Paris,Eiffel from Montmartre, 2003
I’m playing with a new software called Poladroid,turning my photos into polaroid facsimilies. It seems to my eye that travel photos are well suited
to this treatment so I’m going to mine my archives and mount a series of these type of photographs.
Lost in the Clouds
..When you wake up, you will have the parts of the world.
West, an empty conch of water and air.
East, always behind you, the voided memory of snow-covered fir.
And extending from your outspread arms
Nothing but bronze grasses, north and south…
[excerpt] from: It Was Winter
author: CZESLAW MILOSZ
Our December
A shy man seeks perfection in his art:
Across vast acres, color and shape of tidiness,
Iowa’s unruly grass submits, blade by blade.
The blue of Mother’s dishes tints the sky. Across vast acres, color and shape of tidiness,
sloping rows and rectangles piece a new land.
The blue of Mother’s dishes tints the sky.
Like a black quilt tied with loops of green,
Across vast acres, color and shape of tidiness,
Iowa’s unruly grass submits, blade by blade.
The blue of Mother’s dishes tints the sky. Across vast acres, color and shape of tidiness,
sloping rows and rectangles piece a new land.
The blue of Mother’s dishes tints the sky.
Like a black quilt tied with loops of green,
sloping rows and rectangles piece the new land.
The reassuring fields of corn unfold
like black quilts tied with loops of green.
Under the artist’s alchemy,
The reassuring fields of corn unfold
like black quilts tied with loops of green.
Under the artist’s alchemy,
the reassuring fields of corn unfold.
Sweet clouds hover like the hands of God.
Under the artist’s alchemy,
even winter’s leaden skies grow bright.
Sweet clouds hover like the hands of God.
Under the artist’s alchemy,
even winter’s leaden skies grow bright.
Sweet clouds hover like the hands of God
as the Thirties’ skylines and bread lines disappear.
Even winter’s leaden skies grow bright.
A yellow hill rises, like the belly of a woman ripe with child,
as the Thirties’ skylines and bread lines disappear.
Even winter’s leaden skies grow bright.
A yellow hill rises, like the belly of a woman ripe with child,
as the skylines and bread lines disappear.
Iowa’s unruly grass submits, blade by blade,
a yellow hill rises—
and the shy man finds perfection in his art.
Iowa’s unruly grass submits, blade by blade,
a yellow hill rises—
and the shy man finds perfection in his art.
Title: For Grant Wood
Author: Margaret Mackinnon
Dante’s Dream
…The red balloon outside rose up
to an unsuspected sky, its chains
strained by the certainty that the nearer the inferno
the greater the paradise,
the nearer the prison cell
the greater the freedom.
from
Interferon
Black and White All Over
Happy New Year To All! Enjoy the ‘Blue Moon’ if you can see it from your locale. This phenomena won’t happen again on New Year Eve for another 19 years.