Munch, Separation, 1900

every day you play...

pablo neruda

Every day you play with the light of the universe.
Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water.
You are more than this white head that I hold tightly
as a cluster of fruit, every day, between my hands.

You are like nobody since I love you.
Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.
Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.

Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window.
The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish.
Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them.
The rain takes off her clothes.

The birds go by, fleeing.
The wind. The wind.
I can contend only against the power of men.
The storm whirls dark leaves
and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky.

You are here. Oh, you do not run away.
You will answer me to the last cry.
Cling to me as though you were frightened.
Even so, at one time a strange shadow ran through your eyes.

Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle,
and even your breasts smell of it.
While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies
I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.

How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,
my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.
So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,
and over our heads the gray light unwind in turning fans.

My words rained over you, stroking you.
A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.

I go so far as to think that you own the universe.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells,
dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.

I want

to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

Munch, Eye in Eye, 1894

Shit.

C'est si bon

I'm running away to Paris for a few days, pulling an Audrey and getting sucked into the clutches of semi-creepy philosophical hipsters spouting about empathicalism. Okay, probably not, but it's going to be awesome anyways. Updates when I return!

There's only one instant, and it's right now. And it's eternity.

Today, the weather was beautiful again. Priorities: Enjoy Sunshine. Smiling.

It seems my fickle friend insomnia has returned, although I must admit that I feel much less angsty about this than I normally would, mostly due to the fact that I haven't a schedule of any sort to keep these days. And, despite the fact that I only slept 2.5 hours last night, I feel more attuned to myself, my creativity, my core of happiness, than I ordinarily do when I am fully rested.

I sang Frank Sinatra to myself as I strolled down the street. I smiled.

I wonder how deeply I ought to allow myself to retreat into my mind, my daydreams, my sunshine delusions.  I think I am happier here.  I may never sleep again. 

An invigorating Miró for an invigorated me---

Joan Miró, Dancer, 1925

PS. Granola is f'kin delicious.

this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

I wish chocolate wasn't so delicious. Nay, let me rephrase that. I love that chocolate is so delicious. I wish chocolate wasn't so caloric. Nom nom nom.

OH. And I've re-ignited my passionate love for E.E. Cummings. 

It is time for a poetry reading. Get ready for your finger-snapping applause. ahem.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

let's live suddenly without thinking

e.e. cummings

Let's live suddenly without thinking

under honest trees,
                                a stream
does.the brain of cleverly-crinkling
-water pursues the angry dream
of the shore.        By midnight,
                                            a moon
scratches the skin of the organised hills

an edged nothing begins to prune

let's live like the light that kills
and let's as silence,
                                  because Whirl's after all:
(after me)love,and after you.
I occasionally feel vague how
vague i don't know tenuous Now-
spears and The Then-arrows making do
our mouths something red, something tall

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

*snap snap snap snap*

also:

Piet Mondrian, The Red Tree, 1909

It's funny how long a moment can seem when you're trying to hold on.

Love taught me to lie.

To be honest, it's a lesson that I've come to appreciate. Deceit has become my favorite bed-fellow, a true comrade, a familiar sidekick.  Why, you ask? How could someone come to appreciate such a loathsome skill?

Because, quite frankly, the truth sucks. Ol' Jacky boy had it right when he exclaimed, "You can't handle the truth!" The thought of it makes me cringe. Truth is my least favorite foe. 

It's truth that laughs at my clumsiness and lack of rhythm at dance parties. Truth points out that I wear too much makeup, but concedes that I look worse without it. Truth laughs bitterly at my pretenses of confidence and caring, knowing that underneath it all is an emotional dead end. Yet, truth revels most when I am pensive and indulging my self-flagellation, as I sift through past regrets and my biggest mistakes. And, worst of all, when I say it was all my fault, truth agrees.

So when I say that I am glad that love taught me to lie, I mean it. More than anything, it's a method of self preservation. And there is no one I lie more to than I lie to myself.

And there is no where I lie more to myself than in my dreams. I dream of how it should have been, trick myself into thinking that it still could be. Little lies that keep hope alive and a glimmer in my eye. Because there is always a possibility. At least that's what I tell myself.

There's always the possibility that the past doesn't matter anymore. That we both haven't changed and become different people. That I still feel like home to him. 

Sometimes I secretly wish that I was completely exposed, that my mind was open and free to be explored and discovered by anyone and everyone. That all my faculties for deception have been torn away, leaving me vulnerable... but free. I wonder what people would think of me. I wonder what I would think of myself.

---

Last night, I dreamed that I saw him. He was looking out on Lake Michigan, deep in thought. I silently watched him for awhile, selfishly soaking in the details of his face, burning it into my memory, reveling in my unconscious delusion. Suddenly, he laughed quietly to himself, a crooked smile on his face, shaking his head softly. I called his name and he turned, surprised. His face lit up, seeing me, and my heart stopped. 

I dreamed that we were on the beach, spread out on an old blanket, staring at the stars and listening to the waves. I ran my fingers through his unruly hair and he closed his eyes and smiled, moaning softly with contentment. He told me about his best friend in first grade and his first girl friend in college. He chatted animatedly about music and composing, confessed his passions and fears. He spoke warmly of his mother and proudly of his nephew. He had a smile in his eyes.

I dreamed that I no longer felt afraid. I told him about visiting my great grandmother and the way I felt the first time I saw a grown man cry. I told him about my love for fresh flowers and my secret childhood crush on Joey Lawrence from Blossom. I confided that my biggest fear was dying and growing old alone. He hugged me. It felt natural to be in his arms.

I dreamed that he was perfect and that I was perfect and that we were perfect. We made love and we were closer to one another than we had ever been to anyone before and would ever be to anyone again. We were the only two people who existed in the world. It was strange and it was beautiful and it was absolute.

It had to be right. It has to be right.

--