Archive for May, 2016

BOMB Magazine — Carlos Motta by Cat Tyc

Still from Deseos / رغبات, video, 2015. Courtesy of Mor Charpentier Gallerie, Paris and Galeria Filomena Soares, Lisbon.

Source: BOMB Magazine — Carlos Motta by Cat Tyc


cyanotype of .03 inch thick line, the average amount that waters of Captiva Island, FL are rising every ten days, from Conveyance, smudge studio 2016 . . . 

Reflections of structures came into view, incomplete images signaling from within a groundless sea of blue. The stuff that makes them and the sites that hold them will go on transforming into very deep futures.  The subtle creative spirits and histories that dwell within these buildings also are embarking on a great migration, propelled by planetary phase shifts.”

Source: Conveyance

Bring female artists out of storage | Art and design | The Guardian

Detail from Artemisia Gentileschi’s Susanna and the Elders (1610). Click for full image

Why are there so few paintings by women in public galleries? Amanda Vickery goes on a shocking hunt to unearth more masterpieces

Source: Bring female artists out of storage | Art and design | The Guardian

Zeitgeist Spam: Fukushima clean-up chief still hunting for 600 tonnes of melted radioactive fuel

PHOTO: Japan’s Fukushima Daiichi nuclear reactor five years after the 2011 meltdown. (ABC: Yumi Asada)

Source: Zeitgeist Spam: Fukushima clean-up chief still hunting for 600 tonnes of melted radioactive fuel

Serious film buffs should flock to the Fandor movie-streaming service

Gerard Depardieu

This movie-streaming service keeps the art of indie film alive.

Source: Serious film buffs should flock to the Fandor movie-streaming service

This movie-streaming service keeps the art of indie film alive.

Source: Serious film buffs should flock to the Fandor movie-streaming service

5 Poems by Theodore Roethke – YouTube

Selected Poems of T. Roethke | The Far Field

I dream of journeys repeatedly:
Of flying like a bat deep into a narrowing tunnel
Of driving alone, without luggage, out a long peninsula,
The road lined with snow-laden second growth,
A fine dry snow ticking the windshield,
Alternate snow and sleet, no on-coming traffic,
And no lights behind, in the blurred side-mirror,
The road changing from glazed tarface to a rubble of stone,
Ending at last in a hopeless sand-rut,
Where the car stalls,
Churning in a snowdrift
Until the headlights darken.

At the field’s end, in the corner missed by the mower,
Where the turf drops off into a grass-hidden culvert,
Haunt of the cat-bird, nesting-place of the field-mouse,
Not too far away from the ever-changing flower-dump,
Among the tin cans, tires, rusted pipes, broken machinery, —
One learned of the eternal;
And in the shrunken face of a dead rat, eaten by rain and ground-beetles
(I found in lying among the rubble of an old coal bin)
And the tom-cat, caught near the pheasant-run,
Its entrails strewn over the half-grown flowers,
Blasted to death by the night watchman.

I suffered for young birds, for young rabbits caught in the mower,
My grief was not excessive.
For to come upon warblers in early May
Was to forget time and death:
How they filled the oriole’s elm, a twittering restless cloud, all one morning,
And I watched and watched till my eyes blurred from the bird shapes, —
Cape May, Blackburnian, Cerulean, —
Moving, elusive as fish, fearless,
Hanging, bunched like young fruit, bending the end branches,
Still for a moment,
Then pitching away in half-flight,
Lighter than finches,
While the wrens bickered and sang in the half-green hedgerows,
And the flicker drummed from his dead tree in the chicken-yard.

— Or to lie naked in sand,
In the silted shallows of a slow river,
Fingering a shell,
Once I was something like this, mindless,
Or perhaps with another mind, less peculiar;
Or to sink down to the hips in a mossy quagmire;
Or, with skinny knees, to sit astride a wet log,
I’ll return again,
As a snake or a raucous bird,
Or, with luck, as a lion.

I learned not to fear infinity,
The far field, the windy cliffs of forever,
The dying of time in the white light of tomorrow,
The wheel turning away from itself,
The sprawl of the wave,
The on-coming water.

The river turns on itself,
The tree retreats into its own shadow.
I feel a weightless change, a moving forward
As of water quickening before a narrowing channel
When banks converge, and the wide river whitens;
Or when two rivers combine, the blue glacial torrent
And the yellowish-green from the mountainy upland, —
At first a swift rippling between rocks,
Then a long running over flat stones
Before descending to the alluvial plane,
To the clay banks, and the wild grapes hanging from the elmtrees.
The slightly trembling water
Dropping a fine yellow silt where the sun stays;
And the crabs bask near the edge,
The weedy edge, alive with small snakes and bloodsuckers, —
I have come to a still, but not a deep center,
A point outside the glittering current;
My eyes stare at the bottom of a river,
At the irregular stones, iridescent sandgrains,
My mind moves in more than one place,
In a country half-land, half-water.

I am renewed by death, thought of my death,
The dry scent of a dying garden in September,
The wind fanning the ash of a low fire.
What I love is near at hand,
Always, in earth and air.

The lost self changes,
Turning toward the sea,
A sea-shape turning around, —
An old man with his feet before the fire,
In robes of green, in garments of adieu.
A man faced with his own immensity
Wakes all the waves, all their loose wandering fire.
The murmur of the absolute, the why
Of being born falls on his naked ears.
His spirit moves like monumental wind
That gentles on a sunny blue plateau.
He is the end of things, the final man.

All finite things reveal infinitude:
The mountain with its singular bright shade
Like the blue shine on freshly frozen snow,
The after-light upon ice-burdened pines;
Odor of basswood on a mountain-slope,
A scent beloved of bees;
Silence of water above a sunken tree :
The pure serene of memory in one man, —
A ripple widening from a single stone
Winding around the waters of the world.

– Theodore Roethke

Source: Selected Poems of T. Roethke | The Far Field

TOM CLARK: Some May Escape By Night: Stevie Smith: To Carry the Child / Wallace Stevens: The Poem that Took the Place of a Mountain


People walk past a mural on a restaurant wall depicting U.S. presidential hopeful Donald Trump and Russian President Vladimir Putin greeting each other with a kiss in the Lithuanian capital, Vilnius. Kestutis Girnius, associate professor of the Institute of International Relations and Political Science in Vilnius university, told AFP “This graffiti expresses the fear of some Lithuanians that Donald Trump is likely to kowtow to Vladimir Putin and be indifferent to Lithuania’s security concerns. Trump has notoriously stated that Putin is a strong leader, and that NATO is obsolete and expensive.”: photo by Petras Malukas / AFP, 13 May 2016  

Source: TOM CLARK: Some May Escape By Night: Stevie Smith: To Carry the Child / Wallace Stevens: The Poem that Took the Place of a Mountain

“Frog and Toad and the Self”

“Bert Clere wrote a nice appreciation for the children’s books of Arnold Lobel, among them the Frog and Toad series and Owl at Home. Clere says Lobel’s stories offered insights for children about, yes, friendship but also about the importance of individuality.”

How joyous it was, when up on my toes, I practically straddled the massive drafting light table with my entire frame, as I drew with a Koh-I-Noor and India Ink, a precise template according to the sheetfed press layout, of trim sizes with bleeds all around, and internal margins. Next, I stripped the four-color positives of each page of “Frog and Toad Together” and other titles, composed of scanned artworks and Mergenthaler typeset text, in exact positions and four-color process registration. Next came production “blues” I would make in a dylux frame, with a UV light source, from photographic sensitive paper, to be cut down to trim size and sent out to the publisher for Authors’ Alterations. if I did a  great job, when the blues were returned to my department, they were not marked up with Printers’ Errors. Corrections were made and a second or third set of blues produced and returned to the publisher, until finally all was just right to run on press. The foreman dropped a copy on my stripping table with an exuberant “good job,” this making of a book.  – Donna Fleischer

Source: “Frog and Toad and the Self”


minding the cracks w/ anne carson | synthetic zero

Source: minding the cracks w/ anne carson | synthetic zero