Wednesday, September 30, 2015

Sunday, September 27, 2015

John...An incredible sentence

Noam Chomsky

Leda and the Swan, 1741, Francois Boucher

Robert Rauschenberg: Purr (Waterworks), 1995. Vegetable dye transfer on paper

The Bruce High Quality Foundation: LAS MENINAS (2011)

JoyDeFeo: Untitled (Everest), 1955

Nazism & the Male Body (color photo from LIFE archive) 1936

Molly, Alauna and I with my cat toupee dancing during/after an event at Numina Gallery. And yes the toupee freaked a lot of people out!

Erato- That day I asked you to go to Venice. To be my Muse- felt like this

    “I looked and looked at her, and I knew, as clearly as I know that I will die, that I loved her more than anything I had ever seen or imagined on earth.”

Why i am not a painter —Frank O’Hara

I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
“Sit down and have a drink” he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. “You have SARDINES in it.”
“Yes, it needed something there.”
“Oh.” I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. “Where’s SARDINES?”
All that’s left is just
letters, “It was too much”" Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven’t mentioned
orange yet. It’s twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike’s painting, called SARDINES.

Tuesday, September 22, 2015


Thursday, September 17, 2015

Sunday, September 13, 2015

Henry Ossawa Tanner- A View of Fez

A kind of Heaven

George Grosz (1893-1959), Portrait of Dr. Felix J. Weil, 1926. oil on canvas, cm 135 x 155

Do you know what this is? This is The Heart from Auschwitz. An act of defiance. A statement of hope. A crime punishable by death. On December 12, 1944, locked inside Auschwitz, Polish teenager Fania turned twenty. After spending a year in a concentration camp, Fania didn’t expect her birthday to even be remembered - but her best friend, Zlatka, risked everything to make her a birthday present, a paper heart. Simply making the heart - or carrying it - could get either of them killed. The heart was signed by many of their friends, bearing notes in Polish, German, French, and Hebrew that announced "When you get old, put your glasses on your nose, take this album in your hand and read my signature again,“ and “Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!” It was an act of great sacrifice and love for a friend. Less than 40 days later, they began the Death March from Auschwitz to Ravensbruck, and from Ravensbruck to freedom. Fania carried the heart under her arm the whole time. And survived. Fania donated the heart to the Montreal Holocaust Memorial Center in 1988, where it is a featured piece of their exhibit. You can read more about the story of Fania and Zlatka Meg Wiviott’s Paper Hearts, coming September 2015.

A silk handkerchief, printed with a description of an erotic encounter; words in the form of breasts (1802, after E. Parny) Wellcome Library, London

Sunday Afternoon in the Country. - Florine Stettheimer 1917 American, 1871-1944 ** Duchamp appears in Stettheimer painting …seated on the table(left)

Anne Sexton at home reciting one of her most critically acclaimed poems titled “Her Kind” c. 1966