tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-40426008885401159212024-03-04T23:17:24.601-05:00The Paradigm for BeautyUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger93125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4042600888540115921.post-13682500446108890952022-11-28T12:57:00.009-05:002022-11-28T13:02:08.108-05:00Is the Picture Big Enough?<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_bGvHs0rLsxs/TA6v6-Uq1eI/AAAAAAAAABk/Bcr13M3mZ0A/s1600/scan+12+for+blog.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480511224253437410" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_bGvHs0rLsxs/TA6v6-Uq1eI/AAAAAAAAABk/Bcr13M3mZ0A/s400/scan+12+for+blog.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 400px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 311px;" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Life poses many choices. I gotta pick something every now and again. Hopefully, the choice I make is the best one for the moment. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">But, how am I ever to know? I cannot live in parallel universes or at least I do not think I can. Is multi-tasking a form of operating in parallel universes? Now, I am listening to music, writing this blog entry, drinking water, eating tamari-roasted almonds and trying to take care of my aching back.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">A friend once impressed upon me that since I was alone and the world lay before me, I should take advantage of every second of every day. I don't know exactly how he saw me doing that. But he drinks a helluva lot of coffee and I don't, so maybe his perceptions are generally speedy.</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Since the time my friend freely gave me that advice, my emotional, spiritual and expressive lives, which are integrated more closely now than ever before, have guided me through my choices. The sky may be the limit, but choosing within that limit is the challenge. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Imagining</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> the limit is the challenge. Adapting to readily identifiable givens seems to be the first step to establishing "the limit." </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By "limit," I mean answering the question who am I? within my art. How clearly can I describe what I have chosen to describe. At some junctures, my writing </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">and </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">my art</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> have been so baroque that determining what is going on has been extraordinarily difficult. The endless verbosity has flowed like a river; if spoken, the words translated as meaningless stream of consciousness. Oddly enough, in the art of creative writing, that is called "generative prose." Buried within that generative prose was the writer's voice. It is still taking shape. In the art, I started out over thirty years ago with a vision that is pure, but in order to secure that vision, the work had to become so impetuous and impulsive that it was a relief to find some inkling of the source for the purity. Buried within the mess of marks and uncharacteristic imagery was a clear, unadulterated visual statement. It took forever to re-establish it.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The art and the writing have strangely developed a voice that was always there. I just had to shape it, hone it, and keep manifesting the principles I always believed in. Aye, those principles were the crux. Sustaining them meant that I was building the skeleton. I simply had to make it stronger and the bones constituting it had to be as dense as possible. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Improvised music sometimes may sound like no musician knows where he or she is going. William Parker once said, and certainly his statement is shared by all improvisers, that an improviser has to have chops. Just like the athlete has to have muscles. It is only then that the musician can succeed in going where he knows he must go. Chops allow freedom. Expressiveness becomes a matter of course, something you can do and do well. Responsiveness to oneself or to someone else is automatic. No labor involved. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Art and writing can be as temporal as music given intentions of the artist. But the refinement and the editing, respectively, can take more time...before the picture is framed or the writing is copyrighted, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">published </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">or simply finished as an example of one of those satisfying creative efforts.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">So as the motion from one creative act to another may involve more than one state of consciousness to reach a destination, I am still traveling towards the original celestial limit. My mind is like a chemical multi-directional conveyor belt. The limit will never be reached, because I have no idea where it is. All I can do is relish the trip and not postpone the joy. Wherever that is, however that can be achieved. And joy is the impetus behind the choices. I have to remember to enrich the major choices with the details that can accompany them. I can wear a white shirt, a black jacket and jeans, but what do I wear underneath? Lace or cotton underwear? And how about jewelry? And mascara and lipstick? I mean how far do I go to accessorize? Will I still be recognized?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">copyright 2010 Lyn Horton</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">photo: partial view of "Still Life with Curves" #13, copyright 1974-2010 Lyn Horton</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">
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</span></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4042600888540115921.post-54606036815426469732022-09-13T11:42:00.002-04:002022-09-13T11:44:30.074-04:00Savoring, Republished from 2010<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>Too often, one can plow through life believing, or not even believing, rather mindlessly thinking that being here, alive on earth, is a matter of fact, not for appreciation or awareness thereof.<div>
</div><div>That I have titled this blog <i>The Paradigm for Beauty<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"> means that I want to write about the experiences that I appreciate in my life. I am also interested in the consciousness required to witness experience and see, hear, touch, smell and feel it.</span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">
</span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">Just because I write about creative improvised music and make visual art does not preclude the fact that my capacity for enjoying birdsongs is non-existent. </span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">
</span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">I think that being female contributes a lot to how I think and how I use my senses to invest experience with significance. That the birdbath on my terrace can be viewed from my dining room table offers the opportunity for participating in a natural world, albeit a limited one, one without jaguars and lions, whales, and seals. </span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">
</span></i></div><div>In silence, sound is abundant. All winter long, when the windows are shut, the nature of the sound has everything to do with the interior and logically the internal. When winter approaches, I am ready for it. I am ready to focus on my internal spaces. I am ready to batten down the hatches, seal up the cave and seemingly hibernate: infrared photography would reveal this bundle of energy roaming the house, pausing for a while, then roaming again. What the photo would not show is the way my mind is operating, developing ideas for my art, listening to music for the purpose of writing about it. Once it is March, I yawn with anticipation of the changing light, of throwing the windows open and letting the exterior invade the interior.</div><div>
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</div><div>The spring calls me outside. The smells of the earth beckon me to sink my fingers into the dirt to care for my garden. I want to feel the breezes and the rain on my face. I want to fall asleep without laying a heating pad on my chest. That time eventually comes every year. The temperature of the inside of the house equalizes with the temperature of the outside so I do not have to raise and shut the windows all the time, having become an anthropomorphic thermostat. And when the windows are open, so my longing to be one with the universe pervades my psyche. It is the sounds that take me to that cosmic plane. It is the revivification of the colors that re-sensitize my notions of change. I become healthier because my body is taking in the energy that is more evident, more noticeable than it seems to be in winter, although I know that is not true.</div><div>
</div><div>Change is continuous. One tends to compartmentalize instead of embracing the whole. It is the whole that is changing; we are part of the whole. Knowing that we are simply contributors to the change of the whole is a matter of consciousness. We are not controlling it; we are filters. Like every other living entity. Filters for experience. </div><div>
</div><div>Too often, we are caught in the web of our imagined function. We are led by our own ideas of who we are, instead of recognizing that the energy we expend physically is irretrievable and we are decaying with every breath we take. However, our spirit is enriching itself, the longer we live, the more we breathe, the more we listen, smell, touch, taste and look. We are blessed and we have to remind ourselves how, every second of every waking moment.</div><div>
</div><div><br /></div><div>copyright 2010 Lyn Horton</div><div>
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</i></div><div><i> </i></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4042600888540115921.post-72034259293862366712022-04-02T20:31:00.056-04:002022-04-08T11:23:21.492-04:00Strict Beauty: Sol LeWitt Prints Out His Vision
<p>Viewers must be visually cautious in approaching the art, no matter in what form, of Sol LeWitt as if it were for the first time, without preconceptions. The breadth of his work seemingly has no bounds. The work gives the impression of being restrained and constricted by rules yet the human element penetrates it with grace, boldness and tenderness. LeWitt knew this. The necessary parameters are always stated and evident but he created them with potentially unexpected results in mind. His story is told by drawn lines; strong, steady or wavering brushstrokes; and by the choices he made determining geometric design strategies in series of multiples, (even as pertains to his three-dimensional work).<p>
<p>From the very beginning, LeWitt was fashioning his hand to make delicate and expressive strokes as demonstrated in the first lithographs and etchings dating from as early as 1948. Correlating the similarities between the first few prints in the exhibition and those that become identified with his signature language points to his awareness of the surface area on which an image would rest. <p>
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<p>One of LeWitt’s many purposes was to map the surface in shaping any of his two-dimensional work. Throughout his history, he laid out the ways in which he would do that. In every level of engagement though, he allowed himself ways to move further. His vocabulary grew. His language evolved multi-directionally. Lines were the predominate informants. The lines started to form shapes; the shapes became filled with color. The number of choices he could make grew, as he developed layers and layers of givens which he could move around any way he wanted to without sacrificing the consistency of imagery. Printmaking no doubt gave him a range of subtleties that were unachievable in original work because he could move entire images that lived on plates and reincorporate them into the print which he was making or repeat images without the direct introduction of his hand. <p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgGPAMsKZXiK_wf5XSr-ztk-rMSNG6-nlS0dU-m5BzFu7g1XF99CyaD3SUQ_suy80vNkScvS4Imxm7iqmi8dHMDiEQrpyR6JmE9ch9Trw8sZkkbx2ozu0WelQgw8RZ64547lYAvT8VOQpQx5WwGVaQ8VOyABCBJSxubU-Y6hppsfFqWPdXaXLhp0Cz/s564/detail%20from%20a%20set%20of%20six%20Line%20Etchings,%20etching,%20color%20etching%20and%20aquatint,%202000.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="564" data-original-width="564" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgGPAMsKZXiK_wf5XSr-ztk-rMSNG6-nlS0dU-m5BzFu7g1XF99CyaD3SUQ_suy80vNkScvS4Imxm7iqmi8dHMDiEQrpyR6JmE9ch9Trw8sZkkbx2ozu0WelQgw8RZ64547lYAvT8VOQpQx5WwGVaQ8VOyABCBJSxubU-Y6hppsfFqWPdXaXLhp0Cz/s320/detail%20from%20a%20set%20of%20six%20Line%20Etchings,%20etching,%20color%20etching%20and%20aquatint,%202000.jpg"/></a></div>
<p>The magnificent array of prints in <i>Strict Beauty</i> demonstrates a means with which LeWitt could magnify the richness of possibilities within a surface of paper. Because he was his own kind of perfectionist, nearly all of the prints appear as though they are original drawings. That is one reason that they are stunning, arresting and embracing, defying all attachment to a mechanized method of production. <p>
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<p>LeWitt’s specific types of imagery appear and reappear but from different perspectives, with different nuances, in different colors, with different kinds of lines. Isometric geometry often forms the skeleton for the application of color or line or both. <p>
<p>Fine lines become opaque brushstrokes, elegantly sweeping across the page over and over again in a sensical way, e.g. <i>Parallel Curves</i>, <i>Wavy Lines</i>, or in freeform combination of strokes, i.e. loops and curves, the fun-filled <i>Loopy-Doopy</i>; or move vertically in simple downward and upward strokes, overlapping, mixing with each other transparently in a gauzy curtain with an imaginary breeze wafting through. <p>
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<p>The expansion of surface takes place also with his use of color, persistently primary and secondary and combinations thereof, sometimes so muted it almost disappears and is visible only in contrast to another color or to black, and sometimes so brash and loud that the viewer can only approach the piece from a certain distance in order to absorb it, i.e. <i>The Lincoln Center Print</i>, 1998. <p>
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<p><i>Whirls and Twirls</i>, <i>Color</i>, and <i>Black</i>, 2005, were made two years before LeWitt passed away. They are a magnificent journey of primary color, geometry and free flowing guided lines all contained within one fundamentally curvilinear shape. These pieces were double-hung as the conclusion of the exhibit. They express the unceasing dynamic that energizes LeWitt’s work. <p>
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<p>Art grows from innumerable sources. Those sources are instilled in an active artist’s creative being and stem from life experience, education, consciousness and basic knowhow. The results of an artist’s process are seldom as definably pristine as the way in which LeWitt’s unfolds. But indefatigable analysis from outside of an artist’s work that apparently invites it squeezes out any chance of its being appreciated for its essence which is to be beautiful, thoroughly beautiful. <p>
<p>Illustrations
from top to bottom:
<i>Untitled (Female Nude)</i>, 1950, lithograph, sheet size 15 7/8" x 11 9/16"; detail from a set of six <i>Line Etchings</i>, etching, color etching and aquatint, 2000, each sheet size 16"x 16"; <i>Straight Brushstrokes in Five Colors in All Directions</i>, 1996, color aquatint, sheet size 29" x 29"; <i>Six Brushstrokes in Different Colors in Two Directions</i>, 1993, color sugar lift aquatint, each sheet and image size 47" x 29 3/8"; <i>Lincoln Center Print</i>, 1998, screenprint, sheet size 38" x 30 1/4"; <i>Whirls and Twirls, Color and Black</i>, 2005, color linocut, each sheet size 25" x 55."
<p> (This article was written after seeing <i>Strict Beauty: Sol LeWitt Prints</i>, curated by David Areford, PhD, at the Williams College Museum of Art, Williamstown, MA. The exhibit was installed first at the New Britain Museum of American Art, New Britain, CT, where LeWitt’s work was first exhibited in 1949.) <p>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4042600888540115921.post-28792249442769094202019-04-29T13:59:00.002-04:002019-04-29T13:59:35.257-04:00As Seen on Arteidolia: Swifts & Slows, Lyn Horton & Power Boothe<h2 style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: webfont, sans-serif; font-size: 28px; font-weight: normal; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://www.arteidolia.com/"><img alt=" Arteidolia" border="0" data-original-height="92" data-original-width="650" height="45" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_ANKdBLX6vE/XGGcSfIwwXI/AAAAAAAAExo/q6nlx3Iuem8kDVmROBayBvcOqM6VBOe4wCLcBGAs/s320/alogo.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<h2 style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: webfont, sans-serif; font-size: 28px; font-weight: normal; text-align: center;">
s w i f t s & s l o w s: a quarterly of crisscrossings</h2>
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<i>Line by Line</i></h3>
<h3 style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: webfont, sans-serif; font-size: 22px; font-weight: normal; text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i>Lyn Horton & Power Boothe<i><br /></i></h3>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3jdHOpAl7UY/XGGdC6sx8oI/AAAAAAAAExw/xP95gf817RwTH8up5Zv4lDEKf8eQsgNJgCLcBGAs/s1600/Power-Boothe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3jdHOpAl7UY/XGGdC6sx8oI/AAAAAAAAExw/xP95gf817RwTH8up5Zv4lDEKf8eQsgNJgCLcBGAs/s400/Power-Boothe.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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None of us can remember seeing our hands and feet for the first time. We began to unfold the layers of knowing, differentiating this from that. Extending our hands and feet had a purpose. The initial steps to communicating. Our interaction with the world became too complicated to let communication remain as single hand outlines painted on pitted dark cave walls. Language needed some kind of organizing principle in order to mean anything. Left to right. Right to left. Up and down. Down and up. Across. How to assemble symbols to declare, to instruct, to explain, to question, to exclaim, to simply say.</div>
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Somewhere in that evolution the grid appeared. Some say it is the way our brain is arranged. How to extend order to our internal and external cognitive environments. </div>
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Originally these grids were only dots and called “Ellipsis” as in dot dot dot. Dots then became lines. “Ellipsis” stayed. “Ellipsis” pointed to: More planes to denote. More spatial relationships to create.</div>
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On undetectably torn pieces of paper, the ruled drawn lines have some kind of tooth to grip. A wash or carefully brushed line can glide without falling into any textural dimples. The faint, nearly illegible grids are fences along which imagistic decisions depend. Questions arise about when to keep the small one-foot square surfaces cool or when to heat them up. When to scrape off the color or when to add it. Individual lines dominate or recede. They always coincide with the lines of the grid. They span the lengths of grid lines from one intersection to the next. They are whole. They exist on the sharp edge of the inch and a half wide razor blade that makes them with a twirl or a swipe. The lines are nurtured as the babes they are. And somehow disciplined and recalled.</div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nvg7dlLmIQE/XGGdVA5A17I/AAAAAAAAEx4/fVraN74e80kDKhahBu8ZuqNQiBi2k2sUgCLcBGAs/s1600/power-boothe-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="502" data-original-width="500" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nvg7dlLmIQE/XGGdVA5A17I/AAAAAAAAEx4/fVraN74e80kDKhahBu8ZuqNQiBi2k2sUgCLcBGAs/s400/power-boothe-3.jpg" width="397" /></a></div>
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The way the wind blows, the lines go.<br />
Like leaves, like snowflakes carried by air currents, the lines land.<br />
The scatter of the lines is totally methodical. Without method.<span style="background-color: transparent;"> </span>The lines retreat from sequence. They occur intermittently, persistently and have equal importance. The lines are sought after without a chase.</div>
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<div style="font-family: Lato, sans-serif; font-size: 18px !important; line-height: 1.5; text-align: justify;">
We can run, skip, walk, ride, float or glide through the linear forest of colors, of blue and black and red and purple and yellow, and play hide and seek or tag, go anywhere we want to go. To pursue our dreams of fulfillment. To delight in the surprises of discovery. To be invited. Not pushed into the space where sheets of golden iridescence or opaque opalescence transcend their obvious limits. We can only know how we feel here. Because there is nothing to know. There is only what we can experience. Unexpectedly. Mysteriously attracted, we might never want to leave.</div>
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We are both artist and viewer in the viewing. The artist envelops our wonder and our intuition with his own. We stay alive in the company of his animated imagined community.</div>
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The artist uses his brain to extend his visions so that they can be noticed, studied, or rarely ignored.</div>
</blockquote>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-nIGEJ7QOJME7F9URfVSboW1ZhKpHb1vhI4BUenh7DMPzwM4j-FpKeKKart8nXHEzEpBiX9Jghcxgg3VTQBdV3YehUGcH2lH4otQ_0X-_KBdYFhtvdiMziISjKkNJV_ZaCvnNT4HxMc4/s1600/power-boothe-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-nIGEJ7QOJME7F9URfVSboW1ZhKpHb1vhI4BUenh7DMPzwM4j-FpKeKKart8nXHEzEpBiX9Jghcxgg3VTQBdV3YehUGcH2lH4otQ_0X-_KBdYFhtvdiMziISjKkNJV_ZaCvnNT4HxMc4/s400/power-boothe-2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<div style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Lato, sans-serif; font-size: 18px !important; line-height: 1.5; text-align: center;">
Power Boothe’s work courtesy of Fred Giampietro Gallery</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4042600888540115921.post-54357842822670847702019-04-29T13:35:00.000-04:002019-04-30T11:27:01.542-04:00Dedicated to My Mother<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixYpSU1amXr1zOmYFhgy414vdEfhgiTS6EwAAXZJftBpao3dkRYFCNQ524Rb8b58I7OXWUjThNpWQ-f2JOS9OIphjVhFwJIh9Ed8pJsYinXHsVSTmXTn9PJQuwMb8uSdhu9MnlwuUlh44/s1600/the+end+of+the+world%252C+2019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="608" data-original-width="1080" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixYpSU1amXr1zOmYFhgy414vdEfhgiTS6EwAAXZJftBpao3dkRYFCNQ524Rb8b58I7OXWUjThNpWQ-f2JOS9OIphjVhFwJIh9Ed8pJsYinXHsVSTmXTn9PJQuwMb8uSdhu9MnlwuUlh44/s640/the+end+of+the+world%252C+2019.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It was Easter Sunday.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
No family around to celebrate <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The rising of Christ from the dead.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
No eggs planted anywhere.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My breakfast French toast was dipped in eggs though,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Drenched in syrup, where berries and cinnamon also
floated.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The dishes were washed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The reading of the news was done. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I was sufficiently terrorized,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Thrust into hopelessness and gloom.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Some say we will survive.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Others say nay.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I have no reason to believe in anything but myself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
So much trauma in my own life caused by those <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Who were meant to love me unconditionally.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As parents, as lovers, as friends, as a husband.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I was alone.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And intent on finding another place <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
To merge with the natural world. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Down the state highway going south<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Is the entrance to a road that parallels <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The river I visit on Sundays.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I have never been down this road.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It was a good day to give it a try.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Discovering this path by the river <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
For the first time on foot, I was eager<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
To see where it took me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I parked where a closed gate blocked going any further by
car.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I parked beside a truck bearing New Hampshire license
plates.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A sign on the gate said FLOOD.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
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I walked past the gate.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The road descended gradually.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The river was on the left of the road.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The river was full and rollicking over rocks.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Eventually, the rushing river disappeared from view<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And changed into a stream.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
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I passed two couples and one dog from New Hampshire,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Going in the other direction.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I wished them Happy Easter.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I passed a crevice on my right side, the side of the main
road above,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Carved out by a temporary charge of water in the past rainstorms.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Grasses lay across the road in the direction in which the
water had taken them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The stream flowed into a flood plain.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
When I reached the open flood plain,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
My body was seized with an anxiety<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I have not felt since I was a toddler.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I stopped walking.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I stood looking out <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Over acres and acres of <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>three foot long grasses<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Laid flat by water.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
In the distance was a short cement bridge.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Do I walk that far? I said to myself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It was not raining.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
My steps carried me several hundred yards<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
To the bridge.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The bridge passed over the stream that was the river.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I was standing in a flood plain bordered by a dam wall.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I turned around 360 degrees.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
No birds were singing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Nor could I see any flying.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
No sound.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Not even from the flow of the water.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I could not detect the breeze.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The water had receded from its flood stages.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been standing there.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
On the bridge.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
This is how the end of the world is going to look,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I thought.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The clouded gray sky foretelling of more rain<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Provided a cyclorama against which the silhouettes of the
trees<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Atop the hills, which cupped the valley, grew.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I took pictures.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I sought out where the road would lead<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
If I were to continue walking.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The road disappeared around a hill.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Because I had hurt my knee, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And I would have worsened how hurt it was,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I decided against continuing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Besides, the drops of a drizzle began <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
To hit my cheeks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I turned and started to retrace my steps<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Back to the entrance <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Where my car was parked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Experiencing this place measured an inkling <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Of acceptance of imminent death.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
My death.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The death of the earth.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The death of all.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The irrevocable final transformation of all.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
In five billion years,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The sun explodes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I have known that the sun will explode <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
For my entire adult life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I saw moments before the end time<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
In that flood plain. On Easter Sunday.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Scientists say that the sun will explode in five billion
years <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
From the time they declared it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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From now.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Less, of course, the number of years I will have lived.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4042600888540115921.post-45082182746896589532019-01-29T12:36:00.000-05:002019-04-29T14:01:32.718-04:00As Seen on ARTEIDOLIA: Peter Pincus's Finesse<div id="header" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: webfont, sans-serif; margin: 0px; padding: 70px 21.25px 40px;">
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<span class="" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-top-width: 0px; clear: both; display: block; height: 0px; padding-top: 0.1px;"></span>Lyn Horton<br /><span style="line-height: 1.5;">January 2019</span></h2>
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<span style="line-height: 1.5;"><span style="font-size: 14px; text-align: center;"> Peter Pincus, </span><em style="font-size: 14px; text-align: center;">Ewer</em><span style="font-size: 14px; text-align: center;">, 2018.</span></span></div>
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Artists live in a tight world of history and influence. The medium an artist uses often points to possible penchants for attractive pods of that network. How an artist assimilates those areas of interest is complicated and eventually translates into what the artist ends up doing in both apparent and undetectable ways.</div>
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Peter Pincus is a contemporary ceramic artist. He has in his own practice evolved a means to unite history and influence to create his signature vision. Although he speaks of ceramics as being “too material specific to be classified as fine art,” he has produced an array of objects that walk a fine line of defying that statement.</div>
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As a teacher, husband and father, he and his wife have bonded to establish a vibrant working environment. Their studio is organized and stocked plentifully with materials exemplified by shelf after shelf after shelf of color-infused liquid slip clay. Twenty hours of studio time per week unfolds not only the fabrication of utilitarian objects that helps to fund their livelihood, but also the unique inimitable pieces that constitute Pincus’s oeuvre.</div>
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Pincus is an intense, dedicated master of his craft. His work speaks a restrained yet exuberant enthusiasm for those visual artists and ceramicists who have come before him. This article hinges upon an exhibit, at Ferrin Contemporary in North Adams, MA, entitled “Peter Pincus: Channeling Josiah Wedgwood.”</div>
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An English potter of the 18th century, Josiah Wedgwood impressed Pincus in more ways than the obvious. Bringing to light Wedgwood’s integrity in regards to how pottery was manufactured intertwined with the dissemination of his views on social justice and labor practice, Pincus distinguishes Wedgwood’s scientific methods as “obsessively” studying materials and their characteristics and “feverishly” creating “bodies of work in a way that was unparalleled in the history of ceramics.” The invention of Jasper, a white unglazed porcelain often colored with metallic oxides, “… altered the way the world viewed porcelain and white ware …” (Pale blue jasperware denotes Wedgwood’s brand of ceramics.) Pincus also believes that pieces coming out of Wedgwood’s factory at Etruria, Italy, are “perhaps the finest work (he) has ever seen. Excellent proportions, gorgeous forms, subtle transitions. It is sculpture about pottery, created before sculpture about pottery was a thing.”</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Peter Pincus, <em style="color: #444444; font-size: 14px;">Kalyx Crater</em><span style="color: #444444; font-size: 14px;">, 2018.</span></td></tr>
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Pincus has adopted and pushed through the most interesting aspects of Wedgwood’s work for his own purposes. He exaggerates, bloats or elongates the predominant curvilinear forms, the details of the handles, the shapes of feet that support the vases and the lips and the spouts of vessels. “There is an endless potential to develop more succinct form. The more I make,” he says, “the more sensitive I become to proportion, scale, and relationship.”</div>
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Distinct to Pincus’s interpretation of visual art is the multiplicity of geometric designs superimposed on the surfaces of his pieces.</div>
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The interaction of multicolored and/or monotone stripes and parallel-line or triangular shapes that appear on the silky-smooth skins of the ceramic works are created from colored porcelain veneers layered laboriously into the mold. The last layer of material which completes the final three-dimensional form is poured into the prepared plaster mold. The resulting chemistry that occurs in the process of slip clay casting through the multiple firings of the pieces in the molds produces the end product, which itself is washed and treated to its peak condition</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Peter Pincus,<em style="color: #444444; font-size: 14px;"> Vase with Handles</em><em style="color: #444444; font-size: 14px;">,</em><span style="color: #444444; font-size: 14px;"> 2018.</span></td></tr>
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How materials interact, merge and blossom is crucial to the impact of Pincus’s ceramic art and to how the forms are read: from the top, the side, the other side, or around. These forms are exquisitely detailed and finished. They are not necessarily confined to expressing their utility. He plugs vessels with a gold finish so that the “dead”-ness of their interior disappears: “…closing the form is a fantastic way to add significant structural integrity.” But closing the form also allays the question of function, and directs the context of the object to its inherent sculptural beauty.</div>
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The work of Peter Pincus is more than a hybridization of historical and visual forms: it represents the impending dawns of conceptual realization from the shaping, sanding and construction of the plaster molds, down to the infinitesimal distance between the chosen porcelain veneer color arrangement coating the inside of a mold and the slip clay to which it adheres. Within that distance lies the metaphorical spark that births the art.</div>
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His work crosses the bridge from “pottery” to “art” in the same way he has described that the work of Wedgwood did, only three centuries later, when art survives in an isolated slice of culture that is paradoxically perpetually prevalent.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Installation view, <em style="color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.5; text-align: justify;">Peter Pincus: Channeling Josiah Wedgwood, </em><span style="color: #444444; font-size: 14px;">Ferrin Contemporary, North Adams, MA, Fall, 2018.</span></td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4042600888540115921.post-34130146537247668922018-11-10T15:19:00.000-05:002018-12-24T11:01:25.005-05:00 As Seen On ARTEIDOLIA: Swifts & Slows: Four Markers: Lyn Horton and Frand Ward <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4042600888540115921.post-37802013747113380272018-11-10T15:00:00.001-05:002018-12-24T11:01:50.085-05:00As Seen On ARTEIDOLIA: Power Boothe's Instinct<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4042600888540115921.post-14489418818890784772018-10-17T10:44:00.001-04:002018-10-17T10:44:32.291-04:00The Dance<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
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Learning new image languages<o:p></o:p></div>
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Is the same as inventing new words.<o:p></o:p></div>
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How do we know their derivations?<o:p></o:p></div>
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We view them in the context of history.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Does the history matter?<o:p></o:p></div>
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When the ‘present time’ is so trendy?<o:p></o:p></div>
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History looms large in consciousness. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Yet what happens right in front of our eyes<o:p></o:p></div>
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Can be held in disbelief and ignored<o:p></o:p></div>
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Or understood through study.<o:p></o:p></div>
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To study can be instinctual.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Rather than built into the rapidity of button pushing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The digital age has always existed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Instruments implementing the parts are different yet correlated.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So why can’t we study and understand?<o:p></o:p></div>
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As opposed to scan, send and share?<o:p></o:p></div>
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We can tap the larger, denser, more information picture.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We can learn about derivations and history.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The potential of discovery underneath the keyboard is vast.<o:p></o:p></div>
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To take advantage of it is even admirable.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sometimes taking things apart and putting them back together in unpredictable ways<o:p></o:p></div>
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Allows for unexpected perceptions and learning.<o:p></o:p></div>
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How could we forget?<o:p></o:p></div>
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What did we learn in school?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Did we pay attention? <o:p></o:p></div>
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Did we take hold of the process of the discipline of learning? <o:p></o:p></div>
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Or did we just memorize to pass?<o:p></o:p></div>
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In Time:<o:p></o:p></div>
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The derivations are built in.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The present tense is built in.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The understanding is built in.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The kind of truth that we want to know<o:p></o:p></div>
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Is ready to be revealed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Waiting and wondering when it will be apparent <o:p></o:p></div>
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Are wasteful.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Truth surprises us.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It is real.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It is without question.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It surrounds us.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It guarantees our safety within ourselves.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UArWikYeOok/W8dI5hFXrHI/AAAAAAAAEwA/HeMuCZnN-H4_wmkCTVQhVIX6wCfszht6wCEwYBhgL/s1600/Lyn%2BHorton%252C%2BSwifts%2Band%2BSlows%2B4%252C%2BSeptember%252C%2B2018.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="667" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UArWikYeOok/W8dI5hFXrHI/AAAAAAAAEwA/HeMuCZnN-H4_wmkCTVQhVIX6wCfszht6wCEwYBhgL/s320/Lyn%2BHorton%252C%2BSwifts%2Band%2BSlows%2B4%252C%2BSeptember%252C%2B2018.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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Truth is the nirvana state.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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It either is or it isn’t.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It does not exist.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It happens.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Who we are becomes a stack of truths.<o:p></o:p></div>
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No one can tear the stack apart.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We breathe, we walk, we see, we feel.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We do all that. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Each aspect of being alive supplies a torrent of information that integrates itself into our being.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Being aware of that integration is a gift to ourselves.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A means of taking steps outside of a comfort zone, outside of a norm, a habit, a routine.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Later on, we do no walking, breathing, seeing, feeling.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The information input dies.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The relics proving our lives happened remain.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In a box, on a computer, in the dump.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Somewhere on earth.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Copyright 2018 Lyn Horton<o:p></o:p></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4042600888540115921.post-91086031264832623022018-09-24T13:48:00.003-04:002019-01-09T15:27:26.878-05:00The Art Salon Presentation<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
These images and words were delivered at a meeting of <a href="http://www.theartsalon.com/">The Art Salon</a> in Cummington, MA on September 21, 2018.</div>
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As you listen to the <a href="https://soundcloud.com/lyn-horton/art-salon-9212018wma/s-dUk4s">words</a>, scroll down to see the images. </div>
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The images represent one for each of the last 20 years.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4042600888540115921.post-58248178139283403082018-08-05T16:40:00.000-04:002018-08-05T17:13:28.934-04:00Time Trial<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uBBQEBwpwXo/W2dmcrU0ntI/AAAAAAAAEtc/zQs3-41RsV8jWPQal46R_6NkQ1qmgOEFwCKgBGAs/s1600/The%2BGorge%252C%2BApril%2B19%252C%2B26%252C%2B2015%2B003%2BWaterjournal1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uBBQEBwpwXo/W2dmcrU0ntI/AAAAAAAAEtc/zQs3-41RsV8jWPQal46R_6NkQ1qmgOEFwCKgBGAs/s400/The%2BGorge%252C%2BApril%2B19%252C%2B26%252C%2B2015%2B003%2BWaterjournal1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">copyright 2015 Lyn Horton</td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
A live Tanglewood performance is on the radio.<br />
<br />
It was my intention to be outside, sitting in the chair by the table on the terrace while the music was on. I have pictured myself there all summer.<br />
<br />
The minute I went out to do this, my neighbor started up his mower. He is probably 40, divorced and has a penchant for machines, which has been transferred to his son, who, at 8 am this morning, revved up his ATV to travel around his yard for a while. That stopped quickly much to my surprise. It was difficult to meditate with noise pollution, which accompanies living across the street from that neighbor and the other ones, too.<br />
<br />
In my email Inbox, every morning is a "feel good" newsletter. Most of the time, the subject matter is timely. Today, it had to do with doing something that pleases me.<br />
<br />
So, the aforementioned placement of myself popped into my mind.<br />
<br />
I tailored my day to make it happen.<br />
<br />
At 6 am, the cat came into the bedroom asking to be fed. Which I did do. Afterward, I got back in bed, wanting to remain there for three more hours. I couldn't lie there. The covers made me too hot or too cold. I took them off and put them back on. I got up at 8. That is early for Sunday.<br />
<br />
Depression seeps into my day slowly as I fix breakfast of French toast and coffee. I read my email while eating, most of which is all news or pleas for money from progressive, environmental, or political groups. I delete the political email and read the news from the New York Times. Gradually my mood becomes darker as I scan the headlines. Incessant spirit deprivation. Incessant triggers of hopelessness.<br />
<br />
By the end of breakfast, a full pot of coffee later, and maple syrup poured lavishly on my French toast, I could be on a high. Yet, I find myself with my head down, tears rolling down my cheeks, debilitated. My anger kicks into gear, sadness follows. No thoughts about how incredibly fortunate I am come to mind. Instead, I worry. How am I going to leave this funk?<br />
<br />
Today I thought about the subject of the newsletter though. And grabbed the dishes off the dining room table to take to the kitchen to wash.<br />
<br />
And then I decided to clean up the terrace by weeding and raking. This activity carried over into the area under the trees where there is nothing but stone. Branches and leaves were strewn around, a result of the heavy rain breaking the dead wood off the maples. I dragged an old sheet full of everything I had raked across the lawn to the edge of the wildly overgrown field and flapped the sheet free of its contents.<br />
<br />
It was simply too hot to run today. I decided to do three miles on the stationary bike instead. This took place by 2. I did my post-exercise yoga routine, drank coconut water and ate some salted roasted cashews.<br />
<br />
Oh, my God, I had almost arrived at my outdoor destination.<br />
<br />
But, no, I had to distract myself and hang an eight-foot-long piece of art that had been resting on the floor in a spare room for months. This won't take long. I took accurate measurements and marked the wall for the placement of the hangers. The hangers did not support the piece when I started to lift the piece onto the wall and it fell to the floor. The drop was short, but the impact dislodged the art from its hinges within the frame. Another thing to fix.<br />
<br />
I ignored it, put away the tools and left the room.<br />
<br />
Maybe I can use screws instead of hangers. So I did. The piece is on the wall, straight, but the art is sagging from the hinges being jarred and there are a few extra holes in the wall that are covered by the piece.<br />
<br />
I left the room again, half successful at what I had accomplished. But embarrassed that the thing had dropped off the wall in the first place. It is a two-person job.<br />
<br />
The laptop was downstairs ready to be turned on so I could write.<br />
<br />
Pleasure. Self-fulfilment.<br />
How many times do I have to aspire to either. Or even be reminded that both can be achieved internally.<br />
<br />
I am tired.<br />
<br />
The neighbor's lawnmower ruined my moment.<br />
It was running for ten minutes only. By that time, I had set up the computer on the dining room table.<br />
<br />
The concert from Tanglewood is continuing. It will be over in twelve minutes.<br />
<br />
Will I be finished?<br />
I smell the odor of fresh cut grass, yet feel the wafts of heat carried by the ever so slight breeze coming through the screen door that opens out to the terrace.<br />
<br />
No, I will not be finished.<br />
With this article, perhaps.<br />
With other stuff. No.<br />
<br />
It is hot.<br />
I am going to take a shower.<br />
<br />
The point is that I am not counting the results of my intended purpose.<br />
This is the result. This.<br />
These last words.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
copyright 2018 Lyn Horton<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4042600888540115921.post-91104724044861500182018-06-22T11:16:00.001-04:002018-12-24T11:02:23.581-05:00As Seen On ARTEIDOLIA: Taryn Simon's Temptation<h1 class="single_title" style="color: #444444; float: left; font-family: webfont, sans-serif !important; font-size: 36px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px 150.328px 40px;">
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<h1 class="single_title" style="font-size: 36px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px 150.328px 40px;">
Taryn Simon’s Temptation</h1>
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<em>A Cold Hole</em>, Courtesy the artist, MASS MoCA, and Matti Koivula</h5>
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On March 26, 2018, MASSMoCA celebrated its summer season at an opening of two installations and bookwork of artist, Taryn Simon. The works fill nearly the entire first floor of the museum.</div>
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One installation piece is called <em>A Cold Hole</em>, as shown in the first photo at a different venue. The installation at MASSMoCA is the subject of this article.</div>
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This work requires actual participation to be realized for what it is. At the opening, three persons took part. The action is to drop into a pool of ice-cold salt water the opening of which is eight-foot square. The fifteen-foot-deep tank of water is imbedded in a large white room whose floor is packed with rough hewn ice and whose temperature is kept cold enough so that the ice does not melt.</div>
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The audience for this event views the participant through perhaps a nine by fifteen-foot movie screen-proportioned window whose bottom edge is about sixty inches off the floor. The window is carved out of a wall in a room that is totally black, the reverse aesthetic of the room where the pool is located.</div>
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I witnessed a young woman, a young man and the Director of the museum drop into the hole.</div>
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The young woman wore only a white t-shirt and her black underwear. Her hair was also black. She was of Asian descent. I did not count the minutes she stood in front of the hole. But she stared straight ahead for quite a while, her arms aligned with her body. She shook her hands to relax her arms and shoulders as if she were preparing to mount a starting block from which she would dive for a swimming race. Her eyes and head were directed towards the space in front of her; she talked to herself a bit and then did not move.</div>
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Taryn Simon, <em>A Cold Hole</em>, 2018, As installed in Taryn Simon: <em>A Cold Hole</em> | <em>Assembled Audience</em><br />(MASS MoCA, North Adams, MA, on view May 26, 2018), Courtesy Taryn Simon Projects, Photo: Jack Criddle</h5>
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<span style="font-family: "webfont" , sans-serif; text-align: center;">In an unpredictable moment, she simply fell into the hole in front of her, disappearing for seconds until her head bobbed up and was visible between the rails of the ladder mounted on the far side of the hole. Her mouth was open, she moved her hair back from her face with her right hand as she climbed out of the hole. She walked forward to the window, turned left and vanished from view.</span></div>
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The second person to ‘take the plunge’ seemed far more easy-going. He was older than the woman who preceded him. He wore no shirt and only a pair of belted shorts. He was heftier than the young woman, who was tiny, actually, in comparison. He stood for a short period of time in front of the hole, his head tilted, chin to his chest, as he stared into the pool. And in an instant, he, too, disappeared into the water. His exit was substantial and affirmative.</div>
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It was surprising to discover that the Director of MASSMoCA, Joe Thompson, participated in this piece, but, in reflection, it makes perfect sense. Of course, he would. He is the ultimate participant in everything at the museum.</div>
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I saw Joe enter the cold room from the hall walking on a black metal slotted pathway leading from another room. His focus was palpable. A herd of people, including me, rushed into the area for watching his descent into the water.</div>
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There was Joe, visible right behind the window looking at his watch before he marched to the hole. He was wearing a suit and tie and shoes. When he took his place behind the hole, he looked at his watch again. He removed his glasses and tucked them into his jacket’s chest pocket; he tapped the pocket to secure them.</div>
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He folded his arms across his chest and heart, palms down, in a position of submission. Within less than thirty seconds, he was in the water. And then out. Fully standing in front of the railing, he put his glasses on and walked straight towards the window, peered through, made no gestures, turned left and disappeared behind the black wall.</div>
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Stunned, I stayed there in the darkness looking through the window, vicariously imagining what it felt like to do what these people had done. It was like an episode in a production of a living theater piece.</div>
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Two people suggested that I participate in this event. I mulled that idea over for a couple of days. I found the internet address where I could make an appointment. Two were available. I stared at the screen of my tablet before I filled in the requested information. But I shied away from clicking the ‘submit’ button. Later on, that same Sunday, I went back to the appointment page. The time I originally wanted was taken. I distracted myself again from making an appointment. A few hours later, I returned to the appointment page; only one time slot remained. I filled in information again about myself and clicked the submit button. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I had followed through. Two weeks in advance.</div>
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<br /></div>
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During those two weeks, I tried to determine what entering the saltwater pool would be like, based on what I had witnessed. The thought of it intercepted my routine thoughts periodically. I even practiced turning the shower knob quickly all the way to cold, after bathing in warm water, and standing from my neck down in streaming cold water for ten seconds. Every time, my system would be shocked by the sudden change in temperature and I would groan, but, by the count of five, my body was accustomed to the cold.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I even believed that continuing to read <em>Walk Through Walls</em>, Marina Abramović’s autobiography, would help me to understand how to muster the strength to withstand physically and emotionally an unusually dramatic circumstance.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The Friday before I was to go to MASSMoCA, I exercised on my stationary bike for a normal twenty minutes, the equivalent of three miles. This provided me with enough serotonin to avert the anxiety of the upcoming event. I followed my normal day in my studio.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Saturday, June 9, at 12:30 pm. My appointment at <em>A Cold Hole</em>.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I lay in bed awake at 7:30 am, finally pulling back the covers to leave the bed and sit on the floor to meditate for nearly forty minutes.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I went downstairs to have breakfast. It occurred to me to postpone regular house cleaning activities because I had to leave by 11:15 am in order to be at the museum a little early. Postponing cleaning was useless. It was all I could do to thwart the anxiety that was building. Music streamed off the Internet on a 24-hour jazz station out of Washington state.</div>
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<br /></div>
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After my morning routine was finished, I skedaddled out of the house, remembering to feed the cat before going through the door to the car. I decided not to eat anything.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: lato, sans-serif; font-size: 18px !important; line-height: 1.5; text-align: justify;">
I stopped at the Post Office on the way out of town.</div>
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<br /></div>
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It was a beautiful day. The drive to the museum was really quite peaceful until I reached Adams even though the traffic was not bad for a weekend. I arrived at the museum, parked, and grabbed my bag, containing the clothes I was to wear as per instructions of the team of people handling the event; locked the car; and walked through the parking lot to the museum lobby. One of the receptionists at the entrance directed me to the man at the information booth, who directed me again through the doors to the first-floor gallery where the Simon exhibition is installed. I did not have to show my membership card to gain entrance to the museum.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Standing in front of a door to the right as I walked into the galleries were two women, carrying clipboards of attached lists of scheduled participants. I checked in and was asked to wait for ten minutes before conferring with them.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I saw a girl walk down the wire footpath from what must have been a dressing room to the cold room. I went quickly to the viewing room to watch her drop into the water. She was clothed in a long white diaphanous dress. Her hair was blond and cut close to her head. She appeared a wash of consistent pale color.</div>
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She stood calmly behind the hole, her arms at her side. She looked up at the ceiling and circled her head to gaze around the large room. Her physical presence did not interrupt the whiteness of the environment.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Finally, she looked down at the hole, not taking much time before she dipped headlong into the water. Her face appeared above the level of the ice floor quickly. As she rose, her dress was clinging to her small body. Her nakedness had been revealed. She walked to the window, picked up the skirt of her dress slightly with her left hand, signaling a bit of embarrassment; turned left and was gone.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: lato, sans-serif; font-size: 18px !important; line-height: 1.5; text-align: justify;">
I swallowed hard knowing that I was next.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I walked back to the dressing room entrance and waited for her to exit. When she did, two girlfriends chattered at her and then enquired as to how she felt: “Are you cold?” one friend asked to which she replied: “No.” She was unrattled.</div>
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<br /></div>
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One of the event’s managers called me into the dressing room. I turned to follow her inside. I sat down. With a soothing demeanor, she handed me a couple of disclaimers to sign, including one which described the risks of what I was about to do. I read it carefully. The words described drastic possible scenarios, including death. I had to confirm that I was over eighteen and healthy and could swim. As I signed my name on the form, I said out loud: “I can’t believe I am doing this.” The woman who was speaking to me said: “Take your time.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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She described in detail how I was to enter the water, complete with illustrations. And then she said: “Will you show me the clothes you plan to wear?” I pulled a pair of black leggings and a white exercise top out of my bag. She wanted to be sure that I was not going to wear my ‘street’ clothes in the water. Then she directed me to choose, from a selection of differently sized black foot pads, a pair to wear on the bottoms of my bare feet so I would not slip on the ice. The two women left the dressing room, shut the door, allowing me to change clothes. I did so. I had trouble peeling the backing off the adhesive non-skid foot pads and mounting them to my feet because, one, I was nervous, and, two, I did not have my glasses on. They were in the car.</div>
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<br /></div>
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On the outside, I was ready to go. But internally, I harbored deep trepidation and, paradoxically, wonder.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I took a breath, opened the door to the black walkway, walked to the heavy black tinted door, opened it, crossed the threshold and there I stood, next to a seated female EMT, facing the ice floor.</div>
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<br /></div>
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When I stepped onto the ice, lightheadedness seized my body from my head to my toes. My steps along the path I was told to walk were careful and slow. The ice was rough and had small peaks and valleys I had to negotiate to maintain my balance.</div>
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I reached the back edge of the hole and stopped, turned, faced forward and stayed. My hands touched my thighs. My longer than shoulder-length hair brushed across my cheeks as I looked down into the cavity that was the tank that held the water. I could see the ladder.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The surface of the water seemed thick like oil. The steady ripples in one thin horizontal line close the back edge of the opening caught the light from above. The two square-shaped skylights were reflected on the surface; the lights were the only means to discern the shine of the metal ladder through the pit of blackness between me and the other side of the hole.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I had read none of the artist’s words mapping out her intentions behind the design of <em>A Cold Hole</em> or explanations why she chose to borrow it from other cultures and magnify its existence in this installation.</div>
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<br /></div>
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This quickly became my own uneducated singular experience.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: lato, sans-serif; font-size: 18px !important; line-height: 1.5; text-align: justify;">
As I looked into what can be characterized as an abyss, a source of mystery and a path to the unknown, I meditated. The room hummed. The whiteness surrounding me expanded like a balloon. The cold embraced me as would warmth because it was outside of the hole, the place I was to go before leaving the room. I had committed myself to taking that literal step, although I could have backed off at any time. There was a vast distance between stepping into the water and not. That distance was purely psychological.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: lato, sans-serif; font-size: 18px !important; line-height: 1.5; text-align: justify;">
The hole tempted me to go in but at the same time repelled me. It tempted me for the reason that I was curious about the water once sunk into it. It repelled me for the reason that as I stood there, every fear of every trauma I have ever suffered paraded through my meditative state. I was totally present with my fears. I was totally present within myself. The hole and I were the only two elements that existed in that moment, exclusive of anything and anyone else. Going into the hole meant transcending the stupefying trepidation laid bare in one short twelve inches between me and it.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I crossed my hands over my chest as Joe had done. I had been inhaling and exhaling methodically since I had taken my place. My heart was beating so fast that I took time to try to slow it down biorhythmically in my meditation. As I attended to that process though, the pace only increased. I did not know what to do.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The idea that my balking would cause the EMT to retrieve me crossed my mind. I decided that I would succeed. Failure was not an option.</div>
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<br /></div>
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A foam pad was placed on the very edge of the hole. I stepped onto it. The cold of the room intensified. My legs started to shiver. I was overwhelmed. I bent my knees slightly to relax my legs. A kind of other awareness told me to do that.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: lato, sans-serif; font-size: 18px !important; line-height: 1.5; text-align: justify;">
I knew that I was about to go into water. I still could not understand how I would get there. And, then, something happened. A clarity of nothingness pervaded my entire being; I moved my right foot forward, the other followed; I moaned loudly and I was in the water. My body had entered straight, I thought. When I opened my eyes, I was on the left side of the tank; my limbs felt like they were detaching from my trunk. They flailed around until I saw the metal ladder. My left hand found the left rail. I pulled myself around so that both hands were engaged in exiting the hole. I felt one step with my left foot and then began to ascend but missed a step with my right foot. I pulled it off the ladder and found the correct step to push on. I kept on going instinctually until I was out of the water and standing on the ice. I never noticed how cold the water was.</div>
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<br /></div>
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My connection with the upper world resumed just as I started walking towards the window, which was a very slow-moving journey. When I reached the window, a number of people who had been watching me began to clap loudly. I could only see one woman clearly through the glass looking directly at me. The rest were merely hazy silhouettes. I smiled.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I turned left and stepped towards the exit where the EMT was still sitting. I stopped and said: “That was the hardest thing I have ever done.” She said: “I know. You were standing there for fifteen minutes.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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The amount of time that had passed seemed to me to be merely a couple of seconds. I had reached Nirvana. The power of Nirvana had ushered me into the water in the hole.</div>
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<br /></div>
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No preparation for this exceedingly private experience is possible.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Only being swallowed by the water for the first time is.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO85Hd02maQrg07-UVBfyAwSYQr3ZtR_QKCsSWyHrc25aStlOWGrfNUNZ0dcU2IV3Bm09-nsx4tk6r70wfvlRAN_DLbqwo12cIm_h1Td3yQhztxTniigQtQ5sO7DZTB0M-k1kEECxDQrk/s1600/RS110083_AColdHole_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO85Hd02maQrg07-UVBfyAwSYQr3ZtR_QKCsSWyHrc25aStlOWGrfNUNZ0dcU2IV3Bm09-nsx4tk6r70wfvlRAN_DLbqwo12cIm_h1Td3yQhztxTniigQtQ5sO7DZTB0M-k1kEECxDQrk/s640/RS110083_AColdHole_1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
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<h5 style="background-color: white; font-weight: 400; text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 1.5;">Taryn Simon, <em>A Cold Hole</em>, 2018, As installed in Taryn Simon: <em>A Cold Hole</em> | <em>Assembled Audience</em></span><span style="line-height: 1.5;">(MASS MoCA, North Adams, MA, on view May 26, 2018), Courtesy Taryn Simon Projects</span></h5>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4042600888540115921.post-84872864394729754032018-02-11T15:21:00.000-05:002018-02-22T15:43:08.361-05:00I am an Artist<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nMSbXbMb_q4/WoCjzG3T2ZI/AAAAAAAAEpY/QTA1C1CTCRQw3JgYtZqRysY6Uc3JWNm2wCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_6384.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nMSbXbMb_q4/WoCjzG3T2ZI/AAAAAAAAEpY/QTA1C1CTCRQw3JgYtZqRysY6Uc3JWNm2wCLcBGAs/s320/IMG_6384.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
It is Sunday.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It is raining. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The radio bellows out a Brahms piano concerto from a past
concert from the BSO.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
My son is running for twelve hours to celebrate four
years of sobriety. He started in the dark. He was wearing a headlamp as was
shown in a brief video documenting his checking his on-body gear.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Yesterday someone said to me on the phone: Well, you’re
different.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
In relation to what? I should have asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Society? Community? Animals, plants?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
In therapy a couple of weeks ago, I explained leaving a
meeting that was convened to assess the upcoming studio tour in the summer to
which I had been invited. During the description, I started to heave with
laughter on the verge of hysteria as I let loose on how I was expected to
contribute to the group participating in the studio tour beyond simply opening
my doors to the public.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The latter conversation connected with many others that
my therapist and I have had about how difficult it is for me to get along with
people.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The conclusive bridge in the session was that I am highly
individuated. This has occurred over time so that I can protect myself from
criticism and injury. Criticism of how I am carrying on with my life and injury
from those who could harm me emotionally.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Making art has been the key to tapping the breadth of my
creative mind. The one where peace and ease and imperfection can comingle
without being questioned except by me. The one where the tools blend with
purpose. The one where many avenues can be traveled at once. The one where
interruption from external sources is annoying. The one where I can devise my
next moves in the studio. The one where I can propel myself with veggie
smoothies and chocolate bars. The one where I ingest more than food from the
streaming stories I choose on the Internet. The one where my eyes and ears are
key to my existence. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The places I can go in my work I cannot see until I go
there. My ideas unfold as in an improvised monologue. A solo performance ridden
with history: my life history, art history, psychological history, mnemonic
history, science history, environmental history. History.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This evaluation was contained in other words in a
syllabus for a drawing class I taught at CalArts, when I was a Teaching
Assistant, at age 24.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I am the same person now as I was then only I have
changed. Can you tell?<o:p></o:p></div>
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I long for unity everyday with the universe in meditation
and in how I contribute. I was reading this morning how important it is to
realize that I matter. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Matter? How do I matter? <o:p></o:p></div>
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Because you are reading this? Because I posted on
Facebook and Twitter this morning? Because I have an Instagram account?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Does the way I filter the world and express it to you
brighten your world? Does it help you move through your life?<o:p></o:p></div>
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The substance of this bit of writing will be shared by
few. But will the energy I have expended to write how I know at this moment
charge the air to put it in more balance only to fall out again in the smallest
increment of time?<o:p></o:p></div>
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When I first went to art school, I used to sit with a typewriter
on my lap typing reams and reams of paper with very little on each page.
Together in a sequential pile lay the meaning of my efforts. A documentation of
the passage of time. A reflection of my training in art by one of the founders
of conceptual art, rarely noted in the history of it, Douglas Huebler, and his
fellow professor, Donald Burgy, a practitioner of viewing and noting his views.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I still enjoy this typing ethic. In fact, I never learned
how to type. I am always making mistakes which you cannot see unless I miss
correcting them. When I was a little girl, I used to sit at a metal table and
imitate my grandfather’s secretary by tapping on the table to make the sound of
typing. Me in my little pink skirt outfit, short white ankle socks with the tops folded down and Mary Jane shoes.<o:p></o:p></div>
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At least since growing up, I have understood that the
nature of the tapping is related to words which can offer some meaning or not.
On the other hand, I could sit here tapping to revel in it or actually document
it as a piece of conceptual art. There is always more room for it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Brahms concert on the radio has finished.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The sky light is still gray.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It is raining.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It is February 11.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My son is running.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I am an artist.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p>copyright 2018 Lyn Horton</o:p></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4042600888540115921.post-11868340793791345212017-10-13T11:18:00.001-04:002022-03-07T16:41:09.870-05:00As Seen on ARTEIDOLIA: Article on Nick Cave Artist <div class="single_inside_content" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: webfont, sans-serif; margin: 18px auto; max-width: 800px; padding: 0px;">
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<a href="http://www.arteidolia.com/nick-cave-at-massmoca/">More Than Seven Steps</a></h2>
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Lyn Horton<br />October 2017</h2>
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<img alt="" class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-17659" sizes="(max-width: 400px) 100vw, 400px" src="https://www.arteidolia.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Nick-Cave-Until-at-MassMoCa.jpg" srcset="http://www.arteidolia.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Nick-Cave-Until-at-MassMoCa.jpg 400w, http://www.arteidolia.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Nick-Cave-Until-at-MassMoCa-240x300.jpg 240w, http://www.arteidolia.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Nick-Cave-Until-at-MassMoCa-300x375.jpg 300w" style="border: none; display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 100%;" /></div>
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<span class="s1">Nick Cave Takes More than Seven Steps to Heaven in "</span><span class="s2">Until"</span></h3>
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Nick Cave’s spectacular installation, <em>Until</em>, at MassMoCA in North Adams, MA, closed on Labor Day of 2017. That day was the last day to see it. Experience it, ingest it later to digest it and incorporate it into one’s soul. The fallacy of attempting to do so in only a day prevails when one is struck by its awesome presence. No one just catches “the Cave.”</div>
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Being with Cave’s work for days on end is the only means to grasp its intensity, roll around in its embrace, recognize and hopefully comprehend its message. Its message in the title of it, <em>Until</em>, strikes a prepositional chord of the “in between-ness” which all its parts suggest. The parts are so dynamic beyond their appearance that their object nature is transcended. It is the artist’s intention with this never-ending agglomeration of statements, confined only by the walls of the museum building, to establish constant metaphorical motion, constant mental engagement in questioning, wondering, coming to conclusions, dashing the conclusions, while remaining in a state of astonishment.</div>
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The content of the entire exhibit took three years to make. The pieces within the installation’s entirety use so much physical material that the weight of it and the contrasting uplifting character of it are immediately felt. To absorb the information that begins to unfold as the percipient walks through the doors of the football-field-size exhibit hall is a test of stamina and attention to the overall environment as well as to the detail within it.<span class="s1" style="font-family: "webfont" , sans-serif "important";"><span class="" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-top-width: 0px; clear: both; display: block; height: 0px; padding-top: 20px;"></span></span></div>
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<img alt="" class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-17662" sizes="(max-width: 400px) 100vw, 400px" src="https://www.arteidolia.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/nick-cave.jpg" srcset="http://www.arteidolia.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/nick-cave.jpg 400w, http://www.arteidolia.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/nick-cave-240x300.jpg 240w, http://www.arteidolia.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/nick-cave-300x375.jpg 300w" style="border: none; display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 100%;" /></div>
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First, one is met by what could be designated several ways, as rain, as twinkling stars, as strings of mirrors, as Christmas decorations. The colors of the hundreds of metallic spinners, rotating in a sporadic yet uniform twirling motion, fall from the ceiling, which really feels more like the sky. For a child, the forest of spinners must seem immense; for an adult, the same, but not as immense.</div>
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The circular or tear drop shaped spinners, even though repeated in striated form and spaced equally along the lines that suspend them, are stories within themselves when studied. Despite their beauty, they are portraits of violence, explosions, and whirl winds of terror. En masse, their movement depicts pirouettes being done by hundreds of metal miniature dancers. The hazily reflecting solid circular shaped discs remind the viewers that they are a part of that which has been presented. Reflective tiles are also laid out on the floors beneath the spinners. To stand on these tiles means seeing oneself. Audience inclusion is integrated into every aspect of the journey.</div>
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A pathway winds through this fantastical world and eventually ends underneath a cloud of the best examples of Empire crystal chandeliers. They visually support the centerpiece of the installation which is a construction of Heaven, suspended from the ceiling, reachable on each of four sides by fifteen-step staircases on wheels. The rest of the cloud visible from the floor is filled in with pendulant vertical crystals, creating a delicate, misty and total surrounding. One can detect hints of what is growing upwards from the clouds by standing and looking up before one mounts a staircase.<span class="" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-top-width: 0px; clear: both; display: block; font-family: "webfont" , sans-serif "important"; height: 0px; padding-top: 20px;"></span></div>
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<img alt="" class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-17664" sizes="(max-width: 400px) 100vw, 400px" src="https://www.arteidolia.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/nick-cave-until.jpg" srcset="http://www.arteidolia.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/nick-cave-until.jpg 400w, http://www.arteidolia.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/nick-cave-until-240x300.jpg 240w, http://www.arteidolia.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/nick-cave-until-300x375.jpg 300w" style="border: none; display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 100%;" /></div>
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A multi-colored web of beads seems to hold the array of the constituents of heaven. Hundreds of lawn ornaments, including and most prominently, lawn jockeys, are arranged across the beaded–web box spring that supports them. Flowers with mirrored centers, birds, fruits, snakes, frogs, fake dandelion blooms, an alligator, cornucopia- shaped Victrola speaker horns and dream catchers, formed like the speakers and butterfly nets, are interwoven in this dense display of elements. That these frozen solid motionless elements are juxtaposed magnifies the intensity of the meaning of their coexistence, not only up there in a metaphorical heaven but also in a real world down below.</div>
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To photograph that which is atop the clouds is to record only a memory of their visual impact. Up there is the core meaning of Until. The viewer’s inclusion in the above-the-cloud space renders him or her part of the communication of the nature of racism. The speakers shaped like megaphones are broadcasting the inaudible sound of the persistence of racism’s existence. Hear me! Hear how false racism is! shout the lawn jockeys, cheerfully black-faced, guarding manufactured nature. Just as everything collected and arranged here represents an assemblage of the ‘real fake,’ so is suggested that the practice of racism is false and, therefore, taken further, intolerable.</div>
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The dominating question raised by Cave…‘Is there racism in heaven?’… is unanswerable here on earth. In this landscape, Cave has structured the question as he structured the sky, rain, clouds, the mountains and the trees in his own artistic language. The question is answered through one’s actions, the evocation of one’s passion to bring light to the darkness of a societal disease that penetrates the world, and is not only exacerbated and made proximate by the inexcusable actions that take place in America.</div>
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Beyond Heaven on the cement pool of the huge gallery floor continues a mountain range, made of beaded webbing, strung to the height of the loft that is the partial second floor of the space. On the face of the mountains are beaded in graffiti-like formations, a peace sign, a rainbow and multiple signs whose origins are positively ethnic.<span class="" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-top-width: 0px; clear: both; display: block; font-family: "webfont" , sans-serif "important"; height: 0px; padding-top: 20px;"></span></div>
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<img alt="" class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-17657" sizes="(max-width: 400px) 100vw, 400px" src="https://www.arteidolia.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/beaded-mountains.jpg" srcset="http://www.arteidolia.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/beaded-mountains.jpg 400w, http://www.arteidolia.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/beaded-mountains-240x300.jpg 240w, http://www.arteidolia.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/beaded-mountains-300x375.jpg 300w" style="border: none; display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 100%;" /></div>
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In a smaller room, whose entrance opens up beside the mountains, to a hall plastered with a repeated yellow, black and red image, is shown a video based on the idea of escaping the stereotype of the black man.</div>
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A cookie cutter version of a black-face man is stuck in a container in the center of the room midst raffia, unable to get out, slammed against the glass, prevented from coming alive.</div>
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In a stroboscopic projection on the four walls of the room, the figure becomes alive. The film motion loops more in patterns than literal depiction of the figure. Its turning point is the visible struggle for Cave’s eye to reach an eyehole of a costume mask to peer out. When he reaches the opening, he is looking at you. This image will remain with you forever.</div>
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Upstairs from that small gallery, a second floor houses a huge wall of fans blowing glittering Soundsuit material. When the viewer stands back far enough, the word “FLOW” can be discerned. The relation of this piece with the remaining work that establishes the whole of Until renders the prepositional aspect of “until” active. In other words, where one action could stop “until” another action could occur, the idea of the “flow” of one action into another supersedes a cause and effect succession of actions. The fans blow away the stopping of reaction. Flow is unstoppable conceptually. Flow blows right over the five blocks of an incomplete picket fence that stands before it on the floor. Nor does flow stop the bird that unpredictably flew through a window on the last day of the installation at the museum; flow invites that occurrence. The window hangs on the wall as one exits to go back down stairs.</div>
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<img alt="" class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-17661" sizes="(max-width: 550px) 100vw, 550px" src="https://www.arteidolia.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Nick-Cave-Flow-from-Until-.jpg" srcset="http://www.arteidolia.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Nick-Cave-Flow-from-Until-.jpg 550w, http://www.arteidolia.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Nick-Cave-Flow-from-Until--300x225.jpg 300w" style="border: none; display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 100%;" /></div>
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The ultimate calling for this exhibit for Cave was the collaboration that was required to build it and bring attention to it. Throughout its nearly yearlong stay at MassMoCa, Cave invited dancers, writers, poets and musicians to respond and periodically perform in their own way to his own art.</div>
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The last performance was “The Culminating Performance.” It happened three days before the exhibit ended. Those attending sat under the clouds.</div>
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Poets recited their telling words and vocalists sang their glorious gospel-like songs. Cave formally closed the event by donning a specially designed Soundsuit. (Cave is the inventor of the “Soundsuit,” a costume worn by dancers or performers, and placed in sculptures.) As is every Soundsuit, this one was constructed of more than several parts, each made of specially-picked materials. Each part was given by Cave’s designer and partner, Bob Faust, to those in the audience without whom the exhibit would have not been possible. Each of those persons was gestured by Mr. Faust to clothe the artist, one part at a time. Cave sat, erect, directed away from the audience, on a yellow chair in front of the choir, vocalists, drummer and organist, ready to receive the parts of the Soundsuit, to be dressed for a final formal good-bye.</div>
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Once the Soundsuit completely covered Nick Cave, he rose. The suit was heavy. But his heart, mind and body were strong. He danced, for he is a dancer; he bowed to and held the hands of each person whom he wanted to thank, then skipped away past the beaded mountains and disappeared.</div>
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Although deeply emotional and tearful, the ceremony was joyous. For Nick Cave had sent his message. He had opened hearts and minds to the beauty of humanity, despite its inherently drastic imperfections.</div>
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Art is powerful enough to surmount stark, divisive differences, you know. And Nick Cave proved it.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4042600888540115921.post-34706207884483821992017-05-26T12:07:00.018-04:002022-07-20T11:15:21.829-04:00What I Thought I Knew<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-i5m6AyeDKWI/WShPmX1k8_I/AAAAAAAAEnU/hZwc-P5WLSQ4sCi-lLsB6Vswf6gMEm9-wCLcB/s1600/70%2Binch%2Bsquare%2BPrussian%2BBlue%2Band%2BSilver%252C%2B2017%252C%2Bdetail.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-i5m6AyeDKWI/WShPmX1k8_I/AAAAAAAAEnU/hZwc-P5WLSQ4sCi-lLsB6Vswf6gMEm9-wCLcB/s320/70%2Binch%2Bsquare%2BPrussian%2BBlue%2Band%2BSilver%252C%2B2017%252C%2Bdetail.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;">Since last September, my life has thrown me one punch after another.</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />The savior, which blocked the punches or made them not hurt as much, is my work.</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />My intentions for doing and for which I have been punched have all been greater than how they were received.</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;">If I have dreamed of some glistening ideal, none of those dreams have even shown me a glimmer of spidery-webby gossamer.</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;">Faith? Well, how does it work?</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Do you know how many times I have thought of ending it all within the last months? For one simple reason: to extricate myself from problems that have no solution. From the burdens I carry for which there is no service, no person, including myself, to free me. Where do people go when the confusion is so dense that seemingly no exit appears?</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;">The wonder that is my work disappears as I am making it for I am always remembering that something else to do is coming next. And how will I ever get there?</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;">Finishing, finishing, finishing. Ensuring that the perfection of any piece is not that perfect. Imperfect. Slightly off. Peculiarly human. This woman human drew those lines. Painted those brush strokes.</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;">Who on earth ever gave artists the idea that perfection is mandatory? Why was that a lesson? Guess it had to be back when painting was executed on panels with quick-drying egg tempera or oil paint. I mean we gotta think about Memling and da Vinci and those countless artists whose works line the Renaissance Galleries in the National Gallery of Art in Washington, DC.</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;">So given that imperfection is acceptable, why do I think often that it is not?</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;">Because I hear these voices coming from someone standing behind me that I am making art that no one will like, that no one will pay any attention to because it doesn’t measure up to what that male artist did, the one who is financially successful and can coast through the rest of his life without a care in the world.</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;">I do the work as I see fit anyway. In the afternoon. I drink my power smoothie that leaves green gunk in the glass when I am done and following that I eat an entire chocolate bar, one of the kind that has an image of one of the endangered species on the label.</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;">While doing the art, my mind swims in another state. Sometimes, my body responds to how difficult reaching up to the top of large drawings is. Stand on a stool, silly; no? Ok, go ahead, make it hard on yourself. You are almost done with this section anyway.</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;">Sure this blog writing resembles a personal piece that should be recorded in a journal. But my purple, lined page journal is filled with meaningless chatter; if you call “I AM UNHAPPY,” meaningless. Large letters. The only words on the page.</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;">In a black book, brand new, I have begun to write poetry. “Poetry is the record of the last thought,” as Allen Ginsberg said once in an interview. Oh, so many last thoughts. Oh, so many words evoking the mind of one sad sack. Ridden with exhaustion. Ridden with uncertainty. Ridden with the next thing and then the next and the one thing after that. Which only can be known when the first thing is confronted and seized and done something with.</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;">My struggle is with how do I leave my house of thirty-eight years into which I have poured tens of thousands of dollars and love and grunting. And where I raised my son.</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;">Where is my heart?<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Where is my soul?<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Reflections. Memories. Bad ones, Great ones. Nonetheless memories.<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Of the repercussions of mistakes. Of the hardships of the repercussions of the repercussions.<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Of the bitterness. The strain of extruding all the poison from my system.</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;">Where do I need to be? Here? There?<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Follow the money?<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Find the money?<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Follow the people? What people?<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Just be a goddamn mensch.<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Open the opportunity doors.<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />I have.</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;">Are these words revealing more than they need to? Are they revealing secrets no one else needs to know?</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;">The jostling of thoughts to form into words here requires a kind of energy that jettisons in a direction that is unlike any other.</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;">Even though it seems I am baring my soul for the moment; really I have launched into an effort to relieve my anxieties. Anxiousness is a terrible affliction; a melding of the mind and the body that implodes, rattles, tears one apart, and whose amelioration necessitates the imposition of calm, and peace. Floating away from the materiality of doing into a cloud of restfulness and that ol’ standby, The breath.</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;">What I thought I knew years ago was that I would act out my life in the picture that my parents constructed for me. So far, trying to do that has caused nothing but pain because I washed my brain of the idea, realizing that its truth was false. And what remains is the creation of my own life. The miseries associated with that life.</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;">The gardens are beautiful. Wet. Wet. Wet.</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Not one time do I go outside and is it delightful. The ticks walk on my body into the house with me.</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />I retreat to my studio. I retreat to my comfort. Of smoothies and chocolate bars.</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;">I long for my son, I long for a family. I long for the parents I did not have.</span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Courier Prime", serif; font-size: 18px; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: var( --wp--style--block-gap ); margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 664px;"><span style="background-color: white;">This is about art. These words concern where my art comes from. These words are another way to express the golden mean of sanity.</span></p>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tWclxv18OPE/WShQGiNNXaI/AAAAAAAAEnc/qsmavc8sn7wLUHs-hrY9_oGgfZsXGVk7QCLcB/s1600/The%2BGorge%252C%2BNovember%2B2%252C%2B2015%2B011.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tWclxv18OPE/WShQGiNNXaI/AAAAAAAAEnc/qsmavc8sn7wLUHs-hrY9_oGgfZsXGVk7QCLcB/s400/The%2BGorge%252C%2BNovember%2B2%252C%2B2015%2B011.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4042600888540115921.post-75232614491025299302016-12-12T11:46:00.000-05:002016-12-13T10:15:17.202-05:00Novo Veritas, My Son and I<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/--fyWJDa2QEI/WEgv5xhu1UI/AAAAAAAAEhM/AbC3iGtHu9wfhcETfzY6DWHWD5-Lpk9JgCLcB/s1600/IMG_0868.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/--fyWJDa2QEI/WEgv5xhu1UI/AAAAAAAAEhM/AbC3iGtHu9wfhcETfzY6DWHWD5-Lpk9JgCLcB/s640/IMG_0868.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<b>Reflection</b><br />
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For the first week of November of 2016, I took a trip to Oregon to be with my son. It had been six years since I had seen him. During that time he had confronted his troubles as an alcoholic, about which I never knew a thing until he told me.<br />
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When I first encountered him at the airport, he was standing tall and alive, thankfully beardless, and handsome. I perceived him as only a Mother can view her son. All Mothers who understand that perception know that no words can describe the bond. It is strong; the love that is intertwined with lack of condition and overcomes darkness, the blight of past friction and opens into the light of infinitude.<br />
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That week our plans were to go with the flow of how any event would evolve and I relished every moment.<br />
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That week also happened to be one of the most active periods to date for his business, <a href="http://www.novo-veritas.com/">Novo Veritas</a>. He and his business partner, Betsy Hartley, were scheduled to give two presentations and appear on a radio show, with host, Mike Parker, the sports commentator for the Oregon State Beaver Sports Teams.<br />
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Both presentations showed the passion that both Spence and Betsy share about their own efforts to transcend the difficulties which have invaded their lives and about which they have developed heightened awareness that becomes keener day by day. The parallels which the two have drawn between the ramifications of alcoholism and of Type 2 diabetes respectively address hurdles that many have to jump in order to arrive at a place for fulfilling their lives.<br />
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This means choosing, making decisions, turning hard corners in order to uncover a healthy existence whose potential already exists, but which can blossom given incentive and support.<br />
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<b>Novo Veritas Speaks</b><br />
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The groups in which Spence and Betsy talked were strikingly different.<br />
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The first presentation I witnessed was held in a small running apparel shop in Corvallis. The audience seated itself casually in a circle facing the two speakers. The situation was intimate. But the exchange between Spence, Betsy and several women in the audience proved powerful. One very delicate, fragile, small woman, who appeared to be weary of her stress, asked one question and then followed up with more. She was seeking guidance to move out of the place in which she seemed to be stuck. She shared only a general picture of herself. Both Spence and Betsy reassured her that moving forward hurts only after the initial steps and the continuation of healing oneself, finding that healthy and peaceful place is a matter of time, effort and will.<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aLH8oeZt2fE/WErnReAeD-I/AAAAAAAAEhg/3Mu3cLN5_ZUI8yKiNEnFHg33x6oeFOnaQCLcB/s1600/20161101_175355.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aLH8oeZt2fE/WErnReAeD-I/AAAAAAAAEhg/3Mu3cLN5_ZUI8yKiNEnFHg33x6oeFOnaQCLcB/s320/20161101_175355.jpg" width="180" /></a><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XE9ox-Rt74I/WErnRP8-H_I/AAAAAAAAEhc/VhSTU_hAQ6A9zltbJJDNg8vKkq2WU3bCgCLcB/s1600/20161101_175604.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XE9ox-Rt74I/WErnRP8-H_I/AAAAAAAAEhc/VhSTU_hAQ6A9zltbJJDNg8vKkq2WU3bCgCLcB/s320/20161101_175604.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
Another woman, who, as Betsy was and is, dealing with a weight problem, had just finished her first 5K running race, spoke up with confidence and belief in herself, aware still that she was in her "process" of reaching her goal...a testament to the coaching that Spence and Betsy can and do give individuals. The age of the audience varied but was within the range between thirty and fifty. The only man attending was a trainer with whom Spence and Betsy have both worked; he also contributed some positive ideas.<br />
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The concluding words to the audience were: We are here to tell our stories to help you tell yours. This sentence is a deep trigger: it makes <b>me</b> think.<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-y7zf2O-33QM/WEroFajbPOI/AAAAAAAAEho/grxSqblG45Qm30nNc9wd9i63-od9dM7agCLcB/s1600/20161103_181355.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-y7zf2O-33QM/WEroFajbPOI/AAAAAAAAEho/grxSqblG45Qm30nNc9wd9i63-od9dM7agCLcB/s320/20161103_181355.jpg" width="180" /></a><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-svweRJfUHoc/WEroJks6cGI/AAAAAAAAEhs/W-WpPbLJQQkzDY8d8PvweOFHg2mO-nVsQCLcB/s1600/20161103_184019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-svweRJfUHoc/WEroJks6cGI/AAAAAAAAEhs/W-WpPbLJQQkzDY8d8PvweOFHg2mO-nVsQCLcB/s320/20161103_184019.jpg" width="180" /></a>The second presentation was held at The Portland Athletic Club in a far more formal setting. The athletic club is an establishment where members inherit memberships. So the audience was a mix of upper-crust attendees with you-and-me-kinda-people. Spence and Betsy were conscious of their appearance for this particular date, knowing that their message, no matter how essential, might go over well if their appearance blended into expectations of the environment. As an introduction, they showed their <a href="https://vimeo.com/146917873">video</a>, which is always a tear-jerker for me. Then they each went into more detail with their stories in a more audience specific version. Their primary interest is to create a conversation between them and the audience members. So they request questions, as unfettered and unbounded as possible because <b>listening</b> is a means to shape the next steps for growth. One question that I remember distinctly came from an elderly woman, who looks to be in shape and is really beautiful. The question was this: what if life has been good and one simply wants to determine who he or she is? That Spence and Betsy lay themselves open to these amazingly deep inquiries tests the strength of their beings, for often, the questions they are asked pertain to the kinds of questions they continually ask themselves, both individually and together of each other.<br />
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Running is the vehicle for Spencer's and Betsy's recovery from their individual statuses. Running implements their sense of self to develop their strengths, contemplate their weaknesses, hone in on their essential nature. This does not mean that their encouragement is directed towards running only for any of their clients or groups, like athletic teams, with whom they work. It means that they both have a starting point for unleashing their experiences. Spence and Betsy can be key to the raising of one's consciousness.<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OMF2EYBZOrI/WErptmO-McI/AAAAAAAAEh4/9HoD7rSWazQUSW3YEtLYGxYZ9YABs2DsQCLcB/s1600/2016-11-03%2B13.30.45.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OMF2EYBZOrI/WErptmO-McI/AAAAAAAAEh4/9HoD7rSWazQUSW3YEtLYGxYZ9YABs2DsQCLcB/s400/2016-11-03%2B13.30.45.jpg" width="225" /></a></div>
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1V3Ct9gwMvE/WErpRBrdFwI/AAAAAAAAEh0/2cZphWfSXOoJtAevkt2TOXZGJ_-EL5gMgCLcB/s1600/2016-11-03%2B13.28.29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1V3Ct9gwMvE/WErpRBrdFwI/AAAAAAAAEh0/2cZphWfSXOoJtAevkt2TOXZGJ_-EL5gMgCLcB/s400/2016-11-03%2B13.28.29.jpg" width="225" /></a> Mike Parker, a recovering alcoholic himself, <a href="http://poddirectory.com/podcast/79206/the-joe-beaver-show-podcast#!/http://poddirectory.com/episode/15114906/the-joe-beaver-show-podcast-2016-11-03">interviewed the two</a> (Nov 3, beginning at 75:00) on <a href="http://kejoam.com/joe-beaver-show/">The Joe Beaver Show</a> midweek. Mike was thoroughly interested and serious about the effectiveness of Novo Veritas. His questions hit upon aspects of Spence's and Betsy's stories which evoked emotion and demonstrated their willingness to help people and do good. A lot of good. Mike asked them about where they have been, what they are doing and where they want to go. No sensationalism was involved. Just the facts. It was great.<br />
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<b>Hang-Time</b><br />
<b><br /></b>Most of the time during the week, Spence and I just did stuff. One day we drove to Eugene so that I could replace my dead running shoes with new ones. Sure beat ordering them on the Internet! The hands-on service was terrific. Everyone in the running world knows Spence. He can talk to anyone about anything.<br />
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Driving with Spence involved a certain amount of silence because he thinks a lot. Our talking together acquires a special context because we live so far away from each other. <span style="text-align: center;">Our lives are diverse, but seem similar in our mutual capacity for focus, accomplishment and fulfillment. We also share kindred emotions and personal psychologies: depression and anxiety. Communication about the latter jumps into our talking threads occasionally.</span><br />
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Toward the end of my trip, we spent an entire afternoon working on a trail he is carving out for himself in one of the many forests which pervade the rich vegetative environment where he lives. As we looked back on our work, Spence said: Hey, we must have gone a quarter of a mile! He dug and I widened and softened the paths; I moved fallen tree parts to act as guides for the direction of the trail. We stopped working at the crest of a hill where we could see mountains. Well, mountains are everywhere in Oregon. Not a strange event! And then we walked calmly back to the car, refreshed, revived, and glowing from our convention with nature.</div>
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On another day we traveled to a peak from which could be seen The Sisters in Bend looking east across the state and Mount Jefferson. The wind whipped around us as we walked to the top of the mountain on a less used trail. At the top, satellite dishes and lights spoiled the atmosphere but are, in this day and age, necessary. The peak was barren. My heart was full. The view reminded me of the landscape that lay outside my studio window at CalArts in Valencia, CA. I had traced the contours of the mountains on the window glass to make a mock drawing of what would influence the subject of the rest of my art-making life.<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PhtpO4wCDpM/WErrqn7tf5I/AAAAAAAAEiA/s3lL_0QwfdMO0fIswwrW2B3C3YzXDfxzQCLcB/s1600/20161105_172231.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PhtpO4wCDpM/WErrqn7tf5I/AAAAAAAAEiA/s3lL_0QwfdMO0fIswwrW2B3C3YzXDfxzQCLcB/s320/20161105_172231.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6mio5WZnw0E/WErrwQ8CyDI/AAAAAAAAEiE/VWLDPM-Pht4UWXhwEiWWr_pHQ_E_fF95wCLcB/s1600/20161105_181628.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6mio5WZnw0E/WErrwQ8CyDI/AAAAAAAAEiE/VWLDPM-Pht4UWXhwEiWWr_pHQ_E_fF95wCLcB/s320/20161105_181628.jpg" width="180" /></a>At the end of the week, we went to dinner on the nearby coast. It was raining cats and dogs. We floated on our journey as if we were on a boat. It was crazy to have come to the beach when the rain dropped in sheets and my raincoat billowed in the wind. But, hey, I took some pictures to document the fact that I had reached the Pacific Ocean. Dinner was lovely and quiet and full of joy. At no time did I ever think as a Mother that I would be having dinner with my mature thirty-seven year old son in a restaurant by the ocean to which he had driven me for a belated sixty-sixth birthday celebration. Age means nothing. We both know we are still growing up.<br />
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<b>The Part Called the Ending</b><br />
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Telling this story touches on the reasons I have such immense pride in how Spence has stepped into the hole that is his disease and is climbing out of it to re-create the positive path that is his life.<br />
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Every photograph I took of him or of the landscape mirrors his history. Every word he uttered informed me of all the remarkable places he has been in his mind and body and all the unimaginable, unknowable destinations he will choose to travel to for himself.<br />
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My son stands out boldly against the bright clouded slate blue Oregon sky. He meets, as do I, uncertainty every day. Every day, however, with unanswered questions swimming around in his mind, he does not relent in pursuit of the next question. He leaves the questions he has remaining unanswered until the necessity for questions and answers disappear into the folds of what he has named the 'process' of living. His life will be long.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4042600888540115921.post-13688920131921702762016-10-05T11:52:00.000-04:002016-10-17T12:30:12.205-04:00As Published in ARTEIDOLIA<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRgOk9nqjYxvrOr1s4w_YkhJP9vyNaCMpsXnK3DC6iEPuZtJC0zGzaDa91HhFrDnr4DAG7KRkQMEGif6kZBUJkFKTQaQgG3Gmoa3AE_y7lxhqpoDlElUUb2LALMgLG54KsIumWiZ-ILGQ/s1600/Sol+LeWitt%252C+MassMoca%252C+2016+108.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRgOk9nqjYxvrOr1s4w_YkhJP9vyNaCMpsXnK3DC6iEPuZtJC0zGzaDa91HhFrDnr4DAG7KRkQMEGif6kZBUJkFKTQaQgG3Gmoa3AE_y7lxhqpoDlElUUb2LALMgLG54KsIumWiZ-ILGQ/s400/Sol+LeWitt%252C+MassMoca%252C+2016+108.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Entrance to MASSMoCA, North Adams, MA</td></tr>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><a href="http://www.arteidolia.com/sol-lewitt-principle-lyn-horton/">The Sol LeWitt Principle</a></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">On</span></b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"> April 8, 2007, Sol LeWitt passed
away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">With him
went his ever-engaged mind; the seeds of creativity which took him from one drawing,
one sculpture, one photograph, one word to the next with seeming ease. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">In 1968,
he created his first wall drawing at the opening of the Paula Cooper Gallery, a
gallery which still represents his work.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Sol’s </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><a href="http://emerald.tufts.edu/programs/mma/fah188/sol_lewitt/paragraphs%20on%20conceptual%20art.htm">Paragraphs on Conceptual Art</a></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="http://emerald.tufts.edu/programs/mma/fah188/sol_lewitt/paragraphs%20on%20conceptual%20art.htm"> </a>were published in Art Forum
magazine in 1967. Sol’s <a href="http://www.altx.com/vizarts/conceptual.html">Sentences on Conceptual Art</a></span><a href="http://www.altx.com/vizarts/conceptual.html"> </a><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">were published in New York’s, <b><i>0-9</i></b>
in 1969 and in England’s <b><i>Art & Language</i></b> in May of the
same year. Written with respect to his own work, manifestos for his own
art-making needs, these words reached Biblical applicability to art of the time
very quickly. He never claimed to be the Father of Conceptual Art.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Eadweard
Muybridge influenced Sol. Below is Muybridge’s exemplary contact print of the
Cockatoo in flight. It makes perfect sense that Sol might understand the logic
and inevitability of change from one photographic frame to the next. At the
same time, Sol recognized the sameness as demonstrated by his own early video
piece of a nude woman, who has no identity, walking toward a camera frontally
with no shadow, no angle that hinted at dimension. Only white was behind her.
His nude stills of a woman walking forward implied the same kind of stop action
movement. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M_0XqcNspYY/V_UUNlaJocI/AAAAAAAAEbk/joPEa2bp9lwFi78OiILkdXklMvJeo-7-wCEw/s1600/muybridge_cockatoo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M_0XqcNspYY/V_UUNlaJocI/AAAAAAAAEbk/joPEa2bp9lwFi78OiILkdXklMvJeo-7-wCEw/s400/muybridge_cockatoo.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eadweard Muybridge, Cockatoo, Bird in Flight, 1872-85, Plate 758 from "Animal Locomotion. " 1887</td></tr>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Sol’s</span></b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> reputation evolved out of his
invention of spare simple formulated systems applied to many contexts.
Sometimes seen as minimal art, his cube sculptures qualified then and still do
as a reason for being themselves. He made them at first on an extremely small
scale; he glued the struts together and painted them. Like any artist, he
worked within his means; at the time, he confessed once that he did not have
much money.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">His
drawings were also concerned with formulated systems for which he eventually
could make instructions so that he could detach himself from them; he could
also mold the same drawings to different surfaces depending on how he
envisioned the surface being used. He could expand his imagination of his
imagery, his ever-changing vocabulary. This is the point at which the drawings
leapt to the wall. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Although
almost uncountable exhibits of his walls drawings have occurred, the 25 Year
Retrospective of Sol’s wall drawings, which opened on November 16, 2008, at
MASSMoCA, North Adams, MA, is exceedingly special. It was the result of five
years of planning through Yale University Art Gallery, Williams College Museum
of Art, MASS MoCA and Sol, who designed the placement of the walls and the
placement of the drawings using a small model. The exhibit absorbs three floors
of one building of the huge MASSMoCA complex; the building was renovated
exclusively for the show.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Given
the nature of the concept of the wall drawing, Sol birthed a wealth of
possibilities or ideas within the concept. The exhibition at MASSMoCA offers a
selection from the over one thousand drawings for which he has created instructions.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">The instructions
for Wall Drawings fit into the context described by one of his sentences on
Conceptual Art:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">“28. Once
the idea of the piece is established in the artist's mind and the final form is
decided, the process is carried out blindly. There are many side effects that
the artist cannot imagine. These may be used as ideas for new works.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MHeFNRyESvw/V_UVEn82Z7I/AAAAAAAAEbo/jMe40mj58kEjcmiOyXzVFvUAe6EyV1mkgCLcB/s1600/Sol%2BLeWitt%252C%2BMassMoca%252C%2B2016%2B004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MHeFNRyESvw/V_UVEn82Z7I/AAAAAAAAEbo/jMe40mj58kEjcmiOyXzVFvUAe6EyV1mkgCLcB/s400/Sol%2BLeWitt%252C%2BMassMoca%252C%2B2016%2B004.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small; text-align: start;"> Wall Drawing #11, 1969, detail of exact center</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Wall
Drawing #11, 1969, presents itself at
the entrance to the first “Early Work” floor of the three floor exhibit. In
appearance, the graphite (always pencil #9H) wall drawing seems flat, even and
uneventful. Then one’s eyes adjust and the intrigue is unavoidable. The closer
one moves towards the wall, an entire world of detail widens to reveal itself.
The viewer cannot possibly take in the whole drawing on the same level of
detail. The instructions for this drawing are simple (as are they all): “Wall
divided horizontally and vertically into four equal parts. Within each part,
four kinds of lines (in four directions) are superimposed.” The size of the
wall for this drawing can vary. But its ownership cannot, as is true for all
wall drawings. This particular set of instructions, when applied in various
forms throughout his career, became his signature by default.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Flanking
the first drawing is a multi-sectioned one using color pencil leads and
graphite. The directions for this one are as elemental as those for #11, but the
patterning changes. The regularity of drawn lines creates an unpredictable,
unexpected pattern formation, which transforms the drawing into a study of
texture, arising purely from the commitment to process. The way in which the
wall is divided into each section, where the combination of pencils and the
directions of lines change, like the blink of eye, alters the way in which the
lines are perceived.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">“24.
Perception is subjective.”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Each
individual wall drawing propagates another. Turn the corner and the textures,
patterns, density of lines modify the flat surfaces. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;">Walls.
These are walls. <span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">On another
wall, four vertical columns of graphite lines are separated by four inches.
Adjacent to that six vertical columns, sharing the same edges, using color and
graphite lines in overlaid diagonal and vertical and horizontal directions, adjusts
the perception of the wall drawing where columns are separated. One drawing strengthens
the other. The aesthetics don’t matter. The impact does. The Zen of them
matters. That they embrace the viewer is celebratory.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Each
floor of the exhibit is L-shaped. The areas are arranged so that at least two,
considering both sides, are the longest continuous area for display. The remaining
walls are divided and, as a result, intimate spaces are created. On the latter walls,
the repetition is not the endgame. But the longer spaces where larger walls stand
explode with beauty, subtlety, and paradoxical tenderness. Somehow repetition
is comforting. Even though each part within the repeated group of units is
different from another, the core units are based on the same principles. So the
repetition simply seems like it happens, although it actually doesn’t. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Evolutions. Evolutions. Evolutions.
Unfolding imagistic poetry. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">If one
wanted to talk permutations, one could. A permutation is a word for analysis
rather than appreciation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">“11.
Ideas do not necessarily proceed in logical order. They may set one off in
unexpected directions, but an idea must necessarily be completed in the mind
before the next one is formed.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Not straight vertical lines
approximately 10” long equal rain. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">The adjacent drawing of randomly crossing
graphite lines is like ice. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Crystalline hard form cracking next
to a gentle purring slipping of water against glass. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Graphite or colors: red, yellow,
blue. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Alternately,
from wall to wall, the potential for intimacy becomes an explosion of
controlled expressivity. Why not? Turn the lines into vectors, use a different
material, undo and strengthen what has already been discovered. This is the drive
of the artist whose mind is unfettered, who applies no bounds within the
boundaries he sets. Whose art speaks to him and tells him where to go next,
what to do next. And whose heart is so large that accommodating a relentless
switching of gears might be troublesome at times but never ceases to be
grounded and shaped and dealt with as viable direction, both literally and
figuratively. (Sol would have said those last four words.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">The
model for the retrospective is so small; perhaps 30” wide x 36” long x 10” deep,
in three parts, one for each floor. The actual rooms though<b> </b>are oriented to the human body. Sure the walls are twelve feet tall
to accommodate the ready-made floor to ceiling height. It doesn’t matter that
the walls aren’t any taller. The constancy of image requires an input of
humanity in order to be ingested. Not being able to reach the top of a wall
does not mean that the size of the drawing is meant to be overwhelming. It is
merely a means to lay out the combinations in full swing (Sol would have that)
so that the surprise of pattern is blatant and the drawing becomes a dance
rather than one image idea next to another.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">The colors
of the walls metamorphose as do the impact of the instruments using to draw give
punch. An inexplicable extroversion abounds, espousing a belief in the wonder
of the line as surpassing the necessity for maintaining a kind of “technique’.
It is laughable to put Sol’s capacity for using line in the same sentence as
technique. The power of the use of process and idea render technique an
antiquated term.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">“19.
The conventions of art are altered by works of art.”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Logical moves: pencil to crayon
to pencil again. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">What was learned with the tools
is reflected in the change of image. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Which is, in toto, his vision,
only visible when the total work is seen in toto.</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">“20.
Successful art changes our understanding of the conventions by altering our
perceptions.”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">The
utilization of the wall is complete no matter whether the idea calls to use
marks on the entire wall or pull away from the edges of the wall. The emptiness
is as important as participation. The emptiness allows the image to be framed.
The frame is in proportion to the image. It is all measured. It is all
intuited. It is all felt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">When the
thin pencil lines expand outwards, the patterns expand. The distance between
the viewer and the image can be greater for detecting the overall patterning
made with repeated gestures. All measured, all regulated, all designed, all
felt. Close up the expanded pencils lines never retract into old patterns.
Ain’t no way. Because a new drawing has arisen.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">“21. Perception of ideas leads to
new ideas.”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Expansion
and contraction become thematic hinges throughout the pencil drawings. The
fluctuation creates a means for occupying the spaces between the lines (Sol
would have said that) to push through even adjustments towards larger and
larger graphic explosions. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Grander statements. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">None more important than the ones
that came before. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Ink and paint added to the collection
of artist’s media. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Layers of pencil, layers of ink. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Coincidental principles of
applying them.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">“27. The concept of a work of art
may involve the matter of the piece or the process in which it is made.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QjlEW25w1bA/V_UVrUOiI-I/AAAAAAAAEbw/laMUO6T3ZxcVUcIXV6_xA7yrwaa2aoaoQCLcB/s1600/Sol%2BLeWitt%252C%2BMassMoca%252C%2B2016%2B050.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QjlEW25w1bA/V_UVrUOiI-I/AAAAAAAAEbw/laMUO6T3ZxcVUcIXV6_xA7yrwaa2aoaoQCLcB/s400/Sol%2BLeWitt%252C%2BMassMoca%252C%2B2016%2B050.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small; text-align: start;">Wall Drawing #51, 1970, detail</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-no-proof: yes;"><v:shape alt="Sol LeWitt, MassMoca, 2016 050.JPG" id="Picture_x0020_6" o:spid="_x0000_i1030" style="height: 351pt; mso-wrap-style: square; visibility: visible; width: 468pt;" type="#_x0000_t75">
<v:imagedata o:title="Sol LeWitt, MassMoca, 2016 050" src="file:///C:\Users\LYNHOR~1\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image004.jpg">
</v:imagedata></v:shape></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">The
later pencil works developed into designs of other shapes. Strange aberrations
within the whole yet evidence of the willingness to stretch and loosen up and
unwind, even though the lines are straight, overlapping. And true to a source
of form. Sol’s early drawings went through a mannerist phase when he verbally
described placements of lines and/or points on walls and those words were
written where the lines and/or points were placed. This perhaps is the
beginning of the development of his concept of shape, isolated shapes on walls
and shapes derived in relation to points on walls.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">The
media for drawing shapes were the same as the ones for drawing lines. Shapes
were just shapes. Yes, the emptiness was filled with emptiness or crayon. But
the shapes were a way to separate out the geometry illuminated by the linear
analysis of architectural points as in the early chalk drawing, #51. This was a
part of his training. Yet, when he stepped out of the geometry of architectural
training, he was in a zone where his spirit spoke more than his knowledge.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">The
bases for his entire oeuvre exist on the first floor. One can see the way
visual ideas penetrate all stages of his work. His vision is only visible when
the total work is seen in toto. This is the reason that grasping the pencil
wall drawings from the earliest period is vital to understanding the remainder
of the wall drawings. And it is especially important given the way that his
work is laid out in this museum context. This retrospective is different from
any other. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">The
influx of ink as a medium was significant in his growth out of pure line. He
covers more area more quickly. He layers the ink to produce colors that are
produced from RYB, yet become expressionistic. A secondary palette: purples, greens, blues arriving from a
logically processed palette. Seemingly less regulated. More free. More in tune
with a world where the self blooms through doing what one loves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">“25. The
artist may not necessarily understand his own art. His perception is neither
better nor worse than that of others.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The
next step</span></b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"> in Sol’s
image making, when the ink-wash shape-oriented drawings began, the architectural
space is stretched and emphasized by the natural expanse accompanying the
drawings in it. The drawings become bold statements rather than invitations to move
in and examine the details, even though one does. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">In this
exhibit, the way in which the specific walls are arranged on the floor make
just as much sense, if not more sense, than the basic spatial structure of the
building. Even the lighting, thought it
has been criticized, makes sense. The floorboards and the long florescent tube
lighting are perpendicular to the verticality of the walls on which the
drawings are. The windows magnify the regularity of the drawings and become a
backdrop for the exquisite color performance in front of them, a backdrop for
the play whose characters are the drawings. The results of the physical motion
of installation emanate from the drawings. <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a>The ambient
sounds, such as distant sound art, people talking, foot falls on the floor
above or on the stairs are enough to offset the quietude that the wall drawings
project. Although Sol likened his work to the music of Bach, especially early
on, and no doubt he played music when he was working, no music comes out of the
drawings. Only meditative silence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-no-proof: yes;"><v:shape alt="Sol LeWitt, MassMoca, 2016 086.JPG" id="Picture_x0020_7" o:spid="_x0000_i1029" style="height: 351pt; mso-wrap-style: square; visibility: visible; width: 468pt;" type="#_x0000_t75">
<v:imagedata o:title="Sol LeWitt, MassMoca, 2016 086" src="file:///C:\Users\LYNHOR~1\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image005.jpg">
</v:imagedata></v:shape></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-denu9ianix4/V_UWChseyZI/AAAAAAAAEb0/RUXWR605M105ZuJmOLkmfw2Vk6gGTqGaQCLcB/s1600/Sol%2BLeWitt%252C%2BMassMoca%252C%2B2016%2B086.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="301" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-denu9ianix4/V_UWChseyZI/AAAAAAAAEb0/RUXWR605M105ZuJmOLkmfw2Vk6gGTqGaQCLcB/s400/Sol%2BLeWitt%252C%2BMassMoca%252C%2B2016%2B086.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small; text-align: start;">Wall Drawing #51, 1970, detail</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The
third floor</span></b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">
display, dealing with Sol’s Late Period, is replete with painted shapes. Paint
cannot be washed over in layers like ink can be. The acrylic paint is placed in
separate shapes. The first wall drawing seen upon entering the floor is a
mixture of the various shapes that he has used throughout his art making career:
arcs, rectangles, concentric circles, curves (or not straight lines) which form
saw-tooth edges against rectangles on a third or so of the wall. The colors
employed here are exuberant, bright and overwhelming; ready to be seen at close
range and at the same time only appreciated at a distance. Perpendicular to
this wall is a wall drawing of a yellow isometric shape, whose sides are
painted with green, blue and red. The shape lies on a field of orange.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">One
cannot sit and appreciate these for long. The tendency is to want to move on.
There is nothing to contemplate. The world is loud.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">The flip
side of the opening wall is the totally enveloping black and white “Parallel
Curves,” #999, 2001. How extraordinarily expressive and free this drawing is in
contrast to the multi-color collective wildness on the wall’s other side. The
rigor of the curves translates into constrained shapes which simultaneously flow,
move and melt into one another. This drawing’s intent seems to be closely
derived from the pencil drawings of his early period, without borders but truly
restrained. The curves on the upper edge leave the surface; on the bottom edge,
they create new shapes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf0IiEqy9_ZuI_vocKuBEHyfgzvVTRdOEEKfelK42-qCiBj9Y9Sd7grAa3YLVuFOnzx-rIRFcbg85PiyOdz6zUsJvEa23N0ctg61qAh8WefoTU0po_IKxwQcvaxbFWsa8llWm__Q-WtCg/s1600/Sol+LeWitt%252C+MassMoca%252C+2016+118.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf0IiEqy9_ZuI_vocKuBEHyfgzvVTRdOEEKfelK42-qCiBj9Y9Sd7grAa3YLVuFOnzx-rIRFcbg85PiyOdz6zUsJvEa23N0ctg61qAh8WefoTU0po_IKxwQcvaxbFWsa8llWm__Q-WtCg/s400/Sol+LeWitt%252C+MassMoca%252C+2016+118.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small; text-align: start;">Wall Drawing #999, 2001 (right) and #1005, 2001 (left)</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Opposite
these curves is the quadri-color “Splat,” #958, 2000. It is longer than “Parallel
Curves.” It mixes straightness and fluidity on uneven terms; one does not know
how to understand its makeup except perhaps in terms of a map, or of earth,
air, water and fire. Our earth’s core.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">As the
dates of the pieces change, the treatment of the themes changes in size and
approach. Iterations of original pencil drawing of four squares; lines in four
directions in four squares, for which he is the most famous, appear: lines make
the shapes, the shapes become the color and the colors become the shapes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Singularly
outstanding is an absolutely elegant single curve that divides the wall on
which it is drawn into two distinct shapes. The upper is painted in black matte
and the lower in glossy acrylic paint. One surface conveys two messages:
absorption and reflection. Polar opposites. Simplicity and depth. Wholeness and
duality. Calmness of yin and yang without the disparity of this side and that
sharing a common edge. Sol’s Yin and Yang. Opposite this is a set of twelve
“Wavy Lines” painted with the same medium: the curves are horizontal, vertical
and diagonal, activating forty inch squares with the same kind of two phase
blackness, the same kind of unity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_ZYAyUwX5aw/V_UW5RE_cSI/AAAAAAAAEcE/XmoVnWqt8zoM5CzEKNtQc39CnVQhyagEgCLcB/s1600/Sol%2BLeWitt%252C%2BMassMoca%252C%2B2016%2B142.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_ZYAyUwX5aw/V_UW5RE_cSI/AAAAAAAAEcE/XmoVnWqt8zoM5CzEKNtQc39CnVQhyagEgCLcB/s400/Sol%2BLeWitt%252C%2BMassMoca%252C%2B2016%2B142.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small; text-align: start;">Wall Drawing #822, 1997</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">And then
beckons the grandeur of the 1998 “Loopy Doopy,” Wall Drawing #880, the drawing
that was opposite the elevators at the entrance of the Whitney Retrospective in
1999, where the colors used were purple and blue. At MASS MoCA, the variation
is green and orange. Loopy Doopy, as the name implies, hints at Sol’s humorous
side.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Imagine the glimmer of a smile on
his face, for instance, when he would say to someone in a conversation: “Drop
me a line sometime.” <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">The
similarity that “Loopy Doopy” has with “Parallel Curves” exists; but, in a way,
the curves are less serious, more freely drawn, less introverted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Behind “Loopy
Doopy” are two drawings that are the logical step from the ones that are
contiguous with this section of the room. One is a black matte and glossy
version of the four squares with lines going in different directions. Adjacent
is a three sectioned piece: a horizontal curve, vertical curve and diagonal
curve separate each of three large individual squares into primary colors
paired with their opposite or secondary colors.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">The
conclusion of the exhibit is at the back of the “L” on the third floor. The
bright color wall drawings are concentrated in the center of the floor’s
layout. The colors move within bands, planes, squares, whirls, twirls,
isometric shapes with the glaring characteristics of regularity and
irregularity. Blasts of pure color, repressed subtlety: extroverted statements
that speak of everything that is possible in Sol’s language.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">There seems to be a search for
solace in the content of the painted work. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Until the
deeply introspective scribble drawings appear. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><a href="http://www.pacegallery.com/exhibitions/11686/sol-lewitt-scribble-wall-drawings">They are dated towards the end of his life</a>;</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"> some
of them were installed posthumously for this retrospective exhibit. The
scribbles are so dense one cannot see any unmarked area, except on close inspection
between each scribble, which move from the outside in; within the same drawing, the least density of
scribbling creates the center. One can
see white, but never pure white. The scribble drawings glow. Shine. Become.
Concentric circles within a square. Horizon within a square, vertical tension
within a square, square within a square with rounded corners, an “X” within a
square and one that echoes the ink wash drawings where isometric shapes are
elicited: this drawing is executed like the ink washes with one layer of
scribbles occupying the entire wall and succeeding layers of scribbles
inscribed into overlapping shapes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZjpfiPoirec/V_UXVPCKv_I/AAAAAAAAEcM/I0_DGE0wOuASrbmfN3fJB1JXyIQklAXswCLcB/s1600/Sol%2BLeWitt%252C%2BMassMoca%252C%2B2016%2B185.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZjpfiPoirec/V_UXVPCKv_I/AAAAAAAAEcM/I0_DGE0wOuASrbmfN3fJB1JXyIQklAXswCLcB/s400/Sol%2BLeWitt%252C%2BMassMoca%252C%2B2016%2B185.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small; text-align: start;">Wall Drawing #1247, 2007</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"> </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">The last
drawing on view, #1180, is the perfect drawing. In a circle that is
approximately twelve feet in diameter, in the perfect center of the rectangular
end wall, it retreats from the edges, but pushes simultaneously at the top and
bottom of the circle. The directions: 10,000 black straight lines combined with
10,000 not straight lines.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">10,000 means “many” in the
Oriental sense of the word. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Black and white, the absorption
and reflection respectively of all color.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Here are
essential elements: Lines. They were the perpetual subject matter of Sol’s life’s
exploration and adventure. The lines coalesced into geometry which he managed
through the juggling of more lines. Lines were the beginning and the end. They
were continuously present as the circle is round.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"> “1. Conceptual artists are mystics rather than
rationalists. They leap to conclusions that logic cannot reach.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-no-proof: yes;"><v:shape alt="Sol LeWitt, MassMoca, 2016 189.JPG" id="Picture_x0020_18" o:spid="_x0000_i1025" style="height: 351pt; mso-wrap-style: square; visibility: visible; width: 468pt;" type="#_x0000_t75">
<v:imagedata o:title="Sol LeWitt, MassMoca, 2016 189" src="file:///C:\Users\LYNHOR~1\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image009.jpg">
</v:imagedata></v:shape></span></b><b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Jb5m6g9SC0E/V_UXkPN9--I/AAAAAAAAEcQ/xOc3XHNLXG4BdvaLXgi9gp7ggkIKT3kEwCLcB/s1600/Sol%2BLeWitt%252C%2BMassMoca%252C%2B2016%2B188.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Jb5m6g9SC0E/V_UXkPN9--I/AAAAAAAAEcQ/xOc3XHNLXG4BdvaLXgi9gp7ggkIKT3kEwCLcB/s400/Sol%2BLeWitt%252C%2BMassMoca%252C%2B2016%2B188.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small; text-align: start;">Wall Drawing #1180, 2005</span></td></tr>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">The Lines.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">The Lines were his close friends.
<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">The Lines were his allies. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">The Lines travelled with him wherever
he went. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">The Lines led Sol everywhere. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">The Lines empowered him and
spread omnipresent creative energy throughout the universe. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Copyright
2016 Lyn Horton<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Photo
Credit: Lyn Horton<o:p></o:p></span></div>
First published in <a href="http://www.arteidolia.com/">ARTEIDOLIA</a><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4042600888540115921.post-29268718932593075092016-08-26T11:08:00.000-04:002016-08-26T17:26:27.405-04:00Sol LeWitt: A Story<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 105%;">It was in
the fall of 1970 that Sol LeWitt visited California Institute of the Arts. The
day I met him, he was sitting in a chair at the edge of a cluster of a dozen or
so forty-inch square tables in the cafeteria. Students were gathered round,
sitting and standing behind him and to his side.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 105%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 105%;">On that day,
Sol was picking out students to help him install his exhibit at the, then,
Pasadena Art Museum. My memory of exactly how he chose people is vague. But the
next image that pops into my mind in telling this story is of Sol, surrounded
by gallery walls explaining how to approach his wall drawing installation, his
arms waving, his fingers pointing. The walls we were to draw on must have been
at least thirty feet high; they were opposite each other. LeWitt’s words on the
first page of the small catalog described how they were to be used:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 105%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 105%; text-indent: 0.5in;">"Wall Drawing, 1970 </span><span style="line-height: 105%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 105%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> Left wall, pencil, four colors</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 105%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> Right wall, pencil, black only</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;">
The draftsman and the wall enter a dialogue. The
draftsman becomes bored but later through this meaningless activity finds
peace or misery. The lines on the wall are the residue of this process.
Each line is as important as each other line. All the lines become one thing. The
viewer of the lines can see only lines on a wall. They are meaningless. That is art."</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCz8hywhZsrEEbOisTzeK8gg-u-sSd3UWuMnAOaa0BTXcP_uREmXvPkDQd4Z6hXJkFcof-6m9_v9ERort4xIUgLHDci8FTA7ig8jdIftVrnKTzI4FNGaCf4IAmEDJbz7d_6M4KX7-VZjM/s1600/LeWitt+Catalog%252C+Exhibit%252C+Pasadena%252C+Nov.+1970-Jan.+71.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCz8hywhZsrEEbOisTzeK8gg-u-sSd3UWuMnAOaa0BTXcP_uREmXvPkDQd4Z6hXJkFcof-6m9_v9ERort4xIUgLHDci8FTA7ig8jdIftVrnKTzI4FNGaCf4IAmEDJbz7d_6M4KX7-VZjM/s320/LeWitt+Catalog%252C+Exhibit%252C+Pasadena%252C+Nov.+1970-Jan.+71.jpg" width="316" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy of Lyn Horton</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 105%;">I worked on
both the right wall and the left wall, within the areas that I could reach. The
remaining lines above me were drawn by the male draftsman who worked off
scaffolding. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 105%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 105%;">Sol
continually guided us. Even though the straight lines of varying length were to
be drawn “randomly,” they were drawn according to Sol’s idea of “random.” He
would interrupt any one of us when he saw that the lines were being drawn
incorrectly. We had to use the pencils given to us in a specific way: our hands
needed to be relaxed and the pencils were supposed to float between our
fingers. The lines had to be drawn with an even pressure so that the overall
surface created had no dark or light areas, showing only moderate density. The
walls were meant to have a delicate texture: my interpretation in hindsight. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 105%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 105%;">Into the
large gallery in which we worked was integrated a small gallery that bore the
same architectural shape as the large one. In the almost elevator-sized space,
Sol drew what I consider to be the most gorgeous wall drawing of those early
years. It was its first installation. Or so I remember. He had created it for
Eva Hesse, who had just died of a brain tumor. The drawing contained parallel vertical
lines, not straight, not touching, not long, drawn with black pencil. The
impression it gave me was of rain. To this day, I can see in my mind’s eye Sol
beginning the drawing on the left side of the space. He could reach the
ceiling. The drawing transmitted an unsurpassed intimacy. Probably a
description he would not have assigned to it at the time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 105%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 105%;">We took
lunch breaks during the installation process. I remember that I was the only
person to go with Sol to lunch, particularly to the luncheon in the museum dining
room. We were joined by, then, curator Barbara Haskell and artist David
Hockney. It was quite wonderful. Maybe other draftsmen did come, but I was so
awestruck by the situation that I can only remember Sol, Hockney and Barbara
Haskell.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 105%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 105%;">It took us a
full seven-day week to complete the installation. There were only two draftspersons
working by the end of that week. I cannot remember the name of the other fellow.
Sol asked us both to join him at dinner with Doug Christmas of Ace Gallery in
Los Angeles. I have no idea what kind of food we ate or where. I remember that
the booth was tight. Doug and Sol sat on one side and the guy whose name I can’t
recall and I sat on the other. Sol said to us that he would like to “take” us
to dinner. I thought that he meant at another time as well. I said, “Why, thank
you, Sol.” Then I realized he meant that he would pay for our dinners that
evening.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 105%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 105%;">On another day
when we were not in Pasadena, Sol came to my little rented cottage in North
Hollywood to see some of my work. He sat in a brown director’s chair and I sat
on the floor. I passed one drawing after another in front of where he was
sitting. He was mostly silent. At the end of the “showing,” he said: “I like
these better than those.” And that was it. I said, “Really?” He nodded his
head. I forget which drawings I showed to him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 105%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 105%;">After his
visit, Sol wanted to go to critic Helene Winer’s house in the Hollywood Hills. I
drove him and I got lost. Here I was with Sol way across the country from his
home in New York City and he directed me out of my lost-ness. Funny. He kept
saying, “I don’t remember this area.” I actually argued with him. He won. And I
delivered him safely to his destination.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 105%;"><br /></span></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 105%;">When Sol had
returned to New York, he sent drawings to those artists who had helped him. Mine
is small: lines of differing lengths, straight, parallel in ink. It was to be
the first in my collection of Sol LeWitt pieces of art for which I gave him
works of my own. This note, written on a thin piece of rag board, accompanied
the drawing:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-n5zGPenjdYQ/V8BUAYAY0bI/AAAAAAAAEZg/nRKpCIX9gsIporNNDBBaV2_uRaiOk4CRQCLcB/s1600/Sol%2BThank%2Byou%2Bfor%2BPasadena%2BInstallation%252C%2BApril%252C%2B1971.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-n5zGPenjdYQ/V8BUAYAY0bI/AAAAAAAAEZg/nRKpCIX9gsIporNNDBBaV2_uRaiOk4CRQCLcB/s640/Sol%2BThank%2Byou%2Bfor%2BPasadena%2BInstallation%252C%2BApril%252C%2B1971.jpg" width="352" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy of Lyn Horton<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 105%;">Sol and I
corresponded over the years for the rest of his life. </span><span style="line-height: 105%;">In 1988, I worked on the team to install the
ink wash wall drawing at the Williams College Museum of Art. On the first day
of the installation of the drawing, he came to view the space chosen for his
drawing. When he saw me in a group of people huddled around the staircase where
his drawing would go, he said, “What are you doing here?” I replied, “I have
come to help install your work.” He said, “Oh, great” and then quietly smiled.</span><span style="line-height: 105%;"></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 105%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 105%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 105%;">Anthony
Sansotta, Sol’s longtime foreman for installation of the Wall Drawings, came to
Sol’s side. Both looked at the wall for a moment or two. Sol turned to Anthony
and said: “Arcs, twelve inches, starting with yellow, then red and blue.” This
is Wall Drawing #559. After lunch at the faculty club that day, Sol and his
wife disappeared. I went to work with the crew. It was a blast, all five days
of doing ink wash, for which there is also a definite LeWitt technique.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 105%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 105%;">I received
an invitation to Sol’s retrospective opening at the Whitney in 2001. I was not
going to miss that. This was also the year hell had broken loose for me. After
my Mother died in 1999, my husband, now ex, decided to leave and we were in the
process of getting a divorce. When I found Sol midst the throngs of people who
were attending the opening, I threw my arms around him in a big hug. With
sweetness spreading throughout his face, he asked, unexcitedly, “How are you?”
Somehow he knew everything that was happening in my life. I certainly had not
written him about it. Astonished, I said “I am ok.” Sol said, “One day at a time.”
With tears in my eyes, I said good-bye, looking back at him longingly as I
walked away to leave the museum.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 105%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 105%;">That was the
last time I saw Sol. But my heart is
full with him. He left that much of an impact, I can only imagine, with
everyone with whom he associated.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 105%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 105%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 105%;">Copyright
2014-16 Lyn Horton<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First displayed with my drawing: 70" Square Black & Gold, 2014, exhibited in the show "In The Studio: Artist's Dialogs," California Center for the Arts, Escondido, CA, 2014<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4042600888540115921.post-20907986661755385602016-05-01T13:54:00.000-04:002016-05-01T18:06:35.639-04:00Resurrection: My Son, My Words<div class="MsoNormal">
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<o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-voWBn-EYdz0/VyY7LyUnOgI/AAAAAAAAELY/M8HeY_FnBFI6fENKT9pKCI058eRW55kfwCKgB/s1600/Spence%252C%2BFeb%2B11%252C%2B2016%252C%2BMcDonald%2BDunn%2BForest%252C%2BOR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-voWBn-EYdz0/VyY7LyUnOgI/AAAAAAAAELY/M8HeY_FnBFI6fENKT9pKCI058eRW55kfwCKgB/s400/Spence%252C%2BFeb%2B11%252C%2B2016%252C%2BMcDonald%2BDunn%2BForest%252C%2BOR.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My son, Spence, on Feb 11, 2016, McDonald Dunn Forest, OR<br />
Photo: Patrick Means</td></tr>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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On February 11, 2014, my thirty-seven year old son
recognized that he needed to become sober. He possessed enough awareness so
that he had the capacity to stop, step back and witness how he had been
behaving for the years of his youth when his life probably could have blossomed
with genius generated activities. This
was one of them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The pain he had suffered aligned itself coincidentally with
the pain I was suffering.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
********</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The grief overtaking me came with the loss in divorce of a
husband to whom I was married for twenty-five years, the loss of my son who left the house to go as far away from me as
possible to find himself, the loss of my domestic cat taken away by a wild
night crawling fisher cat, the loss of my mother and father and the
estrangement of my brother and my sister as a result of my own choice.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mother died in 1999 at Roper Hospital in Charleston, SC. I
was detached from her death because I did not witness it. I felt it coming
though from fifteen hundred miles away at my
house in Massachusetts and called the Episcopalian minister minutes before she
died to go to the aid of my father who attended her at her hospital bedside. I
flew to be with the family at her memorial. Hundreds of her friends came from
her past life in distant places to wish her well. It was a good time. We
blessed her passing. It was calm and organized. It was not fraught with terror
and anger like my father’s death was. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My father died in 2006. He called me to his side because his
“girlfriend” was going to be away for awhile. It was one month to the day I
arrived to take care of him that his heart, which had been strengthened in
surgery when he was 85 years old, stopped beating, 1:47 AM, June 6. Hospice
care intervened in the last two weeks of his life. The hospice nurses appointed
me as the hands-on caretaker in their absence. I ushered him into his death.
Dad and I did this. Everyone else, except for the nurses, sputtered and spewed
and criticized me for how I was handling the caring. Towards the end, I administered morphine to
him in a dropper into the corner of his mouth. It was at that point that every
morning after I arose, I peeked into his bedroom where he was lying in a
hospital bed, to see if he had died. </div>
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<br /></div>
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The nurses described to me how to determine when his death
was near: if I heard a marked change in his breathing, I was to call the
nurses. That happened. In retrospect, it was remarkable that I could</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
hear that
his breath changed then about midnight on June 5<sup>th</sup>. No one else did.
The “girlfriend” was patently absent from the scene. My brother hovered. After
one of the nurses arrived, she sat on the edge of Dad’s bed. In repeated
motions, she used her stethoscope to listen to his heart, listened for the beat
to fade away. I was lying on the chaise
opposite Dad’s bed. I could not see his face, only the back of the nurse who
was sitting on his bedside leaning into him periodically to listen to his heart.
My brother was standing at the other side of the bed. He announced the time of
death as if he were doing a sports cast. Sports casting was his job at the time.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Someone called the mortuary. When the undertakers came, a
strange question and answer period occurred in the hallway and then they went
about their business in the bedroom. The nurse said that neither my brother nor
I should witness Dad’s body being removed from the house. My brother and I went
to separate rooms. Somehow though, an
image is left in my mind: Dad was in a heavy duty black plastic bag, his body
rolled out on a gurney through the short carpeted hallway from the bedroom onto
the wooden floor of the room size entrance foyer to the house out the door. I
heard the wheels of the gurney roll on the hard wood floor and over the metal tread anchoring the large front door.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The best time I ever spent with my brother was the week
after my father died. My brother was hilarious-he told jokes and imitated
characters we both thought incredibly funny. We traveled around Charleston preparing for
Dad’s memorial a week later and taking care of his personal business with
lawyers Dad had appointed as executors of “the estate,” which began a seemingly
endless year long nightmare. I let go of everything my brother did to annoy me.</div>
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<br /></div>
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My sister went on her predestined way as an alcoholic. I have not seen her since my father’s memorial. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hardly
anyone came to the church to honor my father. It was sad really.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The reception afterwards was held at Dad’s house. </div>
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<br /></div>
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My father was cremated. The service to spread his ashes
seemed thrown together. When it was time, at my urging, the three siblings handed
my father’s ashes from a plastic bag to the tidal creek behind his house. The
ashes felt un-soft, textural, gritty. Final and incipient. They drifted slowly
in the trickle of water leaving as the tide went out.</div>
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<br /></div>
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It has been my choice to separate myself from my brother and
sister. My brother has his own dysfunctional family that I really have no
interest in sharing. My sister is like a leech. She comes at me with affection
and fond memories of childhood when all she really wants is for me to support
her financially and consume and spend together. I would become an accomplice to
enabling her addictive personality much less her actual substance abuses.</div>
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<br /></div>
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*******</div>
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<br /></div>
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My son has spilled countless words on his blog relating the
story of his becoming sober. His words sometimes are hard to come by for him. I
can tell. Yet, he manages to describe horrific, to me, experiences. Each blog
entry circles a theme. At first, the theme was surrounded by sentences dipped
in anguish, sorrow, regret and the willingness to get out from under a heavy
cloud.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How do I poeticize the angst pulsating through my blood after
I read his words? As I move through each day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am an artist.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I draw lines.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Line after line after line.</div>
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Never seeking the right drawing of them.</div>
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Merely desirous of seeing them in another phase.</div>
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The evolution of the lines is infinite.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I will be absent for infinity. Unless I am determined to
meditate through it now. </div>
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Every morning. </div>
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Every day. </div>
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Every aftermath. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Of passing, Loss.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Thorough astonishment at the occurrences in the world. </div>
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Thorough disbelief in the rudeness of youth that greets me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Embedding myself in soft spongy intelligence to escape my own serious human misdemeanors.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Where did my life go? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can tell the story. Or stories. Of this remembrance or
that.</div>
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What I cannot tell you is how upset I was the entire time
until now.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
How upset I am at the false notion that I do not do
anything about what I think my situation is.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The pressure not to waste time is at my doorstep. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The pressure to live in the present from every source and
angle possible incites my anxiety so that I think that I am not living in the
present moment.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
That I am not thinking in the present tense.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
That I am not happy.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
That I need to be somewhere else other than here.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Son.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Running the second year in a row for twelve hours.</div>
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One for every month he has been sober.</div>
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Running in the palm of nature’s hand,</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Where he has indoctrinated himself with appreciation of
the steps he takes</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Of the air he breathes,</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Of the preoccupations with dread he is trying to dismiss.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
To take the next step.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
To move on the dirt path.</div>
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Past the pines. </div>
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Over the dropped needles.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
We.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
My son and I. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Behold the unphotographable.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
We rush to nowhere.</div>
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Touched by annoyances of the external world, made of
numbers generated by computers even if in alphabet form. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
We let go. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Moving away from terrorizing, irritating, head
wrenching moments of inflexible constraints of time which are only figments of
our imagination.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
We do this separately.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
We are of the same blood.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
We do our lives separately.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The value of this similarity between us will remain
forever on into the universe.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The value is in the price of the energy we expend to
feel.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
To feel. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
To feel. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Fulfillment.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Fear nothing. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
He said.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
He repeated.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
He embraces us.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
He or The.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Spirit or Molecules.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
All.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
All of them things, essences, air. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Unnameables.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Unreachables.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
There. Here. Everywhere.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
We go.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
We are. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And ever shall be.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Mom.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Son. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Mom and Son.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Son and Mom.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
One of the never-ending omnipresent unconditional
relationships</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
That we as humans might identify.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
No story cannot be told.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
******</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I generate my words as if to reinvent the wheel because
although the thoughts I have are already known to the universe, it is I who is
thinking them for the first time and in the context of my own life. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
In the delivery of the news of Martin Luther King's death to a crowd
assembled in support of his run for President, Robert Kennedy quoted Aeschylus:
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>“And even in our sleep,</i><i> </i><i>pain which
cannot forget</i><i>, </i><i>falls drop by drop upon the
heart,</i><i> </i><i>until in our own despair,
against our will,</i><i> </i><i>comes wisdom through the awful grace
of God.”</i></b><i><span style="color: #3d494f; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large; mso-ascii-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Those words mean something to me: that for the
despair that I have felt, that the will to live somehow within the very next
actions throughout my days of depression, have I not grown? Have I not overcome
that which will bring me down so that I can see into the future of my last days
in another location, a source for generating new vision, for capturing
refreshed imaginations, for exuding the energy radiating from whatever wisdom I
have accrued, not by effort, but by introspection through doing my work,
experiencing the silence, exercising quotidian activities towards the moments that will inhabit the next times. The ones I knew not to look forward to but which I knew would come.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large; mso-ascii-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">My son and I have comfortable conversations
now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large; mso-ascii-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The result of the passage of time during which
each practices self-made ways of healing and being healthy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In studio in front of large wall drawing, 2015, <br />
one week after another partner of only five years left.<br />
Photo copyright Lyn Horton, 2015.</td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4042600888540115921.post-19212115181941270202015-05-27T17:44:00.001-04:002015-05-27T17:47:21.656-04:00A Time Comes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Artist In Blue Dress in front of 70" Square Drawing Black & White, 2012</td></tr>
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When the time comes for change, it is hard to accept.</div>
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Too much of me has been decomposing and <i>The Paradigm for Beauty</i> has essentially run dry.</div>
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This blog originated with a design that it would last forever, or at least until I left the planet. It was built with the intention that the articles would focus on creative improvised music and all its ancillary conditions. For the most part, my accomplishments have been achieved with an occasional offshoot into my real job which is my visual art and how it is exhibited and created.</div>
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But I have to stop writing for the blog because it is imperative that I direct my energies elsewhere.</div>
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The page will still exist because every post attracts readers. </div>
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And I might post references from other sources regarding my art from time to time.</div>
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Please know, dear reader, that I regret having to write this post, for I have enjoyed the connection. </div>
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I have to engage in the process of re-connecting to myself, discovering new phases of life and loves.</div>
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Thank you. </div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4042600888540115921.post-40002580780129030272014-12-06T16:17:00.001-05:002014-12-13T09:19:00.167-05:00Top Ten, 2014<br />
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<li>Darius Jones, <i>Oversoul Manual</i>, AUM Fidelity;</li>
<li>Joe McPhee, <i>Glasses</i>, Corbett & Dempsey;</li>
<li>Wadada Leo Smith, <i>The Great Lakes Suite, </i>TUM
Records;</li>
<li>Chad Taylor & Rob Masurek, <i>Locus</i>, Northern Spy;</li>
<li>Jason Roebke Octet, <i>High/Red/Center</i>, Delmark;</li>
<li>Matthew Shipp Trio, <i>Root of Things</i>, Relative Pitch;</li>
<li>Dave Rempis, Darren Johnston, Larry Ochs, <i>Spectral</i>,
Aerophonic Records;</li>
<li>Billy Bang & William Parker, <i>Medicine Buddha</i>,
NoBusiness Recods</li>
<li>Darius Jones & Matthew Shipp, <i>Cosmic Lieder: The
Darkseid Recital</i>, AUM Fidelity;</li>
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<li>Jason Adasiewicz's SunRooms, <i>From the Region</i>,
Delmark.</li>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4042600888540115921.post-48616150031385530082014-11-24T17:28:00.000-05:002014-11-24T17:28:39.307-05:00Darius Jones: Oversoul Manual, AUM Fidelity, 2014<div class="MsoNormal">
Language involves more than words, spoken or written, acted
out or signaled; it defines however information is transmitted. Language is the
vehicle for codifying communication processes that lead to a greater purpose. Humans do it. Animals do it.
Plants do it. All living beings do it. </div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1GI1jNRZxhw/VHOtKTI_cDI/AAAAAAAADX0/zIYFbgKsMiw/s1600/AUM091.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1GI1jNRZxhw/VHOtKTI_cDI/AAAAAAAADX0/zIYFbgKsMiw/s1600/AUM091.jpg" /></a>Alto sax player and composer Darius Jones is no stranger to
how to shape language. From his very first quasi-autobiographical recording, <i>Man’ish Boy</i>, he has bridged the gap
between the real and the imagined and literally made them indistinguishable. It
is in the fourth recording that relates directly to the three before it, <i>Oversoul
Manual, </i>that Jones is realizing the
dream originating with the instrumental <i>Man’ish
Boy</i> (AUMFidelity, 2010), continuing with <i>Big Gurl </i>(AUMFidelity, 2011) and <i>Book of Mae’Bul</i> (AUMFidelity, 2012). </div>
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<i>Oversoul Manual </i>(AUMFidelity,
2014) is a step beyond the pure musical adaptation of Jones’ story. It is the magical
celebration of the ancient language of Jones’ invention, ɶʃ,
“…an empathic language by the Or’genian people.” That celebration conveys the
guts of his story. Jones’ creativity envelops an entire culture of love, women,
boys, compassion and identification with Universal Truths. For without the
latter, how else can the purity of souls be known or even alluded to. Jones,
himself, egolessly constructs the epicenter of the culture which penetrates the
ether, the netherworld, the alien world, the earth world. </div>
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A group of four women, Sarah Martin, Jean Carla Rodea,
Amirtha Kidambi, and Kristin Slipp constitute “The Elizabeth-Caroline Unit.”
This “spiritual unit,” as Jones describes it, vocalizes a cappella fifteen
verses of ritualistic beauty whose force is directed towards the creation of a
child. The music ushers in a process of birthing that happens within Jones’
world, the one that is the implosion of the real and the imagined into one.</div>
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The texture of the vocalization manifests an epitome of harmonics;
high and low pitch balance; broken and uninterrupted vibrations; open and
closed tones; and singular and unison lines. No verse is translatable, only
symbolic. The language is syllabic. No dictionary comes with the recording,
because it does not matter. This glorious,
evocative, albeit mysterious continuum of sound projects an enlivening, audibly
sensuous, often trance-like roadway to somewhere that is essentially nowhere,
which exists exclusively in the heart.</div>
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copyright 2014 Lyn Horton</div>
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<o:p> Track listing:</o:p></div>
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Personnel:</div>
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<span lang="FR">Sarah Martin,
voice; Jean Carla Rodea, voice; Amirtha Kidambi,voice; Kristin Slipp, voice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="FR">Cover Art:</span></div>
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<span lang="FR">Copyright 2014 Randal Wilcox</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4042600888540115921.post-3969948658887969552014-09-17T11:33:00.000-04:002014-09-17T11:33:08.594-04:00Lyn Horton's Work: Interior Designer, Mary Douglas Drysdale: John Lyle Style Blog<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
http://johnlylestyle.com/mary-douglas-drysdale/#more-2060</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RPKjvoRQwF4/VBmojm-pFbI/AAAAAAAADPw/A6-Rjg552sQ/s1600/1505303_718487968171926_770163401_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RPKjvoRQwF4/VBmojm-pFbI/AAAAAAAADPw/A6-Rjg552sQ/s1600/1505303_718487968171926_770163401_n.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://lynhorton.net/" target="_blank"><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: red; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 105%; padding: 0in;">Lyn Horton</span></a><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 105%;"> </span></span>fills this
clean white wall with energy. This cool space was done for DXV, American
Standard as part of their new product launch. Humm, like the sound of Mary
Douglas Drysdale for DXV…….</div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4042600888540115921.post-55373026527388341952014-09-17T11:19:00.000-04:002014-09-18T12:04:23.372-04:00Lyn Horton: Installation Shots: Cross MacKenzie Gallery, Georgetown, Washington, DC, September, 2014<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-538YECI4ZW0/VBsBIyWfsdI/AAAAAAAADQI/6VMpssred70/s1600/2014-09-12%2B15.04.09.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-538YECI4ZW0/VBsBIyWfsdI/AAAAAAAADQI/6VMpssred70/s1600/2014-09-12%2B15.04.09.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rebecca Cross, owner of Cross MacKenzie Gallery, makes final lighting adjustment on Lyn Horton's work.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l3MJJqu11J4/VBsAOfjLhPI/AAAAAAAADQA/s0aooehzfU0/s1600/2014-09-12%2B15.05.02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l3MJJqu11J4/VBsAOfjLhPI/AAAAAAAADQA/s0aooehzfU0/s1600/2014-09-12%2B15.05.02.jpg" height="400" width="365" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lyn Horton drawings: l: Three line characters, 2014; r: Strands, 2010.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhVjGrDrcRxkYXnmZTs-tw903JNEr_bc8AVrDUNjsSOXVsi-wfuRJrdSlhrSq7TnyX7Snb1DMCZmpS15g9pglSMTTmohzgwCjEHqjIDVoKs3OEpafgxoq1DuIV6yvdPGymmomnULLpHeg/s1600/2014-09-12+15.05.43.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhVjGrDrcRxkYXnmZTs-tw903JNEr_bc8AVrDUNjsSOXVsi-wfuRJrdSlhrSq7TnyX7Snb1DMCZmpS15g9pglSMTTmohzgwCjEHqjIDVoKs3OEpafgxoq1DuIV6yvdPGymmomnULLpHeg/s1600/2014-09-12+15.05.43.jpg" height="365" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lyn Horton drawings: l to r: Silver & Black, Gold & Black, Black & Silver, Black & Gold, 2014.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lyn Horton drawings: l to r: 25 Characters, 2014; (upper) Gold & Silver, (below) Silver & Gold, 2014;<br />
Maren Kloppmann ceramics: on pedestals.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OxjFe2PmEXE/VBmb6q51ggI/AAAAAAAADOg/RzSI8uTG8vQ/s1600/2014-09-12%2B15.08.50.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OxjFe2PmEXE/VBmb6q51ggI/AAAAAAAADOg/RzSI8uTG8vQ/s1600/2014-09-12%2B15.08.50.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lyn Horton: 70" Square Drawing Black & White, 2014.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FkarYDoBjL0/VBmb7RqzAkI/AAAAAAAADOo/mc3dwC-ujws/s1600/2014-09-12%2B15.09.33.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FkarYDoBjL0/VBmb7RqzAkI/AAAAAAAADOo/mc3dwC-ujws/s1600/2014-09-12%2B15.09.33.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lyn Horton drawings: l: 70" Square Drawing Black & White; r: White Characters, 2014.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iyLTzIr05wU/VBmb9OHY-kI/AAAAAAAADOw/QRNRLA40YNA/s1600/2014-09-12%2B15.09.46.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iyLTzIr05wU/VBmb9OHY-kI/AAAAAAAADOw/QRNRLA40YNA/s1600/2014-09-12%2B15.09.46.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lyn Horton drawings: 3 Sequential Series White & Black on Green & Rose 1-4, 2014.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oQVFUr3T40Y/VBmcGs5m7vI/AAAAAAAADPA/NTKT0dm_5a8/s1600/2014-09-12%2B15.27.56.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oQVFUr3T40Y/VBmcGs5m7vI/AAAAAAAADPA/NTKT0dm_5a8/s1600/2014-09-12%2B15.27.56.jpg" height="331" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lyn Horton drawings: l: (upper) Silver & Gold; (lower) Gold & Silver, 2014; r: Single Loopy Line, 7, 5, 3, 8, 2014. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aBFPJMuxHEs/VBmcKA3fiaI/AAAAAAAADPQ/St0lRjqubRQ/s1600/2014-09-12%2B15.28.25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aBFPJMuxHEs/VBmcKA3fiaI/AAAAAAAADPQ/St0lRjqubRQ/s1600/2014-09-12%2B15.28.25.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lyn Horton drawings: 9 White Characters, 2014.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xMSDNcFtPxo/VBmcDi79ffI/AAAAAAAADO4/BRDDno57yck/s1600/2014-09-12%2B15.16.44-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xMSDNcFtPxo/VBmcDi79ffI/AAAAAAAADO4/BRDDno57yck/s1600/2014-09-12%2B15.16.44-1.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Enlarged Photo by Richard Laurie of Lyn Horton standing in front of one of her wall drawing installations in the window of Cross MacKenzie Gallery.</td></tr>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4042600888540115921.post-71470516016151116902014-09-17T10:18:00.001-04:002014-09-17T10:18:35.132-04:00Georgetown Gallery Scene Makes a Resurgence | The Georgetowner<a href="http://www.georgetowner.com/articles/2014/sep/10/georgetown-gallery-scene-makes-resurgence/">Georgetown Gallery Scene Makes a Resurgence | The Georgetowner</a><br /><br />
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