A Joseph Cornell Kind of Day

At odd times I find myself missing the Joseph Cornell study room I used to wander around in at the museum's print storage area. It was dim in there, chalk full of drawers holding bits of feathers, bones, scraps of paper, really a giant nest of foundlings. I was reading a random blog and came across this box:


and this achingly beautiful portrait of Cornell by Duane Michals:



PS: What is your favorite Cornell piece?

The wonders of the suit

There was this hilarious moment in my house this week when we were preparing our roommate Mike for an upcoming interview. Mike as a New York communist fella doesn't wear suits all too often so we were trying to help him out. Carl, being the same size of Mike would wear a suit, and Mike would wear the other option then they would change it up and Melissa and I judged which worked best. Lengthy conversations about collar size, ties, colors, vests, etc ensued and I must say I gained a greater appreciation for men's wear. Usually I don't trust suits, the smell of corporatism and sterile hallways, for me usually just give me a man straight out of the mountains. But these suits, wow, they speak of wonders, not of corporations and hierarchy but of the male form. Perhaps its the fact that my Mom as a fashion designer and seamstress and I grew up parading through her sewing room in patterns and fabrics that the sight of something really well made still brings me joy.

So here is a brief tribute to Men and their fabulous garments as brought to us by the Sartorialist (and J Crew)

a castle in the sky

i've spent an enormous amount of time this summer forgetting and remembering and trying to remember and reliving and forgetting all over again what it means to be a child. it's a funny thing, to move back to the same neighborhood you grew up in after nearly two decades of estrangement, only to find startlingly poignant pockets of familiarity here and there.

two of the students i've been tutoring are much less students and much more little kids, aged 8 and 6, forced to study english while july leaks slowly towards august. in the journal entries i assign them to write i find that i am remembering, more than through anything else, exactly what it was to be 7-years-old and living a stifling summer in seoul. and how it was that the playground could squeal its appeal to me with such delight, or the way the river could look so eternally magical with its boats in a queue like christmas lights. in my land of reverie i was a golden princess trapped by a wicked spell, or an adventuring scientist looking for a medicinal cure in the local backyard jungle, or a girl with a lovely necklace, falling from a castle in the sky...



thanks to miyazaki for his unfailing artistry and his continuing ability to perfectly illustrate all of the grandest imaginations and excitements of being seven again.
(and, of course, the opening credits of castle in the sky.)

The Function of Art/1

(this is one of my favorite eduardo galeano pieces)

Diego had never seen the sea. His father, Santiago Kovadloff, took him to discover it.
They went south.
The ocean lay beyond high sand dunes, waiting.
When the child and his father finally reached the dunes after much walking, the ocean exploded before their eyes.
And so immense was the sea and its sparkle that the child was struck dumb by the beauty of it.
And when he finally managed to speak, trembling, stuttering, he asked his father:
"Help me to see!"

Pilgrimage

Outside the small town of Vladslo, Belgium, is a World War I German military cemetery. I visited this cemetery several months ago on a Sunday afternoon on my way from Ieper to Brugges. In the middle of Flanders, an area that suffered horrific losses between 1914 and 1918, I made a detour because I wanted to see The Parents, a pair of statues that German artist Kathe Kollwitz sculpted specifically for this cemetery, where the bodies of hundreds of German soldiers--including that of her son Peter--lay buried, their graves marked only by simple plaques bearing lists of names and dates.


It took Kollwitz about eighteen years to sculpt something she felt was appropriate for such a space, this humble cemetery in the middle of enemy territory. What she finally decided upon was a pair of statues, two parents, grieving over their dead sons.

I believe this is the most poignant memorial to the tragedy of war I have ever seen. And, in a melancholy way, it inspires me.

welkom!!!

to dear amanda , a true transpacificist if i ever saw one. we are so excited to see the treasures she finds for us!

damian ortega

this guy, like, defies everything i ever thought about installation art:

Controller of the Universe

2007

for more, click here

Music in the Wilderness

Have any of you seen the film "Out of Africa"? I must say it's a pure gem. One of my favorite quotes is when Karen(Meryl Streep) is describing Denys (Robert Redford) - "He even took the gramophone on safari. Three rifles, supplies for a month, and Mozart.' And of course while they are safari they place a grammophone near some wild baboons and play it. "Think of it: never a man-made sound... and then Mozart!"

Well, while perusing through BBC News today I found this article : "Hitting the high notes on Snowdon"

"Forget concert halls and theatres, a trio of cellists have scaled new heights to perform their music.

The three self-styled "extreme cellists" threw their heavy instruments over their back to scale Snowdon and then played together at the top.

It was the latest mountain in their challenge to play at the top of the highest peaks in the UK and Ireland.

Jeremy Dawson, Clare Wallace and James Rees are raising money for Mountain Rescue and a spinal injuries charity.

The trio - who are all amateur musicians - said they were inspired by the sport of extreme ironing, where adventurous people iron in remote and risky locations, such as on top of mountains and tall buildings.

They have previously played on top of every Anglican cathedral in England.

Mr Dawson, 32, from Sheffield, who by day is a university lecturer in statistics, said the climb to the top of Snowdon took just over three hours.

"It was a long slog but we were really lucky with the views - it was beautiful at the top," he said.

"Our cellos weigh about two stone (12.7 kg) each and we carry them on our backs like big ruck-sacs. It's hard work, especially going up the steep bits.

"But we've been in training, doing fitness work and taking our cellos up hills."

He said a few people joined them to walk to the top to listen to the music, but most walkers on the mountain were taken by surprise to hear live music being played 3,560ft (1,085m) up on Snowdon's summit.

"There were several dozen people on Snowdon listening to us - many of them were caught by surprise, which is nice," said Mr Dawson, who has been playing "extreme" music with school teachers Ms Wallace, 48, from Sheffield and Mr Rees, 28, from Ely, Cambridgeshire, since 2003.

The trio have so far raised over £3,000 from their mountain music challenge, which will be donated to the spinal cord injury charity, Aspire and mountain rescue organisations around the UK and Ireland."

reason 234,098,271 i love z.h.

So many feelings fit between two heartbeats

so many objects can be held in our two hands

Don't be surprised we can't describe the world

and just address things tenderly by name.

-Zbigniew Herbert, from "Never of You"

love courier in chicago

i found this link on apartmenttherapy.com and fell in love. it's a group of artists that courier love notes all over the city. the notes get put in these pretty glass bottles:

i strongly believe this service should be provided worldwide. for more information click here.

the bench project, mexico city

when i think "community" i don't typically think of a bench. but it makes so much sense. sitting with someone: perhaps the simplest form of community that becomes, in so many ways, another form of communion.

the bench project's exhibition begins with a lovely poem by eduardo lagagne (forgive my shoddy translation):

Here the desire, the illusion,
here the dreams.
Here the search,
the confession,
the intimate silence.

Here the indecision,
here the tremors, fears, questions,
the lover’s response, here.
Here hands are given,
a suggestive kiss.

So far the city
limits the noise.
Here, then, is peace,
a kiss,
a hug.

Here us,
nobody else,
us.

...and then the benches--they are gorgeous, celebratory, odd, and lovely...

"Ya no hay lugar" (There's no place anymore) by Leonora Carrington.

as july breathes into august...

"blue in green" by miles davis. probably one of my favorite songs of all time. it makes me want fire escapes and flickering street lamps, clothes humming in the dryer, bowls of hulled strawberries that i devour on my old back porch.

Jose Gonzalez - Hand on Your Heart

Well it's one thing to fall in love, but another to make it last

neruda: always near and dear

Clenched Soul

We have lost even this twilight.
No one saw us this evening hand in hand
while the blue night dropped on the world.

I have seen from my window
the fiesta of sunset in the distant mountain tops.

Sometimes a piece of sun
burned like a coin in my hand.

I remembered you with my soul clenched
in that sadness of mine that you know.

Where were you then?
Who else was there?
Saying what?
Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly
when I am sad and feel you are far away?

The book fell that always closed at twilight
and my blue sweater rolled like a hurt dog at my feet.

Always, always you recede through the evenings
toward the twilight erasing statues.

Painting by William Rock with calligraphy by Huang Xiang. They have a whole poet/artist series that is awesome: The Century Mountain Project.

because sometimes you just need otters

(this is so widely circulated i'm sure you've all seen it. but it helps with getting through the final 10 minutes of work. it helps a whole lot.)

cuteness defeating global evil

Today my boss Aung Din had me proofread a speech he will give to the UN this week on prisoners of conscience. A lot of it was about his time as a political prisoner in Burma.

"I was arrested by the military intelligence, which is known in Burma as MI, on a passenger bus, while I was moving from a hiding place to another. A group of strong men forcibly removed me from the bus, blindfolded me, and handcuffed me at my back and threw me into a waiting truck. For two hours, I was on the floor of the truck, lying and facing the dirty floor, and these men put their boots on my body. For them, I was defeated. I heard their voice, reporting to their boss, using a walky-talky, that their mission was accomplished. I realized that a gate of hell was open.
"

He then goes on to talk about his torture, solitary confinement, confinement in total darkness, and more. It was pretty overwhelming. He is a stoic uncommunicative Burmese man who rarely speaks and has many serious health problems. I had never heard the details from him about his time in prison. I know many Burmese who have been imprisoned and many of my heroes still are.

And so I took a cue from my boss and did what he does to help with the pain - I looked up on google images of puppies. Seriously, his desktop on his computer is that of puppies and kittens. He has problems relating to people after so much he's been through, but animals, animals, he loves.

So yes, puppies, bless you.