This Blog is Discontinued

Hey sorry this blog is discontinued, if you want to find me on the web I am here:


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free art ideas blog.
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the legacy of orchestra

We are all different classical instruments. Unique in their origin and sound. I dreamt I was a Trumpet last night. The music that a trumpet can play can be beautiful on it's own. But when added to an entire orchestra it can be the missing piece that cinches the melody. How different and beautiful is the Israeli Shofar horn, how distinctive and proud is the Irish Bodhran. If all of our instruments played together and formed a unified orchestra, what grand music we would make. More beautiful than anything heard before. And who knows how far it may reach... and who might hear it.

light things

the cons of pro's, the pro's of cons

I like this guy's thoughts: What, I have to ask, is wrong with professionalization? What are we really criticizing when we deride the graduates of MFA and PhD programs for nothing more than simply having done what one would expect them to do, which is to go and learn about the enterprise in which they are interested? I suspect that lurking behind such statements lies a romanticized and outmoded notion of the artistic subject—which is to say, of the kind of subjectivity (autodidactic, at odds with decorum and the status quo, sometimes tortured, often difficult, always independent—i.e. an ideal of bourgeois bohemianism) that continues to cling to the definition of the “artist” today like some itchy fungus. Holland Cotter made an offending passage in a piece called ‘generations’. Here’s the offending passage, "A scan of the catalog’s biographies confirms that, almost without exception, the artists in the show are products of art schools, as often as not intensely professionalized, canon-driven environments. This may help explain why so much of the work on view comes with art historical references and borrowings, tweaks on tweaks on tweaks so intricate and numerous as to defy listing." If any show can be said to reflect a larger state of affairs in art now, this one suggests a somewhat dull, deflated contemporary art world, professionalized to a fault, in search of a fresh consensus. It has prompted the predictable cooing from wishful insiders, burbling vaguely about new found introspection and gravity. To turn back to charges of ‘professionalism’, what is the merit of it to begin with? Is the ‘amateur’ really, demonstrably, more favorable than the pro? Isn’t the former simply another iteration of our own lurking romanticism? (Or worse, is it of a piece with the rampant and poisonous anti-elitism that we witness nearly everywhere today?) I hesitate here to make a comparison to the sciences. Professionalization in such fields as biology and physics may have resulted in certain institutional inefficiencies, in misguided research programs and even, in some instances, in a kind of sanctioned alienation from ‘reality’.

The push for life

Algernon Charles Swinburne

The Garden of Proserpine

Here, where the world is quiet;

Here, where all trouble seems

Dead winds' and spent waves' riot

In doubtful dreams of dreams;

I watch the green field growing

For reaping folk and sowing,

For harvest-time and mowing,

A sleepy world of streams.

I am tired of tears and laughter,

And men that laugh and weep;

Of what may come hereafter

For men that sow to reap:

I am weary of days and hours,

Blown buds of barren flowers,

Desires and dreams and powers

And everything but sleep.

Here life has death for neighbour,

And far from eye or ear

Wan waves and wet winds labour,

Weak ships and spirits steer;

They drive adrift, and whither

They wot not who make thither;

But no such winds blow hither,

And no such things grow here.

No growth of moor or coppice,

No heather-flower or vine,

But bloomless buds of poppies,

Green grapes of Proserpine,

Pale beds of blowing rushes

Where no leaf blooms or blushes

Save this whereout she crushes

For dead men deadly wine.

Pale, without name or number,

In fruitless fields of corn,

They bow themselves and slumber

All night till light is born;

And like a soul belated,

In hell and heaven unmated,

By cloud and mist abated

Comes out of darkness morn.

Though one were strong as seven,

He too with death shall dwell,

Nor wake with wings in heaven,

Nor weep for pains in hell;

Though one were fair as roses,

His beauty clouds and closes;

And well though love reposes,

In the end it is not well.

Pale, beyond porch and portal,

Crowned with calm leaves, she stands

Who gathers all things mortal

With cold immortal hands;

Her languid lips are sweeter

Than love's who fears to greet her

To men that mix and meet her

From many times and lands.

She waits for each and other,

She waits for all men born;

Forgets the earth her mother,

The life of fruits and corn;

And spring and seed and swallow

Take wing for her and follow

Where summer song rings hollow

And flowers are put to scorn.

There go the loves that wither,

The old loves with wearier wings;

And all dead years draw thither,

And all disastrous things;

Dead dreams of days forsaken,

Blind buds that snows have shaken,

Wild leaves that winds have taken,

Red strays of ruined springs.

We are not sure of sorrow,

And joy was never sure;

To-day will die to-morrow;

Time stoops to no man's lure;

And love, grown faint and fretful,

With lips but half regretful

Sighs, and with eyes forgetful

Weeps that no loves endure.

From too much love of living,

From hope and fear set free,

We thank with brief thanksgiving

Whatever gods may be

That no life lives for ever;

That dead men rise up never;

That even the weariest river

Winds somewhere safe to sea.

Then star nor sun shall waken,

Nor any change of light:

Nor sound of waters shaken,

Nor any sound or sight:

Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,

Nor days nor things diurnal;

Only the sleep eternal

In an eternal night.

2010

new years resolutions:

learn to wolf whistle
throw a spiral football
fin 22 paintings

to where you once belonged

After shoveling snow today I picked some up and packed it into my hands. I zeroed in on a brick in the wall 40ft away from me. Throw! As the snowball soared through the air I remembered how in my previous years I was a dangerously gifted marksman hitting everything with stellar hand eye coordination to the point where I had been nicknamed "Longshot". I remembered all this as I watched the snowball helplessly fly over the brick wall. For the next 15 minutes I hand packed at least 20 snowballs and aimed at this brick and hit everything around the brick, but that singular brick. This is how I feel when I look at Leila Berney's work.
We've lost something that we're trying to get back.

on my playlist

Paolo Ventura

A masterful storyteller, Paolo Ventura brings imaginary tales from Italian history to life with dressed up dolls, tabletop sets, and staged photography.

Mining the memories of his childhood and inspired by the psychological dramas of Pirandello novels and Fellini films, Ventura creates elaborate fictions that mirror reality. His War Souvenir pictures represent his grandmother’s remembrances of WWII while the Winter Stories series visualizes the recollections of an old circus performer.

Rorschach_blot

the guv'nor

or him as a boy

now forward
wait go back more morenow go forward

Men Behind the Warwick Saints