Saturday, March 31, 2012
Mourid Barghouti, “I Have No Problem”
I look at myself:
I have no problem.
I look all right
and, to some girls,
my grey hair might even be attractive;
my eyeglasses are well made,
my body temperature is precisely thirty seven,
my shirt is ironed and my shoes do not hurt.
I have no problem.
My hands are not cuffed,
my tongue has not been silenced yet,
I have not, so far, been sentenced
and I have not been fired from my work;
I am allowed to visit my relatives in jail,
I’m allowed to visit some of their graves in some countries.
I have no problem.
I am not shocked that my friend
has grown a horn on his head.
I like his cleverness in hiding the obvious tail
under his clothes, I like his calm paws.
He might kill me, but I shall forgive him
for he is my friend;
he can hurt me every now and then.
I have no problem.
The smile of the TV anchor
does not make me ill any more
and I’ve got used to the Khaki stopping my colours
night and day.
That is why
I keep my identification papers on me, even at
the swimming pool.
I have no problem.
Yesterday, my dreams took the night train
and I did not know how to say goodbye to them.
I heard the train had crashed
in a barren valley
(only the driver survived).
I thanked God, and took it easy
for I have small nightmares
that I hope will develop into great dreams.
I have no problem.
I look at myself, from the day I was born till now.
In my despair I remember
that there is life after death;
there is life after death
and I have no problem.
But I ask:
Oh my God,
is there life before death?
Translated by Radwa Ashour
Friday, March 30, 2012
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
“If I ever loved a woman, the more I loved her, the more I wanted to hurt her. Frida was only the most obvious victim of this disgusting trait.”
Diego Rivera
“I was born a bitch. I was born a painter.”
Frida Kahlo
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Gauguin gave this account of the ear incident to Bernard, who relayed it to Aurier in a letter as follows:
Ever since [it was clear] I had to leave Arles, he was so bizarre that I couldn’t take it. He even said to me: “Are you going to leave?” And when I said “Yes,” he tore this sentence from a newspaper and put it in my hand: “the murderer took flight.”
I spent the night in a hotel, and when I went back all of Arles was in front of our house. Then the police arrested me, because the house was covered in blood. This is what had happened.
Vincent had returned home after my departure, had taken a razor and cut his ear clean through. Then he put a big beret over his head and went to a brothel to take the ear to a wretched girl, telling her: “You will remember me, truly I tell you this.” The girl fainted immediately. The police were called and came to the house.
Vincent was hospitalized. His state is worse, he wants to sleep with the patients, chases the nurses, and washes himself in the coal-bucket. They had to lock him up in a room
Every artist and artform no matter what medium has gone through Pollock's work to get to their own
“I am doubtful of any talent, so whatever I choose to be, will be accomplished only by long study and work. I fear it will be forced and mechanical. Architecture interests me, but not in the sense painting and sculpturing does… As to what I would like to be, it is difficult to say. An artist of some kind. If nothing else I shall always study the Arts. People have always frightened and bored me, consequently I have been within my own shell.”
— Jackson Pollock at age 17 in a letter to his brothers Charles and Frank. [l]
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Where are our moments of wintertime
I have no need for words.
The sleet on the windows,
the slow breathing of you sleeping,
the clock’s hum—
our home’s soft conversation.
No moon, but the clouds hold all that snow,
night softened to gray; no words can lighten
a sky like that, ease the push and pull that
holds us tight. What is it we won’t say?
Under the streetlight a rabbit shivers along
fence posts, shadows long as wet pines,
chicken wire clotted with drifts.
The heaviness of it—the spinning trees,
the sharp tongue of wind,
the fall into the smell of leaves,
into the cold, into you. Wordless.
- Patricia Kennedy Bostian, from “Sunday Afternoon” (via awritersruminations)
Friday, March 16, 2012
Robert Wyatt - Pigs
Thursday, March 15, 2012
PolArtCulDem: Jed Perl: The Irredeemably Boring Egotism Of Cindy...
PolArtCulDem: Jed Perl: The Irredeemably Boring Egotism Of Cindy...: Jed Perl: The Irredeemably Boring Egotism Of Cindy Sherman | The New Republic
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Monday, March 12, 2012
Saturday, March 10, 2012
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