Fabrizio's mistress was intelligent and beautiful; he could not get over it. "She shouldn't understand herself!" he groaned. "Her beauty is spoiled by her intelligence. Could I still smitten by the Mona Lisa whenever I looked at her if I also had to hear a discourse by even a remarkable critic?"
He left her and took another mistress, who was beautiful and mindless. But her inexorable want of tact contantly prevented him from enjoying her charm. Moreover she aspired to intelligence, read a great deal, became a bluestocking, and was as intellectual as his first mistress, but with less ease and with ridiculous clumsiness. He asked her to keep silent; but even when she held her tongue, her beauty cruelly reflected her stupidity. Finally he met a woman who revealed her intelligence purely in amore subtle grace, who was content with just living and never dissipated the enchanting mystery of her nature in overly specific conversations. She was gentle, like graceful and agile animals with deep eyes, and she disturbed you like the morning's vague and agonizing memory of your dreams. But she did not bother to do for him what his other two mistresses had done: she did not love him.
from Fragments of Commedia Dell'Arte
Friday, September 7, 2012
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Sunrise by Charles Swinburne
If the wind and the sunlight of April and August had
mingled the past and hereafter
In a single adorable season whose life were a rapture
of love and laughter,
And the blithest of singers were back with a song; if
again from his tomb as from prison,
If again from the night or the twilight of age Aristophanes
had arisen,
With the gold-feathered wings of a bird that were
also a god upon earth at this shoulders,
And the gold-flowing laugh of the manhood of old at
his lips, for a joy to beholders,
He alone unrebuked of presumption were able to set
to some adequate measure
The delight of our eyes in the dawn that restores
them the sun of their sense and the pleasure.
For the days of the darkness of spirit are over for all of
us here, and the season
When desire was a longing, and absense a thorn, and
rejoicing a word without reason.
For the roof overhead of the pines is astir with delight
as of jubilant voices,
And the floor underfoot of the bracken and heather
alive as a heart that rejoices.
For the house that ws childless awhile, and the light
of it darkened, the pulse of it dwindled,
Rings radiant again with a child's bright feet, with
the light of his face is rekindled.
And the ways of the meadows that knew him, the
sweep of the down that sky's belt closes,
Grow gladder at heart than the soft wind made them
whos feet were but fragment with roses
Though the fall of the year be upon us, who trusted
in June and by June were defrauded,
And the summer that brought us not back the desire
of our eyes be gone hence unapplauded.
For July came joyless among us, and August went
out from us arid and sterile,
And the hope of our hearts, as it seemed, than a thought
which regret had not heart to remember,
Till four dark monthes over past were atone for, and
summer began in September.
Hark, April again as a bird in the house with child's
voice hither and thither:
See, May in the garden again with a child's face
cheering the woods ere they wither.
June laughs in the light of his eyes, and July on the
sunbright cheeks of him slumbers,
And August glows in a smile more sweet than the
cadence fo gold-mouthed numbers.
In the morning the sight of him brightens the sun
and the noon with delight in him flushes,
And the silence fo nightfall is music about him as
soft as the sleep that it hushes.
We awake with a sense of a sunrise that is not a gift
of the sundawn's giving,
And a voice that salutes us is sweeter than all sounds
else in the world of the living,
And a presence that warms us is brighter than all in
the world of our visions beholden,
Though the dreams of our sleep were as those that
the light of a world without makes golden.
For the best that the best of us ever devised as a
likeness of heaven and its glory,
What was it of old, or what is it and will be for ever,
in song or in story,
Or in shape or in colour of carven or painted
resemblance, adored of all ages,
But a vision recorded of children alive in the pictures
of old or the pages?
Where children are not, heaven is not, and heaven if
they come not again shall be never:
But the face and the voice of a child are assurance of
heaven and its promise for ever.
mingled the past and hereafter
In a single adorable season whose life were a rapture
of love and laughter,
And the blithest of singers were back with a song; if
again from his tomb as from prison,
If again from the night or the twilight of age Aristophanes
had arisen,
With the gold-feathered wings of a bird that were
also a god upon earth at this shoulders,
And the gold-flowing laugh of the manhood of old at
his lips, for a joy to beholders,
He alone unrebuked of presumption were able to set
to some adequate measure
The delight of our eyes in the dawn that restores
them the sun of their sense and the pleasure.
For the days of the darkness of spirit are over for all of
us here, and the season
When desire was a longing, and absense a thorn, and
rejoicing a word without reason.
For the roof overhead of the pines is astir with delight
as of jubilant voices,
And the floor underfoot of the bracken and heather
alive as a heart that rejoices.
For the house that ws childless awhile, and the light
of it darkened, the pulse of it dwindled,
Rings radiant again with a child's bright feet, with
the light of his face is rekindled.
And the ways of the meadows that knew him, the
sweep of the down that sky's belt closes,
Grow gladder at heart than the soft wind made them
whos feet were but fragment with roses
Though the fall of the year be upon us, who trusted
in June and by June were defrauded,
And the summer that brought us not back the desire
of our eyes be gone hence unapplauded.
For July came joyless among us, and August went
out from us arid and sterile,
And the hope of our hearts, as it seemed, than a thought
which regret had not heart to remember,
Till four dark monthes over past were atone for, and
summer began in September.
Hark, April again as a bird in the house with child's
voice hither and thither:
See, May in the garden again with a child's face
cheering the woods ere they wither.
June laughs in the light of his eyes, and July on the
sunbright cheeks of him slumbers,
And August glows in a smile more sweet than the
cadence fo gold-mouthed numbers.
In the morning the sight of him brightens the sun
and the noon with delight in him flushes,
And the silence fo nightfall is music about him as
soft as the sleep that it hushes.
We awake with a sense of a sunrise that is not a gift
of the sundawn's giving,
And a voice that salutes us is sweeter than all sounds
else in the world of the living,
And a presence that warms us is brighter than all in
the world of our visions beholden,
Though the dreams of our sleep were as those that
the light of a world without makes golden.
For the best that the best of us ever devised as a
likeness of heaven and its glory,
What was it of old, or what is it and will be for ever,
in song or in story,
Or in shape or in colour of carven or painted
resemblance, adored of all ages,
But a vision recorded of children alive in the pictures
of old or the pages?
Where children are not, heaven is not, and heaven if
they come not again shall be never:
But the face and the voice of a child are assurance of
heaven and its promise for ever.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Intro to the movie Daywatch
Why does the wind blow?
It wipes the tracks where we have passed
so that no one can tell whether we still exist.
Long ago when warriors of Light and Darkness clashed
on the Bridge of Justice and blood was spilled the
great Gesser's heart could not bear it and he stopped
the battle. But in due time, when the night is no longer
than the day a new Great One will come. The world
will be plunged into darkness and nothing can save it
except the chalk of Fate which is kept in an
impenetrable fortress. And all who come for it and
pass through the gates perish in its endless maze.
So it had always been... until Tamerlane came.
It wipes the tracks where we have passed
so that no one can tell whether we still exist.
Long ago when warriors of Light and Darkness clashed
on the Bridge of Justice and blood was spilled the
great Gesser's heart could not bear it and he stopped
the battle. But in due time, when the night is no longer
than the day a new Great One will come. The world
will be plunged into darkness and nothing can save it
except the chalk of Fate which is kept in an
impenetrable fortress. And all who come for it and
pass through the gates perish in its endless maze.
So it had always been... until Tamerlane came.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
A Vision of Spring in Winter by Charles Swinburne
I
O tender time that love thinks long to see,
Sweet foot of spring that with her footfall sows
Late snowlike flowery leaving of the snows,
Be not too long irresolute to be;
O mother-month, where have they hidden thee?
Out of the pale time of the flowerless rose
I reach my heart out toward the springtime lands,
I stretch my spirit forth to the fair hours,
The purplest of the prime;
I lean my soul down over them, with hands
Made wide to take the ghostly growth of flowers;
I send my love back to the lovely time.
II
Where has the greenwood hid thy gracious head?
Veiled with what visions while the grey world grieves,
Or muffled with what shadows of green leaves,
What warm intangible green shadows spread
To sweeten the sweet twilight for thy bed?
What sleep enchants thee? what delight deceives?
Where the deep dreamlike dew before the dawn
Feels not the fingers of the sunlight yet
Its silver web unweave,
Thy footless ghost on some unfooted lawn
Whose air the unrisen sunbeams fear to fret
Lives a ghost's life of a daylong dawn and eve.
III
Sunrise it sees not, neither set of star,
Large nightfall, nor imperial plenilune,
Nor strong sweet shape of the full-breasted noon;
But where the silver-sandalled shadows are,
Too soft for arrows of the sun to mar,
Moves with the mild gait of an ungrown moon:
Hard overhead the half-lit crescent swims,
The tender-coloured night draws hardly breath,
The light is listening;
They watch the dawn of slender-shapen limbs,
Virginal, born again of doubtful death,
Chill foster-father of the weanling spring.
IV
As sweet desire of day before the day,
As dreams of love before the true love born,
From the outer edge of winter overworn
The ghost arisen of May before the May
Takes through dim air her unawakened way,
The gracious ghost of morning risen ere morn.
With little unblown breasts and child-eyed looks
Following , the very maid, the girl-child spring,
Lifts windward her bright brows,
Dips her light feet in warm and moving brooks,
And kindles with her own mouth's colouring
The fearful firstlings of the plumeless boughs.
V
I seek thee sleeping, and awhile I see,
Fair face that art not, how the maiden breath
Shall put at last the deadly days to death
And fill the fields and fire the woods with thee
And seaward hollows where my feet would be
When heaven shall hear the word that April saith
To change the cold heart of the weary time,
To stir and soften all the time to tears,
Tears joyfuller than mirth;
As even to May's clear height the young days climb
With feet no swifter than those fair first years
Whose flowers revive not with thy flowers on earth.
VI
I would not bid thee, though I might, give back
One good thing youth has given and borne away;
I crave not any comfort of the day
That is not, nor on time's retrodden track
Would turn to meet the white-robed hours or black
That long since left me on their mortal way;
Nor light nor love that has been, nor the breath
That comes with morning from the sun to be
And sets light hope on fire;
No fruit, no flower thought once too fair for death,
No flower nor hour once fallen from life's green tree,
No leaf once plucked or once fulfilled desire.
VII
The morning song beneath the stars that fled
With twilight through the moonless mountain air,
While youth with burning lips and wreathless hair
Sang toward the sun that was to crown his head,
Rising; the hopes that triumphed and fell dead
The sweet swift eyes and songs of hours that were;
These may'st thou not give back for ever; these,
As at the sea's heart all her wrecks lie waste,
Lie deeper than the sea;
But flowers thou may'st, and winds, and hours of ease,
And all its April to the would thou may'st
Give back, and half my April back to me.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
The Dance Partner
She put her hand into his and led him to the dancefloor. He realized she was in front and bringing him along with her. His anxiety began to disappear. It was like a smile inside of him. When they reached an empty spot, she turned around and opened herself to him. Reaching forward with both arms she put her hand into his once again. His other moved along her arm, starting at her elbow and under; to the back of her shoulder. She first put her hand on his bicep and then moved it up farther to the side of his shoulder. He could tell she didn't know how to dance very well, so he looked her in the eye and smiled. Her anxiety began to disappear.
First, he dipped her to the left slightly and the stepped back and she followed. He slid his hand out from under her arm and then held both of her hands. They were soft and fleshy. He could only slightly sense the bones inside them. They weren't plump or loose, but like little bodies. They were her breasts and thighs and waist and neck... they rested in his hands awaiting whatever he wished to do next. She looked at him. Her eyes were dark and large, framed with strong cheekbones and brow. He was used to a more petite women in height, so being able to look at her face without looking down caused him to admire her subconsciously. Her beauty also made it easy.
First, he dipped her to the left slightly and the stepped back and she followed. He slid his hand out from under her arm and then held both of her hands. They were soft and fleshy. He could only slightly sense the bones inside them. They weren't plump or loose, but like little bodies. They were her breasts and thighs and waist and neck... they rested in his hands awaiting whatever he wished to do next. She looked at him. Her eyes were dark and large, framed with strong cheekbones and brow. He was used to a more petite women in height, so being able to look at her face without looking down caused him to admire her subconsciously. Her beauty also made it easy.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
In a Waffle House World...
the line cook wears his hairnet underneath a folded-paper boat. He works the pots and pans like he has eight arms, ham here, heating oil in that pan, cracks an egg (that's TWO hands... no he did it with one. I didn't even see what he did with the shell.) He wipes down the 6inch counter top he has in front of him... and it's all done with no flair, barely even with effort. The waffle waitress called out the order, messed it up and didn't repeat it. Dude was on it. Some country song was playing and then Phil Collins. [It] Didn't phase him.
I think his name is Eliazer. I guess that's a pretty unique name to only think that it might be what his name is... so I'm gonna say that's what it is. Eliazer. Waffle House blazer on target like a laser with the tater...tots, momma ...ummmmm, correction--- Waffle House doesn't have tater tots, just hash browns. They don't have french fries either!!! I had afriend once who was really upset about that. He eats his french fries with mayonaise which kind of grossses me out so I'm glad (at the time) that don't have french fries.
That's all.
Thnaks for reading.
I think his name is Eliazer. I guess that's a pretty unique name to only think that it might be what his name is... so I'm gonna say that's what it is. Eliazer. Waffle House blazer on target like a laser with the tater...tots, momma ...ummmmm, correction--- Waffle House doesn't have tater tots, just hash browns. They don't have french fries either!!! I had afriend once who was really upset about that. He eats his french fries with mayonaise which kind of grossses me out so I'm glad (at the time) that don't have french fries.
That's all.
Thnaks for reading.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Tori Amos' Birthday
This Consciousness that is aware
Of Neighbors and the Sun
Will be the one aware of Death
And that itself alone
Is traversing the interval
Experience between
And most profound experiment
Appointed unto Men-
How adequate unto itself
It's properties shall be
Itself unto itself and none
Shall make discovery.
Adventure most unto itself
The Soul condemned to be--
Attended by a single Hound
It's own identity.
-Emily Dickinson
poem #822
Of Neighbors and the Sun
Will be the one aware of Death
And that itself alone
Is traversing the interval
Experience between
And most profound experiment
Appointed unto Men-
How adequate unto itself
It's properties shall be
Itself unto itself and none
Shall make discovery.
Adventure most unto itself
The Soul condemned to be--
Attended by a single Hound
It's own identity.
-Emily Dickinson
poem #822
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
art market/ art history
In the 21st century free-market, art has become an elusive product. Yes, I said product. IF you buy art, then you are a consumer and carry the responsibility of knowing what it is that you purchase and for what reasons you are giving said amount of money for. If we look at shoes, and all you arelooking for is a decent pair of shiny leather point toe dress shoes to wear once for an outdoor occassion, then going to a discount shoe outlet and dropping 20.00 would be appropriate, but if you are looking to take the same shoe and embed style, legacy, and refinement into your image as a sign to others, so that you can generate a mystery of what it is that you possess then $200 on some Gucci loafers might be appropriate, and if by some off chance that you collect soes as an investment then you might look at $2000 David Hicks. Art these days is no different. Perceieved value and appropriateness to intent. That is not to say that the factors of the valuation of so simple. Even if it makes sense, you might be sold snake-oil, so it is important to know the context of the art market and art history to keep from being snowed over.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
more notes 2
On Picasso:"One thing that is made explicitly clear throughout the late graphics is that the desire is never satisfied. It will both fall short of and override its goal, much like the act of representation itself, which can never completely close the distance between referent and image... The desired object , thus, can never fully account for the drive itself. "desire is the desire for desire"
Continual deferral and the impossibility of closure are built into the very mechanism of desire, which is predicated on a psychic lack, that by definition, be fulfilled. As Picasso summed up..."the desire stays on."
--Inside the Image
Limits of representation
Limitlessness of Desire
Painting as an act of Love
In our relation to things, in sofar as this relation is constituted by the way of vision, and ordered in the figures of representation, something slips, passes, is transmitted, from stage to stage, and is always to some degree eluded in it-- that is what we call the gaze.
-Jacques Lacan
When the Andalusian fixes a thing within a stare, he grasps it, his eyes are fingers holding and probing... In Andalusia the eye is akin to a sexual organ.
-David Gilmore
miranda Fuetre & the Gaze
Continual deferral and the impossibility of closure are built into the very mechanism of desire, which is predicated on a psychic lack, that by definition, be fulfilled. As Picasso summed up..."the desire stays on."
--Inside the Image
Limits of representation
Limitlessness of Desire
Painting as an act of Love
In our relation to things, in sofar as this relation is constituted by the way of vision, and ordered in the figures of representation, something slips, passes, is transmitted, from stage to stage, and is always to some degree eluded in it-- that is what we call the gaze.
-Jacques Lacan
When the Andalusian fixes a thing within a stare, he grasps it, his eyes are fingers holding and probing... In Andalusia the eye is akin to a sexual organ.
-David Gilmore
miranda Fuetre & the Gaze
more notes
Monet, Renoir, Degas- sight was simply the sum of its light-- in terms of illumination
Reality is not waiting to be witnessed
Impressionist- "the gaze was out, the glance was in"
Cezanne- "with an apple I will astonish Paris!"
Courbet- "Let us be true, even if we are ugly"
Oscar Wilde "Life goes faster than Realism"
Rilke "Cezanne made the fruit so real that it ceased to be edible altogether."
Is it only now that Art has begun? -dP
"Art has carried the responsibility of the philosophy of art further than the philosophers of would have been capable. It was as if artists had to become their own philosophers in order to be taken seriously. -A. Danto
In order to consider Brillo Boxes as art, one would need to see how the history of art had evolved to a point where it was now possible for such a work to exist... to know something of the state of discourse of the art world, within which that possibility existed... Duchamp... Greenber...
--Danto
Bildungsroman- as history of modern art
there is no reason inherent in the concept of art for painting not to exist
*painting is charged with resentments as a result of an artistic discourse trying to purge concepts of talent as unacceptably elitist
conception of art that is made by artist with certain ends in view
___________________________
~from random slip of paper in my notes
without elementary disorder there is neither entropy nor irreversible process
Reality is not waiting to be witnessed
Impressionist- "the gaze was out, the glance was in"
Cezanne- "with an apple I will astonish Paris!"
Courbet- "Let us be true, even if we are ugly"
Oscar Wilde "Life goes faster than Realism"
Rilke "Cezanne made the fruit so real that it ceased to be edible altogether."
Is it only now that Art has begun? -dP
"Art has carried the responsibility of the philosophy of art further than the philosophers of would have been capable. It was as if artists had to become their own philosophers in order to be taken seriously. -A. Danto
In order to consider Brillo Boxes as art, one would need to see how the history of art had evolved to a point where it was now possible for such a work to exist... to know something of the state of discourse of the art world, within which that possibility existed... Duchamp... Greenber...
--Danto
Bildungsroman- as history of modern art
there is no reason inherent in the concept of art for painting not to exist
*painting is charged with resentments as a result of an artistic discourse trying to purge concepts of talent as unacceptably elitist
conception of art that is made by artist with certain ends in view
___________________________
~from random slip of paper in my notes
without elementary disorder there is neither entropy nor irreversible process
Notes from some books and thoughts
for I believe that failure is less frequently attributable to either sufficiency of means or impatience of labour, than to a confused understanding of the thing actually to be done.
-Ruskin
It would be premature and presumptuous to preempt the verdict of prosperity
cartographic. iconography
historical references
-eclecticism, collecting, selection --> Latin - lect- legre- choose
academic conventions
contradistinction, precarious equilibrium, ambivalent correspondence
I should like to carry out my future work in the interplay between Robert Smithson's uncompleted project and Michael Jackson's face -Ashley Bickerton- artist
long tradition of painting
NeueWilde- rebirth of painting
Peter Fischli/David Weiss- Goldsworthy style
Gunther Forg-artist
marginalised social group- unattainable abstracts
Felix Gonzalez-Torres, Michel Majerus, Gehard Merz
Dan Peterman "Sulfer Cycle"
Guy Debord- Situation Theory
Peter Halley
STRUCTURALISM
Lacan
Levi-Strauss
Barthes
Foucault
POST-STRUCTURAL
Baudrillard
Derrida
appropriation- Richard Prince
myth of "artistic"
Cindy Sherman - Feminist? I'm not Feminist
white cube vs. over-the-couch
obsolete activities-
read the paper
record players
The ever-expanding field of available objects led me to investigate what I saw as a crisis of meaning and identity by juxtaposing heterogeneous objects in a poetic, yet non-hierachical way.--Haim Steinbach
-Ruskin
It would be premature and presumptuous to preempt the verdict of prosperity
cartographic. iconography
historical references
-eclecticism, collecting, selection --> Latin - lect- legre- choose
academic conventions
contradistinction, precarious equilibrium, ambivalent correspondence
I should like to carry out my future work in the interplay between Robert Smithson's uncompleted project and Michael Jackson's face -Ashley Bickerton- artist
long tradition of painting
NeueWilde- rebirth of painting
Peter Fischli/David Weiss- Goldsworthy style
Gunther Forg-artist
marginalised social group- unattainable abstracts
Felix Gonzalez-Torres, Michel Majerus, Gehard Merz
Dan Peterman "Sulfer Cycle"
Guy Debord- Situation Theory
Peter Halley
STRUCTURALISM
Lacan
Levi-Strauss
Barthes
Foucault
POST-STRUCTURAL
Baudrillard
Derrida
appropriation- Richard Prince
myth of "artistic"
Cindy Sherman - Feminist? I'm not Feminist
white cube vs. over-the-couch
obsolete activities-
read the paper
record players
The ever-expanding field of available objects led me to investigate what I saw as a crisis of meaning and identity by juxtaposing heterogeneous objects in a poetic, yet non-hierachical way.--Haim Steinbach
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Mark Seliger
Merce Cunningham
Cindy Sherman
Woody Allen
Ralph Lauren
Chris Martin of Coldplay
Sonic Youth
Chuck Close
Phillip Glass
Mikhail Baryshnikov
Salma Hayek
Bill Irwin
Matthew Barney
Jeff Koons
Richard Serra
Keith RichardsCityzen
Sourcing medieval texts to contemporary pop music
not only trying to find the missing link
but translate it into the unspeakable
poetry of symbols. Employing Life's rhythms
dynamics, metre, narrative, music
Notations on a journey
Pilgram/ Fool
knowldege of growth
drab outskirts unfold
evening covers
I thought these things on... (Broadway?)
nudging the horizon
treading Golgothas
Dust and Glory (Death of a Hero)
Forgottten Image 1953
Displaced Love, Dispersed Secret
David and Me
Cross and Crescent
Chansons de Geste (Songs of Deeds)
Finding Forever too soon, In a Moment
not only trying to find the missing link
but translate it into the unspeakable
poetry of symbols. Employing Life's rhythms
dynamics, metre, narrative, music
Notations on a journey
Pilgram/ Fool
knowldege of growth
drab outskirts unfold
evening covers
I thought these things on... (Broadway?)
nudging the horizon
treading Golgothas
Dust and Glory (Death of a Hero)
Forgottten Image 1953
Displaced Love, Dispersed Secret
David and Me
Cross and Crescent
Chansons de Geste (Songs of Deeds)
Finding Forever too soon, In a Moment
Rory Burke
"Imagination (phantasia) made them," Appollonios answered, "a far wiser artist than mimesis, for mimesis will represent only what the eyes can see, but imagination will represent what they cannot... When you entertain the notion of Zeus you must, I suppose, envisage him along with heaven and seasons and stars, as Pheidias tried to do..."
Life of Apollonios of Tyana -Philostratos
Rory Burke's sculptures call attention to the dismembering and assemblage processes of thought and distend logic into a compendium focus. The observational faculties of our nervous constitution are acknowledged as severe in dimensional construction and to this we can understand our phrenological system with regard to its constituents lateral to the whole. The complexity of our mind simply ordered, methodically made manifest to suggest by observation and contemplation we obtain the reconfiguration of intelligence and wisdom. See 'Finite Space' at Thomas Masters Gallery. http://www.roryburke.net/RoryBurke/Press_release.html
Life of Apollonios of Tyana -Philostratos
Rory Burke's sculptures call attention to the dismembering and assemblage processes of thought and distend logic into a compendium focus. The observational faculties of our nervous constitution are acknowledged as severe in dimensional construction and to this we can understand our phrenological system with regard to its constituents lateral to the whole. The complexity of our mind simply ordered, methodically made manifest to suggest by observation and contemplation we obtain the reconfiguration of intelligence and wisdom. See 'Finite Space' at Thomas Masters Gallery. http://www.roryburke.net/RoryBurke/Press_release.htmlMonday, April 25, 2011
The Sandlot
My work is starting to shine a light through the tunnel. I've always believed art to be "for people" and the big question for me has been what do I have to say to them... Through a TON of introspection and analysis of my life and the world around me, paying out my nose with relationships and creature comforts, I've found what I've been looking for... I found the human condition. I've found what it is that levels the playing field. Sketches coming soon!
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Tere Pastoiza at Bell Studio
Tere Pastoiza's delicate pencilwork is a special experience. They are specimans of a woman's world and reach towards intimate revelations of her insecure balance in being of this world. The one-wheeled support, brings to mind the fact that a bicycle can fall only two ways-- right or left; whereas a unicycle can fall in 360 directions. She awakens, she presents herself. They are tender like new skin. A certain nervousness is being concealed, but that's okay. Ms. Pastoiza's figures are set without an environment, so that you are forced to focus completely on the girl. The drawing/object however, is mounted with pins in a shadowbox harkening a butterfly collection, further extending the delicacy of the images. Treat yourself to Tere Pastoiza's pieces at Bell Studio 3428 N. Southport in Chicago.
Thanks to Ashleigh Martinez for the photos.
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