7.22.2012

154 MIRRORS


I wanted to photograph the yoke of mirrors in daylight, as I have no other way of storing it besides nailing it (with at least 4 nails, given the weight) high up on the wall, in hope that our cats' claws can't reach it. The mirrors are quite thin and fragile, so I have to be careful of where it lies. So here it is, and here am I looking sad and longingly into the corner of my studio ceiling.

7.17.2012

PRINT PURGE



I am trying to raise money for a film project, and so am selling a great number of prints, both reproductions and originals. Please visit here to view what is available. Thank you so much.

7.15.2012

FAVORITE REVIEWS OF KEUE YEO

(So far.)

"I feel like I'm hearing your soul cry."

"I don't understand it, but I feel like it is something that I need to hear. It is clearing something that needs to be cleared."

And my absolute favorite (sincerely):

"It gives me a weird feeling."

here


7.13.2012

MY WORDS SHOULD BE EATEN BY MICE

So there it is. Nothing much else needs be said, really. What
can be said for a man who chooses to blab on the phone
all day, or else write stupid letters
while he lets his poems go unattended and uncared for, abandoned---
or worse, unattempted. This man doesn't deserve poems
and they shouldn't be given to him in any form.
                His poems, should he ever produce any more,
ought to be eaten by mice.

TO THINK THAT ONCE I WAS THE SAME MAN DID NOT EMBARRASS ME


TWO CARRIAGES
Again the flying horses, the strange voice of drunken Nicanor, the wind and the persistent snow which got into one's eyes, one's mouth, and every fold of one's fur coat...The wind whistled, the coachmen shouted; and while this frantic uproar was going on, I recalled all of the details of that strange wild day, unique in my life, and it seemed to me that I really had gone out of my mind or become a different man. It was as though the man I had been till that day were already a stranger to me...A quarter of an hour later his horses fell behind and the sound of his bells were lost in the roar of the snowstorm.
---Anton Chekhov
"The Wife"

GIFT
A day so happy.
Fog lifted early, I worked over honeysuckle flowers.
There was no thing on earth that I wanted to possess.
I knew no one worth my envying him.
Whatever evil I had suffered, I forgot.
To think that once I was the same man did not embarrass me.
In my body I felt no pain.
When straightening up, I saw the blue sea and sails.
---Czeslaw Milosz