All posts in category artist

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thoughts run amuck, but there is not much to cleave from these spaces that have been emptied of all material matter after the man left the trap door open and i fell asunder, it was the pressure of losing his cerebral muse into the waves that she said would pull us under – now we have nothing to lose and there is a pounding in this heart that goes faster faster with expediency that rolls a wave of thunder that brought down the rain tonight keeping us neither wet nor dry – it is the devil, she cries, pounding the ground awake from below and we feel her ache – we scream her scream for why must we swirl into this dream of living when it goes out of control under steam and plows down too many innocent things, innocent dreams that were just beginning to breathe softer under her soft sheen producing golden rubs upon their round chins and pursed lips; we shall never understand this, this life that is full of happiness, yet it pulls some of us under until we become buried within a storm so devastating that we question reality – was it really just a blink – in this bed of stolen slumber we shall finally find what could never been seen ~

(Apologies – it has been forever since there was freedom to just write a bit of stream. I am a bit lost without having a paper to write, a lecture to watch or a chapter to read. This bit of breath (2 courses start soon) has me choking on air.)

“So long as the artist does not belong, in the most concrete sense, to one of the great historical classes of humanity, so long he cannot realize a social expression in all its public fullness. Which is to say, an expression for, and not against. The artist is greatest in affirmation.”

~ Robert Motherwell

It is interesting, searching Motherwell’s book this weekend for personal research, I stumbled upon the above quote. The quote reads as the artist equivalent to Judith Butler on defining gender and sex. It should really come as no surprise for Motherwell was a philosophy student first, artist second. I left notes in the margins pointing out echoes of Marx, Rousseau and Foucault.

“To express the felt nature of reality is the artist’s principal concern.” ~ Robert Motherwell

What is reality…really? Is it the artist’s reality or the reality of society, a certain faction that is addressed within said art? How is it that this goes expressed in art? What is the purpose of art if the artist’s concern is expression of Felt nature – are we involved in this feeling too? If we do not get moved, who failed who?

A thought to leave with you – actually two:

1) I recently watched The Examined Life which is a fascinating documentary featuring several of the philosophers mentioned in recent papers on this blog. žižek’s brief interview took place in a garbage facility. He spoke of consumption, i.e. overconsumption and our throw-a-way society. He felt that society is too quick to forget where all this garbage goes – we just throw and ‘poof’ it is gone from our mind. It had me thinking – it would be wonderful if school age children took a field trip to a local garbage facility to understand where everything is going. In this “wonderful world”, they then would visit an artist’s studio whose work is composed from garbage or found things….

2) Would it be wrong to have a Conceptional Art Museum with nothing in it?

(This blog post has been powered tonight by First Listen @NPR : Laura Marling.)

1 Comment
by angela on 2013/05/21  •  Permalink
Posted in art, artist, stream of thought, writing
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Posted by angela on 2013/05/21

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sub – lime

If you read this blog often enough, you’ll know there is a penchant toward serendipity. (Penchant does not really work, though, if it is really serendipitous…does it?)

Is it serendipity when a person’s name is spoken, or an action is described, only to have it really ‘appear/ happen’ within 24 hours? A cohort calls this power ‘evil’ – I call it unusual. It seems I have an uncanny ability to speak of someone out of the blue and they will (yes, you know it is coming) appear/call/communicate ‘out of the blue’. These can be personal people or library patrons, there seems to not be a line. It happens with ideas of interest, too…let me explain.

Samuel Beckett has become a bit of an obsession after reading “Waiting for Godot” last summer. (Education is in the sciences, not literature, ergo my knowledge is a bit stunted.) Beckett’s approach to the human condition is rather sublime.  ”Waiting” is just one of his many works that addresses the human condition, especially with this idea of happiness; the state of our consciousness in this world.

“Endgame”certainly addresses this conceit – relation to happiness, and/or acceptance of this world we are tethered within. (I cannot get into specifics for the used bookshop sold its copy, so I did a mad dash read at B&N — I’m cheap, I refuse to pay full price) The quick take-away, however, was a sense that Beckett approaches it as a game — this idea of reality and our perception within it. The ending of “Endgames” certainly had me questioning who Really wins – who is checkmate – who is Really in control. The larger question, though, is what is Beckett, the artist, really addressing that he wishes his reader to know about herself.

Reading Beckett’s “Proust” has given a bit of insight. Becket summarizes a main conceit within Proust’s writing :

We are alone. We cannot know and we cannot be known. ‘Man is a creature that cannot come forth from himself, who knows others only in himself, and who, if he asserts the contrary, lies.’

Here, as always, Proust is completely detached from all moral considerations. There is no right and wrong in Proust nor in his world. … Tragedy is not concerned with human justice. … The tragic figure represents the expiation of original sin, of the original and eternal sin of him and all his ‘scoii malorum;, the sin of having ben born. (66-67)

That is one of many revelations into not only the mind of Proust, but the mind of Beckett. One cannot read Beckett’s work and feel that there is a moral certitude at work. We begin to wonder while reading Beckett…

STOP! Back-up. Let us not venture into this and discuss what was serendipitous about all of this before I have lost you forever. (perhaps I already have …) 

All jarring text aside, as I sat down this afternoon to ‘focus’ on reading more of Beckett I became distracted by various things. One was to get my hands dirty ala via art. You see, last night I watched a documentary (highly recommended and linked at the end) on Jean-Michel Basquiat via Hulu. Basquiat has always spoken to my creative soul. I cannot explain it, but his approach is beauty and edge and confusion and angst-filled soliloquy bled onto a canvas in such an energy that it does take my breath away. So, I blew the dust off my art table, unearthed some oil pastels and an old “BOMB” magazine as ‘canvas’. 

Before I cracked open the old plastic lid to see if the oils remained supple, I thought it best to do a bit more reading since I keep amassing books (for example, bought 3 used gems yesterday). My reading blanket was spread out near a table with several stacks of books and for some reason Susan Sontag’s “Against Interpretation and Other Essays” called to me. I’ve not read much of it, but the book opened to a passage I had underlined in pencil….

“The Death of Tragedy” explores Metatheatre by Lionel Abel. It meant nothing to me at the time. In fact, as I re-read the essay, there was a bit of shock at what had been underlined for there is no recall of it at all. The concept of meta only Now has an impact because of the poetry course I took via Coursera. I shall not wax on, but take us to the tidbit of serendipity, part I

The metatheatre of Genet and Beckett reflects the feelings of an era whose greatest artistic pleasure is self-laceration, an era suffocated by the sense of eternal return, an era which experiences innovation as an act of terror. That life is a dream, all the metaplays presuppose. But there are restful dreams, troubled dreams, and nightmares. The modern dream – which the modern metaplays project is a nightmare… (Sontag, 138).

She goes on to discuss the concept of tragedy and how it cannot really apply today; how it really has not appeared even in Shakespeare’s time. She goes on to explain that tragedies have been explained away by Christianity. We place each tragic event in light of another event which explains away the tragedy. “Tragedy says there are disasters which are not fully merited, that there is ultimate injustice in the world”. Right or wrong, her ideas were refreshing and her insight into Beckett’s writing was interesting.

I shall not go on about this either for apologies are in order for this non-linear post that actually could go on in length. Let us quickly look at serendipity, part II…

Below is the mishmash coloring. You shall not be able to see, but the page I ended up opening to in my one and only issue of BOMB magazine, circa September 2009, contains two book reviews – one is on Susan Sontag; two is on Charles Reznikoff. I never read those reviews, I’m certain for I knew not of either’s work until the last two years. Reznikoff is actually another obsession after hearing his work via Jacket 2/PennSound -

serendipitous… indeed ~ 

not Basquiat

6 Comments
by angela on 2013/01/20  •  Permalink
Posted in art, artist, books, writing
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Posted by angela on 2013/01/20

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2013/01/20/sub-lime/

twentysomething ‘girls’: are MC and LD the real new wave?

Gossip is delicious as long as the feast doesn’t include your name. I can attest to the damage that a feeding frenzy can havoc on the unprepared. Despite the passage of time from my own harrowing event, I’m still reluctant to get too caught up in the daily pandering of one’s words against another’s. Rags like People, or Us Weekly, I will glance the glossy cover while walking by in libraryland, but most is beyond me.

Why this sudden topic then, which is so off my norm? Basically to share a two-day research project; and pose a question.

I’m not sure how I first stumbled upon Marie Calloway, but I think it may have been here. After reading it, I followed comment links here and here. A day later, a bit of a mystery solved after reading here.(Seriously, if you are at all intrigued by this back story, go to this last link. It is a well thought out post not only on Calloway, but on feminism and the voice of the female writer.)

My readings regarding Marie Calloway remind me once again how far removed I am from certain literary scenes. It was like the Philly blogger I used to read, who was a PhD candidate in literature. I read his blog until he disbanded. It had been a wonderful passage; an education into the PoMo and Avant poetry scene that I’d perhaps never stumble without living in academia. It lead me to discvoer ‘Quietude’ and Ron Silliman’s blog; UPenn and their wonderful Kelly’s Writer’s House; not to mention several professors whose blogs I added to Google reader.

Blogland is truly a different universe from the one we travel every day. Perhaps that is why hours can pass before realizing the time suck. The voyage is never without discovery.

Feminism, perhaps that is my ‘new’ bent. Last night’s poem certainly veers in that direction. If you’ve read my writings over time, poems and random commentary, the bread crumbs have been left. It’s been a meandering progression. A feminist manifesto, that was my cry in the late 80s; albeit, it left in the 90s. The real world seemed to chip away at my resolve. Perhaps I got tired of brick wall bruising; perhaps I got lazy; or perhaps, I just gave up after being called a cold bitch too many times.

I wish I’d had more resolve, to have been a twentysomething Marie. The verdict remains guarded regarding she being a feminist, but there’s no doubt about her bucking the system. Hell, she has started to invent her own.

At first, she read as a sellout; as another young writer going raw before the crowd to be noticed. Her non-fiction turned fiction piece, Adrien Brody, seemed to bleed sensationalism. The reported picture of her face covered in cum to highlight said story, well, a picture says…. Ergo, the questioned label, feminist…huh?

What is feminism today? Who are these young ones? Are they the Lenas and the Maries of this twentysomething gaggle who are causing male literati tongues to drip while taking cheap shots in opinion blogs and follow-up commentary. Then, there are the hags, perhaps I am one, who go after them for their careless use of metaphor and sexual freedoms without a basis of acknowledgment of what is empowerment. Hellions of yesterday paved the way for today’s wave; was it worth it?

Marie Calloway did make me think I need a better grip regarding place in this world. That damn girl set my hair on fire in anger, and in admittance, that there IS a power in sharing one’s voice.

Was Marie bold to post her story in blogland? Yes. Was it right to make it easy to figure out who the fortysomething man was with whom she pursued like a groupie and then had brief sex, despite knowing he was involved? Uncertain. What are her rights with full disclosure? It’s a ethical/ moral fine line that contextually reminds me of the new JFK Jr exposé.

Where does Marie Calloway’s story end? Hard to say, she’s only 21. She has a lot of living before we’ll know what is really fact verses fiction. I will say this; she’s tangled the web and she isn’t apologizing, to anyone… perhaps a future Hellion after all. ~

Q: do you ever stumble upon a story in blogland that is intriguing, but content unfamiliar? Do you follow it until you get a grasp on the back story?

2 Comments
by angela on 2012/05/03  •  Permalink
Posted in artist, creative non-fiction, culture, writing
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Posted by angela on 2012/05/03

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2012/05/03/twentysomething-girls-are-mc-and-ld-the-real-new-wave/

#488 & #754 – Emily Dickinson, the mystery continues -

Myself was formed—a carpenter—
An unpretending time
My Plane—and I, together wrought
Before a Builder came—

To measure our attainments—
Had we the Art of Boards
Sufficiently developed—He’d hire us
At Halves—

My Tools took Human—Faces—
The Bench, where we had toiled—
Against the Man—persuaded—
We—Temples build—I said—
(#488)

#488 is a poem Emily Dickinson composed right before her most prolific writing period. She had just reached out to Thomas Wentworth Higginson, a writer of politics, a composer of poetry and prose, whom would become her greatest literary confidant. Their exchange of letters would last from 1862 until Dickinson’s death in 1886.

It is through these letters, that we gain a greater understanding of Dickinson’s faith and doubt. Dickinson doesn’t shy away from sharing her disbelief despite the fact that Higginson embraces his own.

The book, White Heat, documents other correspondence as well; there is Sue, her sister-in-law; and a friend, Abiah Root. These help to shed light, that despite Dickinson’s Christian upbringing, she rejected the notion of belief. As reported in “White Heat,” she states to Root: “I was almost persuaded to be a christian…” She goes on to explain that she felt at peace until her mind took over. Dickinson writes to Higginson that she was, “grateful to whatever highest power produced a consciousness capable of doubting it”. (White Heat, p. 50)

Poem #488 is interesting. Here is a very well read, intuitive woman who could compare herself to a sundry of professions, yet she chose the carpenter. Her implications regarding tools to human faces; and the building of temples, seems too akin to Christ to ignore. I continue to question if she felt god-like, or that she was at least of the same plane, in her mind. One could even infer that her strictly alabaster attire she wore later in life, ascribed to this notion of a pureness of that of a deity.

Adrienne Rich posits that poem #488 is more a signifier that Dickinson realizes her skill, her gift, as a poet, and expresses it with confidence. I don’t object to this notion, I just feel that it is another example of Dickinson’s poetry expressing her individuality. Perhaps, one could infer that she felt she was as gifted as any creator.

Does Dickinson’s need to voice her disdain for religion; to declare she may or may not ‘see’ death a sign of anger at God, or at the Westernized structure of religion?

Dickinson’s struggle reminds me of the oft used, “dark night of the soul”. There seems no end to this dark night. The seclusion, albeit one self-imposed; the unbelievable creative spirit that dwelled within her psyche; and her bouts of depression (I’ve not read much regarding this, but there has been inference in many poems). Was Dickinson’s answer was to object to a God she felt powerless against? She was a woman of vast intelligence who understood ‘place’; who felt the injustices of the world; ergo, were her poems to lash out only, or to draw a boundary to make clear that she would not be a part of any doctrine?

Perhaps I am interjecting too much of my own wranglings with faith. I’ve stated before that my study is not of literature or writing. I lacked confidence to pursue my writing, ergo, I followed my second passion, science and research. However, I do understand the human condition; I don’t paint roses where there should be thorns. I am not as wise as Emily Dickinson, but I know what it is to ‘see’ what others miss, to ‘feel’ what others don’t want to recognize. It Can tear at your soul; it can certainly tear at your belief system.

What is one to do when they come up against a brick wall of ‘authority’ that does, or doesn’t, hold the keys to the kingdom whom you may, or may not, believe is a ‘fair’ creator? If you are a writer, you write.

Emily Dickinson wrote of nature, but rarely in a flowery way. Emily Dickinson wrote of darkness, but never in a way that would conjecture a ghost or Grimm fairy tale. She grappled with a depth that most of us shall never understand. I believe that is why she remains, and shall remain, a great mystery to our American canon of the great poets.

I shall leave with another poem that moves me deeply. It is one that Rich also was moved by for years. I’m most grateful that my job of transcription has been eased after I found the full essay of Rich’s “Vesuvius at Home” online via Parnassus. (I’ve not had time to even read this new find, but I’m quite excited to bookmark and pursue later.) If you’d like to read Rich’s full essay, please do!

Rich states that poem #754 is Dickinson acknowledging her daemon. Again, I understand her reasoning, however, when I read it the first time, off in the margin of my copy I wrote without even thinking, “Did Emily fight with God?”

Rich regards #754 as a study of a woman’s power as woman and as artist. I see it more as an examination of Dickinson’s ability to be immortal. Either way, Ms. Dickinson was indeed a Loaded Gun, thank god for that -

My Life had stood—a Loaded Gun—
In Corners—till a Day
The Owner passed—identified—
And carried Me away—

And now We roam in Sovereign Woods—
And now We hunt the Doe—
And every time I speak for Him—
The Mountains straight reply

And do I smile, such cordial light
Upon the Valley glow—
It is as a Vesuvian face
Had let its pleasure through—

And when at Night—Our good Day done—
I guard My Master’s Head—
‘Tis better than the Eider-Duck’s
Deep Pillow—to have shared—

To foe of His—I’m deadly foe—
None stir the second time—
On whom I lay a Yellow Eye—
Or an emphatic Thumb—

Though I than He—may longer live
He longer must—than I—
For I have but the power to kill,
Without—the power to die—
(#754)

P.S. I am most grateful to you all who have taken the time with your thoughtful commentary. I hope to comment on those later tonight. Despite being without work today, I had work to do, so I’m a bit behind in comments and commenting. As you are busy bloggers too, I’m certain you understand, and will hopefully offer me a bit of a grace period. ~ a

6 Comments
by angela on 2012/04/27  •  Permalink
Posted in artist, creative mind, poetry, spirituality, writing
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Posted by angela on 2012/04/27

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2012/04/27/488-754-emily-dickinson-the-mystery-continues/

remembering Rich ~ RIP

Adrienne Rich died yesterday, 28th of March, 2012…

I started reading (re-reading parts) Arts of the Possible, a thought-provoking group of essays by Rich. I had the library purchase it years ago, but didn’t revisit it until last week when it was near another book I was pulling from the stacks.

(I’m late coming into my ‘schooling’ on poets and poetry, so Ms. Rich is a ‘recent’ discovery.)
A few years ago, I was fortunate to listen to a Penn Sound recording of Ms. Rich, that made me delve deeper into the realms of what is possible when one uses poetry as a vehicle for politics and social awareness.

Last week, after reading the essay that explains why Rich declined the NEA’s National award, I remembered why the Penn Sound recording from 2005 rocked my world…here is a woman who stood by her word. Her strength, her conviction, is a voice that many of us desire, but so few are able to sustain without caving to societal norms.

Adrienne Rich’s voice shall be missed. We pray that tomorrow’s young women shall continue to read her works, and remember her words.

A wonderful reminder to all artist (1997 letter to NEA’s head; CC to President Clinton) :

“In the end, I don’t think we can separate art from overall human dignity and hope. My concern for my country is inextricable from my concerns as an artist. “
(less)

3 Comments
by angela on 2012/03/29  •  Permalink
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Posted by angela on 2012/03/29

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2012/03/29/remembering-rich-rip/

when art imitates life – a train whistle blows

Wings swoop above me; a silent mimicry of a stripped down beat flowing through these thin white wires. Feet remain grounded, faltering slightly between melting puddles and snow packed masses; black dog flashing a muzzled smile. We run the birds down; Van singing in my ear about a foghorn, and the mystic.

I sit. The coffee shop has become my Sunday’s best.

Ethiopian Yurgacheffee brims the white ceramic rim; burnt toast and onion laden eggs waft past me. My stool teeters, slightly, as I chair jam to unplugged tunage being piped in.

Memories drift backwards. Grandpa F_, how he’d spin bluegrass from old 33s (or were the big ones 45s); tinny sounds from that beastly box, reverbing off mint julep coloured shag. He’d take his Gibson (or was it a Fender) in hand, rippin’ rifs in time, those steel guts buzzing along fret lines.

A smile, almost drunken, pulls my lips wide. A yoga buzz now mixes with stimulant, hitting the empty gullet hard. Savoring sips of dark brew, I imagine hills where bright heat always warms a naked neck.

Reality rattles me present; someones mobile blares an annoying chime. I remember mine. No repeat yesterday. Compulsively, I check email. Four; so four I read, without looking at sender or statement.

A regret, the first was a reject. A brief “no thank you, your writing is not for us” kind of thing. I know. I know. What did I expect? Nothing really; well, everything truthfully. It was my first submission, ever, in honor of the new year.

The bubble blown, I turn a New Yorker page down to write these words. There seems to be too much blank space. White voids fill my voice with stutter. I imagine yesterday’s low whistle, when a train split the room, forcing my imagination to bloom.

Yesterday, at the DMAC, I visited the artwork of Miguel Angel Rios. This exhibit covers various mediums; paper cut-outs; oils on canvas; collage; and video. He was born in Argentina, but now resides in America and Mexico. His artistic voice addresses the landscape of Mexico and Latin America.

I’d been in the main gallery no more than five minuetes when a sound, a train whistle, stopped me. When I heard it again, I smiled.

The room suddenly was no longer stark or roomy; the open space hugged my body. The sound flashed memories of childhood. The tracks from the bedroom window, rising slightly from the scrub. The spindly treed wasteland, my playground, where I balanced on hot rails; left dead pet fish beneath the rocks. I’d sit for hours, waiting to hear that whistle blow, racing to place penny bets against steel wheels.

The whistle went silent. The white walls became vastly quiet. Rios’s stark work screamed to attention. Whilst testing old Spanish skills, reading his collage, the train split the room, again. This time, however, it seemed to be moving with me. I stopped. I listened. Startled, I felt my carpetbag vibrating to the rhythm.

Synchronicity; it was my phone, which is set to sound a train whistle. Feeling foolish, I questioned whether there was a train in Rios’s work at all. (Indeed, I’d discover there is a whistle in one of his video pieces.)

I write this, shaking my head at the irony. One could believe that Van’s lyrics got it right. No matter train or foghorn, when that whistle blows, it shall carry us back home. ~

9 Comments
by angela on 2012/02/27  •  Permalink
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Posted by angela on 2012/02/27

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2012/02/27/when-art-imitates-life-a-train-whistle-blows/

exhale ~

“I’m Every Woman …” Whitney Houston,
August 9, 1963 – February 11, 2012.

(I write this not knowing the details of Ms. Houston’s death.)

Whitney Houston defined the Pop Movement in the late 80s through the 90s for my generation. My genre of choice was more grunge and metal, than pop; yet, I remember going to see The Bodyguard, thinking Houston was the epitome of sassy, beautiful talent. Houston’s voice was a thing of wonder.

This post was not planned (obviously). In fact, I only logged on for a moment to check a social media account I manage, when I saw the first unconfirmed Houston tweet. Once it was confirmed, Houston’s death went viral. The accolades were amazing; I only recall harsh criticism of Houston in the last few years. Artists, especially those whose career and personal life have imploded publicly, seem fair game for tough words.

Whitney was every woman. Her story is any female’s story to some extent. She was vulnerable. She was desirable. She was successful. She was blessed. Her videos were empowering to those of us who have experienced the hurt; the anger; and the need to right the wrong after being deceived.

One thing that I thought whilst reading so many positive FB & Twitter updates was that Houston shall not experience this outpouring. I shall not get metaphysical, or mystical, posit that she does know; does see these words … one can hope.

No matter where Ms. Houston roams this eve, I’d like to think she is finally able to soar; to sing eternal; her flame burning brightly in a better world, where she can finally be at peace, finally able, to exhale.~

3 Comments
by angela on 2012/02/11  •  Permalink
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Posted by angela on 2012/02/11

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2012/02/11/exhale/

those notes appear blue ~

“What I am is what I am is what you are or…what…. (guitar solo)…”

Listening to that guitar solo makes me envision pink bubble gum bubbles wafting off the note until popping mid-air. A different guitar solo, closely recorded, conjured the smell of burnt skin; finger pads overheated from running back and forth across the frets and thick steel wire.

The point isn’t guitar solos, but synesthesia. Synesthesia was highlighted in The Big Think, noting it as: “synesthesia: a neurological condition in which two or more bodily senses are merged”.

The article introduced the concept with a quote from Picasso. How he desired to learn to paint like a child. Picasso stated it would take him a lifetime to learn to paint childlike. Why? A child paints with synesthesia, ergo they do not reject the muddled connections.

Salavador Dali certainly did’t paint like a child; but his visual perceptions seem to illustrate a merging of senses. Melting landscapes of impossibly vivid blue sky and yellow desert sands radiate enough heat that I wondered if Dali was dripping sweat as paint dripped from his brush.

Dali, however, didn’t do drugs to gain these surreal scenes. When questioned, he responded: “I don’t do drugs, I am drugs”. Very interesting. Does that mean that Dali would rank as a synesthete?

Dali was not mentioned in this fascinating list, but I do believe he qualifies as a synesthete. Those that do not come by synesthesia naturally are oft users of hallucinogenic substances, such as LSD. As stated above, Dali wasn’t a drug abuser, but his surreal pieces beg to be absorbed by multiple senses: the colour dance; some scenes taste of bitters while others sugar the tongue.

I like to think that I allow senses to converge within my own ‘art’. I don’t readily free associate colour to verbs, or words, as Arthur Rimbaud. However, there is an inclination to attach certain colours to music. A blue note is not just a jazz label, but a certain perception of how a tonal quality orchestrates a mood of a certain colour.

This thought was started around midnight, but I succumbed to sleep before finishing. Despite copious amounts of late night coffee and dark chocolate, I spun out from birthday festivities; the muse crashing under the weight of sugar and good tidings. Blue notes (typical) didn’t wash over me. No, these were more rose; pinkish coloured waves channeling an inner warmth.

My birthday gift to you was to be a poem, but it never surfaced. Partly, I couldn’t figure words from a mood that was coloured cozy, not flaming or gritty. I don’t write pastel (cozy) well. A cloud of pearl painted surreal comfort swirled around me.

I left the blinking cursor last night, only to return today with no clearer voice. I shall let the voice of another help to sing this thought home; her words, to me, paint so many colours when the eyes close and ears open…

6 Comments
by angela on 2012/01/31  •  Permalink
Posted in artist, creative mind, writing
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Posted by angela on 2012/01/31

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2012/01/31/those-notes-appear-blue/

Guillaume ~


An artist for artist,
Surreal, he penned,
his new ism for the time;
Paris would be painted
differently, if he hadn’t spoke
of avant, splashing new art
across the guarded land.

A poet, a man, but a thief?
Six days accused by hate
but he, did not take her smile,
a coded mystery, da Vinci’s muse.

Guillaume Apollinaire,
not even in name, ordinary;
disguised to no one,
a lover of every one, if he
be an artist on the make.

Life’s wicked game,
belle epoque; gilded fame,
yet his golden breath
sucked away by plague,
a creative champion’s
lust for life, gone,
at age, thirty-eight.

**********************
This prompt was inspired by a wonderful feature hosted by Mark Kerstetter over at dVerse Poets. Mark highlights the art of G. de Chirico, who was quite influential as a Surreal artist on the Paris scene. In part, he got his fame from the poet, art critique, Guillaume Apollinaire. The above picture is a tribute to Apollinaire…in turn, as is my brief poem, which is a brief snippet into who Apollinaire was based on a book I own called, Apollinaire on Art.

6 Comments
by angela on 2011/08/07  •  Permalink
Posted in artist, poetry
Tagged , , ,

Posted by angela on 2011/08/07

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2011/08/07/guillaume/

Ram’s Head

Georgia O'Keeffe Ram's Head, 1935 wikimedia

Violet death,
O’Keeffe deflowered
the landscape -
her paints wept
sun-scorched skulls in Stieglitz wake -
The Ghost gave her wings.

I’m a huge fan of Georgia O’Keeffe, though, I tend to be drawn to her art deco, cityscape work. Last night, I stumbled upon something (I now don’t recall) that triggered this Shadorma based on her New Mexico landscapes.

The Ram’s Head was painted in 1935, after O’Keeffe’s returned to the Southwest. O’Keeffe suffered a nervous breakdown while working on a purple hued, floral mural for Radio City in 1932. She stopped painting until she took up refuge at the Ghost Ranch in New Mexico in 1934. O’Keeffe became inspired by the sun bleached skulls, the colours of the cliffs and the shape of New Mexico’s landscape. The paintings produced during O’Keeffe’s time at the Ghost Ranch were considered her most accomplished landscapes.

2 Comments
by angela on 2011/04/25  •  Permalink
Posted in artist, musing, poetry
Tagged , , , , , ,

Posted by angela on 2011/04/25

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2011/04/25/rams-head/

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