We Made This: Poster Art 150.
BBC: Shakespeare scholars try to see off the Bard’s doubters.
No matter how Shakey, I’ll always believe in the Bard. I packed him as a stupidly heavy hardback in my backpack to Big Bend in ‘78, and got to know him better than in any English class.
Project of How: Methods
A weblog of creative methods.
tiefgang: Alfa camera.
Cute. Resembles a vintage sardine tin.
Temescalien/thingsofinterest: Are you happy?
What can I say? It’s Friday.
Boston redux: Deep in my breast a fire, a burning flame.
Dozens give you Mr Rogers. I give you Walt Whitman.
The Wound-Dresser.
An old man bending, I come, among new faces,
Years looking backward, resuming, in answer to children,
Come tell us, old man, as from young men and maidens that love me;
Years hence of these scenes, of these furious passions, these chances,
Of unsurpass’d heroes, (was one side so brave? the other was equally brave;
Now be witness again — paint the mightiest armies of earth;
Of those armies so rapid, so wondrous, what saw you to tell us?
What stays with you latest and deepest? of curious panics,
Of hard-fought engagements, or sieges tremendous, what deepest remains?
O maidens and young men I love, and that love me,
What you ask of my days, those the strangest and sudden your talking recalls;
Soldier alert I arrive, after a long march, cover’d with sweat and dust;
In the nick of time I come, plunge in the fight, loudly shout in the rush of successful
charge;
Enter the captur’d works… yet lo! like a swift-running river, they fade;
Pass and are gone, they fade — I dwell not on soldiers’ perils or soldiers’ joys;
(Both I remember well — many the hardships, few the joys, yet I was content.)
But in silence, in dreams’ projections,
While the world of gain and appearance and mirth goes on,
So soon what is over forgotten, and waves wash the imprints off the sand,
In nature’s reverie sad, with hinged knees returning, I enter the doors — (while for you
up there,
Whoever you are, follow me without noise, and be of strong heart.)
Bearing the bandages, water and sponge,
Straight and swift to my wounded I go,
Where they lie on the ground, after the battle brought in;
Where their priceless blood reddens the grass, the ground;
Or to the rows of the hospital tent, or under the roof’d hospital;
To the long rows of cots, up and down, each side, I return;
To each and all, one after another, I draw near — not one do I miss;
An attendant follows, holding a tray — he carries a refuse pail,
Soon to be fill’d with clotted rags and blood, emptied and fill’d again.
I onward go, I stop,
With hinged knees and steady hand, to dress wounds;
I am firm with each — the pangs are sharp, yet unavoidable;
One turns to me his appealing eyes — (poor boy! I never knew you,
Yet I think I could not refuse this moment to die for you, if that would save you.)
On, on I go! — (open doors of time! open hospital doors!)
The crush’d head I dress, (poor crazed hand, tear not the bandage away;)
The neck of the cavalry-man, with the bullet through and through, I examine;
Hard the breathing rattles, quite glazed already the eye, yet life struggles hard;
(Come, sweet death! be persuaded, O beautiful death! In mercy come quickly.)
From the stump of the arm, the amputated hand,
I undo the clotted lint, remove the slough, wash off the matter and blood;
Back on his pillow the soldier bends, with curv’d neck, and side-falling head;
His eyes are closed, his face is pale, (he dares not look on the bloody stump,
And has not yet look’d on it.)
I dress a wound in the side, deep, deep;
But a day or two more — for see, the frame all wasted already, and sinking,
And the yellow-blue countenance see.
I dress the perforated shoulder, the foot with the bullet wound,
Cleanse the one with a gnawing and putrid gangrene, so sickening, so offensive,
While the attendant stands behind aside me, holding the tray and pail.
I am faithful, I do not give out;
The fractur’d thigh, the knee, the wound in the abdomen,
These and more I dress with impassive hand — (yet deep in my breast a fire, a burning
flame.)
Thus in silence, in dreams’ projections,
Returning, resuming, I thread my way through the hospitals;
The hurt and wounded I pacify with soothing hand, I sit by the restless all the dark
night — some are so young;
Some suffer so much — I recall the experience sweet and sad;
(Many a soldier’s loving arms about this neck have cross’d and rested,
Many a soldier’s kiss dwells on these bearded lips.)
Gridwax: Vertical rhythm in your browser.
Fer type wonks.
Vimeo: Wonder.
I want more, and with a real story behind it. Fun!
ArtDaily: Frances Lehman Loeb Art Center surveys four decades of Polaroid’s influence.
“From April 12 through June 30 the Frances Lehman Loeb Art Center will present The Polaroid Years: Instant Photography and Experimentation, a groundbreaking survey exhibition organized by the museum that will bring together Polaroid pictures by 39 artists and collectives from 1972 through the present. Artists represented include such pioneers of instant photography as Ansel Adams, Ellen Carey, Chuck Close, Walker Evans, David Hockney, Robert Mapplethorpe, Joyce Neimanas, Andy Warhol, and William Wegman as well as a new generation of artists including Anne Collier, Bryan Graf, Catherine Opie, Lisa Oppenheim, Dash Snow, Mungo Thomson, and Grant Worth.”
WSJ: The Return of the Serial Novel.
Back to the future. Dumas would thrive.
ArtDaily: Police patrol Louvre as it reopened its doors following staff walkout.
Check the pic; I don’t think a submachine gun is going to effectively counter a pickpocket. Better to wire up some law enforcement shills with electrodes in their pockets.
ArtDaily: Robert Redford condemns tribal mask sale as ‘sacrilege’.
“But while the sale of sacred Indian artefacts has been outlawed in the United States since 1990—legislation which has allowed the tribe to recover items held by American museums in the past—the law does not extend to sales overseas. The auction house, however, has said there are no grounds to halt the sale, stressing that the items being sold were acquired legally by a French collector during a 30-year residence in the United States.” I suspect there’s no real legal barrier to the sale other than a moral one. One could argue that the 1990 law was being circumvented, I suppose, if one could prove premeditation. A terrible shame if this goes through. All American native tribes could use more of their original artifacts to perpetuate and maintain their cultures.
Later: They’ve been sold. Sadly, I can’t show you the whole article here, because of the New Mexican’s new paywall. Some of you will see it, others won’t.
Jaime Jones: Gallery - Portfolio
Swords and … saucers? What? This is the guy you want illustrating your book. Definitely.
FreeYork: Artist Recycles Old Literature Into Incredible Paper Objects.
Hmmm. I remember constructing similar objects out of found items … because I didn’t have any money to spend, in the second grade. I created a particularly nice book paper, toilet roll and Pop-Tart box camera.
Core77: Conran Camera Concept, Yea or Nay?
But … but … how do you change lenses? (wink)
ArtDaily: Louvre closes after staff walkout fed up with dealing with aggressive pickpockets.
If you visit Mona, keep your money in your shoe.
Ann Street Studio: Weekend Getaway.
I could really use a weekend in Paris.
One Minute Wonders.
60 seconds to hear interesting people in their own words. Tastefully edited, the ones I’ve seen so far.
ArtDaily: National Portrait Gallery unveils its new portrait of Dame Maggie Smith.
Curious perspective on the floor.
TimeJump: Deep linking for Podcasts.
You podcasters (and musicians?) should like this.
NY Times: The Slow Death of the American Author.
“… instead of using the savings to be more generous to authors, the six major publishing houses — five of which were sued last year by the Justice Department’s Antitrust Division for fixing e-book prices — all rigidly insist on clauses limiting e-book royalties to 25 percent of net receipts. That is roughly half of a traditional hardcover royalty.” Just continuing to observe the slow-motion Napsterization of publishing.
ianclaridge.net: Tie Chi.
I can fairly say that this is one martial art that is virtually *never* used in Santa Fe. Except during legislative sessions.
ArtDaily: Japanese illustrated books tell of vibrant reading culture in Edo-period Japan.
Tablet Mag: Elizabeth Wurtzel Unpacks Her Record Collection.
The Art Newspaper: L’Aquila staggers towards recovery on fourth anniversary of quake.
When there’s no real plan and folks start throwing money around, it’s bound to end unsatisfactorily.
