Synestesia: Tasting Sound

Hey all,

I thought this was a pretty good attempt at helping someone to understand what it may be like for someone who has synesthesia and can taste sound. This is a bit humorous, but serious at the same time.  Hope your enjoy.

Jeremiah

oh so much fail.

I'm asking this here because I can't find your email address at the moment, Anne. Last night my hard drive bit the dust. It bit it hard. I lost just about everything I didn't have backed up, and wouldn't you know it--my paper and presentation for this class were not backed up. I should be able to manage the presentation okay on time, but would it be all right if I submitted my paper a bit late? It would for sure be in by the end of the week.

Yves Klein Blue!

Anne lent me some pigments and I played with them!





So much goodness. See ya'll on Tuesday!

And Anne, my roomates would like to come to my presentation, will that be ok? What time should I expect, right off the bat at the beginning of class or after we talk about Video Art more?

Papers?

So quick question....
Are the papers due Tuesday night or by class or by midnight Friday?

Or perhaps before our presentations?

In answer to the question "What is Art?"

Artist George Quasha asked a few (well more than that) artists and others to answer this question. It's a tough one... check it out.
http://www.quasha.com/html/art_is.html

Oh and I want you to know that I was interviewed by Quasha when he came through SLC. It seems my answer was inadequate -- but that may not surprise you. The question has troubled me since class. On Friday I interviewed Jeff Lambson, the curator of contemporary art at BYU's Museum of Art. I asked him how he would answer the question. He said it took him 10 years to come up with an answer. I will try to bring a clip from the interview to class....or post it on the blog.

revised schedule and notes

Right here.

Class presentation schedule

Okay... Here it is. If you need changes, let me know on Thursday. We can also spend some time talking about your projects then. Remember -- have fun!!!!

Also in response to Amelia:

Tree at Reservoir Park













From the exploring the world book that Anne bought, she gave us the idea of finding paint swatches to match the world. Conveniently I have a LOT of paint swatches that I took from Smiths, so here are a couple of my identifications, if you will.

London

Doug's post about Amelia has prompted me to share a certain morbid love that I have for cemeteries. I don't find it particularly morbid, but I have been told that it is wierd to enjoy taking walks and spending hours and hours in cemeteries. Amelia's headstone being overwhelmed by the tree reminded me of my favorite cemetery in London. I found it while in search of my great-grandfather's pub, which had actually been bombed out during the war. The site was still there, as was the church he was married in to my great-grandmother. I found neither, but did stumble across Tower Hamlet Cemetery. Much of it (in fact, the vast majority of it) was overtaken by vines and heather and bracken and all manner of undergrowth. Tower Hamlet is way out in Mile End, which is a rather shady side of London, but as soon as I stepped out of the alley and into the shady and overgrown pathways of the cemetery, there was a certain quietness, due in great part to the mysterious engulfment of the memorials by the surrounding natural life.

Amelia

In Mt. Olivet cemetery there is a century-old grave of Amelia Frazer. Her headstone, a cream white simple marble slab two feet above ground, has been enveloped by the trunk of the tree growing next to it, which has wrapped thick folds around its top and right side, pushing it over slightly, embracing it, and holding it deep in its center, obscuring the eroded dates and leaving her name just visible. In another forty years Amelia's headstone will be entirely within the trunk of the tree, and the wind will elicit her laughter.

Art is so great!

Hey All and especially AJ, I just came across some new cool Shepard Fairy street art pieces in Boston and they got me thinking... check out the whole ramble over on my normal blog if you wanna.

Tandy Talks!

Thanks so much for getting Tandy to come to our class, that was super-cool!

I thought of something when she was talking that I wanted to post up here, a TED talk my friend Casey blogged about a bit ago. If you don't know, TED talks are completely inspiring lectures by completely inspiring people, this one by a charming and self-deferential English Lord named Ken Robinson. It's about how school trains us out of creativity, and how critical it is that we need to maintain our creative ties in the 21st century:

John Currin critiqued...

Slate Magazine's "A Closer Look at Currin." That's John Currin. I think it is a pretty fair critique though I may differ with the writer about his "talent." I think Currin's skills as a painter are superb.

http://www.slate.com/id/2093020/slideshow/2093150/fs/0//entry/2093126/

Somewhere at home I have the New Yorker with Calvin Tompkin's comments on Currin. I will try to find it...

week 2/17 assignments

Here is the link.

learning to love you more.

Learning to love you more #32: Draw a scene from a movie that made you cry.

From La Vie en Rose, where Edith finds out Marcel is dead. (Subtitles added for your convenience.)

Word Poem.... Finally

I don't like writing poetry so this took a bit longer than it should have.

Perception

Our mental image
of life, of things,
varies from one
to another,
each person
deciding their own
small
or large world.
Each one perceiving,
observing the natural
or unnatural things.
Defining and naming,
searching for meaning.
These meanings change
from person to
person. Gold
is red and blue
is green,
depending on
whose view you look.
In the end
there is always
more questions.
And the answers
will change with age
and person.

leslie miles' dream pictures.

Leslie Miles was featured on flavorwire this week, and upon visiting his blog I was surprised to find one of his most recent posts to be of pictures of dreams. The pictures aren't his own work but are rather images he's collected from the corners of the internet. Enjoy.

Open the Door

This is a video that Anne talked about, Open the Door, about a daughter trying to express her ideas :)

Word Poem

Not the word swap but the poem I did on one of my words
Poem on Love/Lover

I don't have to worry about nightmares.
I jump into bed,
She takes the ladder,
I fix the covers,
She gets settles,
I snuggle up to her,
She smiles at me,
We say: "I love you,"
We go to sleep,
I don't have to worry about nightmares.

And after this girl found this poem in my journal she decided to write it on me in sharpie so enjoy. :D

Learning to love you more

So Learning to love you more number 12 is: Get a temporary tattoo of a neighbor. I decided to change it to my roommate rather than a character from the film but its basically the same.

a short documentary about tandy beal

tandy beal's outside blake's window

This is some pretty incredible work. Here's one video, but go to this site and explore a little. Pretty amazing.

weekly installment -- assignments/explorations

Here is this week's installment.  

music.

Upon first listening to some of Philip Bimstein's work, I was reminded of a remix my friend showed me of Christian Bale's recent freakout. Yes, that's right. "Do you want me to ****ing trash your lights?!" got a dance remix. And it's awesome. Obviously it's not the same type of material, and whether it counts as art is open for debate. But I thought I'd share since I've never been more tempted to dance to a vulgar outburst. ;)

There are two versions you can listen to. One is an edited, radio-friendly version if that's more your style.

Revolucian's Bale-Out remix

EDIT: So this is probably the most offensive thing to be published on this blog. We're talking monster use of the f-word here, so if you have any sort of problem with the word whatsoever, don't bother with the un-edited version. Kthanx.

Shake The Dust

ENJOY!! Check out "Rock Out" also.

music for one apartment and six drummers

Percussionists claiming an apartment for their own and using it for musical purposes:

brazilian water music

thought you might get a kick out of this music created in a lake by a legendary brazilian musician, hermeto pascoal. (and thanks to jessica for showing me how to embed the video!)



Hermeto Pascoal e Grupo - Música da Lagoa Hermeto and O Grupo playing the music of the heavens with flutes and bottles in a lake. Part of the Hermeto/PETAR special - Sinfonia Alto da Ribeira

when the rooster crows

i didn't play you any of my folk music in the class, and this may not be the finest song from my "zion canyon song cycle," but it's the only one we have a video of so far (we'll have about 10 of them when our TV special airs on KUED in late may).

it's a song performed by my group, red rock rondo, which does a song cycle based on oral histories i gathered in springdale and zion national park. even though it's folk, it bears some relationship to my alt-classical work (which i played for you) in that it's based on real stories spoken by real people.

normally the songs are sung by myself or others in the group, but this particular one puts the subject's voice into the song, in the same manner as "garland hirschi's cows." his name is leon lewis, and he was the principal of springdale elementary school for 31 years before he retired to his ranch in rockville.

hope you enjoy it!

thank you from phillip

dear spadubious cloudpeople,

thank you so much for letting me come to your great class. i enjoyed meeting you and hope i contributed some ideas that you can use and will spur your creativity. i know you taught me a lot with your discussion - about line, architecture, photography, journalism and even dialogue all dancing with the same elements of harmony, dissonance, asymmetry, silence and remixology that i like to use in my music.

i wish you all the best with your class, and hope i may get to talk with you all again, perhaps in my "composing a community" honors college course in spring 2010.

meanwhile, i'm going to send you a couple of youtube things you might enjoy.

phillip

Phillip's presentation and discussion with us inspired me to explore some concepts, each of which has a familiar use, but also a much broader potential for application and understanding:

Voice
Silence
Dissonance
Frame

I'm thinking about these and the ways they can be applied to any art form, and, in fact, all of our perception and experience. I would love to hear your thoughts.

Synesthetic Videos

A little post happy, but here are a few videos you have to see. Talk about synesthesia.

The light doodling is incredible! How long do you think a video of that length would take???
Here are the only times I've messed around with light. One is with a couple friends with sparklers making a bicycle, the others are with flashlights. Nothing close to the light doodlers, but fun, regardless.

(Is it possible to put a photo into a comment? I wanted to post this as a comment on Anne's post but resorted to a new post.)

The Books, response to Phillip Bimstein

One of my favorite music artists is a group called The Books. Their ideas are similar to Phillip Bimstein's method. It's sometimes called aleatoric music, music left to chance, if you will. They have some really beautiful songs. Their website has all of their music on it, and the site is very interesting/fun to navigate through, give it a shot. I like the albums Lost and Safe (which is the Living Room option), Thought for Food (Dining Room) and The Lemon of Pink (Hallway). The music available via Myspace has a better recording quality, oddly. Less music there, but again, better quality, I feel. Enjoy!

doooodling with light

I am searching old e-mails for the artists who draw on the ground, erase and then draw more...until it rains and they lose everything.  But then they start over.  And it is filmed from above.  I didn't find the old e-mail with that link but I did find the art doodlers.  Here is the link to their blog.  And will someone tell me how to post a utube video....please.

http://bowlofnoses.blogspot.com/search/label/Pikapika

Poetry with Visuals

I'm sure you guys will love this....


SCINTILLATION from Xavier Chassaing on Vimeo.

OSH auditorium

Does anyone know the room number of the auditorium in OSH? It seems I need to know that number in order to begin the process of booking the room. Thanks (if you can help!!!)

Thoughts about Phillip Bimstein's Lockdown

The piece of Phillips which struck me the most was his journey through a Youth Prison in St. George, Lockdown. The jaunting pace with classical instruments creates an operatic feel, swinging through different stories and different emotions.

In that way I was reminded very strongly of Damon Albarn's Monkey, Journey to the West. Monkey is a modern Opera by the same musical mastermind behind the Gorillaz. It's an hour long, in Chinese, and incredible. The strongest thing about the piece taken as a whole, and Phillip's, is that the moods evoked are not dependent on each other, but they add up to a complete sonic piece. Like strawberry fields, the imagery that the images compel are strong, and individual. This was Jamie Hewlett's visualization of one of the songs off of Monkey:


David Forman - Monkey Bee from David Forman on Vimeo.


Phillip's stories have a different element of human interest to them. The almost documentary aspect makes it a good way to get a feel for the kid's stories, and turns their bare and sometimes self-conscious statements into lyrics.

I noticed Phillip's slideshow on his myspace page, I think it functions as a visualizer of the music. The slideshow picks up all the subliminal details of prison life that add up to the clinical, depressive, controlled presence the place has. Same effect as the sonic buildup of the clicks, ratchets, and slams of the detention center.

Poem!

Bam-Bam
Ishion Hutchinson

make thee an ark of gopher wood

After school we’d stone him from running distance
flinging and yelling, maggot-brain-donkey-cock madman.
When a stone hit his penis, the hitter victory danced
and we’d crowd around him screaming, target to rass, man!
Saturdays and Sundays we’d never see him and I’d never thought
to see him one Saturday afternoon, naked, in my lane, outside my gate.

He carried nothing other than his matted head, mud crusting on his skin.
Yet I feared him to death as how’d I fear church, my tongue pebbled,
he shuffled through the gate, talking as he approached, the closer he got:

the whole earth is here
all the arks are here, we stone the arks and poison food,
you listen mosquito, boy, or you bite them and eat?
Stone fly from your hand and you feel you is man,
well, I am at heaven’s gate with a light on me tongue,
a bulb, an electric bulb, shocking the ark to life.
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz, mosquito, zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz,
you listening, right, or you in the flood, ark?
All God’s children is ark, bird in hand of the man
and now the whole earth is here, all the arks.

The gate banged, leaving a rock pitching against my skull,
and I felt the light going out of the day, and a grey,
lowering itself, covered all as far as I could see.

I like this poem, it embodies everything I love about the idea of Jamacian Mysticism. It's Gnarly.

Shown to me by my friend Tom.

Forgetfulness

This is a great poem called Forgetfulness by Billy Collins. 

And someone made a fun video out of it. 

Simple as that. 

Enjoy

Fav. Poem

Here is poem I really enjoy and would have shared in class. It is a three part poem about the desert and perspective.

Deserts

I
(The Scientist)

The desert demands inquiry.
In highly intense solar refraction,
the tonal quality is revealed
in the incarnadine pigmentation
presently exposed in the eroded vellum
of a solid precambrium eruption.
This juxtaposed against a deep spectrum
of light surrounding the closed ecosystem.

The superincumbent material consists of
a stratum of calcareous compositon
with intense placation and abundant
arenaceous deposit...

II
(The Poet)

The desert has a sharpness, a clarity of from
And purpose- unfathomable abilities.
It possesses the greatest integrity.
The mounatains are teeth. The incisors
Can clip you from your best pretended roots.
The molars roll you over in their uneven
Surface and crush the poisonous juice from
Your recalcitrant bones. It can swallow
You up- not bit by bit, tearing arms and
Legs- but whole, your feet first,
Right from where you stand,
Uprooted and so far distant...

III
(The Rest of Us)

The desert is red and white and
deep purple beneath the changing
blue of the sky.
It is hot under the sun
and cold beneath the moon.
It is gritty and clean and cooler
the deeper you dig.

It is, of course, the sand.

And if you are lucky,
you might stand square in the middle of it.
'Cause what it really is-

is real nice to look at.

-Brad L. Roghaar

The Jabberwocky

My grandma collected Madame Alexander dolls, which, if you don't know what they are, are beautiful. She had an enormous collection, and she would let us pick one if we memorized fifty poems. We didn't have to have them all memorized at once, but when we visited her, we'd recite one for her and she'd make a tally mark on a paper under our name. She wrote a lot of poetry and had tons of books and folders full of poems around her house. So, when I think about my favorite poems, I think about her. Here is one (not as artsy or as message-oriented as the others that have been posted) that I love because it reminds me of her.

The Jabberwocky, by Lewis Carroll

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:

Long time the manxome foe he sought

--So rested he by the Tumtum tree,

And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,

The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,

And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through

The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

He left it dead, and with its head

He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'

He chortled in his joy.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

Like a dream...

I was on campus the other day, walking to my cousin's car, when I noticed two deer standing the field just past a pile of snow. I walked closer to them while taking my camera out of my backpack as quietly at I could. When I got closer, I realized that there weren't just two deer, but ten or twelve! It was so amazingly beautiful, like a dream...

Word Swap: Soul

It was kind of crazy for me to get this word when I did because I was thinking about the idea of souls, spirits, etc. for a while. For some reason, lately, when I hear the word "soul" I think of the song by The Killers with the lyrics that say "I got soul but I'm not a soldier." Then, when I was thinking about this word some more, a song came to me from my childhood, a song that I had learned in the virtues classes I attended. It is a very simple song, but we would usually sing it in a round and I always felt like it was very powerful. The song goes as follows...

The soul is the sun, and the earth is the body
The soul is the light, and the body is the lamp
The soul is the flame, and the body is the candle
The soul is the bird, and the body is the cage

It shines, it flows, it flies, it glows
It shines, it flows, it flies, it glows

Favorite Poem

The poem I would have done in class (other than the other one on the blog)....

The Message

The door that someone opened
The door that someone closed
The chair on which someone sat down
The cat that someone petted
The fruit that someone bit into
The letter that someone read
The chair that someone tipped over
The door that someone opened
The road where someone is still running
The woods that someone crossed running
The river in which someone jumped
The hospital where someone died.

Yes it's kind of a depressing poem but that's its purpose! It's a very powerful poem done in a style that we hardly see.

Clouds!

Well this is a cool little art/architecture/origami piece and I felt that it was particularly important to this blog....

Just want to post a few poem for comparison, even though the translation totally ruin the point of chinese poem.

This one is Drinking Alone in the Moonlight, by Li Po, first line is the author and title
李白 月下獨酌

花間一壺酒
獨酌無相親
舉杯邀明月
對影成三人
月既不解飲
影徒隨我身
暫伴月將影
行樂須及春
我歌月徘徊
我舞影零亂
醒時同交歡
醉後各分散
永結無情遊
相期邈雲漢

Then here the river-merchant's wife (title don't match at all) and well, he never used any I, you, etc. Ruined by translation again

李白 長干行
妾髮初覆額
折花門前劇
郎騎竹馬來
遶床弄青梅
同居長干里
兩小無嫌猜
十四為君婦
羞顏未嘗開
低頭向暗壁
千喚不一回
十五始展眉
願同塵與灰
常存抱柱信
豈上望夫臺
十六君遠行
瞿塘灩澦堆
五月不可觸
猿鳴天上哀
門前遲行跡
一一生綠苔
苔深不能掃
落葉秋風早
八月蝴蝶來
雙飛西園草
感此傷妾心
坐愁紅顏老
早晚下三巴
預將書報家
相迎不道遠
直至長風沙

poem.

I know I already shared a poem in class, but I wanted to post this one too. It's one of those poems that I haven't been able to completely get out of my head since I first read it. I think it's an honest and accurate depiction not only of an eating disorder but of restriction and pressure in general.

Anorexic
by Eavan Boland

Flesh is heretic.
My body is a witch.
I am burning it.

Yes I am torching
her curves and paps and wiles.
They scorch in my self denials.

How she meshed my head
in the half-truths
of her fevers

till I renounced
milk and honey
and the taste of lunch.

I vomited
her hungers.
Now the bitch is burning.

I am starved and curveless.
I am skin and bone.
She has learned her lesson.

Thin as a rib
I turn in sleep.
My dreams probe

a claustrophobia
a sensuous enclosure.
How warm it was and wide

once by a warm drum,
once by the song of his breath
and in his sleeping side.

Only a little more,
only a few more days
sinless, foodless,

I will slip
back into him again
as if I had never been away.

Caged so
I will grow
angular and holy

past pain,
keeping his heart
such company

as will make me forget
in a small space
the fall

into forked dark,
into python needs
heaving to hips and breasts
and lips and heat
and sweat and fat and greed.

The imagery in this poem is fantastic. The raw intensity just fills your mind and you're made uncomfortable, not only with the images, but with the notions of flesh, vulnerability, sex, food, comfort, dreaming, desires, etc etc. I can honestly say I've never felt about a poem like I've felt about this one.

cow sounds and pitcher's mounds

hi again, i'm really looking forward to meeting you all next week! i'll play a little bit of my music in the next tuesday's class, but if you'd like to check it out before or afterhand, i have several myspace pages.

my alternative classical work, where you can hear cow sounds & pitcher's mounds, casinos, frogs, coyotes, a squeaky door, and teenagers in a lockdown facility:
http://www.myspace.com/phillipbimsteinmusic

more of the imprisoned teens in the full techno-classical tone poem:
http://www.myspace.com/handcuffsandshackles

my string quartet based on terry tempest williams' "refuge":
http://www.myspace.com/refugequartet

scrambled eggs, pepper, sliced toast, gurgling dishwater, singing cats:
http://www.myspace.com/catsinthekitchen

my folk song cycle based on stories from zion national park:
http://www.myspace.com/redrockrondo

an npr "all things considered" story about my zion-based music:
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=92033252

my 80s chicago punk band:
http://www.myspace.com/philntheblanksmusic

and general info about my music and politics:
http://www.bimstein.com/

see you tuesday!

phillip

Sanctuary in your Kitchen

This is the poem I would have shared in class today had I not been preoccupied with a family emergency (sorry!). SO! Here it is, I hope it's ok that it's one I wrote myself.


With the crackling sounds of grease on the frying pan
Watching the dew slowly vanish from the leaves outside the window

I think your hair has grown a shade whiter
Since I saw you last.

Your hands worn with the same cares and worries
And the blueberries in your pancakes just as sweet.

I sit on the same stool, its stuffing beginning to escape
the cushion seat.

My feet don't dangle off the ground as they used to,
But it's still my favorite spot.

Sometimes when you move around the kitchen
The mountain air catches your scent and carries it back to me.

You smell like Easter morning
Gentle and Holy.

As white as the eggs we decorated
Fragile and Strong, simultaneously.

You still ask the same questions
About school and boys.

I still answer in the same ways,
Rough around the edges and full of unnecessary detail

Just the way you like it.

I reach for my camera
To remember this.

The details of your apron, dusted with flour,
The red scarf in your hair.

You chuckle and protest at the click of the lens,
Trying to complain about the state of your clothes.

There,
I have you.

Forever recorded and remembered.

I run my fingertips over the ridges on the cutting board, remembering
When it was new

From many years ago
When I was more innocent

And these walls didn't whisper so much.

I try to make designs with the circles
Left by my tea cup on the yellowing counter top.

You approach with a steaming plate,
And say grace.

How sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me.

assignments and links 2/5

Here is the link to the assignments and links for 2/5.  Just click, here.

Favorite Poem - The Cremation of Sam McGee

                  Robert Service (1874-1958)

                  The Cremation of Sam McGee

    There are strange things done in the midnight sun 
        By the men who moil for gold; 
    The Arctic trails have their secret tales 
        That would make your blood run cold; 
    The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, 
        But the queerest they ever did see 
    Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge 
        I cremated Sam McGee.

    Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows. 
    Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows. 
    He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell; 
    Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."

    On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail. 
    Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail. 
    If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see; 
    It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

    And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow, 
    And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe, 
    He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess; 
    And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

    Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan: 
    "It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold, till I'm chilled clean through to the bone. 
    Yet 'tain't being dead — it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains; 
    So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

    A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail; 
    And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale. 
    He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee; 
    And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

    There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven, 
    With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given; 
    It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains, 
    But you promised true, and it's up to you, to cremate those last remains."

    Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code. 
    In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load. 
    In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring, 
    Howled out their woes to the homeless snows — Oh God! how I loathed the thing.

    And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow; 
    And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low; 
    The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in; 
    And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

    Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay; 
    It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May." 
    And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum; 
    Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

    Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire; 
    Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher; 
    The flames just soared, and the furnace roared — such a blaze you seldom see; 
    And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

    Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so; 
    And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow. 
    It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why; 
    And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

    I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear; 
    But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near; 
    I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside. 
    I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.

    And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar; 
    And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and said: "Please close that door. 
    It's fine in here, but I greatly fear, you'll let in the cold and storm — 
    Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

    There are strange things done in the midnight sun 
        By the men who moil for gold; 
    The Arctic trails have their secret tales 
        That would make your blood run cold; 
    The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, 
        But the queerest they ever did see 
    Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge 
        I cremated Sam McGee.

Dream Picture

I did my best to find a collection of photos that I could put together to show an image from a dream that I remember.  These images are of a field with a tree, and under the tree is where I am standing looking at what appears to be a heap of bodies similar to those piled up during the holocaust.  I have put them together from a variety of photos.

spadubious is splendiferous!

hello from your next class visitor - i look forward to meeting you on tuesday.

your blog is great - spadubious is splendiferous!

both jessica's "as is" poem and benz' "beautiful silence" are not only apropos to my visit but instructive to me: lessons i need to keep learning and relearning. the joshua bell story and comments are very relevant too.

meanwhile (and unrelated to my visit, except perhaps that i am somewhat of a mixologist sound-collagist) i thought some of you might be interested in this story i just read in yesterday's nytimes, about a stealth grafitti/collage artist planting visual "mind bombs" in the new york subway, challenging corporate hegemony of public and psychological space through remixed ads and billboards, as a kind of anonymous social movement ("poster boy could be anybody") ...

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/04/arts/design/04post.html

phillip b.

My dreams

A collection of my dreams--lacking specifics, but existing nonetheless.

some puppets

Sorry I don't know how to put them all together...like I would like. 

hahaha, here's the pic

Dream Pic

I took a picture of me sleeping, but I have been having troubles getting pictures on my computer. SO I decided to use a picture that was close. It's funny cuz I dreamt about how tired I was and how I needed to sleep. (man i must be tired if i am dreaming of that!) So this is a picture of me exhausted just like in the dream!

Word Poem(life)

Wondering in this dark and lonely night
Searching next to the passing light
Holding on to a shinning sliver knife
Thinking what else to do with this life

Jacque Prevert Poem

I don't know if I'm going to do this poem but I am going to do this author.
Jacque Prevert was an amazing surrealist poet.


http://www.veraregina.com.br/cantinho/frances/poe-fran/08.htm
There is the poem written down.

assignments and stuff 2/3

Wow to the blog. It is beautiful and inspiring and...creative!!!!!

For those of you who didn't make it to class, can you send me a paragraph describing how you intend to present your subject for the class presentation. And others who need to develop thier ideas a bit more, let me know how I can help. The best way to communicate is through e-mail at hawatson@mindspring.com.

I am also thinking you may each have more than 5 minutes, if you would like it. Give me some idea of the amount of time you feel comfortable with and we can try and make that work. When I came up with the five minutes, it was based on the numbers first enrolled in the class. Now we have more time.

For this Thursday, bring your favorite poem (and we will try to get to as many as possible).

For next Tuesday, read chapter 2 in Art Since 1960.

Pick your word/idea, and just let it rest in the back of your mind. You may focus on the class presentation now.

The class presentation paper (5-10 pages) about your subject (to give us context and background information) is due in class on March 3.

If your word from the swap has not appeared, please let me know.

The schedule up to class presentations is as follows : 2/5 The Word; 2/10 Phillp Bimstein (musician); 2/12 smells and memory; 2/17 Marcella Torres (storyteller); 2/19 Paintings and drawings (hum); 2/24 Anna Bliss (visual artist and colorist); 2/26 Video art (maybe); 3/3 first class presentations.

Puppet images to come....I need to dig them up.

If you want to listen to Janine Benyus talk about her work, check out http://www.ted.com/index.php/talks/janine_benyus_shares_nature_s_designs.html

Dream Photo

Ever since we were given this assignment, I've been having the most bizarre dreams, as if my subconscious is saying, "Ha! Take a picture of that!" As I was laying on the floor in my room, I was watching my ceiling fan as usual. I always follow one of the blades so that it looks like a person with a funny hat doing cartwheels on my ceiling.

That's sort of how my dreams are--cartwheels that don't go anywhere.

Feather

I found this thing
strange
it seems
to carry so much meaning
so heavy
like the words on this page
yet
in my own words
it is nothing
compared to the last feather
that fell from his wings.

dimension.

I exist
in space, time.
I am linedepthbloodeyelash.
In one instant I am now,
but in another I will
transcend
the now that I know.
What I find there may not be
what I find here.
What is there may be
familiar as woodskinsocksoatmeal.
It may be new terrain,
a theosophic revelation
minted in starsdusticelight.
Passing from here to there
I will spread
like liquidfireworksbutterspiderwebs.
I will drift slowly outward,
past the bonds of space, time,
and I might not even exist.

nightmare.

Oh, and you don't dream about dolls with porcelain skin and vacuous gazes?

It was a lovely daydream

And then I realized that dragons don't come out of picture frames. Darn!

Mercedes

Dream

My Dreams: A lost and vague state, engrossed with the paranoia of time. 

Dream Photo

There's a perfectly reasonable explanation to this, I promise.


Wait, no there isn't.

Word Poem: Ugly

There once was a guy named Chipugly,

Who was anything but snugly.

His unibrow

Was the size of a cow,

And now his name is just Ugly.

Banksy

The second that Anne said that we were going to do some kind of presentation about an artist, there were no options to me. I knew instantly that I had to do Banksy. Besides the fact that Banksy's work is truly beautiful, his work means so much more to me. Banksy changed how I viewed art and it changed my view on my own creativity. Paintings and drawing or most traditional art always seemed so distant to me. I have a hard time painting and I'm not a very good drawer but graffiti seemed more attainable to me and that's where it really grabbed me. Graffiti is an art that I can relate with but I can still marvel at. Banksy not only got me interested in art but he made me want to do it! His work indirectly changed my major, my interests, and possibly the course of my life. He is truly an influential artist, at the very least, an influential artist to me.

Word Swap - With Strangers

When I got this word I started thinking about this conversation I had with my friend a few weeks ago. We were talking about how every life is a story. Imagine everyone's life to be this epic movie where they are the main character and the narrator. Their friends are the secondary characters and supporting characters. There are conflicts, twists and even love interests but basically the story is contained within itself. The story, however, can be influence heavily by another set of forces, strangers. Strangers to stories are what make things exciting and different. Imagine famous movies crossing over, the terminator in kids films or the godfather family in a harlequin romance era, things are bound to happen! Strangers come into our lives and can quickly become new characters and new story-lines. Strangers are the true intrigue, surprise, and suspense in our lives.

A dream

These colors are dream like.....

Word Poem: India

On days when I have no motivation,
and nothing I do seems important,
and I can't seem to make a difference,
I wonder what it would be like
to be a million miles away.
If I was somewhere no one knew me,
if I could choose what to do each day,
if I didn't have to be somewhere
or do something
or see someone
if it was all up to me--no bills, no grades,
would I really do all of the things I dream
of doing
while stuck in a classroom or on some time clock?
If I went a million miles away, or at least as far as
India
would I find my motivation?

Word Poem (limerick): Venus de Milo

She was found in Milos on some farm

The French bought her without much alarm

All though she was broken

The French were outspoken

And insisted she had the most charm

Word Swap: Justice

Justice. Who determines this? Who's moral principle will determine just conduct? Are we to conform to the administration to what is just by law? Isn't it our right to not conform? Would it be unjust or heroic? I think Justice is well defined by Plato, in that he thinks that a just individual is someone who's soul is guided by the vision of the Good. But, what if others cannot see this 'Good'? Is it still just?