 |
| Untitled 2 (2013) by Clare Plueckhahn, from the "First We Fall" exhibition |
—Michael Ondaatje
Companion
—Michael Ondaatje
Simpatico
Perfectly stated, from Henry Rollins:
"I don’t get lonely anymore ... I do, however, get a feeling of hollowness now and then. A Camus/Beckett/Céline sense of futility that makes me want to walk forlorn like Harry Dean Stanton in the opening scenes of Wenders’ Paris, Texas on some kind of emo-quest for meaning."
Read Henry Rollins's full post here: http://www.laweekly.com/westcoastsound/2014/08/07/henry-rollins-fake-city?showFullText=true.
"I don’t get lonely anymore ... I do, however, get a feeling of hollowness now and then. A Camus/Beckett/Céline sense of futility that makes me want to walk forlorn like Harry Dean Stanton in the opening scenes of Wenders’ Paris, Texas on some kind of emo-quest for meaning."
Read Henry Rollins's full post here: http://www.laweekly.com/westcoastsound/2014/08/07/henry-rollins-fake-city?showFullText=true.
Memory
I just returned from a two-week, whirlwind trip. Experiencing new things hones all my senses in spectacular ways. I feel like my entire being opens up for an interval as I breathe different air, look at new art, speak different words, taste new foods, stroll different streets.
Interestingly, these experiences also bring some memories, often forgotten and completely unexpected, back into my consciousness. It's like my mind, in trying to process the new information, forges back on dusty paths. The retraveling clears the overgrowth. The memory becomes sharp and forefront.
"I had forgotten that," I'll often say.
I remember an assignment for one of my painting classes. We were to paint a multipaneled work about a memory. I chose a tryptich, two panels in portrait format anchored by a long panel (shown below) running the length of the other two.
My memory was about a boy. I painted the texture of grass, abstracted greens and browns. I depicted a wall and the bottom two-thirds of the Breakfast at Tiffany's movie poster. Finally, I painted (above) what I remembered of the Black Forest, the mystery and peace I felt while driving alongside it in the dead of December. During the critique, my instructor commented, "I love this assignment because the things that comprise memories are so arbitrary, so irrational, and yet they come together logically in one's mind."
I have since separated the three panels of the tryptich. One panel hangs in our guest bedroom. Another got trashed during a move. The panel shown above is with a friend. I'm pretty sure he sees the painting differently from how I see it.
And that's the point of memory, right? It's personal and flawed, an imperfect truth.
Interestingly, these experiences also bring some memories, often forgotten and completely unexpected, back into my consciousness. It's like my mind, in trying to process the new information, forges back on dusty paths. The retraveling clears the overgrowth. The memory becomes sharp and forefront.
"I had forgotten that," I'll often say.
I remember an assignment for one of my painting classes. We were to paint a multipaneled work about a memory. I chose a tryptich, two panels in portrait format anchored by a long panel (shown below) running the length of the other two.
 |
| Bottom panel of Fall 1996 (2000). Oil on canvas, 30" x 15". |
I have since separated the three panels of the tryptich. One panel hangs in our guest bedroom. Another got trashed during a move. The panel shown above is with a friend. I'm pretty sure he sees the painting differently from how I see it.
And that's the point of memory, right? It's personal and flawed, an imperfect truth.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
