chopin, prelude 17

other favorite.
interesting angle.
i want a smoke...

prelude 22 g minor

over and over.

cello...

red line, h. sq,
christmas eve eve,
morning cello...
commuters click: pause, stop, hold.
grim gray electronic fuzz
stolen by melancholy notes.

"he's just a poor boy...

... can he make a pancake?" (or perhaps a crepe)
-drunken irish brilliance

ready for my solo...

or not.

the grid=cheating?

 

next stop: new adventures in oil paint...

next?

no, i'm not knocked up. just considering where i might want to take this image. 

lately...

she don't sleep to dream

working hard...

or hardly working?

on my mind: the persistence of memory.

i walk home through this thick sticky wind. it is warm and breezy enough to remind my nose, my skin, and my hair of something... is it the beach? with a deep inhale, i can feel the time that i traveled to san francisco in late april in the air of my breath, it is so close. it is sitting just behind the membranes of my eyes, it is nearly touching today.

the clouds have been gathering with wispy moisture all day long, same as the little beads of sweat along my hairline. the hills i trudge are slight, but i am aggravated by them. there is strain in my thighs, and i'm wearing one too many layers.

a song that i love pours into my ears and it fills my chest so fast. suddenly incensed, my legs pump faster with this familiar brand of defiance. my eyes are flashing, and my teeth are grinding. parts of me have been taken to the first time i heard this song, when i found the truth in its wretched beauty.

on my mind: storytelling

(kweli/hi-tek "expansion outro" inspired by nina simone's "four women")

we drove in patterns through the city lights. i held the wheel, because of your strong hands and your silly sparkling eyes. the laughter we hid beneath would take pause. i bit my tongue. you clenched your hands. and still we pressed repeat.

too much candy...

a valuable lesson

Waldo Jeffers had reached his limit. It was now Mid-August which meant he had
been separated from Marsha for more than two months. Two months, and all he had
to show was three dog-eared letters and two very expensive long-distance phone
calls. True, when school had ended and she'd returned to Wisconsin, and he to
Locust, Pennsylvania, she had sworn to maintain a certain fidelity. She would
date occasionally, but merely as amusement. She would remain faithful.

But lately Waldo had begun to worry. He had trouble sleeping at night and when
he did, he had horrible dreams. He lay awake at night, tossing and turning
underneath his pleated quilt protector, tears welling in his eyes as he
pictured Marsha, her sworn vows overcome by liquor and the smooth soothing of
some neanderthal, finally submitting to the final caresses of sexual oblivion.
It was more than the human mind could bear.

Visions of Marsha's faithlessness haunted him. Daytime fantasies of sexual
abandon permeated his thoughts. And the thing was, they wouldn't understand how
she really was. He, Waldo, alone understood this. He had intuitively grasped
every nook and cranny of her psyche. He had made her smile. She needed him, and
he wasn't there (Awww...).

The idea came to him on the Thursday before the Mummers' Parade was scheduled
to appear. He'd just finished mowing and edging the Edelsons lawn for a dollar
fifty and had checked the mailbox to see if there was at least a word from
Marsha. There was nothing but a circular from the Amalgamated Aluminum Company
of America inquiring into his awing needs. At least they cared enough to write.

It was a New York company. You could go anywhere in the mails. Then it struck
him. He didn't have enough money to go to Wisconsin in the accepted fashion,
true, but why not mail himself? It was absurdly simple. He would ship himself
parcel post, special delivery. The next day Waldo went to the supermarket to
purchase the necessary equipment. He bought masking tape, a staple gun and a
medium sized cardboard box just right for a person of his build. He judged that
with a minimum of jostling he could ride quite comfortably. A few airholes,
some water, perhaps some midnight snacks, and it would probably be as good as
going tourist.

By Friday afternoon, Waldo was set. He was thoroughly packed and the post
office had agreed to pick him up at three o'clock. He'd marked the package
"Fragile", and as he sat curled up inside, resting on the foam rubber
cushioning he'd thoughtfully included, he tried to picture the look of awe and
happiness on Marshas face as she opened her door, saw the package, tipped the
deliverer, and then opened it to see her Waldo finally there in person. She
would kiss him, and then maybe they could see a movie. If he'd only thought of
this before. Suddenly rough hands gripped his package and he felt himself borne
up. He landed with a thud in a truck and was off.

Marsha Bronson had just finished setting her hair. It had been a very rough
weekend. She had to remember not to drink like that. Bill had been nice about
it though. After it was over he'd said he still respected her and, after all,
it was certainly the way of nature, and even though, no he didn't love her, he
did feel an affection for her. And after all, they were grown adults. Oh, what
Bill could teach Waldo - but that seemed many years ago.

Sheila Klein, her very, very best friend, walked in through the porch screen
door and into the kitchen. "Oh gawd, it's absolutely maudlin outside." "Ach, I
know what you mean, I feel all icky!" Marsha tightened the belt on her cotton
robe with the silk outer edge. Sheila ran her finger over some salt grains on
the kitchen table, licked her finger and made a face. "I'm supposed to be
taking these salt pills, but," she wrinkled her nose, "they make me feel like
throwing up." Marsha started to pat herself under the chin, an exercise she'd
seen on television. "God, don't even talk about that." She got up from the
table and went to the sink where she picked up a bottle of pink and blue
vitamins. "Want one? Supposed to be better than steak," and then attempted to
touch her knees. "I don't think I'll ever touch a daiquiri again."

She gave up and sat down, this time nearer the small table that supported the
telephone. "Maybe Bill'll call," she said to Sheila's glance. Sheila nibbled on
a cuticle. "After last night, I thought maybe you'd be through with him." "I
know what you mean. My God, he was like an octopus. Hands all over the place."
She gestured, raising her arms upwards in defense. "The thing is, after a
while, you get tired of fighting with him, you know, and after all I didn't
really do anything Friday and Saturday so I kind of owed it to him. You know
what I mean." She started to scratch. Sheila was giggling with her hand over
her mouth. "I'll tell you, I felt the same way, and even after a while," here
she bent forward in a whisper, "I wanted to!" Now she was laughing very loudly.

It was at this point that Mr. Jameson of the Clarence Darrow Post Office rang
the doorbell of the large stucco colored frame house. When Marsha Bronson
opened the door, he helped her carry the package in. He had his yellow and his
green slips of paper signed and left with a fifteen cent tip that Marsha had
gotten out of her mother's small beige pocketbook in the den. "What do you
think it is?" Sheila asked. Marsha stood with her arms folded behind her back.
She stared at the brown cardboard carton that sat in the middle of the living
room. "I dunno."

Inside the package, Waldo quivered with excitement as he listened to the
muffled voices. Sheila ran her fingernail over the masking tape that ran down
the center of the carton. "Why don't you look at the return address and see who
it's from?" Waldo felt his heart beating. He could feel the
vibrating footsteps. It would be soon.

Marsha walked around the carton and read the ink-scratched label. "Ah, god,
it's from Waldo!" "That schmuck!" said Sheila. Waldo trembled with expectation.
"Well, you might as well open it," said Sheila. Both of them tried to lift the
staple flap. "Ah sst," said Marsha, groaning, "he must have nailed it shut."
They tugged on the flap again. "My God, you need a power drill to get this
thing open!" They pulled again. "You can't get a grip." They both stood still,
breathing heavily.

"Why don't you get a scissor," said Sheila. Marsha ran into the kitchen, but
all she could find was a little sewing scissor. Then she remembered that her
father kept a collection of tools in the basement. She ran downstairs, and when
she came back up, she had a large sheet metal cutter
in her hand. "This is the best I could find." She was very out of breath.
"Here, you do it. I-I'm gonna die." She sank into a large fluffy couch and
exhaled noisily. Sheila tried to make a slit between the masking tape and the
end of the cardboard flap, but the blade was too big and there wasn't enough
room. "God damn this thing!" she said feeling very exasperated. Then smiling,
"I got an idea." "What?" said Marsha. "Just watch," said Sheila, touching her
finger to her head.

Inside the package, Waldo was so transfixed with excitement that he could
barely breathe. His skin felt prickly from the heat, and he could feel his
heart beating in his throat. It would be soon. Sheila stood quite upright and
walked around to the other side of the package. Then she sank down to her
knees, grasped the cutter by both handles, took a deep breath, and plunged the
long blade through the middle of the package, through the masking tape, through
the cardboard, through the cushioning and (thud) right through the center of
Waldo Jeffers head, which split slightly and caused little rhythmic arcs of red
to pulsate gently in the morning sun.

source

watch out, now.

late summer perfection

 

 

boston saturday 8.28.10

honey, what's the harm?

rewarded

somehow made it through brief interviews with hideous men. this song played as long-awaited credits rolled.

mama

so cute (and seemingly the early version of blog header shot)
p.s. it was pointed out to me that i still own the little dresser in the background. ain't no janky ikea b.s. 

maybe sleep now?

how to look so good

true that

" Sometimes not getting what you want is an amazing stroke of luck. "

Dalai Lama

delighted

Vezi mai multe video Haioase

if it doesn't play, go to the site.

(no more paper writing for at least a month. fuck yea!)

fred flintstone and barney rubble

"I send this record to the well respected
Friends that I've collected, I hope I am what you expected"
yep, i really do.

good things: books of hope

please check out this site: books of hope



here is one of this fantastic youth organization's participants reading some of her work:

green.

it would be nice to see her perform.
a twirly twirly skirt would be nice too.

on my mind...

karma.

individuality
over individualism.

bravery.

flux.

bias.

mercy.

concord.

-1, +2.

g'nite.

http://www.guba.com/watch/3000122795/Norah-Jones-Thinking-About-You

will there?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1tndP407luk&feature=related

walkin'...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HwOWX6b8HHw

quiet

gertrude kasebier

braddock, pa: transformazium

Transformazium Music Video from Joshua Tonies on Vimeo.

this video is about the community development work of a group of artists in braddock, pa.

transformazium's website has made me curious about the successes and challenges these artists have faced in their efforts to revamp and revitalize this decayed industrial town (which experienced a population decline of 20,000 to 2,000 in the 70's when the steel industry fell. scary). i wonder how the artists and their ideas have been received in braddock and what sort of social, cultural and economic impact they have made.


on braddock:
"Over the last few years, the town of Braddock has begun to attract artists, artisans, and others looking for a place to live and work creatively. As a part of Braddock’s renewal program, the Mayor of Braddock, John Fetterman, has invited the "urban pioneer, artist, or misfit to be a part of a new experimental effort." Artists are a group of people who create value and their economic impact on neighborhoods has been well documented." Gold in Braddock 

"Braddock Pa has no hospital, grocery store, ATM, prepared foods, coffee shops or the like but it does have an ever growing arts movement." the pittsburgh art blog



on tranformazium:
"Deconstruction is the selective dismantling of a building for the purpose of reusing the materials to build new structures, and it is this process which Ruthie, along with formerly Brooklyn based artists Leslie Stern, Dana Bishop-Root, and Caledonia Curry (better known as Swoon), are using to turn their building into a community arts center called the Transformazium"  pop city

"They (the artists of Transformazium) also work with the youth of Braddock, creating site specific out-stallations, breathing life into former ruins. Artworks now cover buildings, bridges, and underpasses, turning Braddock’s abandoned exteriors into an outdoor museum." pop tech: blog

mini-reclamations

thomas doyle

little optimum

in theaters now...

tonight i went to see 'exit through the gift shop', the so-called banksy movie. i will not give too much away, because i feel that the element of surprise is important to this film. 

but i will say that, to me, thierry guetta a.k.a. "mr. brainwash" is pretty much the homer simpson of the street art movement.

the unexpected beauty of rust and flaking paint

i don't know who this artist is. her photo blog (departure & arrival: stories of life and decay) does not reveal her name, only her locale. but the work on her site is beautiful- in some cases, i would even say breathtaking. 

i appreciate her use of subject matter that would normally be considered unremarkable. her compositional choices highlight (and sometimes create) extraordinary beauty in everyday decrepitude.

giggling like a wee schoolgirl

uncontrollable rounds of teehees in class tonight- yes, i am in graduate school and yes, half of tonight's class was devoted to the study of zines- while reviewing a volume of unlovable. this zine, created by esther pearl watson, is based on the diary of a high school girl which was found by the artist in a gas station bathroom.

all up in his brain: ward shelley

i have been meaning to post about the work of ward shelley since i saw it last month at the decordova museum and sculpture park. some of the work that he has exhibited there is called who invented the avant-garde (and other half-truths). shelley's work is about archiving of information, and he handles this topic in a way that is  a bit absurd, but also fun, and kind of profound. interacting with his work is kind of like being inside of his brain, especially when you see the boxes installation... wow. more on that in a bit.

the first part of shelley's work displayed at the museum is a series of of crazy-ass wordy flow charts, having to do with popular culture and art and many connections that can be found in their histories.  this one is an investigation that stems from andy warhol's chelsea girls. definitely click on the image below.

now... the boxes. the decordova houses this installation entitled archive (which, by the way, is a collaboration with fluxus-ish artist Douglas Paulson) in their reading room. you walk into the room and you are surrounded by ceiling high piles of orange boxes with white labels. some of my favorite labels read as follows:

-oatmeal cookies (in here)
-what is smegma really?
-steve's old bong collection
-sensible careers for ethical idealists
-shameful music preferences
-list of people who will never be more than assholes
-essay on "no you didn't"
-32 reasons to never leave your home
-after you open this box everything will be different
-where we left the white man's burden
-large foam finger
-as yet unanswered prayers
-don't forget to shut up and listen for a while
-never fail conversation enders
-is loyalty really a virtue?

and so on and so forth... there are hundreds of these boxes, it would probably take all day to look at them and yet another to list them. all in all, the archive is funny and it ends up stirring the viewer more than they might expect. i think most people can find at least a few dozen labels that they can relate to, and chuckle or sigh over.

i only had my cell phone camera on me, so i have yet to retrieve the images. but the room itself looks something like this (except that it is feels quite a bit smaller, and there are bookshelves with art books on them in there too):

swing

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1OQFseHhsMg

hooked.

mommy, that's a pretty gun.

by L.A. based self taught artist/poetic bedazzler Phillip Graffham

amber albrecht

canadian artist/illustrator amber albrecht (featured on the site drawn) creates lovely things.
trees, houses, and ladies with a storybook folklore kind of feeling and a beardsley-eqsue ornamental style. i can't help myself. its comforting, sort of like hot cocoa for my mind.

still good

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qpoqzt2EHaA

featured in "whip it". also good. :)

a reminder of my dear friend chloe and her amazing choregraphy. hehe.

fine and mellow

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZtgUbJN8oPE

the big sweep: deskdrawer remnants

what kind?

new year!

high hopes.