le temps perdu
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documenting plan b:"This rose became a bandanna, which became a house, which became infused with all passion, which became a hideaway, which became yes I would like to have dinner, which became hands, which became lands, shores, beaches, natives on the stones, staring and wild beasts in the trees, chasing the hats of lost hunters, and all this deserves a tone.” - Kenneth Koch
via: themusedaily
image: the drifter and the gypsy
“If we experience wild non-understanding, we will know that no one shall counter it with clarity. Woe to us pondering time. But then, with the expansion of this non-understanding, it will become clear to you and me that there is no woe, no us, no pondering, and no time.”
From “The Gray Notebook,” by Alexander Vvedensky (trans. Eugene Ostashevsky)
Today is publication day for Alexander Vvedensky’s An Invitation for Me To Think.
(via nyrbclassics)
(Source: invisiblestories, via nyrbclassics)
mario alberto Zambrano: The Next Big Thing — Lotería: A Novel →
NOTE: The Next Big Thing is a blog series, winding its way through the internet from author to author as a means to promote upcoming books. I was invited by Kirsten Kashock, author of Sleight, published by Coffee House Press, to participate in this chain-linked party and answer a few…
“TIME PASSES TIME
does not pass. Time all
but passes. Time usually
passes. Time passing and
gazing. Time has no gaze.
Time as perseverance.
Time as hunger. Time in
a natural way. Time when
you were six the day a
mountain. Mountain time.
Time I don’t remember.
Time for a dog in an alley
caught in the beam of your
flashlight. Time not a
video. Time as paper
folded to look like a
mountain. Time smeared
under the eyes of the
miners as they rattle down
into the mine. Time if you
are bankrupt. Time if you
are Prometheus. Time if
you are all the little tubes
on the roots of a gorse
plant sucking greenish
black moistures up into
new scribbled continents.
Time it takes for the postal
clerk to apply her lipstick
at the back of the post
office before the
supervisor returns. Time
it takes for a cow to tip
over. Time in jail. Time
as overcoats in a closet.
Time for a herd of turkeys
skidding and surprised on
ice. All the time that has
soaked into the walls here.
Time between the little
clicks. Time compared to
the wild fantastic silence
of the stars. Time for the
man at the bus stop
standing on one leg to tie
his shoe. Time taking
Night by the hand and
trotting off down the road.
Time passes oh boy. Time
got the jump on me yes it
did.”—Red Doc> by Anne Carson
(Source: randomhouse.com, via marioalbertozambrano)
garbage / Landfill Harmonic→
The Instruments
Tin water pipe, metal bottle caps, plastic buttons, metal spoon and fork handles. Tito Romero, maker
Metal Glue cannister, fork, used strings, recycled wood and tunning pegs. Nicolas “Cola” Gomez, maker- See noslides.com for large images of master works
- Smarthistory.org developed by art historians
- Timeline of Art History, Metropolitan Museum of Art
- Web Gallery of Art searchable database of European art – large images
- World Images database a California State University Image project
Julie Schenkelberg’s work implies that a personal history, or a family history, is an inescapable palimpsest, always present, whether we are aware or not, that our history hides in drawers and cushions, or can be found scratched into the top of a table. On the surface, the work alludes to domesticity and socially constructed notions of the feminine: the china, the silver, the cabriole legs. The altered furniture represents both the upstairs and downstairs, the bedroom and the dining room, places where we lie or sit together. But the headboard is broken; the buffet is upended and slashed, lacquered in resin, unrecognizable, oozing with the pastel colors of frosting. Bits of doors and chairs are severed, drilled, gilded, and punctured with shards of glass, nails, and fleshy fabric, no longer baring any relation to their original function.
The broken home, both in terms of family and infrastructure, whether fictional or real, represents the failed dream of the picket fence. Unsettled and unsettling, the works are broken assemblages of kept mementos, recognizable elements that are unequivocally present, but in their manipulated state are both enigmatic and aggressive. Schenkelberg’s sculptures suggest that our pasts are not fixed, and that we can reconstruct them in whichever configuration we chose. Her works are literally iconoclastic, presenting family history as a gloriously disfigured tableau. Almost effortlessly Schenkelberg shows us the length we go to piece our pasts back together. JR
Image Credits: Left: Julie Schenkelberg. Welcome Home, 2012. Wood bureau top, tinted concrete, Carrera marble, glass, resin, silk, found wood, 37 x 15 x 3 inches. Right: Julie Schenkelberg. My Little Wooden Board, 2013. Buffet drawer face, crushed glass, metal wire, acrylic, 17 x 8 x 4 inches.
Twelve from “Stones”—lithographic prints by Frank O’Hara and Larry Rivers (1957-1960)
Ulises Carrión→
Manifesto
page 6
THE READING
In order to read the old art, knowing the alphabet is enough.
In order to read the new art one must apprehend the book as a structure, identifying its elements and understanding their function.
One might read old art in the belief that one understands it, and be wrong.
Such a misunderstanding is impossible in the new art. You can read only if you understand.
In the old art all books are read in the same way.
In the new art every book requires a different reading.
In the old art, to read the last page takes as much time as to read the first one.
In the new art the reading rhythm changes, quickens, speeds up.
In order to understand and to appreciate a book of the old art, it is necessary to read it thoroughly.
In the new art you often do NOT need to read the whole book.
The reading may stop at the very moment you have understood the total structure of the book,
The new art makes it possible to read faster than the fast-reading methods.
There are fast-reading methods because writing methods are too slow.
To read a book, is to perceive sequentially its structure.
The old art takes no heed of reading.
The new art creates specific reading conditions.
The farthest the old art has come to, is to bring into account the readers, which is going too far.
The new art doesn’t discriminate between its readers; it does not address itself to the book-addicts or try to steal its public away from TV.
In order to be able to read the new art, and to understand it, you don’t need to spend five years in a Faculty of English.
In order to be appreciated, the books of the new art don’t need the sentimental and/or intellectual complicity of the readers in matters of love, politics, psychology, geography, etc.
The new art appeals to the ability every man possesses for understanding and creating signs and systems of signs.
The New Art of Making Books by Ulises Carrión was published in Kontexts no. 6-7, 1975, and was printed by the Center for Book Arts in 1975 at the request of the author and distributed free to the Center’s members. Ulises started the artists’ bookstore Other Books and So in Amsterdam in 1975. He died in 1989. This essay is also reprinted in Joan Lyons, Ed. ARTISTS’ BOOKS: A Critical Anthology And Sourcebook, Visual Studies Workshop, 1985, 1993. and also reprinted in Guy Schraenen: Ulises Carrión. We have won! Haven’t we?, Amsterdam, 1992.
true grit; found dovetail wood box, found vintage metal horse, found kitchen stainer, vintage matchbook covers, beads, old broken German doll heads, Jim Beam whiskey stirrers, buttons, beads, keys, hardware, doll parts, cowrie shells, wood and plaster, 23 x 13 x 12 inches, 2011
All you have in life is what you remember. It’s the one filament connecting you to the void”
Study of the Object
Things outlast us, they know more about us than we know about them: they carry the experience they have had with us inside them and are—in fact—the book of our history opened before us.”
W.G. Sebald (via awritersruminations)1
The most beautiful is the object
which does not exist
it does not serve to carry water
or to preserve the ashes of a hero
it was not cradled by Antigone
nor was a rat drowned in it
it has no hole
and is entirely open
seen
from every side
which means
hardly anticipated
the hairs
of all its lines
join
in one stream of light
neither
blindness
nor
death
can take away the object
which does not exist
2
mark the place
where stood the object
which does not exist
with a black square
it will be
a simple dirge
for the beautiful absence
manly regret
imprisoned
in a quadrangle
3
now
all space
swells like an ocean
a hurricane beats
on the black sail
the wing of a blizzard circles
over the black square
and the island sinks
beneath the salty increase
4
now you have
empty space
more beautiful than the object
more beautiful than the place it leaves
it is the pre-world
a white paradise
of all possibilities
you may enter there
cry out
vertical-horizontal
perpendicular lightning
strikes the naked horizon
we can stop at that
anyway you have already created a world
5
obey the counsels
of the inner eye
do not yield
to murmurs mutterings smackings
it is the uncreated world
crowding before the gates of your canvas
angels are offering
the rosy wadding of clouds
trees are inserting everywhere
slovenly green hair
kings are praising purple
and commanding their trumpeters
to gild
even the whale asks for a portrait
obey the counsels of the inner eye
admit no one
6
extract
from the shadow of the object
which does not exist
from polar space
from the stern reveries of the inner eye
a chair
beautiful and useless
like a cathedral in the wilderness
place on the chair
a crumpled tablecloth
add to the idea of order
the idea of adventure
let it be a confession of faith
before the vertical struggling with the horizontal
let it be
quieter than angels
prouder than kings
more substantial than a whale
let it have the face of the last things
we ask reveal o chair
the depths of the inner eye
the iris of necessity
the pupil of death
—Zbigniew Herbert
From The Collected Poems, 1956-1998 (Ecco), translated by Alissa Valles.
For many years, I have been moved by the blue at the far edge of what can be seen seen, that color of horizons, of remote mountain ranges, of anything far away. The color of that distance is the color of emotion, the color of solitude and desire, the color of there seen from here, the color of where you are not. And the color of where you can never go. For the blue is not in the place those miles away at the horizon, but in the atmospheric distance between you and the mountains…Blue is the color of longing for the distances you never arrive in, for the blue world.
A Field Guide to Getting Lost
(Source: beyonce)
“We chase after ghosts and spirits and are left holding only memories and dreams. It’s not that we want what we can’t have; it’s that we’ve held all we could want and then had to watch it slip away.”
- Charles de Lint
(via this-is-glamorous)
