Just a slice of nature.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
(sein) Feldman's 300
You look in your closet and find a musty old shoe box. This is the starting point for Joseph Cornell's "box with bird's nest and oak galls". Inside you put the precious treasure you found moments ago amidst the chilly breeze of late fall. An old birds nest from your backyard, now long abandoned. Too early to complete this work, you dash back outside, and nest to the tree you find three oak galls. Arranging them neatly above your nest, inside the bruised cardboard box, the piece is complete.
This work oozes a simple elegance. Nearly monochromatic, in a fine gold, it has a depth that seems infinite at times. Garnished with leaves and overpowered with simplicity it makes very few statements about itself. It makes me reminiscent of Henry David Thoreau's "Walking". You wish to send yourself to where that nest came from, and see its history. You want to immerse yourself within the box, smell the oak, feel the wind, taste the pollen. In a sense, become the very bird, laboring to make that nest. It's a little ecosystem in a box, a framed, three dimensional snapshot of the world that is becoming less and less.
As Thoreau said, "I would not have every man nor every part of a man cultivated, any more than I would have every acre of earth cultivated; part will be tillage, but the greater part will be meadow and forest, not only serving an immediate use, but preparing a mould against a distant future, by the annual decay of the vegetation which it supports".
This work speaks to me in the same terms. You see this slice of nature, now frozen as an eternal reminder to what is important. To look outside your own life, and deeper into the entire world. To not become just a member to society, but to nature as well.
This work oozes a simple elegance. Nearly monochromatic, in a fine gold, it has a depth that seems infinite at times. Garnished with leaves and overpowered with simplicity it makes very few statements about itself. It makes me reminiscent of Henry David Thoreau's "Walking". You wish to send yourself to where that nest came from, and see its history. You want to immerse yourself within the box, smell the oak, feel the wind, taste the pollen. In a sense, become the very bird, laboring to make that nest. It's a little ecosystem in a box, a framed, three dimensional snapshot of the world that is becoming less and less.
As Thoreau said, "I would not have every man nor every part of a man cultivated, any more than I would have every acre of earth cultivated; part will be tillage, but the greater part will be meadow and forest, not only serving an immediate use, but preparing a mould against a distant future, by the annual decay of the vegetation which it supports".
This work speaks to me in the same terms. You see this slice of nature, now frozen as an eternal reminder to what is important. To look outside your own life, and deeper into the entire world. To not become just a member to society, but to nature as well.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Heartbreak
Fuck.
Ow.
I think I may vomit.
Why is it that we all take comfort in music when we feel like the dirty floor you tread upon?
Maybe there's some inexplicable window you go through, where you can get lost for awhile. Ascend from this meaningless corpse and be elsewhere.
Herbie Hancock is so soothing.
And the words of others, feeling as you do. Maybe that cuts the edge of loneliness. There may be nobody else around, but at least somebody else has felt as you do.
Outside of this personal moment with eyes closed, you know she is there. On your desk there are numerous relics that remind you of what transpired.
Behind your eyelids is nothing. And that very nothing. Is what pleases me most. Darkness and fusion jazz.
A smile spreads on my face.
That was unexpected.
My eyes open
I think I may vomit
Ow
Fuck
Ow.
I think I may vomit.
Why is it that we all take comfort in music when we feel like the dirty floor you tread upon?
Maybe there's some inexplicable window you go through, where you can get lost for awhile. Ascend from this meaningless corpse and be elsewhere.
Herbie Hancock is so soothing.
And the words of others, feeling as you do. Maybe that cuts the edge of loneliness. There may be nobody else around, but at least somebody else has felt as you do.
Outside of this personal moment with eyes closed, you know she is there. On your desk there are numerous relics that remind you of what transpired.
Behind your eyelids is nothing. And that very nothing. Is what pleases me most. Darkness and fusion jazz.
A smile spreads on my face.
That was unexpected.
My eyes open
I think I may vomit
Ow
Fuck
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Signature signature.
His name was Nick, he was helpful. Here's some proof.
They may be just some "swirly things", but it was legit to me.
La Photo Originale (Now with Impossible Offspring!)
Doctor Pepper makes my stomach queasy
A) Lens flare with supernova
B) My stomach, post consumption.
C) Cool Stuff. Too dark though.
D) Jello
Friday, February 6, 2009
Should I ekstasis or should I go?
(The Clash humor. Classic.)
Updated for optimal grade.
First entrance, a rudimentary flying machine almost pokes your eye. Now one wonders what the hell that thing is. Looking past this oblong figure, bright blues of a fabric patchwork glistens in your eye. Once more you turn to what you once thought might be able to fly. Heavy chain, and long leather belt give the mind no more clues than earlier. Walking away, the finer details of the room come into play, nothing of interest until, baffled; you stare at these works, mouth slightly agape.
Comprehension doesn't come easy as I look at this art. Each piece more mysterious than the pronunciation of the artists last name. Minimal use of color, and optimal use of shape and textures, he forms each piece. One can't help but picture a mad scientist creating machines with beating hearts pumping blood through ancient metals all for the purpose of a hot cup of chamomile tea on a lazy afternoon. Each contraption a twisting work of rusted metal, winding, aged tubing. Busy works of a mind gone mad. Meticulous placement and arrangement of once useless scraps. Organized chaos. Barbaric civility.
Snapping out of it, the blurred edges of your vision once again come clear, you remember where you are. Sweeping the area, shuffling steps and furrowed brows of other students all hard at work kick start your memory. You get busy making a sad attempt to imitate the brilliance of three dimensional insanity, with a ballpoint pen.
As expected you cannot sketch something so magnificent. It's like trying to find the right words to say in a beautiful, perfect moment. It just is. And his works just are. They breathe commotion and bleed chaos. You exit fulfilled but warped. Legs slightly jellied as you climb the final steps to the second floor. Reality comes once again into full force, completely concrete. You exhale.
Updated for optimal grade.
First entrance, a rudimentary flying machine almost pokes your eye. Now one wonders what the hell that thing is. Looking past this oblong figure, bright blues of a fabric patchwork glistens in your eye. Once more you turn to what you once thought might be able to fly. Heavy chain, and long leather belt give the mind no more clues than earlier. Walking away, the finer details of the room come into play, nothing of interest until, baffled; you stare at these works, mouth slightly agape.
Comprehension doesn't come easy as I look at this art. Each piece more mysterious than the pronunciation of the artists last name. Minimal use of color, and optimal use of shape and textures, he forms each piece. One can't help but picture a mad scientist creating machines with beating hearts pumping blood through ancient metals all for the purpose of a hot cup of chamomile tea on a lazy afternoon. Each contraption a twisting work of rusted metal, winding, aged tubing. Busy works of a mind gone mad. Meticulous placement and arrangement of once useless scraps. Organized chaos. Barbaric civility.
Snapping out of it, the blurred edges of your vision once again come clear, you remember where you are. Sweeping the area, shuffling steps and furrowed brows of other students all hard at work kick start your memory. You get busy making a sad attempt to imitate the brilliance of three dimensional insanity, with a ballpoint pen.
As expected you cannot sketch something so magnificent. It's like trying to find the right words to say in a beautiful, perfect moment. It just is. And his works just are. They breathe commotion and bleed chaos. You exit fulfilled but warped. Legs slightly jellied as you climb the final steps to the second floor. Reality comes once again into full force, completely concrete. You exhale.
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