Thursday, February 07, 2008
review of the big Lawrence Wiener retrospective--
"Weiner's conceptualism, if that's the right word for it, turns out to be a strange way of transcending the romance of ruins, his equivalent of his contemporary Robert Smithson's embrace of entropy as a basic principle for his work. But such strategies have a deep background. Artists have always held that something remains of the life they give to a work even after its inevitable physical decrepitude. Alberto Giacometti, in his day, questioned whether Modernist abstract art might not be too vulnerable to the ravages of time; one could understand classical statuary from a broken torso, or medieval painting from an isolated and cut-down panel from an altarpiece--but, he wondered, "How would a Brancusi statue look if it were chipped and broken, or a Mondrian painting if it were torn or dark with age?" For centuries, Greek artists like Apelles and Praxiteles were held up as models of artistic achievement even though their works were entirely lost; they inspired generations through verbal report alone. As Walter Benjamin observed, "The medium through which works of art continue to influence later ages is always different from the one in which they affect their own age." Turning his art into suggestive language no longer vulnerable to ruin, Weiner seems to be trying an end run around history--like the ghost at the funeral, seeing his own work in the form it might have some time in the future when some future civilization has displaced our own and he is at best a figure of legend like the masters of ancient Greek painting and sculpture..."
Leslie Scalapino's introduction to the Philip Whalen collected....
via Bookslut
EPC/Philip Whalen Author Home Page
from "Sourdough Mountain Lookout"--
Ptarmigan hunt for bugs in the snow
Bear peers through the wad at noon
Deer crowd up to see the lamp
A mouse nearly drowns in the honey
I see my bootprints mingle with deer-foot
Bear-paw mule-shoe in the dusty path to the privy
Much later I write down:
"raging, Viking sunrise
The gorgeous death of summer in the east"
(Influence of a Byronic landscape-
Bent pages exhibiting depravity of style.)
Outside the lookout I lay nude on the granite
Mountain hot September sun but inside my head
Calm dark night with all the other stars
HERACLITUS: "The Waking have one common world
But the sleeping turn aside
Each into a world of his own."
I keep telling myself what I really like
Are music, books, certain land and sea-scapes
The way light falls across them, diffusion of
Light through agate, light itself...I suppose
I'm still afraid of the dark...
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
Monday, February 04, 2008
ON THE CORNER
"So what is this most mysterious and outré of albums? The culmination of Davis's two-decade-long quest for the African roots of his music, On the Corner has a huge, extended rhythm section rotating around circular, one-chord bass riffs. But there were a number of other things that set the album apart. First there were the influences of Stockhausen, Paul Buckmaster, and Ornette Coleman's atonal "harmolodics". These were superimposed over grooves and bass riffs that were more tightly circumscribed than ever before. On the opening track, the bass plays the same few notes for 20 minutes. Inundated by an ocean of rhythm instruments, including sitar, tabla and three electric keyboards (played by Chick Corea and Herbie Hancock, among others), and without any harmonic development, the soloists had very little space, and became merely strands in a tangle of grooves and colours..."
The most hated album in jazz...
images from Clare Singleton, a new South Wellingtonian, often seen hereabouts, walking her handsome dogs
Bruno Schulz's Stories - translated by John Curran Davis (I like these much better than the published translations)
"THE YELLOW and thoroughly boring days of winter had come. An outworn and tattered, too-short mantle of snow lay on the russet hued earth. It did not stretch far enough for many of the roofs, which stood black or rust coloured, shingled, thatches and arks concealing the smoke-blackened expanses of the attics inside them—black, charred cathedrals bristling with their ribs of rafters, purlins and joists—the dark lungs of the winter gales. Each dawn uncovered new vent pipes and chimney stacks, sprung up in the night, scoured by the nocturnal gale—black pipes of diabolical organs. Chimney sweeps could never drive away the crows that perched in the evenings like living black leaves on the branches of the trees by the church—they took flight again, flapping, finally to cling each to its own place on its own branch—but at daybreak they would take to the air in great flocks—clouds of soot, flakes of undulating and fantastic lampblack smearing the dull-yellow streaks of the dawn with their twinkling cawing. Like last year’s bread loaves, the days hardened in the cold and the boredom. We cut them with blunt knives, without appetite, in idle sleepiness..."
The Art of Bruno Schulz (a flash site)
from the Giornale Nuovo archive
YouTube - Brothers Quay: Street of Crocodiles part 1.
YouTube - Brothers Quay: Street of Crocodiles part 2
Sunday, February 03, 2008
short, lucid take on William Blake's
London
I wander thro’ each charter’d street,
Near where the charter’d Thames does flow,
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
In every cry of every Man,
In every Infant’s cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forg’d manacles I hear.
How the Chimney-sweeper’s cry
Every black'ning Church appalls;
And the hapless Soldier’s sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls.
But most thro’ midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlot’s curse
Blasts the new-born Infant’s tear
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.
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