Art + Word

Poem Therapy: May 24, 2011 at 3:41 P.M.

My Mother Was No White Dove
Reginald Shepherd

no dove at all, coo-rooing through the dusk
and foraging for small seeds
My mother was the clouded-over night
a moon swims through, the dark against which stars
switch themselves on, so many already dead
by now (stars switch themselves off
and are my mother, she was never
so celestial, so clearly seen)

My mother was the murderous flight of crows
stilled, black plumage gleaming
among black branches, taken
for nocturnal leaves, the difference
between two darks:

a cacophony of needs
in the bare tree silhouette,
a flight of feathers, scattering
black. She was the night
streetlights oppose (perch
for the crows, their purchase on sight),
obscure bruise across the sky
making up names for rain

My mother always falling
was never snow, no kind
of bird, pigeon or crow

I found this poem on an excursion through poems whose first line begins with the letter "N" on poets.org. I am a collector of poems that go against the grain. This poem neither lauds nor damns, it shows an image of mother slant, she is an "obscure bruise", is "always falling", "not so celestial" and a "murderous flight of crows". Lord knows I've tried my best as a mother, but I too am not of the celestial ilk. I'd like to think the color of my night sky gleams not too darkly.

Artist of the Day: Useless, Useless - Robert Fontenot

Robert Fontenot: The Place This Is

Robert Fontenot recreated John Wilkes Booth's last words in millenary flowers.

I found myself laughing out loud walking around the Salt Lake Art Center gallery, not at the art, but with it.

Robert Fontenot’s exhibition, The Place This Is, addresses notions of place, history and perception in this mixed media exhibition that includes bread dough renderings of over 100 iconic Utah landmarks and icons; watercolor portraits of Utah politicians and culturati; and text pieces from voices in American history. Fontenot’s beautifully crafted artworks fuse beauty and cynicism to question how and what becomes memorialized to hold a place culture and history.

Poem Therapy May 23, 2011 at 2;49 P.M.: Leviathan - George Oppen

Robert Fontenot

Leviathan
George Oppen

Truth also is the pursuit of it:
Like happiness, and it will not stand.

Even the verse begins to eat away
In the acid. Pursuit, pursuit;

A wind moves a little,
Moving in a circle, very cold.

How shall we say?
In ordinary discourse—

We must talk now. I am no longer sure of the words,
The clockwork of the world. What is inexplicable

Is the 'preponderance of objects,' The sky lights
Daily with that predominance

And we have become the present.

We must talk now. Fear
Is fear. But we abandon one another.

Perfidy
–noun, plural -dies.
1. deliberate breach of faith or trust; faithlessness; treachery: perfidy that goes unpunished.
2. an act or instance of faithlessness or treachery.

This word has been at the forefront of my consciousness since last Wednesday when I stood viewing a wall of embroidered words, part of the artist Robert Fontenot: The Place This Is exhibition at the Salt Lake Art Center. Fontenot's piece is so exquisite that it elevates the word out of its base meaning.

But, back to the word and it's connection to the poem. Sometimes a lie or a behavior is as huge as a whale. Sometimes it is time to talk. Sometimes it is time to just cut and run, the word abandon rippling in your wake, streaming like ribbons in the wind.

Artist of the Day: Daffodil - Sabina R.

Daffodil Sabina R. sabinar.etsy.com

On a break and found this beautiful photograph by self-taught photographer Sabina R.

I like to think all artists (and writers) are self-taught, regardless of their formal education. All artists see the world slant, see the world through their own particular filter. Artists make their vision reality in a multitude of media, because they have to, there is no other choice than to create. it doesn't matter where they've studied. If they have something that must be said, artists will say it. Think about all the artists that created a new vision: who trained Picasso in Cubism? Van Gogh to paint as he did? And back before women or persons of color were allowed access to academy training or any access to free expression, how do explain their brilliant work? Today, it really isn't possible to explain or dismiss them as outsider or naive or folk artists. They are artists. Period.

If you're interested in a self taught artist whose work rivals any artist , living or creating in the afterlife, check out Thornton Dial, here and here. And the book, Thornton Dial in the 21st Century.

This photograph lightened my mood, and I hope it does the same for you.

Sabina's etsy bio:
My name is Sabina. I am Bulgarian that currently lives in Germany.

In photography, I am a self-taught enthusiast and I work with what I have - mostly myself as a subject and my ideas. I am inspired by fine art, beautiful colors, imaginary worlds :)

Whether my imagery can be labeled as fine art is up to the viewer. For me art is something that moves me to feel and have an emotion. If any of my images can give you such a sensation I will be delighted.

Artist of the Day: Black Crow Girl- Miz Katie

Black crow bird girl: Plain Jane Original Illustration No. 88 Miz Katie mizkatie.etsy.com

This image makes me think of what I'd like to be after this life is over. The song is one of my favorites and very fitting for the news of the day.

I'll Fly Away
Albert E. Brumley

1.
Some glad morning when this life is o'er,
I'll fly away;
To a home on God's celestial shore,
I'll fly away (I'll fly away).

Chorus
I'll fly away, Oh Glory
I'll fly away; (in the morning)
When I die, Hallelujah, by and by,
I'll fly away (I'll fly away).

2.
When the shadows of this life have gone,
I'll fly away;
Like a bird from prison bars has flown,
I'll fly away (I'll fly away)

Chorus
I'll fly away, Oh Glory
I'll fly away; (in the morning)
When I die, Hallelujah, by and by,
I'll fly away (I'll fly away).

3.
Just a few more weary days and then,
I'll fly away;
To a land where joy shall never end,
I'll fly away (I'll fly away)

Chorus
I'll fly away, Oh Glory
I'll fly away; (in the morning)
When I die, Hallelujah, by and by,
I'll fly away (I'll fly away).

Miz Katie's images are engaging. Some might call them primitive or outsider art. My question is: Outside of what?

A little about Miz Katie: from her etsy bio:
I'm blind in my left eye, and I have no depth perception, but that doesn't stop me from doing what I love. I love to paint portraits.

I have a passion for painting facial expressions, people wearing glasses, masquerade masks, hats, and sunglasses. I go for the slightly unusual look. I like to paint people or characters that you might like to pull up a chair beside, and listen to their story on a rainy afternoon.

Poem Therapy May 3, 2011 at 2:39 P.M.: The Libraries Didn't Burn - Elaine Equi

The Libraries Didn't Burn
Elaine Equi

despite books kindled in electronic flames.

The locket of bookish love
still opens and shuts.

But its words have migrated
to a luminous elsewhere.

Neither completely oral nor written —
a somewhere in between.

Then will oak, willow,
birch, and olive poets return
to their digital tribes —

trees wander back to the forest?

I will admit that I am ambivalent about the "luminous elsewhere". I love that there is so much content available via the Internet, that it's possible to read an e-book via kindle, nook, etc., but I love, no, I am obsessed with old fashioned paper bound books. My ADD kicks in something fierce when I read anything online. I skip and scan, click on pics in the margin, scroll all over the place, and just plain worry about what I'm missing out on the periphery or in the margins.

If I want to get every single word, really take the story in, I have to print it out, hold it in my hands, focus on the words unfolding line by line. I know there are others like me out there, those that truly like and embrace the ever increasing gaggle of new gadgets, but that love the old school experience of holding a book in hand and dropping out of the real time world to immerse oneself into another equally real world.

This obsessive love of books has brought me unlikely friends as well. One such friend, a former boss, died early this morning. He went in for 'routine' surgery eight days ago, it went badly, and today he's gone. Just like that.

I didn't like him one bit when I first met him. And I decided I wasn't ever going to like him, even if he was going to be my new boss. Why? Nothing other than he just rubbed me the wrong way. He tried cracking jokes. I remained stone-faced. Tried praise. I wasn't about to fall for that. I was the nut that would not be cracked, the castle that would not be conquered,(add your own metaphor and stir until well mixed - you get the idea). I held to my conviction to dislike him all my days, until he started to talk about books. Not just any books, but historical books and all the wild, meandering excursions of related stories, which lead to yet more books and wild, meandering excursions. And he was funny, irreverently funny.

Just goes to show that I can't hold the castle when faced with a smart man armed with a wicked sense of humor.

He was my boss for close to three years and I was sad to see him leave for greener pastures. For the past few years, we'd invariably run in to each other at some work-related function, and I could count on him updating me on his latest read.

I saw him a few weeks ago. I'm glad I hugged him.