Botticelli lives in the ground-
floor flat. Most of the time
you hardly know he's there
except for those days when
Venus emerges, pauses, poses
on the welcome mat & a host
of classical gods & dryads &
nymphs & cherubim come
gathering around. Which, of
course, brings a crowd of mere
mortals. Half of whom continue
to gaze, & half of those think
something nefarious is going on,
& half of those think it might be
a porn video being made, & half
of them contact the police, & half
of those . . .& half . . . & ha . . . &
somewhere in the madding crowd
is a dude who's catching it all on
cell phone & dreaming of a You-
Tube video called Proving Zeno's
Paradox, & is busy looking round
for a tortoise to give that touch of
authenticity & frisson to the piece.
Saturday, March 23, 2019
Tuesday, March 19, 2019
#396 The Birth of the Idol
Here there are no judges'
chairs that turn around.
Rather, in a somewhat
hyperactive nod to Botticelli,
it is the the whitecaps that
rage & foam. A symbiotic
frenzy. They give energy
to her knowing that she'll
give it back to them when
she emerges full-grown
from this half-hell. The am-
bience is pure de Chirico
punk, whether pre- or post-
apocalyptic one is never
quite sure. Is augmented by
Magritte's props which are
stacked up ready to take
their places when later called
upon. Mirrors, & doors with
holes cut in them — a way
through a way through, a
different way of seeing. &
the idol herself, un bilboquet
désarmé which allows her fingers
free range to trace the template
she poises on. Is there enough
humanity within this segment
sliced from human simulacrum to
allow her to progress, given that
the stairs go neither up nor down?
Sunday, February 17, 2019
#395 Les Bon Jours de Monsieur Ingres
Somewhere, sometime, I took
this Ingres figure out of con-
text & painted around the
space that remained. That's
how I felt at the time: caught
up with inference & reference,
seeking to highlight what was-
n't there. I've moved on, have
decided to return & fill the
spaces once again, not with
the figures seen by antiquity but
as if they came from the circus
or commedia dell'arte — the clowns,
the dancing bears, the harlequins.
Saturday, February 09, 2019
New from Moria Books
Friday, February 01, 2019
#394 Les fenêtres de l'aube
Wipe your eyes with a
kerchief so the tears
outline your hand. Is
that a face reflected
there as well? Sit down
on any available cushion,
take in the view. Either
the depicted one — a
row of hills, some trees
that will return in a later
piece — or something of
your own making, still
taking shape & not ready
to be revealed, hidden
in blackness. These are
some of the sights that
the windows of the dawn
might open out on to.
Tuesday, January 15, 2019
#393 Le Retour de l'Explorateur
Something once seen only on
the National Geographic Channel,
now everywhere — Instagram,
Snapchat, or any other app available
from the Apple Store as well as
every cable channel on the planet.
The glorious return of the explorer,
home from the hills, the snow, the
plains, the jungle — everything's
in reach these days of sportswear
sponsorship. Though. Not always
glorious. This time, comes back, no
head, clothes torn from the back, a
speaking tube used not for voice
but for ex- or inhalation. Powder
all around. Let's say the jungle.
Wednesday, January 09, 2019
#392 Le temps jadis
It is idle to lament inevitable progress from "the olden, golden days."
Modern techniques are a bit more complicated than those of old, when a flannel band & goose grease played principal parts in child care, & summer dwellings were modestly equipped with no electricity or running water. Childhood is growing up; & adults involved must make a conscious effort to pay more attention to it than in days gone by. It is not without its challenges. Fatboy Knäpsäck is just like his old fashioned wooden stock magical knapsack.
The velocity of the water would decline a little during the mid-winter, so scholars long ago took everything in & then digested it — the relaxing fluid texture of the herds returning from the high mountain pastures to provide the skin with a smooth & scented lather, the many agricultural & domestic tools, the Frisian water dogs once used to hunt otters.
The shed of the wine presses is full of activity. Several churches, chapels, & monasteries bear testimony to the past — the 14th century Le Temps Jadis building, the 11th century Collegiate Church of Notre-Dame, the Chateau de Bizy. In the old days this district was home to the Knights Templar. Here the river still follows its natural course through an old agricultural landscape where the occasional castle is a reminder of the past.
Luckily, the Sweden of yesteryear, where axes were not known & ivory & stone were used instead, is extremely well preserved. This unique & historic ambience makes you feel cast back into Mozart's time.
Friday, December 14, 2018
#391 Perpetual Motion (2)
Ever since J. G. Ballard
rewrote Jarry, replacing
the death of Christ with
that of JFK in the uphill
bicycle race, nothing is
constant in the circus. Used
to be the place that every-
one got away to. Now it's
where everyone wants to
get away from. Led by the
strong man, still balanced
& leaden-faced, but has
a bone to pick with each
& everyone. Evidence all
around, reflected in a
mirror in the moorlands.
The circus has moved on.
Is elsewhere. Empty cages.
Wednesday, December 12, 2018
#390 The Poetic World II
make an eye-stalk
rhyme with curtains.
But when we do, any
subsequent act, like
seeking out an object
that rhymes with little
pointy pyramids, results
only in the sky cracking.
Nothing rhymes with that.
Tuesday, December 04, 2018
#389 Territory
sparse on our 12 acre property
in the foothills of Western North
Carolina. It's why Magritte has
set up here, noting that: Même si
les objets avaient reçu des noms
différents, ils trouveraient toujours
un lieu de repos ici. An idealized
approach, much like the view
in the rear-view mirror of my
car, where the further away
you get, the clearer things become.
Saturday, November 17, 2018
#388 A la rencontre du plaisir
Is already awake; but is a
reflection of the Rubaiyat in
which a man in a bowler hat
stands staring into the bowl
of night. Has parted the
curtain, discovered a small
area of day on the nighttime
stage. Made smaller by the
presence of the moon.
The moon stares at the man.
Is it because of the bowler
hat? Or bewilderment at the
daytime dress of someone out
at night? The man, meanwhile,
takes note of the blue behind.
Stares at the moon. Ponders.
It's dressed for night. What
is it doing out during the day?
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