Saturday, February 28, 2015

in the beat of a heart...

in the beat of a heart...
we concede to the compromised evaluation of the other...
nailed to a tree

in the beat of a heart...
we lose the generalized compression of a charred life...

sprayed on a wall

in the beat of a heart...
we drop the controlled savagery of a fading smile...

staining the sidewalk

in the beat of a heart...
we evade a concentric descend into unrelenting love...

mere words on the page*

*the hand-scripted heart (text from "The Book of Knowledge, Little Reference Series Part I") is by Kim Kennedy Austin, exhibited in "Industry Charity Faith Hope", her solo show at the West Vancouver Museum, January 14 - March 7, 2015

Friday, January 30, 2015

beckwoman signs out...

in commemoration of a commercial drive original that blazed out recently...a store so claustrophobic with stuff that going in once in 30 years was more than enough...the legend of a beckman reclaimed as a beckwoman in full-on defiance of dated conventions...and in the end the text blisters remain on the smoked out windows to remind us that we will never see the likes of bespoke alibaba pants and customized black-out curtains from this mumble jumble cave ever again...
... or will we?

Wednesday, December 31, 2014

j'ai rêvé la nuit verte aux neiges éblouies...*

 the ascension of viridescent clouds towards mars
complicates the secular twilight of the northern skies

 with scant deposits of crystalline dust upon black earth
small gatherings in quick time before night falls

and closes up behind a serpentine continuum
with the veiled urgency of an unstoppable flow...

"Les Fleuves m'ont laissé descendre où je voulais
Dans les clapotements furieux des marées..."*

["The rivers let me drift down where I would
Down through the furious splashing of the tides..."]

* selected lines from "Le Bateau ivre" by Arthur Rimbaud [1854-1891]

Friday, December 26, 2014

j'ai rêvé du ciel rougeoyant...

 the year is ending in flashes of infrared red
floated into the ambiguity of a porous reveal

 in the darkness sprouting rare amanita crowns
to ignite the delirium pulled into a frozen net

 of silver threads wrapped in concrete foil
spark growth the evercrimson tree of lucidity

free-soaring into the cardinal space of night
with no full safety floor to turn back to...

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

eastvan pictographs

 contingent upon a new theatrical rendering
from west coast reduction, the stink continues...

mainlining to the sweet bone of contention,
locking the metal door behind irreversible lives...

 popsicle head's off to the crewlest cut of all
rolling down the commercial grade of sharpshooters...

before they carve her up in her fattened state,
a farcical warning on the fence in driedberry blood...

in the event that she is still missing nearby
such missives must be obeyed beyond the pale...

and so must he, a legionnaire of foreign means
wasted on the back stairs of mitigated loyalty to the queen

having a piece of rust toast smeared with milk flames
torn from the corrugated trunk of her stomping grounds...

when does it stop, this whirring craziness landing
upon the concrete implications of the imperfect domicile

Wednesday, July 9, 2014

*jan's studio:: pulpifying on

*This post will be the first in a series of photo essays on artists' studios in Vancouver [and hopefully beyond] that I plan to have published in book form one day. 
As my home has always been an ever (r)evolving studio for my varied projects, I am also intrigued by the environs where other artists' creative lives are manifest, and I feel that their milieux should be documented somewhat more as "art installations" in their own right and not just as functioning work spaces where tangible art is birthed. And as such, they may reflect the artistic personalities of the occupants more profoundly than even their own art can.

This idea is inspired in part by a book that I had found in France many years ago titled Entrails, Heads & Tails by Paola Igliori [colour photography by Paola Igliori and black and white photographs by Alastair Thain] published by Rizzoli, 1992.
"In a world where everything is analyzed, fragmented, crucified, we seem at times to lose ourselves in the process. Artists, like children, are the most absolute in creating, materializing their own world. The small everyday things that cover the space between the person and his work chart at times in the simplest way the ground of inspiration."  
[from Paola Igliori's introduction to her book]


Jan MacLeod is the first artist to have kindly let me into her studio and given me permission to shoot what I wanted. She has been making paper and artwork from plant materials that she gathers herself for over 30 years now in these two adjoining rooms in a heritage office building in downtown Vancouver.
Jan's dedication to her artform has seen her prodigious creations grace many homes, offices and luxury hotels. She is a long time member of the Circle Craft Co-operative on Granville Island.


Jan MacLeod

I would like to thank Jan for her gracious welcome into her plantpapersphere.

Monday, June 9, 2014

ann's house:: emptying out

a bare rod and two wire hooks in an empty closet -
the bright orange carpeting almost spotless, still
 white cotton sheets shield the emptied shelves -
shelves once stacked with fruits in mason jars
 a few boxes of board games sit on the counter -
above the now empty cupboards in the rec room
 the bar shelves where glasses and bottles had perched -
where they had gathered when their nights were empty
 the lone lamp stranded on the paneled wall -
glows a forlorn survey of the emptying room
the twin beds in the attic room are still for sale -
their bedside tables and chests of drawers emptied out
old frames and scrapbooks lie on a desolate shag -
all emptied of photos and family mementos
 empty vases at a dollar a piece wait for a buyer -
to fill again with bouquets bright as the tv tray's
the basement door is locked, bolted and barred -
as always now even when the house is emptied out

Ann and her late husband Lou had lived in this house for 60 years - 60 years of cumulative belongings to empty out, to eviscerate piece by piece to the best offer of the nostalgic gatherers, the predatory collectors, the ambivalent deal seekers...
When the house is emptied of the last chair, lamp, book, picture, ornament, tool, memory - will it remain to be re-modelled and refilled with new chairs, lamps, books - or will it die in a dusty heap of splintered wood, crushed doors and shattered glass...
I preserve a few images of it in memory of Lou who built everything in it, who tended the garden meticulously, whose paintbrush was ever handy for a fresh coat, and who died in his own house - never having to see it now, in its sadly empty state...