Saturday, July 23, 2011

The Skies Sometimes

An Evening @Hinterland


Inspiring evening at Sabin Ael's Hinterland space on Walnut in the RiNO Art District.

The effervescent & talented Jeanne Connolly,  in the most adorable handmade bloomers ever, guided loads of vintage fabric lovers and admirers of retro furniture renewal through the spacious front room of the gallery throughout the evening. Great pieces at great prices - I'm not even sure how I got out of there without buying every single lamp! This girl can sew and tac and plissee and design and create something fantastic! Each piece is perfect, not one out of place color, thread or border. As a person who loves well crafted, high quality pieces I really enjoyed myself.
Vintage Renewal Lamps
Later in the evening Norm Broomhall made some lovely melodic sounds come out of his guitar and soul, both which I'm sure have a secret name. It was my first time hearing Mr. Broomhall (I know, aaak!) and like the rest of the evening it was really a pleasure.

Norm Broomhall
In the background of all that happy flowering, the steady flow of subtle, intricate, soul and eye pleasing pieces looking down from the high walls ..............

pieces by Cein Watson.

I really need to get out more.

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Anna as a Young Woman

100 Fildzana:- 56: "Anna as a Young Woman"


 I thought of this when I saw it in the plate. Beautiful, isn't it?

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Aida Sehovic - Sto Te Nema

from Flux Factory 


"In Bosnian tradition, life stops around coffee. The warm drink is shared among close family and friends inside the home at least once a day."
Aida Sehovic stages her art, a work of awareness and remembrance  in Burlington, VT -
It is called 'Sto Te Nema' - 'how come you're not here? or 'where are you'? and is meant to commemorate the 8,000 men - young and old - who were murdered in Srebrenica, Bosnia on or around the11th of July, 1995 by Ratko Mladic and his army of genocidal murderers.

Friday, July 1, 2011

Nights in White

White everything, White dress ( Leger), white car, white curtains. Silver white Disco ball hanging over the  dance floor at the club. She is talking and bossing around. I  see through her whiteness though. Long ago, she had been a beauty, as they say, her lips full, lacquered red, but now her two front teeth showed an unattractive gap, an overripe squished grape mouth. Could have been sexy at 20, was raunchy at 45, the dream, like dreams tend to do, only hints at what is behind the veil of truth.

I know her from somewhere. I don't like her.  She seems unkempt in her white bandage dress, the raven hair way too 'old skool' (just saying it that way makes me cringe with embarrassment, but that's how she would put it), the usual American fashion faux pas. Faux pax I almost wrote. Ha.

This woman in the white dress and the putty colored skin, she rules her husband, my lover, with the iron fist of a victim: mostly drunk, often needing to 'talk it out with someone', constantly sporting bloodshot eyes from crying over spilled milk. By definition she is righteous. By default she has the power.

I make fun of her but like G_d, she is a looming presence most often showing up inappropriately.

I will fight her alone, thank you.

Just so you know, I am not afraid. Not daunted. Dreams are like that.  'I am driving the white car here, not you', I think to myself. I am in control. I have a plan.

 I.

This is what happened then. I bewitch her with my favorite string of words - they fall off my lips like the delicious lies and truth cocktail one works a lifetime to create and she - as if besotted - gives over her secret garden in a snap. Ecstatically, might I add . How did I do this? It's almost ridiculous. Shit, had I known it was going to be so easy I wouldn't have waited so long. Suddenly the master blaster of me comes out, pardon the pun. Who knew. Well, I did. The power of words are the Ace in the Hole. I shrug my pretty shoulders. I mean, she gave it up just like that.

She.

She is a crumpled, satisfied flesh heap sitting slanted in a straight back chair in the ante-camera where there is but one light bulb and a whitish green paint job. We have left that building.

 At the world party, I am in position on stage right and center, steadfast in my revolution/evolution, on one knee ready to shoot my magic dust from the stolen (white) rocket launcher into a sea of eager expectant dancers. We are one. But not the same.